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diff --git a/75145-0.txt b/75145-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9cc169b --- /dev/null +++ b/75145-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11295 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75145 *** + + + + + + HUMAN NATURE AND THE SOCIAL ORDER + + + BY + + CHARLES HORTON COOLEY + + INSTRUCTOR IN SOCIOLOGY AT THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN + + + NEW YORK + + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + + 1902 + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + + Published, September, 1902 + + + TROW DIRECTORY + PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY + NEW YORK + + + + + CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER I + + SOCIETY AND THE INDIVIDUAL + PAGE + Are Aspects of the Same Thing—The Fallacy of Setting Them in + Opposition—Various Forms of this Fallacy 1 + + + CHAPTER II + + SUGGESTION AND CHOICE + + The Meaning of these Terms and their Relation to Each + Other—Individual and Social Aspects of Will or Choice—Suggestion + and Choice in Children—The Scope of Suggestion Commonly + Underestimated—Practical Limitations upon Deliberate + Choice—Illustrations of the Action of the _Milieu_—The Greater + or Less Activity of Choice Reflects the General State of + Society—Suggestibility 14 + + + CHAPTER III + + SOCIABILITY AND PERSONAL IDEAS + + The Sociability of Children—Imaginary Conversation and its + Significance—The Nature of the Impulse to Communicate—There is + no Separation between Real and Imaginary Persons—Nor between + Thought and Intercourse—The Study and Interpretation of + Expression by Children—The Symbol or Sensuous Nucleus of + Personal Ideas—Personal Physiognomy in Art and Literature—In the + Idea of Social Groups—Sentiment in Personal Ideas—The Personal + Idea is the Immediate Social Reality—Society must be Studied in + the Imagination—The Possible Reality of Incorporeal Persons—The + Material Notion of Personality Contrasted with the Notion Based + on a Study of Personal Ideas—Self and Other in Personal + Ideas—Personal Opposition—Further Illustration and Defence of + the View of Persons and of Society Here Set Forth 45 + + + CHAPTER IV + + SYMPATHY OR COMMUNION AS AN ASPECT OF SOCIETY + + The Meaning of Sympathy as here Used—Its Relation to Thought, + Sentiment, and Social Experience—The Range of Sympathy is a + Measure of Personality; _e.g._, as Regards Power, Goodness or + Badness, Sanity or Insanity—A Man’s Sympathies Reflect the + Social Order—Specialization and Breadth—Sympathy Reflects Social + Process in the Mingling of Likeness with Difference—Also in that + it is a Process of Selection Guided by Feeling—The Meaning of + Love in Social Discussion—Love in Relation to Self—The Study of + Sympathy Reveals the Vital Unity of Human Life 102 + + + CHAPTER V + + THE SOCIAL SELF—1. THE MEANING OF “I” + + The “Empirical Self”—“I” as a State of Feeling—Does Not Ordinarily + Refer to the Body—As a Sense of Power or Causation—As a Sense of + Speciality or Differentiation in a General Life—The Reflected or + Looking-glass “I”—“I” is Rooted in the Past and Varies with + Social Conditions—Its Relation to Habit—To Disinterested + Love—How Children Learn the Meaning of “I”—The Speculative or + Metaphysical “I” in Children—The Looking-glass “I” in + Children—The Same in Adolescence—“I” in Relation to + Sex—Simplicity and Affectation—Social Self-feeling Universal 136 + + + CHAPTER VI + + THE SOCIAL SELF—2. VARIOUS PHASES OF “I” + + Egotism and Selfishness—The Use of “I” in Literature and + Conversation—Intense Self-feeling Necessary to + Productivity—Other Phases of the Social Self—Pride versus + Vanity—Self-respect, Honor, Self-reverence—Humility—Maladies of + the Social Self—Withdrawal—Self-transformation—Phases of the + Self Caused by Incongruity between the Person and his + Surroundings 179 + + + CHAPTER VII + + HOSTILITY + + Simple or Animal Anger—Social Anger—The Function of Hostility—The + Doctrine of Non-resistance—Control and Transformation of + Hostility by Reason—Hostility as Pleasure or Pain—The Importance + of Accepted Social Standards—Fear 232 + + + CHAPTER VIII + + EMULATION + + Conformity—Non-conformity—The Two Viewed as Complementary Phases + of Life—Rivalry—Hero-worship 262 + + + CHAPTER IX + + LEADERSHIP OR PERSONAL ASCENDENCY + + Leadership Defines and Organizes Vague Tendency—Power as Based + upon the Mental State of the Person Subject to It—The Mental + Traits of a Leader: Significance and Breadth—Why the Fame and + Power of a Man often Transcend his Real Character—Ascendency of + Belief and Hope—Mystery—Good Faith and Imposture—Does the Leader + really Lead? 283 + + + CHAPTER X + + THE SOCIAL ASPECT OF CONSCIENCE + + The Right as the Rational—Significance of this View—The Right as + the Onward—The Right as Habit—Right is not the Social as against + the Individual—It is, in a Sense, the Social as against the + Sensual—The Right as a Synthesis of Personal Influences—Personal + Authority—Confession, Prayer, Publicity—Truth—Dependence of + Right upon Imagination—Conscience Reflects a Social Group—Ideal + Persons as Factors in Conscience 326 + + + CHAPTER XI + + PERSONAL DEGENERACY + + Is a Phase of the Question of Right and Wrong—Relation to the Idea + of Development—Justification and Meaning of the Phrase “Personal + Degeneracy”—Hereditary and Social Factors in Personal + Degeneracy—Degeneracy as a Mental Trait—Conscience in + Degeneracy—Crime, Insanity, and Responsibility—General Aims in + the Treatment of Degeneracy 372 + + + CHAPTER XII + + FREEDOM + + The Meaning of Freedom—Freedom and Discipline—Freedom as a Phase + of the Social Order—Freedom Involves Incidental Strain and + Degeneracy 392 + + INDEX 405 + + + + + HUMAN NATURE AND THE + SOCIAL ORDER + + + + + CHAPTER I + SOCIETY AND THE INDIVIDUAL + + ARE ASPECTS OF THE SAME THING—THE FALLACY OF SETTING THEM IN + OPPOSITION—VARIOUS FORMS OF THIS FALLACY. + + +“Society and the Individual” is really the subject of this whole book, +and not merely of Chapter One. It is my general aim to set forth, from +various points of view, what the individual is, considered as a member +of a social whole; while the special purpose of this chapter is only to +offer a preliminary statement of the matter, as I conceive it, afterward +to be unfolded at some length and variously illustrated. + +A separate individual is an abstraction unknown to experience, and so +likewise is society when regarded as something apart from individuals. +The real thing is Human Life, which may be considered either in an +individual aspect or in a social, that is to say a general, aspect; but +is always, as a matter of fact, both individual and general. In other +words, “society” and “individuals” do not denote separable phenomena, +but are simply collective and distributive aspects of the same thing, +the relation between them being like that between other expressions one +of which denotes a group as a whole and the other the members of the +group, such as the army and the soldiers, the class and the students, +and so on. This holds true of any social aggregate, great or small; of a +family, a city, a nation, a race; of mankind as a whole: no matter how +extensive, complex, or enduring a group may be, no good reason can be +given for regarding it as essentially different in this respect from the +smallest, simplest, or most transient. + +So far, then, as there is any difference between the two, it is rather +in our point of view than in the object we are looking at: when we speak +of society, or use any other collective term, we fix our minds upon some +general view of the people concerned, while when we speak of individuals +we disregard the general aspect and think of them as if they were +separate. Thus “the Cabinet” may consist of President Lincoln, Secretary +Stanton, Secretary Seward, and so on; but when I say “the Cabinet” I do +not suggest the same idea as when I enumerate these gentlemen +separately. Society, or any complex group, may, to ordinary observation, +be a very different thing from all of its members viewed one by one—as a +man who beheld General Grant’s army from Missionary Ridge would have +seen something other than he would by approaching every soldier in it. +In the same way a picture is made up of so many square inches of painted +canvas; but if you should look at these one at a time, covering the +others, until you had seen them all, you would still not have seen the +picture. There may, in all such cases, be a system or organization in +the whole that is not apparent in the parts. In this sense, and in no +other, is there a difference between society and the individuals of +which it is composed; a difference not residing in the facts themselves +but existing to the observer on account of the limits of his perception. +A _complete_ view of society would also be a complete view of all the +individuals, and _vice versa_; there would be no difference between +them. + +And just as there is no society or group that is not a collective view +of persons, so there is no individual who may not be regarded as a +particular view of social groups. He has no separate existence; through +both the hereditary and the social factors in his life a man is bound +into the whole of which he is a member, and to consider him apart from +it is quite as artificial as to consider society apart from individuals. + + +If this is true there is, of course, a fallacy in that not uncommon +manner of speaking which sets the social and the individual over against +each other as separate and antagonistic. The word “social” appears to be +used in at least three fairly distinct senses, but in none of these does +it mean something that can properly be regarded as opposite to +individual or personal. + +In its largest sense it denotes that which pertains to the collective +aspect of humanity, to society in its widest and vaguest meaning. In +this sense the individual and all his attributes are social, since they +are all connected with the general life in one way or another, and are +part of a collective development. + +Again, social may mean what pertains to immediate intercourse, to the +life of conversation and face-to-face sympathy—sociable in short. This +is something quite different, but no more antithetical to individual +than the other; it is in these relations that individuality most +obviously exists and expresses itself. + +In a third sense the word means conducive to the collective welfare, and +thus becomes nearly equivalent to moral, as when we say that crime or +sensuality is unsocial or anti-social; but here again it cannot properly +be made the antithesis of individual—since wrong is surely no more +individual than right—but must be contrasted with immoral, brutal, +selfish, or some other word with an ethical implication. + +There are a number of expressions which are closely associated in common +usage with this objectionable antithesis; such words, for instance, as +individualism, socialism, particularism, collectivism.[1] These appear +to be used with a good deal of vagueness, so that it is always in order +to require that anyone who employs them shall make it plain in what +sense they are to be taken. I wish to make no captious objections to +particular forms of expression, and so far as these can be shown to have +meanings that express the facts of life I have nothing to say against +them. Of the current use of individualism and socialism in antithesis to +each other, about the same may be said as of the words without the +_ism_. I do not see that life presents two distinct and opposing +tendencies that can properly be called individualism and socialism, any +more than that there are two distinct and opposing entities, society and +the individual, to embody these tendencies. The phenomena usually called +individualistic are always socialistic in the sense that they are +expressive of tendencies growing out of the general life, and, +contrariwise, the so-called socialistic phenomena have always an obvious +individual aspect. These and similar terms may be used, conveniently +enough, to describe theories or programmes of the day, but whether they +are suitable for purposes of careful study appears somewhat doubtful. If +used, they ought, it seems to me, to receive more adequate definition +than they have at present. + +For example, all the principal epochs of European history might be, and +most of them are, spoken of as individualistic on one ground or another, +and without departing from current usage of the word. The decaying Roman +Empire was individualistic if a decline of public spirit and an +every-man-for-himself feeling and practice constitute individualism. So +also was the following period of political confusion. The feudal system +is often regarded as individualistic, because of the relative +independence and isolation of small political units—quite a different +use of the word from the preceding—and after this come the Revival of +Learning, the Renaissance, and the Reformation, which are all commonly +spoken of, on still other grounds, as assertions of individualism. Then +we reach the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, sceptical, +transitional, and, again, individualistic; and so to our own time, which +many hold to be the most individualistic of all. One feels like asking +whether a word which means so many things as this means anything +whatever. + +There is always some confusion of terms in speaking of opposition +between an individual and society in general, even when the writer’s +meaning is obvious enough: it would be more accurate to say either that +one individual is opposing many, or that one part of society is opposing +other parts; and thus avoid confusing the two aspects of life in the +same expression. When Emerson says that society is in a conspiracy +against the independence of each of its members, we are to understand +that any peculiar tendency represented by one person finds itself more +or less at variance with the general current of tendencies organized in +other persons. It is no more individual, nor any less social, in a large +sense, than other tendencies represented by more persons. A thousand +persons are just as truly individuals as one, and the man who seems to +stand alone draws his being from the general stream of life just as +truly and inevitably as if he were one of a thousand. Innovation is just +as social as conformity, genius as mediocrity. These distinctions are +not between what is individual and what is social, but between what is +usual or established and what is exceptional or novel. In other words, +wherever you find life as society there you will find life as +individuality, and _vice versa_. + +I think, then, that the antithesis, society _versus_ the individual, is +false and hollow whenever used as a general or philosophical statement +of human relations. Whatever idea may be in the minds of those who set +these words and their derivatives over against each other, the notion +conveyed is that of two separable entities or forces; and certainly such +a notion is untrue to fact. + +Most people not only think of individuals and society as more or less +separate and antithetical, but they look upon the former as antecedent +to the latter. That persons make society would be generally admitted as +a matter of course; but that society makes persons would strike many as +a startling notion, though I know of no good reason for looking upon the +distributive aspect of life as more primary or causative than the +collective aspect. The reason for the common impression appears to be +that we think most naturally and easily of the individual phase of life, +simply because it is a tangible one, the phase under which men appear to +the senses, while the actuality of groups, of nations, of mankind at +large, is realized only by the active and instructed imagination. We +ordinarily regard society, so far as we conceive it at all, in a vaguely +material aspect, as an aggregate of physical bodies, not as the vital +whole which it is; and so, of course, we do not see that it may be as +original or causative as anything else. Indeed many look upon “society” +and other general terms as somewhat mystical, and are inclined to doubt +whether there is any reality back of them. + +This naïve individualism of thought—which, however, does not truly see +the individual any more than it does society—is reinforced by traditions +in which all of us are brought up, and is so hard to shake off that it +may be worth while to point out a little more definitely some of the +prevalent ways of conceiving life which are permeated by it, and which +anyone who agrees with what has just been said may regard as fallacious. +My purpose in doing this is only to make clearer the standpoint from +which succeeding chapters are written, and I do not propose any thorough +discussion of the views mentioned. + +First, then, we have _mere individualism_. In this the distributive +aspect is almost exclusively regarded, collective phases being looked +upon as quite secondary and incidental. Each person is held to be a +separate agent, and all social phenomena are thought of as originating +in the action of such agents. The individual is the source, the +independent, the only human source, of events. Although this way of +looking at things has been much discredited by the evolutionary science +and philosophy of recent years, it is by no means abandoned, even in +theory, and practically it enters as a premise, in one shape or another, +into most of the current thought of the day. It springs naturally from +the established way of thinking, congenial, as I have remarked, to the +ordinary material view of things and corroborated by theological and +other traditions. + +Next is _double causation_, or a partition of power between society and +the individual, thought of as separate causes. This notion, in one shape +or another, is the one ordinarily met with in social and ethical +discussion. It is no advance, philosophically, upon the preceding. There +is the same premise of the individual as a separate, unrelated agent; +but over against him is set a vaguely conceived general or collective +interest and force. It seems that people are so accustomed to thinking +of themselves as uncaused causes, special creators on a small scale, +that when the existence of general phenomena is forced upon their notice +they are likely to regard these as something additional, separate, and +more or less antithetical. Our two forces contend with varying fortunes, +the thinker sometimes sympathizing with one, sometimes with the other, +and being an individualist or a socialist accordingly. The doctrines +usually understood in connection with these terms differ, as regards +their conception of the nature of life, only in taking opposite sides of +the same questionable antithesis. The socialist holds it desirable that +the general or collective force should win; the individualist has a +contrary opinion. Neither offers any change of ground, any reconciling +and renewing breadth of view. So far as breadth of view is concerned a +man might quite as well be an individualist as a socialist or +collectivist, the two being identical in philosophy though antagonistic +in programme. If one is inclined to neither party he may take refuge in +the expectation that the controversy, resting, as he may hold that it +does, on a false conception of life, will presently take its proper +place among the forgotten _débris_ of speculation. + +Thirdly we have _primitive individualism_. This expression has been used +to describe the view that sociality follows individuality in time, is a +later and additional product of development. This view is a variety of +the preceding, and is, perhaps, formed by a mingling of individualistic +preconceptions with a somewhat crude evolutionary philosophy. +Individuality is usually conceived as lower in moral rank as well as +precedent in time. Man _was_ a mere individual, mankind a mere +aggregation of such, but he has gradually become socialized, he is +progressively merging into a social whole. Morally speaking, the +individual is the bad, the social the good, and we must push on the work +of putting down the former and bringing in the latter. + +Of course the view which I regard as sound, is that individuality is +neither prior in time nor lower in moral rank than sociality; but that +the two have always existed side by side as complementary aspects of the +same thing, and that the line of progress is from a lower to a higher +type of both, not from the one to the other. If the word social is +applied only to the higher forms of mental life it should, as already +suggested, be opposed not to individual, but to animal, sensual, or some +other word implying mental or moral inferiority. If we go back to a time +when the state of our remote ancestors was such that we are not willing +to call it social, then it must have been equally undeserving to be +described as individual or personal; that is to say, they must have been +just as inferior to us when viewed separately as when viewed +collectively. To question this is to question the vital unity of human +life. + +The life of the human species, like that of other species, must always +have been both general and particular, must always have had its +collective and distributive aspects. The plane of this life has +gradually risen, involving, of course, both the aspects mentioned. Now, +as ever, they develop as one, and may be observed united in the highest +activities of the highest minds. Shakespeare, for instance, is in one +point of view a unique and transcendent individual; in another he is a +splendid expression of the general life of mankind: the difference is +not in him but in the way we choose to look at him. + +Finally, there is _the social faculty view_. This expression might be +used to indicate those conceptions which regard the social as including +only a part, often a rather definite part, of the individual. Human +nature is thus divided into individualistic or non-social tendencies or +faculties, and those that are social. Thus, certain emotions, as love, +are social; others, as fear or anger, are unsocial or individualistic. +Some writers have even treated the intelligence as an individualistic +faculty, and have found sociality only in some sorts of emotion or +sentiment. + +This idea of instincts or faculties that are peculiarly social is well +enough if we use this word in the sense of pertaining to conversation or +immediate fellow-feeling. Affection is certainly more social in this +sense than fear. But if it is meant that these instincts or faculties +are in themselves morally higher than others, or that they alone pertain +to the collective life, the view is, I think, very questionable. At any +rate the opinion I hold, and expect to explain more fully in the further +course of this book, is that man’s psychical outfit is not divisible +into the social and the non-social; but that he is all social in a large +sense, is all a part of the common human life, and that his social or +moral progress consists less in the aggrandizement of particular +faculties or instincts and the suppression of others, than in the +discipline of all with reference to a progressive organization of life +which we know in thought as conscience. + +Some instincts or tendencies may grow in relative importance, may have +an increasing function, while the opposite may be true of others. Such +relative growth and diminution of parts seems to be a general feature of +evolution, and there is no reason why it should be absent from our +mental development. But here as well as elsewhere most parts, if not +all, are or have been functional with reference to a life collective as +well as distributive; there is no sharp separation of faculties, and +progress takes place rather by gradual adaptation of old organs to new +functions than by disuse and decay. + + + + + CHAPTER II + SUGGESTION AND CHOICE + + THE MEANING OF THESE TERMS AND THEIR RELATION TO EACH OTHER—INDIVIDUAL + AND SOCIAL ASPECTS OF WILL OR CHOICE—SUGGESTION AND CHOICE IN + CHILDREN—THE SCOPE OF SUGGESTION COMMONLY UNDERESTIMATED—PRACTICAL + LIMITATIONS UPON DELIBERATE CHOICE—ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE ACTION OF + THE _MILIEU_—THE GREATER OR LESS ACTIVITY OF CHOICE REFLECTS THE + STATE OF SOCIETY—SUGGESTIBILITY. + + +The antithesis between suggestion and choice is another of those +familiar ideas which are not always so clear as they should be. + +The word suggestion is used here to denote an influence that works in a +comparatively mechanical or reflex way, without calling out that higher +selective activity of the mind implied in choice or will. Thus the +hypnotic subject who performs apparently meaningless actions at the word +of the operator is said to be controlled by suggestion; so also is one +who catches up tricks of speech and action from other people without +meaning to. From such instances the idea is extended to embrace any +thought or action which is mentally simple and seems not to involve +choice. The behavior of people under strong emotion is suggestive; +crowds are suggestible; habit is a kind of suggestion, and so on. + +I prefer this word to imitation, which some use in this or a similar +sense, because the latter, as ordinarily understood, seems to cover too +little in some directions and too much in others. In common use it means +an action that results in visible or audible resemblance. Now although +our simple reactions to the influence of others are largely of this +sort, they are by no means altogether so; the actions of a child during +the first six months of life, for instance, are very little imitative in +this sense; on the other hand, the imitation that produces a visible +resemblance may be a voluntary process of the most complex sort +imaginable, like the skilful painting of a portrait. However, it makes +little difference what words we use if we have sound meanings back of +them, and I am far from intending to find fault with writers, like +Professor Baldwin and M. Tarde, who adopt the word and give it a wide +and unusual application. For my purpose, however, it does not seem +expedient to depart so far from ordinary usage. + +The distinction between suggestion and choice is not, I think, a sharp +opposition between separable or radically different things, but rather a +way of indicating the lower and higher stages of a series. What we call +choice or will appears to be an ill-defined area of more strenuous +mental activity within a much wider field of activity similar in kind +but less intense. It is not sharply divisible from the mass of +involuntary thought. The truth is that the facts of the mind, of +society, indeed of any living whole, seldom admit of sharp division, but +show gradual transitions from one thing to another: there are no fences +in these regions. We speak of suggestion as mechanical; but it seems +probable that all psychical life is selective, or, in some sense, +choosing, and that the rudiments of consciousness and will may be +discerned or inferred in the simplest reaction of the lowest living +creature. In our own minds the comparatively simple ideas which are +called suggestions are by no means single and primary, but each one is +itself a living, shifting, multifarious bit of life, a portion of the +fluid “stream of thought” formed by some sort of selection and synthesis +out of simpler elements. On the other hand, our most elaborate and +volitional thought and action is suggested in the sense that it consists +not in creation out of nothing, but in a creative synthesis or +reorganization of old material. + +The distinction, then, is one of degree rather than of kind; and choice, +as contrasted with suggestion, is, in its individual aspect, _a +comparatively elaborate process of mental organization or synthesis_, of +which we are reflectively aware, and which is rendered necessary by +complexity in the elements of our thought. In its social aspect—for all, +or nearly all, our choices relate in one way or another to the social +environment—it is _an organization of comparatively complex social +relations_. Precisely as the conditions about us and the ideas suggested +by those conditions become intricate, are we forced to think, to choose, +to define the useful and the right, and, in general, to work out the +higher intellectual life. When life is simple, thought and action are +comparatively mechanical or suggestive; the higher consciousness is not +aroused, the reflective will has little or nothing to do; the captain +stays below and the inferior officers work the ship. But when life is +diverse, thought is so likewise, and the mind must achieve the higher +synthesis, or suffer that sense of division which is its peculiar pain. +In short, the question of suggestion and choice is only another view of +the question of uniformity and complexity in social relations. + +Will, or choice, like all phases of mental life, may be looked at either +in a particular or a general aspect; and we have, accordingly, +individual will or social will, depending upon our point of view, as to +whether we regard the activity singly or in a mass. But there is no real +separation; they are only different phases of the same thing. Any choice +that I can make is a synthesis of suggestions derived in one way or +another from the general life; and it also reacts upon that life, so +that my will is social as being both effect and cause with reference to +it. If I buy a straw hat you may look at my action separately, as my +individual choice, or as part of a social demand for straw hats, or as +indicating non-conformity to a fashion of wearing some other sort of +hats, and so on. There is no mystery about the matter; nothing that need +puzzle anyone who is capable of perceiving that a thing may look +differently from different standpoints, like the post that was painted a +different color on each of its four sides. + +It is, I think, a mistake of superficial readers to imagine that +psychologists or sociologists are trying to depreciate the will, or that +there is any tendency to such depreciation in a sound evolutionary +science or philosophy. The trouble with the popular view of will, +derived chiefly from tradition, is not that it exaggerates its +importance, which would perhaps be impossible; but, first, that it +thinks of will only in the individual aspect, and does not grasp the +fact—plain enough it would seem—that the act of choice is cause and +effect in a general life; and, second, that it commonly overlooks the +importance of involuntary forces, or at least makes them separate from +and antithetical to choice—as if the captain were expected to work the +ship all alone, or in opposition to the crew, instead of using them as +subordinate agents. There is little use in arguing abstractly points +like these; but if the reader who may be puzzled by them will try to +free himself from metaphysical formulæ, and determine to _see_ the facts +as they are, he will be in a way to get some healthy understanding of +the matter.[2] + +By way of illustrating these general statements I shall first offer a +few remarks concerning suggestion and choice in the life of children, +and then go on to discuss their working in adult life and upon the +career as a whole. + + +There appears to be quite a general impression that children are far +more subject to control through suggestion or mechanical imitation than +grown-up people are; in other words, that their volition is less active. +I am not at all sure that this is the case: their choices are, as a +rule, less stable and consistent than ours, their minds have less +definiteness of organization, so that their actions appear less rational +and more externally determined; but on the other hand they have less of +the mechanical subjection to habit that goes with a settled character. +Choice is a process of growth, of progressive mental organization +through selection and assimilation of the materials which life presents, +and this process is surely never more vigorous than in childhood and +youth. It can hardly be doubted that the choosing and formative vigor of +the mind is greater under the age of twenty-five than after: the will of +middle age is stronger in the sense that it has more momentum, but it +has less acceleration, runs more on habit, and so is less capable of +fresh choice. + +I am distrustful of that plausible but possibly illusive analogy between +the mind of the child and the mind of primitive man, which, in this +connection, would suggest a like simplicity and inertness of thought in +the two. Our children achieve in a dozen years a mental development much +above that of savages, and supposing that they do, in some sense, +recapitulate the progress of the race, they certainly cover the ground +at a very different rate of speed, which involves a corresponding +intensity of mental life. After the first year certainly, if not from +birth, they share our social order, and we induct them so rapidly into +its complex life that their minds have perhaps as much novelty and +diversity to synthetize as ours do. + +Certainly one who begins to observe children with a vague notion that +their actions, after the first few months, are almost all mechanically +imitative, is likely to be surprised. I had this notion, derived, +perhaps without much warrant, from a slight acquaintance with writings +on child-study current previous to 1893, when my first child was born. +He was a boy—I will call him R.—in whom imitativeness, as ordinarily +understood, happened to be unusually late in its development. Until he +was more than two years and a half old all that I noticed that was +obviously imitative, in the sense of a visible or audible repetition of +the acts of others, was the utterance of about six words that he learned +to say during his second year. It is likely that very close observation, +assisted by the clearer notion of what to look for that comes by +experience, would have discovered more: but no more was obvious to +ordinary expectant attention. The obvious thing was his constant use of +experiment and reflection, and the slow and often curious results that +he attained in this manner. At two and a half he had learned, for +instance, to use a fork quite skilfully. The wish to use it was perhaps +an imitative impulse, in a sense, but his methods were original and the +outcome of a long course of independent and reflective experiment. His +skill was the continuation of a dexterity previously acquired in playing +with long pins, which he ran into cushions, the interstices of his +carriage, etc. The fork was apparently conceived as an interesting +variation upon the hat-pin, and not, primarily, as a means of getting +food or doing what others did. In creeping or walking, at which he was +very slow, partly on account of a lame foot, he went through a similar +series of devious experiments, which apparently had no reference to what +he saw others do. + +He did not begin to talk—beyond using the few words already +mentioned—until over two years and eight months old; having previously +refused to interest himself in it, although he understood others as +well, apparently, as any child of his age. He preferred to make his +wants known by grunts and signs; and instead of delighting in imitation +he evidently liked better a kind of activity that was only indirectly +connected with the suggestions of others. + +I frequently tried to produce imitation, but almost wholly without +success. For example, when he was striving to accomplish something with +his blocks I would intervene and show him, by example, how, as I +thought, it might be done, but these suggestions were invariably, so far +as I remember or have recorded, received with indifference or protest. +He liked to puzzle it out quietly for himself, and to be shown how to do +a thing often seemed to destroy his interest in it. Yet he would profit +by observation of others in his own fashion, and I sometimes detected +him making use of ideas to which he seemed to pay no attention when they +were first presented. In short, he showed that aversion, which minds of +a pondering, constructive turn perhaps always show, to anything which +suddenly and crudely broke in upon his system of thought. At the same +time that he was so backward in the ordinary curriculum of childhood, he +showed in other ways, which it is perhaps unnecessary to describe, that +comparison and reflection were well developed. This preoccupation with +private experiment and reflection, and reluctance to learn from others, +were undoubtedly a cause of his slow development, particularly in +speech, his natural aptitude for which appeared in a good enunciation +and a marked volubility as soon as he really began to talk. + +Imitation came all at once: he seemed to perceive quite suddenly that +this was a short cut to many things, and took it up, not in a merely +mechanical or suggestive way, but consciously, intelligently, as a means +to an end. The imitative act, however, was often an end in itself, an +interesting exercise of his constructive faculties, pursued at first +without much regard to anything beyond. This was the case with the +utterance of words, and, later, with spelling, with each of which he +became fascinated for its own sake and regardless of its use as a means +of communication. + +In a second child, M., a girl, I was able to observe the working of a +mind of a different sort, and of a much more common type as regards +imitation. When two months and seven days old she was observed to make +sounds in reply to her mother when coaxed with a certain pitch and +inflection of voice. These sounds were clearly imitative, since they +were seldom made at other times, but not mechanically so. They were +produced with every appearance of mental effort and of delight in its +success. Only vocal imitations, of this rudimentary sort, were observed +until eight months was nearly reached, when the first manual imitation, +striking a button-hook upon the back of a chair, was noticed. This +action had been performed experimentally before, and the imitation was +merely a repetition suggested by seeing her mother do it, or perhaps by +hearing the sound. After this the development of imitative activity +proceeded much in the usual way, which has often been described. + +In both of these cases I was a good deal impressed with the idea that +the life of children, as compared with that of adults, is less +determined in a merely suggestive way, and involves more will and +choice, than is commonly supposed. Imitation, in the sense of visible or +audible repetition, was not so omnipresent as I had expected, and when +present seemed to be in great part rational and voluntary rather than +mechanical. It is very natural to assume that to do what someone else +does requires no mental effort; but this, as applied to little children, +is, of course, a great mistake. They cannot imitate an act except by +learning how to do it, any more than grown-up people can, and for a +child to learn a word may be as complicated a process as for an older +person to learn a difficult piece on the piano. A novel imitation is not +at all mechanical, but a strenuous voluntary activity, accompanied by +effort and followed by pleasure in success. All sympathetic observers of +children must be impressed, I imagine, by the evident mental stress and +concentration which often accompanies their endeavors, whether imitative +or not, and is followed, as in adults, by the appearance of relief when +the action has come off successfully.[3] + +The “imitative instinct” is sometimes spoken of as if it were a +mysterious something that enabled the child to perform involuntarily and +without preparation acts that are quite new to him. It will be found +difficult, if one reflects upon the matter, to conceive what could be +the nature of an instinct or hereditary tendency, not to do a definite +thing previously performed by our ancestors—as is the case with ordinary +instinct—but to do _anything_, within vague limits, which happened to be +done within our sight or hearing. This doing of new things without +definite preparation, _either in heredity or experience_, would seem to +involve something like special creation in the mental and nervous +organism: and the imitation of children has no such character. It is +quite evidently an acquired power, and if the act imitated is at all +complex the learning process involves a good deal of thought and will. +If there is an imitative instinct it must, apparently, be something in +the way of a taste for repetition, which stimulates the learning process +without, however, having any tendency to dispense with it. The taste for +repetition seems, in fact, to exist, at least in most children, but even +this may be sufficiently explained as a phase of the general mental +tendency to act upon uncontradicted ideas. It is a doctrine now +generally taught by psychologists that the idea of an action is itself a +motive to that action, and tends intrinsically to produce it unless +something intervenes to prevent. This being the case, it would appear +that we must always have some impulse to do what we see done, provided +it is something we understand sufficiently to be able to form a definite +idea of doing it.[4] I am inclined to the view that it is unnecessary to +assume, in man, a special imitative instinct, but that “as Preyer and +others have shown in the case of young children, mimicry arises mainly +from pleasure in activity as such, and not from its peculiar quality as +imitation.”[5] An intelligent child imitates because he has faculties +crying for employment, and imitation is a key that lets them loose: he +needs to do things and imitation gives him things to do. An indication +that sensible resemblance to the acts of others is not the main thing +sought is seen in such cases as the following: M. had a trick of raising +her hands above her head, which she would perform, when in the mood for +it, either imitatively, when someone else did it, or in response to the +words “How big is M.?” but she responded more readily in the second or +non-imitative way than in the other. This example well illustrates the +reason for my preference of the word suggestion over imitation to +describe these simple reactions. In this case the action performed had +no sort of resemblance to the form of words “How big is M.?” that +started it, and could be called imitative only in a recondite sense. All +that is necessary is that there should be a suggestion, that something +should be presented that is connected in the child’s mind with the +action to be produced. Whether this connection is by sensible +resemblance or not seems immaterial. + +There seems to be some opposition between imitation of the visible, +external kind, and reflection. Children of one sort are attracted by +sensible resemblance and so are early and conspicuously imitative. If +this is kept up in a mechanical way after the acts are well learned, and +at the expense of new efforts, it would seem to be a sign of mental +apathy, or even defect, as in the silly mimicry of some idiots. Those of +another sort are preoccupied by the subtler combinations of thought +which do not, as a rule, lead to obvious imitation. Such children are +likely to be backward in the development of active faculties, and slow +to observe except where their minds are specially interested. They are +also, if I may judge by R., slow to interpret features and tones of +voice, guileless and unaffected, just because of this lack of keen +personal perceptions, and not quickly sympathetic. + +Accordingly, it is not at all clear that children are, on the whole, any +more given to imitation of the mechanical sort, any more suggestible, +than adults. They appear so to us chiefly, perhaps, for two reasons. In +the first place, we fail to realize the thought, the will, the effort, +they expend upon their imitations. They do things that have become +mechanical to us, and we assume that they are mechanical to them, though +closer observation and reflection would show us the contrary. These +actions are largely daring experiments, strenuous syntheses of +previously acquired knowledge, comparable in quality to our own most +earnest efforts, and not to the thoughtless routine of our lives. We do +not see that their echoing of the words they hear is often not a silly +repetition, but a difficult and instructive exercise of the vocal +apparatus. Children imitate much because they are growing much, and +imitation is a principal means of growth. This is true at any age; the +more alive and progressive a man is the more actively he is admiring and +profiting by his chosen models. + +A second reason is that adults imitate at longer range, as it were, so +that the imitative character of their acts is not so obvious. They come +into contact with more sorts of persons, largely unknown to one another, +and have access to a greater variety of suggestions in books. +Accordingly they present a deceitful appearance of independence simply +because we do not see their models. + + +Though we may be likely to exaggerate the difference between children +and adults as regards the sway of suggestive influences, there is little +danger of our overestimating the importance of these in the life of +mankind at large. The common impression among those who have given no +special study to the matter appears to be that suggestion has little +part in the mature life of a rational being; and though the control of +involuntary impulses is recognized in tricks of speech and manner, in +fads, fashions, and the like, it is not perceived to touch the more +important points of conduct. The fact, however, is that the main current +of our thought is made up of impulses absorbed without deliberate choice +from the life about us, or else arising from hereditary instinct, or +from habit; while the function of higher thought and of will is to +organize and apply these impulses. To revert to an illustration already +suggested, the voluntary is related to the involuntary very much as the +captain of a ship is related to the seamen and subordinate officers. +Their work is not altogether of a different sort from his, but is of a +lower grade in a mental series. He supplies the higher sort of +co-ordination, but the main bulk of the activity is of the mentally +lower order. + +The chief reason why popular attention should fix itself upon voluntary +thought and action, and tend to overlook the involuntary, is that choice +is acutely conscious, and so must, from its very nature, be the focus of +introspective thought. Because he _is_ an individual, a specialized, +contending bit of psychical force, a man very naturally holds his will, +in its individual aspect, to be of supreme moment. If we did not feel a +great importance in the things we do we could not will to do them. And +in the life of other people voluntary action seems supreme, for very +much the same reasons that it does in our own. It is always in the +foreground, active, obvious, intrusive, the thing that creates +differences and so fixes the attention. We notice nothing except through +contrast; and accordingly the mechanical control of suggestion, +affecting all very much alike, is usually unperceived. As we do not +notice the air, precisely because it is always with us, so, for the same +reason, we do not notice a prevailing mode of dress. In like manner we +are ignorant of our local accent and bearing, and are totally unaware, +for the most part, of all that is common to our time, our country, our +customary environment. Choice is a central area of light and activity +upon which our eyes are fixed; while the unconscious is a dark, +illimitable background enveloping this area. Or, again, choice is like +the earth, which we unconsciously assume to be the principal part of +creation, simply because it is the centre of our interest and the field +of our exertions. + + +The practical limitations upon the scope of choice arise, first, from +its very nature as a selective and organizing agent, working upon +comparatively simple or suggestive ideas as its raw material, and, +second, from the fact that it absorbs a great deal of vital energy. +Owing to the first circumstance its activity is always confined to +points where there is a competition of ideas. So long as an idea is +uncontradicted, not felt to be in any way inconsistent with others, we +take it as a matter of course. It is a truth, though hard for us to +realize, that if we had lived in Dante’s time we should have believed in +a material Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, as he did, and that our doubts +of this, and of many other things which his age did not question, have +nothing to do with our natural intelligence, but are made possible and +necessary by competing ideas which the growth of knowledge has enabled +us to form. Our particular minds or wills are members of a slowly +growing whole, and at any given moment are limited in scope by the state +of the whole, and especially of those parts of the whole with which they +are in most active contact. Our thought is never isolated, but always +some sort of a response to the influences around us, so that we can +hardly have thoughts that are not in some way aroused by communication. +Will—free will if you choose—is thus a co-operative whole, not an +aggregation of disconnected fragments, and the freedom of the individual +is freedom under law, like that of the good citizen, not anarchy. We +learn to speak by the exercise of will, but no one, I suppose, will +assert that an infant who hears only French is free to learn English. +Where suggestions are numerous and conflicting we feel the need to +choose; to make these choices is the function of will, and the result of +them is a step in the progress of life, an act of freedom or creation, +if you wish to call it so; but where suggestion is single, as with +religious dogma in ages of faith, we are very much at its mercy. We do +not perceive these limitations, because there is no point of vantage +from which we can observe and measure the general state of thought; +there is nothing to compare it with. Only when it begins to change, when +competing suggestions enter our minds and we get new points of view from +which we can look back upon it, do we begin to notice its power over +us.[6] + +The exhausting character of choice, of making up one’s mind, is a matter +of common experience. In some way the mental synthesis, this calling in +and reducing to order the errant population of the mind, draws severely +upon the vital energy, and one of the invariable signs of fatigue is a +dread of making decisions and assuming responsibility. In our +complicated life the will can, in fact, manage only a small part of the +competing suggestions that are within our reach. What we are all forced +to do is to choose a field of action which for some reason we look upon +as specially interesting or important, and exercise our choice in that; +in other matters protecting ourselves, for the most part, by some sort +of mechanical control—some accepted personal authority, some local +custom, some professional tradition, or the like. Indeed, to know where +and how to narrow the activity of the will in order to preserve its tone +and vigor for its most essential functions, is a great part of knowing +how to live. An incontinent exercise of choice wears people out, so that +many break down and yield even essentials to discipline and authority in +some form; while many more wish, at times, to do so and indulge +themselves, perhaps, in Thomas à Kempis, or “The Christian’s Secret of a +Happy Life.” Not a few so far exhaust the power of self-direction as to +be left drifting at the mercy of undisciplined passions. There are many +roads to degeneracy, and persons of an eager, strenuous nature not +infrequently take this one. + + +A common instance of the insidious power of _milieu_ is afforded by the +transition from university education to getting a living. At a +university one finds himself, if he has any vigor of imagination, in one +of the widest environments the world can afford. He has access to the +suggestions of the richest minds of all times and countries, and has +also, or should have, time and encouragement to explore, in his own way, +this spacious society. It is his business to think, to aspire, and grow; +and if he is at all capable of it he does so. Philosophy and art and +science and the betterment of mankind are real and living interests to +him, largely because he is in the great stream of higher thought that +flows through libraries. Now let him graduate and enter, we will say, +upon the lumber business at Kawkawlin. Here he finds the scope of +existence largely taken up with the details of this industry—wholesome +for him in some ways, but likely to be overemphasized. These and a few +other things are repeated over and over again, dinned into him, +everywhere assumed to be the solid things of life, so that he must +believe in them; while the rest grows misty and begins to lose hold upon +him. He cannot make things seem real that do not enter into his +experience, and if he resists the narrowing environment it must be by +keeping touch with a larger world, through books or other personal +intercourse, and by the exercise of imagination. Marcus Aurelius told +himself that he was free to think what he chose, but it appears that he +realized this freedom by keeping books about him that suggested the kind +of thoughts he chose to think; and it is only in some such sense as this +implies that the assertion is true. When the palpable environment does +not suit us we can, if our minds are vigorous enough, build up a better +one out of remembered material; but we must have material of some sort. + +It is easy to feel the effect of surroundings in such cases as this, +because of the sharp and definite change, and because the imagination +clings to one state long after the senses are subdued to the other; but +it is not so with national habits and sentiments, which so completely +envelop us that we are for the most part unaware of them. The more +thoroughly American a man is the less he can perceive Americanism. He +will embody it; all he does, says, or writes, will be full of it; but he +can never truly see it, simply because he has no exterior point of view +from which to look at it. If he goes to Europe he begins to get by +contrast some vague notion of it, though he will never be able to see +just what it is that makes futile his attempts to seem an Englishman, a +German, or an Italian. Our appearance to other peoples is like one’s own +voice, which one never hears quite as others hear it, and which sounds +strange when it comes back from the phonograph. + +The control of those larger movements of thought and sentiment that make +a historical epoch is still less conscious, more inevitable. Only the +imaginative student, in his best hours, can really free himself—and that +only in some respects—from the limitations of his time and see things +from a height. For the most part the people of other epochs seem +strange, outlandish, or a little insane. We can scarcely rid ourselves +of the impression that the way of life we are used to is the normal, and +that other ways are eccentric. Dr. Sidis holds that the people of the +Middle Ages were in a quasi-hypnotic state, and instances the crusades, +dancing manias, and the like.[7] But the question is, would not our own +time, viewed from an equal distance, appear to present the signs of +abnormal suggestibility? Will not the intense preoccupation with +material production, the hurry and strain of our cities, the draining of +life into one channel, at the expense of breadth, richness, and beauty, +appear as mad as the crusades, and perhaps of a lower type of madness? +Could anything be more indicative of a slight but general insanity than +the aspect of the crowd on the streets of Chicago? + +An illustration of this unconsciousness of what is distinctive in our +time is the fact that those who participate in momentous changes have +seldom any but the vaguest notion of their significance. There is +perhaps no time in the history of art that seems to us now so splendid, +so dramatic, as that of the sudden rise of Gothic architecture in +northern France, and the erection of the church of St. Denis at Paris +was its culmination: yet Professor C. E. Norton, speaking of the Abbot +Suger, who erected it, and of his memoirs, says, “Under his watchful and +intelligent oversight the church became the most splendid and the most +interesting building of the century; but of the features that gave it +special interest, that make it one of the most important monuments of +mediæval architecture, neither Suger, in his account of it, nor his +biographer, nor any contemporary writer, says a single word.”[8] To +Suger and his time the Gothic, it would seem, was simply a new and +improved way of building a church, a technical matter with which he had +little concern, except to see that it was duly carried out according to +specifications. It was developed by draughtsmen and handicraftsmen, +mostly nameless, who felt their own thrill of constructive delight as +they worked, but had no thought of historical glory. It is no doubt the +same in our own time, and Mr. Bryce has noted with astonishment the +unconsciousness or indifference of those who founded cities in western +America, to the fact that they were doing something that would be +memorable and influential for ages.[9] + + +I have already said, or implied, that the activity of the will reflects +the state of the social order. A constant and strenuous exercise of +volition implies complexity in the surrounding life from which +suggestions come, while in a simple society choice is limited in scope +and life is comparatively mechanical. It is the variety of social +intercourse or, what comes to the same thing, the character of social +organization, that determines the field of choice; and accordingly there +is a tendency for the scope of the will to increase with that widening +and intensification of life that is so conspicuous a feature of recent +history. This change is bound up with the extension and diffusion of +communication, opening up innumerable channels by which competing +suggestions may enter the mind. We are still dependent upon +environment—life is always a give and take with surrounding +conditions—but environment is becoming very wide, and in the case of +imaginative persons may extend itself to almost any ideas that the past +or present life of the race has brought into being. This brings +opportunity for congenial choice and characteristic personal growth, and +at the same time a good deal of distraction and strain. There is more +and more need of stability, and of a vigorous rejection of excessive +material, if one would escape mental exhaustion and degeneracy. Choice +is like a river; it broadens as it comes down through history—though +there are always banks—and the wider it becomes the more persons drown +in it. Stronger and stronger swimming is required, and types of +character that lack vigor and self-reliance are more and more likely to +go under. + + +The aptitude to yield to impulse in a mechanical or reflex way is called +suggestibility. As might be expected, it is subject to great variations +in different persons, and in the same person under different conditions. +Abnormal suggestibility has received much study, and there is a great +body of valuable literature relating to it. I wish in this connection +only to recall a few well-known principles which the student of normal +social life needs to have in mind. + +As would naturally follow from our analysis of the relation between +suggestion and choice, suggestibility is simply the absence of the +controlling and organizing action of the reflective will. This function +not being properly performed, thought and action are disintegrated and +fly off on tangents; the captain being disabled the crew breaks up into +factions, and discipline goes to pieces. Accordingly, whatever weakens +the reason, and thus destroys the breadth and symmetry of consciousness, +produces some form of suggestibility. To be excited is to be +suggestible, that is to become liable to yield impulsively to an idea in +harmony with the exciting emotion. An angry man is suggestible as +regards denunciation, threats, and the like, a jealous one as regards +suspicions, and similarly with any passion. + +The suggestibility of crowds is a peculiar form of that limitation of +choice by the environment already discussed. We have here a very +transient environment which owes its power over choice to the vague but +potent emotion so easily generated in dense aggregates. The thick +humanity is in itself exciting, and the will is further stupefied by the +sense of insignificance, by the strangeness of the situation, and by the +absence, as a rule, of any separate purpose to maintain an independent +momentum. A man is like a ship in that he cannot guide his course unless +he has way on. If he drifts he will shift about with any light air; and +the man in the crowd is usually drifting, is not pursuing any settled +line of action in which he is sustained by knowledge and habit. This +state of mind, added to intense emotion directed by some series of +special suggestions, is the source of the wild and often destructive +behavior of crowds and mobs, as well as of a great deal of heroic +enthusiasm. An orator, for instance, first unifying and heightening the +emotional state of his audience by some humorous or pathetic incident, +will be able, if tolerably skilful, to do pretty much as he pleases with +them, so long as he does not go against their settled habits of thought. +Anger, always a ready passion, is easily aroused, appeals to resentment +being the staples of much popular oratory, and under certain conditions +readily expresses itself in stoning, burning, and lynching. And so with +fear: General Grant in describing the battle of Shiloh gives a picture +of several thousand men on a hill-side in the rear, incapable of moving, +though threatened to be shot for cowardice where they lay. Yet these +very men, calmed and restored to their places, were among those who +heroically fought and won the next day’s battle. They had been restored +to the domination of another class of suggestions, namely those implied +in military discipline.[10] + +Suggestibility from exhaustion or strain is a rather common condition +with many of us. Probably all eager brain workers find themselves now +and then in a state where they are “too tired to stop.” The overwrought +mind loses the healthy power of casting off its burden, and seems +capable of nothing but going on and on in the same painful and futile +course. One may know that he is accomplishing nothing, that work done in +such a state of mind is always bad work, and that “that way madness +lies,” but yet be too weak to resist, chained to the wheel of his +thought so that he must wait till it runs down. And such a state, +however induced, is the opportunity for all sorts of undisciplined +impulses, perhaps some gross passion, like anger, dread, the need of +drink, or the like. + +According to Mr. Tylor,[11] fasting, solitude, and physical exhaustion +by dancing, shouting, or flagellation are very generally employed by +savage peoples to bring on abnormal states of mind of which +suggestibility—the sleep of choice, and control by some idea from the +subconscious life—is always a trait. The visions and ecstasies following +the fastings, watchings, and flagellations of Christian devotees of an +earlier time seem to belong, psychologically, in much the same category. + +It is well known that suggestibility is limited by habit, or, more +accurately stated, that habit is itself a perennial source of +suggestions that set bounds and conditions upon the power of fresh +suggestions. A total abstainer will resist the suggestion to drink, a +modest person will refuse to do anything indecent, and so on. People are +least liable to yield to irrational suggestions, to be stampeded with +the crowd, in matters with which they are familiar, so that they have +habits regarding them. The soldier, in his place in the ranks and with +his captain in sight, will march forward to certain death, very likely +without any acute emotion whatever, simply because he has the habits +that constitute discipline; and so with firemen, policemen, sailors, +brakemen, physicians, and many others who learn to deal with life and +death as calmly as they read a newspaper. It is all in the day’s work. + +As regards the greater or less suggestibility of different persons there +is, of course, no distinct line between the normal and the abnormal; it +is simply a matter of the greater or less efficiency of the higher +mental organization. Most people, perhaps, are so far suggestible that +they make no energetic and persistent attempt to interpret in any broad +way the elements of life accessible to them, but receive the stamp of +some rather narrow and simple class of suggestions to which their +allegiance is yielded. There are innumerable people of much energy but +sluggish intellect, who will go ahead—as all who have energy must do—but +what direction they take is a matter of the opportune suggestion. The +humbler walks of religion and philanthropy, for instance, the Salvation +Army, the village prayer-meeting, and the city mission, are full of +such. They do not reason on general topics, but believe and labor. The +intellectual travail of the time does not directly touch them. At some +epoch in the past, perhaps in some hour of emotional exaltation, +something was printed on their minds to remain there till death, and be +read and followed daily. To the philosopher such people are fanatics; +but their function is as important as his. They are repositories of +moral energy—which he is very likely to lack—they are the people who +brought in Christianity and have kept it going ever since. And this is +only one of many comparatively automatic types of mankind. Rationality, +in the sense of a patient and open-minded attempt to think out the +general problems of life, is, and perhaps always must be, confined to a +small minority even of the most intelligent populations. + + + + + CHAPTER III + SOCIABILITY AND PERSONAL IDEAS + + THE SOCIABILITY OF CHILDREN—IMAGINARY CONVERSATION AND ITS + SIGNIFICANCE—THE NATURE OF THE IMPULSE TO COMMUNICATE—THERE IS NO + SEPARATION BETWEEN REAL AND IMAGINARY PERSONS—NOR BETWEEN THOUGHT + AND INTERCOURSE—THE STUDY AND INTERPRETATION OF EXPRESSION BY + CHILDREN—THE SYMBOL OR SENSUOUS NUCLEUS OF PERSONAL IDEAS—PERSONAL + PHYSIOGNOMY IN ART AND LITERATURE—IN THE IDEA OF SOCIAL + GROUPS—SENTIMENT IN PERSONAL IDEAS—THE PERSONAL IDEA IS THE + IMMEDIATE SOCIAL REALITY—SOCIETY MUST BE STUDIED IN THE + IMAGINATION—THE POSSIBLE REALITY OF INCORPOREAL PERSONS—THE MATERIAL + NOTION OF PERSONALITY CONTRASTED WITH THE NOTION BASED ON A STUDY OF + PERSONAL IDEAS—SELF AND OTHER IN PERSONAL IDEAS—PERSONAL + OPPOSITION—FURTHER ILLUSTRATION AND DEFENCE OF THE VIEW OF PERSONS + AND SOCIETY HERE SET FORTH. + + +To any but a mother a new-born child hardly seems human. It appears +rather to be a strange little animal, wonderful indeed, exquisitely +finished even to the finger-nails; mysterious, awakening a fresh sense +of our ignorance of the nearest things of life, but not friendly, not +lovable. It is only after some days that a kindly nature begins to +express itself and to grow into something that can be sympathized with +and personally cared for. The earliest signs of it are chiefly certain +smiles and babbling sounds, which are a matter of fascinating +observation to anyone interested in the genesis of social feeling. + +Spasmodic smiles or grimaces occur even during the first week of life, +and at first seem to mean nothing in particular. I have watched the face +of an infant a week old while a variety of expressions, smiles, frowns, +and so on, passed over it in rapid succession: it was as if the child +were rehearsing a repertory of emotional expression belonging to it by +instinct. So soon as they can be connected with anything definite these +rudimentary smiles appear to be a sign of satisfaction. Mrs. Moore says +that her child smiled on the sixth day “when comfortable,”[12] and that +this “never occurred when the child was known to be in pain.” Preyer +notes a smile on the face of a sleeping child, after nursing, on the +tenth day.[13] They soon begin to connect themselves quite definitely +with sensible objects, such as bright color, voices, movements, and +fondling. At the same time the smile gradually develops from a grimace +into a subtler, more human expression, and Dr. Perez, who seems to have +studied a large number of children, says that all whom he observed +smiled, when pleased, by the time they were two months old.[14] When a +child is, say, five months old, no doubt can remain, in most cases, that +the smile has become an expression of pleasure in the movements, sounds, +touches, and general appearance of other people. It would seem, however, +that personal feeling is not at first clearly differentiated from +pleasures of sight, sound, and touch of other origin, or from animal +satisfactions having no obvious cause. Both of my children expended much +of their early sociability on inanimate objects, such as a red Japanese +screen, a swinging lamp, a bright door-knob, an orange, and the like, +babbling and smiling at them for many minutes at a time; and M., when +about three months old and later, would often lie awake laughing and +chattering in the dead of night. The general impression left upon one is +that the early manifestations of sociability indicate less +fellow-feeling than the adult imagination likes to impute, but are +expressions of a pleasure which persons excite chiefly because they +offer such a variety of stimuli to sight, hearing, and touch; or, to put +it otherwise, kindliness, while existing almost from the first, is vague +and undiscriminating, has not yet become fixed upon its proper objects, +but flows out upon all the pleasantness the child finds about him, like +that of St. Francis, when, in his “Canticle of the Sun,” he addresses +the sun and the moon, stars, winds, clouds, fire, earth, and water, as +brothers and sisters. Indeed, there is nothing about personal feeling +which sharply marks it off from other feeling; here as elsewhere we find +no fences, but gradual transition, progressive differentiation. + +I do not think that early smiles are imitative. I observed both my +children carefully to discover whether they smiled in response to a +smile, and obtained negative results when they were under ten months +old. A baby does not smile by imitation, but because he is pleased; and +what pleases him in the first year of life is usually some rather +obvious stimulus to the senses. If you wish a smile you must earn it by +acceptable exertion; it does no good to smirk. The belief that many +people seem to have that infants respond to smiling is possibly due to +the fact that when a grown-up person appears, both he and the infant are +likely to smile, each at the other; but although the smiles are +simultaneous one need not be the cause of the other, and many +observations lead me to think that it makes no difference to the infant +whether the grown-up person smiles or not. He has not yet learned to +appreciate this rather subtle phenomenon. + +At this and at all later ages the delight in companionship so evident in +children may be ascribed partly to specific social emotion or sentiment, +and partly to a need of stimulating suggestions to enable them to +gratify their instinct for various sorts of mental and physical +activity. The influence of the latter appears in their marked preference +for active persons, for grown-up people who will play with them—provided +they do so with tact—and especially for other children. It is the same +throughout life; alone one is like fireworks without a match: he cannot +set himself off, but is a victim of _ennui_, the prisoner of some +tiresome train of thought that holds his mind simply by the absence of a +competitor. A good companion brings release and fresh activity, the +primal delight in a fuller existence. So with the child: what excitement +when visiting children come! He shouts, laughs, jumps about, produces +his playthings and all his accomplishments. He needs to express himself, +and a companion enables him to do so. The shout of another boy in the +distance gives him the joy of shouting in response. + +But the need is for something more than muscular or sensory activities. +There is also a need of feeling, an overflowing of personal emotion and +sentiment, set free by the act of communication. By the time a child is +a year old the social feeling that at first is indistinguishable from +sensuous pleasure has become much specialized upon persons, and from +that time onward to call it forth by reciprocation is a chief aim of his +life. Perhaps it will not be out of place to emphasize this by +transcribing two or three notes taken from life. + + + “M. will now [eleven months old] hold up something she has found, _e. + g._, the petal of a flower, or a little stick, demanding your + attention to it by grunts and squeals. When you look and make some + motion or exclamation she smiles.” + + “R. [four years old] talks all day long, to real companions, if they + will listen, if not to imaginary ones. As I sit on the steps this + morning he seems to wish me to share his every thought and sensation. + He describes everything he does, although I can see it, saying, ‘Now + I’m digging up little stones,’ etc. I must look at the butterfly, feel + of the fuzz on the clover stems, and try to squawk on the dandelion + stems. Meanwhile he is reminded of what happened some other time, and + he gives me various anecdotes of what he and other people did and + said. He thinks aloud. If I seem not to listen he presently notices it + and will come up and touch me, or bend over and look up into my face.” + + “R. [about the same time] is hilariously delighted and excited when he + can get anyone to laugh or wonder with him at his pictures, etc. He + himself always shares by anticipation, and exaggerates the feeling he + expects to produce. When B. was calling, R., with his usual desire to + entertain guests, brought out his pull-book, in which pulling a strip + of pasteboard transforms the picture. When he prepared to work this he + was actually shaking with eagerness—apparently in anticipation of the + coming surprise.” + + “I watch E. and R. [four and a half years old] playing McGinty on the + couch and guessing what card will turn up. R. is in a state of intense + excitement which breaks out in boisterous laughter and all sorts of + movements of the head and limbs. He is full of an emotion which has + very little to do with mere curiosity or surprise relating to the + card.” + + +I take it that the child has by heredity a generous capacity and need +for social feeling, rather too vague and plastic to be given any +specific name like love. It is not so much any particular personal +emotion or sentiment as the undifferentiated material of many: perhaps +sociability is as good a word for it as any. + +And this material, like all other instinct, allies itself with social +experience to form, as time goes on, a growing and diversifying body of +personal thought, in which the phases of social feeling developed +correspond, in some measure, to the complexity of life itself. It is a +process of organization, involving progressive differentiation and +integration, such as we see everywhere in nature. + +In children and in simple-minded adults, kindly feeling may be very +strong and yet very naïve, involving little insight into the emotional +states of others. A child who is extremely sociable, bubbling over with +joy in companionship, may yet show a total incomprehension of pain and a +scant regard for disapproval and punishment that does not take the form +of a cessation of intercourse. In other words, there is a sociability +that asks little from others except bodily presence and an occasional +sign of attention, and often learns to supply even these by imagination. +It seems nearly or quite independent of that power of interpretation +which is the starting-point of true sympathy. While both of my children +were extremely sociable, R. was not at all sympathetic in the sense of +having quick insight into others’ states of feeling. + +Sociability in this simple form is an innocent, unself-conscious joy, +primary and unmoral, like all simple emotion. It may shine with full +brightness from the faces of idiots and imbeciles, where it sometimes +alternates with fear, rage, or lust. A visitor to an institution where +large numbers of these classes are collected will be impressed, as I +have been, with the fact that they are as a rule amply endowed with +those kindly impulses which some appear to look upon as almost the sole +requisite for human welfare. It is a singular and moving fact that there +is a class of cases, mostly women, I think, in whom kindly emotion is so +excitable as to be a frequent source of hysterical spasms, so that it +has to be discouraged by frowns and apparent harshness on the part of +those in charge. The chief difference between normal people and +imbeciles in this regard is that, while the former have more or less of +this simple kindliness in them, social emotion is also elaborately +compounded and worked up by the mind into an indefinite number of +complex passions and sentiments, corresponding to the relations and +functions of an intricate life. + + +When left to themselves children continue the joys of sociability by +means of an imaginary playmate. Although all must have noticed this who +have observed children at all, only close and constant observation will +enable one to realize the extent to which it is carried on. It is not an +occasional practice, but, rather, a necessary form of thought, flowing +from a life in which personal communication is the chief interest and +social feeling the stream in which, like boats on a river, most other +feelings float. Some children appear to live in personal imaginations +almost from the first month; others occupy their minds in early infancy +mostly with solitary experiments upon blocks, cards, and other +impersonal objects, and their thoughts are doubtless filled with the +images of these. But, in either case, after a child learns to talk and +the social world in all its wonder and provocation opens on his mind, it +floods his imagination so that all his thoughts are conversations. He is +never alone. Sometimes the inaudible interlocutor is recognizable as the +image of a tangible playmate, sometimes he appears to be purely +imaginary. Of course each child has his own peculiarities. R., beginning +when about three years of age, almost invariably talked aloud while he +was playing alone—which, as he was a first child, was very often the +case. Most commonly he would use no form of address but “you,” and +perhaps had no definite person in mind. To listen to him was like +hearing one at the telephone; though occasionally he would give both +sides of the conversation. At times again he would be calling upon some +real name, Esyllt or Dorothy, or upon “Piggy,” a fanciful person of his +own invention. Every thought seemed to be spoken out. If his mother +called him he would say, “I’ve got to go in now.” Once when he slipped +down on the floor he was heard to say, “Did you tumble down? No. _I_ +did.” + +The main point to note here is that these conversations are not +occasional and temporary effusions of the imagination, but are the naïve +expression of a socialization of the mind that is to be permanent and to +underly all later thinking. The imaginary dialogue passes beyond the +thinking aloud of little children into something more elaborate, +reticent, and sophisticated; but it never ceases. Grown people, like +children, are usually unconscious of these dialogues; as we get older we +cease, for the most part, to carry them on out loud, and some of us +practise a good deal of apparently solitary meditation and experiment. +But, speaking broadly, it is true of adults as of children, that the +mind lives in perpetual conversation. It is one of those things that we +seldom notice just because they are so familiar and involuntary; but we +can perceive it if we try to. If one suddenly stops and takes note of +his thoughts at some time when his mind has been running free, as when +he is busy with some simple mechanical work, he will be likely to find +them taking the form of vague conversations. This is particularly true +when one is somewhat excited with reference to a social situation. If he +feels under accusation or suspicion in any way he will probably find +himself making a defence, or perhaps a confession, to an imaginary +hearer. A guilty man confesses “to get the load off his mind;” that is +to say, the excitement of his thought cannot stop there but extends to +the connected impulses of expression and creates an intense need to tell +somebody. Impulsive people often talk out loud when excited, either “to +themselves,” as we say when we can see no one else present, or to anyone +whom they can get to listen. Dreams also consist very largely of +imaginary conversations; and, with some people at least, the mind runs +in dialogue during the half-waking state before going to sleep. There +are many other familiar facts that bear the same interpretation—such, +for instance, as that it is much easier for most people to compose in +the form of letters or dialogue than in any other; so that literature of +this kind has been common in all ages. + +Goethe, in giving an account of how he came to write “Werther” as a +series of letters, discusses the matter with his usual perspicuity, and +lets us see how habitually conversational was his way of thinking. +Speaking of himself in the third person, he says: “Accustomed to pass +his time most pleasantly in society, he changed even solitary thought +into social converse, and this in the following manner: He had the +habit, when he was alone, of calling before his mind any person of his +acquaintance. This person he entreated to sit down, walked up and down +by him, remained standing before him, and discoursed with him on the +subject he had in mind. To this the person answered as occasion +required, or by the ordinary gestures signified his assent or dissent—in +which every man has something peculiar to himself. The speaker then +continued to carry out further that which seemed to please the guest, or +to condition and define more closely that of which he disapproved; and +finally was polite enough to give up his own notion.... How nearly such +a dialogue is akin to a written correspondence is clear enough; only in +the latter one sees returned the confidence one has bestowed, while in +the former one creates for himself a confidence which is new, +everchanging and unreturned.”[15] “Accustomed to pass his time most +pleasantly in society, he changed even solitary thought into social +converse,” is not only a particular but a general truth, more or less +applicable to all thought. The fact is that language, developed by the +race through personal intercourse and imparted to the individual in the +same way, can never be dissociated from personal intercourse in the +mind; and since higher thought involves language, it is always a kind of +imaginary conversation. The word and the interlocutor are correlative +ideas. + + +The impulse to communicate is not so much a result of thought as it is +an inseparable part of it. They are like root and branch, two phases of +a common growth, so that the death of one presently involves that of the +other. Psychologists now teach that every thought involves an active +impulse as part of its very nature; and this impulse, with reference to +the more complex and socially developed forms of thought, takes the +shape of a need to talk, to write, and so on; and if none of these is +practicable, it expends itself in a wholly imaginary communication. + +Montaigne, who understood human nature as well, perhaps, as anyone who +ever lived, remarks: “There is no pleasure to me without communication: +there is not so much as a sprightly thought comes into my mind that it +does not grieve me to have produced alone, and that I have no one to +tell it to.”[16] And it was doubtless because he had many such thoughts +which no one was at hand to appreciate, that he took to writing essays. +The uncomprehended of all times and peoples have kept diaries for the +same reason. So, in general, a true creative impulse in literature or +art is, in one aspect, an expression of this simple, childlike need to +think aloud or _to_ somebody; to define and vivify thought by imparting +it to an imaginary companion; by developing that communicative element +which belongs to its very nature, and without which it cannot live and +grow. Many authors have confessed that they always think of some person +when they write, and I am inclined to believe that this is always more +or less definitely the case, though the writer himself may not be aware +of it. Emerson somewhere says that “the man is but half himself; the +other half is his expression,” and this is literally true. The man comes +to be through some sort of expression, and has no higher existence apart +from it; overt or imaginary it takes place all the time. + +Men apparently solitary, like Thoreau, are often the best illustrations +of the inseparability of thought and life from communication. No +sympathetic reader of his works, I should say, can fail to see that he +took to the woods and fields not because he lacked sociability, but +precisely because his sensibilities were so keen that he needed to rest +and protect them by a peculiar mode of life, and to express them by the +indirect and considerate method of literature. No man ever labored more +passionately to communicate, to give and receive adequate expression, +than he did. This may be read between the lines in all his works, and is +recorded in his diary. “I would fain communicate the wealth of my life +to men, would really give them what is most precious in my gift. I would +secrete pearls with the shell-fish and lay up honey with the bees for +them. I will sift the sunbeams for the public good. I know no riches I +would keep back. I have no private good unless it be my peculiar ability +to serve the public. This is the only individual property. Each one may +thus be innocently rich. I enclose and foster the pearl till it is +grown. I wish to communicate those parts of my life which I would gladly +live again.”[17] This shows, I think, a just notion of the relation +between the individual and society, privacy and publicity. There is, in +fact, a great deal of sound sociology in Thoreau. + +Since, therefore, the need to impart is of this primary and essential +character, we ought not to look upon it as something separable from and +additional to the need to think or to be; it is only by imparting that +one is enabled to think or to be. Everyone, in proportion to his natural +vigor, necessarily strives to communicate to others that part of his +life which he is trying to unfold in himself. It is a matter of +self-preservation, because without expression thought cannot live. +Imaginary conversation—that is, conversation carried on without the +stimulus of a visible and audible response—may satisfy the needs of the +mind for a long time. There is, indeed, an advantage to a vigorously +constructive and yet impressible imagination in restricting +communication; because in this way ideas are enabled to have a clearer +and more independent development than they could have if continually +disturbed by criticism or opposition. Thus artists, men of letters, and +productive minds of all sorts often find it better to keep their +productions to themselves until they are fully matured. But, after all, +the response must come sooner or later or thought itself will perish. +The imagination, in time, loses the power to create an interlocutor who +is not corroborated by any fresh experience. If the artist finds no +appreciator for his book or picture he will scarcely be able to produce +another. + +People differ much in the vividness of their imaginative sociability. +The more simple, concrete, dramatic, their habit of mind is, the more +their thinking is carried on in terms of actual conversation with a +visible and audible interlocutor. Women, as a rule, probably do this +more vividly than men, the unlettered more vividly than those trained to +abstract thought, and the sort of people we call emotional more vividly +than the impassive. Moreover, the interlocutor is a very mutable person, +and is likely to resemble the last strong character we have been in +contact with. I have noticed, for instance, that when I take up a book +after a person of decided and interesting character has been talking +with me I am likely to hear the words of the book in his voice. The same +is true of opinions, moral standards, and the like, as well as of +physical traits. In short, the interlocutor, who is half of all thought +and life, is drawn from the accessible environment. + +It is worth noting here that there is no separation between real and +imaginary persons; indeed, to be imagined is to become real, in a social +sense, as I shall presently point out. An invisible person may easily be +more real to an imaginative mind than a visible one; sensible presence +is not necessarily a matter of the first importance. A person can be +real to us only in the degree in which we imagine an inner life which +exists in us, for the time being, and which we refer to him. The +sensible presence is important chiefly in stimulating us to do this. All +real persons are imaginary in this sense. If, however, we use imaginary +in the sense of illusory, an imagination not corresponding to fact, it +is easy to see that visible presence is no bar to illusion. Thus I meet +a stranger on the steamboat who corners me and tells me his private +history. I care nothing for it, and he half knows that I do not; he uses +me only as a lay figure to sustain the agreeable illusion of sympathy, +and is talking to an imaginary companion quite as he might if I were +elsewhere. So likewise good manners are largely a tribute to imaginary +companionship, a make believe of sympathy which it is agreeable to +accept as real, though we may know, when we think, that it is not. To +conceive a kindly and approving companion is something that one +involuntarily tries to do, in accordance with that instinctive +hedonizing inseparable from all wholesome mental processes, and to +assist in this by at least a seeming of friendly appreciation is +properly regarded as a part of good breeding. To be always sincere would +be brutally to destroy this pleasant and mostly harmless figment of the +imagination. + +Thus the imaginary companionship which a child of three or four years so +naïvely creates and expresses, is something elementary and almost +omnipresent in the thought of a normal person. In fact, thought and +personal intercourse may be regarded as merely aspects of the same +thing: we call it personal intercourse when the suggestions that keep it +going are received through faces or other symbols present to the senses; +reflection when the personal suggestions come through memory and are +more elaborately worked over in thought. But both are mental, both are +personal. Personal images, as they are connected with nearly all our +higher thought in its inception, remain inseparable from it in memory. +The mind is not a hermit’s cell, but a place of hospitality and +intercourse. We have no higher life that is really apart from other +people. It is by imagining them that our personality is built up; to be +without the power of imagining them is to be a low-grade idiot; and in +the measure that a mind is lacking in this power it is degenerate. Apart +from this mental society there is no wisdom, no power, justice, or +right, no higher existence at all. The life of the mind is essentially a +life of intercourse. + + +Let us now consider somewhat more carefully the way in which ideas of +people grow up in the mind, and try to make out, as nearly as we can, +their real nature and significance. + +The studies through which the child learns, in time, to interpret +personal expression are very early begun. On her twelfth day M. was +observed to get her eyes upon her mother’s face; and after gazing for +some time at it she seemed attracted to the eyes, into which she looked +quite steadily. From the end of the first month this face study was very +frequent and long-continued. Doubtless anyone who notices infants could +multiply indefinitely observations like the following: + + + “M., in her eighth week, lies in her mother’s lap gazing up at her + face with a frown of fixed and anxious attention. Evidently the play + of the eyes and lips, the flashing of the teeth, and the wrinkles of + expression are the object of her earnest study. So also the coaxing + noises which are made to please her.” + + “She now [four months and twenty-one days old] seems to fix her + attention almost entirely upon the eyes, and will stare at them for a + minute or more with the most intent expression.” + + +The eye seems to receive most notice. As Perez says: “The eye is one of +the most interesting and attractive of objects; the vivacity of the +pupil set in its oval background of white, its sparkles, its darts of +light, its tender looks, its liquid depths, attract and fascinate a +young child....”[18] The mouth also gets much attention, especially when +in movement; I have sometimes noticed a child who is looking into the +eyes turn from them to the mouth when the person commences to talk: the +flashing of the teeth then adds to its interest. The voice is also the +object of close observation. The intentness with which a child listens +to it, the quickness with which he learns to distinguish different +voices and different inflections of the same voice, and the fact that +vocal imitation precedes other sorts, all show this. It cannot fail to +strike the observer that observation of these traits is not merely +casual, but a strenuous study, often accompanied by a frown of earnest +attention. The mind is evidently aroused, something important is going +on, something conscious, voluntary, eager. It would seem likely that +this something is the storing up, arrangement, and interpretation of +those images of expression which remain throughout life the +starting-point of personal imaginations. + +The wrinkles about the eyes and mouth, which are perhaps the most +expressive parts of the countenance, would not be so noticeable at first +as the eyes, the lips, and the teeth, but they are always in the field +of vision, and in time their special significance as a seat of +expression comes to be noticed and studied. M. appeared to understand a +smile sufficiently to be pleased by it about the end of the tenth month. +The first unequivocal case of smiling in response to a smile was noticed +on the twenty-sixth day of this month. Even at this age smiling is not +imitative in the sense of being a voluntary repetition of the other’s +action, but appears to be merely an involuntary expression of pleasure. +Facial expression is one of the later things to be imitated, for the +reason, apparently, that the little child cannot be aware of the +expression of his own countenance as he can hear his own voice or see +his own hands; and therefore does not so soon learn to control it and to +make it a means of voluntary imitation. He learns this only when he +comes to study his features in the looking-glass. This children do as +early as the second year, when they may be observed experimenting before +the mirror with all sorts of gestures and grimaces. + +The interpretation of a smile, or of any sort of facial expression, is +apparently learned much as other things are. By constant study of the +face from the first month the child comes, in time, to associate the +wrinkles that form a smile with pleasant experiences—fondling, coaxing, +offering of playthings or of the bottle, and so on. Thus the smile comes +to be recognized as a harbinger of pleasure, and so is greeted with a +smile. Its absence, on the other hand, is associated with inattention +and indifference. Toward the end of the fifth month M., on one occasion, +seemed to notice the change from a smile to a frown, and stopped smiling +herself. However, a number of observations taken in the tenth month show +that even then it was doubtful whether she could be made to smile merely +by seeing someone else do it; and, as I say, the first unequivocal case +was noticed toward the end of this month. + +Such evidence as we have from the direct observation of children does +not seem to me to substantiate the opinion that we have a definite +instinctive sensibility to facial expression. Whatever hereditary +element there is I imagine to be very vague, and incapable of producing +definite phenomena without the aid of experience. I experimented upon my +own and some other children with frowns, attempts at ferocity, and +pictures of faces, as well as with smiles—in order to elicit instinctive +apprehension of expression, but during the first year these phenomena +seemed to produce no definite effect. At about fifteen months M. +appeared to be dismayed by a savage expression assumed while playing +with her, and at about the same period became very sensitive to frowns. +The impression left upon me was that after a child learns to expect a +smiling face as the concomitant of kindness, he is puzzled, troubled, or +startled when it is taken away, and moreover learns by experience that +frowns and gravity mean disapproval and opposition. I imagine that +children fail to understand any facial expression that is quite new to +them. An unfamiliar look, an expression of ferocity for example, may +excite vague alarm simply because it is strange; or, as is very likely +with children used to kind treatment, this or any other contortion of +the face may be welcomed with a laugh on the assumption that it is some +new kind of play. I feel sure that observation will dissipate the notion +of any _definite_ instinctive capacity to interpret the countenance. + +I might also mention, as having some bearing upon this question of +definite hereditary ideas, that my children did not show that +instinctive fear of animals that some believe to be implanted in us. R., +the elder, until about three years of age, delighted in animals, and +when taken to the menagerie regarded the lions and tigers with the +calmest interest; but later, apparently as a result of rude treatment by +a puppy, became exceedingly timid. M. has never, so far as I know, shown +any fear of any animal. + +As regards sounds, there is no doubt of a vague instinctive +susceptibility, at least to what is harsh—sharp, or plaintive. Children +less than a month old will show pain at such sounds. A harsh cry, or a +sharp sound like that of a tin horn, will sometimes make them draw down +the mouth and cry even during the first week. + +Darwin records that in one of his children sympathy “was clearly shown +at six months and eleven days by his melancholy face, with the corners +of his mouth well depressed, when his nurse pretended to cry.”[19] Such +manifestations are probably caused rather by the plaintive voice than by +facial expression; at any rate, I have never been able to produce them +by the latter alone. + +Some believe that young children have an intuition of personal character +quicker and more trustworthy than that of grown people. If this were so +it would be a strong argument in favor of the existence of a congenital +instinct which does not need experience and is impaired by it. My own +belief is that close observation of children under two years of age will +lead to the conclusion that personal impressions are developed by +experience. Yet it is possibly true that children three years old or +more are sometimes quicker and more acute judges of some traits, such as +sincerity and good will, than grown people. In so far as it is a fact it +may perhaps be explained in this way. The faces that children see and +study are mostly full of the expression of love and truth. Nothing like +it occurs in later life, even to the most fortunate. These images, we +may believe, give rise in the child’s mind to a more or less definite +ideal of what a true and kindly face should be, and this ideal he uses +with great effect in detecting what falls short of it. He sees that +there is something wrong with the false smile; it does not fit the image +in his mind; some lines are not there, others are exaggerated. He does +not understand what coldness and insincerity are, but their expression +puzzles and alarms him, merely because it is not what he is used to. The +adult loses this clear, simple ideal of love and truth, and the sharp +judgment that flows from it. His perception becomes somewhat vulgarized +by a flood of miscellaneous experience, and he sacrifices childish +spontaneity to wider range and more complex insight, valuing and +studying many traits of which the child knows nothing. It will not be +seriously maintained that, on the whole, we know people better when we +are children than we do later. + +I put forward these scanty observations for what little they may be +worth, and not as disproving the existence of special instincts in which +Darwin and other great observers have believed. I do not maintain that +there is no hereditary aptitude to interpret facial expression—there +must be some sort of an instinctive basis to start from—but I think that +it develops gradually and in indistinguishable conjunction with +knowledge gained by experience. + +Apparently, then, voice, facial expression, gesture, and the like, which +later become the vehicle of personal impressions and the sensible basis +of sympathy, are attractive at first chiefly for their sensuous variety +and vividness, very much as other bright, moving, sounding things are +attractive; and the interpretation of them comes gradually by the +interworking of instinct and observation. This interpretation is nothing +other than the growth, in connection with these sensuous experiences, of +a system of ideas that we associate with them. The interpretation of an +angry look, for instance, consists in the expectation of angry words and +acts, in feelings of resentment or fear, and so on; in short, it is our +whole mental reaction to this sign. It may consist in part of +sympathetic states of mind, that is in states of mind that we suppose +the other to experience also; but it is not confined to such. These +ideas that enrich the meaning of the symbol—the resentment or fear, for +instance—have all, no doubt, their roots in instinct; we are born with +the crude raw material of such feelings. And it is precisely in the act +of communication, in social contact of some sort, that this material +grows, that it gets the impulses that give it further definition, +refinement, organization. It is by intercourse with others that we +expand our inner experience. In other words, and this is the point of +the matter, the personal idea consists at first and in all later +development, of a sensuous element or symbol with which is connected a +more or less complex body of thought and sentiment; the whole social in +genesis, formed by a series of communications. + + +What do we think of when we think of a person? Is not the nucleus of the +thought an image of the sort just mentioned, some ghost of +characteristic expression? It may be a vague memory of lines around the +mouth and eyes, or of other lines indicating pose, carriage, or gesture; +or it may be an echo of some tone or inflection of the voice. I am +unable, perhaps, to call up any distinct outline of the features of my +best friend, of my own mother, or my child; but I can see a smile, a +turn of the eyelid, a way of standing or sitting, indistinct and +flitting glimpses, but potent to call up those past states of feeling of +which personal memories are chiefly formed. The most real thing in +physical presence is not height, nor breadth, nor the shape of the nose +or forehead, nor that of any other comparatively immobile part of the +body, but it is something in the plastic, expressive features: these are +noticed and remembered because they tell us what we most care to know. + +The judgment of personal character seems to take place in much the same +way. We estimate a man, I think, by imagining what he would do in +various situations. Experience supplies us with an almost infinite +variety of images of men in action, that is of impressions of faces, +tones, and the like, accompanied by certain other elements making up a +situation. When we wish to judge a new face, voice, and form, we +unconsciously ask ourselves where they would fit; we try them in various +situations, and if they fit, if we can think of them as doing the things +without incongruity, we conclude that we have that kind of a man to deal +with. If I can imagine a man intimidated, I do not respect him; if I can +imagine him lying, I do not trust him; if I can see him receiving, +comprehending, resisting men and disposing them in accordance with his +own plans, I ascribe executive ability to him; if I can think of him in +his study patiently working out occult problems, I judge him to be a +scholar; and so on. The symbol before us reminds us of some other symbol +resembling it, and this brings with it a whole group of ideas which +constitutes our personal impression of the new man.[20] + +The power to make these judgments is intuitive, imaginative, not arrived +at by ratiocination, but it is dependent upon experience. I have no +belief in the theory, which I have seen suggested, that we unconsciously +imitate other people’s expression, and then judge of their character by +noting how we feel when we look like them. The men of uncommon insight +into character are usually somewhat impassive in countenance and not +given to facial imitation. Most of us become to some extent judges of +the character of dogs, so that we can tell by the tone of a dog’s bark +whether he is a biting dog or only a barking dog. Surely imitation can +have nothing to do with this; we do not imitate the dog’s bark to learn +whether he is serious or not; we observe, remember, and imagine; and it +seems to me that we judge people in much the same way. + + +These visible and audible signs of personality, these lines and tones +whose meaning is impressed upon us by the intense and constant +observation of our childhood, are also a chief basis of the +communication of impressions in art and literature. + +This is evidently the case in those arts which imitate the human face +and figure. Painters and illustrators give the most minute study to +facial expression, and suggest various sentiments by bits of light and +shade so subtle that the uninitiated cannot see what or where they are, +although their effect is everything as regards the depiction of +personality. It is the failure to reproduce them that makes the +emptiness of nearly all copies of famous painting or sculpture that +represents the face. Perhaps not one person in a thousand, comparing the +“Mona Lisa” or the “Beatrice Cenci” with one of the mediocre copies +generally standing near them, can point out where the painter of the +latter has gone amiss; yet the difference is like that between life and +a wax image. The chief fame of some painters rests upon their power to +portray and suggest certain rare kinds of feeling. Thus the people of +Fra Angelico express to the eye the higher love, described in words by +St. Paul and Thomas à Kempis. It is a distinctly human and social +sentiment; his persons are nearly always in pairs, and, in his Paradise +for instance, almost every face among the blest is directed in rapture +toward some other face. Other painters, as Botticelli and Perugino—alike +in this respect though not in most—depict a more detached sort of +sentiment; and their people look out of the picture in isolated ecstasy +or meditation. + +Sculpture appeals more to reminiscence of attitude, facial expression +being somewhat subordinate, though here also the difference between +originals and copies is largely in the lines of the eyes and mouth, too +delicate to be reproduced by the mechanical instruments which copy +broader outlines quite exactly. + +As to literature, it is enough to recall the fact that words allusive to +traits of facial expression, and especially to the eye, are the +immemorial and chosen means of suggesting personality.[21] To poetry, +which seeks the sensuous nucleus of thought, the eye is very generally +the person; as when Shakespeare says: + + “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, + I all alone beweep my outcast state....” + +or Milton: + + “Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.” + +Poetry, however, usually refrains from minute description of expression, +a thing impossible in words, and strikes for a vivid, if inexact, +impression, by the use of such phrases as “a fiery eye,” “a liquid eye,” +and “The poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling.”[22] + +We also get from every art a personal impression that does not come from +the imitation of features and tones, nor from a description of these in +words, but is the personality of the author himself, subtly communicated +by something that we interpret as signs of his state of mind. When one +reads Motley’s histories he gets a personal impression not only of the +Prince of Orange or Alexander of Parma, but also of Mr. Motley; and the +same is true or may be true of any work of art, however “objective” it +may be. What we call style, when we say “The style is the man,” is the +equivalent, in the artist’s way of doing things, of those visible and +audible traits of the form and voice by which we judge people who are +bodily present.[23] “Every work of genius,” says John Burroughs, “has +its own physiognomy—sad, cheerful, frowning, yearning, determined, +meditative.” Just as we are glad of the presence of certain forms and +faces, because of the mood they put us in, so we are glad of the +physiognomy of certain writers in their books, quite apart from the +intellectual content of what they say; and this is the subtlest, most +durable, most indispensable charm of all. Every lover of books has +authors whom he reads over and over again, whom he cares for as persons +and not as sources of information, who are more to him, possibly, than +any person he sees. He continually returns to the cherished companion +and feeds eagerly upon his thought. It is because there is something in +the book which he needs, which awakens and directs trains of thought +that lead him where he likes to be led. The thing that does this is +something personal and hard to define; it is in the words and yet not in +any definite information that they convey. It is rather an attitude, a +way of feeling, communicated by a style faithful to the writer’s mind. +Some people find pleasure and profit, for example, in perusing even the +somewhat obscure and little inspired portions of Goethe’s writings, like +the “Campaigns in France”; it would perhaps be impossible to tell why, +further than by saying that they get the feeling of something calm, free +and onward which is Goethe himself, and not to be had elsewhere. + +And so anyone who practises literary composition, even of a pedestrian +sort, will find at least one reward for his pains in a growing insight +into the personality of great writers. He will come to feel that such a +word was chosen or such a sentence framed in just that way, under the +influence of such a purpose or sentiment, and by putting these +impressions together, will presently arrive at some personal +acquaintance with any author whose character and aims are at all +congenial with his own. + +We feel this more in literature than in any other art, and more in prose +of an intimate sort than in any other kind of literature. The reason +appears to be that writing, particularly writing of a familiar kind, +like letters and autobiographies, is something which we all practise in +one way or another, and which we can, therefore, interpret; while the +methods of other arts are beyond our imaginations. It is easy to share +the spirit of Charles Lamb writing his Letters, or of Montaigne +dictating his Essays, or of Thackeray discoursing in the first person +about his characters; because they merely did what all of us do, only +did it better. On the other hand, Michelangelo, or Wagner, or +Shakespeare—except in his sonnets—remains for most of us personally +remote and inconceivable. But a painter, or a composer, or a sculptor, +or a poet, will always get an impression of personality, of style, from +another artist of the same sort, because his experience enables him to +feel the subtle indications of mood and method. Mr. Frith, the painter, +says in his autobiography that a picture “will betray the real character +of its author; who, in the unconscious development of his peculiarities, +constantly presents to the initiated signs by which an infallible +judgment may be pronounced on the painter’s mind and character.”[24] In +fact, it is true of any earnest career that a man expresses his +character in his work, and that another man of similar aims can read +what he expresses. We see in General Grant’s Memoirs, how an able +commander feels the personality of an opponent in the movements of his +armies, imagines what he will do in various exigencies, and deals with +him accordingly. + +These personal impressions of a writer or other artist may or may not be +accompanied by a vague imagination of his visible appearance. Some +persons have so strong a need to think in connection with visual images +that they seem to form no notion of personality without involuntarily +imagining what the person looks like; while others can have a strong +impression of feeling and purpose that seems not to be accompanied by +any visual picture. There can be no doubt, however, that sensible images +of the face, voice, etc., usually go with personal ideas. Our earliest +personal conceptions grow up about such images; and they always remain +for most of us the principal means of getting hold of other people. +Naturally, they have about the same relative place in memory and +imagination as they do in observation. Probably, if we could get to the +bottom of the matter, it would be found that our impression of a writer +is always accompanied by some idea of his sensible appearance, is always +associated with a physiognomy, even when we are not aware of it. Can +anyone, for example, read Macaulay and think of a soft and delicately +inflected voice? I imagine not: these periods must be connected with a +sonorous and somewhat mechanical utterance; the sort of person that +speaks softly and with delicate inflections would have written +otherwise. On the other hand, in reading Robert Louis Stevenson it is +impossible, I should say, not to get the impression of a sensitive and +flexible speech. Such impressions are mostly vague and may be incorrect, +but for sympathetic readers they exist and constitute a real, though +subtle, physiognomy. + +Not only the idea of particular persons but that of social groups seems +to have a sensible basis in these ghosts of expression. The sentiment by +which one’s family, club, college, state or country is realized in his +mind is stimulated by vague images, largely personal. Thus the spirit of +a college fraternity seems to come back to me through a memory of the +old rooms and of the faces of friends. The idea of country is a rich and +various one and has connected with it many sensuous symbols—such as +flags, music, and the rhythm of patriotic poetry—that are not directly +personal; but it is chiefly an idea of personal traits that we share and +like, as set over against others that are different and repugnant. We +think of America as the land of freedom, simplicity, cordiality, +equality, and so on, in antithesis to other countries which we suppose +to be otherwise—and we think of these traits by imagining the people +that embody them. For countless school children patriotism begins in +sympathy with our forefathers in resistance to the hateful oppression +and arrogance of the British, and this fact of early training largely +accounts for the perennial popularity of the anti-British side in +international questions. Where the country has a permanent ruler to +typify it his image is doubtless a chief element in the patriotic idea. +On the other hand, the impulse which we feel to personify country, or +anything else that awakens strong emotion in us, shows our imaginations +to be so profoundly personal that deep feeling almost inevitably +connects itself with a personal image. In short, group sentiment, in so +far as it is awakened by definite images, is only a variety of personal +sentiment. A sort of vague agitation, however, is sometimes produced by +mere numbers. Thus public opinion is sometimes thought of as a vast +impersonal force, like a great wind, though ordinarily it is conceived +simply as the opinion of particular persons, whose expressions or tones +are more or less definitely imagined. + + +In the preceding I have considered the rise of personal ideas chiefly +from the point of view of the visual or auditory element in them—the +personal symbol or vehicle of communication; but of course there is a +parallel growth in feeling. An infant’s states of feeling may be +supposed to be nearly as crude as his ideas of the appearance of things; +and the process that gives form, variety, and coherence to the latter +does the same for the former. It is precisely the act of intercourse, +the stimulation of the mind by a personal symbol, which gives a +formative impulse to the vague mass of hereditary feeling-tendency, and +this impulse, in turn, results in a larger power of interpreting the +symbol. It is not to be supposed, for instance, that such feelings as +generosity, respect, mortification, emulation, the sense of honor, and +the like, are an original endowment of the mind. Like all the finer and +larger mental life these arise in conjunction with communication and +could not exist without it. It is these finer modes of feeling, these +intricate branchings or differentiations of the primitive trunk of +emotion, to which the name sentiments is usually applied. Personal +sentiments are correlative with personal symbols, the interpretation of +the latter meaning nothing more than that the former are associated with +them; while the sentiments, in turn, cannot be felt except by the aid of +the symbols. If I see a face and feel that here is an honest man, it +means that I have, in the past, achieved through intercourse an idea of +honest personality, with the visual elements of which the face before me +has something in common, so that it calls up this socially achieved +sentiment. And moreover in knowing this honest man my idea of honest +personality will be enlarged and corrected for future use. Both the +sentiment and its visual associations will be somewhat different from +what they were. + +Thus no personal sentiment is the exclusive product of any one +influence, but all is of various origin and has a social history. The +more clearly one can grasp this fact the better, at least if I am right +in supposing that a whole system of wrong thinking results from +overlooking it and assuming that personal ideas are separable and +fragmentary elements in the mind. Of this I shall say more presently. +The fact I mean is that expressed by Shakespeare, with reference to +love, or loving friendship, in his thirty-first sonnet: + + “Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, + Which I by lacking have supposed dead, + And there reigns love, and all love’s loving parts, + And all those friends which I thought buried. + + + Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, + Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, + Who all their parts of me to thee did give; + That due of many now is thine alone: + Their images I loved I view in thee, + And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.” + +In this sonnet may be discerned, I think, a true theory of personal +sentiment, quite accordant with the genetic point of view of modern +psychology, and very important in the understanding of social relations. + +Facial expression, tone of voice, and the like, the sensible nucleus of +personal and social ideas, serve as the handle, so to speak, of such +ideas, the principal substance of which is drawn from the region of +inner imagination and sentiment. The personality of a friend, as it +lives in my mind and forms there a part of the society in which I live, +is simply a group or system of thoughts associated with the symbols that +stand for him. To think of him is to revive some part of the system—to +have the old feeling along with the familiar symbol, though perhaps in a +new connection with other ideas. The real and intimate thing in him is +the thought to which he gives life, the feeling his presence or memory +has the power to suggest. This clings about the sensible imagery, the +personal symbols already discussed, because the latter have served as +bridges by which we have entered other minds and therein enriched our +own. We have laid up stores, but we always need some help to get at them +in order that we may use and increase them; and this help commonly +consists in something visible or audible, which has been connected with +them in the past and now acts as a key by which they are unlocked. Thus +the face of a friend has power over us in much the same way as the sight +of a favorite book, of the flag of one’s country, or the refrain of an +old song; it starts a train of thought, lifts the curtain from an +intimate experience. And his presence does not consist in the pressure +of his flesh upon a neighboring chair, but in the thoughts clustering +about some symbol of him, whether the latter be his tangible person or +something else. If a person is more his best self in a letter than in +speech, as sometimes happens, he is more truly present to me in his +correspondence than when I see and hear him. And in most cases a +favorite writer is more with us in his book than he ever could have been +in the flesh; since, being a writer, he is one who has studied and +perfected this particular mode of personal incarnation, very likely to +the detriment of any other. I should like as a matter of curiosity to +see and hear for a moment the men whose works I admire; but I should +hardly expect to find further intercourse particularly profitable. + +The world of sentiment and imagination, of all finer and warmer thought, +is chiefly a personal world—that is, it is inextricably interwoven with +personal symbols. If you try to think of a person you will find that +what you really think is chiefly sentiments which you connect with his +image; and, on the other hand, if you try to recall a sentiment you will +find, as a rule, that it will not come up except along with symbols of +the persons who have suggested it. To think of love, gratitude, pity, +grief, honor, courage, justice, and the like, it is necessary to think +of people by whom or toward whom these sentiments may be +entertained.[25] Thus justice may be recalled by thinking of Washington, +kindness by Lincoln, honor by Sir Philip Sidney, and so on. The reason +for this, as already intimated, is that sentiment and imagination are +generated, for the most part, in the life of communication, and so +belong with personal images by original and necessary association, +having no separate existence except in our forms of speech. The ideas +that such words as modesty and magnanimity stand for could never have +been formed apart from social intercourse, and indeed are nothing other +than remembered aspects of such intercourse. To live this higher life, +then, we must live with others, by the aid of their visible presence, by +reading their words, or by recalling in imagination these or other +symbols of them. To lose our hold upon them—as, for example, by long +isolation or by the decay of the imagination in disease or old age—is to +lapse into a life of sensation and crude instinct. + + +So far as the study of immediate social relations is concerned the +personal idea is the real person. That is to say, it is in this alone +that one man exists for another, and acts directly upon his mind. My +association with you evidently consists in the relation between my idea +of you and the rest of my mind. If there is something in you that is +wholly beyond this and makes no impression upon me it has no social +reality in this relation. _The immediate social reality is the personal +idea_; nothing, it would seem, could be much more obvious than this. + +Society, then, in its immediate aspect, _is a relation among personal +ideas_. In order to have society it is evidently necessary that persons +should get together somewhere; and they get together only as personal +ideas in the mind. Where else? What other possible _locus_ can be +assigned for the real contact of persons, or in what other form can they +come in contact except as impressions or ideas formed in this common +_locus_? Society exists in my mind as the contact and reciprocal +influence of certain ideas named “I,” Thomas, Henry, Susan, Bridget, and +so on. It exists in your mind as a similar group, and so in every mind. +Each person is immediately aware of a particular aspect of society: and +so far as he is aware of great social wholes, like a nation or an epoch, +it is by embracing in this particular aspect ideas or sentiments which +he attributes to his countrymen or contemporaries in their collective +aspect. In order to see this it seems to me only necessary to discard +vague modes of speech which have no conceptions back of them that will +bear scrutiny, and look at the facts as we know them in experience. + +Yet most of us, perhaps, will find it hard to assent to the view that +the social person is a group of sentiments attached to some symbol or +other characteristic element, which keeps them together and from which +the whole idea is named. The reason for this reluctance I take to be +that we are accustomed to talk and think, so far as we do think in this +connection, as if a person were a material rather than a psychical fact. +Instead of basing our sociology and ethics upon what a man really is as +part of our mental and moral life, he is vaguely and yet grossly +regarded as a shadowy material body, a lump of flesh, and not as an +ideal thing at all. But surely it is only common-sense to hold that the +social and moral reality is that which lives in our imaginations and +affects our motives. As regards the physical it is only the finer, more +plastic and mentally significant aspects of it that imagination is +concerned with, and with that chiefly as a nucleus or centre of +crystallization for sentiment. Instead of perceiving this we commonly +make the physical the dominant factor, and think of the mental and moral +only by a vague analogy to it. + + +Persons and society must, then, be studied primarily in the imagination. +It is surely true, _prima facie_, that the best way of observing things +is that which is most direct; and I do not see how anyone can hold that +we know persons directly except as imaginative ideas in the mind. These +are perhaps the most vivid things in our experience, and as observable +as anything else, though it is a kind of observation in which accuracy +has not been systematically cultivated. The observation of the physical +aspects, however important, is for social purposes quite subsidiary: +there is no way of weighing or measuring men which throws more than a +very dim side-light on their personality. The physical factors most +significant are those elusive traits of expression already discussed, +and in the observation and interpretation of these physical science is +only indirectly helpful. What, for instance, could the most elaborate +knowledge of his weights and measures, including the anatomy of his +brain, tell us of the character of Napoleon? Not enough, I take it, to +distinguish him with certainty from an imbecile. Our real knowledge of +him is derived from reports of his conversation and manner, from his +legislation and military dispositions, from the impression made upon +those about him and by them communicated to us, from his portraits and +the like; all serving as aids to the imagination in forming a system +that we call by his name. I by no means aim to discredit the study of +man or of society with the aid of physical measurements, such as those +of psychological laboratories; but I think that these methods are +indirect and ancillary in their nature and are most useful when employed +in connection with a trained imagination. + +I conclude, therefore, that the imaginations which people have of one +another are the _solid facts_ of society, and that to observe and +interpret these must be a chief aim of sociology. I do not mean merely +that society must be studied _by_ the imagination—that is true of all +investigations in their higher reaches—but that the _object_ of study is +primarily an imaginative idea or group of ideas in the mind, that we +have to imagine imaginations. The intimate grasp of any social fact will +be found to require that we divine what men think of one another. +Charity, for instance, is not understood without imagining what ideas +the giver and recipient have of each other; to grasp homicide we must, +for one thing, conceive how the offender thinks of his victim and of the +administrators of the law; the relation between the employing and +hand-laboring classes is first of all a matter of personal attitudes +which we must apprehend by sympathy with both, and so on. In other +words, we want to get at motives, and motives spring from personal +ideas. There is nothing particularly novel in this view; historians, for +instance, have always assumed that to understand and interpret personal +relations was their main business; but apparently the time is coming +when this will have to be done in a more systematic and penetrating +manner than in the past. Whatever may justly be urged against the +introduction of frivolous and disconnected “personalities” into history, +the understanding of persons is the aim of this and all other branches +of social study. + + +It is important to face the question of persons who have no corporeal +reality, as for instance the dead, characters of fiction or the drama, +ideas of the gods and the like. Are these real people, members of +society? I should say that in so far as we imagine them they are. Would +it not be absurd to deny social reality to Robert Louis Stevenson, who +is so much alive in many minds and so potently affects important phases +of thought and conduct? He is certainly more real in this practical +sense than most of us who have not yet lost our corporeity, more alive, +perhaps, than he was before he lost his own, because of his wider +influence. And so Colonel Newcome, or Romola, or Hamlet is real to the +imaginative reader with the realest kind of reality, the kind that works +directly upon his personal character. And the like is true of the +conceptions of supernatural beings handed down by the aid of tradition +among all peoples. What, indeed, would society be, or what would any one +of us be, if we associated only with corporeal persons and insisted that +no one should enter our company who could not show his power to tip the +scales and cast a shadow? + +On the other hand, a corporeally existent person is not socially real +unless he is imagined. If the nobleman thinks of the serf as a mere +animal and does not attribute to him a human way of thinking and feeling +the latter is not real to him in the sense of acting personally upon his +mind and conscience. And if a man should go into a strange country and +hide himself so completely that no one knew he was there, he would +evidently have no social existence for the inhabitants. + +In saying this I hope I do not seem to question the independent reality +of persons or to confuse it with personal ideas. The man is one thing +and the various ideas entertained about him are another; but the latter, +the personal idea, is the immediate social reality, the thing in which +men exist for one another, and work directly upon one another’s lives. +Thus any study of society that is not supported by a firm grasp of +personal ideas is empty and dead—mere doctrine and not knowledge at all. + + +I believe that the vaguely material notion of personality, which does +not confront the social fact at all but assumes it to be the analogue of +the physical fact, is a main source of fallacious thinking about ethics, +politics, and indeed every aspect of social and personal life. It seems +to underlie all four of the ways of conceiving society and the +individual alleged in the first chapter to be false. If the person is +thought of primarily as a separate material form, inhabited by thoughts +and feelings conceived by analogy to be equally separate, then the only +way of getting a society is by adding on a new principle of socialism, +social faculty, altruism, or the like. But if you start with the idea +that the social person is primarily a fact in the mind, and observe him +there, you find at once that he has no existence apart from a mental +whole of which all personal ideas are members, and which is a particular +aspect of society. Every one of these ideas, as we have seen, is the +outcome of our experience of all the persons we have known, and is only +a special aspect of our general idea of mankind. + +To many people it would seem mystical to say that persons, as we know +them, are not separable and mutually exclusive, like physical bodies, so +that what is part of one cannot be part of another, but that they +interpenetrate one another, the same element pertaining to different +persons at different times, or even at the same time: yet this is a +verifiable and not very abstruse fact.[26] The sentiments which make up +the largest and most vivid part of our idea of any person are not, as a +rule, peculiarly and exclusively his, but each one may be entertained in +conjunction with other persons also. It is, so to speak, at the point of +intersection of many personal ideas, and may be reached through any one +of them. Not only Philip Sidney but many other people call up the +sentiment of honor, and likewise with kindness, magnanimity, and so on. +Perhaps these sentiments are never precisely the same in any two cases, +but they are nearly enough alike to act in about the same manner upon +our motives, which is the main thing from a practical point of view. Any +kindly face will arouse friendly feeling, any suffering child awaken +pity, any brave man inspire respect. A sense of justice, of something +being due to a man as such, is potentially a part of the idea of every +man I know. All such feelings are a cumulative product of social +experience and do not belong exclusively to any one personal symbol. A +sentiment, if we consider it as something in itself, is vaguely, +indeterminately personal; it may come to life, with only slight +variations, in connection with any one of many symbols; whether it is +referred to one or to another, or to two or more at once, is determined +by the way one’s thoughts arrange themselves, by the connection in which +the sentiment is suggested. + + +As regards one’s self in relation to other people, I shall have more to +say in a later chapter; but I may say here that there is no view of the +self, that will bear examination, which makes it altogether distinct, in +our minds, from other persons. If it includes the whole mind, then, of +course, it includes all the persons we think of, all the society which +lives in our thoughts. If we confine it to a certain part of our thought +with which we connect a distinctive emotion or sentiment called +self-feeling, as I prefer to do, it still includes the persons with whom +we feel most identified. _Self and other do not exist as mutually +exclusive social facts_, and phraseology which implies that they do, +like the antithesis egoism _versus_ altruism, is open to the objection +of vagueness, if not of falsity.[27] It seems to me that the +classification of impulses as altruistic and egoistic, with or without a +third class called, perhaps, ego-altruistic, is empty; and I do not see +how any other conclusion can result from a concrete study of the matter. +There is no class of altruistic impulses specifically different from +other impulses: all our higher, socially developed sentiments are +indeterminately personal, and may be associated with self-feeling, or +with whatever personal symbol may happen to arouse them. Those feelings +which are merely sensual and have not been refined into sentiments by +communication and imagination are not so much egoistic as merely animal: +they do not pertain to social persons, either first or second, but +belong in a lower stratum of thought. Sensuality is not to be confused +with the social self. As I shall try to show later we do not think “I” +except with reference to a complementary thought of other persons; it is +an idea developed by association and communication. + +The egoism-altruism way of speaking falsifies the facts at the most +vital point possible by assuming that our impulses relating to persons +are separable into two classes, the I impulses and the You impulses, in +much the same way that physical persons are separable; whereas a primary +fact throughout the range of sentiment is a fusion of persons, so that +the impulse belongs not to one or the other, but precisely to the common +ground that both occupy, to their intercourse or mingling. Thus the +sentiment of gratitude does not pertain to me as against you, nor to you +as against me, but springs right from our union, and so with all +personal sentiment. Special terms like egoism and altruism are +presumably introduced into moral discussions for the more accurate +naming of facts. But I cannot discover the facts for which these are +supposed to be names. The more I consider the matter the more they +appear to be mere fictions of analogical thought. If you have no +definite idea of personality or self beyond the physical idea you are +naturally led to regard the higher phases of thought, which have no +evident relation to the body, as in some way external to the first +person or self. Thus instead of psychology, sociology, or ethics we have +a mere shadow of physiology. + +Pity is typical of the impulses ordinarily called altruistic; but if one +thinks of the question closely it is hard to see how this adjective is +especially applicable to it. Pity is not aroused exclusively by images +or symbols of other persons, as against those of one’s self. If I think +of my own body in a pitiable condition I am perhaps as likely to feel +pity as if I think of someone else in such a condition.[28] At any rate, +self-pity is much too common to be ignored. Even if the sentiment were +aroused only by symbols of other persons it would not necessarily be +non-egoistic. “A father pitieth his children,” but any searching +analysis will show that he incorporates the children into his own +imaginative self. And, finally, pity is not necessarily moral or good, +but is often mere “self-indulgence,” as when it is practised at the +expense of justice and true sympathy. A “wounding pity,” to use a phrase +of Mr. Stevenson’s, is one of the commonest forms of objectionable +sentiment. In short, pity is a sentiment like any other, having in +itself no determinate personality, as first or second, and no +determinate moral character: personal reference and moral rank depend +upon the conditions under which it is suggested. The reason that it +strikes us as appropriate to call pity “altruistic” apparently is that +it often leads directly and obviously to helpful practical activity, as +toward the poor or the sick. But “altruistic” is used to imply something +more than kindly or benevolent, some radical psychological or moral +distinction between this sentiment or class of sentiments and others +called egoistic, and this distinction appears not to exist. All social +sentiments are altruistic in the sense that they involve reference to +another person; few are so in the sense that they exclude the self. The +idea of a division on this line appears to flow from a vague presumption +that personal ideas must have a separateness answering to that of +material bodies. + +I do not mean to deny or depreciate the fact of personal opposition; it +is real and most important, though it does not rest upon any such +essential and, as it were, material separateness as the common way of +thinking implies. At a given moment personal symbols may stand for +different and opposing tendencies; thus the missionary may be urging me +to contribute to his cause, and, if he is skilful, the impulses he +awakens will move me in that direction; but if I think of my wife and +children and the summer outing I had planned to give them from my +savings, an opposite impulse appears. And in all such cases the very +fact of opposition and the attention thereby drawn to the conflicting +impulses gives emphasis to them, so that common elements are overlooked +and the persons in the imagination seem separate and exclusive. + +In such cases, however, the harmonizing or moralizing of the situation +consists precisely in evoking or appealing to the common element in the +apparently conflicting personalities, that is to some sentiment of +justice or right. Thus I may say to myself, “I can afford a dollar, but +ought not, out of consideration for my family, to give more,” and may be +able to imagine all parties accepting this view of the case. + +Opposition between one’s self and someone else is also a very real +thing; but this opposition, instead of coming from a separateness like +that of material bodies, is, on the contrary, dependent upon a measure +of community between one’s self and the disturbing other, so that the +hostility between one’s self and a social person may always be described +as hostile sympathy. And the sentiments connected with opposition, like +resentment, pertain neither to myself, considered separately, nor to the +symbol of the other person, but to ideas including both. I shall discuss +these matters at more length in subsequent chapters; the main thing here +is to note that personal opposition does not involve mechanical +separateness, but arises from the emphasis of inconsistent elements in +ideas having much in common. + +The relations to one another and to the mind of the various persons one +thinks of might be rudely pictured in some such way as this. Suppose we +conceive the mind as a vast wall covered with electric-light bulbs, each +of which represents a possible thought or impulse whose presence in our +consciousness may be indicated by the lighting up of the bulb. Now each +of the persons we know is represented in such a scheme, not by a +particular area of the wall set apart for him, but by a system of hidden +connections among the bulbs which causes certain combinations of them to +be lit up when his characteristic symbol is suggested. If something +presses the button corresponding to my friend A, a peculiarly shaped +figure appears upon the wall; when that is released and B’s button is +pressed another figure appears, including perhaps many of the same +lights, yet unique as a whole though not in its parts; and so on with as +many people as you please. It should also be considered that we usually +think of a person in relation to some particular social situation, and +that those phases of him that bear on this situation are the only ones +vividly conceived. To recall someone is commonly to imagine how this or +that idea would strike him, what he would say or do in our place, and so +on. Accordingly, only some part, some appropriate and characteristic +part, of the whole figure that might be lighted up in connection with a +man’s symbol, is actually illuminated. + +To introduce the self into this illustration we might say that the +lights near the centre of the wall were of a particular color—say +red—which faded, not too abruptly, into white toward the edges. This red +would represent self-feeling, and other persons would be more or less +colored by it accordingly as they were or were not intimately identified +with our cherished activities. In a mother’s mind, for instance, her +child would lie altogether in the inmost and reddest area. Thus the same +sentiment may belong to the self and to several other persons at the +same time. If a man and his family are suffering from his being thrown +out of work his apprehension and resentment will be part of his idea of +each member of his family, as well as part of his self-idea and of the +idea of people whom he thinks to blame. + +I trust it will be plain that there is nothing fantastic, unreal, or +impractical about this way of conceiving people, that is by observing +them as facts of the imagination. On the contrary, the fantastic, +unreal, and practically pernicious way is the ordinary and traditional +one of speculating upon them as shadowy bodies, without any real +observation of them as mental facts. It is the man as imagined that we +love or hate, imitate, or avoid, that helps or harms us, that moulds our +wills and our careers. What is it that makes a person real to us; is it +material contact or contact in the imagination? Suppose, for instance, +that on suddenly turning a corner I collide with one coming from the +opposite direction: I receive a slight bruise, have the breath knocked +out of me, exchange conventional apologies, and immediately forget the +incident. It takes no intimate hold upon me, means nothing except a +slight and temporary disturbance in the animal processes. Now suppose, +on the other hand, that I take up Froude’s “Cæsar,” and presently find +myself, under the guidance of that skilful writer, imagining a hero +whose body long ago turned to clay. He is alive in my thought: there is +perhaps some notion of his visible presence, and along with this the +awakening of sentiments of audacity, magnanimity and the like, that glow +with intense life, consume my energy, make me resolve to be like Cæsar +in some respect, and cause me to see right and wrong and other great +questions as I conceive he would have seen them. Very possibly he keeps +me awake after I go to bed—every boy has lain awake thinking of book +people. My whole after life will be considerably affected by this +experience, and yet this is a contact that takes place only in the +imagination. Even as regards the physical organism it is immeasurably +more important, as a rule, than the material collision. A blow in the +face, if accidental and so not disturbing to the imagination, affects +the nerves, the heart, and the digestion very little, but an injurious +word or look may cause sleepless nights, dyspepsia, or palpitation. It +is, then, the personal idea, the man in the imagination, the real man of +power and fruits, that we need primarily to consider, and he appears to +be somewhat different from the rather conventional and material man of +traditionary social philosophy. + +According to this view of the matter society is simply the collective +aspect of personal thought. Each man’s imagination, regarded as a mass +of personal impressions worked up into a living, growing whole, is a +special phase of society; and Mind or Imagination as a whole, that is +human thought considered in the largest way as having a growth and +organization extending throughout the ages, is the _locus_ of society in +the widest possible sense. + +It may be objected that society in this sense has no definite limits, +but seems to include the whole range of experience. That is to say, the +mind is all one growth, and we cannot draw any distinct line between +personal thought and other thought. There is probably no such thing as +an idea that is wholly independent of minds other than that in which it +exists; through heredity, if not through communication, all is connected +with the general life, and so in some sense social. What are spoken of +above as personal ideas are merely those in which the connection with +other persons is most direct and apparent. This objection, however, +applies to any way of defining society, and those who take the material +standpoint are obliged to consider whether houses, factories, domestic +animals, tilled land, and so on are not really parts of the social +order. The truth, of course, is that all life hangs together in such a +manner that any attempt to delimit a part of it is artificial. Society +is rather a phase of life than a thing by itself; it is life regarded +from the point of view of personal intercourse. And personal intercourse +may be considered either in its primary aspects, such as are treated in +this book, or in secondary aspects, such as groups, institutions, or +processes. Sociology, I suppose, is the science of these things. + + + + + CHAPTER IV + SYMPATHY OR COMMUNION AS AN ASPECT OF SOCIETY + + THE MEANING OF SYMPATHY AS HERE USED—ITS RELATION TO THOUGHT, + SENTIMENT, AND SOCIAL EXPERIENCE—THE RANGE OF SYMPATHY IS A + MEASURE OF PERSONALITY, _e.g._, OF POWER, OF MORAL RANK, AND OF + SANITY—A MAN’S SYMPATHIES REFLECT THE STATE OF THE SOCIAL + ORDER—SPECIALIZATION AND BREADTH—SYMPATHY REFLECTS SOCIAL PROCESS + IN THE MINGLING OF LIKENESS WITH DIFFERENCE—ALSO IN THAT IT IS A + PROCESS OF SELECTION GUIDED BY FEELING—THE MEANING OF LOVE IN + SOCIAL DISCUSSION—LOVE IN RELATION TO SELF—THE STUDY OF SYMPATHY + REVEALS THE VITAL UNITY OF HUMAN LIFE. + + +The personal idea in its more penetrating interpretations involves +sympathy, in the sense of primary communication or an entering into and +sharing the mind of someone else. When I converse with a man, through +words, looks, or other symbols, I have more or less intelligence or +_communion_ with him, we get on common ground and have similar ideas and +sentiments. If one uses sympathy in this connection—and it is perhaps +the most available word—one has to bear in mind that it denotes the +sharing of any mental state that can be communicated, and has not the +special implication of pity or other “tender emotion” that it very +commonly carries in ordinary speech.[29] This emotionally colorless +usage is, however, perfectly legitimate, and is, I think, more common in +classical English literature than any other. Thus Shakespeare, who uses +sympathy five times, if we may trust the “Shakespeare Phrase Book,” +never means by it the particular emotion of compassion, but either the +sharing of a mental state, as when he speaks of “sympathy in choice,” or +mere resemblance, as when Iago mentions the lack of “sympathy in years, +manners and beauties” between Othello and Desdemona. This latter sense +is also one which must be excluded in our use of the word, since what is +here meant is an active process of mental assimilation, not mere +likeness. + +In this chapter sympathy, in the sense of communion or personal insight, +will be considered chiefly with a view to showing something of its +nature as a phase or member of the general life of mankind. + +The content of it, the matter communicated, is chiefly thought and +sentiment, in distinction from mere sensation or crude emotion. I do not +venture to say that these latter cannot be shared, but certainly they +play a relatively small part in the communicative life. Thus although to +get one’s finger pinched is a common experience, it is impossible, to me +at least, to recall the sensation when another person has his finger +pinched. So when we say that we feel sympathy for a person who has a +headache, we mean that we pity him, not that we share the headache. +There is little true communication of physical pain, or anything of that +simple sort. The reason appears to be that as ideas of this kind are due +to mere physical contacts, or other simple stimuli, in the first +instance, they are and remain detached and isolated in the mind, so that +they are unlikely to be recalled except by some sensation of the sort +originally associated with them. If they become objects of thought and +conversation, as is likely to be the case when they are agreeable, they +are by that very process refined into sentiments. Thus when the +pleasures of the table are discussed the thing communicated is hardly +the sensation of taste but something much subtler, although partly based +upon that. Thought and sentiment are from the first parts or aspects of +highly complex and imaginative personal ideas, and of course may be +reached by anything which recalls any part of those ideas. They are +aroused by personal intercourse because in their origin they are +connected with personal symbols. The sharing of a sentiment ordinarily +comes to pass by our perceiving one of these symbols or traits of +expression which has belonged with the sentiment in the past and now +brings it back. And likewise with thought: it is communicated by words, +and these are freighted with the net result of centuries of intercourse. +Both spring from the general life of society and cannot be separated +from that life, nor it from them. + +It is not to be inferred that we must go through the same visible and +tangible experiences as other people before we can sympathize with them. +On the contrary, there is only an indirect and uncertain connection +between one’s sympathies and the obvious events—such as the death of +friends, success or failure in business, travels, and the like—that one +has gone through. Social experience is a matter of imaginative, not of +material, contacts; and there are so many aids to the imagination that +little can be judged as to one’s experience by the merely external +course of his life. An imaginative student of a few people and of books +often has many times the range of comprehension that the most varied +career can give to a duller mind; and a man of genius, like Shakespeare, +may cover almost the whole range of human sentiment in his time, not by +miracle, but by a marvellous vigor and refinement of imagination. The +idea that seeing life means going from place to place and doing a great +variety of obvious things is an illusion natural to dull minds. + + +One’s range of sympathy is a measure of his personality, indicating how +much or how little of a man he is. It is in no way a special faculty, +but a function of the whole mind to which every special faculty +contributes, so that what a person is and what he can understand or +enter into through the life of others, are very much the same thing. We +often hear people described as sympathetic who have little mental power, +but are of a sensitive, impressionable, quickly responsive type of mind. +The sympathy of such a mind always has some defect corresponding to its +lack of character and of constructive force. A strong, deep +understanding of other people implies mental energy and stability; it is +a work of persistent, cumulative imagination which may be associated +with a comparative slowness of direct sensibility. On the other hand, we +often see the union of a quick sensitiveness to immediate impressions +with an inability to comprehend what has to be reached by reason or +constructive imagination. + +Sympathy is a requisite to social power. Only in so far as a man +understands other people and thus enters into the life around him has he +any effective existence; the less he has of this the more he is a mere +animal, not truly in contact with human life. And if he is not in +contact with it he can of course have no power over it. This is a +principle of familiar application, and yet one that is often overlooked, +practical men having, perhaps, a better grasp of it than theorists. It +is well understood by men of the world that effectiveness depends at +least as much upon address, _savoir faire_, tact, and the like, +involving sympathetic insight into the minds of other people, as upon +any more particular faculties. There is nothing more practical than +social imagination; to lack it is to lack everything. All classes of +persons need it—the mechanic, the farmer, and the tradesman, as well as +the lawyer, the clergyman, the railway president, the politician, the +philanthropist, and the poet. Every year thousands of young men are +preferred to other thousands and given positions of more responsibility +largely because they are seen to have a power of personal insight which +promises efficiency and growth. Without “calibre,” which means chiefly a +good imagination, there is no getting on much in the world. The strong +men of our society, however much we may disapprove of the particular +direction in which their sympathy is sometimes developed, or the ends +their power is made to serve, are very human men, not at all the +abnormal creatures they are sometimes asserted to be. I have met a fair +number of such men, and they have generally appeared, each in his own +way, to be persons of a certain scope and breadth that marked them off +from the majority. + +A person of definite character and purpose, who comprehends our way of +thought, is sure to exert power over us. He cannot altogether be +resisted; because, if he understands us, he can make us understand him, +through the word, the look, or other symbol, which both of us connect +with the common sentiment or idea; and thus by communicating an impulse +he can move the will. Sympathetic influence enters into our system of +thought as a matter of course, and affects our conduct as surely as +water affects the growth of a plant. The kindred spirit can turn on a +system of lights, to recur to the image of the last chapter, and so +transform the mental illumination. This is the nature of all authority +and leadership, as I shall try to explain more fully in another chapter. + +Again, sympathy, in the broad sense in which it is here used, underlies +also the moral rank of a man and goes to fix our estimate of his justice +and goodness. The just, the good, or the right under any name, is of +course not a thing by itself, but is a finer product wrought up out of +the various impulses that life affords, and colored by them. Hence no +one can think and act in a way that strikes us as right unless he feels, +in great part, the same impulses that we do. If he shares the feelings +that seem to us to have the best claims, it naturally follows, if he is +a person of stable character, that he does them justice in thought and +action. To be upright, public-spirited, patriotic, charitable, generous, +and just implies that a man has a broad personality which feels the +urgency of sympathetic or imaginative motives that in narrower minds are +weak or lacking. He has achieved the higher sentiments, the wider range +of personal thought. And so far as we see in his conduct that he feels +such motives and that they enter into his decisions, we are likely to +call him good. What is it to do good, in the ordinary sense? Is it not +to help people to enjoy and to work, to fulfil the healthy and happy +tendencies of human nature; to give play to children, education to +youth, a career to men, a household to women, and peace to old age? And +it is sympathy that makes a man wish and need to do these things. One +who is large enough to live the life of the race will feel the impulses +of each class as his own, and do what he can to gratify them as +naturally as he eats his dinner. The idea that goodness is something +apart from ordinary human nature is pernicious; it is only an ampler +expression of that nature. + +On the other hand, all badness, injustice, or wrong is, in one of its +aspects, a lack of sympathy. If a man’s action is injurious to interests +which other men value, and so impresses them as wrong, it must be +because, at the moment of action, he does not feel those interests as +they do. Accordingly the wrong-doer is either a person whose sympathies +do not embrace the claims he wrongs, or one who lacks sufficient +stability of character to express his sympathies in action. A liar, for +instance, is either one who does not feel strongly the dishonor, +injustice, and confusion of lying, or one who, feeling them at times, +does not retain the feeling in decisive moments. And so a brutal person +may be such either in a dull or chronic way, which does not know the +gentler sentiments at any time, or in a sudden and passionate way which +perhaps alternates with kindness. + +Much the same may be said regarding mental health in general; its +presence or absence may always be expressed in terms of sympathy. The +test of sanity which everyone instinctively applies is that of a certain +tact or feeling of the social situation, which we expect of all +right-minded people and which flows from sympathetic contact with other +minds. One whose words and bearing give the impression that he stands +apart and lacks intuition of what others are thinking is judged as more +or less absentminded, queer, dull, or even insane or imbecile, according +to the character and permanence of the phenomenon. The essence of +insanity, from the social point of view (and, it would seem, the only +final test of it) is a confirmed lack of touch with other minds in +matters upon which men in general are agreed; and imbecility might be +defined as a general failure to compass the more complex sympathies. + + +A man’s sympathies as a whole reflect the social order in which he +lives, or rather they are a particular phase of it. Every group of which +he is really a member, in which he has any vital share, must live in his +sympathy; so that his mind is a microcosm of so much of society as he +truly belongs to. Every social phenomenon, we need to remember, is +simply a collective view of what we find distributively in particular +persons—public opinion is a phase of the judgments of individuals; +traditions and institutions live in the thought of particular men, +social standards of right do not exist apart from private consciences, +and so on. Accordingly, so far as a man has any vital part in the life +of a time or a country that life is imaged in those personal ideas or +sympathies which are the impress of his intercourse. + +So, whatever is peculiar to our own time, implies a corresponding +peculiarity in the sympathetic life of each one of us. Thus the age, at +least in the more intellectually active parts of life, is strenuous, +characterized by the multiplication of points of personal contact +through enlarged and accelerated communication. The mental aspect of +this is a more rapid and multitudinous flow of personal images, +sentiments, and impulses. Accordingly there prevails among us an +animation of thought that tends to lift men above sensuality; and there +is also possible a choice of relations that opens to each mind a more +varied and congenial development than the past afforded. On the other +hand, these advantages are not without their cost; the intensity of life +often becomes a strain, bringing to many persons an overexcitation which +weakens or breaks down character; as we see in the increase of suicide +and insanity, and in many similar phenomena. An effect very generally +produced upon all except the strongest minds appears to be a sort of +superficiality of imagination, a dissipation and attenuation of +impulses, which watches the stream of personal imagery go by like a +procession, but lacks the power to organize and direct it. + +The different degrees of urgency in personal impressions are reflected +in the behavior of different classes of people. Everyone must have +noticed that he finds more real openness of sympathy in the country than +in the city—though perhaps there is more of a superficial readiness in +the latter—and often more among plain, hand-working people than among +professional and business men. The main reason for this, I take it, is +that the social imagination is not so hard worked in the one case as in +the other. In the mountains of North Carolina the hospitable inhabitants +will take in any stranger and invite him to spend the night; but this is +hardly possible upon Broadway; and the case is very much the same with +the hospitality of the mind. If one sees few people and hears a new +thing only once a week, he accumulates a fund of sociability and +curiosity very favorable to eager intercourse; but if he is assailed all +day and every day by calls upon feeling and thought in excess of his +power to respond, he soon finds that he must put up some sort of a +barrier. Sensitive people who live where life is insistent take on a +sort of social shell whose function is to deal mechanically with +ordinary relations and preserve the interior from destruction. They are +likely to acquire a conventional smile and conventional phrases for +polite intercourse, and a cold mask for curiosity, hostility, or +solicitation. In fact, a vigorous power of resistance to the numerous +influences that in no way make for the substantial development of his +character, but rather tend to distract and demoralize him, is a primary +need of one who lives in the more active portions of present society, +and the loss of this power by strain is in countless instances the +beginning of mental and moral decline. There are times of abounding +energy when we exclaim with Schiller, + + “Seid willkommen, Millionen, + Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt!” + +but it is hardly possible or desirable to maintain this attitude +continuously. Universal sympathy is impracticable; what we need is +better control and selection, avoiding both the narrowness of our class +and the dissipation of promiscuous impressions. It is well for a man to +open out and take in as much of life as he can organize into a +consistent whole, but to go beyond that is not desirable. In a time of +insistent suggestion, like the present, it is fully as important to many +of us to know when and how to restrict the impulses of sympathy as it is +to avoid narrowness. And this is in no way inconsistent, I think, with +that modern democracy of sentiment—also connected with the enlargement +of communication—which deprecates the limitation of sympathy by wealth +or position. Sympathy must be selective, but the less it is controlled +by conventional and external circumstances, such as wealth, and the more +it penetrates to the essentials, of character, the better. It is this +liberation from convention, locality, and chance, I think, that the +spirit of the time calls for. + +Again, the life of this age is more diversified than life ever was +before, and this appears in the mind of the person who shares it as a +greater variety of interests and affiliations. A man may be regarded as +the point of intersection of an indefinite number of circles +representing social groups, having as many arcs passing through him as +there are groups. This diversity is connected with the growth of +communication, and is another phase of the general enlargement and +variegation of life. Because of the greater variety of imaginative +contacts it is impossible for a normally open-minded individual not to +lead a broader life, in some respects at least, than he would have led +in the past. Why is it, for instance, that such ideas as brotherhood and +the sentiment of equal right are now so generally extended to all +classes of men? Primarily, I think, because all classes have become +imaginable, by acquiring power and means of expression. He whom I +imagine without antipathy becomes my brother. If we feel that we must +give aid to another, it is because that other lives and strives in our +imaginations, and so is a part of ourselves. The shallow separation of +self and other in common speech obscures the extreme simplicity and +naturalness of such feelings. If I come to imagine a person suffering +wrong it is not “altruism” that makes me wish to right that wrong, but +simple human impulse. He is my life, as really and immediately as +anything else. His symbol arouses a sentiment which is no more his than +mine. + + +Thus we lead a wider life; and yet it is also true that there is +demanded of us a more distinct specialization than has been required in +the past. The complexity of society takes the form of organization, that +is of a growing unity and breadth sustained by the co-operation of +differentiated parts, and the man of the age must reflect both the unity +and the differentiation; he must be more distinctly a specialist and at +the same time more a man of the world. + +It seems to many a puzzling question whether, on the whole, the breadth +or the specialization is more potent in the action of modern life upon +the individual; and by insisting on one aspect or the other it is easy +to frame an argument to show either that personal life is becoming +richer, or that man is getting to be a mere cog in a machine.[30] I +think, however, that these two tendencies are not really opposite but +complementary; that it is not a case of breadth _versus_ specialization, +but, in the long run at least, of breadth _plus_ specialization to +produce a richer and more various humanity. There are many evils +connected with the sudden growth in our day of new social structures, +and the subjection of a part of the people to a narrow and deadening +routine is one of them, but I think that a healthy specialization has no +tendency to bring this about. On the contrary, it is part of a +liberating development. The narrow specialist is a bad specialist; and +we shall learn that it is a mistake to produce him. + +In an organized life isolation cannot succeed, and a right +specialization does not isolate. There is no such separation between +special and general knowledge or efficiency as is sometimes supposed. In +what does the larger knowledge of particulars consist, if not in +perceiving their relation to wholes? Has a student less general +knowledge because he is familiar with a specialty, or is it not rather +true that in so far as he knows one thing well it is a window through +which he sees things in general? + +There is no way to penetrate the surface of life but by attacking it +earnestly at a particular point. If one takes his stand in a field of +corn when the young plants have begun to sprout, all the plants in the +field will appear to be arranged in a system of rows radiating from his +feet; and no matter where he stands the system will appear to centre at +that point. It is so with any standpoint in the field of thought and +intercourse; to possess it is to have a point of vantage from which the +whole may, in a particular manner, be apprehended. It is surely a matter +of common observation that a man who knows no one thing intimately has +no views worth hearing on things in general. The farmer philosophizes in +terms of crops, soils, markets, and implements, the mechanic generalizes +his experience of wood and iron, the seaman reaches similar conclusions +by his own special road; and if the scholar keeps pace with these it +must be by an equally virile productivity. It is a common opinion that +breadth of culture is a thing by itself, to be imparted by a particular +sort of studies, as, for instance, the classics, modern languages, and +so on. And there is a certain practical truth in this, owing, I think, +to the fact that certain studies are taught in a broad or cultural way, +while others are not. But the right theory of the matter is that +speciality and culture are simply aspects of the same healthy mental +growth, and that any study is cultural when taught in the best way. And +so the humblest careers in life may involve culture and breadth of view, +if the incumbent is trained, as he should be, to feel their larger +relations. + +A certain sort of writers often assume that it is the tendency of our +modern specialized production to stunt the mind of the workman by a +meaningless routine; but fair opportunities of observation and some +practical acquaintance with machinery and the men who use it lead me to +think that this is not the _general_ fact. On the contrary, it is +precisely the broad or cultural traits of general intelligence, +self-reliance, and adaptability that make a man at home and efficient in +the midst of modern machinery, and it is because the American workman +has these traits in a comparatively high degree that he surpasses others +in the most highly specialized production. One who goes into our shops +will find that the intelligent and adaptive workman is almost always +preferred and gets higher wages; and if there are large numbers employed +upon deadening routine it is partly because there is unfortunately a +part of our population whose education makes them unfit for anything +else. The type of mechanic which a complex industrial system requires, +and which it is even now, on the whole, evolving, is one that combines +an intimate knowledge of particular tools and processes with an +intelligent apprehension of the system in which he works. If he lacks +the latter he requires constant oversight and so becomes a nuisance. +Anyone acquainted with such matters knows that “gumption” in workmen is +fully as important and much harder to find than mere manual skill; and +that those who possess it are usually given superior positions. During +the late war with Spain it became obvious that the complicated machinery +of a modern warship is ineffectual without intelligent, self-reliant, +and determined “men behind the guns” to work it; and, of course, the +same holds true of other kinds of machinery. And if we pass from tools +to personal relations we shall find that the specialized production so +much deprecated is only one phase of a wider general life, a life of +comparative freedom, intelligence, education, and opportunity, whose +general effect is to enlarge the individual. No doubt there are cases in +which intelligence seems to have passed out of the man into the machine, +leaving the former a mere “tender”; but I think these are not +representative of the change as a whole. + +The idea of a necessary antagonism between specialization and breadth +seems to me an illusion of the same class as that which opposes the +individual to the social order. First one aspect and then another is +looked at in artificial isolation, and it is not perceived that we are +beholding but one thing, after all. + + +Not only does the sympathetic life of a man reflect and imply the +_state_ of society, but we may also discern in it some inkling of those +processes, or principles of change, that we see at large in the general +movement of mankind. This is a matter rather beyond the scope of this +book; but a few illustrations will show, in a general way, what I mean. + +The act of sympathy follows the general law that nature works onward by +mixing like and unlike, continuity and change; and so illustrates the +same principle that we see in the mingling of heredity with variation, +specific resemblance with a differentiation of sexes and of individuals, +tradition with discussion, inherited social position with competition, +and so on. The likeness in the communicating persons is necessary for +comprehension, the difference for interest. We cannot feel strongly +toward the totally unlike because it is unimaginable, unrealizable; nor +yet toward the wholly like because it is stale—identity must always be +dull company. The power of other natures over us lies in a stimulating +difference which causes excitement and opens communication, in ideas +similar to our own but not identical, in states of mind attainable but +not actual. If one has energy he soon wearies of any habitual round of +activities and feelings, and his organism, competent to a larger life, +suffers pains of excess and want at the same time. The key to the +situation is another person who can start a new circle of activities and +give the faculties concerned with the old a chance to rest. As Emerson +has remarked, we come into society to be played upon. “Friendship,” he +says again, “requires that rare mean betwixt likeness and unlikeness, +that piques each with the presence of power and of consent in the other +party.... Let him not cease an instant to be himself. The only joy I +have in his being mine is that the _not mine_ is _mine_.... There must +be very two before there can be very one.”[31] So Goethe, speaking of +Spinoza’s attraction for him, remarks that the closest unions rest on +contrast;[32] and it is well known that such a contrast was the basis of +his union with Schiller, “whose character and life,” he says, “were in +complete contrast to my own.”[33] Of course, some sorts of sympathy are +especially active in their tendency, like the sympathy of vigorous boys +with soldiers and sea-captains; while others are comparatively quiet, +like those of old people renewing common memories. It is vivid and +elastic where the tendency to growth is strong, reaching out toward the +new, the onward, the mysterious; while old persons, the under-vitalized +and the relaxed or wearied prefer a mild sociability, a comfortable +companionship in habit; but even with the latter there must always be a +stimulus given, something new suggested or something forgotten recalled, +not merely a resemblance of thought but a “resembling difference.” + +And sympathy between man and woman, while it is very much complicated +with the special instinct of sex, draws its life from this same mixture +of mental likeness and difference. The love of the sexes is above all a +need, a need of new life which only the other can unlock. + + “Ich musst’ ihn lieben, weil mit ihm mein Leben + Zum Leben ward, wie ich es nie gekannt,”[34] + +says the princess in Tasso; and this appears to express a general +principle. Each sex represents to the other a wide range of fresh and +vital experience inaccessible alone. Thus the woman usually stands for a +richer and more open emotional life, the man for a stronger mental +grasp, for control and synthesis. Alfred without Laura feels dull, +narrow, and coarse, while Laura on her part feels selfish and +hysterical. + + +Again, sympathy is selective, and thus illustrates a phase of the vital +process more talked about at present than any other. To go out into the +life of other people takes energy, as everyone may see in his own +experience; and since energy is limited and requires some special +stimulus to evoke it, sympathy becomes active only when our imaginations +are reaching out after something we admire or love, or in some way feel +the need to understand and make our own. A healthy mind, at least, does +not spend much energy on things that do not, in some way, contribute to +its development: ideas and persons that lie wholly aside from the +direction of its growth, or from which it has absorbed all they have to +give, necessarily lack interest for it and so fail to awaken sympathy. +An incontinent response to every suggestion offered indicates the +breaking down of that power of inhibition or refusal that is our natural +defence against the reception of material we cannot digest, and looks +toward weakness, instability, and mental decay. So with persons from +whom we have nothing to gain, in any sense, whom we do not admire, or +love, or fear, or hate, and who do not even interest us as psychological +problems or objects of charity, we can have no sympathy except of the +most superficial and fleeting sort. I do not overlook the fact that a +large class of people suffer a loss of human breadth and power by +falling into a narrow and exclusive habit of mind; but at the same time +personality is nothing unless it has character, individuality, a +distinctive line of growth, and to have this is to have a principle of +rejection as well as reception in sympathy. + +Social development as a whole, and every act of sympathy as a part of +that development, is guided and stimulated in its selective growth by +feeling. The outgoing of the mind into the thought of another is always, +it would seem, an excursion in search of the congenial; not necessarily +of the pleasant, in the ordinary sense, but of that which is fitting or +congruous with our actual state of feeling. Thus we would not call +Carlyle or the Book of Job pleasant exactly, yet we have moods in which +these writers, however lacking in amenity, seem harmonious and +attractive. + +In fact, our mental life, individual and collective, is truly a never +finished work of art, in the sense that we are ever striving, with such +energy and materials as we possess, to make of it a harmonious and +congenial whole. Each man does this in his own peculiar way, and men in +the aggregate do it for human nature at large, each individual +contributing to the general endeavor. There is a tendency to judge every +new influence, as the painter judges every fresh stroke of his brush, by +its relation to the whole achieved or in contemplation, and to call it +good or ill according to whether it does or does not make for a +congruous development. We do this for the most part instinctively, that +is, without deliberate reasoning; something of the whole past, +hereditary and social, lives in our present state of mind, and welcomes +or rejects the suggestions of the moment. There is always some profound +reason for the eagerness that certain influences arouse in us, through +which they tap our energy and draw us in their direction, so that we +cling to and augment them, growing more and more in their sense. Thus if +one likes a book, so that he feels himself inclined to take it down from +time to time and linger in the companionship of the author, he may be +sure he is getting something that he needs, though it may be long before +he discovers what it is. It is quite evident that there must be, in +every phase of mental life, an æsthetic impulse to preside over +selection. + + +In common thought and speech sympathy and love are closely connected; +and in fact, as most frequently used, they mean somewhat the same thing, +the sympathy ordinarily understood being an affectionate sympathy, and +the love a sympathetic affection. I have already suggested that sympathy +is not dependent upon any particular emotion, but may, for instance, be +hostile as well as friendly; and it might also be shown that affection, +though it stimulates sympathy and so usually goes with it, is not +inseparable from it, but may exist in the absence of the mental +development which true sympathy requires. Whoever has visited an +institution for the care of idiots and imbeciles must have been struck +by the exuberance with which the milk of human kindness seems to flow +from the hearts of these creatures. If kept quiet and otherwise properly +cared for they are mostly as amiable as could be wished, fully as much +so, apparently, as persons of normal development; while at the same time +they offer little or no resistance to other impulses, such as rage and +fear, that sometimes possess them. Kindliness seems to exist primarily +as an animal instinct, so deeply rooted that mental degeneracy, which +works from the top down, does not destroy it until the mind sinks to the +lower grades of idiocy. + +However, the excitant of love, in all its finer aspects, is a felt +possibility of communication, a dawning of sympathetic renewal. We grow +by influence, and where we feel the presence of an influence that is +enlarging or uplifting, we begin to love. Love is the normal and usual +accompaniment of the healthy expansion of human nature by communion; and +in turn is the stimulus to more communion. It seems not to be a special +emotion in quite the same way that anger, grief, fear, and the like are, +but something more primary and general, the stream, perhaps, of which +these and many other sentiments are special channels or eddies. + +Love and sympathy, then, are two things which, though distinguishable, +are very commonly found together, each being an instigator of the other; +what we love we sympathize with, so far as our mental development +permits. To be sure, it is also true that when we hate a person, with an +intimate, imaginative, human hatred, we enter into his mind, or +sympathize—any strong interest will arouse the imagination and create +some sort of sympathy—but affection is a more usual stimulus. + +Love, in this sense of kindly sympathy, may have all degrees of +emotional intensity and of sympathetic penetration, from a sort of +passive good-nature, not involving imagination or mental activity of any +sort, up to an all-containing human enthusiasm, involving the fullest +action of the highest faculties, and bringing with it so strong a +conviction of complete good that the best minds have felt and taught +that God is Love. Thus understood it is not any specific sort of +emotion, at least not that alone, but a general outflowing of the mind +and heart, accompanied by that gladness that the fullest life carries +with it. When the apostle John says that God is love, and that everyone +that loveth knoweth God, he evidently means something more than personal +affection, something that knows as well as feels, that takes account of +all special aspects of life and is just to all. + +Ordinary personal affection does not fill our ideal of right or justice, +but encroaches, like all special impulses. It is not at all uncommon to +wrong one person out of affection for another. If, for instance, I am +able to procure a desirable position for a friend, it may well happen +that there is another and a fitter man, whom I do not know or do not +care for, from whose point of view my action is an injurious abuse of +power. It is evident that good can be identified with no simple emotion, +but must be sought in some wider phase of life that embraces all points +of view. So far as love approaches this comprehensiveness it tends +toward justice, because the claims of all live and are adjusted in the +mind of him who has it. + + “Love’s hearts are faithful but not fond, + Bound for the just but not beyond.” + +Thus love of a large and symmetrical sort, not merely a narrow +tenderness, implies justice and right, since a mind that has the breadth +and insight to feel this will be sure to work out magnanimous principles +of conduct. + +It is in some such sense as this, as an expansion of human nature into a +wider life, that I can best understand the use of the word love in the +writings of certain great teachers, for instance in such passages as the +following: + + + “What is Love, and why is it the chief good, but because it is an + overpowering enthusiasm.... He who is in love is wise and is becoming + wiser, sees newly every time he looks at the object beloved, drawing + from it with his eyes and his mind those virtues which it + possesses.”[35] + + “A great thing is love, ever a great good; which alone makes light all + the heavy and bears equally every inequality. For its burden is not a + burden, and it makes every bitter sweet and savory.... Love would be + arisen, not held down by anything base. Love would be free, and + alienated from every worldly affection, that its intimate desire may + not be hindered, that it may not become entangled through any temporal + good fortune, nor fall through any ill. There is nothing sweeter than + love, nothing braver, nothing higher, nothing broader, nothing + joyfuller, nothing fuller or better in heaven or on earth, since love + is born of God, nor can rest save in God above all created things. + + “He that loves, flies, runs, and is joyful; is free and not + restrained. He gives all for all and has all in all, since he is at + rest above all in the one highest good from which every good flows and + proceeds. He regards not gifts, but beyond all good things turns to + the giver. Love oft knows not the manner, but its heat is more than + every manner. Love feels no burden, regards not labors, strives toward + more than it attains, argues not of impossibility, since it believes + that it may and can all things. Therefore it avails for all things, + and fulfils and accomplishes much where one not a lover falls and lies + helpless.”[36] + + +The sense of joy, of freshness, of youth, and of the indifference of +circumstances, that comes with love, seems to be connected with its +receptive, outgoing nature. It is the fullest life, and when we have it +we feel happy because our faculties are richly employed; young because +reception is the essence of youth, and indifferent to conditions because +we feel by our present experience that welfare is independent of them. +It is when we have lost our hold upon this sort of happiness that we +begin to be anxious about security and comfort, and to take a +distrustful and pessimistic attitude toward the world in general. + + +In the literature of the feelings we often find that love and self are +set over against each other, as by Tennyson when he says: + + “Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with might; + Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.” + +Let us consider for a moment whether, or in what sense, this antithesis +is a just one. + +As regards its relation to self we may, perhaps, distinguish two kinds +of love, one of which is mingled with self-feeling and the other is not. +The latter is a disinterested, contemplative joy, in feeling which the +mind loses all sense of its private existence; while the former is +active, purposeful, and appropriate, rejoicing in its object with a +sense of being one with it as against the rest of the world. + +In so far as one feels the disinterested love, that which has no designs +with reference to its object, he has no sense of “I” at all, but simply +exists in something to which he feels no bounds. Of this sort, for +instance, seem to be the delight in natural beauty, in the landscape and +the shining sea, the joy and rest of art—so long as we have no thought +of production or criticism—and the admiration of persons regarding whom +we have no intentions, either of influence or imitation. It appears to +be the final perfection of this unspecialized joy that the Buddhist +sages seek in Nirvana. Love of this sort obliterates that idea of +separate personality whose life is always unsure and often painful. One +who feels it leaves the precarious self; his boat glides out upon a +wider stream; he forgets his own deformity, weakness, shame or failure, +or if he thinks of them it is to feel free of them, released from their +coil. No matter what you and I may be, if we can comprehend that which +is fair and great we may still have it, may transcend ourselves and go +out into it. It carries us beyond the sense of all individuality, either +our own or others’, into the feeling of universal and joyous life. The +“I,” the specialized self, and the passions involved with it, have a +great and necessary part to play, but they afford no continuing city; +they are so evidently transient and insecure that the idealizing mind +cannot rest in them, and is glad to forget them at times and to go out +into a life joyous and without bounds in which thought may be at peace. + +But love that plans and strives is always in some degree self-love. That +is, self-feeling is correlated with individualized, purposeful thought +and action, and so begins to spring up as soon as love lingers upon +something, forms intentions and begins to act. The love of a mother for +her child is appropriative, as is apparent from the fact that it is +capable of jealousy. Its characteristic is not selflessness, by any +means, but the association of self-feeling with the idea of _her_ child. +It is no more selfless in its nature than the ambitions of a man, and +may or may not be morally superior; the idea that it involves +self-abnegation seems to spring from the crudely material notion of +personality which assumes that other persons are external to the self. +And so of all productive, specialized love. I shall say more of the self +in the next chapter, but my belief is that it is impossible to cherish +and strive for special purposes without having self-feeling about them; +without becoming more or less capable of resentment, pride, and fear +regarding them. The imaginative and sympathetic aims that are commonly +spoken of as self-renunciation are more properly an enlargement of the +self, and by no means destroy, though they may transform, the “I.” A +wholly selfless love is mere contemplation, an escape from conscious +speciality, and a dwelling in undifferentiated life. It sees all things +as one and makes no effort. + +These two sorts of love are properly complementary, one corresponding to +production and giving each of us a specialized intensity and +effectiveness, while in the other we find enlargement and relief. They +are indeed closely bound together and each contributory to the other. +The self and the special love that goes with it seem to grow by a sort +of crystallization about them of elements from the wider life. The man +first loves the woman as something transcendent, divine, or universal, +which he dares not think of appropriating; but presently he begins to +claim her as _his_ in antithesis to the rest of the world, and to have +hopes, fears, and resentments regarding her; the painter loves beauty +contemplatively, and then tries to paint it; the poet delights in his +visions, and then tries to tell them, and so on. It is necessary to our +growth that we should be capable of delighting in that upon which we +have no designs, because we draw our fresh materials from this region. +The sort of self-love that is harmful is one that has hardened about a +particular object and ceased to expand. On the other hand, it seems that +the power to enter into universal life depends upon a healthy +development of the special self. “Willst du in’s Unendliche schreiten,” +said Goethe, “geh nur im Endlichen nach allen Seiten.” That which we +have achieved by special, selfful endeavor becomes a basis of inference +and sympathy, which gives a wider reach to our disinterested +contemplation. While the artist is trying to paint he forfeits the pure +joy of contemplation; he is strenuous, anxious, vain, or mortified; but +when he ceases trying he will be capable, just because of this +experience, of a fuller appreciation of beauty in general than he was +before. And so of personal affection; the winning of wife, home, and +children involves constant self-assertion, but it multiplies the power +of sympathy. We cannot, then, exalt one of these over the other; what +would seem desirable is that the self, without losing its special +purpose and vigor, should keep expanding, so that it should tend to +include more and more of what is largest and highest in the general +life. + + +It appears, then, that sympathy, in the sense of mental sharing or +communication, is by no means a simple matter, but that so much enters +into it as to suggest that by the time we thoroughly understood one +sympathetic experience we should be in a way to understand the social +order itself. An act of communication is a particular aspect of the +whole which we call society, and necessarily reflects that of which it +is a characteristic part. To come into touch with a friend, a leader, an +antagonist, or a book, is an act of sympathy; but it is precisely in the +totality of such acts that society consists. Even the most complex and +rigid institutions may be looked upon as consisting of innumerable +personal influences or acts of sympathy, organized, in the case of +institutions, into a definite and continuing whole by means of some +system of permanent symbols, such as laws, constitutions, sacred +writings, and the like, in which personal influences are preserved. And, +turning the matter around, we may look upon every act of sympathy as a +particular expression of the history, institutions, and tendencies of +the society in which it takes place. Every influence which you or I can +receive or impart will be characteristic of the race, the country, the +epoch, in which our personalities have grown up. + +The main thing here is to bring out the _vital_ unity of every phase of +personal life, from the simplest interchange of a friendly word to the +polity of nations or of hierarchies. The common idea of the matter is +crudely mechanical—that there are persons as there are bricks and +societies as there are walls. A person, or some trait of personality or +of intercourse, is held to be the element of society, and the latter is +formed by the aggregation of these elements. Now there is no such thing +as an element of society in the sense that a brick is the element of a +wall; this is a mechanical conception quite inapplicable to vital +phenomena. I should say that living wholes have aspects but not +elements. + +In the Capitoline Museum at Rome is a famous statue of Venus, which, +like many works of this kind, is ingeniously mounted upon a pivot, so +that one who wishes to study it can place it at any angle with reference +to the light that he may prefer. Thus he may get an indefinite number of +views, but in every view what he really observes, so far as he observes +intelligently, is the whole statue in a particular aspect. Even if he +fixes his attention upon the foot, or the great toe, he sees this part, +if he sees it rightly, in relation to the work as a whole. And it seems +to me that the study of human life is analogous in character. It is +expedient to divide it into manageable parts in some way; but this +division can only be a matter of aspects, not of elements. The various +chapters of this book, for instance, do not deal with separable +subjects, but merely with phases of a common subject, and the same is +true of any work in psychology, history or biology. + + + + + CHAPTER V + THE SOCIAL SELF—1. THE MEANING OF “I” + + THE “EMPIRICAL SELF”—“I” AS A STATE OF FEELING—ITS RELATION TO THE + BODY—AS A SENSE OF POWER OR CAUSATION—AS A SENSE OF SPECIALITY OR + DIFFERENTIATION IN A SOCIAL LIFE—THE REFLECTED OR LOOKING-GLASS + “I”—“I” IS ROOTED IN THE PAST AND VARIES WITH SOCIAL CONDITIONS—ITS + RELATION TO HABIT—TO DISINTERESTED LOVE—HOW CHILDREN LEARN THE + MEANING OF “I”—THE SPECULATIVE OR METAPHYSICAL “I” IN CHILDREN—THE + LOOKING-GLASS “I” IN CHILDREN—THE SAME IN ADOLESCENCE—“I” IN + RELATION TO SEX—SIMPLICITY AND AFFECTATION—SOCIAL SELF-FEELING IS + UNIVERSAL. + + +It is well to say at the outset that by the word “self” in this +discussion is meant simply that which is designated in common speech by +the pronouns of the first person singular, “I,” “me,” “my,” “mine,” and +“myself.” “Self” and “ego” are used by metaphysicians and moralists in +many other senses, more or less remote from the “I” of daily speech and +thought, and with these I wish to have as little to do as possible. What +is here discussed is what psychologists call the empirical self, the +self that can be apprehended or verified by ordinary observation. I +qualify it by the word social not as implying the existence of a self +that is not social—for I think that the “I” of common language always +has more or less distinct reference to other people as well as the +speaker—but because I wish to emphasize and dwell upon the social aspect +of it. + +Although the topic of the self is regarded as an abstruse one this +abstruseness belongs chiefly, perhaps, to the metaphysical discussion of +the “pure ego”—whatever that may be—while the empirical self should not +be very much more difficult to get hold of than other facts of the mind. +At any rate, it may be assumed that the pronouns of the first person +have a substantial, important, and not very recondite meaning, otherwise +they would not be in constant and intelligible use by simple people and +young children the world over. And since they have such a meaning why +should it not be observed and reflected upon like any other matter of +fact? As to the underlying mystery, it is no doubt real, important, and +a very fit subject of discussion by those who are competent, but I do +not see that it is a _peculiar_ mystery. I mean that it seems to be +simply a phase of the general mystery of life, not pertaining to “I” +more than to any other personal or social fact; so that here as +elsewhere those who are not attempting to penetrate the mystery may +simply ignore it. If this is a just view of the matter, “I” is merely a +fact like any other. + + +The distinctive thing in the idea for which the pronouns of the first +person are names is apparently a characteristic kind of feeling which +may be called the my-feeling or sense of appropriation. Almost any sort +of ideas may be associated with this feeling, and so come to be named +“I” or “mine,” but the feeling, and that alone it would seem, is the +determining factor in the matter. As Professor James says in his +admirable discussion of the self, the words “me” and “self” designate +“all the things which have the power to produce in a stream of +consciousness excitement of a certain peculiar sort.”[37] This view is +very fully set forth by Professor Hiram M. Stanley, whose work, “The +Evolutionary Psychology of Feeling,” has an extremely suggestive chapter +on self-feeling. + +I do not mean that the feeling aspect of the self is necessarily more +important than any other, but that it is the immediate and decisive sign +and proof of what “I” is; there is no appeal from it; if we go behind it +it must be to study its history and conditions, not to question its +authority. But, of course, this study of history and conditions may be +quite as profitable as the direct contemplation of self-feeling. What I +would wish to do is to present each aspect in its proper light. + +The emotion or feeling of self may be regarded as an instinct, doubtless +evolved in connection with its important function in stimulating and +unifying the special activities of individuals.[38] It is thus very +profoundly rooted in the history of the human race and apparently +indispensable to any plan of life at all similar to ours. It seems to +exist in a vague though vigorous form at the birth of each individual, +and, like other instinctive ideas or germs of ideas, to be defined and +developed by experience, becoming associated, or rather incorporated, +with muscular, visual and other sensations; with perceptions, +apperceptions and conceptions of every degree of complexity and of +infinite variety of content; and, especially, with personal ideas. +Meantime the feeling itself does not remain unaltered, but undergoes +differentiation and refinement just as does any other sort of crude +innate feeling. Thus, while retaining under every phase its +characteristic tone or flavor, it breaks up into innumerable +self-sentiments. And concrete self-feeling, as it exists in mature +persons, is a whole made up of these various sentiments, along with a +good deal of primitive emotion not thus broken up. It partakes fully of +the general development of the mind, but never loses that peculiar gusto +of appropriation that causes us to name a thought with a first-personal +pronoun. The other contents of the self-idea are of little use, +apparently, in defining it, because they are so extremely various. It +would be no more futile, it seems to me, to attempt to define fear by +enumerating the things that people are afraid of, than to attempt to +define “I” by enumerating the objects with which the word is associated. +Very much as fear means primarily a state of feeling, or its expression, +and not darkness, fire, lions, snakes, or other things that excite it, +so “I” means primarily self-feeling, or its expression, and not body, +clothes, treasures, ambition, honors, and the like, with which this +feeling may be connected. In either case it is possible and useful to go +behind the feeling and enquire what ideas arouse it and why they do so, +but this is in a sense a secondary investigation. + +Since “I” is known to our experience primarily as a feeling, or as a +feeling-ingredient in our ideas, it cannot be described or defined +without suggesting that feeling. We are sometimes likely to fall into a +formal and empty way of talking regarding questions of emotion, by +attempting to define that which is in its nature primary and +indefinable. A formal definition of self-feeling, or indeed of any sort +of feeling, must be as hollow as a formal definition of the taste of +salt, or the color red; we can expect to know what it is only by +experiencing it. There can be no final test of the self except the way +we feel; it is that toward which we have the “my” attitude. But as this +feeling is quite as familiar to us and as easy to recall as the taste of +salt or the color red, there should be no difficulty in understanding +what is meant by it. One need only imagine some attack on his “me,” say +ridicule of his dress or an attempt to take away his property or his +child, or his good name by slander, and self-feeling immediately +appears. Indeed, he need only pronounce, with strong emphasis, one of +the self-words, like “I” or “my,” and self-feeling will be recalled by +association. Another good way is to enter by sympathy into some +self-assertive state of mind depicted in literature; as, for instance, +into that of Coriolanus when, having been sneered at as a “boy of +tears,” he cries out: + + “Boy!... + If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there, + That, like an eagle in a dovecote, I + Fluttered your Volscians in Corioli; + Alone I did it.—Boy!” + +Here is a self indeed, which no one can fail to feel, though he might be +unable to describe it. What a ferocious scream of the outraged ego is +that “I” at the end of the second line! + +So much is written on this topic that ignores self-feeling and thus +deprives “self” of all vivid and palpable meaning, that I feel it +permissible to add a few more passages in which this feeling is forcibly +expressed. Thus in Lowell’s poem, “A Glance Behind the Curtain,” +Cromwell says: + + “I, perchance, + Am one raised up by the Almighty arm + To witness some great truth to all the world.” + +And his Columbus, on the bow of his vessel, soliloquizes: + + “Here am I, with no friend but the sad sea, + The beating heart of this great enterprise, + Which, without me, would stiffen in swift death.” + +And so the “I am the way” which we read in the New Testament is surely +the expression of a sentiment not very different from these. In the +following we have a more plaintive sentiment of self: + + _Philoctetes._— And know’st thou not, O boy, whom thou dost see? + + _Neoptolemus._— How can I know a man I ne’er beheld? + + _Philoctetes._— And didst thou never hear my name, nor fame + + Of these my ills, in which I pined away? + + _Neoptolemus._— Know that I nothing know of what thou ask’st. + + _Philoctetes._— O crushed with many woes, and of the Gods + + Hated am I, of whom, in this my woe, + + No rumor travelled homeward, nor went forth + + Through any clime of Hellas.[39] + +We all have thoughts of the same sort as these, and yet it is possible +to talk so coldly or mystically about the self that one begins to forget +that there is, really, any such thing. + +But perhaps the best way to realize the naïve meaning of “I” is to +listen to the talk of children playing together, especially if they do +not agree very well. They use the first person with none of the +conventional self-repression of their elders, but with much emphasis and +variety of inflection, so that its emotional animus is unmistakable. + +Self-feeling of a reflective and agreeable sort, an appropriative zest +of contemplation, is strongly suggested by the word “gloating.” To +gloat, in this sense, is as much as to think “mine, mine, mine,” with a +pleasant warmth of feeling. Thus a boy gloats over something he has made +with his scroll-saw, over the bird he has brought down with his gun, or +over his collection of stamps or eggs; a girl gloats over her new +clothes, and over the approving words or looks of others; a farmer over +his fields and his stock; a business man over his trade and his bank +account; a mother over her child; the poet over a successful quatrain; +the self-righteous man over the state of his soul; and in like manner +everyone gloats over the prosperity of any cherished idea. + +I would not be understood as saying that self-feeling is clearly marked +off in experience from other kinds of feeling; but it is, perhaps, as +definite in this regard as anger, fear, grief, and the like. To quote +Professor James, “The emotions themselves of self-satisfaction and +abasement are of a unique sort, each as worthy to be classed as a +primitive emotional species as are, for example, rage or pain.”[40] It +is true here, as wherever mental facts are distinguished, that there are +no fences, but that one thing merges by degrees into another. Yet if “I” +did not denote an idea much the same in all minds and fairly +distinguishable from other ideas, it could not be used freely and +universally as a means of communication. + + +As many people have the impression that the verifiable self, the object +that we name with “I,” is usually the material body, it may be well to +say that this impression is an illusion, easily dispelled by anyone who +will undertake a simple examination of facts. It is true that when we +philosophize a little about “I” and look around for a tangible object to +which to attach it, we soon fix upon the material body as the most +available _locus_; but when we use the word naïvely, as in ordinary +speech, it is not very common to think of the body in connection with +it; not nearly so common as it is to think of other things. There is no +difficulty in testing this statement, since the word “I” is one of the +commonest in conversation and literature, so that nothing is more +practicable than to study its meaning at any length that may be desired. +One need only listen to ordinary speech until the word has occurred, +say, a hundred times, noting its connections, or observe its use in a +similar number of cases by the characters in a novel. Ordinarily it will +be found that in not more than ten cases in a hundred does “I” have +reference to the body of the person speaking. It refers chiefly to +opinions, purposes, desires, claims, and the like, concerning matters +that involve no thought of the body. _I_ think or feel so and so; _I_ +wish or intend so and so; _I_ want this or that; are typical uses, the +self-feeling being associated with the view, purpose, or object +mentioned. It should also be remembered that “my” and “mine” are as much +the names of the self as “I” and these, of course, commonly refer to +miscellaneous possessions. + +I had the curiosity to attempt a rough classification of the first +hundred “I’s” and “me’s” in Hamlet, with the following results. The +pronoun was used in connection with perception, as “I hear,” “I see,” +fourteen times; with thought, sentiment, intention, etc., thirty-two +times; with wish, as “I pray you,” six times; as speaking—“I’ll speak to +it”—sixteen times; as spoken to, twelve times; in connection with +action, involving perhaps some vague notion of the body, as “I came to +Denmark,” nine times; vague or doubtful, ten times; as equivalent to +bodily appearance—“No more like my father than I to Hercules”—once. Some +of the classifications are arbitrary, and another observer would +doubtless get a different result; but he could not fail, I think, to +conclude that Shakespeare’s characters are seldom thinking of their +bodies when they say “I” or “me.” And in this respect they appear to be +representative of mankind in general. + + +As already suggested, instinctive self-feeling is doubtless connected in +evolution with its important function in stimulating and unifying the +special activities of individuals. It appears to be associated chiefly +with ideas of the exercise of power, of being a cause, ideas that +emphasize the antithesis between the mind and the rest of the world. The +first definite thoughts that a child associates with self-feeling are +probably those of his earliest endeavors to control visible objects—his +limbs, his playthings, his bottle, and the like. Then he attempts to +control the actions of the persons about him, and so his circle of power +and of self-feeling widens without interruption to the most complex +objects of mature ambition. Although he does not say “I” or “my” during +the first year or two, yet he expresses so clearly by his actions the +feeling that adults associate with these words that we cannot deny him a +self even in the first weeks. + +The correlation of self-feeling with purposeful activity is easily seen +by observing the course of any productive enterprise. If a boy sets +about making a boat, and has any success, his interest in the matter +waxes, he gloats over it, the keel and stern are dear to his heart, and +its ribs are more to him than those of his own frame. He is eager to +call in his friends and acquaintances, saying to them, “See what I am +doing! Is it not remarkable?”, feeling elated when it is praised, and +resentful or humiliated when fault is found with it. But so soon as he +finishes it and turns to something else, his self-feeling begins to fade +away from it, and in a few weeks at most he will have become +comparatively indifferent. We all know that much the same course of +feeling accompanies the achievements of adults. It is impossible to +produce a picture, a poem, an essay, a difficult bit of masonry, or any +other work of art or craft, without having self-feeling regarding it, +amounting usually to considerable excitement and desire for some sort of +appreciation; but this rapidly diminishes with the activity itself, and +often lapses into indifference after it ceases. + +It may perhaps be objected that the sense of self, instead of being +limited to times of activity and definite purpose, is often most +conspicuous when the mind is unoccupied or undecided, and that the idle +and ineffectual are commonly the most sensitive in their self-esteem. +This, however, may be regarded as an instance of the principle that all +instincts are likely to assume troublesome forms when denied wholesome +expression. The need to exert power, when thwarted in the open fields of +life, is the more likely to assert itself in trifles. + + +The social self is simply any idea, or system of ideas, drawn from the +communicative life, that the mind cherishes as its own. Self-feeling has +its chief scope _within_ the general life, not outside of it, the +special endeavor or tendency of which it is the emotional aspect finding +its principal field of exercise in a world of personal forces, reflected +in the mind by a world of personal impressions. + +As connected with the thought of other persons it is always a +consciousness of the peculiar or differentiated aspect of one’s life, +because that is the aspect that has to be sustained by purpose and +endeavor, and its more aggressive forms tend to attach themselves to +whatever one finds to be at once congenial to one’s own tendencies and +at variance with those of others with whom one is in mental contact. It +is here that they are most needed to serve their function of stimulating +characteristic activity, of fostering those personal variations which +the general plan of life seems to require. Heaven, says Shakespeare, +doth divide + + “The state of man in divers functions, + Setting endeavor in continual motion,” + +and self-feeling is one of the means by which this diversity is +achieved. + +Agreeably to this view we find that the aggressive self manifests itself +most conspicuously in an appropriativeness of objects of common desire, +corresponding to the individual’s need of power over such objects to +secure his own peculiar development, and to the danger of opposition +from others who also need them. And this extends from material objects +to lay hold, in the same spirit, of the attentions and affections of +other people, of all sorts of plans and ambitions, including the noblest +special purposes the mind can entertain, and indeed of any conceivable +idea which may come to seem a part of one’s life and in need of +assertion against someone else. The attempt to limit the word self and +its derivatives to the lower aims of personality is quite arbitrary; at +variance with common-sense as expressed by the emphatic use of “I” in +connection with the sense of duty and other high motives, and +unphilosophical as ignoring the function of the self as the organ of +specialized endeavor of higher as well as lower kinds. + +That the “I” of common speech has a meaning which includes some sort of +reference to other persons is involved in the very fact that the word +and the ideas it stands for are phenomena of language and the +communicative life. It is doubtful whether it is possible to use +language at all without thinking more or less distinctly of someone +else, and certainly the things to which we give names and which have a +large place in reflective thought are almost always those which are +impressed upon us by our contact with other people. Where there is no +communication there can be no nomenclature and no developed thought. +What we call “me,” “mine,” or “myself” is, then, not something separate +from the general life, but the most interesting part of it, a part whose +interest arises from the very fact that it is both general and +individual. That is, we care for it just because it is that phase of the +mind that is living and striving in the common life, trying to impress +itself upon the minds of others. “I” is a militant social tendency, +working to hold and enlarge its place in the general current of +tendencies. So far as it can it waxes, as all life does. To think of it +as apart from society is a palpable absurdity of which no one could be +guilty who really _saw_ it as a fact of life. + + “Der Mensch erkennt sich nur im Menschen, nur + Das Leben lehret jedem was er sei.”[41] + +If a thing has no relation to others of which one is conscious he is +unlikely to think of it at all, and if he does think of it he cannot, it +seems to me, regard it as emphatically _his_. The appropriative sense is +always the shadow, as it were, of the common life, and when we have it +we have a sense of the latter in connection with it. Thus, if we think +of a secluded part of the woods as “ours,” it is because we think, also, +that others do not go there. As regards the body I doubt if we have a +vivid my-feeling about any part of it which is not thought of, however +vaguely, as having some actual or possible reference to someone else. +Intense self-consciousness regarding it arises along with instincts or +experiences which connect it with the thought of others. Internal +organs, like the liver, are not thought of as peculiarly ours unless we +are trying to communicate something regarding them, as, for instance, +when they are giving us trouble and we are trying to get sympathy. + +“I,” then, is not all of the mind, but a peculiarly central, vigorous, +and well-knit portion of it, not separate from the rest but gradually +merging into it, and yet having a certain practical distinctness, so +that a man generally shows clearly enough by his language and behavior +what his “I” is as distinguished from thoughts he does not appropriate. +It may be thought of, as already suggested, under the analogy of a +central colored area on a lighted wall. It might also, and perhaps more +justly, be compared to the nucleus of a living cell, not altogether +separate from the surrounding matter, out of which indeed it is formed, +but more active and definitely organized. + +The reference to other persons involved in the sense of self may be +distinct and particular, as when a boy is ashamed to have his mother +catch him at something she has forbidden, or it may be vague and +general, as when one is ashamed to do something which only his +conscience, expressing his sense of social responsibility, detects and +disapproves; but it is always there. There is no sense of “I,” as in +pride or shame, without its correlative sense of you, or he, or they. +Even the miser gloating over his hidden gold can feel the “mine” only as +he is aware of the world of men over whom he has secret power; and the +case is very similar with all kinds of hid treasure. Many painters, +sculptors, and writers have loved to withhold their work from the world, +fondling it in seclusion until they were quite done with it; but the +delight in this, as in all secrets, depends upon a sense of the value of +what is concealed. + + +In a very large and interesting class of cases the social reference +takes the form of a somewhat definite imagination of how one’s self—that +is any idea he appropriates—appears in a particular mind, and the kind +of self-feeling one has is determined by the attitude toward this +attributed to that other mind. A social self of this sort might be +called the reflected or looking-glass self: + + “Each to each a looking-glass + Reflects the other that doth pass.” + +As we see our face, figure, and dress in the glass, and are interested +in them because they are ours, and pleased or otherwise with them +according as they do or do not answer to what we should like them to be; +so in imagination we perceive in another’s mind some thought of our +appearance, manners, aims, deeds, character, friends, and so on, and are +variously affected by it. + +A self-idea of this sort seems to have three principal elements: the +imagination of our appearance to the other person; the imagination of +his judgment of that appearance, and some sort of self-feeling, such as +pride or mortification. The comparison with a looking-glass hardly +suggests the second element, the imagined judgment, which is quite +essential. The thing that moves us to pride or shame is not the mere +mechanical reflection of ourselves, but an imputed sentiment, the +imagined effect of this reflection upon another’s mind. This is evident +from the fact that the character and weight of that other, in whose mind +we see ourselves, makes all the difference with our feeling. We are +ashamed to seem evasive in the presence of a straightforward man, +cowardly in the presence of a brave one, gross in the eyes of a refined +one, and so on. We always imagine, and in imagining share, the judgments +of the other mind. A man will boast to one person of an action—say some +sharp transaction in trade—which he would be ashamed to own to another. + + +It should be evident that the ideas that are associated with +self-feeling and form the intellectual content of the self cannot be +covered by any simple description, as by saying that the body has such a +part in it, friends such a part, plans so much, etc., but will vary +indefinitely with particular temperaments and environments. The tendency +of the self, like every aspect of personality, is expressive of +far-reaching hereditary and social factors, and is not to be understood +or predicted except in connection with the general life. Although +special, it is in no way separate—speciality and separateness are not +only different but contradictory, since the former implies connection +with a whole. The object of self-feeling is affected by the general +course of history, by the particular development of nations, classes, +and professions, and other conditions of this sort. + +The truth of this is perhaps most decisively shown in the fact that even +those ideas that are most generally associated or colored with the “my” +feeling, such as one’s idea of his visible person, of his name, his +family, his intimate friends, his property, and so on, are not +universally so associated, but may be separated from the self by +peculiar social conditions. Thus the ascetics, who have played so large +a part in the history of Christianity and of other religions and +philosophies, endeavored not without success to divorce their +appropriative thought from all material surroundings, and especially +from their physical persons, which they sought to look upon as +accidental and degrading circumstances of the soul’s earthly sojourn. In +thus estranging themselves from their bodies, from property and comfort, +from domestic affections—whether of wife or child, mother, brother or +sister—and from other common objects of ambition, they certainly gave a +singular direction to self-feeling, but they did not destroy it: there +can be no doubt that the instinct, which seems imperishable so long as +mental vigor endures, found other ideas to which to attach itself; and +the strange and uncouth forms which ambition took in those centuries +when the solitary, filthy, idle, and sense-tormenting anchorite was a +widely accepted ideal of human life, are a matter of instructive study +and reflection. Even in the highest exponents of the ascetic ideal, like +St. Jerome, it is easy to see that the discipline, far from effacing the +self, only concentrated its energy in lofty and unusual channels. The +self-idea may be that of some great moral reform, of a religious creed, +of the destiny of one’s soul after death, or even a cherished conception +of the deity. Thus devout writers, like George Herbert and Thomas à +Kempis, often address _my_ God, not at all conventionally as I conceive +the matter, but with an intimate sense of appropriation. And it has been +observed that the demand for the continued and separate existence of the +individual soul after death is an expression of self-feeling, as by J. +A. Symonds, who thinks that it is connected with the intense egotism and +personality of the European races, and asserts that the millions of +Buddhism shrink from it with horror.[42] + + +Habit and familiarity are not of themselves sufficient to cause an idea +to be appropriated into the self. Many habits and familiar objects that +have been forced upon us by circumstances rather than chosen for their +congeniality remain external and possibly repulsive to the self; and, on +the other hand, a novel but very congenial element in experience, like +the idea of a new toy, or, if you please, Romeo’s idea of Juliet, is +often appropriated almost immediately, and becomes, for the time at +least, the very heart of the self. Habit has the same fixing and +consolidating action in the growth of the self that it has elsewhere, +but is not its distinctive characteristic. + + +As suggested in the previous chapter, self-feeling may be regarded as in +a sense the antithesis, or better perhaps, the complement, of that +disinterested and contemplative love that tends to obliterate the sense +of a divergent individuality. Love of this sort has no sense of bounds, +but is what we feel when we are expanding and assimilating new and +indeterminate experience, while self-feeling accompanies the +appropriating, delimiting, and defending of a certain part of +experience; the one impels us to receive life, the other to individuate +it. The self, from this point of view, might be regarded as a sort of +citadel of the mind, fortified without and containing selected treasures +within, while love is an undivided share in the rest of the universe. In +a healthy mind each contributes to the growth of the other: what we love +intensely or for a long time we are likely to bring within the citadel, +and to assert as part of ourself. On the other hand, it is only on the +basis of a substantial self that a person is capable of progressive +sympathy or love. + +The sickness of either is to lack the support of the other. There is no +health in a mind except as it keeps expanding, taking in fresh life, +feeling love and enthusiasm; and so long as it does this its +self-feeling is likely to be modest and generous; since these sentiments +accompany that sense of the large and the superior which love implies. +But if love closes, the self contracts and hardens: the mind having +nothing else to occupy its attention and give it that change and renewal +it requires, busies itself more and more with self-feeling, which takes +on narrow and disgusting forms, like avarice, arrogance, and fatuity. It +is necessary that we should have self-feeling about a matter during its +conception and execution; but when it is accomplished or has failed the +self ought to break loose and escape, renewing its skin like the snake, +as Thoreau says. No matter what a man does, he is not fully sane or +human unless there is a spirit of freedom in him, a soul unconfined by +purpose and larger than the practicable world. And this is really what +those mean who inculcate the suppression of the self; they mean that its +rigidity must be broken up by growth and renewal, that it must be more +or less decisively “born again.” A healthy, self must be both vigorous +and plastic, a nucleus of solid, well-knit private purpose and feeling, +guided and nourished by sympathy. + + +The view that “self” and the pronouns of the first person are names +which the race has learned to apply to an instinctive attitude of mind, +and which each child in turn learns to apply in a similar way, was +impressed upon me by observing my child M. at the time when she was +learning to use these pronouns. When she was two years and two weeks old +I was surprised to discover that she had a clear notion of the first and +second persons when used possessively. When asked, “Where is your nose?” +she would put her hand upon it and say “my.” She also understood that +when someone else said “my” and touched an object, it meant something +opposite to what was meant when she touched the same object and used the +same word. Now, anyone who will exercise his imagination upon the +question how this matter must appear to a mind having no means of +knowing anything about “I” and “my” except what it learns by hearing +them used, will see that it should be very puzzling. Unlike other words, +the personal pronouns have, apparently, no uniform meaning, but convey +different and even opposite ideas when employed by different persons. It +seems remarkable that children should master the problem before they +arrive at considerable power of abstract reasoning. How should a little +girl of two, not particularly reflective, have discovered that “my” was +not the sign of a definite object like other words, but meant something +different with each person who used it? And, still more surprising, how +should she have achieved the correct use of it with reference to herself +which, it would seem, _could not be copied from anyone else_, simply +because no one else used it to describe what belonged to her? The +meaning of words is learned by associating them with other phenomena. +But how is it possible to learn the meaning of one which, as used by +others, is never associated with the same phenomenon as when properly +used by one’s self? Watching her use of the first person, I was at once +struck with the fact that she employed it almost wholly in a possessive +sense, and that, too, when in an aggressive, self-assertive mood. It was +extremely common to see R. tugging at one end of a plaything and M. at +the other, screaming, “My, my.” “Me” was sometimes nearly equivalent to +“my,” and was also employed to call attention to herself when she wanted +something done for her. Another common use of “my” was to demand +something she did not have at all. Thus if R. had something the like of +which she wanted, say a cart, she would exclaim, “Where’s _my_ cart?” + +It seemed to me that she might have learned the use of these pronouns +about as follows. The self-feeling had always been there. From the first +week she had wanted things and cried and fought for them. She had also +become familiar by observation and opposition with similar appropriative +activities on the part of R. Thus she not only had the feeling herself, +but by associating it with its visible expression had probably divined +it, sympathized with it, resented it, in others. Grasping, tugging, and +screaming would be associated with the feeling in her own case and would +recall the feeling when observed in others. They would constitute a +language, precedent to the use of first-personal pronouns, to express +the self-idea. All was ready, then, for the word to name this +experience. She now observed that R., when contentiously appropriating +something, frequently exclaimed, “_my_,” “_mine_,” “give it to _me_,” +“_I_ want it,” and the like. Nothing more natural, then, than that she +should adopt these words as names for a frequent and vivid experience +with which she was already familiar in her own case and had learned to +attribute to others. Accordingly it appeared to me, as I recorded in my +notes at the time, that “‘my’ and ‘mine’ are simply names for concrete +images of appropriativeness,” embracing both the appropriative feeling +and its manifestation. If this is true the child does not at first work +out the I-and-you idea in an abstract form. The first-personal pronoun +is a sign of a concrete thing after all, but that thing is not primarily +the child’s body, or his muscular sensations as such, but the phenomenon +of aggressive appropriation, practised by himself, witnessed in others, +and incited and interpreted by a hereditary instinct. This seems to get +over the difficulty above mentioned, namely, the seeming lack of a +common content between the meaning of “my” when used by another and when +used by one’s self. This common content is found in the appropriative +feeling and the visible and audible signs of that feeling. An element of +difference and strife comes in, of course, in the opposite actions or +purposes which the “my” of another and one’s own “my” are likely to +stand for. When another person says “mine” regarding something which I +claim, I sympathize with him enough to understand what he means, but it +is a hostile sympathy, overpowered by another and more vivid “mine” +connected with the idea of drawing the object my way. + +In other words, the meaning of “I” and “mine” is learned in the same way +that the meanings of hope, regret, chagrin, disgust, and thousands of +other words of emotion and sentiment are learned: that is, by having the +feeling, imputing it to others in connection with some kind of +expression, and hearing the word along with it. As to its communication +and growth the self-idea is in no way peculiar that I see, but +essentially like other ideas. In its more complex forms, such as are +expressed by “I” in conversation and literature, it is a social +sentiment, or type of sentiments, defined and developed by intercourse, +in the manner suggested in a previous chapter. + +R., though a more reflective child than M., was much slower in +understanding these pronouns, and in his thirty-fifth month had not yet +straightened them out, sometimes calling his father “me.” I imagine that +this was partly because he was placid and uncontentious in his earliest +years, manifesting little social self-feeling, but chiefly occupied with +impersonal experiment and reflection; and partly because he saw little +of other children by antithesis to whom his self could be awakened. M., +on the other hand, coming later, had R.’s opposition on which to whet +her naturally keen appropriativeness. And her society had a marked +effect in developing self-feeling in R., who found self-assertion +necessary to preserve his playthings, or anything else capable of +appropriation. He learned the use of “my,” however, when he was about +three years old, before M. was born. He doubtless acquired it in his +dealings with his parents. Thus he would perhaps notice his mother +claiming the scissors as _mine_ and seizing upon them, and would be +moved sympathetically to claim something in the same way—connecting the +word with the act and the feeling rather than the object. But as I had +not the problem clearly in mind at that time I made no satisfactory +observations. + +I imagine, then, that as a rule the child associates “I” and “me” at +first only with those ideas regarding which his appropriative feeling is +aroused and defined by opposition. He appropriates his nose, eye, or +foot in very much the same way as a plaything—by antithesis to other +noses, eyes, and feet, which he cannot control. It is not uncommon to +tease little children by proposing to take away one of these organs, and +they behave precisely as if the “mine” threatened were a separable +object—which it might be for all they know. And, as I have suggested, +even in adult life, “I,” “me,” and “mine” are applied with a strong +sense of their meaning only to things distinguished as peculiar to us by +some sort of opposition or contrast. They always imply social life and +relation to other persons. That which is most distinctively mine is very +private, it is true, but it is that part of the private which I am +cherishing in antithesis to the rest of the world, not the separate but +the special. The aggressive self is essentially a militant phase of the +mind, having for its apparent function the energizing of peculiar +activities, and although the militancy may not go on in an obvious, +external manner, it always exists as a mental attitude. + +In some of the best-known discussions of the development of the sense of +self in children the chief emphasis has been placed upon the speculative +or quasi-metaphysical ideas concerning “I” which children sometimes +formulate as a result either of questions from their elders, or of the +independent development of a speculative instinct. The most obvious +result of these inquiries is to show that a child, when he reflects upon +the self in this manner, usually locates “I” in the body. Interesting +and important as this juvenile metaphysics is, as one phase of mental +development, it should certainly not be taken as an adequate expression +of the childish sense of self, and probably President G. Stanley Hall, +who has collected valuable material of this kind, does not so take +it.[43] This analysis of the “I,” asking one’s self just where it is +located, whether particular limbs are embraced in it, and the like, is +somewhat remote from the ordinary, naïve use of the word, with children +as with grown people. In my own children I only once observed anything +of this sort, and that was in the case of R., when he was struggling to +achieve the correct use of his pronouns; and a futile, and as I now +think mistaken, attempt was made to help him by pointing out the +association of the word with his body. On the other hand, every child +who has learned to talk uses “I,” “me,” “mine,” and the like hundreds of +times a day, with great emphasis, in the simple, naïve way that the race +has used them for thousands of years. In this usage they refer to claims +upon playthings, to assertions of one’s peculiar will or purpose, as +“_I_ don’t want to do it that way,” “_I_ am going to draw a kitty,” and +so on, rarely to any part of the body. And when a part of the body is +meant it is usually by way of claiming approval for it, as “Don’t I look +nice?” so that the object of chief interest is after all another +person’s attitude. The speculative “I,” though a true “I,” is not the +“I” of common speech and workaday usefulness, but almost as remote from +ordinary thought as the ego of metaphysicians, of which, indeed, it is +an immature example. + +That children, when in this philosophizing state of mind, usually refer +“I” to the physical body, is easily explained by the fact that their +materialism, natural to all crude speculation, needs to locate the self +somewhere, and the body, the one tangible thing over which they have +continuous power, seems the most available home for it. + + +The process by which self-feeling of the looking-glass sort develops in +children may be followed without much difficulty. Studying the movements +of others as closely as they do they soon see a connection between their +own acts and changes in those movements; that is, they perceive their +own influence or power over persons. The child appropriates the visible +actions of his parent or nurse, over which he finds he has some control, +in quite the same way as he appropriates one of his own members or a +plaything, and he will try to do things with this new possession, just +as he will with his hand or his rattle. A girl six months old will +attempt in the most evident and deliberate manner to attract attention +to herself, to set going by her actions some of those movements of other +persons that she has appropriated. She has tasted the joy of being a +cause, of exerting social power, and wishes more of it. She will tug at +her mother’s skirts, wriggle, gurgle, stretch out her arms, etc., all +the time watching for the hoped-for effect. These performances often +give the child, even at this age, an appearance of what is called +affectation, that is she seems to be unduly preoccupied with what other +people think of her. Affectation, at any age, exists when the passion to +influence others seems to overbalance the established character and give +it an obvious twist or pose. It is instructive to find that even Darwin +was, in his childhood, capable of departing from truth for the sake of +making an impression. “For instance,” he says in his autobiography, “I +once gathered much valuable fruit from my father’s trees and hid it in +the shrubbery, and then ran in breathless haste to spread the news that +I had discovered a hoard of stolen fruit.”[44] + +The young performer soon learns to be different things to different +people, showing that he begins to apprehend personality and to foresee +its operation. If the mother or nurse is more tender than just she will +almost certainly be “worked” by systematic weeping. It is a matter of +common observation that children often behave worse with their mother +than with other and less sympathetic people. Of the new persons that a +child sees it is evident that some make a strong impression and awaken a +desire to interest and please them, while others are indifferent or +repugnant. Sometimes the reason can be perceived or guessed, sometimes +not; but the fact of selective interest, admiration, prestige, is +obvious before the end of the second year. By that time a child already +cares much for the reflection of himself upon one personality and little +for that upon another. Moreover, he soon claims intimate and tractable +persons as _mine_, classes them among his other possessions, and +maintains his ownership against all comers. M., at three years of age, +vigorously resented R.’s claim upon their mother. The latter was “_my_ +mamma,” whenever the point was raised. + +Strong joy and grief depend upon the treatment this rudimentary social +self receives. In the case of M. I noticed as early as the fourth month +a “hurt” way of crying which seemed to indicate a sense of personal +slight. It was quite different from the cry of pain or that of anger, +but seemed about the same as the cry of fright. The slightest tone of +reproof would produce it. On the other hand, if people took notice and +laughed and encouraged, she was hilarious. At about fifteen months old +she had become “a perfect little actress,” seeming to live largely in +imaginations of her effect upon other people. She constantly and +obviously laid traps for attention, and looked abashed or wept at any +signs of disapproval or indifference. At times it would seem as if she +could not get over these repulses, but would cry long in a grieved way, +refusing to be comforted. If she hit upon any little trick that made +people laugh she would be sure to repeat it, laughing loudly and +affectedly in imitation. She had quite a repertory of these small +performances, which she would display to a sympathetic audience, or even +try upon strangers. I have seen her at sixteen months, when R. refused +to give her the scissors, sit down and make believe cry, putting up her +under lip and snuffling, meanwhile looking up now and then to see what +effect she was producing.[45] + +In such phenomena we have plainly enough, it seems to me, the germ of +personal ambition of every sort. Imagination co-operating with +instinctive self-feeling has already created a social “I,” and this has +become a principal object of interest and endeavor. + +Progress from this point is chiefly in the way of a greater +definiteness, fulness, and inwardness in the imagination of the other’s +state of mind. A little child thinks of and tries to elicit certain +visible or audible phenomena, and does not go back of them; but what a +grown-up person desires to produce in others is an internal, invisible +condition which his own richer experience enables him to imagine, and of +which expression is only the sign. Even adults, however, make no +separation between what other people think and the visible expression of +that thought. They imagine the whole thing at once, and their idea +differs from that of a child chiefly in the comparative richness and +complexity of the elements that accompany and interpret the visible or +audible sign. There is also a progress from the naïve to the subtle in +socially self-assertive action. A child obviously and simply, at first, +does things for effect. Later there is an endeavor to suppress the +appearance of doing so; affection, indifference, contempt, etc., are +simulated to hide the real wish to affect the self-image. It is +perceived that an obvious seeking after good opinion is weak and +disagreeable. + +I doubt whether there are any regular stages in the development of +social self-feeling and expression common to the majority of children. +The sentiments of self develop by imperceptible gradations out of the +crude appropriative instinct of new-born babes, and their manifestations +vary indefinitely in different cases. Many children show +“self-consciousness” conspicuously from the first half year; others have +little appearance of it at any age. Still others pass through periods of +affectation whose length and time of occurrence would probably be found +to be exceedingly various. In childhood, as at all times of life, +absorption in some idea other than that of the social self tends to +drive “self-consciousness” out. + + +Nearly everyone, however, whose turn of mind is at all imaginative goes +through a season of passionate self-feeling during adolescence, when, +according to current belief, the social impulses are stimulated in +connection with the rapid development of the functions of sex. This is a +time of hero-worship, of high resolve, of impassioned reverie, of vague +but fierce ambition, of strenuous imitation that seems affected, of +_gêne_ in the presence of the other sex or of superior persons, and so +on. + +Many autobiographies describe the social self-feeling of youth which, in +the case of strenuous, susceptible natures, prevented by weak health or +uncongenial surroundings from gaining the sort of success proper to that +age, often attains extreme intensity. This is quite generally the case +with the youth of men of genius, whose exceptional endowment and +tendencies usually isolate them more or less from the ordinary life +about them. In the autobiography of John Addington Symonds we have an +account of the feelings of an ambitious boy suffering from ill-health, +plainness of feature—peculiarly mortifying to his strong æsthetic +instincts—and mental backwardness. “I almost resented the attentions +paid me as my father’s son, ... I regarded them as acts of charitable +condescension. Thus I passed into an attitude of haughty shyness which +had nothing respectable in it except a sort of self-reliant, +world-defiant pride, a resolution to effectuate myself, and to win what +I wanted by my exertions.... I vowed to raise myself somehow or other to +eminence of some sort.... I felt no desire for wealth, no mere wish to +cut a figure in society. But I thirsted with intolerable thirst for +eminence, for recognition as a personality.[46]... The main thing which +sustained me was a sense of self—imperious, antagonistic, +unmalleable.[47]... My external self in these many ways was being +perpetually snubbed, and crushed, and mortified. Yet the inner self +hardened after a dumb, blind fashion. I kept repeating, ‘Wait, wait. I +will, I shall, I must.’”[48] At Oxford he overhears a conversation in +which his abilities are depreciated and it is predicted that he will not +get his “first.” “The sting of it remained in me; and though I cared +little enough for first classes, I then and there resolved that I would +win the best first of my year. This kind of grit in me has to be +notified. Nothing aroused it so much as a seeming slight, exciting my +rebellious manhood.”[49] Again he exclaims, “I look round me and find +nothing in which I excel.”[50]... “I fret because I do not realize +ambition, because I have no active work, and cannot win a position of +importance like other men.”[51] + +This sort of thing is familiar in literature, and very likely in our own +experience. It seems worth while to recall it and to point out that this +primal need of self-effectuation, to adopt Mr. Symonds’s phrase, is the +essence of ambition, and always has for its object the production of +some effect upon the minds of other people. We feel in the quotations +above the indomitable surging up of the individualizing, militant force +of which self-feeling seems to be the organ. + + +Sex-difference in the development of the social self is apparent from +the first. Girls have, as a rule, a more impressible social sensibility; +they care more obviously for the social image, study it, reflect upon it +more, and so have even during the first year an appearance of subtlety, +_finesse_, often of affectation, in which boys are comparatively +lacking. Boys are more taken up with muscular activity for its own sake +and with construction, their imaginations are occupied somewhat less +with persons and more with things. In a girl _das ewig Weibliche_, not +easy to describe but quite unmistakable, appears as soon as she begins +to take notice of people, and one phase of it is certainly an ego less +simple and stable, a stronger impulse to go over to the other person’s +point of view and to stake joy and grief on the image in his mind. There +can be no doubt that women are as a rule more dependent upon immediate +personal support and corroboration than are men. The thought of the +woman needs to fix itself upon some person in whose mind she can find a +stable and compelling image of herself by which to live. If such an +image is found, either in a visible or an ideal person, the power of +devotion to it becomes a source of strength. But it is a sort of +strength dependent upon this personal complement, without which the +womanly character is somewhat apt to become a derelict and drifting +vessel. Men being built more for aggression, have, relatively, a greater +power of standing alone. But no one can really stand alone, and the +appearance of it is due simply to a greater momentum and continuity of +character which stores up the past and resists immediate influences. +Directly or indirectly the imagination of how we appear to others is a +controlling force in all normal minds. + +The vague but potent phases of the self associated with the instinct of +sex may be regarded, like other phases, as expressive of a need to exert +power and as having reference to personal function. The youth, I take +it, is bashful precisely because he is conscious of the vague stirring +of an aggressive instinct which he does not know how either to +effectuate or to ignore. And it is perhaps much the same with the other +sex: the bashful are always aggressive at heart; they are conscious of +an interest in the other person, of a need to be something to him. And +the more developed sexual passion, in both sexes, is very largely an +emotion of power, domination, or appropriation. There is no state of +feeling that says “mine, mine,” more fiercely. The need to be +appropriated or dominated which, in women at least, is equally powerful, +is of the same nature at bottom, having for its object the attracting to +itself of a masterful passion. “The desire of the man is for the woman, +but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.”[52] + + +Although boys have generally a less impressionable social self than +girls, there is great difference among them in this regard. Some of them +have a marked tendency to _finesse_ and posing, while others have almost +none. The latter have a less vivid personal imagination; they are +unaffected chiefly, perhaps, because they have no vivid idea of how they +seem to others, and so are not moved to seem rather than to be; they are +unresentful of slights because they do not feel them, not ashamed or +jealous or vain or proud or remorseful, because all these imply +imagination of another’s mind. I have known children who showed no +tendency whatever to lie; in fact, could not understand the nature or +object of lying or of any sort of concealment, as in such games as +hide-and-coop. This excessively simple way of looking at things may come +from unusual absorption in the observation and analysis of the +impersonal, as appeared to be the case with R., whose interest in other +facts and their relations so much preponderated over his interest in +personal attitudes that there was no temptation to sacrifice the former +to the latter. A child of this sort gives the impression of being +non-moral; he neither sins nor repents, and has not the knowledge of +good and evil. We eat of the tree of this knowledge when we begin to +imagine the minds of others, and so become aware of that conflict of +personal impulses which conscience aims to allay. + +Simplicity is a pleasant thing in children, or at any age, but it is not +necessarily admirable, nor is affectation altogether a thing of evil. To +be normal, to be at home in the world, with a prospect of power, +usefulness, or success, the person must have that imaginative insight +into other minds that underlies tact and _savoir faire_, morality, and +beneficence. This insight involves sophistication, some understanding +and sharing of the clandestine impulses of human nature. A simplicity +that is merely the lack of this insight indicates a sort of defect. +There is, however, another kind of simplicity, belonging to a character +that is subtle and sensitive, but has sufficient force and mental +clearness to keep in strict order the many impulses to which it is open, +and so preserve its directness and unity. One may be simple like Simple +Simon, or in the sense that Emerson meant when he said, “To be simple is +to be great.” Affectation, vanity and the like, indicate the lack of +proper assimilation of the influences arising from our sense of what +others think of us. Instead of these influences working upon the +individual gradually and without disturbing his equilibrium, they +overbear him so that he appears to be not himself, posing, out of +function, and hence silly, weak, contemptible. The affected smile, the +“foolish face of praise” is a type of all affectation, an external, +put-on thing, a weak and fatuous petition for approval. Whenever one is +growing rapidly, learning eagerly, preoccupied with strange ideals, he +is in danger of this loss of equilibrium; and so we notice it in +sensitive children, especially girls, in young people between fourteen +and twenty, and at all ages in persons of unstable individuality. + +This disturbance of our equilibrium by the outgoing of the imagination +toward another person’s point of view means that we are undergoing his +influence. In the presence of one whom we feel to be of importance there +is a tendency to enter into and adopt, by sympathy, his judgment of +ourself, to put a new value on ideas and purposes, to recast life in his +image. With a very sensitive person this tendency is often evident to +others in ordinary conversation and in trivial matters. By force of an +impulse springing directly from the delicacy of his perceptions he is +continually imagining how he appears to his interlocutor, and accepting +the image, for the moment, as himself. If the other appears to think him +well-informed on some recondite matter, he is likely to assume a learned +expression; if thought judicious he looks as if he were, if accused of +dishonesty he appears guilty, and so on. In short, a sensitive man, in +the presence of an impressive personality, tends to become, for the +time, his interpretation of what the other thinks he is. It is only the +heavy-minded who will not feel this to be true, in some degree, of +themselves. Of course it is usually a temporary and somewhat superficial +phenomenon; but it is typical of all ascendency, and helps us to +understand how persons have power over us through some hold upon our +imaginations, and how our personality grows and takes form by divining +the appearance of our present self to other minds. + +So long as a character is open and capable of growth it retains a +corresponding impressibility, which is not weakness unless it swamps the +assimilating and organizing faculty. I know men whose careers are a +proof of stable and aggressive character who have an almost feminine +sensitiveness regarding their seeming to others. Indeed, if one sees a +man whose attitude toward others is always assertive, never receptive, +he may be confident that man will never go far, because he will never +learn much. In character, as in every phase of life, health requires a +just union of stability with plasticity. + +There is a vague excitement of the social self more general than any +particular emotion or sentiment. Thus the mere presence of people, a +“sense of other persons,” as Professor Baldwin says, and an awareness of +their observation, often causes a vague discomfort, doubt, and tension. +One feels that there is a social image of himself lurking about, and not +knowing what it is he is obscurely alarmed. Many people, perhaps most, +feel more or less agitation and embarrassment under the observation of +strangers, and for some even sitting in the same room with unfamiliar or +uncongenial people is harassing and exhausting. It is well known, for +instance, that a visit from a stranger would often cost Darwin his +night’s sleep, and many similar examples could be collected from the +records of men of letters. At this point, however, it is evident that we +approach the borders of mental pathology. + + +Possibly some will think that I exaggerate the importance of social +self-feeling by taking persons and periods of life that are abnormally +sensitive. But I believe that with all normal and human people it +remains, in one form or another, the mainspring of endeavor and a chief +interest of the imagination throughout life. As is the case with other +feelings, we do not think much of it so long as it is moderately and +regularly gratified. Many people of balanced mind and congenial activity +scarcely know that they care what others think of them, and will deny, +perhaps with indignation, that such care is an important factor in what +they are and do. But this is illusion. If failure or disgrace arrives, +if one suddenly finds that the faces of men show coldness or contempt +instead of the kindliness and deference that he is used to, he will +perceive from the shock, the fear, the sense of being outcast and +helpless, that he was living in the minds of others without knowing it, +just as we daily walk the solid ground without thinking how it bears us +up. This fact is so familiar in literature, especially in modern novels, +that it ought to be obvious enough. The works of George Eliot are +particularly strong in the exposition of it. In most of her novels there +is some character like Mr. Bulstrode in “Middlemarch” or Mr. Jermyn in +“Felix Holt,” whose respectable and long-established social image of +himself is shattered by the coming to light of hidden truth. + +It is true, however, that the attempt to describe the social self and to +analyze the mental processes that enter into it almost unavoidably makes +it appear more reflective and “self-conscious” than it usually is. Thus +while some readers will be able to discover in themselves a quite +definite and deliberate contemplation of the reflected self, others will +perhaps find nothing but a sympathetic impulse, so simple that it can +hardly be made the object of distinct thought. Many people whose +behavior shows that their idea of themselves is largely caught from the +persons they are with, are yet quite innocent of any intentional posing; +it is a matter of subconscious impulse or mere suggestion. The self of +very sensitive but non-reflective minds is of this character. + + + + + CHAPTER VI + THE SOCIAL SELF—2. VARIOUS PHASES OF “I” + + EGOTISM AND SELFISHNESS—THE USE OF “I” IN LITERATURE AND + CONVERSATION—INTENSE SELF-FEELING NECESSARY TO PRODUCTIVITY—OTHER + PHASES OF THE SOCIAL SELF—PRIDE _versus_ VANITY—SELF-RESPECT, + HONOR, SELF-REVERENCE—HUMILITY—MALADIES OF THE SOCIAL + SELF—WITHDRAWAL—SELF-TRANSFORMATION—PHASES OF THE SELF CAUSED BY + INCONGRUITY BETWEEN THE PERSON AND HIS SURROUNDINGS. + + +If self and the self-seeking that springs from it are healthy and +respectable traits of human nature, then what are those things which we +call egotism and selfishness,[53] and which are so commonly regarded as +objectionable? The answer to this appears to be that it is not +self-assertion as such that we stigmatize by these names, but the +assertion of a kind or phase of self that is obnoxious to us. So long as +we agree with a man’s thoughts and aims we do not think of him as +selfish or egotistical, however urgently he may assert them; but so soon +as we cease to agree, while he continues persistent and perhaps +intrusive, we are likely to say hard things about him. It is at bottom a +matter of moral judgment, not to be comprised in any simple definition, +but to be determined by conscience after the whole situation is taken +into account. In this regard it is essentially one with the more general +question of misconduct or personal badness. There is no distinct line +between the behavior which we mildly censure as selfish and that which +we call wicked or criminal; it is only a matter of degree. + +It is quite apparent that mere self-assertion is not looked upon as +selfishness. There is nothing more respected—and even liked—than a +persistent and successful pursuit of one’s peculiar aims, so long as +this is done within the accepted limits of fairness and consideration +for others. Thus one who has acquired ten millions must have expressed +his appropriative instinct with much energy and constancy, but +reasonable people do not conclude that he is selfish unless it appears +that he has ignored social sentiments by which he should have been +guided. If he has been dishonest, mean, hard, or the like, they will +condemn him. + +The men we admire most, including those we look upon as peculiarly good, +are invariably men of notable self-assertion. Thus Martin Luther, to +take a conspicuous instance, was a man of the most intense self-feeling, +resentful of opposition, dogmatic, with “an absolute confidence in the +infallibility, practically speaking, of his own judgment.” This is a +trait belonging to nearly all great leaders, and a main cause of their +success. That which distinguishes Luther from the vulgarly ambitious and +aggressive people we know is not the quality of his self-feeling, but +the fact that it was identified in his imagination and endeavors with +sentiments and purposes that we look upon as noble, progressive, or +right. No one could be more ambitious than he was, or more determined to +secure the social aggrandizement of his self; but in his case the self +for which he was ambitious and resentful consisted largely of certain +convictions regarding justification by faith, the sacrilege of the sale +of indulgences, and, more generally, of an enfranchising spirit and mode +of thought fit to awaken and lead the aspiration of the time. + +It is evident enough that in this respect Luther is typical of +aggressive reformers in our own and every other time. Does not every +efficient clergyman, philanthropist, or teacher become such by +identifying some worthy object with a vigorous self-feeling? Is it ever +really possible to separate the feeling for the cause from the feeling +that it is _my_ cause? I doubt whether it is. Some of the greatest and +purest founders and propagators of religion have been among the greatest +egotists in the sense that they openly identified the idea of good with +the idea of self, and spoke of the two interchangeably. And I cannot +think of any strong man I have known, however good, who does not seem to +me to have had intense self-feeling about his cherished affair; though +if his affair was a large and helpful one no one would call him selfish. + +Since the judgment that a man is or is not selfish is a question of +sympathies, it naturally follows that people easily disagree regarding +it, their views depending much upon their temperaments and habits of +thought. There are probably few energetic persons who do not make an +impression of egotism upon some of their acquaintances; and, on the +other hand, how many there are whose selfishness seems obvious to most +people, but is not apparent to their wives, sisters and mothers. In so +far as our self is identified with that of another it is, of course, +unlikely that the aims of the latter should be obnoxious to us. + +If we should question many persons as to why they thought this or that +man selfish, a common answer would probably be, “He does not consider +other people.” What this means is that he is inappreciative of the +social situation as we see it; that the situation does not awaken in him +the same personal sentiments that it does in us, and so his action +wounds those sentiments. Thus the commonest and most obvious form of +selfishness is perhaps the failure to subordinate sensual impulses to +social feeling, and this, of course, results from the apathy of the +imaginative impulses that ought to effect this subordination. It would +usually be impossible for a man to help himself to the best pieces on +the platter if he conceived the disgust and resentment which he excites. +And though this is a very gross and palpable sort of selfishness, it is +analogous in nature to the finer kinds. A fine-grained, subtle Egoist, +such as is portrayed in George Meredith’s novel of that name, or such as +Isabel’s husband in Henry James’s “Portrait of a Lady,” has delicate +perceptions in certain directions, but along with these there is some +essential narrowness or vulgarity of imagination which prevents him from +grasping what we feel to be the true social situation, and having the +sentiments that should respond to it. The æsthetic refinement of Osmond +which so impresses Isabel before her marriage turns out to be compatible +with a general smallness of mind. He is “not a good fellow,” as Ralph +remarks, and incapable of comprehending her or her friends. + +A lack of tact in face-to-face intercourse very commonly gives an +impression of egotism, even when it is a superficial trait not really +expressive of an unsympathetic character. Thus there are persons who in +the simplest conversation do not seem to forget themselves, and enter +frankly and disinterestedly into the subject, but are felt to be always +preoccupied with the thought of the impression they are making, +imagining praise or depreciation, and usually posing a little to avoid +the one or gain the other. Such people are uneasy, and make others so; +no relaxation is possible in their company, because they never come +altogether out into open and common ground, but are always keeping back +something. It is not so much that they have self-feeling as that it is +clandestine and furtive, giving one a sense of insecurity. Sometimes +they are aware of this lack of frankness, and try to offset it by +reckless confessions, but this only shows their self-consciousness in +another and hardly more agreeable aspect. Perhaps the only cure for this +sort of egotism is to cherish very high and difficult ambitions, and so +drain off the superabundance of self-feeling from these petty channels. +People who are doing really important things usually appear simple and +unaffected in conversation, largely because their selves are healthfully +employed elsewhere. + +One who has tact always sees far enough into the state of mind of the +person with whom he is conversing to adapt himself to it and to seem, at +least, sympathetic; he is sure to feel the situation. But if you tread +upon the other person’s toes, talk about yourself when he is not +interested in that subject, and, in general, show yourself out of touch +with his mind, he very naturally finds you disagreeable. And behavior +analogous to this in the more enduring relations of life gives rise to a +similar judgment. + +So far as there is any agreement in judgments regarding selfishness it +arises from common standards of right, fairness, and courtesy which all +thoughtful minds work out from their experience, and which represent +what the general good requires. The selfish man is one in whose self, or +in whose style of asserting it, is something that falls below these +standards. He is a transgressor of fair play and the rules of the game, +an outlaw with whom no one ought to sympathize, but against whom all +should unite for the general good. + +It is the unhealthy or egotistical self that is usually meant by the +word self when used in moral discussions; it is this that people need to +get away from, both for their own good and that of the community. When +we speak of getting out of one’s “self” we commonly mean _any line of +thought with which one tends to be unduly preoccupied_; so that to +escape from it is indeed a kind of salvation. + +There is perhaps no sort of self more subject to dangerous egotism than +that which deludes itself with the notion that it is not a self at all, +but something else. It is well to beware of persons who believe that the +cause, the mission, the philanthropy, the hero, or whatever it may be +that they strive for, is outside of themselves, so that they feel a +certain irresponsibility, and are likely to do things which they would +recognize as wrong if done in behalf of an acknowledged self. Just as +the Spanish armies in the Netherlands held that their indulgence in +murder, torture, and brutal lust was sanctified by the supposed holy +character of their mission, so in our own time the name of religion, +science, patriotism, or charity sometimes enables people to indulge +comfortably in browbeating, intrusion, slander, dishonesty, and the +like. _Every cherished idea is a self_: and though it appear to the +individual, or to a class, or to a whole nation, worthy to swallow up +all other selves, it is subject to the same need of discipline under +rules of justice and decency as any other. It is healthy for everyone to +understand that he is, and will remain, a self-seeker, and that if he +gets out of one self he is sure to form another which may stand in equal +need of control. + +Selfishness as a mental trait is always some sort of narrowness, +littleness or defect; an inadequacy of imagination. The perfectly +balanced and vigorous mind can hardly be selfish, because it cannot be +oblivious to any important social situation, either in immediate +intercourse or in more permanent relations; it must always tend to be +sympathetic, fair, and just, because it possesses that breadth and unity +of view of which these qualities are the natural expression. To lack +them is to be not altogether social and human, and may be regarded as +the beginning of degeneracy. Egotism is then not something additional to +ordinary human nature, as the common way of speaking suggests, but +rather a lack. The egotist is not more than a man, but less than a man; +and as regards personal power he is as a rule the weaker for his +egotism. The very fact that he has a bad name shows that the world is +against him, and that he is contending against odds. The success of +selfishness attracts attention and exaggeration because it is hateful to +us; but the really strong generally work within the prevalent standards +of justice and courtesy, and so escape condemnation. + +There is infinite variety in egotism; but an important division may be +based on the greater or less stability of the egotists’ characters. +According to this we may divide them into those of the unstable type and +those of the rigid type. Extreme instability is always selfish; the very +weak cannot be otherwise, because they lack both the deep sympathy that +enables people to penetrate the lives of others, and the consistency and +self-control necessary to make sympathy effective if they had it. Their +superficial and fleeting impulses are as likely to work harm as good and +cannot be trusted to bring forth any sound fruit. If they are amiable at +times they are sure to be harsh, cold, or violent at other times; there +is no justice, no solid good or worth in them. The sort of people I have +in mind are, for instance, such as in times of affliction go about +weeping and wringing their hands to the neglect of their duty to aid and +comfort the survivors, possibly taking credit for the tenderness of +their hearts. + +The other sort of egotism, not sharply distinguished from this in all +cases, belongs to people who have stability of mind and conduct, but +still without breadth and richness of sympathy, so that their aims and +sentiments are inadequate to the life around them—narrow, hard, mean, +self-satisfied, or sensual. This I would call the rigid type of egotism +because the essence of it is an arrest of sympathetic development and an +ossification as it were of what should be a plastic and growing part of +thought. Something of this sort is perhaps what is most commonly meant +by the word, and everyone can think of harsh, gross, grasping, cunning, +or self-complacent traits to which he would apply it. The self, to be +healthy or to be tolerable to other selves, must be ever moving on, +breaking loose from lower habits, walking hand-in-hand with sympathy and +aspiration. If it stops too long anywhere it becomes stagnant and +diseased, odious to other minds and harmful to the mind it inhabits. The +men that satisfy the imagination are chastened men; large, human, +inclusive, feeling the breadth of the world. It is impossible to think +of Shakespeare as arrogant, vain, or sensual; and if some, like Dante, +had an exigent ego, they succeeded in transforming it into higher and +higher forms. + +Selfishness of the stable or rigid sort is as a rule more bitterly +resented than the more fickle variety, chiefly, no doubt, because, +having more continuity and purpose, it is more formidable. + +One who accepts the idea of self, and of personality in general, already +set forth, will agree that what is ordinarily called egotism cannot +properly be regarded as the opposite of “altruism,” or of any word +implying the self-and-other classification of impulses. No clear or +useful idea of selfishness can be reached on the basis of this +classification, which, as previously stated, seems to me fictitious. It +misrepresents the mental situation, and so tends to confuse thought. The +mind has not, in fact, two sets of motives to choose from, the +self-motives and the other-motives, the latter of which stand for the +higher course, but has the far more difficult task of achieving a higher +life by gradually discriminating and organizing a great variety of +motives not easily divisible into moral groups. The proper antithesis of +selfishness is right, justice, breadth, magnanimity, or something of +that sort; something opposite to the narrowness of feeling and action in +which selfishness essentially consists. It is a matter of more or less +symmetry and stature, like the contrast between a gnarled and stunted +tree and one of ample growth. + +The ideas denoted by such phrases as _my_ friend, _my_ country, _my_ +duty, and so on, are just the ones that stand for broad or “unselfish” +impulses, and yet they are self-ideas as shown by the first-personal +pronoun. In the expression “_my duty_” we have in six letters a +refutation of that way of thinking which makes right the opposite of +self. That it stands for the right all will admit; and yet no one can +pronounce it meaningly without perceiving that it is charged with +intense self-feeling. + +It is always vain to try to separate the outer aspect of a motive, the +other people, the cause or the like, which we think of as external, from +the private or self aspect, which we think of as internal. The apparent +separation is purely illusive. It is surely a very simple truth that +what makes us act in an unselfish or devoted manner is always some sort +of sentiment in our own minds, and if we cherish this sentiment +intimately it is a part of ourselves. We develop the inner life by +outwardly directed thought and action, relating mostly to other persons, +to causes, and the like. Is there no difference, then, it may be asked, +between doing a kind act to please someone else and doing it to please +one’s self? I should say regarding this that while it is obvious, if one +thinks of it, that pleasing another can exist for me only as a pleasant +feeling in my own mind, which is the motive of my action, there is a +difference in the meaning of these expressions as commonly used. +Pleasing one’s self ordinarily means that we act from some comparatively +narrow sentiment not involving penetrating sympathy. Thus, if one gives +Christmas presents to make a good impression or from a sense of +propriety, he might be said to do it to please himself, while if he +really imagined the pleasure the gift would bring to the recipient he +would do it to please the latter. But it is clear enough that his own +pleasure might be quite as great in the second case. Again, sometimes we +do things “to please others” which we declare are painful to ourselves. +But this, of course, means merely that there are conflicting impulses in +our own minds, some of which are sacrificed to others. The satisfaction, +or whatever you choose to call it, that one gets when he prefers his +duty to some other course is just as much his own as any pleasure he +renounces. No self-sacrifice is admirable that is not the choice of a +higher or larger aspect of the self over a lower or partial aspect. If a +man’s act is really self-sacrifice, that is, not properly _his own_, he +would better not do it. + + +Some opponent of Darwin attempted to convict him of egotism by counting +the number of times that the pronoun “I” appears upon the first few +pages of the “Origin of Species.” He was able to find a great many, and +to cause Darwin, who was as modest a man as ever lived, to feel abashed +at the showing; but it is doubtful if he convinced any reader of the +book of the truth of the assertion. In fact, although the dictionary +defines egotism as “the habit or practice of thinking and talking much +of one’s self,” the use of the first-personal pronoun is hardly the +essence of the matter. This use is always in some degree a +self-assertion, but it has a disagreeable or egotistical effect only in +so far as the self asserted is repellent to us. Even Montaigne, who says +“I” on every other line, and whose avowed purpose is to display himself +at large and in all possible detail, does not, it seems to me, really +make an impression of egotism upon the congenial reader, because he +contrives to make his self so interesting in every aspect that the more +we are reminded of it the better we are pleased; and there is good sense +in his doctrine that “not to speak roundly of a man’s self implies some +lack of courage; a firm and lofty judgment, and that judges soundly and +surely, makes use of his own example upon all occasions, as well as +those of others.” A person will not displease sensible people by saying +“I” so long as the self thus asserted stands for something, is a +pertinent, significant “I,” and not merely a random self-intrusion. We +are not displeased to see an athlete roll up his sleeves and show his +muscles, although if a man of only ordinary development did so it would +seem an impertinence; nor do we think less of Rembrandt for painting his +own portrait every few months. The “I” should be functional, and so long +as a man is functioning acceptably there can be no objection to his +using it. + +Indeed, it is a common remark that the most delightful companions, or +authors of books, are often the most egotistical in the sense that they +are always talking about themselves. The reason for this is that if the +“I” is interesting and agreeable we adopt it for the time being and make +it our own. Then, being on the inside as it were, it is our own self +that is so expansive and happy. We adopt Montaigne, or Lamb, or +Thackeray, or Stevenson, or Whitman, or Thoreau, and think of their +words as our words. Thus even extravagant self-assertion, if the reader +can only be led to enter into it, may be congenial. There may be quite +as much egotism in the suppression of “I” as in the use of it, and a +forced and obvious avoidance of this pronoun often gives a disagreeable +feeling of the writer’s self-consciousness. In short, egotism is a +matter of character, not of forms of language, and if we are egotists +the fact will out in spite of any conventional rules of decorum that we +may follow. + +It is possible to maintain that “I” is a more modest pronoun than “one,” +by which some writers seem to wish to displace it. If a man says “I +think,” he speaks only for himself, while if he says “one thinks,” he +insinuates that the opinion advanced is a general or normal view. To say +“one does not like this picture,” is a more deadly attack upon it than +to say “I do not like it.” + +It would seem also that more freedom of self-expression is appropriate +to a book than to ordinary intercourse, because people are not obliged +to read books, and the author has a right to assume that his readers +are, in a general way, sympathetic with that phase of his personality +that he is trying to express. If we do not sympathize why do we continue +to read? We may, however, find fault with him if he departs from that +which it is the proper function of the book to assert, and intrudes a +weak and irrelevant “I” in which he has no reason to suppose us +interested. I presume we can all think of books that might apparently be +improved by going through them and striking out passages in which the +author has incontinently expressed an aspect of himself that has no +proper place in the work. + + +In every higher kind of production a person needs to understand and +believe in himself—the more thoroughly the better. It is precisely that +in him which he feels to be worthy and at the same time peculiar—the +characteristic—that it is his duty to produce, communicate, and realize; +and he cannot possess this, cannot differentiate it, cleanse it from +impurities, consolidate and organize it, except through prolonged and +interested self-contemplation. Only this can enable him to free himself +from the imitative on the one hand and the whimsical on the other, and +to stand forth without shame or arrogance for what he truly is. +Consequently every productive mind must have intense self-feeling; it +must delight to contemplate the characteristic, to gloat over it if you +please, and in this way learn to define, arrange, and express it. If one +will take up a work of literary art like, say, the “Sentimental +Journey,” he will see that a main source of the charm of it is in the +writer’s assured and contented familiarity with himself. A man who +writes like that has delighted to brood over his thoughts, jealously +excluding everything not wholly congenial to him, and gradually working +out an adequate expression. And the superiority, or at least the +difference, in tone and manner of the earlier English literature as +compared with that of the nineteenth century is apparently connected +with a more assured and reposeful self-possession on the part of the +older writers, made possible, no doubt, by a less urgent general life. +The same fact of self-intensity goes with notable production in all +sorts of literature, in every art, in statesmanship, philanthropy, +religion; in all kinds of career. + +Who does not feel at times what Goethe calls the joy of dwelling in +one’s self, of surrounding himself with the fruits of his own mind, with +things he has made, perhaps, books he has chosen, his familiar clothes +and possessions of all sorts, with his wife, children, and old friends, +and with his own thoughts, which some, like Robert Louis Stevenson, +confess to a love of re-reading in books, letters, or diaries? At times +even conscientious people, perhaps, look kindly at their own faults, +deficiencies, and mannerisms, precisely as they would on those of a +familiar friend. Without self-love in some such sense as this any solid +and genial growth of character and accomplishment is hardly possible. +“Whatever any man has to effect must emanate from him like a second +self; and how could this be possible were not his first self entirely +pervaded by it?” Nor is it opposed to the love of others. “Indeed,” says +Mr. Stevenson, “he who loves himself, not in idle vanity, but with a +plenitude of knowledge, is the best equipped of all to love his +neighbors.” + +Self-love, Shakespeare says, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting; +and many serious varieties of the latter might be specified. There is, +for instance, a culpable sort of self-dreading cowardice, not at all +uncommon with sensitive people, which shrinks from developing and +asserting a just “I” because of the stress of self-feeling—of vanity, +uncertainty, and mortification—which is foreseen and shunned. If one is +liable to these sentiments the proper course is to bear with them as +with other disturbing conditions, rather than to allow them to stand in +the way of what, after all, one is born to do. “Know your own bone,” +says Thoreau, “gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still.”[54] +“If I am not I, who will be?” + +A tendency to secretiveness very often goes with this self-cherishing. +Goethe was as amorous and jealous about his unpublished works, in some +cases, as the master of a seraglio; fostering them for years, and +sometimes not telling his closest friends of their existence. His +Eugenie, “meine Liebling Eugenie,” as he calls it, was vulgarized and +ruined for him by his fatal mistake in publishing the first part before +the whole was complete. It would not be difficult to show that the same +cherishing of favorite and peculiar ideas is found also in painters, +sculptors, and effective persons of every sort. As was suggested in an +earlier chapter, this secretiveness has a social reference, and few +works of art could be carried through if the artist was convinced they +would have no value in the eyes of anyone else. He hides his work that +he may purify and perfect it, thus making it at once more wholly and +delightfully his own and also more valuable to the world in the end. As +soon as the painter exhibits his picture he loses it, in a sense; his +system of ideas about it becomes more or less confused and disorganized +by the inrush of impressions arising from a sense of what other people +think of it; it is no longer the perfect and intimate thing which his +thought cherished, but has become somewhat crude, vulgar, and +disgusting, so that if he is sensitive he may wish never to look upon it +again. This, I take it, is why Goethe could not finish Eugenie, and why +Guignet, a French painter, of whom Hamerton speaks, used to alter or +throw away a painting that anyone by chance saw upon the easel. Likewise +it was in order more perfectly to know and express himself—in his book +called “A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers”—that Thoreau retired +to Walden Pond, and it was doubtless with the same view that Descartes +quitted Paris and dwelt for eight years in Holland, concealing even his +place of residence. The Self, like a child, is not likely to hold its +own in the world unless it has had a mature prenatal development. + +It may be said, perhaps, that these views contradict a well-known fact, +namely, that we do our best work when we are not self-conscious, not +thinking about effect, but filled with disinterested and impersonal +passion. Such truth as there is in this idea is, however, in no way +inconsistent with what has just been said. It is true that a certain +abandonment and self-forgetting is often characteristic of high thought +and noble action. But there would be no production, no high thought or +noble action, if we relied entirely upon these impassioned moments +without preparing ourselves to have them. It is only as we have +self-consciousness that we can be aware of those special tendencies +which we assert in production, or can learn how to express them, or even +have the desire to do so. The moment of insight would be impossible +without the persistent self-conscious endeavor that preceded it, nor has +enthusiastic action any value without a similar discipline. + +It is true, also, that in sensitive persons self-feeling often reaches a +pitch of irritability that impedes production, or vulgarizes it through +too great deference to opinion. But this is a matter of the control and +discipline of particular aspects of the self rather than of its general +tendency. When undisciplined this sort of feeling may be futile or +harmful, just as fear, whose function is to cause us to avoid danger, +may defeat its own aim through excessive and untimely operation, and +anger may so excite us that we lose the power of inflicting injury. + +If the people of our time and country are peculiarly selfish, as is +sometimes alleged, it is certainly not because a too rigid or clearly +differentiated type of self-consciousness is general among us. On the +contrary, our most characteristic fault is perhaps a certain +superficiality and vagueness of character and aims; and this seems to +spring from a lack of collectedness and self-definition, which in turn +is connected with the too eager mode of life common among us. I doubt, +however, whether egotism, which is essentially a falling short of moral +standards, can be said to be more prevalent in one age than another. + + +In Mr. Roget’s “Thesaurus” may be found about six pages devoted to words +denoting “Extrinsic personal affections, or personal affections derived +from the opinions or feelings of others,” an expression which seems to +mean nearly the same as is here meant by social self-feeling of the +reflected or looking-glass sort. Although the compiler fishes with a +wide net and brings in much that seems hardly to belong here, the number +of words in common use indicating different varieties of this sort of +feeling is surprising and suggestive. One cannot but think, What insight +and what happy boldness of invention went to the devising of all these +terms! What a psychologist is language, that thus labels and treasures +up so many subtle aspects of the human mind! + +We may profitably distinguish, as others have done, two general +attitudes—the aggressive or self-assertive and the shrinking or humble. +The first indicates that one thinks favorably of himself and tries to +impose that favorable thought on others; the second, that he accepts and +yields to a depreciating reflection of himself, and feels accordingly +diminished and abased. Pride would, of course, be an example of the +first way of feeling and acting, humility of the second. + +But there are many phases of the aggressive self, and these, again, +might be classified something as follows: first, in response to imagined +approval we have pride, vanity, or self-respect; second, in response to +imagined censure we have various sorts of resentment; and the humble +self might be treated in a similar manner. + + +Pride and vanity are names which are commonly applied only to forms of +self-approval that strike us as disagreeable or egotistical; but they +may be used in a somewhat larger sense to indicate simply a more or less +stable attitude of the social self toward the world in which it is +reflected; the distinction being of the same sort as that between +unstable and rigid egotism already suggested. + +These differences in stability, which are of great importance in the +study of social personality, are perhaps connected with the contrast +between the more receptive and the more constructive types of mind. +Although in the best minds reception and construction are harmoniously +united, and although it may be shown that they are in a measure mutually +dependent, so that neither can be perfect without the other, yet as a +rule they are not symmetrically developed, and this lack of symmetry +corresponds to divergences of personal character. Minds of one sort are, +so to speak, endogenous or ingrowing in their natural bent, while those +of another are exogenous or outgrowing; that is to say, those of the +former kind have a relatively strong turn for working up old material, +as compared with that for taking in new; cogitation is more pleasant to +them than observation; they prefer the sweeping and garnishing of their +house to the confusion of entertaining visitors; while of the other sort +the opposite of this may be said. Now, the tendency of the endogenous or +inward activities is to secure unity and stability of thought and +character at the possible expense of openness and adaptability; because +the energy goes chiefly into systematization, and in attaining this the +mind is pretty sure to limit its new impressions to those that do not +disturb too much that unity and system it loves so well. These traits +are, of course, manifested in the person’s relation to others. The +friends he has “and their acceptance tried” he grapples to his soul with +hooks of steel, but is likely to be unsympathetic and hard toward +influences of a novel character. On the other hand, the exogenous or +outgrowing mind, more active near the periphery than toward the centre, +is open to all sorts of impressions, eagerly taking in new material, +which is likely never to get much arrangement; caring less for the order +of the house than that it should be full of guests, quickly responsive +to personal influences, but lacking that depth and tenacity of sympathy +that the other sort of mind shows with people congenial with itself. + +Pride,[55] then, is the form social self-approval takes in the more +rigid or self-sufficient sort of minds; the person who feels it is +assured that he stands well with others whose opinion he cares for, and +does not imagine any humiliating image of himself, but carries his +mental and social stability to such a degree that it is likely to narrow +his soul by warding off the enlivening pricks of doubt and shame. By no +means independent of the world, it is, after all, distinctly a social +sentiment, and gets its standards ultimately from social custom and +opinion. But the proud man is not _immediately_ dependent upon what +others think; he has worked over his reflected self in his mind until it +is a steadfast portion of his thought, an idea and conviction apart, in +some measure, from its external origin. Hence this sentiment requires +time for its development and flourishes in mature age rather than in the +open and growing period of youth. A man who is proud of his rank, his +social position, his professional eminence, his benevolence, or his +integrity, is in the habit of contemplating daily an agreeable and +little changing image of himself as he believes he appears in the eyes +of the world. This image is probably distorted, since pride deceives by +a narrowing of the imagination, but it is stable, and because it is so, +because he feels sure of it, he is not disturbed by any passing breath +of blame. If he is aware of such a thing at all he dismisses it as a +vagary of no importance, feeling the best judgment of the world to be +securely in his favor. If he should ever lose this conviction, if some +catastrophe should shatter the image, he would be a broken man, and, if +far gone in years, would perhaps not raise his head again. + +In a sense pride is strength; that is, it implies a stable and +consistent character which can be counted on; it will do its work +without watching, and be honorable in its dealings, according to its +cherished standards; it has always a vigorous, though narrow, +conscience. On the other hand, it stunts a man’s growth by closing his +mind to progressive influences, and so in the long run may be a source +of weakness. Burke said, I believe, that no man ever had a point of +pride that was not injurious to him; and perhaps this was what he meant. +Pride also causes, as a rule, a deeper animosity on the part of others +than vanity; it may be hated but hardly despised; yet many would rather +live with it than with vanity, because, after all, one knows where to +find it, and so can adapt himself to it. The other is so whimsical that +it is impossible to foresee what turn it will take next. + +Language seldom distinguishes clearly between a way of feeling and its +visible expression; and so the word vanity, which means primarily +emptiness, indicates either a weak or hollow appearance of worth put on +in the endeavor to impress others, or the state of feeling that goes +with it. It is the form social self-approval naturally takes in a +somewhat unstable mind, not sure of its image. The vain man, in his more +confident moments, sees a delightful reflection of himself, but knowing +that it is transient, he is afraid it will change. He has not fixed it, +as the proud man has, by incorporation with a stable habit of thought, +but, being immediately dependent for it upon others, is at their mercy +and very vulnerable, living in the frailest of glass houses which may be +shattered at any moment; and, in fact, this catastrophe happens so often +that he gets somewhat used to it and soon recovers from it. While the +image which the proud person contemplates is fairly consistent, and, +though distorted, has a solid basis in his character, so that he will +not accept praise for qualities he does not believe himself to possess; +vanity has no stable idea of itself and will swallow any shining bait. +The person will gloat now on one pleasing reflection of himself, now on +another, trying to mimic each in its turn, and becoming, so far as he +can, what any flatterer says he is, or what any approving person seems +to think he is. It is characteristic of him to be so taken up with his +own image in the other’s mind that he is hypnotized by it, as it were, +and sees it magnified, distorted, and out of its true relation to the +other contents of that mind. He does not see, as so often happens, that +he is being managed and made a fool of; he “gives himself away”—fatuity +being of the essence of vanity. On the other hand, and for the same +reason, a vain person is frequently tortured by groundless imaginings +that someone has misunderstood him, slighted him, insulted him, or +otherwise mistreated his social effigy. + +Of course the immediate result of vanity is weakness, as that of pride +is strength; but on a wider view there is something to be said for it. +Goethe exclaims in Wilhelm Meister, “Would to heaven all men were vain! +that is were vain with clear perception, with moderation, and in a +proper sense: we should then, in the cultivated world, have happy times +of it. Women, it is told us, are vain from the very cradle; yet does it +not become them? do they not please us the more? How can a youth form +himself if he is not vain? An empty, hollow nature will, by this means, +at least contrive to give itself an outward show, and a proper man will +soon train himself from the outside inwards.”[56] That is to say, +vanity, in moderation, may indicate an openness, a sensibility, a +teachability, that is a good augury of growth. In youth, at least, it is +much preferable to pride. + + +It is the obnoxious, or in some way conspicuous, manifestations of +self-feeling that are likely to receive special names. Accordingly, +there are many words and phrases for different aspects of pride and +vanity, while a moderate and balanced self-respect does not attract +nomenclature. One who has this is more open and flexible in feeling and +behavior than one who is proud; the image is not stereotyped, he is +subject to humility; while at the same time he does not show the +fluttering anxiety about his appearance that goes with vanity, but has +stable ways of thinking about the image, as about other matters, and +cannot be upset by passing phases of praise or blame. In fact, the +healthy life of the self requires the same co-operation of continuity +with change that marks normal development everywhere; there must be +variability, openness, freedom, on a basis of organization: too rigid +organization meaning fixity and death, and the lack of it weakness or +anarchy. The self-respecting man values others’ judgments and occupies +his mind with them a great deal, but he keeps his head, he discriminates +and selects, considers all suggestions with a view to his character, and +will not submit to influences not in the line of his development. +Because he conceives his self as a stable and continuing whole he always +feels the need to _be_, and cannot be guilty of that separation between +being and seeming that constitutes affectation. For instance, a +self-respecting scholar, deferent to the standards set by the opinions +of others, might wish to have read all the books on a certain subject, +and feel somewhat ashamed not to have done so, but he could not affect +to have read them when he had not. The pain of breaking the unity of his +thought, of disfiguring his picture of himself as a sincere and +consistent man, would overbalance any gratification he might have in the +imagined approval of his thoroughness. If he were vain he would possibly +affect to have read the books; while if arrogant he might feel no +compunctions for avowed ignorance of them. + +Common-sense approves a just mingling of deference and self-poise in the +attitude of one man toward others: while the unyielding are certainly +repellent, the too deferent are nearly as much so; they are tiresome and +even disgusting, because they seem flimsy and unreal, and do not give +that sense of contact with something substantial and interesting that we +look for. + + “——you have missed + The manhood that should yours resist, + Its complement.” + +We like the manner of a person who appears interested in what we say and +do, and not indifferent to our opinion, but has at the same time an +evident reserve of stability and independence. It is much the same with +a writer; we require of him a bold and determined statement of his own +special view—that is what he is here for—and yet, with this, an air of +hospitality, and an appreciation that he is after all only a small part +of a large world. + +With some, then, the self-image is an imitative sketch in the supposed +style of the last person they have talked to; with others, it is a +rigid, traditional thing, a lifeless repetition that has lost all +relation to the forces that originally moulded it, like the Byzantine +madonnas before the time of Cimabue; with others again it is a true work +of art in which individual tendencies and the influence of masters +mingle in a harmonious whole; but all of us have it, unless we are so +deficient in imagination as to be less than human. When we speak of a +person as independent of opinion, or self-sufficient, we can only mean +that, being of a constructive and stable character, he does not have to +recur every day to the visible presence of his approvers, but can supply +their places by imagination, can hold on to some influences and reject +others, choose his leaders, individualize his conformity; and so work +out a characteristic and fairly consistent career. The self must be +built up by the aid of social suggestions, just as all higher thought +is. + +Honor is a finer kind of self-respect. It is used to mean either +something one feels regarding himself, or something that other people +think and feel regarding him, and so illustrates by the accepted use of +language the fact that the private and social aspects of self are +inseparable. One’s honor, as he feels it, and his honor in the sense of +honorable repute, as he conceives it to exist in the minds of others +whose opinion he cares for, are two aspects of the same thing. No one +can permanently maintain a standard of honor in his own mind if he does +not conceive of some other mind or minds as sharing and corroborating +this standard. If his immediate environment is degrading he may have +resort to books or memory in order that his imagination may construct a +better environment of nobler people to sustain his standard; but if he +cannot do this it is sure to fall. Sentiments of higher good or right, +like other sentiments, find source and renewal in intercourse. On the +other hand, we cannot separate the idea of honor from that of a sincere +and stable private character. We cannot form a habit of thought about +what is admirable, though it be derived from others, without creating a +mental standard. A healthy mind cannot strive for outward honor without, +in some measure, developing an inward conscience—training himself from +the outside in, as Goethe says. + +It is the result of physiological theories of ethics—certainly not +intended by the authors of those theories—to make the impulses of an +ideal self, like the sentiment of honor, seem far-fetched, extravagant +and irrational. They have to be justified by an elaborate course of +reasoning which does not seem very convincing after all. No such +impression, however, could result from the direct observation of social +life. In point of fact, a man’s honor, as he conceives it, is his self +in its most immediate and potent reality, swaying his conduct without +waiting upon any inquiry into its physiological antecedents. The +preference of honor to life is not at all a romantic exception in human +behavior, but something quite characteristic of man on a really human +level. A despicable or degenerate person may save his body alive at the +expense of honor, and so may almost anyone in moments of panic or other +kind of demoralization, but the typical man, in his place among his +fellows and with his social sentiments about him, will not do so. We +read in history of many peoples conquered because they lacked discipline +and strategy, or because their weapons were inferior, but we seldom read +of any who were really cowardly in the sense that they would not face +death in battle. And the readiness to face death commonly means that the +sentiment of honor dominates the impulses of terror and pain. All over +the ancient world the Roman legions encountered men who shunned death no +more than themselves, but were not so skilful in inflicting it; and in +Mexico and Peru the natives died by thousands in a desperate struggle +against the Spanish arms. The earliest accounts we have of our own +Germanic ancestors show a state of feeling and practice that made +self-preservation, in a material sense, strictly subordinate to honor. +“Death is better for every clansman than coward life,” says Beowulf,[57] +and there seems no doubt whatever that this was a general principle of +action, so that cowardice was a rare phenomenon. In modern life we see +the same subordination of sensation to sentiment among soldiers and in a +hundred other careers involving bodily peril—not as a heroic exception +but as the ordinary practice of plain men. We see it also in the general +readiness to undergo all sorts of sensual pains and privations rather +than cease to be respectable in the eyes of other people. It is well +known, for instance, that among the poor thousands endure cold and +partial starvation rather than lose their self-respect by begging. In +short, it does not seem too favorable a view of mankind to say that +under normal conditions their minds are ruled by the sentiment of +Norfolk: + + “Mine honor is my life: both grow in one; + Take honor from me and my life is done.” + +If we once grasp the fact that the self is primarily a social, ideal, or +imaginative fact, and not a sensual fact, all this appears quite natural +and not in need of special explanation. + +In relation to the highest phases of individuality self-respect becomes +self-reverence, in the sense of Tennyson, when he says: + + “Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, + These three alone lead life to sovereign power.”[58] + +or of Goethe when, in the first chapter of the second book of “Wilhelm +Meister’s Wanderjahre,” he names self-reverence—_Ehrfurcht vor sick +selbst_—as the highest of the four reverences taught to youth in his +ideal system of education.[59] Emerson uses self-reliance in a similar +sense, in that memorable essay the note of which is “Trust thyself, +every heart vibrates to that iron string,” and throughout his works. + +Self-reverence, as I understand the matter, means reverence for a higher +or ideal self; a real “I,” because it is based on what the individual +actually is, as only he himself can know and appropriate it, but a +better “I” of aspiration rather than attainment; it is simply the best +he can make out of life. Reverence for it implies, as Emerson urges, +resistance to friends and counsellors and to any influence that the mind +honestly rejects as inconsistent with itself; a man must feel that the +final arbiter is within him and not outside of him in some master, +living or dead, as conventional religion, for instance, necessarily +teaches. Nevertheless this highest self is a social self, in that it is +a product of constructive imagination working with the materials which +social experience supplies. Our ideals of personal character are built +up out of thoughts and sentiments developed by intercourse, and very +largely by imagining how our selves would appear in the minds of persons +we look up to. These are not necessarily living persons; anyone that is +at all real, that is imaginable, to us, becomes a possible occasion of +social self-feeling; and idealizing and aspiring persons live largely in +the imagined presence of masters and heroes to whom they refer their own +life for comment and improvement. This is particularly true of youth, +when ideals are forming; later the personal element in these ideals, +having performed its function of suggesting and vivifying them, is +likely to fade out of consciousness and leave only habits and principles +whose social origin is forgotten. + +Resentment, the attitude which an aggressive self takes in response to +imagined depreciation, may be regarded as self-feeling with a coloring +of anger; indeed, the relation between self-feeling and particular +emotions like anger and fear is so close that the latter might be looked +upon as simply specialized kinds of the former; it makes little +difference whether we take this view or think of them as distinct, since +such divisions must always be arbitrary. I shall say more of this +sentiment in the next chapter. + + +If a person conceives his image as depreciated in the mind of another; +and if, instead of maintaining an aggressive attitude and resenting that +depreciation, he yields to it and accepts the image and the judgment +upon it; then he feels and shows something in the way of humility. Here +again we have a great variety of nomenclature, indicating different +shades of humble feeling and behavior, such as shame, confusion, +abasement, humiliation, mortification, meekness, bashfulness, +diffidence, shyness, being out of countenance, abashed or crestfallen, +contrition, compunction, remorse, and so on. + +Humility, like self-approval, has forms that consist with a high type of +character and are felt to be praiseworthy, and others that are felt to +be base. There is a sort that goes with vanity and indicates +instability, an excessive and indiscriminate yielding to another’s view +of one’s self. We wish a man to be humble only before what, from his own +characteristic point of view, is truly superior. His humility should +imply self-respect; it should be that attitude of deference which a +stable but growing character takes in the presence of whatever embodies +its ideals. Every outreaching person has masters in whose imagined +presence he drops resistance and becomes like clay in the hands of the +potter, that they may make something better of him. He does this from a +feeling that the master is more himself than he is; there is a receptive +enthusiasm, a sense of new life that swallows up the old self and makes +his ordinary personality appear tedious, base and despicable. Humility +of this sort goes with self-reverence, because a sense of the higher or +ideal self plunges the present and commonplace self into humility. The +man aims at “so high an ideal that he always feels his unworthiness in +his own sight and that of others, though aware of his own desert by the +ordinary standards of his community, country, or generation.”[60] But a +humility that is self-abandonment, a cringing before opinion alien to +one’s self, is felt to be mere cowardice and servility. + +Books of the inner life praise and enjoin lowliness, contrition, +repentance, self-abnegation; but it is apparent to all thoughtful +readers that the sort of humility inculcated is quite consistent with +the self-reverence of Goethe or the self-reliance of Emerson—comes, +indeed, to much the same thing. The “Imitatio Christi” is the type of +such teaching, yet it is a manly book, and the earlier part especially +contains exhortations to self-trust worthy of Emerson. “Certa +viriliter,” the writer says, “consuetudo consuetudine vincitur. Si tu +scis homines dimittere, ipsi bene te dimittent tua facta facere.”[61] +The yielding constantly enjoined is either to God—that is, to an ideal +personality developed in one’s own mind—or, if to men, it is a +submission to external rule which is designed to leave the will free for +what are regarded as its higher functions. The whole teaching tends to +the aggrandizement of an ideal but intensely private self, worked out in +solitary meditation—to insure which worldly ambition is to be +renounced—and symbolized as God, conscience, or grace. The just +criticism of the doctrine that Thomas stands for is not that it +depreciates manhood and self-reliance, but that it calls these away from +the worldly activities where they are so much needed, and exercises them +in a region of abstract imagination. No healthy mind can cast out +self-assertion and the idea of personal freedom, however the form of +expression may seem to deny these things, and accordingly the Imitation, +and still more the New Testament, are full of them. Where there is no +self-feeling, no ambition of any sort, there is no efficacy or +significance. To lose the sense of a separate, productive, resisting +self, would be to melt and merge and cease to be. + + +Healthy, balanced minds, of only medium sensibility, in a congenial +environment and occupied with wholesome activity, keep the middle road +of self-respect and reasonable ambition. They may require no special +effort, no conscious struggle with recalcitrant egotism, to avoid +heart-burning, jealousy, arrogance, anxious running after approval, and +other maladies of the social self. With enough self-feeling to stimulate +and not enough to torment him, with a social circle appreciative but not +flattering, with good health and moderate success, a man may go through +life with very little use for the moral and religious weapons that have +been wrought for the repression of a contumacious self. There are many, +particularly in an active, hopeful, and materially prosperous time like +this, who have little experience of inner conflict and no interest in +the literature and doctrine that relate to it. + +But nearly all persons of the finer, more sensitive sort find the social +self at times a source of passion and pain. In so far as a man amounts +to anything, stands for anything, is truly an individual, he has an ego +about which his passions cluster, and to aggrandize which must be a +principal aim with him. But the very fact that the self is the object of +our schemes and endeavors makes it a centre of mental disturbance: its +suggestions are of effort, responsibility, doubt, hope, and fear. Just +as a man cannot enjoy the grass and trees in his own grounds with quite +the peace and freedom that he can those abroad, because they remind him +of improvements that he ought to make and the like; so any part of the +self is, in its nature, likely to be suggestive of exertion rather than +rest. Moreover, it would seem that self-feeling, though pleasant in +normal duration and intensity, is disagreeable in excess, like any other +sort of feeling. One reason why we get tired of ourselves is simply that +we have exhausted our capacity for experiencing with pleasure a certain +kind of emotion. + +As we have seen, the self that is most importunate is a reflection, +largely, from the minds of others. This phase of self is related to +character very much as credit is related to the gold and other +securities upon which it rests. It easily and willingly expands, in most +of us, and is liable to sudden, irrational, and grievous collapses. We +live on, cheerful, self-confident, conscious of helping make the world +go round, until in some rude hour we learn that we do not stand so well +as we thought we did, that the image of us is tarnished. Perhaps we do +something, quite naturally, that we find the social order is set +against, or perhaps it is the ordinary course of our life that is not so +well regarded as we supposed. At any rate, we find with a chill of +terror that the world is cold and strange, and that our self-esteem, +self-confidence, and hope, being chiefly founded upon opinions, +attributed to others, go down in the crash. Our reason may tell us that +we are no less worthy than we were before, but dread and doubt do not +permit us to believe it. The sensitive mind will certainly suffer, +because of the instability of opinion. _Cadit cum labili._ As social +beings we live with our eyes upon our reflection, but have no assurance +of the tranquillity of the waters in which we see it. In the days of +witchcraft it used to be believed that if one person secretly made a +waxen image of another and stuck pins into the image, its counterpart +would suffer tortures, and that if the image was melted the person would +die. This superstition is almost realized in the relation between the +private self and its social reflection. They seem separate but are +darkly united, and what is done to the one is done to the other. + +If a person of energetic and fine-strung temperament is neither vain nor +proud, and lives equably without suffering seriously from mortification, +jealousy, and the like; it is because he has in some way learned to +discipline and control his self-feeling, and thus to escape the pains to +which it makes him liable. To effect some such escape has always been a +present and urgent problem with sensitive minds, and the literature of +the inner life is very largely a record of struggle with the inordinate +passions of the social self. To the commoner and somewhat sluggish sorts +of people these passions are, on the whole, agreeable and beneficent. +Emulation, ambition, honor, even pride and vanity in moderation, belong +to the higher and more imaginative parts of our thought; they awaken us +from sensuality and inspire us with ideal and socially determined +purposes. The doctrine that they are evil could have originated only +with those who felt them so; that is, I take it, with unusually +sensitive spirits, or those whom circumstances denied a normal and +wholesome self-expression. To such the thought of self becomes painful, +not because of any lack of self-feeling; but, quite the reverse, +because, being too sensitive and tender, it becomes overwrought, so that +this thought sets in vibration an emotional chord already strained and +in need of rest. To such minds self-abnegation becomes an ideal, an +ideal of rest, peace and freedom, like green pastures and still waters. +The prophets of the inner life, like Marcus Aurelius, St. Paul, St. +Augustine, Thomas à Kempis, and Pascal, were men distinguished not by +the lack of an aggressive self, but by a success in controlling and +elevating it which makes them the examples of all who undergo a like +struggle with it. If their ego had not been naturally importunate they +would not have been forced to contend with it, and to develop the +tactics of that contention for the edification of times to come. + +The social self may be protected either in the negative way, by some +sort of withdrawal from the suggestions that agitate and harass it, or +in the positive way, by contending with them and learning to control and +transform them, so that they are no longer painful; most teachers +inculcating some sort of a combination of these two kinds of tactics. + + +Physical withdrawal from the presence of men has always been much in +favor with those in search of a calmer, surer life. The passions to be +regulated are sympathetic in origin, awakened by imagination of the +minds of other persons with whom we come in contact. As Contarini +Fleming remarks in Disraeli’s novel, “So soon as I was among men I +desired to influence them.” To retire to the monastery, or the woods, or +the sea, is to escape from the sharp suggestions that spur on ambition; +and even to change from the associates and competitors of our active +life into the company of strangers, or at least of those whose aims and +ambitions are different from ours, has much the same effect. To get away +from one’s working environment is, in a sense, to get away from one’s +self; and this is often the chief advantage of travel and change. I can +hardly agree with those who imagine that a special instinct of +withdrawal is necessary to explain the prominence of retirement in the +ordinances of religion. People wish to retire from the world because +they are weary, harassed, driven by it, so that they feel that they +cannot recover their equanimity without getting away from it. To the +impressible mind life is a theatre of alarms and contentions, even when +a phlegmatic person can see no cause for agitation—and to such a mind +peace often seems the one thing fair and desirable, so that the cloister +or the forest, or the vessel on the lonesome sea, is the most grateful +object of imagination. The imaginative self, which is, for most +purposes, the real self, may be more battered, wounded and strained by a +striving, ambitious life than the material body could be in a more +visible battle, and its wounds are usually more lasting and draw more +deeply upon the vitality. Mortification, resentment, jealousy, the fear +of disgrace and failure, sometimes even hope and elation, are exhausting +passions; and it is after a severe experience of them that retirement +seems most healing and desirable. + +A subtler kind of withdrawal takes place in the imagination alone by +curtailing ambition, by trimming down one’s idea of himself to a measure +that need not fear further diminution. How secure and restful it would +be if one could be consistently and sincerely humble! There is no +sweeter feeling than contrition, self-abnegation, after a course of +alternate conceit and mortification. This also is an established part of +the religious discipline of the mind. Thus we find the following in +Thomas: “Son, now I will teach thee the way of peace and of true +liberty.... Study to do another’s will rather than thine own. Choose +ever to have less rather than more. Seek ever the lower place and to be +subject to all; ever wish and pray that the will of God may be perfectly +done in thee and in all. Behold such a man enters the bounds of peace +and calm.”[62] In other words, lop off the aggressive social self +altogether, renounce the ordinary objects of ambition, accustom yourself +to an humble place in others’ thoughts, and you will be at peace; +because you will have nothing to lose, nothing to fear. No one at all +acquainted with the moralists, pagan or Christian, will need to be more +than reminded that this imaginative withdrawal of the self from strife +and uncertainty has ever been inculcated as a means to happiness and +edification. Many persons who are sensitive to the good opinion of +others, and, by impulse, take great pleasure in it, shrink from +indulging this pleasure because they know by experience that it puts +them into others’ power and introduces an element of weakness, unrest, +and probable mortification. By recognizing a favorable opinion of +yourself, and taking pleasure in it, you in a measure give yourself and +your peace of mind into the keeping of another, of whose attitude you +can never be certain. You have a new source of doubt and apprehension. +One learns in time the wisdom of entering into such relations only with +persons of whose sincerity, stability, and justice one is as sure as +possible; and also of having nothing to do with approval of himself +which he does not feel to have a secure basis in his character. And so +regarding self-aggrandizement in the various forms implicitly condemned +by Thomas’s four rules of peace; if a man is of so eager a temperament +that he does not need these motives to awaken him and call his faculties +into normal action, he will be happier and possibly more useful to the +world if he is able to subdue them by some sort of discipline. In this +way, it seems to me, we may chiefly account for and justify the +stringent self-suppression of Pascal and of many other fine spirits. “So +jealous was he of any surprise of pleasure, of any thought of vanity or +complacency in himself and his work, that he wore a girdle of iron next +his skin, the sharp points of which he pressed closely when he thought +himself in any danger....”[63] + +Of course the objection to withdrawal, physical or imaginative, is that +it seems to be a refusal of social functions, a rejection of life, +leading logically to other-worldism, to the idea that it is better to +die than to live. According to this teaching, in its extreme form, the +best thing that can happen to a man is to die and go to heaven; but if +that is not permitted, then let the private, ambitious self, set to play +the tunes of this world, die in him, and be replaced by humble and +secluded meditation in preparation for the life to come. When this +doctrine was taught and believed to such an extent that a great part of +the finer spirits were led, during centuries, to isolate themselves in +deserts and cloisters, or at least to renounce and depreciate the +affections and duties of the family, the effect was no doubt bad; but in +our time there is little tendency to this extreme, and there is perhaps +danger that the usefulness of partial or occasional withdrawal may be +overlooked. Mr. Lecky thinks, for instance, that the complete +suppression of the conventual system by Protestantism has been far from +a benefit to women or the world, and that it is impossible to conceive +of any institution more needed than one which should furnish a shelter +for unprotected women and convert them into agents of charity.[64] The +amount and kind of social stimulation that a man can bear without harm +to his character and working power depends, roughly speaking, upon his +sensitiveness, which determines the emotional disturbance, and upon the +vigor of the controlling or co-ordinating functions, which measures his +power to guide or quell emotion and make it subsidiary to healthy life. +There has always been a class of persons, including a large proportion +of those capable of the higher sorts of intellectual production, for +whom the competitive struggles of ordinary life are overstimulating and +destructive, and who therefore cannot serve the world well without +apparently secluding themselves from it. It would seem, then, that +withdrawal and asceticism are often too sweepingly condemned. A sound +practical morality will consider these things in relation to various +types of character and circumstance, and find, I believe, important +functions for both. + + +But the most radical remedy for the mortifications and uncertainties of +the social self is not the negative one of merely secluding or +diminishing the I, but the positive one of transforming it. The two are +not easily distinguishable, and are usually phases of the same process. +The self-instinct, though it cannot be suppressed while mental vigor +remains, can be taught to associate itself more and more with ideas and +aims of general and permanent worth, which can be thought of as higher +than the more sensual, narrow, or temporary interests, and independent +of them. It must always be borne in mind that the self is any idea or +system of ideas with which is associated the peculiar appropriative +attitude we call self-feeling. Anything whose depreciation makes me feel +resentful is myself, whether it is my coat, my face, my brother, the +book I have published, the scientific theory I accept, the philanthropic +work to which I am devoted, my religious creed, or my country. The only +question is, Am I identified with it in my thought, so that to touch it +is to touch me? Thus in “Middlemarch” the true self of Mr. Casaubon, his +most aggressive, persistent, and sensitive part, is his system of ideas +relating to the unpublished “Key to All Mythologies.” It is about this +that he is proud, jealous, sore, and apprehensive. What he imagines that +the Brasenose men will think of it is a large part of his social self, +and he suffers hidden joy and torture according as he is hopeful or +despondent of its triumphant publication. When he finds that his body +must die his chief thought is how to keep this alive, and he attempts to +impose its completion upon poor Dorothea, who is a pale shadow in his +life compared with the Key, a mere instrument to minister to this +fantastic ego. So if one, turning the leaves of history, could evoke the +real selves of all the men of thought, what a strange procession they +would be!—outlandish theories, unintelligible and forgotten creeds, +hypotheses once despised but now long established, or _vice versa_—all +conceived eagerly, jealously, devotedly, as the very heart of the self. +There is no class more sensitive and none, not even the insane, in whom +self-feeling attaches to such singular and remote conceptions. An +astronomer may be indifferent when you depreciate his personal +appearance, abuse his relatives, or question his pecuniary honesty; but +if you doubt that there are artificial canals on Mars you cut him to the +quick. And poets and artists of every sort have always and with good +reason been regarded as a _genus irritabile_. + +The ideas of self most commonly cherished, and the ambitions +corresponding to these ideas, fail to appease the imagination of the +idealist, for various reasons; chiefly, perhaps, for the following: +first because they seem more or less at variance with the good of other +persons, and so, to the imaginative and sympathetic mind, bring elements +of inconsistency and wrong, which it cannot accept as consonant with its +own needs; and second because their objects are at best temporary, so +that even if thought of as achieved they fail to meet the need of the +mind for a resting-place in some conception of permanent good or right. +The transformation of narrow and temporary ambitions or ideals into +something more fitted to satisfy the imagination in these respects, is +an urgent need, a condition precedent to peace of mind, in many persons. +The unquiet and discordant state of the unregenerate is a commonplace, a +thousand times repeated, of writings on the inner life. “_Superbus et +avarus numquam quiescunt_,” they tell us, and to enable us to escape +from such unrest is a chief aim of the discipline of self-feeling +enjoined by ethical and religious teachers. “Self,” “the natural man,” +and similar expressions indicate an aspect of the self thought of as +lower—in part at least because of the insecure, inconsistent, and +temporary character just indicated—which is to be so far as possible +subjected and forgotten, while the feelings once attached to it find a +less precarious object in ideas of justice and right, or in the +conception of a personal deity, in whom all that is best of personality +is to have secure existence and eternal success. + +In this sense also we may understand the idea of freedom as it presented +itself to Thomas à Kempis and similar minds. To forget “self” and live +the larger life is to be free; free, that is, from the racking passions +of the lower self, free to go onward into a self that is joyful, +boundless, and without remorse. To gain this freedom the principal means +is the control or mortification of sensual needs and worldly ambitions. + +Thus the passion of self-aggrandizement is persistent but plastic; it +will never disappear from a vigorous mind, but may become morally higher +by attaching itself to a larger conception of what constitutes the self. + + +Wherever men find themselves out of joint with their social environment +the fact will be reflected in some peculiarity of self-feeling. Thus it +was in times when the general state of Europe was decadent and hopeless, +or later when ceaseless wars and the common rule of violence prevailed, +that finer spirits, for whose ambition the times offered no congenial +career, so largely sought refuge in religious seclusion, and there built +up among themselves a philosophy which compensated them by the vision of +glory in another world for their insignificance in this. An institution +so popular and enduring as monasticism and the system of belief that +throve in connection with it must have answered to some deep need of +human nature, and it would seem that, as regarded the more intellectual +class, this need was largely that of creating a social self and system +of selves which could thrive in the actual state of things. Their +natures craved success, and, following a tendency always at work, though +never more fantastic in its operation, they created an ideal or standard +of success which they could achieve—very much as a farmer’s boy with a +weak body but an active brain sometimes goes into law, seeking and +upholding an intellectual type of success. From this point of view—which +is, of course, only one of many whence monasticism may be regarded—it +appears as a wonderful exhibition of the power of human nature to +effectuate itself in a co-operative manner in spite of the most untoward +external circumstances. + +If we have less flight from the world, corporeal or metaphysical, at the +present day, it is doubtless in part because the times are more +hospitable to the finer abilities, so that all sorts of men, within wide +limits, find careers in which they may hope to gratify a reasonable +ambition. But even now, where conditions are deranged and somewhat +anarchical, so that many find themselves cut off from the outlook toward +a congenial self-development, the wine of life turns bitter, and +harrying resentments are generated which more or less disturb the +stability of the social order. Each man must have his “I”; it is more +necessary to him than bread; and if he does not find scope for it within +the existing institutions he will be likely to make trouble. + +Persons of great ambitions, or of peculiar aims of any sort, lie open to +disorders of self-feeling, because they necessarily build up in their +minds a self-image which no ordinary social environment can understand +or corroborate, and which must be maintained by hardening themselves +against immediate influences, enduring or repressing the pains of +present depreciation, and cultivating in imagination the approval of +some higher tribunal. If the man succeeds in becoming indifferent to the +opinions of his neighbors he runs into another danger, that of a +distorted and extravagant self of the pride sort, since by the very +process of gaining independence and immunity from the stings of +depreciation and misunderstanding, he has perhaps lost that wholesome +deference to some social tribunal that a man cannot dispense with and +remain quite sane. The image lacks verification and correction and +becomes too much the reflection of an undisciplined self-feeling. It +would seem that the megalomania or delusion of greatness which Lombroso, +with more or less plausibility, ascribes to Victor Hugo and many other +men of genius, is to be explained largely in this way. + +Much the same may be said regarding the relation of self-feeling to +mental disorder, and to abnormal personality of all sorts. It seems +obvious, for instance, that the delusions of greatness and delusions of +persecution so common in insanity are expressions of self-feeling +escaped from normal limitation and control. The instinct which under +proper regulation by reason and sympathy gives rise to just and sane +ambition, in the absence of it swells to grotesque proportions; while +the delusion of persecution appears to be a like extravagant development +of that jealousy regarding what others are thinking of us which often +reaches an almost insane point in irritable people whose sanity is not +questioned. + +The peculiar relations to other persons attending any marked personal +deficiency or peculiarity are likely to aggravate, if not to produce, +abnormal manifestations of self-feeling. Any such trait sufficiently +noticeable to interrupt easy and familiar intercourse with others, and +make people talk and think _about_ a person or _to_ him rather than +_with_ him, can hardly fail to have this effect. If he is naturally +inclined to pride or irritability, these tendencies, which depend for +correction upon the flow of sympathy, are likely to be increased. One +who shows signs of mental aberration is, inevitably perhaps, but +cruelly, shut off from familiar, thoughtless intercourse, partly +excommunicated; his isolation is unwittingly proclaimed to him on every +countenance by curiosity, indifference, aversion or pity, and in so far +as he is human enough to need free and equal communication and feel the +lack of it, he suffers pain and loss of a kind and degree which others +can only faintly imagine, and for the most part ignore. He finds himself +apart, “not in it,” and feels chilled, fearful, and suspicious. Thus +“queerness” is no sooner perceived than it is multiplied by reflection +from other minds. The same is true in some degree of dwarfs, deformed or +disfigured persons, even the deaf and those suffering from the +infirmities of old age. The chief misery of the decline of the +faculties, and a main cause of the irritability that often goes with it, +is evidently the isolation, the lack of customary appreciation and +influence, which only the rarest tact and thoughtfulness on the part of +others can alleviate. + + + + + CHAPTER VII + HOSTILITY + + SIMPLE OR ANIMAL ANGER—SOCIAL ANGER—THE FUNCTION OF HOSTILITY—THE + DOCTRINE OF NON-RESISTANCE—CONTROL AND TRANSFORMATION OF HOSTILITY + BY REASON—HOSTILITY AS PLEASURE OR PAIN—THE IMPORTANCE OF ACCEPTED + SOCIAL STANDARDS—FEAR. + + +Anger, like other emotions, seems to exist at birth as a simple, +instinctive animal tendency, and to undergo differentiation and +development parallel with the growth of imagination. Perez, speaking of +children at about the age of two months, says, “they begin to push away +objects that they do not like, and have real fits of passion, frowning, +growing red in the face, trembling all over, and sometimes shedding +tears.” They also show anger at not getting the breast or bottle, or +when washed or undressed, or when their toys are taken away. At about +one year old “they will beat people, animals, and inanimate objects if +they are angry with them,”[65] throw things at offending persons, and +the like. + +I have observed phenomena similar to these, and no doubt all have who +have seen anything of little children. If there are any writers who tend +to regard the mind at birth as almost _tabula rasa_ so far as special +instincts are concerned, consisting of little more than a faculty of +receiving and organizing impressions, it must be wholesome for them to +associate with infants and notice how unmistakable are the signs of a +distinct and often violent emotion, apparently identical with the anger +or rage of adults. What grown-up persons feel seems to be different, not +in its emotional essence, but in being modified by association with a +much more complicated system of ideas. + +This simple, animal sort of anger, excited immediately by something +obnoxious to the senses, does not entirely disappear in adult life. +Probably most persons who step upon a barrel-hoop or run their heads +against a low doorway can discern a moment of instinctive anger toward +the harming object. Even our more enduring forms of hostility seem often +to partake of this direct, unintellectual character. Most people, but +especially those of a sensitive, impressible nature, have antipathies to +places, animals, persons, words—to all sorts of things in fact—which +appear to spring directly out of the subconscious life, without any +mediation of thought. Some think that an animal or instinctive antipathy +to human beings of a different race is natural to all mankind. And among +people of the same race there are undoubtedly persons whom other persons +loathe without attributing to them any hostile state of mind, but with a +merely animal repugnance. Even when the object of hostility is quite +distinctly a mental or moral trait, we often seem to feel it in an +external way, that is, we _see_ it as behavior but do not really +understand it as thought or sentiment. Thus duplicity is hateful whether +we can see any motive for it or not, and gives a sense of slipperiness +and insecurity so tangible that one naturally thinks of some wriggling +animal. In like manner vacillation, fawning, excessive protestation or +self-depreciation, and many other traits, may be obnoxious to us in a +somewhat physical way without our imagining them as states of mind. + + +But for a social, imaginative being, whose main interests are in the +region of communicative thought and sentiment, the chief field of anger, +as of other emotions, is transferred to this region. Hostility ceases to +be a simple emotion due to a simple stimulus, and breaks up into +innumerable hostile sentiments associated with highly imaginative +personal ideas. In this mentally higher form it may be regarded as +hostile sympathy, or a hostile comment on sympathy. That is to say, we +enter by sympathy or personal imagination into the state of mind of +others, or think we do, and if the thoughts we find there are injurious +to or uncongenial with the ideas we are already cherishing, we feel a +movement of anger. + +This is forcibly expressed in a brief but admirable study of antipathy +by Sophie Bryant. Though the antipathy she describes is of a peculiarly +subtle kind, it is plain that the same sort of analysis may be applied +to any form of imaginative hostility. + +“A is drawn out toward B to feel what he feels. If the new feeling +harmonizes, distinctly or obscurely, with the whole system of A’s +consciousness—or the part then identified with his will—there follows +that joyful expansion of self beyond self which is sympathy. But if +not—if the new feeling is out of keeping with the system of A’s +will—tends to upset the system, and brings discord into it—there follows +the reaction of the whole against the hostile part which, transferred to +its cause in B, pushes out B’s state, as the antithesis of self, yet +threatening self, and offensive.” Antipathy, she says, “is full of +horrid thrill.” “The peculiar horror of the antipathy springs from the +unwilling response to the state abhorred. We feel ourselves actually +like the other person, selfishly vain, cruelly masterful, artfully +affected, insincere, ungenial, and so on.”... “There is some affinity +between those who antipathize.”[66] And with similar meaning Thoreau +remarks that “you cannot receive a shock unless you have an electric +affinity for that which shocks you,” and that “He who receives an injury +is to some extent an accomplice of the wrong-doer.”[67] + +Thus the cause of hostility is imaginative or sympathetic, an inimical +idea attributed to another mind. We cannot feel this way toward that +which is totally unlike us, because the totally unlike is unimaginable, +has no interest for us. This, like all social feeling, requires a union +of likeness with difference. + +It is clear that closer association, and more knowledge of one another, +offer no security against hostile feeling. Whether intimacy will improve +our sentiment toward another man or not depends upon the true relation +of his way of thinking and feeling to ours, which intimacy is likely to +reveal. There are many persons with whom we get on very well at a +certain distance, who would turn out intensely antipathetic if we had to +live in the same house with them. Probably all of us have experienced in +one form or another the disgust and irritation that may come from +enforced intimacy with people we liked well enough as mere +acquaintances, and with whom we can find no particular fault, except +that they rub us the wrong way. Henry James, speaking of the aversion of +the brothers Goncourt for Saint Beuve, remarks that it was “a plant +watered by frequent intercourse and protected by punctual notes.”[68] It +is true that an active sense of justice may do much to overcome +unreasonable antipathies; but there are so many urgent uses for our +sense of justice that it is well not to fatigue it by excessive and +unnecessary activity. Justice involves a strenuous and symmetrical +exercise of the imagination and reason, which no one can keep up all the +time; and those who display it most on important occasions ought to be +free to indulge somewhat their whims and prejudices in familiar +intercourse. + +Neither do refinement, culture, and taste have any necessary tendency to +diminish hostility. They make a richer and finer sympathy possible, but +at the same time multiply the possible occasions of antipathy. They are +like a delicate sense of smell, which opens the way to as much disgust +as appreciation. Instead of the most sensitive sympathy, the finest +mental texture, being a safeguard against hostile passions, it is only +too evident from a study of the lives of men of genius that these very +traits make a sane and equable existence peculiarly difficult. Read, for +instance, the confessions of Rousseau, and observe how a fine nature, +full of genuine and eager social idealism, is subject to peculiar +sufferings and errors through the sensibility and imagination such a +nature must possess. The quicker the sympathy and ideality, the greater +the suffering from neglect and failure, the greater also the difficulty +of disciplining the multitude of intense impressions and maintaining a +sane view of the whole. Hence the pessimism, the extravagant indignation +against real or supposed wrong-doers, and not infrequently, as in +Rousseau’s case, the almost insane bitterness of jealousy and mistrust. + +The commonest forms of imaginative hostility are grounded on social +self-feeling, and come under the head of resentment. We impute to the +other person an injurious thought regarding something which we cherish +as a part of our self, and this awakens anger, which we name pique, +animosity, umbrage, estrangement, soreness, bitterness, heart-burning, +jealousy, indignation, and so on; in accordance with variations which +these words suggest. They all rest upon a feeling that the other person +harbors ideas injurious to us, so that the thought of him is an attack +upon our self. Suppose, for instance, there is a person who has reason +to believe that he has caught me in a lie. It makes little difference, +perhaps, whether he really has or not; so long as I have any +self-respect left, and believe that he entertains this depreciatory idea +of me, I must resent this idea whenever, through my thinking of him, it +enters my mind. Or suppose there is a man who has met me running in +panic from the field of battle; would it not be hard not to hate him? +These situations are perhaps unusual, but we all know persons to whom we +attribute depreciation of our characters, our friends, our children, our +workmanship, our cherished creed or philanthropy; and we do not like +them. + +The resentment of charity or pity is a good instance of hostile +sympathy. If a man has self-respect, he feels insulted by the +depreciating view of his manhood implied in commiserating him or +offering him alms. Self-respect means that one’s reflected self is up to +the social standard: and the social standard requires that a man should +not need pity or alms except under very unusual conditions. So the +assumption that he does need them is an injury—whether he does or +not—precisely as it is an insult to a woman to commiserate her ugliness +and bad taste, and suggest that she wear a veil or employ someone to +select her gowns. The curious may find interest in questions like this: +whether a tramp can have self-respect unless he deceives the one who +gives him aid, and so feels superior to him, and not a mere dependent. +In the same way we can easily see why criminals look down upon paupers. + +The word indignation suggests a higher sort of imaginative hostility. It +implies that the feeling is directed toward some attack upon a standard +of right, and is not merely an impulse like jealousy or pique. A higher +degree of rationalization is involved; there is some notion of a +reasonable adjustment of personal claims, which the act or thought in +question violates. We frequently perceive that the simpler forms of +resentment have no rational basis, could not be justified in open court, +but indignation always claims a general or social foundation. We feel +indignant when we think that favoritism and not merit secures promotion, +when the rich man gets a pass on the railroad, and so on. + +It is thus possible rudely to classify hostilities under three heads, +according to the degree of mental organization they involve; namely, as + +1. Primary, immediate, or animal. + +2. Social, sympathetic, imaginative, or personal, of a comparatively +direct sort, that is, without reference to any standard of justice. + +3. Rational or ethical; similar to the last but involving reference to a +standard of justice and the sanction of conscience. + +The function of hostility is, no doubt, to awaken a fighting energy, to +contribute an emotional motive force to activities of self-preservation +or aggrandizement. + +In its immediate or animal form this is obvious enough. The wave of +passion that possesses a fighting dog stimulates and concentrates his +energy upon a few moments of struggle in which success or failure may be +life or death; and the simple, violent anger of children and impulsive +adults is evidently much the same thing. Vital force explodes in a flash +of aggression; the mind has no room for anything but the fierce +instinct. It is clear that hostility of this uncontrolled sort is proper +to a very simple state of society and of warfare, and is likely to be a +source of disturbance and weakness in that organized state which calls +for corresponding organization in the individual mind. + +There is a transition by imperceptible degrees from the blind anger that +thinks of nothing to the imaginative anger that thinks of persons, and +pursues the personal idea into all possible degrees of subtlety and +variety. The passion itself, the way we feel when we are angry, does not +seem to change much, except, perhaps, in intensity, the change being +mostly in the idea that awakens it. It is as if anger were a strong and +peculiar flavor which might be taken with the simplest food or the most +elaborate, might be used alone, strong and plain, or in the most curious +and recondite combinations with other flavors. + +While it is evident enough that animal anger is one of those instincts +that are readily explained as conducive to self-preservation, it is not, +perhaps, so obvious that socialized anger has any such justification. I +think, however, that, though very liable to be excessive and +unmanageable, and tending continually to be economized as the race +progresses, so that most forms of it are properly regarded as wrong, it +nevertheless plays an indispensable part in life. + +The mass of mankind are sluggish and need some resentment as a +stimulant; this is its function on the higher plane of life as it is on +the lower. Surround a man with soothing, flattering circumstances, and +in nine cases out of ten he will fail to do anything worthy, but will +lapse into some form of sensualism or dilettanteism. There is no tonic, +to a nature substantial enough to bear it, like chagrin—“erquickender +Verdruss,” as Goethe says. Life without opposition is Capua. No matter +what the part one is fitted to play in it, he can make progress in his +path only by a vigorous assault upon the obstacles, and to be vigorous +the assault must be supported by passion of some sort. With most of us +the requisite intensity of passion is not forthcoming without an element +of resentment; and common-sense and careful observation will, I believe, +confirm the opinion that few people who amount to much are without a +good capacity for hostile feeling, upon which they draw freely when they +need it. This would be more readily admitted if many people were not +without the habit of penetrating observation, either of themselves or +others, in such matters, and so are enabled to believe that anger, which +is conventionally held to be wrong, has no place in the motives of moral +persons. + +I have in mind a man who is remarkable for a certain kind of aggressive, +tenacious and successful pursuit of the right. He does the things that +everyone else agrees ought to be done but does not do—especially things +involving personal antagonism. While the other people deplore the +corruption of politics, but have no stomach to amend it, he is the man +to beard the corrupt official in his ward, or expose him in the courts +or the public press—all at much pains and cost to himself and without +prospect of honor or any other recompense. If one considers how he +differs from other conscientious people of equal ability and +opportunity, it appears to be largely in having more bile in him. He has +a natural fund of animosity, and instead of spending it blindly and +harmfully, he directs it upon that which is hateful to the general good, +thus gratifying his native turn for resentment in a moral and fruitful +way. Evidently if there were more men of this stamp it would be of +benefit to the moral condition of the country. Contemporary conditions +seem to tend somewhat to dissipate that righteous wrath against evil +which, intelligently directed, is a main instrument of progress. + +Thomas Huxley, to take a name known to all, was a man in whom there was +much fruitful hostility. He did not seek controversy, but when the +enemies of truth offered battle he felt no inclination to refuse; and he +avowed—perhaps with a certain zest in contravening conventional +teaching—that he loved his friends and hated his enemies.[69] His hatred +was of a noble sort, and the reader of his Life and Letters can hardly +doubt that he was a good as well as a great man, or that his pugnacity +helped him to be such. Indeed I do not think that science or letters +could do without the spirit of opposition, although much energy is +dissipated and much thought clouded by it. Even men like Darwin or +Emerson, who seem to wish nothing more than to live at peace with +everyone, may be observed to develop their views with unusual fulness +and vigor where they are most in opposition to authority. There is +something analogous to political parties in all intellectual activity; +opinion divides, more or less definitely, into opposing groups, and each +side is stimulated by the opposition of the other to define, +corroborate, and amend its views, with the purpose of justifying itself +before the constituency to which it appeals. What we need is not that +controversy should disappear, but that it should be carried on with +sincere and absolute deference to the standard of truth. + +A just resentment is not only a needful stimulus to aggressive +righteousness, but has also a wholesome effect upon the mind of the +person against whom it is directed, by awakening a feeling of the +importance of the sentiments he has transgressed. On the higher planes +of life an imaginative sense that there is resentment in the minds of +other persons performs the same function that physical resistance does +upon the lower.[70] It is an attack upon my mental self, and as a +sympathetic and imaginative being I feel it more than I would a mere +blow; it forces me to consider the other’s view, and either to accept it +or to bear it down by the stronger claims of a different one. Thus it +enters potently into our moral judgments. + + “Let such pure hate still underprop + Our love that we may be + Each other’s conscience.”[71] + +I think that no one’s character and aims can be respected unless he is +perceived to be capable of some sort of resentment. We feel that if he +is really in earnest about anything he should feel hostile emotion if it +is attacked, and if he gives no sign of this, either at the moment of +attack or later, he and what he represents become despised. No teacher, +for instance, can maintain discipline unless his scholars feel that he +will in some manner resent a breach of it. + + +Thus we seldom feel keenly that our acts are wrong until we perceive +that they arouse some sort of resentment in others, and whatever selfish +aggression we can practise without arousing resistance, we presently +come to look upon as a matter of course. Judging the matter from my own +consciousness and experience, I have no belief in the theory that +non-resistance has, as a rule, a mollifying influence upon the +aggressor. I do not wish people to turn me the other cheek when I smite +them, because, in most cases, that has a bad effect upon me. I am soon +used to submission and may come to think no more of the unresisting +sufferer than I do of the sheep whose flesh I eat at dinner. Neither, on +the other hand, am I helped by extravagant and accusatory opposition; +that is likely to put me into a state of unreasoning anger. But it is +good for us that everyone should maintain his rights, and the rights of +others with whom he sympathizes, exhibiting a just and firm resentment +against any attempt to tread upon them. A consciousness, based on +experience, that the transgression of moral standards will arouse +resentment in the minds of those whose opinion we respect, is a main +force in the upholding of such standards. + +But the doctrine of non-resistance, like all ideas that have appealed to +good minds, has a truth wrapped up in it, notwithstanding what appears +to be its flagrant absurdity. What the doctrine really means, as taught +in the New Testament and by many individuals and societies in our own +day, is perhaps no more than this, that we should discard the coarser +weapons of resistance for the finer, and threaten a moral resentment +instead of blows or lawsuits. It is quite true that we can best combat +what we regard as evil in another person of ordinary sensibility by +attacking the higher phases of his self rather than the lower. If a man +appears to be about to do something brutal or dishonest, we may either +encounter him on his present low plane of life by knocking him down or +calling a policeman, or we may try to work upon his higher consciousness +by giving him to understand that we feel sure a person of his +self-respect and good repute will not degrade himself, but that if +anything so improbable and untoward should occur, he must, of course, +expect the disappointment and contempt of those who before thought well +of him. In other words, we threaten, as courteously as possible, his +social self. This method is often much more efficient than the other, is +morally edifying instead of degrading, and is practised by men of +address who make no claim to unusual virtue. + +This seems to be what is meant by non-resistance; but the name is +misleading. It _is_ resistance, and directed at what is believed to be +the enemy’s weakest point. As a matter of strategy it is an attack upon +his flank, aggression upon an unprotected part of his position. Its +justification, in the long run, is in its success. If we do not succeed +in making our way into the other man’s mind and changing his point of +view by substituting our own, the whole manœuvre falls flat, the injury +is done, the ill-doer is confirmed in his courses, and you would better +have knocked him down. It is good to appeal to the highest motives we +can arouse, and to exercise a good deal of faith as to what can be +aroused, but real non-resistance to what we believe to be wrong is mere +pusillanimity. There is perhaps no important sect or teacher that really +inculcates such a doctrine, the name non-resistance being given to +attacks upon the higher self under the somewhat crude impression that +resistance is not such unless it takes some obvious material form, and +probably all teachers would be found to vary their tactics somewhat +according to the sort of people with whom they are dealing. Although +Christ taught the turning of the other cheek to the smiter, and that the +coat should follow the cloak, it does not appear that he suggested to +those who were desecrating the Temple that they should double their +transactions, but, apparently regarding them as beyond the reach of +moral suasion, he “went into the Temple, and began to cast out them that +sold and bought in the Temple, and overthrew the tables of the +money-changers and the seats of them that sold doves.” It seems that he +even used a scourge on this occasion. I cannot see much in the question +regarding non-resistance beyond a vague use of terms and a difference of +opinion as to what kind of resistance is most effective in certain +cases. + +It is easy and not uncommon to state too exclusively the pre-eminence of +affection in human ideals. No one, I suppose, believes that the life of +Fra Angelico’s angels, such as we see them in his “Last Judgment,” +circling on the flowery sward of Paradise, would long content any normal +human creature. If it appears beautiful and desirable at times, this is +perhaps because our world is one in which the supply of amity and peace +mostly falls short of the demand for them. Many of us have seen times of +heat and thirst when it seemed as if a bit of shade and a draught of +cold water would appease all earthly wants. But when we had the shade +and the water we presently began to think about something else. So with +these ideals of unbroken peace and affection. Even for those sensitive +spirits that most cherish them, they would hardly suffice as a +continuity. An indiscriminate and unvarying amity is, after all, +disgusting. + +Human ideals and human nature must develop together, and we cannot +foresee what either may become; but for the present it would seem that +an honest and reasonable idealism must look rather to the organization +and control of all passions with reference to some conception of right, +than to the expulsion of some passions by others. I doubt whether any +healthy and productive love can exist which is not resentment on its +obverse side. How can we rightly care for anything without in some way +resenting attacks upon it? + + +Apparently, the higher function of hostility is to put down wrong; and +to fulfil this function it must be rationally controlled with a view to +ideals of justice. In so far as a man has a sound and active social +imagination, he will feel the need of this control, and will tend with +more or less energy, according to the vigor of his mind, to limit his +resentment to that which his judgment tells him is really unjust or +wrong. Imagination presents us with all sorts of conflicting views, +which reason, whose essence is organization, tries to arrange and +control in accordance with some unifying principle, some standard of +equity: moral principles result from the mind’s instinctive need to +achieve unity of view. All special impulses, and hostile feeling among +them, are brought to the bar of conscience and judged by such standards +as the mind has worked out. If declared right or justifiable, resentment +is endorsed and enforced by the will; we think of it as righteous and +perhaps take credit with ourselves for it. But if it appears grounded on +no broad and unifying principle, our larger thought disowns it, and +tends with such energy as it may have to ignore and suppress it. Thus we +overlook accidental injury, we control or avoid mere antipathy, but we +act upon indignation. The latter is enduring and powerful because +consistent with cool thought; while impulsive, unreasoning anger, +getting no re-enforcement from such thought, has little lasting force. + +Suppose, for illustration, one goes with a request to some person in +authority, and meets a curt refusal. The first feeling is doubtless one +of blind, unthinking anger at the rebuff. Immediately after that the +mind busies itself more deeply with the matter, imagining motives, +ascribing feelings and the like; and anger takes a more bitter and +personal form, it rankles where at first it only stung. But if one is a +fairly reasonable man, accustomed to refer things to standards of right, +one presently grows calmer and, continuing the imaginative process in a +broader way, endeavors to put himself at the other person’s point of +view and see what justification, if any, there is for the latter’s +conduct. Possibly he is one subject to constant solicitation, with whom +coldness and abruptness are necessary to the despatch of business—and so +on. If the explanation seems insufficient, so that his rudeness still +appears to be mere insolence, our resentment against him lasts, +reappearing whenever we think of him, so that we are likely to thwart +him somehow if we get a chance, and justify our action to ourselves and +others on grounds of moral disapproval. + +Or suppose one has to stand in line at the postoffice, with a crowd of +other people, waiting to get his mail. There are delay and discomfort to +be borne; but these he will take with composure because he sees that +they are a part of the necessary conditions of the situation, which all +must submit to alike. Suppose, however, that while patiently waiting his +turn he notices someone else, who has come in later, edging into the +line ahead of him. Then he will certainly be angry. The delay threatened +is only a matter of a few seconds; but here is a question of justice, a +case for indignation, a chance for anger to come forth with the sanction +of thought. + +Another phase of the transformation of hostility by reason and +imagination, is that it tends to become more discriminating or selective +as regards its relation to the idea of the person against whom it is +directed. In a sense the higher hostility is less personal than the +lower; that is, in the sense that it is no longer aimed blindly at +persons as wholes, but distinguishes in some measure between phases or +tendencies of them that are obnoxious and others that are not. It is not +the mere thought of X’s countenance, or other symbol, that arouses +resentment, but the thought of him as exhibiting insincerity, or +arrogance, or whatever else it may be that we do not like; while we may +preserve a liking for him as exhibiting other traits. Generally +speaking, all persons have much in them which, if imagined, must appear +amiable; so that if we feel only animosity toward a man it must be +because we have apprehended him only in a partial aspect. An +undisciplined anger, like any other undisciplined emotion, always tends +to produce these partial and indiscriminate notions, because it +overwhelms symmetrical thought and permits us to see only that which +agrees with itself. But a more chastened sentiment allows a juster view, +so that it becomes conceivable that we should love our enemies as well +as antagonize the faults of our friends. A just parent or teacher will +resent the insubordinate behavior of a child or pupil without letting go +of affection, and the same principle holds good as regards criminals, +and all proper objects of hostility. The attitude of society toward its +delinquent members should be stern, yet sympathetic, like that of a +father toward a disobedient child. + +It is the tendency of modern life, by educating the imagination and +rendering all sorts of people conceivable, to discredit the sweeping +conclusions of impulsive thought—as, for instance, that all who commit +violence or theft are hateful ill-doers, and nothing more—and to make us +feel the fundamental likeness of human nature wherever found. Resentment +against ill-doing should by no means disappear; but while continuing to +suppress wrong by whatever means proves most efficacious, we shall +perhaps see more and more clearly that the people who are guilty of it +are very much like ourselves, and are acting from motives to which we +also are subject. + + +It is often asserted or assumed that hostile feeling is in its very +nature obnoxious and painful to the human mind, and persists in spite of +us, as it were, because it is forced upon us by the competitive +conditions of existence. This view seems to me hardly sound. I should +rather say that the mental and social harmfulness of anger, in common +experience, is due not so much to its peculiar character as hostile +feeling, as to the fact that, like lust, it is so surcharged with +instinctive energy as to be difficult to control and limit to its proper +function; while, if not properly disciplined, it of course introduces +disorder and pain into the mental life. + +To a person in robust condition, with plenty of energy to spare, a +thorough-going anger, far from being painful, is an expansive, I might +say glorious, experience, _while the fit is on and has full control_. A +man in a rage does not want to get out of it, but has a full sense of +life which he impulsively seeks to continue by repelling suggestions +tending to calm him. It is only when it has begun to pall upon him that +he is really willing to be appeased. This may be seen by observing the +behavior of impulsive children, and also of adults whose passions are +undisciplined. + +An enduring hatred may also be a source of satisfaction to some minds, +though this I believe to be unusual in these days, and becoming more so. +One who reads Hazlitt’s powerful and sincere, though perhaps unhealthy, +essay on the Pleasure of Hating, will see that the thing is possible. In +most cases remorse and distress set in so soon as the fit of anger +begins to abate, and its destructive incompatibility with the +established order and harmony of the mind begins to be felt. There is a +conviction of sin, the pain of a shattered ideal, just as there is after +yielding to any other unchastened passion. The cause of the pain seems +to be not so much the peculiar character of the feeling as its +exorbitant intensity. + +Any simple and violent passion is likely to be felt as painful and wrong +in its after-effects because it destroys that harmony or synthesis that +reason and conscience strive to produce; and this effect is probably +more and more felt as the race advances and mental life becomes more +complex. The conditions of civilization require of us so extensive and +continuous an expenditure of psychical force, that we no longer have the +superabundance of emotional energy that makes a violent outlet +agreeable. Habits and principles of self-control naturally arise along +with the increasing need for economy and rational guidance of emotion; +and whatever breaks through them causes exhaustion and remorse. Any +gross passion comes to be felt as “the expense of spirit in a waste of +shame.” Spasms of violent feeling properly belong with a somewhat +apathetic habit of life, whose accumulating energies they help to +dissipate, and are as much out of place to-day as the hard-drinking +habits of our Saxon ancestors. + +The sort of men that most feel the need of hostility as a spur to +exertion are, I imagine, those of superabundant vitality and somewhat +sluggish temperament, like Goethe and Bismarck, both of whom declared +that it was essential to them. There is also a great deal of +old-fashioned personal hatred in remote and quiet places, like the +mountains of North Carolina, and probably among all classes who do not +much feel the stress of civilization. But to most of those who share +fully in the life of the time, intense personal animosities are painful +and destructive, and many fine spirits are ruined by failure to inhibit +them. + +The kind of man most characteristic of these times, I take it, does not +allow himself to be drawn into the tangle of merely personal hatred, +but, cultivating a tolerance for all sorts of men, he yet maintains a +sober and determined antagonism toward all tendencies or purposes that +conflict with his true self, with whatever he has most intimately +appropriated and identified with his character. He is always courteous, +cherishes as much as possible those kindly sentiments which are not only +pleasant and soothing but do much to oil the machinery of his +enterprises, and by wasting no energy on futile passion is enabled to +think all the more clearly and act the more inflexibly when he finds +antagonism necessary. A man of the world of the modern type is hardly +ever dramatic in the style of Shakespeare’s heroes. He usually expresses +himself in the most economical manner possible, and if he has to +threaten, for instance, knows how to do it by a movement of the lips, or +the turn of a phrase in a polite note. If cruder and more violent +tactics are necessary, to impress vulgar minds, he is very likely to +depute this rough work to a subordinate. A foreman of track hands may +have to be a loud-voiced, strong-armed, palpably aggressive person; but +the president of the road is commonly quiet and mild-mannered. + + +The mind is greatly aided in the control of animosity by the existence +of ready-made and socially accepted standards of right. Suffering from +his own angry passions and from those of others, one looks out for some +criterion, some rule of what is just and fair among persons, which he +may hold himself and others to, and moderate antagonism by removing the +sense of peculiar injury. Opposition itself, within certain limits, +comes to be regarded as part of the reasonable order of things. In this +view the function of moral standards is the same as that of courts of +justice in grosser conflicts. All good citizens want the laws to be +definite and vigorously enforced, in order to avoid the uncertainty, +waste, and destruction of a lawless condition. In the same way +right-minded people want definite moral standards, enforced by general +opinion, in order to save the mental wear and tear of unguided feeling. +It is a great relief to a person harassed by hostile emotion to find a +point of view from which this emotion appears wrong or irrational, so +that he can proceed definitely and with the sanction of his reason to +put it down. The next best thing, perhaps, is to have the hostility +definitely approved by reason, so that he may indulge it without further +doubt. The unsettled condition is worst of all. + +This control of hostility by a sense of common allegiance to rule is +well illustrated by athletic games. When properly conducted they proceed +upon a definite understanding of what is fair, and no lasting anger is +felt for any hurts inflicted, so long as this standard of fairness is +maintained. It is the same in war: soldiers do not necessarily feel any +anger at other soldiers who are trying to shoot them to death. That is +thought of as within the rules of the game. As Admiral Cervera’s chief +of staff is reported to have said to Admiral Sampson, “You know there is +nothing personal in this.” But if the white flag is used treacherously, +explosive bullets employed, or the moral standard otherwise +transgressed, there is hard feeling. It is very much the same with the +multiform conflicts of purpose in modern industrial life. It is not +clear that competition as such, apart from the question of fairness or +unfairness, has any tendency to increase hostility. Competition and the +clash of purposes are inseparable from activity, and are felt to be so. +Ill-feeling flourishes no more in an active, stirring state of society +than in a stagnant state. The trouble with our industrial relations is +not the mere extent of competition, but the partial lack of established +laws, rules, and customs, to determine what is right and fair in it. +This partial lack of standards is connected with the rapid changes in +industry and industrial relations among men, with which the development +of law and of moral criteria has by no means kept pace. Hence there +arises great uncertainty as to what some persons and classes may rightly +and fairly require of other persons and classes; and this uncertainty +lets loose angry imaginations. + +It will be evident that I do not look upon affection, or anger, or any +other particular mode of feeling, as in itself good or bad, social or +anti-social, progressive or retrogressive. It seems to me that the +essentially good, social, or progressive thing, in this regard, is the +organization and discipline of all emotions by the aid of reason, in +harmony with a developing general life, which is summed up for us in +conscience. That this development of the general life is such as to tend +ultimately to do away with hostile feeling altogether, is not clear. The +actively good people, the just men, reformers, and prophets, not +excepting him who drove the money-changers from the Temple, have been +and are, for the most part, people who feel the spur of resentment; and +it is not evident that this can cease to be the case. The diversity of +human minds and endeavors seems to be an essential part of the general +plan of things, and shows no tendency to diminish. This diversity +involves a conflict of ideas and purposes, which, in those who take it +earnestly, is likely to occasion hostile feeling. This feeling should +become less wayward, violent, bitter, or personal, in a narrow sense, +and more disciplined, rational, discriminating, and quietly persistent. +That it ought to disappear is certainly not apparent. + + +Something similar to what has been said of anger will hold true of any +well-marked type of instinctive emotion. If we take fear, for instance, +and try to recall our experience of it from early childhood on, it seems +clear that, while the emotion itself may change but little, the ideas, +occasions, suggestions that excite it depend upon the state of our +intellectual and social development, and so undergo great alteration. +The feeling does not tend to disappear, but to become less violent and +spasmodic, more and more social as regards the objects that excite it, +and more and more subject, in the best minds, to the discipline of +reason. + +The fears of little children[72] are largely excited by immediate +sensible experiences—darkness, solitude, sharp noises, and so on. +Sensitive persons often remain throughout life subject to irrational +fears of this sort, and it is well known that they play a conspicuous +part in hysteria, insanity, and other weak or morbid conditions. But for +the most part the healthy adult mind becomes accustomed and indifferent +to these simple phenomena, and transfers its emotional sensibility to +more complex interests. These interests are for the most part +sympathetic, involving our social rather than our material self—our +standing in the minds of other people, the well-being of those we care +for, and so on. Yet these fears—fear of standing alone, of losing one’s +place in the flow of human action and sympathy, fear for the character +and success of those near to us—have often the very quality of childish +fear. A man cast out of his regular occupation and secure place in the +system of the world feels a terror like that of the child in the dark; +just as impulsive, perhaps just as purposeless and paralyzing. The main +difference seems to be that the latter fear is stimulated by a complex +idea, implying a socially imaginative habit of mind. + +Social fear, of a sort perhaps somewhat morbid, is vividly depicted by +Rousseau in the passage of his Confessions where he describes the +feeling that led him falsely to accuse a maid-servant of a theft which +he had himself committed. “When she appeared my heart was agonized, but +the presence of so many people was more powerful than my compunction. I +did not fear punishment, but I dreaded shame: I dreaded it more than +death, more than the crime, more than all the world. I would have +buried, hid myself in the centre of the earth: invincible shame bore +down every other sentiment; shame alone caused all my impudence, and in +proportion as I became criminal the fear of discovery rendered me +intrepid. I felt no dread but that of being detected, of being publicly +and to my face declared a thief, liar, and calumniator....”[73] + +So also we might distinguish, as in the case of anger, a higher form of +social fear, one that is not narrowly personal, but relates to some +socially derived ideal of good or right. For instance, in a soldier the +terror of roaring guns and singing bullets would be a fear of the lowest +or animal type. Dread of the disgrace to follow running away would be a +social fear, yet not of the highest sort, because the thing dreaded is +not wrong but shame—a comparatively simple and non-rational idea. People +often do what they know is wrong under the influence of such fear, as +did Rousseau in the incident quoted above. But, supposing the soldier’s +highest ideal to be the success of his army and his country, a fear for +that, overcoming all lower and cruder fears—selfish fears as they would +ordinarily be called—would be moral or ethical. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII + EMULATION + + CONFORMITY—NON-CONFORMITY—THE TWO VIEWED AS COMPLEMENTARY PHASES OF + LIFE—RIVALRY—HERO-WORSHIP. + + +It will be convenient to distinguish three sorts of +emulation—conformity, rivalry, and hero-worship. + +Conformity may be defined as the endeavor to maintain a standard set by +a group. It is a voluntary imitation of prevalent modes of action, +distinguished from rivalry and other aggressive phases of emulation by +being comparatively passive, aiming to keep up rather than to excel, and +concerning itself for the most part with what is outward and formal. On +the other hand, it is distinguished from involuntary imitation by being +intentional instead of mechanical. Thus it is not conformity, for most +of us, to speak the English language, because we have practically no +choice in the matter, but we might choose to conform to particular +pronunciations or turns of speech used by those with whom we wish to +associate. + +The ordinary motive to conformity is a sense, more or less vivid, of the +pains and inconveniences of non-conformity. Most people find it painful +to go to an evening company in any other than the customary dress; the +source of the pain appearing to be a vague sense of the depreciatory +curiosity which one imagines that he will excite. His social +self-feeling is hurt by an unfavorable view of himself that he +attributes to others. This example is typical of the way the group +coerces each of its members in all matters concerning which he has no +strong and definite private purpose. The world constrains us without any +definite intention to do so, merely through the impulse, common to all, +to despise peculiarity for which no reason is perceived. “Nothing in the +world more subtle,” says George Eliot, speaking of the decay of higher +aims in certain people, “than the process of their gradual change! In +the beginning they inhaled it unknowingly; you and I may have sent some +of our breath toward infecting them, when we uttered our conforming +falsities or drew our silly conclusions: or perhaps it came with the +vibrations from a woman’s glance.” “Solitude is fearsome and +heavy-hearted,” and non-conformity condemns us to it by causing _gêne_, +if not dislike, in others, and so interrupting that relaxation and +spontaneity of attitude that is required for the easy flow of sympathy +and communication. Thus it is hard to be at ease with one who is +conspicuously worse or better dressed than we are, or whose manners are +notably different; no matter how little store our philosophy may set by +such things. On the other hand, a likeness in small things that enables +them to be forgotten gives people a _prima facie_ at-homeness with each +other highly favorable to sympathy; and so we all wish to have it with +people we care for. + +It would seem that the repression of non-conformity is a native impulse, +and that tolerance always requires some moral exertion. We all cherish +our habitual system of thought, and anything that breaks in upon it in a +seemingly wanton manner, is annoying to us and likely to cause +resentment. So our first tendency is to suppress the peculiar, and we +learn to endure it only when we must, either because it is shown to be +reasonable or because it proves refractory to our opposition. The +innovator is nearly as apt as anyone else to put down innovation in +others. Words denoting singularity usually carry some reproach with +them; and it would perhaps be found that the more settled the social +system is, the severer is the implied condemnation. In periods of +disorganization and change, such as ours is in many respects, people are +educated to comparative tolerance by unavoidable familiarity with +conflicting views—as religious toleration, for instance, is the outcome +of the continued spectacle of competing creeds. + +Sir Henry Maine, in discussing the forces that controlled the legal +decisions of a Roman prætor, remarks that he “was kept within the +narrowest bounds by the prepossessions imbibed from early training and +by the strong restraints of professional opinion, restraints of which +the stringency can only be appreciated by those who have personally +experienced them.”[74] In the same way every profession, trade or +handicraft, every church, circle, fraternity or clique, has its more or +less definite standards, conformity to which it tends to impose on all +its members. It is not at all essential that there should be any +deliberate purpose to set up these standards, or any special machinery +for enforcing them. They spring up spontaneously, as it were, by an +unconscious process of assimilation, and are enforced by the mere +inertia of the minds constituting the group. + +Thus every variant idea of conduct has to fight its way: as soon as +anyone attempts to do anything unexpected the world begins to cry, “Get +in the rut! Get in the rut! Get in the rut!” and shoves, stares, coaxes, +and sneers until he does so—or until he makes good his position, and so, +by altering the standard in a measure, establishes a new basis of +conformity. There are no people who are altogether non-conformers, or +who are completely tolerant of non-conformity in others. Mr. Lowell, who +wrote some of the most stirring lines in literature in defence of +non-conformity, was himself conventional and an upholder of conventions +in letters and social intercourse. Either to be exceptional or to +appreciate the exceptional requires a considerable expenditure of +energy, and no one can afford this in many directions. There are many +persons who take pains to keep their minds open; and there are groups, +countries, and periods which are comparatively favorable to +open-mindedness and variation; but conformity is always the rule and +non-conformity the exception. + +Conformity is a sort of co-operation: one of its functions is to +economize energy. The standards which it presses upon the individual are +often elaborate and valuable products of cumulative thought and +experience, and whatever imperfections they may have they are, as a +whole, an indispensable foundation for life: it is inconceivable that +anyone should dispense with them. If I imitate the dress, the manners, +the household arrangements of other people, I save so much mental energy +for other purposes. It is best that each should originate where he is +specially fitted to do so, and follow others where they are better +qualified to lead. It is said with truth that conformity is a drag upon +genius; but it is equally true and important that its general action +upon human nature is elevating. We get by it the selected and +systematized outcome of the past, and to be brought up to its standards +is a brief recapitulation of social development: it sometimes levels +down but more generally levels up. It may be well for purposes of +incitement to goad our individuality by the abuse of conformity; but +statements made with this in view lack accuracy. It is good for the +young and aspiring to read Emerson’s praise of self-reliance, in order +that they may have courage to fight for their ideas; but we may also +sympathize with Goethe when he says that “nothing more exposes us to +madness than distinguishing us from others, and nothing more contributes +to maintaining our common-sense than living in the universal way with +multitudes of men.”[75] + +There are two aspects of non-conformity: first, a rebellious impulse or +“contrary suggestion” leading to an avoidance of accepted standards in a +spirit of opposition, without necessary reference to any other +standards; and, second, an appeal from present and commonplace standards +to those that are comparatively remote and unusual. These two usually +work together. One is led to a mode of life different from that of the +people about him, partly by intrinsic contrariness, and partly by fixing +his imagination on the ideas and practices of other people whose mode of +life he finds more congenial. + +But the essence of non-conformity as a personal attitude consists in +contrary suggestion or the spirit of opposition. People of natural +energy take pleasure in that enhanced feeling of self that comes from +consciously _not_ doing that which is suggested or enjoined upon them by +circumstances and by other persons. There is joy in the sense of +self-assertion: it is sweet to do one’s own things; and if others are +against him one feels sure they _are_ his own. To brave the disapproval +of men is tonic; it is like climbing along a mountain path in the teeth +of the wind; one feels himself as a cause, and knows the distinctive +efficacy of his being. Thus self-feeling which, if somewhat languid and +on the defensive, causes us to avoid peculiarity, may, when in a more +energetic condition, cause us to seek it; just as we rejoice at one time +to brave the cold, and at another to cower over the fire, according to +the vigor of our circulation. + +This may easily be observed in vigorous children: each in his way will +be found to attach himself to methods of doing things which he regards +as peculiarly his own, and to delight in asserting these methods against +opposition. It is also the basis of some of the deepest and most +significant differences between races and individuals. Controlled by +intellect and purpose this passion for differentiation becomes +self-reliance, self-discipline, and immutable persistence in a private +aim: qualities which more than any others make the greater power of +superior persons and races. It is a source of enterprise, exploration, +and endurance in all kinds of undertakings, and of fierce defence of +private rights. How much of Anglo-Saxon history is rooted in the +intrinsic cantankerousness of the race! It is largely this that makes +the world-winning pioneer, who keeps pushing on because he wants a place +all to himself, and hates to be bothered by other people over whom he +has no control. On the frontier a common man defines himself better as a +cause. He looks round at his clearing, his cabin, his growing crops, his +wife, his children, his dogs, horses, and cattle, and says, _I did it: +they are mine_. All that he sees recalls the glorious sense of things +won by his own hand. + +Who does not feel that it is a noble thing to stand alone, to steer due +west into an unknown universe, like Columbus, or, like Nansen, ground +the ship upon the ice-pack and drift for the North Pole? “Adhere to your +own act,” says Emerson, “and congratulate yourself if you have done +something strange and extravagant, and broken the monotony of a decorous +age.” We like that epigram, _Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa +Catoni_, because we like the thought that a man stood out alone against +the gods themselves, and set his back against the course of nature. The + + “souls that stood alone, + While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone,” + +are not to be thought of as victims of self-sacrifice. Many of them +rejoiced in just that isolation, and daring, and persistence; so that it +was not self-sacrifice but self-realization. Conflict is a necessity of +the active soul, and if a social order could be created from which it +were absent, that order would perish as uncongenial to human nature. “To +be a man is to be a non-conformer.” + +I think that people go into all sorts of enterprises, for instance into +novel and unaccredited sorts of philanthropy, with a spirit of adventure +not far removed from the spirit that seeks the North Pole. It is neither +true nor wholesome to think of the “good” as actuated by motives +radically different in kind from those of ordinary human nature; and I +imagine the best of them are far from wishing to be thus thought of. +Undertakings of reform and philanthropy appeal to the mind in a double +aspect. There is, of course, the desire to accomplish some worthy end, +to effectuate some cherished sentiment which the world appears to +ignore, to benefit the oppressed, to advance human knowledge, or the +like. But behind that is the vague need of self-expression, of creation, +of a momentous experience, so that one may know that one has really +lived. And the finer imaginations are likely to find this career of +novelty and daring, not in the somewhat outworn paths of war and +exploration, but in new and precarious kinds of social activity. So one +may sometimes meet in social settlements and charity organization +bureaus the very sort of people that led the Crusades into Palestine. I +do not speak at random, but have several persons in mind who seem to me +to be of this sort. + +In its second aspect non-conformity may be regarded as a remoter +conformity. The rebellion against social influence is only partial and +apparent; and the one who seems to be out of step with the procession is +really keeping time to another music. As Thoreau said, he hears a +different drummer. If a boy refuses the occupation his parents and +friends think best for him, and persists in working at something strange +and fantastic, like art or science, it is sure to be the case that his +most vivid life is not with those about him at all, but with the masters +he has known through books, or perhaps seen and heard for a few moments. +Environment, in the sense of social influence actually at work, is far +from the definite and obvious thing it is often assumed to be. Our real +environment consists of those images which are most present to our +thoughts, and in the case of a vigorous, growing mind, these are likely +to be something quite different from what is most present to the senses. +The group to which we give allegiance, and to whose standards we try to +conform, is determined by our own selective affinity, choosing among all +the personal influences accessible to us; and so far as we select with +any independence of our palpable companions, we have the appearance of +non-conformity. + +All non-conformity that is affirmative or constructive must act by this +selection of remoter relations; opposition, by itself, being sterile, +and meaning nothing beyond personal peculiarity. There is, therefore, no +definite line between conformity and non-conformity; there is simply a +more or less characteristic and unusual way of selecting and combining +accessible influences. It is much the same question as that of invention +_versus_ imitation. As Professor Baldwin points out, there is no radical +separation between these two aspects of human thought and action. There +is no imitation that is absolutely mechanical and uninventive—a man +cannot repeat an act without putting something of his idiosyncrasy into +it—neither is there any invention that is not imitative in the sense +that it is made up of elements suggested by observation and experience. +What the mind does, in any case, is to reorganize and reproduce the +suggested materials in accordance with its own structure and tendency; +and we judge the result as imitative or inventive, original or +commonplace, according as it does or does not strike us as a new and +fruitful employment of the common material.[76] + + +A just view of the matter should embrace the whole of it at once, and +see conformity and non-conformity as normal and complementary phases of +human activity. In their quieter moods men have a pleasure in social +agreement and the easy flow of sympathy, which makes non-conformity +uncomfortable. But when their energy is full and demanding an outlet +through the instincts, it can only be appeased by something which gives +the feeling of self-assertion. They are agitated by a “creative +impatience,” an outburst of the primal need to act; like the Norsemen, +of whom Gibbon says: “Impatient of a bleak climate and narrow limits, +they started from the banquet, sounded their horn, ascended their +vessels, and explored every coast that promised either spoil or +settlement.”[77] In social intercourse this active spirit finds its +expression largely in resisting the will of others; and the spirit of +opposition and self-differentiation thus arising is the principal direct +stimulus to non-conformity. This spirit, however, has no power of +absolute creation, and is forced to seek for suggestions and materials +in the minds of others; so that the independence is only relative to the +more immediate and obvious environment, and never constitutes a real +revolt from the social order. + +Naturally non-conformity is characteristic of the more energetic states +of the human mind. Men of great vigor are sure to be non-conformers in +some important respect; youth glories in non-conformity, while age +usually comes back to the general point of view. “Men are conservatives +when they are least vigorous, or when they are most luxurious. They are +conservatives after dinner, or before taking their rest; when they are +sick or aged. In the morning, or when their intellect or their +conscience has been aroused, when they hear music, or when they read +poetry, they are radicals.”[78] + +The rational attitude of the individual toward the question of +conformity or non-conformity in his own life, would seem to be: assert +your individuality in matters which you deem important; conform in those +you deem unimportant. To have a conspicuously individual way of doing +everything is impossible to a sane person, and to attempt it would be to +do one’s self a gratuitous injury, by closing the channels of sympathy +through which we partake of the life around us. We should save our +strength for matters in regard to which persistent conviction impels us +to insist upon our own way. + +Society, like every living, advancing whole, requires a just union of +stability and change, uniformity and differentiation. Conformity is the +phase of stability and uniformity, while non-conformity is the phase of +differentiation and change. The latter cannot introduce anything wholly +new, but it can and does effect such a reorganization of existing +material as constantly to transform and renew human life. + + +I mean by rivalry a competitive striving urged on by the desire to win. +It resembles conformity in that the impelling idea is usually a sense of +what other people are doing and thinking, and especially of what they +are thinking of us: it differs from it chiefly in being more aggressive. +Conformity aims to keep up with the procession, rivalry to get ahead of +it. The former is moved by a sense of the pains and inconveniences of +differing from other people, the latter by an eagerness to compel their +admiration. Winning, to the social self, usually means conspicuous +success in making some desired impression upon other minds, as in +becoming distinguished for power, wealth, skill, culture, beneficence, +or the like. + +On the other hand, rivalry may be distinguished from finer sorts of +emulation by being more simple, crude, and direct. It implies no very +subtle mental activity, no elaborate or refined ideal. If a spirited +horse hears another overtaking him from behind, he pricks up his ears, +quickens his steps, and does his best to keep ahead. And human rivalry +appears to have much of this instinctive element in it; to become aware +of life and striving going on about us seems to act immediately upon the +nerves, quickening an impulse to live and strive in like manner. An +eager person will not hear or read of vivid action of any sort without +feeling some impulse to get into it; just as he cannot mingle in a +hurrying, excited crowd without sharing in the excitement and hurry, +whether he knows what it is all about or not. The genesis of ambition is +often something as follows: one mingles with men, his self-feeling is +vaguely aroused, and he wishes to be something to them. He sees, +perhaps, that he cannot excel in just what they are doing, and so he +takes refuge in his imagination, thinking what he _can_ do which is +admirable, and determining to do it. Thus he goes home nursing secret +ambitions. + +The motive of rivalry, then, is a strong sense that there is a race +going on, and an impulsive eagerness to be in it. It is rather imitative +than inventive; the idea being not so much to achieve an object for its +own sake, because it is reflectively judged to be worthy, as to get what +the rest are after. There is conformity in ideals combined with a thirst +for personal distinction. It has little tendency toward innovation, +notwithstanding the element of antagonism in it; but takes its color and +character from the prevalent social life, accepting and pursuing the +existing ideal of success, and whatever special quality it has depends +upon the quality of that ideal. There is, for instance, nothing so gross +or painful that it may not become an object of pursuit through +emulation. Charles Booth, who has studied so minutely the slums of +London, says that “among the poor, men drink on and on from a perverted +pride,” and among another class a similar sentiment leads women to +inflict surprising deformities of the trunk upon themselves. + +Professor William James suggests that rivalry does nine-tenths of the +world’s work.[79] Certainly no motive is so generally powerful among +active, efficient men of the ordinary type, the type that keeps the ball +moving all over the world. Intellectual initiative, high and persistent +idealism, are rare. The great majority of able men are ambitious, +without having intrinsic traits that definitely direct their ambition to +any particular object. They feel their way about among the careers which +their time, their country, their early surroundings and training, make +accessible to them, and, selecting the one which seems to promise the +best chance of success, they throw themselves into the pursuit of the +things that conduce to that success. If the career is law, they strive +to win cases and gain wealth and prestige, accepting the moral code and +other standards that they find in actual use; and it is the same, +_mutatis mutandis_, in commerce, politics, the ministry, the various +handicrafts, and so on. + +There is thus nothing morally distinctive about rivalry; it is harmful +or beneficent according to the objects and standards with reference to +which it acts. All depends upon the particular game in which one takes a +hand. It may be said in a broad way, however, that rivalry supplies a +stimulus wholesome and needful to the great majority of men, and that it +is, on the whole, a chief progressive force, utilizing the tremendous +power of ambition, and controlling it to the furtherance of ends that +are socially approved. The great mass of what we judge to be evil is of +a negative rather than a positive character, arising not from +misdirected ambition but from apathy or sensuality, from a falling short +of that active, social humanity which ambition implies. + +By hero-worship is here meant an emulation that strives to imitate some +admired character, in a spirit not of rivalry or opposition, but of +loyal enthusiasm. It is higher than rivalry, in the sense that it +involves a superior grade of mental activity—though, of course, there is +no sharp line of separation between them. While the other is a rather +gross and simple impulse, common to all men and to the higher animals, +the hero-worshipper is an idealist, imaginative; the object that arouses +his enthusiasm and his endeavor does so because it bears a certain +relation to his aspirations, to his constructive thought. Hero-worship +is thus more selective, more significant of the special character and +tendencies of the individual, in every way more highly organized than +rivalry. + +It has a great place in all active, aspiring lives, especially in the +plastic period of youth. We feed our characters, while they are forming, +upon the vision of admired models; an ardent sympathy dwells upon the +traits through which their personality is communicated to us—facial +expression, voice, significant movements, and so on. In this way those +tendencies in us that are toward them are literally fed; are stimulated, +organized, made habitual and familiar. As already pointed out, sympathy +appears to be an act of growth; and this is especially true of the sort +of sympathy we call hero-worship. All autobiographies which deal with +youth show that the early development of character is through a series +of admirations and enthusiasms, which pass away, to be sure, but leave +character the richer for their existence. They begin in the nursery, +flourish with great vigor in the school-yard, attain a passionate +intensity during adolescence, and though they abate rapidly in adult +life, do not altogether cease until the power of growth is lost. All +will find, I imagine, if they recall their own experience, that times of +mental progress were times when the mind found or created heroes to +worship, often owning allegiance to several at the same time, each +representing a particular need of development. The active tendencies of +the schoolboy lead to admiration of the strongest and boldest of his +companions; or perhaps, more imaginative, he fixes his thoughts on some +famous fighter or explorer; later it is possibly a hero of statesmanship +or literature who attracts him. Whatever the tendency, it is sure to +have its complementary hero. Even science often begins in hero-worship. +“This work,” says Darwin of Humboldt’s “Personal Narrative,” “stirred up +in me a burning zeal to add even the most humble contribution to the +noble structure of Natural Science.”[80] We easily forget this varied +and impassioned idealism of early life; but “the thoughts of youth are +long, long thoughts,” and it is precisely then and in this way that the +most rapid development of character takes place. J. A. Symonds, speaking +of Professor Jowett’s early influence upon him says, “Obscurely but +vividly I felt my soul grow by his contact, as it had never grown +before;” and Goethe remarks that “vicinity to the master, like an +element, lifts one and bears him on.” + +If youth is the period of hero-worship, so also is it true that +hero-worship, more than anything else, perhaps, gives one the sense of +youth. To admire, to expand one’s self, to forget the rut, to have a +sense of newness and life and hope, is to feel young at any time of +life. “Whilst we converse with what is above us we do not grow old but +grow young”; and that is what hero-worship means. To have no heroes is +to have no aspiration, to live on the momentum of the past, to be thrown +back upon routine, sensuality, and the narrow self. + +As hero-worship becomes more imaginative, it merges insensibly into that +devotion to ideal persons that is called religious. It has often been +pointed out that the feeling men have toward a visible leader and master +like Lincoln, Lee, Napoleon, or Garibaldi, is psychologically much the +same thing as the worship of the ideal persons of religion. Hero-worship +is a kind of religion, and religion, in so far as it conceives persons, +is a kind of hero-worship. Both are expressions of that intrinsically +social or communicative nature of human thought and sentiment which was +insisted upon in a previous chapter. That the personality toward which +the feeling is directed is ideal evidently affords no fundamental +distinction. All persons are ideal, in a true sense, and those whom we +admire and reverence are peculiarly so. That is to say, the idea of a +person, whether his body be present to our senses or not, is +imaginative, a synthesis, an interpretation of many elements, resting +upon our whole experience of human life, not merely upon our +acquaintance with this particular person; and the more our admiration +and reverence are awakened the more actively ideal and imaginative does +our conception of the person become. Of course we never _see_ a person; +we see a few visible traits which stimulate our imaginations to the +construction of a personal idea in the mind. The ideal persons of +religion are not fundamentally different, psychologically or +sociologically, from other persons; they are personal ideas built up in +the mind out of the material at its disposal, and serving to appease its +need for a sort of intercourse that will give scope to reverence, +submission, trust, and self-expanding enthusiasm. So far as they are +present to thought and emotion, and so work upon life, they are real, +with that immediate social reality discussed in the third chapter. The +fact that they have attached to them no visible or tangible material +body, similar to that of other persons, is indeed an important fact, but +rather of physiological than of psychological or social interest. +Perhaps it is not going too far to say that the idea of God is +_specially_ mysterious only from a physiological point of view; mentally +and socially regarded it is of one sort with other personal ideas, no +less a verifiable fact, and no more or less inscrutable. It must be +obvious to anyone who reflects upon the matter, I should think, that our +conceptions of personality, from the simple and sensuous notions a +little child has of those about him, up to the noblest and fullest idea +of deity that man can achieve, are one in kind, as being imaginative +interpretations of experience, and form a series in which there are no +breaks, no gap between human and divine. All is human, and all, if you +please, divine. + +If there are any who hold that nothing is real except what can be seen +and touched, they will necessarily forego the study of persons and of +society; because these things are essentially intangible and invisible. +The bodily presence furnishes important assistance in the forming of +personal ideas, but is not essential. I never saw Shakespeare, and have +no lively notion of how he looked. His reality, his presence to my mind, +consists in a characteristic impression made upon me by his recorded +words, an imaginative interpretation or inference from a book. In a +manner equally natural and simple the religious mind comes to the idea +of personal deity by a spontaneous interpretation of life as a whole. +The two ideas are equally real, equally incapable of verification _to +the senses_. + + + + + CHAPTER IX + LEADERSHIP OR PERSONAL ASCENDENCY + + LEADERSHIP DEFINES AND ORGANIZES VAGUE TENDENCY—POWER AS BASED UPON + THE MENTAL STATE OF THE ONE SUBJECT TO IT—THE MENTAL TRAITS OF A + LEADER: SIGNIFICANCE AND BREADTH—WHY THE FAME AND POWER OF A MAN + OFTEN TRANSCEND HIS REAL CHARACTER—ASCENDENCY OF BELIEF AND + HOPE—MYSTERY—GOOD FAITH AND IMPOSTURE—DOES THE LEADER REALLY LEAD? + + +But how do we choose our heroes? What is it that gives leadership to +some and denies it to others? Can we make out anything like a +_rationale_ of personal ascendency? We can hardly hope for a complete +answer to these questions, which probe the very heart of life and +tendency, but at least the attempt to answer them, so far as possible, +will bring us into an interesting line of thought. + +It is plain that the theory of ascendency involves the question of the +mind’s relative valuation of the suggestions coming to it from other +minds; leadership depending upon the efficacy of a personal impression +to awaken feeling, thought, action, and so to become a cause of life. +While there are some men who seem but to add one to the population, +there are others whom we cannot help thinking about; they lend arguments +to their neighbors’ creeds, so that the life of their contemporaries, +and perhaps of following generations, is notably different because they +have lived. The immediate reason for this difference is evidently that +in the one case there is something seminal or generative in the relation +between the personal impression a man makes and the mind that receives +it, which is lacking in the other case. If we could go farther than this +and discover what it is that makes certain suggestions seminal or +generative, we should throw much light on leadership, and through that +on all questions of social tendency. + +We are born with what may be roughly described as a vaguely +differentiated mass of mental tendency, vast and potent, but unformed +and needing direction—_informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum_. This +instinctive material is believed to be the outcome of age-long social +development in the race, and hence to be, in a general way, expressive +of that development and functional in its continuance. The process of +evolution has established a probability that a man will find himself at +home in the world into which he comes, and prepared to share in its +activities. Besides the tendency to various sorts of emotion, we have +the thinking instinct, the intelligence, which seems to be fairly +distinct from emotion and whose function includes the co-ordination and +organization of other instinctive material with reference to the +situations which life offers. + +At any particular stage of individual existence, these elements, +together with the suggestions from the world without, are found more or +less perfectly organized into a living, growing whole, a person, a man. +Obscurely locked within him, inscrutable to himself as to others, is the +soul of the whole past, his portion of the energy, the passion, the +tendency, of human life. Its existence creates a vague need to live, to +feel, to act; but he cannot fulfil this need, at least not in a normal +way, without incitement from outside to loosen and direct his +instinctive aptitude. There is explosive material stored up in him, but +it cannot go off unless the right spark reaches it, and that spark is +usually some sort of a personal suggestion, some living trait that sets +life free and turns restlessness into power. + +It must be evident that we can look for no cut-and-dried theory of this +life-imparting force, no algebraic formula for leadership. We know but +little of the depths of human tendency; and those who know most are +possibly the poets, whose knowledge is little available for precise +uses. Moreover, the problem varies incalculably with sex, age, race, +inherited idiosyncrasy, and previous personal development. The general +notions of evolution, however, lead us to expect that what awakens life +and so gives ascendency will be something important or functional in the +past life of the race, something appealing to instincts which have +survived because they had a part to perform; and this, generally +speaking, appears to be the case. + + +The prime condition of ascendency is the presence of undirected energy +in the person over whom it is to be exercised; it is not so much forced +upon us from without as demanded from within. The mind, having energy, +must work, and requires a guide, a form of thought, to facilitate its +working. All views of life are fallacious which do not recognize the +fact that the primary need is the need to do. Every healthy organism +evolves energy, and this must have an outlet. In the human mind, during +its expanding period, the excess of life takes the form of a reaching +out beyond all present and familiar things after an unknown good; no +matter what the present and familiar may be, the fact that it is such is +enough to make it inadequate. So we have a vague onward impulse, which +is the unorganized material, the undifferentiated protoplasm, so to +speak, of all progress; and this, as we have seen, makes the eagerness +of hero-worship in the young, imaginative and aspiring. So long as our +minds and hearts are open and capable of progress, there are persons +that have a glamour for us, of whom we think with reverence and +aspiration; and although the glamour may pass from them and leave them +commonplace, it will have fixed itself somewhere else. In youth the +mind, eager, searching, forward looking, stands at what Professor +Baldwin calls the alter pole of the socius, peering forth in search of +new life. And the idealist at any age needs superiority in others and is +always in quest of it. “Dear to us are those who love us, ... but dearer +are those who reject us as unworthy, for they add another life; they +build a heaven before us whereof we had not dreamed, and thereby supply +to us new powers out of the recesses of the spirit, and urge us to new +and unattempted performances.”[81] To cease to admire is a proof of +deterioration. + +Most people will be able to recall vague yet intensely vivid personal +impressions that they have received from faces—perhaps from a single +glance of a countenance that they have never seen before or since—or +perhaps from a voice; and these impressions often remain and grow and +become an important factor in life. The explanation is perhaps something +like this: When we receive these mysterious influences we are usually in +a peculiarly impressionable state, with nervous energy itching to be +worked off. There is pressure in the obscure reservoirs of hereditary +passion. In some way, which we can hardly expect to define, this energy +is tapped, an instinct is disengaged, the personal suggestion conveyed +in the glance is felt as the symbol, the master-key that can unlock +hidden tendency. It is much the same as when electricity stored and +inert in a jar is loosed by a chance contact of wires that completes the +circuit; the mind holds fast the life-imparting suggestion; cannot, in +fact, let go of it. + + “——all night long his face before her lived, + Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full + Of noble things, and held her from her sleep.” + +It is true of races, as of individuals, that the more vitality and +onwardness they have, the more they need ideals and a leadership that +gives form to them. A strenuous people like the Anglo-Saxon must have +something to look forward and up to, since without faith of some sort +they must fall into dissipation or despair; they can never be content +with that calm and symmetrical enjoyment of the present which is thought +to have been characteristic of the ancient Greeks. To be sure it is +said, and no doubt with truth, that the people of Northern Europe are +less hero-worshippers than those of the South, in the sense that they +are less given to blind enthusiasm for popular idols; but this, I take +it, only means that the former, having more constructive power in +building up ideals from various personal sources, and more persistence +in adhering to them when thus built up, are more sober and independent +in their judgment of particular persons, and less liable to extravagant +admiration of the hero of the moment. But their idealism is all the more +potent for this, and at bottom is just as dependent upon personal +suggestion for its definition. Thus it is likely that all leadership +will be found to be such by virtue of defining the possibilities of the +mind. “If we survey the field of history,” says Professor William James, +“and ask what feature all great periods of revival, of expansion of the +human mind, display in common, we shall find, I think, simply this; that +each and all of them have said to the human being, ‘the inmost nature of +the reality is congenial to _powers_ which you possess’”;[82] and the +same principle evidently applies to personal leadership. + +We are born to action; and whatever is capable of suggesting and guiding +action has power over us from the first. The attention of the new-born +child is fixed by whatever exercises the senses, through motion, noise, +touch, or color. Persons and animals interest him primarily because they +offer a greater amount and variety of sensible stimulus than other +objects. They move, talk, laugh, coax, fondle, bring food and so on. The +prestige they thus acquire over the child’s mind is shared with such +other stimulating phenomena as cars, engines, windmills, patches of +sunlight and bright-colored garments. A little later, when he begins to +acquire some control over his activities, he welcomes eagerly whatever +can participate in and so stimulate and guide them. The playthings he +cares for are those that go, or that he can do something with—carts, +fire-engines, blocks, and the like. Persons, especially those that share +his interests, maintain and increase their ascendency, and other +children, preferably a little older and of more varied resources than +himself, are particularly welcome. Among grown-ups he admires most those +who do something that he can understand, whom he can appreciate as +actors and producers—such as the carpenter, the gardener, the maid in +the kitchen. R. invented the happy word “thinger” to describe this sort +of people, and while performing similar feats would proudly proclaim +himself a thinger. + +It will be observed that at this stage a child has learned to reflect +upon action and to discriminate that which is purposeful and effective +from mere motion; he has gained the notion of power. Himself constantly +trying to do things, he learns to admire those who can do things better +than himself, or who can suggest new things to do. His father sitting at +his desk probably seems an inert and unattractive phenomenon, but the +man who can make shavings or dig a deep hole is a hero; and the +seemingly perverse admiration which children at a later age show for +circus men and for the pirates and desperadoes they read about, is to be +explained in a similar manner. What they want is _evident_ power. The +scholar may possibly be as worthy of admiration as the acrobat or the +policeman; but the boy of ten will seldom see the matter in that light. + +Thus the idea of power and the types of personality which, as standing +for that idea, have ascendency over us, are a function of our own +changing character. At one stage of their growth nearly all imaginative +boys look upon some famous soldier as the ideal man. He holds this place +as symbol and focus for the aggressive, contending, dominating impulses +of vigorous boyhood; to admire and sympathize with him is to gratify, +imaginatively, these impulses. In this country some notable speaker and +party leader often succeeds the soldier as a boyish ideal; his career is +almost equally dominating and splendid, and, in time of peace, not quite +so remote from reasonable aspiration. In later life these simple ideals +are likely to yield somewhat to others of a more special character, +depending upon the particular pursuit into which one’s energies are +directed. Every occupation which is followed with enthusiasm has its +heroes, men who stand for the idea of power or efficient action as +understood by persons of a particular training and habit. The world of +commerce and industry is full of hero-worship, and men who have made +great fortunes are admired, not unjustly, for the personal prowess such +success implies; while people of a finer intellectual development have +their notion of power correspondingly refined, and to them the artist, +the poet, the man of science, the philanthropist, may stand for the +highest sort of successful action. + +It should be observed, however, that the simpler and more dramatic or +visually imaginable kinds of power have a permanent advantage as regards +general ascendency. Only a few can appreciate the power of Darwin, and +those few only when the higher faculties of their minds are fully awake; +there is nothing dramatic, nothing appealing to the visual imagination, +in his secluded career. But we can all _see_ Grant or Nelson or Moltke +at the head-quarters of their armies, or on the decks of their ships, +and hear the roar of their cannons. They hold one by the eye and by the +swelling of an emotion felt to be common to a vast multitude of people. +There is always something of the intoxication of the crowd in the +submission to this sort of ascendency. However alone our bodies may be, +our imaginations are in the throng; and for my part whenever I think of +any occasion when a man played a great part before the eyes of mankind, +I feel a thrill of irrational enthusiasm. I should imagine, for +instance, that scarcely anyone could read such a thing as “Sheridan’s +Ride” without strong feeling. He witnesses the disorder, uncertainty, +and dismay of the losing battle, the anxious officers trying to stay the +retreat, and longing for the commander who has always led to victory. +Then he follows the ride from “Winchester twenty miles away,” and shares +the enthusiasm of the army when the valiant and beloved leader rides +forth upon the field at last, renewing every heart by his presence and +making victory out of defeat. In comparison with this other kinds of +power seem obscure and separate. It is the drama of visible courage, +danger, and success, and the sense of being one of a throng to behold +it, that makes the difference. + +This need of a dramatic or visually imaginable presentation of power is +no doubt more imperative in the childlike peoples of Southern Europe +than it is in the sedater and more abstractly imaginative Teutons; but +it is strong in every people, and is shared by the most intellectual +classes in their emotional moods. Consequently these heroes of the +popular imagination, especially those of war, are enabled to serve as +the instigators of a common emotion in great masses of people, and thus +to produce in large groups a sense of comradeship and solidarity. The +admiration and worship of such heroes is probably the chief feeling that +people have in common in all early stages of civilization, and the main +bond of social groups. Even in our own time this is more the case than +is understood. It was easy to see, during the Spanish-American War, that +the eager interest of the whole American people in the military +operations, and the general and enthusiastic admiration of every trait +of heroism, was bringing about a fresh sense of community throughout the +country and so renewing and consolidating the collective life of the +nation. + + +If we ask what are the mental traits that distinguish a leader, the only +answer seems to be that he must, in one way or another, be a great deal +of a man, or at least appear to be. He must stand for something to which +men incline, and so take his place by right as a focus of their thought. + +Evidently he must be the best of his kind available. It is impossible +that he should stand forth as an archetype, unless he is conceived as +superior, in some respect, to all others within range of the +imagination. Nothing that is seen to be second-rate can be an ideal; if +a character does not bound the horizon at some point we will look over +it to what we can see beyond. The object of admiration may be Cæsar +Borgia, or Napoleon, or Jesse James the train-robber, but he must be +typical, must stand for something. No matter how bad the leader may be, +he will always be found to owe his leadership to something strong, +affirmative, and superior, something that appeals to onward instinct. + +To be a great deal of a man, and hence a leader, involves, on the one +hand, a significant individuality, and, on the other, breadth of +sympathy, the two being different phases of personal calibre, rather +than separate traits. + +It is because a man cannot stand for anything except as he has a +significant individuality, that self-reliance is so essential a trait in +leadership: except as a person trusts and cherishes his own special +tendency, different from that of other people and usually opposed by +them in its inception, he can never develop anything of peculiar value. +He has to free himself from the domination of purposes already defined +and urged upon him by others, and bring up something fresh out of the +vague under-world of subconsciousness; and this means an intense self, a +militant, gloating “I.” Emerson’s essay on self-reliance only formulates +what has always been the creed of significant persons. + +On the other hand, success in unfolding a special tendency and giving +vogue to it, depends upon being in touch, through sympathy, with the +current of human life. All leadership takes place through the +communication of ideas to the minds of others, and unless the ideas are +so presented as to be congenial to those other minds, they will +evidently be rejected. It is because the novelty is not alien to us, but +is seen to be ourself in a fresh guise, that we welcome it. + +It has frequently been noticed that personal ascendency is not +necessarily dependent upon any palpable deed in which power is +manifested, but that there is often a conviction of power and an +expectation of success that go before the deed and control the minds of +men without apparent reason. There is something fascinating about this +immediate and seemingly causeless personal efficacy, and many writers of +insight lay great stress upon it. Emerson, for example, is fond of +pointing out that the highest sort of greatness is self-evident, without +particular works. Most men of executive force possess something of this +direct ascendency, and some, like Napoleon, Cromwell, Bismarck, and +Andrew Jackson, have had it in pre-eminent measure. It is not confined +to any class, however, but exists in an infinite variety of kinds and +degrees; and men of thought may have it as well as men of action. Dante, +Milton, Goethe, and their like, bear the authority to dominate the minds +of others like a visible mantle upon their shoulders, inspiring a sense +of reverence and a tendency to believe and follow in all the +impressionable people they meet. Such men are only striking examples of +what we are all familiar with in daily life, most persons of decided +character having something imposing about them at times. Indeed, there +is hardly anyone so insignificant that he does not seem imposing to +someone at some time. + +Notwithstanding the mystery that is often made of this, it appears to be +simply a matter of impulsive personal judgment, an impression of power +and a sense of yielding due to interpretation of the visible or audible +symbols of personality, discussed in a previous chapter. Another may +impress us with his power, and so exercise ascendency over us, either by +grossly performing the act, or by exhibiting traits of personality which +convince our imaginations that he can and will do the act if he wishes +to. It is in this latter way, through imaginative inference, that people +mostly work upon us in ordinary social intercourse. It would puzzle us, +in many cases, to tell just how we know that a man is determined, +dauntless, magnanimous, intrinsically powerful, or the reverse. Of +course reputation and past record count for much; but we judge readily +enough without them, and if, like Orlando in “As You Like It,” he “looks +successfully,” we believe in him. The imagination is a sort of +clearing-house through which great forces operate by convenient symbols +and with a minimum of trouble. + +The man of action who, like Napoleon, can dominate the minds of others +in a crisis, must have the general traits of leadership developed with +special reference to the promptness of their action. His individual +significance must take the form of a palpable decision and +self-confidence; and breadth of sympathy becomes a quick tact to grasp +the mental state of those with whom he deals, so that he may know how to +plant the dominating suggestion. Into the vagueness and confusion that +most of us feel in the face of a strange situation, such a man injects a +clearcut idea. There is a definiteness about him which makes us feel +that he will not leave us drifting, but will set a course, will +substitute action for doubt, and give our energies an outlet. Again, his +aggressive confidence is transmitted by suggestion, and acts directly +upon our minds as a sanction of his leadership. And if he adds to this +the tact to awaken no opposition, to make us feel that he is of our +sort, that his suggestions are quite in our line, in a word that we are +safe in his hands; he can hardly be resisted. + +In face-to-face relations, then, the natural leader is one who always +has the appearance of being master of the situation. He includes other +people and extends beyond them, and so is in a position to point out +what they must do next. Intellectually his suggestion seems to embrace +what is best in the views of others, and to embody the inevitable +conclusion; it is the timely, the fit, and so the prevalent. Emotionally +his belief is the strongest force present, and so draws other beliefs +into it. Yet, while he imposes himself upon others, he feels the other +selves as part of the situation, and so adapts himself to them that no +opposition is awakened; or possibly he may take the violent method, and +browbeat and humiliate a weak mind: there are various ways of +establishing superiority, but in one way or another the consummate +leader always accomplishes it. + +Take Bismarck as an example of almost irresistible personal ascendency +in face-to-face relations. He had the advantage, which, however, many +men of equal power have done without, of an imposing bulk and stature; +but much more than this were the mental and moral traits which made him +appear the natural master in an assembly of the chief diplomats of +Europe. “No idea can be formed,” says M. de Blowitz,[83] “of the +ascendency exercised by the German Chancellor over the eminent +diplomatists attending the Congress. Prince Gortchakoff alone, eclipsed +by his rival’s greatness, tried to struggle against him.” His “great and +scornful pride,” the absolute, contemptuous assurance of superiority +which was evident in every pose, tone, and gesture, accompanied, as is +possible only to one perfectly sure of himself, by a frankness, +good-humor, and cordial insight into others which seemed to make them +one with himself, participators in his domination; together with a +penetrating intelligence, a unique and striking way of expressing +himself, and a perfect clearness of purpose at all times, were among the +elements of the effect he produced. He conciliated those whom he thought +it worth while to conciliate, and browbeat, ignored, or ridiculed the +rest. There was nothing a rival could say or do but Bismarck, if he +chose, would say or do something which made it appear a failure. + +General Grant was a man whose personal presence had none of the splendor +of Prince Bismarck, and who even appeared insignificant to the +undiscerning. It is related that when he went to take command of his +first regiment soon after the outbreak of the Civil War, the officer +whom he was to succeed paid no attention to him at first, and would not +believe that he was Grant until he showed his papers. An early +acquaintance said of him, “He hadn’t the push of a business man.” “He +was always a gentleman, and everybody loved him, for he was so gentle +and considerate; but we didn’t see what he could do in the world.”[84] +Yet over the finer sort of men he exercised a great ascendency, and no +commander was more willingly obeyed by his subordinates, or inspired +more general confidence. In his way he manifested the essential traits +of decision, self-confidence, and tact in great measure. He never +appeared dubious, nervous, or unsettled; and though he often talked over +his plans with trusted officers, he only once, I believe, summoned a +council of war, and then rejected its decision. He was nearly or quite +alone in his faith in the plan by which Vicksburg was taken, and it is +well known that General Sherman, convinced that it would fail, addressed +him a formal remonstrance, which Grant quietly put in his pocket and +later returned to its author. “His pride in his own mature opinion,” +says General Schofield, “was very great; in that he was as far as +possible from being a modest man. This absolute confidence in his own +judgment upon any subject he had mastered, and the moral courage to take +upon himself alone the highest responsibility, and to demand full +authority and freedom to act according to his own judgment, without +interference from anybody, added to his accurate estimate of his own +ability, and his clear perception of the necessity for undivided +authority and responsibility in the conduct of military operations, and +in all that concerns the efficiency of armies in time of war, +constituted the foundation of that very great character.”[85] He was +also a man of great tact and insight. He always felt the personal +situation; divining the character and aims of his antagonists, and +making his own officers feel that he understood them and appreciated +whatever in them was worthy. + +In spite of the fact that a boastful spirit is attributed to Americans, +the complete renunciation of external display so noticeable in General +Grant is congenial to the American mind, and characteristic of a large +proportion of our most successful and admired men. Undoubtedly our +typical hero is the man who is capable of anything, but thinks it +unbecoming to obtrude the fact. Possibly it is our self-reliant, +democratic mode of life, which, since it offers a constant and varied +test of the realities, as distinct from the appearances, gives rise to a +contempt of the latter, and of those arts of pretence which impose upon +a less sophisticated people. The truth about us is so accessible that +cant becomes comparatively transparent and ridiculous.[86] + +There is no better phenomenon in which to observe personal ascendency +than public speaking. When a man takes the floor in an assembly, all +eyes are fixed upon him, all imaginations set to work to divine his +personality and significance. If he looks like a true and steadfast man, +of a spirit kindred with our own, we incline to him before he speaks, +and believe that what he says will be congenial and right. We have all, +probably, seen one arise in the midst of an audience strange to him, and +by his mere attitude and expression of countenance create a subtle sense +of community and expectation of consent. Another, on the contrary, will +at once impress us as self-conceited, insincere, over-excited, cold, +narrow, or in some other way out of touch with us, and not likely to say +anything that will suit us. As our first speaker proceeds, he continues +to create a sense that he feels the situation; we are at home and +comfortable with him, because he seems to be of our sort, having similar +views and not likely to lead us wrong; it is like the ease and +relaxation that one feels among old friends. There can be no perfect +eloquence that does not create this sense of personal congeniality. But +this deference to our character and mood is only the basis for exerting +power over us; he is what we are, but is much more; is decided where we +were vacillating, clear where we were vague, warm where we were cold. He +offers something affirmative and onward, and gives it the momentum of +his own belief. A man may lack everything but tact and conviction and +still be a forcible speaker; but without these nothing will avail. +“Speak only what you do know and believe, and are personally in it, and +are answerable for every word.” In comparison with these traits of mind +and character, fluency, grace, logical order, and the like, are merely +the decorative surface of oratory, which is well enough in its +subordinate place, but can easily be dispensed with. Bismarck was not +the less a great orator because he spoke “with difficulty and an +appearance of struggle,” and Cromwell’s rude eloquence would hardly have +been improved by lessons in elocution. + +Burke is an example of a man who appears to have had all the attributes +of a great speaker except tact, and was conspicuously contrasted in this +respect with Fox, whose genial nature never failed to keep touch with +the situation. A man whose rising makes people think of going to dinner +is not distinctively a great orator, even though his speeches are an +immortal contribution to literature. The well-known anecdote of the +dagger illustrates the unhappy results of losing touch with the +situation. In the midst of one of his great discourses on the French +Revolution, intending to impress upon his hearers the bloody character +of that movement, Burke drew from his bosom a dagger and cast it on the +floor. It so happened, however, that the Members of Parliament present +were not just then in the mood to be duly impressed by this exhibition, +which produced only astonishment and ridicule. Fox could never have done +a thing of this sort. With all Burke’s greatness, it would seem that +there must have been something narrow, strenuous, and at times even +repellent, in his personality and manner, some lack of ready +fellow-feeling, allowing him to lose that sense of the situation without +which there can hardly be any face-to-face ascendency. + +The ascendency which an author exercises over us by means of the written +page is the same in essence as that of the man of action or the orator. +The medium of communication is different; visible or audible traits give +place to subtler indications. There is also more time for reflection, +and reader or writer can choose the mood most fit to exert power or to +feel it; so that there is no need for that constant preparedness and +aggressiveness of voice and manner which the man of action requires. But +these are, after all, incidental differences; and the underlying traits +of personality, the essential relationship between leader and follower, +are much the same as in the other cases. The reader should feel that the +author’s mind and purpose are congenial with his own, though in the +present direction they go farther, that the thought communicated is not +at all alien, but so truly his that it offers an opportunity to expand +to a wider circle, and become a completer edition of himself. In short, +if an author is to establish and maintain the power to interest us and, +in his province, to lead our thought, he must exhibit personal +significance and tact, in a form appropriate to this mode of expression. +He must have a humanity so broad that, in certain of our moods at least, +it gives a sense of congeniality and at-homeness. He must also make a +novel and characteristic impression of some sort, a fresh and authentic +contribution to our life; and must, moreover, be wholly himself, “stand +united with his thought,” have that “truth to its type of the given +force” of which Walter Pater speaks. He must possess belief in +something, and simplicity and boldness in expressing it. + +Take Darwin again for example, all the better because it is sometimes +imagined that personality is unimportant in scientific writing. Probably +few thoughtful and open-minded persons can read the “Origin of Species” +without becoming Darwinists, yielding willingly, for the time at least, +to his ascendency, and feeling him as a master. If we consider the +traits that give him this authority, it will be found that they are of +the same general nature as those already pointed out. As we read his +chapters, and begin to build him up in our imaginations out of the +subtle suggestions of style, we find ourselves thinking of him as, first +of all, a true and simple man, a patient, sagacious seeker after the +real. This makes us, so far as we are also simple seekers after the +real, feel at home with him, forget suspicion, and incline to believe as +he believes, even if we fail to understand his reasons—though no man +leaves us less excuse for such failure. His aim is our aim—the truth, +and as he is far more competent to achieve it in this field than we are, +both because of natural aptitude and a lifetime of special research, we +readily yield him the reins, the more so because he never for an instant +demands it, but seems to appeal solely to facts. + +How many writers are there, even of much ability, who fail, primarily +and irretrievably, because they do not make this favorable personal +impression; because we divine something insincere, something impatient, +some private aim that is not truth, which keeps us uncomfortably on our +guard and makes us reluctant to follow them even when they appear most +incontrovertible. Mr. Huxley suggested that Darwin harmed his case by +excessive and unnecessary deference to the suggestions of his opponents; +but it may well be that in the long run, and with the highest tribunal, +this trait has added to his power. Many men have been convinced by the +character of Darwin, by his obvious disinterestedness and lack of all +controversial bias, who would never have followed Huxley. I have had +occasion to notice that there is no way of making converts to the idea +of evolution so effectual as to set people reading the “Origin of +Species.” Spencerism comes and goes, but Darwinism is an abiding +condition. + +Darwin’s intellectual significance no one will question; and his +self-confidence or faith was equally remarkable, and not at all +inconsistent with his modesty. In his case it seems a faith in truth +itself, so wholly is the self we find in his books identified with the +striving after truth. As an act of faith his twenty years of collecting +and brooding over the facts bearing upon the principle he had divined, +was an exploit of the same nature as that of Columbus, sailing westward +for months into an unknown ocean, to a goal which no one else could see. +And with what simple confidence does he take his stand upon the truth +thus won, and apply it to the geological history of the globe, or the +rise of the human body and mind. A good illustration of his faith is his +assertion, in the face of ridicule, that the existence of an orchid with +a narrow neck eleven inches long proved the existence of a moth with a +tongue of equal length. The moth, at that time unknown, was subsequently +discovered.[87] + +To illustrate the same principles in a wholly different phase of +thought, we might take Charles Lamb. Lamb, too, attracts us first of all +by a human and congenial personality. We feel that in the kinds of +sentiment with which he deals he is at home and adequate, is ourselves +and more than we, with a deeper pathos, a richer, more audacious humor, +a truer sensibility. He, too, enlarges life by access to novel and +acceptable modes of being; and he is always boldly and simply himself. +It is a poor notion of Lamb that does not recognize that he was, in his +way, a man of character, conviction, and faith. + +A similar analysis might be applied to great writers of other +sorts—poets, historians, and moralists; also to painters, sculptors, +actors, singers, to every potent personality after its kind. While there +is infinite variety in leadership—according to the characters of the +persons concerned, the points at which they come in contact, the means +of communication between them, and so on—there is, nevertheless, a +likeness of principle everywhere present. There is no such radical and +complete divergence of the conditions of power in the various fields of +activity as is sometimes imagined. While there are great differences, +they may be looked upon as specific rather than generic. We may always +expect to find a human nature sufficiently broad and sound—at least in +those phases most apparent in the special means of expression chosen—to +be felt as representative; also some timely contribution added to the +range of thought or feeling, and faith in or loyalty to this peculiar +contribution. + + +It is a very natural result of the principles already noted that the +fame and power of a man often transcend the man himself; that is to say, +the personal idea associated by the world with a particular name and +presence has often little basis in the mind behind that name and +presence, as it appears to cool and impartial study. The reason is that +the function of the great and famous man is to be a symbol, and the real +question in other minds is not so much, What are you? as, What can I +believe that you are? What can you help me to feel and be? How far can I +use you as a symbol in the development of my instinctive tendency? The +scientific historian may insist on asking, What are you? because the +instinct he is trying to gratify is the need to make things consistent +to the intelligence. But few persons have this need strongly developed, +in comparison with those of a more emotional character; and so most will +care more for the other questions. The scientific point of view can +never be that of the most of mankind, and science, it seems to me, can +hardly be more than the critic and chastener of popular faith, not its +leader. + +Thus we may say of all famous and admired characters that, as personal +ideas, they partake of the nature of gods, in that the thought +entertained of them is a constructive effort of the idealizing +imagination seeking to create a personal symbol of its own tendency. + +Perhaps there is no more striking illustration of this than that offered +by the mediæval history of the papacy. It is notorious that the idea of +the pope, as it was entertained by the religious world, and the pope +himself, as he appeared to his intimates, were things having for the +most part no close relation to each other. The visible pope was often +and for long periods at a time a depraved or insignificant man; but +during these very periods the ideal pope, the pope of Europe’s thought, +might and often did flourish and grow in temporal and spiritual power. +The former was only a symbol for the better definition of what the world +needed to believe, a lay figure for garments woven by the co-operative +imagination of religious men. The world needed to believe in a spiritual +authority as a young girl needs to be in love, and it took up with the +papacy as the most available framework for that belief, just as the +young girl is likely to give her love to the least repugnant of those +who solicit it. The same is true in a large measure of the other great +mediæval authority, the emperor, as Mr. Bryce so clearly shows in his +history of the Holy Roman Empire; and it holds true in some degree of +all those clothed with royalty or other great offices. Fame may or may +not represent what men were; but it always represents what humanity +needs them to have been. + +It is also true that when there is a real personal superiority, +ascendency is seldom confined to the traits in which this is manifested, +but, once established in regard to these traits, it tends to envelop the +leader as a whole, and to produce allegiance to him as a concrete +person. This comes, of course, from the difficulty of breaking up and +sifting that which presents itself to the senses, and through them to +the mind, as a single living whole. And as the faults and weaknesses of +a great man are commonly much easier to imitate than his excellences, it +often happens, as in the case of Michelangelo, that the former are much +more conspicuous in his followers than the latter. + + +Another phase of the same truth is the ascendency that persons of belief +and hope always exercise as against those who may be superior in every +other respect, but who lack these traits. The onward and aggressive +portion of the world, the people who do things, the young and all having +surplus energy, need to hope and strive for an imaginative object, and +they will follow no one who does not encourage this tendency. The first +requisite of a leader is, not to be right, but to lead, to show a way. +The idealist’s programme of political or economic reform may be +impracticable, absurd, demonstrably ridiculous; but it can never be +successfully opposed merely by pointing out that this is the case. A +negative opposition cannot be wholly effectual: there must be a +competing idealism; something must be offered that is not only less +objectionable but more desirable, that affords occupation to progressive +instinct. This holds true, for instance, in the case of teachers. One +may sometimes observe two men of whom one has a sounder judgment, a +clearer head, a more steadfast character, and is more a master of his +subject, than the other; yet is hopelessly inferior in influence, +because the other has a streak of contagious idealism which he lacks. +One has all the virtues except hope; the other has that and all the +power. It has been well said that when a man ceases to learn—to be open +and forward looking—he should also cease to teach. + +It would be easy to multiply illustrations of this simple but important +truth. All vigorous minds, I think, love books and persons that are +mentally enfranchising and onward-looking, that seem to overthrow the +high board fences of conventional thought and show a distance with +purple hills; while it would be possible to mention powerful minds that +have quickly lost influence by giving too much the impression of +finality, as if they thought their system was the last. They only build +another board fence a little beyond the old one. Perhaps the most +admirable and original thing about Emerson is the invincible openness +and renewal that seem to be in him, and some of us find his best +expression in that address on the “Method of Nature” in which, even more +than elsewhere, he makes us feel that what is achieved is ever +transitory, and that there is everything to expect from the future. In +like manner, to take perhaps the most remarkable example of all, the +early Christians found in their belief organized hope, in contrast to +the organized _ennui_ of the Roman system of thought, and this, it would +seem, must have been its most direct and potent appeal to most +minds.[88] + +It is also because of this ideal and imaginative character in personal +ascendency that mystery enters so largely into it. Our allegiance is +accompanied by a mental enlargement and renewal through generative +suggestions; we are passing from the familiar to the strange, are being +drawn we know not whither by forces never before experienced; the very +essence of the matter is novelty, insecurity, and that excitement in the +presence of dim possibilities that constitutes mystery. + +It has often been remarked that to one in love the beloved person +appears as a mystery, enveloped, as it were, in a sort of purple cloud. +This is doubtless because the lover is undergoing strange alteration in +his own mind; fresh vague passions are rising into consciousness out of +the dark storehouse of hereditary instinct; he is cast loose from his +old anchorage and does not know whither he is driven. The consequent +feeling of a power and a strangeness upon him he associates, of course, +with the person—commonplace enough, perhaps, to others—who is the symbol +and occasion of the experience. Goethe seems to mean something of this +sort when he uses the expression _das ewig Weibliche_ to suggest the +general mystery and allurement of new life. + +And it is much the same no matter what sort of ascendency is exercised +over us; there is always excitement and a feeling of newness and +uncertainty, imagination is awakened and busies itself with the +fascinating personality; his slightest word or action is eagerly +interpreted and works upon us. In short, mystery and idealism are so +inseparable that a sense of power in others seems to involve a sense of +their inscrutability; and, on the other hand, so soon as a person +becomes plain, he ceases to stimulate the imagination; we have seen all +around him, so that he no longer appears an open door to new life, but +has begun to be commonplace and stale. + +It is even true that inscrutability in itself, having perhaps nothing +important back of it, plays a considerable part in personal ascendency. +The hero is always a product of constructive imagination; and just as +some imaginative painters find that the too detailed observation of +sensible objects cumbers the inner vision and impedes production, so the +hero-worshipper is likely at times to reject altogether the persons he +knows in favor of some sort of mask or lay figure, whose very blankness +or inertness insures to it the great advantage that it cannot actively +repudiate the qualities attributed to it: it offers _carte blanche_ to +the imagination. As already suggested, the vital question in ascendency +is not, primarily, What are you? but, What do you enable me to be? What +self-developing ideas do you enable me to form? and the power of mere +inscrutability arises from the fact that it gives a vague stimulus to +thought and then leaves it to work out the details to suit itself. To +recur to the matter of falling in love: the young girl who, like +Gwendolen in “Daniel Deronda,” or Isabel in the “Portrait of a Lady,” +fixes her passion upon some self-contained and to her inscrutable +person, in preference to others who are worthier but less mysterious, is +a common character in life as well as in fiction. + +Many other illustrations of the same principle might be given. Thus the +fact, instances of which are collected by Mr. Tylor in his work on +“Primitive Culture,” that the insane, the idiotic, and the epileptic are +reverenced by primitive peoples, may be interpreted in a similar +manner.[89] Those who are mentally abnormal present in a striking form +the inscrutable in personality; they seem to be men, but are not such +men as we; our imaginations are alarmed and baffled, so that it is not +unnatural that before science has shown us definite relations between +these persons and ourselves, they should serve as one of the points +about which crystallize our imaginations of unknown power. In the same +way a strange and somewhat impassive physiognomy is often, perhaps, an +advantage to an orator, or leader of any sort, because it helps to fix +the eye and fascinate the mind. Such a countenance as that of Savonarola +may have counted for much toward the effect he produced. Another +instance of the prestige of the inscrutable is the fascination of +silence, when power is imagined to lie behind it. The very name of +William the Silent gives one a sort of thrill, whether he knows anything +of that distinguished character or not. One seems to see a man darkly +potent, mysteriously dispensing with the ordinary channel of +self-assertion, and attaining his ends without evident means. It is the +same with Von Moltke, “silent in seven languages,” whose genius humbled +France and Austria in two brief campaigns. And General Grant’s +taciturnity undoubtedly fascinated the imagination of the people—after +his earlier successes had shown that there was really something in +him—and helped to secure to him a trust and authority much beyond that +of any other of the Federal generals. It is the same with personal +reserve in every form: one who always appears to be his own master and +does not too readily reveal his deeper feelings, is so much the more +likely to create an impression of power. He is formidable because +incalculable. And accordingly we see that many people deliberately +assume, or try to assume, an appearance of inscrutability, + + “And do a wilful stillness entertain, + With purpose to be dressed in an opinion + Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;” + +Disraeli, it is said, “was a mystery man by instinct and policy,” and we +all know others in our own circle of acquaintances. + +So with the expression of personality in literature. A book which is +perfectly clear at the first cursory reading is by that fact condemned +as commonplace. If there were anything vital in it, it would appear at +least a little strange, and would not be fully understood until it had +been for some time inwardly digested. At the end of that time it would +have done its best service for us and its ascendency would have waned. +It is always thus, I imagine, with writers who strongly move us; there +is first mystery and a sense of unexplored life, then a period of +assimilative excitement, and after that chastened affection, or perhaps +revulsion or distrust. A person of mature years and ripe development, +who is expecting nothing from literature but the corroboration and +renewal of past ideas, may find satisfaction in a lucidity so complete +as to occasion no imaginative excitement, but young and ambitious +students are not content with it. They seek the excitement because they +are capable of the growth that it accompanies. It was a maxim of Goethe +that where there is no mystery there is no power; and something of the +perennial vitality of his writings may be attributed to the fact that he +did not trouble himself too much with the question whether people would +understand him, but set down his inmost experiences as adequately as he +could, and left the rest to time. The same may be said of Browning, and +of many other great writers. + +Something similar holds true of power in plastic art. The sort of +mystery most proper and legitimate in art, however, is not an +intellectual mystery—though some artists have had a great deal of that, +like Leonardo, who “conquered by the magnetism of an incalculable +personality”[90]—but rather a sensuous mystery, that is to say a vague +and subtle appeal to recondite sources of sensuous impression, an +awakening of hitherto unconscious capacity for harmonious sensuous life, +like the feeling we get from the first mild weather in the spring. In +this way, it seems to me, there is an effect of mystery, of congenial +strangeness, in all powerful art. Probably everyone would recognize this +as true of music, even if all do not feel its applicability to painting, +sculpture and architecture. + +The well-known fact that mystery is inseparable from higher religious +idealism may be regarded as a larger expression of this same necessity +of associating inscrutability with personal power. If the imagination +cannot be content with the definite in lesser instances, it evidently +cannot when it comes to form the completest image of personality that it +can embrace. + +Although ascendency depends upon what we think about a man rather than +what he is, it is nevertheless true that an impression of his reality +and good faith is of the first importance, and this impression can +hardly outlast close scrutiny unless it corresponds to the fact. Hence, +as a rule, the man who is to exercise enduring power over others must +believe in that for which he stands. Such belief operates as a potent +suggestion upon the minds of others. + + “While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling on mine, + Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew + One with him, to believe as he believed.”[91] + +If we divine a discrepancy between a man’s words and his character, the +whole impression of him becomes broken and painful; he revolts the +imagination by his lack of unity, and even the good in him is hardly +accepted. Nothing, therefore, is more fatal to ascendency than perceived +insincerity or doubt, and in immediate intercourse it is hard to conceal +them. When Luther came to Rome and saw what kind of a man the Pope was, +the papacy was shaken. + +How far it is possible for a man to work upon others through a false +idea of himself depends upon a variety of circumstances. As already +pointed out, the man himself may be a mere incident with no definite +relation to the idea of him, the latter being a separate product of the +imagination. This can hardly be except where there is no immediate +contact between leader and follower, and partly explains why authority, +especially if it covers intrinsic personal weakness, has always a +tendency to surround itself with forms and artificial mystery, whose +object is to prevent familiar contact and so give the imagination a +chance to idealize. Among a self-reliant, practical people like ours, +with much shrewdness and little traditional reverence, the power of +forms is diminished; but it is always great. The discipline of armies +and navies, for instance, very distinctly recognizes the necessity of +those forms which separate superior from inferior, and so help to +establish an unscrutinized ascendency in the former. In the same way +manners, as Professor Ross remarks in his work on “Social Control,”[92] +are largely used by men of the world as a means of self-concealment, and +this self-concealment serves, among other purposes, that of preserving a +sort of ascendency over the unsophisticated. + +As regards intentional imposture, it may be said in general that all men +are subject to be duped in matters of which they have no working +knowledge and which appeal strongly to the emotions. The application of +this principle to quack medicine, to commercial swindles, and to the +ever-reappearing impostures relating to supposed communication with +spirits, is too plain to be enlarged upon. While it is an advantage, +even to a charlatan, to believe in himself, the susceptibility of a +large part of us to be duped by quacks of one sort or another is obvious +enough, and shows that the work of free institutions in developing +shrewdness is by no means complete. + +Probably a close and candid consideration of the matter would lead to +the conclusion that everyone is something of an impostor, that we all +pose more or less, under the impulse to produce a desired impression +upon others. As social and imaginative beings we must set store by our +appearance; and it is hardly possible to do so without in some degree +adapting that appearance to the impression we wish to make. It is only +when this adaptation takes the form of deliberate and injurious deceit +that much fault can be found with it. “We all,” says Stevenson in his +essay on Pepys, “whether we write or speak, must somewhat drape +ourselves when we address our fellows; at a given moment we apprehend +our character and acts by some particular side; we are merry with one, +grave with another, as befits the nature and demands of the relation.” +If we never tried to seem a little better than we are, how could we +improve or “train ourselves from the outside inward”? And the same +impulse to show the world a better or idealized aspect of ourselves +finds an organized expression in the various professions and classes, +each of which has to some extent a cant or pose, which its members +assume unconsciously, for the most part, but which has the effect of a +conspiracy to work upon the credulity of the rest of the world. There is +a cant not only of theology and of philanthropy, but also of law, +medicine, teaching, even of science—perhaps especially of science, just +now, since the more a particular kind of merit is recognized and +admired, the more it is likely to be assumed by the unworthy. As +theology goes down and science comes up, the affectation of +disinterestedness and of exactness in method tends to supplant the +affectation of piety. + +In general it may be said that imposture is of considerable but always +secondary importance; it is a sort of parasite upon human idealism and +thrives only by the impulse to believe. A correct intuition on the part +of mankind in the choice of their leaders is the only guaranty of the +effectual organization of life in any or every sphere; and in the long +run and on a large scale this correctness seems to exist. On the whole, +the great men of history were real men, not shams, their characters were +genuinely representative of the deeper needs and tendencies of human +nature, so that in following them men were truly expressing themselves. + + +We have seen that all leadership has an aspect of sympathy and +conformity, as well as one of individuality and self-will, so that every +leader must also be a follower, in the sense that he shares the general +current of life. He leads by appealing to our own tendency, not by +imposing something external upon us. Great men are therefore the symbols +or expressions, in a sense, of the social conditions, under which they +work, and if these conditions were not favorable the career of the great +man would be impossible. + +Does the leader, then, really lead, in the sense that the course of +history would have been essentially different if he had not lived? Is +the individual a true cause, or would things have gone on about the same +if the famous men had been cut off in infancy? Is not general tendency +the great thing, and is it not bound to find expression independently of +particular persons? Certainly many people have the impression that in an +evolutionary view of life single individuals become insignificant, and +that all great movements must be regarded as the outcome of vast, +impersonal tendencies. + +If one accepts the view of the relation between particular individuals +and society as a whole already stated in various connections, the answer +to these questions must be that the individual _is_ a cause, as +independent as a cause can be which is part of a living whole, that the +leader does lead, and that the course of history must have been notably +different if a few great men had been withdrawn from it. + +As to general tendency, it is false to set it over against individuals, +as if it were a separate thing; it is only through individuals that +general tendency begins or persists. “Impersonal tendency” in society is +a mere abstraction; there is no such thing. Whether idiosyncrasy is such +as we all have in some measure, or whether it takes the form of +conspicuous originality or genius, it is a variant element in life +having always some tendency to innovation. Of course, if we believe in +the prevalence of continuity and law, we cannot regard it as a new +creation out of nothing; it must be a reorganization of hereditary and +social forces. But however this may be, the person as a whole is always +more or less novel or innovating. Not one of us floats quite inert upon +the general stream of tendency; we leave the world somewhat different +from what it would have been if we had been carried off by the croup. + +Now in the case of a man of genius, this variant tendency may be so +potent as to reorganize a large part of the general life in its image, +and give it a form and direction which it could not have had otherwise. +How anyone can look at the facts and doubt the truth of this it is hard +to see. Would the life we receive from the last century have been the +same if, say, Darwin, Lincoln, and Bismarck had not lived? Take the case +of Darwin. No doubt his greatness depended upon his representing and +fulfilling an existing tendency, and this tendency entered into him from +his environment, that is from other individuals. But it came out of him +no longer the vague drift toward evolutionary theory and experiment that +it was before, but concrete, common-sense, matter-of-fact knowledge, +thoroughly Darwinized, and so accredited by his character and labors +that the world accepts it as it could not have done if he had not lived. +We may apply the same idea to the author of Christianity. Whatever we +may or may not believe regarding the nature of Christ’s spiritual +leadership, there is, I take it, nothing necessarily at variance with a +sound social science in the Christian theory that the course of history +has been transformed by his life. + +The vague instincts which it is the function of the leader to define, +stimulate and organize, might have remained latent and ineffectual, or +might have developed in a totally different manner, if he had not lived. +No one can guess what the period following the French Revolution, or any +period of French history since then, might have been without Napoleon; +but it is apparent that all would have been very different. It is true +that the leader is always a symbol, and can work only by using existing +elements of life; but in the peculiar way in which he uses those +elements is causation, is creation, in the only sense, perhaps, in which +creation is definitely conceivable. To deny its importance is as absurd +as to say that the marble as it comes from the quarry and the marble +after Michelangelo is through with it, are one and the same thing. + +Most, if not all, of our confusion regarding such points as these arises +from the almost invincible habit of thinking of “society,” or +“historical tendency,” as a distinct entity from “individuals,” instead +of remembering that these general and particular terms merely express +different aspects of the same concrete fact—human life. In studying +leadership we may examine the human army one by one, and inquire why +certain persons stand out from the rest as captains, colonels, or +generals, and what, in particular, it is that they have to do; or, in +studying social tendency, we may disregard individuality and look at the +movements of the army, or of its divisions and regiments, as if they +were impersonal wholes. But there is no separation in fact: the leader +is always the nucleus of a tendency, and, on the other hand, all social +movement, closely examined, will be found to consist of tendencies +having such nuclei. It is never the case that mankind move in any +direction with an even front, but there are always those who go before +and show the way. + +I need hardly add that leadership is not a _final_ explanation of +anything; but is simply one of many aspects in which human life, always +inscrutable, may be studied. In these days we no longer look for final +explanations, but are well content if we can get a glimpse of things in +process, not expecting to know how they began or where they are to end. +The leader is a cause, but, like all causes we know of, he is also an +effect. His being, however original, is rooted in the past of the race, +and doubtless as susceptible of explanation as anything else, if we +could only get at the facts. + + + + + CHAPTER X + THE SOCIAL ASPECT OF CONSCIENCE + + THE RIGHT AS THE RATIONAL—SIGNIFICANCE OF THIS VIEW—THE RIGHT AS THE + ONWARD—THE RIGHT AS HABIT—RIGHT IS NOT THE SOCIAL AS AGAINST THE + INDIVIDUAL—IT IS, IN A SENSE, THE SOCIAL AS AGAINST THE SENSUAL—THE + RIGHT AS A SYNTHESIS OF PERSONAL INFLUENCES—PERSONAL + AUTHORITY—CONFESSION, PRAYER, PUBLICITY—TRUTH—DEPENDENCE OF RIGHT + UPON IMAGINATION—CONSCIENCE REFLECTS A SOCIAL GROUP—IDEAL PERSONS AS + FACTORS IN CONSCIENCE. + + +I agree with those moralists who hold that what we judge to be the right +is simply the rational, in a large sense of that word. The mind is the +theatre of conflict for an infinite number of impulses, variously +originating, among which it is ever striving to produce some sort of +unification or harmony. This endeavor to harmonize or assimilate +includes deliberate reasoning, but is something much more general and +continuous than that. It is mostly an unconscious or subconscious +manipulation of the materials presented, an unremitting comparison and +rearrangement of them, which ever tends to organize them into some sort +of a whole. The right, then, is that which stands this test; the +sanction of conscience attaches to those thoughts which, in the long +run, maintain their places as part of that orderly whole which the +mental instinct calls for, and which it is ever working with more or +less success to build up. That is right which presents itself, after the +mind has done its full work upon the matter, as the mentally necessary, +which we cannot gainsay without breaking up our mental integrity. + +According to this view of the matter, judgments of right and wrong are +in no way isolated or radically different in kind from other judgments. +Such peculiarity as they have seems to come chiefly from the unusual +intensity of the mental conflict that precedes them. The slightest +scrutiny of experience shows, it seems to me, that the sharp and +absolute distinction often assumed to exist between conscience and other +mental activities does not hold good in life. There are gradual +transitions from judgments which no one thinks of as peculiarly moral, +through others which some would regard as moral and others would not, to +those which are universally so regarded; and likewise moral feeling or +sentiment varies a good deal in different individuals, and in the same +individual under different conditions. + +The class of judgments which everyone considers as moral is perhaps +limited to such as follow an exciting and somewhat protracted mental +struggle, involving an imaginative weighing of conflicting personal +ideas. A line of conduct has to be chosen; alternatives present +themselves, each of which is backed by strong impulses, among which are +some, at least, of sympathetic origin; the mind is intensely, even +painfully, aroused, and when a decision is reached, it is accompanied by +a somewhat peculiar sort of feeling called the sense of obligation, +duty, or right. There would be little agreement, however, as to what +sort of situations evoke this feeling. We are apt to feel that any +question in regard to which we are much in earnest is a question of +right and wrong. To the artist a consciously false stroke of brush or +chisel is a moral wrong, a sin; and a good carpenter will suffer remorse +if he lets a bad joint go uncorrected. + +The fact that the judgment of right is likely to present itself to +people of emotional temperament as an imagined voice, admonishing them +what they ought to do, is an illustration of that essentially social or +interlocutory character of thought, spoken of in an earlier chapter. Our +thoughts are always, in some sort, imaginary conversations; and when +vividly felt they are likely to become quite distinctly so. On the other +hand, people whose moral life is calm perceive little or no distinction, +in this regard, between the conclusions of conscience and other +judgments. + +Of course, the view that the right is the rational would be untrue, if +by rational were meant merely the result of formal reasoning. The +judgment of right and the conclusion of formal thought are frequently +opposed to each other, because, I take it, the latter is a comparatively +narrow, partial, and conventional product of the mind. The former is +rational and mentally authoritative in a larger sense; its premises are +immeasurably richer; it deals with the whole content of life, with +instincts freighted with the inarticulate conclusions of a remote past, +and with the unformulated inductions of individual experience. To set +the product of a superficial ratiocination over the final output, in +conscience, of our whole mental being, is a kind of pedantry. I do not +mean to imply that there is usually an opposition between the two—they +should work harmoniously together—but only to assert that when there is, +conscience must be regarded as of a profounder rationality. + +On the other hand, the wrong, the immoral, is, in a similar sense, the +irrational. It is that which, after the mind has done its full work upon +the matter, presents itself as the mentally isolated, the inharmonious, +that which we cannot follow without having, in our more collected moods, +a sense of having been untrue to ourselves, of having done ourselves a +harm. The mind in its fullest activity is denied and desecrated; we are +split in two. To violate conscience is to act under the control of an +incomplete and fragmentary state of mind; and so to become less a +person, to begin to disintegrate and go to pieces. An unjust or +incontinent deed produces remorse, apparently because the thought of it +will not lie still in the mind, but is of such a nature that there is no +comfortable place for it in the system of thought already established +there. + +The question of right and wrong, as it presents itself to any particular +mind, is, then, a question of the completest practicable organization of +the impulses with which that mind finds itself compelled to deal. The +working out of the right conclusion may be compared to the process by +which a deliberative body comes to a conclusion upon some momentous +public measure. Time must be given for all the more important passions, +prejudices, traditions, interests, and the like, to be urged upon the +members with such cogency as their advocates can give them, and for +attempts to harmonize these conflicting forces so that a measure can be +framed which the body can be induced to pass. And when a decision is +finally reached there is a sense of relief, the greater in proportion as +the struggle has been severe, and a tendency, even on the part of the +opposition, to regard the matter as settled. Those people who cannot +achieve moral unity, but have always a sense of two personalities +warring within them, may be compared to certain countries in whose +assemblies political parties are so embittered that they never come to +an understanding with one another. + +The mental process is, of course, only the proximate source of the idea +of right, the conflict by which the competitive strength of the various +impulses is measured, and some combination of them achieved; behind it +is the whole history of the race and of the individual, in which +impulses are rooted. Instinctive passions, like love, ambition, and +revenge; the momentum of habit, the need of change, personal +ascendencies, and the like, all have their bearing upon the final +synthesis, and must either be conciliated or suppressed. Thus in case of +a strong passion, like revenge let us say, one of two things is pretty +sure to happen; either it will succeed in getting its revengeful +impulse, more or less disguised perhaps, judged as right; or, if +opposing ideas prove stronger, revenge will be kept under by the rise of +an intense feeling of wrong that associates itself with it. If one +observes that a person has a very vivid sense of the wrong of some +particular impulse, one may usually infer that he has had in some way to +contend with it; either as a temptation in his own mind, or as +injuriously manifested in the conduct of others. + +The natural way to solve a moral question, when immediate action is not +required, is to let it lie in the mind, turning it over from time to +time as attention is directed to it. In this manner the new situation +gradually relates itself to all the mental forces having pertinency to +it. The less violent but more persistent tendencies connect themselves +quietly but firmly to recalcitrant impulse, enwrapping it like the +filaments of a spider’s web, and bringing it under discipline. Something +of this sort is implied in the rule of conduct suggested by Mr. H. R. +Marshall, in his excellent work, “Instinct and Reason”: “Act to restrain +the impulses which demand immediate reaction, in order that the impulse +order determined by the existence of impulses of less strength, but of +wider significance, may have full weight in the guidance of your +life.”[93] + +It occurs to me, however, that there is no absolute rule that the right +is the deliberate. It is usually so, because the danger of irrationality +and disintegration comes, in most cases, from the temporary sway of some +active impulse, like that to strike or use injurious words in anger. But +rationality involves decision as well as deliberation; and there are +persons in whom the impulse to meditate and ponder so much outweighs the +impulse to decide and act, as itself to endanger the unity of life. Such +a person may well come to feel that the right is the decisive. It seems +likely that in most minds the larger rationality, which gives the sense +of right, is the sequel of much pondering, but is definitely achieved in +moments of vivid insight. + + +The main significance of the view that the right is the rational is to +deny that there is any sharp distinction in kind between the question of +right and wrong and other mental questions; the conclusion of conscience +being held to be simply a more comprehensive judgment, reached by the +same process as other judgments. It still leaves untouched the remoter +problems, mental and social, underlying all judgments; as, for instance, +of the nature of impulses, of what determines their relative intensity +and persistence, of the character of that process of competition and +assimilation among them of which judgments are the outcome; and of the +social order as determining impulses both indirectly, through its action +upon heredity, and directly through suggestion. + +And behind these is that problem of problems, to which all the roads of +thought lead, that question of organization or vital process, of which +all special questions of society or of the mind are phases. From +whatever point of view we look at life, we can see something going on +which it is convenient to call organization, development, or the like; +but I suppose that all who have thought much about the matter feel that +we have only a vague notion of what the fact is that lies behind these +words. + +I mention these things merely to disclaim any present attempt to fathom +them, and to point out that the aim of this chapter is limited to some +observations on the working of social or personal factors in the +particular sort of organization which we call conscience or moral +judgment. + +It is useless to look for any other or higher criterion of right than +conscience. What is felt to be right is right; that is what the word +means. Any theory of right that should turn out to be irreconcilable +with the sense of right must evidently be judged as false. And when it +is urged that conscience is variable, we can only answer that, for this +very reason, the right cannot be reduced to a universal and conclusive +formula. Like life in all its phases, it is a progressive revelation out +of depths we do not penetrate. + +For the individual considering his own conduct, his conscience is the +only possible moral guide, and though it differ from that of everyone +else, it is the only right there is for him; to violate it is to commit +moral suicide. Speculating more largely on conduct in general he may +find the right in some collective aspect of conscience, in which his own +conscience appears as member of a larger whole; and with reference to +which certain particular consciences, at variance with his own, like +those of certain sorts of criminals, may appear as degenerate or +wrong—and this will not surprise him, because science teaches us to +expect degenerate variations in all forms of life. But, however broad a +view he takes, he cannot do otherwise than refer the matter to his +conscience; so that what I think, or—to generalize it—what _we_ think, +must, in one form or another, be the arbiter of right and wrong, so far +as there can be any. Other tests become valid only in so far as +conscience adopts them. + +It would seem that any scientific study of the matter must consist +essentially in investigating the conditions and relations of concrete +right—the when, where, and why of what people _do_ think is right. +Social or moral science can never be a final source or test of morality; +though it can reveal facts and relations which may help conscience in +making its authoritative judgment. + + +The view that the right is the rational is quite consistent with the +fact that, for those who have surplus energy, the right is the _onward_. +The impulse to act, to become, to let out the life that rises within +from obscure springs of power, is the need of needs, underlying all more +special impulses; and this onward _Trieb_ must always count in our +judgments of right: it is one of the things conscience has to make room +for. There can be no harmony in a mental life which denies expression to +this most persistent and fundamental of all instinctive tendencies: and +consequently the equilibrium which the active mind seeks, and a sense of +which is one with the sense of right, is never a state of rest, but an +_equilibrium mobile_. Our situation may be said to resemble that of an +acrobat balancing himself upon a rolling sphere, and enabled to stand +upright only on condition of moving continually forward. The right never +remains precisely the same two days in succession; but as soon as any +particular state of right is achieved, the mental centre of gravity +begins to move onward and away from it, so that we can hold our ground +only by effecting a new adjustment. Hence the merely negative can never +be the right to a vigorous person, or to a vigorous society, because the +mind will not be content with anything so inadequate to its own nature. +The good self must be what Emerson calls a “crescive self,” and the +right must mark a track across the “waste abyss of possibility” and lead +out the energies to congenial exertion. + +This idea is nowhere, perhaps, more cogently stated and illustrated than +in M. Guyau’s penetrating work, “A Sketch of Morality.” He holds that +the sense of duty is, in one aspect, a sense of a power to do things, +and that this power tends in itself to create a sense of obligation. We +can, therefore we must. “Obligation is an internal expansion—a need to +complete our ideas by converting them into action.”[94] Even pain may be +sought as part of that larger life which the growing mind requires. +“Leopardi, Heine, or Lenau would probably not have exchanged those hours +of anguish in which they composed their finest songs for the greatest +possible enjoyment. Dante suffered.... Which of us would not undergo a +similar suffering? Some heart-aches are infinitely sweet.”[95] And so +with benevolence and what is called self-sacrifice. “... charity is but +one with overflowing fecundity; it is like a maternity too large to be +confined within the family. The mother’s breast needs life eager to +empty it; the heart of the truly humane creature needs to be gentle and +helpful to all.”[96] “The young man is full of enthusiasm; he is ready +for every sacrifice because, in point of fact, it is necessary that he +should sacrifice something of himself—that he should diminish himself to +a certain extent; he is too full of life to live only for himself.”[97] + +The right, then, is not merely the repressive discipline with which we +sometimes identify it, but is also something warm, fresh and +outward-looking. That which we somewhat vaguely and coldly call mental +development is, when at its best, the revelation of an expanding, +variegating, and beautiful whole, of which the right act is a harmonious +member. + + +When, on the other hand, we say that right is largely determined by +habit, we only emphasize the other aspect of that progressive mingling +of continuity with change, which we see in mental life in all its +phases. Habit, we know, makes lines of less resistance in thought, +feeling, and action; and the existence of these tracks must always count +in the formation of a judgment of right, as of any other judgment. It +ought not, apparently, to be set over against novel impulses as a +contrary principle, but rather thought of as a phase of all impulses, +since novelty always consists, from one point of view, in a fresh +combination of habits. It is much the same question as that of +suggestion and choice, or of invention and imitation. The concrete fact, +the real thing, in each case, is not one of these as against the other, +or one modified by the other, but a single, vital act of which these are +aspects, having no separate existence. + +Whether a person’s life, in its moral or any other aspect, is obviously +changeful, or, on the contrary, appears to be merely repetitive or +habitual, depends upon whether the state of his mind, and of the +conditions about it, are favorable to rapid changes in the system of his +thought. Thus if he is young and vigorous, and if he has a natural +open-mindedness and keenness of sensibility, he will be so much the more +likely, other things equal, to incorporate fresh elements of thought and +make a new synthesis, instead of running on habit. Variety of life in +the past, preventing excessive deepening of the mental ruts, and contact +with strong and novel influences in the present, have the same tendency. + +The rigidly habitual or traditionary morality of savages is apparently a +reflection of the restriction and sameness of their social life; and a +similar type of morals is found even in a complex society, as in China, +when the social system has become rigid by the equilibration of +competing ideas. On the other hand, the stir and change of the more +active parts of our society make control by mere habit impossible. There +are no simple dominant habits; tendencies are mixed and conflicting, so +that the person must either be intelligently moral or else degenerate. +He must either make a fresh synthesis or have no synthesis at all. + +What is called principle appears to be simply a habit of conscience, a +rule formed originally by a synthesis of various impulses, but become +somewhat mechanical and independent of its origin—as it is the nature of +habit to do. As the mind hardens and matures there is a growing +inaptitude to take in novel and powerful personal impressions, and a +corresponding ascendency of habit and system; social sentiment, the +flesh and blood of conduct, partly falls away, exposing a skeleton of +moral principles. The sense of duty presents itself less and less as a +vivid sympathetic impulse, and more and more as a sense of the economy +and restfulness of a definite standard of conduct. When one has come to +accept a certain course as duty he has a pleasant sense of relief and of +lifted responsibility, even if the course involves pain and +renunciation. It is like obedience to some external authority; any clear +way, though it lead to death, is mentally preferable to the tangle of +uncertainty. + +Actions that appear memorable or heroic are seldom achieved at the +moment of decisive choice, but are more likely to come after the habit +of thought which produces the action has become somewhat mechanical and +involuntary. It is probably a mistake to imagine that the soldier who +braves death in battle, the fireman who enters the burning building, the +brakeman who pursues his duty along the icy top of a moving train, or +the fisherman who rows away from his vessel into the storm and mist, is +usually in an acute state of heroism. It is all in the day’s work; the +act is part of a system of thought and conduct which has become habitual +and would be painful to break. Death is not imagined in all its terrors +and compared with social obligation; the case is far simpler. As a rule +there is no time in a crisis for complicated mental operations, and +whether the choice is heroic or cowardly it is sure to be simple. If +there is any conflict of suggestions it is brief, and the one that gains +ascendency is likely to be followed mechanically, without calculation of +the future. + +One who studies the “sense of oughtness” in children will have no +difficulty in seeing that it springs largely from a reluctance to break +habits, an indisposition, that is, to get out of mental ruts. It is in +the nature of the mind to seek a principle or unifying thought—the mind +is a rule-demanding instinct—and in great part this need is met by a +habit of thought, inculcated perhaps by some older person who proclaims +and enforces the rule, or perhaps by the unintended pressure of +conditions which emphasize one suggestion and shut out others. However +the rule originates, it meets a mental want, and, if not too strongly +opposed by other impulses, is likely to be adopted and felt as +obligatory just because it is a consistent way of thinking. As Mr. Sully +says, “The truth is that children have a tremendous belief in law.”[98] + +The books on child-study give many instances of the surprising +allegiance which children often give to rule, merely as rule, and even +an intermittent observer will be sure to corroborate them. Thus a child +five years old, when on a visit, was invited to “open his mouth and shut +his eyes,” and upon his doing so a piece of candy was put into the +former. When he tasted it he pulled it out and exclaimed, “Mamma don’t +want me to have candy.” Now this did not seem to be affectation, nor was +the child other than fond of sweets, nor afraid of punishment or blame; +he was simply under the control of a need for mental consistency. The +no-candy rule had been promulgated and enforced at home; he had adopted +it as part of his system of thought, and, when it was broken, his moral +sense, otherwise the harmony of his mind, was shocked to a degree that +the sweet taste of the candy could not overcome. Again, R. was subjected +nearly every evening for several years to a somewhat painful operation +called “bending his foot,” intended to correct a slight deformity. After +becoming accustomed to this he would sometimes protest and even cry if +it were proposed to omit it. I thought I could see that moral allegiance +to a rule, merely as such, weakened as he grew older; and the +explanation of this I took to be that the increasing competition of +suggestions and conflict of precepts made this simple, mechanical unity +impossible, and so forced the mind, still striving for harmony, to exert +its higher organizing activity and attempt a larger sort of unification. +It is the same principle as that which prevents the civilized man from +retaining the simple allegiance to rule and habit that the savage has; +his complex life cannot be unified in this way, any more than his +accounts can be notched on a stick; and he is forced, if he is to +achieve any unity of life, to seek it in some more elaborate standard of +behavior. Under uniform conditions the habitual is the rational, and +therefore the moral; but under complex conditions this ceases to be the +case. + +Of course this way of looking at the matter does not do away with all +the difficulties involved in it, but does, it seems to me, put habitual +and other morality on the common ground of rationality, and show the +apparently sharp division between them to be an illusion. + + +Those who think as I do will reject the opinion that the right is, in +any general sense, the social as opposed to the individual. As already +stated, I look upon this antithesis as false when used to imply a +radical opposition. All our human thought and activity is either +individual or social, according to how you look at it, the two being no +more than phases of the same thing, which common thought, always +inclined to confuse words with things, attempts to separate. This is as +true in the ethical field as in any other. The consideration of other +persons usually enters largely into questions of right and wrong; but +the ethical decision is distinctly an assertion of a private, +individualized view of the matter. Surely there is no sound general +principle in accordance with which the right is represented by the +suggestions of the social environment, and the wrong by our more private +impulses. + +The right is always a private impulse, always a self-assertion, with no +prejudice, however, to its social character. The “ethical self” is not +less a self for being ethical, but if anything more of a self, because +it is a fuller, more highly organized expression of personality. All +will recognize, I imagine, that a strong sense of duty involves +self-feeling, so that we say to ourselves emphatically I ought. It would +be no sense of duty at all if we did not feel that there was something +about it peculiar to us and antithetical to some of the influences +acting upon us. It is important for many purposes to emphasize the fact +that the ethical self is always a public self; but it is equally true +and important that it is always a private self. + +In short, ethical thinking and feeling, like all our higher life, has +its individual and social aspects, with no peculiar emphasis on either. +If the social aspect is here at its highest, so also is the individual +aspect. + +The same objection applies to any form of the antithesis self _versus_ +other, considered as a general statement of moral situations. It is a +fallacious one, involving vague and material notions of what personality +is—vague because material, for we cannot, I think, reflect closely upon +the facts of personality without seeing that they are primarily mental +or spiritual, and by no means even analogous to the more obvious aspects +of the physical. As a matter of fact, ego and alter, self and sympathy, +are correlative, and always mingled in ethical judgments, which are not +distinguished by having less self and more other in them, but by being a +completer synthesis of all pertinent impulses. The characteristic of a +sense of right is not ego or alter, individual or social, but mental +unification, and the peculiar feeling that accompanies it. + +Egoism can be identified with wrong only when we mean by it some narrow +or unstable phase of the self; and altruism, if we take it to mean +susceptibility to be impressed by other people, is equally wrong when +it, in turn, becomes narrow or unstable, as we see it in hysterical +persons. As I have already said, I hold altruism, when used, as it seems +to be ordinarily, to denote a supposed peculiar class of impulses, +separate from another supposed class called egoistic, to be a mere +fiction, engendered by the vaguely material idea of personality just +mentioned. Most higher kinds of thought are altruistic, in the sense +that they involve a more or less distinct reference to other persons; +but when intensely conceived, these same kinds of thought are usually, +if not always, self-thoughts, or egoistic, as well. + +The question whether a man shall keep his dollar or give it to a beggar, +for example, looks at first sight like a question of ego _versus_ alter, +because there are two physical bodies present and visibly associated +with the conflicting impulses. In this merely physical sense, of +referring to one material body rather than another, it is in fact such a +question, but not necessarily in any properly mental, social, or moral +sense. + +Let us look at the matter a moment with reference to various possible +meanings of the words altruism and altruistic. Taking the latter word as +the most convenient for our purpose, I can think of three meanings, any +one of which would answer well enough to the vague current usage of it: +first, that which is suggested by another person, that is by his +appearance, words, or other symbols; second, that which is for the +benefit of another; third, good or moral. + +In the first sense, which carries no moral implication at all, it is +altruistic to give to the beggar, but the word is also applicable to the +greater part of our actions, since most of them are suggested by others +in some way. And, of course, many of the actions included are what are +generally called selfish ones. To strike a man with whom we are angry, +to steal from one of whom we are envious, to take liberties with an +attractive woman, and all sorts of reprehensible proceedings suggested +by the sight of another person, would be altruistic in this sense, which +I suppose, therefore, cannot be the one intended by those who use the +word as the antithesis to egoistic. + +If we use the word in the second sense, that of being for the benefit of +another, to give to the beggar may or may not be altruistic; thoughtful +philanthropy is inclined to say that it is usually for his harm. It may, +perhaps, be said that we at least intend to benefit or please him, that +this is the main thing, and that it is a question whether the action has +an I-reference or a you-reference in the mind of the actor. As to this I +would again call attention to what was said of the nature of I and you +as personal ideas in Chapter III., and of the nature of egotism in +Chapter VI. Our impulses regarding persons cannot, in my opinion, be +classified in this way. What could be more selfish than the action of a +mother who cannot refuse her child indigestible sweetmeats? She gives +them both to please the child and to gratify a shallow self which is +identified with him. To refuse the money to the beggar may be as +altruistic, in the sense of springing from the desire to benefit others, +as to give it. The self for which one wishes to keep the dollar is +doubtless a social self of some sort, and very possibly has better +social claims upon him than the beggar: he may wish to buy flowers for a +sick child. + +I need hardly add that to give the money is not necessarily the moral +course. The attempt to identify the good with what refers to others as +against what refers to one’s self is hopelessly confusing and false, +both theoretically and in practical application. + +In short it is hard to discover, in the word altruism, any definite +moral significance. + +The individual and the group are related in respect to moral thought +quite as they are everywhere else; individual consciences and the social +conscience are not separate things, but aspects of one thing, namely, +the moral Life, which may be regarded as individual by fixing our +attention upon a particular conscience in artificial isolation, or as +general, by attending to some collective phase, like public opinion upon +a moral question. Suppose, for instance, one were a member of the +Congress that voted the measure which brought on the war with Spain. The +question how he should vote on this measure would be, in its individual +aspect, a matter of private conscience; and so with all other members. +But taking the vote as a whole, as a synthesis, showing the moral drift +of the group, it appears as an expression of a social conscience. The +separation is purely artificial, every judgment of an individual +conscience being social in that it involves a synthesis of social +influences, and every social conscience being a collective view of +individual consciences. The concrete thing, the moral Life, is a whole +made up of differentiated members. If this is at all hard to grasp, it +is only because the fact is a large one. We certainly cannot get far +unless we can learn to _see_ organization, since all our facts present +it. + + +The idea that the right is the social as opposed to the sensual is, it +seems to me, a sound one, if we mean by it that the mentally higher, +more personal or imaginative impulses have on the whole far more weight +in conscience than the more sensual. The immediate reason for this seems +to be that the mind of one who shares the higher life is so thronged +with vivid personal or social sentiments, that the merely sensual cannot +be the rational except where it is allied with these, or at any rate not +opposed to them. It is for the psychologist to explain the mental +processes involved, but apparently the social interests prevail in +conscience over the sensual because they are the major force; that is, +they are, on the whole, so much more numerous, vivid, and persistent, +that they determine the general system of thought, of which conscience +is the fullest expression. + +We may, perhaps, represent the matter nearly enough for our purpose by +comparing the higher and lower kinds of thought to the human race and +the inferior animals. The former is so much more powerful, on the whole, +though not always so individually, that it determines, in all settled +countries, the general organization of life, erecting cities and +railroads, clearing forests, and the like, to suit itself, and with only +incidental regard to other animals. The latter are preserved within the +system only in so far as they are useful, or at any rate not very +troublesome, to mankind. So all sensual impulses are judged by their +relation to a system of thought dominated by social sentiment. The +pleasures of eating, harmless in themselves, begin to be judged wrong so +soon as they are indulged in such a way as to blunt the higher +faculties, or to violate justice, decency, or the like. A shipwrecked +man, it is felt, should rather perish of hunger than kill and eat +another man, because the latter action violates the whole system of +social thought. And in like manner it is held that a soldier, or indeed +any man, should prefer honor and duty to life itself. + + +The working of personal influence upon our judgments of right is not +different in kind from its working upon other judgments: it simply +introduces vivid impulses, which affect the moral synthesis something in +the way that picking up a weight will change one’s centre of gravity and +force him to alter his footing. + +As was suggested above, the morality of mere rule and habit becomes the +less conspicuous in the life of children the more they are subjected to +fresh personal influences. If their sympathies are somewhat dull, or if +they are secluded, their minds naturally become grooved; and all +children, perhaps, become much bound to habit in matters where personal +influence is not likely to interfere. But in most children, and in most +matters, it will be found that the moral judgment and feeling are, from +the very earliest, intensely sympathetic and personal, charged with +shame, affection, anger, jealousy, and desire to please. The mind has +already to struggle for harmony among vivid emotions, aroused by the +appeals of life to hereditary instinct, each giving intensity to certain +ideas of conduct, and tending to sway the judgment of right in their +sense. + +If the boy who refused the candy, as mentioned above, had possessed a +vivid imagination of personal attitudes, which he did not, his situation +might have been much more intricate. He might have been drawn to accept +it not only by the sweet taste but by a desire to please the friends who +offered it; and on the other hand he might have been deterred by a +vision of the reproving face and voice of his mother. Thus M., nearly +sixteen months old, had been frowned at and called naughty in a severe +tone of voice when she tried to claw her brother’s face. Shortly after, +while sitting with him on the bed, her mother being at a distance, she +was observed to repeat the offence and then, without further cause or +suggestion, to bow her head and look abashed and guilty. Apparently she +had a sense of wrong, a conviction of sin, perhaps consisting only in a +reminiscence of the shame she had previously felt when similar behavior +was followed by rebuke. + +Here, then, we have a simple manifestation of a moral force that acts +upon every one of us in countless ways, and every day of his life—the +imagined approval or disapproval of others, appealing to instinctive +emotion, and giving the force of that emotion to certain views of +conduct. The behavior that connects itself with such social sentiment as +we like and feel the impulse to continue, is so much the more likely to +be judged as right; but if the sentiment is one from which we are +averse, the behavior is the more likely to be judged as wrong. The +child’s moral sense, says Perez, “begins as soon as he understands the +signification of certain intonations of the voice, of certain attitudes, +of a certain expression of countenance, intended to reprimand him for +what he has done or to warn him against something he was on the point of +doing. This penal and remunerative sanction gives rise by degrees to a +clear distinction of concrete good and evil.”[99] + +A child who is not sensitive to praise or blame, but whose interests are +chiefly impersonal, or at any rate only indirectly personal, sometimes +appears to have no moral sense at all, to be without the conviction of +sin or any notion of _personal_ wrong. He has little experience of those +peculiarly acute and trying mental crises which result from the conflict +of impulses of sympathetic origin with one another or with animal +appetites. This was much the case with R. in his earliest years. Living +in quiet surroundings, somewhat isolated from other children, with no +violent or particularly mischievous impulses, occupied all day long with +blocks, sand-pile, and other impersonal interests, not sensitive to +blame nor inclined to take it seriously, he gave the impression of being +non-moral, an unfallen spirit. M. was the very opposite of all this. +From the first week she was visibly impulsive, contentious, sensitive, +sympathetic; laying traps for approval, rebelling against criticism, +sudden and quick to anger, sinning, repenting, rejoicing; living almost +altogether in a vivid personal world. + +A character of the latter sort has an intenser moral life, because the +variety of strong impulses introduced by a sensitive and personally +imaginative temperament are sure to make crises for the mind to wrestle +with. The ethics of personal feeling which it has to work out seems +widely apart from the ethics of rule and habit, as in fact it is, so far +as regards the materials that enter into the moral synthesis. The color +and content, all the concrete elements of the moral life, are as +different as are the different characters of people: the idea of right +is not a fraction of thought alike in all minds, but a comprehensive, +integrating state of mind, characteristic of the personality of which it +is an expression. + +The idea of justice is, of course, a phase of the idea of right, and +arises out of the mental attempt to reconcile conflicting impulses. As +Professor Baldwin points out, the child is puzzled by contradictions +between his simpler impulses, such as those to appropriate food and +playthings, and other impulses of more imaginative or sympathetic +origin. Needing to allay this conflict he readily grasps the notion of a +_tertium quid_, a reconciling rule or law which helps him to do so. + +Our mature life is not radically distinguished from childhood as regards +the working of personal influence upon our moral thought. If there is +progress it is in the way of fulness of experience and better +organization: the mental life may become richer in those sympathetic or +imaginative impulses which we derive from healthy intercourse with the +world, and without a good store of which our judgments of right must be +narrow and distorted; there may at the same time be a completer ordering +and discipline of these materials, a greater power to construct the +right, the unifying thought, out of diverse elements, a quicker +recognition of it when achieved, and a steadier disposition to act upon +it. In most cases, perhaps, a person after thirty years of age gains +something in the promptness and steadfastness of his moral judgment, and +loses something in the imaginative breadth of his premises. But the +process remains the same, and our view of right is still a sort of +microcosm of our whole character. Whatever characteristic passions we +have will in some way be represented in it, and until we stiffen into +mental rigidity and decline, it will change more or less with every +important change in our social surroundings. + + +To a very large class of minds, perhaps to the largest class, the notion +of right presents itself chiefly as a matter of personal authority. That +is, what we feel we ought to do is simply what we imagine our guide or +master would do, or would wish us to do. This, for instance, is the idea +very largely inculcated and practised by the Christian Church. It is not +anything opposed to or different from the right as a mental synthesis, +but simply means that admiration, reverence, or some other strong +sentiment, gives such overwhelming force to the suggestions of a certain +example, that they more or less completely dominate the mind. The +authority works through conscience and not outside of it. Moreover the +relation is not so one-sided as it would seem, since our guide is +always, in one point of view, the creation of our own imaginations, +which are sure to interpret him in a manner congenial to our native +tendency. Thus the Christ of Fra Angelico is one thing, and the Christ +of Michelangelo, directing the ruin of the damned, is quite another. + +The ascendency of personal authority is usually greater in proportion as +the mind is of a simple, visually imaginative, rather than reflective +turn. People of the sort commonly called “emotional,” with ready and +vivid personal feeling but little constructive power, are likely to +yield to an ascendent influence as a whole, with little selection or +reconstruction. Their individuality is expressed chiefly in the choice +of a master; having chosen, they are all his. If they change masters +they change morals at the same time. The mental unity of which they, +like all the rest of us, are in search, is found in allegiance to a +concrete personality, which saves them the impossible task of abstract +thought. Such people, however, usually feel an attraction toward +stability in others, and secure it for themselves by selecting a +steadfast personality to anchor their imaginations to. + +This, of course, is possible or congenial only to those who lack the +mental vigor to make in a more intellectual manner that synthesis of +which moral judgment is the expression. Those who have this vigor make +use of many examples, and if they acknowledge the pre-eminence of +anyone, he is likely to be vaguely conceived and to be in reality no +more than the symbol of their own moral conclusions. + +The immediate power of personal images or influences over our sense of +right is probably greater in all of us than we realize. “It is +wonderful,” says George Eliot in “Middlemarch,” “how much uglier things +will look when we only think we are blamed for them ... and, on the +other hand, it is astonishing how pleasantly conscience takes our +encroachments on those who never complain, or have nobody to complain +for them.” That is to say, other persons, by awaking social self-feeling +in us, give life and power to certain sentiments of approval or +disapproval regarding our own actions. The rule, already suggested, that +the self of a sensitive person, in the presence of an ascendent +personality, tends to become his interpretation of what the other thinks +of him, is a prime factor in determining the moral judgments of all of +us. Everyone must have felt the moral renewal that comes with the mere +presence of one who is vigorously good, whose being enlivens our +aspiration and shames our backsliding, who makes us really feel the +desirability of the higher life and the baseness and dulness of the +lower. + +In one of Mr. Theodore Child’s papers on French art he relates that +Dagnan said after the death of Bastien-Lepage, “With every new picture I +paint in future I shall try to think if he would have been satisfied +with it.” Almost the same has been said by an American author with +reference to Robert Louis Stevenson. And these instances are typical of +the general fact that our higher selves, our distinctively right views +and choices, are dependent upon imaginative realization of the points of +view of other persons. There is, I think, no possibility of being good +without living, imaginatively of course, in good company; and those who +uphold the moral power of personal example, as against that of abstract +thought are certainly in the right. A mental crisis, by its very +difficulty, is likely to call up the thought of some person we have been +used to look to as a guide, and the confronting of the two ideas, that +of the person and that of the problem, compels us to answer the question +What would he have thought of it? The guide we appeal to may be a person +in the room, or a distant friend, or an author whom we have never seen, +or an ideal person of religion. The strong, good men we have once +imagined live in our minds and fortify there the idea of worthiness. +They were free and noble and make us unhappy to be less. + +Of course the influence of other persons often goes by contraries. The +thought of one who is repugnant to us often brings a strong sense of the +wrong of that for which he stands, and our conviction of the hatefulness +of any ill trait is much enlivened by intimate contact with one who +exhibits it. + + +The moral potency of confession, and of all sorts of publicity, rests +upon the same basis. In opening ourselves to another we are impelled to +imagine how our conduct appears to him; we take an outside view of +ourselves. It makes a great difference to whom we confess: the higher +the character of the person whose mind we imagine, the more enlightening +and elevating is the view of ourselves that we get. Even to write our +thoughts in a diary, and so to confess, not to a particular person, but +to that vague image of an interlocutor that connects itself with all +articulate expression, makes things look different. + +It is, perhaps, much the same with prayer. To pray, in a higher sense, +is to confront our moral perplexities with the highest personal ideal we +can form, and so to be unconsciously integrating the two, straightening +out the one in accordance with the other. It would seem that social +psychology strongly corroborates the idea that prayer is an essential +aspect of the higher life; by showing, I mean, that thought, and +especially vivid thought, is interlocutory in its very nature, and that +aspiration almost necessarily takes, more or less distinctly, the form +of intercourse with an ideal being. + +Whatever publishes our conduct introduces new and strong factors into +conscience; but whether this publicity is wholesome or otherwise depends +upon the character of the public; or, more definitely, upon whether the +idea of ourselves that we impute to this public is edifying or +degrading. In many cases, for instance, it is ruinous to a person’s +character to be publicly disgraced, because he, or she, presently +accepts the degrading self that seems to exist in the minds of others. +There are some people to whom we should be ashamed to confess our sins, +and others, perhaps, to whom we should not like to own our virtues. +Certainly it should not be assumed that it is good for us to have our +acts displayed before the generality of persons: while this may be a +good thing as regards matters, like the tax-roll, that relate to our +obvious duty to the immediate community, it has in most things a +somewhat vulgarizing effect, tending to promote conformity rather than a +distinctive life. If the scholar’s study were on the market-place, so +that the industrious townspeople could see how many hours of the day he +spends in apparent idleness, he might lack courage to pursue his +vocation. In short, we need privacy as against influences that are not +edifying, and communion with those that are. + + +Even telling the truth does not result so much from a need of mental +accuracy, though this is strong in some minds, as from a sense of the +unfairness of deceiving people of our own sort, and of the shame of +being detected in so doing. Consequently the maxim, “Truth for friends +and lies for enemies,” is very generally followed, not only by savages +and children, but, more or less openly, by civilized people. Most +persons feel reluctant to tell a lie in so many words, but few have any +compunctions in deceiving by manner, and the like, persons toward whom +they feel no obligation. We all know business men who will boast of +their success in deceiving rivals; and probably few of us hold ourselves +to quite the same standard of honor in dealing with one we believe to be +tricky and ill-disposed toward us, that we would if we thought him +honest and well meaning. “Conscience is born of love” in this as in many +matters. A thoughtful observer will easily see that injustice and not +untruth is the essence of lying, as popularly conceived. + + +It is because of our need to recall vanished persons, that all goodness +and justice, all right of any large sort, depend upon an active +imagination. Without it we are the prisoners of the immediate +environment and of the suggestions of the lower organism. It is only +this that enables us to live with the best our lives have afforded, and +maintain higher suggestions to compete with the baser ones that assail +us. Let us hear Professor James again: “When for motives of honor and +conscience I brave the condemnation of my own family, club and ‘set’; +when as a Protestant I turn Catholic; as a Catholic, free-thinker; as a +‘regular practitioner,’ homeopath, or what not, I am always inwardly +strengthened in my course, and steeled against the loss of my actual +social self by the thought of other and better _possible_ social judges +than those whose verdict goes against me now. The ideal social self +which I thus seek in appealing to their decision may be very remote; it +may be represented as barely possible. I may not hope for its +realization during my lifetime; I may even expect the future +generations, which would approve me if they knew me, to know nothing +about me when I am dead and gone.”[100] As regards the nearness or +remoteness of the companion it would perhaps be sufficient to say that +if imagined he is actually present, so far as our mental and moral life +are concerned, and except as affecting the vividness of our idea of him, +it makes no immediate difference whether we ever saw him or whether he +ever had any corporeal existence at all. + +The alteration of conscience due to the advent in thought of a new +person is often so marked that one view of duty is quite evidently +supplanted by a fresh one, due to the fresh suggestion. Thus, to take an +example probably familiar to all who are used to mental application, it +sometimes happens that a student is fagged and yet feels that he must +think out his problem; there is a strong sense of oughtness backing this +view, which, so long as it is unopposed, holds its ground as the call of +duty. But now a friend may come in and suggest to him that he ought to +stop, that if he goes on he will harm himself and do poor work. Here is +another view of right, and the mind must now make a fresh synthesis and +come, perhaps, to feel that its duty is to leave off. + + +Because of its dependence upon personal suggestion, the right always +reflects a social group; there is always a circle of persons, more or +less extended, whom we really imagine, and who thus work upon our +impulses and our conscience; while people outside of this have not a +truly personal existence for us. The extent of this circle depends upon +many circumstances, as for instance upon the vigor of our imaginations, +and the reach of the means of communication through which personal +symbols are impressed upon them. + +In these days of general literacy, many get their most potent +impressions from books, and some, finding this sort of society more +select and stimulating than any other, cultivate it to the neglect of +palpable persons. This kind of people often have a very tender +conscience regarding the moral problems presented in novels, but a +rather dull one for those of the flesh-and-blood life about them. In +fact, a large part of the sentiments of imaginative persons are purely +literary, created and nourished by intercourse with books, and only +indirectly connected with what is commonly called experience. Nor should +it be assumed that these literary sentiments are necessarily a mere +dissipation. Our highest ideals of life come to us largely in this way, +since they depend upon imaginative converse with people we do not have a +chance to know in the flesh. Indeed, the expansion of conscience that is +so conspicuous a fact of recent years, the rise of moral sentiment +regarding international relations, alien races and social and industrial +classes other than our own, could not have taken place without the aid +of cheap printing and rapid communication. Such understanding and sense +of obligation as we have regarding the populace of great cities, for +instance, is due chiefly to writers who, like the author of “How the +Other Half Lives,” describe the life of such people in a vivid, personal +way, and so cause us to imagine it. + +Not to pursue this line of thought too far, it is enough for our purpose +to note that conscience is always a group conscience, however the group +may be formed, so that our moral sentiment always reflects our time, our +country, and our special field of personal imagination. On the other +hand, our sense of right ignores those whom we do not, through sympathy, +feel as part of ourselves, no matter how close their physical +contiguity. To the Norman conqueror the Saxon was an inferior animal, +whose sentiments he no more admitted to his imagination, I suppose, than +a farmer does those of his cattle, and toward whom, accordingly, he did +not feel human obligation. It was the same with the slaveholder and the +slave, and so it sometimes is with employer and wage-earner. The +behavior of the Europeans toward the Chinese during the recent invasion +of China showed in a striking manner how completely moral obligation +breaks down in dealing with people who are not felt to be of kindred +humanity with ourselves. + + +In minds capable of constructive imagination the social factor in +conscience may take the form of ideal persons, whose traits are used as +a standard of behavior. + +Idealization, of this or any other sort, is not to be thought of as +sharply marked off from experience and memory. It seems probable that +the mind is never indifferent to the elements presented to it, but that +its very nature is to select, arrange, harmonize, idealize. That is, the +whole is always acting upon the parts, tending to make them one with +itself. What we call distinctively an ideal is only a relatively complex +and finished product of this activity. The past, as it lives in our +minds, is never a mere repetition of old experience, but is always +colored by our present feeling, is always idealized in some sense; and +it is the same with our anticipation of the future, so that to wholesome +thought expectation is hope. Thus the mind is ever an artist, +re-creating things in a manner congenial to itself, and special arts are +only a more deliberate expression of a general tendency. + +An ideal, then, is a somewhat definite and felicitous product of +imagination, a harmonious and congenial reconstruction of the elements +of experience. And a personal ideal is such a harmonious and congenial +reconstruction of our experience of persons. Its active function is to +symbolize and define the desirable, and by so doing to make it the +object of definite endeavor. The ideal of goodness is only the next step +beyond the good man of experience, and performs the same energizing +office. Indeed, as I have already pointed out, there is no separation +between actual and ideal persons, only a more or less definite +connection of personal ideas with material bodies. + +There are all degrees of vagueness or definition in our personal ideals. +They may be no more than scattered imaginings of traits which we have +met in experience and felt to be worthy; or they may assume such fulness +and cohesion as to be distinct ideal persons. There may even be several +personal ideals; one may cherish one ideal of himself and a different +one for each of his intimate friends; or his imagination may project +several ideals of himself, to correspond to various phases of his +development. + +Probably the phrase “ideal person” suggests something more unified and +consistent than is actually present in the minds of most people when +they conceive the desirable or good in personal character. Is it not +rather ideal traits or sentiments, fragments of personal experience, +phases of past intercourse returning in the imagination with a new +emphasis in the presence of new situations? We have at times divined in +other people courage, generosity, patience and justice, and judged them +to be good. Now, when we find ourselves in a situation where these +traits are called for, we are likely to be reminded by that very fact of +our previous experience of them; and the memory of it brings these +sentiments more vividly to life and gives them more authority in +conscience. Thus a person hesitating whether to smuggle in dutiable +goods is likely to think in his perplexity of some one whom he has come +to regard as honorable in such matters, and of how that one would feel +and act under like conditions. + +This building up of higher personal conceptions does not lend itself to +precise description. It is mostly subconscious; the mind is continually +at work ordering and bettering its past and present experiences, working +them up in accordance with its own instinctive need for consistency and +pleasantness; ever idealizing, but rarely producing clean-cut ideals. It +finds its materials both in immediate personal intercourse and through +books and other durable media of expression. “Books, monuments, +pictures, conversation, are portraits in which he finds the lineaments +he is forming.” “All that is said of the wise man ... describes to each +reader his own idea, describes his unattained but attainable self.”[101] +“A few anecdotes, a few traits of character, manners, face, a few +incidents, have an emphasis in your memory out of all proportion to +their apparent significance, if you measure them by the ordinary +standards. They relate to your gift. Let them have their weight, and do +not reject them and cast about for illustrations more usual in +literature. What your heart thinks great is great. The soul’s emphasis +is always right.”[102] + +Idealism in this vague form has neither first, second, nor third person. +It is simply an impression of the desirable in personality, and is +impulsively applied to your conduct, my conduct, or his conduct, as the +case may be. The sentiment occurs to us, and the connection in which it +occurs determines its moral application. We sometimes speak as if it +required an unusual effort of virtue to apply the same standards to +ourselves as to others; and so it does, in one sense; but in another it +is easier and more common to do this than not to do it. The simplest +thing, as regards the mental process concerned, is to take ideas of +conduct as they come, without thinking specially where they come from, +and judge them by the standard that conscience presents to us. Injustice +and personal wrong of all sorts, as between one’s self and others, +commonly consist, not in imagining the other man’s point of view and +refusing to give it weight; but in not imagining it, not admitting him +to the tribunal at all. It is in exerting the imagination that the +effort of virtue comes in. One who entertains the thought and feeling of +others can hardly refuse them justice; he has made them a part of +himself. There is, as we have seen, no first or second person about a +sentiment; if it is alive in the mind that is all there is to the +matter. + +It is perhaps the case, however, that almost every person of imagination +has at times a special and somewhat definite ideal self, concerning +which he has the “my” feeling, and which he would not use in judging +others. It is, like all ideals, a product of constructive imagination +working upon experience. It represents what we should like to see +ourselves, and has an especially vigorous and varied life in early +youth, when the imagination projects models to match each new aspiration +that gains power over it. In a study of the “Continued Stories” of +children, by Mabel W. Learoyd, many interesting facts are given +illustrating sustained self-idealization. These continued stories are +somewhat consecutive series of imaginations on the part of the young, +recalled and described at a later period. Two-thirds are said to embody +an ideal, and the author, in an idealized form, is the hero of many of +them.[103] An instance of this same process continued into old age is +the fact mentioned by Mr. E. W. Emerson in his “Emerson in +Concord,”[104] that the poet’s diary contains frequent allusion to one +Osman, who stands for an ideal self, a more perfect Emerson of his +aspiration. + +It would always be found, I think, that our ideal self is constructed +chiefly out of ideas about us attributed to other people. We can hardly +get any distinct view of ourselves except in this way, that is by +placing ourselves at the standpoint of someone else. The impressions +thus gained are worked over and over, like other mental material, and, +according to the imaginative vigor of the mind, more or less +reorganized, and projected as an ideal. + +With some this ideal is quite definite and visible before the eye of the +mind. I have heard the expression “seeing yourself” applied to it. Thus +one woman says of another “She always sees herself in evening dress,” +meaning that her ideal of herself is one of social propriety or +distinction, and that it takes the form of an image of her visible +person as it appears to others in a shape expressing these traits. This +is, of course, a phase of the reflected self, discussed in the fifth +chapter. Some people “see themselves” so constantly, and strive so +obviously to live up to the image, that they give a curious impression +of always acting a part, as if one should compose a drama with himself +as chief personage, and then spend his life playing it. Perhaps +something of this sort is inevitable with persons of vivid imagination. + +Once formed and familiarized the ideal self serves, like any ideal only +more directly, as an incitement to growth in its direction, and a +punishment to retrogression. A man who has become used to imagining +himself as noble, beneficent and respected has a real picture in his +mind, a fair product of aspiring thought, a work of art. If his conduct +violates this imagination he has a sense of ugliness and shame; there is +a rent in the picture, a rude, shapeless hole, shattering its beauty, +and calling for painful and tedious repairs before it can be even +tolerable to look upon. Repentance is the pain of this spectacle; and +the clearer and more firmly conceived the ideal, the greater the pain. + +The ideal person or persons of an ethical religion are the highest +expression of this creative outreaching of the mind after the admirable +in personality. It can hardly be supposed, by anyone who is willing to +go into the psychology of the matter at all, that they are radically +different from other ideal persons, or in any way sharply divided from +the mass of personal thought. Any comparative study of idealism, among +nations in various stages of civilization, among persons of different +intellectual power, among the various periods of development in one +individual, can hardly fail, I should say, to leave a conviction that +all hangs together, that there is no chasm anywhere, that the most +rudimentary idealizing impulse of the savage or the child is of a piece +with the highest religious conceptions. The tendency of such a view, of +course, is not to drag down the exalted, but to show all as part of a +common life. + +All ideals of personality are derived from intercourse, and all that +attain any general acceptance have a social organization and history. +Each historical epoch or nation has its somewhat distinctive personal +ideals, which are instilled into the individual from the general store +of thought. It is especially true that the persons of religion have this +character. They are communal and cumulative, are gradually built up and +become in some degree an institution. In this way they may acquire +richness, clearness, sanctity, and authority, and may finally be +inculcated as something above and outside of the human mind. The latter +is certain to happen if they are made the basis of a discipline to be +applied to all sorts of people. The dogma that they are extra-human +serves, like the forms and ceremonies of a court, to secure to them the +prestige of distance and inaccessibility. + +It is a chief function of religious organization to make the moral +synthesis more readily attainable, by establishing a spiritual +discipline, or system of influences and principles, which shall +constantly stimulate one’s higher sentiments, and furnish a sort of +outline or scaffolding of suggestions to aid him in organizing his +thought. In doing this its main agent is the inculcation of personal +ideals, although the teaching of creeds is also, perhaps, important to +the same purpose. It is apparently part of the legitimate function of +organized moral thought to enter the vaguer fields of speculation about +conduct and inculcate provisional ideas, relating for instance to the +origin and meaning of life—matters which the mind must and will explore, +with or without a guide. To have suggested to them definite ways of +thinking regarding such matters helps to make mental unity possible, and +to save men from the aimless and distracting wanderings that often end +in despair. Of course these ideas must be in harmony with the general +state of thought, consistent, for example, with the established results +of science. Otherwise they only increase the distraction. But a +_credible creed_ is an excellent thing, and the lack of it is a real +moral deficiency. + +Now in times of intellectual unsettlement, like the present, the ideal +may become disorganized and scattered, the face of God blurred to the +view, like the reflection of the sun in troubled waters. And at the same +time the creeds become incredible, so that, until new ones can be worked +out and diffused, each man must either make one for himself—a task to +which few are equal—or undergo distraction, or cease to think about such +matters, if he can. This state of things involves some measure of +demoralization, although it may be part of a movement generally +beneficent. Mankind needs the highest vision of personality, and needs +it clear and vivid, and in the lack of it will suffer a lack in the +clearness and cogency of moral thought. It is the natural apex to the +pyramid of personal imagination, and when it is wanting there will be an +unremitting and eventually more or less successful striving to replace +it. When it reappears it will, of course, express in all its lineaments +a new era of thought; but the opinion that it is gone to stay, which is +entertained by some, seems very ill grounded. + + + + + CHAPTER XI + PERSONAL DEGENERACY + + IS A PHASE OF THE QUESTION OF RIGHT AND WRONG—RELATION TO THE IDEA OF + DEVELOPMENT—JUSTIFICATION AND MEANING OF THE PHRASE “PERSONAL + DEGENERACY”—HEREDITARY AND SOCIAL FACTORS IN PERSONAL + DEGENERACY—DEGENERACY AS A MENTAL TRAIT—CONSCIENCE IN + DEGENERACY—CRIME, INSANITY, AND RESPONSIBILITY—GENERAL AIMS IN THE + TREATMENT OF DEGENERACY. + + +I wish to touch upon this subject only in so far as to suggest a general +way of conceiving it in accord with the views set forth in the preceding +chapters. + +The question of personal degeneracy is a phase of the question of right +or wrong and is ultimately determined by conscience. A degenerate might +be defined as one whose personality falls distinctly short of a standard +set by the dominant moral thought of a group. It is the nature of the +mind to form standards of better or worse in all matters toward which +its selective activity is directed; and this has its collective as well +as its individual aspect, so that not only every man but every group has +its preferences and aversions, its good and bad. The selective, +organizing processes which all life, and notably the life of the mind, +presents, involve this distinction; it is simply a formulation of the +universal fact of preference. We cannot view things in which we are +interested without liking some and disliking others; and somewhat in +proportion to our interest is our tendency to express these likes and +dislikes by good and bad or similar words. And since there is nothing +that interests us so much as persons, judgments of right and wrong +regarding them have always been felt and expressed with peculiar zest +and emphasis. The righteous and the wicked, the virtuous and the +vicious, the good and bad under a hundred names, have been sharply and +earnestly discriminated in every age and country. + + +Although this distinction between personal good and bad has always been +a fact of human thought, a broader view of it is reached, in these days, +through the idea of evolution. The method of nature being everywhere +selective, growth is seen to take place not by making a like use of the +elements already existing, but by the fostering of some to the +comparative neglect or suppression of others. Or, if this statement +gives too much the idea of a presiding intelligence outside the process +itself, we may simply say that the functions of existing elements in +contributing to further growth are extremely different, so much so that +some of them usually appear to have no important function at all, or +even to impede the growth, while others appear to be the very heart of +the onward or crescent life. This idea is applicable to physiological +processes, such as go on within our bodies, to the development of +species, as illustrated with such convincing detail by Darwin, and to +all the processes of thought and of society; so that the forces that are +observed in the present, if viewed with reference to function or +tendency, never appear to be on the same level of value, but are strung +along at different levels, some below a mean, some above it. Thus we not +only have the actual discrimination of good and bad in persons, but a +philosophy which shows it as an incident of evolution, a reflection in +thought of the general movement of nature. + +Or, to regard the process of evolution in more detail, we find +degeneracy or inferiority implied in that idea of variation which is the +starting-point of Darwinism. All forms of life, it seems, exhibit +variation; that is, the individuals are not quite alike but differ from +one another and from the parents in a somewhat random manner, so that +some are better adapted to the actual conditions of life, and some +worse. The change or development of a species takes place by the +cumulative survival and multiplication, generation after generation, of +fit or fortunate variations. The very process that produces the fittest +evidently implies the existence of the unfit; and the distinctly unfit +individuals of any species may be regarded as the degenerate. + +It will not do to transfer these ideas too crudely to the mental and +social life of mankind; but it will hardly be disputed that the +character of persons exhibits variations which are partly at least +incalculable, and which produce on the one hand leadership and genius +and on the other weakness and degeneracy. We probably cannot have the +one without having something, at least, of the other, though I believe +that the variations of personality are capable, to a great degree, of +being brought under rational control. + + +This truth that all forms of deficient humanity have a common +philosophical aspect is one reason for giving them some common name, +like degeneracy. Another is that the detailed study of fact more and +more forces the conclusion that such things as crime, pauperism, idiocy, +insanity, and drunkenness have, in great measure, a common causation, +and so form, practically, parts of a whole. We see this in the study of +heredity, which shows that the transmitted taint commonly manifests +itself in several or all of these forms in different generations or +individuals of the same family; and we see it in the study of social +conditions, in the fact that where these conditions are bad, as in the +slums of great cities, all the forms become more prevalent. A third +reason for the use of a special term is that it is desirable that the +matter receive more dispassionate study than formerly, and this may +possibly be promoted by the use of words free, so far as possible, from +irrelevant implications. Many of the words in common use, such as +badness, wickedness, crime and the like, reflect particular views of the +facts, such as the religious view of them as righteousness or sin, and +the legal view as criminal or innocent, while degeneracy suggests the +disinterestedness of science. + +I do not much care to justify the particular word degeneracy in this +connection, further than to say that I know of none more convenient or +less objectionable. It comes, of course, from _de_ and _genus_ through +_degenerare_, and seems to mean primarily the state of having fallen +from a type. It is not uncommon in English literature, usually meaning +inferiority to the standard set by ancestors, as when we say a +degenerate age, a degenerate son, etc.; and recently it has come into +use to describe any kind of marked and enduring mental defect or +inferiority. I see no objection to this usage unless it be that it is +doubtful whether the mentally or morally inferior person can in all +cases be said _to have fallen_ from a higher state. This might be +plausibly argued on both sides, but it does not seem worth while. + +I use the phrase personal degeneracy, then, to describe the state of +persons whose character and conduct fall distinctly below the type or +standard regarded as normal by the dominant sentiment of the group. +Although it must be admitted that this definition is a vague one, it is +not more so, perhaps, than most definitions of mental or social +phenomena. There is no sharp criterion of what is mentally and socially +up to par and what is not, but there are large and important classes +whose inferiority is evident, such as idiots, imbeciles, the insane, +drunkards and criminals; and no one will question the importance of +studying the whole of which these are parts. + +It is altogether a social matter at bottom; that is to say, degeneracy +exists only in a certain relation between a person and the rest of a +group. In so far as any mental or physical traits constitute it they do +so because they involve unfitness for a normal social career, in which +alone the essence of the matter is found. The only palpable test of +it—and this an uncertain one—is found in the actual career of the +person, and especially in the attitude toward him of the organized +thought of the group. We agree fairly well upon the degeneracy of the +criminal, largely because his abnormality is of so obvious and +troublesome a kind that something in particular has to be done about it, +and so he becomes definitely and formally stigmatized by the organs of +social judgment. Yet even from this decisive verdict an appeal is +successfully made in some cases to the wider and maturer thought of +mankind, so that many have been executed as felons who, like John Brown, +are now revered as heroes. + +In short, the idea of wrong, of which the idea of degeneracy is a phase, +partakes of the same uncertainty that belongs to its antithesis, the +idea of right. Both are expressions of an ever-developing, always +selective life, and share in the indeterminateness that necessarily goes +with growth. They assume forms definite enough for the performance of +their momentous practical functions, but always remain essentially +plastic and variable. + + +Concerning the causation of degeneracy, we may say, as of every aspect +of personality, that its roots are to be looked for somewhere in the +mingling of hereditary and social factors from which the individual life +springs. Both of these factors exhibit marked variation; men differ in +their natural traits very much as other animals do, and they also find +themselves subject to the varying influences of a diversified social +order. The actual divergences of character and conduct which they +exhibit are due to the composition of these two variables into a third +variable, the man himself. + +In some cases the hereditary factor is so clearly deficient as to make +it natural and justifiable to regard heredity as the cause; in a much +larger number of cases there is good reason to think that social +conditions are more particularly to blame, and that the original +hereditary outfit was fairly good. In a third class, the largest, +perhaps, of all, it is practically impossible to discriminate between +them. Indeed, it is always a loose way of speaking to set heredity and +environment over against each other as separable forces, or to say that +either one is the cause of character or of any personal trait. They have +no separate existence after personal development is under way; each +reacts upon the other, and every trait is due to their intimate union +and co-operation. All we are justified in saying is that one or the +other may be so aberrant as to demand our special attention. + +Congenital idiocy is regarded as hereditary degeneracy, because it is +obvious that no social environment can make the individual other than +deficient, and we must work upon heredity if we wish to prevent it. On +the other hand, when we find that certain conditions, like residence in +crowded parts of a city, are accompanied by the appearance of a large +per cent. of criminality, among a population whom there is no reason to +suppose naturally deficient, we are justified in saying that the causes +of this degeneracy are social rather than hereditary. The fact probably +is, in the latter case, that the criminality is due to the conjunction +of degrading surroundings with a degree of hereditary deficiency that a +better training would have rendered harmless, or at least inconspicuous; +but, practically, if we wish to diminish this sort of degeneracy, we +must work upon social conditions. + +A sound mental heredity consists essentially in teachability, a capacity +to learn the things required by the social order; and the congenital +idiot is degenerate by the hereditary factor alone, because he is +incapable of learning these things. But a sound heredity is no safeguard +against personal degeneracy; if we have teachability all turns upon what +is taught, and this depends upon the social environment. The very +faculties that lead a child to become good or moral in a good +environment may cause him to become criminal in a criminal environment; +it is all a question of what he finds to learn. It may be said, then, +that of the four possible combinations between good and bad heredity and +good and bad environment, three—bad heredity with bad or good +environment, and good heredity with bad environment—lead to degeneracy. +Only when both elements are favorable can we have a good result. Of +course, by bad environment in this connection must be understood bad in +its action upon this particular individual, not as judged by some other +standard. + +As the social surroundings of a person can be changed, and his +hereditary bias cannot, it is expedient, in that vast majority of cases +in which causation is obscure, to assume as a working hypothesis that +the social factor is at fault, and to try by altering it to alter the +person. This is more and more coming to be done in all intelligent +treatment of degeneracy. + + +As a mental trait, marking a person off as, in some sense, worse than +others in the same social group, degeneracy appears to consist in some +lack in the higher organization of thought. It is not that one has the +normal mental outfit plus something additional, called wrong, crime, +sin, madness, or the like, but that he is in some way deficient in the +mental activity by which sympathy is created and by which all impulses +are unified with reference to a general life. The criminal impulses, +rage, fear, lust, pride, vanity, covetousness, and so on, are the same +in general type as those of the normal person; the main difference is +that the criminal lacks, in one way or another, the higher mental +organization—a phase of the social organization—to which these impulses +should be subordinate. It would not be very difficult to take the seven +deadly sins—Pride, Envy, Anger, Sloth, Covetousness, Gluttony, and +Lust—and show that each may be regarded as the undisciplined +manifestation of a normal or functional tendency. Indeed, as regards +anger this was attempted in a previous chapter. + +“To describe in detail the different varieties of degeneracy that are +met with,” says Dr. Maudsley, “would be an endless and barren labor. It +would be as tedious as to attempt to describe particularly the exact +character of the ruins of each house in a city that had been destroyed +by an earthquake: in one place a great part of the house may be left +standing, in another place a wall or two, and in another the ruin is so +great that scarcely one stone is left upon another.”[105] + +In the lowest phases mental organization can hardly be said to exist at +all: an idiot has no character, no consistent or effective +individuality. There is no unification, and so no self-control or stable +will; action simply reflects the particular animal impulse that is +ascendent. Hunger, sexual lust, rage, dread, and, in somewhat higher +grades, a crude, naïve kindliness, are each felt and expressed in the +simplest manner possible. There can, of course, be little or no true +sympathy, and the unconsciousness of what is going on in the minds of +other persons prevents any sense of decency or attempt to conform to +social standards. + +In the higher grades we may make the distinction, already suggested in +speaking of egotism, between the unstable and the rigid varieties. +Indeed, as was intimated, selfishness and degeneracy are of the same +general character; both being defined socially by a falling short of +accepted standards of conduct, and mentally by some lack in the scope +and organization of the mind. + +There is, then, one sort of persons in whom the most conspicuous and +troublesome trait is mere mental inconsistency and lack of character, +and another who possess a fair degree, at least, of consistency and +unity of purpose, but whose mental scope or reach of sympathy is so +small that they have no adequate relation to the life about them. + +An outgrowing, impressionable sort of mind, if deficient in the power to +work up its material, is necessarily unstable and lacking in momentum +and definite direction: and in the more marked cases we have people of +the hysterical type, unstable forms of dementia and insanity, and +impulsive crime. “The fundamental defect in the hysterical brain,” says +Dr. Dana, “is that it is circumscribed in its associative functions; the +field of consciousness is limited just as is the field of vision. The +mental activity is confined to personal feelings, which are not +regulated by connotation of past experiences, hence they flow over too +easily into emotional outbursts or motor paroxysms. The hysterical +person cannot think.”[106] It is evident that something similar might be +said of all manifestations of instability. + +On the other hand, an ingrowing sort of mind, whose tendency is rather +to work over and over its cherished thoughts than to open out to new +ones, may have a marked deficiency of sensibility and breadth of +perception. If so, the person is likely to exhibit some form of gross +and persistent egotism, such as sensuality, avarice, narrow and ruthless +ambition, fanaticism, of a hard, cold sort, delusion of greatness, or +those kinds of crime that result from habitual insensibility to social +standards rather than from transient impulse. + + +As conscience is simply the completest product of mental organization, +it will of course share in whatever defect there may be in the mental +life as a whole. In the lower grades of idiocy we may assume that there +is no system in the mind from which a conscience could spring. In a +higher degenerate of the unstable type, there is a conscience, but it is +vacillating in its judgments, transient in duration and ineffectual in +control, proportionally to the mental disintegration which it reflects. +We all, probably, can think of people conspicuously lacking in +self-control, and it will perhaps be evident, when we reflect upon them, +that their consciences are of this sort. The voice of conscience, with +them, is certain to be chiefly an echo of temporary emotions, because a +synthesis embracing long periods of time is beyond their range; it is +frequently inaudible, on account of their being engrossed by passing +impulses, and their conduct is largely without any rational control at +all. They are likely to suffer sharp and frequent attacks of remorse, on +account of failure to live up to their standards, but it would seem that +the wounds do not go very deep as a rule, but share in the general +superficiality of their lives. People of this sort, if not too far gone +in weakness, are probably the ones who profit most by punishment, +because they are helped by the sharp and definite pain which it +associates with acts that they recognize as wrong, but cannot keep from +doing without a vivid emotional deterrent. They are also the ones who, +in their eagerness to escape from the pains of fluctuation and +inconsistency, are most prone to submit blindly to some external and +dogmatic authority. Unable to rule themselves, they crave a master, and +if he only is a master, that is, one capable of grasping and dominating +the emotions by which they are swayed, they will often cleave to him and +kiss the rod. + +With those whose defect is rigidity rather than instability, conscience +may exist and may control the life; the trouble with it is, that it is +not in key with the consciences of other people. There is an original +poverty of the impulses that extends to any result that can be worked +out of them. It may appear startling to some to assert that conscience +may dictate the wrong, but such is quite clearly the fact, if we +identify the right with some standard of conduct accepted among people +of broad sympathies. Conscience is the only possible moral guide—any +external authority can work morally upon us only through conscience—but +it always partakes of the limitations of one’s character, and so far as +that is degenerate the idea of right is degenerate also. As a matter of +fact, the very worst men of the hard, narrow, fanatical, or brutal +sorts, often live at peace with their consciences. I feel sure that +anyone who reflects imaginatively upon the characters of people he has +known of this sort will agree that such is the case. A bad conscience +implies mental division, inconsistency between thought and deed, and men +of this sort are often quite at one with themselves. The usurer who +grinds the faces of the poor, the unscrupulous speculator who causes the +ruin of innocent investors to aggrandize himself, the fanatical +anarchist who stabs a king or shoots a president, the Kentucky +mountaineer who regards murderous revenge as a duty, the assaulter who +causes pictures commemorative of his crimes to be tattooed on his skin, +are diverse examples of wrong-doers whose consciences not only do not +punish, but often instigate their ill deeds. + +The idea, cherished by some, that crime or wrong of any sort is +invariably pursued by remorse, arises from the natural but mistaken +assumption that all other people have consciences similar to our own. +The man of sensitive temperament and refined habit of thought feels that +he would suffer remorse if he had done the deed, and supposes that the +same must be the case with the perpetrator. On the contrary, it seems +likely that only a very small proportion of those whom the higher moral +sentiment regards as wrong-doers suffer much from the pricks of +conscience. If the general tenor of a man’s life is high, and the act is +the fearful outcome of a moment of passion, as is often the case with +unpremeditated murder, he will suffer, but if his life is all of a +piece, he will not. All authorities agree that the mass of criminals, +and the same is clearly true of ill-doers within the law, have a habit +of mind of which the ill deed is the logical outcome, so that there is +nothing sudden or catastrophic about it. Of course, if we apply the word +conscience only to the mental synthesis of a mind rich in higher +sentiments, then such people have no consciences, but it seems a broader +view of the matter to say that they have a conscience, in so far as they +have mental unity, but that it reflects the general narrowness and +perversion of their lives. In fact, people of this description usually, +if not always, have standards of their own, some sort of honor among +thieves, which they will not transgress, or which, if transgressed, +cause remorse. It is impossible that mental organization should not +produce a moral synthesis of some sort. + +There is nothing in this way of conceiving degeneracy which tends to +break down the practical distinctions among the various forms of it, as, +for instance, that between crime and insanity. Though the line between +these two is arbitrary and uncertain, as must always be the case in the +classification of mental facts, and as is confessed by the existence of +a class called the criminal insane, yet the distinction itself and the +difference in treatment associated with it are sound enough in a general +way. + +The contrast between our attitudes toward crime and toward insanity is +primarily a matter of personal idea and impulse. We understand the +criminal act, or think we do, and we feel toward it resentment, or +hostile sympathy; while we do not understand the insane act, and so do +not resent it, but regard it with pity, curiosity, or disgust. If one +man strikes down another to rob him, or in revenge, we can imagine the +offender’s state of mind, his motive lives in our thought and is +condemned by conscience precisely as if we thought of doing the act +ourselves. Indeed, to understand an act _is_ to think of doing it +ourselves. But, if it is done for no reason that we can comprehend, we +do not imagine, do not get a personal impression of the case at all, but +have to think of it as merely mechanical. It is the same sort of +difference as that between a person who injures us accidentally and one +who does it “on purpose.” + +Secondarily, it is a matter of expediency. We feel that the act which we +can imagine ourselves doing ought to be punished, because we perceive by +our own sympathy with it that more of this sort of thing is likely to +take place if it is not put down. We want the house-breaker to be +stigmatized, disgraced, and imprisoned, because we feel that, if this is +not done, he and others will be encouraged to more housebreaking; but we +feel only pity for the man who thinks he is Julius Cæsar, because we +suppose there is nothing to be feared either from him or his example. +This practical basis of the distinction expresses itself in the general, +and I think justifiable, reluctance to apply the name and treatment of +insanity to behavior which seems likely to be imitated. It is felt that +whatever may be the mental state of the man who commits an act of +violence or fraud, it is wholesome that people in general, who draw no +fine distinctions, but judge others by themselves, should be taught by +example that such conduct is followed by moral and legal penalties. On +the other hand, when the behavior is so evidently remote from ordinary +habits of thought that it can be a matter only of pity or curiosity, +there is no occasion to do anything more than the good of the person +affected seems to require. + +The same analysis applies to the whole question of responsibility or +irresponsibility. It is a matter of imaginative contact and personal +idea. To hold a man responsible, is to imagine him as a man like +ourselves, having similar impulses but failing to control them as we do, +or at least as we feel we ought to do. We think of doing as he does, +find it wrong, and impute the wrong to him. The irresponsible person is +one who is looked upon as a different sort of being, not human with +reference to the conduct in question, not imaginable, not near enough to +us to be the object of hostile sentiment. We _blame_ the former; that +is, we visit him with a sympathetic resentment; we condemn that part of +ourselves that we find in him. But in the latter we do not find +ourselves at all. + +It is worth noting in this connection, that we could not altogether +cease to blame others without ceasing to blame ourselves, which would +mean moral apathy. It is sometimes thought that the cool analysis of +such questions as this tends toward indifferentism; but I do not see +that this is the case. The social psychologist finds in moral sentiment +a central and momentous fact of human life, and if perchance he does not +himself feel it very vividly, he should have the candor to confess +himself so much the less a man. Indeed, if there is such a thing as an +indifferentist, in the sense of one who does not feel any cogency in +moral sentiment, he must be quite unsuited to the pursuit of social or +moral science, because he lacks power to sympathize with, and so +observe, the facts upon which this sort of science must be based. + + +I do not purpose to give this discussion a practical turn by entering +into the details of the treatment of various forms of degeneracy; but it +may help to show the bearing of our general view, if I point out in +brief the line of procedure which common-sense would seem to call for. +This procedure naturally divides itself into prevention, reform or cure, +and isolation, according to the stage of development which the evil has +reached. + +Everything which acts in a favorable manner upon either the hereditary +or the social factor in life is more or less preventive of degeneracy, +and of course influences of this general sort are of far more importance +as a whole than any more particular measures. Under the head of +prevention would also come punishment, disgrace, and the like—everything +in the treatment of criminals, paupers, and other special classes which +is designed to impress the minds of the rest of the people, and to check +the degenerate tendencies possibly existing among them. Although it is +now thought that the efficacy of these deterrent influences, in the case +of crime at least, is less than was formerly supposed, still it is by no +means desirable that the attempt to exert them should be abandoned. + +If degenerate tendencies actually manifest themselves, the main thing to +be done is to take note of them as early in the individual’s life as +possible, and to attempt to counteract them by a suitable change in the +social environment. I need hardly point out that it is now believed that +such counteraction is much more practicable than was formerly supposed, +or mention that many beneficent institutions and other enterprises exist +which aim to secure it. + +And if, as must always be the fact in a considerable proportion of +cases, the person remains so distinctly and persistently below the +standard of character and conduct that it is clearly inexpedient to +leave him at large, the rational treatment of him is evidently a decent +isolation, which shall prevent him from propagating his degenerate +traits through either heredity or social influence. + + + + + CHAPTER XII + FREEDOM + + THE MEANING OF FREEDOM—FREEDOM AND DISCIPLINE—FREEDOM AS A PHASE OF + THE SOCIAL ORDER—FREEDOM INVOLVES INCIDENTAL STRAIN AND DEGENERACY. + + +Goethe remarks in his Autobiography[107] that the word freedom has so +fair a sound that we cannot do without it even though it designate an +error. Certainly it is a word inseparable from our higher sentiments, +and if, in its popular use at the present day, it has no precise +meaning, there is so much the more reason why we should try to give it +one, and to continue its use as a symbol of something that mankind +cherishes and strives for. + +The common notion of freedom is negative, that is, it is a notion of the +absence of constraint. Starting with the popular individualistic view of +things, the social order is thought of as something apart from, and more +or less a hinderance to, a man’s natural development. There is an +assumption that an ordinary person is self-sufficient in most respects, +and will do very well if he is only left alone. But there is, of course, +no such thing as the absence of restraint, in the sense of social +limitations; man has no existence apart from a social order, and can +develop his personality only through the social order, and in the same +degree that it is developed. A freedom consisting in the removal of +limiting conditions is inconceivable. If the word is to have any +definite meaning in sociology, it must therefore be separated from the +idea of a fundamental opposition between society and the individual, and +made to signify something that is both individual and social. To do this +it is not necessary to do any great violence to accepted ideas of a +practical sort; since it is rather in theory than in application that +the popular view is objectionable. A sociological interpretation of +freedom should take away nothing worth keeping from our traditional +conception of it, and may add something in the way of breadth, +clearness, and productiveness. + +The definition of freedom naturally arising from the chapters that have +gone before is perhaps this: that it is _opportunity for right +development_, for development in accordance with the progressive ideal +of life that we have in conscience. A child comes into the world with an +outfit of vague tendencies, for all definite unfolding of which he is +dependent upon social conditions. If cast away alone on a desert island +he would, supposing that he succeeded in living at all, never attain a +real humanity, would never know speech, or social sentiment, or any +complex thought. On the other hand, if all his surroundings are from the +first such as to favor the enlargement and enrichment of his life, he +may attain the fullest development possible to him in the actual state +of the world. In so far as the social conditions have this favoring +action upon him he may be said to be free. And so every person, at every +stage of his growth, is free or unfree in proportion as he does or does +not find himself in the midst of conditions conducive to full and +harmonious personal development. Thinking in this way we do not regard +the individual as separable from the social order as a whole, but we do +regard him as capable of occupying any one of an indefinite number of +positions within that order, some of them more suitable to him than +others. + +No doubt there are elements of vagueness in this conception. What is +full and harmonious personal development? What is the right, the +opportunity to achieve which is freedom? The possibilities of +development are infinitely various, and unimaginable until they begin to +be realized, so that it would appear that our notion gives us nothing +definite to go by after all. This is largely true: development cannot be +defined, either for the race or for individuals, but is and must remain +an ideal, of which we can get only partial and shifting glimpses. In +fact, we should cease to think of freedom as something definite and +final, that can be grasped and held fast once for all, and learn to +regard it as a line of advance, something progressively appearing out of +the invisible and defining itself, like the forms of a mountain up which +one is climbing in a mist. This vagueness and incompleteness are only +what we meet in every direction when we attempt to define our ideals. +What is progress? What is right? What is beauty? What is truth? The +endeavor to produce unmistakable and final definitions of these things +is now, I suppose, given up, and we have come to recognize that the +good, in all its forms, is evolved rather than achieved, is a process +rather than a state. + +The best definition of freedom is perhaps nothing other than the most +helpful way of thinking about it; and it seems to me that the most +helpful way of thinking about it is to regard it in the light of the +contrast between what a man is and what he might be, as our experience +of life enables us to imagine the two states. Ideas of this sort are +suggested by defining freedom as opportunity, and their tendency is to +stimulate and direct practical endeavor. If the word helps us to +realize, for instance, that it is possible to make healthy, intelligent, +and hopeful children out of those that are now sickly, dull, and +unhappy, so much the better. On the other hand, the definition of it as +letting people alone, well enough suited, perhaps, to an over-governed +state of society, does not seem especially pertinent to our time and +country. + +We have always been taught by philosophy that the various forms of the +good were merely different views of the same thing, and this idea is +certainly applicable to such notions as those of freedom, progress, and +right. Thus freedom may be regarded as merely the individual aspect of +progress, the two being related as the individual and the social order +were asserted to be in the first chapter, and no more distinct or +separable. If instead of contrasting what a particular man is with what +he might be, we do the same for mankind as a whole, we have the notion +of progress. Progress which does not involve liberation is evidently no +progress at all; and, on the other hand, a freedom that is not part of +the general onward movement of society is not free in the largest sense. +Again, any practicable idea of freedom must connect it with some +standard of right, in which, like opposing claims in a clearing-house, +the divergent tendencies of each person, and of different persons, are +disciplined and reconciled. The wrong is the unfree; it is that which +tends, on the whole, to restrict personal development. It is no +contribution to freedom to turn loose the insane or the criminal, or to +allow children to run on the streets instead of going to school. The +only test of all these things—of right, freedom, progress, and the +like—is the instructed conscience; just as the only test of beauty is a +trained æsthetic sense, which is a mental conclusion of much the same +sort as conscience. + + +So far as discipline is concerned, freedom means not its absence but the +use of higher and more rational forms as contrasted with those that are +lower or less rational. A free discipline controls the individual by +appealing to his reason and conscience, and therefore to his +self-respect; while an unfree control works upon some lower phase of the +mind, and so tends to degrade him. It is freedom to be disciplined in as +rational a manner as you are fit for. + +Thus freedom is relative to the particular persons and states who are to +enjoy it, some individuals within any society, and some societies as +wholes, being capable of a higher sort of response than others. In the +family, it implies the substitution, so far as practicable, of +familiarity and moral suasion for distance and the rod; in government +the growth of public opinion and education as compared with autocracy +and the military and police functions; in the church, the decline of +dogma, form, the fear of hell and hypnotic conversion, relatively to +intelligence, sympathy, and good works. But any relaxation of lower +forms of discipline which is not supplied by higher, which tends, on the +whole, to confusion rather than reorganization, is not in the way of +real freedom. The question what this is is always one that is relative +to the actual situation, never one that can be absolutely or abstractly +answered. Freedom can be increased only in connection with the increase +of sympathy, intelligence, and self-control in individuals. + + +The social order is antithetical to freedom only in so far as it is a +bad one. Freedom can exist only in and through a social order, and must +be increased by all the healthy growth of the latter. It is only in a +large and complex social system that any advanced degree of it is +possible, because nothing else can supply the multifarious opportunities +by means of which all sorts of persons can work out a congenial +development through the choice of influences. + +In so far as we have freedom in the United States at the present time, +in what does it consist? Evidently, it seems to me, in the access to a +great number and variety of influences by whose progressive selection +and assimilation a child may become, within vague limits set by the +general state of our society, the best that he is naturally fitted to +become. It consists, to begin with infancy, in a good family life, in +intelligent nurture and training, adapted to the special traits of +character which every child manifests from the first week of life. Then +it involves good schooling, admitting the child through books and +teachers to a rich selection from the accumulated influences of the best +minds of the past. Free technical and professional education, so far as +it exists, contributes to it, also the facility of travel, bringing him +in contact with significant persons from all over the world; public +libraries, magazines, good newspapers, and so on. Whatever enlarges his +field of selection without permanently confusing him adds to his +liberty. In fact, institutions—government, churches, industries, and the +like—have properly no other function than to contribute to human +freedom; and in so far as they fail, on the whole, to perform this +function, they are wrong and need reconstruction. + +Although a high degree of freedom can exist only through a complex +social order, it by no means follows that every complex social order is +free. On the contrary, it has more often been true in the past that very +large and intricately organized states, like the Roman Empire, were +constructed on a comparatively mechanical or unfree principle. And in +our own time a vast and complex empire, like Russia or China, may be +less free than the simplest English-speaking colony. There are serious +objections to identifying progress, as Herbert Spencer sometimes appears +to do, with the mere differentiation and co-ordination of social +functions. But the example of the United States, which is perhaps on the +whole the most intricately differentiated and co-ordinated state that +ever existed, shows that complexity is not inconsistent with freedom. To +enter fully into this matter would require a more careful examination of +the institutional aspect of life than I wish to undertake at present; +but I hold that the possibility of organizing large and complex +societies on a free principle depends upon the quickness and facility of +communication, and so has come to exist only in recent times. The great +states of earlier history were necessarily somewhat mechanical in +structure. + +It happens from time to time in every complex and active society, that +certain persons feel the complexity and insistence as a tangle, and seek +freedom in retirement, as Thoreau sought it at Walden Pond. They do not, +however, in this manner escape from the social institutions of their +time, nor do they really mean to do so; what they gain, if they are +successful, is a saner relation to them. Thoreau in his hut remained as +truly a member of society, as dependent for suggestion upon his books, +his friends, and his personal memories, and upon verbal expression for +his sense of self, as did Emerson in Concord or Lowell in Cambridge; and +I imagine that if he had cared to discuss the matter he would have +admitted that this was the case. Indeed, the idea of Thoreau as a +recluse was not, I think, his own idea, but has been attached to him by +superficial observers of his life. Although he was a dissenter from the +state and the church of his time, his career would have been impossible +without those institutions, without Harvard College, for instance, which +was a joint product of the two. He worked out his personal development +through congenial influences selected from the life of his time, very +much as others do. He simply had peculiar tendencies which he developed +in a peculiar way, especially by avoiding a gregarious mode of life +unsuited to his temperament. He was free through the social order, not +outside of it, and the same may be said of Edward Fitzgerald and other +seclusive spirits. No doubt the commonplace life of the day is a sort of +slavery for many sensitive minds that have not, like these, the +resolution to escape from it into a calmer and broader atmosphere. + +Since freedom is not a fixed thing that can be grasped and held once for +all, but a growth, any particular society, such as our own, always +appears partly free and partly unfree. In so far as it favors, in every +child, the development of his highest possibilities, it is free, but +where it falls short of this it is not. So far as children are +ill-nurtured or ill-taught, as family training is bad, the schools +inefficient, the local government ill-administered, public libraries +lacking, or private associations for various sorts of culture deficient, +in so far the people are unfree. A child born in a slum, brought up in a +demoralized family, and put at some confining and mentally deadening +work when ten or twelve years old, is no more free to be healthy, wise, +and moral than a Chinese child is free to read Shakespeare. Every social +ill involves the enslavement of individuals. + +This idea of freedom is quite in accord with a general, though vague, +sentiment among us; it is an idea of fair play, of giving everyone a +chance; and nothing arouses more general and active indignation among +our people than the belief that someone or some class is not getting a +fair chance. There seems, however, to be too great complacency in the +way in which the present state of things is interpreted, a tendency to +assume that freedom has been achieved once for all by the Declaration of +Independence and popular suffrage, and that little remains but to let +each person realize the general blessing to the best of his ability. It +is well to recognize that the freedom which we nominally worship is +never more than partly achieved, and is every day threatened by new +encroachments, that the right to vote is only one phase of it, and +possibly, under present conditions, not the most important phase, and +that we can maintain and increase it only by a sober and determined +application of our best thought and endeavor. Those lines of Lowell’s +“Commemoration Ode” are always applicable: + + “—the soft Ideal that we wooed + Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, + And cries reproachful: Was it then my praise, + And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth. + I claim of thee the promise of thy youth.” + +In our view of freedom we have a right to survey all times and countries +and from them form for our own social order an ideal condition, which +shall offer to each individual all the encouragements to growth and +culture that the world has ever or anywhere enjoyed. Any narrowness or +lack of symmetry in life in general is reflected in the contraction or +warping of personal development, and so constitutes a lack of freedom. +The social order should not exaggerate one or a few aspects of human +nature at the expense of others, but extend its invitations to all our +higher tendencies. Thus the excessive preoccupation of the nineteenth +century with material production and physical science may be regarded as +a partial enslavement of the spiritual and æsthetic sides of humanity, +from which we are now struggling to escape. The freedom of the future +must, it would seem, call more and more for a various, rich, and +tolerant environment, in which all sorts of persons may build themselves +up by selective development. The day for any sort of dogmatism and +coercive uniformity appears to be past, and it will be practicable to +leave people more and more to control by a conscience reflecting the +moral opinion of the group to which their inclination and capacity +attach them. + + +The substitution of higher forms of control for lower, the offering more +alternatives and trusting the mind to make a right selection, involves, +of course, an increased moral strain upon individuals. Now this increase +of moral strain is not in all cases exactly proportioned to the ability +to bear it well; and when it is not well borne the effect upon character +is more or less destructive, so that something in the way of degeneracy +results. + +Consequently every general increase of freedom is accompanied by some +degeneracy, attributable to the same causes as the freedom. This is very +plainly to be seen at the present time, which is one, on the whole, of +rapid increase of freedom. Family life and the condition of women and +children have been growing freer and better, but along with this we have +the increase of divorce and of spoiled children. Democracy in the state +has its own peculiar evils, as we all know; and in the church the decay +of dogmatism and unreasoning faith, a moral advance on the whole, has +nevertheless caused a good many moral failures. In much the same way the +enfranchisement of the negroes is believed to have caused an increase of +insanity among them, and the growth of suicide in all countries seems to +be due in part to the strain of a more complex society. It is not true, +exactly, that freedom itself causes degeneracy, because if one is +subjected to more strain than is good for him his real freedom is rather +contracted than enlarged, but it should rather be said that any movement +which has increase of freedom for its general effect can never be so +regulated as to have only this effect, but is sure to act upon some in +an opposite manner. + +Nor is it reasonable to sit back and say that this incidental +demoralization is inevitable, a fixed price of progress. On the +contrary, although it can never be altogether dispensed with, it can be +indefinitely reduced, and every social institution or influence that +tends to adapt the stress of civilization to the strength of the +individual does reduce it in some measure. + + + + + INDEX + + + Adolescence, the self in, 169 + + Affectation, 173 ff, 320 + + Altruism, 4, 90; + in relation to egoism, 92 ff, 115, 188 ff, 344 ff + + Ambition, 275 f + + Americanism, unconscious, 36 + + Anger, development of, 232 ff; + animal, 240 + + Anglo-Saxons, cantankerousness of, 268; + idealism of, 288 + + Antipathy, 233 ff + + Appreciation, necessary to production, 59 + + Art, creative impulse in, 57; + personal symbols in, 71 ff; + mental life a work of, 123 f; + plastic, mystery in, 316 f; + as idealization, 363 + + Ascendency, personal, 283–325 + + Asceticism, 154, 223 + + Augustine, St., 218 + + Aurelius, Marcus, on freedom of thought, 35; + self-feeling of, 218 + + Author, an, as leader, 303 ff + + Authority, personal, in morals, 353 ff, 384. See also Leadership + + + Baldwin, Prof. J. M., 15; + on social persons, 90; 176, 271, 286 + + Bastien-Lepage, 355 + + Belief, ascendency of, 310 f, 317 f + + Beowulf, on honor, 209 f + + Bismarck, 254; + ascendency of, 298, 302 + + Blame, nature of, 289 + + Blowitz, M. de, 298 + + Body, relation of, to the self, 144 f, 163 + + Booth, Charles, 276 + + Brotherhood, extension of the sense of, 114 f + + Brown, John, 377 + + Browning, 316 + + Bryant, Sophie, on antipathy, 235 + + Bryce, Prof. James, 38, 309 + + Burke, Edmund, 202, 302 f + + Burroughs, John, on the physiognomy of works of genius, 74 + + + Cæsar, as a personal idea, 99 + + Cant, 320 + + Casaubon, Mr., 224 f + + Chagrin, 241 + + Charity, 238, 336. See also Altruism, Right + + Chicago, aspect of the crowd in, 37 + + Child, Theodore, 355 + + Child, a, unlovable at birth, 45 + + Children, imitation in, 19 ff; + sociability of, 45 ff; + imaginary conversation of, 52 ff; + study of expression by, 62 ff; + growth of sentiment in, 79 ff; + development of self in, 142, 146; + use of “I” by, 157 ff; + reflected self in, 164 ff; + anger of, 232 f; + hero-worship of, 279; + ascendency over, 289 f; + habitual morality in, 340 f; + moral growth of, 349 ff; + causes of degeneracy in, 378 ff; + what constitutes freedom for, 393 f, 398, 401; + spoiled, 403 + + China, organization of, 399 + + Chinese, European lack of moral sense regarding, 362 + + Choice, in relation to suggestion, 14–44; + as an organization of social relations, 16 f; + practical limitations of, 31 ff; + is exhausting, 33 f + + Christ, self-feeling of, 142; + indignation felt by, 247; + as leader, 323; + as moral authority, 353 + + “Christian’s Secret of a Happy Life,” 34 + + Church, inculcation of personal authority in the, 353; + freedom in the, 398, 403 + + City life, effect upon sympathy, 112 f + + Classification of minds as stable or unstable, 186 f, 200 ff, 382 f + + Collectivism, 4 + + Columbus, 269, 306 + + Communicate, the impulse to, 56 ff + + Communication, of sentiment, 104 f; + effect of modern, 114; + influence of means of, 361, 365, 399 + + Communion, as an aspect of society, 102–135 + + Competition, 252, 256 f + + Confession, 54, 356 f + + Conformity, 262 ff + + Conscience, 12, 180, 202, 239, 249, 258; + social aspect of, 326–371; + voice of, 328; + individual and social aspects of, 346 f; + in degeneracy, 383 ff; + is the test of freedom, etc., 396. + See also Right + + Conservatism, 273 + + “Continued Stories,” 366 f + + Controversy, 243 + + Conversation, imaginary, 52 ff, 359, 361 + + Country life, effect upon sympathy; 112 + + Creeds, the nature and use of, 370 + + Crime, 252; + as degeneracy, 379, 385 ff; + and insanity, 387 ff + + Criminal impulses, nature of, 380 f + + Cromwell, 302 + + Crowds, suggestibility of, 40 + + Crowd-feeling, 291 f + + Culture, relation of, to social organization, 117 f + + + Dagnan, 355 + + Dante, 31 f, 188 + + Darwin, Charles, 66, 68, 165, 177, 190, 243, 279; + power as a writer, 304; 323, 374 + + “_Das ewig Weibliche_,” 171, 312 + + Degeneracy, from too much choice, 39, 125; + self-feeling in, 229 ff; + personal, 372–391; + incidental to freedom, 403 f + + Delusions of greatness and of persecution, 229 f + + Democracy of sentiment, 114 + + Descartes, seclusion of, 197 + + Determinism, 4 + + Dialogue, composing in, 55 f + + Diaries, as intercourse, 57; + moral effect of, 356 f + + Dill’s “Roman Society,” 312 + + Discipline, in relation to freedom, 396 f + + Disraeli, B., 219, 315 + + Divorce, increase of, incidental to freedom, 403 + + Double causation theory of society, 9 f + + Dreams, as imaginary conversation, 54 + + Duplicity, 234 + + Duty, sense of, 338 f, 343, 360 + + + Education, culture in, 117 f; + as freedom, 398, 401. + See also Children + + Ego, the empirical, 136; + the metaphysical, 136, 163; + and alter in morals, 343 ff + + Egoism, 4; + and altruism, 92 ff, 188 ff, 344 ff + + Egotism, 92, 179 ff; + as a mental trait, 186 ff; + varieties of, 186 ff; + as degeneracy, 382 f + + Element of society, 134 + + Eliot, George, 178, 224, 263, 314, 354 + + Eloquence, 301 ff + + Emerson, E. W., 367 + + Emerson, R. W., 6, 57, 120, 128, 174, 211, 243, 266, 269, 287, 294, + 295, 335, 365, 367 + + Emulation, 262–282 + + Endogenous minds, 200 f, 383 + + Environment, 271; + and heredity, 378 f. + See also Suggestion + + _Equilibrium mobile_ of conscience, 335 + + Ethics, physiological theories of, 208 f. See also Conscience, Right + + Evolution, 9, 13, 18, 145; + in relation to leadership, 322; + to degeneracy, 373 ff + + Exhaustion, causes suggestibility, 41 + + Exogenous minds, 200 f, 382 + + Experience, social, is imaginative, 105 f + + Expression, facial, 62 ff; + vocal, 66 f; + interpretation of, 68 f; + suggestion of, in literature and art, 71 ff + + Eye, expressiveness of, 62 f; + in literature, 73 + + + Face. See Expression + + Fame, often transcends the man, 307 f + + Family, freedom in the, 403 + + Fear, of animals, 66; + social, 258 ff + + Feeling. See Sentiment + + Fitzgerald, Edward, seclusiveness of, 400 + + Forms, used to maintain ascendency, 319 + + Fox, Charles, 302 f + + Fra Angelico, 248, 353 + + Francis, St., 47 + + Free will, 4, 18 ff, 32 + + Freedom, 392–404; + definition of, 393, 395 + + Friendship, 120 f + + Frith’s “Autobiography,” 76 + + + Games, athletic, 256 + + Genius, 11, 106, 169, 188; + disorders of self incident to, 228 f, 237, 266, 321 ff. + See also Leadership + + Gibbon, Edward, 273 + + Gibson, W. H., 306 + + Giddings, Prof. F. H., on imitation, 27 + + Gloating, 143 + + God, as love, 126 f; + appropriated, 155; + as ideal self, 214; + idea of, 281 f, 370 f. + See also Religion + + Gods, famous persons partake of the nature of, 308 + + Goethe, on individuality in art, 33; + on the composition of “Werther,” 55; + personality in his style 75; 121, 122, 132, 150, 194, 196, 204, 211, + 241, 254, 266, 279, 312, 316, 392 + + Gothic architecture, rise of, 37 + + Grant, General, 41, 76; + ascendency of, 299 f, 315 + + Gummere, F. B., 210 + + Guyau, on the onward self, 335 f + + + Habit, limits suggestibility, 42; + in relation to the self, 155; + to the sense of right, 337 ff, 348 + + Hall, President G. Stanley, 73; + on the self, 163; 259 + + Hamerton, P. G., 196, 317 + + Hamlet, use of “I” in, 145 + + Hatred, 253 + + Hazlitt, W., 253 + + Hedonizing, instinctive, 61 + + Herbert, George, 155 + + Hereditary element in sociability, 50 + + Hereditary tendency, 284 ff + + Heredity, as a cause of degeneracy, 375, 378 ff + + Hero-worship, 213, 278 ff, 286 f + + Heroism, 339 + + Honor, 207 ff + + Hope, ascendency of, 310 f + + Hostility, 232–261 + + Howells, W. D., 301 + + Hugo, Victor, 229 + + Humility, 212 ff + + Huxley, Thomas, 242 f, 305 + + Hysterical temperament, 344, 382 f + + + “I,” in relation to love, 129 ff; + the reflected or looking-glass, 152 f, 164 ff, 175, 178, 211, 216 f, + 349 ff; + meaning of, 136–178; + exists within the general life, 147 ff; + as related to the rest of thought, 150 f, 156; + is rooted in the social order, 153 ff; + how children learn the meaning of, 157 ff; + various phases of, 179–231; + use of in literature and conversation, 190 ff; + in self-reverence, 211; + in leadership, 294 + + Ideal persons, as factors in conscience, 362 ff; + of religion, 280 ff, 368 ff + + Idealism, ascendency of, 310 + + Idealization, 272, 362 ff + + Ideas, personal. See Personal ideas + + Idiocy, congenital, 379; + as mental degeneracy, 381 f + + Idiots, kindliness of, 51 f, 125 + + Imaginary conversation, of children, 52 f; + all thought is, 53 ff + + Imaginary playmate, 52 f + + Imagination, in relation to personal ideas, 81 ff, 98 ff; + the locus of society, 100; + social, a requisite to power, 107; + narrowness of, in egotism, 183; + essential to goodness, 359 + + Imitation, 14 ff; + in children, 19 ff; + not mechanical, 23 ff; + by parents, 25; + in relation to smiling, 47 f, 64, 71, 262, 266, 271; + the doctrine of objectionable, 272; 310, 337 + + Imitative instinct, the supposed, 25 ff + + Immortality, self-feeling in the idea of, 155 + + Imposture, 318 ff + + Indifferentism, 389 + + Indignation, 239, 249 ff + + Individual, the, in relation to society, 1–13, 324 f, 393; + as a cause, 321 ff; + and social, in morals, 342 ff + + Individualism, 4 ff, 8, 10 + + Individuality, Goethe’s view of, in art, 33 + + Industrial system, effect of upon the individual, 118 f + + Insane, reverence for the, 314 + + Insanity, in relation to sympathy, 110; + the self in, 229 f; + and crime, 387 ff + + Instincts, whether divisible into social and unsocial, 12 f + + Institution, ideal persons may become an, 369 + + Institutions, in relation to sympathy, 133 + + Intercourse, relation to thought, 61 + + Interlocutor, imaginary, drawn from the environment, 59 f + + Invention, 271 f, 337. See also Imitation + + Involuntary, the, why ignored, 30 f. See also Will + + Isolation of degenerates, 391 + + + James, Henry, 183, 236, 314 + + James, Prof. William, on social persons, 90; + on the self, 138; 143, 276, 288, 359 + + Jerome, St., 154 + + Jowett, Prof., 279 + + Justice, the sentiment of, 91; + based on sympathy, 108; + relation to love, 127; 236, 352, 366 + + + Kempis, Thomas à, 34, 128, 155, 214, 218, 220, 226 + + + Lamb, Charles, 76, 192; + literary power of, 306 + + Language involves an interlocutor, 56. + See also Expression + + Leader, mental traits of a, 293 ff; + does he really lead? 321 + + Leadership, 108, 175, 283–325 + + Learoyd, Mabel W., 366 + + Lecky, W. H., 223 + + Leonardo, mystery of, 316 + + Likeness and difference in sympathy, 120 f + + Lincoln, 83 + + Literature, creative impulse in, 57; + personal symbols in, 73 ff; + self-feeling in, 194; + ascendency in, 303 ff; + mystery in, 315 + + Lombroso, Prof. Cesare, 229 + + Love, of the sexes, 121 f; + and sympathy, 124 ff; + scope of, 126 f; + nature of, 127 ff; + Thomas à Kempis and Emerson on, 128; + two kinds of, 129 ff; + and self, 129 ff; + 155 ff, 195; + as a social ideal, 247 f; + of enemies, 251; 309, 312 + + Lowell, J. R., 141 f, 265, 269, 402 + + Luther, Martin, 180 f, 318 + + Lying, in relation to sympathy, 110, 358 f + + + M., a child of the author, 24, 27, 49, 62 ff, 157 ff, 166 f, 349 ff + + Macaulay, physiognomy in his style, 77 + + Machinery, effect of, upon the workman, 118 f + + Maine, Sir Henry, 264 + + Man of the world, traits of the contemporary, 255 + + Manners, conformity in, 263; + as an aid to ascendency, 319 + + Marshall, H. R., 331 + + Material bent of our civilization, 37, 402 + + Maudsley, Dr., on degeneracy, 381 + + Meredith, George, 182 + + Michelangelo, 76, 310, 353 + + Middle Ages, suggestibility in the, 36 + + _Milieu_, power of the, 34 ff + + Milton, 73 + + Moltke, silence of, 315 + + Monasticism, in relation to the self, 222 f, 227 f + + Montaigne, on the need to communicate, 56; 76, 191, 192 + + Moore, K. C., on the smiling of infants, 46 + + Morality, traditionary, 338 ff. + See also Conscience, Right + + Motley, J. L., 73 f + + Murder, 386 + + Music, sensuous mystery of, 317 + + Mystery, a factor in ascendency, 312 ff + + + Nansen, 269 + + Napoleon, how we know him, 86; + ascendency of, 296; + place in history, 324 + + New Testament, 142, 215, 245 + + Nirvana, the ideal of disinterested love, 130 + + Non-conformity, 262 ff + + Non-resistance, doctrine of, 245 ff + + Norsemen, motive of, 273 + + Norton, Prof. C. E., 37 + + + “One,” use of, compared with “I,” 192 f + + Onward, right as the, 334 ff + + Opposition, personal, its nature, 95 f; + spirit of, 267 ff + + Oratory, ascendency in, 301 ff + + Organization, of personal thought, 51; + effect of upon the individual, 115 ff; + or vital process, problem of, 333 + + Originality, 322 ff. + See also Genius, Leadership, Invention + + Other-worldism, 222 + + + Painting, personal symbols in, 72. + See also Art, Expression + + Papacy, symbolic character of, 308 f + + Particularism, 4 + + Pascal, 218, 222 + + Passion, why a cause of pain, 253 f; + influence upon idea of right, 330 f + + Pater, Walter, 304 + + Patten, Prof Simon N., 244 + + Paul, St., 218 + + Perez, Dr. B., 46; + on the eye, 62 f; + 232, 350 + + Personal authority, influence upon sense of right, 353 ff + + Personal character, interpretation of, 67, 70 + + Personal ideas, 62 ff; + sensuous nucleus of, 69 ff; + sentiment their chief content, 81 ff, 104; + compared to a system of lights, 97 f; + affect the physical organism, 99 f; + affect the sense of right, 348 ff + + Personal symbols in art and literature, 71 ff + + Persona, real and imaginary, inseparable, 60 f; + incorporeal, their social reality, 88; + social, interpenetrate one another, 90 ff; + ideal, as factors in conscience, 362 ff; + ideal, of religion, 280 ff, 368 ff + + Philanthropy, motive of, 269 f + + Pioneer, self-feeling of the, 268 + + Pity, is it altruism? 94 f; + relation to sympathy, 102 f; 238 + + Power, based on sympathy, 107 f; + idea of, 290; + advantage of visible forms of, 291 f. + See also Ascendency + + Prayer, as personal intercourse, 357 + + Pretence, contempt of, in America, 300 + + Prevention of degeneracy, 390 f + + Preyer, W., 27, 46 + + Pride, 199 ff + + Primitive individualism, 10 + + Principle, moral, 338 f + + Process, social, imitation, etc., as, 272; + vital, problem of, 333 + + Processes, social, reflected in sympathy, 119 ff + + Progress, relation of, to freedom, 396 + + Publicity, moral effect of, 356 ff + + Punishment, 252, 384, 390 + + + R., a child of the author, 21 ff, 28, 49 f, 51, 53, 158 ff, 341, 351 + + Rational, right as the, 326 ff + + Recapitulation theory of mental development, 21 + + Refinement, as affecting hostility, 237 + + Religion, suggestibility in, 42, 43; + self-feeling of founders of, 181; + self-discipline in, 214 f, 219 ff; + as hero-worship, 280 ff; + mediæval, 309; + mystery in, 317; + ideal persons of, 368 ff + + Remorse, 253, 329, 368, 385 f + + Repentance, 368 + + Resentment, 199, 212, 237 ff + + Resistance, imaginative, 245 ff + + Responsibility, in crime, etc., 388 f + + Right, based on sympathy, 108 ff; + relation to egotism, 184; + to the + self in general, 189; + social standards of, as affecting hostility, 256 ff; + as the rational, 326 ff; + conscience the final test of, 333 f; + as the onward, 334 ff; + as habit, 337 ff, 348; + as a phase of the self, 342 f; + the social as opposed to the sensual, 347 f; + action of personal ideas in forming the sense of, 348 ff; + as a microcosm of character, 353; + reflects a social group, 360 ff; + and wrong, 372 ff; + idea of, 377; + freedom as, 393 ff + + Riis, Jacob A., 361 + + Rivalry, 274 ff + + Roget’s “Thesaurus,” 198 + + Roman Empire, 312, 399 + + Rousseau, 237, 260 + + Rule of conduct, Marshall’s, 331 + + Ruskin, 317 + + Russia, 399 + + + Sanity, based on sympathy, 110 + + Savonarola, physiognomy of, 314 + + Schiller, 113, 121 + + Science, and faith, 308; + cant of, 320; + moral, limits of, 334; + physical, 402 + + Sculpture, personal symbols in, 72 f + + Seclusion, moral effect of, 358 + + Secretiveness, 59, 196 + + “Seeing yourself,” 367 f + + Selection, in sympathy, 122 ff + + Selective method of nature, 373 f + + Self, in relation to other personal ideas, 91 ff, 98; + antithesis with “other,” 115, 188 ff; + in morals, 365 f; + in relation to love, 129 ff, 155 ff, 195; + social, 136–231; + observation of in children, 157 ff; + the narrow or egotistical, 185; + every cherished idea is a, 185; + reflected or looking-glass, 152 f, 164 ff, 175, 178, 211, 216 f; + influence of upon conscience, 349 ff; + maladies of the social, 215 ff; + transformation of, 224 ff; + effect of uncongenial environment upon, 227 ff, 245, 320; + crescive, 335; + ethical, 342 f; + ideal social, 359, 366 ff + + Self-control, 254 + + Self-feeling, 137 ff; + quotations illustrating, 141 f; + of reformers, etc., 181; + intense, essential to production, 193 ff; + control of, 217 ff; + in mental disorder, etc., 229 f; + in non-conformity, 267 + + Self-image as a work of art, 207 + + Self-neglecting, 195 + + Self-reliance, 294 ff + + Self-respect, 205 ff, 238 + + Self-reverence, 211 ff + + Self-sacrifice, 190, 336. + See also Humility, Altruism + + Selfishness, nature of, 179 ff; + as a mental trait, 186 ff + + “Sense of other persons,” 176 + + Sensual, as opposed to the social, 347 f + + Sensuality, 182 + + Sentiment, personal, genesis of, 79 ff; + is differentiated emotion, 80; + in personal ideas, 81 ff; + relation to persons, 83; + more communicable than sensation, 104 f; + moral, 327 ff; 389 + + Sentiments, as related to selfishness, 182; + literary, 361 + + Seven deadly sins, 381 + + Sex, in sympathy, 121 f; + in the self, 171 ff + + Shakespeare, 11, 73, 76; + on the genesis of sentiment, 80 f, 103, 106, 141, 145, 148, 188, 195, + 210, 255, 282 + + Shame, fear of, 260 f; + sense of, 350 + + “Sheridan’s Ride,” 292 + + Sherman, General, 299 + + Shinn, Miss, 167 + + Sidis, Dr. B., 36 + + Sidney, Sir Philip, 83 + + Silence, fascination of, 314 f + + Simplicity, 174 + + Sin, 376, 381 + + Sincerity in leadership, 317 ff + + Slums, 379 + + Smiles, earliest, 45 ff; + interpretation of, 64 f + + Sociability and personal ideas, 45–101 + + “Social,” meanings of the word, 3 f + + Social faculty view, 11 f + + Social groups, sensible basis of the idea of, 77; + relation of to the individual, 114 + + Social order, reflected in sympathy, 111 ff; + freedom in relation to, 397 ff + + Social reality, the immediate is the personal idea, 84 + + Socialism, 4 ff, 90 + + Society, and the individual, 1–13, 134 f, 324 f; + in morals, 342 ff, 393; + is primarily a mental fact, 84; + is a relation among personal ideas, 84; + each mind an aspect of, 84 f; + the idea of, 85; + must be studied in the imagination, 86 ff; + is the collective aspect of personal thought, 100; + a phase, not a separable thing, 101 + + Sociology, too much based on material notions, 85, 89 f, 98 ff; + must observe personal ideas, 87 ff; + deals with personal intercourse in primary and secondary aspects, 101 + + Solitude, apparent, 57 f + + Sophocles, 142 + + Spanish-American war, consolidating effect of, 293 + + Specialization, effect of, 115 ff + + Spencer, Herbert, on egoism and altruism, 92; + nature of his system, 92; + on progress, 399 + + Spencerism, 306 + + Stability and instability in the self, 200 ff + + Stable and unstable types of mind, 186 ff, 200 ff, 382 f + + Stanley, Prof. H. M., 27, 138, 201, 214 + + Sterne, L., 194 + + Stevenson, R. L., physiognomy in his style, 77, 88, 95, 192, 195, 260, + 320, 355 + + Strain of the present age, 112 + + Struggle for existence, as a view of life, 272 + + Style, the personal idea in, 73 ff; + what it is, 74; + personal ascendency in, 303 ff + + Suger, the Abbot, 37 + + Suggestibility, 39 ff + + Suggestion, and choice, 14–44; + definition of, 14; + in children, 19 ff; + contrary, 23, 267; + scope of in life, 29 ff + + Superficiality of the time, 112, 198 + + Symbols, personal, 69 ff; + in art and literature, 71 ff + + Symonds, J. A., 155, 169 f, 279, 317 + + Sympathy, or communion as an aspect of society, 102–135; + meaning of, 102 ff; + as compassion, 103; + a measure of personality, 106 ff; + universal, 113 f; + reflects social processes, 119 ff; + selective, 122 ff; + and love, 124 ff; + a particular expression of society, 133 ff; + hostile, 160, 234 ff; + in leadership, 294 ff; + lack of, in degeneracy, 382; + with criminal acts a test of responsibility, 387 ff + + Sympathies, reflect the social order, 111 ff + + + Tact, 183 f; + in ascendency, 297 f + + Tarde, G., 15, 272 + + “Tasso,” quoted, 122, 150 + + Tennyson, 129, 210, 287, 318 + + Thackeray, 76, 192 + + Thoreau, H. D., his relation to society, 57 f, 399 f; 157, 192, 195, + 197, 235, 244, 270 + + Toleration, 264 + + Truth, motive for telling, 358 f + + Tylor, E. B., 42, 314 + + + Vanity, 199, 203 ff + + Variation, degeneracy as, 374 f + + + Wagner, Richard, 76 + + War, hostile feeling in, 257; + dramatic power of leadership in, 291 f + + Washington, 83 + + Whitman, Walt, 192 + + Will, free, 4; + individual and social, 17; + popular view of, 18; + is it externally determined?, 18 f, 32 f; + activity of, reflects society, 38 f + + William the Silent, 314 + + Withdrawal, physical, 219; + imaginative, 220 ff + + Wrong, as the irrational, 329; + emphasized by example, 356; + degeneracy as, 372 ff; + idea of, 377; + not always opposed by conscience, 385 f; + the unfree, 396 + + Wundt, on “Ich,” 138 + + + Youth, sense of, 128, 280 + +----- + +Footnote 1: + + Also free will, determinism, egoism, and altruism, which involve, in + my opinion, a kindred misconception. + +Footnote 2: + + It should easily be understood that one who agrees with what was said + in the preceding chapter about the relation between society and the + individual, can hardly entertain the question whether the individual + will is free or externally determined. This question assumes as true + what he holds to be false, namely that the particular aspect of + mankind is separable from the collective aspect. The idea underlying + it is that of an isolated fragment of life, the will, on the one hand, + and some great mass of life, the environment, on the other; the + question being which of these two antithetical forces shall be master. + If one, then the will is free; if the other, then it is determined. It + is as if each man’s mind were a castle besieged by an army, and the + question were whether the army should make a breach and capture the + occupants. It is hard to see how this way of conceiving the matter + could arise from a direct observation of actual social relations. + Take, for instance, the case of a member of Congress, or of any other + group of reasoning, feeling, and mutually influencing creatures. Is he + free in relation to the rest of the body or do they control him? The + question appears senseless. He is influenced by them and also exerts + an influence upon them. While he is certainly not apart from their + power, he is controlled, if we use that word, _through_ his own will + and not in spite of it. And it seems plain enough that a relation + similar in kind holds between the individual and the nation, or + between the individual and humanity in general. If you think of human + life as a whole and of each individual as a member and not a fragment, + as, in my opinion, you must if you base your thoughts on a direct + study of society and not upon metaphysical or theological + preconceptions, the question whether the will is free or not is seen + to be meaningless. The individual will appears to be a specialized + part of the general life, more or less divergent from other parts and + possibly contending with them; but this very divergence is a part of + its function—just as a member of Congress serves that body by urging + his particular opinions—and in a large view does not separate but + unites it to life as a whole. It is often necessary to consider the + individual with reference to his opposition to other persons, or to + prevailing tendencies, and in so doing it may be convenient to speak + of him as separate from and antithetical to the life about him: but + this separateness and opposition are incidental, like the right hand + pulling against the left to break a string, and there seems to be no + sufficient warrant for extending it into a general or philosophical + proposition. + + There may be some sense in which the question of the freedom of the + will is still of interest; but it seems to me that the student of + social relations may well pass it by as one of those scholastic + controversies which are settled, if at all, not by being decided one + way or the other, but by becoming obsolete. + +Footnote 3: + + The imitativeness of children is stimulated by the imitativeness of + parents. A baby cannot hit upon any sort of a noise, but the admiring + family, eager for communication, will imitate it again and again, + hoping to get a repetition. They are usually disappointed, but the + exercise probably causes the child to notice the likeness of the + sounds and so prepares the way for imitation. It is perhaps safe to + say that up to the end of the first year the parents are more + imitative than the child. + +Footnote 4: + + “In like manner any act or expression is a stimulus to the + nerve-centres that perceive or understand it. Unless their action is + inhibited by the will, or by counter-stimulation, they must discharge + themselves in movements that more or less closely copy the + originals.”—Giddings, Principles of Sociology, 110. + +Footnote 5: + + H. M. Stanley, The Evolutionary Psychology of Feeling, p. 53. + +Footnote 6: + + Goethe, in various places, contrasts modern art and literature with + those of the Greeks in respect to the fact that the former express + individual characteristics, the latter those of a race and an epoch. + Thus in a letter to Schiller—No. 631 of the Goethe-Schiller + correspondence—he says of Paradise Lost, “In the case of this poem, as + with all modern works of art, it is in reality the individual that + manifests itself that awakens the interest.” + + Can there be some illusion mixed with the truth of this idea? Is it + not the case that the nearer a thing is to our habit of thought the + more clearly we see the individual, and the more vaguely, if at all, + the universal? And would not an ancient Greek, perhaps, have seen as + much of what was peculiar to each artist, and as little of what was + common to all, as we do in a writer of our own time? The principle is + much the same as that which makes all Chinamen look pretty much alike + to us: we see the type because it is so different from what we are + used to, but only one who lives within it can fully perceive the + differences among individuals. + +Footnote 7: + + See the latter chapters of his Psychology of Suggestion. + +Footnote 8: + + See Harper’s Magazine, vol. 79, p. 770. + +Footnote 9: + + See The American Commonwealth, vol. ii., p. 705. + +Footnote 10: + + Memoirs of U. S. Grant, vol. i., p. 344. + +Footnote 11: + + See his Primitive Culture, vol. ii., p. 372. + +Footnote 12: + + K. C. Moore, The Mental Development of a Child, p. 37. + +Footnote 13: + + The Senses and the Will, p. 295. + +Footnote 14: + + See his First Three Years of Childhood, p. 13. + +Footnote 15: + + Oxenford’s Translation, vol. i., p. 501. + +Footnote 16: + + See his Essay on Vanity. + +Footnote 17: + + Early Spring in Massachusetts, p. 232. + +Footnote 18: + + The First Three Years of Childhood, p. 77. + +Footnote 19: + + See his Biographical Sketch of an Infant, Mind, vol. ii., p. 289. + +Footnote 20: + + A good way to interpret a man’s face is to ask oneself how he would + look saying “I” in an emphatic manner. This seems to help the + imagination in grasping what is most essential and characteristic in + him. + +Footnote 21: + + Only four words—“heart,” “love,” “man,” “world”—take up more space in + the index of “Familiar Quotations” than “eye.” + +Footnote 22: + + On the fear of (imaginary) eyes see G. Stanley Hall’s study of Fear in + The American Journal of Psychology, vol. 8, p. 147. + +Footnote 23: + + Two apparently opposite views are current as to what style is. One + regards it as the distinctive or characteristic in expression, that + which marks off a writer or other artist from all the rest; according + to the other, style is mastery over the common medium of expression, + as language or the technique of painting or sculpture. These are not + so inconsistent as they seem. Good style is both; that is, a + significant personality expressed in a workmanlike manner. + +Footnote 24: + + P. 493. + +Footnote 25: + + With me, at least, this is the case. Some whom I have consulted find + that certain sentiments—for instance, pity—may be directly suggested + by the word, without the mediation of a personal symbol. This hardly + affects the argument, as it will not be doubted that the sentiment was + in its inception associated with a personal symbol. + +Footnote 26: + + This idea that social persons are not mutually exclusive but composed + largely of common elements is implied in Professor William James’s + doctrine of the Social Self and set forth at more length in Professor + James Mark Baldwin’s Social and Ethical Interpretations of Mental + Development. Like other students of social psychology I have received + much instruction and even more helpful provocation from the latter + brilliant and original work. To Professor James my obligation is + perhaps greater still. + +Footnote 27: + + I distinguish, of course, between egotism, which is an English word of + long standing, and egoism, which was, I believe, somewhat recently + introduced by moralists to designate, in antithesis to altruism, + certain theories or facts of ethics. I do not object to these words as + names of theories, but as purporting to be names of facts of conduct I + do, and have in mind more particularly their use by Herbert Spencer in + his Principles of Psychology and other works. As used by Spencer they + seem to me valid from a physiological standpoint only, and fallacious + when employed to describe mental, social, or moral facts. The trouble + is, as with his whole system, that the physiological aspect of life is + expounded and assumed, apparently, to be the only aspect that science + can consider. Having ventured to find fault with Spencer, I may be + allowed to add that I have perhaps learned as much from him as from + any other writer. If only his system did not appear at first quite so + complete and final one might more easily remain loyal to it in spite + of its deficiencies. But when these latter begin to appear its very + completeness makes it seem a sort of a prison-wall which one must + break down to get out. + + I shall try to show the nature of egotism and selfishness in Chapter + VI. + +Footnote 28: + + Some may question whether we can pity ourselves in this way. But it + seems to me that we avoid self-pity only by not vividly imagining + ourselves in a piteous plight; and that if we do so imagine ourselves + the sentiment follows quite naturally. + +Footnote 29: + + Sympathy in the sense of compassion is a specific emotion or + sentiment, and has nothing necessarily in common with sympathy in the + sense of communion. It might be thought, perhaps, that compassion was + one form of the sharing of feeling; but this appears not to be the + case. The sharing of painful feeling may precede and cause compassion, + but is not the same with it. When I feel sorry for a man in disgrace, + it is, no doubt, in most cases, because I have imaginatively partaken + of his humiliation; but my compassion for him is not the thing that is + shared, but is something additional, a comment on the shared feeling. + I may imagine how a suffering man feels—sympathize with him in that + sense—and be moved not to pity but to disgust, contempt, or perhaps + admiration. Our feeling makes all sorts of comments on the imagined + feeling of others. Moreover it is not essential that there should be + any real understanding in order that compassion may be felt. One may + compassionate a worm squirming on a hook, or a fish, or even a tree. + As between persons pity, while often a helpful and healing emotion, + leading to kindly acts, is sometimes indicative of the absence of true + sympathy. We all wish to be understood, at least in what we regard as + our better aspects, but few of us wish to be pitied except in moments + of weakness and discouragement. To accept pity is to confess that one + falls below the healthy standard of vigor and self-help. While a real + understanding of our deeper thought is rare and precious, pity is + usually cheap, many people finding an easy pleasure in indulging it, + as one may in the indulgence of grief, resentment, or almost any + emotion. It is often felt by the person who is its object as a sort of + an insult, a back-handed thrust at self-respect, the unkindest cut of + all. For instance, as between richer and poorer classes in a free + country a mutually respecting antagonism is much healthier than pity + on the one hand and dependence on the other, and is, perhaps, the next + best thing to fraternal feeling. + +Footnote 30: + + Much of what is ordinarily said in this connection indicates a + confusion of the two ideas of specialization and isolation. These are + not only different but, in what they imply, quite opposite and + inconsistent. Speciality implies a whole to which the special part has + a peculiar relation, while isolation implies that there is no whole. + +Footnote 31: + + See his Essay on Friendship. + +Footnote 32: + + Lewes’s Life of Goethe, vol. i, p. 282. + +Footnote 33: + + Goethe, Biographische Einzelheiten, Jacobi. + +Footnote 34: + + “I had to love him, for with him my life grew to such life as I had + never known.”—Act 3, sc. 2. + +Footnote 35: + + Emerson, Address on The Method of Nature. + +Footnote 36: + + De Imitatione Christi, part iii., chap. 5, pars. 3 and 4. + +Footnote 37: + + “_The words_ ME, _then, and_ SELF, _so far as they arouse feeling and + connote emotional worth, are_ OBJECTIVE _designations meaning_ ALL THE + THINGS _which have the power to produce in a stream of consciousness + excitement of a certain peculiar sort_.” Psychology, i., p. 319. A + little earlier he says: “_In its widest possible sense_, however, _a + man’s self is the sum total of all he_ CAN _call his_, not only his + body and his psychic powers, but his clothes and his house, his wife + and children, his ancestors and friends, his reputation and works, his + lands and horses and yacht and bank account. All these things give him + the same emotions.” Idem, p. 291. + + So Wundt says of “Ich”: “Es ist ein _Gefühl_, nicht eine Vorstellung, + wie es häufig genannt wird.” Grundriss der Psychologie 4. Auflage, S. + 265. + +Footnote 38: + + It is, perhaps, to be thought of as a more general instinct, of which + anger, etc., are differentiated forms, rather than as standing by + itself. + +Footnote 39: + + Plumptre’s Sophocles, p. 352. + +Footnote 40: + + Psychology, i., p. 307. + +Footnote 41: + + “Only in man does man know himself; life alone teaches each one what + he is.”—Goethe, Tasso, act 2, sc. 3. + +Footnote 42: + + John Addington Symonds, by H. F. Brown, vol. ii. p. 120. + +Footnote 43: + + Compare Some Aspects of the Early Sense of Self, American Journal of + Psychology, ix., p 351. + +Footnote 44: + + Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, by F. Darwin, p. 27. + +Footnote 45: + + This sort of thing is very familiar to observers of children. See, for + instance, Miss Shinn’s Notes on the Development of a Child, p. 153. + +Footnote 46: + + John Addington Symonds, by H. F. Brown, vol. 1, p. 63. + +Footnote 47: + + P. 70. + +Footnote 48: + + P. 74. + +Footnote 49: + + P. 120. + +Footnote 50: + + P. 125. + +Footnote 51: + + P. 348. + +Footnote 52: + + Attributed to Mme. de Staël. + +Footnote 53: + + I do not attempt to distinguish between these words, though there is a + difference, ill defined however, in their meanings. As ordinarily used + both designate a phase of self-assertion regarded as censurable, and + this is all I mean by either. + +Footnote 54: + + Letters, p. 46. + +Footnote 55: + + Compare Stanley, The Evolutionary Psychology of Feeling, p. 271 _et + seq._ + +Footnote 56: + + Wilhelm Meister’s Travels, Chap. XII., Carlyle’s Translation. + +Footnote 57: + + Quoted by Gummere, Germanic Origins, p. 266. + +Footnote 58: + + Œnone. + +Footnote 59: + + Travels, chap. 10, in Carlyle’s translation. + +Footnote 60: + + Stanley, The Evolutionary Psychology of Feeling, p. 280. + +Footnote 61: + + “Strive manfully; habit is subdued by habit. If you know how to + dismiss men, they also will dismiss you, to do your own things.”—De + Imitatione Christi, book i., chap. 21, par. 2. + +Footnote 62: + + De Imitatione Christi, book iii., chap. 23, par. 1. + +Footnote 63: + + Tulloch’s Pascal, p. 100. + +Footnote 64: + + See his History of European Morals, vol. ii., p. 369. + +Footnote 65: + + Perez, The First Three Years of Childhood, p. 66. + +Footnote 66: + + Mind, new series, vol. iv., p. 365. + +Footnote 67: + + A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, pp. 303, 328. + +Footnote 68: + + See his essay on the Journal of the Brothers Goncourt. + +Footnote 69: + + See his Life and Letters, vol. ii., p. 192. + +Footnote 70: + + Compare Professor Simon N. Patten’s Theory of Social Forces, p. 135. + +Footnote 71: + + Thoreau, A Week, etc., p. 304. + +Footnote 72: + + Compare G. Stanley Hall’s study of Fear in the American Journal of + Psychology, viii., p. 147. + +Footnote 73: + + The terrors of our dreams are caused largely by social imaginations. + Thus Stevenson, in one of his letters, speaks of “my usual dreams of + social miseries and misunderstandings and all sorts of crucifixions of + the spirit.”—Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, i., p. 79. + +Footnote 74: + + Maine, Ancient Law, p. 62. + +Footnote 75: + + Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, v., 16, Carlyle’s Translation. + +Footnote 76: + + In reading studies of a particular aspect of life, like M. Tarde’s + brilliant work, Les Lois de l’Imitation, it is well to remember that + there are many such aspects, any of which, if expounded at length and + in an interesting manner, might appear for the time to be of more + importance than any other. I think that other phases of social + activity, such, for instance, as communication, competition, + differentiation, adaptation, idealization, have as good claims as + imitation to be regarded as the social process, and that a book + similar in character to M. Tarde’s might, perhaps, be written upon any + one of them. The truth is that the real process is a multiform thing + of which these are glimpses. They are good so long as we recognize + that they _are_ glimpses and use them to help out our perception of + that many-sided whole which life is; but if they become _doctrines_ + they are objectionable. + + The Struggle for Existence is another of these glimpses of life which + just now seems to many the dominating fact of the universe, chiefly + because attention has been fixed upon it by copious and interesting + exposition. As it has had many predecessors in this place of + importance, so doubtless it will have many successors. + +Footnote 77: + + Decline and Fall, vol. vii., p. 82; Milman-Smith edition. + +Footnote 78: + + Emerson, address on New England Reformers. + +Footnote 79: + + Psychology, vol. ii., p. 409. + +Footnote 80: + + See Darwin’s Life and Letters, by his son, vol. i., p. 47. + +Footnote 81: + + Emerson, New England Reformers. + +Footnote 82: + + Psychology, vol. ii., p. 314. + +Footnote 83: + + In Harper’s Magazine, vol. 78, p. 870. + +Footnote 84: + + Reminiscences quoted by Garland in McClure’s Magazine, April, 1897. + +Footnote 85: + + From a letter published in the newspapers at the time of the + dedication of the Grant Monument, in April, 1897. + +Footnote 86: + + Mr. Howells remarks that “in Europe life is histrionic and dramatized, + and that in America, except when it is trying to be European, it is + direct and sincere.”—“Their Silver Wedding Journey,” Harper’s + Magazine, September, 1899. + +Footnote 87: + + Related by W. H. Gibson, in Harper’s Magazine for May, 1897. + +Footnote 88: + + The fact that the Roman system meant organized _ennui_ in thought, the + impossibility of entertaining large and hopeful views of life, is + strikingly brought out by the aid of contemporary documents in Dill’s + Roman Society. Prisoners of a shrinking system, the later Romans had + no outlook except toward the past. Anything onward and open in thought + was inconceivable by them. + +Footnote 89: + + See Primitive Culture, by E. B. Tylor, chap. xiv. + +Footnote 90: + + J. A. Symonds, History of the Renaissance in Italy, The Fine Arts, p. + 329. Hamerton has some interesting observations on mystery in art in + his life of Turner, p. 352; also Ruskin in Modern Painters, part v., + chaps. 4 and 5. + +Footnote 91: + + Tennyson, The Holy Grail. + +Footnote 92: + + See p. 248. + +Footnote 93: + + See his Instinct and Reason, p. 569. + +Footnote 94: + + M. J. Guyau, Esquisse d’une Morale sans Obligation ni Sanction, + English translation, p. 93. + +Footnote 95: + + Idem, p. 149. + +Footnote 96: + + Idem, p. 87. + +Footnote 97: + + Idem, p. 82. + +Footnote 98: + + Studies of Childhood, p. 284. + +Footnote 99: + + See his First Three Years of Childhood, p. 287. + +Footnote 100: + + Psychology, vol. i., p. 315. + +Footnote 101: + + Emerson, History. + +Footnote 102: + + Idem, Spiritual Laws. + +Footnote 103: + + Amer. Jour. of Psychology, vol. 7, p. 86. + +Footnote 104: + + See pp. 101, 210, 226. + +Footnote 105: + + The Pathology of Mind, p. 425. + +Footnote 106: + + C. L. Dana, Nervous Diseases, p. 425. + +Footnote 107: + + Aus Meinem Leben, Book XI. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + Page Changed from Changed to + + 138 wie es haufig genannt wird.” wie es häufig genannt wird.” + Grundriss der Psychologie Grundriss der Psychologie + + ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last + chapter. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75145 *** |