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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ee7f2b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67628 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67628) diff --git a/old/67628-0.txt b/old/67628-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 875f7d7..0000000 --- a/old/67628-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6854 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Youth and Life, by Randolph S. Bourne - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Youth and Life - -Author: Randolph S. Bourne - -Release Date: March 14, 2022 [eBook #67628] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUTH AND LIFE *** - - - - - - YOUTH AND LIFE - - BY - - RANDOLPH S. BOURNE - - [Illustration: Publisher mark] - - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - The Riverside Press Cambridge - 1913 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1911, 1912, AND 1913, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY - COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY RANDOLPH S. BOURNE - - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - _Published March 1913_ - - - - - CONTENTS - - - I. YOUTH 1 - - II. THE TWO GENERATIONS 29 - - III. THE VIRTUES AND THE SEASONS OF LIFE 53 - - IV. THE LIFE OF IRONY 99 - - V. THE EXCITEMENT OF FRIENDSHIP 133 - - VI. THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE 153 - - VII. SOME THOUGHTS ON RELIGION 189 - - VIII. THE MYSTIC TURNED RADICAL 205 - - IX. SEEING, WE SEE NOT 215 - - X. THE EXPERIMENTAL LIFE 225 - - XI. THE DODGING OF PRESSURES 247 - - XII. FOR RADICALS 289 - - XIII. THE COLLEGE: AN INNER VIEW 311 - - XIV. A PHILOSOPHY OF HANDICAP 337 - - - - -I - -YOUTH - - -How shall I describe Youth, the time of contradictions and anomalies? -The fiercest radicalisms, the most dogged conservatisms, irrepressible -gayety, bitter melancholy,--all these moods are equally part of that -showery springtime of life. One thing, at least, it clearly is: a -great, rich rush and flood of energy. It is as if the store of life -had been accumulating through the slow, placid years of childhood, -and suddenly the dam had broken and the waters rushed out, furious -and uncontrolled, before settling down into the quieter channels of -middle life. The youth is suddenly seized with a poignant consciousness -of being alive, which is quite wanting to the naïve unquestioning -existence of the child. He finds himself overpoweringly urged toward -self-expression. Just as the baby, born into a “great, blooming, -buzzing confusion,” and attracted by every movement, every color, every -sound, kicks madly in response in all directions, and only gradually -gets his movements coördinated into the orderly and precise movements -of his elders,--so the youth suddenly born into a confusion of ideas -and appeals and traditions responds in the most chaotic way to this new -spiritual world, and only gradually learns to find his way about in it, -and get his thoughts and feelings into some kind of order. - -Fortunate the young man who does not make his entrance into too wide -a world. And upon the width and depth of that new world will depend -very much whether his temperament is to be radical or conservative, -adventurous or conventional. For it is one of the surprising things -about youth that it can so easily be the most conservative of all -ages. Why do we suppose that youth is always radical? At no age are -social proprieties more strictly observed, and Church, State, law, and -order, more rigorously defended. But I like to think that youth is -conservative only when its spiritual force has been spent too early, -or when the new world it enters into is found, for some reason, to be -rather narrow and shallow. It is so often the urgent world of pleasure -that first catches the eye of youth; its flood of life is drawn off -in that direction; the boy may fritter away his precious birthright -in pure lightness of heart and animal spirits. And it is only too -true that this type of youth is transitory. Pleasure contrives to -burn itself out very quickly, and youth finds itself left prematurely -with the ashes of middle age. But if, in some way, the flood of life -is checked in the direction of pleasure, then it bursts forth in -another,--in the direction of ideals; then we say that the boy is -radical. Youth is always turbulent, but the momentous difference is -whether it shall be turbulent in passion or in enthusiasm. Nothing is -so pathetic as the young man who spends his spiritual force too early, -so that when the world of ideals is presented to him, his force being -spent, he can only grasp at second-hand ideals and mouldy formulas. - -This is the great divergence which sets youth not only against old -age, but against youth itself: the undying spirit of youth that seems -to be fed by an unquenchable fire, that does not burn itself out but -seems to grow steadier and steadier as life goes on, against the -fragile, quickly tarnished type that passes relentlessly into middle -life. At twenty-five I find myself full of the wildest radicalisms, -and look with dismay at my childhood friends who are already settled -down, have achieved babies and responsibilities, and have somehow got -ten years beyond me in a day. And this divergence shows itself in a -thousand different ways. It may be a temptation to a world of pleasure, -it may be a sheltering from the stimulus of ideas, or even a sluggish -temperament, that separates traditional and adventurous youth, but -fundamentally it is a question of how youth takes the world. And here I -find that I can no longer drag the traditional youth along with me in -this paper. There are many of him, I know, but I do not like him, and -I know nothing about him. Let us rather look at the way radical youth -grows into and meets the world. - -From the state of “the little child, to whom the sky is a roof of -blue, the world a screen of opaque and disconnected facts, the -home a thing eternal, and ‘being good’ just simple obedience to -unquestioned authority,” one steps suddenly into that “vast world of -adult perception, pierced deep by flaring search-lights of partial -understanding.” - -The child has an utter sense of security; childhood is unconscious even -that it is alive. It has neither fears nor anxieties, because it is -incorrigibly poetical. It idealizes everything that it touches. It is -unfair, perhaps, to blame parents and teachers, as we sometimes do in -youth, for consciously biasing our child-minds in a falsely idealistic -direction; for the child will infallibly idealize even his poorest of -experiences. His broken glimpses and anticipations of his own future -show him everything that is orderly, happy, and beautifully fit. He -sees his grown-up life as old age, itself a sort of reversed childhood, -sees its youth. The passing of childhood into youth is, therefore, -like suddenly being turned from the cosy comfort of a warm fireside to -shift for one’s self in the world. Life becomes in a moment a process -of seeking and searching. It appears as a series of blind alleys, all -equally and magnificently alluring, all equally real and possible. -Youth’s thirst for experience is simply that it wants to be everything, -do everything and have everything that is presented to its imagination. -Youth has suddenly become conscious of life. It has eaten of the tree -of the knowledge of good and evil. - -As the world breaks in on a boy with its crashing thunder, he has a -feeling of expansion, of sudden wisdom and sudden care. The atoms of -things seem to be disintegrating around him. Then come the tearings and -the grindings and the wrenchings, and in that conflict the radical or -the poet is made. If the youth takes the struggle easily, or if his -guardian angels have arranged things so that there is no struggle, -then he becomes of that conservative stripe that we have renounced -above. But if he takes it hard,--if his struggles are not only with -outward material conditions, but also with inner spiritual ones,--then -he is likely to achieve that gift of the gods, perpetual youth. The -great paradox is that it is the sleek and easy who are prematurely and -permanently old. Struggle brings youth rather than old age. - -In this struggle, thus beset with problems and crises, all calling -for immediate solution, youth battles its way into a sort of -rationalization. Out of its inchoateness emerges a sort of order; the -disturbing currents of impulse are gradually resolved into a character. -But it is essential that that resolution be a natural and not a -forced one. I always have a suspicion of boys who talk of “planning -their lives.” I feel that they have won a precocious maturity in some -illegitimate way. For to most of us youth is so imperious that those -who can escape the hurly-burly and make a sudden leap into the prudent, -quiet waters of life seem to have missed youth altogether. And I do -not mean here the hurly-burly of passion so much as of ideals. It -seems so much better, as well as more natural, to expose one’s self to -the full fury of the spiritual elements, keeping only one purpose in -view,--to be strong and sincere,--than to pick one’s way cautiously -along. - -The old saying is the truest philosophy of youth: “Seek ye first -the Kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you.” -How impossible for a youth who is really young to plan his life -consciously! This process that one sometimes sees of cautiously -becoming acquainted with various ideas and systems, and then choosing -deliberately those that will be best adapted to a concerted plan, -is almost uncanny. This confidence in one’s immunity to ideas that -would tend to disarrange the harmony of the scheme is mystifying and -irritating. Youth talks of “getting” or “accepting” ideas! But youth -does not get ideas,--ideas get him! He may try to keep himself in a -state of spiritual health, but that is the only immunity he can rely -upon. He cannot really tell what idea or appeal is going to seize upon -him next and make off with him. - -We speak as if falling in love were a unique phase in the life of -youth. It is rather the pattern and symbol of a youth’s whole life. -This sudden, irresistible seizure of enthusiasm that he cannot explain, -that he does not want to explain, what is it but the aspect of all his -experience? The youth sees a pretty face, reads a noble book, hears a -stirring appeal for a cause, meets a charming friend, gets fired with -the concept of science, or of social progress, becomes attracted to -a profession,--the emotion that fixes his enthusiasm and lets out a -flood of emotion in that direction, and lifts him into another world, -is the same in every case. Youth glories in the sudden servitude, -is content to let the new master lead wherever he will; and is as -surprised as any one at the momentous and startling results. Youth is -vulnerable at every point. Prudence is really a hateful thing in youth. -A prudent youth is prematurely old. It is infinitely better, I repeat, -for a boy to start ahead in life in a spirit of moral adventure, -trusting for sustenance to what he may find by the wayside, than to -lay in laboriously, before starting, a stock of principles for life, -and burden himself so heavily for the journey that he dare not, and -indeed cannot, leave his pack unguarded by the roadside to survey the -fair prospects on either hand. Youth at its best is this constant -susceptibility to the new, this constant eagerness to try experiments. - -It is here that youth’s quarrel with the elder generation comes in. -There is no scorn so fierce as that of youth for the inertia of -older men. The lack of adjustment to the ideas of youth’s elders and -betters, one of the permanent tragedies of life, is certainly the most -sensational aspect of youth. That the inertia of the older people is -wisdom, and not impotence, is a theory that you will never induce -youth to believe for an instant. The stupidity and cruelties of their -management of the world fill youth with an intolerant rage. In every -contact with its elders, youth finds them saying, in the words of -Kipling:-- - - “We shall not acknowledge that old stars fade and alien planets arise, - That the sere bush buds or the desert blooms or the ancient well-head - dries, - Or any new compass wherewith new men adventure ’neath new skies.” - -Youth sees with almost a passionate despair its plans and dreams and -enthusiasms, that it knows so well to be right and true and noble, -brushed calmly aside, not because of any sincere searching into their -practicability, but because of the timidity and laziness of the old, -who sit in the saddle and ride mankind. And nothing torments youth so -much as to have this inertia justified on the ground of experience. -For youth thinks that it sees through this sophism of “experience.” -It sees in it an all-inclusive attempt to give the world a character, -and excuse the older generation for the mistakes and failures which it -has made. What is this experience, youth asks, but a slow accretion of -inhibitions, a learning, at its best, not to do again something which -ought not to have been done in the first place? - -Old men cherish a fond delusion that there is something mystically -valuable in mere quantity of experience. Now the fact is, of course, -that it is the young people who have all the really valuable -experience. It is they who have constantly to face new situations, to -react constantly to new aspects of life, who are getting the whole -beauty and terror and cruelty of the world in its fresh and undiluted -purity. It is only the interpretation of this first collision with life -that is worth anything. For the weakness of experience is that it so -soon gets stereotyped; without new situations and crises it becomes so -conventional as to be practically unconscious. Very few people get any -really new experience after they are twenty-five, unless there is a -real change of environment. Most older men live only in the experience -of their youthful years. - -If we get few ideas after we are twenty-five, we get few ideals after -we are twenty. A man’s spiritual fabric is woven by that time, and -his “experience,” if he keeps true to himself, consists simply in -broadening and enriching it, but not in adding to it in arithmetical -proportion as the years roll on, in the way that the wise teachers of -youth would have us believe. - -But few men remain quite true to themselves. As their youthful ideals -come into contact with the harshnesses of life, the brightest succumb -and go to the wall. And the hardy ones that survive contain all that -is vital in the future experience of the man,--so that the ideas of -older men seem often the curious parodies or even burlesques of what -must have been the cleaner and more potent ideas of their youth. -Older people seem often to be resting on their oars, drifting on the -spiritual current that youth has set going in life, or “coasting” on -the momentum that the strong push of youth has given them. - -There is no great gulf between youth and middle age, as there is -between childhood and youth. Adults are little more than grown-up -children. This is what makes their arrogance so insulting,--the -assumption that they have acquired any impartiality or objectivity of -outlook, and have any better standards for judging life. Their ideas -are wrong, and grow progressively more wrong as they become older. -Youth, therefore, has no right to be humble. The ideals it forms will -be the highest it will ever have, the insight the clearest, the ideas -the most stimulating. The best that it can hope to do is to conserve -those resources, and keep its flame of imagination and daring bright. - -Therefore, it is perhaps unfair to say that the older generation rules -the world. Youth rules the world, but only when it is no longer young. -It is a tarnished, travestied youth that is in the saddle in the person -of middle age. Old age lives in the delusion that it has improved and -rationalized its youthful ideas by experience and stored-up wisdom, -when all it has done is to damage them more or less--usually more. And -the tragedy of life is that the world is run by these damaged ideals. -That is why our ideas are always a generation behind our actual social -conditions. Press, pulpit, and bar teem with the radicalisms of -thirty years ago. The dead hand of opinions formed in their college -days clutches our leaders and directs their activities in this new and -strangely altered physical and spiritual environment. Hence grievous -friction, maladjustment, social war. And the faster society moves, the -more terrific is the divergence between what is actually going on and -what public opinion thinks is actually going on. It is only the young -who are actually contemporaneous; they interpret what they see freshly -and without prejudice; their vision is always the truest, and their -interpretation always the justest. - -Youth does not simply repeat the errors and delusions of the past, as -the elder generation with a tolerant cynicism likes to think; it is -ever laying the foundations for the future. What it thinks so wildly -now will be orthodox gospel thirty years hence. The ideas of the young -are the living, the potential ideas; those of the old, the dying, or -the already dead. This is why it behooves youth to be not less radical, -but even more radical, than it would naturally be. It must be not -simply contemporaneous, but a generation ahead of the times, so that -when it comes into control of the world, it will be precisely right -and coincident with the conditions of the world as it finds them. If -the youth of to-day could really achieve this miracle, they would have -found the secret of “perpetual youth.” - - * * * * * - -In this conflict between youth and its elders, youth is the incarnation -of reason pitted against the rigidity of tradition. Youth puts the -remorseless questions to everything that is old and established,--Why? -What is this thing good for? And when it gets the mumbled, evasive -answers of the defenders, it applies its own fresh, clean spirit of -reason to institutions, customs, and ideas, and, finding them stupid, -inane, or poisonous, turns instinctively to overthrow them and build in -their place the things with which its visions teem. - -“This constant return to purely logical activity with each generation -keeps the world supplied with visionaries and reformers, that is -to say, with saviors and leaders. New movements are born in young -minds, and lack of experience enables youth eternally to recall -civilization to sound bases. The passing generation smiles and -cracks its weather-worn jokes about youthful effusions: but this -new, ever-hopeful, ever-daring, ever-doing, youthful enthusiasm, -ever returning to the logical bases of religion, ethics, politics, -business, art, and social life,--this is the salvation of the -world.”[1] - -This was the youthful radicalism of Jesus, and his words sound across -the ages “calling civilization ever back to sound bases.” With him, -youth eternally reproaches the ruling generation,--“O ye of little -faith!” There is so much to be done in the world; so much could be done -if you would only dare! You seem to be doing so little to cure the -waste and the muddle and the lethargy all around you. Don’t you really -care, or are you only faint-hearted? If you do not care, it must be -because you do not know; let us point out to you the shockingness of -exploitation, and the crass waste of human personality all around you -in this modern world. And if you are faint-hearted, we will supply the -needed daring and courage, and lead you straight to the attack. - -These are the questions and challenges that the youth puts to his -elders, and it is their shifty evasions and quibblings that confound -and dishearten him. He becomes intolerant, and can see all classes in -no other light than that of accomplices in a great crime. If they only -knew! Swept along himself in an irrationality of energy, he does not -see the small part that reason plays in the intricate social life, and -only gradually does he come to view life as a “various and splendid -disorder of forces,” and exonerate weak human nature from some of its -heavy responsibility. But this insight brings him to appreciate and -almost to reverence the forces of science and conscious social progress -that are grappling with that disorder, and seeking to tame it. - -Youth is the leaven that keeps all these questioning, testing attitudes -fermenting in the world. If it were not for this troublesome activity -of youth, with its hatred of sophisms and glosses, its insistence on -things as they are, society would die from sheer decay. It is the -policy of the older generation as it gets adjusted to the world to -hide away the unpleasant things where it can, or preserve a conspiracy -of silence and an elaborate pretense that they do not exist. But -meanwhile the sores go on festering just the same. Youth is the drastic -antiseptic. It will not let its elders cry peace, where there is no -peace. Its fierce sarcasms keep issues alive in the world until they -are settled right. It drags skeletons from closets and insists that -they be explained. No wonder the older generation fears and distrusts -the younger. Youth is the avenging Nemesis on its trail. “It is young -men who provide the logic, decision, and enthusiasm necessary to -relieve society of the crushing burden that each generation seeks to -roll upon the shoulders of the next.” - -Our elders are always optimistic in their views of the present, -pessimistic in their views of the future; youth is pessimistic toward -the present and gloriously hopeful for the future. And it is this -hope which is the lever of progress,--one might say, the only lever -of progress. The lack of confidence which the ruling generation feels -in the future leads to that distrust of the machinery of social -reform and social organization, or the use of means for ends, which -is so characteristic of it to-day. Youth is disgusted with such -sentimentality. It can never understand that curious paralysis which -seizes upon its elders in the face of urgent social innovations; that -refusal to make use of a perfectly definite programme or administrative -scheme which has worked elsewhere. Youth concludes that its elders -discountenance the machinery, the means, because they do not really -believe in the end, and adds another count to the indictment. - -Youth’s attitude is really the scientific attitude. Do not be afraid -to make experiments, it says. You cannot tell how anything will work -until you have tried it. Suppose science confined its interests to -those things that have been tried and tested in the world, how far -should we get? It is possible indeed that your experiments may produce -by accident a social explosion, but we do not give up chemistry because -occasionally a wrong mixture of chemicals blows up a scientist in a -laboratory, or medical research because an investigator contracts the -disease he is fighting. The whole philosophy of youth is summed up in -the word, Dare! Take chances and you will attain! The world has nothing -to lose but its chains--and its own soul to gain! - - * * * * * - -I have dwelt too long on the conflicts of youth. For it has also its -still places, where it becomes introspective and thinks about its -destiny and the meaning of its life. In our artificial civilization -many young people at twenty-five are still on the threshold of -activity. As one looks back, then, over eight or nine years, one sees -a panorama of seemingly formidable length. So many crises, so many -startling surprises, so many vivid joys and harrowing humiliations and -disappointments, that one feels startlingly old; one wonders if one -will ever feel so old again. And in a sense, youth at twenty-five is -older than it will ever be again. For if time is simply a succession -of incidents in our memory, we seem to have an eternity behind us. -Middle-aged people feel no such appalling stretch of time behind them. -The years fade out one by one; often the pressure of life leaves -nothing of reality or value but the present moment. Some of youth’s -elders seem to enjoy almost a new babyhood, while youth has constantly -with it in all its vividness and multifariousness that specious wealth -of abrupt changes, climaxes and disillusions that have crowded the -short space of its life. - -We often envy the sunny noon of the thirties and forties. These elders -of ours change so little that they seem to enjoy an endless summer -of immortality. They are so placid, so robust, so solidly placed in -life, seemingly so much further from dissolution than we. Youth seems -curiously fragile. Perhaps it is because all beauty has something -of the precarious and fleeting about it. A beautiful girl seems too -delicate and fine to weather a long life; she must be burning away -too fast. This wistfulness and haunting pathos of life is very real -to youth. It feels the rush of time past it. Only youth can sing of -the passing glory of life, and then only in its full tide. The older -people’s lament for the vanished days of youth may be orthodox, but it -rings hollow. For our greatest fears are those of presentiment, and -youth is haunted not only by the feeling of past change, but by the -presentiment of future change. - -Middle age has passed the waters; it has become static and placid. -Its wistfulness for youth is unreal, and a forced sentimentality. -In the same breath that it cries for its youth it mocks at youth’s -preoccupation with the thought of death. The lugubrious harmonies of -young poets are a favorite joke. But the feeling of the precariousness -of life gives the young man an intimate sense of its preciousness; -nothing shocks him quite so much as that it should be ruthlessly and -instantly snatched away. Middle age has acclimated itself to the -earth, has settled down familiarly in it, and is easily be fooled into -thinking that it will live here forever, just as, when we are settled -comfortably in a house, we cannot conceive ourselves as ever being -dislodged. But youth takes a long time to get acclimated. It has seen -so many mysteries and dangers about it, that the presence of the -Greatest Mystery and the Greatest Danger must be the most portentous of -things to it. - -It is this sense of the preciousness of his life, perhaps, that makes -a youth so impatient of discipline. Youth can never think of itself -as anything but master of things. Its visions are a curious blend of -devotion and egotism. Its enthusiasm for a noble cause is apt to be all -mixed up with a picture of itself leading the cohorts to victory. The -youth never sees himself as a soldier in the ranks, but as the leader, -bringing in some long-awaited change by a brilliant _coup d’état_, -or writing and speaking words of fire that win a million hearts at a -stroke. And he fights shy of discipline in smaller matters. He does not -submit willingly to a course of work that is not immediately appealing, -even for the sake of the glorious final achievement. Fortunate it is -for the young man, perhaps, that there are so many organs of coercion -all ready in the world for him,--economic need, tradition, and subtle -influence of family ambition,--to seize him and nail him fast to some -profession or trade or activity, before he is aware, or has time to -protest or draw back! - -It is another paradox of youth that, with all its fine enthusiasm, it -should accomplish so little. But this seeming aimlessness of purpose -is the natural result of that deadly fear of having one’s wings clipped -by discipline. Infinitely finer, it seems to youth, is it to soar -freely in the air, than to run on a track along the ground! And perhaps -youth is right. In his intellectual life, the young man’s scorn for the -pedantic and conventional amounts almost to an obsession. It is only -the men of imagination and inspiration that he will follow at all. But -most of these professors, these lawyers, these preachers,--what has -been their training and education, he says, but a gradual losing of -the grip of life, a slow withdrawing into an ideal world of phrases -and concepts and artificial attitudes? Their thought seems like the -endless spinning out of a spider’s web, or like the camel living upon -the fat of his own hump. The youth fears this sophistication of thought -as he would fear losing his soul. And this seeming perversity toward -discipline is often simply his refusal to let a system submerge his own -real and direct reactions to his observation and experience. - -And yet as he studies more and more, and acquires a richer material -for thought, a familiarity with words, and a skill in handling them, -he can see the insidious temptation that comes to thinking men to -move all their spiritual baggage over into that fascinating unreal -world. And he admires almost with reverence the men who have been able -to break through the terrible crust, and have got their thinking into -close touch with life again; or, best of all, those who have kept -their thinking constantly checked up with life, and are occupied with -interpreting what they see about them. Youth will never be able to see -that this is not the only true and right business of thought. - -It is the glory of the present age that in it one can be young. -Our times give no check to the radical tendencies of youth. On the -contrary, they give the directest stimulation. A muddle of a world and -a wide outlook combine to inspire us to the bravest of radicalisms. -Great issues have been born in the last century, and are now loose -in the world. There is a radical philosophy that illuminates our -environment, gives us terms in which to express what we see, and -coördinates our otherwise aimless reactions. - -In this country, it is true, where a certain modicum of free -institutions, and a certain specious enfranchisement of the human -spirit have been achieved, youth may be blinded and drugged into an -acquiescence in conditions, and its enthusiasm may easily run into a -glorification of the present. In the face of the more urgent ideals -that are with us, it may be inspired by vague ideas of “liberty,” or -“the rights of man,” and fancy it is truly radical when it is but -living on the radicalisms of the past. Our political thought moves so -slowly here that even our radicalism is traditional. We breathe in with -the air about us the belief that we have attained perfection, and we do -not examine things with our own eyes. - -But more and more of the clear-sighted youth are coming to see the -appalling array of things that still need to be done. The radical young -man of to-day has no excuse for veering round to the conservative -standpoint. Cynicism cannot touch him. For it is the beauty of the -modern radical philosophy that the worse the world treats a man, the -more it convinces him of the truth of his radical interpretation of -it. Disillusion comes, not through hard blows, but by the insidious -sappings of worldly success. And there never was a time when there -were so many radical young people who cared little about that worldly -success. - -The secret of life is then that this fine youthful spirit should -never be lost. Out of the turbulence of youth should come this fine -precipitate--a sane, strong, aggressive spirit of daring and doing. It -must be a flexible, growing spirit, with a hospitality to new ideas, -and a keen insight into experience. To keep one’s reactions warm and -true, is to have found the secret of perpetual youth, and perpetual -youth is salvation. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[1] Earl Barnes. - - - - -II - -THE TWO GENERATIONS - - -It is always interesting to see ourselves through the eyes of others, -even though that view may be most unflattering. The recent “Letter to -the Rising Generation,”[2] if I may judge from the well-thumbed and -underscored copy of the “Atlantic” which I picked up in the College -Library, has been read with keen interest by many of my fellows, and -doubtless, too, with a more emphatic approval, by our elders. The -indictment of an entire generation must at its best be a difficult -task, but the author of the article has performed it with considerable -circumspection, skirting warily the vague and the abstract, and passing -from the judge’s bench to the pulpit with a facility that indicates -that justice is to be tempered with mercy. The rather appalling picture -which she draws of past generations holding their breath to see what -my contemporaries will make of themselves suggests, too, that we are -still on probation, and so, before final judgment is passed, it may be -pertinent to attempt, if not, from the hopeless nature of the case, a -defense, at least an extenuation of ourselves. - -The writer’s charge is pretty definite. It is to the effect that the -rising generation, in its reaction upon life and the splendid world -which has been handed down to it, shows a distinct softening of human -fibre, spiritual, intellectual, and physical, in comparison with the -generations which have preceded it. The most obvious retort to this -is, of course, that the world in which we find ourselves is in no way -of our own making, so that if our reactions to it are unsatisfactory, -or our rebellious attitude toward it distressing, it is at least a -plausible assumption that the world itself, despite the responsible -care which the passing generation bestowed upon it, may be partly to -blame. - -But this, after all, is only begging the question. The author herself -admits that we are the victims of educational experiments, and, in any -event, each generation is equally guiltless of its world. We recognize -with her that the complexity of the world we face only makes more -necessary our bracing up for the fray. Her charge that we are not doing -this overlooks, however, certain aspects of the situation which go far -to explain our seemingly deplorable qualities. - -The most obvious fact which presents itself in this connection is -that the rising generation has practically brought itself up. School -discipline, since the abolition of corporal punishment, has become -almost nominal; church discipline practically nil; and even home -discipline, although retaining the forms, is but an empty shell. -The modern child from the age of ten is almost his own master. The -helplessness of the modern parent face to face with these conditions is -amusing. What generation but the one to which our critic belongs could -have conceived of “mothers’ clubs” conducted by the public schools, -in order to teach mothers how to bring up their children! The modern -parent has become a sort of _parlement_ registering the decrees of a -Grand Monarque, and occasionally protesting, though usually without -effect, against a particularly drastic edict. - -I do not use this assertion as a text for an indictment of the -preceding generation; I am concerned, like our critic, only with -results. These are a peculiarly headstrong and individualistic -character among the young people, and a complete bewilderment on the -part of the parents. The latter frankly do not understand their -children, and their lack of understanding and of control over them -means a lack of the moral guidance which, it has always been assumed, -young people need until they are safely launched in the world. The two -generations misunderstand each other as they never did before. This -fact is a basal one to any comprehension of the situation. - -Now let us see how the rising generation brings itself up. It is -perfectly true that the present-day secondary education, that curious -fragmentary relic of a vitally humanistic age, does not appeal to them. -They will tell you frankly that they do not see any use in it. Having -brought themselves up, they judge utility by their own standards, and -not by those of others. Might not the fact that past generations went -with avidity to their multiplication table, their Latin Grammar, and -their English Bible, whereas the rising generation does not, imply that -the former found some intellectual sustenance in those things which the -latter fails to find? The appearance of industrial education on the -field, and the desperate attempts of educational theory to make the old -things palatable which fifty years ago were gulped down raw, argues, -too, that there may be a grain of truth in our feeling. Only after a -serious examination of our intellectual and spiritual viands should -our rejection of them be attributed to a disordered condition of our -stomachs. - -The charge that the rising generation betrays an extraordinary love -of pleasure is also true. The four years’ period of high-school life -among the children of the comfortable classes is, instead of being a -preparation for life, literally one round of social gayety. But it is -not likely that this is because former generations were less eager -for pleasure, but rather because they were more rigidly repressed -by parents and custom, while their energy was directed into other -channels, religious, for instance. But now, with every barrier removed, -we have the unique spectacle of a youthful society where there is -perfectly free intercourse, an unforced social life of equals, in -which there are bound to develop educative influences of profound -significance. Social virtues will be learned better in such a society -than they can ever be from moral precepts. An important result of this -camaraderie is that the boy’s and the girl’s attitude toward life, -their spiritual outlook, has come to be the same. The line between the -two “spheres” has long disappeared in the industrial classes; it is -now beginning to fade among the comfortable classes. - -Our critic has not seen that this avidity for pleasure is a natural -ebullition which, flaring up naturally, within a few years as naturally -subsides. It goes, too, without that ennui of over-stimulation; and -the fact that it has been will relieve us of the rising generation -from feeling that envy which invariably creeps into the tone of the -passing generation when they say, “We did not go such a pace when we -were young.” After this period of pleasure has begun to subside, there -ensues for those who have not been prematurely forced into industry, a -strange longing for independence. This feeling is most striking among -the girls of the rising generation, and crops up in the most unexpected -places, in families in the easiest circumstances, where to the -preceding generation the idea of caring to do anything except stay at -home and get married, if possible, would have been inconceivable. They -want somehow to feel that they are standing on their own feet. Like -their brothers, they begin to chafe under the tutelage, nominal though -it is, of the home. As a result, these daughters of the comfortable -classes go into trained nursing, an occupation which twenty years ago -was deemed hardly respectable; or study music, or do settlement work, -or even public-school teaching. Of course, girls who have had to earn -their own living have long done these things; the significant point is -that the late rapid increase in these professions comes from those who -have a comfortable niche in society all prepared for them. I do not -argue that this proves any superior quality of character on the part of -this generation, but it does at least fail to suggest a desire to lead -lives of ignoble sloth. - -The undergraduate feels this spirit, too. He often finds himself -vaguely dissatisfied with what he has acquired, and yet does not -quite know what else would have been better for him. He stands on the -threshold of a career, with a feeling of boundless possibility, and yet -often without a decided bent toward any particular thing. One could do -almost anything were one given the opportunity, and yet, after all, -just what shall one do? Our critics have some very hard things to say -about this attitude. They attribute it to an egotistic philosophy, -imperfectly absorbed. But may it not rather be the result of that -absence of repression in our bringing-up, of that rigid moulding which -made our grandfathers what they were? - -It must be remembered that we of the rising generation have to work -this problem out alone. Pastors, teachers, and parents flutter -aimlessly about with their ready-made formulas, but somehow these -are less efficacious than they used to be. I doubt if any generation -was ever thrown quite so completely on its own resources as ours -is. Through it all, the youth as well as the girl feels that he -wants to count for something in life. His attitude, which seems so -egotistical to his elders, is the result of this and of a certain -expansive outlook, rather than of any love of vain-glory. He has never -known what it was to be moulded, and he shrinks a little perhaps -from going through that process. The traditional professions have -lost some of their automatic appeal. They do conventionalize, and -furthermore, the youth, looking at many of their representatives, -the men who “count” in the world to-day, may be pardoned if he feels -sometimes as if he did not want to count in just that way. The youth -“who would not take special training because it would interfere with -his sacred individuality” is an unfair caricature of this weighing, -testing attitude toward the professions. The elder generation should -remember that life is no longer the charted sea that it was to -our grandfathers, and be accordingly lenient with us of the rising -generation. - -Business, to the youth standing on the threshold of life, presents a -similar dilemma. Too often it seems like a choice between the routine -of a mammoth impersonal corporation and chicanery of one kind or -another, or the living by one’s wits within the pale of honesty. The -predatory individualist, the “hard-as-nails” specimen, does exist, of -course, but we are justified in ignoring him here; for, however much -his tribe may increase, it is certain that it will not be his kind, but -the more spiritually sensitive, the amorphous ones of the generation, -who will impress some definite character upon the age, and ultimately -count for good or evil, as a social force. With these latter, it should -be noted that, although this is regarded as a mercenary age, the -question of gain, to an increasingly large number, has little to do -with the final decision. - -The economic situation in which we find ourselves, and to which not -only the free, of whom we have been speaking, but also the unfree of -the rising generation are obliged to react, is perhaps the biggest -factor in explaining our character. In this reaction the rising -generation has a very real feeling of coming straight up against a -wall of diminishing opportunity. I do not see how it can be denied -that practical opportunity is less for this generation than it has -been for those preceding it. The man of fifty years ago, if he was -intellectually inclined, was able to get his professional training -at small expense, and usually under the personal guidance of his -elders; if commercially inclined, he could go into a small, settled, -self-respecting business house, practically a profession in itself -and a real school of character. If he had a broader outlook, there -was the developing West for him, or the growing industrialism of the -East. It looks, at least from this distance, as if opportunity were -easy for that generation. They had the double advantage of being -more circumscribed in their outlook, and of possessing more ready -opportunity at hand. - -But these times have passed forever. Nowadays, professional training is -lengthy and expensive; independent business requires big capital for -success; and there is no more West. It is still as true as ever that -the exceptional man will always “get there,” but now it is likely to be -only the exceptional man, whereas formerly all the able “got there,” -too. The only choice for the vast majority of the young men of to-day -is between being swallowed up in the routine of a big corporation, and -experiencing the vicissitudes of a small business, which is now an -uncertain, rickety affair, usually living by its wits, in the hands -of men who are forced to subordinate everything to self-preservation, -and in which the employee’s livelihood is in constant jeopardy. The -growing consciousness of this situation explains many of the peculiar -characteristics of our generation. - -It has a direct bearing on the question of responsibility. Is it -not sound doctrine that one becomes responsible only by being made -responsible for something? Now, what incentive to responsibility is -produced by the industrial life of to-day? In the small business there -is the frank struggle for gain between employer and employee, a contest -of profits vs. wages, each trying to get the utmost possible out of the -other. The only kind of responsibility that this can possibly breed -is the responsibility for one’s own subsistence. In the big business, -the employee is simply a small part of a big machine; his work -counts for so little that he can rarely be made to feel any intimate -responsibility for it. - -Then, too, our haphazard industrial system offers such magnificent -opportunities to a young man to get into the wrong place. He is forced -by necessity to go early, without the least training or interest, into -the first work that offers itself. The dull, specialized routine of -the modern shop or office, so different from the varied work and the -personal touch which created interest in the past, is the last thing -on earth that will mould character or produce responsibility. When the -situation with an incentive appears, however, we are as ready as any -generation, I believe, to meet it. - -I have seen too many young men, of the usual futile bringing-up and -negligible training, drift idly about from one “job” to another, -without apparent ambition, until something happened to be presented -to them which had a spark of individuality about it, whereupon they -faced about and threw themselves into the task with an energy that -brought success and honor,--I have seen too much of this not to wonder, -somewhat impiously perhaps, whether this boasted character of our -fathers was not rather the result of their coming into contact with -the proper stimulus at the proper time, than of any tougher, grittier -strain in their spiritual fibre. Those among our elders, who, deploring -Socialism, insist so strenuously on the imperfections of human nature, -ought not to find fault with the theory that frail humanity is under -the necessity of receiving the proper stimulus before developing a good -character or becoming responsible. - -Nor is the rising generation any the less capable of effort when -conditions call it forth. I wonder how our critic accounts for the -correspondence schools which have sprung up so abundantly within the -past fifteen years. They are patronized by large numbers of young men -and women who have had little academic training and have gone early -into industry. It is true that the students do not spend their time on -the Latin grammar; they devote themselves to some kind of technical -course which they have been led to believe will qualify them for a -better position. But the fact that they are thus willing to devote -their spare time to study certainly does not indicate a lack of effort. -Rather, it is the hardest kind of effort, for it is directed toward no -immediate end, and, more than that, it is superimposed on the ordinary -work, which is usually quite arduous enough to fatigue the youth. - -Young apprentices in any branch where there is some kind of technical -or artistic appeal, such as mechanics or architecture, show an almost -incredible capacity of effort, often spending, as I have seen them -do, whole days over problems. I know too a young man who, appointed -very young to political office, found that the law would be useful -to him, and travels every evening to a near-by city to take courses. -His previous career had been most inglorious, well calculated by its -aimlessness to ruin any “character”; but the incentive was applied, and -he proved quite capable of putting forth a surprising amount of steady -effort. - -Our critics are perhaps misled by the fact that these young men do -not announce with a blare of trumpets that they are about to follow -in the footsteps of an Edison or a Webster. It must be admitted that -even such men as I have cited do still contrive to work into their -time a surprising amount of pleasure. But the whole situation shows -conclusively, I think, that our author has missed the point when she -says that the rising generation shows a real softening of the human -fibre. It is rather that we have the same reserves of ability and -effort, but that from the complex nature of the economic situation -these reserves are not unlocked so early or so automatically as with -former generations. - -The fact that our fathers did not need correspondence schools or night -schools, or such things, implies either that they were not so anxious -as we to count in the world, or that success was an easier matter -in their day, either of which conclusions furnishes a pretty good -extenuation of our apparent incapacity. We cannot but believe that our -difficulties are greater in this generation; it is hard to see that the -effort we put forth to overcome these difficulties is not proportional -to that increase. I am aware that to blame your surroundings when the -fault lies in your own character is the one impiety which rouses the -horror of present-day moral teachers. Can it not count to us for good, -then, that most of us, while coming theoretically to believe that this -economic situation explains so much of our trouble, yet continue to act -as if our deficiencies were all our own fault? - -Our critics are misled by the fact that we do not talk about -unselfishness and self-sacrifice and duty, as their generation -apparently used to do, and conclude that we do not know what these -things mean. It is true that we do not fuss and fume about our souls, -or tend our characters like a hot-house plant. This is a changing, -transitional age, and our view is outward rather than inward. In an -age of newspapers, free libraries, and cheap magazines, we necessarily -get a broader horizon than the passing generation had. We see what is -going on in the world, and we get the clash of different points of -view, to an extent which was impossible to our fathers. We cannot be -blamed for acquiring a suspicion of ideals, which, however powerful -their appeal once was, seem singularly impotent now, or if we seek for -motive forces to replace them, or for new terms in which to restate -the world. We have an eagerness to understand the world in which we -live that amounts almost to a passion. We want to get behind the -scenes, to see how the machinery of the modern world actually works. -We are curious to learn what other people are thinking, and to get -at the forces that have produced their point of view. We dabble in -philanthrophy as much from curiosity to see how people live as from any -feeling of altruism. We read all sorts of strange philosophies to get -the personal testimony of men who are interpreting the world. In the -last analysis, we have a passion to understand why people act as they -do. - -We have, as a result, become impatient with the conventional -explanations of the older generation. We have retained from childhood -the propensity to see through things, and to tell the truth with -startling frankness. This must, of course, be very disconcerting to -a generation, so much of whose activity seems to consist in glossing -over the unpleasant things or hiding the blemishes on the fair face -of civilization. There are too many issues evaded which we would -like to meet. Many of us find, sooner or later, that the world is a -very different sort of place from what our carefully deodorized and -idealized education would have us believe. - -When we find things simply not as they are painted, is it any wonder -that we turn to the new prophets rather than to the old? We are more -than half confident that the elder generation does not itself really -believe all the conventional ideals which it seeks to force upon us, -and much of our presumption is a result of the contempt we naturally -feel for such timorousness. Too many of your preachers seem to be -whistling simply to keep up your courage. The plain truth is that the -younger generation is acquiring a positive faith, in contact with -which the elder generation with its nerveless negations feels its -helplessness without knowing just what to do about it except to scold -the young. - -This positive aspect is particularly noticeable in the religion of the -rising generation. As our critic says, the religious thinking of the -preceding generation was destructive and uncertain. We are demanding a -definite faith, and our spiritual centre is rapidly shifting from the -personal to the social in religion. Not personal salvation, but social; -not our own characters, but the character of society, is our interest -and concern. We feel social injustice as our fathers felt personal sin. -Settlement work and socialist propaganda, things done fifty years ago -only by rare and heroic souls like Kingsley, Ruskin, and Maurice, are -now the commonplaces of the undergraduate. - -The religion that will mean anything to the rising generation will be -based on social ideals. An essay like ex-President Eliot’s “Religion -of the Future,” which in a way synthesizes science and history and -these social ideals and gives them the religious tinge which every age -demands, supplies a real working religious platform to many a young -man and woman of the rising generation, and an inspiration of which -our elders can form no conception. Perhaps it is unfair to call this -religion at all. Perhaps it is simply the scientific attitude toward -the world. But I am sure that it is more than this; I am sure that -it is the scientific attitude tinged with the religious that will be -ours of the rising generation. We find that we cannot keep apart our -religion, our knowledge, our practice, and our hopes in water-tight -compartments, as our ancestors did. We are beginning to show an -incorrigible tendency to work our spiritual assimilations into one -intelligible, constructive whole. - -It is to this attitude rather than to a softening of fibre that I think -we may lay our growing disinclination to deify sacrifice and suffering. -A young chemistry student said to me the other day, “Science means that -nothing must be wasted!” This idea somehow gets mixed up with human -experience, and we come to believe that human life and happiness are -things that must not be wasted. Might it not be that such a belief that -human waste of life and happiness was foolish and unnecessary would -possibly be of some avail in causing that waste to disappear? And one -of the most inspiring of the prophets to the rising generation, William -James, has told us that certain “moral equivalents” of these things are -possible which will prevent that incurable decaying of fibre which the -elder generation so anxiously fears. - -Another result of this attitude is our growing belief in political -machinery. We are demanding of our preachers that they reduce quality -to quantity. “Stop talking about liberty and justice and love, and show -us institutions, or concerted attempts to model institutions that shall -be free or just or lovely,” we cry. You have been trying so long to -reform the world by making men “good,” and with such little success, -that we may be pardoned if we turn our attention to the machinery of -society, and give up for a time the attempt to make the operators of -that machinery strictly moral. Indeed, the charm of Socialism to so -many of the rising generation is just that scientific aspect of it, -its claim of historical basis, and its very definite and concrete -organization for the attainment of its ends. A philosophy which gives -an illuminating interpretation of the present, and a vision of the -future, with a definitely crystallized plan of action with concrete -methods, however unsound it may all be, can hardly be said to appeal -simply to the combination of “a weak head, a soft heart, and a desire -to shirk.” - -Placed in such a situation as we are, and with such an attitude -toward the world, we are as interested as you and the breathless -generations behind you to see what destinies we shall work out for -ourselves. An unpleasantly large proportion of our energy is now -drained off in fighting the fetishes which you of the elder generation -have passed along to us, and which, out of some curious instinct of -self-preservation, you so vigorously defend. We, on the other hand, -are becoming increasingly doubtful whether you believe in yourselves -quite so thoroughly as you would have us think. Your words are very -brave, but the tone is hollow. Your mistrust of us, and your reluctance -to convey over to us any of your authority in the world, looks a -little too much like the fear and dislike that doubt always feels in -the presence of conviction, to be quite convincing. We believe in -ourselves; and this fact, we think, is prophetic for the future. We -have an indomitable feeling that we shall attain, or if not, that we -shall pave the way for a generation that shall attain. - -Meanwhile our constructive work is hampered by your distrust, while -you blame us for our lack of accomplishment. Is this an attitude -calculated to increase our responsibility and our self-respect? Would -it not be better in every way, more constructive and more fruitful, to -help us in our aspirations and endeavors, or, failing that, at least to -strive to understand just what those aspirations and endeavors are? - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[2] _The Atlantic Monthly_, February, 1911. - - - - -III - -THE VIRTUES AND THE SEASONS OF LIFE - - -Each season of life has its proper virtues, as each season of the year -has its own climate and temperature. If virtue is the excellent working -of the soul, then youth, middle age, and old age, all have their -peculiar ways of working excellently. When we speak of a virtuous life, -we should mean, not a life that has shown one single thread of motive -and attitude running through it, but rather one that has varied with -the seasons, as spring grows gently into summer and summer into autumn, -each season working excellently in respect to the tilling and harvest -of the soul. If it is a virtue to be contented in old age, it is no -virtue to be contented in youth; if it is a virtue for youth to be bold -and venturesome, it is the virtue of middle life to take heed and begin -to gather up the lines and nets so daringly cast by youth into the sea -of life. A virtuous life means a life responsive to its powers and its -opportunities, a life not of inhibitions, but of a straining up to -the limit of its strength. It means doing every year what is fitting -to be done at that year to enhance or conserve one’s own life or the -happiness of those around one. Virtue is a word that abolishes duty. -For duty has steadily fallen into worse and worse opprobrium; it has -come to mean nothing but effort and stress. It implies something that -is done rightly, but that cuts straight across the grain of all one’s -inclinations and motive forces. It is following the lines of greatest -resistance; it is the working of the moral machine with the utmost -friction possible. Now there is no doubt that the moral life involves -struggle and effort, but it should be the struggle of adequate choice, -and not of painful inhibition. We are coming to see that the most -effective things we do are those that have some idea of pleasure yoked -up with them. In the interests of moral efficiency, the ideal must be -the smooth and noiseless workings of the machine, and not the rough and -grinding movements that we have come to associate with the word “duty.” -For the emphasis on the negative duty we must substitute emphasis on -the positive virtue. For virtue is excellence of working, and all -excellence is pleasing. When we know what are the virtues appropriate -to each age of life, we can view the moral life in a new light. It -becomes not a claim upon us of painful obligation, but a stimulus to -excellent spontaneity and summons to self-expression. - -In childhood we acquire the spiritual goods that we shall take with -us through life; in youth we test our acquisitions and our tools, -selecting, criticizing, comparing; in old age, we put them away -gently into the attic of oblivion or retire them honorably, full of -years and service. Our ideas, however, of what those spiritual goods -were that childhood acquired have been very much confused. We have -imagined that we could give the child “the relish of right and wrong,” -as Montaigne calls it. The attempt has usually been made to train up -the child in the moral life, by telling him from his earliest years -what was right and what was wrong. It was supposed that in this way -he absorbed right principles that would be the guiding springs of -his youthful and later life. The only difficulty, of course, with -this theory is that the moral life hardly begins before the stresses -and crises of youth at all. For really moral activity implies choice -and it implies significant choice; and the choices of the child are -few in number and seldom significant. You can tell a child that a -certain thing is wrong, and he will believe it, but his belief will be -a purely mechanical affair, an external idea, which is no more woven -into the stuff of his life than is one of those curious “post-hypnotic -suggestions,” that psychologists tell about, where the subject while -hypnotized is told to do something at a certain time after he awakes. -When the time comes he does it without any consciousness of the reason -and without any immediate motive. Now most moral ideas in a child’s -mind are exactly similar to these suggestions. They seem to operate -with infallible accuracy, and we say,--“What a good child!” As a fact -the poor child is as much under an alien spell as the subject of -the hypnotist. Now all this sort of hypnotized morality the younger -generation wants to have done with. It demands a morality that is -glowing with self-consciousness, that is healthy with intelligence. It -refuses to call the “good” child moral at all; it views him as a poor -little trained animal, that is doomed for the rest of his life to go -through mechanical motions and moral tricks at the crack of the whip -of a moral code or religious authority. From home and Sunday-school, -children of a slightly timid disposition get moral wounds, the scars of -which never heal. They enter a bondage from which they can never free -themselves; their moral judgment in youth is warped and blighted in a -thousand ways, and they pass through life, seemingly the most moral -of men and women, but actually having never known the zest of true -morality, the relish of right and wrong. The best intentions of parents -and teachers have turned their characters into unnatural channels from -which they cannot break, and fixed unwittingly upon them senseless -inhibitions and cautions which they find they cannot dissolve, even -when reason and common sense convince them that they are living under -an alien code. Looked upon from this light, childish goodness and -childish conscientiousness is an unhealthy and even criminal forcing -of the young plant, the hot-house bringing to maturity of a young soul -whose sole business is to grow and learn. When moral instruction is -given, a criminal advantage is taken of the child’s suggestibility, -and all possibility of an individual moral life, growing naturally -and spontaneously as the young soul meets the real emergencies and -problems that life will present to it, is lost. If, as we are coming -more and more to realize, the justification of knowledge is that it -helps us to get along with and enjoy and grapple with the world, so -the justification of virtue is that it enables us to get along with -and enjoy and grapple with the spiritual world of ideals and feelings -and qualities. We should be as careful about giving a child moral -ideas that will be of no practical use to him as we are in giving him -learning that will be of no use to him. - -The virtues of childhood, then, we shall not find in the moral realm. -The “good” child is not cultivated so much to-day as he was by the -former generation, whose one aim in education and religion was to bind -the young fast in the fetters of a puritan code; but he is still, in -well-brought-up families, an appalling phenomenon. The child, who at -the age of five has a fairly complete knowledge of what God wants -him and all around him to do and not to do, is an illustration of -the results of the confusion of thought that would make childhood -instead of youth the battle-ground of the moral life. We should not -dismiss such a child as quaint, for in him have been sowed the seeds -of a general obscurantism and conservatism that will spread like a -palsy over his whole life. The acceptance of moral judgments that -have no vital meaning to the young soul will mean in later life the -acceptance of ideas and prejudices in political and religious and -social matters that are uncriticized and unexamined. The “good” child -grows up into the conventional bigoted man. The duties and tastes which -are inculcated into him in childhood, far from aiding the “excellent -workings of his soul,” clog and rust it, and prevent the fine free -expression of its individuality and genius. For the child has not -yet the material of experience that will enable him to get the sense -of values which is at the bottom of what we call the spiritual life. -And it is this sense that is so easily dulled, and that must be so -carefully protected against blunting. That the child cannot form -moral judgments for himself, however, does not mean that they must be -formed for him by others; it means that we must patiently wait until -he meets the world of vivid contrasts and shocks and emergencies that -is youth. It is not repairing his lack of moral sensitiveness to get -him to repeat parrot-like the clean-cut and easily learned taboos and -permissions of the people around him. To get him to do this is exactly -like training an animal to bolt any kind of food. The child, however, -has too weak a stomach to digest very much of the moral pabulum that -is fed him. The inevitable result is a moral indigestion, one form of -which is the once fashionable sense of sin. The youth, crammed with -uncriticized taboos delivered to him with the awful prestige of an -Almighty God, at a certain age revolts, and all the healthy values -of life turn sour within him. The cure for this spiritual dyspepsia -is called conversion, but it is a question whether the cure is not -often worse than the disease. For it usually means that the relish of -right and wrong, which had suddenly become a very real thing, has been -permanently perverted in a certain direction. By a spiritual operation, -the soul has been forced to digest all this strange food, and acquires -the ability to do so forever after. Those who do not suffer this -operation pass through life with an uneasiness of spirit, the weight -and burden of an imperfectly assimilated moral life. Few there are -who are able to throw off the whole soddenness, and if they do they -are fortunate if they are not left without any food at all. Religious -teachers have always believed that all these processes were necessary -for the soul’s health. They have believed that it was better to have -mechanical morals than no morals at all. When the younger generation -sees the damage such morals work, it would prefer to have none. - -Discarding the “good” child, then, we will find the virtues of -childhood in that restless, pushing, growing curiosity that is the -characteristic of every healthy little boy or girl. The child’s life is -spent in learning his way around the world; in learning the ropes of -things, the handles and names of whatever comes within the range of his -experience. He is busy acquiring that complex bundle of common-sense -knowledge that underlies all our grown-up acts, and which has become -so automatic with us that it hardly seems possible to us that we have -slowly acquired it all. We do not realize that thousands of facts and -habits, which have become stereotyped and practically unconscious in -our minds, are the fresh and vital experiences of the mind of the -little child. We cannot put ourselves back into that world where the -absorbing business is to give things a position and a name and to -learn all the little obvious facts about the things in the house and -the yard and the village, and in that far land of mystery beyond. What -sort of sympathy can we have with these little people,--we, to whom all -this naïve world of place and nomenclature is so familiar as to seem -intuitive? We should have to go back to a world where every passing -railroad train was a marvel and a delight, where a walk to the village -meant casting ourselves adrift into an adventurous country where -anything was likely to happen and where all calculations of direction -or return were upset. It takes children a long time to get accustomed -to the world. This common workaday knowledge of ours seems intuitive -to us only because we had so many years during which it was reiterated -to us, and not because we were unusually sensitive to impressions. -Children often seem almost as stupid as any young animal, and to -require long practice before they know their way around in the world, -although, once obtained, this common sense is never forgotten. That -child is virtuous who acquires all he can of it. - -This curiosity of childhood makes children the first scientists. They -begin, as soon as their eyes are open, dissolving this confused mystery -of the world, distinguishing and classifying its parts according to -their interests and needs. They push on and on, ever widening the -circle, and ever bringing more and more of their experience under the -subjugation of their understanding. They begin the process that the -scientist completes. As children, after several years we came to know -our house and yard, although the attic and cellar were perhaps still -dim and fearsome places. Inside the household things were pretty -well tabulated and rationalized. It was only when we went outside the -gate that we might expect adventures to happen. We should have been -very much shocked to see the fire leap from the stove and the bread -from the table, as they did in the “Blue Bird,” but in walking down -to the village we should not have been surprised to see a giant or a -fairy sitting on the green. When we became familiar with the village, -the fairies were, of course, banished to remoter regions, until they -finally vanished altogether. But it is not so long ago that I lost the -last vague vestige of a feeling that there were fairies in England. - -The facility, one might almost say skill, which children show in -getting lost, is the keynote of childhood’s world. For they have no -bearings among the unfamiliar, no principles for the solution of the -unknown. In their accustomed realm they are as wise and canny and -free from superstition as we are in ours. We, as grown-ups, have not -acquired any magical release from fantasy. The only difference is that -we are accustomed to make larger hazards of faith that things will -repeat themselves, and that we have a wider experience to check off -our novelties by. We have charted most of our world; we unfortunately -have no longer any world to get lost in. To be sure, we have opened -up perhaps an intangible world of philosophy and speculation, which -childhood does not dream of, and heaven knows we can get lost there! -But the thing is different. The adventure of childhood is to get lost -here in this everyday world of common sense which is so familiar to us. -To become really as little children we should have to get lost again -here. The best substitute we can give ourselves is to keep exploring -the new spiritual world in which we may find ourselves in youth and -middle life, pushing out ever, as the child does, our fringe of -mystery. And we can gain the gift of wonder, something that the child -does not have. He is too busy drinking in the facts to wonder about -them, or to wonder about what is beyond them. We may count ourselves -fortunate, however, that we are able to retain the child’s virtue of -curiosity, and transmute it into the beauty of spiritual wonder. - -It is facts and not theories that the child is curious about, and -rightly. He cannot assimilate moral theories, nor can he assimilate -any other kind of theories. It is his virtue to learn how the world -runs; youth will be time enough to philosophize about that running. -It is the immediate and the present that interest children, and they -are omnivorous with regard to any facts about either. What they hear -about the world they accept without question. We often think when we -are telling them fairy stories or animal stories that we are exercising -their poetic imagination; but from their point of view we are telling -them sober facts about the world they live in. We are often surprised, -too, at the apathy they show in the midst of wonders that we point out -to them. They are wonders to us because we appreciate the labor or the -genius that has produced them. In other words, we have added a value -to them. But it is just this value which the child-mind does not get -and can never get. To the child they are not surprising, but simply -some more information about his world. All is grist that comes to the -child’s mill. Everything serves to plot and track for him a new realm -of things as they are. - -The child’s mind, so suggestible to facts, seems to be almost -impervious to what we call spiritual influences. He lives in a world -hermetically sealed to our interests and concerns. Parents and teachers -make the most conscientious efforts to influence their children, but -they would better realize that they can influence them only in the -most indirect way. The best thing they can do for the children is to -feed their curiosity, and provide them with all the materials that will -stimulate their varied interests. They can then leave the “influence” -to take care of itself. The natural child seems to be impregnable to -any appeals of shame, honor, reverence, honesty, and even ridicule,--in -other words, to all those methods we have devised for getting a -clutch on other people’s souls, and influencing and controlling -them according to our desires. And this is not because the child is -immoral, but simply because, as I have tried to show, those social -values mean as yet nothing to him. He lives in a splendid isolation -from our conventional standards; the influences of his elders, however -well-directed and prayerful they may be, simply do not reach him. He -lives unconscious of our interests and motives. Only the “good” child -is susceptible, and he is either instinctively submissive, or is the -victim of the mechanical imposition of standards and moral ideas. - -The child works out what little social morality he does obtain, not -under the influence of his elders, but among his playmates. And the -standards worked out there are not refined and moral at all, but -rough ones of emulation and group honor, and respect for prowess. Even -obedience, which we all like to think of as one of the indispensable -accomplishments of a well-trained child, seems to be obtained at the -cost of real moral growth. It might be more beneficial if it were not -too often merely a means for the spiritual edification of the parents -themselves. Too often it is the delight of ruling, of being made -obeisance to, that is the secret motive of imposing strict obedience, -and not our desire simply that they shall learn the excellent habits -that are our own. One difficulty with the child who has “learned to -mind” is that, if he learns too successfully, he runs the risk of -growing up to be a cowardly and servile youth. There is a theory that -since the child will be obliged in later life to do many things that -he does not want to do, he might as well learn how while he is young. -The difficulty here seems to be that learning to do one kind of a -thing that you do not want to do does not guarantee your readiness to -do other kinds of unpleasant things. That art cannot be taught. Each -situation of compulsion, unless the spirit is completely broken, will -have its own peculiar quality of bitterness, and no guarantee against -it can be inculcated. Life will present so many inevitable necessities -to the child when he gets out into the world that it seems premature to -burden his childhood with a training which will be largely useless. So -much of our energy is wasted, and so much friction created, because we -are unwilling to trust life. If life is the great demoralizer, it is -also the great moralizer. It whips us into shape, and saddles us with -responsibilities and the means of meeting them, with obligations and -the will to meet them, with burdens and a strength to bear them. It -creates in us a conscience and the love of duty, and endows us with a -morality that a mother and father with the power and the love of angels -working through all the years of our childhood could not have created -within us. Trust life and not your own feeble efforts to create the -soul in the child! - -The virtue of childhood, then, is an exhaustless curiosity and interest -in the world in which the child finds himself. He is here to learn his -way around in it, to learn the names of things and their uses, how -to use his body and his capacities. This will be the most excellent -working of his soul. If his mind and body are active, he will be a -“good” child, in the best sense of the word. We can almost afford to -let him be insolent and irreverent and troublesome as long as he is -only curious. If he has a temper, it will not be cured by curbing, but -by either letting it burn out, or not giving it fuel to feed on. Food -for his body and facts for his mind are the sustenance he requires. -From the food will be built up his body, and from the facts and his -reactions to them will slowly evolve his world of values and ideals. We -cannot aid him by giving him our theories, or shorten the path for him -by presenting him with ready-made standards. In spite of all the moral -teachers, there is no short cut to the moral life of youth, any more -than there is a royal road to knowledge. Nor can we help him to grow -by transferring some of our superfluous moral flesh to his bones. The -child’s qualities which shock our sense of propriety are evidences not -of his immorality, but of his pre-morality. A morality that will mean -anything to him can only be built up out of a vast store of experience, -and only when his world has broadened out into a real society with -influences of every kind coming from every side. He cannot get the -relish of right and wrong until he has tasted life, and it is the -taste of life that the child does not have. That taste comes only with -youth, and then with a bewildering complexity and vividness. - -But between childhood and youth there comes a trying period when the -child has become well cognizant of the practical world, but has as yet -no hint of the gorgeous colors of youth. At thirteen, for instance, one -has the world pretty well charted, but not yet has the slow chemistry -of time transmuted this experience into meanings and values. There is -a crassness and materiality about the following three or four years -that have no counterpart until youth is over and the sleek years of the -forties have begun. How cocksure and familiar with the world is the boy -or girl at this age! They have no doubts, but they have no glow. At no -time in life is one so unspiritual, so merely animal, so much of the -earth, earthy. How different is it to be a few years later! How shaken -and adventurous will the world appear then! For this waiting period -of life, the virtues are harder to discover. Curiosity has lapsed, -for there do not seem to be many things left to be curious about. The -child is beautifully unconscious of his own ignorance. Similarly has -the play activity diminished; the boy has put away his Indian costumes, -and the girl her dolls. At this season of life the virtue would seem -to consist in the acquirement of some skill in some art or handicraft -or technique. This is the time to search for the budding talents and -the strong native bents and inclinations. To be interesting is one of -the best of virtues, and few things make a person more interesting than -skill or talent. From a selfish point of view, too, all who have grown -up with unskillful hands will realize the solid virtue of knowing how -to do something with the hands, and avoid that vague restlessness and -desire to get at grips with something that haunts the professional -man who has neglected in youth to cultivate this virtue of technique. -And it is a virtue which, if not acquired at that time, can never be -acquired. The deftness of hand, alertness of mind, are soon lost if -they are not taken advantage of, and the child grows up helpless and -unskillful, with a restless void where a talent and interest should be. - -It is with youth, then, that the moral life begins, the true relish of -right and wrong. Out of the crucible of passion and enthusiasm emerge -the virtues of life, virtues that will have been tested and tried in -the furnace of youth’s poignant reactions to the world of possibilities -and ideals that has been suddenly opened up to it. Those young people -who have been the victims of childish morality will not feel this new -world so clearly or keenly, or, if there did lurk underneath the crust -of imposed priggishness some latent touch of genius, they will feel -the new life with a terrible searing pain that maddens them and may -permanently distort their whole vision of life. To those without the -spark, the new life will come stained by prejudice. Their reactions -will be dulled; they will not see clearly; and will either stagger at -the shock, or go stupidly ahead oblivious of the spiritual wonders -on every side. Only those who have been allowed to grow freely like -young plants, with the sun and air above their heads, will get the -full beauty and benefit of youth. Only those whose eyes have been kept -wide open ceaselessly learning the facts of the material and practical -world will truly appreciate the values of the moral world, and be able -to acquire virtue. Only with this fund of practical knowledge will -the youth be able to balance and contrast and compare the bits of his -experience, see them in the light of their total meaning, and learn to -prefer rightly one bit to another. It is as if silent forces had been -at work in the soul during the last years of childhood, organizing the -knowledge and nascent sentiments of the child into forms of power ready -for the free expression of youth. - -Youth expresses itself by falling in love. Whether it be art, a girl, -socialism, religion, the sentiment is the same; the youth is swept -away by a flood of love. He has learned to value, and how superlative -and magnificent are his values! The little child hardly seems to love; -indeed, his indifference to grown people, even to his own parents, -is often amazing. He has the simple affection of a young animal, but -how different his cool regard from the passionate flame of youth! -Love is youth’s virtue, and it is wide as well as deep. There is no -tragic antithesis between a youth’s devotion to a cause and his love -for a girl. They are not mutually exclusive, as romanticists often -love to think, but beautifully compatible. They tend to fuse, and they -stimulate and ennoble each other. The first love of youth for anything -is pure and ethereal and disinterested. It is only when thwarted that -love turns sensual, only when mocked that enthusiasm becomes fanatical -or mercenary. Worldly opinion seems to care much more for personal -love than for the love of ideals. Perhaps it is instinctively more -interested in the perpetuation of the race than in its progress. It -gives its suffrage and approval to the love of a youth for a girl, but -it mocks and discredits the enthusiast. It just grudgingly permits -the artist to live, but it piles almost insurmountable obstacles in -the path of the young radical. The course of true love may never run -smooth, but what of the course of true idealism? - -The springs that feed this love are found, of course, in hero-worship. -Sexual love is objectified in some charming and appealing girl, love -for ideals in some teacher or seer or the inspiring personality of -a friend. It is in youth that we can speak of real influence. Then -is the soul responsive to currents and ideas. The embargo which kept -the child’s mind immune to theory and opinion and tastes is suddenly -lifted. In childhood, our imitation is confined to the external; we -copy ways of acting, but we are insensitive to the finer nuances of -personality. But in youth we become sensitive to every passing tone -and voice. Youth is the season when, through this sensitiveness, the -deadly pressures get their purchase on the soul; it is also the season -for the most momentous and potent influences for good. In youth, if -there is the possibility that the soul be permanently warped out of -shape, there is also the possibility that it receive the nourishment -that enables it to develop its own robust beauty. It is by hero-worship -that we copy not the externals of personality, as in childhood, but -the inner spirit. We feel ourselves somehow merged with the admired -persons, and we draw from them a new stimulating grace. We find -ourselves in them. It is not yielding to a pressure that would force us -to a type, but a drawing up of ourselves to a higher level, through the -aid of one who possesses all those qualities which have been all along, -we feel, our vague and hitherto unexpressed ideal. We do not feel that -our individualities are being lost, but that they are for the first -time being found. We have discovered in another personality all those -best things for which our hearts have been hungering, and we are simply -helping ourselves to that which is in reality our own. Our hero gives -of himself inexhaustibly, and we take freely and gladly what we need. -It is thus that we stock up with our first store of spiritual values. -It is from the treasury of a great and good personality that we receive -the first confirmation of ourselves. In the hero-personality, we see -our own dim, baby ideals objectified. Their splendor encourages us, -and nerves us for the struggle to make them thoroughly our own. - -There is a certain pathos in the fact that parents are so seldom -the heroes from whom the children derive this revelation of their -own personality. It is more often some teacher or older friend or -even a poet or reformer whom the youth has never seen and knows only -through his words and writings. But for this the parents are partly -responsible. They are sufficiently careful about the influences which -play upon their young children. They give care and prayers and tears -to their bringing-up in the years when the children are almost immune -to any except the more obvious mechanical influences, and learn of -ideals and values only in a parrot-like fashion. But when the child -approaches youth, the parent is apt to relax vigilance and, with a cry -of thanksgiving and self-congratulation that the child has been brought -safely through so many perils to the desired haven, to surrender him -to his own devices. Just at the time when he becomes really sensitive -for the first time to spiritual influences, he is deprived of this -closest and warmest influence of the home. But he has not been brought -into a haven, but launched into a heaving and troubled sea. This is -the time when his character lies at stake, and the possibility of his -being a radical, individual force in the world hangs in the balance. -Whether he will become this force depends on the pressures that he is -able to dodge, and on the positive ideals he is able to secure. And -they will depend largely on the heroes he worships, upon his finding -the personalities that seem to contain all the best for which he -yearns. Hero-worship is the best preservative against cheapness of -soul, that besetting sin of modern youth. It directs our attention away -from the light and frothy things of the world, which are wont to claim -so much of youth’s interest, to qualities that are richer and more -satisfying. Yet hero-worship is no mere imitation. We do not simply -adopt new qualities and a new character. We rather impregnate our -hitherto sterile ideals with the creative power of a tested and assured -personality, and give birth to a new reliance and a new faith. Our -heroes anticipate and provide for our doubts and fears, and fortify us -against the sternest assaults of the world. We love our heroes because -they have first loved us. - -Out of this virtue of love and the clashing of its clear spirit with -the hard matter of established things come the sterner virtues. From -that conflict, courage is struck off as youth feels the need of -keeping his flame steady and holding to his own course, regardless -of obstacles or consequences. Youth needs courage, that salt of -the virtues, for if youth has its false hopes, it has its false -depressions. That strange melancholy, when things seem to lose their -substance and the world becomes an empty shell, is the reverse shield -of the elation of youth. To face and overcome it is a real test of the -courage of youth. The dash and audacity, the daring and self-confidence -of youth, are less fine than this simple courage of optimism. Youth -needs courage, too, when its desires do not come true, when it meets -suspicion or neglect, and when its growth seems inexorably checked by -circumstance. In these emergencies, the youth usually plays the stoic. -He feels a savage pride in the thought that circumstance can never rob -him of his integrity, or bring his best self to be dependent on mere -change of fortune. Such a courage is a guarantor of youth. It forms a -protecting crust over life and lessens the shock of many contingencies. -The only danger is that it may become too perfect a shell and harden -the character. It is not well for youth to shun the battle. Courage -demands exposure to assault. - -And besides courage, youth needs temperance. The sins and excesses -of hot-blooded youth are a byword; youth would not seem to be youth -without its carnality and extravagance. It is fortunate that youth is -able to expend that extravagance partly in idealism. Love is always -the antidote to sensuality. And we can always, if we set ourselves -resolutely to the task, transmute the lower values into higher. -This, indeed, is the crucial virtue of youth, and temperance is the -seal and evidence of the transmutation. Temperance in things of the -flesh is ordained not through sentimental reasons, but on the best of -physiological and psychological motives. Temperance is a virtue because -of the evil consequences to one’s self and others which follow excess -of indulgence in appetite. - -But this temperance does not mean quite the same thing as the rigid -self-control that used to be preached. The new morality has a more -positive ideal than the rigid mastery which self-control implies. We -are to fix our attention more in giving our good impulses full play -than in checking the bad. The theory is that if one is occupied with -healthy ideas and activities, there will be no room or time for the -expression of the unhealthy ones. Anything that implies an inhibition -or struggle to repress is a draining away into a negative channel of -energy that might make for positive constructive work in the character. -The repressed desires and interests are not killed, but merely checked, -and they persist, with unabated vigor, in struggling to get the upper -hand again. They are little weakened by lying dormant, and lurk warily -below, ready to swarm up again on deck, whenever there is the smallest -lapse of vigilance. But if they are neglected they gradually cease from -troubling, and are killed by oblivion where they could not have been -hurt by forcible repression. The mortification of the flesh seems too -often simply to strengthen its pride. - -In the realm of emotion, the dangers of rigid self-control are -particularly evident. There are fashions in emotion as well as in -dress, and it seems to have become the fashion in certain circles -of youth to inhibit any emotional expression of the sincere or -the serious. There is a sort of reign of terrorism which prevents -personal conversation from being carried on upon any plane except one -of flippancy and insincerity. Frankness of expression in regard to -personal feelings and likes and dislikes is tabooed. A strange new -ethics of tact has grown up which makes candor so sacrilegious a -thing that its appearance in a group or between two young people of -the opposite sex creates general havoc and consternation. Young people -who dare to give natural expression to their feelings about each other -or about their ideals and outlook on life find themselves genuinely -unpopular. When this peculiar ethics works at its worst, it gives a -person a pride in concealing his or her feelings on any of the vital -and sincere aspects of life, the interests and admirations and tastes. -But this energy, dammed up thus from expression in its natural way, -overflows in a hysterical admiration for the trivial, and an unhealthy -interest in the mere externals, the “safe” things, of life. Such -self-control dwarfs the spirit; it results only in misunderstandings -and a tragic ignorance of life. It is one of the realest of the vices -of youth, for it is the parent of a host of minor ailments of the -soul. It seems to do little good even to repress hatred and malice. -If repressed, they keep knocking at the door of consciousness, and -poison the virtues that might develop if the soul could only get rid of -its load of spleen. If the character is thickly sown with impersonal -interests and the positive virtues are carefully cultivated, there will -be no opportunity for these hateful weeds to reach the sun and air. -Virtue should actually crowd out vice, and temperance is the tool that -youth finds ready to its hand. Temperance means the happy harmonizing -and coördinating of the expression of one’s personality; it means -health, candor, sincerity, and wisdom,--knowledge of one’s self and the -sympathetic understanding of comrades. - -Justice is a virtue which, if it be not developed in youth, has little -chance of ever being developed. It depends on a peculiarly sensitive -reaction to good and evil, and it is only in youth that those reactions -are keen and disinterested. Real justice is always a sign of great -innocence; it cannot exist side by side with interested motives or a -trace of self-seeking. And a sense of justice is hard to develop in -this great industrial world where the relations of men are so out of -joint and where such flaunting anomalies assail one at every turn. Yet -in the midst of it all youth is still pure of heart, and it is only -the pure of heart who can be just. For in youth we live in a world -of clean disinterestedness. We have ambitions and desires, but not -yet have we learned the devious way by which they may be realized. -We have not learned how to achieve our ends by taking advantage of -other people, and using them and their interests and necessities as -means. We still believe in the possibility of every man’s realizing -himself side by side with us. In early youth, therefore, we have an -instinctive and almost unconscious sense of justice. Not yet have -we learned the trick of exploiting our fellow men. If we are early -assailed with the reality of social disorder, and have brought home -to our hearts the maladjustments of our present order, that sense of -justice is transformed into a passion. This passion for social justice -is one of the most splendid of the ideals of youth. It has the power of -keeping alive all the other virtues; it stimulates life and gives it a -new meaning and tone. It furnishes the _leit-motiv_ which is so sadly -lacking in many lives. And youth must find a _leit-motiv_ of some kind, -or its spirit perishes. This social idealism acts like a tonic upon -the whole life; it keeps youth alive even after one has grown older in -years. - -With justice comes the virtue of democracy. We learn all too early -in youth the undemocratic way of thinking, the divisions and -discriminations which the society around us makes among people. But -youth cannot be swept by love or fired by the passion for justice -without feeling a wild disgust at everything that suggests artificial -inequalities and distinctions. Democracy means a belief that people -are worthy; it means trust in the good faith and the dignity of the -average man. The chief reason why the average man is not now worthy -of more trust, the democrat believes, is simply that he has not been -trusted enough in the past. Democracy has little use for philanthropy, -at least in the sense of a kindly caring for people, with the constant -recognition that the person who is kind is superior to the person -who is being done good to. The spirit of democracy is a much more -robust humanity. It is rough and aggressive; it stands people up on -their own feet, makes them take up their beds and walk. It prods them -to move their own limbs and take care of themselves. It makes them -strong by giving them something to do. It will have nothing more to do -with the superstition of trusteeship which paralyzes now most of our -institutional life. It does not believe for a minute that everybody -needs guardians for most of the serious concerns of life. The great -crime of the past has been that humankind has never been willing to -trust itself, or men each other. We have tied ourselves up with laws -and traditions, and devised a thousand ways to prevent men from being -thrown on their own responsibility and cultivating their own powers. -Our society has been constituted on the principle that men must be -saved from themselves. We have surrounded ourselves with so many moral -hedges, have imposed upon ourselves so many checks and balances, that -life has been smothered. Our liberation has just begun. We are far from -free, but the new spirit of democracy is the angel that will free us. -No virtue is more potent for youth. - -And the last of these virtues, redolent of the old Greek time, -when men walked boldly, when the world was still young, and gods -and nymphs not all dead, is wisdom. To be wise is simply to have -blended and harmonized one’s experience, to have fused it together -into a “philosophy of life.” Wisdom is a matter not of quantity, -but of quality of experience. It means getting at the heart of it, -and obtaining the same clear warm impression of its meaning that -the artist does of the æsthetic idea that he is going to represent. -Wisdom in youth or early middle life may be far truer than in later -life. One’s courage may weaken under repeated failure, one’s sense of -justice be dulled by contact with the wrong relations between men and -classes, one’s belief in democracy destroyed by the seeming failure of -experiments. But this gathering cynicism does not mean the acquiring -of wisdom, but the losing of it. The usefulness and practicability of -these virtues of youth are not really vitiated by the struggles they -have in carrying themselves through into practice; what is exhibited -is merely the toughness of the old forces of prejudice and tradition, -and the “pig-headedness” of the old philosophy of timorousness and -distrust. True wisdom is faith in love, in justice, in democracy; youth -has this faith in largest measure; therefore youth is most wise. - -Middle age steals upon a youth almost before he is aware. He will -recognize it at first, perhaps, by a slight paling of his enthusiasms, -or by a sudden consciousness that his early interests have been -submerged in the flood of routine work and family cares. The later -years of youth and the early years of middle life are in truth the -dangerous age, for then may be lost the virtues that were acquired in -youth. Or, if not lost, many will be felt to be superfluous. There is -danger that the peculiar bias of the relish of right and wrong that -the virtues of youth have given one may be weakened, and the soul -spread itself too thin over life. Now one of the chief virtues of -middle life is to conserve the values of youth, to practice in sober -earnest the virtues that came so naturally in the enthusiasm of youth, -but which take on a different hue when exposed to what seem to be the -crass facts of the workaday world. But there is no reason why work, -ambition, the raising of a family, should dull the essential spirit -of youthful idealism. It may not be so irrepressible, so freakish, so -intolerant, but it should not be different in quality and significance. -The burdens of middle life are not a warrant for the releasing of the -spiritual obligations of youth. They do not give one the right to look -back with amused regret to the dear follies of the past. For as soon -as the spirit of youth begins to leave the soul, that soul begins to -die. Middle-aged people are too much inclined to speak of youth as a -sort of spiritual play. They forget that youth feels that it itself has -the serious business of life, the real crises to meet. To youth it is -middle age that seems trivial and playful. It is after the serious work -of love-making and establishing one’s self in economic independence -is over that one can rest and play. Youth has little time for that -sort of recreation. In middle age, most of the problems have been -solved, the obstacles overcome. There is a slackening of the lines, -a satisfied taking of one’s reward. And to youth this must always -seem a tragedy, that the season of life when the powers are at their -highest should be the season when they are oftener turned to material -than to spiritual ends. Youth has the energy and ideals, but not the -vantage-ground of prestige from which to fight for them. Middle age has -the prestige and the power, but too seldom the will to use it for the -furtherance of its ideals. Youth has the isolation, the independence, -the disinterestedness so that it may attack any foe, but it has not -the reserve force to carry that attack through. Middle age has all the -reserve power necessary, but is handicapped by family obligations, by -business and political ties, so that its power is rarely effective for -social or individual progress. - -The supreme virtue of middle age will be, then, to make this difficult -fusion,--to combine devotion to one’s family, to one’s chosen work, -with devotion to the finer idealism and impersonal aims that formed -one’s philosophy of youth. To keep alive through all the twistings -and turnings of life’s road the sense of a larger humanity that needs -spiritual and material succor, of the individual spiritual life of -ideal interests, is a task of virtue that will tax the resources of -any man or woman. Yet here lies the true virtue of middle age,--to use -its splendid powers to enhance the social and individual life round -one, to radiate influence that transforms and elevates. The secret -of such a radiant personality seems to be that one, while mingling -freely in the stress of everyday life, sees all its details in the -light of larger principles, against the background of their social -meaning. In other words, it is a virtue of middle life to be socially -self-conscious. And this spirit is the best protector against the -ravages of the tough material world. Only by this social consciousness -can that toughness be softened. The image of the world the way it ought -to be must never be lost sight of in the picture of the world the way -it is. - -This conservation of the spirit is even more necessary for the woman -than for the man. The active life of the latter makes it fairly -certain that he, while he may become hard and callous, will at least -retain some sort of grip on the world’s bigger movements. There is -no such certainty for the mother. Indeed, she seems often to take a -real pleasure in voluntarily offering up in sacrifice at the time of -marriage what few ideal interests and tastes she has. The spectacle -of the young mother devoting all her time and strength to her children -and husband, and surrendering all other interests to the interests of -the home, is usually considered inspiring and attractive, especially by -the men. Not so attractive is she thirty years later, when, her family -cares having lapsed and her children scattered, she is left high and -dry in the world. If she then takes a well-earned rest, it seems a -pity that that rest should be so generally futile and uninteresting. -Without interests and tastes, and with no longer any useful function in -society, she is relegated to the most trivial amusements and pursuits. -Idle and vapid, she finds nothing to do but fritter away her time. The -result is a really appalling waste of economic and social energy in -middle age. Now it is the virtue of this season of life to avoid all -this. The woman as well as the man must realize that her home is not -bounded by the walls of the house, that it has wider implications, -leading out into all the interests of the community and the state. That -women of this age have not yet learned to be good mothers and good -citizens at the same time, does not show that it is impossible, but -that it is a virtue that requires more resolution than our morality -has been willing to exhibit. The relish of right and wrong must be a -relish of social right and wrong as well as of individual. - -As middle age passes on into old age, however, one earns a certain -right of relaxation. If there is no right to let go the sympathy -for the virtues of youth and the conservation of its spirit, there -comes the right to give over some of the aggressive activity. To -youth belongs the practical action. At no other age is there the same -impulse and daring. The virtue of later middle age is to encourage -and support, rather than actively engage. It is true we have never -learned this lesson. We still surrender to semi-old men the authority -to govern us, think for us, act for us. We endow them with spiritual -as well as practical leadership, and allow them to strip youth of -its opportunities and powers. We permit them to rule not only their -own but all the generations. If we could be sure that their rule -meant progress, we could trust them to guide us. But, in these times -at least, it seems to mean nothing so much as a last fight for a -discredited undemocratic philosophy that modern youth are completely -through with. From this point of view one of the virtues of this middle -season of life will be the imaginative understanding of youth’s -purposes and radical ideals. At that age, one no longer needs the same -courage to face the battles of life; they are already most of them -irrevocably won or lost. There is not the same claim of temperance; the -passions and ambitions are relaxed. The sense of justice and democracy -will have become a habit or else they will have been forever lost. Only -the need of wisdom remains,--that unworldly wisdom which mellowing -years can bring, which sees through the disturbance and failure of life -the truth and efficacy of youth’s ideal vision. - -Old age is such a triumph that it may almost be justly relieved of any -burden of virtues or duties; it is so unique and beautiful that the -old should be given the perfect freedom of the moral city. So splendid -a victory is old age over the malign forces of disease and weakness -and death that one is tempted to say that its virtue lies simply in -being old. Those virtues of youth which grew out of the crises and -temptations, physical and spiritual, of early life, are no longer -relevant. There may come instead the quieter virtues of contentment -and renunciation. Old people have few crises and few temptations; they -live in the past and not in the future, as youth does. They cannot -be required, therefore, to have that scorn for tradition which is the -virtue of youth. They can keep alive for us the tradition that _is_ -vital, and from them we can learn many things. - -The value of their experience to us is not that it teaches us to avoid -their mistakes, for we must try all things for ourselves. The older -generation, it is true, often flatters itself that its mistakes somehow -make for our benefit, because we learn from their errors to avoid -the pitfalls into which they came. But there is no making mistakes -by the proxy of a former generation. The world has moved on in the -mean time; the pitfalls are new, and we shall only entangle ourselves -the more by adopting the methods of our ancestors in getting out of -the difficulties. But the value of an old man’s experience is that -he has preserved in it the living tradition and hands down to us old -honesties, old sincerities, and old graces, that have been crushed in -the rough-and-tumble of modern life. It is not tradition in itself -that is dangerous, but only dead tradition that has no meaning for the -present and is a mere weight on our progress. Such is the legal and -economic tradition given to us by our raucous, middle-aged leaders of -opinion, adopted by them through motives of present gain, and not -through sincere love of the past. - -But old men, looking back over the times in which they have lived, -throw a poetic glamour over the past and make it live again. They see -it idealized, but it is the _real_ that they see idealized. An old man -of personality and charm has the faculty of cutting away from the past -the dead wood, and preserving for us the living tissue which we can -graft profitably on our own growing present. Old men have much of the -disinterestedness of youth; they have no ulterior motive in giving us -the philosophy of their past. The wisest of them instinctively select -what is vital for our present nourishment. It is not old men that youth -has to fear, but the semi-old, who have lost touch with their youth, -and have not lived long enough to get the disinterested vision of their -idealized past. But old men who have lived this life of radical virtue -are the best of teachers; they distill the perfume of the past, and -bring it to us to sweeten our present. Such men grow old only in body. -The radical spirit of youth has the power of abolishing considerations -of age; the body changes, but the spirit remains the same. In this -sense, it is the virtue of old age not to become old. - -The besetting sin of this season of life is apathy. Old age should not -be a mere waiting for death. The fact that we cannot reconcile death -with life shows that they ought not to be discussed in the same terms. -They belong to two different orders. Death has no part in life, and in -life there can be no such thing as preparation for death. An old man -lives to his appointed time, and then his life ends; but the life up to -that ending, barring the loss of his faculties, has been all life and -not a whit death. Old men do not fear death as much as do young men, -and this calmness is not so much a result of disillusionment with life -as a recognition that their life has been lived, their work finished, -the cycle of their activity rounded off. One virtue of old age, then, -is to live as fully at the height of one’s powers as strength will -permit, passing out of life serene and unreluctant, with willingness to -live and yet with willingness to die. To know an old man who has grown -old slowly, taking the seasons as they came, conserving the spirit of -his youthful virtues, mellowing his philosophy of life, acquiring a -clearer, saner, and more beautiful outlook on human nature and all its -spiritual values with each passing year, is an education in the virtues -of life. The virtues which produce an old age such as this do not cut -across the grain of life, but enhance and conserve the vital impulses -and forces. Such an old age is the crowning evidence of the excellent -working of the soul. A life needs no other proof than this that each -season has known its proper virtue and healthful activity. - - - - -IV - -THE LIFE OF IRONY - - -I could never, until recently, divest myself of the haunting feeling -that being ironical had something to do with the entering of the iron -into one’s soul. I thought I knew what irony was, and I admired it -immensely. I could not believe that there was something metallic and -bitter about it. Yet this sinister connotation of a clanging, rasping -meanness of spirit, which I am sure it has still in many people’s -minds, clung about it, until one happy day my dictionary told me that -the iron had never entered into the soul at all, but the soul into -the iron (St. Jerome had read the psalm wrong), and that irony was -Greek, with all the free, happy play of the Greek spirit about it, -letting in fresh air and light into others’ minds and our own. It -was to the Greek an incomparable method of intercourse, the rub of -mind against mind by the simple use of simulated ignorance and the -adoption, without committing one’s self, of another’s point of view. -Not until I read the Socrates of Plato did I fully appreciate that -this irony,--this pleasant challenging of the world, this insistent -judging of experience, this sense of vivid contrasts and incongruities, -of comic juxtapositions, of flaring brilliancies, and no less -heartbreaking impossibilities, of all the little parts of one’s world -being constantly set off against each other, and made intelligible only -by being translated into and defined in each others’ terms,--that this -was a life, and a life of beauty, that one might suddenly discover -one’s self living all unawares. And if one could judge one’s own feeble -reflection, it was a life that had no room for iron within its soul. - -We should speak not of the Socratic method but of the Socratic life. -For irony is a life rather than a method. A life cannot be taken -off and put on again at will; a method can. To be sure, some people -talk of life exactly as if it were some portable commodity, or some -exchangeable garment. We must live, they cry, as if we were about to -begin. And perhaps they are. Only some of us would rather die than live -that puny life that they can adopt and cover themselves with. Irony is -too rich and precious a thing to be capable of such transmission. The -ironist is born and not made. This critical attitude towards life, this -delicious sense of contrasts that we call irony, is not a pose or an -amusement. It is something that colors every idea and every feeling of -the man who is so happy as to be endowed with it. - -Most people will tell you, I suppose, that the religious conviction -of salvation is the only permanently satisfying coloring of life. In -the splendid ironists, however, one sees a sweeter, more flexible and -human principle of life, adequate, without the buttress of supernatural -belief, to nourish and fortify the spirit. In the classic ironist of -all time, irony shows an inherent nobility, a nobility that all ages -have compared favorably with the Christian ideal. Lacking the spur of -religious emotion, the sweetness of irony may be more difficult to -maintain than the mood of belief. But may it not for that very reason -be judged superior, for is it not written, He that endureth unto the -end shall be saved? - -It is not easy to explain the quality of that richest and most -satisfying background of life. It lies, I think, in a vivid and intense -feeling of aliveness which it gives. Experience comes to the ironist in -little darts or spurts, with the added sense of contrast. Most men, I -am afraid, see each bit of personal experience as a unit, strung more -or less loosely on a string of other mildly related bits. But the -man with the ironical temperament is forced constantly to compare and -contrast his experience with what was, or what might be, or with what -ought to be, and it is the shocks of these comparisons and contrasts -that make up his inner life. He thinks he leads a richer life, because -he feels not only the individual bits but the contrasts besides in all -their various shadings and tints. To this sense of impingement of facts -upon life is due a large part of this vividness of irony; and the rest -is due to the alertness of the ironical mind. The ironist is always -critically awake. He is always judging, and watching with inexhaustible -interest, in order that he may judge. Now irony in its best sense is an -exquisite sense of proportion, a sort of spiritual tact in judging the -values and significances of experience. This sense of being spiritually -alive which ceaseless criticism of the world we live in gives us, -combined with the sense of power which free and untrammeled judging -produces in us, is the background of irony. And it should be a means to -the truest goodness. - -Socrates made one mistake,--knowledge is not goodness. But it is a step -towards judging, and good judgment is the true goodness. For it is on -judgment impelled by desire that we act. The clearer and cleaner our -judgments then, the more definite and correlated our actions. And the -great value of these judgments of irony is that they are not artificial -but spring naturally out of life. Irony, the science of comparative -experience, compares things not with an established standard but with -each other, and the values that slowly emerge from the process, values -that emerge from one’s own vivid reactions, are constantly revised, -corrected, and refined by that same sense of contrast. The ironic -life is a life keenly alert, keenly sensitive, reacting promptly with -feelings of liking or dislike to each bit of experience, letting none -of it pass without interpretation and assimilation, a life full and -satisfying,--indeed a rival of the religious life. - -The life of irony has the virtues of the religious life without its -defects. It expresses the aggressive virtues without the quiescence of -resignation. For the ironist has the courageous spirit, the sympathetic -heart and the understanding mind, and can give them full play, -unhampered by the searching introspection of the religious mind that -often weakens rather than ennobles and fortifies. He is at one with the -religious man in that he hates apathy and stagnation, for they mean -death. But he is superior in that he attacks apathy of intellect and -personality as well as apathy of emotion. He has a great conviction -of the significance of all life, the lack of which conviction is the -most saddening feature of the religious temperament. The religious -man pretends that every aspect of life has meaning for him, but in -practice he constantly minimizes the noisier and vivider elements. He -is essentially an aristocrat in his interpretation of values, while the -ironist is incorrigibly a democrat. Religion gives a man an intimacy -with a few selected and rarified virtues and moods, while irony makes -him a friend of the poor and lowly among spiritual things. When the -religious man is healing and helping, it is at the expense of his -spiritual comfort; he must tear himself away from his companions and go -out grimly and sacrificingly into the struggle. The ironist, living his -days among the humbler things, feels no such severe call to service. -And yet the ironist, since he has no citadel of truth to defend, is -really the more adventurous. Life, not fixed in predestined formulas or -measurable by fixed, immutable standards, is fluid, rich and exciting. -To the ironist it is both discovery and creation. His courage seeks -out the obscure places of human personality, and his sympathy and -understanding create new interests and enthusiasms in the other minds -upon which they play. And these new interests in turn react upon his -own life, discovering unexpected vistas there, and creating new insight -into the world that he lives in. That democratic, sympathetic outlook -upon the feelings and thoughts and actions of men and women is the life -of irony. - -That life is expressed in the social intercourse of ourselves with -others. The daily fabric of the life of irony is woven out of our -critical communings with ourselves and the personalities of our friend, -and the people with whom we come in contact. The ironist, by adopting -another’s point of view and making it his own in order to carry light -and air into it, literally puts himself in the other man’s place. -Irony is thus the truest sympathy. It is no cheap way of ridiculing an -opponent by putting on his clothes and making fun of him. The ironist -has no opponent, but only a friend. And in his irony he is helping that -friend to reveal himself. That half-seriousness, that solemn treatment -of the trivial and trivial treatment of the solemn which is the pattern -of the ironist’s talk is but his way of exhibiting the unexpected -contrasts and shadings that he sees to be requisite to the keenest -understanding of the situation. The ironist borrows and exchanges -and appropriates ideas and gives them a new setting in juxtaposition -with others, but he never burlesques or caricatures or exaggerates -them. If an idea is absurd, the slightest change of environment will -show that absurdity. The mere transference of an idea to another’s -mouth will bring to light all its hidden meaninglessness. It needs no -extraneous aid. If an idea is hollow, it will show itself cowering -against the intellectual background of the ironist like the puny, -shivering thing it is. If a point of view cannot bear being adopted -by another person, if it is not hardy enough to be transplanted, it -has little right to exist at all. This world is no hothouse for ideas -and attitudes. Too many outworn ideas are skulking in dark retreats, -sequestered from the light; every man has great sunless stretches in -his soul where base prejudices lurk and flourish. On these the white -light of irony is needed to play. And it delights the ironist to watch -them shrivel and decay under that light. The little tabooed regions of -well-bred people, the “things we never mention,” the basic biases and -assumptions that underlie the lives and thinking of every class and -profession, our second-hand dogmas and phrases,--all these live and -thrive because they have never been transplanted, or heard from the -lips of another. The dictum that “the only requisites for success are -honesty and merit,” which we applaud so frantically from the lips of -the successful, becomes a ghastly irony in the mouth of an unemployed -workingman. There would be a frightful mortality of points of view -could we have a perfectly free exchange such as this. Irony is just -this temporary borrowing and lending. Many of our cherished ideals -would lose half their validity were they put bodily into the mouths -of the less fortunate. But if irony destroys some ideals it builds up -others. It tests ideals by their social validity, by their general -interchangeability among all sorts of people and the world, but if it -leaves the foundations of many in a shaky condition and renders more -simply provisional, those that it does leave standing are imperishably -founded in the common democratic experience of all men. - -To the ironist it seems that the irony is not in the speaking but in -the things themselves. He is a poor ironist who would consciously -distort, or attempt to make another’s idea appear in any light except -its own. Absurdity is an intrinsic quality of so many things that they -only have to be touched to reveal it. The deadliest way to annihilate -the unoriginal and the insincere is to let it speak for itself. Irony -is this letting things speak for themselves and hang themselves by -their own rope. Only, it repeats the words after the speaker, and -adjusts the rope. It is the commanding touch of a comprehending -personality that dissolves the seemingly tough husk of the idea. -The ironical method might be compared to the acid that develops a -photographic plate. It does not distort the image, but merely brings -clearly to the light all that was implicit in the plate before. And -if it brings the picture to the light with values reversed, so does -irony revel in a paradox, which is simply a photographic negative of -the truth, truth with the values reversed. But turn the negative ever -so slightly so that the light falls upon it, and the perfect picture -appears in all its true values and beauty. Irony, we may say then, is -the photography of the soul. The picture goes through certain changes -in the hands of the ironist, but without these changes the truth would -be simply a blank, unmeaning surface. The photograph is a synonym for -deadly accuracy. Similarly the ironist insists always on seeing things -as they are. He is a realist, whom the grim satisfaction of seeing the -truth compensates for any sordidness that it may bring along with it. -Things as they are, thrown against the background of things as they -ought to be,--this is the ironist’s vision. I should like to feel that -the vision of the religious man is not too often things as they are, -thrown against the background of things as they ought not to be. - -The ironist is the only man who makes any serious attempt to -distinguish between fresh and second-hand experience. Our minds are so -unfortunately arranged that all sorts of beliefs can be accepted and -propagated quite independently of any rational or even experimental -basis at all. Nature does not seem to care very much whether our ideas -are true or not, as long as we get on through life safely enough. -And it is surprising on what an enormous amount of error we can get -along comfortably. We cannot be wrong on every point or we should -cease to live, but so long as we are empirically right in our habits, -the truth or falsity of our ideas seems to have little effect upon -our comfort. We are born into a world that is an inexhaustible store -of ready-made ideas, stored up in tradition, in books, and in every -medium of communication between our minds and others. All we have to -do is to accept this predigested nourishment, and ask no questions. -We could live a whole life without ever making a really individual -response, without providing ourselves out of our own experience with -any of the material that our mind works on. Many of us seem to be just -this kind of spiritual parasite. We may learn and absorb and grow, up -to a certain point. But eventually something captures us: we become -encased in a suit of armor, and invulnerable to our own experience. We -have lost the faculty of being surprised. It is this encasing that the -ironist fears, and it is the ironical method that he finds the best for -preventing it. Irony keeps the waters in motion, so that the ice never -has a chance to form. The cut-and-dried life is easy to form because -it has no sense of contrast; everything comes to one on its own terms, -vouching for itself, and is accepted or rejected on its own good looks, -and not for its fitness and place in the scheme of things. - -This is the courage and this the sympathy of irony. Have they not -a beauty of their own comparable in excellence with the paler glow -of religious virtue? And the understanding of the ironist although -aggressive and challenging has its justification, too. For he is mad -to understand the world, to get to the bottom of other personalities. -That is the reason for his constant classification. The ironist is -the most dogmatic of persons. To understand you he must grasp you -firmly, or he must pin you down definitely; if he accidentally nails -you fast to a dogma that you indignantly repudiate, you must blame -his enthusiasm and not his method. Dogmatism is rarely popular, and -the ironist of course suffers. It hurts people’s eyes to see a strong -light, and the pleasant mist-land of ideas is much more emotionally -warming than the clear, sunny region of transmissible phrases. How the -average person wriggles and squirms under these piercing attempts to -corner his personality! “Tell me what you mean!” or “What do you see -in it?” are the fatal questions that the ironist puts, and who shall -censure him if he does display the least trace of malicious delight as -he watches the half-formed baby ideas struggle towards the light, or -scurry around frantically to find some decent costume in which they may -appear in public? - -The judgments of the ironist are often discounted as being too -sweeping. But he has a valid defense. Lack of classification is -annihilation of thought. Even the newest philosophy will admit that -classification is a necessary evil. Concepts are indispensable,--and -yet each concept falsifies. The ironist must have as large a stock as -possible, but he must have a stock. And even the unjust classification -is marvelously effective. The ironist’s name for his opponent is a -challenge to him. The more sweeping it is, the more stimulus it gives -him to repel the charge. He must explain just how he is unique and -individual in his attitude. And in this explanation he reveals and -discovers all that the ironist wishes to know about him. A handful of -epithets is thus the ammunition of the ironist. He must call things -by what seem to him to be their right names. In a sense, the ironist -assumes the prisoner to be guilty until he proves himself innocent; -but it is always in order that justice may be done, and that he may -come to learn the prisoner’s soul and all the wondrous things that are -contained there. - -It is this passion for comprehension that explains the ironist’s -apparently scandalous propensity to publicity. Nothing seems to him too -sacred to touch, nothing too holy for him to become witty about. There -are no doors locked to him, there is nothing that can make good any -claim of resistance to scrutiny. His free and easy manner of including -everything within the sweep of his vision is but his recognition, -however, of the fact that nothing is really so serious as we think it -is, and nothing quite so petty. The ironist will descend in a moment -from a discussion of religion to a squabble over a card-game, and he -will defend himself with the reflection that religion is after all a -human thing and must be discussed in the light of everyday living, -and that the card-game is an integral part of life, reveals the -personalities of the players--and his own to himself--and being worthy -of his interest is worthy of his enthusiasm. The ironist is apt to -test things by their power to interest as much as by their nobility, -and if he sees the incongruous and inflated in the lofty, so he sees -the significant in the trivial and raises it from its low degree. -Many a mighty impostor does he put down from his seat. The ironist is -the great intellectual democrat, in whose presence and before whose -law all ideas and attitudes stand equal. In his world there is no -privileged caste, no aristocracy of sentiments to be reverenced, or -segregated systems of interests to be tabooed. Nothing human is alien -to the ironist; the whole world is thrown open naked to the play of his -judgment. - -In the eyes of its detractors, irony has all the vices of democracy. -Its publicity seems mere vulgarity, its free hospitality seems to shock -all ideas of moral worth. The ironist is but a scoffer, they say, with -weapon leveled eternally at all that is good and true and sacred. The -adoption of another’s point of view seems little better than malicious -dissimulation,--the repetition of others’ words, an elaborate mockery; -the ironist’s eager interest seems a mere impudence or a lack of -finer instincts; his interest in the trivial, the last confession of -a mean spirit; and his love of classifying, a proof of his poverty -of imaginative resource. Irony, in other words, is thought to be -synonymous with cynicism. But the ironist is no cynic. His is a kindly, -not a sour interest in human motives. He wants to find out how the -human machine runs, not to prove that it is a worthless, broken-down -affair. He accepts it as it comes, and if he finds it curiously feeble -and futile in places, blame not him but the nature of things. He finds -enough rich compensation in the unexpected charm that he constantly -finds himself eliciting. The ironist sees life steadily and sees it -whole; the cynic only a distorted fragment. - -If the ironist is not cynic, neither is he merely a dealer in satire, -burlesque and ridicule. Irony may be the raw material, innocent in -itself but capable of being put to evil uses. But it involves neither -the malice of satire, nor the horse-play of burlesque, nor the stab of -ridicule. Irony is infinitely finer and more delicate and impersonal. -The satirist is always personal and concrete, but the ironist deals -with general principles, and broad aspects of human nature. It cannot -be too much emphasized that the function of the ironist is not to -make fun of people, but to give their souls an airing. The ironist -is a judge on the bench, giving men a public hearing. He is not an -aggressive spirit who goes about seeking whom he may devour, or a -spiritual lawyer who courts litigation, but the judge before whom file -all the facts of his experience, the people he meets, the opinions -he hears or reads, his own attitudes and prepossessions. If any are -convicted they are self-convicted. The judge himself is passive, -merciful, lenient. There is judgment, but no punishment. Or rather, the -trial itself is the punishment. Now satire is all that irony is not. -The satirist is the aggressive lawyer, fastening upon particular people -and particular qualities. But irony is no more personal than the sun -that sends his flaming darts into the world. The satirist is a purely -practical man, with a business instinct, bent on the main chance and -the definite object. He is often brutal, and always overbearing; the -ironist never. Irony may wound from the very fineness and delicacy of -its attack, but the wounding is incidental. The sole purpose of the -satirist and the burlesquer is to wound, and they test their success -by the deepness of the wound. But irony tests its own by the amount -of generous light and air it has set flowing through an idea or a -personality, and the broad significance it has revealed in neglected -things. - -If irony is not brutal, neither is it merely critical and destructive. -The world has some reason, it is true, to complain against the rather -supercilious judiciousness of the ironist. “Who are you to judge us?” -it cries. The world does not like to feel the scrutinizing eyes of the -ironist as he sits back in his chair; does not like to feel that the -ironist is simply studying it and amusing himself at its expense. It -is uneasy, and acts sometimes as if it did not have a perfectly clear -conscience. To this uncomfortableness the ironist can retort,--“What -is it that you are afraid to have known about you?” If the judgment -amuses him, so much the worse for the world. But if the idea of the -ironist as judge implies that his attitude is wholly detached, wholly -objective, it is an unfortunate metaphor. For he is as much part and -parcel of the human show as any of the people he studies. The world -is no stage, with the ironist as audience. His own personal reactions -with the people about him form all the stuff of his thoughts and -judgments. He has a personal interest in the case; his own personality -is inextricably mingled in the stream of impressions that flows -past him. If the ironist is destructive, it is his own world that -he is destroying; if he is critical, it is his own world that he is -criticizing. And his irony is his critique of life. - -This is the defense of the ironist against the charge that he has -a purely æsthetic attitude towards life. Too often, perhaps, the -sparkling clarity of his thought, the play of his humor, the easy -sense of superiority and intellectual command that he carries off, -make his irony appear as rather the æsthetic nourishment of his life -than an active way of doing and being. His rather detached air makes -him seem to view people as means, not ends in themselves. With his -delight in the vivid and poignant he is prone to see picturesqueness -in the sordid, and tolerate evils that he should condemn. For all -his interest and activity, it is said that he does not really care. -But this æsthetic taint to his irony is really only skin-deep. The -ironist is ironical not because he does not care, but because he cares -too much. He is feeling the profoundest depths of the world’s great -beating, laboring heart, and his playful attitude towards the grim and -sordid is a necessary relief from the tension of too much caring. It -is his salvation from unutterable despair. The terrible urgency of the -reality of poverty and misery and exploitation would be too strong upon -him. Only irony can give him a sense of proportion, and make his life -fruitful and resolute. It can give him a temporary escape, a slight -momentary reconciliation, a chance to draw a deep breath of resolve -before plunging into the fight. It is not a palliative so much as a -perspective. This is the only justification of the æsthetic attitude, -that, if taken provisionally, it sweetens and fortifies. It is only -deadly when adopted as absolute. The kind of æsthetic irony that Pater -and Omar display is a paralyzed, half-seeing, half-caring reflection -on life,--a tame, domesticated irony with its wings cut, an irony that -furnishes a justification and a command to inaction. It is the result -not of exquisitely refined feelings, but of social anæsthesia. Their -irony, cut off from the great world of men and women and boys and girls -and their intricate interweavings and jostlings and incongruities, -turns pale and sickly and numb. The ironist has no right to see beauty -in things unless he really cares. The æsthetic sense is harmless only -when it is both ironical and social. - -Irony is thus a cure for both optimism and pessimism. Nothing is so -revolting to the ironist as the smiling optimist, who testifies in his -fatuous heedlessness to the desirability of this best of all possible -worlds. But the ironist has always an incorrigible propensity to see -the other side. The hopeless maladjustment of too many people to their -world, of their bondage in the iron fetters of circumstance,--all -this is too glaring for the ironist’s placidity. When he examines -the beautiful picture, too often the best turns worst to him. But if -optimism is impossible to the ironist, so is pessimism. The ironist -may have a secret respect for the pessimist,--he at least has felt -the bitter tang of life, and has really cared,--but he feels that -the pessimist lacks. For if the optimist is blind, the pessimist is -hypnotized. He is abnormally suggestive to evil. But clear-sighted -irony sees that the world is too big and multifarious to be evil -at heart. Something beautiful and joyous lurks even in the most -hapless,--a child’s laugh in a dreary street, a smile on the face of a -weary woman. It is this saving quality of irony that both optimist and -pessimist miss. And since plain common sense tells us that things are -never quite so bad or quite so good as they seem, the ironist carries -conviction into the hearts of men in their best moments. - -The ironist is a person who counts in the world. He has all sorts of -unexpected effects on both the people he goes with and himself. His -is an insistent personality; he is as troublesome as a missionary. -And he is a missionary; for, his own purpose being a comprehension of -his fellows’ souls, he makes them conscious of their own souls. He -is a hard man; he will take nothing on reputation; he will guarantee -for himself the qualities of things. He will not accept the vouchers -of the world that a man is wise, or clever, or sincere, behind the -impenetrable veil of his face. He must probe until he elicits the -evidence of personality, until he gets at the peculiar quality which -distinguishes that individual soul. For the ironist is after all a -connoisseur in personality, and if his conversation partakes too -often of the character of cross-examination, it is only as a lover of -the beautiful, a possessor of taste, that he inquires. He does not -want to see people squirm, but he does want to see whether they are -alive or not. If he pricks too hard, it is not from malice, but merely -from error in his estimation of the toughness of their skins. What -people are inside is the most interesting question in the world to the -ironist. And in finding out he stirs them up. Many a petty doubting -spirit does he challenge and bully into a sort of self-respect. And -many a bag of wind does he puncture. But his most useful function -is this of stimulating thought and action. The ironist forces his -friends to move their rusty limbs and unhinge the creaking doors of -their minds. The world needs more ironists. Shut up with one’s own -thoughts, one loses the glow of life that comes from frank exchange -of ideas with many kinds of people. Too many minds are stuffy, dusty -rooms into which the windows have never been opened,--minds heavy -with their own crotchets, cluttered up with untested theories and -conflicting sympathies that have never got related in any social way. -The ironist blows them all helter-skelter, sweeps away the dust, and -sets everything in its proper place again. Your solid, self-respectful -mind, the ironist confesses he can do little with; it is not of his -world. He comes to freshen and tone up the stale minds. The ironist is -the great purger and cleanser of life. Irony is a sort of spiritual -massage, rubbing the souls of men. It may seem rough to some tender -souls, but it does not sere or scar them. The strong arm of the ironist -restores the circulation, and drives away anæmia. - -On the ironist himself the effect of irony is even more invigorating. -We can never really understand ourselves without at least a touch of -irony. The interpretation of human nature without is a simple matter -in comparison with the comprehension of that complex of elations and -disgusts, inhibitions and curious irrational impulses that we call -ourselves. It is not true that by examining ourselves and coming to -an understanding of the way we behave we understand other people, but -that by the contrasts and little revelations of our friends we learn -to interpret ourselves. Introspection is no match for irony as a -guide. The most illuminating experience that we can have is a sudden -realization that had we been in the other person’s place we should have -acted precisely as he did. To the ironist this is no mere intellectual -conviction that, after all, none of us are perfect, but a vivid -emotional experience which has knit him with that other person in one -moment in a bond of sympathy that could have been acquired in no other -way. Those minds that lack the touch of irony are too little flexible, -or too heavily buttressed with self-esteem to make this sudden change -of attitudes. The ironist, one might almost say, gets his brotherhood -intuitively, feels the sympathy and the oneness in truth before he -thinks them. The ironist is the only man who really gets outside of -himself. What he does for other people,--that is, picking out a little -piece of their souls and holding it up for their inspection,--he does -for himself. He gets thus an objective view of himself. The unhealthy -indoor brooding of introspection is artificial and unproductive, -because it has no perspective or contrast. But the ironist with -his constant outdoor look sees his own foibles and humiliations in -the light of those of other people. He acquires a more tolerant, -half-amused, half-earnest attitude toward himself. His self-respect -is nourished by the knowledge that whatever things discreditable and -foolish and worthless he has done, he has seen them approximated by -others, and yet his esteem is kept safely pruned down by the recurring -evidence that nothing he has is unique. He is poised in life, ready to -soar or to walk as the occasion demands. He is pivoted, susceptible to -every stimulus, and yet chained so that he cannot be flung off into -space by his own centrifugal force. - -Irony has the same sweetening and freshening effect on one’s own life -that it has on the lives of those who come in contact with it. It gives -one a command of one’s resources. The ironist practices a perfect -economy of material. For he must utilize his wealth constantly and -over and over again in various shapes and shadings. He may be poor -in actual material, but out of the contrast and arrangement of that -slender store he is able, like a kaleidoscope, to make a multifarious -variety of wonderful patterns. His current coin is, so to speak, kept -bright by constant exchange. He is infinitely richer than your opulent -but miserly minds that hoard up facts, and are impotent from the very -plethora of their accumulations. - -Irony is essential to any real honesty. For dishonesty is at bottom -simply an attempt to save somebody’s face. But the ironist does not -want any faces saved, neither his own nor those of other people. To -save faces is to sophisticate human nature, to falsify the facts, and -miss a delicious contrast, an illuminating revelation of how people -act. So the ironist is the only perfectly honest man. But he suffers -for it by acquiring a reputation for impudence. His willingness to -bear the consequences of his own acts, his quiet insistence that -others shall bear consequences, seem like mere shamelessness, a lack -of delicate feeling for “situations.” But accustomed as he is to range -freely and know no fear nor favor, he despises this reserve as a -species of timidity or even hypocrisy. It is an irony itself that the -one temperament that can be said really to appreciate human nature, in -the sense of understanding it rightly, should be called impudent, and -it is another that it should be denounced as monstrously egotistical. -The ironical mind is the only truly modest mind, for its point of view -is ever outside itself. If it calls attention to itself, it is only as -another of those fascinating human creatures that pass ever by with -their bewildering, alluring ways. If it talks about itself, it is only -as a third person in whom all the talkers are supposed to be eagerly -interested. In this sense the ironist has lost his egotism completely. -He has rubbed out the line that separates his personality from the -rest of the world. - -The ironist must take people very seriously, to spend so much time over -them. He must be both serious and sincere or he would not persist in -his irony and expose himself to so much misunderstanding. And since it -is not how people treat him, but simply how they act, that furnishes -the basis for his appreciation, the ironist finds it easy to forgive. -He has a way of letting the individual offense slide, in favor of a -deeper principle. In the act of being grossly misrepresented, he can -feel a pang of exasperated delight that people should be so dense; in -the act of being taken in, he can feel the cleverness of it all. He -becomes for the moment his enemy; and we can always forgive ourselves. -Even while he is being insulted, or outraged or ignored, he can feel, -“After all, this is what life is! This is the way we poor human -creatures behave!” The ironist is thus in a sense vicarious human -nature. Through that deep, anticipatory sympathy, he is kept clean from -hate or scorn. - -The ironist therefore has a valid defense against all the charges of -brutality and triviality and irreverence, that the religious man is -prone to bring against him. He can care more deeply about things -because he can see so much more widely. And he can take life very -seriously because it interests him so intensely. And he can feel -its poignancy and its flux more keenly because he delivers himself -up bravely to its swirling, many-hued current. The inner peace of -religion seems gained only at the expense of the reality of living. A -life such as the life of irony, lived fully and joyously, cannot be -peaceful; it cannot even be happy, in the sense of calm content and -satisfaction. But it can be better than either--it can be wise, and it -can be fruitful. And it can be good, in a way that the life of inner -peace cannot be. For the life of irony having no reserve and weaving -itself out of the flux of experience rather than out of eternal values -has the broad, honest sympathy of democracy, that is impossible to any -temperament with the aristocratic taint. One advantage the religious -life has is a salvation in another world to which it can withdraw. The -life of irony has laid up few treasures in heaven, but many in this -world. Having gained so much it has much to lose. But its glory is that -it can lose nothing unless it lose all. - -To shafts of fortune and blows of friends or enemies then, the ironist -is almost impregnable. He knows how to parry each thrust and prepare -for every emergency. Even if the arrows reach him, all the poison has -been sucked out of them by his clear, resolute understanding of their -significance. There is but one weak spot in his armor, but one disaster -that he fears more almost than the loss of his life,--a shrinkage of -his environment, a running dry of experience. He fears to be cut off -from friends and crowds and human faces and speech and books, for -he demands to be ceaselessly fed. Like a modern city, he is totally -dependent on a steady flow of supplies from the outside world, and -will be in danger of starvation, if the lines of communication are -interrupted. Without people and opinions for his mind to play on, his -irony withers and faints. He has not the faculty of brooding; he cannot -mine the depths of his own soul, and bring forth after labor mighty -nuggets of thought. The flow and swirl of things is his compelling -interest. His thoughts are reactions, immediate and vivid, to his daily -experience. Some deep, unconscious brooding must go on, to produce that -happy precision of judgment of his; but it is not voluntary. He is -conscious only of the shifting light and play of life; his world is -dynamic, energetic, changing. He lives in a world of relations, and he -must have a whole store of things to be related. He has lost himself -completely in this world he lives in. His ironical interpretation -of the world is his life, and this world is his nourishment. Take -away this environmental world and you have slain his soul. He is -invulnerable to everything except that deprivation. - - - - -V - -THE EXCITEMENT OF FRIENDSHIP - - -My friends, I can say with truth, since I have no other treasure, -are my fortune. I really live only when I am with my friends. Those -sufficient persons who can pass happily long periods of solitude -communing with their own thoughts and nourishing their own souls -fill me with a despairing admiration. Their gift of auto-stimulation -argues a personal power which I shall never possess. Or else it -argues, as I like to think in self-defense, a callousness of spirit, -an insensitiveness to the outside influences which nourish and sustain -the more susceptible mind. And those persons who can shut themselves -up for long periods and work out their thoughts alone, constructing -beautiful and orderly representations of their own spirits, are to me a -continual mystery. I know this is the way that things are accomplished, -that “monotony and solitude” are necessary for him who would produce -creative thought. Yet, knowing well this truth, I shun them both. I am -a battery that needs to be often recharged. I require the excitement -of friendship; I must have the constant stimulation of friends. I do -not spark automatically, but must have other minds to rub up against, -and strike from them by friction the spark that will kindle my thoughts. - -When I walk, I must have a friend to talk to, or I shall not even -think. I am not of those who, like Stevenson, believe that walking -should be a kind of vegetative stupor, where the sun and air merely -fill one with a diffused sense of well-being and exclude definite -thought. The wind should rather blow through the dusty regions of the -mind, and the sun light up its dark corners, and thinking and talking -should be saner and higher and more joyful than within doors. But one -must have a friend along to open the windows. Neither can I sympathize -with those persons who carry on long chains of reasoning while they -are traveling or walking. When alone, my thinking is as desultory as -the scenery of the roadside, and when with a friend, it is apt to -be as full of romantic surprises as a walk through a woodland glen. -Good talk is like good scenery--continuous yet constantly varying, -and full of the charm of novelty and surprise. How unnatural it is -to think except when one is forced to do it, is discovered when one -attempts to analyze one’s thoughts when alone. He is a rare genius who -finds something beyond the mere visual images that float through his -mind,--either the reflection of what he is actually seeing, or the -pictorial representations of what he has been doing or what he wants -or intends to do in the near or far future. We should be shocked to -confess to ourselves how little control we have over our own minds; we -shall be lucky if we can believe that we guide them. - -Thinking, then, was given us for use in emergencies, and no man can -be justly blamed if he reserves it for emergencies. He can be blamed, -however, if he does not expose himself to those crises which will call -it forth. Now a friend is such an emergency, perhaps the most exciting -stimulus to thinking that one can find, and if one wants to live beyond -the vegetative stupor, one must surround one’s self with friends. I -shall call my friends, then, all those influences which warm me and -start running again all my currents of thought and imagination. The -persons, causes, and books that unlock the prison of my intellectual -torpor, I can justly call my friends, for I find that I feel toward -them all the same eager joy and inexhaustible rush of welcome. Where -they differ it shall be in degree and not in kind. The speaker whom -I hear, the book that I read, the friend with whom I chat, the music -that I play, even the blank paper before me, which subtly stirs me -to cover it with sentences that unfold surprisingly and entice me to -follow until I seem hopelessly lost from the trail,--all these shall be -my friends as long as I find myself responding to them, and no longer. -They are all alike in being emergencies that call upon me for instant -and definite response. - -The difference between them lies in their response to me. My personal -friends react upon me; the lecturers and books and music and pictures -do not. These are not influenced by my feelings or by what I do. I -can approach them cautiously or boldly, respond to them slowly or -warmly, and they will not care. They have a definite quality, and do -not change; if I respond differently to them at different times, I -know that it is I and not they who have altered. The excitement of -friendship does not lie with them. One feels this lack particularly -in reading, which no amount of enthusiasm can make more than a feeble -and spiritless performance. The more enthusiasm the reading inspires -in one, the more one rebels at the passivity into which one is forced. -I want to get somehow at grips with the book. I can feel the warmth -of the personality behind it, but I cannot see the face as I can the -face of a person, lighting and changing with the iridescent play of -expression. It is better with music; one can get at grips with one’s -piano, and feel the resistance and the response of the music one plays. -One gets the sense of aiding somehow in its creation, the lack of which -feeling is the fatal weakness of reading, though itself the easiest -and most universal of friendly stimulations. One comes from much -reading with a sense of depression and a vague feeling of something -unsatisfied; from friends or music one comes with a high sense of -elation and of the brimming adequacy of life. - -If one could only retain those moments! What a tragedy it is that our -periods of stimulated thinking should be so difficult of reproduction; -that there is no intellectual shorthand to take down the keen -thoughts, the trains of argument, the pregnant thoughts, which spring -so spontaneously to the mind at such times! What a tragedy that one -must wait till the fire has died out, till the light has faded away, -to transcribe the dull flickering remembrances of those golden hours -when thought and feeling seemed to have melted together, and one -said and thought what seemed truest and finest and most worthy of -one’s immortalizing! This is what constitutes the hopeless labor of -writing,--that one must struggle constantly to warm again the thoughts -that are cold or have been utterly consumed. What was thought in the -hours of stimulation must be written in the hours of solitude, when the -mind is apt to be cold and gray, and when one is fortunate to find on -the hearth of the memory even a few scattered embers lying about. The -blood runs sluggish as one sits down to write. What worry and striving -it takes to get it running freely again! What labor to reproduce even -a semblance of what seemed to come so genially and naturally in the -contact and intercourse of friendship! - -One of the curious superstitions of friendship is that we somehow -choose our friends. To the connoisseur in friendship no idea could be -more amazing and incredible. Our friends are chosen for us by some -hidden law of sympathy, and not by our conscious wills. All we know -is that in our reactions to people we are attracted to some and are -indifferent to others. And the ground of this mutual interest seems -based on no discoverable principles of similarity of temperament or -character. We have no time, when meeting a new person, to study him or -her carefully; our reactions are swift and immediate. Our minds are -made up instantly,--“friend or non-friend.” By some subtle intuitions, -we know and have measured at their first words all the possibilities -which their friendship has in store for us. We get the full quality of -their personality at the first shock of meeting, and no future intimacy -changes that quality. - -If I am to like a man, I like him at once; further acquaintance -can only broaden and deepen that liking and understanding. If I am -destined to respond, I respond at once or never. If I do not respond, -he continues to be to me as if I had never met him; he does not exist -in my world. His thoughts, feelings, and interests I can but dimly -conceive of; if I do think of him it is only as a member of some -general class. My imaginative sympathy can embrace him only as a type. -If his interests are in some way forced upon my attention, and my -imagination is compelled to encompass him as an individual, I find his -ideas and interests appearing like pale, shadowy things, dim ghosts of -the real world that my friends and I live in. - -Association with such aliens--and how much of our life is necessarily -spent in their company--is a torture far worse than being actually -disliked. Probably they do not dislike us, but there is this strange -gulf which cuts us off from their possible sympathy. A pall seems -to hang over our spirits; our souls are dumb. It is a struggle and -an effort to affect them at all. And though we may know that this -depressing weight which seems to press on us in our intercourse -with them has no existence, yet this realization does not cure our -helplessness. We do not exist for them any more than they exist for -us. They are depressants, not stimulators as are our friends. Our -words sound singularly futile and half-hearted as they pass our lips. -Our thoughts turn to ashes as we utter them. In the grip of this -predestined antipathy we can do nothing but submit and pass on. - -But in how different a light do we see our friends! They are no types, -but each a unique, exhaustless personality, with his own absorbing -little cosmos of interests round him. And those interests are real and -vital, and in some way interwoven with one’s own cosmos. Our friends -are those whose worlds overlap our own, like intersecting circles. -If there is too much overlapping, however, there is monotony and a -mutual cancellation. It is, perhaps, a question of attitude as much as -anything. Our friends must be pointed in the same direction in which we -are going, and the truest friendship and delight is when we can watch -each other’s attitude toward life grow increasingly similar; or if not -similar, at least so sympathetic as to be mutually complementary and -sustaining. - -The wholesale expatriation from our world of all who do not overlap us -or look at life in a similar direction is so fatal to success that we -cannot afford to let these subtle forces of friendship and apathy have -full sway with our souls. To be at the mercy of whatever preordained -relations may have been set up between us and the people we meet is -to make us incapable of negotiating business in a world where one -must be all things to all men. From an early age, therefore, we work, -instinctively or consciously, to get our reactions under control, so -as to direct them in the way most profitable to us. By a slow and -imperceptible accretion of impersonality over the erratic tendencies -of personal response and feeling, we acquire the professional -manner, which opens the world wide to us. We become human patterns -of the profession into which we have fallen, and are no longer -individual personalities. Men find no difficulty in becoming soon so -professionalized that their manner to their children at home is almost -identical with that to their clients in the office. Such an extinction -of the personality is a costly price to pay for worldly success. One -has integrated one’s character, perhaps, but at the cost of the zest -and verve and peril of true friendship. - -To those of us, then, who have not been tempted by success, or who -have been so fortunate as to escape it, friendship is a life-long -adventure. We do not integrate ourselves, and we have as many sides to -our character as we have friends to show them to. Quite unconsciously I -find myself witty with one friend, large and magnanimous with another, -petulant and stingy with another, wise and grave with another, and -utterly frivolous with another. I watch with surprise the sudden -and startling changes in myself as I pass from the influence of one -friend to the influence of some one else. But my character with each -particular friend is constant. I find myself, whenever I meet him, -with much the same emotional and mental tone. If we talk, there is -with each one some definite subject upon which we always speak and -which remains perennially fresh and new. If I am so unfortunate as to -stray accidentally from one of these well-worn fields into another, I -am instantly reminded of the fact by the strangeness and chill of the -atmosphere. We are happy only on our familiar levels, but on these -we feel that we could go on exhaustless forever, without a pang of -ennui. And this inexhaustibility of talk is the truest evidence of good -friendship. - -Friends do not, on the other hand, always talk of what is nearest -to them. Friendship requires that there be an open channel between -friends, but it does not demand that that channel be the deepest in our -nature. It may be of the shallowest kind and yet the friendship be of -the truest. For all the different traits of our nature must get their -airing through friends, the trivial as well as the significant. We let -ourselves out piecemeal, it seems, so that only with a host of varied -friends can we express ourselves to the fullest. Each friend calls out -some particular trait in us, and it requires the whole chorus fitly to -teach us what we are. This is the imperative need of friendship. A man -with few friends is only half-developed; there are whole sides of his -nature which are locked up and have never been expressed. He cannot -unlock them himself, he cannot even discover them; friends alone can -stimulate him and open them. Such a man is in prison; his soul is in -penal solitude. A man must get friends as he would get food and drink -for nourishment and sustenance. And he must keep them, as he would keep -health and wealth, as the infallible safeguards against misery and -poverty of spirit. - -If it seems selfish to insist so urgently upon one’s need for friends, -if it should be asked what we are giving our friends in return for -all their spiritual fortification and nourishment, the defense would -have to be, that we give back to them in ample measure what they give -to us. If we are their friends, we are stimulating them as they are -stimulating us. They will find that they talk with unusual brilliancy -when they are with us. And we may find that we have, perhaps, merely -listened to them. Yet through that curious bond of sympathy which has -made us friends, we have done as much for them as if we had exerted -ourselves in the most active way. The only duty of friendship is that -we and our friends should live at our highest and best when together. -Having achieved that, we have fulfilled the law. - -A good friendship, strange to say, has little place for mutual -consolations and ministrations. Friendship breathes a more rugged air. -In sorrow the silent pressure of the hand speaks the emotions, and -lesser griefs and misfortunes are ignored or glossed over. The fatal -facility of women’s friendships, their copious outpourings of grief to -each other, their sharing of wounds and sufferings, their half-pleased -interest in misfortune,--all this seems of a lesser order than the -robust friendships of men, who console each other in a much more -subtle, even intuitive way,--by a constant pervading sympathy which is -felt rather than expressed. For the true atmosphere of friendship is -a sunny one. Griefs and disappointments do not thrive in its clear, -healthy light. When they do appear, they take on a new color. The -silver lining appears, and we see even our own personal mistakes and -chagrins as whimsical adventures. It is almost impossible seriously -to believe in one’s bad luck or failures or incapacity while one is -talking with a friend. One achieves a sort of transfiguration of -personality in those moments. In the midst of the high and genial flow -of intimate talk, a pang may seize one at the thought of the next day’s -drudgery, when life will be lived alone again; but nothing can dispel -the ease and fullness with which it is being lived at the moment. It -is, indeed, a heavy care that will not dissolve into misty air at the -magic touch of a friend’s voice. - -Fine as friendship is, there is nothing irrevocable about it. The -bonds of friendship are not iron bonds, proof against the strongest of -strains and the heaviest of assaults. A man by becoming your friend -has not committed himself to all the demands which you may be pleased -to make upon him. Foolish people like to test the bonds of their -friendships, pulling upon them to see how much strain they will stand. -When they snap, it is as if friendship itself had been proved unworthy. -But the truth is that good friendships are fragile things and require -as much care in handling as any other fragile and precious things. -For friendship is an adventure and a romance, and in adventures it is -the unexpected that happens. It is the zest of peril that makes the -excitement of friendship. All that is unpleasant and unfavorable is -foreign to its atmosphere; there is no place in friendship for harsh -criticism or fault-finding. We will “take less” from a friend than we -will from one who is indifferent to us. - -Good friendship is lived on a warm, impetuous plane; the long-suffering -kind of friendship is a feeble and, at best, a half-hearted affair. -It is friendship in the valley and not on the breezy heights. For the -secret of friendship is a mutual admiration, and it is the realization -or suspicion that that admiration is lessening on one side or the other -that swiftly breaks the charm. Now this admiration must have in it no -taint of adulation, which will wreck a friendship as soon as suspicion -will. But it must consist of the conviction, subtly expressed in every -tone of the voice, that each has found in the other friend a rare -spirit, compounded of light and intelligence and charm. And there must -be no open expression of this feeling, but only the silent flattery, -soft and almost imperceptible. - -And in the best of friendships this feeling is equal on both sides. -Too great a superiority in our friend disturbs the balance, and casts -a sort of artificial light on the talk and intercourse. We want to -believe that we are fairly equal to our friends in power and capacity, -and that if they excel us in one trait, we have some counterbalancing -quality in another direction. It is the reverse side of this shield -that gives point to the diabolical insight of the Frenchman who -remarked that we were never heartbroken by the misfortunes of our -best friends. If we have had misfortunes, it is not wholly unjust and -unfortunate that our friends should suffer too. Only their misfortunes -must not be worse than ours. For the equilibrium is then destroyed, -and our serious alarm and sympathy aroused. Similarly we rejoice in -the good fortune of our friends, always provided that it be not too -dazzling or too undeserved. - -It is these aspects of friendship, which cannot be sneered away by the -reproach of jealousy, that make friendship a precarious and adventurous -thing. But it is precious in proportion to its precariousness, and its -littlenesses are but the symptoms of how much friends care, and how -sensitive they are to all the secret bonds and influences that unite -them. - -Since our friends have all become woven into our very selves, to part -from friends is to lose, in a measure, one’s self. He is a brave and -hardy soul who can retain his personality after his friends are gone. -And since each friend is the key which unlocks an aspect of one’s own -personality, to lose a friend is to cut away a part of one’s self. I -may make another friend to replace the loss, but the unique quality -of the first friend can never be brought back. He leaves a wound which -heals only gradually. To have him go away is as bad as to have him pass -to another world. The letter is so miserable a travesty on the personal -presence, a thin ghost of the thought of the once-present friend. It -is as satisfactory as a whiff of stale tobacco smoke to the lover of -smoking. - -Those persons and things, then, that inspire us to do our best, that -make us live at our best, when we are in their presence, that call -forth from us our latent and unsuspected personality, that nourish and -support that personality,--those are our friends. The reflection of -their glow makes bright the darker and quieter hours when they are not -with us. They are a true part of our widest self; we should hardly have -a self without them. Their world is one where chagrin and failure do -not enter. Like the sun-dial, they “only mark the shining hours.” - - - - -VI - -THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE - - -That life is an adventure it needs nothing more than the wonder of -our being in the world and the precariousness of our stay in it to -inform us. Although we are, perhaps, as the scientists tell us, mere -inert accompaniments of certain bundles of organized matter, we tend -incorrigibly to think of ourselves as unique personalities. And as -we let our imagination roam over the world and dwell on the infinite -variety of scenes and thoughts and feelings and forms of life, we -wonder at the incredible marvel that has placed us just here in this -age and country and locality where we were born. That it should be -this particular place and time and body that my consciousness is -illuminating gives, indeed, the thrill of wonder and adventure to the -mere fact of my becoming and being. - -And as life goes on, the feeling for the precariousness of that being -grows upon one’s mind. The security of childhood gives place to an -awareness of the perils of misfortune, disease, and sudden death which -seem to lie in wait for men and seize them without regard to their -choices or deserts. We are prone, of course, to believe in our personal -luck; it is the helplessness of others around us rather that impresses -us, as we see both friends and strangers visited with the most dreadful -evils, and with an impartiality of treatment that gradually tends to -force upon us the conviction that we, too, are not immune. At some -stage in our life, oftenest perhaps when the first flush of youth is -past, we are suddenly thrown into a suspicion of life, a dread of -nameless and unforeseeable ill, and a sober realization of the need -of circumspection and defense. We discover that we live in a world -where almost anything is likely to happen. Shocking accidents that -cut men off in their prime, pain and suffering falling upon the just -and the unjust, maladjustments and misunderstandings that poison and -ruin lives,--all these things are daily occurrences in our experience, -either of personal knowledge or out of that wider experience of our -reading. - -Religion seems to give little consolation in the face of such -incontrovertible facts. For no belief in Providence can gainsay the -seeming fact that we are living in a world that is run without regard -to the health and prosperity of its inhabitants. Whatever its ulterior -meanings, they do not seem to be adjusted to our scale of values. -Physical law we can see, but where are the workings of a moral law? -If they are present, they seem to cut woefully against the grain of -the best desires and feelings of men. Evil seems to be out of all -proportion to the ability of its sufferers to bear it, or of its -chastening and corrective efficacy. Our feelings are too sensitive for -the assaults which the world makes upon them. If the responsibility -for making all things work together for his good is laid entirely -upon man, it is a burden too heavy for his weakness and ignorance to -bear. And thus we contemplate the old, old problem of evil. And in its -contemplation, the adventure of life, which should be a tonic and a -spur, becomes a depressant; instead of nerving, it intimidates, and -makes us walk cautiously and sadly through life, where we should ride -fast and shout for joy. - -In these modern days, the very wealth of our experience overwhelms us, -and makes life harder to live in the sight of evil. The broadening of -communication, giving us a connection through newspapers and magazines -with the whole world, has made our experience almost as wide as the -world. In that experience, however, we get all the world’s horrors -as well as its interests and delights. Thus has it been that this -widening, which has meant the possibility of living the contemplative -and imaginative life on an infinitely higher plane than before, has -meant also a soul-sickness to the more sensitive, because of the -immense and over-burdening drafts on their sympathy which the new -experience involved. Although our increased knowledge of the world has -meant everywhere reform, and has vastly improved and beautified life -for millions of men, it has at the same time opened a nerve the pain -of which no opiate has been able to soothe. And along with the real -increase of longevity and sounder health for civilized man, attained -through the triumphs of medical science, there has come a renewed -realization of the shortness and precariousness, at its best, of life. -The fact that our knowledge of evil is shared by millions of men -intensifies, I think, our sensitiveness. Through the genius of display -writers, thousands of readers are enabled to be present imaginatively -at scenes of horror. The subtle sense of a vast concourse having -witnessed the scene magnifies its potency to the individual mind, and -gives it the morbid touch as of crowds witnessing an execution. - -Our forefathers were more fortunate, and could contemplate evil more -philosophically and objectively. Their experience was happily limited -to what the normal soul could endure. Their evil was confined to -their vicinity. What dim intelligence of foreign disaster and misery -leaked in, only served to purify and sober their spirits. Evil did -not then reverberate around the world as it does now. Their nerves -were not strained or made raw by the reiterations and expatiations -on far-away pestilence and famine, gigantic sea disasters, wanton -murders, or even the shocking living conditions of the great city -slums. Their imaginations had opportunity to grow healthily, unassailed -by the morbidities of distant evil, which seems magnified and ominous -through its very strangeness. They were not forced constantly to ask -themselves the question, “What kind of a world do we live in anyhow? -Has it no mercy and no hope?” They were not having constantly thrown -up to them a justification of the universe. Perhaps it was because -they were more concerned with personal sin than with objective evil. -The enormity of sin against their Maker blotted out all transient -misfortune and death. But it was more likely that the actual ignorance -of that evil permitted their personal flagrancies to loom up larger in -their sight. Whatever the cause, there was a difference. We have only -to compare their literature--solid, complacent, rational--with our -restless and hectic stuff; or contrast their portraits--well-nourished, -self-respecting faces--with the cheap or callous or hunted faces that -we see about us to-day, to get the change in spiritual fibre which this -opening of the world has wrought. It has been a real eating of the tree -of the knowledge of good and evil. A social conscience has been born. -An expansion of soul has been forced upon us. We have the double need -of a broader vision to assimilate the good that is revealed to us, and -a stronger courage to bear the evil with which our slowly-bettering old -world still seems to reek. - -But the youth of this modern generation are coming more and more to -see that the gloom and hysteria of this restless age, with all the -other seemingly neurotic symptoms of decay, are simply growing-pains. -They signify a better spiritual health that is to be. The soul is -now learning to adjust itself to the new conditions, to embrace the -wide world that is its heritage, and not to reel and stagger before -the assaults of a malign power. Life will always be fraught with real -peril, but it is peril which gives us the sense of adventure. And as we -gain in our command over the resources, both material and spiritual, -of the world, we shall see the adventure as not so much the peril of -evil as an opportunity of permanent achievement. We can only cure our -suffering from the evil in the world by doing all in our power to -wipe out that which is caused by human blundering, and prevent what -we can prevent by our control of the forces of nature. Our own little -personal evils we can dismiss with little thought. Such as have come -to us we can endure,--for have we not already endured them?--and those -that we dread we shall not keep away by fear or worry. We can easily -become as much slaves to precaution as we can to fear. Although we can -never rivet our fortune so tight as to make it impregnable, we may by -our excessive prudence squeeze out of the life that we are guarding -so anxiously all the adventurous quality that makes it worth living. -In the light of our own problematical misfortune, we must rather live -freely and easily, taking the ordinary chances and looking To-morrow -confidently in the face as we have looked To-day. I have come thus far -safely and well; why may I not come farther? - -But in regard to the evil that we see around us, the problem is more -difficult. Though the youth of this generation hope to conquer, the -battle is still on. We have fought our way to a knowledge of things as -they are, and we must now fight our way beyond it. That first fight -was our first sense of the adventure of life. Our purpose early became -to track the world relentlessly down to its lair. We were resolute -to find out the facts, no matter how sinister and barren they proved -themselves to be. We would make no compromises with our desires, -or with those weak persons who could not endure the clear light of -reality. We were scornful in the presence of the superstitions of our -elders. We could not conceive that sufficient knowledge combined with -action would not be able to solve all our problems and make clear all -our path. As our knowledge grew, so did our courage. We pressed more -eagerly on the trail of this world of ours, purposing to capture and -tame its mysteries, and reveal it as it is, so that none could doubt -us. As we penetrated farther, however, into the cave, the path became -more and more uncertain. We discovered our prey to be far grimmer and -more dangerous than we had ever imagined. As he turned slowly at bay, -we discovered that he was not only repulsive but threatening. We were -sternly prepared to accept him just as we found him, exulting that we -should know things as they really were. We were ready for the worst, -and yet somehow not for this worst. We had not imagined him retaliating -upon us. In our first recoil, the thought flashed upon us that our -tracking him to his lair might end in his feasting on our bones. - -It is somewhat thus that we feel when the full implications of the -materialism to which we have laboriously fought our way dawn upon -us, or we realize the full weight of the sodden social misery around -us. Hitherto we have been so intent on the trail that we have not -stopped to consider what it all meant. Now that we know, not only -our own salvation seems threatened, but that of all around us, even -the integrity of the world itself. In these moments of perplexity -and alarm, we lose confidence in ourselves and all our values and -interpretations. To go further seems to be to court despair. We are -ashamed to retreat, and, besides, have come too far ever to get back -into the safe plain of ignorance again. The world seems to be revealed -to us as mechanical in its workings and fortuitous in its origin, and -the warmth and light of beauty and ideals that we have known all along -to be our true life seem to be proven illusions. And the wailing of the -world comes up to us, cast off from any divine assistance, left to the -mercy of its own weak wills and puny strengths. In this fall, our world -itself seems to have lost merit, and we feel ourselves almost degraded -by being a part of it. We have suddenly been deprived of our souls; the -world seems to have beaten us in our first real battle with it. - -Now this despair is partly the result of an excessive responsibility -that we have taken for the universe. In youth, if we are earnest and -eager, we tend to take every bit of experience that comes to us, -as either a justification or a condemnation of the world. We are -all instinctive monists at that age, and crave a complete whole. As -we unconsciously construct our philosophy of life, each fact gets -automatically recorded as confirming or denying the competency of -the world we live in. Even the first shock of disillusionment, which -banishes those dreams of a beautiful, orderly, and rational world that -had suffused childhood with their golden light, did not shatter the -conviction that there was somehow at least a Lord’s side. The sudden -closing of the account in the second shock, when the world turns on us, -shows us how mighty has been the issue at stake,--nothing less than our -faith in the universe, and, perhaps, in the last resort, of our faith -in ourselves. We see now that our breathless seriousness of youth was -all along simply a studying of our crowded experience to see whether it -was on the Lord’s side or not. And now in our doubt we are left with a -weight on our souls which is not our own, a burden which we have really -usurped. - -In its adventure with evil, youth must not allow this strange, -metaphysical responsibility to depress and incapacitate it. We shall -never face life freely and bravely and worthily if we do. I may wonder, -it is true, as I look out on these peaceful fields, with the warm -sun and blue sky above me and the kindly faces of my good friends -around me, how this can be the same world that houses the millions -of poor and wretched people in their burning and huddled quarters in -the city. Can these days, in which I am free to come and go and walk -and study as I will, be the same that measure out the long hours of -drudgery to thousands of youth amid the whir of machines, and these -long restful nights of mine, the same that are for them only gasps -breaking a long monotony? It must be the same world, however, whether -we can ever reconcile ourselves to it or not. But we need plainly feel -no responsibility for what happened previously to our generation. Our -responsibility now is a collective, a social responsibility. And it is -only for the evil that society might prevent were it organized wisely -and justly. Beyond that it does not go. For the accidental evil that is -showered upon the world, we are not responsible, and we need not feel -either that the integrity of the universe is necessarily compromised by -it. It is necessary to be somewhat self-centred in considering it. We -must trust our own feelings rather than any rational proof. In spite -of everything, the world seems to us so unconquerably good, it affords -so many satisfactions, and is so rich in beauty and kindliness, that -we have a right to assume that there is a side of things that we miss -in our pessimistic contemplation of misfortune and disaster. We see -only the outer rind of it. People usually seem to be so much happier -than we can find any very rational excuse for their being, and that -old world that confronted us and scared us may look very much worse -than it really is. And we can remember that adding to the number of the -sufferers does not intensify the actual quality of the suffering. There -is no more suffering than one person can bear. - -These considerations may allay a little our first terror and despair. -When we really understand that the world is not damned by the evil in -it, we shall be ready to see it in its true light as a challenge to our -heroisms. Not how evil came into the world, but how we are going to get -it out, becomes the problem. Not by brooding over the hopeless, but by -laying plans for the possible will we shoulder our true responsibility. -We shall find then that we had no need of despair. We were on the -right track. When the world that we were tracking down turned at bay, -he threatened more than he was able to perform. Not less science but -more science do we need in order that we may more and more get into -our control the forces and properties of nature, and guide them for -our benefit. But we must learn that the interpretation of the world -lies not in its mechanism but in its meanings, and those meanings we -find in our values and ideals, which are very real to us. Science -brings us only to an “area of our dwelling,” as Whitman says. The -moral adventure of the rising generation will be to learn this truth -thoroughly, and to reinstate ideals and personality at the heart of the -world. - -Our most favorable battle-ground against evil will for some time at -least be the social movement. Poverty and sin and social injustice -we must feel not sentimentally nor so much a symptom of a guilty -conscience as a call to coöperate with the exploited and sufferers in -throwing off their ills. Sensitiveness to evil will be most fruitful -when it rouses a youth to the practical encouragement of the under-men -to save themselves. Youth to-day needs to “beat the gong of revolt.” -The oppressed seldom ask for our sympathy, and this is right and -fitting; for they do not need it. (It might even make them contented -with their lot.) What they need is the inspiration and the knowledge to -come into their own. All we can ever do in the way of good to people -is to encourage them to do good to themselves. “Who would be free, -himself must strike the blow!” This is the social responsibility of -modern youth. It must not seek to serve humanity so much as to rouse -and teach it. The great moral adventure that lies still ahead of us is -to call men to the expansion of their souls to the wide world which -has suddenly been revealed to them. - - * * * * * - -Perhaps with that expansion youth will finally effect a reconciliation -with life of those two supremest and most poignant of adventures: the -thoughts that cluster around sex, and the fears and hopes that cluster -around death, the one the gateway into life, the other out of it. Youth -finds them the two hardest aspects of life to adjust with the rest of -the world in which we live. They are ever-present and pervasive, and -yet their manifestations always cause us surprise, and shock us as of -something unwonted intruding in our daily affairs. They are the unseen -spectres behind life, of which we are always dimly conscious, but which -we are always afraid to meet boldly and face to face. We speak of them -furtively, or in far-away poetical strains. They are the materials -for the tragedies of life, of its pathos and wistfulness, of its -splendors and defeats. Yet they are treated always with an incorrigible -and dishonest delicacy. The world, youth soon finds, is a much less -orderly and refined place than would appear on the surface of our daily -intercourse and words. As we put on our best clothes to appear in -public, so the world puts on its best clothes to appear in talk and -print. - -Men ignore death, as if they were quite unconscious that it would -sometime come to them, yet who knows how many pensive or terrible -moments the thought gives them? But the spectre is quite invisible to -us. Or if they have passions, and respond as sensitively as a vibrating -string to sex influences and appeals, we have little indication of that -throbbing life behind the impenetrable veil of their countenances. We -can know what people think about all other things, even what they think -about God, but what they think of these two adventures of sex and death -we never know. It is not so much, I am willing to believe, shame or -fear that keeps us from making a parade of them, as awe and wonder and -baffled endeavors to get our attitude towards them into expressible -form. They are too elemental, too vast and overpowering in their -workings to fit neatly into this busy, accounted-for, and tied-down -world of daily life. They are superfluous to what we see as the -higher meanings of this our life, and irritate us by their clamorous -insistence and disregard for the main currents of our living. They seem -irrelevant to life; or rather they overtop its bounty. Their pressure -to be let in is offensive, and taints and mars irrevocably what would -otherwise be so pleasant and secure a life. That is, perhaps, why we -call manifestations of sex activity, obscene, and of death, morbid and -ghastly. - -In these modern days we are adopting a healthier attitude, especially -towards sex. Perhaps the rising generation will be successful in -reconciling them both, and working them into our lives, where they may -be seen in their right relations and proportions, and no longer the -pleasure of sex and the peace of death seem an illegitimate obtrusion -into life. To get command of these arch-enemies is an endeavor worthy -of the moral heroes of to-day. We can get control, it seems, of the -rest of our souls, but these always lie in wait to torment and harass -us. To tame this obsession of sex and the fear of death will be a -Herculean task for youth in the adventure of life. Perhaps some will -succeed where we have failed. For usually when we try to tame sex, it -poisons the air around us, and if we try to tame the fear of death by -resigning ourselves to its inevitability, we find that we have not -tamed it but only drugged it. At certain times, however, our struggles -with the winged demons which they send into our minds may constitute -the most poignant incidents in our adventure of life, and add a beauty -to our lives. Where they do not make for happiness, they may at least -make for a deepening of knowledge and appreciation of life. Along -through middle life, we shall find, perhaps, that, even if untamed, -they have become our allies, and that both have lost their sting and -their victory,--sex diffusing our life with a new beauty, and death -with a courageous trend towards a larger life of which we shall be an -integral part. - -When we have acclimated ourselves to youth, suddenly death looms up -as the greatest of dangers in our adventure of life. It puzzles and -shocks and saddens us by its irrevocability and mystery. That we should -be taken out of this world to which we are so perfectly adapted, and -which we enjoy and feel intimate with, is an incredible thing. Even if -we believe that we shall survive death, we know that that after-life -must perforce be lived outside of this our familiar world. Reason tells -us that we shall be annihilated, and yet we cannot conceive our own -annihilation. We can easier imagine the time before our birth, when we -were not, than the time after our death, when we shall not be. Old men -find nothing very dreadful in the thought of being no more, and we -shall find that it is the combined notion of being annihilated, and yet -of being somehow conscious of that annihilation, that terrifies us, and -startles our minds sometimes in the dead of night when our spirits are -sluggish and the ghoulish ideas that haunt the dimmest chambers of the -mind are flitting abroad. We can reason with ourselves that if we are -annihilated we shall not be conscious of it, and if we are conscious we -shall not be annihilated, but this easy proof does not help us much in -a practical way. We simply do not know, and all speculations seem to be -equally legitimate. If we are destined to assume another form of life, -no divination can prophesy for us what that life shall be. - -On the face of it the soul as well as the body dies. The fate of the -body we know, and it seems dreadful enough to chill the stoutest heart; -and what we call our souls seem so intimately dependent upon these -bodies as to be incapable of living alone. And yet somehow it is hard -to stop believing in the independent soul. We can believe that the -warmth dissipates, that the chemical and electrical energies of the -body pass into other forms and are gradually lost in the immensity of -the universe. But this wonder of consciousness, which seems to hold -and embrace all our thoughts and feelings and bind them together, what -can we know of its power and permanence? In our own limited sphere it -already transcends space and time, our imaginations triumphing over -space, and our memories and anticipations over time: this magic power -of the imagination, which transcends our feeble experience and gives -ideas and images which have not appeared directly through the senses. -We can connect this conscious life with no other aspect of the world -nor can we explain it by any of the principles which we apply to -physical things. It is the divine gift that reveals this world; why may -it not reveal sometime a far wider universe? - -It is this incalculability of our conscious life that makes its seeming -end so great an adventure. This Time which rushes past us, blotting -out everything it creates, leaving us ever suspended on a Present, -which, as we turn to look at it, has melted away,--how are we to -comprehend it? The thin, fragile and uncertain stream of our memory -seems insufficient to give any satisfaction of permanence. I like to -think of a world-memory that retains the past. Physical things that -change or perish continue to live psychically in memory; why may not -all that passes, not only in our minds, but unknown to us, be carried -along in a great world-mind of whose nature we get a dim inkling -even now in certain latent mental powers of ours which are sometimes -revealed, and seem to let down bars into a boundless sea of knowledge. -The world is a great, rushing, irreversible life, not predestined in -its workings, but free like ourselves. The accumulating past seems to -cut into the future, and create it as it goes along. Nothing is then -lost, and we, although we had no existence before we were born,--how -could we have, since that moving Present had not created us?--would -yet, having been born, continue to exist in that world-memory. We do -not need to reëcho the sadness of the centuries,--“Everything passes; -nothing remains!” For even if we take this world-memory at its lowest -terms as a social memory, the effects of the deeds of men, for good or -for evil, remain. And their words remain, the distillation of their -thought and experience. This we know, and we know, moreover, that “one -thing at least is certain,” not that “this life dies”--for that has yet -to be proved--but that “the race lives!” Nature is so careless about -the individual life, so careful for the species, that it seems as if -it were only the latter that counted, that her only purpose was the -eternal continuation of life. And many to-day find a satisfaction for -their cravings for immortality in the thought that they will live in -their children and so on immortally as long as their line continues. - -But we have a right to make greater hazards of faith than this. Might -it not be that, although nature never purposed that the individual soul -should live, man has outwitted her? He has certainly outwitted her in -regard to his bodily life. There was no provision in nature for man’s -living by tillage of the soil and domestication of animals, or for his -dwelling in houses built with tools in his hands, or for traveling -at lightning speed, or for harnessing her forces to run for him the -machines that should turn out the luxuries and utilities of life. All -these were pure gratuities, devised by man and wrested from nature’s -unwilling hands. She was satisfied with primitive, animal-like man, -as she is satisfied with him in some parts of the world to-day. We -have simply got ahead of her. All the other animals are still under -her dominion, but man has become the tool-maker and the partial master -of nature herself. Although still far from thoroughly taming her, he -finds in the incessant struggle his real life purpose, his inspiration, -and his work, and still brighter promises for his children’s children. -For the race lives and takes advantage of all that has been discovered -before. - -Now, since nature has seemed to care as little about the continuation -of life beyond death as she has of man’s comfort upon earth, might -it not be that, just as we have outwitted her in the physical sphere -and snatched comfort and utility by our efforts, so we may, by the -cultivation of our intelligence and sentiments and whole spiritual -life, outwit her in this realm and snatch an immortality that she has -never contemplated? She never intended that we should audaciously read -her secrets and speculate upon her nature as we have done. Who knows -whether, by our hardihood in exploring the uncharted seas of the life -of feeling and thought, we may have over-reached her again and created -a real soul, which we can project beyond death? We are provided with -the raw material of our spiritual life in the world, as we are provided -with the raw material to build houses, and it may be our power and -our privilege to build our immortal souls here on earth, as men have -built and are still building the civilization of this world of ours. -This would not mean that we could all attain, any more than that all -men have the creative genius or the good-will for the constructive -work of civilization; there may be “real losses and real losers” in -the adventure for immortality, but to the stout-hearted and the wise -it will be possible. We shall need, as builders need the rules of the -craft, the aid and counsel of the spiritually gifted who have gone -before us. It has been no mistake that we have prized them higher -even than our material builders, for we have felt instinctively the -spiritual power with which they have endowed us in the contest for the -mighty stake of immortality. They are helping us to it, and we have the -right to rely on their visions and trusts and beliefs in this supremest -and culminating episode of the adventure of life. - -Are all such speculations idle and frivolous? Have they no place on -the mental horizon of a youth of to-day, living in a world whose -inner nature all the mighty achievements of the scientists, fruitful -as they have been in their practical effects, have tended rather to -obscure than to illumine? Well, a settled conviction that we live in -a mechanical world, with no penumbra of mystery about us, checks the -life-enhancing powers, and chills and depresses the spirit. A belief -in the deadness of things actually seems to kill much of the glowing -life that makes up our appreciation of art and personality in the -world. The scientific philosophy is as much a matter of metaphysics, of -theoretical conjecture, as the worst fanaticisms of religion. We have -a right to shoot our guesses into the unknown. Life is no adventure -if we let our knowledge, still so feeble and flickering, smother us. -In this scientific age there is a call for youth to soar and paint a -new spiritual sky to arch over our heads. If the old poetry is dead, -youth must feel and write the new poetry. It has a challenge both to -transcend the physical evil that taints the earth and the materialistic -poison that numbs our spirits. - -The wise men thought they were getting the old world thoroughly charted -and explained. But there has been a spiritual expansion these recent -years which has created new seas to be explored and new atmospheres -to breathe. It has been discovered that the world is alive, and that -discovery has almost taken away men’s breaths; it has been discovered -that evolution is creative and that we are real factors in that -creation. After exploring the heights and depths of the stars, -and getting ourselves into a state of mind where we saw the world -objectively and diminished man and his interests almost to a pin-point, -we have come with a rush to the realization that personality and values -are, after all, the important things in a living world. And no problem -of life or death can be idle. A hundred years ago it was thought -chastening to the fierce pride of youth to remind it often of man’s -mortality. But youth to-day must think of everything in terms of life; -yes, even of death in terms of life. We need not the chastening of -pride, but the stimulation to a sense of the limitless potentialities -of life. No thought or action that really enhances life is frivolous or -fruitless. - -What does not conduce in some way to men’s interests does not enhance -life. What decides in the long run whether our life will be adventurous -or not is the direction and the scope of our interests. We need a -livelier imaginative sympathy and interest in all that pertains to -human nature and its workings. It is a good sign that youth does -not need to have its attention called to the worthy and profitable -interest of its own personality. It is a healthy sign that we are -getting back home again to the old endeavor of “Know thyself!” Our -widening experience has shifted the centre of gravity too far from -man’s soul. A cultivation of the powers of one’s own personality is -one of the greatest needs of life, too little realized even in these -assertive days, and the exercise of the personality makes for its most -durable satisfactions. Men are attentive to their business affairs, but -not nearly enough to their own deeper selves. If they treated their -business interests as they do the interests of their personality, they -would be bankrupt within a week. Few people even scratch the surface, -much less exhaust the contemplation, of their own experience. Few know -how to weave a philosophy of life out of it, that most precious of all -possessions. And few know how to hoard their memory. For no matter what -we have come through, or how many perils we have safely passed, or how -imperfect and jagged--in some places perhaps irreparably--our life has -been, we cannot in our heart of hearts imagine how it could have been -different. As we look back on it, it slips in behind us in orderly -array, and, with all its mistakes, acquires a sort of eternal fitness, -and even, at times, of poetic glamour. - -The things I did, I did because, after all, I am that sort of a -person--that is what life is;--and in spite of what others and what I -myself might desire, it is that kind of a person that I am. The golden -moments I can take a unique and splendid satisfaction in because they -are my own; my realization of how poor and weak they might seem, if -taken from my treasure-chest and exposed to the gaze of others, does -not taint their preciousness, for I can see them in the larger light -of my own life. Every man should realize that his life is an epic; -unfortunately it usually takes the onlooker to recognize the fact -before he does himself. We should oftener read our own epics--and write -them. The world is in need of true autobiographies, told in terms of -the adventure that life is. Not every one, it is said, possesses the -literary gift, but what, on the other hand, is the literary gift but an -absorbing interest in the personality of things, and an insight into -the wonders of living? Unfortunately it is usually only the eccentric -or the distinguished who reveal their inner life. Yet the epic of the -humblest life, told in the light of its spiritual shocks and changes, -would be enthralling in its interest. But the best autobiographers are -still the masters of fiction, those wizards of imaginative sympathy, -who create souls and then write their spiritual history, as those -souls themselves, were they alive, could perhaps never write them. -Every man, however, can cultivate this autobiographical interest in -himself, and produce for his own private view a real epic of spiritual -adventure. And life will be richer and more full of meaning as the -story continues and life accumulates. - -Life changes so gradually that we do not realize our progress. This -small triumph of yesterday we fail to recognize as the summit of the -mountain at whose foot we encamped several years ago in despair. We -forget our hopes and wistfulness and struggles. We do not look down -from the summit at the valley where we started, and thus we lose the -dramatic sense of something accomplished. If a man looking back sees -no mountain and valley, but only a straight level plain, it behooves -him to take himself straight to some other spiritual country where -there is opportunity for climbing and where five years hence will -see him on a higher level, breathing purer air. Most people have no -trouble in remembering their rights and their wrongs, their pretensions -and their ambitions,--things so illusory that they should never even -have been thought of. But to forget their progress, to forget their -golden moments, their acquisitions of insight and appreciation, the -charm of their friends, the sequence of their ideals,--this is indeed -a deplorable aphasia! “The days that make us happy make us wise!” -Happiness is too valuable to be forgotten, and who will remember yours -if you forget it? It is what has made the best of you; or, if you have -thrown it away from memory, what could have made you, and made you -richer than you are. If you have neglected such contemplation, you are -poor, and that poverty will be apparent in your daily personality. - -Life in its essence is a heaping-up and accumulation of thought and -insight. It should mount higher and higher, and be more potent and -flowering as life is lived. If you do not keep in your memory and -spirit the finer accumulations of your life, it will be as if you had -only partly lived. Your living will be a travesty on life, and your -progress only a dull mechanical routine. Even though your life may be -outwardly routine, inwardly, as moralists have always known, it may -be full of adventure. Be happy, but not too contented. Contentment -may be a vice as well as a virtue; too often it is a mere cover for -sluggishness, and not a sign of triumph. The mind must have a certain -amount of refreshment and novelty; it will not grow by staying too -comfortably at home, and refusing to put itself to the trouble of -travel and change. It needs to be disturbed every now and then to keep -the crust from forming. People do not realize this, and let themselves -become jaded and uninterested--and therefore uninteresting--when such -a small touch of novelty would inspire and stimulate them. A tired -interest, in a healthy mind, wakes with as quick a response to a new -touch or aspect as does a thirsty flower to the rain. Too many people -sit in prison with themselves until they get meagre and dull, when the -door was really all the time open, and outside was freshness and green -grass and the warm sun, which might have revived them and made them -bright again. Listlessness in an old man or woman is often the telltale -sign of such an imprisonment. Life, instead of being an accumulation -of spiritual treasure, has been the squandering of its wealth, in a -lapse of interest, as soon as it was earned. Even unbearable sorrow -might have been the means, by a process of transmutation, of acquiring -a deeper appreciation of life’s truer values. But the squanderer has -lost his vision, because he did not retain on the background of memory -his experience, against which to contrast his new reactions, and -did not have the emotional image of old novelties to spur him to the -apprehension and appreciation of new ones. - -More amazing even than the lack of a healthy interest in their own -personalities is the lack of most people of an interest, beyond one -of a trivial or professional nature, in others. Our literary artists -have scarcely begun to touch the resources of human ways and acts. -Writers surrender reality for the sake of a plot, and in attempting to -make a point, or to write adventure, squeeze out the natural traits -and nuances of character and the haphazardnesses of life that are the -true adventure and point. We cannot know too much about each other. -All our best education comes from what people tell us or what we -observe them do. We cannot endure being totally separated from others, -and it is well that we cannot. For it would mean that we should have -then no life above the satisfaction of our crudest material wants. -Our keenest delights are based upon some manifestation or other of -social life. Even gossip arises not so much from malice as from a real -social interest in our neighbors; the pity of it is, of course, that -to so many people it is only the misfortunes and oddities that are -interesting. - -Let our interests in the social world with which we come in contact be -active and not passive. Let us give back in return as good an influence -and as much as is given to us. Let us live so as to stimulate others, -so that we call out the best powers and traits in them, and make them -better than they are, because of our comprehension and inspiration. -Our life is so bound up with our friends and teachers and heroes -(whether present in the flesh or not), and we are so dependent upon -them for nourishment and support, that we are rarely aware how little -of us there would be left were they to be taken away. We are seldom -conscious enough of the ground we are rooted in and the air we breathe. -We can know ourselves best by knowing others. There are adventures of -personality in acting and being acted upon, in studying and delighting -in the ideas and folkways of people that hold much in store for those -who will only seek them. - -Thus in its perils and opportunities, in its satisfactions and -resistances, in its gifts and responsibilities, for good or for evil, -life is an adventure. In facing its evil, we shall not let it daunt -or depress our spirits; we shall surrender some of our responsibility -for the Universe, and face forward, working and encouraging those -around us to coöperate with us and with all who suffer, in fighting -preventable wrong. Death we shall transcend by interpreting everything -in terms of life; we shall be victorious over it by recognizing in it -an aspect of a larger life in which we are immersed. We shall accept -gladly the wealth of days poured out for us. Alive, in a living world, -we shall cultivate those interests and qualities which enhance life. -We shall try to keep the widest possible fund of interests in order -that life may mount ever richer, and not become jaded and wearied in -its ebb-flow. We shall never cease to put our questions to the heart -of the world, intent on tracking down the mysteries of its behavior -and its meaning, using each morsel of knowledge to pry further into -its secrets, and testing the tools we use by the product they create -and the hidden chambers they open. To face the perils and hazards -fearlessly, and absorb the satisfactions joyfully, to be curious and -brave and eager,--is to know the adventure of life. - - - - -VII - -SOME THOUGHTS ON RELIGION - - -In youth we grow and learn and always the universe widens around us. -The horizon recedes faster than we can journey towards it. There comes -a time when we look back with longing to the days when everything we -learned seemed a fast gaining upon the powers of darkness, and each new -principle seemed to illuminate and explain an immense region of the -world. We had only to keep on learning in steady progress, it seemed, -until we should have dominion over the whole of it. But there came a -time, perhaps, when advance halted, and our carefully ordered world -began to dissipate and loose ends and fringes to appear. It became a -real struggle to keep our knowledge securely boxed in our one system, -indeed, in any system, as we found when we restlessly tried one dogma -after another as strong-boxes for our spiritual goods. Always something -eluded us; it was “ever not quite.” Just when we were safest, some -new experience came up to be most incongruously unaccounted for. -We had our goods, for instance, safely stowed away in the box of -“materialism,” when suddenly we realized that, on its theory, our whole -life might run along precisely as we see it now, we might talk and love -and paint and build without a glimmer of consciousness, that wondrous -stuff which is so palpably our light and our life. The materialist -can see in us nothing but the inert accompaniment of our bodies, the -helpless, useless, and even annoying spectators of the play of physical -forces through these curious compounds of chemical elements that we -call our bodies. Or if, filled with the joy of creation, we tried to -pack our world into the dogma of “idealism” and see all hard material -things as emanations from our spiritual self and plastic under our -hand, we were brought with a shock against some tough, incorrigible -fact that sobered our elation, and forced the unwilling recognition of -our impotence upon us again. - -It is not, however, from an excess of idealism that the world suffers -to-day. But it is sick rather with the thorough-going and plausible -scientific materialism with which our philosophy and literature seem to -reek. Pure idealism has long ago proved too intoxicating a confirmation -of our hopes and desires to seduce for long our tough-mindedness. -Science has come as a challenge to both our courage and our honesty. -It covertly taunts us with being afraid to face the universe as it is; -if we look and are saddened, we have seemed to prove ourselves less -than men. For this advance of scientific speculation has seemed only -to increase the gulf between the proven and certain facts, and all the -values and significances of life that our reactions to its richness -have produced in us. And so incorrigibly honest is the texture of the -human mind that we cannot continue to believe in and cultivate things -that we no longer consider to be real. And science has undermined our -faith in the reality of a spiritual world that to our forefathers -was the only reality in the universe. We are so honest, however, -that when the scientist relegates to a subjective shadowy realm our -world of qualities and divinities, we cannot protest, but only look -wistfully after the disappearing forms. A numbness has stolen over -our religion, art, and literature, and the younger generation finds a -chill and torpor in those interests of life that should be the highest -inspiration. - -Religion in these latter days becomes poetry, about which should never -be asked the question, “Is it true?” Art becomes a frivolous toy; -literature a daily chronicle. - -There is thus a crucial intellectual dilemma that faces us to-day. If -we accept whole-heartedly the spiritual world, we seem to be false to -the imposing new knowledge of science which is rapidly making the world -comprehensible to us; if we accept all the claims and implications of -science, we seem to trample on our own souls. Yet we feel instinctively -the validity of both aspects of the world. Our solution will seem to -be, then, to be content with remaining something less than monists. -We must recognize that this is an infinite universe, and give up our -attempt to get all our experience under one roof. Striving ever for -unity, we must yet understand that this “not-quite-ness” is one of -the fundamental principles of things. We can no longer be satisfied -with a settlement of the dreary conflict between religion and science -which left for religion only the task of making hazardous speculations -which science was later to verify or cast aside, as it charted the seas -of knowledge. We cannot be content with a religion which science is -constantly overtaking and wiping out, as it puts its brave postulates -of faith to rigorous test. - -The only view of religion and science that will satisfy us is one -that makes them each the contemplation of a different aspect of the -universe,--one, an aspect of quantities and relations, the other, an -aspect of qualities, ideals, and values. They may be coördinate and -complementary, but they are not expressible in each others’ terms. -There is no question of superior reality. The blue of a flower is just -as real as the ether waves which science tells us the color “really” -is. Scientific and intuitive knowledge are simply different ways of -appreciating an infinite universe. Scientific knowledge, for all its -dogmatic claims to finality, is provisional and hypothetical. “If -we live in a certain kind of a world,” it says, “certain things are -true.” Each fact hinges upon another. Yet these correlations of the -physical world are so certain and predictable that no sane mind can -doubt them. On the other hand, our knowledge of qualities is direct and -immediate, and seems to depend on nothing for its completeness. Yet it -is so uncertain and various that no two minds have precisely the same -reactions, and we do not ourselves have the same reactions at different -times. - -And these paradoxes give rise to the endless disputes as to which -gives the more real view of the universe in which we find ourselves -living. The matter-of-fact person takes the certainty and lets the -immediacy go; the poet and the mystic and the religious man choose the -direct revelation and prize this vision far above any logical cogency. -Now it will be the task of this intellectual generation to conquer -the paradoxes by admitting the validity of both the matter-of-fact -view and the mystical. And it is the latter that requires the present -emphasis; it must be resuscitated from the low estate into which it has -fallen. We must resist the stern arrogances of science as vigorously -as the scientist has resisted the allurements of religion. We must -remind him that his laws are not visions of eternal truth, so much as -rough-and-ready statements of the practical nature of things, in so -far as they are useful to us for our grappling with our environment -and somehow changing it. We must demand that he climb down out of the -papal chair, and let his learning become what it was meant to be,--the -humble servant of humanity. Truth for truth’s sake is an admirable -motto for the philosopher, who really searches to find the inner nature -of things. But the truth of science is for use’s sake. To seek for -physical truth which is irrelevant to human needs and purposes is as -purely futile an intellectual gymnastic as the logical excesses of the -schoolmen. The scientist is here to tell us the practical workings of -the forces and elements of the world; the philosopher, mystic, artist, -and poet are here to tell us of the purposes and meanings of the world -as revealed directly, and to show us the ideal aspect through their own -clear fresh vision. - -That vision, however, must be controlled and enriched by the democratic -experience of their fellow men; their ideal must be to reveal meanings -that cannot be doubted by the normal soul, in the same way that -scientific formulations cannot be doubted by the normal mind. It is -here that we have a quarrel with old religion and old poetry, that -the vision which it brings us is not sufficiently purged of local -discolorations or intellectualistic taints. But it is not a quarrel -with religion and poetry as such; this age thirsts for a revelation -of the spiritual meanings of the wider world that has been opened to -us, and the complex and baffling anomalies that seem to confront us. -It is our imperative duty to reëmphasize the life of qualities and -ideals, to turn again our gaze to that aspect of the world from which -men have always drawn what gave life real worth and reinstate those -spiritual things whose strength advancing knowledge has seemed to sap. -There is room for a new idealism, but an idealism that sturdily keeps -its grip on the real, that grapples with the new knowledge and with the -irrevocable loss of much of the old poetry and many of the old values, -and wrests out finer qualities and a nobler spiritual life than the -world has yet seen. It is not betrayal of our integrity to believe that -the desires and interests of men, their hopes and fears and creative -imaginings, are as real as any atoms or formulas. - -Now the place of religion in this new idealism will be the same place -that its essential spirit has always held in the spiritual life of -men. Religion is our sense of the quality of the universe itself, the -broadest, profoundest, and most constant of our intuitions. Men have -always felt that, outside of the qualities of concrete things, there -lay a sort of infinite quality that they could identify with the spirit -of the universe, and they have called it God. To this quality men have -always responded, and that response and appreciation is religion. To -appreciate this cosmic quality is to be religious, and to express that -appreciation is to worship. Religion is thus as much and eternally -a part of life as our senses themselves; the only justification for -making away with religion would be an event that would make away with -our senses. The scientist must always find it difficult to explain why, -if man’s mind, as all agree that it did, developed in adaptation to his -environment, it should somehow have become adapted so perfectly to a -spiritual world of qualities and poetic interpretation of phenomena, -and not to the world of atomic motion and mechanical law which -scientific philosophy assures us is the “real” world. Our minds somehow -adapted themselves, not to the hard world of fact, but to a world of -illusion, which had not the justification of being even practically -useful or empirically true. If the real world is mechanical, we should -have a right to expect the earliest thinking to be scientific, and -the spiritual life to come in only after centuries of refinement -of thought. But the first reactions of men were of course purely -qualitative, and it is only within the last few minutes of cosmic time -that we have known of the quantitative relations of things. Is it hard, -then, to believe that, since we and the world have grown up together, -there must be some subtle correlation between it and the values and -qualities that we feel, that our souls must reflect--not faithfully, -perhaps, because warped by a thousand alien compelling physical forces, -and yet somehow indomitably--a spiritual world that is perhaps even -more real, because more immediate and constant, than the physical? We -may partially create it, but we partially reflect it too. - -That cosmic quality we feel as personality. Not artificial or illusive -is this deeply rooted anthropomorphic sense which has always been at -the bottom of man’s religious consciousness. We are alive, and we -have a right to interpret the world as living; we are persons, and we -have a right to interpret the world in terms of personality. In all -religions, through the encrustations of dogma and ritual, has been -felt that vital sense of the divine personality, keeping clean and -sweet the life of man. The definite appeal of the Church, in times -like these, when the external props fall away, is to the incarnation -of the divine personality, and the ideal of character deduced from it -as a pattern for life. This is the religion of ordinary people to-day; -it has been the heart of Christianity for nineteen hundred years. Our -feeling of this cosmic quality may be vague or definite, diffused or -crystallized, but to those of us who sense behind our pulsing life a -mystery which perplexes, sobers, and elevates us, that quality forms a -permanent scenic background for our life. - -To feel this cosmic quality of a divine personality, in whom we live, -move, and have our being, is to know religion. The ordinary world we -live in is incurably dynamic; we are forced to think and act in terms -of energy and change and constant rearrangement and flux of factors and -elements. And we live only as we give ourselves up to that stream and -play of forces. Throughout all the change, however, there comes a sense -of this eternal quality. In the persistence of our own personality, -the humble fragment of a divine personality, we get the pattern of its -permanence. The Great Companion is ever with us, silently ratifying -our worthy deeds and tastes and responses. The satisfactions of our -spiritual life, of our judgments and appreciations of morality and art -and any kind of excellence, come largely from this subtle corroboration -that we feel from some unseen presence wider than ourselves. It -accompanies not a part but the whole of our spiritual life, silently -strengthening our responses to personality and beauty, our sense of -irony, the refinement of our taste, sharpening our moral judgment, -elevating our capacities for happiness, filling ever richer our sense -of the worth of life. And this cosmic influence in which we seem to be -immersed we can no more lose or doubt--after we have once felt the rush -of time past us, seen a friend die, or brooded on the bitter thought of -our personal death, felt the surge of forces of life and love, wondered -about consciousness, been melted before beauty--than we can lose or -doubt ourselves. The wonder of it is exhaustless,--the beneficence over -whose workings there yet breathes an inexorable sternness, the mystery -of time and death, the joy of beauty and creative art and sex, and -sheer consciousness. - -Against this scenic background, along this deep undercurrent of -feeling, our outward, cheerful, settled, and orderly life plays its -part. That life is no less essential; we must be willing to see life in -two aspects, the world as deathless yet ever-creative, evolution yet -timeless eternity. To be religious is to turn our gaze away from the -dynamic to the static and the permanent, away from the stage to the -scenic background of our lives. Religion cannot, therefore, be said -to have much of a place in our activity of life, except as it fixes -the general emotional tone. We have no right to demand that it operate -practically, nor can we call altruistic activity, and enthusiasm for a -noble cause, religion. Moral action is really more a matter of social -psychology than of religion. All religions have been ethical only as a -secondary consideration. Religion in and for itself is something else; -we can enjoy it only by taking, as it were, the moral holiday into its -regions when we are weary of the world of thinking and doing. It is a -land to retreat into when we are battered and degraded by the dynamic -world about us, and require rest and recuperation. It is constantly -there behind us, but to live in it always is to take a perpetual -holiday. - -At all times we may have its beauty with us, however, as we may have -prospects of far mountains and valleys. As we go in the morning to -work in the fields, religion is this enchanting view of the mountains, -inspiring us and lifting our hearts with renewed vigor. Through all the -long day’s work we feel their presence with us, and have only to turn -around to see them shining splendidly afar with hope and kindliness. -Even the austerest summits are warm in the afternoon sun. Yet if we -gaze at them all day long, we shall accomplish no work. Nor shall we -finish our allotted task if we succumb to their lure and leave our -fields to travel towards them. As we return home weary at night, the -mountains are still there to refresh and cheer us with their soft -colors and outline blended in the purple light. When our task is -entirely done, it has been our eternal hope to journey to those far -mountains and valleys; if this is not to be, at least their glorious -view will be the last to fall upon us as we close our eyes. But we know -that, whatever happens, if we have done our work well, have performed -faithfully our daily tasks of learning to control and manage and -make creative the tough soil of this material world in which we find -ourselves, if we have neither allowed its toughness to distract us from -the beauty of the eternal background, nor let those far visions slow -down the wheels of life, distract us from our work, or blur our thought -and pale by their light the other qualities and beauties around us--we -shall attain what is right for us when we lay down our tools. In a -living world, death can be no more than an apparition. - - - - -VIII - -THE MYSTIC TURNED RADICAL - - -The mystical temperament is little enough popular in this workaday -modern world of ours. The mystic, we feel, comes to us discounted -from the start; he should in all decency make constant apologies for -his existence. In a practical age of machinery he is an anomaly, an -anachronism. He must meet the direct challenge of the scientist, who -guards every approach to the doors of truth and holds the keys of its -citadel. Any thinker who gets into the fold by another way is a thief -and a robber. - -The mystic must answer that most heinous of all charges,--of being -unscientific. By tradition he is even hostile to science. For his main -interest is in wonder, and science by explaining things attacks the -very principle of his life. It not only diminishes his opportunities -for wonder, but threatens to make him superfluous by ultimately -explaining everything. - -The scientist may say that there is no necessary antithesis between -explanation and that beautiful romance of thought we call wonder. The -savage, who can explain nothing, is the very creature who has no wonder -at all. Everything is equally natural to him. Only a mind that has -acquaintance with laws of behavior can be surprised at events. - -The wonder of the scientist, however, although it be of a more robust, -tough-minded variety, is none the less wonder. A growing acquaintance -with the world, an increasing at-homeness in it, is not necessarily -incompatible with an ever-increasing marvel both at the beautiful -fitness of things and the limitless field of ignorance and mystery -beyond. So the modern mystic must break with his own tradition if he -is to make an appeal to this generation, and must recognize that the -antithesis between mystic and scientific is not an eternally valid one. - -It is just through realization of this fact that Maeterlinck, the best -of modern mystics, makes his extraordinary appeal. For, as he tells us, -the valid mystery does not begin at the threshold of knowledge but only -after we have exhausted our resources of knowing. His frank and genuine -acceptance of science thus works out a _modus vivendi_ between the seen -and the unseen. It allows many of us who have given our allegiance -to science to hail him gladly as a prophet who supplements the work -of the wise men of scientific research, without doing violence to our -own consciences. For the world is, in spite of its scientific clamor, -still far from ready really to surrender itself to prosaicness. It is -still haunted with the dreams of the ages--dreams of short roads to -truth, visions of finding the Northwest passage to the treasures of the -Unseen. Only we must go as far as possible along the traveled routes of -science. - -Maeterlinck is thus not anti-scientific or pseudo-scientific, but -rather sub-scientific. He speaks of delicately felt and subtle -influences and aspects of reality that lie beneath the surface of our -lives, of forces and shadows that cannot be measured quantitatively -or turned into philosophical categories. Or we may say that he -is ultra-scientific. As science plods along, opening up the dark -wilderness, he goes with the exploring party, throwing a search-light -before them; flickering enough and exasperatingly uncertain at times, -but sufficiently constant to light up the way, point out a path, and -give us confidence that the terrors before us are not so formidable -as we have feared. His influence on our time is so great because we -believe that he is a seer, a man with knowledge of things hidden from -our eyes. We go to him as to a spiritual clairvoyant,--to have him tell -us where to find the things our souls have lost. - -But the modern mystic must not only recognize the scientific aspect -of the age,--he must feel the social ideal that directs the spiritual -energies of the time. It is the glory of Maeterlinck’s mysticism that -it has not lingered in the depths of the soul, but has passed out to -illuminate our thinking in regard to the social life about us. The -growth of this duality of vision has been with him a long evolution. -His early world was a shadowy, intangible thing. As we read the early -essays, we seem to be constantly hovering on the verge of an idea, just -as when we read the plays we seem to be hovering on the verge of a -passion. This long brooding away from the world, however, was fruitful -and momentous. The intense gaze inward trained the eye, so that when -the mists cleared away and revealed the palpitating social world about -him, his insight into its meaning was as much more keen and true than -our own as had been his sense of the meaning of the individual soul. -The light he turns outward to reveal the meaning of social progress is -all the whiter for having burned so long within. - -In the essay on “Our Social Duty,” the clearest and the consummate -expression of this new outward look, there are no contaminating fringes -of vague thought; all is clear white light. With the instinct of the -true radical, the poet has gone to the root of the social attitude. Our -duty as members of society is to be radical, he tells us. And not only -that, but an excess of radicalism is essential to the equilibrium of -life. Society so habitually thinks on a plane lower than is reasonable -that it behooves us to think and to hope on an even higher plane than -seems to be reasonable. This is the overpoweringly urgent philosophy of -radicalism. It is the beautiful courage of such words that makes them -so vital an inspiration. - -It is the sin of the age that nobody dares to be anything to too great -a degree. We may admire extremists in principle, but we take the best -of care not to imitate them ourselves. Who in America would even be -likely to express himself as does Maeterlinck in this essay? Who of us -would dare follow the counsel? Of course we can plead extenuation. In -Europe the best minds are thinking in terms of revolution still, while -in America our radicalism is still simply amateurish and incompetent. - -To many of us, then, this call of Maeterlinck’s to the highest of -radicalisms will seem irrelevant; this new social note which appears -so strongly in all his later work will seem a deterioration from -the nobler mysticism of his earlier days. But rather should it be -viewed as the fruit of matured insight. There has been no decay, -no surrender. It is the same mysticism, but with the direction of -the vision altered. This essay is the expression of the clearest -vision that has yet penetrated our social confusion, the sanest and -highest ideal that has been set before progressive minds. It may be -that its utter fearlessness, its almost ascetic detachment from the -matter-of-fact things of political life, its clear cold light of -conviction and penetration, may repel some whose hearts have been -warmed by Maeterlinck’s subtle revelations of the spiritual life. They -may reproach him because it has no direct bearings on the immediate -practical social life; it furnishes no weapon of reform, no tool with -which to rush out and overthrow some vested abuse. But to the traveler -lost in the wood the one thing needful is a pole-star to show him -his direction. The star is unapproachable, serene, cold, and lofty. -But although he cannot touch it, or utilize it directly to extend -his comfort and progress, it is the most useful of all things to -him. It fills his heart with a great hope; it coördinates his aimless -wanderings and gropings, and gives meaning and purpose to his course. - -So a generation lost in a chaos of social change can find in these -later words of Maeterlinck a pole-star and a guide. They do for the -social life of man what the earlier essays did for the individual. They -endow it with values and significances that will give steadfastness -and resource to his vision as he looks out on the great world of human -progress, and purpose and meaning to his activity as he looks ahead -into the dim world of the future. - - - - -IX - -SEEING, WE SEE NOT - - -It is a mere superstition, Maeterlinck tells us in one of his beautiful -essays, that there is anything irrevocable about the past. On the -contrary, we are constantly rearranging it, revising it, remaking it. -For it is only in our memory that it exists, and our conception of it -changes as the loose fringes of past events are gathered up into a -new meaning, or when a sudden fortune lights up a whole series in our -lives, and shows us, stretching back in orderly array and beautiful -significance, what we had supposed in our blindness to be a sad and -chaotic welter. It is no less a superstition to suppose that we have -a hand in making the present. The present, like the past, is always -still to be made; indeed, must wait its turn, so to speak, to be seen -in its full meaning until after the past itself has been remoulded and -reconstituted. It is depressing to think that we do not know our own -time, that the events we look upon have a permanent value far different -from the petty one that we endow them with, that they fit into a -larger whole of which we see only a dim fraction--and that the least -important because the seed of something that shall come much later -into full fruition. Must our short life pass away without knowledge -or vision of the majestic processes which are unfolding themselves -under our very eyes, while we have wasted our admiration and distorted -our purpose by striving to interpret the ephemeral, that is gone as -soon as we? Even the wisest among us can see with but a dim eye into -the future, and make rather a lucky guess at its potentialities than -a true prophecy based on a realization of the real tendencies of the -time. It is only the Past that we really make. And this may account -for our love of it. This fragile thing of tradition that we have -so carefully constructed and so lovingly beautified, this artistic -creation of a whole people or race, becomes most naturally the object -of our tenderest solicitude. Any attack upon it that suggests a marring -of its golden beauty, any new proposal that threatens to render it -superfluous, elicits the outraged cry of anger, the passionate defense, -of the mother protecting her child. For the Past is really the child -of the Present. We are the authors of its being, and upon it we lavish -all our thoughts, our interest and our delight. And even our hopes -are centred in the Past, for the most enthusiastic among us can do no -more than hope that something worth while will come out of the Past -to nourish us in the approaching Present. Concern for the Future is -so new a thing in human history that we are hardly yet at home with -the feeling. Perhaps, if we thought more about what was before us, we -should come to know more about it. Meanwhile our only consolation is -that if _we_ cannot see, neither did the generations that were before -us. And we have the advantage of _knowing_ that we do not see, while -they did not care about their ignorance at all. - -We have constantly to check ourselves in reading history with the -remembrance that, to the actors in the drama, events appeared very -differently from the way they appear to us. We know what they were -doing far better than they knew themselves. We are in the position of -the novel reader who looks, before he begins to read, to see how the -plot turns out. This orderly and dramatic chronicle of history that -thrills us as we read has only been orderly and dramatic to readers of -the present time, who can see the _dénouement_ of the story. History is -peculiarly the creation of the present. Even the great men of the past -are largely the agglomerations of centuries of hero-worship. Genius is -as much a slow accretion of the ages as an endowment of man. Few great -poets were seen in the full glory of their superhuman capacity by their -fellows. Contemporary opinion of the great has been complimentary but -seldom excessively laudatory, and there are sad instances of the decay -and deflation of a supernatural personality through the smooth, gentle, -imperceptibly creeping oblivion of the centuries. - -We rarely see what is distinctive in our own time. The city builders -of the West are quite unconscious of the fact that they are leaving -behind them imperishable and mighty memorials of themselves. Few of the -things that we admire now will be considered by posterity as noteworthy -and distinctive of our age. All depends on the vitality of our customs -and social habits, and some show as high a mortality as others do -a stubborn tenacity of life. What we are witnessing is a gigantic -struggle of customs and ideas to survive and propagate their kind. -The means of subsistence is limited; it is impossible that all should -be able to live. The fascinating problem for the social philosopher -is which of these beliefs and tendencies will prove strong enough to -overcome their rivals and make their stock a permanent type. How many -of the fads and brilliant theories and new habits of thought and taste -will be able to maintain their place in the world? If we could discern -them, we should know the distinction of our age. Definite epochs of -the past we distinguish and celebrate because they contained the germs -of ideas or the roots of institutions that still survive among us, -or customs and habits of thought that flourished in them with great -brilliancy but have now utterly passed away. Now these beginnings are -quite too subtle for us to see in our contemporary life, and there -are so many brilliancies that it is impossible to pick out with any -definiteness the things which have power to project themselves into -the future, and cast a broad trail of light back to our age. Most of -those very things that seem to us imperishable will be the ones to -fade,--fade, indeed, so gradually that they will not even be missed. It -is this gradual disappearance that gives the most thorough oblivion. -History remembers only the brilliant failures and the brilliant -successes. - -We are fond of calling this an age of transition, but if we trace -history back we find that practically every age--at least for -many centuries--has been an age of transition. If we must set a -starting-point from which we have been moving, the social philosopher -will be inclined to place it about the beginning of the sixteenth -century. If we have been in transition for four hundred years, it -seems almost time to settle down from this wild ferment of beliefs -and discoveries that has kept the world’s mind in constant turmoil -since the time of the Renaissance. There are signs that such a -crystallization is taking place. We are weeding out our culture, and -casting aside the classical literature that was the breeding-ground for -the old ideas. We have achieved as yet little to take its place. Most -of the modern literature is rather a restless groping about in the dark -for new modes of thinking and new principles of life, and thus far it -hardly seems to have grasped the robust and vital in the new to any -appreciable extent. One can hardly believe that this morbid virus that -is still working with undiminished vigor and deadly effect will succeed -in making itself the dominant note in European literature for the next -five hundred years. One hates to think that our posterity is to be -doomed to torture itself into appreciating our feverish modern art and -music, and learn to rank the wild complexities of Strauss with the -sublimities of Beethoven. Shall we be sure that the conquest of the air -is finally achieved and a third dimension added to man’s traveling, or -is it all simply another daring and brilliant stab at the impossible, -another of those blasphemies against nature which impious man is -constantly striving to commit? There are few signs of the Socialistic -State, but who knows what births of new institutions, of which we are -now quite unaware, future ages will see to have been developing in our -very midst? Is religion doomed, or is it merely being transformed, so -that we shall be seen to have been creating amid all our indifference a -new type and a new ideal? Will our age actually be distinctive as the -era of the Dawn of Peace, or will the baby institution of arbitration -disappear before a crude and terrible reality? Are we progressing, or -shall we seem to have sown the seeds of world decay in this age of -ours, and at a great crisis in history let slip another opportunity -to carry mankind to a higher social level? It is maddening to the -philosopher to think how long he will have to live to find an answer -to these questions. He wants to know, but in the present all he can do -is to guess at random. Not immortality, but an opportunity to wake up -every hundred years or so to see how the world is progressing, may well -be his desire and his dream. Such an immortality may be incredible, but -it is the only form which has ever proved satisfactory, or ever will, -to the rational man. - - - - -X - -THE EXPERIMENTAL LIFE - - -It is good to be reasonable, but too much rationality puts the soul -at odds with life. For rationality implies an almost superstitious -reliance on logical proofs and logical motives, and it is logic that -life mocks and contradicts at every turn. The most annoying people -in the world are those who demand reasons for everything, and the -most discouraging are those who map out ahead of them long courses of -action, plan their lives, and systematically in the smallest detail -of their activity adapt means to ends. Now the difficulty with all -the prudential virtues is that they imply a world that is too good to -be true. It would be pleasant to have a world where cause and effect -interlocked, where we could see the future, where virtue had its -reward, and our characters and relations with other people and the work -we wish to do could be planned out with the same certainty with which -cooks plan a meal. But we know that that is not the kind of a world -we actually live in. Perhaps men have thought that, by cultivating -the rational virtues and laying emphasis on prudence and forethought, -they could bend the stubborn constitution of things to meet their -ideals. It has always been the fashion to insist, in spite of all the -evidence, that the world was in reality a rational place where certain -immutable moral principles could be laid down with the same certainty -of working that physical laws possess. It has always been represented -that the correct procedure of the moral life was to choose one’s end -or desire, to select carefully all the means by which that end could -be realized, and then, by the use of the dogged motive force of the -will, to push through the plans to completion. In the homilies on -success, it has always been implied that strength of will was the only -requisite. Success became merely a matter of the ratio between the -quantity of effort and will-power applied, and the number of obstacles -to be met. If one failed, it was because the proper amount of effort -had not been applied, or because the plans had not been properly -constructed. The remedy was automatically to increase the effort or -rationalize the plans. Life was considered to be a battle, the strategy -of which a general might lay out beforehand, an engagement in which he -might plan and anticipate to the minutest detail the movement of his -forces and the disposition of the enemy. But one does not have to live -very long to see that this belief in the power and the desirability -of controlling things is an illusion. Life works in a series of -surprises. One’s powers are given in order that one may be alert and -ready, resourceful and keen. The interest of life lies largely in its -adventurousness, and not in its susceptibility to orderly mapping. -The enemy rarely comes up from the side the general has expected; the -battle is usually fought out on vastly different lines from those that -have been carefully foreseen and rationally organized. And similarly in -life do complex forces utterly confound and baffle our best laid plans. - -Our strategy, unless it is open to instant correction, unless it is -flexible, and capable of infinite resource and modification, is a -handicap rather than an aid in the battle of life. In spite of the -veracious accounts of youths hewing their way to success as captains -of industry or statesmen, with their eye singly set on a steadfast -purpose, we may be sure that life seldom works that way. It is not so -tractable and docile, even to the strongest. The rational ideal is -one of those great moral hypocrisies which every one preaches and no -one practices, but which we all believe with superstitious reverence, -and which we take care shall be proven erroneous by no stubborn facts -of life. Better that the facts should be altered than that the moral -tradition should die! - -One of its evil effects is the compressing influence it has on many of -us. Recognizing that for us the world is an irrational place, we are -willing to go on believing that there are at least some gifted beings -who are proving the truth and vindicating the eternal laws of reason. -We join willingly the self-stigmatized ranks of the incompetent and are -content to shine feebly in the reflected light of those whose master -wills and power of effort have brought them through in rational triumph -to their ends. The younger generation is coming very seriously to doubt -both the practicability and worth of this rational ideal. They do not -find that the complex affairs of either the world or the soul work -according to laws of reason. The individual as a member of society is -at the mercy of great social laws that regulate his fortune for him, -construct for him his philosophy of life, and dictate to him his ways -of making a living. As an individual soul, he is the creature of -impulses and instincts which he does not create and which seem to lie -quite outside the reach of his rational will. Looked at from this large -social viewpoint, his will appears a puny affair indeed. There seems -little room left in which to operate, either in the sphere of society -or in his own spiritual life. That little of free-will, however, which -there is, serves for our human purposes. It must be our care simply -that we direct it wisely; and the rational ideal is not the wisest way -of directing it. The place of our free will in the scheme of life is -not to furnish driving, but _directing_ power. The engineer could never -create the power that drives his engine, but he can direct it into the -channels where it will be useful and creative. The superstition of the -strong will has been almost like an attempt to create power, something -the soul could never do. The rational ideal has too often been a mere -challenge to attain the unattainable. It has ended in futility or -failure. - -This superstition comes largely from our incorrigible habit of looking -back over the past, and putting purpose into it. The great man looking -back over his career, over his ascent from the humble level of his -boyhood to his present power and riches, imagines that that ideal -success was in his mind from his earliest years. He sees a progress, -which was really the happy seizing of fortunate opportunities, as -the carrying-out of a fixed purpose. But the purpose was not there -at the beginning; it is the crowning touch added to the picture, -which completes and satisfies our age-long hunger for the orderly and -correct. But we all, rich and poor, successful and unsuccessful, live -from hand to mouth. We all alike find life at the beginning a crude -mass of puzzling possibilities. All of us, unless we inherit a place in -the world,--and then we are only half alive,--have the same precarious -struggle to get a foothold. The difference is in the fortune of the -foothold, and not in our private creation of any mystical force of -will. It is a question of happy occasions of exposure to the right -stimulus that will develop our powers at the right time. The capacity -alone is sterile; it needs the stimulus to fertilize it and produce -activity and success. The part that our free will can play is to expose -ourselves consciously to the stimulus; it cannot create it or the -capacity, but it can bring them together. - -In other words, for the rational ideal we must substitute the -experimental ideal. Life is not a campaign of battle, but a laboratory -where its possibilities for the enhancement of happiness and the -realization of ideals are to be tested and observed. We are not to -start life with a code of its laws in our pocket, with its principles -of activity already learned by heart, but we are to discover those -principles as we go, by conscientious experiment. Even those laws that -seem incontrovertible we are to test for ourselves, to see whether they -are thoroughly vital to our own experience and our own genius. We are -animals, and our education in life is, after all, different only in -degree, and not in kind, from that of the monkey who learns the trick -of opening his cage. To get out of his cage, the monkey must find -and open a somewhat complicated latch. How does he set about it? He -blunders around for a long time, without method or purpose, but with -the waste of an enormous amount of energy. At length he accidentally -strikes the right catch, and the door flies open. Our procedure in -youth is little different. We feel a vague desire to expand, to get out -of our cage, and liberate our dimly felt powers. We blunder around for -a time, until we accidentally put ourselves in a situation where some -capacity is touched, some latent energy liberated, and the direction -set for us, along which we have only to move to be free and successful. -We will be hardly human if we do not look back on the process and -congratulate ourselves on our tenacity and purpose and strong will. But -of course the thing was wholly irrational. There were neither plans nor -purposes, perhaps not even discoverable effort. For when we found the -work that we did best, we found also that we did it easiest. And the -outlines of the most dazzling career are little different. Until habits -were formed or prestige acquired which could float these successful -geniuses, their life was but the resourceful seizing of opportunity, -the utilization, with a minimum of purpose or effort, of the promise of -the passing moment. They were living the experimental life, aided by -good fortune and opportunity. - -Now the youth brought up to the strictly rational ideal is like the -animal who tries to get out of his cage by going straight through the -bars. The duck, beating his wings against his cage, is a symbol of -the highest rationality. His logic is plain, simple, and direct. He -is in the cage; there is the free world outside; nothing but the bars -separate them. The problem is simply to fortify his will and effort -and make them so strong that they will overcome the resistance of the -cage. His error evidently lies not in his method, but in his estimation -of the strength of the bars. But youth is no wiser; it has no data -upon which to estimate either its own strength or the strength of -its obstacles. It counts on getting out through its own self-reliant -strength and will. Like the duck, “impossible” is a word not found in -its vocabulary. And like the duck, it too often dashes out its spirit -against the bars of circumstance. How often do we see young people, -brought up with the old philosophy that nothing was withheld from those -who wanted and worked for things with sufficient determination, beating -their ineffectual wings against their bars, when perhaps in another -direction the door stands open that would lead to freedom! - -We do not hear enough of the tragedies of misplaced ambition. When the -plans of the man of will and determination fail, and the inexorable -forces of life twist his purposes aside from their end, he is sure -to suffer the prostration of failure. His humiliation, too, is in -proportion to the very strength of his will. It is the burden of -defeat, or at best the sting of petty success, that crushes men, and -crushes them all the more thoroughly if they have been brought up to -believe in the essential rationality of the world and the power of will -and purpose. It is not that they have aimed too high, but that they -have aimed in the wrong direction. They have not set out experimentally -to find the work to which their powers were adapted, they did not test -coolly and impartially the direction in which their achievement lay. -They forgot that, though faith may remove mountains, the will alone is -not able. There is an urgency on every man to develop his powers to -the fullest capacity, but he is not called upon to develop those that -he does not possess. The will cannot create talent or opportunity. The -wise man is he who has the clear vision to discern the one, and the -calm patience to await the other. Will, without humor and irony and a -luminous knowledge of one’s self, is likely to drive one to dash one’s -brains out against a stone wall. The world is too full of people with -nothing except a will. The mistake of youth is to believe that the -philosophy of experimentation is enervating. They want to attack life -frontally, to win by the boldness of their attack, or by the exceeding -excellence of their rational plans and purposes. But therein comes a -time when they learn perhaps that it is better to take life not with -their naked fists, but more scientifically,--to stand with mind and -soul alert, ceaselessly testing and criticizing, taking and rejecting, -poised for opportunity, and sensitive to all good influences. - -The experimental life does not put one at the mercy of chance. It is -rather the rational mind that is constantly being shocked and deranged -by circumstances. But the dice of the experimenter are always loaded. -For he does not go into an enterprise, spiritual or material, relying -simply on his reason and will to pull him through. He asks himself -beforehand whether something good is not sure to come whichever way -the dice fall, or at least whether he can bear the event of failure, -whether his spirit can stand it if the experiment ends in humiliation -and barrenness. It is surprising how many seeming disasters one finds -one can bear in this anticipatory look; the tension of the failure is -relieved, anyhow. By looking ahead, one has insured one’s self up to -the limit of the venture, and one cannot lose. But to the man with the -carefully planned campaign, every step is crucial. If all does not turn -out exactly as he intends, he is ruined. He thinks he insures himself -by the excellence of his designs and the craftiness of his skill. But -he insures himself by the strange method of putting all his eggs in one -basket. He thinks, of course, he has arranged his plans so that, if -they fall, the universe falls with them. But when the basket breaks, -and the universe does not fall, his ruin is complete. - -Ambition and the rational ideal seem to be only disastrous; if -unsuccessful, they produce misanthropists; if successful, beings that -prey upon their fellow men. Too much rationality makes a man mercenary -and calculating. He has too much at stake in everything he does to -know that calm disinterestedness of spirit which is the mark of the -experimental attitude towards life. Our attitude towards our personal -affairs, material and spiritual, should be like the interest we take -in sports and games. The sporting interest is one secret of a healthy -attitude towards life. The detached enthusiasm it creates is a real -ingredient of happiness. The trouble with the rational man is that -he has bet on the game. If his side wins, there is a personal reward -for him; if it loses, he himself suffers a loss. He cannot know the -true sporting interest which is unaffected by considerations of the -end, and views the game as the thing, and not the outcome. To the -experimental attitude, failure means nothing beyond a shade of regret -or chagrin. Whether we win or lose, something has been learned, some -insight and appreciation of the workings of others or of ourselves. We -are ready and eager to begin another game; defeat has not dampened our -enthusiasm. But if the man who has made the wager loses, he has lost, -too, all heart for playing. Or, if he does try again, it is not for -interest in the game, but with a redoubled intensity of self-interest -to win back what he has lost. With the sporting interest, one looks on -one’s relations with others, on one’s little rôle in the world, in the -same spirit that we look on a political contest, where we are immensely -stirred by the clash of issues and personalities, but where we know -that the country will run on in about the same way, whoever is elected. -This knowledge does not work against our interest in the struggle -itself, nor in the outcome. It only insures us against defeat. It makes -life livable by endowing us with disinterestedness. If we lose, why, -better luck next time, or, at worst, is not losing a part of life? - -The experimenter with life, then, must go into his laboratory with the -mind of the scientist. He has nothing at stake except the discovery -of the truth, and he is willing to work carefully and methodically -and even cold-bloodedly in eliciting it from the tangled skein of -phenomena. But it is exactly in this cheerful, matter-of-fact way that -we are never willing to examine our own personalities and ideas. We -take ourselves too seriously, and handle our tastes and enthusiasms -as gingerly as if we feared they would shrivel away at the touch. We -perpetually either underestimate or overestimate our powers and worth, -and suffer such losses on account of the one and humiliations on -account of the other, as serve to unbalance our knowledge of ourselves, -and discourage attempts to find real guiding principles of our own or -others’ actions. We need this objective attitude of the scientist. -We must be self-conscious with a detached self-consciousness, -treating ourselves as we treat others, experimenting to discover our -possibilities and traits, testing ourselves with situations, and -gradually building up a body of law and doctrine for ourselves, a real -morality that will have far more worth and power and virtue than all -that has been tried and tested before by no matter how much of alien -human experience. We must start our quest with no prepossessions, -with no theory of what ought to happen when we expose ourselves to -certain stimuli. It is our business to see what does happen, and then -act accordingly. If the electrical experimenter started with a theory -that like magnetic poles attract each other, he would be shocked to -discover that they actually repelled each other. He might even set it -down to some inherent depravity of matter. But if his theory was not -a prejudice but a hypothesis, he would find it possible to revise it -quickly when he saw how the poles actually behaved. And he would not -feel any particular chagrin or humiliation. - -But we usually find it so hard to revise our theories about ourselves -and each other. We hold them as prejudices and not as hypotheses, and -when the facts of life seem to disprove them, we either angrily clutch -at our theories and snarl in defiance, or we pull them out of us with -such a wrench that they draw blood. The scientist’s way is to start -with a hypothesis and then to proceed to verify it by experiment. -Similarly ought we to approach life and test all our hypotheses by -experience. Our methods have been too rigid. We have started with -moral dogmas, and when life obstinately refused to ratify them, we -have railed at it, questioned its sincerity, instead of adopting some -new hypothesis, which more nearly fitted our experience, and testing -it until we hit on the principle which explained our workings to -ourselves. The common-sense, rule-of-thumb morality which has come down -to us is no more valid than the common-sense, scientific observation -that the sun goes round the earth. We can rely no longer on the loose -gleanings of homely proverb and common sense for our knowledge of -personality and human nature and life. - -If we do not adopt the experimental life, we are still in bondage to -convention. To learn of life from others’ words is like learning to -build a steam-engine from books in the class-room. We may learn of -principles in the spiritual life that have proven true for millions -of men, but even these we must test to see if they hold true for our -individual world. We can never attain any self-reliant morality if we -allow ourselves to be hypnotized by fixed ideas of what is good or -bad. No matter how good our principles, our devotion to morality will -be mere lip-service unless each belief is individually tested, and its -power to work vitally in our lives demonstrated. - -But this moral experimentation is not the mere mechanical repetition of -the elementary student in the laboratory, who makes simple experiments -which are sure to come out as the law predicts. The laws of personality -and life are far more complex, and each experiment discovers something -really novel and unique. The spiritual world is ever-creative; the same -experiments may turn out differently for different experimenters, and -yet they may both be right. In the spiritual experimental life, we must -have the attitude of the scientist, but we are able to surpass him in -daring and boldness. We can be certain of a physical law that as it has -worked in the past, so it will work in the future. But of a spiritual -law we have no such guarantee. This it is that gives the zest of -perpetual adventure to the moral life. Human nature is an exhaustless -field for investigation and experiment. It is inexhaustible in its -richness and variety. - -The old rigid morality, with its emphasis on the prudential virtues, -neglected the fundamental fact of our irrationality. It believed -that if we only knew what was good, we would do it. It was therefore -satisfied with telling us what was good, and expecting us automatically -to do it. But there was a hiatus somewhere. For we do not do what we -want to, but what is easiest and most natural for us to do, and if -it is easy for us to do the wrong thing, it is that that we will do. -We are creatures of instincts and impulses that we do not set going. -And education has never taught us more than very imperfectly how to -train these impulses in accordance with our worthy desires. Instead of -endeavoring to cure this irrationality by directing our energy into the -channel of experimentation, it has worked along the lines of greatest -resistance, and held up an ideal of inhibition and restraint. We have -been alternately exhorted to stifle our bad impulses, and to strain -and struggle to make good our worthy purposes and ambitions. Now the -irrational man is certainly a slave to his impulses, but is not the -rational man a slave to his motives and reasons? The rational ideal has -made directly for inflexibility of character, a deadening conservatism -that is unable to adapt itself to situations, or make allowance for the -changes and ironies of life. It has riveted the moral life to logic, -when it should have been yoked up with sympathy. The logic of the heart -is usually better than the logic of the head, and the consistency of -sympathy is superior as a rule for life to the consistency of the -intellect. - -Life is a laboratory to work out experiments in living. That same -freedom which we demand for ourselves, we must grant to every one. -Instead of falling with our spite upon those who vary from the textbook -rules of life, we must look upon their acts as new and very interesting -hypotheses to be duly tested and judged by the way they work when -carried out into action. Nonconformity, instead of being irritating -and suspicious, as it is now to us, will be distinctly pleasurable, -as affording more material for our understanding of life and our -formulation of its satisfying philosophy. The world has never favored -the experimental life. It despises poets, fanatics, prophets, and -lovers. It admires physical courage, but it has small use for moral -courage. Yet it has always been those who experimented with life, -who formed their philosophy of life as a crystallization out of that -experimenting, who were the light and life of the world. Causes have -only finally triumphed when the rational “gradual progress” men have -been overwhelmed. Better crude irrationality than the rationality that -checks hope and stifles faith. - -In place, then, of the rational or the irrational life, we preach -the experimental life. There is much chance in the world, but there -is also a modicum of free will, and it is this modicum that we -exploit to direct our energies. Recognizing the precariousness and -haphazardness of life, we can yet generalize out of our experience -certain probabilities and satisfactions that will serve us as well -as scientific laws. Only they must be flexible and they must be -tested. Life is not a rich province to conquer by our will, or to -wring enjoyment out of with our appetites, nor is it a market where -we pay our money over the counter and receive the goods we desire. It -is rather a great tract of spiritual soil, which we can cultivate or -misuse. With certain restrictions, we have the choice of the crops -which we can grow. Our duty is evidently to experiment until we find -those which grow most favorably and profitably, to vary our crops -according to the quality of the soil, to protect them against prowling -animals, to keep the ground clear of noxious weeds. Contending against -wind and weather and pests, we can yet with skill and vigilance win a -living for ourselves. None can cultivate this garden of our personality -but ourselves. Others may supply the seed; it is we who must plough and -reap. We are owners in fee simple, and we cannot lease. None can live -my life but myself. And the life that I live depends on my courage, -skill, and wisdom in experimentation. - - - - -XI - -THE DODGING OF PRESSURES - - -For a truly sincere life one talent is needed,--the ability to steer -clear of the forces that would warp and conventionalize and harden the -personality and its own free choices and bents. All the kingdoms of -this world lie waiting to claim the allegiance of the youth who enters -on the career of life, and sentinels and guards stand ready to fetter -and enslave him the moment he steps unwarily over the wall out of the -free open road of his own individuality. And unless he dodges them -and keeps straight on his path, dusty and barren though it may be, he -will find himself chained a prisoner for life, and little by little -his own soul will rot out of him and vanish. The wise men of the past -have often preached the duty of this open road, they have summoned -youth to self-reliance, but they have not paid sufficient heed to the -enemies that would impede his progress. They have been too intent on -encouraging him to be independent and lead his own life, to point out -to him the direction from which the subtle influences that might -control him would come. As a result, young men have too often believed -that they were hewing out a career for themselves when they were really -simply offering themselves up to some institutional Moloch to be -destroyed, or, at the best, passively allowing the career or profession -they had adopted to mould and carve them. Instead of working out their -own destiny, they were actually allowing an alien destiny to work them -out. Youth enters the big world of acting and thinking, a huge bundle -of susceptibilities, keenly alive and plastic, and so eager to achieve -and perform that it will accept almost the first opportunity that comes -to it. Now each youth has his own unique personality and interweaving -web of tendencies and inclinations, such as no other person has ever -had before. It is essential that these trends and abilities be so -stimulated by experience that they shall be developed to their highest -capacity. And they can usually be depended upon, if freedom and -opportunity are given, to grow of themselves upward towards the sun and -air. If a youth does not develop, it is usually because his nature has -been blocked and thwarted by the social pressures to which every one of -us is subjected, and which only a few have the strength or the wisdom -to resist. These pressures come often in the guise of good fortune, -and the youth meets them halfway, goes with them gladly, and lets them -crush him. He will do it all, too, with so easy a conscience, for is -not this meeting the world and making it one’s own? It is meeting the -world, but it is too often only to have the world make the youth its -own. - -Our spiritual guides and leaders, then, have been too positive, too -heartening, if such a thing be possible. They have either not seen the -dangers that lurked in the path, or they have not cared to discourage -and depress us by pointing them out. Many of our modern guides, in -their panegyrics on success, even glorify as aids on the journey these -very dangers themselves, and urge the youth to rely upon them, when he -should have been warned not to gaze at all on the dazzling lure. The -youth is urged to imitate men who are themselves victims of the very -influences that he should dodge, and doctrines and habits are pressed -upon him which he should ceaselessly question and never once make his -own unless he is sure that they fit him. He will have need to be ever -alert to the dangers, and, in early youth at least, would better think -more of dodging them than of attaining the goal to which his elders -tempt him. Their best service to him would be to warn him against -themselves and their influence, rather than to encourage him to become -like them. - -The dangers that I speak of are the influences and inducements which -come to youth from family, business, church, society, state, to -compromise with himself and become in more or less degree conformed -to their pattern and type. “Be like us!” they all cry, “it is easiest -and safest thus! We guarantee you popularity and fortune at so small -a price,--only the price of your best self!” Thus they seduce him -insidiously rather than openly attack him. They throw their silky -chains over him and draw him in. Or they press gently but ceaselessly -upon him, rubbing away his original roughness, polishing him down, -moulding him relentlessly, and yet with how kindly and solicitous a -touch, to their shape and manner. As he feels their caressing pressure -against him in the darkness, small wonder is it that he mistakes it for -the warm touch of friends and guides. They are friends and guides who -always end, however, by being masters and tyrants. They force him to -perpetuate old errors, to keep alive dying customs, to breathe new life -into vicious prejudices, to take his stand against the saving new. -They kill his soul, and then use the carcass as a barricade against the -advancing hosts of light. They train him to protect and conserve their -own outworn institutions when he should be the first, by reason of his -clear insight and freedom from crusted prejudice, to attack them. - -The youth’s only salvation lies, then, in dodging these pressures. It -is not his business to make his own way in life so much as it is to -prevent some one else from making it for him. His business is to keep -the way clear, and the sky open above his head. Then he will grow and -be nurtured according to his needs and his inner nature. He must fight -constantly to keep from his head those coverings that institutions -and persons in the guise of making him warm and safe throw over his -body. If young people would spend half the time in warding away the -unfavorable influences that they now spend in conscientiously planning -what they are going to be, they would achieve success and maintain -their individuality. It seems, curiously enough, that one can live -one’s true life and guarantee one’s individuality best in this indirect -way,--not by projecting one’s self out upon the world aggressively, -but by keeping the track clear along which one’s true life may run. -A sane, well-rounded, original life is attained not so much by taking -thought for it as by the dodging of pressures that would limit and warp -its natural growth. The youth must travel the straight road serenely, -confident that “his own will come to him.” All he must strive for is -to recognize his own when it does come, and to absorb and assimilate -it. His imagination must be large enough to envisage himself and his -own needs. This wisdom, however, comes to too many of us only after -we are hopelessly compromised, after we are encrusted over so deeply -that, even if we try to break away, our struggles are at the expense -of our growth. The first duty of self-conscious youth is to dodge the -pressures, his second to survey the world eagerly to see what is “his -own.” If he goes boldly ahead at first to seek his own, without first -making provision for silencing the voices that whisper continually at -his side, “Conform!”--he will soon find himself on alien ground, and, -if not a prisoner, a naturalized citizen before he has time to think. - -Nor is this a mere invitation to whimsicality and eccentricity. These -epithets, in our daily life, are somewhat loosely used for all sorts -of behavior ranging from nonconformity to pure freakishness. If we -really had more original, unspoiled people in the world, we should -not use these terms so frequently. If we really had more people who -were satisfying their healthy desires, and living the life that -their whole inner conscience told them was best, we should not find -eccentric or queer the self-sustaining men and women who live without -regard to prejudice. And all real whimsicality is a result rather of -the thwarting of individuality than of letting it run riot. It is -when persons of strong personality are subjected to pressures heavier -than they can bear that we get real outbursts of eccentricity. For -something unnatural has occurred, a spontaneous flow and progress has -been checked. Your eccentric man par excellence is your perfectly -conventional man, who never offends in the slightest way by any -original action or thought. For he has yielded to every variety of -pressure that has been brought to bear upon him, and his original -nature has been completely obscured. The pressures have been, however, -uniform on every side, so that they have seemingly canceled each other. -But this equilibrium simply conceals the forces that have crushed -him. The conventional person is, therefore, not the most natural -but the most unnatural of persons. His harmlessness is a proof of -his tremendous eccentricity. He has been rubbed down smooth on all -sides like a rock until he has dropped noiselessly into his place in -society. But at what a cost does he obtain this peace! At the cost of -depersonalizing himself, and sacrificing his very nature, which, as in -every normal person, is precious and worthy of permanence and growth. -This treason to one’s self is perhaps the greatest mistake of youth, -the one unpardonable sin. It is worse than sowing one’s wild oats, -for they are reaped and justice is done; or casting one’s bread upon -the waters, for that returneth after many days. But this sin is the -throwing away in willfulness or carelessness the priceless jewel of -self-hood, and with no return, either of recompense or punishment. - -How early and insidious is the pressure upon us to conform to some -type whose fitness we have not examined, but which we are forced to -take strictly on authority! On the children in the family what a -petty tyranny of ideas and manners is imposed! Under the guise of -being brought up, how many habits of doubtful value we learned, how -many moral opinions of doubtful significance we absorbed, how many -strange biases that harass and perplex us in our later life we had -fastened upon our minds, how many natural and beautiful tendencies -we were forced to suppress! The tyranny of manners, of conventional -politeness, of puritanical taboos, of superstitious religion, were all -imposed upon us for no reason that our elders could devise, but simply -that they in turn had had them imposed upon them. Much of our early -education was as automatic and unconscious as the handing down of the -immemorial traditions in a primitive savage tribe. Now I am far from -saying that this household tradition of manners and morals is not an -excellent thing for us to acquire. Many of the habits are so useful -that it is a wise provision that we should obtain them as naturally as -the air we breathe. And it is a pressure that we could not, at that -age, avoid, even if we would. But this childhood influence is a sample -of true pressure, for it is both unconscious and irresistible. Were we -to infringe any of the rules laid down for us, the whole displeasure of -the family descended upon our heads; they seemed to vie with each other -in expressing their disapproval of our conduct. So, simply to retain -our self-respect, we were forced into their pattern of doing things, -and for no other reason than that it was their pattern. - -This early pressure, however, was mild in comparison with what we -experienced as we grew older. We found then that more and more of -our actions came insensibly but in some way or other before this -court of appeal. We could choose our friends, for instance, only with -reservations. If we consorted with little boys who were not clean, or -who came from the less reputable portions of the town, we were made to -feel the vague family disapproval, perhaps not outspoken, but as an -undercurrent to their attitude. And usually we did not need flagrantly -to offend to be taught the need of judicious selection, for we were -sensitive to the feeling that we knew those around us would entertain, -and so avoided the objectionable people from a diffused feeling that -they were not “nice.” When we grew old enough to move in the youthful -social world, we felt this circle of tyranny suddenly widen. It was -our “set” now that dictated our choices. The family pressure had been -rather subtle and uneasy; this was bold and direct. Here were the most -arbitrary selections and disqualifications, girls and boys being banned -for no imaginable reason except that they were slightly out of the -ordinary, and our little world circumscribed by a rigid public opinion -which punished nonconformity by expulsion. If we tried to dodge this -pressure and assert our own privileges of making lovers and friends, we -were soon delivered an ultimatum, and if we refused to obey, we were -speedily cast out into utter darkness, where, strange to say, we lacked -even the approbation of the banned. Sometimes we were not allowed to -choose our partners to whom we paid our momentary devotions, sometimes -we were not allowed to give them up. The price we paid for free -participation in the parties and dances and love-affairs of this little -social world of youth was an almost military obedience to the general -feeling of propriety and suitability of our relationships with others, -and to the general will of those in whose circle we went. There was apt -to be a rather severe code of propriety, which bore especially upon -the girls. Many frank and natural actions and expressions of opinion -were thus inhibited, from no real feeling of self-respect, but from -the vague, uncomfortable feeling that somebody would not approve. This -price for society was one that we were all willing to pay, but it was a -bad training. Our own natural likings and dislikings got blunted; we -ceased to seek out our own kind of people and enjoy them and ourselves -in our own way, but we “went with” the people that our companions -thought we ought to “go with,” and we played the games and behaved -generally as they thought we ought to do. - -The family rather corroborated this pressure than attempted to fortify -us in our own individuality. For their honor seemed to be involved in -what we did, and if all our walk in life was well pleasing to those -around us, they were well pleased with us. And all through life, as -long at least as we were protected under the sheltering wing of the -family, its members constituted a sort of supreme court over all our -relations in life. In resisting the other pressures that were brought -to bear on us, we rarely found that we had the family’s undivided -support. They loved, like all social groups, a smoothly running person, -and as soon as they found us doing unconventional things or having -unusual friends they were vaguely uneasy, as if they were harboring -in their midst some unpredictable animal who would draw upon them the -disapproving glances of the society around them. The family philosophy -has a horror for the “queer.” The table-board is too often a place -where the eccentricities of the world get thoroughly aired. The dread -of deviation from accepted standards is impressed upon us from our -youth up. The threat which always brought us to terms was,--“If you do -this, you will be considered queer!” There was very little fight left -in us after that. - -But the family has other formidable weapons for bringing us to terms. -It knows us through and through as none of our friends and enemies know -us. It sees us in undress, when all our outward decorations of spirit -and shams and pretenses are thrown off, and it is not deceived by the -apologies and excuses that pass muster in the world at large and even -to our own conscience. We can conceal nothing from it; it knows all -our weakest spots and vulnerable feelings. It does not hesitate to -take shameless advantage of that knowledge. Its most powerful weapon -is ridicule. It can adopt no subtler method, for we in our turn know -all its own vulnerabilities. And where the world at large is generally -too polite to employ ridicule upon us, but works with gentler methods -of approbation and coldness, our family associates feel no such -compunction. Knowing us as they do, they are able to make that ridicule -tell. We may have longings for freedom and individuality, but it is a -terrible dilemma that faces us. Most men would rather be slaves than -butts; they would rather be corralled with the herd than endure its -taunts at their independence. - -Besides the pressure on a youth or girl to think the way the family -does, there is often the pressure brought upon them to sacrifice -themselves for its benefit. I do not mean to deprecate that perfectly -natural and proper desire to make some return for the care and kindness -that have been lavished upon them. But the family insistence often goes -much further than this. It demands not only that its young people shall -recompense it for what it has done for them, but that they do it in the -kind of work and vocation that shall seem proper to it. How often, when -the youth or girl is on the point of choosing a congenial occupation -or profession, does the family council step in and, with the utmost -apparent good-will in the world, dictate differently! And too often the -motives are really policy or ambition, or, at best, sheer prejudice. -If the youth be not persuaded, then he must bear the brunt of lonely -toil without the sympathy or support of those most dear to him. Far -harder is the lot of the young woman. For there is still so much -prejudice against a girl’s performing useful work in society, apart -from her God-given duty of getting married, that her initiative is -crushed at the very beginning. The need of cultivating some particular -talent or interest, even if she has not to earn her living, seems to be -seldom felt. Yet women, with their narrower life, have a greater need -of sane and vigorous spiritual habits than do men. It is imperative -that a girl be prevented from growing up into a useless, fleshly, and -trivial woman, of the type one sees so much of nowadays. Even if a -girl does marry, a few intellectual interests and gifts and tastes -will not be found to detract from her charm or usefulness. The world -never needed so much as it does to-day women of large hearts and large -minds, whose home and sphere are capable of embracing something beyond -the four corners of their kitchen. And the world can get such women -only by allowing them the initiative and opportunity to acquire varied -interests and qualities while they are young. - -The family often forges sentimental bonds to keep it living together -long after the motive and desire have departed. There is no group so -uncongenial as an uncongenial family. The constant rubbing together -accentuates all the divergencies and misunderstandings. Yet sometimes -a family whose members are hopelessly mismated will cling together -through sheer inertia or through a conscientious feeling of duty. And -duty to too many of us is simply a stimulus to that curious love for -futile suffering that form some of the darker qualities of the puritan -soul. Family duty may not only warp and mutilate many a life that would -bloom healthily outside in another environment, but it may actually -mean the pauperization of the weaker members. The claims of members -of the family upon each other are often overwhelming, and still more -often quite fictitious in their justice. Yet that old feeling of the -indissolubility of the family will often allow the weak, who might, if -forced to shift for themselves, become strong, to suck the lifeblood -from the stronger members. Coöperation, when it is free and spontaneous -and on a basis of congeniality, is the foundation of all social life -and progress, but forced cohesion can do little good. The average -family is about as well mated as any similar group would be, picked -out at random from society. And this means, where the superstition -of indissolubility is still effective, that the members share not -only all the benefits, but also all each others’ shortcomings and -irritations. Family life thus not only presses upon its youth to -conform to its customs and habits and to the opinions of the little -social world in which it lives, but also drags its youth down with -its claims, and warps it by its tension of uncongeniality, checks -its spontaneity by its lack of appreciation, and injures its soul by -friction and misunderstanding. - -This family pressure upon youth is serious, and potent for much good -and evil in his later life. It is necessary that he understand how to -analyze it without passion or prejudice, and find out just how he can -dodge the unfavorable pressure without injury to the love that is borne -him or the love that he bears to the others. But let him not believe -that his love is best shown by submission. It is best shown by a -resolute determination and assertion of his own individuality. Only he -must know, without the cavil of a doubt, what that individuality is; he -must have a real imaginative anticipation of its potentialities. Only -with this intuition will he know where to dodge and how to dodge. - -It is true that the modern generation seems to be changing all this. -Family cohesion and authority no longer mean what they did even twenty -years ago. The youth of to-day are willful, selfish, heartless, in -their rebellion. They are changing the system blindly and blunderingly. -They feel the pressure, and without stopping to ask questions or -analyze the situation, they burst the doors and flee away. Their -seeming initiative is more animal spirits than anything else. They -have exploded the myth that their elders have any superhuman wisdom -of experience to share with them, or any incontrovertible philosophy -of life with which to guide their wandering footsteps. But it must be -admitted that most have failed so far to find a wisdom and a philosophy -to take its place. They have too often thrown away the benefits of -family influence on account of mere trivialities of misunderstanding. -They have not waited for the real warpings of initiative, the real -pressure of prejudice, but have kicked up their heels at the first -breath of authority. They have not so much dodged the pressure as -fled it altogether. Instead of being intent on brushing away the -annoying obstacles that interfered with the free growth of their -own worthier selves, they have mistaken the means for the end, and -have merely brushed off the interferences, without first having any -consciousness of that worthier self. Now of course this is no solution. -It is only as they substitute for the authority that they throw off -a definite authority of their own, crystallized out of their own -ideals and purposes, that they will gain or help others to gain. For -lack of a vision the people perish. For lack of a vision of their own -personalities, and the fresh, free, aggressive, forward, fearless, -radical life that we all ought to lead, and could lead if we only had -the imagination for it, the youth of to-day will cast off the narrowing -confining fetters of authority only to wander without any light at -all. This is not to say that this aimless wandering is not better than -the prison-house, but it is to say that the emancipation of the spirit -is insufficient without a new means of spiritual livelihood to take -its place. The youth of to-day cannot rest on their liberation; they -must see their freedom as simply the setting free of forces within -themselves for a cleaner, sincerer life, and for radical work in -society. The road is cut out before them by pioneers; they have but to -let themselves grow out in that direction. - -I have painted the family pressures in this somewhat lurid hue -because they are patterns of the other attacks which are made upon -the youth as he meets the world. The family is a little microcosm, -a sheltered group where youth feels all those currents of influence -that sway men in their social life. Some of them are exaggerated, some -perverted, but they are most of them there in that little world. It -is no new discovery that in family life one can find heaven or one -can find hell. The only pressure that is practically absent in the -family is the economic pressure, by which I mean the inducements, -and even necessities, that a youth is under of conforming to codes -or customs and changing his ideals and ideas, when he comes to earn -his livelihood. This pressure affects him as soon as he looks for an -opening, as he calls it, in which to make his living. At that time -all this talk of natural talents or bents or interests begin to sound -far-away and ideal. He soon finds that these things have no commercial -value in themselves and will go but a short way towards providing him -with his living. The majority of us “go to work” as soon as our short -“education” is completed, if not before, and we go not by choice, -but wherever opportunity is given. Hence the ridiculous misfits, the -apathy, the restlessness and discontent. The world of young people -around us seems too largely to be one where both men and girls are -engaged in work in which they have no interest, and for which they -have no aptitude. They are mournfully fettered to their work; all they -can seem to do is to make the best of it, and snatch out of the free -moments what pleasure and exhilaration they can. They have little hope -for a change. There is too much of a scramble for places in this busy, -crowded world, to make a change anything but hazardous. It is true that -restlessness often forces a change, but it is rarely for the better, or -in the line of any natural choice or interest. One leaves one’s job, -but then one takes thankfully the first job that presents itself; the -last state may be worse than the first. By this economic pressure most -of us are sidetracked, turned off from our natural path, and fastened -irrevocably to some work that we could only acquire an interest in at -the expense of our souls. - -It is a pressure, too, that cannot easily be dodged. We can frankly -recognize our defeat, plunge boldly at the work and make it a part -of ourselves; this course of action, which most of us adopt, is -really, however, simply an unconditional surrender. We can drift -along apathetically, without interest either in our work or our own -personalities; this course is even more disastrous. Or we can quietly -wait until we have found the vocation that guarantees the success of -our personalities; this course is an ideal that is possible to very -few. And yet, did we but know it, a little thought at the beginning -would often have prevented the misfit, and a little boldness when -one has discovered the misfit would often have secured the favorable -change. That self-recognition, which is the only basis for a genuine -spiritual success in life, is the thing that too many of us lack. The -apathy comes from a real ignorance of what our true work is. Then -we are twice a slave,--a prey to our circumstance and a prey to our -ignorance. - -Like all discoveries, what one’s work is can be found only by -experiment. But this can often be an imaginative experiment. One can -take an “inventory of one’s personality,” and discover one’s interests, -and the kind of activity one feels at home with or takes joy in. Yet -it is true that there are many qualities which cannot be discovered by -the imagination, which need the fairy touch of actual use to develop -them. There is no royal road to this success. Here the obstacles are -usually too thick to be dodged. We do not often enough recognize the -incredible stupidity of our civilization where so much of the work is -uninteresting and monotonous. That we should consider it a sort of -triumph that a man like Mr. John Burroughs should have been able to -live his life as he chose, travel along his own highroad, and develop -himself in his own natural direction, is a curious reflection on our -ideals of success and on the incompleteness of our civilization. Such a -man has triumphed, however, because he has known what to dodge. He has -not been crushed by the social opinion of his little world, or lured by -specious success, or fettered by his “job,” or hoodwinked by prejudice. -He has kept his spirit clear and pure straight through life. It would -be well for modern youth if it could let an ideal like this color their -lives, and permeate all their thoughts and ambitions. It would be well -if they could keep before them such an ideal as a pillar of fire by day -and a cloud by night. - -If we cannot dodge this economic pressure, at least we can face it. -If we are situated so that we have no choice in regard to our work, -we may still resist the influences which its uncongeniality would -bring to bear upon us. This is not done by forcing an interest in -it, or liking for it. If the work is socially wasteful or useless or -even pernicious, as so much business and industrial work to-day is, -it is our bounden duty not to be interested in it or to like it. We -should not be playing our right place in society if we enjoyed such a -prostitution of energies. One of the most insidious of the economic -pressures is this awaking the interest of youth in useless and wasteful -work, work that takes away energy from production to dissipate in -barter and speculation and all the thousand ways that men have -discovered of causing money to flow from one pocket to another without -the transference of any fair equivalent of real wealth. We can dodge -these pressures not by immolating ourselves, but by letting the routine -work lie very lightly on our soul. We can understand clearly the nature -and effects of this useless work we are doing, and keep it from either -alluring or smothering us. We can cultivate a disinterested aloofness -towards it, and keep from breathing its poisonous atmosphere. The extra -hours we can fill with real interests, and make them glow with an -intensity that will make our life almost as rich as if we were wholly -given over to a real lifework. We can thus live in two worlds, one -of which is the more precious because it is one of freedom from very -real oppression. And that oppression will seem light because it has the -reverse shield of liberty. If we do drudgery, it must be our care to -see that it does not stifle us. The one thing needful in all our work -and play is that we should always be on top, that our true personality -should always be in control. Our life must not be passive, running -simply by the momentum furnished by another; it must have the motive -power within itself; although it gets the fuel from the stimulation of -the world about it, the steam and power must be manufactured within -itself. - -These counsels of aloofness from drudgery suggest the possibilities of -avoiding the economic pressures where they are too heavy completely to -dodge, and where the work is an irrevocable misfit. But the pressures -of success are even more deadly than those of routine. How early is -one affected by that first pressure of worldly opinion which says that -lack of success in business or a profession is disgraceful! The one -devil of our modern world is failure, and many are the charms used by -the medicine men to ward him away. If we lived in a state of society -where virtue was its own reward, where our actions were automatically -measured and our rewards duly proportioned to our efforts, a lack of -success would be a real indication of weakness and flaw, or, at best, -ill-preparation. But where business success is largely dependent on -the possession of capital, a lucky risk, the ability to intimidate or -deceive, and where professional success is so often dependent upon -self-assertion or some irrelevant but pleasing trait of personality, -failure means nothing more than bad luck, or, at most, inability to -please those clients to whom one has made one’s appeal. To dodge this -pressure of fancied failure and humiliation is to have gone a long way -towards guaranteeing one’s real success. We are justified in adopting -a pharisaical attitude towards success,--“Lord, I thank thee that I -have not succeeded as other men have!” To have judged one’s self by -the inner standards of truth to one’s own personality, to count the -consciousness of having done well, regardless of the corroboration of -a public, as success, is to have avoided this most discouraging of -pressures. - -It is even doubtful whether business or professional success, except -in the domain of science and art, can be attained without a certain -betrayal of soul. The betrayal may have been small, but at some point -one has been compressed, one has yielded to alien forces and conformed -to what the heart did not give assent to. It may be that one has kept -silent when one should have spoken, that one has feigned interests -and enthusiasms, or done work that one knew was idle and useless, in -order to achieve some goal; but always that goal has been reached not -spontaneously but under a foreign pressure. More often than not the -fortunate one has not felt the direct pressure, has not been quite -conscious of the sacrifice, but only vaguely uneasy and aware that all -was not right within him, and has won his peace only by drugging his -uneasiness with visions of the final triumph. The pressure is always -upon him to keep silent and conform. He must not only adopt all the -outward forms and ceremonies, as in the family and social life, but he -must also adopt the traditional ideals. - -The novice soon finds that he is expected to defend the citadel, even -against his own heresies. The lawyer who finds anomalies in the law, -injustice in the courts, is not encouraged to publish abroad his -facts, or make proposals for reform. The student who finds antiquated -method, erroneous hypotheses in his subject, is not expected to use -his knowledge and his genius to remodel the study. The minister who -comes upon new and living interpretations for his old creeds is not -encouraged to speak forth the truth that is in him. Nor is the business -man who finds corrupt practices in his business encouraged to give the -secrets away. There is a constant social pressure on these “reformers” -to leave things alone. - -And this does not arise from any corrupt connivance with the wrong, -or from any sympathy with the evildoers. The cry rises equally from -the corrupt and the holy, from the men who are responsible for the -abuses and those who are innocent, from those who know of them and -those who do not. It is simply the instinctive reaction of the herd -against anything that savors of the unusual; it is the tendency of -every social group simply to resist change. This alarm at innovation is -universal, from college presidents to Catholic peasants, in fashionable -club or sewing circle or political party. On the radical there is -immediately brought, without examination, without reason or excuse, -the whole pressure of the organization to stultify his vision and -force him back into the required grooves. The methods employed are -many: a warning is issued against him as being unsound and unsafe; his -motive is to make trouble, or revenge himself on the directors for some -slight; finally he is solemnly pilloried as an “enemy of the people.” -Excellent reasons are discovered for his suppression. Effective working -of an organization requires coöperation, but also subordination; in -the interests of efficiency, therefore, individual opinion cannot be -allowed full sway. The reputation of the organization before the world -depends on its presenting a harmonious and united front; internal -disagreements and criticisms tend to destroy the respect of the public. -Smoothness of working is imperative; a certain individual liberty must, -therefore, be sacrificed for the success of the organization. And if -these plausible excuses fail, there is always the appeal to authority -and to tried and tested experience. Now all these reasons are simply -apologies brought up after the fact to justify the first instinctive -reaction. What they all mean is this, and only this: He would unsettle -things; away with him! - -In olden times, they had sterner ways of enforcing these pressures. -But although the stake and dungeon have disappeared, the spirit of -conservatism does not seem to have changed very much. Educated men -still defend the hoariest abuses, still stand sponsor for utterly -antiquated laws and ideals. That is why the youth of this generation -has to be so suspicious of those who seem to speak authoritatively. He -knows not whom he can trust, for few there are who speak from their own -inner conviction. Most of our leaders and moulders of public opinion -speak simply as puppets pulled by the strings of the conservative -bigotry of their class or group. It is well that the youth of to-day -should know this, for the knowledge will go far towards steeling him -against that most insidious form of pressure that comes from the -intellectual and spiritual prestige of successful and honored men. When -youth sees that a large part of their success has been simply their -succumbing to social pressure, and that their honor is based largely -on the fact that they do not annoy vested interests with proposals or -agitations for betterment, he will seek to discover new standards of -success, and find his prophets and guides among the less fortunate, -perhaps, but among those who have retained their real integrity. -This numbing palsy of conservative assent which steals over so many -brilliant and sincere young men as they are subjected to the influence -of prestige and authority in their profession is the most dangerous -disease that threatens youth. It can be resisted only by constant -criticism and candid vigilance. “Prove all things; hold fast to that -which is good,” should be the motto of the intellectual life. Only -by testing and comparing all the ideals that are presented to one is -it possible to dodge that pressure of authority that would crush the -soul’s original enthusiasms and beliefs. Not doubt but convention is -the real enemy of youth. - -Yet these spiritual pressures are comparatively easy to dodge when -one is once awake to them. It is the physical pressure that those in -power are able to bring to bear upon the dissenter that constitutes -the real problem. The weak man soon becomes convinced of his hardihood -and audacity in supposing that his ideas could be more valuable than -the running tradition, and recants his heresies. But those who stick -stiff-neckedly out are soon crushed. When the youth is settled in life, -has trained for his profession and burned his bridges behind him, it -means a great deal to combat authority. For those in power can make -use of the economic pressure to force him to conformity. It is the -shame of our universities that they are giving constant illustrations -of this use of arbitrary power, directed usually against nonconformity -in social and political opinion. Recent examples show the length to -which even these supposedly enlightened institutions are willing to -go to prevent social heresy in their midst. Often such harsh measures -are not needed. A subtle appeal to a man’s honor is effective. “While -you are a member of a society,” it is said, “it is your duty to think -in harmony with its ideals and policies. If you no longer agree with -those ideals, it is your duty to withdraw. You can fight honorably for -your own ideas only from the outside.” All that need be said about this -doctrine, so fair and reasonable on the surface, is that it contains -all the philosophic support that would perpetuate the evil of the -world forever. For it means attacking vested evil from the weakest -vantage-point; it means willfully withdrawing to the greatest distance, -shooting one’s puny arrows at the citadel, and then expecting to -capture it. It means also to deny any possibility of progress within -the organization itself. For as soon as dissent from the common inertia -developed, it would be automatically eliminated. It is a principle, -of course, that plays directly into the hands of the conservators. It -is an appeal to honor that is dishonorable. Let it seduce no man’s -sincerity! - -The principal object of every organization, as every youth soon -discovers who feels dissatisfaction with the policies of church, -club, college, or party, is to remain true to type. Each is organized -with a central vigilance committee, whose ostensible function is -direction, but whose real business is to resist threatening change -and keep matters as they are. The ideal is smoothness; every part of -the machine is expected to run along in its well-oiled groove. Youths -who have tried to introduce their new ideas into such organizations -know the weight of this fearful resistance. It seems usually as if -all the wisdom and experience of these elders had taught them only -the excellence of doing nothing at all. Their favorite epithet for -those who have individual opinions is “trouble-makers,” forgetting -that men do not run the risk of the unpopularity and opprobrium that -aggressiveness always causes, for the sheer love of making trouble. -Through an instinct of self-preservation, such an organization always -places loyalty above truth, the permanence of the organization above -the permanence of its principles. Even in churches we are told that to -alter one’s opinion of a creed to which one has once given allegiance -is basely to betray one’s higher nature. These are the pressures that -keep wavering men in the footpaths where they have once put their feet, -and stunts their truer, growing selves. How many souls a false loyalty -has blunted none can say; perhaps almost as many as false duty! - -In the dodging of these pressures many a man finds the real spiritual -battle of his life. They are a challenge to all his courage and faith. -Unless he understands their nature, his defeat will bring despair -or cynicism. When the group is weak and he is strong, he may resist -successfully, press back in his turn, actually create a public opinion -that will support him, and transfuse it all with his new spirit and -attitude. Fortunate, indeed, is he who can not only dodge these -pressures but dissolve them! If he is weak and his efforts are useless, -and the pressure threatens to crush him, he would better withdraw and -let the organization go to its own diseased perdition. If he can remain -within without sacrifice to his principles, this is well, for then he -has a vantage-ground for the enunciation of those principles. Eternal -vigilance, however, is the price of his liberty. - -The secret ambition of the group seems to be to turn out all its -members as nearly alike as possible. It seeks to create a type to -which all new adherents shall be moulded. Each group, then, that we -have relations with is ceaselessly working to mould us to its type and -pattern. It is this marvellous unseen power that a group has of forming -after its own image all that come under its influence, that conquers -men. It has the two instincts of self-preservation and propagation -strongly developed, and we tend unthinkingly to measure its value in -terms of its success in the expression of those instincts. Rather -should it be measured always in terms of its ability to create and -stimulate varied individuality. This is the new ideal of social life. -This is what makes it so imperative that young men of to-day should -recognize and dodge the pressures that would thwart the assertion of -this ideal. The aim of the group must be to cultivate personality, -leaving open the road for each to follow his own. The bond of cohesion -will be the common direction in which those roads point, but this is -far from saying that all the travelers must be alike. It is enough that -there be a common aim and a common ideal. - -Societies are rarely content with this, however; they demand a close -mechanical similarity, and a conformity to a reactionary and not a -progressive type. If we would be resolute in turning our gaze towards -the common aim, and dodging the pressure of the common pattern, our -family, business, and social life would be filled with a new spirit. We -can scarcely imagine the achievement and liberation that would result. -Individuality would come to its own; it would no longer be suspect. -Youth would no longer be fettered and bound, but would come to its own -as the leaven and even leader of life. Men would worship progress as -they now worship stagnation; their ideal in working together would be a -living effectiveness instead of a mechanical efficiency. - -This gospel is no call to ease and comfort. It is rather one of peril. -The youth of this generation will not be so lightly seduced, or go so -innocently into the bonds of conservatism and convention, under the -impression that they are following the inspired road to success. Their -consciences will be more delicate. They know now the dangers that -confront them and the road they are called on to tread. It is not an -easy road. It is beset with opportunities for real eccentricity, for -selfishness, for willfulness, for mere bravado. It would be surprising, -after the long premium that has been placed on the pattern, not to see -a reaction in favor of sheer freakishness. Many of our modern radicals -are examples of this reaction. Yet their method is so sound, their -goal so clear and noble, their spirit so sincere, that they are true -pioneers of the new individuality. Their raciness is but the raciness -of all pioneers everywhere. And much of their irresponsibility is a -result of that intolerable pressure against which they are revolting. -They have dodged it, but it dogs them and concentrates itself sullenly -behind them to punish them for their temerity. The scorn of the world -hurts and hampers them. That ridicule which the family employed against -deviation is employed in all large social movements against the -innovators. Yet slowly and surely the new social ideal makes its way. - -It is not a call to the surrendering of obligations, in family -or business or profession, but it is a call to the criticism of -obligations. Youth must distinguish carefully between the essential -duties and the non-essential, between those which make for the -realization of the best common ideals, and those which make merely for -the maintenance of a dogma or unchallenged superstition. By resisting -the pressures that would warp, do we really best serve society; by -allowing our free personality to develop, do we contribute most to -the common good. We must recognize that our real duty is always found -running in the direction of our worthiest desires. No duty that runs -rough-shod over the personality can have a legitimate claim upon us. We -serve by being as well as by doing. - -It is easy to distort this teaching into a counsel to unbridled -selfishness. And that, of course, is the risk. But shall we not -dare to take the risk? It may be also that in our care to dodge the -pressures, we may lose all the inestimable influences of good that come -along mixed in with the hurtful. But shall we not take the risk? Our -judgments can only grow by exercise; we can only learn by constantly -discriminating. Self-recognition is necessary to know one’s road, but, -knowing the road, the price of the mistakes and perils is worth paying. -The following of that road will be all the discipline one needs. -Discipline does not mean being moulded by outside forces, but sticking -to one’s road against the forces that would deflect or bury the soul. -People speak of finding one’s niche in the world. Society, as we have -seen, is one vast conspiracy for carving one into the kind of a statue -it likes, and then placing it in the most convenient niche it has. -But for us, not the niche but the open road, with the spirit always -traveling, always criticizing, always learning, always escaping the -pressures that threaten its integrity. With its own fresh power it will -keep strong and true to the journey’s end. - - - - -XII - -FOR RADICALS - - -The great social movement of yesterday and to-day and to-morrow has -hit us of the younger generation hard. Many of us were early converted -to a belief in the possibilities of a regenerated social order, and to -a passionate desire to do something in aid of that regeneration. The -appeal is not only to our sympathy for the weak and exploited, but also -to our delight in a healthy, free, social life, to an artistic longing -for a society where the treasures of civilization may be open to all, -and to our desire for an environment where we ourselves will be able -to exercise our capacities, and exert the untrammeled influences which -we believe might be ours and our fellows’. All these good things the -social movement seems to demand and seems to offer, and its appeal is -irresistible. Before the age of machinery was developed, or before -the structure of our social system and the relations between classes -and individuals was revealed, the appeal might have been merely -sentimental. But it is no longer so. The aims of the social movement -to-day seem to have all the tremendous power of a practicable ideal. -To the satisfactions which its separate ideals give to all the finer -instincts of men is added the overwhelming conviction that those -satisfactions are most of them realizable here and now by concerted -methods which are already partly in operation and partially successful. -It is this union of the idealistic and the efficient that gives the -movement its hold on the disinterested and serious youth of to-day. - -With that conversion has necessarily come the transvaluation of many -of our social values. No longer can we pay the conventional respect -to success or join in the common opinions of men and causes. The -mighty have been pulled down from their seats, and those of low degree -exalted. We feel only contempt for college presidents, editors, and -statesmen who stultify their talents and pervert their logical and -historical knowledge in defending outworn political philosophies and -economic codes. We can no longer wholly believe in the usefulness -or significance of those teachers and writers who show themselves -serenely oblivious to the social problems. We become keen analysts of -the society around us; we put uncomfortable questions to our sleek -and successful elders. We criticize the activities in which they -engage, the hitherto sacred professions and businesses, and learn to -distinguish carefully between actually productive work for society, -work which makes for the material and spiritual well-being of the -people for whom it is done, and parasitic or wasteful work, which -simply extends the friction of competition, or lives on the labor or -profits of others. We distinguish, too, between the instruction and -writing that consists in handing down unexamined and uncriticized moral -and political ideas, and ideas that let in the fresh air and sunlight -to the thick prejudices of men. We come to test the papers we read, -the teachers we learn from, the professional men we come into contact -with, by these new standards. Various and surprising are the new -interweavings we discover, and the contrasts and ironies of the modern -intellectual life. The childlike innocence in which so many seem still -to slumber is almost incredible to those whose vision is so clear. The -mechanical way in which educated men tend to absorb and repeat whole -systems of formulas is a constant surprise to those whose ideas hum -and clash and react against each other. But the minds of so many of -these men of position seem to run in automatic channels, such that, -given one set of opinions, one could predict with accuracy their whole -philosophy of life. Our distrust of their whole spiritual fabric thus -becomes fundamental. We can no longer take most of them seriously. It -is true that they are doing the serious work of the world, while we -do nothing as yet except criticize, and perhaps are doomed to fail -altogether when we try. To be sure, it is exactly their way of doing -that serious work that we object to, but still we are the dreamers, -they the doers; we are the theorists, they the practical achievers. Yet -the precision of our view will not down; we can see in their boasted -activity little but a resolute sitting on the lid, a sort of glorified -routine of keeping the desk clear. And we would rather remain dreamers, -we feel, than do much of their work. Other values we find are changed. -We become hopelessly perverted by democracy. We no longer make the -careful distinctions between the fit and the unfit, the successful and -the unsuccessful, the effective and the ineffective, the presentable -and the unpresentable. We are more interested in the influences that -have produced these seeming differences than in the fact of the -differences themselves. We classify people by new categories. We look -for personality, for sincerity, for social sympathy, for democratic -feeling, for social productiveness, and we interpret success in terms -of these attainments. - -The young radical, then, in such a situation and in possession of these -new social values, stands on the verge of his career in a mood of -great perplexity. Two questions he must answer,--“What is to be done?” -and “What must I do?” If he has had an education and is given a real -opportunity for the choice of a vocation, his position is crucial. For -his education, if it has been in one of the advanced universities, will -have only tended to confirm his radicalism and render more vivid the -contrast between the new philosophy which is being crystallized there -out of modern science and philosophy and the new interpretations of -history and ethics, and the obscurantist attitude of so many of our -intellectual guardians. The youth, ambitious and aggressive, desires an -effective and serviceable career, yet every career open to him seems -a compromise with the old order. If he has come to see the law as an -attempt to fit immutable principles of social action on a dynamic -and ever-growing society; if he has come to see the church as an -organization working along the lines of greatest spiritual resistance, -preaching a personal where the world is crying for a social gospel; -if he has come to see higher education as an esoteric institution -of savants, only casually reaching down to touch the mass of people -with their knowledge and ideas; if he has come to see business as -a clever way of distributing unearned wealth, and the levying of a -refined tribute on the property-less workers; if he has come to see -the press as devoted to bolstering up all these institutions in their -inefficiency and inertia;--if he has caught this radical vision of the -social institutions about him, he will find it hard to fit neatly into -any of them and let it set its brand upon him. It would seem to be a -treason not only to society but to his own best self. He would seem to -have become one of the vast conspiracy to keep things as they are. He -has spent his youth, perhaps, in studying things as they are in order -to help in changing them into things as they ought to be, but he is now -confronted with the question how the change can be accomplished, and -how he can help in that accomplishment. - -The attempt to answer these questions seems at first to bring him to a -deadlock and to inhibit all his powers. He desires self-development -and self-expression, and the only opportunities offered him seem to be -ways of life and training that will only mock the best social ideals -that he has. This is the dilemma of latter-day youth, and it is a -dilemma which is new and original to our own age. Earnest men and -women have always had before them the task of adjusting themselves -to this world, of “overcoming the world,” but the proper method has -always been found in withdrawing from it altogether, or in passing -through it with as little spot and blemish as possible, not in plunging -into its activity and attempting to subjugate it to one’s ideals. Yet -this is the task that the young radical sets for himself. Subjugation -without compromise! But so many young men and women feel that this is -impossible. Confident of their sincerity, yet distrustful of their -strength, eager yet timorous, they stand on the brink, longing to -serve, but not knowing how, and too likely, through their distrust and -fears, to make a wreck of their whole lives. They feel somehow that -they have no right to seek their own welfare or the training of their -own talents until they have paid that service to society which they -have learned is its due. - -It does not do to tell them that one of their best services will be -that training. They demand some more direct way of influencing their -fellows, some short road to radical activity. It would be good for them -to know that they cannot hope to accomplish very much in radiating -their ideals without the skill and personality which gives impetus to -that radiation. Good-will alone has little efficacy. For centuries -well-wishers of men have shown a touching faith in the power of pure -ideals to propagate themselves. The tragic failures of the beginnings -of the social movement itself were largely due to this belief. Great -efforts ended only in sentimentality. But we have no intention now that -the fund of intellectual and spiritual energy liberated by radical -thought in the younger generation shall die away in such ineffective -efforts. To radiate influence, one’s light must shine before men, and -it must glow, moreover, with a steady and resolute flame, or men will -neither see nor believe the good works that are being done. - -It would be an easy way out of the dilemma if we could all adopt the -solution of Kropotkin, the Russian radical writer, and engage in -radical journalism. This seems to be the most direct means of bringing -one’s ideals to the people, to be a real fighting on the firing -line. It is well to remember, however, that a weak propagandist is a -hindrance rather than an assistance, and that the social movement needs -the best of talent, and the skill. This is a challenge to genius, but -it is also a reminder that those who fight in other ranks than the -front may do as valiant and worthy service. One of the first lessons -the young radical has to learn is that influence can be indirect as -well as direct, and will be strongest when backed by the most glowing -personality. So that self-cultivation becomes almost a duty, if one -wants to be effective towards the great end. And not only personality -but prestige; for the prestige of the person from whom ideals come is -one of the strongest factors in driving home those ideas to the mind of -the hearer and making them a motive force in his life. Vested interests -do not hesitate to make use of the services of college presidents -and other men of intellectual prestige to give their practices a -philosophic support; neither should radicals disdain, as many seem to -disdain, the use of prestige as a vantage-ground from which to hurl -their dogmas. Even though Kropotkin himself deprecated his useless -learning, his scientific reputation has been a great factor in -spreading his radical ideas. - -It is the fashion among some radicals to despise the applause of the -conventional, unthinking mass, and scorn any success which has that -appreciation as an ingredient. But this is not the way to influence -that same crass, unthinking mass or convert it to one’s doctrines. It -is to alienate at the beginning the heathen to whom the gospel is being -brought. And even the radical has the right to be wise as a serpent -and harmless as a dove. He must see merely that his distinctiveness is -based on real merit and not, as many reputations are, on conformity -to an established code. Scientific research, engineering, medicine, -and any honest craft, are vocations where it is hard to win prestige -without being socially productive; their only disadvantage lies in the -fact that their activity does not give opportunity for the influence -of the kind the radical wishes to exert. Art, literature, and teaching -are perilous; the pressures to conform are deadly, but the triumphs of -individuality splendid. For one’s daily work lies there directly in -the line of impressing other minds. The genius can almost swing the -lash over men’s spirits, and form their ideas for them; he combines -enormous prestige with enormous direct influence. Law, the ministry, -and business seem to be peculiarly deadly; it is hard to see how -eminence can be attained in those professions except at the cost of -many of one’s social ideals. - -The radical can thus choose his career with full knowledge of the -social possibilities. Where he is forced by economic necessity to -engage in distasteful and unsocial work, he may still leave no doubt, -in the small realm he does illuminate, as to his attitude and his -purpose, his enthusiasm and his hope. For all his powers and talents -can be found to contribute something; fusing together they form his -personality and create his prestige, and it is these that give the -real impetus and the vital impulse that drive one’s beliefs and ideals -into the hearts of other men. If he speaks, he will be listened to, -for it is faith and not doubt that men strain their ears to hear. It -is the believing word that they are eager to hear. Let the social -faith be in a youth, and it will leak out in every activity of his -life, it will permeate his words and color his deeds. The belief and -the vision are the essentials; these given, there is little need for -him to worry how he may count in society. He will count in spite of -himself. He may never know just how he is counting, he may never hear -the reverberations of his own personality in others, but reverberate it -will, and the timbre and resonance will be in proportion to the quality -and power of that vision. - -The first concrete duty of every youth to whom social idealism is more -than a phrase is to see that he is giving back to society as much -as or more than he receives, and, moreover, that he is a nourisher -of the common life and not a drain upon its resources. This was -Tolstoy’s problem, and his solution to the question--“What is to be -done?”--was--“Get off the other fellow’s back!” His duty, he found, -was to arrange his life so that the satisfaction of his needs did not -involve the servitude or the servility of any of his fellow men; to do -away with personal servants, and with the articles of useless luxury -whose production meant the labor of thousands who might otherwise have -been engaged in some productive and life-bringing work; to make his own -living either directly from the soil, or by the coöperative exchange of -services, in professional, intellectual, artistic, or handicraft labor. -Splendidly sound as this solution is, both ethically and economically, -the tragic fact remains that so inextricably are we woven into the -social web that we cannot live except in some degree at the expense of -somebody else, and that somebody is too often a man, woman, or even -little child who gives grudgingly, painfully, a stint of labor that we -may enjoy. We do not see the labor and the pain, and with easy hearts -and quiet consciences we enjoy what we can of the good things of life; -or, if we see the truth, as Tolstoy saw it, we still fancy, like him, -that we have it in our power to escape the curse by simple living and -our own labor. But the very food we eat, the clothes we wear, the -simplest necessities of life with which we provide ourselves, have -their roots somewhere, somehow, in exploitation and injustice. It is a -cardinal necessity of the social system under which we live that this -should be so, where the bulk of the work of the world is done, not for -human use and happiness, but primarily and directly for the profits of -masters and owners. We are all tainted with the original sin; we cannot -escape our guilt. And we can be saved out of it only by the skill and -enthusiasm which we show in our efforts to change things. We cannot -help the poisonous soil from which our sustenance springs, but we can -be laboring mightily at agitating that soil, ploughing it, turning it, -and sweetening it, against the day when new seed will be planted and a -fairer fruitage be produced. - -The solution of these dilemmas of radical youth will, therefore, not -come from a renunciation of the personality or a refusal to participate -actively in life. Granted the indignation at our world as it is, -and the vision of the world as it might and ought to be, both the -heightening of all the powers of the personality and a firm grappling -with some definite work-activity of life are necessary to make that -indignation powerful and purging, and to transmute that vision into -actual satisfaction for our own souls and those of our fellows. It is -a fallacy of radical youth to demand all or nothing, and to view every -partial activity as compromise. Either engage in something that will -bring revolution and transformation all at one blow, or do nothing, -it seems to say. But compromise is really only a desperate attempt -to reconcile the irreconcilable. It is not compromise to study to -understand the world in which one lives, to seek expression for one’s -inner life, to work to harmonize it and make it an integer, nor is it -compromise to work in some small sphere for the harmonization of social -life and the relations between men who work together, a harmonization -that will bring democracy into every sphere of life, industrial and -social. - -Radical youth is apt to long for some supreme sacrifice and feels that -a lesser surrender is worth nothing. But better than sacrifice is -efficiency! It is absurd to stand perplexedly waiting for the great -occasion, unwilling to make the little efforts and test the little -occasions, and unwilling to work at developing the power that would -make those occasions great. Of all the roads of activity that lie -before the youth at the threshold of life, one paramount road must be -taken. This fear that one sees so often in young people, that, if they -choose one of their talents or interests or opportunities of influence -and make themselves in it “competent ones of their generation,” they -must slaughter all the others, is irrational. It is true that the stern -present demands singleness of purpose and attention. A worthy success -is impossible to-day if the labor is divided among many interests. In -a more leisurely time, the soul could encompass many fields, and even -to-day the genius may conquer and hold at once many spiritual kingdoms. -But this is simply a stern challenge to us all to make ourselves -geniuses. For serious and sincere as the desire of radical youth may -be to lead the many-sided life, a life without a permanent core of -active and productive interest, of efficient work in the world, leads -to dilettantism and triviality. Such efficient work, instead of killing -the other interests of life, rather fertilizes them and makes them in -turn enrich the central activity. Instead of feeding on their time, it -actually creates time for the play of the other interests, which is all -the sweeter for its preciousness. - -Always trying to make sure that the work, apart from the inevitable -taint of exploitation which is involved in modern work, is socially -productive, that it actually in some way contributes to the material -or spiritual welfare of the people for whom it is done, and does not -simply reiterate old formulas, does not simply extend the friction -of competition or consist simply in living on the labor and profits -of others. Such work cannot be found by rule. The situation is a -real dilemma for the idealistic youth of to-day, and its solution is -to be worked out in the years to come. It is these crucial dilemmas -that make this age so difficult to live in, that make life so hard to -harmonize and integrate. The shock of the crassnesses and crudities of -the modern social world thrown against the conventionally satisfying -picture which that world has formed of itself makes any young life of -purpose and sincerity a real peril and adventure. There are all sorts -of spiritual disasters lying in wait for the youth who embarks on the -perilous ocean of radicalism. The disapproval of those around him is -likely to be the least of his dangers. It should rather fortify his -soul than discourage him. Far more dangerous is it that he lose his way -on the uncharted seas before him, or follow false guides to shipwreck. -But the solution is not to stay at home, fearful and depressed. It is -rather to cultivate deliberately the widest knowledge, the broadest -sympathy, the keenest insight, the most superb skill, and then set -sail, exulting in one’s resources, and crowding on every inch of sail. - -For if the radical life has its perils, it also has its great rewards. -The strength and beauty of the radical’s position is that he already -to a large extent lives in that sort of world which he desires. Many -people there are who would like to live in a world arranged in some -sort of harmony with socialistic ideals, but who, believing they -are impossible, dismiss the whole movement as an idle if delightful -dream. They thus throw away all the opportunity to have a share -in the extending of those ideals. They do not see that the gradual -infiltration of those ideals into our world as it is does brighten and -sweeten it enormously. They do not know the power and advantage of -even their “little faith” which their inclinations might give them. -But the faith of the radical has already transformed the world in -which he lives. He sees the “muddle” around him, but what he actually -feels and lives are the germs of the future. His mind selects out the -living, growing ideas and activities of the socially fruitful that -exist here and now, and it is with these that his soul keeps company; -it is to their growth and cultivation that he is responsive. This is -no illusion that he knows, no living in a pleasing but futile world of -fancy. For this living the socialistic life as far as he is able, he -believes has its efficient part in creating that communal life of the -future. He feels himself, not as an idle spectator of evolution, but as -an actual co-worker in the process. He does not wait timidly to jump -until all the others are ready to jump; he jumps now, and anticipates -that life which all desire, but which most, through inertia, prejudice, -insufficient knowledge, and feeble sympathy, distrust or despair of. -He knows that the world runs largely on a principle of imitation, -and he launches boldly his personality into society, confident of its -effect in polarizing the ideas and attitudes of the wistful. Towards -himself he finds gravitating the sort of people that he would find -in a regenerated social order. To him come instinctively out of his -reading and his listening the ideas and events that give promise of -the actual realization of his ideals. In unlooked-for spots he finds -the seeds of regeneration already here. In the midst of the sternest -practicalities he finds blossoming those activities and personalities -which the unbelieving have told him were impossible in a human world. -And he finds, moreover, that it is these activities and personalities -that furnish all the real joy, the real creation, the real life of the -present. The prophets and the teachers he finds are with him. In his -camp he finds all those writers and leaders who sway men’s minds to-day -and make their life, all unconscious as they are of the revolutionary -character of the message, more rich and dynamic. To live this life of -his vision practically here in the present is thus the exceeding great -reward of radical youth. And this life, so potent and glowing amongst -the crude malignity of modern life, fortifies and stimulates him, and -gives him the surety, which is sturdier than any dream or hope, of -the coming time when this life will permeate and pervade all society -instead of only a part. - - - - -XIII - -THE COLLEGE: AN INNER VIEW - - -The undergraduate of to-day, if he reads the magazines, discovers -that a great many people are worrying seriously about his condition. -College presidents and official investigators are discussing his -scholarship, his extra-curricular activities, and his moral stamina. -Not content with the surface of the matter, they are going deeper and -are investigating the college itself, its curriculum, the scholarship -of the instructors, and its adequacy in realizing its high ideal as -a preparation for life. The undergraduate finds that these observers -are pretty generally inclined to exonerate him for many of his -shortcomings, and to lay the blame on the college itself; the system is -indicted, and not the helpless product. - -For this he is grateful, and he realizes that this dissatisfaction -among educators, this uneasy searching of the academic heart, promises -well for the education of his children, and for himself if he remains -in college long enough to get the benefit of the reforms. Meanwhile, -as he attends recitations and meetings of undergraduate societies, -talks with his fellow students and the professors, and reads the -college papers, he may, even if he can get no hint of the mysterious -inner circles where the destinies of the students are shaped and great -questions of policy decided, be able himself to see some of the things -that complicate college scholarship to-day, from an inner point of -view which is impossible to the observer looking down from above. He -may find in the character of the student body itself, and the way in -which it reacts to what the college offers it, an explanation of some -of the complications of scholarship that so disturb our critics; and in -a certain new quality in the spirit of the college, something that is -beginning to crystallize his own ideals, and to make him count himself -fortunate that he is receiving his education in this age and no other. -In the constitution of college society, and in the intellectual and -spiritual ideals of the teachers, he may find the explanation of why -the college is as it is, and the inspiration of what the college ought -to be and is coming to be. - -The first thing that is likely to impress the undergraduate is the -observation that college society is much less democratic than it used -to be. It is to be expected, of course, that it will be simply an -epitome of the society round about it. But the point is, that whereas -the college of the past was probably more democratic than the society -about it, the present-day college is very much less democratic. -Democracy does not require uniformity, but it does require a certain -homogeneity, and the college to-day is less homogeneous than that of -our fathers. For the growing preponderance of the cities has meant -that an ever-increasing proportion of city-bred men go to college, in -contrast to the past, when the men were drawn chiefly from the small -towns and country districts. Since social distinctions are very much -more sharply marked in the city than in the country, this trend has -been a potent influence in undemocratizing the college. In ordinary -city life these distinctions are not yet, at least, insistent enough to -cause any particular class feeling, but in the ideal world of college -life they become aggravated, and sufficiently acute to cause much -misunderstanding and ill-feeling. With increasing fashionableness, -the small college, until recently the stronghold of democracy, is -beginning to succumb, and to acquire all those delicately devised, -subtle forms of snobbery which have hitherto characterized the life -of the large college. If this tendency continues, the large college -will have a decided advantage as a preparation for life, for as a rule -it is situated in a large city, where the environment more nearly -approximates the environment of after life than does the artificial and -sheltered life of the small college. - -The presence of aliens in large numbers in the big colleges, and -increasingly in the smaller colleges, is an additional factor in -complicating the social situation. It ought not to be ignored, for -it has important results in making the college considerably less -democratic even than would otherwise be the case. It puts the American -representatives on the defensive, so that they draw still more closely -together for self-defense, and pull more tightly their lines of vested -interest and social and political privilege. The prejudice of race -can always be successfully appealed to in undergraduate matters, -even to the extent of beguiling many men with naturally democratic -consciences into doing things which they would murmur at if called -on to do as individuals, and not as the protectors of the social -prestige of the college. The fraternities are of course the centre of -this vast political system which fills the athletic managerships, -selects members of the societies, officers of classes and clubs, -editors and assistants of publications, and performs generally all -that indispensable public service of excluding the aliens, the -unpresentable, and the generally unemployable from activity. - -I am aware that most of the colleges pride themselves on the fact -that the poor man has an equal chance with the rich to-day to win -extra-curricular honors, and mingle in college society on a perfect -plane of social equality with the best. It is true, of course, that -in college as in real life the exceptional man will always rise -to the top. But this does not alter the fact that there exists at -too many American colleges a wholesale disfranchisement from any -participation in the extra-curricular activities, that is not based on -any recognizable principle of talent or ability. It is all probably -inherent in the nature of things, and to cavil at it sets one down as -childish and unpractical. At present it certainly seems inevitable -and unalterable. The organized efforts of the President recently to -democratize the social situation at Princeton met with such dull, -persistent hostility on the part of the alumni that they had to be -abandoned. - -This social situation in the college is not very often mentioned -in the usual discussions of college problems, but I have dwelt on -it here at length because I believe that it has a direct bearing on -scholarship. For it creates an eternal and irreconcilable conflict -between scholarship and extra-curricular activities. Scholarship is -fundamentally democratic. Before the bar of marks and grades, penniless -adventurer and rich man’s son stand equal. In college society, -therefore, with its sharply marked social distinctions, scholarship -fails to provide a satisfactory field for honor and reputation. This -implies no dislike to scholarship as such on the part of the ruling -class in college society, but means simply that scholarship forces an -unwelcome democratic standard on a naturally undemocratic society. This -class turns therefore to the extra-curricular activities as a superior -field for distinction, a field where honor will be done a man, not -only for his ability, but for the undefinable social prestige which he -brings along with him to college from the outside world. There is thus -a division of functions,--the socially fit take the fraternities, the -managerships, the publications, the societies; the unpresentable take -the honors and rewards of scholarship. Each class probably gets just -what it needs for after life. The division would thus be palpably fair -were it not for the fact that an invidious distinction gets attached to -the extra-curricular activities, which turns the energy of many of the -most capable and talented men, men with real personality and powers of -leadership, men without a taint of snobbery, into a mad scramble for -these outside places, with consequent, but quite unintentional, bad -effects on their scholarship. - -The result of all this is, of course, a general lowering of scholarship -in the college. The ruling class is content with passing marks, and -has no ambition to excel in scholarship, for it does not feel that the -attainment of scholars’ honors confers the distinctions upon it that -it desires. In addition, this listlessness for scholarship serves to -retard the work of the scholarly portion of the classes; it makes the -instructor work harder, and clogs up generally the work of the course. -This listlessness may be partly due to another factor in the situation. -An ever larger proportion of college students to-day comes from the -business class, where fifty years ago it came from the professional -class. This means a difference between the intellectual background of -the home that the man leaves and of the college to which he comes, -very much greater than when college training was still pretty much -the exclusive property of the professional man or the solid merchant, -and almost an hereditary matter. For, nowadays, probably a majority -of undergraduates are sent to college by fathers who have not had a -college education themselves, but who, reverencing, as all Americans -do, Education if not Learning, are ambitious that their sons shall -have its benefits. These parents can well afford to set their sons up -handsomely so that they shall lose nothing of the well-rounded training -that makes up college life; and although it is doubtful whether their -idea of the result is much more than a vague feeling that college -will give their boys tone, and polish them off much in the way that -the young ladies’ boarding-school polishes off the girls, they are -a serious factor to be reckoned with in any discussion of college -problems. - -Most of these young men come thus from homes of conventional religion, -cheap literature, and lack of intellectual atmosphere, bring few -intellectual acquisitions with them, and, since they are most of them -going into business, and will therefore make little practical use of -these acquisitions in after life, contrive to carry a minimum away -with them. In the college courses and talks with their instructors they -come into an intellectual atmosphere that is so utterly different from -what they have been accustomed to that, instead of an intellectual -sympathy between instructor and student, there ensues an intellectual -struggle that is demoralizing to both. The instructor has sometimes to -carry on a veritable guerilla warfare of new ideas against the pupils -in his courses, with a disintegrating effect that is often far from -happy. If he does not disintegrate, he too often stiffens the youth, -if of the usually tough traditional cast of mind, into an impregnable -resolution that defies all new ideas forever after. This divergence -of ideals and attitudes toward life is one of the most interesting -complications of scholarship, for it is dramatic and flashes out in the -class-room, in aspects at times almost startling. - -There is still another thing that complicates scholarship, at least in -the larger colleges that have professional schools. Two or three years -of regular college work are now required to enter the schools of law, -medicine, divinity, and education. An undergraduate who looks forward -to entering these professional schools, too often sees this period of -college work as a necessary but troublesome evil which must be gone -through with as speedily as possible. In his headlong rush he is apt -to slight his work, or take a badly synthesized course of studies, or, -in an effort to get all he can while he is in the college, to gorge -himself with a mass of material that cannot possibly be digested. -Now, the college work is of course only prescribed in order that the -professional man may have a broad background of general culture before -he begins to specialize. Any hurrying through defeats this purpose, and -renders this preliminary work worse than useless. A college course must -have a chance to digest if it is to be at all profitable to a man; and -digestion takes time. Between the listlessness of the business youths -who have no particular interest in scholarship, and the impetuosity of -the prospective professional man who wants to get at his tools, the -ordinary scholar who wants to learn to think, to get a robust sort of -culture in an orderly and leisurely way, and feel his mental muscles -growing month by month, gets the worst of it, or at least has little -attention paid to him. The instructor is so busy, drumming on the -laggards or restraining the reckless, that the scholar has to work out -much of his own salvation alone. - -Whether or not all this is good for the scholar in cultivating his -self-reliance, the general level of scholarship certainly suffers. -Neither the college administration nor the faculties have been -entirely guiltless, in the past, of yielding before the rising tide -of extra-curricular activities. Athletics, through the protection, -supervision, and even financial assistance, of the college, have become -a thoroughly unwholesome excrescence on college life. They have become -the nucleus for a perverted college sentiment. College spirit has come -to mean enthusiasm for the winning of a game, and a college that has -no football team is supposed to have necessarily no college spirit. -Pride and loyalty to Alma Mater, the prestige of one’s college, one’s -own collegiate self-respect, get bound up and dependent upon a winning -season at athletics. It seems amazing sometimes to the undergraduate -how the college has surrendered to the student point of view. -Instructors too often, in meeting students informally, assume that they -must talk about what is supposed to interest the student rather than -their own intellectual interests. They do not deceive the student, -and they do miss a real opportunity to impress their personality upon -him and to awaken him to a recognition of a broader world of vital -interests than athletic scores and records. - -If the college would take away its patronage of athletics, which puts -a direct premium on semi-professionalism, would circumscribe the -club-house features of the fraternities, and force some more democratic -method of selection on the undergraduate societies, would it have the -effect of raising the general level of scholarship? It surely seems -that such a movement on the part of the college administration would -result in keeping athletics proportioned directly to the interest that -the student body took in it, to the extent of their participation -in it, and the voluntary support that they gave to it, instead of -to the amount of money that an army of graduate managers and alumni -associations can raise for it and to the exertions of paid professional -coaches and volunteer rah-rah boys. This would permit college sentiment -to flow back into its natural channels, so that the undergraduate might -begin to feel some pride in the cultural prestige of his college, and -acquire a new respect for the scholarly achievements of its big men. -This would mean an awakened interest in scholarship. The limitation of -extra-curricular activities would mean that that field would become -less adequate as a place for acquiring distinction; opportunity would -be diminished, and it would become more and more difficult to maintain -social eminence as the _sine qua non_ of campus distinction. Who knows -but what these activities might be finally abandoned entirely to the -unpresentable class, and the ruling class seize upon the field of -scholarship as a surer way of acquiring distinction, since the old gods -had fled? - -If the college is not yet ready to adopt so drastic an attitude, it has -at least already begun to preach democracy. It is willing to preach -inspirationally what it cannot yet do actively. In the last few years -there has been creeping into the colleges in the person of the younger -teachers a new spirit of positive conviction, a new enthusiasm, that -makes a college education to-day a real inspiration to the man who -can catch the message. And at the risk of being considered a traitor -to his class, the sincere undergraduate of to-day must realize the -changed attitude, and ally himself with his radical teachers in spirit -and activity. He then gets an altered view of college life. He begins -to see the college course as an attempt, as yet not fully organized -but becoming surer of its purpose as time goes on, to convert the -heterogeneous mass of American youth--scions of a property-getting -class with an antiquated tradition and ideals that are out of harmony -with the ideals of the leaders of thought to-day; slightly dispirited -aliens, whose racial ideals have been torn and confused by the -disintegrating influences of American life; men of hereditary culture; -penniless adventurers hewing upward to a profession--to a democratic, -realistic, scientific attitude toward life that will harmonize and -explain the world as a man looks at it, enable him to interpret human -nature in terms of history and the potentialities of the future, and -furnish as solid and sure an intellectual and spiritual support as the -old religious background of our fathers that has been fading these many -years. - -This is the work of the college of to-day, as it was the work of -the college of fifty years ago to justify the works of God to man. -The college thus becomes for the first time in American history a -reorganizing force. It has become thoroughly secularized these last -twenty years, and now finds arrayed against it, in spirit at least if -not in open antagonism, the churches and the conservative moulders of -opinion. The college has a great opportunity before it to become, not -only the teacher, but the inspirational centre of the thought and -ideals of the time. - -If to the rising generation our elders rarely seem quite -contemporaneous in their criticisms of things, we in turn are apt to -take the ordinary for the unique. We may be simply reading into the -college our own enthusiasms, and may attribute to the college a new -attitude when it is ourselves that are different. But I am sure that -some such ideal is vaguely beginning to crystallize in the minds of the -younger professors and the older undergraduates, or those who have been -out in the world long enough to get a slightly objective point of view. -The passing of the classics has meant much more than a mere change -in the curriculum of the college; it has meant a complete shifting -of attitude. The classics as a cultural core about which the other -disciplines were built up have given place to the social sciences, -especially history, which is hailed now by some of its enthusiastic -devotees as the sum of all knowledge. The union of humanistic spirit -with scientific point of view, which has been longed for these many -years, seems on the point of being actually achieved, and it is the new -spirit that the colleges seem to be propagating. - -I am sure that it is a democratic spirit. History, economics, and the -other social sciences are presented as the record of the development -of human freedom, and the science of man’s social life. We are told -to look on institutions not as rigid and eternally fixed, but as -fluid and in the course of evolution to an ever higher cultivation of -individuality and general happiness, and to cast our thinking on public -questions into this new mould. A college man is certainly not educated -to-day unless he gets this democratic attitude. That is what makes the -aristocratic organization of undergraduate life doubly unfortunate. For -one of the most valuable opportunities of college life is the chance to -get acquainted, not politely and distantly, but intimately, with all -types of men and minds from all parts of the country and all classes -of society, so that one may learn what the young men of the generation -are really thinking and hoping. Knowledge of men is an indispensable -feature of a real education: not a knowledge of their weaknesses, as -too many seem to mean by the phrase, but knowledge of their strength -and capabilities, so that one may get the broadest possible sympathy -with human life as it is actually lived to-day, and not as it is seen -through the idealistic glasses of former generations. The association -only with men of one’s own class, such as the organization of college -life to-day fosters, is simply fatal to any broad understanding of -life. The refusal to make the acquaintance while in college of as many -as possible original, self-dependent personalities, regardless of race -and social status, is morally suicidal. There are indications, however, -that the preaching of the democratic gospel is beginning to have its -influence, in the springing-up of college forums and societies which do -without the rigid coöptation that has cultivated the cutting one’s self -off from one’s fellows. - -I am sure that it is a scientific spirit. The scientific attitude -toward life is no longer kept as the exclusive property of the -technical schools. It has found its way into those studies that have -been known as humanistic, but, in penetrating, it has become colored -itself, so that the student is shown the world, not as a relentless -machine, running according to mechanical laws, but as an organism, -profoundly modifiable and directive by human will and purpose. He -learns that the world in which he lives is truly a mechanism, but -a mechanism that exists for the purpose of turning out products -as man shall direct for the enrichment of his own life. He learns -to appreciate more the application to social life of machinery in -organization and coöperation; he gets some idea of the forces that -build up human nature and sway men’s actions. He acquires an impartial -way of looking at things; effort is made to get him to separate his -personal prejudices from the larger view, and get an objective vision -of men and events. The college endeavors with might and main to -cultivate in him an open-mindedness, so that at twenty-five he will not -close up to the entrance of new ideas, but will find his college course -merely introductory to life, a learning of one’s bearings in a great -world of thought and activity, and an inspiration to a constant working -for better things. - -I am sure that it is a critical spirit. A critical attitude toward -life is as bad a thing for a boy as it is an indispensable thing for -an educated man. The college tries to cultivate it gradually in its -students, so that by the end of his four years a man will have come -simply not to take everything for granted, but to test and weigh and -prove ideas and institutions with which he comes in contact. Of course -the results are unfortunate when this critical attitude comes with a -sudden shock so as to be a mere disillusionment, the turning yellow -of a beautiful world; but it must come if a man is to see wisely and -understand. The college must teach him to criticize without rancor, and -see that his cynicism, if that must come too, is purging and cleansing -and not bitter. - -And lastly, I am sure that it is an enthusiastic spirit. The college -wants to give a man a keen desire for social progress, a love for the -arts, a delight in sheer thinking, and a confidence in his own powers. -It will do little good to teach a man about what men have thought and -done and built unless some spark is kindled, some reaction produced -that will have consequences for the future; it will do little good -to teach him about literature and the arts unless some kind of an -emotional push is imparted to him that will drive him on to teach -himself further and grow into a larger appreciation of the best; it -will do little good to enforce scientific discipline unless by it -the mind is forged into a keener weapon for attacking problems and -solving them scientifically and not superficially. And it is just this -enthusiasm that the college, and only the college, can impart. We come -there to learn from men, not from books. We could learn from books -as well at home, but years of individual study will not equal the -inspirational value of one short term of listening to the words of a -wise and good man. Only enthusiasm can knit the scattered ideals and -timorous aspirations into a constructive whole. - -Some such spirit as I have endeavored to outline, the college is -beginning to be infused with to-day; some such spirit the undergraduate -must get if he is to be in the best sense educated and adequately -equipped for the complex work of the world. If such a spirit is -instilled, it almost matters little what the details of his courses -are, or the mere material of his knowledge. Such an attitude will be a -sufficient preparation for life, and adequate training for citizenship. -We want citizens who are enthusiastic thinkers, not docile and -uncritical followers of tradition; we want leaders of public opinion -with the scientific point of view: unclassed men, not men like the -leaders of the passing generation, saturated with class prejudices and -class ideals. - -The college is rapidly revising its curriculum in line with the new -standards. The movement is so new, to be sure, that things have hardly -got their bearings yet. Men who graduated only ten years ago tell me -that there was nothing like this new spirit when they were in college. -The student finds a glut of courses, and flounders around for two or -three years before he gets any poise at all. A judicious mixture of -compulsory and elective courses seems to be furnishing a helpful guide, -and a system of honor courses like that recently introduced at Columbia -provides an admirable means, not only to a more intensive culture, but -also to the synthesis of intellectual interests that creates a definite -attitude toward life, and yet for the absence of which so many young -men of ability and power stand helpless and undecided on the threshold -of active life. To replace the classics, now irretrievably gone as the -backbone of the curriculum, the study of history seems an admirable -discipline, besides furnishing the indispensable background for the -literary and philosophical studies. Scientific ethics and social -psychology should occupy an important place in the revised curriculum. -The college cannot afford to leave the undergraduate to the mercies of -conventional religion and a shifting moral tradition. - -The pedantic, Germanistic type of scholarship is rapidly passing. -The divisions, between the departments are beginning to break down. -Already the younger instructors are finding their ideal professor in -the man who, while he knows one branch thoroughly, is interested in a -wide range of subjects. The departments are reacting upon one another; -both undergraduates and instructors are coming to see intellectual -life as a whole, and not as a miscellaneous collection of specialized -chunks of knowledge. The type of man is becoming common who could go to -almost any other department of the college and give a suggestive and -interesting, if not erudite, lecture on some subject in connection with -its work. It is becoming more and more common now that when you touch a -professor you touch a man and not an intellectual specialty. - -The undergraduate himself is beginning to react strongly to this sort -of scholarship. He catches an inspiration from the men in the faculty -who exhibit it, and he is becoming expert in separating the sheep from -the goats. He does not want experiments in educational psychology tried -upon him: all he demands in his teacher is personality. He wants to -feel that the instructor is not simply passing on dead knowledge in the -form it was passed on to him, but that he has assimilated it and has -read his own experience into it, so that it has come to mean more to -him than almost anything in the world. - -Professors are fond of saying that they like to have their students -react to what they bring them; the student in turn likes to feel that -the professor himself has reacted to what he is teaching. Otherwise his -teaching is very apt to be in vain. American youth are very much less -docile than they used to be, and they are little content any longer to -have second-hand knowledge, a little damaged in transit, thrust upon -them. The undergraduate wants to feel that the instructor is giving him -his best all the time, a piece out of the very warp and woof of his own -thinking. - -The problem of the college in the immediate future is thus to make -these ideals good, to permeate undergraduate society with the new -spirit, and to raise the level of scholarship by making learning not an -end in itself but a means to life. The curriculum and administrative -routine will be seen simply as means to the cultivation of an attitude -towards life. As the ideals crystallize out and the college becomes -surer and surer of its purpose, it will find itself leading the thought -of the age in new channels of conviction and constructive statesmanship -through its inspirational influence on the young men of the time. -Admitting that these ideals are still unorganized and unestablished, -that in many of the colleges they have hardly begun to appear, while -even in the larger ones they are little more than tendencies as -yet,--is it too much to hope that a few years will see the college -conscious of its purpose, and already beginning to impose on the rank -and file of its members, instructors and undergraduates alike, the -ideals which have been felt this last decade by the more sensitive? - - - - -XIV - -A PHILOSOPHY OF HANDICAP - - -It would not perhaps be thought, ordinarily, that the man whom physical -disabilities have made so helpless that he is unable to move around -among his fellows, can bear his lot more happily, even though he suffer -pain, and face life with a more cheerful and contented spirit, than -can the man whose handicaps are merely enough to mark him out from the -rest of his fellows without preventing him from entering with them -into most of their common affairs and experiences. But the fact is -that the former’s very helplessness makes him content to rest and not -to strive. I know a young man so helplessly disabled that he has to be -carried about, who is happy in reading a little, playing chess, taking -a course or two in college, and all with the sunniest good-will in -the world, and a happiness that seems strange and unaccountable to my -restlessness. He does not cry for the moon. - -When the handicapped youth, however, is in full possession of his -faculties, and can move about freely, he is perforce drawn into all -the currents of life. Particularly if he has his own way in the world -to make, his road is apt to be hard and rugged, and he will penetrate -to an unusual depth in his interpretation both of the world’s attitude -toward such misfortunes, and of the attitude toward the world which -such misfortunes tend to cultivate in men like him. For he has all the -battles of a stronger man to fight, and he is at a double disadvantage -in fighting them. He has constantly with him the sense of being obliged -to make extra efforts to overcome the bad impression of his physical -defects, and he is haunted with a constant feeling of weakness and -low vitality which makes effort more difficult and renders him easily -faint-hearted and discouraged by failure. He is never confident of -himself, because he has grown up in an atmosphere where nobody has been -very confident of him; and yet his environment and circumstances call -out all sorts of ambitions and energies in him which, from the nature -of his case, are bound to be immediately thwarted. This attitude is -likely to keep him at a generally low level of accomplishment unless he -have an unusually strong will, and a strong will is perhaps the last -thing to develop under such circumstances. - -The handicapped man is always conscious that the world does not -expect very much from him. And it takes him a long time to see in -this a challenge instead of a firm pressing down to a low level of -accomplishment. As a result, he does not expect very much of himself; -he is timid in approaching people, and distrustful of his ability to -persuade and convince. He becomes extraordinarily sensitive to other -people’s first impressions of him. Those who are to be his friends he -knows instantly, and further acquaintance adds little to the intimacy -and warm friendship that he at once feels for them. On the other hand, -those who do not respond to him immediately cannot by any effort either -on his part or theirs overcome that first alienation. - -This sensitiveness has both its good and its bad sides. It makes -friendship the most precious thing in the world to him, and he finds -that he arrives at a much richer and wider intimacy with his friends -than do ordinary men with their light, surface friendships, based on -good fellowship or the convenience of the moment. But on the other hand -this sensitiveness absolutely unfits him for business and the practice -of a profession, where one must be “all things to all men,” and the -professional manner is indispensable to success. For here, where he -has to meet a constant stream of men of all sorts and conditions, his -sensitiveness to these first impressions will make his case hopeless. -Except with those few who by some secret sympathy will seem to respond, -his physical deficiencies will stand like a huge barrier between his -personality and other men’s. The magical good fortune of attractive -personal appearance makes its way almost without effort in the world, -breaking down all sorts of walls of disapproval and lack of interest. -Even the homely person can attract by personal charm. - -The doors of the handicapped man are always locked, and the key is -on the outside. He may have treasures of charm inside, but they will -never be revealed unless the person outside coöperates with him in -unlocking the door. A friend becomes, to a much greater degree than -with the ordinary man, the indispensable means of discovering one’s own -personality. One only exists, so to speak, with friends. It is easy -to see how hopelessly such a sensitiveness incapacitates a man for -business, professional or social life, where the hasty and superficial -impression is everything, and disaster is the fate of the man who has -not all the treasures of his personality in the front window, where -they can be readily inspected and appraised. - -It thus takes the handicapped man a long time to get adjusted to his -world. Childhood is perhaps the hardest time of all. As a child he is -a strange creature in a strange land. It was my own fate to be just -strong enough to play about with the other boys, and attempt all their -games and “stunts,” without being strong enough actually to succeed in -any of them. It never used to occur to me that my failures and lack of -skill were due to circumstances beyond my control, but I would always -impute them, in consequence of my rigid Calvinistic bringing-up, I -suppose, to some moral weakness of my own. I suffered tortures in -trying to learn to skate, to climb trees, to play ball, to conform -in general to the ways of the world. I never resigned myself to the -inevitable, but over-exerted myself constantly in a grim determination -to succeed. I was good at my lessons, and through timidity rather -than priggishness, I hope, a very well-behaved boy at school; I was -devoted, too, to music, and learned to play the piano pretty well. But -I despised my reputation for excellence in these things, and instead of -adapting myself philosophically to the situation, I strove and have -been striving ever since to do the things I could not. - -As I look back now it seems perfectly natural that I should have -followed the standards of the crowd, and loathed my high marks in -lessons and deportment, and the concerts to which I was sent by my -aunt, and the exhibitions of my musical skill that I had to give -before admiring ladies. Whether or not such an experience is typical -of handicapped children, there is tragedy there for those situated as -I was. For had I been a little weaker physically, I should have been -thrown back on reading omnivorously and cultivating my music, with -some possible results; while if I had been a little stronger, I could -have participated in the play on an equal footing with the rest. As it -was, I simply tantalized myself, and grew up with a deepening sense of -failure, and a lack of pride in that at which I really excelled. - -When the world became one of dances and parties and social evenings and -boy-and-girl attachments,--the world of youth,--I was to find myself -still less adapted to it. And this was the harder to bear because I was -naturally sociable, and all these things appealed tremendously to me. -This world of admiration and gayety and smiles and favors and quick -interest and companionship, however, is only for the well-begotten -and the debonair. It was not through any cruelty or dislike, I think, -that I was refused admittance; indeed they were always very kind -about inviting me. But it was more as if a ragged urchin had been -asked to come and look through the window at the light and warmth of -a glittering party; I was truly in the world, but not of the world. -Indeed there were times when one would almost prefer conscious cruelty -to this silent, unconscious, gentle oblivion. And this is the tragedy, -I suppose, of all the ill-favored and unattractive to a greater or less -degree; the world of youth is a world of so many conventions, and the -abnormal in any direction is so glaringly and hideously abnormal. - -Although it took me a long time to understand this, and I continued -to attribute my failure mostly to my own character, trying hard to -compensate for my physical deficiencies by skill and cleverness, I -suffered comparatively few pangs, and got much better adjusted to this -world than to the other. For I was older, and I had acquired a lively -interest in all the social politics; I would get so interested in -watching how people behaved, and in sizing them up, that only at rare -intervals would I remember that I was really having no hand in the -game. This interest just in the ways people are human, has become more -and more a positive advantage in my life, and has kept sweet many a -situation that might easily have cost me a pang. Not that a person with -disabilities should be a sort of detective, evil-mindedly using his -social opportunities for spying out and analyzing his friends’ foibles, -but that, if he does acquire an interest in people quite apart from -their relation to him, he may go into society with an easy conscience -and a certainty that he will be entertained and possibly entertaining, -even though he cuts a poor enough social figure. He must simply not -expect too much. - -Perhaps the bitterest struggles of the handicapped man come when he -tackles the business world. If he has to go out for himself to look -for work, without fortune, training, or influence, as I personally -did, his way will indeed be rugged. His disability will work against -him for any position where he must be much in the eyes of men, and his -general insignificance has a subtle influence in convincing those to -whom he applies that he is unfitted for any kind of work. As I have -suggested, his keen sensitiveness to other people’s impressions of him -makes him more than usually timid and unable to counteract that fatal -first impression by any display of personal force and will. He cannot -get his personality over across that barrier. The cards seem stacked -against him from the start. With training and influence something -might be done, but alone and unaided his case is almost hopeless. The -attitude toward him ranges from, “You can’t expect us to create a place -for you,” to, “How could it enter your head that we should find any use -for you?” He is discounted at the start: it is not business to make -allowances for anybody; and while people are not cruel or unkind, it is -the hopeless finality of the thing that fills one’s heart with despair. - -The environment of a big city is perhaps the worst possible that a -man in such a situation could have. For the thousands of seeming -opportunities lead one restlessly on and on, and keep one’s mind -perpetually unsettled and depressed. There is a poignant mental torture -that comes with such an experience,--the urgent need, the repeated -failure, or rather the repeated failure even to obtain a chance to -fail, the realization that those at home can ill afford to have you -idle, the growing dread of encountering people,--all this is something -that those who have never been through it can never realize. Personally -I know of no particular way of escape. One can expect to do little by -one’s own unaided efforts. I solved my difficulties only by evading -them, by throwing overboard some of my responsibility, and taking the -desperate step of entering college on a scholarship. Desultory work -is not nearly so humiliating when one is using one’s time to some -advantage, and college furnishes an ideal environment where the things -at which a man handicapped like myself can succeed really count. One’s -self-respect can begin to grow like a weed. - -For at the bottom of all the difficulties of a man like me is really -the fact that his self-respect is so slow in growing up. Accustomed -from childhood to being discounted, his self-respect is not naturally -very strong, and it would require pretty constant success in a -congenial line of work really to confirm it. If he could only more -easily separate the factors that are due to his physical disability -from those that are due to his weak will and character, he might -more quickly attain self-respect, for he would realize what he is -responsible for, and what he is not. But at the beginning he rarely -makes allowances for himself; he is his own severest judge. He longs -for a “strong will,” and yet the experience of having his efforts -promptly nipped off at the beginning is the last thing on earth to -produce that will. - -If the handicapped youth is brought into harsh and direct touch with -the real world, life proves a much more complex thing to him than to -the ordinary man. Many of his inherited platitudes vanish at the first -touch. Life appears to him as a grim struggle, where ability does not -necessarily mean opportunity and success, nor piety sympathy, and where -helplessness cannot count on assistance and kindly interest. Human -affairs seem to be running on a wholly irrational plan, and success -to be founded on chance as much as on anything. But if he can stand -the first shock of disillusionment, he may find himself enormously -interested in discovering how they actually do run, and he will want -to burrow into the motives of men, and find the reasons for the crass -inequalities and injustices of the world he sees around him. He has -practically to construct anew a world of his own, and explain a great -many things to himself that the ordinary person never dreams of finding -unintelligible at all. He will be filled with a profound sympathy -for all who are despised and ignored in the world. When he has been -through the neglect and struggles of a handicapped and ill-favored man -himself, he will begin to understand the feelings of all the horde of -the unpresentable and the unemployable, the incompetent and the ugly, -the queer and crotchety people who make up so large a proportion of -human folk. - -We are perhaps too prone to get our ideas and standards of worth from -the successful, without reflecting that the interpretations of life -which patriotic legend, copy-book philosophy, and the sayings of the -wealthy give us, are pitifully inadequate for those who fall behind in -the race. Surely there are enough people to whom the task of making a -decent living and maintaining themselves and their families in their -social class, or of winning and keeping the respect of their fellows, -is a hard and bitter task, to make a philosophy gained through personal -disability and failure as just and true a method of appraising the life -around us as the cheap optimism of the ordinary professional man. And -certainly a kindlier, for it has no shade of contempt or disparagement -about it. - -It irritates me as if I had been spoken of contemptuously myself, to -hear people called “common” or “ordinary,” or to see that deadly and -delicate feeling for social gradations crop out, which so many of our -upper middle-class women seem to have. It makes me wince to hear a man -spoken of as a failure, or to have it said of one that he “doesn’t -amount to much.” Instantly I want to know why he has not succeeded, and -what have been the forces that have been working against him. He is -the truly interesting person, and yet how little our eager-pressing, -on-rushing world cares about such aspects of life, and how hideously -though unconsciously cruel and heartless it usually is! - -Often I had tried in argument to show my friends how much of -circumstance and chance go to the making of success; and when I reached -the age of sober reading, a long series of the works of radical social -philosophers, beginning with Henry George, provided me with the -materials for a philosophy which explained why men were miserable and -overworked, and why there was on the whole so little joy and gladness -among us,--and which fixed the blame. Here was suggested a goal, and a -definite glorious future, toward which all good men might work. My own -working hours became filled with visions of how men could be brought -to see all that this meant, and how I in particular might work some -great and wonderful thing for human betterment. In more recent years, -the study of history and social psychology and ethics has made those -crude outlines sounder and more normal, and brought them into a saner -relation to other aspects of life and thought, but I have not lost the -first glow of enthusiasm, nor my belief in social progress as the first -right and permanent interest for every thinking and true-hearted man or -woman. - -I am ashamed that my experience has given me so little chance to count -in any way either toward the spreading of such a philosophy or toward -direct influence and action. Nor do I yet see clearly how I shall be -able to count effectually toward this ideal. Of one thing I am sure, -however: that life will have little meaning for me except as I am -able to contribute toward some such ideal of social betterment, if -not in deed, then in word. For this is the faith that I believe we -need to-day, all of us,--a truly religious belief in human progress, -a thorough social consciousness, an eager delight in every sign and -promise of social improvement, and best of all, a new spirit of courage -that will dare. I want to give to the young men whom I see,--who, with -fine intellect and high principles, lack just that light of the future -on their faces that would give them a purpose and meaning in life,--to -them I want to give some touch of this philosophy, that will energize -their lives, and save them from the disheartening effects of that -poisonous counsel of timidity and distrust of human ideals which pours -out in steady stream from reactionary press and pulpit. - -It is hard to tell just how much of this philosophy has been due to -handicap. If it is solely to that that I owe its existence, the price -has not been a heavy one to pay. For it has given me something that I -should not know how to be without. For, however gained, this radical -philosophy has not only made the world intelligible and dynamic to -me, but has furnished me with the strongest spiritual support. I know -that many people, handicapped by physical weakness and failure, find -consolation and satisfaction in a very different sort of faith,--in -an evangelical religion, and a feeling of close dependence on God -and close communion with him. But my experience has made my ideal of -character militant rather than long-suffering. - -I very early experienced a revulsion against the rigid Presbyterianism -in which I had been brought up,--a purely intellectual revulsion, I -believe, because my mind was occupied for a long time afterwards with -theological questions, and the only feeling that entered into it was a -sort of disgust at the arrogance of damning so great a proportion of -the human race. I read T. W. Higginson’s “The Sympathy of Religions” -with the greatest satisfaction, and attended the Unitarian church -whenever I could slip away. This faith, while it still appeals to me, -seems at times a little too static and refined to satisfy me with -completeness. For some time there was a considerable bitterness in my -heart at the narrowness of the people who could still find comfort in -the old faith. Reading Buckle and Oliver Wendell Holmes gave me a new -contempt for “conventionality,” and my social philosophy still further -tortured me by throwing the burden for the misery of the world on these -same good neighbors. And all this, although I think I did not make a -nuisance of myself, made me feel a spiritual and intellectual isolation -in addition to my more or less effective physical isolation. - -Happily these days are over. The world has righted itself, and I have -been able to appreciate and realize how people count in a social and -group capacity as well as in an individual and personal one, and to -separate the two in my thinking. Really to believe in human nature -while striving to know the thousand forces that warp it from its ideal -development,--to call for and expect much from men and women, and not -to be disappointed and embittered if they fall short,--to try to do -good with people rather than to them,--this is my religion on its human -side. And if God exists, I think that He must be in the warm sun, in -the kindly actions of the people we know and read of, in the beautiful -things of art and nature, and in the closeness of friendships. He may -also be in heaven, in life, in suffering, but it is only in these -simple moments of happiness that I feel Him and know that He is there. - -Death I do not understand at all. I have seen it in its crudest, most -irrational forms, where there has seemed no excuse, no palliation. I -have only known that if we were more careful, and more relentless in -fighting evil, if we knew more of medical science, such things would -not be. I know that a sound body, intelligent care and training, -prolong life, and that the death of a very old person is neither sad -nor shocking, but sweet and fitting. I see in death a perpetual warning -of how much there is to be known and done in the way of human progress -and betterment. And equally, it seems to me, is this true of disease. -So all the crises and deeper implications of life seem inevitably to -lead back to that question of social improvement, and militant learning -and doing. - -This, then, is the goal of my religion,--the bringing of fuller, richer -life to more people on this earth. All institutions and all works that -do not have this for their object are useless and pernicious. And -this is not to be a mere philosophic precept which may well be buried -under a host of more immediate matter, but a living faith, to permeate -one’s thought, and transfuse one’s life. Prevention must be the method -against evil. To remove temptation from men, and to apply the stimulus -which shall call forth their highest endeavors,--these seem to me the -only right principles of ethical endeavor. Not to keep waging the -age-long battle with sin and poverty, but to make the air around men -so pure that foul lungs cannot breathe it,--this should be our noblest -religious aim. - -Education, knowledge and training,--I have felt so keenly my lack -of these things that I count them as the greatest of means toward -making life noble and happy. The lack of stimulus has tended with me -to dissipate the power which might otherwise have been concentrated -in some one productive direction. Or perhaps it was the many weak -stimuli that constantly incited me and thus kept me from following one -particular bent. I look back on what seems a long waste of intellectual -power, time frittered away in groping and moping, which might easily -have been spent constructively. A defect in one of the physical senses -often means a keener sensitiveness in the others, but it seems that -unless the sphere of action that the handicapped man has is very much -narrowed, his intellectual ability will not grow in compensation for -his physical defects. He will always feel that, had he been strong or -even successful, he would have been further advanced intellectually, -and would have attained greater command over his powers. For his mind -tends to be cultivated extensively, rather than intensively. He has so -many problems to meet, so many things to explain to himself, that he -acquires a wide rather than a profound knowledge. Perhaps eventually, -by eliminating most of these interests as practicable fields, he may -tie himself down to one line of work; but at first he is pretty apt -to find his mind rebellious. If he is eager and active, he will get -a smattering of too many things, and his imperfect, badly trained -organism will make intense application very difficult. - -Now that I have talked a little of my philosophy of life, particularly -about what I want to put into it, there is something to be said also -of its enjoyment, and what I may hope to get out of it. I have said -that my ideal of character was militant rather than long-suffering. -It is true that my world has been one of failure and deficit,--I have -accomplished practically nothing alone, and until my college life freed -me could count only two or three instances where I had received kindly -counsel and suggestion; moreover it still seems a miracle to me that -money can be spent for anything beyond the necessities without being -first carefully weighed and pondered over,--but it has not been a -world of suffering and sacrifice, my health has been almost criminally -perfect in the light of my actual achievement, and life has appeared -to me, at least since my more pressing responsibilities were removed, -as a challenge and an arena, rather than a vale of tears. I do not -like the idea of helplessly suffering one’s misfortunes, of passively -bearing one’s lot. The Stoics depress me. I do not want to look on my -life as an eternal making the best of a bad bargain. Granting all the -circumstances, admitting all my disabilities, I want too to “warm both -hands before the fire of life.” What satisfactions I have, and they are -many and precious, I do not want to look on as compensations, but as -positive goods. - -The difference between what the strongest of the strong and the most -winning of the attractive can get out of life, and what I can, is after -all so slight. Our experiences and enjoyments, both his and mine, are -so infinitesimal compared with the great mass of possibilities; and -there must be a division of labor. If he takes the world of physical -satisfactions and of material success, I at least can occupy the far -richer kingdom of mental effort and artistic appreciation. And on the -side of what we are to put into life, although I admit that achievement -on my part will be harder relatively to encompass than on his, at least -I may have the field of artistic creation and intellectual achievement -for my own. Indeed, as one gets older, the fact of one’s disabilities -fades dimmer and dimmer away from consciousness. One’s enemy is now -one’s own weak will, and the struggle is to attain the artistic ideal -one has set. - -But one must have grown up, to get this attitude. And that is the best -thing the handicapped man can do. Growing up will have given him one of -the greatest satisfactions of his life, and certainly the most durable -one. It will mean at least that he is out of the woods. Childhood has -nothing to offer him; youth little more. They are things to be gotten -through with as soon as possible. For he will not understand, and he -will not be understood. He finds himself simply a bundle of chaotic -impulses and emotions and ambitions, very few of which, from the nature -of the case, can possibly be realized or satisfied. He is bound to be -at cross-grains with the world, and he has to look sharp that he does -not grow up with a bad temper and a hateful disposition, and become -cynical and bitter against those who turn him away. But grown up, his -horizon will broaden; he will get a better perspective, and will not -take the world so seriously as he used to, nor will failure frighten -him so much. He can look back and see how inevitable it all was, and -understand how precarious and problematic even the best regulated of -human affairs may be. And if he feels that there were times when he -should have been able to count upon the help and kindly counsel of -relatives and acquaintances who remained dumb and uninterested, he will -not put their behavior down as proof of the depravity of human nature, -but as due to an unfortunate blindness which it will be his work to -avoid in himself by looking out for others when he has the power. - -When he has grown up, he will find that people of his own age and -experience are willing to make those large allowances for what is out -of the ordinary, which were impossible to his younger friends, and -that grown-up people touch each other on planes other than the purely -superficial. With a broadening of his own interests, he will find -himself overlapping other people’s personalities at new points, and -will discover with rare delight that he is beginning to be understood -and appreciated,--at least to a greater degree than when he had to -keep his real interests hid as something unusual. For he will begin to -see in his friends, his music and books, and his interest in people -and social betterment, his true life; many of his restless ambitions -will fade gradually away, and he will come to recognize all the more -clearly some true ambition of his life that is within the range of -his capabilities. He will have built up his world, and have sifted -out the things that are not going to concern him, and participation -in which will only serve to vex and harass him. He may well come to -count his disabilities even as a blessing, for it has made impossible -to him at last many things in the pursuit of which he would only -fritter away his time and dissipate his interest. He must not think -of “resigning himself to his fate”; above all, he must insist on his -own personality. For once really grown up, he will find that he has -acquired self-respect and personality. Grown-upness, I think, is not a -mere question of age, but of being able to look back and understand and -find satisfaction in one’s experience, no matter how bitter it may have -been. - -So to all the handicapped and the unappreciated, I would say,--Grow up -as fast as you can. Cultivate the widest interests you can, and cherish -all your friends. Cultivate some artistic talent, for you will find -it the most durable of satisfactions, and perhaps one of the surest -means of livelihood as well. Achievement is, of course, on the knees of -the gods; but you will at least have the thrill of trial, and, after -all, not to try is to fail. Taking your disabilities for granted, and -assuming constantly that they are being taken for granted, make your -social intercourse as broad and as constant as possible. Do not take -the world too seriously, nor let too many social conventions oppress -you. Keep sweet your sense of humor, and above all do not let any -morbid feelings of inferiority creep into your soul. You will find -yourself sensitive enough to the sympathy of others, and if you do not -find people who like you and are willing to meet you more than halfway, -it will be because you have let your disability narrow your vision and -shrink up your soul. It will be really your own fault, and not that of -your circumstances. In a word, keep looking outward; look out eagerly -for those things that interest you, for people who will interest you -and be friends with you, for new interests and for opportunities to -express yourself. You will find that your disability will come to have -little meaning for you, that it will begin to fade quite completely out -of your sight; you will wake up some fine morning and find yourself, -after all the struggles that seemed so bitter to you, really and truly -adjusted to the world. - -I am perhaps not yet sufficiently out of the wilderness to utter all -these brave words. For, I must confess, I find myself hopelessly -dependent on my friends and my environment. My friends have come to -mean more to me than almost anything else in the world. If it is far -harder work to make friendships quickly, at least friendships once -made have a depth and intimacy quite beyond ordinary attachments. For -a man such as I am has little prestige; people do not feel the need of -impressing him. They are genuine and sincere, talk to him freely about -themselves, and are generally far less reticent about revealing their -real personality and history and aspirations. And particularly is this -so in friendships with young women. I have found their friendships the -most delightful and satisfying of all. For all that social convention -that insists that every friendship between a young man and woman must -be on a romantic basis is necessarily absent in our case. There is -no fringe around us to make our acquaintance anything but a charming -companionship. With all my friends, the same thing is true. The first -barrier of strangeness broken down, our interest is really in each -other, and not in what each is going to think of the other, how he is -to be impressed, or whether we are going to fall in love with each -other. When one of my friends moves away, I feel as if a great hole -had been left in my life. There is a whole side of my personality that -I cannot express without him. I shudder to think of any change that -will deprive me of their constant companionship. Without friends I -feel as if even my music and books and interests would turn stale on -my hands. I confess that I am not grown up enough to get along without -them. - -But if I am not yet out of the wilderness, at least I think I see the -way to happiness. With health and a modicum of achievement, I shall -not see my lot as unenviable. And if misfortune comes, it will only -be something flowing from the common lot of men, not from my own -particular disability. Most of the difficulties that flow from that -I flatter myself I have met by this time of my twenty-fifth year, -have looked full in the face, have grappled with, and find in no wise -so formidable as the world usually deems them,--no bar to my real -ambitions and ideals. - - - THE END - - - - - The Riverside Press - - CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS - - U.S.A. - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - -Page 112: “kind of spiritual parasites” changed to “kind of spiritual -parasite” - -Page 264: “form sone of the darker” changed to “form some of the darker” - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUTH AND LIFE *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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Bourne</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Youth and Life</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Randolph S. Bourne</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 14, 2022 [eBook #67628]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUTH AND LIFE ***</div> - - - - - -<h1>YOUTH AND LIFE</h1> - -<p class="center p0 small p2"> BY</p> - -<p class="center p0 xbig"> RANDOLPH S. BOURNE</p> - -<p class="center p0 p2"><span class="figcenter" id="img001"> - <img src="images/001.jpg" class="w10" alt="Publisher mark" /> -</span></p> - -<p class="center p0 p2"> BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br /> -<span class="big">HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY</span><br /> -<span class="small">The Riverside Press Cambridge</span><br /> - 1913 -</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - - -<p class="center p0 p2 small"> COPYRIGHT, 1911, 1912, AND 1913, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY<br /> - COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY RANDOLPH S. BOURNE -</p> - -<p class="center p0 p2 small">ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</p> - -<p class="center p0 p2 small"><i>Published March 1913</i></p> - -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table class="autotable"> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#I">I.</a> -</td> -<td> -<span class="smcap">Youth</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#I">1</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#II">II.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">The Two Generations</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_29">29</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#III">III.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">The Virtues and the Seasons of Life</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_53">53</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#IV">IV.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">The Life of Irony</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_99">99</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#V">V.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">The Excitement of Friendship</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_133">133</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#VI">VI.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">The Adventure of Life</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_153">153</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#VII">VII.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">Some Thoughts on Religion</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_189">189</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#VIII">VIII.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">The Mystic turned Radical</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_205">205</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#IX">IX.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">Seeing, we see not</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_215">215</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#X">X.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">The Experimental Life</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_225">225</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#XI">XI.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">The Dodging of Pressures</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_247">247</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#XII">XII.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">For Radicals</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_289">289</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#XIII">XIII.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">The College: An Inner View</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_311">311</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#XIV">XIV.</a> -</td> -<td> <span class="smcap">A Philosophy of Handicap</span> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_337">337</a> -</td> -</tr> -</table> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I<br />YOUTH</h2> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span></p> - - - -<p>How shall I describe Youth, the time of contradictions and anomalies? -The fiercest radicalisms, the most dogged conservatisms, irrepressible -gayety, bitter melancholy,—all these moods are equally part of that -showery springtime of life. One thing, at least, it clearly is: a -great, rich rush and flood of energy. It is as if the store of life -had been accumulating through the slow, placid years of childhood, -and suddenly the dam had broken and the waters rushed out, furious -and uncontrolled, before settling down into the quieter channels of -middle life. The youth is suddenly seized with a poignant consciousness -of being alive, which is quite wanting to the naïve unquestioning -existence of the child. He finds himself overpoweringly urged toward -self-expression. Just as the baby, born into a “great, blooming, -buzzing confusion,” and attracted by every movement, every color, every -sound, kicks madly in response in all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> directions, and only gradually -gets his movements coördinated into the orderly and precise movements -of his elders,—so the youth suddenly born into a confusion of ideas -and appeals and traditions responds in the most chaotic way to this new -spiritual world, and only gradually learns to find his way about in it, -and get his thoughts and feelings into some kind of order.</p> - -<p>Fortunate the young man who does not make his entrance into too wide -a world. And upon the width and depth of that new world will depend -very much whether his temperament is to be radical or conservative, -adventurous or conventional. For it is one of the surprising things -about youth that it can so easily be the most conservative of all -ages. Why do we suppose that youth is always radical? At no age are -social proprieties more strictly observed, and Church, State, law, and -order, more rigorously defended. But I like to think that youth is -conservative only when its spiritual force has been spent too early, -or when the new world it enters into is found, for some reason, to be -rather narrow and shallow. It is so often the urgent world of pleasure -that first catches the eye of youth; its flood of life is drawn off -in that direction; the boy may fritter away his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> precious birthright -in pure lightness of heart and animal spirits. And it is only too -true that this type of youth is transitory. Pleasure contrives to -burn itself out very quickly, and youth finds itself left prematurely -with the ashes of middle age. But if, in some way, the flood of life -is checked in the direction of pleasure, then it bursts forth in -another,—in the direction of ideals; then we say that the boy is -radical. Youth is always turbulent, but the momentous difference is -whether it shall be turbulent in passion or in enthusiasm. Nothing is -so pathetic as the young man who spends his spiritual force too early, -so that when the world of ideals is presented to him, his force being -spent, he can only grasp at second-hand ideals and mouldy formulas.</p> - -<p>This is the great divergence which sets youth not only against old -age, but against youth itself: the undying spirit of youth that seems -to be fed by an unquenchable fire, that does not burn itself out but -seems to grow steadier and steadier as life goes on, against the -fragile, quickly tarnished type that passes relentlessly into middle -life. At twenty-five I find myself full of the wildest radicalisms, -and look with dismay at my childhood friends who are already settled -down, have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> achieved babies and responsibilities, and have somehow got -ten years beyond me in a day. And this divergence shows itself in a -thousand different ways. It may be a temptation to a world of pleasure, -it may be a sheltering from the stimulus of ideas, or even a sluggish -temperament, that separates traditional and adventurous youth, but -fundamentally it is a question of how youth takes the world. And here I -find that I can no longer drag the traditional youth along with me in -this paper. There are many of him, I know, but I do not like him, and -I know nothing about him. Let us rather look at the way radical youth -grows into and meets the world.</p> - -<p>From the state of “the little child, to whom the sky is a roof of -blue, the world a screen of opaque and disconnected facts, the -home a thing eternal, and ‘being good’ just simple obedience to -unquestioned authority,” one steps suddenly into that “vast world of -adult perception, pierced deep by flaring search-lights of partial -understanding.”</p> - -<p>The child has an utter sense of security; childhood is unconscious even -that it is alive. It has neither fears nor anxieties, because it is -incorrigibly poetical. It idealizes everything that it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> touches. It is -unfair, perhaps, to blame parents and teachers, as we sometimes do in -youth, for consciously biasing our child-minds in a falsely idealistic -direction; for the child will infallibly idealize even his poorest of -experiences. His broken glimpses and anticipations of his own future -show him everything that is orderly, happy, and beautifully fit. He -sees his grown-up life as old age, itself a sort of reversed childhood, -sees its youth. The passing of childhood into youth is, therefore, -like suddenly being turned from the cosy comfort of a warm fireside to -shift for one’s self in the world. Life becomes in a moment a process -of seeking and searching. It appears as a series of blind alleys, all -equally and magnificently alluring, all equally real and possible. -Youth’s thirst for experience is simply that it wants to be everything, -do everything and have everything that is presented to its imagination. -Youth has suddenly become conscious of life. It has eaten of the tree -of the knowledge of good and evil.</p> - -<p>As the world breaks in on a boy with its crashing thunder, he has a -feeling of expansion, of sudden wisdom and sudden care. The atoms of -things seem to be disintegrating around him. Then come the tearings and -the grindings and the wrenchings,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span> and in that conflict the radical or -the poet is made. If the youth takes the struggle easily, or if his -guardian angels have arranged things so that there is no struggle, -then he becomes of that conservative stripe that we have renounced -above. But if he takes it hard,—if his struggles are not only with -outward material conditions, but also with inner spiritual ones,—then -he is likely to achieve that gift of the gods, perpetual youth. The -great paradox is that it is the sleek and easy who are prematurely and -permanently old. Struggle brings youth rather than old age.</p> - -<p>In this struggle, thus beset with problems and crises, all calling -for immediate solution, youth battles its way into a sort of -rationalization. Out of its inchoateness emerges a sort of order; the -disturbing currents of impulse are gradually resolved into a character. -But it is essential that that resolution be a natural and not a -forced one. I always have a suspicion of boys who talk of “planning -their lives.” I feel that they have won a precocious maturity in some -illegitimate way. For to most of us youth is so imperious that those -who can escape the hurly-burly and make a sudden leap into the prudent, -quiet waters of life seem to have missed youth altogether. And I do -not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> mean here the hurly-burly of passion so much as of ideals. It -seems so much better, as well as more natural, to expose one’s self to -the full fury of the spiritual elements, keeping only one purpose in -view,—to be strong and sincere,—than to pick one’s way cautiously -along.</p> - -<p>The old saying is the truest philosophy of youth: “Seek ye first -the Kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you.” -How impossible for a youth who is really young to plan his life -consciously! This process that one sometimes sees of cautiously -becoming acquainted with various ideas and systems, and then choosing -deliberately those that will be best adapted to a concerted plan, -is almost uncanny. This confidence in one’s immunity to ideas that -would tend to disarrange the harmony of the scheme is mystifying and -irritating. Youth talks of “getting” or “accepting” ideas! But youth -does not get ideas,—ideas get him! He may try to keep himself in a -state of spiritual health, but that is the only immunity he can rely -upon. He cannot really tell what idea or appeal is going to seize upon -him next and make off with him.</p> - -<p>We speak as if falling in love were a unique phase in the life of -youth. It is rather the pattern<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> and symbol of a youth’s whole life. -This sudden, irresistible seizure of enthusiasm that he cannot explain, -that he does not want to explain, what is it but the aspect of all his -experience? The youth sees a pretty face, reads a noble book, hears a -stirring appeal for a cause, meets a charming friend, gets fired with -the concept of science, or of social progress, becomes attracted to -a profession,—the emotion that fixes his enthusiasm and lets out a -flood of emotion in that direction, and lifts him into another world, -is the same in every case. Youth glories in the sudden servitude, -is content to let the new master lead wherever he will; and is as -surprised as any one at the momentous and startling results. Youth is -vulnerable at every point. Prudence is really a hateful thing in youth. -A prudent youth is prematurely old. It is infinitely better, I repeat, -for a boy to start ahead in life in a spirit of moral adventure, -trusting for sustenance to what he may find by the wayside, than to -lay in laboriously, before starting, a stock of principles for life, -and burden himself so heavily for the journey that he dare not, and -indeed cannot, leave his pack unguarded by the roadside to survey the -fair prospects on either hand. Youth at its best is this constant -susceptibility<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> to the new, this constant eagerness to try experiments.</p> - -<p>It is here that youth’s quarrel with the elder generation comes in. -There is no scorn so fierce as that of youth for the inertia of -older men. The lack of adjustment to the ideas of youth’s elders and -betters, one of the permanent tragedies of life, is certainly the most -sensational aspect of youth. That the inertia of the older people is -wisdom, and not impotence, is a theory that you will never induce -youth to believe for an instant. The stupidity and cruelties of their -management of the world fill youth with an intolerant rage. In every -contact with its elders, youth finds them saying, in the words of -Kipling:—</p> - -<p class="poetry p0"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“We shall not acknowledge that old stars fade and alien planets arise,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That the sere bush buds or the desert blooms or the ancient well-head dries,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or any new compass wherewith new men adventure ’neath new skies.”</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>Youth sees with almost a passionate despair its plans and dreams and -enthusiasms, that it knows so well to be right and true and noble, -brushed calmly aside, not because of any sincere searching into their -practicability, but because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> of the timidity and laziness of the old, -who sit in the saddle and ride mankind. And nothing torments youth so -much as to have this inertia justified on the ground of experience. -For youth thinks that it sees through this sophism of “experience.” -It sees in it an all-inclusive attempt to give the world a character, -and excuse the older generation for the mistakes and failures which it -has made. What is this experience, youth asks, but a slow accretion of -inhibitions, a learning, at its best, not to do again something which -ought not to have been done in the first place?</p> - -<p>Old men cherish a fond delusion that there is something mystically -valuable in mere quantity of experience. Now the fact is, of course, -that it is the young people who have all the really valuable -experience. It is they who have constantly to face new situations, to -react constantly to new aspects of life, who are getting the whole -beauty and terror and cruelty of the world in its fresh and undiluted -purity. It is only the interpretation of this first collision with life -that is worth anything. For the weakness of experience is that it so -soon gets stereotyped; without new situations and crises it becomes so -conventional as to be practically unconscious. Very few people get any -really<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> new experience after they are twenty-five, unless there is a -real change of environment. Most older men live only in the experience -of their youthful years.</p> - -<p>If we get few ideas after we are twenty-five, we get few ideals after -we are twenty. A man’s spiritual fabric is woven by that time, and -his “experience,” if he keeps true to himself, consists simply in -broadening and enriching it, but not in adding to it in arithmetical -proportion as the years roll on, in the way that the wise teachers of -youth would have us believe.</p> - -<p>But few men remain quite true to themselves. As their youthful ideals -come into contact with the harshnesses of life, the brightest succumb -and go to the wall. And the hardy ones that survive contain all that -is vital in the future experience of the man,—so that the ideas of -older men seem often the curious parodies or even burlesques of what -must have been the cleaner and more potent ideas of their youth. -Older people seem often to be resting on their oars, drifting on the -spiritual current that youth has set going in life, or “coasting” on -the momentum that the strong push of youth has given them.</p> - -<p>There is no great gulf between youth and middle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> age, as there is -between childhood and youth. Adults are little more than grown-up -children. This is what makes their arrogance so insulting,—the -assumption that they have acquired any impartiality or objectivity of -outlook, and have any better standards for judging life. Their ideas -are wrong, and grow progressively more wrong as they become older. -Youth, therefore, has no right to be humble. The ideals it forms will -be the highest it will ever have, the insight the clearest, the ideas -the most stimulating. The best that it can hope to do is to conserve -those resources, and keep its flame of imagination and daring bright.</p> - -<p>Therefore, it is perhaps unfair to say that the older generation rules -the world. Youth rules the world, but only when it is no longer young. -It is a tarnished, travestied youth that is in the saddle in the person -of middle age. Old age lives in the delusion that it has improved and -rationalized its youthful ideas by experience and stored-up wisdom, -when all it has done is to damage them more or less—usually more. And -the tragedy of life is that the world is run by these damaged ideals. -That is why our ideas are always a generation behind our actual social -conditions. Press, pulpit, and bar teem with the radicalisms of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> -thirty years ago. The dead hand of opinions formed in their college -days clutches our leaders and directs their activities in this new and -strangely altered physical and spiritual environment. Hence grievous -friction, maladjustment, social war. And the faster society moves, the -more terrific is the divergence between what is actually going on and -what public opinion thinks is actually going on. It is only the young -who are actually contemporaneous; they interpret what they see freshly -and without prejudice; their vision is always the truest, and their -interpretation always the justest.</p> - -<p>Youth does not simply repeat the errors and delusions of the past, as -the elder generation with a tolerant cynicism likes to think; it is -ever laying the foundations for the future. What it thinks so wildly -now will be orthodox gospel thirty years hence. The ideas of the young -are the living, the potential ideas; those of the old, the dying, or -the already dead. This is why it behooves youth to be not less radical, -but even more radical, than it would naturally be. It must be not -simply contemporaneous, but a generation ahead of the times, so that -when it comes into control of the world, it will be precisely right -and coincident with the conditions of the world as it finds them.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> If -the youth of to-day could really achieve this miracle, they would have -found the secret of “perpetual youth.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In this conflict between youth and its elders, youth is the incarnation -of reason pitted against the rigidity of tradition. Youth puts the -remorseless questions to everything that is old and established,—Why? -What is this thing good for? And when it gets the mumbled, evasive -answers of the defenders, it applies its own fresh, clean spirit of -reason to institutions, customs, and ideas, and, finding them stupid, -inane, or poisonous, turns instinctively to overthrow them and build in -their place the things with which its visions teem.</p> - -<p>“This constant return to purely logical activity with each generation -keeps the world supplied with visionaries and reformers, that is -to say, with saviors and leaders. New movements are born in young -minds, and lack of experience enables youth eternally to recall -civilization to sound bases. The passing generation smiles and -cracks its weather-worn jokes about youthful effusions: but this -new, ever-hopeful, ever-daring, ever-doing, youthful enthusiasm, -ever returning to the logical bases of religion, ethics, politics, -business,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> art, and social life,—this is the salvation of the -world.”<span class="fnanchor" id="fna1"><a href="#fn1">[1]</a></span></p> - -<p>This was the youthful radicalism of Jesus, and his words sound across -the ages “calling civilization ever back to sound bases.” With him, -youth eternally reproaches the ruling generation,—“O ye of little -faith!” There is so much to be done in the world; so much could be done -if you would only dare! You seem to be doing so little to cure the -waste and the muddle and the lethargy all around you. Don’t you really -care, or are you only faint-hearted? If you do not care, it must be -because you do not know; let us point out to you the shockingness of -exploitation, and the crass waste of human personality all around you -in this modern world. And if you are faint-hearted, we will supply the -needed daring and courage, and lead you straight to the attack.</p> - -<p>These are the questions and challenges that the youth puts to his -elders, and it is their shifty evasions and quibblings that confound -and dishearten him. He becomes intolerant, and can see all classes in -no other light than that of accomplices in a great crime. If they only -knew! Swept along himself in an irrationality of energy, he does not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> see the small part that reason plays in the intricate social life, and -only gradually does he come to view life as a “various and splendid -disorder of forces,” and exonerate weak human nature from some of its -heavy responsibility. But this insight brings him to appreciate and -almost to reverence the forces of science and conscious social progress -that are grappling with that disorder, and seeking to tame it.</p> - -<p>Youth is the leaven that keeps all these questioning, testing attitudes -fermenting in the world. If it were not for this troublesome activity -of youth, with its hatred of sophisms and glosses, its insistence on -things as they are, society would die from sheer decay. It is the -policy of the older generation as it gets adjusted to the world to -hide away the unpleasant things where it can, or preserve a conspiracy -of silence and an elaborate pretense that they do not exist. But -meanwhile the sores go on festering just the same. Youth is the drastic -antiseptic. It will not let its elders cry peace, where there is no -peace. Its fierce sarcasms keep issues alive in the world until they -are settled right. It drags skeletons from closets and insists that -they be explained. No wonder the older generation fears and distrusts -the younger.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> Youth is the avenging Nemesis on its trail. “It is young -men who provide the logic, decision, and enthusiasm necessary to -relieve society of the crushing burden that each generation seeks to -roll upon the shoulders of the next.”</p> - -<p>Our elders are always optimistic in their views of the present, -pessimistic in their views of the future; youth is pessimistic toward -the present and gloriously hopeful for the future. And it is this -hope which is the lever of progress,—one might say, the only lever -of progress. The lack of confidence which the ruling generation feels -in the future leads to that distrust of the machinery of social -reform and social organization, or the use of means for ends, which -is so characteristic of it to-day. Youth is disgusted with such -sentimentality. It can never understand that curious paralysis which -seizes upon its elders in the face of urgent social innovations; that -refusal to make use of a perfectly definite programme or administrative -scheme which has worked elsewhere. Youth concludes that its elders -discountenance the machinery, the means, because they do not really -believe in the end, and adds another count to the indictment.</p> - -<p>Youth’s attitude is really the scientific attitude.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> Do not be afraid -to make experiments, it says. You cannot tell how anything will work -until you have tried it. Suppose science confined its interests to -those things that have been tried and tested in the world, how far -should we get? It is possible indeed that your experiments may produce -by accident a social explosion, but we do not give up chemistry because -occasionally a wrong mixture of chemicals blows up a scientist in a -laboratory, or medical research because an investigator contracts the -disease he is fighting. The whole philosophy of youth is summed up in -the word, Dare! Take chances and you will attain! The world has nothing -to lose but its chains—and its own soul to gain!</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I have dwelt too long on the conflicts of youth. For it has also its -still places, where it becomes introspective and thinks about its -destiny and the meaning of its life. In our artificial civilization -many young people at twenty-five are still on the threshold of -activity. As one looks back, then, over eight or nine years, one sees -a panorama of seemingly formidable length. So many crises, so many -startling surprises, so many vivid joys and harrowing humiliations and -disappointments, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> one feels startlingly old; one wonders if one -will ever feel so old again. And in a sense, youth at twenty-five is -older than it will ever be again. For if time is simply a succession -of incidents in our memory, we seem to have an eternity behind us. -Middle-aged people feel no such appalling stretch of time behind them. -The years fade out one by one; often the pressure of life leaves -nothing of reality or value but the present moment. Some of youth’s -elders seem to enjoy almost a new babyhood, while youth has constantly -with it in all its vividness and multifariousness that specious wealth -of abrupt changes, climaxes and disillusions that have crowded the -short space of its life.</p> - -<p>We often envy the sunny noon of the thirties and forties. These elders -of ours change so little that they seem to enjoy an endless summer -of immortality. They are so placid, so robust, so solidly placed in -life, seemingly so much further from dissolution than we. Youth seems -curiously fragile. Perhaps it is because all beauty has something -of the precarious and fleeting about it. A beautiful girl seems too -delicate and fine to weather a long life; she must be burning away -too fast. This wistfulness and haunting pathos of life is very real -to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> youth. It feels the rush of time past it. Only youth can sing of -the passing glory of life, and then only in its full tide. The older -people’s lament for the vanished days of youth may be orthodox, but it -rings hollow. For our greatest fears are those of presentiment, and -youth is haunted not only by the feeling of past change, but by the -presentiment of future change.</p> - -<p>Middle age has passed the waters; it has become static and placid. -Its wistfulness for youth is unreal, and a forced sentimentality. -In the same breath that it cries for its youth it mocks at youth’s -preoccupation with the thought of death. The lugubrious harmonies of -young poets are a favorite joke. But the feeling of the precariousness -of life gives the young man an intimate sense of its preciousness; -nothing shocks him quite so much as that it should be ruthlessly and -instantly snatched away. Middle age has acclimated itself to the -earth, has settled down familiarly in it, and is easily be fooled into -thinking that it will live here forever, just as, when we are settled -comfortably in a house, we cannot conceive ourselves as ever being -dislodged. But youth takes a long time to get acclimated. It has seen -so many mysteries and dangers about it, that the presence of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> -Greatest Mystery and the Greatest Danger must be the most portentous of -things to it.</p> - -<p>It is this sense of the preciousness of his life, perhaps, that makes -a youth so impatient of discipline. Youth can never think of itself -as anything but master of things. Its visions are a curious blend of -devotion and egotism. Its enthusiasm for a noble cause is apt to be all -mixed up with a picture of itself leading the cohorts to victory. The -youth never sees himself as a soldier in the ranks, but as the leader, -bringing in some long-awaited change by a brilliant <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coup d’état</i>, -or writing and speaking words of fire that win a million hearts at a -stroke. And he fights shy of discipline in smaller matters. He does not -submit willingly to a course of work that is not immediately appealing, -even for the sake of the glorious final achievement. Fortunate it is -for the young man, perhaps, that there are so many organs of coercion -all ready in the world for him,—economic need, tradition, and subtle -influence of family ambition,—to seize him and nail him fast to some -profession or trade or activity, before he is aware, or has time to -protest or draw back!</p> - -<p>It is another paradox of youth that, with all its fine enthusiasm, it -should accomplish so little.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> But this seeming aimlessness of purpose -is the natural result of that deadly fear of having one’s wings clipped -by discipline. Infinitely finer, it seems to youth, is it to soar -freely in the air, than to run on a track along the ground! And perhaps -youth is right. In his intellectual life, the young man’s scorn for the -pedantic and conventional amounts almost to an obsession. It is only -the men of imagination and inspiration that he will follow at all. But -most of these professors, these lawyers, these preachers,—what has -been their training and education, he says, but a gradual losing of -the grip of life, a slow withdrawing into an ideal world of phrases -and concepts and artificial attitudes? Their thought seems like the -endless spinning out of a spider’s web, or like the camel living upon -the fat of his own hump. The youth fears this sophistication of thought -as he would fear losing his soul. And this seeming perversity toward -discipline is often simply his refusal to let a system submerge his own -real and direct reactions to his observation and experience.</p> - -<p>And yet as he studies more and more, and acquires a richer material -for thought, a familiarity with words, and a skill in handling them, -he can see the insidious temptation that comes to thinking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> men to -move all their spiritual baggage over into that fascinating unreal -world. And he admires almost with reverence the men who have been able -to break through the terrible crust, and have got their thinking into -close touch with life again; or, best of all, those who have kept -their thinking constantly checked up with life, and are occupied with -interpreting what they see about them. Youth will never be able to see -that this is not the only true and right business of thought.</p> - -<p>It is the glory of the present age that in it one can be young. -Our times give no check to the radical tendencies of youth. On the -contrary, they give the directest stimulation. A muddle of a world and -a wide outlook combine to inspire us to the bravest of radicalisms. -Great issues have been born in the last century, and are now loose -in the world. There is a radical philosophy that illuminates our -environment, gives us terms in which to express what we see, and -coördinates our otherwise aimless reactions.</p> - -<p>In this country, it is true, where a certain modicum of free -institutions, and a certain specious enfranchisement of the human -spirit have been achieved, youth may be blinded and drugged into an -acquiescence in conditions, and its enthusiasm<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> may easily run into a -glorification of the present. In the face of the more urgent ideals -that are with us, it may be inspired by vague ideas of “liberty,” or -“the rights of man,” and fancy it is truly radical when it is but -living on the radicalisms of the past. Our political thought moves so -slowly here that even our radicalism is traditional. We breathe in with -the air about us the belief that we have attained perfection, and we do -not examine things with our own eyes.</p> - -<p>But more and more of the clear-sighted youth are coming to see the -appalling array of things that still need to be done. The radical young -man of to-day has no excuse for veering round to the conservative -standpoint. Cynicism cannot touch him. For it is the beauty of the -modern radical philosophy that the worse the world treats a man, the -more it convinces him of the truth of his radical interpretation of -it. Disillusion comes, not through hard blows, but by the insidious -sappings of worldly success. And there never was a time when there -were so many radical young people who cared little about that worldly -success.</p> - -<p>The secret of life is then that this fine youthful spirit should -never be lost. Out of the turbulence of youth should come this fine -precipitate—a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> sane, strong, aggressive spirit of daring and doing. It -must be a flexible, growing spirit, with a hospitality to new ideas, -and a keen insight into experience. To keep one’s reactions warm and -true, is to have found the secret of perpetual youth, and perpetual -youth is salvation.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span></p> - -<p class="footnote" id="fn1"><a href="#fna1">[1]</a> Earl Barnes.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span></p> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II<br />THE TWO GENERATIONS</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> - - -<p>It is always interesting to see ourselves through the eyes of others, -even though that view may be most unflattering. The recent “Letter to -the Rising Generation,”<span class="fnanchor" id="fna2"><a href="#fn2">[2]</a></span> if I may judge from the well-thumbed and -underscored copy of the “Atlantic” which I picked up in the College -Library, has been read with keen interest by many of my fellows, and -doubtless, too, with a more emphatic approval, by our elders. The -indictment of an entire generation must at its best be a difficult -task, but the author of the article has performed it with considerable -circumspection, skirting warily the vague and the abstract, and passing -from the judge’s bench to the pulpit with a facility that indicates -that justice is to be tempered with mercy. The rather appalling picture -which she draws of past generations holding their breath to see what -my contemporaries will make of themselves suggests, too, that we are -still on probation, and so, before final judgment is passed, it may be -pertinent <span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>to attempt, if not, from the hopeless nature of the case, a defense, at -least an extenuation of ourselves.</p> - -<p>The writer’s charge is pretty definite. It is to the effect that the -rising generation, in its reaction upon life and the splendid world -which has been handed down to it, shows a distinct softening of human -fibre, spiritual, intellectual, and physical, in comparison with the -generations which have preceded it. The most obvious retort to this -is, of course, that the world in which we find ourselves is in no way -of our own making, so that if our reactions to it are unsatisfactory, -or our rebellious attitude toward it distressing, it is at least a -plausible assumption that the world itself, despite the responsible -care which the passing generation bestowed upon it, may be partly to -blame.</p> - -<p>But this, after all, is only begging the question. The author herself -admits that we are the victims of educational experiments, and, in any -event, each generation is equally guiltless of its world. We recognize -with her that the complexity of the world we face only makes more -necessary our bracing up for the fray. Her charge that we are not doing -this overlooks, however, certain aspects<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> of the situation which go far -to explain our seemingly deplorable qualities.</p> - -<p>The most obvious fact which presents itself in this connection is -that the rising generation has practically brought itself up. School -discipline, since the abolition of corporal punishment, has become -almost nominal; church discipline practically nil; and even home -discipline, although retaining the forms, is but an empty shell. -The modern child from the age of ten is almost his own master. The -helplessness of the modern parent face to face with these conditions is -amusing. What generation but the one to which our critic belongs could -have conceived of “mothers’ clubs” conducted by the public schools, -in order to teach mothers how to bring up their children! The modern -parent has become a sort of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">parlement</i> registering the decrees of -a Grand Monarque, and occasionally protesting, though usually without -effect, against a particularly drastic edict.</p> - -<p>I do not use this assertion as a text for an indictment of the -preceding generation; I am concerned, like our critic, only with -results. These are a peculiarly headstrong and individualistic -character among the young people, and a complete bewilderment on the -part of the parents.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> The latter frankly do not understand their -children, and their lack of understanding and of control over them -means a lack of the moral guidance which, it has always been assumed, -young people need until they are safely launched in the world. The two -generations misunderstand each other as they never did before. This -fact is a basal one to any comprehension of the situation.</p> - -<p>Now let us see how the rising generation brings itself up. It is -perfectly true that the present-day secondary education, that curious -fragmentary relic of a vitally humanistic age, does not appeal to them. -They will tell you frankly that they do not see any use in it. Having -brought themselves up, they judge utility by their own standards, and -not by those of others. Might not the fact that past generations went -with avidity to their multiplication table, their Latin Grammar, and -their English Bible, whereas the rising generation does not, imply that -the former found some intellectual sustenance in those things which the -latter fails to find? The appearance of industrial education on the -field, and the desperate attempts of educational theory to make the old -things palatable which fifty years ago were gulped down raw, argues, -too, that there may be a grain of truth in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> our feeling. Only after a -serious examination of our intellectual and spiritual viands should -our rejection of them be attributed to a disordered condition of our -stomachs.</p> - -<p>The charge that the rising generation betrays an extraordinary love -of pleasure is also true. The four years’ period of high-school life -among the children of the comfortable classes is, instead of being a -preparation for life, literally one round of social gayety. But it is -not likely that this is because former generations were less eager -for pleasure, but rather because they were more rigidly repressed -by parents and custom, while their energy was directed into other -channels, religious, for instance. But now, with every barrier removed, -we have the unique spectacle of a youthful society where there is -perfectly free intercourse, an unforced social life of equals, in -which there are bound to develop educative influences of profound -significance. Social virtues will be learned better in such a society -than they can ever be from moral precepts. An important result of this -camaraderie is that the boy’s and the girl’s attitude toward life, -their spiritual outlook, has come to be the same. The line between the -two “spheres” has long disappeared in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> industrial classes; it is -now beginning to fade among the comfortable classes.</p> - -<p>Our critic has not seen that this avidity for pleasure is a natural -ebullition which, flaring up naturally, within a few years as naturally -subsides. It goes, too, without that ennui of over-stimulation; and -the fact that it has been will relieve us of the rising generation -from feeling that envy which invariably creeps into the tone of the -passing generation when they say, “We did not go such a pace when we -were young.” After this period of pleasure has begun to subside, there -ensues for those who have not been prematurely forced into industry, a -strange longing for independence. This feeling is most striking among -the girls of the rising generation, and crops up in the most unexpected -places, in families in the easiest circumstances, where to the -preceding generation the idea of caring to do anything except stay at -home and get married, if possible, would have been inconceivable. They -want somehow to feel that they are standing on their own feet. Like -their brothers, they begin to chafe under the tutelage, nominal though -it is, of the home. As a result, these daughters of the comfortable -classes go into trained nursing, an occupation which twenty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> years ago -was deemed hardly respectable; or study music, or do settlement work, -or even public-school teaching. Of course, girls who have had to earn -their own living have long done these things; the significant point is -that the late rapid increase in these professions comes from those who -have a comfortable niche in society all prepared for them. I do not -argue that this proves any superior quality of character on the part of -this generation, but it does at least fail to suggest a desire to lead -lives of ignoble sloth.</p> - -<p>The undergraduate feels this spirit, too. He often finds himself -vaguely dissatisfied with what he has acquired, and yet does not -quite know what else would have been better for him. He stands on the -threshold of a career, with a feeling of boundless possibility, and yet -often without a decided bent toward any particular thing. One could do -almost anything were one given the opportunity, and yet, after all, -just what shall one do? Our critics have some very hard things to say -about this attitude. They attribute it to an egotistic philosophy, -imperfectly absorbed. But may it not rather be the result of that -absence of repression in our bringing-up, of that rigid moulding which -made our grandfathers what they were?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> - -<p>It must be remembered that we of the rising generation have to work -this problem out alone. Pastors, teachers, and parents flutter -aimlessly about with their ready-made formulas, but somehow these -are less efficacious than they used to be. I doubt if any generation -was ever thrown quite so completely on its own resources as ours -is. Through it all, the youth as well as the girl feels that he -wants to count for something in life. His attitude, which seems so -egotistical to his elders, is the result of this and of a certain -expansive outlook, rather than of any love of vain-glory. He has never -known what it was to be moulded, and he shrinks a little perhaps -from going through that process. The traditional professions have -lost some of their automatic appeal. They do conventionalize, and -furthermore, the youth, looking at many of their representatives, -the men who “count” in the world to-day, may be pardoned if he feels -sometimes as if he did not want to count in just that way. The youth -“who would not take special training because it would interfere with -his sacred individuality” is an unfair caricature of this weighing, -testing attitude toward the professions. The elder generation should -remember that life is no longer the charted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> sea that it was to -our grandfathers, and be accordingly lenient with us of the rising -generation.</p> - -<p>Business, to the youth standing on the threshold of life, presents a -similar dilemma. Too often it seems like a choice between the routine -of a mammoth impersonal corporation and chicanery of one kind or -another, or the living by one’s wits within the pale of honesty. The -predatory individualist, the “hard-as-nails” specimen, does exist, of -course, but we are justified in ignoring him here; for, however much -his tribe may increase, it is certain that it will not be his kind, but -the more spiritually sensitive, the amorphous ones of the generation, -who will impress some definite character upon the age, and ultimately -count for good or evil, as a social force. With these latter, it should -be noted that, although this is regarded as a mercenary age, the -question of gain, to an increasingly large number, has little to do -with the final decision.</p> - -<p>The economic situation in which we find ourselves, and to which not -only the free, of whom we have been speaking, but also the unfree of -the rising generation are obliged to react, is perhaps the biggest -factor in explaining our character. In this reaction the rising -generation has a very real<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> feeling of coming straight up against a -wall of diminishing opportunity. I do not see how it can be denied -that practical opportunity is less for this generation than it has -been for those preceding it. The man of fifty years ago, if he was -intellectually inclined, was able to get his professional training -at small expense, and usually under the personal guidance of his -elders; if commercially inclined, he could go into a small, settled, -self-respecting business house, practically a profession in itself -and a real school of character. If he had a broader outlook, there -was the developing West for him, or the growing industrialism of the -East. It looks, at least from this distance, as if opportunity were -easy for that generation. They had the double advantage of being -more circumscribed in their outlook, and of possessing more ready -opportunity at hand.</p> - -<p>But these times have passed forever. Nowadays, professional training is -lengthy and expensive; independent business requires big capital for -success; and there is no more West. It is still as true as ever that -the exceptional man will always “get there,” but now it is likely to be -only the exceptional man, whereas formerly all the able “got there,” -too. The only choice for the vast<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> majority of the young men of to-day -is between being swallowed up in the routine of a big corporation, and -experiencing the vicissitudes of a small business, which is now an -uncertain, rickety affair, usually living by its wits, in the hands -of men who are forced to subordinate everything to self-preservation, -and in which the employee’s livelihood is in constant jeopardy. The -growing consciousness of this situation explains many of the peculiar -characteristics of our generation.</p> - -<p>It has a direct bearing on the question of responsibility. Is it -not sound doctrine that one becomes responsible only by being made -responsible for something? Now, what incentive to responsibility is -produced by the industrial life of to-day? In the small business there -is the frank struggle for gain between employer and employee, a contest -of profits vs. wages, each trying to get the utmost possible out of the -other. The only kind of responsibility that this can possibly breed -is the responsibility for one’s own subsistence. In the big business, -the employee is simply a small part of a big machine; his work -counts for so little that he can rarely be made to feel any intimate -responsibility for it.</p> - -<p>Then, too, our haphazard industrial system<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> offers such magnificent -opportunities to a young man to get into the wrong place. He is forced -by necessity to go early, without the least training or interest, into -the first work that offers itself. The dull, specialized routine of -the modern shop or office, so different from the varied work and the -personal touch which created interest in the past, is the last thing -on earth that will mould character or produce responsibility. When the -situation with an incentive appears, however, we are as ready as any -generation, I believe, to meet it.</p> - -<p>I have seen too many young men, of the usual futile bringing-up and -negligible training, drift idly about from one “job” to another, -without apparent ambition, until something happened to be presented -to them which had a spark of individuality about it, whereupon they -faced about and threw themselves into the task with an energy that -brought success and honor,—I have seen too much of this not to wonder, -somewhat impiously perhaps, whether this boasted character of our -fathers was not rather the result of their coming into contact with -the proper stimulus at the proper time, than of any tougher, grittier -strain in their spiritual fibre. Those among our elders, who, deploring -Socialism, insist so strenuously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> on the imperfections of human nature, -ought not to find fault with the theory that frail humanity is under -the necessity of receiving the proper stimulus before developing a good -character or becoming responsible.</p> - -<p>Nor is the rising generation any the less capable of effort when -conditions call it forth. I wonder how our critic accounts for the -correspondence schools which have sprung up so abundantly within the -past fifteen years. They are patronized by large numbers of young men -and women who have had little academic training and have gone early -into industry. It is true that the students do not spend their time on -the Latin grammar; they devote themselves to some kind of technical -course which they have been led to believe will qualify them for a -better position. But the fact that they are thus willing to devote -their spare time to study certainly does not indicate a lack of effort. -Rather, it is the hardest kind of effort, for it is directed toward no -immediate end, and, more than that, it is superimposed on the ordinary -work, which is usually quite arduous enough to fatigue the youth.</p> - -<p>Young apprentices in any branch where there is some kind of technical -or artistic appeal, such as mechanics or architecture, show an almost<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> -incredible capacity of effort, often spending, as I have seen them -do, whole days over problems. I know too a young man who, appointed -very young to political office, found that the law would be useful -to him, and travels every evening to a near-by city to take courses. -His previous career had been most inglorious, well calculated by its -aimlessness to ruin any “character”; but the incentive was applied, and -he proved quite capable of putting forth a surprising amount of steady -effort.</p> - -<p>Our critics are perhaps misled by the fact that these young men do -not announce with a blare of trumpets that they are about to follow -in the footsteps of an Edison or a Webster. It must be admitted that -even such men as I have cited do still contrive to work into their -time a surprising amount of pleasure. But the whole situation shows -conclusively, I think, that our author has missed the point when she -says that the rising generation shows a real softening of the human -fibre. It is rather that we have the same reserves of ability and -effort, but that from the complex nature of the economic situation -these reserves are not unlocked so early or so automatically as with -former generations.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span></p> - -<p>The fact that our fathers did not need correspondence schools or night -schools, or such things, implies either that they were not so anxious -as we to count in the world, or that success was an easier matter -in their day, either of which conclusions furnishes a pretty good -extenuation of our apparent incapacity. We cannot but believe that our -difficulties are greater in this generation; it is hard to see that the -effort we put forth to overcome these difficulties is not proportional -to that increase. I am aware that to blame your surroundings when the -fault lies in your own character is the one impiety which rouses the -horror of present-day moral teachers. Can it not count to us for good, -then, that most of us, while coming theoretically to believe that this -economic situation explains so much of our trouble, yet continue to act -as if our deficiencies were all our own fault?</p> - -<p>Our critics are misled by the fact that we do not talk about -unselfishness and self-sacrifice and duty, as their generation -apparently used to do, and conclude that we do not know what these -things mean. It is true that we do not fuss and fume about our souls, -or tend our characters like a hot-house plant. This is a changing, -transitional<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> age, and our view is outward rather than inward. In an -age of newspapers, free libraries, and cheap magazines, we necessarily -get a broader horizon than the passing generation had. We see what is -going on in the world, and we get the clash of different points of -view, to an extent which was impossible to our fathers. We cannot be -blamed for acquiring a suspicion of ideals, which, however powerful -their appeal once was, seem singularly impotent now, or if we seek for -motive forces to replace them, or for new terms in which to restate -the world. We have an eagerness to understand the world in which we -live that amounts almost to a passion. We want to get behind the -scenes, to see how the machinery of the modern world actually works. -We are curious to learn what other people are thinking, and to get -at the forces that have produced their point of view. We dabble in -philanthrophy as much from curiosity to see how people live as from any -feeling of altruism. We read all sorts of strange philosophies to get -the personal testimony of men who are interpreting the world. In the -last analysis, we have a passion to understand why people act as they -do.</p> - -<p>We have, as a result, become impatient with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> conventional -explanations of the older generation. We have retained from childhood -the propensity to see through things, and to tell the truth with -startling frankness. This must, of course, be very disconcerting to -a generation, so much of whose activity seems to consist in glossing -over the unpleasant things or hiding the blemishes on the fair face -of civilization. There are too many issues evaded which we would -like to meet. Many of us find, sooner or later, that the world is a -very different sort of place from what our carefully deodorized and -idealized education would have us believe.</p> - -<p>When we find things simply not as they are painted, is it any wonder -that we turn to the new prophets rather than to the old? We are more -than half confident that the elder generation does not itself really -believe all the conventional ideals which it seeks to force upon us, -and much of our presumption is a result of the contempt we naturally -feel for such timorousness. Too many of your preachers seem to be -whistling simply to keep up your courage. The plain truth is that the -younger generation is acquiring a positive faith, in contact with -which the elder generation with its nerveless negations feels its -helplessness without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> knowing just what to do about it except to scold -the young.</p> - -<p>This positive aspect is particularly noticeable in the religion of the -rising generation. As our critic says, the religious thinking of the -preceding generation was destructive and uncertain. We are demanding a -definite faith, and our spiritual centre is rapidly shifting from the -personal to the social in religion. Not personal salvation, but social; -not our own characters, but the character of society, is our interest -and concern. We feel social injustice as our fathers felt personal sin. -Settlement work and socialist propaganda, things done fifty years ago -only by rare and heroic souls like Kingsley, Ruskin, and Maurice, are -now the commonplaces of the undergraduate.</p> - -<p>The religion that will mean anything to the rising generation will be -based on social ideals. An essay like ex-President Eliot’s “Religion -of the Future,” which in a way synthesizes science and history and -these social ideals and gives them the religious tinge which every age -demands, supplies a real working religious platform to many a young -man and woman of the rising generation, and an inspiration of which -our elders can form no conception. Perhaps it is unfair to call this -religion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> at all. Perhaps it is simply the scientific attitude toward -the world. But I am sure that it is more than this; I am sure that -it is the scientific attitude tinged with the religious that will be -ours of the rising generation. We find that we cannot keep apart our -religion, our knowledge, our practice, and our hopes in water-tight -compartments, as our ancestors did. We are beginning to show an -incorrigible tendency to work our spiritual assimilations into one -intelligible, constructive whole.</p> - -<p>It is to this attitude rather than to a softening of fibre that I think -we may lay our growing disinclination to deify sacrifice and suffering. -A young chemistry student said to me the other day, “Science means that -nothing must be wasted!” This idea somehow gets mixed up with human -experience, and we come to believe that human life and happiness are -things that must not be wasted. Might it not be that such a belief that -human waste of life and happiness was foolish and unnecessary would -possibly be of some avail in causing that waste to disappear? And one -of the most inspiring of the prophets to the rising generation, William -James, has told us that certain “moral equivalents” of these things are -possible<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> which will prevent that incurable decaying of fibre which the -elder generation so anxiously fears.</p> - -<p>Another result of this attitude is our growing belief in political -machinery. We are demanding of our preachers that they reduce quality -to quantity. “Stop talking about liberty and justice and love, and show -us institutions, or concerted attempts to model institutions that shall -be free or just or lovely,” we cry. You have been trying so long to -reform the world by making men “good,” and with such little success, -that we may be pardoned if we turn our attention to the machinery of -society, and give up for a time the attempt to make the operators of -that machinery strictly moral. Indeed, the charm of Socialism to so -many of the rising generation is just that scientific aspect of it, -its claim of historical basis, and its very definite and concrete -organization for the attainment of its ends. A philosophy which gives -an illuminating interpretation of the present, and a vision of the -future, with a definitely crystallized plan of action with concrete -methods, however unsound it may all be, can hardly be said to appeal -simply to the combination of “a weak head, a soft heart, and a desire -to shirk.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span></p> - -<p>Placed in such a situation as we are, and with such an attitude -toward the world, we are as interested as you and the breathless -generations behind you to see what destinies we shall work out for -ourselves. An unpleasantly large proportion of our energy is now -drained off in fighting the fetishes which you of the elder generation -have passed along to us, and which, out of some curious instinct of -self-preservation, you so vigorously defend. We, on the other hand, -are becoming increasingly doubtful whether you believe in yourselves -quite so thoroughly as you would have us think. Your words are very -brave, but the tone is hollow. Your mistrust of us, and your reluctance -to convey over to us any of your authority in the world, looks a -little too much like the fear and dislike that doubt always feels in -the presence of conviction, to be quite convincing. We believe in -ourselves; and this fact, we think, is prophetic for the future. We -have an indomitable feeling that we shall attain, or if not, that we -shall pave the way for a generation that shall attain.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile our constructive work is hampered by your distrust, while -you blame us for our lack of accomplishment. Is this an attitude -calculated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> to increase our responsibility and our self-respect? Would -it not be better in every way, more constructive and more fruitful, to -help us in our aspirations and endeavors, or, failing that, at least to -strive to understand just what those aspirations and endeavors are?</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span></p> - -<p class="footnote" id="fn2"><a href="#fna2">[2]</a> <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>, February, 1911.</p> - -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III<br />THE VIRTUES AND THE SEASONS OF LIFE</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> - - - -<p>Each season of life has its proper virtues, as each season of the year -has its own climate and temperature. If virtue is the excellent working -of the soul, then youth, middle age, and old age, all have their -peculiar ways of working excellently. When we speak of a virtuous life, -we should mean, not a life that has shown one single thread of motive -and attitude running through it, but rather one that has varied with -the seasons, as spring grows gently into summer and summer into autumn, -each season working excellently in respect to the tilling and harvest -of the soul. If it is a virtue to be contented in old age, it is no -virtue to be contented in youth; if it is a virtue for youth to be bold -and venturesome, it is the virtue of middle life to take heed and begin -to gather up the lines and nets so daringly cast by youth into the sea -of life. A virtuous life means a life responsive to its powers and its -opportunities, a life not of inhibitions, but of a straining up to -the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> limit of its strength. It means doing every year what is fitting -to be done at that year to enhance or conserve one’s own life or the -happiness of those around one. Virtue is a word that abolishes duty. -For duty has steadily fallen into worse and worse opprobrium; it has -come to mean nothing but effort and stress. It implies something that -is done rightly, but that cuts straight across the grain of all one’s -inclinations and motive forces. It is following the lines of greatest -resistance; it is the working of the moral machine with the utmost -friction possible. Now there is no doubt that the moral life involves -struggle and effort, but it should be the struggle of adequate choice, -and not of painful inhibition. We are coming to see that the most -effective things we do are those that have some idea of pleasure yoked -up with them. In the interests of moral efficiency, the ideal must be -the smooth and noiseless workings of the machine, and not the rough and -grinding movements that we have come to associate with the word “duty.” -For the emphasis on the negative duty we must substitute emphasis on -the positive virtue. For virtue is excellence of working, and all -excellence is pleasing. When we know what are the virtues appropriate -to each age of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> life, we can view the moral life in a new light. It -becomes not a claim upon us of painful obligation, but a stimulus to -excellent spontaneity and summons to self-expression.</p> - -<p>In childhood we acquire the spiritual goods that we shall take with -us through life; in youth we test our acquisitions and our tools, -selecting, criticizing, comparing; in old age, we put them away -gently into the attic of oblivion or retire them honorably, full of -years and service. Our ideas, however, of what those spiritual goods -were that childhood acquired have been very much confused. We have -imagined that we could give the child “the relish of right and wrong,” -as Montaigne calls it. The attempt has usually been made to train up -the child in the moral life, by telling him from his earliest years -what was right and what was wrong. It was supposed that in this way -he absorbed right principles that would be the guiding springs of -his youthful and later life. The only difficulty, of course, with -this theory is that the moral life hardly begins before the stresses -and crises of youth at all. For really moral activity implies choice -and it implies significant choice; and the choices of the child are -few in number and seldom significant. You can<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> tell a child that a -certain thing is wrong, and he will believe it, but his belief will be -a purely mechanical affair, an external idea, which is no more woven -into the stuff of his life than is one of those curious “post-hypnotic -suggestions,” that psychologists tell about, where the subject while -hypnotized is told to do something at a certain time after he awakes. -When the time comes he does it without any consciousness of the reason -and without any immediate motive. Now most moral ideas in a child’s -mind are exactly similar to these suggestions. They seem to operate -with infallible accuracy, and we say,—“What a good child!” As a fact -the poor child is as much under an alien spell as the subject of -the hypnotist. Now all this sort of hypnotized morality the younger -generation wants to have done with. It demands a morality that is -glowing with self-consciousness, that is healthy with intelligence. It -refuses to call the “good” child moral at all; it views him as a poor -little trained animal, that is doomed for the rest of his life to go -through mechanical motions and moral tricks at the crack of the whip -of a moral code or religious authority. From home and Sunday-school, -children of a slightly timid disposition get moral wounds, the scars of -which never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> heal. They enter a bondage from which they can never free -themselves; their moral judgment in youth is warped and blighted in a -thousand ways, and they pass through life, seemingly the most moral -of men and women, but actually having never known the zest of true -morality, the relish of right and wrong. The best intentions of parents -and teachers have turned their characters into unnatural channels from -which they cannot break, and fixed unwittingly upon them senseless -inhibitions and cautions which they find they cannot dissolve, even -when reason and common sense convince them that they are living under -an alien code. Looked upon from this light, childish goodness and -childish conscientiousness is an unhealthy and even criminal forcing -of the young plant, the hot-house bringing to maturity of a young soul -whose sole business is to grow and learn. When moral instruction is -given, a criminal advantage is taken of the child’s suggestibility, -and all possibility of an individual moral life, growing naturally -and spontaneously as the young soul meets the real emergencies and -problems that life will present to it, is lost. If, as we are coming -more and more to realize, the justification of knowledge is that it -helps us to get along with and enjoy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> and grapple with the world, so -the justification of virtue is that it enables us to get along with -and enjoy and grapple with the spiritual world of ideals and feelings -and qualities. We should be as careful about giving a child moral -ideas that will be of no practical use to him as we are in giving him -learning that will be of no use to him.</p> - -<p>The virtues of childhood, then, we shall not find in the moral realm. -The “good” child is not cultivated so much to-day as he was by the -former generation, whose one aim in education and religion was to bind -the young fast in the fetters of a puritan code; but he is still, in -well-brought-up families, an appalling phenomenon. The child, who at -the age of five has a fairly complete knowledge of what God wants -him and all around him to do and not to do, is an illustration of -the results of the confusion of thought that would make childhood -instead of youth the battle-ground of the moral life. We should not -dismiss such a child as quaint, for in him have been sowed the seeds -of a general obscurantism and conservatism that will spread like a -palsy over his whole life. The acceptance of moral judgments that -have no vital meaning to the young soul will mean in later life the -acceptance of ideas and prejudices in political<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> and religious and -social matters that are uncriticized and unexamined. The “good” child -grows up into the conventional bigoted man. The duties and tastes which -are inculcated into him in childhood, far from aiding the “excellent -workings of his soul,” clog and rust it, and prevent the fine free -expression of its individuality and genius. For the child has not -yet the material of experience that will enable him to get the sense -of values which is at the bottom of what we call the spiritual life. -And it is this sense that is so easily dulled, and that must be so -carefully protected against blunting. That the child cannot form -moral judgments for himself, however, does not mean that they must be -formed for him by others; it means that we must patiently wait until -he meets the world of vivid contrasts and shocks and emergencies that -is youth. It is not repairing his lack of moral sensitiveness to get -him to repeat parrot-like the clean-cut and easily learned taboos and -permissions of the people around him. To get him to do this is exactly -like training an animal to bolt any kind of food. The child, however, -has too weak a stomach to digest very much of the moral pabulum that -is fed him. The inevitable result is a moral indigestion, one form of -which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> is the once fashionable sense of sin. The youth, crammed with -uncriticized taboos delivered to him with the awful prestige of an -Almighty God, at a certain age revolts, and all the healthy values -of life turn sour within him. The cure for this spiritual dyspepsia -is called conversion, but it is a question whether the cure is not -often worse than the disease. For it usually means that the relish of -right and wrong, which had suddenly become a very real thing, has been -permanently perverted in a certain direction. By a spiritual operation, -the soul has been forced to digest all this strange food, and acquires -the ability to do so forever after. Those who do not suffer this -operation pass through life with an uneasiness of spirit, the weight -and burden of an imperfectly assimilated moral life. Few there are -who are able to throw off the whole soddenness, and if they do they -are fortunate if they are not left without any food at all. Religious -teachers have always believed that all these processes were necessary -for the soul’s health. They have believed that it was better to have -mechanical morals than no morals at all. When the younger generation -sees the damage such morals work, it would prefer to have none.</p> - -<p>Discarding the “good” child, then, we will find<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> the virtues of -childhood in that restless, pushing, growing curiosity that is the -characteristic of every healthy little boy or girl. The child’s life is -spent in learning his way around the world; in learning the ropes of -things, the handles and names of whatever comes within the range of his -experience. He is busy acquiring that complex bundle of common-sense -knowledge that underlies all our grown-up acts, and which has become -so automatic with us that it hardly seems possible to us that we have -slowly acquired it all. We do not realize that thousands of facts and -habits, which have become stereotyped and practically unconscious in -our minds, are the fresh and vital experiences of the mind of the -little child. We cannot put ourselves back into that world where the -absorbing business is to give things a position and a name and to -learn all the little obvious facts about the things in the house and -the yard and the village, and in that far land of mystery beyond. What -sort of sympathy can we have with these little people,—we, to whom all -this naïve world of place and nomenclature is so familiar as to seem -intuitive? We should have to go back to a world where every passing -railroad train was a marvel and a delight, where a walk to the village<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> -meant casting ourselves adrift into an adventurous country where -anything was likely to happen and where all calculations of direction -or return were upset. It takes children a long time to get accustomed -to the world. This common workaday knowledge of ours seems intuitive -to us only because we had so many years during which it was reiterated -to us, and not because we were unusually sensitive to impressions. -Children often seem almost as stupid as any young animal, and to -require long practice before they know their way around in the world, -although, once obtained, this common sense is never forgotten. That -child is virtuous who acquires all he can of it.</p> - -<p>This curiosity of childhood makes children the first scientists. They -begin, as soon as their eyes are open, dissolving this confused mystery -of the world, distinguishing and classifying its parts according to -their interests and needs. They push on and on, ever widening the -circle, and ever bringing more and more of their experience under the -subjugation of their understanding. They begin the process that the -scientist completes. As children, after several years we came to know -our house and yard, although the attic and cellar were perhaps still -dim and fearsome places. Inside<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> the household things were pretty -well tabulated and rationalized. It was only when we went outside the -gate that we might expect adventures to happen. We should have been -very much shocked to see the fire leap from the stove and the bread -from the table, as they did in the “Blue Bird,” but in walking down -to the village we should not have been surprised to see a giant or a -fairy sitting on the green. When we became familiar with the village, -the fairies were, of course, banished to remoter regions, until they -finally vanished altogether. But it is not so long ago that I lost the -last vague vestige of a feeling that there were fairies in England.</p> - -<p>The facility, one might almost say skill, which children show in -getting lost, is the keynote of childhood’s world. For they have no -bearings among the unfamiliar, no principles for the solution of the -unknown. In their accustomed realm they are as wise and canny and -free from superstition as we are in ours. We, as grown-ups, have not -acquired any magical release from fantasy. The only difference is that -we are accustomed to make larger hazards of faith that things will -repeat themselves, and that we have a wider experience to check off -our novelties by. We have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> charted most of our world; we unfortunately -have no longer any world to get lost in. To be sure, we have opened -up perhaps an intangible world of philosophy and speculation, which -childhood does not dream of, and heaven knows we can get lost there! -But the thing is different. The adventure of childhood is to get lost -here in this everyday world of common sense which is so familiar to us. -To become really as little children we should have to get lost again -here. The best substitute we can give ourselves is to keep exploring -the new spiritual world in which we may find ourselves in youth and -middle life, pushing out ever, as the child does, our fringe of -mystery. And we can gain the gift of wonder, something that the child -does not have. He is too busy drinking in the facts to wonder about -them, or to wonder about what is beyond them. We may count ourselves -fortunate, however, that we are able to retain the child’s virtue of -curiosity, and transmute it into the beauty of spiritual wonder.</p> - -<p>It is facts and not theories that the child is curious about, and -rightly. He cannot assimilate moral theories, nor can he assimilate -any other kind of theories. It is his virtue to learn how the world -runs; youth will be time enough to philosophize<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> about that running. -It is the immediate and the present that interest children, and they -are omnivorous with regard to any facts about either. What they hear -about the world they accept without question. We often think when we -are telling them fairy stories or animal stories that we are exercising -their poetic imagination; but from their point of view we are telling -them sober facts about the world they live in. We are often surprised, -too, at the apathy they show in the midst of wonders that we point out -to them. They are wonders to us because we appreciate the labor or the -genius that has produced them. In other words, we have added a value -to them. But it is just this value which the child-mind does not get -and can never get. To the child they are not surprising, but simply -some more information about his world. All is grist that comes to the -child’s mill. Everything serves to plot and track for him a new realm -of things as they are.</p> - -<p>The child’s mind, so suggestible to facts, seems to be almost -impervious to what we call spiritual influences. He lives in a world -hermetically sealed to our interests and concerns. Parents and teachers -make the most conscientious efforts to influence their children, but -they would better<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> realize that they can influence them only in the -most indirect way. The best thing they can do for the children is to -feed their curiosity, and provide them with all the materials that will -stimulate their varied interests. They can then leave the “influence” -to take care of itself. The natural child seems to be impregnable to -any appeals of shame, honor, reverence, honesty, and even ridicule,—in -other words, to all those methods we have devised for getting a -clutch on other people’s souls, and influencing and controlling -them according to our desires. And this is not because the child is -immoral, but simply because, as I have tried to show, those social -values mean as yet nothing to him. He lives in a splendid isolation -from our conventional standards; the influences of his elders, however -well-directed and prayerful they may be, simply do not reach him. He -lives unconscious of our interests and motives. Only the “good” child -is susceptible, and he is either instinctively submissive, or is the -victim of the mechanical imposition of standards and moral ideas.</p> - -<p>The child works out what little social morality he does obtain, not -under the influence of his elders, but among his playmates. And the -standards<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> worked out there are not refined and moral at all, but -rough ones of emulation and group honor, and respect for prowess. Even -obedience, which we all like to think of as one of the indispensable -accomplishments of a well-trained child, seems to be obtained at the -cost of real moral growth. It might be more beneficial if it were not -too often merely a means for the spiritual edification of the parents -themselves. Too often it is the delight of ruling, of being made -obeisance to, that is the secret motive of imposing strict obedience, -and not our desire simply that they shall learn the excellent habits -that are our own. One difficulty with the child who has “learned to -mind” is that, if he learns too successfully, he runs the risk of -growing up to be a cowardly and servile youth. There is a theory that -since the child will be obliged in later life to do many things that -he does not want to do, he might as well learn how while he is young. -The difficulty here seems to be that learning to do one kind of a -thing that you do not want to do does not guarantee your readiness to -do other kinds of unpleasant things. That art cannot be taught. Each -situation of compulsion, unless the spirit is completely broken, will -have its own peculiar quality of bitterness, and no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> guarantee against -it can be inculcated. Life will present so many inevitable necessities -to the child when he gets out into the world that it seems premature to -burden his childhood with a training which will be largely useless. So -much of our energy is wasted, and so much friction created, because we -are unwilling to trust life. If life is the great demoralizer, it is -also the great moralizer. It whips us into shape, and saddles us with -responsibilities and the means of meeting them, with obligations and -the will to meet them, with burdens and a strength to bear them. It -creates in us a conscience and the love of duty, and endows us with a -morality that a mother and father with the power and the love of angels -working through all the years of our childhood could not have created -within us. Trust life and not your own feeble efforts to create the -soul in the child!</p> - -<p>The virtue of childhood, then, is an exhaustless curiosity and interest -in the world in which the child finds himself. He is here to learn his -way around in it, to learn the names of things and their uses, how -to use his body and his capacities. This will be the most excellent -working of his soul. If his mind and body are active, he will be a -“good” child, in the best sense of the word. We<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> can almost afford to -let him be insolent and irreverent and troublesome as long as he is -only curious. If he has a temper, it will not be cured by curbing, but -by either letting it burn out, or not giving it fuel to feed on. Food -for his body and facts for his mind are the sustenance he requires. -From the food will be built up his body, and from the facts and his -reactions to them will slowly evolve his world of values and ideals. We -cannot aid him by giving him our theories, or shorten the path for him -by presenting him with ready-made standards. In spite of all the moral -teachers, there is no short cut to the moral life of youth, any more -than there is a royal road to knowledge. Nor can we help him to grow -by transferring some of our superfluous moral flesh to his bones. The -child’s qualities which shock our sense of propriety are evidences not -of his immorality, but of his pre-morality. A morality that will mean -anything to him can only be built up out of a vast store of experience, -and only when his world has broadened out into a real society with -influences of every kind coming from every side. He cannot get the -relish of right and wrong until he has tasted life, and it is the -taste of life that the child does not have. That taste comes only with -youth,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> and then with a bewildering complexity and vividness.</p> - -<p>But between childhood and youth there comes a trying period when the -child has become well cognizant of the practical world, but has as yet -no hint of the gorgeous colors of youth. At thirteen, for instance, one -has the world pretty well charted, but not yet has the slow chemistry -of time transmuted this experience into meanings and values. There is -a crassness and materiality about the following three or four years -that have no counterpart until youth is over and the sleek years of the -forties have begun. How cocksure and familiar with the world is the boy -or girl at this age! They have no doubts, but they have no glow. At no -time in life is one so unspiritual, so merely animal, so much of the -earth, earthy. How different is it to be a few years later! How shaken -and adventurous will the world appear then! For this waiting period -of life, the virtues are harder to discover. Curiosity has lapsed, -for there do not seem to be many things left to be curious about. The -child is beautifully unconscious of his own ignorance. Similarly has -the play activity diminished; the boy has put away his Indian costumes, -and the girl her dolls. At this season of life the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> virtue would seem -to consist in the acquirement of some skill in some art or handicraft -or technique. This is the time to search for the budding talents and -the strong native bents and inclinations. To be interesting is one of -the best of virtues, and few things make a person more interesting than -skill or talent. From a selfish point of view, too, all who have grown -up with unskillful hands will realize the solid virtue of knowing how -to do something with the hands, and avoid that vague restlessness and -desire to get at grips with something that haunts the professional -man who has neglected in youth to cultivate this virtue of technique. -And it is a virtue which, if not acquired at that time, can never be -acquired. The deftness of hand, alertness of mind, are soon lost if -they are not taken advantage of, and the child grows up helpless and -unskillful, with a restless void where a talent and interest should be.</p> - -<p>It is with youth, then, that the moral life begins, the true relish of -right and wrong. Out of the crucible of passion and enthusiasm emerge -the virtues of life, virtues that will have been tested and tried in -the furnace of youth’s poignant reactions to the world of possibilities -and ideals that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> has been suddenly opened up to it. Those young people -who have been the victims of childish morality will not feel this new -world so clearly or keenly, or, if there did lurk underneath the crust -of imposed priggishness some latent touch of genius, they will feel -the new life with a terrible searing pain that maddens them and may -permanently distort their whole vision of life. To those without the -spark, the new life will come stained by prejudice. Their reactions -will be dulled; they will not see clearly; and will either stagger at -the shock, or go stupidly ahead oblivious of the spiritual wonders -on every side. Only those who have been allowed to grow freely like -young plants, with the sun and air above their heads, will get the -full beauty and benefit of youth. Only those whose eyes have been kept -wide open ceaselessly learning the facts of the material and practical -world will truly appreciate the values of the moral world, and be able -to acquire virtue. Only with this fund of practical knowledge will -the youth be able to balance and contrast and compare the bits of his -experience, see them in the light of their total meaning, and learn to -prefer rightly one bit to another. It is as if silent forces had been -at work in the soul during the last years of childhood,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> organizing the -knowledge and nascent sentiments of the child into forms of power ready -for the free expression of youth.</p> - -<p>Youth expresses itself by falling in love. Whether it be art, a girl, -socialism, religion, the sentiment is the same; the youth is swept -away by a flood of love. He has learned to value, and how superlative -and magnificent are his values! The little child hardly seems to love; -indeed, his indifference to grown people, even to his own parents, -is often amazing. He has the simple affection of a young animal, but -how different his cool regard from the passionate flame of youth! -Love is youth’s virtue, and it is wide as well as deep. There is no -tragic antithesis between a youth’s devotion to a cause and his love -for a girl. They are not mutually exclusive, as romanticists often -love to think, but beautifully compatible. They tend to fuse, and they -stimulate and ennoble each other. The first love of youth for anything -is pure and ethereal and disinterested. It is only when thwarted that -love turns sensual, only when mocked that enthusiasm becomes fanatical -or mercenary. Worldly opinion seems to care much more for personal -love than for the love of ideals. Perhaps it is instinctively more -interested<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> in the perpetuation of the race than in its progress. It -gives its suffrage and approval to the love of a youth for a girl, but -it mocks and discredits the enthusiast. It just grudgingly permits -the artist to live, but it piles almost insurmountable obstacles in -the path of the young radical. The course of true love may never run -smooth, but what of the course of true idealism?</p> - -<p>The springs that feed this love are found, of course, in hero-worship. -Sexual love is objectified in some charming and appealing girl, love -for ideals in some teacher or seer or the inspiring personality of -a friend. It is in youth that we can speak of real influence. Then -is the soul responsive to currents and ideas. The embargo which kept -the child’s mind immune to theory and opinion and tastes is suddenly -lifted. In childhood, our imitation is confined to the external; we -copy ways of acting, but we are insensitive to the finer nuances of -personality. But in youth we become sensitive to every passing tone -and voice. Youth is the season when, through this sensitiveness, the -deadly pressures get their purchase on the soul; it is also the season -for the most momentous and potent influences for good. In youth, if -there is the possibility that the soul be permanently<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> warped out of -shape, there is also the possibility that it receive the nourishment -that enables it to develop its own robust beauty. It is by hero-worship -that we copy not the externals of personality, as in childhood, but -the inner spirit. We feel ourselves somehow merged with the admired -persons, and we draw from them a new stimulating grace. We find -ourselves in them. It is not yielding to a pressure that would force us -to a type, but a drawing up of ourselves to a higher level, through the -aid of one who possesses all those qualities which have been all along, -we feel, our vague and hitherto unexpressed ideal. We do not feel that -our individualities are being lost, but that they are for the first -time being found. We have discovered in another personality all those -best things for which our hearts have been hungering, and we are simply -helping ourselves to that which is in reality our own. Our hero gives -of himself inexhaustibly, and we take freely and gladly what we need. -It is thus that we stock up with our first store of spiritual values. -It is from the treasury of a great and good personality that we receive -the first confirmation of ourselves. In the hero-personality, we see -our own dim, baby ideals objectified. Their splendor encourages us,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> -and nerves us for the struggle to make them thoroughly our own.</p> - -<p>There is a certain pathos in the fact that parents are so seldom -the heroes from whom the children derive this revelation of their -own personality. It is more often some teacher or older friend or -even a poet or reformer whom the youth has never seen and knows only -through his words and writings. But for this the parents are partly -responsible. They are sufficiently careful about the influences which -play upon their young children. They give care and prayers and tears -to their bringing-up in the years when the children are almost immune -to any except the more obvious mechanical influences, and learn of -ideals and values only in a parrot-like fashion. But when the child -approaches youth, the parent is apt to relax vigilance and, with a cry -of thanksgiving and self-congratulation that the child has been brought -safely through so many perils to the desired haven, to surrender him -to his own devices. Just at the time when he becomes really sensitive -for the first time to spiritual influences, he is deprived of this -closest and warmest influence of the home. But he has not been brought -into a haven, but launched into a heaving and troubled sea. This<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> is -the time when his character lies at stake, and the possibility of his -being a radical, individual force in the world hangs in the balance. -Whether he will become this force depends on the pressures that he is -able to dodge, and on the positive ideals he is able to secure. And -they will depend largely on the heroes he worships, upon his finding -the personalities that seem to contain all the best for which he -yearns. Hero-worship is the best preservative against cheapness of -soul, that besetting sin of modern youth. It directs our attention away -from the light and frothy things of the world, which are wont to claim -so much of youth’s interest, to qualities that are richer and more -satisfying. Yet hero-worship is no mere imitation. We do not simply -adopt new qualities and a new character. We rather impregnate our -hitherto sterile ideals with the creative power of a tested and assured -personality, and give birth to a new reliance and a new faith. Our -heroes anticipate and provide for our doubts and fears, and fortify us -against the sternest assaults of the world. We love our heroes because -they have first loved us.</p> - -<p>Out of this virtue of love and the clashing of its clear spirit with -the hard matter of established things come the sterner virtues. From -that conflict,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> courage is struck off as youth feels the need of -keeping his flame steady and holding to his own course, regardless -of obstacles or consequences. Youth needs courage, that salt of -the virtues, for if youth has its false hopes, it has its false -depressions. That strange melancholy, when things seem to lose their -substance and the world becomes an empty shell, is the reverse shield -of the elation of youth. To face and overcome it is a real test of the -courage of youth. The dash and audacity, the daring and self-confidence -of youth, are less fine than this simple courage of optimism. Youth -needs courage, too, when its desires do not come true, when it meets -suspicion or neglect, and when its growth seems inexorably checked by -circumstance. In these emergencies, the youth usually plays the stoic. -He feels a savage pride in the thought that circumstance can never rob -him of his integrity, or bring his best self to be dependent on mere -change of fortune. Such a courage is a guarantor of youth. It forms a -protecting crust over life and lessens the shock of many contingencies. -The only danger is that it may become too perfect a shell and harden -the character. It is not well for youth to shun the battle. Courage -demands exposure to assault.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span></p> - -<p>And besides courage, youth needs temperance. The sins and excesses -of hot-blooded youth are a byword; youth would not seem to be youth -without its carnality and extravagance. It is fortunate that youth is -able to expend that extravagance partly in idealism. Love is always -the antidote to sensuality. And we can always, if we set ourselves -resolutely to the task, transmute the lower values into higher. -This, indeed, is the crucial virtue of youth, and temperance is the -seal and evidence of the transmutation. Temperance in things of the -flesh is ordained not through sentimental reasons, but on the best of -physiological and psychological motives. Temperance is a virtue because -of the evil consequences to one’s self and others which follow excess -of indulgence in appetite.</p> - -<p>But this temperance does not mean quite the same thing as the rigid -self-control that used to be preached. The new morality has a more -positive ideal than the rigid mastery which self-control implies. We -are to fix our attention more in giving our good impulses full play -than in checking the bad. The theory is that if one is occupied with -healthy ideas and activities, there will be no room or time for the -expression of the unhealthy ones. Anything that implies an inhibition -or struggle to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> repress is a draining away into a negative channel of -energy that might make for positive constructive work in the character. -The repressed desires and interests are not killed, but merely checked, -and they persist, with unabated vigor, in struggling to get the upper -hand again. They are little weakened by lying dormant, and lurk warily -below, ready to swarm up again on deck, whenever there is the smallest -lapse of vigilance. But if they are neglected they gradually cease from -troubling, and are killed by oblivion where they could not have been -hurt by forcible repression. The mortification of the flesh seems too -often simply to strengthen its pride.</p> - -<p>In the realm of emotion, the dangers of rigid self-control are -particularly evident. There are fashions in emotion as well as in -dress, and it seems to have become the fashion in certain circles -of youth to inhibit any emotional expression of the sincere or -the serious. There is a sort of reign of terrorism which prevents -personal conversation from being carried on upon any plane except one -of flippancy and insincerity. Frankness of expression in regard to -personal feelings and likes and dislikes is tabooed. A strange new -ethics of tact has grown up which makes candor so sacrilegious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span> a -thing that its appearance in a group or between two young people of -the opposite sex creates general havoc and consternation. Young people -who dare to give natural expression to their feelings about each other -or about their ideals and outlook on life find themselves genuinely -unpopular. When this peculiar ethics works at its worst, it gives a -person a pride in concealing his or her feelings on any of the vital -and sincere aspects of life, the interests and admirations and tastes. -But this energy, dammed up thus from expression in its natural way, -overflows in a hysterical admiration for the trivial, and an unhealthy -interest in the mere externals, the “safe” things, of life. Such -self-control dwarfs the spirit; it results only in misunderstandings -and a tragic ignorance of life. It is one of the realest of the vices -of youth, for it is the parent of a host of minor ailments of the -soul. It seems to do little good even to repress hatred and malice. -If repressed, they keep knocking at the door of consciousness, and -poison the virtues that might develop if the soul could only get rid of -its load of spleen. If the character is thickly sown with impersonal -interests and the positive virtues are carefully cultivated, there will -be no opportunity for these hateful weeds to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> reach the sun and air. -Virtue should actually crowd out vice, and temperance is the tool that -youth finds ready to its hand. Temperance means the happy harmonizing -and coördinating of the expression of one’s personality; it means -health, candor, sincerity, and wisdom,—knowledge of one’s self and the -sympathetic understanding of comrades.</p> - -<p>Justice is a virtue which, if it be not developed in youth, has little -chance of ever being developed. It depends on a peculiarly sensitive -reaction to good and evil, and it is only in youth that those reactions -are keen and disinterested. Real justice is always a sign of great -innocence; it cannot exist side by side with interested motives or a -trace of self-seeking. And a sense of justice is hard to develop in -this great industrial world where the relations of men are so out of -joint and where such flaunting anomalies assail one at every turn. Yet -in the midst of it all youth is still pure of heart, and it is only -the pure of heart who can be just. For in youth we live in a world -of clean disinterestedness. We have ambitions and desires, but not -yet have we learned the devious way by which they may be realized. We -have not learned how to achieve our ends by taking advantage of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> other -people, and using them and their interests and necessities as means. -We still believe in the possibility of every man’s realizing himself -side by side with us. In early youth, therefore, we have an instinctive -and almost unconscious sense of justice. Not yet have we learned the -trick of exploiting our fellow men. If we are early assailed with -the reality of social disorder, and have brought home to our hearts -the maladjustments of our present order, that sense of justice is -transformed into a passion. This passion for social justice is one of -the most splendid of the ideals of youth. It has the power of keeping -alive all the other virtues; it stimulates life and gives it a new -meaning and tone. It furnishes the <i lang="de" xml:lang="de">leit-motiv</i> which is so sadly -lacking in many lives. And youth must find a <i lang="de" xml:lang="de">leit-motiv</i> of some -kind, or its spirit perishes. This social idealism acts like a tonic -upon the whole life; it keeps youth alive even after one has grown -older in years.</p> - -<p>With justice comes the virtue of democracy. We learn all too early -in youth the undemocratic way of thinking, the divisions and -discriminations which the society around us makes among people. But -youth cannot be swept by love or fired by the passion for justice -without feeling a wild disgust<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> at everything that suggests artificial -inequalities and distinctions. Democracy means a belief that people -are worthy; it means trust in the good faith and the dignity of the -average man. The chief reason why the average man is not now worthy -of more trust, the democrat believes, is simply that he has not been -trusted enough in the past. Democracy has little use for philanthropy, -at least in the sense of a kindly caring for people, with the constant -recognition that the person who is kind is superior to the person -who is being done good to. The spirit of democracy is a much more -robust humanity. It is rough and aggressive; it stands people up on -their own feet, makes them take up their beds and walk. It prods them -to move their own limbs and take care of themselves. It makes them -strong by giving them something to do. It will have nothing more to do -with the superstition of trusteeship which paralyzes now most of our -institutional life. It does not believe for a minute that everybody -needs guardians for most of the serious concerns of life. The great -crime of the past has been that humankind has never been willing to -trust itself, or men each other. We have tied ourselves up with laws -and traditions, and devised a thousand ways to prevent men from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> being -thrown on their own responsibility and cultivating their own powers. -Our society has been constituted on the principle that men must be -saved from themselves. We have surrounded ourselves with so many moral -hedges, have imposed upon ourselves so many checks and balances, that -life has been smothered. Our liberation has just begun. We are far from -free, but the new spirit of democracy is the angel that will free us. -No virtue is more potent for youth.</p> - -<p>And the last of these virtues, redolent of the old Greek time, -when men walked boldly, when the world was still young, and gods -and nymphs not all dead, is wisdom. To be wise is simply to have -blended and harmonized one’s experience, to have fused it together -into a “philosophy of life.” Wisdom is a matter not of quantity, -but of quality of experience. It means getting at the heart of it, -and obtaining the same clear warm impression of its meaning that -the artist does of the æsthetic idea that he is going to represent. -Wisdom in youth or early middle life may be far truer than in later -life. One’s courage may weaken under repeated failure, one’s sense of -justice be dulled by contact with the wrong relations between men and -classes, one’s belief in democracy destroyed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> by the seeming failure of -experiments. But this gathering cynicism does not mean the acquiring -of wisdom, but the losing of it. The usefulness and practicability of -these virtues of youth are not really vitiated by the struggles they -have in carrying themselves through into practice; what is exhibited -is merely the toughness of the old forces of prejudice and tradition, -and the “pig-headedness” of the old philosophy of timorousness and -distrust. True wisdom is faith in love, in justice, in democracy; youth -has this faith in largest measure; therefore youth is most wise.</p> - -<p>Middle age steals upon a youth almost before he is aware. He will -recognize it at first, perhaps, by a slight paling of his enthusiasms, -or by a sudden consciousness that his early interests have been -submerged in the flood of routine work and family cares. The later -years of youth and the early years of middle life are in truth the -dangerous age, for then may be lost the virtues that were acquired in -youth. Or, if not lost, many will be felt to be superfluous. There is -danger that the peculiar bias of the relish of right and wrong that -the virtues of youth have given one may be weakened, and the soul -spread itself too thin over life. Now one of the chief virtues of -middle life is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> to conserve the values of youth, to practice in sober -earnest the virtues that came so naturally in the enthusiasm of youth, -but which take on a different hue when exposed to what seem to be the -crass facts of the workaday world. But there is no reason why work, -ambition, the raising of a family, should dull the essential spirit -of youthful idealism. It may not be so irrepressible, so freakish, so -intolerant, but it should not be different in quality and significance. -The burdens of middle life are not a warrant for the releasing of the -spiritual obligations of youth. They do not give one the right to look -back with amused regret to the dear follies of the past. For as soon -as the spirit of youth begins to leave the soul, that soul begins to -die. Middle-aged people are too much inclined to speak of youth as a -sort of spiritual play. They forget that youth feels that it itself has -the serious business of life, the real crises to meet. To youth it is -middle age that seems trivial and playful. It is after the serious work -of love-making and establishing one’s self in economic independence -is over that one can rest and play. Youth has little time for that -sort of recreation. In middle age, most of the problems have been -solved, the obstacles overcome. There is a slackening of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> the lines, -a satisfied taking of one’s reward. And to youth this must always -seem a tragedy, that the season of life when the powers are at their -highest should be the season when they are oftener turned to material -than to spiritual ends. Youth has the energy and ideals, but not the -vantage-ground of prestige from which to fight for them. Middle age has -the prestige and the power, but too seldom the will to use it for the -furtherance of its ideals. Youth has the isolation, the independence, -the disinterestedness so that it may attack any foe, but it has not -the reserve force to carry that attack through. Middle age has all the -reserve power necessary, but is handicapped by family obligations, by -business and political ties, so that its power is rarely effective for -social or individual progress.</p> - -<p>The supreme virtue of middle age will be, then, to make this difficult -fusion,—to combine devotion to one’s family, to one’s chosen work, -with devotion to the finer idealism and impersonal aims that formed -one’s philosophy of youth. To keep alive through all the twistings -and turnings of life’s road the sense of a larger humanity that needs -spiritual and material succor, of the individual spiritual life of -ideal interests, is a task of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> virtue that will tax the resources of -any man or woman. Yet here lies the true virtue of middle age,—to use -its splendid powers to enhance the social and individual life round -one, to radiate influence that transforms and elevates. The secret -of such a radiant personality seems to be that one, while mingling -freely in the stress of everyday life, sees all its details in the -light of larger principles, against the background of their social -meaning. In other words, it is a virtue of middle life to be socially -self-conscious. And this spirit is the best protector against the -ravages of the tough material world. Only by this social consciousness -can that toughness be softened. The image of the world the way it ought -to be must never be lost sight of in the picture of the world the way -it is.</p> - -<p>This conservation of the spirit is even more necessary for the woman -than for the man. The active life of the latter makes it fairly -certain that he, while he may become hard and callous, will at least -retain some sort of grip on the world’s bigger movements. There is -no such certainty for the mother. Indeed, she seems often to take a -real pleasure in voluntarily offering up in sacrifice at the time of -marriage what few ideal interests and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> tastes she has. The spectacle -of the young mother devoting all her time and strength to her children -and husband, and surrendering all other interests to the interests of -the home, is usually considered inspiring and attractive, especially by -the men. Not so attractive is she thirty years later, when, her family -cares having lapsed and her children scattered, she is left high and -dry in the world. If she then takes a well-earned rest, it seems a -pity that that rest should be so generally futile and uninteresting. -Without interests and tastes, and with no longer any useful function in -society, she is relegated to the most trivial amusements and pursuits. -Idle and vapid, she finds nothing to do but fritter away her time. The -result is a really appalling waste of economic and social energy in -middle age. Now it is the virtue of this season of life to avoid all -this. The woman as well as the man must realize that her home is not -bounded by the walls of the house, that it has wider implications, -leading out into all the interests of the community and the state. That -women of this age have not yet learned to be good mothers and good -citizens at the same time, does not show that it is impossible, but -that it is a virtue that requires more resolution than our morality<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> -has been willing to exhibit. The relish of right and wrong must be a -relish of social right and wrong as well as of individual.</p> - -<p>As middle age passes on into old age, however, one earns a certain -right of relaxation. If there is no right to let go the sympathy -for the virtues of youth and the conservation of its spirit, there -comes the right to give over some of the aggressive activity. To -youth belongs the practical action. At no other age is there the same -impulse and daring. The virtue of later middle age is to encourage -and support, rather than actively engage. It is true we have never -learned this lesson. We still surrender to semi-old men the authority -to govern us, think for us, act for us. We endow them with spiritual -as well as practical leadership, and allow them to strip youth of -its opportunities and powers. We permit them to rule not only their -own but all the generations. If we could be sure that their rule -meant progress, we could trust them to guide us. But, in these times -at least, it seems to mean nothing so much as a last fight for a -discredited undemocratic philosophy that modern youth are completely -through with. From this point of view one of the virtues of this middle -season of life will be the imaginative understanding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> of youth’s -purposes and radical ideals. At that age, one no longer needs the same -courage to face the battles of life; they are already most of them -irrevocably won or lost. There is not the same claim of temperance; the -passions and ambitions are relaxed. The sense of justice and democracy -will have become a habit or else they will have been forever lost. Only -the need of wisdom remains,—that unworldly wisdom which mellowing -years can bring, which sees through the disturbance and failure of life -the truth and efficacy of youth’s ideal vision.</p> - -<p>Old age is such a triumph that it may almost be justly relieved of any -burden of virtues or duties; it is so unique and beautiful that the -old should be given the perfect freedom of the moral city. So splendid -a victory is old age over the malign forces of disease and weakness -and death that one is tempted to say that its virtue lies simply in -being old. Those virtues of youth which grew out of the crises and -temptations, physical and spiritual, of early life, are no longer -relevant. There may come instead the quieter virtues of contentment -and renunciation. Old people have few crises and few temptations; they -live in the past and not in the future, as youth does. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> cannot -be required, therefore, to have that scorn for tradition which is -the virtue of youth. They can keep alive for us the tradition that -<em>is</em> vital, and from them we can learn many things.</p> - -<p>The value of their experience to us is not that it teaches us to avoid -their mistakes, for we must try all things for ourselves. The older -generation, it is true, often flatters itself that its mistakes somehow -make for our benefit, because we learn from their errors to avoid -the pitfalls into which they came. But there is no making mistakes -by the proxy of a former generation. The world has moved on in the -mean time; the pitfalls are new, and we shall only entangle ourselves -the more by adopting the methods of our ancestors in getting out of -the difficulties. But the value of an old man’s experience is that -he has preserved in it the living tradition and hands down to us old -honesties, old sincerities, and old graces, that have been crushed in -the rough-and-tumble of modern life. It is not tradition in itself -that is dangerous, but only dead tradition that has no meaning for the -present and is a mere weight on our progress. Such is the legal and -economic tradition given to us by our raucous, middle-aged leaders of -opinion, adopted by them through motives of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> present gain, and not -through sincere love of the past.</p> - -<p>But old men, looking back over the times in which they have lived, -throw a poetic glamour over the past and make it live again. They see -it idealized, but it is the <em>real</em> that they see idealized. An old -man of personality and charm has the faculty of cutting away from the -past the dead wood, and preserving for us the living tissue which we -can graft profitably on our own growing present. Old men have much of -the disinterestedness of youth; they have no ulterior motive in giving -us the philosophy of their past. The wisest of them instinctively -select what is vital for our present nourishment. It is not old men -that youth has to fear, but the semi-old, who have lost touch with -their youth, and have not lived long enough to get the disinterested -vision of their idealized past. But old men who have lived this life of -radical virtue are the best of teachers; they distill the perfume of -the past, and bring it to us to sweeten our present. Such men grow old -only in body. The radical spirit of youth has the power of abolishing -considerations of age; the body changes, but the spirit remains the -same. In this sense, it is the virtue of old age not to become old.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span></p> - -<p>The besetting sin of this season of life is apathy. Old age should not -be a mere waiting for death. The fact that we cannot reconcile death -with life shows that they ought not to be discussed in the same terms. -They belong to two different orders. Death has no part in life, and in -life there can be no such thing as preparation for death. An old man -lives to his appointed time, and then his life ends; but the life up to -that ending, barring the loss of his faculties, has been all life and -not a whit death. Old men do not fear death as much as do young men, -and this calmness is not so much a result of disillusionment with life -as a recognition that their life has been lived, their work finished, -the cycle of their activity rounded off. One virtue of old age, then, -is to live as fully at the height of one’s powers as strength will -permit, passing out of life serene and unreluctant, with willingness to -live and yet with willingness to die. To know an old man who has grown -old slowly, taking the seasons as they came, conserving the spirit of -his youthful virtues, mellowing his philosophy of life, acquiring a -clearer, saner, and more beautiful outlook on human nature and all its -spiritual values with each passing year, is an education in the virtues -of life. The virtues which produce an old age<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> such as this do not cut -across the grain of life, but enhance and conserve the vital impulses -and forces. Such an old age is the crowning evidence of the excellent -working of the soul. A life needs no other proof than this that each -season has known its proper virtue and healthful activity.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV<br />THE LIFE OF IRONY</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span></p> - - -<p>I could never, until recently, divest myself of the haunting feeling -that being ironical had something to do with the entering of the iron -into one’s soul. I thought I knew what irony was, and I admired it -immensely. I could not believe that there was something metallic and -bitter about it. Yet this sinister connotation of a clanging, rasping -meanness of spirit, which I am sure it has still in many people’s -minds, clung about it, until one happy day my dictionary told me that -the iron had never entered into the soul at all, but the soul into -the iron (<abbr title="saint">St.</abbr> Jerome had read the psalm wrong), and that irony was -Greek, with all the free, happy play of the Greek spirit about it, -letting in fresh air and light into others’ minds and our own. It -was to the Greek an incomparable method of intercourse, the rub of -mind against mind by the simple use of simulated ignorance and the -adoption, without committing one’s self, of another’s point of view. -Not until I read the Socrates of Plato did I fully appreciate that -this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> irony,—this pleasant challenging of the world, this insistent -judging of experience, this sense of vivid contrasts and incongruities, -of comic juxtapositions, of flaring brilliancies, and no less -heartbreaking impossibilities, of all the little parts of one’s world -being constantly set off against each other, and made intelligible only -by being translated into and defined in each others’ terms,—that this -was a life, and a life of beauty, that one might suddenly discover -one’s self living all unawares. And if one could judge one’s own feeble -reflection, it was a life that had no room for iron within its soul.</p> - -<p>We should speak not of the Socratic method but of the Socratic life. -For irony is a life rather than a method. A life cannot be taken -off and put on again at will; a method can. To be sure, some people -talk of life exactly as if it were some portable commodity, or some -exchangeable garment. We must live, they cry, as if we were about to -begin. And perhaps they are. Only some of us would rather die than live -that puny life that they can adopt and cover themselves with. Irony is -too rich and precious a thing to be capable of such transmission. The -ironist is born and not made. This critical attitude towards life, this -delicious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> sense of contrasts that we call irony, is not a pose or an -amusement. It is something that colors every idea and every feeling of -the man who is so happy as to be endowed with it.</p> - -<p>Most people will tell you, I suppose, that the religious conviction -of salvation is the only permanently satisfying coloring of life. In -the splendid ironists, however, one sees a sweeter, more flexible and -human principle of life, adequate, without the buttress of supernatural -belief, to nourish and fortify the spirit. In the classic ironist of -all time, irony shows an inherent nobility, a nobility that all ages -have compared favorably with the Christian ideal. Lacking the spur of -religious emotion, the sweetness of irony may be more difficult to -maintain than the mood of belief. But may it not for that very reason -be judged superior, for is it not written, He that endureth unto the -end shall be saved?</p> - -<p>It is not easy to explain the quality of that richest and most -satisfying background of life. It lies, I think, in a vivid and intense -feeling of aliveness which it gives. Experience comes to the ironist in -little darts or spurts, with the added sense of contrast. Most men, I -am afraid, see each bit of personal experience as a unit, strung more -or less<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> loosely on a string of other mildly related bits. But the -man with the ironical temperament is forced constantly to compare and -contrast his experience with what was, or what might be, or with what -ought to be, and it is the shocks of these comparisons and contrasts -that make up his inner life. He thinks he leads a richer life, because -he feels not only the individual bits but the contrasts besides in all -their various shadings and tints. To this sense of impingement of facts -upon life is due a large part of this vividness of irony; and the rest -is due to the alertness of the ironical mind. The ironist is always -critically awake. He is always judging, and watching with inexhaustible -interest, in order that he may judge. Now irony in its best sense is an -exquisite sense of proportion, a sort of spiritual tact in judging the -values and significances of experience. This sense of being spiritually -alive which ceaseless criticism of the world we live in gives us, -combined with the sense of power which free and untrammeled judging -produces in us, is the background of irony. And it should be a means to -the truest goodness.</p> - -<p>Socrates made one mistake,—knowledge is not goodness. But it is a step -towards judging, and good judgment is the true goodness. For it is on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> -judgment impelled by desire that we act. The clearer and cleaner our -judgments then, the more definite and correlated our actions. And the -great value of these judgments of irony is that they are not artificial -but spring naturally out of life. Irony, the science of comparative -experience, compares things not with an established standard but with -each other, and the values that slowly emerge from the process, values -that emerge from one’s own vivid reactions, are constantly revised, -corrected, and refined by that same sense of contrast. The ironic -life is a life keenly alert, keenly sensitive, reacting promptly with -feelings of liking or dislike to each bit of experience, letting none -of it pass without interpretation and assimilation, a life full and -satisfying,—indeed a rival of the religious life.</p> - -<p>The life of irony has the virtues of the religious life without its -defects. It expresses the aggressive virtues without the quiescence of -resignation. For the ironist has the courageous spirit, the sympathetic -heart and the understanding mind, and can give them full play, -unhampered by the searching introspection of the religious mind that -often weakens rather than ennobles and fortifies. He is at one with the -religious man in that he hates<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> apathy and stagnation, for they mean -death. But he is superior in that he attacks apathy of intellect and -personality as well as apathy of emotion. He has a great conviction -of the significance of all life, the lack of which conviction is the -most saddening feature of the religious temperament. The religious -man pretends that every aspect of life has meaning for him, but in -practice he constantly minimizes the noisier and vivider elements. He -is essentially an aristocrat in his interpretation of values, while the -ironist is incorrigibly a democrat. Religion gives a man an intimacy -with a few selected and rarified virtues and moods, while irony makes -him a friend of the poor and lowly among spiritual things. When the -religious man is healing and helping, it is at the expense of his -spiritual comfort; he must tear himself away from his companions and go -out grimly and sacrificingly into the struggle. The ironist, living his -days among the humbler things, feels no such severe call to service. -And yet the ironist, since he has no citadel of truth to defend, is -really the more adventurous. Life, not fixed in predestined formulas or -measurable by fixed, immutable standards, is fluid, rich and exciting. -To the ironist it is both discovery and creation. His courage seeks -out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> the obscure places of human personality, and his sympathy and -understanding create new interests and enthusiasms in the other minds -upon which they play. And these new interests in turn react upon his -own life, discovering unexpected vistas there, and creating new insight -into the world that he lives in. That democratic, sympathetic outlook -upon the feelings and thoughts and actions of men and women is the life -of irony.</p> - -<p>That life is expressed in the social intercourse of ourselves with -others. The daily fabric of the life of irony is woven out of our -critical communings with ourselves and the personalities of our friend, -and the people with whom we come in contact. The ironist, by adopting -another’s point of view and making it his own in order to carry light -and air into it, literally puts himself in the other man’s place. -Irony is thus the truest sympathy. It is no cheap way of ridiculing an -opponent by putting on his clothes and making fun of him. The ironist -has no opponent, but only a friend. And in his irony he is helping that -friend to reveal himself. That half-seriousness, that solemn treatment -of the trivial and trivial treatment of the solemn which is the pattern -of the ironist’s talk is but his way of exhibiting the unexpected -contrasts and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> shadings that he sees to be requisite to the keenest -understanding of the situation. The ironist borrows and exchanges -and appropriates ideas and gives them a new setting in juxtaposition -with others, but he never burlesques or caricatures or exaggerates -them. If an idea is absurd, the slightest change of environment will -show that absurdity. The mere transference of an idea to another’s -mouth will bring to light all its hidden meaninglessness. It needs no -extraneous aid. If an idea is hollow, it will show itself cowering -against the intellectual background of the ironist like the puny, -shivering thing it is. If a point of view cannot bear being adopted -by another person, if it is not hardy enough to be transplanted, it -has little right to exist at all. This world is no hothouse for ideas -and attitudes. Too many outworn ideas are skulking in dark retreats, -sequestered from the light; every man has great sunless stretches in -his soul where base prejudices lurk and flourish. On these the white -light of irony is needed to play. And it delights the ironist to watch -them shrivel and decay under that light. The little tabooed regions of -well-bred people, the “things we never mention,” the basic biases and -assumptions that underlie the lives and thinking of every class and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> -profession, our second-hand dogmas and phrases,—all these live and -thrive because they have never been transplanted, or heard from the -lips of another. The dictum that “the only requisites for success are -honesty and merit,” which we applaud so frantically from the lips of -the successful, becomes a ghastly irony in the mouth of an unemployed -workingman. There would be a frightful mortality of points of view -could we have a perfectly free exchange such as this. Irony is just -this temporary borrowing and lending. Many of our cherished ideals -would lose half their validity were they put bodily into the mouths -of the less fortunate. But if irony destroys some ideals it builds up -others. It tests ideals by their social validity, by their general -interchangeability among all sorts of people and the world, but if it -leaves the foundations of many in a shaky condition and renders more -simply provisional, those that it does leave standing are imperishably -founded in the common democratic experience of all men.</p> - -<p>To the ironist it seems that the irony is not in the speaking but in -the things themselves. He is a poor ironist who would consciously -distort, or attempt to make another’s idea appear in any light except -its own. Absurdity is an intrinsic quality<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> of so many things that they -only have to be touched to reveal it. The deadliest way to annihilate -the unoriginal and the insincere is to let it speak for itself. Irony -is this letting things speak for themselves and hang themselves by -their own rope. Only, it repeats the words after the speaker, and -adjusts the rope. It is the commanding touch of a comprehending -personality that dissolves the seemingly tough husk of the idea. -The ironical method might be compared to the acid that develops a -photographic plate. It does not distort the image, but merely brings -clearly to the light all that was implicit in the plate before. And -if it brings the picture to the light with values reversed, so does -irony revel in a paradox, which is simply a photographic negative of -the truth, truth with the values reversed. But turn the negative ever -so slightly so that the light falls upon it, and the perfect picture -appears in all its true values and beauty. Irony, we may say then, is -the photography of the soul. The picture goes through certain changes -in the hands of the ironist, but without these changes the truth would -be simply a blank, unmeaning surface. The photograph is a synonym for -deadly accuracy. Similarly the ironist insists always on seeing things -as they are. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> is a realist, whom the grim satisfaction of seeing the -truth compensates for any sordidness that it may bring along with it. -Things as they are, thrown against the background of things as they -ought to be,—this is the ironist’s vision. I should like to feel that -the vision of the religious man is not too often things as they are, -thrown against the background of things as they ought not to be.</p> - -<p>The ironist is the only man who makes any serious attempt to -distinguish between fresh and second-hand experience. Our minds are so -unfortunately arranged that all sorts of beliefs can be accepted and -propagated quite independently of any rational or even experimental -basis at all. Nature does not seem to care very much whether our ideas -are true or not, as long as we get on through life safely enough. -And it is surprising on what an enormous amount of error we can get -along comfortably. We cannot be wrong on every point or we should -cease to live, but so long as we are empirically right in our habits, -the truth or falsity of our ideas seems to have little effect upon -our comfort. We are born into a world that is an inexhaustible store -of ready-made ideas, stored up in tradition, in books, and in every -medium of communication between our minds and others.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> All we have to -do is to accept this predigested nourishment, and ask no questions. -We could live a whole life without ever making a really individual -response, without providing ourselves out of our own experience with -any of the material that our mind works on. Many of us seem to be just -this kind of spiritual parasite. We may learn and absorb and grow, up -to a certain point. But eventually something captures us: we become -encased in a suit of armor, and invulnerable to our own experience. We -have lost the faculty of being surprised. It is this encasing that the -ironist fears, and it is the ironical method that he finds the best for -preventing it. Irony keeps the waters in motion, so that the ice never -has a chance to form. The cut-and-dried life is easy to form because -it has no sense of contrast; everything comes to one on its own terms, -vouching for itself, and is accepted or rejected on its own good looks, -and not for its fitness and place in the scheme of things.</p> - -<p>This is the courage and this the sympathy of irony. Have they not -a beauty of their own comparable in excellence with the paler glow -of religious virtue? And the understanding of the ironist although -aggressive and challenging has its justification, too. For he is mad -to understand the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> world, to get to the bottom of other personalities. -That is the reason for his constant classification. The ironist is -the most dogmatic of persons. To understand you he must grasp you -firmly, or he must pin you down definitely; if he accidentally nails -you fast to a dogma that you indignantly repudiate, you must blame -his enthusiasm and not his method. Dogmatism is rarely popular, and -the ironist of course suffers. It hurts people’s eyes to see a strong -light, and the pleasant mist-land of ideas is much more emotionally -warming than the clear, sunny region of transmissible phrases. How the -average person wriggles and squirms under these piercing attempts to -corner his personality! “Tell me what you mean!” or “What do you see -in it?” are the fatal questions that the ironist puts, and who shall -censure him if he does display the least trace of malicious delight as -he watches the half-formed baby ideas struggle towards the light, or -scurry around frantically to find some decent costume in which they may -appear in public?</p> - -<p>The judgments of the ironist are often discounted as being too -sweeping. But he has a valid defense. Lack of classification is -annihilation of thought. Even the newest philosophy will admit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> that -classification is a necessary evil. Concepts are indispensable,—and -yet each concept falsifies. The ironist must have as large a stock as -possible, but he must have a stock. And even the unjust classification -is marvelously effective. The ironist’s name for his opponent is a -challenge to him. The more sweeping it is, the more stimulus it gives -him to repel the charge. He must explain just how he is unique and -individual in his attitude. And in this explanation he reveals and -discovers all that the ironist wishes to know about him. A handful of -epithets is thus the ammunition of the ironist. He must call things -by what seem to him to be their right names. In a sense, the ironist -assumes the prisoner to be guilty until he proves himself innocent; -but it is always in order that justice may be done, and that he may -come to learn the prisoner’s soul and all the wondrous things that are -contained there.</p> - -<p>It is this passion for comprehension that explains the ironist’s -apparently scandalous propensity to publicity. Nothing seems to him too -sacred to touch, nothing too holy for him to become witty about. There -are no doors locked to him, there is nothing that can make good any -claim of resistance to scrutiny. His free and easy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> manner of including -everything within the sweep of his vision is but his recognition, -however, of the fact that nothing is really so serious as we think it -is, and nothing quite so petty. The ironist will descend in a moment -from a discussion of religion to a squabble over a card-game, and he -will defend himself with the reflection that religion is after all a -human thing and must be discussed in the light of everyday living, -and that the card-game is an integral part of life, reveals the -personalities of the players—and his own to himself—and being worthy -of his interest is worthy of his enthusiasm. The ironist is apt to -test things by their power to interest as much as by their nobility, -and if he sees the incongruous and inflated in the lofty, so he sees -the significant in the trivial and raises it from its low degree. -Many a mighty impostor does he put down from his seat. The ironist is -the great intellectual democrat, in whose presence and before whose -law all ideas and attitudes stand equal. In his world there is no -privileged caste, no aristocracy of sentiments to be reverenced, or -segregated systems of interests to be tabooed. Nothing human is alien -to the ironist; the whole world is thrown open naked to the play of his -judgment.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> - -<p>In the eyes of its detractors, irony has all the vices of democracy. -Its publicity seems mere vulgarity, its free hospitality seems to shock -all ideas of moral worth. The ironist is but a scoffer, they say, with -weapon leveled eternally at all that is good and true and sacred. The -adoption of another’s point of view seems little better than malicious -dissimulation,—the repetition of others’ words, an elaborate mockery; -the ironist’s eager interest seems a mere impudence or a lack of -finer instincts; his interest in the trivial, the last confession of -a mean spirit; and his love of classifying, a proof of his poverty -of imaginative resource. Irony, in other words, is thought to be -synonymous with cynicism. But the ironist is no cynic. His is a kindly, -not a sour interest in human motives. He wants to find out how the -human machine runs, not to prove that it is a worthless, broken-down -affair. He accepts it as it comes, and if he finds it curiously feeble -and futile in places, blame not him but the nature of things. He finds -enough rich compensation in the unexpected charm that he constantly -finds himself eliciting. The ironist sees life steadily and sees it -whole; the cynic only a distorted fragment.</p> - -<p>If the ironist is not cynic, neither is he merely a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span> dealer in satire, -burlesque and ridicule. Irony may be the raw material, innocent in -itself but capable of being put to evil uses. But it involves neither -the malice of satire, nor the horse-play of burlesque, nor the stab of -ridicule. Irony is infinitely finer and more delicate and impersonal. -The satirist is always personal and concrete, but the ironist deals -with general principles, and broad aspects of human nature. It cannot -be too much emphasized that the function of the ironist is not to -make fun of people, but to give their souls an airing. The ironist -is a judge on the bench, giving men a public hearing. He is not an -aggressive spirit who goes about seeking whom he may devour, or a -spiritual lawyer who courts litigation, but the judge before whom file -all the facts of his experience, the people he meets, the opinions -he hears or reads, his own attitudes and prepossessions. If any are -convicted they are self-convicted. The judge himself is passive, -merciful, lenient. There is judgment, but no punishment. Or rather, the -trial itself is the punishment. Now satire is all that irony is not. -The satirist is the aggressive lawyer, fastening upon particular people -and particular qualities. But irony is no more personal than the sun -that sends his flaming darts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> into the world. The satirist is a purely -practical man, with a business instinct, bent on the main chance and -the definite object. He is often brutal, and always overbearing; the -ironist never. Irony may wound from the very fineness and delicacy of -its attack, but the wounding is incidental. The sole purpose of the -satirist and the burlesquer is to wound, and they test their success -by the deepness of the wound. But irony tests its own by the amount -of generous light and air it has set flowing through an idea or a -personality, and the broad significance it has revealed in neglected -things.</p> - -<p>If irony is not brutal, neither is it merely critical and destructive. -The world has some reason, it is true, to complain against the rather -supercilious judiciousness of the ironist. “Who are you to judge us?” -it cries. The world does not like to feel the scrutinizing eyes of the -ironist as he sits back in his chair; does not like to feel that the -ironist is simply studying it and amusing himself at its expense. It -is uneasy, and acts sometimes as if it did not have a perfectly clear -conscience. To this uncomfortableness the ironist can retort,—“What -is it that you are afraid to have known about you?” If the judgment -amuses him, so much the worse for the world. But if the idea of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> the -ironist as judge implies that his attitude is wholly detached, wholly -objective, it is an unfortunate metaphor. For he is as much part and -parcel of the human show as any of the people he studies. The world -is no stage, with the ironist as audience. His own personal reactions -with the people about him form all the stuff of his thoughts and -judgments. He has a personal interest in the case; his own personality -is inextricably mingled in the stream of impressions that flows -past him. If the ironist is destructive, it is his own world that -he is destroying; if he is critical, it is his own world that he is -criticizing. And his irony is his critique of life.</p> - -<p>This is the defense of the ironist against the charge that he has -a purely æsthetic attitude towards life. Too often, perhaps, the -sparkling clarity of his thought, the play of his humor, the easy -sense of superiority and intellectual command that he carries off, -make his irony appear as rather the æsthetic nourishment of his life -than an active way of doing and being. His rather detached air makes -him seem to view people as means, not ends in themselves. With his -delight in the vivid and poignant he is prone to see picturesqueness -in the sordid, and tolerate evils that he should condemn.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> For all -his interest and activity, it is said that he does not really care. -But this æsthetic taint to his irony is really only skin-deep. The -ironist is ironical not because he does not care, but because he cares -too much. He is feeling the profoundest depths of the world’s great -beating, laboring heart, and his playful attitude towards the grim and -sordid is a necessary relief from the tension of too much caring. It -is his salvation from unutterable despair. The terrible urgency of the -reality of poverty and misery and exploitation would be too strong upon -him. Only irony can give him a sense of proportion, and make his life -fruitful and resolute. It can give him a temporary escape, a slight -momentary reconciliation, a chance to draw a deep breath of resolve -before plunging into the fight. It is not a palliative so much as a -perspective. This is the only justification of the æsthetic attitude, -that, if taken provisionally, it sweetens and fortifies. It is only -deadly when adopted as absolute. The kind of æsthetic irony that Pater -and Omar display is a paralyzed, half-seeing, half-caring reflection -on life,—a tame, domesticated irony with its wings cut, an irony that -furnishes a justification and a command to inaction. It is the result -not of exquisitely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> refined feelings, but of social anæsthesia. Their -irony, cut off from the great world of men and women and boys and girls -and their intricate interweavings and jostlings and incongruities, -turns pale and sickly and numb. The ironist has no right to see beauty -in things unless he really cares. The æsthetic sense is harmless only -when it is both ironical and social.</p> - -<p>Irony is thus a cure for both optimism and pessimism. Nothing is so -revolting to the ironist as the smiling optimist, who testifies in his -fatuous heedlessness to the desirability of this best of all possible -worlds. But the ironist has always an incorrigible propensity to see -the other side. The hopeless maladjustment of too many people to their -world, of their bondage in the iron fetters of circumstance,—all -this is too glaring for the ironist’s placidity. When he examines -the beautiful picture, too often the best turns worst to him. But if -optimism is impossible to the ironist, so is pessimism. The ironist -may have a secret respect for the pessimist,—he at least has felt -the bitter tang of life, and has really cared,—but he feels that -the pessimist lacks. For if the optimist is blind, the pessimist is -hypnotized. He is abnormally suggestive to evil. But clear-sighted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> -irony sees that the world is too big and multifarious to be evil -at heart. Something beautiful and joyous lurks even in the most -hapless,—a child’s laugh in a dreary street, a smile on the face of a -weary woman. It is this saving quality of irony that both optimist and -pessimist miss. And since plain common sense tells us that things are -never quite so bad or quite so good as they seem, the ironist carries -conviction into the hearts of men in their best moments.</p> - -<p>The ironist is a person who counts in the world. He has all sorts of -unexpected effects on both the people he goes with and himself. His -is an insistent personality; he is as troublesome as a missionary. -And he is a missionary; for, his own purpose being a comprehension of -his fellows’ souls, he makes them conscious of their own souls. He -is a hard man; he will take nothing on reputation; he will guarantee -for himself the qualities of things. He will not accept the vouchers -of the world that a man is wise, or clever, or sincere, behind the -impenetrable veil of his face. He must probe until he elicits the -evidence of personality, until he gets at the peculiar quality which -distinguishes that individual soul. For the ironist is after all a -connoisseur in personality, and if his conversation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> partakes too -often of the character of cross-examination, it is only as a lover of -the beautiful, a possessor of taste, that he inquires. He does not -want to see people squirm, but he does want to see whether they are -alive or not. If he pricks too hard, it is not from malice, but merely -from error in his estimation of the toughness of their skins. What -people are inside is the most interesting question in the world to the -ironist. And in finding out he stirs them up. Many a petty doubting -spirit does he challenge and bully into a sort of self-respect. And -many a bag of wind does he puncture. But his most useful function -is this of stimulating thought and action. The ironist forces his -friends to move their rusty limbs and unhinge the creaking doors of -their minds. The world needs more ironists. Shut up with one’s own -thoughts, one loses the glow of life that comes from frank exchange -of ideas with many kinds of people. Too many minds are stuffy, dusty -rooms into which the windows have never been opened,—minds heavy -with their own crotchets, cluttered up with untested theories and -conflicting sympathies that have never got related in any social way. -The ironist blows them all helter-skelter, sweeps away the dust, and -sets everything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> in its proper place again. Your solid, self-respectful -mind, the ironist confesses he can do little with; it is not of his -world. He comes to freshen and tone up the stale minds. The ironist is -the great purger and cleanser of life. Irony is a sort of spiritual -massage, rubbing the souls of men. It may seem rough to some tender -souls, but it does not sere or scar them. The strong arm of the ironist -restores the circulation, and drives away anæmia.</p> - -<p>On the ironist himself the effect of irony is even more invigorating. -We can never really understand ourselves without at least a touch of -irony. The interpretation of human nature without is a simple matter -in comparison with the comprehension of that complex of elations and -disgusts, inhibitions and curious irrational impulses that we call -ourselves. It is not true that by examining ourselves and coming to -an understanding of the way we behave we understand other people, but -that by the contrasts and little revelations of our friends we learn -to interpret ourselves. Introspection is no match for irony as a -guide. The most illuminating experience that we can have is a sudden -realization that had we been in the other person’s place we should have -acted precisely as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> he did. To the ironist this is no mere intellectual -conviction that, after all, none of us are perfect, but a vivid -emotional experience which has knit him with that other person in one -moment in a bond of sympathy that could have been acquired in no other -way. Those minds that lack the touch of irony are too little flexible, -or too heavily buttressed with self-esteem to make this sudden change -of attitudes. The ironist, one might almost say, gets his brotherhood -intuitively, feels the sympathy and the oneness in truth before he -thinks them. The ironist is the only man who really gets outside of -himself. What he does for other people,—that is, picking out a little -piece of their souls and holding it up for their inspection,—he does -for himself. He gets thus an objective view of himself. The unhealthy -indoor brooding of introspection is artificial and unproductive, -because it has no perspective or contrast. But the ironist with -his constant outdoor look sees his own foibles and humiliations in -the light of those of other people. He acquires a more tolerant, -half-amused, half-earnest attitude toward himself. His self-respect -is nourished by the knowledge that whatever things discreditable and -foolish and worthless he has done, he has seen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> them approximated by -others, and yet his esteem is kept safely pruned down by the recurring -evidence that nothing he has is unique. He is poised in life, ready to -soar or to walk as the occasion demands. He is pivoted, susceptible to -every stimulus, and yet chained so that he cannot be flung off into -space by his own centrifugal force.</p> - -<p>Irony has the same sweetening and freshening effect on one’s own life -that it has on the lives of those who come in contact with it. It gives -one a command of one’s resources. The ironist practices a perfect -economy of material. For he must utilize his wealth constantly and -over and over again in various shapes and shadings. He may be poor -in actual material, but out of the contrast and arrangement of that -slender store he is able, like a kaleidoscope, to make a multifarious -variety of wonderful patterns. His current coin is, so to speak, kept -bright by constant exchange. He is infinitely richer than your opulent -but miserly minds that hoard up facts, and are impotent from the very -plethora of their accumulations.</p> - -<p>Irony is essential to any real honesty. For dishonesty is at bottom -simply an attempt to save somebody’s face. But the ironist does not -want any faces saved, neither his own nor those of other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> people. To -save faces is to sophisticate human nature, to falsify the facts, and -miss a delicious contrast, an illuminating revelation of how people -act. So the ironist is the only perfectly honest man. But he suffers -for it by acquiring a reputation for impudence. His willingness to -bear the consequences of his own acts, his quiet insistence that -others shall bear consequences, seem like mere shamelessness, a lack -of delicate feeling for “situations.” But accustomed as he is to range -freely and know no fear nor favor, he despises this reserve as a -species of timidity or even hypocrisy. It is an irony itself that the -one temperament that can be said really to appreciate human nature, in -the sense of understanding it rightly, should be called impudent, and -it is another that it should be denounced as monstrously egotistical. -The ironical mind is the only truly modest mind, for its point of view -is ever outside itself. If it calls attention to itself, it is only as -another of those fascinating human creatures that pass ever by with -their bewildering, alluring ways. If it talks about itself, it is only -as a third person in whom all the talkers are supposed to be eagerly -interested. In this sense the ironist has lost his egotism completely. -He has rubbed out the line<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> that separates his personality from the -rest of the world.</p> - -<p>The ironist must take people very seriously, to spend so much time over -them. He must be both serious and sincere or he would not persist in -his irony and expose himself to so much misunderstanding. And since it -is not how people treat him, but simply how they act, that furnishes -the basis for his appreciation, the ironist finds it easy to forgive. -He has a way of letting the individual offense slide, in favor of a -deeper principle. In the act of being grossly misrepresented, he can -feel a pang of exasperated delight that people should be so dense; in -the act of being taken in, he can feel the cleverness of it all. He -becomes for the moment his enemy; and we can always forgive ourselves. -Even while he is being insulted, or outraged or ignored, he can feel, -“After all, this is what life is! This is the way we poor human -creatures behave!” The ironist is thus in a sense vicarious human -nature. Through that deep, anticipatory sympathy, he is kept clean from -hate or scorn.</p> - -<p>The ironist therefore has a valid defense against all the charges of -brutality and triviality and irreverence, that the religious man is -prone to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> bring against him. He can care more deeply about things -because he can see so much more widely. And he can take life very -seriously because it interests him so intensely. And he can feel -its poignancy and its flux more keenly because he delivers himself -up bravely to its swirling, many-hued current. The inner peace of -religion seems gained only at the expense of the reality of living. A -life such as the life of irony, lived fully and joyously, cannot be -peaceful; it cannot even be happy, in the sense of calm content and -satisfaction. But it can be better than either—it can be wise, and it -can be fruitful. And it can be good, in a way that the life of inner -peace cannot be. For the life of irony having no reserve and weaving -itself out of the flux of experience rather than out of eternal values -has the broad, honest sympathy of democracy, that is impossible to any -temperament with the aristocratic taint. One advantage the religious -life has is a salvation in another world to which it can withdraw. The -life of irony has laid up few treasures in heaven, but many in this -world. Having gained so much it has much to lose. But its glory is that -it can lose nothing unless it lose all.</p> - -<p>To shafts of fortune and blows of friends or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> enemies then, the ironist -is almost impregnable. He knows how to parry each thrust and prepare -for every emergency. Even if the arrows reach him, all the poison has -been sucked out of them by his clear, resolute understanding of their -significance. There is but one weak spot in his armor, but one disaster -that he fears more almost than the loss of his life,—a shrinkage of -his environment, a running dry of experience. He fears to be cut off -from friends and crowds and human faces and speech and books, for -he demands to be ceaselessly fed. Like a modern city, he is totally -dependent on a steady flow of supplies from the outside world, and -will be in danger of starvation, if the lines of communication are -interrupted. Without people and opinions for his mind to play on, his -irony withers and faints. He has not the faculty of brooding; he cannot -mine the depths of his own soul, and bring forth after labor mighty -nuggets of thought. The flow and swirl of things is his compelling -interest. His thoughts are reactions, immediate and vivid, to his daily -experience. Some deep, unconscious brooding must go on, to produce that -happy precision of judgment of his; but it is not voluntary. He is -conscious only of the shifting light and play of life; his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> world is -dynamic, energetic, changing. He lives in a world of relations, and he -must have a whole store of things to be related. He has lost himself -completely in this world he lives in. His ironical interpretation -of the world is his life, and this world is his nourishment. Take -away this environmental world and you have slain his soul. He is -invulnerable to everything except that deprivation.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V<br />THE EXCITEMENT OF FRIENDSHIP</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span></p> - - -<p>My friends, I can say with truth, since I have no other treasure, -are my fortune. I really live only when I am with my friends. Those -sufficient persons who can pass happily long periods of solitude -communing with their own thoughts and nourishing their own souls -fill me with a despairing admiration. Their gift of auto-stimulation -argues a personal power which I shall never possess. Or else it -argues, as I like to think in self-defense, a callousness of spirit, -an insensitiveness to the outside influences which nourish and sustain -the more susceptible mind. And those persons who can shut themselves -up for long periods and work out their thoughts alone, constructing -beautiful and orderly representations of their own spirits, are to me a -continual mystery. I know this is the way that things are accomplished, -that “monotony and solitude” are necessary for him who would produce -creative thought. Yet, knowing well this truth, I shun them both. I am -a battery that needs to be often recharged. I require the excitement<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> -of friendship; I must have the constant stimulation of friends. I do -not spark automatically, but must have other minds to rub up against, -and strike from them by friction the spark that will kindle my thoughts.</p> - -<p>When I walk, I must have a friend to talk to, or I shall not even -think. I am not of those who, like Stevenson, believe that walking -should be a kind of vegetative stupor, where the sun and air merely -fill one with a diffused sense of well-being and exclude definite -thought. The wind should rather blow through the dusty regions of the -mind, and the sun light up its dark corners, and thinking and talking -should be saner and higher and more joyful than within doors. But one -must have a friend along to open the windows. Neither can I sympathize -with those persons who carry on long chains of reasoning while they -are traveling or walking. When alone, my thinking is as desultory as -the scenery of the roadside, and when with a friend, it is apt to -be as full of romantic surprises as a walk through a woodland glen. -Good talk is like good scenery—continuous yet constantly varying, -and full of the charm of novelty and surprise. How unnatural it is -to think except when one is forced to do it, is discovered when one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> -attempts to analyze one’s thoughts when alone. He is a rare genius who -finds something beyond the mere visual images that float through his -mind,—either the reflection of what he is actually seeing, or the -pictorial representations of what he has been doing or what he wants -or intends to do in the near or far future. We should be shocked to -confess to ourselves how little control we have over our own minds; we -shall be lucky if we can believe that we guide them.</p> - -<p>Thinking, then, was given us for use in emergencies, and no man can -be justly blamed if he reserves it for emergencies. He can be blamed, -however, if he does not expose himself to those crises which will call -it forth. Now a friend is such an emergency, perhaps the most exciting -stimulus to thinking that one can find, and if one wants to live beyond -the vegetative stupor, one must surround one’s self with friends. I -shall call my friends, then, all those influences which warm me and -start running again all my currents of thought and imagination. The -persons, causes, and books that unlock the prison of my intellectual -torpor, I can justly call my friends, for I find that I feel toward -them all the same eager joy and inexhaustible rush of welcome. Where -they differ it shall<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> be in degree and not in kind. The speaker whom -I hear, the book that I read, the friend with whom I chat, the music -that I play, even the blank paper before me, which subtly stirs me -to cover it with sentences that unfold surprisingly and entice me to -follow until I seem hopelessly lost from the trail,—all these shall be -my friends as long as I find myself responding to them, and no longer. -They are all alike in being emergencies that call upon me for instant -and definite response.</p> - -<p>The difference between them lies in their response to me. My personal -friends react upon me; the lecturers and books and music and pictures -do not. These are not influenced by my feelings or by what I do. I -can approach them cautiously or boldly, respond to them slowly or -warmly, and they will not care. They have a definite quality, and do -not change; if I respond differently to them at different times, I -know that it is I and not they who have altered. The excitement of -friendship does not lie with them. One feels this lack particularly -in reading, which no amount of enthusiasm can make more than a feeble -and spiritless performance. The more enthusiasm the reading inspires -in one, the more one rebels at the passivity into which one is forced. -I want to get<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> somehow at grips with the book. I can feel the warmth -of the personality behind it, but I cannot see the face as I can the -face of a person, lighting and changing with the iridescent play of -expression. It is better with music; one can get at grips with one’s -piano, and feel the resistance and the response of the music one plays. -One gets the sense of aiding somehow in its creation, the lack of which -feeling is the fatal weakness of reading, though itself the easiest -and most universal of friendly stimulations. One comes from much -reading with a sense of depression and a vague feeling of something -unsatisfied; from friends or music one comes with a high sense of -elation and of the brimming adequacy of life.</p> - -<p>If one could only retain those moments! What a tragedy it is that our -periods of stimulated thinking should be so difficult of reproduction; -that there is no intellectual shorthand to take down the keen -thoughts, the trains of argument, the pregnant thoughts, which spring -so spontaneously to the mind at such times! What a tragedy that one -must wait till the fire has died out, till the light has faded away, -to transcribe the dull flickering remembrances of those golden hours -when thought and feeling seemed to have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> melted together, and one -said and thought what seemed truest and finest and most worthy of -one’s immortalizing! This is what constitutes the hopeless labor of -writing,—that one must struggle constantly to warm again the thoughts -that are cold or have been utterly consumed. What was thought in the -hours of stimulation must be written in the hours of solitude, when the -mind is apt to be cold and gray, and when one is fortunate to find on -the hearth of the memory even a few scattered embers lying about. The -blood runs sluggish as one sits down to write. What worry and striving -it takes to get it running freely again! What labor to reproduce even -a semblance of what seemed to come so genially and naturally in the -contact and intercourse of friendship!</p> - -<p>One of the curious superstitions of friendship is that we somehow -choose our friends. To the connoisseur in friendship no idea could be -more amazing and incredible. Our friends are chosen for us by some -hidden law of sympathy, and not by our conscious wills. All we know -is that in our reactions to people we are attracted to some and are -indifferent to others. And the ground of this mutual interest seems -based on no discoverable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> principles of similarity of temperament or -character. We have no time, when meeting a new person, to study him or -her carefully; our reactions are swift and immediate. Our minds are -made up instantly,—“friend or non-friend.” By some subtle intuitions, -we know and have measured at their first words all the possibilities -which their friendship has in store for us. We get the full quality of -their personality at the first shock of meeting, and no future intimacy -changes that quality.</p> - -<p>If I am to like a man, I like him at once; further acquaintance -can only broaden and deepen that liking and understanding. If I am -destined to respond, I respond at once or never. If I do not respond, -he continues to be to me as if I had never met him; he does not exist -in my world. His thoughts, feelings, and interests I can but dimly -conceive of; if I do think of him it is only as a member of some -general class. My imaginative sympathy can embrace him only as a type. -If his interests are in some way forced upon my attention, and my -imagination is compelled to encompass him as an individual, I find his -ideas and interests appearing like pale, shadowy things, dim ghosts of -the real world that my friends and I live in.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p> - -<p>Association with such aliens—and how much of our life is necessarily -spent in their company—is a torture far worse than being actually -disliked. Probably they do not dislike us, but there is this strange -gulf which cuts us off from their possible sympathy. A pall seems -to hang over our spirits; our souls are dumb. It is a struggle and -an effort to affect them at all. And though we may know that this -depressing weight which seems to press on us in our intercourse -with them has no existence, yet this realization does not cure our -helplessness. We do not exist for them any more than they exist for -us. They are depressants, not stimulators as are our friends. Our -words sound singularly futile and half-hearted as they pass our lips. -Our thoughts turn to ashes as we utter them. In the grip of this -predestined antipathy we can do nothing but submit and pass on.</p> - -<p>But in how different a light do we see our friends! They are no types, -but each a unique, exhaustless personality, with his own absorbing -little cosmos of interests round him. And those interests are real and -vital, and in some way interwoven with one’s own cosmos. Our friends -are those whose worlds overlap our own, like intersecting circles. -If there is too much overlapping,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> however, there is monotony and a -mutual cancellation. It is, perhaps, a question of attitude as much as -anything. Our friends must be pointed in the same direction in which we -are going, and the truest friendship and delight is when we can watch -each other’s attitude toward life grow increasingly similar; or if not -similar, at least so sympathetic as to be mutually complementary and -sustaining.</p> - -<p>The wholesale expatriation from our world of all who do not overlap us -or look at life in a similar direction is so fatal to success that we -cannot afford to let these subtle forces of friendship and apathy have -full sway with our souls. To be at the mercy of whatever preordained -relations may have been set up between us and the people we meet is -to make us incapable of negotiating business in a world where one -must be all things to all men. From an early age, therefore, we work, -instinctively or consciously, to get our reactions under control, so -as to direct them in the way most profitable to us. By a slow and -imperceptible accretion of impersonality over the erratic tendencies -of personal response and feeling, we acquire the professional -manner, which opens the world wide to us. We become human patterns -of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> the profession into which we have fallen, and are no longer -individual personalities. Men find no difficulty in becoming soon so -professionalized that their manner to their children at home is almost -identical with that to their clients in the office. Such an extinction -of the personality is a costly price to pay for worldly success. One -has integrated one’s character, perhaps, but at the cost of the zest -and verve and peril of true friendship.</p> - -<p>To those of us, then, who have not been tempted by success, or who -have been so fortunate as to escape it, friendship is a life-long -adventure. We do not integrate ourselves, and we have as many sides to -our character as we have friends to show them to. Quite unconsciously I -find myself witty with one friend, large and magnanimous with another, -petulant and stingy with another, wise and grave with another, and -utterly frivolous with another. I watch with surprise the sudden -and startling changes in myself as I pass from the influence of one -friend to the influence of some one else. But my character with each -particular friend is constant. I find myself, whenever I meet him, -with much the same emotional and mental tone. If we talk, there is -with each one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> some definite subject upon which we always speak and -which remains perennially fresh and new. If I am so unfortunate as to -stray accidentally from one of these well-worn fields into another, I -am instantly reminded of the fact by the strangeness and chill of the -atmosphere. We are happy only on our familiar levels, but on these -we feel that we could go on exhaustless forever, without a pang of -ennui. And this inexhaustibility of talk is the truest evidence of good -friendship.</p> - -<p>Friends do not, on the other hand, always talk of what is nearest -to them. Friendship requires that there be an open channel between -friends, but it does not demand that that channel be the deepest in our -nature. It may be of the shallowest kind and yet the friendship be of -the truest. For all the different traits of our nature must get their -airing through friends, the trivial as well as the significant. We let -ourselves out piecemeal, it seems, so that only with a host of varied -friends can we express ourselves to the fullest. Each friend calls out -some particular trait in us, and it requires the whole chorus fitly to -teach us what we are. This is the imperative need of friendship. A man -with few friends is only half-developed; there are whole sides of his -nature which are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> locked up and have never been expressed. He cannot -unlock them himself, he cannot even discover them; friends alone can -stimulate him and open them. Such a man is in prison; his soul is in -penal solitude. A man must get friends as he would get food and drink -for nourishment and sustenance. And he must keep them, as he would keep -health and wealth, as the infallible safeguards against misery and -poverty of spirit.</p> - -<p>If it seems selfish to insist so urgently upon one’s need for friends, -if it should be asked what we are giving our friends in return for -all their spiritual fortification and nourishment, the defense would -have to be, that we give back to them in ample measure what they give -to us. If we are their friends, we are stimulating them as they are -stimulating us. They will find that they talk with unusual brilliancy -when they are with us. And we may find that we have, perhaps, merely -listened to them. Yet through that curious bond of sympathy which has -made us friends, we have done as much for them as if we had exerted -ourselves in the most active way. The only duty of friendship is that -we and our friends should live at our highest and best when together. -Having achieved that, we have fulfilled the law.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span></p> - -<p>A good friendship, strange to say, has little place for mutual -consolations and ministrations. Friendship breathes a more rugged air. -In sorrow the silent pressure of the hand speaks the emotions, and -lesser griefs and misfortunes are ignored or glossed over. The fatal -facility of women’s friendships, their copious outpourings of grief to -each other, their sharing of wounds and sufferings, their half-pleased -interest in misfortune,—all this seems of a lesser order than the -robust friendships of men, who console each other in a much more -subtle, even intuitive way,—by a constant pervading sympathy which is -felt rather than expressed. For the true atmosphere of friendship is -a sunny one. Griefs and disappointments do not thrive in its clear, -healthy light. When they do appear, they take on a new color. The -silver lining appears, and we see even our own personal mistakes and -chagrins as whimsical adventures. It is almost impossible seriously -to believe in one’s bad luck or failures or incapacity while one is -talking with a friend. One achieves a sort of transfiguration of -personality in those moments. In the midst of the high and genial flow -of intimate talk, a pang may seize one at the thought of the next day’s -drudgery, when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> life will be lived alone again; but nothing can dispel -the ease and fullness with which it is being lived at the moment. It -is, indeed, a heavy care that will not dissolve into misty air at the -magic touch of a friend’s voice.</p> - -<p>Fine as friendship is, there is nothing irrevocable about it. The -bonds of friendship are not iron bonds, proof against the strongest of -strains and the heaviest of assaults. A man by becoming your friend -has not committed himself to all the demands which you may be pleased -to make upon him. Foolish people like to test the bonds of their -friendships, pulling upon them to see how much strain they will stand. -When they snap, it is as if friendship itself had been proved unworthy. -But the truth is that good friendships are fragile things and require -as much care in handling as any other fragile and precious things. -For friendship is an adventure and a romance, and in adventures it is -the unexpected that happens. It is the zest of peril that makes the -excitement of friendship. All that is unpleasant and unfavorable is -foreign to its atmosphere; there is no place in friendship for harsh -criticism or fault-finding. We will “take less” from a friend than we -will from one who is indifferent to us.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p> - -<p>Good friendship is lived on a warm, impetuous plane; the long-suffering -kind of friendship is a feeble and, at best, a half-hearted affair. -It is friendship in the valley and not on the breezy heights. For the -secret of friendship is a mutual admiration, and it is the realization -or suspicion that that admiration is lessening on one side or the other -that swiftly breaks the charm. Now this admiration must have in it no -taint of adulation, which will wreck a friendship as soon as suspicion -will. But it must consist of the conviction, subtly expressed in every -tone of the voice, that each has found in the other friend a rare -spirit, compounded of light and intelligence and charm. And there must -be no open expression of this feeling, but only the silent flattery, -soft and almost imperceptible.</p> - -<p>And in the best of friendships this feeling is equal on both sides. -Too great a superiority in our friend disturbs the balance, and casts -a sort of artificial light on the talk and intercourse. We want to -believe that we are fairly equal to our friends in power and capacity, -and that if they excel us in one trait, we have some counterbalancing -quality in another direction. It is the reverse side of this shield -that gives point to the diabolical<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span> insight of the Frenchman who -remarked that we were never heartbroken by the misfortunes of our -best friends. If we have had misfortunes, it is not wholly unjust and -unfortunate that our friends should suffer too. Only their misfortunes -must not be worse than ours. For the equilibrium is then destroyed, -and our serious alarm and sympathy aroused. Similarly we rejoice in -the good fortune of our friends, always provided that it be not too -dazzling or too undeserved.</p> - -<p>It is these aspects of friendship, which cannot be sneered away by the -reproach of jealousy, that make friendship a precarious and adventurous -thing. But it is precious in proportion to its precariousness, and its -littlenesses are but the symptoms of how much friends care, and how -sensitive they are to all the secret bonds and influences that unite -them.</p> - -<p>Since our friends have all become woven into our very selves, to part -from friends is to lose, in a measure, one’s self. He is a brave and -hardy soul who can retain his personality after his friends are gone. -And since each friend is the key which unlocks an aspect of one’s own -personality, to lose a friend is to cut away a part of one’s self. I -may make another friend to replace the loss, but the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> unique quality -of the first friend can never be brought back. He leaves a wound which -heals only gradually. To have him go away is as bad as to have him pass -to another world. The letter is so miserable a travesty on the personal -presence, a thin ghost of the thought of the once-present friend. It -is as satisfactory as a whiff of stale tobacco smoke to the lover of -smoking.</p> - -<p>Those persons and things, then, that inspire us to do our best, that -make us live at our best, when we are in their presence, that call -forth from us our latent and unsuspected personality, that nourish and -support that personality,—those are our friends. The reflection of -their glow makes bright the darker and quieter hours when they are not -with us. They are a true part of our widest self; we should hardly have -a self without them. Their world is one where chagrin and failure do -not enter. Like the sun-dial, they “only mark the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>shining hours.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI">VI<br />THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span></p> - - - -<p>That life is an adventure it needs nothing more than the wonder of -our being in the world and the precariousness of our stay in it to -inform us. Although we are, perhaps, as the scientists tell us, mere -inert accompaniments of certain bundles of organized matter, we tend -incorrigibly to think of ourselves as unique personalities. And as -we let our imagination roam over the world and dwell on the infinite -variety of scenes and thoughts and feelings and forms of life, we -wonder at the incredible marvel that has placed us just here in this -age and country and locality where we were born. That it should be -this particular place and time and body that my consciousness is -illuminating gives, indeed, the thrill of wonder and adventure to the -mere fact of my becoming and being.</p> - -<p>And as life goes on, the feeling for the precariousness of that being -grows upon one’s mind. The security of childhood gives place to an -awareness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> of the perils of misfortune, disease, and sudden death which -seem to lie in wait for men and seize them without regard to their -choices or deserts. We are prone, of course, to believe in our personal -luck; it is the helplessness of others around us rather that impresses -us, as we see both friends and strangers visited with the most dreadful -evils, and with an impartiality of treatment that gradually tends to -force upon us the conviction that we, too, are not immune. At some -stage in our life, oftenest perhaps when the first flush of youth is -past, we are suddenly thrown into a suspicion of life, a dread of -nameless and unforeseeable ill, and a sober realization of the need -of circumspection and defense. We discover that we live in a world -where almost anything is likely to happen. Shocking accidents that -cut men off in their prime, pain and suffering falling upon the just -and the unjust, maladjustments and misunderstandings that poison and -ruin lives,—all these things are daily occurrences in our experience, -either of personal knowledge or out of that wider experience of our -reading.</p> - -<p>Religion seems to give little consolation in the face of such -incontrovertible facts. For no belief in Providence can gainsay the -seeming fact that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> we are living in a world that is run without regard -to the health and prosperity of its inhabitants. Whatever its ulterior -meanings, they do not seem to be adjusted to our scale of values. -Physical law we can see, but where are the workings of a moral law? -If they are present, they seem to cut woefully against the grain of -the best desires and feelings of men. Evil seems to be out of all -proportion to the ability of its sufferers to bear it, or of its -chastening and corrective efficacy. Our feelings are too sensitive for -the assaults which the world makes upon them. If the responsibility -for making all things work together for his good is laid entirely -upon man, it is a burden too heavy for his weakness and ignorance to -bear. And thus we contemplate the old, old problem of evil. And in its -contemplation, the adventure of life, which should be a tonic and a -spur, becomes a depressant; instead of nerving, it intimidates, and -makes us walk cautiously and sadly through life, where we should ride -fast and shout for joy.</p> - -<p>In these modern days, the very wealth of our experience overwhelms us, -and makes life harder to live in the sight of evil. The broadening of -communication, giving us a connection through newspapers and magazines -with the whole world, has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> made our experience almost as wide as the -world. In that experience, however, we get all the world’s horrors -as well as its interests and delights. Thus has it been that this -widening, which has meant the possibility of living the contemplative -and imaginative life on an infinitely higher plane than before, has -meant also a soul-sickness to the more sensitive, because of the -immense and over-burdening drafts on their sympathy which the new -experience involved. Although our increased knowledge of the world has -meant everywhere reform, and has vastly improved and beautified life -for millions of men, it has at the same time opened a nerve the pain -of which no opiate has been able to soothe. And along with the real -increase of longevity and sounder health for civilized man, attained -through the triumphs of medical science, there has come a renewed -realization of the shortness and precariousness, at its best, of life. -The fact that our knowledge of evil is shared by millions of men -intensifies, I think, our sensitiveness. Through the genius of display -writers, thousands of readers are enabled to be present imaginatively -at scenes of horror. The subtle sense of a vast concourse having -witnessed the scene magnifies its potency to the individual<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> mind, and -gives it the morbid touch as of crowds witnessing an execution.</p> - -<p>Our forefathers were more fortunate, and could contemplate evil more -philosophically and objectively. Their experience was happily limited -to what the normal soul could endure. Their evil was confined to -their vicinity. What dim intelligence of foreign disaster and misery -leaked in, only served to purify and sober their spirits. Evil did -not then reverberate around the world as it does now. Their nerves -were not strained or made raw by the reiterations and expatiations -on far-away pestilence and famine, gigantic sea disasters, wanton -murders, or even the shocking living conditions of the great city -slums. Their imaginations had opportunity to grow healthily, unassailed -by the morbidities of distant evil, which seems magnified and ominous -through its very strangeness. They were not forced constantly to ask -themselves the question, “What kind of a world do we live in anyhow? -Has it no mercy and no hope?” They were not having constantly thrown -up to them a justification of the universe. Perhaps it was because -they were more concerned with personal sin than with objective evil. -The enormity of sin against their Maker blotted out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> all transient -misfortune and death. But it was more likely that the actual ignorance -of that evil permitted their personal flagrancies to loom up larger in -their sight. Whatever the cause, there was a difference. We have only -to compare their literature—solid, complacent, rational—with our -restless and hectic stuff; or contrast their portraits—well-nourished, -self-respecting faces—with the cheap or callous or hunted faces that -we see about us to-day, to get the change in spiritual fibre which this -opening of the world has wrought. It has been a real eating of the tree -of the knowledge of good and evil. A social conscience has been born. -An expansion of soul has been forced upon us. We have the double need -of a broader vision to assimilate the good that is revealed to us, and -a stronger courage to bear the evil with which our slowly-bettering old -world still seems to reek.</p> - -<p>But the youth of this modern generation are coming more and more to -see that the gloom and hysteria of this restless age, with all the -other seemingly neurotic symptoms of decay, are simply growing-pains. -They signify a better spiritual health that is to be. The soul is -now learning to adjust itself to the new conditions, to embrace<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> the -wide world that is its heritage, and not to reel and stagger before -the assaults of a malign power. Life will always be fraught with real -peril, but it is peril which gives us the sense of adventure. And as we -gain in our command over the resources, both material and spiritual, -of the world, we shall see the adventure as not so much the peril of -evil as an opportunity of permanent achievement. We can only cure our -suffering from the evil in the world by doing all in our power to -wipe out that which is caused by human blundering, and prevent what -we can prevent by our control of the forces of nature. Our own little -personal evils we can dismiss with little thought. Such as have come -to us we can endure,—for have we not already endured them?—and those -that we dread we shall not keep away by fear or worry. We can easily -become as much slaves to precaution as we can to fear. Although we can -never rivet our fortune so tight as to make it impregnable, we may by -our excessive prudence squeeze out of the life that we are guarding -so anxiously all the adventurous quality that makes it worth living. -In the light of our own problematical misfortune, we must rather live -freely and easily, taking the ordinary chances and looking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span> To-morrow -confidently in the face as we have looked To-day. I have come thus far -safely and well; why may I not come farther?</p> - -<p>But in regard to the evil that we see around us, the problem is more -difficult. Though the youth of this generation hope to conquer, the -battle is still on. We have fought our way to a knowledge of things as -they are, and we must now fight our way beyond it. That first fight -was our first sense of the adventure of life. Our purpose early became -to track the world relentlessly down to its lair. We were resolute -to find out the facts, no matter how sinister and barren they proved -themselves to be. We would make no compromises with our desires, -or with those weak persons who could not endure the clear light of -reality. We were scornful in the presence of the superstitions of our -elders. We could not conceive that sufficient knowledge combined with -action would not be able to solve all our problems and make clear all -our path. As our knowledge grew, so did our courage. We pressed more -eagerly on the trail of this world of ours, purposing to capture and -tame its mysteries, and reveal it as it is, so that none could doubt -us. As we penetrated farther, however, into the cave, the path became<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> -more and more uncertain. We discovered our prey to be far grimmer and -more dangerous than we had ever imagined. As he turned slowly at bay, -we discovered that he was not only repulsive but threatening. We were -sternly prepared to accept him just as we found him, exulting that we -should know things as they really were. We were ready for the worst, -and yet somehow not for this worst. We had not imagined him retaliating -upon us. In our first recoil, the thought flashed upon us that our -tracking him to his lair might end in his feasting on our bones.</p> - -<p>It is somewhat thus that we feel when the full implications of the -materialism to which we have laboriously fought our way dawn upon -us, or we realize the full weight of the sodden social misery around -us. Hitherto we have been so intent on the trail that we have not -stopped to consider what it all meant. Now that we know, not only -our own salvation seems threatened, but that of all around us, even -the integrity of the world itself. In these moments of perplexity -and alarm, we lose confidence in ourselves and all our values and -interpretations. To go further seems to be to court despair. We are -ashamed to retreat, and, besides, have come too far ever to get back -into the safe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> plain of ignorance again. The world seems to be revealed -to us as mechanical in its workings and fortuitous in its origin, and -the warmth and light of beauty and ideals that we have known all along -to be our true life seem to be proven illusions. And the wailing of the -world comes up to us, cast off from any divine assistance, left to the -mercy of its own weak wills and puny strengths. In this fall, our world -itself seems to have lost merit, and we feel ourselves almost degraded -by being a part of it. We have suddenly been deprived of our souls; the -world seems to have beaten us in our first real battle with it.</p> - -<p>Now this despair is partly the result of an excessive responsibility -that we have taken for the universe. In youth, if we are earnest and -eager, we tend to take every bit of experience that comes to us, -as either a justification or a condemnation of the world. We are -all instinctive monists at that age, and crave a complete whole. As -we unconsciously construct our philosophy of life, each fact gets -automatically recorded as confirming or denying the competency of -the world we live in. Even the first shock of disillusionment, which -banishes those dreams of a beautiful, orderly, and rational world that -had suffused childhood<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> with their golden light, did not shatter the -conviction that there was somehow at least a Lord’s side. The sudden -closing of the account in the second shock, when the world turns on us, -shows us how mighty has been the issue at stake,—nothing less than our -faith in the universe, and, perhaps, in the last resort, of our faith -in ourselves. We see now that our breathless seriousness of youth was -all along simply a studying of our crowded experience to see whether it -was on the Lord’s side or not. And now in our doubt we are left with a -weight on our souls which is not our own, a burden which we have really -usurped.</p> - -<p>In its adventure with evil, youth must not allow this strange, -metaphysical responsibility to depress and incapacitate it. We shall -never face life freely and bravely and worthily if we do. I may wonder, -it is true, as I look out on these peaceful fields, with the warm -sun and blue sky above me and the kindly faces of my good friends -around me, how this can be the same world that houses the millions -of poor and wretched people in their burning and huddled quarters in -the city. Can these days, in which I am free to come and go and walk -and study as I will, be the same that measure out the long hours of -drudgery to thousands<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> of youth amid the whir of machines, and these -long restful nights of mine, the same that are for them only gasps -breaking a long monotony? It must be the same world, however, whether -we can ever reconcile ourselves to it or not. But we need plainly feel -no responsibility for what happened previously to our generation. Our -responsibility now is a collective, a social responsibility. And it is -only for the evil that society might prevent were it organized wisely -and justly. Beyond that it does not go. For the accidental evil that is -showered upon the world, we are not responsible, and we need not feel -either that the integrity of the universe is necessarily compromised by -it. It is necessary to be somewhat self-centred in considering it. We -must trust our own feelings rather than any rational proof. In spite -of everything, the world seems to us so unconquerably good, it affords -so many satisfactions, and is so rich in beauty and kindliness, that -we have a right to assume that there is a side of things that we miss -in our pessimistic contemplation of misfortune and disaster. We see -only the outer rind of it. People usually seem to be so much happier -than we can find any very rational excuse for their being, and that -old world that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> confronted us and scared us may look very much worse -than it really is. And we can remember that adding to the number of the -sufferers does not intensify the actual quality of the suffering. There -is no more suffering than one person can bear.</p> - -<p>These considerations may allay a little our first terror and despair. -When we really understand that the world is not damned by the evil in -it, we shall be ready to see it in its true light as a challenge to our -heroisms. Not how evil came into the world, but how we are going to get -it out, becomes the problem. Not by brooding over the hopeless, but by -laying plans for the possible will we shoulder our true responsibility. -We shall find then that we had no need of despair. We were on the -right track. When the world that we were tracking down turned at bay, -he threatened more than he was able to perform. Not less science but -more science do we need in order that we may more and more get into -our control the forces and properties of nature, and guide them for -our benefit. But we must learn that the interpretation of the world -lies not in its mechanism but in its meanings, and those meanings we -find in our values and ideals, which are very real to us. Science -brings us only to an “area of our dwelling,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> as Whitman says. The -moral adventure of the rising generation will be to learn this truth -thoroughly, and to reinstate ideals and personality at the heart of the -world.</p> - -<p>Our most favorable battle-ground against evil will for some time at -least be the social movement. Poverty and sin and social injustice -we must feel not sentimentally nor so much a symptom of a guilty -conscience as a call to coöperate with the exploited and sufferers in -throwing off their ills. Sensitiveness to evil will be most fruitful -when it rouses a youth to the practical encouragement of the under-men -to save themselves. Youth to-day needs to “beat the gong of revolt.” -The oppressed seldom ask for our sympathy, and this is right and -fitting; for they do not need it. (It might even make them contented -with their lot.) What they need is the inspiration and the knowledge to -come into their own. All we can ever do in the way of good to people -is to encourage them to do good to themselves. “Who would be free, -himself must strike the blow!” This is the social responsibility of -modern youth. It must not seek to serve humanity so much as to rouse -and teach it. The great moral adventure that lies still ahead of us is -to call men to the expansion of their souls<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> to the wide world which -has suddenly been revealed to them.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Perhaps with that expansion youth will finally effect a reconciliation -with life of those two supremest and most poignant of adventures: the -thoughts that cluster around sex, and the fears and hopes that cluster -around death, the one the gateway into life, the other out of it. Youth -finds them the two hardest aspects of life to adjust with the rest of -the world in which we live. They are ever-present and pervasive, and -yet their manifestations always cause us surprise, and shock us as of -something unwonted intruding in our daily affairs. They are the unseen -spectres behind life, of which we are always dimly conscious, but which -we are always afraid to meet boldly and face to face. We speak of them -furtively, or in far-away poetical strains. They are the materials -for the tragedies of life, of its pathos and wistfulness, of its -splendors and defeats. Yet they are treated always with an incorrigible -and dishonest delicacy. The world, youth soon finds, is a much less -orderly and refined place than would appear on the surface of our daily -intercourse and words. As we put on our best clothes to appear in -public,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> so the world puts on its best clothes to appear in talk and -print.</p> - -<p>Men ignore death, as if they were quite unconscious that it would -sometime come to them, yet who knows how many pensive or terrible -moments the thought gives them? But the spectre is quite invisible to -us. Or if they have passions, and respond as sensitively as a vibrating -string to sex influences and appeals, we have little indication of that -throbbing life behind the impenetrable veil of their countenances. We -can know what people think about all other things, even what they think -about God, but what they think of these two adventures of sex and death -we never know. It is not so much, I am willing to believe, shame or -fear that keeps us from making a parade of them, as awe and wonder and -baffled endeavors to get our attitude towards them into expressible -form. They are too elemental, too vast and overpowering in their -workings to fit neatly into this busy, accounted-for, and tied-down -world of daily life. They are superfluous to what we see as the -higher meanings of this our life, and irritate us by their clamorous -insistence and disregard for the main currents of our living. They seem -irrelevant to life; or rather they overtop its bounty.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> Their pressure -to be let in is offensive, and taints and mars irrevocably what would -otherwise be so pleasant and secure a life. That is, perhaps, why we -call manifestations of sex activity, obscene, and of death, morbid and -ghastly.</p> - -<p>In these modern days we are adopting a healthier attitude, especially -towards sex. Perhaps the rising generation will be successful in -reconciling them both, and working them into our lives, where they may -be seen in their right relations and proportions, and no longer the -pleasure of sex and the peace of death seem an illegitimate obtrusion -into life. To get command of these arch-enemies is an endeavor worthy -of the moral heroes of to-day. We can get control, it seems, of the -rest of our souls, but these always lie in wait to torment and harass -us. To tame this obsession of sex and the fear of death will be a -Herculean task for youth in the adventure of life. Perhaps some will -succeed where we have failed. For usually when we try to tame sex, it -poisons the air around us, and if we try to tame the fear of death by -resigning ourselves to its inevitability, we find that we have not -tamed it but only drugged it. At certain times, however, our struggles -with the winged demons which they send into our minds may constitute<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> -the most poignant incidents in our adventure of life, and add a beauty -to our lives. Where they do not make for happiness, they may at least -make for a deepening of knowledge and appreciation of life. Along -through middle life, we shall find, perhaps, that, even if untamed, -they have become our allies, and that both have lost their sting and -their victory,—sex diffusing our life with a new beauty, and death -with a courageous trend towards a larger life of which we shall be an -integral part.</p> - -<p>When we have acclimated ourselves to youth, suddenly death looms up -as the greatest of dangers in our adventure of life. It puzzles and -shocks and saddens us by its irrevocability and mystery. That we should -be taken out of this world to which we are so perfectly adapted, and -which we enjoy and feel intimate with, is an incredible thing. Even if -we believe that we shall survive death, we know that that after-life -must perforce be lived outside of this our familiar world. Reason tells -us that we shall be annihilated, and yet we cannot conceive our own -annihilation. We can easier imagine the time before our birth, when we -were not, than the time after our death, when we shall not be. Old men -find nothing very dreadful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> in the thought of being no more, and we -shall find that it is the combined notion of being annihilated, and yet -of being somehow conscious of that annihilation, that terrifies us, and -startles our minds sometimes in the dead of night when our spirits are -sluggish and the ghoulish ideas that haunt the dimmest chambers of the -mind are flitting abroad. We can reason with ourselves that if we are -annihilated we shall not be conscious of it, and if we are conscious we -shall not be annihilated, but this easy proof does not help us much in -a practical way. We simply do not know, and all speculations seem to be -equally legitimate. If we are destined to assume another form of life, -no divination can prophesy for us what that life shall be.</p> - -<p>On the face of it the soul as well as the body dies. The fate of the -body we know, and it seems dreadful enough to chill the stoutest heart; -and what we call our souls seem so intimately dependent upon these -bodies as to be incapable of living alone. And yet somehow it is hard -to stop believing in the independent soul. We can believe that the -warmth dissipates, that the chemical and electrical energies of the -body pass into other forms and are gradually lost in the immensity of -the universe. But this wonder of consciousness,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> which seems to hold -and embrace all our thoughts and feelings and bind them together, what -can we know of its power and permanence? In our own limited sphere it -already transcends space and time, our imaginations triumphing over -space, and our memories and anticipations over time: this magic power -of the imagination, which transcends our feeble experience and gives -ideas and images which have not appeared directly through the senses. -We can connect this conscious life with no other aspect of the world -nor can we explain it by any of the principles which we apply to -physical things. It is the divine gift that reveals this world; why may -it not reveal sometime a far wider universe?</p> - -<p>It is this incalculability of our conscious life that makes its seeming -end so great an adventure. This Time which rushes past us, blotting -out everything it creates, leaving us ever suspended on a Present, -which, as we turn to look at it, has melted away,—how are we to -comprehend it? The thin, fragile and uncertain stream of our memory -seems insufficient to give any satisfaction of permanence. I like to -think of a world-memory that retains the past. Physical things that -change or perish continue to live psychically in memory;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> why may not -all that passes, not only in our minds, but unknown to us, be carried -along in a great world-mind of whose nature we get a dim inkling -even now in certain latent mental powers of ours which are sometimes -revealed, and seem to let down bars into a boundless sea of knowledge. -The world is a great, rushing, irreversible life, not predestined in -its workings, but free like ourselves. The accumulating past seems to -cut into the future, and create it as it goes along. Nothing is then -lost, and we, although we had no existence before we were born,—how -could we have, since that moving Present had not created us?—would -yet, having been born, continue to exist in that world-memory. We do -not need to reëcho the sadness of the centuries,—“Everything passes; -nothing remains!” For even if we take this world-memory at its lowest -terms as a social memory, the effects of the deeds of men, for good or -for evil, remain. And their words remain, the distillation of their -thought and experience. This we know, and we know, moreover, that “one -thing at least is certain,” not that “this life dies”—for that has yet -to be proved—but that “the race lives!” Nature is so careless about -the individual life, so careful for the species,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> that it seems as if -it were only the latter that counted, that her only purpose was the -eternal continuation of life. And many to-day find a satisfaction for -their cravings for immortality in the thought that they will live in -their children and so on immortally as long as their line continues.</p> - -<p>But we have a right to make greater hazards of faith than this. Might -it not be that, although nature never purposed that the individual soul -should live, man has outwitted her? He has certainly outwitted her in -regard to his bodily life. There was no provision in nature for man’s -living by tillage of the soil and domestication of animals, or for his -dwelling in houses built with tools in his hands, or for traveling -at lightning speed, or for harnessing her forces to run for him the -machines that should turn out the luxuries and utilities of life. All -these were pure gratuities, devised by man and wrested from nature’s -unwilling hands. She was satisfied with primitive, animal-like man, -as she is satisfied with him in some parts of the world to-day. We -have simply got ahead of her. All the other animals are still under -her dominion, but man has become the tool-maker and the partial master -of nature herself. Although still far<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> from thoroughly taming her, he -finds in the incessant struggle his real life purpose, his inspiration, -and his work, and still brighter promises for his children’s children. -For the race lives and takes advantage of all that has been discovered -before.</p> - -<p>Now, since nature has seemed to care as little about the continuation -of life beyond death as she has of man’s comfort upon earth, might -it not be that, just as we have outwitted her in the physical sphere -and snatched comfort and utility by our efforts, so we may, by the -cultivation of our intelligence and sentiments and whole spiritual -life, outwit her in this realm and snatch an immortality that she has -never contemplated? She never intended that we should audaciously read -her secrets and speculate upon her nature as we have done. Who knows -whether, by our hardihood in exploring the uncharted seas of the life -of feeling and thought, we may have over-reached her again and created -a real soul, which we can project beyond death? We are provided with -the raw material of our spiritual life in the world, as we are provided -with the raw material to build houses, and it may be our power and -our privilege to build our immortal souls here on earth, as men have -built and are still building the civilization of this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> world of ours. -This would not mean that we could all attain, any more than that all -men have the creative genius or the good-will for the constructive -work of civilization; there may be “real losses and real losers” in -the adventure for immortality, but to the stout-hearted and the wise -it will be possible. We shall need, as builders need the rules of the -craft, the aid and counsel of the spiritually gifted who have gone -before us. It has been no mistake that we have prized them higher -even than our material builders, for we have felt instinctively the -spiritual power with which they have endowed us in the contest for the -mighty stake of immortality. They are helping us to it, and we have the -right to rely on their visions and trusts and beliefs in this supremest -and culminating episode of the adventure of life.</p> - -<p>Are all such speculations idle and frivolous? Have they no place on -the mental horizon of a youth of to-day, living in a world whose -inner nature all the mighty achievements of the scientists, fruitful -as they have been in their practical effects, have tended rather to -obscure than to illumine? Well, a settled conviction that we live in -a mechanical world, with no penumbra of mystery about us, checks the -life-enhancing powers,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> and chills and depresses the spirit. A belief -in the deadness of things actually seems to kill much of the glowing -life that makes up our appreciation of art and personality in the -world. The scientific philosophy is as much a matter of metaphysics, of -theoretical conjecture, as the worst fanaticisms of religion. We have -a right to shoot our guesses into the unknown. Life is no adventure -if we let our knowledge, still so feeble and flickering, smother us. -In this scientific age there is a call for youth to soar and paint a -new spiritual sky to arch over our heads. If the old poetry is dead, -youth must feel and write the new poetry. It has a challenge both to -transcend the physical evil that taints the earth and the materialistic -poison that numbs our spirits.</p> - -<p>The wise men thought they were getting the old world thoroughly charted -and explained. But there has been a spiritual expansion these recent -years which has created new seas to be explored and new atmospheres -to breathe. It has been discovered that the world is alive, and that -discovery has almost taken away men’s breaths; it has been discovered -that evolution is creative and that we are real factors in that -creation. After exploring the heights and depths of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> stars, -and getting ourselves into a state of mind where we saw the world -objectively and diminished man and his interests almost to a pin-point, -we have come with a rush to the realization that personality and values -are, after all, the important things in a living world. And no problem -of life or death can be idle. A hundred years ago it was thought -chastening to the fierce pride of youth to remind it often of man’s -mortality. But youth to-day must think of everything in terms of life; -yes, even of death in terms of life. We need not the chastening of -pride, but the stimulation to a sense of the limitless potentialities -of life. No thought or action that really enhances life is frivolous or -fruitless.</p> - -<p>What does not conduce in some way to men’s interests does not enhance -life. What decides in the long run whether our life will be adventurous -or not is the direction and the scope of our interests. We need a -livelier imaginative sympathy and interest in all that pertains to -human nature and its workings. It is a good sign that youth does -not need to have its attention called to the worthy and profitable -interest of its own personality. It is a healthy sign that we are -getting back home again to the old endeavor of “Know thyself!”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> Our -widening experience has shifted the centre of gravity too far from -man’s soul. A cultivation of the powers of one’s own personality is -one of the greatest needs of life, too little realized even in these -assertive days, and the exercise of the personality makes for its most -durable satisfactions. Men are attentive to their business affairs, but -not nearly enough to their own deeper selves. If they treated their -business interests as they do the interests of their personality, they -would be bankrupt within a week. Few people even scratch the surface, -much less exhaust the contemplation, of their own experience. Few know -how to weave a philosophy of life out of it, that most precious of all -possessions. And few know how to hoard their memory. For no matter what -we have come through, or how many perils we have safely passed, or how -imperfect and jagged—in some places perhaps irreparably—our life has -been, we cannot in our heart of hearts imagine how it could have been -different. As we look back on it, it slips in behind us in orderly -array, and, with all its mistakes, acquires a sort of eternal fitness, -and even, at times, of poetic glamour.</p> - -<p>The things I did, I did because, after all, I am that sort of a -person—that is what life is;—and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> in spite of what others and what I -myself might desire, it is that kind of a person that I am. The golden -moments I can take a unique and splendid satisfaction in because they -are my own; my realization of how poor and weak they might seem, if -taken from my treasure-chest and exposed to the gaze of others, does -not taint their preciousness, for I can see them in the larger light -of my own life. Every man should realize that his life is an epic; -unfortunately it usually takes the onlooker to recognize the fact -before he does himself. We should oftener read our own epics—and write -them. The world is in need of true autobiographies, told in terms of -the adventure that life is. Not every one, it is said, possesses the -literary gift, but what, on the other hand, is the literary gift but an -absorbing interest in the personality of things, and an insight into -the wonders of living? Unfortunately it is usually only the eccentric -or the distinguished who reveal their inner life. Yet the epic of the -humblest life, told in the light of its spiritual shocks and changes, -would be enthralling in its interest. But the best autobiographers are -still the masters of fiction, those wizards of imaginative sympathy, -who create souls and then write their spiritual history, as those<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> -souls themselves, were they alive, could perhaps never write them. -Every man, however, can cultivate this autobiographical interest in -himself, and produce for his own private view a real epic of spiritual -adventure. And life will be richer and more full of meaning as the -story continues and life accumulates.</p> - -<p>Life changes so gradually that we do not realize our progress. This -small triumph of yesterday we fail to recognize as the summit of the -mountain at whose foot we encamped several years ago in despair. We -forget our hopes and wistfulness and struggles. We do not look down -from the summit at the valley where we started, and thus we lose the -dramatic sense of something accomplished. If a man looking back sees -no mountain and valley, but only a straight level plain, it behooves -him to take himself straight to some other spiritual country where -there is opportunity for climbing and where five years hence will -see him on a higher level, breathing purer air. Most people have no -trouble in remembering their rights and their wrongs, their pretensions -and their ambitions,—things so illusory that they should never even -have been thought of. But to forget their progress, to forget their -golden moments, their acquisitions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> of insight and appreciation, the -charm of their friends, the sequence of their ideals,—this is indeed -a deplorable aphasia! “The days that make us happy make us wise!” -Happiness is too valuable to be forgotten, and who will remember yours -if you forget it? It is what has made the best of you; or, if you have -thrown it away from memory, what could have made you, and made you -richer than you are. If you have neglected such contemplation, you are -poor, and that poverty will be apparent in your daily personality.</p> - -<p>Life in its essence is a heaping-up and accumulation of thought and -insight. It should mount higher and higher, and be more potent and -flowering as life is lived. If you do not keep in your memory and -spirit the finer accumulations of your life, it will be as if you had -only partly lived. Your living will be a travesty on life, and your -progress only a dull mechanical routine. Even though your life may be -outwardly routine, inwardly, as moralists have always known, it may -be full of adventure. Be happy, but not too contented. Contentment -may be a vice as well as a virtue; too often it is a mere cover for -sluggishness, and not a sign of triumph. The mind must have a certain -amount of refreshment and novelty; it will not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> grow by staying too -comfortably at home, and refusing to put itself to the trouble of -travel and change. It needs to be disturbed every now and then to keep -the crust from forming. People do not realize this, and let themselves -become jaded and uninterested—and therefore uninteresting—when such -a small touch of novelty would inspire and stimulate them. A tired -interest, in a healthy mind, wakes with as quick a response to a new -touch or aspect as does a thirsty flower to the rain. Too many people -sit in prison with themselves until they get meagre and dull, when the -door was really all the time open, and outside was freshness and green -grass and the warm sun, which might have revived them and made them -bright again. Listlessness in an old man or woman is often the telltale -sign of such an imprisonment. Life, instead of being an accumulation -of spiritual treasure, has been the squandering of its wealth, in a -lapse of interest, as soon as it was earned. Even unbearable sorrow -might have been the means, by a process of transmutation, of acquiring -a deeper appreciation of life’s truer values. But the squanderer has -lost his vision, because he did not retain on the background of memory -his experience, against which to contrast<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> his new reactions, and -did not have the emotional image of old novelties to spur him to the -apprehension and appreciation of new ones.</p> - -<p>More amazing even than the lack of a healthy interest in their own -personalities is the lack of most people of an interest, beyond one -of a trivial or professional nature, in others. Our literary artists -have scarcely begun to touch the resources of human ways and acts. -Writers surrender reality for the sake of a plot, and in attempting to -make a point, or to write adventure, squeeze out the natural traits -and nuances of character and the haphazardnesses of life that are the -true adventure and point. We cannot know too much about each other. -All our best education comes from what people tell us or what we -observe them do. We cannot endure being totally separated from others, -and it is well that we cannot. For it would mean that we should have -then no life above the satisfaction of our crudest material wants. -Our keenest delights are based upon some manifestation or other of -social life. Even gossip arises not so much from malice as from a real -social interest in our neighbors; the pity of it is, of course, that -to so many people it is only the misfortunes and oddities that are -interesting.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span></p> - -<p>Let our interests in the social world with which we come in contact be -active and not passive. Let us give back in return as good an influence -and as much as is given to us. Let us live so as to stimulate others, -so that we call out the best powers and traits in them, and make them -better than they are, because of our comprehension and inspiration. -Our life is so bound up with our friends and teachers and heroes -(whether present in the flesh or not), and we are so dependent upon -them for nourishment and support, that we are rarely aware how little -of us there would be left were they to be taken away. We are seldom -conscious enough of the ground we are rooted in and the air we breathe. -We can know ourselves best by knowing others. There are adventures of -personality in acting and being acted upon, in studying and delighting -in the ideas and folkways of people that hold much in store for those -who will only seek them.</p> - -<p>Thus in its perils and opportunities, in its satisfactions and -resistances, in its gifts and responsibilities, for good or for evil, -life is an adventure. In facing its evil, we shall not let it daunt -or depress our spirits; we shall surrender some of our responsibility -for the Universe, and face forward,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> working and encouraging those -around us to coöperate with us and with all who suffer, in fighting -preventable wrong. Death we shall transcend by interpreting everything -in terms of life; we shall be victorious over it by recognizing in it -an aspect of a larger life in which we are immersed. We shall accept -gladly the wealth of days poured out for us. Alive, in a living world, -we shall cultivate those interests and qualities which enhance life. -We shall try to keep the widest possible fund of interests in order -that life may mount ever richer, and not become jaded and wearied in -its ebb-flow. We shall never cease to put our questions to the heart -of the world, intent on tracking down the mysteries of its behavior -and its meaning, using each morsel of knowledge to pry further into -its secrets, and testing the tools we use by the product they create -and the hidden chambers they open. To face the perils and hazards -fearlessly, and absorb the satisfactions joyfully, to be curious and -brave and eager,—is to know the adventure of life.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII<br />SOME THOUGHTS ON RELIGION</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span></p> - - - -<p>In youth we grow and learn and always the universe widens around us. -The horizon recedes faster than we can journey towards it. There comes -a time when we look back with longing to the days when everything we -learned seemed a fast gaining upon the powers of darkness, and each new -principle seemed to illuminate and explain an immense region of the -world. We had only to keep on learning in steady progress, it seemed, -until we should have dominion over the whole of it. But there came a -time, perhaps, when advance halted, and our carefully ordered world -began to dissipate and loose ends and fringes to appear. It became a -real struggle to keep our knowledge securely boxed in our one system, -indeed, in any system, as we found when we restlessly tried one dogma -after another as strong-boxes for our spiritual goods. Always something -eluded us; it was “ever not quite.” Just when we were safest, some -new experience came up to be most incongruously unaccounted for. -We had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> our goods, for instance, safely stowed away in the box of -“materialism,” when suddenly we realized that, on its theory, our whole -life might run along precisely as we see it now, we might talk and love -and paint and build without a glimmer of consciousness, that wondrous -stuff which is so palpably our light and our life. The materialist -can see in us nothing but the inert accompaniment of our bodies, the -helpless, useless, and even annoying spectators of the play of physical -forces through these curious compounds of chemical elements that we -call our bodies. Or if, filled with the joy of creation, we tried to -pack our world into the dogma of “idealism” and see all hard material -things as emanations from our spiritual self and plastic under our -hand, we were brought with a shock against some tough, incorrigible -fact that sobered our elation, and forced the unwilling recognition of -our impotence upon us again.</p> - -<p>It is not, however, from an excess of idealism that the world suffers -to-day. But it is sick rather with the thorough-going and plausible -scientific materialism with which our philosophy and literature seem to -reek. Pure idealism has long ago proved too intoxicating a confirmation -of our hopes and desires to seduce for long our tough-mindedness.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> -Science has come as a challenge to both our courage and our honesty. -It covertly taunts us with being afraid to face the universe as it is; -if we look and are saddened, we have seemed to prove ourselves less -than men. For this advance of scientific speculation has seemed only -to increase the gulf between the proven and certain facts, and all the -values and significances of life that our reactions to its richness -have produced in us. And so incorrigibly honest is the texture of the -human mind that we cannot continue to believe in and cultivate things -that we no longer consider to be real. And science has undermined our -faith in the reality of a spiritual world that to our forefathers -was the only reality in the universe. We are so honest, however, -that when the scientist relegates to a subjective shadowy realm our -world of qualities and divinities, we cannot protest, but only look -wistfully after the disappearing forms. A numbness has stolen over -our religion, art, and literature, and the younger generation finds a -chill and torpor in those interests of life that should be the highest -inspiration.</p> - -<p>Religion in these latter days becomes poetry, about which should never -be asked the question,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> “Is it true?” Art becomes a frivolous toy; -literature a daily chronicle.</p> - -<p>There is thus a crucial intellectual dilemma that faces us to-day. If -we accept whole-heartedly the spiritual world, we seem to be false to -the imposing new knowledge of science which is rapidly making the world -comprehensible to us; if we accept all the claims and implications of -science, we seem to trample on our own souls. Yet we feel instinctively -the validity of both aspects of the world. Our solution will seem to -be, then, to be content with remaining something less than monists. -We must recognize that this is an infinite universe, and give up our -attempt to get all our experience under one roof. Striving ever for -unity, we must yet understand that this “not-quite-ness” is one of -the fundamental principles of things. We can no longer be satisfied -with a settlement of the dreary conflict between religion and science -which left for religion only the task of making hazardous speculations -which science was later to verify or cast aside, as it charted the seas -of knowledge. We cannot be content with a religion which science is -constantly overtaking and wiping out, as it puts its brave postulates -of faith to rigorous test.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span></p> - -<p>The only view of religion and science that will satisfy us is one -that makes them each the contemplation of a different aspect of the -universe,—one, an aspect of quantities and relations, the other, an -aspect of qualities, ideals, and values. They may be coördinate and -complementary, but they are not expressible in each others’ terms. -There is no question of superior reality. The blue of a flower is just -as real as the ether waves which science tells us the color “really” -is. Scientific and intuitive knowledge are simply different ways of -appreciating an infinite universe. Scientific knowledge, for all its -dogmatic claims to finality, is provisional and hypothetical. “If -we live in a certain kind of a world,” it says, “certain things are -true.” Each fact hinges upon another. Yet these correlations of the -physical world are so certain and predictable that no sane mind can -doubt them. On the other hand, our knowledge of qualities is direct and -immediate, and seems to depend on nothing for its completeness. Yet it -is so uncertain and various that no two minds have precisely the same -reactions, and we do not ourselves have the same reactions at different -times.</p> - -<p>And these paradoxes give rise to the endless disputes as to which -gives the more real view of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> the universe in which we find ourselves -living. The matter-of-fact person takes the certainty and lets the -immediacy go; the poet and the mystic and the religious man choose the -direct revelation and prize this vision far above any logical cogency. -Now it will be the task of this intellectual generation to conquer -the paradoxes by admitting the validity of both the matter-of-fact -view and the mystical. And it is the latter that requires the present -emphasis; it must be resuscitated from the low estate into which it has -fallen. We must resist the stern arrogances of science as vigorously -as the scientist has resisted the allurements of religion. We must -remind him that his laws are not visions of eternal truth, so much as -rough-and-ready statements of the practical nature of things, in so -far as they are useful to us for our grappling with our environment -and somehow changing it. We must demand that he climb down out of the -papal chair, and let his learning become what it was meant to be,—the -humble servant of humanity. Truth for truth’s sake is an admirable -motto for the philosopher, who really searches to find the inner nature -of things. But the truth of science is for use’s sake. To seek for -physical truth which is irrelevant to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> human needs and purposes is as -purely futile an intellectual gymnastic as the logical excesses of the -schoolmen. The scientist is here to tell us the practical workings of -the forces and elements of the world; the philosopher, mystic, artist, -and poet are here to tell us of the purposes and meanings of the world -as revealed directly, and to show us the ideal aspect through their own -clear fresh vision.</p> - -<p>That vision, however, must be controlled and enriched by the democratic -experience of their fellow men; their ideal must be to reveal meanings -that cannot be doubted by the normal soul, in the same way that -scientific formulations cannot be doubted by the normal mind. It is -here that we have a quarrel with old religion and old poetry, that -the vision which it brings us is not sufficiently purged of local -discolorations or intellectualistic taints. But it is not a quarrel -with religion and poetry as such; this age thirsts for a revelation -of the spiritual meanings of the wider world that has been opened to -us, and the complex and baffling anomalies that seem to confront us. -It is our imperative duty to reëmphasize the life of qualities and -ideals, to turn again our gaze to that aspect of the world from which -men have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> always drawn what gave life real worth and reinstate those -spiritual things whose strength advancing knowledge has seemed to sap. -There is room for a new idealism, but an idealism that sturdily keeps -its grip on the real, that grapples with the new knowledge and with the -irrevocable loss of much of the old poetry and many of the old values, -and wrests out finer qualities and a nobler spiritual life than the -world has yet seen. It is not betrayal of our integrity to believe that -the desires and interests of men, their hopes and fears and creative -imaginings, are as real as any atoms or formulas.</p> - -<p>Now the place of religion in this new idealism will be the same place -that its essential spirit has always held in the spiritual life of -men. Religion is our sense of the quality of the universe itself, the -broadest, profoundest, and most constant of our intuitions. Men have -always felt that, outside of the qualities of concrete things, there -lay a sort of infinite quality that they could identify with the spirit -of the universe, and they have called it God. To this quality men have -always responded, and that response and appreciation is religion. To -appreciate this cosmic quality is to be religious, and to express that -appreciation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> is to worship. Religion is thus as much and eternally -a part of life as our senses themselves; the only justification for -making away with religion would be an event that would make away with -our senses. The scientist must always find it difficult to explain why, -if man’s mind, as all agree that it did, developed in adaptation to his -environment, it should somehow have become adapted so perfectly to a -spiritual world of qualities and poetic interpretation of phenomena, -and not to the world of atomic motion and mechanical law which -scientific philosophy assures us is the “real” world. Our minds somehow -adapted themselves, not to the hard world of fact, but to a world of -illusion, which had not the justification of being even practically -useful or empirically true. If the real world is mechanical, we should -have a right to expect the earliest thinking to be scientific, and -the spiritual life to come in only after centuries of refinement -of thought. But the first reactions of men were of course purely -qualitative, and it is only within the last few minutes of cosmic time -that we have known of the quantitative relations of things. Is it hard, -then, to believe that, since we and the world have grown up together, -there must be some subtle correlation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> between it and the values and -qualities that we feel, that our souls must reflect—not faithfully, -perhaps, because warped by a thousand alien compelling physical forces, -and yet somehow indomitably—a spiritual world that is perhaps even -more real, because more immediate and constant, than the physical? We -may partially create it, but we partially reflect it too.</p> - -<p>That cosmic quality we feel as personality. Not artificial or illusive -is this deeply rooted anthropomorphic sense which has always been at -the bottom of man’s religious consciousness. We are alive, and we -have a right to interpret the world as living; we are persons, and we -have a right to interpret the world in terms of personality. In all -religions, through the encrustations of dogma and ritual, has been -felt that vital sense of the divine personality, keeping clean and -sweet the life of man. The definite appeal of the Church, in times -like these, when the external props fall away, is to the incarnation -of the divine personality, and the ideal of character deduced from it -as a pattern for life. This is the religion of ordinary people to-day; -it has been the heart of Christianity for nineteen hundred years. Our -feeling of this cosmic quality may be vague<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> or definite, diffused or -crystallized, but to those of us who sense behind our pulsing life a -mystery which perplexes, sobers, and elevates us, that quality forms a -permanent scenic background for our life.</p> - -<p>To feel this cosmic quality of a divine personality, in whom we live, -move, and have our being, is to know religion. The ordinary world we -live in is incurably dynamic; we are forced to think and act in terms -of energy and change and constant rearrangement and flux of factors and -elements. And we live only as we give ourselves up to that stream and -play of forces. Throughout all the change, however, there comes a sense -of this eternal quality. In the persistence of our own personality, -the humble fragment of a divine personality, we get the pattern of its -permanence. The Great Companion is ever with us, silently ratifying -our worthy deeds and tastes and responses. The satisfactions of our -spiritual life, of our judgments and appreciations of morality and art -and any kind of excellence, come largely from this subtle corroboration -that we feel from some unseen presence wider than ourselves. It -accompanies not a part but the whole of our spiritual life, silently -strengthening our responses to personality<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> and beauty, our sense of -irony, the refinement of our taste, sharpening our moral judgment, -elevating our capacities for happiness, filling ever richer our sense -of the worth of life. And this cosmic influence in which we seem to be -immersed we can no more lose or doubt—after we have once felt the rush -of time past us, seen a friend die, or brooded on the bitter thought of -our personal death, felt the surge of forces of life and love, wondered -about consciousness, been melted before beauty—than we can lose or -doubt ourselves. The wonder of it is exhaustless,—the beneficence over -whose workings there yet breathes an inexorable sternness, the mystery -of time and death, the joy of beauty and creative art and sex, and -sheer consciousness.</p> - -<p>Against this scenic background, along this deep undercurrent of -feeling, our outward, cheerful, settled, and orderly life plays its -part. That life is no less essential; we must be willing to see life in -two aspects, the world as deathless yet ever-creative, evolution yet -timeless eternity. To be religious is to turn our gaze away from the -dynamic to the static and the permanent, away from the stage to the -scenic background of our lives. Religion cannot, therefore, be said -to have much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> of a place in our activity of life, except as it fixes -the general emotional tone. We have no right to demand that it operate -practically, nor can we call altruistic activity, and enthusiasm for a -noble cause, religion. Moral action is really more a matter of social -psychology than of religion. All religions have been ethical only as a -secondary consideration. Religion in and for itself is something else; -we can enjoy it only by taking, as it were, the moral holiday into its -regions when we are weary of the world of thinking and doing. It is a -land to retreat into when we are battered and degraded by the dynamic -world about us, and require rest and recuperation. It is constantly -there behind us, but to live in it always is to take a perpetual -holiday.</p> - -<p>At all times we may have its beauty with us, however, as we may have -prospects of far mountains and valleys. As we go in the morning to -work in the fields, religion is this enchanting view of the mountains, -inspiring us and lifting our hearts with renewed vigor. Through all the -long day’s work we feel their presence with us, and have only to turn -around to see them shining splendidly afar with hope and kindliness. -Even the austerest summits are warm in the afternoon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> sun. Yet if we -gaze at them all day long, we shall accomplish no work. Nor shall we -finish our allotted task if we succumb to their lure and leave our -fields to travel towards them. As we return home weary at night, the -mountains are still there to refresh and cheer us with their soft -colors and outline blended in the purple light. When our task is -entirely done, it has been our eternal hope to journey to those far -mountains and valleys; if this is not to be, at least their glorious -view will be the last to fall upon us as we close our eyes. But we know -that, whatever happens, if we have done our work well, have performed -faithfully our daily tasks of learning to control and manage and -make creative the tough soil of this material world in which we find -ourselves, if we have neither allowed its toughness to distract us from -the beauty of the eternal background, nor let those far visions slow -down the wheels of life, distract us from our work, or blur our thought -and pale by their light the other qualities and beauties around us—we -shall attain what is right for us when we lay down our tools. In a -living world, death can be no more than an apparition.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII">VIII<br />THE MYSTIC TURNED RADICAL</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span></p> - - - -<p>The mystical temperament is little enough popular in this workaday -modern world of ours. The mystic, we feel, comes to us discounted -from the start; he should in all decency make constant apologies for -his existence. In a practical age of machinery he is an anomaly, an -anachronism. He must meet the direct challenge of the scientist, who -guards every approach to the doors of truth and holds the keys of its -citadel. Any thinker who gets into the fold by another way is a thief -and a robber.</p> - -<p>The mystic must answer that most heinous of all charges,—of being -unscientific. By tradition he is even hostile to science. For his main -interest is in wonder, and science by explaining things attacks the -very principle of his life. It not only diminishes his opportunities -for wonder, but threatens to make him superfluous by ultimately -explaining everything.</p> - -<p>The scientist may say that there is no necessary antithesis between -explanation and that beautiful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> romance of thought we call wonder. The -savage, who can explain nothing, is the very creature who has no wonder -at all. Everything is equally natural to him. Only a mind that has -acquaintance with laws of behavior can be surprised at events.</p> - -<p>The wonder of the scientist, however, although it be of a more robust, -tough-minded variety, is none the less wonder. A growing acquaintance -with the world, an increasing at-homeness in it, is not necessarily -incompatible with an ever-increasing marvel both at the beautiful -fitness of things and the limitless field of ignorance and mystery -beyond. So the modern mystic must break with his own tradition if he -is to make an appeal to this generation, and must recognize that the -antithesis between mystic and scientific is not an eternally valid one.</p> - -<p>It is just through realization of this fact that Maeterlinck, the best -of modern mystics, makes his extraordinary appeal. For, as he tells us, -the valid mystery does not begin at the threshold of knowledge but only -after we have exhausted our resources of knowing. His frank and genuine -acceptance of science thus works out a <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">modus vivendi</i> between the -seen and the unseen. It allows many of us who have given our allegiance -to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> science to hail him gladly as a prophet who supplements the work -of the wise men of scientific research, without doing violence to our -own consciences. For the world is, in spite of its scientific clamor, -still far from ready really to surrender itself to prosaicness. It is -still haunted with the dreams of the ages—dreams of short roads to -truth, visions of finding the Northwest passage to the treasures of the -Unseen. Only we must go as far as possible along the traveled routes of -science.</p> - -<p>Maeterlinck is thus not anti-scientific or pseudo-scientific, but -rather sub-scientific. He speaks of delicately felt and subtle -influences and aspects of reality that lie beneath the surface of our -lives, of forces and shadows that cannot be measured quantitatively -or turned into philosophical categories. Or we may say that he -is ultra-scientific. As science plods along, opening up the dark -wilderness, he goes with the exploring party, throwing a search-light -before them; flickering enough and exasperatingly uncertain at times, -but sufficiently constant to light up the way, point out a path, and -give us confidence that the terrors before us are not so formidable -as we have feared. His influence on our time is so great because we -believe that he is a seer, a man with knowledge of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> things hidden from -our eyes. We go to him as to a spiritual clairvoyant,—to have him tell -us where to find the things our souls have lost.</p> - -<p>But the modern mystic must not only recognize the scientific aspect -of the age,—he must feel the social ideal that directs the spiritual -energies of the time. It is the glory of Maeterlinck’s mysticism that -it has not lingered in the depths of the soul, but has passed out to -illuminate our thinking in regard to the social life about us. The -growth of this duality of vision has been with him a long evolution. -His early world was a shadowy, intangible thing. As we read the early -essays, we seem to be constantly hovering on the verge of an idea, just -as when we read the plays we seem to be hovering on the verge of a -passion. This long brooding away from the world, however, was fruitful -and momentous. The intense gaze inward trained the eye, so that when -the mists cleared away and revealed the palpitating social world about -him, his insight into its meaning was as much more keen and true than -our own as had been his sense of the meaning of the individual soul. -The light he turns outward to reveal the meaning of social progress is -all the whiter for having burned so long within.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span></p> - -<p>In the essay on “Our Social Duty,” the clearest and the consummate -expression of this new outward look, there are no contaminating fringes -of vague thought; all is clear white light. With the instinct of the -true radical, the poet has gone to the root of the social attitude. Our -duty as members of society is to be radical, he tells us. And not only -that, but an excess of radicalism is essential to the equilibrium of -life. Society so habitually thinks on a plane lower than is reasonable -that it behooves us to think and to hope on an even higher plane than -seems to be reasonable. This is the overpoweringly urgent philosophy of -radicalism. It is the beautiful courage of such words that makes them -so vital an inspiration.</p> - -<p>It is the sin of the age that nobody dares to be anything to too great -a degree. We may admire extremists in principle, but we take the best -of care not to imitate them ourselves. Who in America would even be -likely to express himself as does Maeterlinck in this essay? Who of us -would dare follow the counsel? Of course we can plead extenuation. In -Europe the best minds are thinking in terms of revolution still, while -in America our radicalism is still simply amateurish and incompetent.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span></p> - -<p>To many of us, then, this call of Maeterlinck’s to the highest of -radicalisms will seem irrelevant; this new social note which appears -so strongly in all his later work will seem a deterioration from -the nobler mysticism of his earlier days. But rather should it be -viewed as the fruit of matured insight. There has been no decay, -no surrender. It is the same mysticism, but with the direction of -the vision altered. This essay is the expression of the clearest -vision that has yet penetrated our social confusion, the sanest and -highest ideal that has been set before progressive minds. It may be -that its utter fearlessness, its almost ascetic detachment from the -matter-of-fact things of political life, its clear cold light of -conviction and penetration, may repel some whose hearts have been -warmed by Maeterlinck’s subtle revelations of the spiritual life. They -may reproach him because it has no direct bearings on the immediate -practical social life; it furnishes no weapon of reform, no tool with -which to rush out and overthrow some vested abuse. But to the traveler -lost in the wood the one thing needful is a pole-star to show him -his direction. The star is unapproachable, serene, cold, and lofty. -But although he cannot touch it, or utilize it directly to extend -his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> comfort and progress, it is the most useful of all things to -him. It fills his heart with a great hope; it coördinates his aimless -wanderings and gropings, and gives meaning and purpose to his course.</p> - -<p>So a generation lost in a chaos of social change can find in these -later words of Maeterlinck a pole-star and a guide. They do for the -social life of man what the earlier essays did for the individual. They -endow it with values and significances that will give steadfastness -and resource to his vision as he looks out on the great world of human -progress, and purpose and meaning to his activity as he looks ahead -into the dim world of the future.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IX">IX<br />SEEING, WE SEE NOT</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> - - - -<p>It is a mere superstition, Maeterlinck tells us in one of his beautiful -essays, that there is anything irrevocable about the past. On the -contrary, we are constantly rearranging it, revising it, remaking it. -For it is only in our memory that it exists, and our conception of it -changes as the loose fringes of past events are gathered up into a -new meaning, or when a sudden fortune lights up a whole series in our -lives, and shows us, stretching back in orderly array and beautiful -significance, what we had supposed in our blindness to be a sad and -chaotic welter. It is no less a superstition to suppose that we have -a hand in making the present. The present, like the past, is always -still to be made; indeed, must wait its turn, so to speak, to be seen -in its full meaning until after the past itself has been remoulded and -reconstituted. It is depressing to think that we do not know our own -time, that the events we look upon have a permanent value far different -from the petty one that we endow them with, that they fit into a -larger<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> whole of which we see only a dim fraction—and that the least -important because the seed of something that shall come much later -into full fruition. Must our short life pass away without knowledge -or vision of the majestic processes which are unfolding themselves -under our very eyes, while we have wasted our admiration and distorted -our purpose by striving to interpret the ephemeral, that is gone as -soon as we? Even the wisest among us can see with but a dim eye into -the future, and make rather a lucky guess at its potentialities than -a true prophecy based on a realization of the real tendencies of the -time. It is only the Past that we really make. And this may account -for our love of it. This fragile thing of tradition that we have -so carefully constructed and so lovingly beautified, this artistic -creation of a whole people or race, becomes most naturally the object -of our tenderest solicitude. Any attack upon it that suggests a marring -of its golden beauty, any new proposal that threatens to render it -superfluous, elicits the outraged cry of anger, the passionate defense, -of the mother protecting her child. For the Past is really the child -of the Present. We are the authors of its being, and upon it we lavish -all our thoughts, our interest and our delight. And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span> even our hopes -are centred in the Past, for the most enthusiastic among us can do no -more than hope that something worth while will come out of the Past -to nourish us in the approaching Present. Concern for the Future is -so new a thing in human history that we are hardly yet at home with -the feeling. Perhaps, if we thought more about what was before us, we -should come to know more about it. Meanwhile our only consolation is -that if <em>we</em> cannot see, neither did the generations that were -before us. And we have the advantage of <em>knowing</em> that we do not -see, while they did not care about their ignorance at all.</p> - -<p>We have constantly to check ourselves in reading history with the -remembrance that, to the actors in the drama, events appeared very -differently from the way they appear to us. We know what they were -doing far better than they knew themselves. We are in the position -of the novel reader who looks, before he begins to read, to see how -the plot turns out. This orderly and dramatic chronicle of history -that thrills us as we read has only been orderly and dramatic to -readers of the present time, who can see the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">dénouement</i> of the -story. History is peculiarly the creation of the present. Even the -great men of the past are largely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> the agglomerations of centuries of -hero-worship. Genius is as much a slow accretion of the ages as an -endowment of man. Few great poets were seen in the full glory of their -superhuman capacity by their fellows. Contemporary opinion of the great -has been complimentary but seldom excessively laudatory, and there are -sad instances of the decay and deflation of a supernatural personality -through the smooth, gentle, imperceptibly creeping oblivion of the -centuries.</p> - -<p>We rarely see what is distinctive in our own time. The city builders -of the West are quite unconscious of the fact that they are leaving -behind them imperishable and mighty memorials of themselves. Few of the -things that we admire now will be considered by posterity as noteworthy -and distinctive of our age. All depends on the vitality of our customs -and social habits, and some show as high a mortality as others do -a stubborn tenacity of life. What we are witnessing is a gigantic -struggle of customs and ideas to survive and propagate their kind. -The means of subsistence is limited; it is impossible that all should -be able to live. The fascinating problem for the social philosopher -is which of these beliefs and tendencies will prove strong enough to -overcome their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> rivals and make their stock a permanent type. How many -of the fads and brilliant theories and new habits of thought and taste -will be able to maintain their place in the world? If we could discern -them, we should know the distinction of our age. Definite epochs of -the past we distinguish and celebrate because they contained the germs -of ideas or the roots of institutions that still survive among us, -or customs and habits of thought that flourished in them with great -brilliancy but have now utterly passed away. Now these beginnings are -quite too subtle for us to see in our contemporary life, and there -are so many brilliancies that it is impossible to pick out with any -definiteness the things which have power to project themselves into -the future, and cast a broad trail of light back to our age. Most of -those very things that seem to us imperishable will be the ones to -fade,—fade, indeed, so gradually that they will not even be missed. It -is this gradual disappearance that gives the most thorough oblivion. -History remembers only the brilliant failures and the brilliant -successes.</p> - -<p>We are fond of calling this an age of transition, but if we trace -history back we find that practically every age—at least for -many centuries—has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> been an age of transition. If we must set a -starting-point from which we have been moving, the social philosopher -will be inclined to place it about the beginning of the sixteenth -century. If we have been in transition for four hundred years, it -seems almost time to settle down from this wild ferment of beliefs -and discoveries that has kept the world’s mind in constant turmoil -since the time of the Renaissance. There are signs that such a -crystallization is taking place. We are weeding out our culture, and -casting aside the classical literature that was the breeding-ground for -the old ideas. We have achieved as yet little to take its place. Most -of the modern literature is rather a restless groping about in the dark -for new modes of thinking and new principles of life, and thus far it -hardly seems to have grasped the robust and vital in the new to any -appreciable extent. One can hardly believe that this morbid virus that -is still working with undiminished vigor and deadly effect will succeed -in making itself the dominant note in European literature for the next -five hundred years. One hates to think that our posterity is to be -doomed to torture itself into appreciating our feverish modern art and -music, and learn to rank the wild<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> complexities of Strauss with the -sublimities of Beethoven. Shall we be sure that the conquest of the air -is finally achieved and a third dimension added to man’s traveling, or -is it all simply another daring and brilliant stab at the impossible, -another of those blasphemies against nature which impious man is -constantly striving to commit? There are few signs of the Socialistic -State, but who knows what births of new institutions, of which we are -now quite unaware, future ages will see to have been developing in our -very midst? Is religion doomed, or is it merely being transformed, so -that we shall be seen to have been creating amid all our indifference a -new type and a new ideal? Will our age actually be distinctive as the -era of the Dawn of Peace, or will the baby institution of arbitration -disappear before a crude and terrible reality? Are we progressing, or -shall we seem to have sown the seeds of world decay in this age of -ours, and at a great crisis in history let slip another opportunity -to carry mankind to a higher social level? It is maddening to the -philosopher to think how long he will have to live to find an answer -to these questions. He wants to know, but in the present all he can do -is to guess at random. Not immortality, but an opportunity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> to wake up -every hundred years or so to see how the world is progressing, may well -be his desire and his dream. Such an immortality may be incredible, but -it is the only form which has ever proved satisfactory, or ever will, -to the rational man.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="X">X<br />THE EXPERIMENTAL LIFE</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span></p> - - - -<p>It is good to be reasonable, but too much rationality puts the soul -at odds with life. For rationality implies an almost superstitious -reliance on logical proofs and logical motives, and it is logic that -life mocks and contradicts at every turn. The most annoying people -in the world are those who demand reasons for everything, and the -most discouraging are those who map out ahead of them long courses of -action, plan their lives, and systematically in the smallest detail -of their activity adapt means to ends. Now the difficulty with all -the prudential virtues is that they imply a world that is too good to -be true. It would be pleasant to have a world where cause and effect -interlocked, where we could see the future, where virtue had its -reward, and our characters and relations with other people and the work -we wish to do could be planned out with the same certainty with which -cooks plan a meal. But we know that that is not the kind of a world -we actually live in. Perhaps men have thought that, by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> cultivating -the rational virtues and laying emphasis on prudence and forethought, -they could bend the stubborn constitution of things to meet their -ideals. It has always been the fashion to insist, in spite of all the -evidence, that the world was in reality a rational place where certain -immutable moral principles could be laid down with the same certainty -of working that physical laws possess. It has always been represented -that the correct procedure of the moral life was to choose one’s end -or desire, to select carefully all the means by which that end could -be realized, and then, by the use of the dogged motive force of the -will, to push through the plans to completion. In the homilies on -success, it has always been implied that strength of will was the only -requisite. Success became merely a matter of the ratio between the -quantity of effort and will-power applied, and the number of obstacles -to be met. If one failed, it was because the proper amount of effort -had not been applied, or because the plans had not been properly -constructed. The remedy was automatically to increase the effort or -rationalize the plans. Life was considered to be a battle, the strategy -of which a general might lay out beforehand, an engagement in which he -might plan<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> and anticipate to the minutest detail the movement of his -forces and the disposition of the enemy. But one does not have to live -very long to see that this belief in the power and the desirability -of controlling things is an illusion. Life works in a series of -surprises. One’s powers are given in order that one may be alert and -ready, resourceful and keen. The interest of life lies largely in its -adventurousness, and not in its susceptibility to orderly mapping. -The enemy rarely comes up from the side the general has expected; the -battle is usually fought out on vastly different lines from those that -have been carefully foreseen and rationally organized. And similarly in -life do complex forces utterly confound and baffle our best laid plans.</p> - -<p>Our strategy, unless it is open to instant correction, unless it is -flexible, and capable of infinite resource and modification, is a -handicap rather than an aid in the battle of life. In spite of the -veracious accounts of youths hewing their way to success as captains -of industry or statesmen, with their eye singly set on a steadfast -purpose, we may be sure that life seldom works that way. It is not so -tractable and docile, even to the strongest. The rational ideal is -one of those great moral<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> hypocrisies which every one preaches and no -one practices, but which we all believe with superstitious reverence, -and which we take care shall be proven erroneous by no stubborn facts -of life. Better that the facts should be altered than that the moral -tradition should die!</p> - -<p>One of its evil effects is the compressing influence it has on many of -us. Recognizing that for us the world is an irrational place, we are -willing to go on believing that there are at least some gifted beings -who are proving the truth and vindicating the eternal laws of reason. -We join willingly the self-stigmatized ranks of the incompetent and -are content to shine feebly in the reflected light of those whose -master wills and power of effort have brought them through in rational -triumph to their ends. The younger generation is coming very seriously -to doubt both the practicability and worth of this rational ideal. -They do not find that the complex affairs of either the world or the -soul work according to laws of reason. The individual as a member of -society is at the mercy of great social laws that regulate his fortune -for him, construct for him his philosophy of life, and dictate to him -his ways of making a living. As an individual soul, he is the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> creature -of impulses and instincts which he does not create and which seem -to lie quite outside the reach of his rational will. Looked at from -this large social viewpoint, his will appears a puny affair indeed. -There seems little room left in which to operate, either in the sphere -of society or in his own spiritual life. That little of free-will, -however, which there is, serves for our human purposes. It must be our -care simply that we direct it wisely; and the rational ideal is not the -wisest way of directing it. The place of our free will in the scheme -of life is not to furnish driving, but <em>directing</em> power. The -engineer could never create the power that drives his engine, but he -can direct it into the channels where it will be useful and creative. -The superstition of the strong will has been almost like an attempt to -create power, something the soul could never do. The rational ideal -has too often been a mere challenge to attain the unattainable. It has -ended in futility or failure.</p> - -<p>This superstition comes largely from our incorrigible habit of looking -back over the past, and putting purpose into it. The great man looking -back over his career, over his ascent from the humble level of his -boyhood to his present power and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> riches, imagines that that ideal -success was in his mind from his earliest years. He sees a progress, -which was really the happy seizing of fortunate opportunities, as -the carrying-out of a fixed purpose. But the purpose was not there -at the beginning; it is the crowning touch added to the picture, -which completes and satisfies our age-long hunger for the orderly and -correct. But we all, rich and poor, successful and unsuccessful, live -from hand to mouth. We all alike find life at the beginning a crude -mass of puzzling possibilities. All of us, unless we inherit a place in -the world,—and then we are only half alive,—have the same precarious -struggle to get a foothold. The difference is in the fortune of the -foothold, and not in our private creation of any mystical force of -will. It is a question of happy occasions of exposure to the right -stimulus that will develop our powers at the right time. The capacity -alone is sterile; it needs the stimulus to fertilize it and produce -activity and success. The part that our free will can play is to expose -ourselves consciously to the stimulus; it cannot create it or the -capacity, but it can bring them together.</p> - -<p>In other words, for the rational ideal we must substitute the -experimental ideal. Life is not a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span> campaign of battle, but a laboratory -where its possibilities for the enhancement of happiness and the -realization of ideals are to be tested and observed. We are not to -start life with a code of its laws in our pocket, with its principles -of activity already learned by heart, but we are to discover those -principles as we go, by conscientious experiment. Even those laws that -seem incontrovertible we are to test for ourselves, to see whether they -are thoroughly vital to our own experience and our own genius. We are -animals, and our education in life is, after all, different only in -degree, and not in kind, from that of the monkey who learns the trick -of opening his cage. To get out of his cage, the monkey must find -and open a somewhat complicated latch. How does he set about it? He -blunders around for a long time, without method or purpose, but with -the waste of an enormous amount of energy. At length he accidentally -strikes the right catch, and the door flies open. Our procedure in -youth is little different. We feel a vague desire to expand, to get out -of our cage, and liberate our dimly felt powers. We blunder around for -a time, until we accidentally put ourselves in a situation where some -capacity is touched, some latent energy liberated, and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> direction -set for us, along which we have only to move to be free and successful. -We will be hardly human if we do not look back on the process and -congratulate ourselves on our tenacity and purpose and strong will. But -of course the thing was wholly irrational. There were neither plans nor -purposes, perhaps not even discoverable effort. For when we found the -work that we did best, we found also that we did it easiest. And the -outlines of the most dazzling career are little different. Until habits -were formed or prestige acquired which could float these successful -geniuses, their life was but the resourceful seizing of opportunity, -the utilization, with a minimum of purpose or effort, of the promise of -the passing moment. They were living the experimental life, aided by -good fortune and opportunity.</p> - -<p>Now the youth brought up to the strictly rational ideal is like the -animal who tries to get out of his cage by going straight through the -bars. The duck, beating his wings against his cage, is a symbol of -the highest rationality. His logic is plain, simple, and direct. He -is in the cage; there is the free world outside; nothing but the bars -separate them. The problem is simply to fortify his will and effort -and make them so strong that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> they will overcome the resistance of the -cage. His error evidently lies not in his method, but in his estimation -of the strength of the bars. But youth is no wiser; it has no data -upon which to estimate either its own strength or the strength of -its obstacles. It counts on getting out through its own self-reliant -strength and will. Like the duck, “impossible” is a word not found in -its vocabulary. And like the duck, it too often dashes out its spirit -against the bars of circumstance. How often do we see young people, -brought up with the old philosophy that nothing was withheld from those -who wanted and worked for things with sufficient determination, beating -their ineffectual wings against their bars, when perhaps in another -direction the door stands open that would lead to freedom!</p> - -<p>We do not hear enough of the tragedies of misplaced ambition. When the -plans of the man of will and determination fail, and the inexorable -forces of life twist his purposes aside from their end, he is sure -to suffer the prostration of failure. His humiliation, too, is in -proportion to the very strength of his will. It is the burden of -defeat, or at best the sting of petty success, that crushes men, and -crushes them all the more thoroughly if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> they have been brought up to -believe in the essential rationality of the world and the power of will -and purpose. It is not that they have aimed too high, but that they -have aimed in the wrong direction. They have not set out experimentally -to find the work to which their powers were adapted, they did not test -coolly and impartially the direction in which their achievement lay. -They forgot that, though faith may remove mountains, the will alone is -not able. There is an urgency on every man to develop his powers to -the fullest capacity, but he is not called upon to develop those that -he does not possess. The will cannot create talent or opportunity. The -wise man is he who has the clear vision to discern the one, and the -calm patience to await the other. Will, without humor and irony and a -luminous knowledge of one’s self, is likely to drive one to dash one’s -brains out against a stone wall. The world is too full of people with -nothing except a will. The mistake of youth is to believe that the -philosophy of experimentation is enervating. They want to attack life -frontally, to win by the boldness of their attack, or by the exceeding -excellence of their rational plans and purposes. But therein comes a -time when they learn perhaps that it is better<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> to take life not with -their naked fists, but more scientifically,—to stand with mind and -soul alert, ceaselessly testing and criticizing, taking and rejecting, -poised for opportunity, and sensitive to all good influences.</p> - -<p>The experimental life does not put one at the mercy of chance. It is -rather the rational mind that is constantly being shocked and deranged -by circumstances. But the dice of the experimenter are always loaded. -For he does not go into an enterprise, spiritual or material, relying -simply on his reason and will to pull him through. He asks himself -beforehand whether something good is not sure to come whichever way -the dice fall, or at least whether he can bear the event of failure, -whether his spirit can stand it if the experiment ends in humiliation -and barrenness. It is surprising how many seeming disasters one finds -one can bear in this anticipatory look; the tension of the failure is -relieved, anyhow. By looking ahead, one has insured one’s self up to -the limit of the venture, and one cannot lose. But to the man with the -carefully planned campaign, every step is crucial. If all does not turn -out exactly as he intends, he is ruined. He thinks he insures himself -by the excellence of his designs and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span> craftiness of his skill. But -he insures himself by the strange method of putting all his eggs in one -basket. He thinks, of course, he has arranged his plans so that, if -they fall, the universe falls with them. But when the basket breaks, -and the universe does not fall, his ruin is complete.</p> - -<p>Ambition and the rational ideal seem to be only disastrous; if -unsuccessful, they produce misanthropists; if successful, beings that -prey upon their fellow men. Too much rationality makes a man mercenary -and calculating. He has too much at stake in everything he does to -know that calm disinterestedness of spirit which is the mark of the -experimental attitude towards life. Our attitude towards our personal -affairs, material and spiritual, should be like the interest we take -in sports and games. The sporting interest is one secret of a healthy -attitude towards life. The detached enthusiasm it creates is a real -ingredient of happiness. The trouble with the rational man is that -he has bet on the game. If his side wins, there is a personal reward -for him; if it loses, he himself suffers a loss. He cannot know the -true sporting interest which is unaffected by considerations of the -end, and views the game as the thing, and not the outcome. To the -experimental attitude,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> failure means nothing beyond a shade of regret -or chagrin. Whether we win or lose, something has been learned, some -insight and appreciation of the workings of others or of ourselves. We -are ready and eager to begin another game; defeat has not dampened our -enthusiasm. But if the man who has made the wager loses, he has lost, -too, all heart for playing. Or, if he does try again, it is not for -interest in the game, but with a redoubled intensity of self-interest -to win back what he has lost. With the sporting interest, one looks on -one’s relations with others, on one’s little rôle in the world, in the -same spirit that we look on a political contest, where we are immensely -stirred by the clash of issues and personalities, but where we know -that the country will run on in about the same way, whoever is elected. -This knowledge does not work against our interest in the struggle -itself, nor in the outcome. It only insures us against defeat. It makes -life livable by endowing us with disinterestedness. If we lose, why, -better luck next time, or, at worst, is not losing a part of life?</p> - -<p>The experimenter with life, then, must go into his laboratory with the -mind of the scientist. He has nothing at stake except the discovery -of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> truth, and he is willing to work carefully and methodically -and even cold-bloodedly in eliciting it from the tangled skein of -phenomena. But it is exactly in this cheerful, matter-of-fact way that -we are never willing to examine our own personalities and ideas. We -take ourselves too seriously, and handle our tastes and enthusiasms -as gingerly as if we feared they would shrivel away at the touch. We -perpetually either underestimate or overestimate our powers and worth, -and suffer such losses on account of the one and humiliations on -account of the other, as serve to unbalance our knowledge of ourselves, -and discourage attempts to find real guiding principles of our own or -others’ actions. We need this objective attitude of the scientist. -We must be self-conscious with a detached self-consciousness, -treating ourselves as we treat others, experimenting to discover our -possibilities and traits, testing ourselves with situations, and -gradually building up a body of law and doctrine for ourselves, a real -morality that will have far more worth and power and virtue than all -that has been tried and tested before by no matter how much of alien -human experience. We must start our quest with no prepossessions, -with no theory of what ought to happen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> when we expose ourselves to -certain stimuli. It is our business to see what does happen, and then -act accordingly. If the electrical experimenter started with a theory -that like magnetic poles attract each other, he would be shocked to -discover that they actually repelled each other. He might even set it -down to some inherent depravity of matter. But if his theory was not -a prejudice but a hypothesis, he would find it possible to revise it -quickly when he saw how the poles actually behaved. And he would not -feel any particular chagrin or humiliation.</p> - -<p>But we usually find it so hard to revise our theories about ourselves -and each other. We hold them as prejudices and not as hypotheses, and -when the facts of life seem to disprove them, we either angrily clutch -at our theories and snarl in defiance, or we pull them out of us with -such a wrench that they draw blood. The scientist’s way is to start -with a hypothesis and then to proceed to verify it by experiment. -Similarly ought we to approach life and test all our hypotheses by -experience. Our methods have been too rigid. We have started with -moral dogmas, and when life obstinately refused to ratify them, we -have railed at it, questioned its sincerity, instead of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> adopting some -new hypothesis, which more nearly fitted our experience, and testing -it until we hit on the principle which explained our workings to -ourselves. The common-sense, rule-of-thumb morality which has come down -to us is no more valid than the common-sense, scientific observation -that the sun goes round the earth. We can rely no longer on the loose -gleanings of homely proverb and common sense for our knowledge of -personality and human nature and life.</p> - -<p>If we do not adopt the experimental life, we are still in bondage to -convention. To learn of life from others’ words is like learning to -build a steam-engine from books in the class-room. We may learn of -principles in the spiritual life that have proven true for millions -of men, but even these we must test to see if they hold true for our -individual world. We can never attain any self-reliant morality if we -allow ourselves to be hypnotized by fixed ideas of what is good or -bad. No matter how good our principles, our devotion to morality will -be mere lip-service unless each belief is individually tested, and its -power to work vitally in our lives demonstrated.</p> - -<p>But this moral experimentation is not the mere mechanical repetition of -the elementary student<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> in the laboratory, who makes simple experiments -which are sure to come out as the law predicts. The laws of personality -and life are far more complex, and each experiment discovers something -really novel and unique. The spiritual world is ever-creative; the same -experiments may turn out differently for different experimenters, and -yet they may both be right. In the spiritual experimental life, we must -have the attitude of the scientist, but we are able to surpass him in -daring and boldness. We can be certain of a physical law that as it has -worked in the past, so it will work in the future. But of a spiritual -law we have no such guarantee. This it is that gives the zest of -perpetual adventure to the moral life. Human nature is an exhaustless -field for investigation and experiment. It is inexhaustible in its -richness and variety.</p> - -<p>The old rigid morality, with its emphasis on the prudential virtues, -neglected the fundamental fact of our irrationality. It believed -that if we only knew what was good, we would do it. It was therefore -satisfied with telling us what was good, and expecting us automatically -to do it. But there was a hiatus somewhere. For we do not do what we -want to, but what is easiest and most natural<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> for us to do, and if -it is easy for us to do the wrong thing, it is that that we will do. -We are creatures of instincts and impulses that we do not set going. -And education has never taught us more than very imperfectly how to -train these impulses in accordance with our worthy desires. Instead of -endeavoring to cure this irrationality by directing our energy into the -channel of experimentation, it has worked along the lines of greatest -resistance, and held up an ideal of inhibition and restraint. We have -been alternately exhorted to stifle our bad impulses, and to strain -and struggle to make good our worthy purposes and ambitions. Now the -irrational man is certainly a slave to his impulses, but is not the -rational man a slave to his motives and reasons? The rational ideal has -made directly for inflexibility of character, a deadening conservatism -that is unable to adapt itself to situations, or make allowance for the -changes and ironies of life. It has riveted the moral life to logic, -when it should have been yoked up with sympathy. The logic of the heart -is usually better than the logic of the head, and the consistency of -sympathy is superior as a rule for life to the consistency of the -intellect.</p> - -<p>Life is a laboratory to work out experiments in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> living. That same -freedom which we demand for ourselves, we must grant to every one. -Instead of falling with our spite upon those who vary from the textbook -rules of life, we must look upon their acts as new and very interesting -hypotheses to be duly tested and judged by the way they work when -carried out into action. Nonconformity, instead of being irritating -and suspicious, as it is now to us, will be distinctly pleasurable, -as affording more material for our understanding of life and our -formulation of its satisfying philosophy. The world has never favored -the experimental life. It despises poets, fanatics, prophets, and -lovers. It admires physical courage, but it has small use for moral -courage. Yet it has always been those who experimented with life, -who formed their philosophy of life as a crystallization out of that -experimenting, who were the light and life of the world. Causes have -only finally triumphed when the rational “gradual progress” men have -been overwhelmed. Better crude irrationality than the rationality that -checks hope and stifles faith.</p> - -<p>In place, then, of the rational or the irrational life, we preach -the experimental life. There is much chance in the world, but there -is also a modicum of free will, and it is this modicum that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> we -exploit to direct our energies. Recognizing the precariousness and -haphazardness of life, we can yet generalize out of our experience -certain probabilities and satisfactions that will serve us as well -as scientific laws. Only they must be flexible and they must be -tested. Life is not a rich province to conquer by our will, or to -wring enjoyment out of with our appetites, nor is it a market where -we pay our money over the counter and receive the goods we desire. It -is rather a great tract of spiritual soil, which we can cultivate or -misuse. With certain restrictions, we have the choice of the crops -which we can grow. Our duty is evidently to experiment until we find -those which grow most favorably and profitably, to vary our crops -according to the quality of the soil, to protect them against prowling -animals, to keep the ground clear of noxious weeds. Contending against -wind and weather and pests, we can yet with skill and vigilance win a -living for ourselves. None can cultivate this garden of our personality -but ourselves. Others may supply the seed; it is we who must plough and -reap. We are owners in fee simple, and we cannot lease. None can live -my life but myself. And the life that I live depends on my courage, -skill, and wisdom in experimentation.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XI">XI<br />THE DODGING OF PRESSURES</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span></p> - - - -<p>For a truly sincere life one talent is needed,—the ability to steer -clear of the forces that would warp and conventionalize and harden the -personality and its own free choices and bents. All the kingdoms of -this world lie waiting to claim the allegiance of the youth who enters -on the career of life, and sentinels and guards stand ready to fetter -and enslave him the moment he steps unwarily over the wall out of the -free open road of his own individuality. And unless he dodges them -and keeps straight on his path, dusty and barren though it may be, he -will find himself chained a prisoner for life, and little by little -his own soul will rot out of him and vanish. The wise men of the past -have often preached the duty of this open road, they have summoned -youth to self-reliance, but they have not paid sufficient heed to the -enemies that would impede his progress. They have been too intent on -encouraging him to be independent and lead his own life, to point out -to him the direction from which the subtle influences that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span> might -control him would come. As a result, young men have too often believed -that they were hewing out a career for themselves when they were really -simply offering themselves up to some institutional Moloch to be -destroyed, or, at the best, passively allowing the career or profession -they had adopted to mould and carve them. Instead of working out their -own destiny, they were actually allowing an alien destiny to work them -out. Youth enters the big world of acting and thinking, a huge bundle -of susceptibilities, keenly alive and plastic, and so eager to achieve -and perform that it will accept almost the first opportunity that comes -to it. Now each youth has his own unique personality and interweaving -web of tendencies and inclinations, such as no other person has ever -had before. It is essential that these trends and abilities be so -stimulated by experience that they shall be developed to their highest -capacity. And they can usually be depended upon, if freedom and -opportunity are given, to grow of themselves upward towards the sun and -air. If a youth does not develop, it is usually because his nature has -been blocked and thwarted by the social pressures to which every one of -us is subjected, and which only a few have the strength<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span> or the wisdom -to resist. These pressures come often in the guise of good fortune, -and the youth meets them halfway, goes with them gladly, and lets them -crush him. He will do it all, too, with so easy a conscience, for is -not this meeting the world and making it one’s own? It is meeting the -world, but it is too often only to have the world make the youth its -own.</p> - -<p>Our spiritual guides and leaders, then, have been too positive, too -heartening, if such a thing be possible. They have either not seen the -dangers that lurked in the path, or they have not cared to discourage -and depress us by pointing them out. Many of our modern guides, in -their panegyrics on success, even glorify as aids on the journey these -very dangers themselves, and urge the youth to rely upon them, when he -should have been warned not to gaze at all on the dazzling lure. The -youth is urged to imitate men who are themselves victims of the very -influences that he should dodge, and doctrines and habits are pressed -upon him which he should ceaselessly question and never once make his -own unless he is sure that they fit him. He will have need to be ever -alert to the dangers, and, in early youth at least, would better think -more of dodging them than of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span> attaining the goal to which his elders -tempt him. Their best service to him would be to warn him against -themselves and their influence, rather than to encourage him to become -like them.</p> - -<p>The dangers that I speak of are the influences and inducements which -come to youth from family, business, church, society, state, to -compromise with himself and become in more or less degree conformed -to their pattern and type. “Be like us!” they all cry, “it is easiest -and safest thus! We guarantee you popularity and fortune at so small -a price,—only the price of your best self!” Thus they seduce him -insidiously rather than openly attack him. They throw their silky -chains over him and draw him in. Or they press gently but ceaselessly -upon him, rubbing away his original roughness, polishing him down, -moulding him relentlessly, and yet with how kindly and solicitous a -touch, to their shape and manner. As he feels their caressing pressure -against him in the darkness, small wonder is it that he mistakes it for -the warm touch of friends and guides. They are friends and guides who -always end, however, by being masters and tyrants. They force him to -perpetuate old errors, to keep alive dying customs, to breathe new life -into vicious prejudices,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> to take his stand against the saving new. -They kill his soul, and then use the carcass as a barricade against the -advancing hosts of light. They train him to protect and conserve their -own outworn institutions when he should be the first, by reason of his -clear insight and freedom from crusted prejudice, to attack them.</p> - -<p>The youth’s only salvation lies, then, in dodging these pressures. It -is not his business to make his own way in life so much as it is to -prevent some one else from making it for him. His business is to keep -the way clear, and the sky open above his head. Then he will grow and -be nurtured according to his needs and his inner nature. He must fight -constantly to keep from his head those coverings that institutions -and persons in the guise of making him warm and safe throw over his -body. If young people would spend half the time in warding away the -unfavorable influences that they now spend in conscientiously planning -what they are going to be, they would achieve success and maintain -their individuality. It seems, curiously enough, that one can live -one’s true life and guarantee one’s individuality best in this indirect -way,—not by projecting one’s self out upon the world aggressively, -but by keeping the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span> track clear along which one’s true life may run. -A sane, well-rounded, original life is attained not so much by taking -thought for it as by the dodging of pressures that would limit and warp -its natural growth. The youth must travel the straight road serenely, -confident that “his own will come to him.” All he must strive for is -to recognize his own when it does come, and to absorb and assimilate -it. His imagination must be large enough to envisage himself and his -own needs. This wisdom, however, comes to too many of us only after -we are hopelessly compromised, after we are encrusted over so deeply -that, even if we try to break away, our struggles are at the expense -of our growth. The first duty of self-conscious youth is to dodge the -pressures, his second to survey the world eagerly to see what is “his -own.” If he goes boldly ahead at first to seek his own, without first -making provision for silencing the voices that whisper continually at -his side, “Conform!”—he will soon find himself on alien ground, and, -if not a prisoner, a naturalized citizen before he has time to think.</p> - -<p>Nor is this a mere invitation to whimsicality and eccentricity. These -epithets, in our daily life, are somewhat loosely used for all sorts -of behavior<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span> ranging from nonconformity to pure freakishness. If we -really had more original, unspoiled people in the world, we should -not use these terms so frequently. If we really had more people who -were satisfying their healthy desires, and living the life that -their whole inner conscience told them was best, we should not find -eccentric or queer the self-sustaining men and women who live without -regard to prejudice. And all real whimsicality is a result rather of -the thwarting of individuality than of letting it run riot. It is -when persons of strong personality are subjected to pressures heavier -than they can bear that we get real outbursts of eccentricity. For -something unnatural has occurred, a spontaneous flow and progress has -been checked. Your eccentric man par excellence is your perfectly -conventional man, who never offends in the slightest way by any -original action or thought. For he has yielded to every variety of -pressure that has been brought to bear upon him, and his original -nature has been completely obscured. The pressures have been, however, -uniform on every side, so that they have seemingly canceled each other. -But this equilibrium simply conceals the forces that have crushed -him. The conventional person is, therefore,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span> not the most natural -but the most unnatural of persons. His harmlessness is a proof of -his tremendous eccentricity. He has been rubbed down smooth on all -sides like a rock until he has dropped noiselessly into his place in -society. But at what a cost does he obtain this peace! At the cost of -depersonalizing himself, and sacrificing his very nature, which, as in -every normal person, is precious and worthy of permanence and growth. -This treason to one’s self is perhaps the greatest mistake of youth, -the one unpardonable sin. It is worse than sowing one’s wild oats, -for they are reaped and justice is done; or casting one’s bread upon -the waters, for that returneth after many days. But this sin is the -throwing away in willfulness or carelessness the priceless jewel of -self-hood, and with no return, either of recompense or punishment.</p> - -<p>How early and insidious is the pressure upon us to conform to some -type whose fitness we have not examined, but which we are forced to -take strictly on authority! On the children in the family what a -petty tyranny of ideas and manners is imposed! Under the guise of -being brought up, how many habits of doubtful value we learned, how -many moral opinions of doubtful significance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span> we absorbed, how many -strange biases that harass and perplex us in our later life we had -fastened upon our minds, how many natural and beautiful tendencies -we were forced to suppress! The tyranny of manners, of conventional -politeness, of puritanical taboos, of superstitious religion, were all -imposed upon us for no reason that our elders could devise, but simply -that they in turn had had them imposed upon them. Much of our early -education was as automatic and unconscious as the handing down of the -immemorial traditions in a primitive savage tribe. Now I am far from -saying that this household tradition of manners and morals is not an -excellent thing for us to acquire. Many of the habits are so useful -that it is a wise provision that we should obtain them as naturally as -the air we breathe. And it is a pressure that we could not, at that -age, avoid, even if we would. But this childhood influence is a sample -of true pressure, for it is both unconscious and irresistible. Were we -to infringe any of the rules laid down for us, the whole displeasure of -the family descended upon our heads; they seemed to vie with each other -in expressing their disapproval of our conduct. So, simply to retain -our self-respect, we were forced into their pattern of doing things,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span> -and for no other reason than that it was their pattern.</p> - -<p>This early pressure, however, was mild in comparison with what we -experienced as we grew older. We found then that more and more of -our actions came insensibly but in some way or other before this -court of appeal. We could choose our friends, for instance, only with -reservations. If we consorted with little boys who were not clean, or -who came from the less reputable portions of the town, we were made to -feel the vague family disapproval, perhaps not outspoken, but as an -undercurrent to their attitude. And usually we did not need flagrantly -to offend to be taught the need of judicious selection, for we were -sensitive to the feeling that we knew those around us would entertain, -and so avoided the objectionable people from a diffused feeling that -they were not “nice.” When we grew old enough to move in the youthful -social world, we felt this circle of tyranny suddenly widen. It was -our “set” now that dictated our choices. The family pressure had been -rather subtle and uneasy; this was bold and direct. Here were the most -arbitrary selections and disqualifications, girls and boys being banned -for no imaginable reason except that they were slightly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span> out of the -ordinary, and our little world circumscribed by a rigid public opinion -which punished nonconformity by expulsion. If we tried to dodge this -pressure and assert our own privileges of making lovers and friends, we -were soon delivered an ultimatum, and if we refused to obey, we were -speedily cast out into utter darkness, where, strange to say, we lacked -even the approbation of the banned. Sometimes we were not allowed to -choose our partners to whom we paid our momentary devotions, sometimes -we were not allowed to give them up. The price we paid for free -participation in the parties and dances and love-affairs of this little -social world of youth was an almost military obedience to the general -feeling of propriety and suitability of our relationships with others, -and to the general will of those in whose circle we went. There was apt -to be a rather severe code of propriety, which bore especially upon -the girls. Many frank and natural actions and expressions of opinion -were thus inhibited, from no real feeling of self-respect, but from -the vague, uncomfortable feeling that somebody would not approve. This -price for society was one that we were all willing to pay, but it was a -bad training. Our own natural likings and dislikings<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span> got blunted; we -ceased to seek out our own kind of people and enjoy them and ourselves -in our own way, but we “went with” the people that our companions -thought we ought to “go with,” and we played the games and behaved -generally as they thought we ought to do.</p> - -<p>The family rather corroborated this pressure than attempted to fortify -us in our own individuality. For their honor seemed to be involved in -what we did, and if all our walk in life was well pleasing to those -around us, they were well pleased with us. And all through life, as -long at least as we were protected under the sheltering wing of the -family, its members constituted a sort of supreme court over all our -relations in life. In resisting the other pressures that were brought -to bear on us, we rarely found that we had the family’s undivided -support. They loved, like all social groups, a smoothly running person, -and as soon as they found us doing unconventional things or having -unusual friends they were vaguely uneasy, as if they were harboring -in their midst some unpredictable animal who would draw upon them the -disapproving glances of the society around them. The family philosophy -has a horror for the “queer.” The table-board is too often a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span> place -where the eccentricities of the world get thoroughly aired. The dread -of deviation from accepted standards is impressed upon us from our -youth up. The threat which always brought us to terms was,—“If you do -this, you will be considered queer!” There was very little fight left -in us after that.</p> - -<p>But the family has other formidable weapons for bringing us to terms. -It knows us through and through as none of our friends and enemies know -us. It sees us in undress, when all our outward decorations of spirit -and shams and pretenses are thrown off, and it is not deceived by the -apologies and excuses that pass muster in the world at large and even -to our own conscience. We can conceal nothing from it; it knows all -our weakest spots and vulnerable feelings. It does not hesitate to -take shameless advantage of that knowledge. Its most powerful weapon -is ridicule. It can adopt no subtler method, for we in our turn know -all its own vulnerabilities. And where the world at large is generally -too polite to employ ridicule upon us, but works with gentler methods -of approbation and coldness, our family associates feel no such -compunction. Knowing us as they do, they are able to make that ridicule -tell. We may<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span> have longings for freedom and individuality, but it is a -terrible dilemma that faces us. Most men would rather be slaves than -butts; they would rather be corralled with the herd than endure its -taunts at their independence.</p> - -<p>Besides the pressure on a youth or girl to think the way the family -does, there is often the pressure brought upon them to sacrifice -themselves for its benefit. I do not mean to deprecate that perfectly -natural and proper desire to make some return for the care and kindness -that have been lavished upon them. But the family insistence often goes -much further than this. It demands not only that its young people shall -recompense it for what it has done for them, but that they do it in the -kind of work and vocation that shall seem proper to it. How often, when -the youth or girl is on the point of choosing a congenial occupation -or profession, does the family council step in and, with the utmost -apparent good-will in the world, dictate differently! And too often the -motives are really policy or ambition, or, at best, sheer prejudice. -If the youth be not persuaded, then he must bear the brunt of lonely -toil without the sympathy or support of those most dear to him. Far -harder is the lot of the young woman.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span> For there is still so much -prejudice against a girl’s performing useful work in society, apart -from her God-given duty of getting married, that her initiative is -crushed at the very beginning. The need of cultivating some particular -talent or interest, even if she has not to earn her living, seems to be -seldom felt. Yet women, with their narrower life, have a greater need -of sane and vigorous spiritual habits than do men. It is imperative -that a girl be prevented from growing up into a useless, fleshly, and -trivial woman, of the type one sees so much of nowadays. Even if a -girl does marry, a few intellectual interests and gifts and tastes -will not be found to detract from her charm or usefulness. The world -never needed so much as it does to-day women of large hearts and large -minds, whose home and sphere are capable of embracing something beyond -the four corners of their kitchen. And the world can get such women -only by allowing them the initiative and opportunity to acquire varied -interests and qualities while they are young.</p> - -<p>The family often forges sentimental bonds to keep it living together -long after the motive and desire have departed. There is no group so -uncongenial as an uncongenial family. The constant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> rubbing together -accentuates all the divergencies and misunderstandings. Yet sometimes -a family whose members are hopelessly mismated will cling together -through sheer inertia or through a conscientious feeling of duty. And -duty to too many of us is simply a stimulus to that curious love for -futile suffering that form some of the darker qualities of the puritan -soul. Family duty may not only warp and mutilate many a life that would -bloom healthily outside in another environment, but it may actually -mean the pauperization of the weaker members. The claims of members -of the family upon each other are often overwhelming, and still more -often quite fictitious in their justice. Yet that old feeling of the -indissolubility of the family will often allow the weak, who might, if -forced to shift for themselves, become strong, to suck the lifeblood -from the stronger members. Coöperation, when it is free and spontaneous -and on a basis of congeniality, is the foundation of all social life -and progress, but forced cohesion can do little good. The average -family is about as well mated as any similar group would be, picked -out at random from society. And this means, where the superstition -of indissolubility is still effective, that the members share<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span> not -only all the benefits, but also all each others’ shortcomings and -irritations. Family life thus not only presses upon its youth to -conform to its customs and habits and to the opinions of the little -social world in which it lives, but also drags its youth down with -its claims, and warps it by its tension of uncongeniality, checks -its spontaneity by its lack of appreciation, and injures its soul by -friction and misunderstanding.</p> - -<p>This family pressure upon youth is serious, and potent for much good -and evil in his later life. It is necessary that he understand how to -analyze it without passion or prejudice, and find out just how he can -dodge the unfavorable pressure without injury to the love that is borne -him or the love that he bears to the others. But let him not believe -that his love is best shown by submission. It is best shown by a -resolute determination and assertion of his own individuality. Only he -must know, without the cavil of a doubt, what that individuality is; he -must have a real imaginative anticipation of its potentialities. Only -with this intuition will he know where to dodge and how to dodge.</p> - -<p>It is true that the modern generation seems to be changing all this. -Family cohesion and authority<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span> no longer mean what they did even twenty -years ago. The youth of to-day are willful, selfish, heartless, in -their rebellion. They are changing the system blindly and blunderingly. -They feel the pressure, and without stopping to ask questions or -analyze the situation, they burst the doors and flee away. Their -seeming initiative is more animal spirits than anything else. They -have exploded the myth that their elders have any superhuman wisdom -of experience to share with them, or any incontrovertible philosophy -of life with which to guide their wandering footsteps. But it must be -admitted that most have failed so far to find a wisdom and a philosophy -to take its place. They have too often thrown away the benefits of -family influence on account of mere trivialities of misunderstanding. -They have not waited for the real warpings of initiative, the real -pressure of prejudice, but have kicked up their heels at the first -breath of authority. They have not so much dodged the pressure as -fled it altogether. Instead of being intent on brushing away the -annoying obstacles that interfered with the free growth of their -own worthier selves, they have mistaken the means for the end, and -have merely brushed off the interferences, without first having<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span> any -consciousness of that worthier self. Now of course this is no solution. -It is only as they substitute for the authority that they throw off -a definite authority of their own, crystallized out of their own -ideals and purposes, that they will gain or help others to gain. For -lack of a vision the people perish. For lack of a vision of their own -personalities, and the fresh, free, aggressive, forward, fearless, -radical life that we all ought to lead, and could lead if we only had -the imagination for it, the youth of to-day will cast off the narrowing -confining fetters of authority only to wander without any light at -all. This is not to say that this aimless wandering is not better than -the prison-house, but it is to say that the emancipation of the spirit -is insufficient without a new means of spiritual livelihood to take -its place. The youth of to-day cannot rest on their liberation; they -must see their freedom as simply the setting free of forces within -themselves for a cleaner, sincerer life, and for radical work in -society. The road is cut out before them by pioneers; they have but to -let themselves grow out in that direction.</p> - -<p>I have painted the family pressures in this somewhat lurid hue -because they are patterns of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span> the other attacks which are made upon -the youth as he meets the world. The family is a little microcosm, -a sheltered group where youth feels all those currents of influence -that sway men in their social life. Some of them are exaggerated, some -perverted, but they are most of them there in that little world. It -is no new discovery that in family life one can find heaven or one -can find hell. The only pressure that is practically absent in the -family is the economic pressure, by which I mean the inducements, -and even necessities, that a youth is under of conforming to codes -or customs and changing his ideals and ideas, when he comes to earn -his livelihood. This pressure affects him as soon as he looks for an -opening, as he calls it, in which to make his living. At that time -all this talk of natural talents or bents or interests begin to sound -far-away and ideal. He soon finds that these things have no commercial -value in themselves and will go but a short way towards providing him -with his living. The majority of us “go to work” as soon as our short -“education” is completed, if not before, and we go not by choice, -but wherever opportunity is given. Hence the ridiculous misfits, the -apathy, the restlessness and discontent. The world of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span> young people -around us seems too largely to be one where both men and girls are -engaged in work in which they have no interest, and for which they -have no aptitude. They are mournfully fettered to their work; all they -can seem to do is to make the best of it, and snatch out of the free -moments what pleasure and exhilaration they can. They have little hope -for a change. There is too much of a scramble for places in this busy, -crowded world, to make a change anything but hazardous. It is true that -restlessness often forces a change, but it is rarely for the better, or -in the line of any natural choice or interest. One leaves one’s job, -but then one takes thankfully the first job that presents itself; the -last state may be worse than the first. By this economic pressure most -of us are sidetracked, turned off from our natural path, and fastened -irrevocably to some work that we could only acquire an interest in at -the expense of our souls.</p> - -<p>It is a pressure, too, that cannot easily be dodged. We can frankly -recognize our defeat, plunge boldly at the work and make it a part -of ourselves; this course of action, which most of us adopt, is -really, however, simply an unconditional<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span> surrender. We can drift -along apathetically, without interest either in our work or our own -personalities; this course is even more disastrous. Or we can quietly -wait until we have found the vocation that guarantees the success of -our personalities; this course is an ideal that is possible to very -few. And yet, did we but know it, a little thought at the beginning -would often have prevented the misfit, and a little boldness when -one has discovered the misfit would often have secured the favorable -change. That self-recognition, which is the only basis for a genuine -spiritual success in life, is the thing that too many of us lack. The -apathy comes from a real ignorance of what our true work is. Then -we are twice a slave,—a prey to our circumstance and a prey to our -ignorance.</p> - -<p>Like all discoveries, what one’s work is can be found only by -experiment. But this can often be an imaginative experiment. One can -take an “inventory of one’s personality,” and discover one’s interests, -and the kind of activity one feels at home with or takes joy in. Yet -it is true that there are many qualities which cannot be discovered by -the imagination, which need the fairy touch of actual use to develop -them. There is no royal road to this success. Here the obstacles are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span> -usually too thick to be dodged. We do not often enough recognize the -incredible stupidity of our civilization where so much of the work is -uninteresting and monotonous. That we should consider it a sort of -triumph that a man like <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> John Burroughs should have been able to -live his life as he chose, travel along his own highroad, and develop -himself in his own natural direction, is a curious reflection on our -ideals of success and on the incompleteness of our civilization. Such a -man has triumphed, however, because he has known what to dodge. He has -not been crushed by the social opinion of his little world, or lured by -specious success, or fettered by his “job,” or hoodwinked by prejudice. -He has kept his spirit clear and pure straight through life. It would -be well for modern youth if it could let an ideal like this color their -lives, and permeate all their thoughts and ambitions. It would be well -if they could keep before them such an ideal as a pillar of fire by day -and a cloud by night.</p> - -<p>If we cannot dodge this economic pressure, at least we can face it. -If we are situated so that we have no choice in regard to our work, -we may still resist the influences which its uncongeniality would -bring to bear upon us. This is not done by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span> forcing an interest in -it, or liking for it. If the work is socially wasteful or useless or -even pernicious, as so much business and industrial work to-day is, -it is our bounden duty not to be interested in it or to like it. We -should not be playing our right place in society if we enjoyed such a -prostitution of energies. One of the most insidious of the economic -pressures is this awaking the interest of youth in useless and wasteful -work, work that takes away energy from production to dissipate in -barter and speculation and all the thousand ways that men have -discovered of causing money to flow from one pocket to another without -the transference of any fair equivalent of real wealth. We can dodge -these pressures not by immolating ourselves, but by letting the routine -work lie very lightly on our soul. We can understand clearly the nature -and effects of this useless work we are doing, and keep it from either -alluring or smothering us. We can cultivate a disinterested aloofness -towards it, and keep from breathing its poisonous atmosphere. The extra -hours we can fill with real interests, and make them glow with an -intensity that will make our life almost as rich as if we were wholly -given over to a real lifework. We can thus live in two worlds,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span> one -of which is the more precious because it is one of freedom from very -real oppression. And that oppression will seem light because it has the -reverse shield of liberty. If we do drudgery, it must be our care to -see that it does not stifle us. The one thing needful in all our work -and play is that we should always be on top, that our true personality -should always be in control. Our life must not be passive, running -simply by the momentum furnished by another; it must have the motive -power within itself; although it gets the fuel from the stimulation of -the world about it, the steam and power must be manufactured within -itself.</p> - -<p>These counsels of aloofness from drudgery suggest the possibilities of -avoiding the economic pressures where they are too heavy completely to -dodge, and where the work is an irrevocable misfit. But the pressures -of success are even more deadly than those of routine. How early is -one affected by that first pressure of worldly opinion which says that -lack of success in business or a profession is disgraceful! The one -devil of our modern world is failure, and many are the charms used by -the medicine men to ward him away. If we lived in a state of society -where virtue<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span> was its own reward, where our actions were automatically -measured and our rewards duly proportioned to our efforts, a lack of -success would be a real indication of weakness and flaw, or, at best, -ill-preparation. But where business success is largely dependent on -the possession of capital, a lucky risk, the ability to intimidate or -deceive, and where professional success is so often dependent upon -self-assertion or some irrelevant but pleasing trait of personality, -failure means nothing more than bad luck, or, at most, inability to -please those clients to whom one has made one’s appeal. To dodge this -pressure of fancied failure and humiliation is to have gone a long way -towards guaranteeing one’s real success. We are justified in adopting -a pharisaical attitude towards success,—“Lord, I thank thee that I -have not succeeded as other men have!” To have judged one’s self by -the inner standards of truth to one’s own personality, to count the -consciousness of having done well, regardless of the corroboration of -a public, as success, is to have avoided this most discouraging of -pressures.</p> - -<p>It is even doubtful whether business or professional success, except -in the domain of science and art, can be attained without a certain -betrayal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span> of soul. The betrayal may have been small, but at some point -one has been compressed, one has yielded to alien forces and conformed -to what the heart did not give assent to. It may be that one has kept -silent when one should have spoken, that one has feigned interests -and enthusiasms, or done work that one knew was idle and useless, in -order to achieve some goal; but always that goal has been reached not -spontaneously but under a foreign pressure. More often than not the -fortunate one has not felt the direct pressure, has not been quite -conscious of the sacrifice, but only vaguely uneasy and aware that all -was not right within him, and has won his peace only by drugging his -uneasiness with visions of the final triumph. The pressure is always -upon him to keep silent and conform. He must not only adopt all the -outward forms and ceremonies, as in the family and social life, but he -must also adopt the traditional ideals.</p> - -<p>The novice soon finds that he is expected to defend the citadel, even -against his own heresies. The lawyer who finds anomalies in the law, -injustice in the courts, is not encouraged to publish abroad his -facts, or make proposals for reform. The student who finds antiquated -method, erroneous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span> hypotheses in his subject, is not expected to use -his knowledge and his genius to remodel the study. The minister who -comes upon new and living interpretations for his old creeds is not -encouraged to speak forth the truth that is in him. Nor is the business -man who finds corrupt practices in his business encouraged to give the -secrets away. There is a constant social pressure on these “reformers” -to leave things alone.</p> - -<p>And this does not arise from any corrupt connivance with the wrong, -or from any sympathy with the evildoers. The cry rises equally from -the corrupt and the holy, from the men who are responsible for the -abuses and those who are innocent, from those who know of them and -those who do not. It is simply the instinctive reaction of the herd -against anything that savors of the unusual; it is the tendency of -every social group simply to resist change. This alarm at innovation is -universal, from college presidents to Catholic peasants, in fashionable -club or sewing circle or political party. On the radical there is -immediately brought, without examination, without reason or excuse, -the whole pressure of the organization to stultify his vision and -force him back into the required grooves. The methods employed are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span> -many: a warning is issued against him as being unsound and unsafe; his -motive is to make trouble, or revenge himself on the directors for some -slight; finally he is solemnly pilloried as an “enemy of the people.” -Excellent reasons are discovered for his suppression. Effective working -of an organization requires coöperation, but also subordination; in -the interests of efficiency, therefore, individual opinion cannot be -allowed full sway. The reputation of the organization before the world -depends on its presenting a harmonious and united front; internal -disagreements and criticisms tend to destroy the respect of the public. -Smoothness of working is imperative; a certain individual liberty must, -therefore, be sacrificed for the success of the organization. And if -these plausible excuses fail, there is always the appeal to authority -and to tried and tested experience. Now all these reasons are simply -apologies brought up after the fact to justify the first instinctive -reaction. What they all mean is this, and only this: He would unsettle -things; away with him!</p> - -<p>In olden times, they had sterner ways of enforcing these pressures. -But although the stake and dungeon have disappeared, the spirit of -conservatism<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span> does not seem to have changed very much. Educated men -still defend the hoariest abuses, still stand sponsor for utterly -antiquated laws and ideals. That is why the youth of this generation -has to be so suspicious of those who seem to speak authoritatively. He -knows not whom he can trust, for few there are who speak from their own -inner conviction. Most of our leaders and moulders of public opinion -speak simply as puppets pulled by the strings of the conservative -bigotry of their class or group. It is well that the youth of to-day -should know this, for the knowledge will go far towards steeling him -against that most insidious form of pressure that comes from the -intellectual and spiritual prestige of successful and honored men. When -youth sees that a large part of their success has been simply their -succumbing to social pressure, and that their honor is based largely -on the fact that they do not annoy vested interests with proposals or -agitations for betterment, he will seek to discover new standards of -success, and find his prophets and guides among the less fortunate, -perhaps, but among those who have retained their real integrity. -This numbing palsy of conservative assent which steals over so many -brilliant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span> and sincere young men as they are subjected to the influence -of prestige and authority in their profession is the most dangerous -disease that threatens youth. It can be resisted only by constant -criticism and candid vigilance. “Prove all things; hold fast to that -which is good,” should be the motto of the intellectual life. Only -by testing and comparing all the ideals that are presented to one is -it possible to dodge that pressure of authority that would crush the -soul’s original enthusiasms and beliefs. Not doubt but convention is -the real enemy of youth.</p> - -<p>Yet these spiritual pressures are comparatively easy to dodge when -one is once awake to them. It is the physical pressure that those in -power are able to bring to bear upon the dissenter that constitutes -the real problem. The weak man soon becomes convinced of his hardihood -and audacity in supposing that his ideas could be more valuable than -the running tradition, and recants his heresies. But those who stick -stiff-neckedly out are soon crushed. When the youth is settled in life, -has trained for his profession and burned his bridges behind him, it -means a great deal to combat authority. For those in power can make -use of the economic pressure to force him to conformity.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span> It is the -shame of our universities that they are giving constant illustrations -of this use of arbitrary power, directed usually against nonconformity -in social and political opinion. Recent examples show the length to -which even these supposedly enlightened institutions are willing to -go to prevent social heresy in their midst. Often such harsh measures -are not needed. A subtle appeal to a man’s honor is effective. “While -you are a member of a society,” it is said, “it is your duty to think -in harmony with its ideals and policies. If you no longer agree with -those ideals, it is your duty to withdraw. You can fight honorably for -your own ideas only from the outside.” All that need be said about this -doctrine, so fair and reasonable on the surface, is that it contains -all the philosophic support that would perpetuate the evil of the -world forever. For it means attacking vested evil from the weakest -vantage-point; it means willfully withdrawing to the greatest distance, -shooting one’s puny arrows at the citadel, and then expecting to -capture it. It means also to deny any possibility of progress within -the organization itself. For as soon as dissent from the common inertia -developed, it would be automatically eliminated. It is a principle,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span> -of course, that plays directly into the hands of the conservators. It -is an appeal to honor that is dishonorable. Let it seduce no man’s -sincerity!</p> - -<p>The principal object of every organization, as every youth soon -discovers who feels dissatisfaction with the policies of church, -club, college, or party, is to remain true to type. Each is organized -with a central vigilance committee, whose ostensible function is -direction, but whose real business is to resist threatening change -and keep matters as they are. The ideal is smoothness; every part of -the machine is expected to run along in its well-oiled groove. Youths -who have tried to introduce their new ideas into such organizations -know the weight of this fearful resistance. It seems usually as if -all the wisdom and experience of these elders had taught them only -the excellence of doing nothing at all. Their favorite epithet for -those who have individual opinions is “trouble-makers,” forgetting -that men do not run the risk of the unpopularity and opprobrium that -aggressiveness always causes, for the sheer love of making trouble. -Through an instinct of self-preservation, such an organization always -places loyalty above truth, the permanence of the organization above -the permanence of its principles. Even in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span> churches we are told that to -alter one’s opinion of a creed to which one has once given allegiance -is basely to betray one’s higher nature. These are the pressures that -keep wavering men in the footpaths where they have once put their feet, -and stunts their truer, growing selves. How many souls a false loyalty -has blunted none can say; perhaps almost as many as false duty!</p> - -<p>In the dodging of these pressures many a man finds the real spiritual -battle of his life. They are a challenge to all his courage and faith. -Unless he understands their nature, his defeat will bring despair -or cynicism. When the group is weak and he is strong, he may resist -successfully, press back in his turn, actually create a public opinion -that will support him, and transfuse it all with his new spirit and -attitude. Fortunate, indeed, is he who can not only dodge these -pressures but dissolve them! If he is weak and his efforts are useless, -and the pressure threatens to crush him, he would better withdraw and -let the organization go to its own diseased perdition. If he can remain -within without sacrifice to his principles, this is well, for then he -has a vantage-ground for the enunciation of those principles. Eternal -vigilance, however, is the price of his liberty.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span></p> - -<p>The secret ambition of the group seems to be to turn out all its -members as nearly alike as possible. It seeks to create a type to -which all new adherents shall be moulded. Each group, then, that we -have relations with is ceaselessly working to mould us to its type and -pattern. It is this marvellous unseen power that a group has of forming -after its own image all that come under its influence, that conquers -men. It has the two instincts of self-preservation and propagation -strongly developed, and we tend unthinkingly to measure its value in -terms of its success in the expression of those instincts. Rather -should it be measured always in terms of its ability to create and -stimulate varied individuality. This is the new ideal of social life. -This is what makes it so imperative that young men of to-day should -recognize and dodge the pressures that would thwart the assertion of -this ideal. The aim of the group must be to cultivate personality, -leaving open the road for each to follow his own. The bond of cohesion -will be the common direction in which those roads point, but this is -far from saying that all the travelers must be alike. It is enough that -there be a common aim and a common ideal.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span></p> - -<p>Societies are rarely content with this, however; they demand a close -mechanical similarity, and a conformity to a reactionary and not a -progressive type. If we would be resolute in turning our gaze towards -the common aim, and dodging the pressure of the common pattern, our -family, business, and social life would be filled with a new spirit. We -can scarcely imagine the achievement and liberation that would result. -Individuality would come to its own; it would no longer be suspect. -Youth would no longer be fettered and bound, but would come to its own -as the leaven and even leader of life. Men would worship progress as -they now worship stagnation; their ideal in working together would be a -living effectiveness instead of a mechanical efficiency.</p> - -<p>This gospel is no call to ease and comfort. It is rather one of peril. -The youth of this generation will not be so lightly seduced, or go so -innocently into the bonds of conservatism and convention, under the -impression that they are following the inspired road to success. Their -consciences will be more delicate. They know now the dangers that -confront them and the road they are called on to tread. It is not an -easy road. It is beset with opportunities for real eccentricity, for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> -selfishness, for willfulness, for mere bravado. It would be surprising, -after the long premium that has been placed on the pattern, not to see -a reaction in favor of sheer freakishness. Many of our modern radicals -are examples of this reaction. Yet their method is so sound, their -goal so clear and noble, their spirit so sincere, that they are true -pioneers of the new individuality. Their raciness is but the raciness -of all pioneers everywhere. And much of their irresponsibility is a -result of that intolerable pressure against which they are revolting. -They have dodged it, but it dogs them and concentrates itself sullenly -behind them to punish them for their temerity. The scorn of the world -hurts and hampers them. That ridicule which the family employed against -deviation is employed in all large social movements against the -innovators. Yet slowly and surely the new social ideal makes its way.</p> - -<p>It is not a call to the surrendering of obligations, in family -or business or profession, but it is a call to the criticism of -obligations. Youth must distinguish carefully between the essential -duties and the non-essential, between those which make for the -realization of the best common ideals, and those which make merely for -the maintenance of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span> dogma or unchallenged superstition. By resisting -the pressures that would warp, do we really best serve society; by -allowing our free personality to develop, do we contribute most to -the common good. We must recognize that our real duty is always found -running in the direction of our worthiest desires. No duty that runs -rough-shod over the personality can have a legitimate claim upon us. We -serve by being as well as by doing.</p> - -<p>It is easy to distort this teaching into a counsel to unbridled -selfishness. And that, of course, is the risk. But shall we not -dare to take the risk? It may be also that in our care to dodge the -pressures, we may lose all the inestimable influences of good that come -along mixed in with the hurtful. But shall we not take the risk? Our -judgments can only grow by exercise; we can only learn by constantly -discriminating. Self-recognition is necessary to know one’s road, but, -knowing the road, the price of the mistakes and perils is worth paying. -The following of that road will be all the discipline one needs. -Discipline does not mean being moulded by outside forces, but sticking -to one’s road against the forces that would deflect or bury the soul. -People speak of finding one’s niche in the world. Society, as we have -seen, is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span> one vast conspiracy for carving one into the kind of a statue -it likes, and then placing it in the most convenient niche it has. -But for us, not the niche but the open road, with the spirit always -traveling, always criticizing, always learning, always escaping the -pressures that threaten its integrity. With its own fresh power it will -keep strong and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span>true to the journey’s end.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XII">XII<br />FOR RADICALS</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span></p> - - -<p>The great social movement of yesterday and to-day and to-morrow has -hit us of the younger generation hard. Many of us were early converted -to a belief in the possibilities of a regenerated social order, and to -a passionate desire to do something in aid of that regeneration. The -appeal is not only to our sympathy for the weak and exploited, but also -to our delight in a healthy, free, social life, to an artistic longing -for a society where the treasures of civilization may be open to all, -and to our desire for an environment where we ourselves will be able -to exercise our capacities, and exert the untrammeled influences which -we believe might be ours and our fellows’. All these good things the -social movement seems to demand and seems to offer, and its appeal is -irresistible. Before the age of machinery was developed, or before -the structure of our social system and the relations between classes -and individuals was revealed, the appeal might have been merely -sentimental. But it is no longer so. The aims of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span> the social movement -to-day seem to have all the tremendous power of a practicable ideal. -To the satisfactions which its separate ideals give to all the finer -instincts of men is added the overwhelming conviction that those -satisfactions are most of them realizable here and now by concerted -methods which are already partly in operation and partially successful. -It is this union of the idealistic and the efficient that gives the -movement its hold on the disinterested and serious youth of to-day.</p> - -<p>With that conversion has necessarily come the transvaluation of many -of our social values. No longer can we pay the conventional respect -to success or join in the common opinions of men and causes. The -mighty have been pulled down from their seats, and those of low degree -exalted. We feel only contempt for college presidents, editors, and -statesmen who stultify their talents and pervert their logical and -historical knowledge in defending outworn political philosophies and -economic codes. We can no longer wholly believe in the usefulness -or significance of those teachers and writers who show themselves -serenely oblivious to the social problems. We become keen analysts of -the society around us; we put uncomfortable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> questions to our sleek -and successful elders. We criticize the activities in which they -engage, the hitherto sacred professions and businesses, and learn to -distinguish carefully between actually productive work for society, -work which makes for the material and spiritual well-being of the -people for whom it is done, and parasitic or wasteful work, which -simply extends the friction of competition, or lives on the labor or -profits of others. We distinguish, too, between the instruction and -writing that consists in handing down unexamined and uncriticized moral -and political ideas, and ideas that let in the fresh air and sunlight -to the thick prejudices of men. We come to test the papers we read, -the teachers we learn from, the professional men we come into contact -with, by these new standards. Various and surprising are the new -interweavings we discover, and the contrasts and ironies of the modern -intellectual life. The childlike innocence in which so many seem still -to slumber is almost incredible to those whose vision is so clear. The -mechanical way in which educated men tend to absorb and repeat whole -systems of formulas is a constant surprise to those whose ideas hum -and clash and react against each other. But the minds of so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span> many of -these men of position seem to run in automatic channels, such that, -given one set of opinions, one could predict with accuracy their whole -philosophy of life. Our distrust of their whole spiritual fabric thus -becomes fundamental. We can no longer take most of them seriously. It -is true that they are doing the serious work of the world, while we -do nothing as yet except criticize, and perhaps are doomed to fail -altogether when we try. To be sure, it is exactly their way of doing -that serious work that we object to, but still we are the dreamers, -they the doers; we are the theorists, they the practical achievers. Yet -the precision of our view will not down; we can see in their boasted -activity little but a resolute sitting on the lid, a sort of glorified -routine of keeping the desk clear. And we would rather remain dreamers, -we feel, than do much of their work. Other values we find are changed. -We become hopelessly perverted by democracy. We no longer make the -careful distinctions between the fit and the unfit, the successful and -the unsuccessful, the effective and the ineffective, the presentable -and the unpresentable. We are more interested in the influences that -have produced these seeming differences than in the fact of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span> -differences themselves. We classify people by new categories. We look -for personality, for sincerity, for social sympathy, for democratic -feeling, for social productiveness, and we interpret success in terms -of these attainments.</p> - -<p>The young radical, then, in such a situation and in possession of these -new social values, stands on the verge of his career in a mood of -great perplexity. Two questions he must answer,—“What is to be done?” -and “What must I do?” If he has had an education and is given a real -opportunity for the choice of a vocation, his position is crucial. For -his education, if it has been in one of the advanced universities, will -have only tended to confirm his radicalism and render more vivid the -contrast between the new philosophy which is being crystallized there -out of modern science and philosophy and the new interpretations of -history and ethics, and the obscurantist attitude of so many of our -intellectual guardians. The youth, ambitious and aggressive, desires an -effective and serviceable career, yet every career open to him seems -a compromise with the old order. If he has come to see the law as an -attempt to fit immutable principles of social action on a dynamic -and ever-growing society; if he has come to see the church<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span> as an -organization working along the lines of greatest spiritual resistance, -preaching a personal where the world is crying for a social gospel; -if he has come to see higher education as an esoteric institution -of savants, only casually reaching down to touch the mass of people -with their knowledge and ideas; if he has come to see business as -a clever way of distributing unearned wealth, and the levying of a -refined tribute on the property-less workers; if he has come to see -the press as devoted to bolstering up all these institutions in their -inefficiency and inertia;—if he has caught this radical vision of the -social institutions about him, he will find it hard to fit neatly into -any of them and let it set its brand upon him. It would seem to be a -treason not only to society but to his own best self. He would seem to -have become one of the vast conspiracy to keep things as they are. He -has spent his youth, perhaps, in studying things as they are in order -to help in changing them into things as they ought to be, but he is now -confronted with the question how the change can be accomplished, and -how he can help in that accomplishment.</p> - -<p>The attempt to answer these questions seems at first to bring him to a -deadlock and to inhibit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span> all his powers. He desires self-development -and self-expression, and the only opportunities offered him seem to be -ways of life and training that will only mock the best social ideals -that he has. This is the dilemma of latter-day youth, and it is a -dilemma which is new and original to our own age. Earnest men and -women have always had before them the task of adjusting themselves -to this world, of “overcoming the world,” but the proper method has -always been found in withdrawing from it altogether, or in passing -through it with as little spot and blemish as possible, not in plunging -into its activity and attempting to subjugate it to one’s ideals. Yet -this is the task that the young radical sets for himself. Subjugation -without compromise! But so many young men and women feel that this is -impossible. Confident of their sincerity, yet distrustful of their -strength, eager yet timorous, they stand on the brink, longing to -serve, but not knowing how, and too likely, through their distrust and -fears, to make a wreck of their whole lives. They feel somehow that -they have no right to seek their own welfare or the training of their -own talents until they have paid that service to society which they -have learned is its due.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span></p> - -<p>It does not do to tell them that one of their best services will be -that training. They demand some more direct way of influencing their -fellows, some short road to radical activity. It would be good for them -to know that they cannot hope to accomplish very much in radiating -their ideals without the skill and personality which gives impetus to -that radiation. Good-will alone has little efficacy. For centuries -well-wishers of men have shown a touching faith in the power of pure -ideals to propagate themselves. The tragic failures of the beginnings -of the social movement itself were largely due to this belief. Great -efforts ended only in sentimentality. But we have no intention now that -the fund of intellectual and spiritual energy liberated by radical -thought in the younger generation shall die away in such ineffective -efforts. To radiate influence, one’s light must shine before men, and -it must glow, moreover, with a steady and resolute flame, or men will -neither see nor believe the good works that are being done.</p> - -<p>It would be an easy way out of the dilemma if we could all adopt the -solution of Kropotkin, the Russian radical writer, and engage in -radical journalism. This seems to be the most direct<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span> means of bringing -one’s ideals to the people, to be a real fighting on the firing -line. It is well to remember, however, that a weak propagandist is a -hindrance rather than an assistance, and that the social movement needs -the best of talent, and the skill. This is a challenge to genius, but -it is also a reminder that those who fight in other ranks than the -front may do as valiant and worthy service. One of the first lessons -the young radical has to learn is that influence can be indirect as -well as direct, and will be strongest when backed by the most glowing -personality. So that self-cultivation becomes almost a duty, if one -wants to be effective towards the great end. And not only personality -but prestige; for the prestige of the person from whom ideals come is -one of the strongest factors in driving home those ideas to the mind of -the hearer and making them a motive force in his life. Vested interests -do not hesitate to make use of the services of college presidents -and other men of intellectual prestige to give their practices a -philosophic support; neither should radicals disdain, as many seem to -disdain, the use of prestige as a vantage-ground from which to hurl -their dogmas. Even though Kropotkin himself deprecated his useless -learning, his scientific<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span> reputation has been a great factor in -spreading his radical ideas.</p> - -<p>It is the fashion among some radicals to despise the applause of the -conventional, unthinking mass, and scorn any success which has that -appreciation as an ingredient. But this is not the way to influence -that same crass, unthinking mass or convert it to one’s doctrines. It -is to alienate at the beginning the heathen to whom the gospel is being -brought. And even the radical has the right to be wise as a serpent -and harmless as a dove. He must see merely that his distinctiveness is -based on real merit and not, as many reputations are, on conformity -to an established code. Scientific research, engineering, medicine, -and any honest craft, are vocations where it is hard to win prestige -without being socially productive; their only disadvantage lies in the -fact that their activity does not give opportunity for the influence -of the kind the radical wishes to exert. Art, literature, and teaching -are perilous; the pressures to conform are deadly, but the triumphs of -individuality splendid. For one’s daily work lies there directly in -the line of impressing other minds. The genius can almost swing the -lash over men’s spirits, and form their ideas for them; he combines<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span> -enormous prestige with enormous direct influence. Law, the ministry, -and business seem to be peculiarly deadly; it is hard to see how -eminence can be attained in those professions except at the cost of -many of one’s social ideals.</p> - -<p>The radical can thus choose his career with full knowledge of the -social possibilities. Where he is forced by economic necessity to -engage in distasteful and unsocial work, he may still leave no doubt, -in the small realm he does illuminate, as to his attitude and his -purpose, his enthusiasm and his hope. For all his powers and talents -can be found to contribute something; fusing together they form his -personality and create his prestige, and it is these that give the -real impetus and the vital impulse that drive one’s beliefs and ideals -into the hearts of other men. If he speaks, he will be listened to, -for it is faith and not doubt that men strain their ears to hear. It -is the believing word that they are eager to hear. Let the social -faith be in a youth, and it will leak out in every activity of his -life, it will permeate his words and color his deeds. The belief and -the vision are the essentials; these given, there is little need for -him to worry how he may count in society. He will count in spite of -himself. He may never know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span> just how he is counting, he may never hear -the reverberations of his own personality in others, but reverberate it -will, and the timbre and resonance will be in proportion to the quality -and power of that vision.</p> - -<p>The first concrete duty of every youth to whom social idealism is more -than a phrase is to see that he is giving back to society as much -as or more than he receives, and, moreover, that he is a nourisher -of the common life and not a drain upon its resources. This was -Tolstoy’s problem, and his solution to the question—“What is to be -done?”—was—“Get off the other fellow’s back!” His duty, he found, -was to arrange his life so that the satisfaction of his needs did not -involve the servitude or the servility of any of his fellow men; to do -away with personal servants, and with the articles of useless luxury -whose production meant the labor of thousands who might otherwise have -been engaged in some productive and life-bringing work; to make his own -living either directly from the soil, or by the coöperative exchange of -services, in professional, intellectual, artistic, or handicraft labor. -Splendidly sound as this solution is, both ethically and economically, -the tragic fact remains that so inextricably are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span> we woven into the -social web that we cannot live except in some degree at the expense of -somebody else, and that somebody is too often a man, woman, or even -little child who gives grudgingly, painfully, a stint of labor that we -may enjoy. We do not see the labor and the pain, and with easy hearts -and quiet consciences we enjoy what we can of the good things of life; -or, if we see the truth, as Tolstoy saw it, we still fancy, like him, -that we have it in our power to escape the curse by simple living and -our own labor. But the very food we eat, the clothes we wear, the -simplest necessities of life with which we provide ourselves, have -their roots somewhere, somehow, in exploitation and injustice. It is a -cardinal necessity of the social system under which we live that this -should be so, where the bulk of the work of the world is done, not for -human use and happiness, but primarily and directly for the profits of -masters and owners. We are all tainted with the original sin; we cannot -escape our guilt. And we can be saved out of it only by the skill and -enthusiasm which we show in our efforts to change things. We cannot -help the poisonous soil from which our sustenance springs, but we can -be laboring mightily at agitating that soil, ploughing it, turning it,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span> -and sweetening it, against the day when new seed will be planted and a -fairer fruitage be produced.</p> - -<p>The solution of these dilemmas of radical youth will, therefore, not -come from a renunciation of the personality or a refusal to participate -actively in life. Granted the indignation at our world as it is, -and the vision of the world as it might and ought to be, both the -heightening of all the powers of the personality and a firm grappling -with some definite work-activity of life are necessary to make that -indignation powerful and purging, and to transmute that vision into -actual satisfaction for our own souls and those of our fellows. It is -a fallacy of radical youth to demand all or nothing, and to view every -partial activity as compromise. Either engage in something that will -bring revolution and transformation all at one blow, or do nothing, -it seems to say. But compromise is really only a desperate attempt -to reconcile the irreconcilable. It is not compromise to study to -understand the world in which one lives, to seek expression for one’s -inner life, to work to harmonize it and make it an integer, nor is it -compromise to work in some small sphere for the harmonization of social -life and the relations between men who work together, a harmonization -that will bring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span> democracy into every sphere of life, industrial and -social.</p> - -<p>Radical youth is apt to long for some supreme sacrifice and feels that -a lesser surrender is worth nothing. But better than sacrifice is -efficiency! It is absurd to stand perplexedly waiting for the great -occasion, unwilling to make the little efforts and test the little -occasions, and unwilling to work at developing the power that would -make those occasions great. Of all the roads of activity that lie -before the youth at the threshold of life, one paramount road must be -taken. This fear that one sees so often in young people, that, if they -choose one of their talents or interests or opportunities of influence -and make themselves in it “competent ones of their generation,” they -must slaughter all the others, is irrational. It is true that the stern -present demands singleness of purpose and attention. A worthy success -is impossible to-day if the labor is divided among many interests. In -a more leisurely time, the soul could encompass many fields, and even -to-day the genius may conquer and hold at once many spiritual kingdoms. -But this is simply a stern challenge to us all to make ourselves -geniuses. For serious and sincere as the desire of radical youth may<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span> -be to lead the many-sided life, a life without a permanent core of -active and productive interest, of efficient work in the world, leads -to dilettantism and triviality. Such efficient work, instead of killing -the other interests of life, rather fertilizes them and makes them in -turn enrich the central activity. Instead of feeding on their time, it -actually creates time for the play of the other interests, which is all -the sweeter for its preciousness.</p> - -<p>Always trying to make sure that the work, apart from the inevitable -taint of exploitation which is involved in modern work, is socially -productive, that it actually in some way contributes to the material -or spiritual welfare of the people for whom it is done, and does not -simply reiterate old formulas, does not simply extend the friction -of competition or consist simply in living on the labor and profits -of others. Such work cannot be found by rule. The situation is a -real dilemma for the idealistic youth of to-day, and its solution is -to be worked out in the years to come. It is these crucial dilemmas -that make this age so difficult to live in, that make life so hard to -harmonize and integrate. The shock of the crassnesses and crudities of -the modern social world thrown against<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span> the conventionally satisfying -picture which that world has formed of itself makes any young life of -purpose and sincerity a real peril and adventure. There are all sorts -of spiritual disasters lying in wait for the youth who embarks on the -perilous ocean of radicalism. The disapproval of those around him is -likely to be the least of his dangers. It should rather fortify his -soul than discourage him. Far more dangerous is it that he lose his way -on the uncharted seas before him, or follow false guides to shipwreck. -But the solution is not to stay at home, fearful and depressed. It is -rather to cultivate deliberately the widest knowledge, the broadest -sympathy, the keenest insight, the most superb skill, and then set -sail, exulting in one’s resources, and crowding on every inch of sail.</p> - -<p>For if the radical life has its perils, it also has its great rewards. -The strength and beauty of the radical’s position is that he already -to a large extent lives in that sort of world which he desires. Many -people there are who would like to live in a world arranged in some -sort of harmony with socialistic ideals, but who, believing they -are impossible, dismiss the whole movement as an idle if delightful -dream. They thus throw away all the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span> opportunity to have a share -in the extending of those ideals. They do not see that the gradual -infiltration of those ideals into our world as it is does brighten and -sweeten it enormously. They do not know the power and advantage of -even their “little faith” which their inclinations might give them. -But the faith of the radical has already transformed the world in -which he lives. He sees the “muddle” around him, but what he actually -feels and lives are the germs of the future. His mind selects out the -living, growing ideas and activities of the socially fruitful that -exist here and now, and it is with these that his soul keeps company; -it is to their growth and cultivation that he is responsive. This is -no illusion that he knows, no living in a pleasing but futile world of -fancy. For this living the socialistic life as far as he is able, he -believes has its efficient part in creating that communal life of the -future. He feels himself, not as an idle spectator of evolution, but as -an actual co-worker in the process. He does not wait timidly to jump -until all the others are ready to jump; he jumps now, and anticipates -that life which all desire, but which most, through inertia, prejudice, -insufficient knowledge, and feeble sympathy, distrust or despair of. -He knows that the world runs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span> largely on a principle of imitation, -and he launches boldly his personality into society, confident of its -effect in polarizing the ideas and attitudes of the wistful. Towards -himself he finds gravitating the sort of people that he would find -in a regenerated social order. To him come instinctively out of his -reading and his listening the ideas and events that give promise of -the actual realization of his ideals. In unlooked-for spots he finds -the seeds of regeneration already here. In the midst of the sternest -practicalities he finds blossoming those activities and personalities -which the unbelieving have told him were impossible in a human world. -And he finds, moreover, that it is these activities and personalities -that furnish all the real joy, the real creation, the real life of the -present. The prophets and the teachers he finds are with him. In his -camp he finds all those writers and leaders who sway men’s minds to-day -and make their life, all unconscious as they are of the revolutionary -character of the message, more rich and dynamic. To live this life of -his vision practically here in the present is thus the exceeding great -reward of radical youth. And this life, so potent and glowing amongst -the crude malignity of modern life, fortifies and stimulates him, and -gives him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span> the surety, which is sturdier than any dream or hope, of -the coming time when this life will permeate and pervade all society -instead of only a part.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIII">XIII<br />THE COLLEGE: AN INNER VIEW</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span></p> - - -<p>The undergraduate of to-day, if he reads the magazines, discovers -that a great many people are worrying seriously about his condition. -College presidents and official investigators are discussing his -scholarship, his extra-curricular activities, and his moral stamina. -Not content with the surface of the matter, they are going deeper and -are investigating the college itself, its curriculum, the scholarship -of the instructors, and its adequacy in realizing its high ideal as -a preparation for life. The undergraduate finds that these observers -are pretty generally inclined to exonerate him for many of his -shortcomings, and to lay the blame on the college itself; the system is -indicted, and not the helpless product.</p> - -<p>For this he is grateful, and he realizes that this dissatisfaction -among educators, this uneasy searching of the academic heart, promises -well for the education of his children, and for himself if he remains -in college long enough to get the benefit of the reforms. Meanwhile, -as he attends recitations<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span> and meetings of undergraduate societies, -talks with his fellow students and the professors, and reads the -college papers, he may, even if he can get no hint of the mysterious -inner circles where the destinies of the students are shaped and great -questions of policy decided, be able himself to see some of the things -that complicate college scholarship to-day, from an inner point of -view which is impossible to the observer looking down from above. He -may find in the character of the student body itself, and the way in -which it reacts to what the college offers it, an explanation of some -of the complications of scholarship that so disturb our critics; and in -a certain new quality in the spirit of the college, something that is -beginning to crystallize his own ideals, and to make him count himself -fortunate that he is receiving his education in this age and no other. -In the constitution of college society, and in the intellectual and -spiritual ideals of the teachers, he may find the explanation of why -the college is as it is, and the inspiration of what the college ought -to be and is coming to be.</p> - -<p>The first thing that is likely to impress the undergraduate is the -observation that college society is much less democratic than it used -to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span> be. It is to be expected, of course, that it will be simply an -epitome of the society round about it. But the point is, that whereas -the college of the past was probably more democratic than the society -about it, the present-day college is very much less democratic. -Democracy does not require uniformity, but it does require a certain -homogeneity, and the college to-day is less homogeneous than that of -our fathers. For the growing preponderance of the cities has meant -that an ever-increasing proportion of city-bred men go to college, in -contrast to the past, when the men were drawn chiefly from the small -towns and country districts. Since social distinctions are very much -more sharply marked in the city than in the country, this trend has -been a potent influence in undemocratizing the college. In ordinary -city life these distinctions are not yet, at least, insistent enough to -cause any particular class feeling, but in the ideal world of college -life they become aggravated, and sufficiently acute to cause much -misunderstanding and ill-feeling. With increasing fashionableness, -the small college, until recently the stronghold of democracy, is -beginning to succumb, and to acquire all those delicately devised, -subtle forms of snobbery which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span> have hitherto characterized the life -of the large college. If this tendency continues, the large college -will have a decided advantage as a preparation for life, for as a rule -it is situated in a large city, where the environment more nearly -approximates the environment of after life than does the artificial and -sheltered life of the small college.</p> - -<p>The presence of aliens in large numbers in the big colleges, and -increasingly in the smaller colleges, is an additional factor in -complicating the social situation. It ought not to be ignored, for -it has important results in making the college considerably less -democratic even than would otherwise be the case. It puts the American -representatives on the defensive, so that they draw still more closely -together for self-defense, and pull more tightly their lines of vested -interest and social and political privilege. The prejudice of race -can always be successfully appealed to in undergraduate matters, -even to the extent of beguiling many men with naturally democratic -consciences into doing things which they would murmur at if called -on to do as individuals, and not as the protectors of the social -prestige of the college. The fraternities are of course the centre of -this vast political system which fills the athletic<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span> managerships, -selects members of the societies, officers of classes and clubs, -editors and assistants of publications, and performs generally all -that indispensable public service of excluding the aliens, the -unpresentable, and the generally unemployable from activity.</p> - -<p>I am aware that most of the colleges pride themselves on the fact -that the poor man has an equal chance with the rich to-day to win -extra-curricular honors, and mingle in college society on a perfect -plane of social equality with the best. It is true, of course, that -in college as in real life the exceptional man will always rise -to the top. But this does not alter the fact that there exists at -too many American colleges a wholesale disfranchisement from any -participation in the extra-curricular activities, that is not based on -any recognizable principle of talent or ability. It is all probably -inherent in the nature of things, and to cavil at it sets one down as -childish and unpractical. At present it certainly seems inevitable -and unalterable. The organized efforts of the President recently to -democratize the social situation at Princeton met with such dull, -persistent hostility on the part of the alumni that they had to be -abandoned.</p> - -<p>This social situation in the college is not very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span> often mentioned -in the usual discussions of college problems, but I have dwelt on -it here at length because I believe that it has a direct bearing on -scholarship. For it creates an eternal and irreconcilable conflict -between scholarship and extra-curricular activities. Scholarship is -fundamentally democratic. Before the bar of marks and grades, penniless -adventurer and rich man’s son stand equal. In college society, -therefore, with its sharply marked social distinctions, scholarship -fails to provide a satisfactory field for honor and reputation. This -implies no dislike to scholarship as such on the part of the ruling -class in college society, but means simply that scholarship forces an -unwelcome democratic standard on a naturally undemocratic society. This -class turns therefore to the extra-curricular activities as a superior -field for distinction, a field where honor will be done a man, not -only for his ability, but for the undefinable social prestige which he -brings along with him to college from the outside world. There is thus -a division of functions,—the socially fit take the fraternities, the -managerships, the publications, the societies; the unpresentable take -the honors and rewards of scholarship. Each class probably gets just -what it needs for after life.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span> The division would thus be palpably fair -were it not for the fact that an invidious distinction gets attached to -the extra-curricular activities, which turns the energy of many of the -most capable and talented men, men with real personality and powers of -leadership, men without a taint of snobbery, into a mad scramble for -these outside places, with consequent, but quite unintentional, bad -effects on their scholarship.</p> - -<p>The result of all this is, of course, a general lowering of scholarship -in the college. The ruling class is content with passing marks, and -has no ambition to excel in scholarship, for it does not feel that the -attainment of scholars’ honors confers the distinctions upon it that -it desires. In addition, this listlessness for scholarship serves to -retard the work of the scholarly portion of the classes; it makes the -instructor work harder, and clogs up generally the work of the course. -This listlessness may be partly due to another factor in the situation. -An ever larger proportion of college students to-day comes from the -business class, where fifty years ago it came from the professional -class. This means a difference between the intellectual background of -the home that the man leaves and of the college to which he comes, -very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span> much greater than when college training was still pretty much -the exclusive property of the professional man or the solid merchant, -and almost an hereditary matter. For, nowadays, probably a majority -of undergraduates are sent to college by fathers who have not had a -college education themselves, but who, reverencing, as all Americans -do, Education if not Learning, are ambitious that their sons shall -have its benefits. These parents can well afford to set their sons up -handsomely so that they shall lose nothing of the well-rounded training -that makes up college life; and although it is doubtful whether their -idea of the result is much more than a vague feeling that college -will give their boys tone, and polish them off much in the way that -the young ladies’ boarding-school polishes off the girls, they are -a serious factor to be reckoned with in any discussion of college -problems.</p> - -<p>Most of these young men come thus from homes of conventional religion, -cheap literature, and lack of intellectual atmosphere, bring few -intellectual acquisitions with them, and, since they are most of them -going into business, and will therefore make little practical use of -these acquisitions in after life, contrive to carry a minimum<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span> away -with them. In the college courses and talks with their instructors they -come into an intellectual atmosphere that is so utterly different from -what they have been accustomed to that, instead of an intellectual -sympathy between instructor and student, there ensues an intellectual -struggle that is demoralizing to both. The instructor has sometimes to -carry on a veritable guerilla warfare of new ideas against the pupils -in his courses, with a disintegrating effect that is often far from -happy. If he does not disintegrate, he too often stiffens the youth, -if of the usually tough traditional cast of mind, into an impregnable -resolution that defies all new ideas forever after. This divergence -of ideals and attitudes toward life is one of the most interesting -complications of scholarship, for it is dramatic and flashes out in the -class-room, in aspects at times almost startling.</p> - -<p>There is still another thing that complicates scholarship, at least in -the larger colleges that have professional schools. Two or three years -of regular college work are now required to enter the schools of law, -medicine, divinity, and education. An undergraduate who looks forward -to entering these professional schools, too often sees this period of -college work as a necessary but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span> troublesome evil which must be gone -through with as speedily as possible. In his headlong rush he is apt -to slight his work, or take a badly synthesized course of studies, or, -in an effort to get all he can while he is in the college, to gorge -himself with a mass of material that cannot possibly be digested. -Now, the college work is of course only prescribed in order that the -professional man may have a broad background of general culture before -he begins to specialize. Any hurrying through defeats this purpose, and -renders this preliminary work worse than useless. A college course must -have a chance to digest if it is to be at all profitable to a man; and -digestion takes time. Between the listlessness of the business youths -who have no particular interest in scholarship, and the impetuosity of -the prospective professional man who wants to get at his tools, the -ordinary scholar who wants to learn to think, to get a robust sort of -culture in an orderly and leisurely way, and feel his mental muscles -growing month by month, gets the worst of it, or at least has little -attention paid to him. The instructor is so busy, drumming on the -laggards or restraining the reckless, that the scholar has to work out -much of his own salvation alone.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</span></p> - -<p>Whether or not all this is good for the scholar in cultivating his -self-reliance, the general level of scholarship certainly suffers. -Neither the college administration nor the faculties have been -entirely guiltless, in the past, of yielding before the rising tide -of extra-curricular activities. Athletics, through the protection, -supervision, and even financial assistance, of the college, have become -a thoroughly unwholesome excrescence on college life. They have become -the nucleus for a perverted college sentiment. College spirit has come -to mean enthusiasm for the winning of a game, and a college that has -no football team is supposed to have necessarily no college spirit. -Pride and loyalty to Alma Mater, the prestige of one’s college, one’s -own collegiate self-respect, get bound up and dependent upon a winning -season at athletics. It seems amazing sometimes to the undergraduate -how the college has surrendered to the student point of view. -Instructors too often, in meeting students informally, assume that they -must talk about what is supposed to interest the student rather than -their own intellectual interests. They do not deceive the student, -and they do miss a real opportunity to impress their personality upon -him and to awaken him to a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</span> recognition of a broader world of vital -interests than athletic scores and records.</p> - -<p>If the college would take away its patronage of athletics, which puts -a direct premium on semi-professionalism, would circumscribe the -club-house features of the fraternities, and force some more democratic -method of selection on the undergraduate societies, would it have the -effect of raising the general level of scholarship? It surely seems -that such a movement on the part of the college administration would -result in keeping athletics proportioned directly to the interest that -the student body took in it, to the extent of their participation -in it, and the voluntary support that they gave to it, instead of -to the amount of money that an army of graduate managers and alumni -associations can raise for it and to the exertions of paid professional -coaches and volunteer rah-rah boys. This would permit college sentiment -to flow back into its natural channels, so that the undergraduate might -begin to feel some pride in the cultural prestige of his college, and -acquire a new respect for the scholarly achievements of its big men. -This would mean an awakened interest in scholarship. The limitation of -extra-curricular activities would mean that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</span> that field would become -less adequate as a place for acquiring distinction; opportunity would -be diminished, and it would become more and more difficult to maintain -social eminence as the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">sine qua non</i> of campus distinction. Who -knows but what these activities might be finally abandoned entirely to -the unpresentable class, and the ruling class seize upon the field of -scholarship as a surer way of acquiring distinction, since the old gods -had fled?</p> - -<p>If the college is not yet ready to adopt so drastic an attitude, it has -at least already begun to preach democracy. It is willing to preach -inspirationally what it cannot yet do actively. In the last few years -there has been creeping into the colleges in the person of the younger -teachers a new spirit of positive conviction, a new enthusiasm, that -makes a college education to-day a real inspiration to the man who -can catch the message. And at the risk of being considered a traitor -to his class, the sincere undergraduate of to-day must realize the -changed attitude, and ally himself with his radical teachers in spirit -and activity. He then gets an altered view of college life. He begins -to see the college course as an attempt, as yet not fully organized -but becoming surer of its purpose as time goes on, to convert the -heterogeneous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</span> mass of American youth—scions of a property-getting -class with an antiquated tradition and ideals that are out of harmony -with the ideals of the leaders of thought to-day; slightly dispirited -aliens, whose racial ideals have been torn and confused by the -disintegrating influences of American life; men of hereditary culture; -penniless adventurers hewing upward to a profession—to a democratic, -realistic, scientific attitude toward life that will harmonize and -explain the world as a man looks at it, enable him to interpret human -nature in terms of history and the potentialities of the future, and -furnish as solid and sure an intellectual and spiritual support as the -old religious background of our fathers that has been fading these many -years.</p> - -<p>This is the work of the college of to-day, as it was the work of -the college of fifty years ago to justify the works of God to man. -The college thus becomes for the first time in American history a -reorganizing force. It has become thoroughly secularized these last -twenty years, and now finds arrayed against it, in spirit at least if -not in open antagonism, the churches and the conservative moulders of -opinion. The college has a great opportunity before it to become, not -only the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</span> teacher, but the inspirational centre of the thought and -ideals of the time.</p> - -<p>If to the rising generation our elders rarely seem quite -contemporaneous in their criticisms of things, we in turn are apt to -take the ordinary for the unique. We may be simply reading into the -college our own enthusiasms, and may attribute to the college a new -attitude when it is ourselves that are different. But I am sure that -some such ideal is vaguely beginning to crystallize in the minds of the -younger professors and the older undergraduates, or those who have been -out in the world long enough to get a slightly objective point of view. -The passing of the classics has meant much more than a mere change -in the curriculum of the college; it has meant a complete shifting -of attitude. The classics as a cultural core about which the other -disciplines were built up have given place to the social sciences, -especially history, which is hailed now by some of its enthusiastic -devotees as the sum of all knowledge. The union of humanistic spirit -with scientific point of view, which has been longed for these many -years, seems on the point of being actually achieved, and it is the new -spirit that the colleges seem to be propagating.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</span></p> - -<p>I am sure that it is a democratic spirit. History, economics, and the -other social sciences are presented as the record of the development -of human freedom, and the science of man’s social life. We are told -to look on institutions not as rigid and eternally fixed, but as -fluid and in the course of evolution to an ever higher cultivation of -individuality and general happiness, and to cast our thinking on public -questions into this new mould. A college man is certainly not educated -to-day unless he gets this democratic attitude. That is what makes the -aristocratic organization of undergraduate life doubly unfortunate. For -one of the most valuable opportunities of college life is the chance to -get acquainted, not politely and distantly, but intimately, with all -types of men and minds from all parts of the country and all classes -of society, so that one may learn what the young men of the generation -are really thinking and hoping. Knowledge of men is an indispensable -feature of a real education: not a knowledge of their weaknesses, as -too many seem to mean by the phrase, but knowledge of their strength -and capabilities, so that one may get the broadest possible sympathy -with human life as it is actually lived to-day, and not as it is seen -through the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</span> idealistic glasses of former generations. The association -only with men of one’s own class, such as the organization of college -life to-day fosters, is simply fatal to any broad understanding of -life. The refusal to make the acquaintance while in college of as many -as possible original, self-dependent personalities, regardless of race -and social status, is morally suicidal. There are indications, however, -that the preaching of the democratic gospel is beginning to have its -influence, in the springing-up of college forums and societies which do -without the rigid coöptation that has cultivated the cutting one’s self -off from one’s fellows.</p> - -<p>I am sure that it is a scientific spirit. The scientific attitude -toward life is no longer kept as the exclusive property of the -technical schools. It has found its way into those studies that have -been known as humanistic, but, in penetrating, it has become colored -itself, so that the student is shown the world, not as a relentless -machine, running according to mechanical laws, but as an organism, -profoundly modifiable and directive by human will and purpose. He -learns that the world in which he lives is truly a mechanism, but -a mechanism that exists for the purpose of turning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</span> out products -as man shall direct for the enrichment of his own life. He learns -to appreciate more the application to social life of machinery in -organization and coöperation; he gets some idea of the forces that -build up human nature and sway men’s actions. He acquires an impartial -way of looking at things; effort is made to get him to separate his -personal prejudices from the larger view, and get an objective vision -of men and events. The college endeavors with might and main to -cultivate in him an open-mindedness, so that at twenty-five he will not -close up to the entrance of new ideas, but will find his college course -merely introductory to life, a learning of one’s bearings in a great -world of thought and activity, and an inspiration to a constant working -for better things.</p> - -<p>I am sure that it is a critical spirit. A critical attitude toward -life is as bad a thing for a boy as it is an indispensable thing for -an educated man. The college tries to cultivate it gradually in its -students, so that by the end of his four years a man will have come -simply not to take everything for granted, but to test and weigh and -prove ideas and institutions with which he comes in contact. Of course -the results are unfortunate when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</span> this critical attitude comes with a -sudden shock so as to be a mere disillusionment, the turning yellow -of a beautiful world; but it must come if a man is to see wisely and -understand. The college must teach him to criticize without rancor, and -see that his cynicism, if that must come too, is purging and cleansing -and not bitter.</p> - -<p>And lastly, I am sure that it is an enthusiastic spirit. The college -wants to give a man a keen desire for social progress, a love for the -arts, a delight in sheer thinking, and a confidence in his own powers. -It will do little good to teach a man about what men have thought and -done and built unless some spark is kindled, some reaction produced -that will have consequences for the future; it will do little good -to teach him about literature and the arts unless some kind of an -emotional push is imparted to him that will drive him on to teach -himself further and grow into a larger appreciation of the best; it -will do little good to enforce scientific discipline unless by it -the mind is forged into a keener weapon for attacking problems and -solving them scientifically and not superficially. And it is just this -enthusiasm that the college, and only the college, can impart. We come -there to learn from men, not from books.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</span> We could learn from books -as well at home, but years of individual study will not equal the -inspirational value of one short term of listening to the words of a -wise and good man. Only enthusiasm can knit the scattered ideals and -timorous aspirations into a constructive whole.</p> - -<p>Some such spirit as I have endeavored to outline, the college is -beginning to be infused with to-day; some such spirit the undergraduate -must get if he is to be in the best sense educated and adequately -equipped for the complex work of the world. If such a spirit is -instilled, it almost matters little what the details of his courses -are, or the mere material of his knowledge. Such an attitude will be a -sufficient preparation for life, and adequate training for citizenship. -We want citizens who are enthusiastic thinkers, not docile and -uncritical followers of tradition; we want leaders of public opinion -with the scientific point of view: unclassed men, not men like the -leaders of the passing generation, saturated with class prejudices and -class ideals.</p> - -<p>The college is rapidly revising its curriculum in line with the new -standards. The movement is so new, to be sure, that things have hardly -got their bearings yet. Men who graduated only ten years<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</span> ago tell me -that there was nothing like this new spirit when they were in college. -The student finds a glut of courses, and flounders around for two or -three years before he gets any poise at all. A judicious mixture of -compulsory and elective courses seems to be furnishing a helpful guide, -and a system of honor courses like that recently introduced at Columbia -provides an admirable means, not only to a more intensive culture, but -also to the synthesis of intellectual interests that creates a definite -attitude toward life, and yet for the absence of which so many young -men of ability and power stand helpless and undecided on the threshold -of active life. To replace the classics, now irretrievably gone as the -backbone of the curriculum, the study of history seems an admirable -discipline, besides furnishing the indispensable background for the -literary and philosophical studies. Scientific ethics and social -psychology should occupy an important place in the revised curriculum. -The college cannot afford to leave the undergraduate to the mercies of -conventional religion and a shifting moral tradition.</p> - -<p>The pedantic, Germanistic type of scholarship is rapidly passing. -The divisions, between the departments are beginning to break down. -Already<span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</span> the younger instructors are finding their ideal professor in -the man who, while he knows one branch thoroughly, is interested in a -wide range of subjects. The departments are reacting upon one another; -both undergraduates and instructors are coming to see intellectual -life as a whole, and not as a miscellaneous collection of specialized -chunks of knowledge. The type of man is becoming common who could go to -almost any other department of the college and give a suggestive and -interesting, if not erudite, lecture on some subject in connection with -its work. It is becoming more and more common now that when you touch a -professor you touch a man and not an intellectual specialty.</p> - -<p>The undergraduate himself is beginning to react strongly to this sort -of scholarship. He catches an inspiration from the men in the faculty -who exhibit it, and he is becoming expert in separating the sheep from -the goats. He does not want experiments in educational psychology tried -upon him: all he demands in his teacher is personality. He wants to -feel that the instructor is not simply passing on dead knowledge in the -form it was passed on to him, but that he has assimilated it and has -read his own experience into it, so that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</span> it has come to mean more to -him than almost anything in the world.</p> - -<p>Professors are fond of saying that they like to have their students -react to what they bring them; the student in turn likes to feel that -the professor himself has reacted to what he is teaching. Otherwise his -teaching is very apt to be in vain. American youth are very much less -docile than they used to be, and they are little content any longer to -have second-hand knowledge, a little damaged in transit, thrust upon -them. The undergraduate wants to feel that the instructor is giving him -his best all the time, a piece out of the very warp and woof of his own -thinking.</p> - -<p>The problem of the college in the immediate future is thus to make -these ideals good, to permeate undergraduate society with the new -spirit, and to raise the level of scholarship by making learning not an -end in itself but a means to life. The curriculum and administrative -routine will be seen simply as means to the cultivation of an attitude -towards life. As the ideals crystallize out and the college becomes -surer and surer of its purpose, it will find itself leading the thought -of the age in new channels of conviction and constructive statesmanship -through its inspirational<span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</span> influence on the young men of the time. -Admitting that these ideals are still unorganized and unestablished, -that in many of the colleges they have hardly begun to appear, while -even in the larger ones they are little more than tendencies as -yet,—is it too much to hope that a few years will see the college -conscious of its purpose, and already beginning to impose on the rank -and file of its members, instructors and undergraduates alike, the -ideals which have been felt this last decade by the more sensitive?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIV">XIV<br />A PHILOSOPHY OF HANDICAP</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</span></p> - - - -<p>It would not perhaps be thought, ordinarily, that the man whom physical -disabilities have made so helpless that he is unable to move around -among his fellows, can bear his lot more happily, even though he suffer -pain, and face life with a more cheerful and contented spirit, than -can the man whose handicaps are merely enough to mark him out from the -rest of his fellows without preventing him from entering with them -into most of their common affairs and experiences. But the fact is -that the former’s very helplessness makes him content to rest and not -to strive. I know a young man so helplessly disabled that he has to be -carried about, who is happy in reading a little, playing chess, taking -a course or two in college, and all with the sunniest good-will in -the world, and a happiness that seems strange and unaccountable to my -restlessness. He does not cry for the moon.</p> - -<p>When the handicapped youth, however, is in full possession of his -faculties, and can move about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</span> freely, he is perforce drawn into all -the currents of life. Particularly if he has his own way in the world -to make, his road is apt to be hard and rugged, and he will penetrate -to an unusual depth in his interpretation both of the world’s attitude -toward such misfortunes, and of the attitude toward the world which -such misfortunes tend to cultivate in men like him. For he has all the -battles of a stronger man to fight, and he is at a double disadvantage -in fighting them. He has constantly with him the sense of being obliged -to make extra efforts to overcome the bad impression of his physical -defects, and he is haunted with a constant feeling of weakness and -low vitality which makes effort more difficult and renders him easily -faint-hearted and discouraged by failure. He is never confident of -himself, because he has grown up in an atmosphere where nobody has been -very confident of him; and yet his environment and circumstances call -out all sorts of ambitions and energies in him which, from the nature -of his case, are bound to be immediately thwarted. This attitude is -likely to keep him at a generally low level of accomplishment unless he -have an unusually strong will, and a strong will is perhaps the last -thing to develop under such circumstances.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</span></p> - -<p>The handicapped man is always conscious that the world does not -expect very much from him. And it takes him a long time to see in -this a challenge instead of a firm pressing down to a low level of -accomplishment. As a result, he does not expect very much of himself; -he is timid in approaching people, and distrustful of his ability to -persuade and convince. He becomes extraordinarily sensitive to other -people’s first impressions of him. Those who are to be his friends he -knows instantly, and further acquaintance adds little to the intimacy -and warm friendship that he at once feels for them. On the other hand, -those who do not respond to him immediately cannot by any effort either -on his part or theirs overcome that first alienation.</p> - -<p>This sensitiveness has both its good and its bad sides. It makes -friendship the most precious thing in the world to him, and he finds -that he arrives at a much richer and wider intimacy with his friends -than do ordinary men with their light, surface friendships, based on -good fellowship or the convenience of the moment. But on the other hand -this sensitiveness absolutely unfits him for business and the practice -of a profession, where one must be “all things to all men,” and the -professional<span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</span> manner is indispensable to success. For here, where he -has to meet a constant stream of men of all sorts and conditions, his -sensitiveness to these first impressions will make his case hopeless. -Except with those few who by some secret sympathy will seem to respond, -his physical deficiencies will stand like a huge barrier between his -personality and other men’s. The magical good fortune of attractive -personal appearance makes its way almost without effort in the world, -breaking down all sorts of walls of disapproval and lack of interest. -Even the homely person can attract by personal charm.</p> - -<p>The doors of the handicapped man are always locked, and the key is -on the outside. He may have treasures of charm inside, but they will -never be revealed unless the person outside coöperates with him in -unlocking the door. A friend becomes, to a much greater degree than -with the ordinary man, the indispensable means of discovering one’s own -personality. One only exists, so to speak, with friends. It is easy -to see how hopelessly such a sensitiveness incapacitates a man for -business, professional or social life, where the hasty and superficial -impression is everything, and disaster is the fate of the man who has -not all the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</span> treasures of his personality in the front window, where -they can be readily inspected and appraised.</p> - -<p>It thus takes the handicapped man a long time to get adjusted to his -world. Childhood is perhaps the hardest time of all. As a child he is -a strange creature in a strange land. It was my own fate to be just -strong enough to play about with the other boys, and attempt all their -games and “stunts,” without being strong enough actually to succeed in -any of them. It never used to occur to me that my failures and lack of -skill were due to circumstances beyond my control, but I would always -impute them, in consequence of my rigid Calvinistic bringing-up, I -suppose, to some moral weakness of my own. I suffered tortures in -trying to learn to skate, to climb trees, to play ball, to conform -in general to the ways of the world. I never resigned myself to the -inevitable, but over-exerted myself constantly in a grim determination -to succeed. I was good at my lessons, and through timidity rather -than priggishness, I hope, a very well-behaved boy at school; I was -devoted, too, to music, and learned to play the piano pretty well. But -I despised my reputation for excellence in these things, and instead of -adapting myself philosophically to the situation, I strove and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</span> have -been striving ever since to do the things I could not.</p> - -<p>As I look back now it seems perfectly natural that I should have -followed the standards of the crowd, and loathed my high marks in -lessons and deportment, and the concerts to which I was sent by my -aunt, and the exhibitions of my musical skill that I had to give -before admiring ladies. Whether or not such an experience is typical -of handicapped children, there is tragedy there for those situated as -I was. For had I been a little weaker physically, I should have been -thrown back on reading omnivorously and cultivating my music, with -some possible results; while if I had been a little stronger, I could -have participated in the play on an equal footing with the rest. As it -was, I simply tantalized myself, and grew up with a deepening sense of -failure, and a lack of pride in that at which I really excelled.</p> - -<p>When the world became one of dances and parties and social evenings and -boy-and-girl attachments,—the world of youth,—I was to find myself -still less adapted to it. And this was the harder to bear because I was -naturally sociable, and all these things appealed tremendously to me. -This world of admiration and gayety and smiles and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</span> favors and quick -interest and companionship, however, is only for the well-begotten -and the debonair. It was not through any cruelty or dislike, I think, -that I was refused admittance; indeed they were always very kind -about inviting me. But it was more as if a ragged urchin had been -asked to come and look through the window at the light and warmth of -a glittering party; I was truly in the world, but not of the world. -Indeed there were times when one would almost prefer conscious cruelty -to this silent, unconscious, gentle oblivion. And this is the tragedy, -I suppose, of all the ill-favored and unattractive to a greater or less -degree; the world of youth is a world of so many conventions, and the -abnormal in any direction is so glaringly and hideously abnormal.</p> - -<p>Although it took me a long time to understand this, and I continued -to attribute my failure mostly to my own character, trying hard to -compensate for my physical deficiencies by skill and cleverness, I -suffered comparatively few pangs, and got much better adjusted to this -world than to the other. For I was older, and I had acquired a lively -interest in all the social politics; I would get so interested in -watching how people behaved, and in sizing them up, that only at rare -intervals<span class="pagenum" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</span> would I remember that I was really having no hand in the -game. This interest just in the ways people are human, has become more -and more a positive advantage in my life, and has kept sweet many a -situation that might easily have cost me a pang. Not that a person with -disabilities should be a sort of detective, evil-mindedly using his -social opportunities for spying out and analyzing his friends’ foibles, -but that, if he does acquire an interest in people quite apart from -their relation to him, he may go into society with an easy conscience -and a certainty that he will be entertained and possibly entertaining, -even though he cuts a poor enough social figure. He must simply not -expect too much.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the bitterest struggles of the handicapped man come when he -tackles the business world. If he has to go out for himself to look -for work, without fortune, training, or influence, as I personally -did, his way will indeed be rugged. His disability will work against -him for any position where he must be much in the eyes of men, and his -general insignificance has a subtle influence in convincing those to -whom he applies that he is unfitted for any kind of work. As I have -suggested, his keen sensitiveness to other people’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</span> impressions of him -makes him more than usually timid and unable to counteract that fatal -first impression by any display of personal force and will. He cannot -get his personality over across that barrier. The cards seem stacked -against him from the start. With training and influence something -might be done, but alone and unaided his case is almost hopeless. The -attitude toward him ranges from, “You can’t expect us to create a place -for you,” to, “How could it enter your head that we should find any use -for you?” He is discounted at the start: it is not business to make -allowances for anybody; and while people are not cruel or unkind, it is -the hopeless finality of the thing that fills one’s heart with despair.</p> - -<p>The environment of a big city is perhaps the worst possible that a -man in such a situation could have. For the thousands of seeming -opportunities lead one restlessly on and on, and keep one’s mind -perpetually unsettled and depressed. There is a poignant mental torture -that comes with such an experience,—the urgent need, the repeated -failure, or rather the repeated failure even to obtain a chance to -fail, the realization that those at home can ill afford to have you -idle, the growing dread of encountering people,—all this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</span> is something -that those who have never been through it can never realize. Personally -I know of no particular way of escape. One can expect to do little by -one’s own unaided efforts. I solved my difficulties only by evading -them, by throwing overboard some of my responsibility, and taking the -desperate step of entering college on a scholarship. Desultory work -is not nearly so humiliating when one is using one’s time to some -advantage, and college furnishes an ideal environment where the things -at which a man handicapped like myself can succeed really count. One’s -self-respect can begin to grow like a weed.</p> - -<p>For at the bottom of all the difficulties of a man like me is really -the fact that his self-respect is so slow in growing up. Accustomed -from childhood to being discounted, his self-respect is not naturally -very strong, and it would require pretty constant success in a -congenial line of work really to confirm it. If he could only more -easily separate the factors that are due to his physical disability -from those that are due to his weak will and character, he might -more quickly attain self-respect, for he would realize what he is -responsible for, and what he is not. But at the beginning he rarely -makes allowances for himself; he is his own<span class="pagenum" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</span> severest judge. He longs -for a “strong will,” and yet the experience of having his efforts -promptly nipped off at the beginning is the last thing on earth to -produce that will.</p> - -<p>If the handicapped youth is brought into harsh and direct touch with -the real world, life proves a much more complex thing to him than to -the ordinary man. Many of his inherited platitudes vanish at the first -touch. Life appears to him as a grim struggle, where ability does not -necessarily mean opportunity and success, nor piety sympathy, and where -helplessness cannot count on assistance and kindly interest. Human -affairs seem to be running on a wholly irrational plan, and success -to be founded on chance as much as on anything. But if he can stand -the first shock of disillusionment, he may find himself enormously -interested in discovering how they actually do run, and he will want -to burrow into the motives of men, and find the reasons for the crass -inequalities and injustices of the world he sees around him. He has -practically to construct anew a world of his own, and explain a great -many things to himself that the ordinary person never dreams of finding -unintelligible at all. He will be filled with a profound sympathy -for all who are despised and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</span> ignored in the world. When he has been -through the neglect and struggles of a handicapped and ill-favored man -himself, he will begin to understand the feelings of all the horde of -the unpresentable and the unemployable, the incompetent and the ugly, -the queer and crotchety people who make up so large a proportion of -human folk.</p> - -<p>We are perhaps too prone to get our ideas and standards of worth from -the successful, without reflecting that the interpretations of life -which patriotic legend, copy-book philosophy, and the sayings of the -wealthy give us, are pitifully inadequate for those who fall behind in -the race. Surely there are enough people to whom the task of making a -decent living and maintaining themselves and their families in their -social class, or of winning and keeping the respect of their fellows, -is a hard and bitter task, to make a philosophy gained through personal -disability and failure as just and true a method of appraising the life -around us as the cheap optimism of the ordinary professional man. And -certainly a kindlier, for it has no shade of contempt or disparagement -about it.</p> - -<p>It irritates me as if I had been spoken of contemptuously myself, to -hear people called “common” or “ordinary,” or to see that deadly and -delicate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</span> feeling for social gradations crop out, which so many of our -upper middle-class women seem to have. It makes me wince to hear a man -spoken of as a failure, or to have it said of one that he “doesn’t -amount to much.” Instantly I want to know why he has not succeeded, and -what have been the forces that have been working against him. He is -the truly interesting person, and yet how little our eager-pressing, -on-rushing world cares about such aspects of life, and how hideously -though unconsciously cruel and heartless it usually is!</p> - -<p>Often I had tried in argument to show my friends how much of -circumstance and chance go to the making of success; and when I reached -the age of sober reading, a long series of the works of radical social -philosophers, beginning with Henry George, provided me with the -materials for a philosophy which explained why men were miserable and -overworked, and why there was on the whole so little joy and gladness -among us,—and which fixed the blame. Here was suggested a goal, and a -definite glorious future, toward which all good men might work. My own -working hours became filled with visions of how men could be brought -to see all that this meant, and how I in particular<span class="pagenum" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</span> might work some -great and wonderful thing for human betterment. In more recent years, -the study of history and social psychology and ethics has made those -crude outlines sounder and more normal, and brought them into a saner -relation to other aspects of life and thought, but I have not lost the -first glow of enthusiasm, nor my belief in social progress as the first -right and permanent interest for every thinking and true-hearted man or -woman.</p> - -<p>I am ashamed that my experience has given me so little chance to count -in any way either toward the spreading of such a philosophy or toward -direct influence and action. Nor do I yet see clearly how I shall be -able to count effectually toward this ideal. Of one thing I am sure, -however: that life will have little meaning for me except as I am -able to contribute toward some such ideal of social betterment, if -not in deed, then in word. For this is the faith that I believe we -need to-day, all of us,—a truly religious belief in human progress, -a thorough social consciousness, an eager delight in every sign and -promise of social improvement, and best of all, a new spirit of courage -that will dare. I want to give to the young men whom I see,—who, with -fine intellect and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</span> high principles, lack just that light of the future -on their faces that would give them a purpose and meaning in life,—to -them I want to give some touch of this philosophy, that will energize -their lives, and save them from the disheartening effects of that -poisonous counsel of timidity and distrust of human ideals which pours -out in steady stream from reactionary press and pulpit.</p> - -<p>It is hard to tell just how much of this philosophy has been due to -handicap. If it is solely to that that I owe its existence, the price -has not been a heavy one to pay. For it has given me something that I -should not know how to be without. For, however gained, this radical -philosophy has not only made the world intelligible and dynamic to -me, but has furnished me with the strongest spiritual support. I know -that many people, handicapped by physical weakness and failure, find -consolation and satisfaction in a very different sort of faith,—in -an evangelical religion, and a feeling of close dependence on God -and close communion with him. But my experience has made my ideal of -character militant rather than long-suffering.</p> - -<p>I very early experienced a revulsion against the rigid Presbyterianism -in which I had been brought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</span> up,—a purely intellectual revulsion, I -believe, because my mind was occupied for a long time afterwards with -theological questions, and the only feeling that entered into it was a -sort of disgust at the arrogance of damning so great a proportion of -the human race. I read T. W. Higginson’s “The Sympathy of Religions” -with the greatest satisfaction, and attended the Unitarian church -whenever I could slip away. This faith, while it still appeals to me, -seems at times a little too static and refined to satisfy me with -completeness. For some time there was a considerable bitterness in my -heart at the narrowness of the people who could still find comfort in -the old faith. Reading Buckle and Oliver Wendell Holmes gave me a new -contempt for “conventionality,” and my social philosophy still further -tortured me by throwing the burden for the misery of the world on these -same good neighbors. And all this, although I think I did not make a -nuisance of myself, made me feel a spiritual and intellectual isolation -in addition to my more or less effective physical isolation.</p> - -<p>Happily these days are over. The world has righted itself, and I have -been able to appreciate and realize how people count in a social and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</span> -group capacity as well as in an individual and personal one, and to -separate the two in my thinking. Really to believe in human nature -while striving to know the thousand forces that warp it from its ideal -development,—to call for and expect much from men and women, and not -to be disappointed and embittered if they fall short,—to try to do -good with people rather than to them,—this is my religion on its human -side. And if God exists, I think that He must be in the warm sun, in -the kindly actions of the people we know and read of, in the beautiful -things of art and nature, and in the closeness of friendships. He may -also be in heaven, in life, in suffering, but it is only in these -simple moments of happiness that I feel Him and know that He is there.</p> - -<p>Death I do not understand at all. I have seen it in its crudest, most -irrational forms, where there has seemed no excuse, no palliation. I -have only known that if we were more careful, and more relentless in -fighting evil, if we knew more of medical science, such things would -not be. I know that a sound body, intelligent care and training, -prolong life, and that the death of a very old person is neither sad -nor shocking, but sweet and fitting. I see in death a perpetual warning -of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</span> how much there is to be known and done in the way of human progress -and betterment. And equally, it seems to me, is this true of disease. -So all the crises and deeper implications of life seem inevitably to -lead back to that question of social improvement, and militant learning -and doing.</p> - -<p>This, then, is the goal of my religion,—the bringing of fuller, richer -life to more people on this earth. All institutions and all works that -do not have this for their object are useless and pernicious. And -this is not to be a mere philosophic precept which may well be buried -under a host of more immediate matter, but a living faith, to permeate -one’s thought, and transfuse one’s life. Prevention must be the method -against evil. To remove temptation from men, and to apply the stimulus -which shall call forth their highest endeavors,—these seem to me the -only right principles of ethical endeavor. Not to keep waging the -age-long battle with sin and poverty, but to make the air around men -so pure that foul lungs cannot breathe it,—this should be our noblest -religious aim.</p> - -<p>Education, knowledge and training,—I have felt so keenly my lack -of these things that I count them as the greatest of means toward -making life<span class="pagenum" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</span> noble and happy. The lack of stimulus has tended with me -to dissipate the power which might otherwise have been concentrated -in some one productive direction. Or perhaps it was the many weak -stimuli that constantly incited me and thus kept me from following one -particular bent. I look back on what seems a long waste of intellectual -power, time frittered away in groping and moping, which might easily -have been spent constructively. A defect in one of the physical senses -often means a keener sensitiveness in the others, but it seems that -unless the sphere of action that the handicapped man has is very much -narrowed, his intellectual ability will not grow in compensation for -his physical defects. He will always feel that, had he been strong or -even successful, he would have been further advanced intellectually, -and would have attained greater command over his powers. For his mind -tends to be cultivated extensively, rather than intensively. He has so -many problems to meet, so many things to explain to himself, that he -acquires a wide rather than a profound knowledge. Perhaps eventually, -by eliminating most of these interests as practicable fields, he may -tie himself down to one line of work; but at first he is pretty apt -to find his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</span> mind rebellious. If he is eager and active, he will get -a smattering of too many things, and his imperfect, badly trained -organism will make intense application very difficult.</p> - -<p>Now that I have talked a little of my philosophy of life, particularly -about what I want to put into it, there is something to be said also -of its enjoyment, and what I may hope to get out of it. I have said -that my ideal of character was militant rather than long-suffering. -It is true that my world has been one of failure and deficit,—I have -accomplished practically nothing alone, and until my college life freed -me could count only two or three instances where I had received kindly -counsel and suggestion; moreover it still seems a miracle to me that -money can be spent for anything beyond the necessities without being -first carefully weighed and pondered over,—but it has not been a -world of suffering and sacrifice, my health has been almost criminally -perfect in the light of my actual achievement, and life has appeared -to me, at least since my more pressing responsibilities were removed, -as a challenge and an arena, rather than a vale of tears. I do not -like the idea of helplessly suffering one’s misfortunes, of passively -bearing one’s lot. The Stoics<span class="pagenum" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</span> depress me. I do not want to look on my -life as an eternal making the best of a bad bargain. Granting all the -circumstances, admitting all my disabilities, I want too to “warm both -hands before the fire of life.” What satisfactions I have, and they are -many and precious, I do not want to look on as compensations, but as -positive goods.</p> - -<p>The difference between what the strongest of the strong and the most -winning of the attractive can get out of life, and what I can, is after -all so slight. Our experiences and enjoyments, both his and mine, are -so infinitesimal compared with the great mass of possibilities; and -there must be a division of labor. If he takes the world of physical -satisfactions and of material success, I at least can occupy the far -richer kingdom of mental effort and artistic appreciation. And on the -side of what we are to put into life, although I admit that achievement -on my part will be harder relatively to encompass than on his, at least -I may have the field of artistic creation and intellectual achievement -for my own. Indeed, as one gets older, the fact of one’s disabilities -fades dimmer and dimmer away from consciousness. One’s enemy is now -one’s own weak will,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</span> and the struggle is to attain the artistic ideal -one has set.</p> - -<p>But one must have grown up, to get this attitude. And that is the best -thing the handicapped man can do. Growing up will have given him one of -the greatest satisfactions of his life, and certainly the most durable -one. It will mean at least that he is out of the woods. Childhood has -nothing to offer him; youth little more. They are things to be gotten -through with as soon as possible. For he will not understand, and he -will not be understood. He finds himself simply a bundle of chaotic -impulses and emotions and ambitions, very few of which, from the nature -of the case, can possibly be realized or satisfied. He is bound to be -at cross-grains with the world, and he has to look sharp that he does -not grow up with a bad temper and a hateful disposition, and become -cynical and bitter against those who turn him away. But grown up, his -horizon will broaden; he will get a better perspective, and will not -take the world so seriously as he used to, nor will failure frighten -him so much. He can look back and see how inevitable it all was, and -understand how precarious and problematic even the best regulated of -human affairs may be. And if he feels that there were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</span> times when he -should have been able to count upon the help and kindly counsel of -relatives and acquaintances who remained dumb and uninterested, he will -not put their behavior down as proof of the depravity of human nature, -but as due to an unfortunate blindness which it will be his work to -avoid in himself by looking out for others when he has the power.</p> - -<p>When he has grown up, he will find that people of his own age and -experience are willing to make those large allowances for what is out -of the ordinary, which were impossible to his younger friends, and -that grown-up people touch each other on planes other than the purely -superficial. With a broadening of his own interests, he will find -himself overlapping other people’s personalities at new points, and -will discover with rare delight that he is beginning to be understood -and appreciated,—at least to a greater degree than when he had to -keep his real interests hid as something unusual. For he will begin to -see in his friends, his music and books, and his interest in people -and social betterment, his true life; many of his restless ambitions -will fade gradually away, and he will come to recognize all the more -clearly some true ambition of his life that is within the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</span> range of -his capabilities. He will have built up his world, and have sifted -out the things that are not going to concern him, and participation -in which will only serve to vex and harass him. He may well come to -count his disabilities even as a blessing, for it has made impossible -to him at last many things in the pursuit of which he would only -fritter away his time and dissipate his interest. He must not think -of “resigning himself to his fate”; above all, he must insist on his -own personality. For once really grown up, he will find that he has -acquired self-respect and personality. Grown-upness, I think, is not a -mere question of age, but of being able to look back and understand and -find satisfaction in one’s experience, no matter how bitter it may have -been.</p> - -<p>So to all the handicapped and the unappreciated, I would say,—Grow up -as fast as you can. Cultivate the widest interests you can, and cherish -all your friends. Cultivate some artistic talent, for you will find -it the most durable of satisfactions, and perhaps one of the surest -means of livelihood as well. Achievement is, of course, on the knees of -the gods; but you will at least have the thrill of trial, and, after -all, not to try is to fail. Taking your disabilities for granted, and -assuming constantly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</span> that they are being taken for granted, make your -social intercourse as broad and as constant as possible. Do not take -the world too seriously, nor let too many social conventions oppress -you. Keep sweet your sense of humor, and above all do not let any -morbid feelings of inferiority creep into your soul. You will find -yourself sensitive enough to the sympathy of others, and if you do not -find people who like you and are willing to meet you more than halfway, -it will be because you have let your disability narrow your vision and -shrink up your soul. It will be really your own fault, and not that of -your circumstances. In a word, keep looking outward; look out eagerly -for those things that interest you, for people who will interest you -and be friends with you, for new interests and for opportunities to -express yourself. You will find that your disability will come to have -little meaning for you, that it will begin to fade quite completely out -of your sight; you will wake up some fine morning and find yourself, -after all the struggles that seemed so bitter to you, really and truly -adjusted to the world.</p> - -<p>I am perhaps not yet sufficiently out of the wilderness to utter all -these brave words. For, I must confess, I find myself hopelessly -dependent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</span> on my friends and my environment. My friends have come to -mean more to me than almost anything else in the world. If it is far -harder work to make friendships quickly, at least friendships once -made have a depth and intimacy quite beyond ordinary attachments. For -a man such as I am has little prestige; people do not feel the need of -impressing him. They are genuine and sincere, talk to him freely about -themselves, and are generally far less reticent about revealing their -real personality and history and aspirations. And particularly is this -so in friendships with young women. I have found their friendships the -most delightful and satisfying of all. For all that social convention -that insists that every friendship between a young man and woman must -be on a romantic basis is necessarily absent in our case. There is -no fringe around us to make our acquaintance anything but a charming -companionship. With all my friends, the same thing is true. The first -barrier of strangeness broken down, our interest is really in each -other, and not in what each is going to think of the other, how he is -to be impressed, or whether we are going to fall in love with each -other. When one of my friends moves away, I feel as if a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</span> great hole -had been left in my life. There is a whole side of my personality that -I cannot express without him. I shudder to think of any change that -will deprive me of their constant companionship. Without friends I -feel as if even my music and books and interests would turn stale on -my hands. I confess that I am not grown up enough to get along without -them.</p> - -<p>But if I am not yet out of the wilderness, at least I think I see the -way to happiness. With health and a modicum of achievement, I shall -not see my lot as unenviable. And if misfortune comes, it will only -be something flowing from the common lot of men, not from my own -particular disability. Most of the difficulties that flow from that -I flatter myself I have met by this time of my twenty-fifth year, -have looked full in the face, have grappled with, and find in no wise -so formidable as the world usually deems them,—no bar to my real -ambitions and ideals.</p> - - -<p class="center p0 p2">THE END</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - - -<p class="center p0 p2"> -The Riverside Press<br /> -<br /> -CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS<br /> -<br /> -U.S.A.<br /> -</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter transnote"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> - - -<p><a href="#Page_112">Page 112</a>: “kind of spiritual parasites” changed to “kind of spiritual -parasite”</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_264">Page 264</a>: “form sone of the darker” changed to “form some of the darker”</p> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUTH AND LIFE ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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