EVERYDAY ETHICS 
 
 CABOT 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 PROFESSOR 
 
 RALPH S. TARR 
 
 1864-1911 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Russell Tarr 
 1939 
 
olin.anx 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924031217874 
 
EVERYDAY ETHICS 
 
 BY 
 
 ELLA LYMAN CABOT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
Copyright 1806 
 
 «T 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
TO 
 
 A. T. L. 
 
 IN LOVING RECOGNITION OF 
 HIS GENEROUS, SUSTAINING TRUST 
 
PREFACE 
 
 A SUCCESSFUL book on methods of teaching ethics will 
 ■ improve in the schoolroom the art of instruction in 
 the most difficult province of study and practice. 
 
 Ethics relates to all manner of deeds and habits of 
 doing which concern one's fellow men, either as pri- 
 vate individuals or as members of institutions — ^mem- 
 bers of the social whole. 
 
 One may conduct himself in such a manner as to 
 obstruct the actions of his fellow men and thereby re- 
 duce their labours and strivings to a nullity, more or 
 less, according to his power and skill. Or, on the 
 other hand, he may act in such a manner as to reen- 
 force their labours and strivings and increase the net 
 product of human endeavour. 
 
 The fact that there are rational objects to be 
 achieved by humanity — name them collectively as the 
 conquest of nature for man's use and the peaceful 
 combination of man with men to the end that each in- 
 dividual may share in the experience of all individuals 
 • — these objects ought to be the common aim of all 
 rational beings : this fact furnishes the basis and norm 
 of ethics. It makes evident the Source of Power. The 
 individual who promotes the twofold end of civilisa- 
 tion increases the aggregate power of mankind and at 
 the same time shares in that power. His own help 
 
vi Preface 
 
 of others is reflected back upon him. He gets in ex- 
 change for the mite that he contributes, the right to 
 participate in the positive outcome of the labours of all. 
 This is a true source of power and it can be approached 
 in only one sure way — ^by the adoption of ethical action 
 as a habit, and by continuous growth in ethical insight. 
 
 Human power consists in the control of nature and 
 the ability to effect combinations with one's fellow men. 
 
 Ethics is in the first place a matter of the will; it 
 concerns the form of doing. 
 
 Good breeding consists chiefly in correct habits of 
 practice rather than in correct modes of thinking. And 
 good behaviour is a bundle of good habits. All the 
 habits that facilitate combination with one's fellow 
 men in matters of common weal concern the will 
 rather than the intellect. 
 
 Thus in the school, behaviour is the first considera- 
 tion. For it makes possible the concerted work — work 
 in classes. The class work of the school is of an alto- 
 gether higher order than mere individual study under 
 a private tutor. For in the class the pupil sees the 
 failures and successes of his schoolmates who are of 
 the same grade of progress as himself; he measures 
 his work by their work and discovers from day to 
 day other ways of looking at the subject of the lesson. 
 He gradually learns to reenforce his own insight by 
 the insights of others. But the individual pursuing his 
 work by himself under a tutor is not aided in this 
 salutary way. His teacher is in another orbit and does 
 not help him by emulation or vicarious experience — • 
 the sight of others in the same plight as himself and 
 
Preface vii 
 
 yet achieving success by one or another device of in- 
 dustry and persistence. 
 
 In order that the school may perfect its method of 
 teaching the individual by the class, there are certain 
 ethical habits necessary, regularity of attendance, of 
 study, of concerted action — all pupils intent on the 
 same thing. Next there is punctuality ; readiness and 
 alertness, even more necessary than regularity in mak- 
 ing the school with its class work effective. Then, 
 thirdly, there is silence, a self-repression of tendencies 
 to disorder, a subjugation of the animal proclivity to 
 prate and chatter. Silence on the part of pupils en- 
 ables them all to concentrate their attention on the 
 exposition of the teacher; its opposite has the effect 
 of producing distraction. 
 
 The activity of each nullifies the activity of his fel- 
 lows. The morbid desire to attract attention to one's 
 self is repressed by the school virtue of silence; re- 
 spect for the rights of others and for the triumph 
 of the grand aim of the school takes its place. 
 
 A fourth schoolroom virtue is industry in the form 
 of work at the assigned task. It takes on one of two 
 forms: first the individual absorption of each by 
 himself in the prescribed study or investigation of 
 the topic for to-day's lesson. This is an absorption in 
 which the pupil goes from the external, first aspects 
 of a subject to the secondary ones, deeper and higher. 
 He learns to test and discard the superficial and to 
 seize essentials. He learns to strive for insight into 
 profound principles. 
 
 The other side of school industry is the alert and 
 
viii Preface 
 
 critical attention to the work of one's fellows under the 
 review of the teacher in the class exercise. In the for- 
 mer kind of industry the pupil is absorbed in his own 
 work oblivious of the presence of teacher and fellow 
 pupils. He is using his whole might to master his 
 task. In the latter kind of industry the pupil is con- 
 centrating his attention on the work of others. Each 
 form of attention is essential to culture. 
 
 In the lines of direct will-training the school is 
 potent in building up good habits of cooperation with 
 one's fellows. By effort and reiterated precept of the 
 teacher good habits in respect to regularity, punc- 
 tuality, silence and industry get formed and become 
 a second nature, unconsciously a part of the personal 
 make-up of each pupil. 
 
 But because these are unconscious habits they have 
 sunk below the strictly moral plane of action, for they 
 are more or less mechanical. The truly moral must 
 be connected with a world-view — a. theory of a moral 
 order of the universe. 
 
 There should be formed a habit of looking for the 
 rational ground of each action — ^a habit of ethical 
 thinking that amounts to conscientiousness. The bun- 
 dle of practical habits results from mechanical obe- 
 dience to the school order and although it serves great 
 ends in that it makes possible cooperation with one's 
 fellows, the pupil may not understand the rationale 
 of his practical habits and they may have merely a 
 conservative influence preserving the traditional use 
 and wont that stands in the way of readjustment to 
 higher ideals. 
 
Preface ix 
 
 Thus it happens that the second way to ethical life 
 belongs to the intellect rather than to the will di- 
 rectly. It concerns a competent discussion of the 
 grounds of conduct — the standards of morality. 
 Along this second line of ethical theory and prac- 
 tice — ^which is that chosen by Mrs. Cabot in this book 
 — the somewhat advanced student is called away from 
 ethical habit to the consideration of the moral grounds 
 of all habit. It is especially the consideration to which 
 the future leader of public opinion should give atten- 
 tion in his own preparatory studies. It is moreover 
 specially the line of ethical training needed by tht 
 school teacher, although not to the exclusion of a care- 
 ful study of the rationale of the discipline of school 
 order and of unconscious habit in the elements of gootl 
 breeding. 
 
 The teacher should know the application of the high- 
 est ethical principles and be able to bring them to the 
 aid of the immature mind struggling to free itself in 
 the presence of a conflict of duties. 
 
 A careful training of the teacher in discriminating 
 the motives of conduct is useful, not merely in the 
 practical settlement of cases of discipline that arise, 
 but — what is of even more importance — useful in 
 getting an insight into all the studies of the school 
 which have human nature as their content or subject; 
 for example, literature, history, biography, economics, 
 commerce, politics, and the like. 
 
 Great stress is laid by the author on the choice o£ 
 a special calling in life and on the moral support it 
 ^ives to character. In fact it is made a ver^ impor^ 
 
X Preface 
 
 tant norm for the decision of one's course in the 
 presence of conflicting duties. 
 
 Each activity of the soul, memory, imagination, 
 courage, feeling, the sense of honour, has its moral 
 aspect. It contributes to strengthen or to weaken the 
 moral character. The discussion of details under this 
 head forms one of the most valuable features of the 
 present treatise and cannot fail to aid the teacher who 
 gives it careful study. 
 
 Care is taken by the author to avoid sentimental- 
 ism on the one hand and on the other hand the ap- 
 proach to unintelligible abstractions. The composition 
 of the book is such that live questions are everywhere 
 introduced and the interest of the reader is aroused 
 at the outset and held firmly to the end. 
 
 [William T. Harris. 
 Washington, 1905. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. The Diffusion of Ethics 
 
 I. Rise and Spread of Ethical Questions . . . . i 
 
 II. Virtue the Condition of Success 3 
 
 III. AH Interests Lead to Ethics 7 
 
 IV. Ethics is one Outlook upon Everything in the 
 
 World 9 
 
 V. What the Study of Ethics can Accomplish . . 10 
 
 II. Boundaries 
 
 I. No Moral Responsibility without Choice . . . 17 
 II. The Boundary Line between Voluntary and In- 
 voluntary Acts is often Difficult to Trace . 20 
 ni. We are Responsible for Preparing to become 
 
 Non-Responsible 22 
 
 IV. We are Always Responsible for our Will . . .27 
 
 V. Necessity for Periods of Non-Responsibility . . 29 
 
 III. The Power of Purpose 
 
 I. The Distinctive Qualities of a Ptirpose ... 32 
 
 II. The Moral Life is the Purposeful Life .... 35 
 
 lit Purpose Classifies Acts as Right or Wrong . . 37 
 IV Ethics is Concerned with all Acts which Embody 
 
 a Purpose 40 
 
 V, A PtiriKJSe is a Sign and Source of Power ... 43 
 
 IV. Goodness, the Essence of Manhood 
 
 I. Goodness is Fitness for a Chosen Purpose . . 46 
 
 II. Nothing is Forever Purposeless or Worthless . . 49 
 m. Goodness Involves Sacrifice for the Sake of 
 
 Fulfihnent 51 
 
 IV. The Likeness between Goodness and Virtue . . 5^ 
 
 V. The Difference between Goodness and Virtue . 55 
 iz 
 
c Contents 
 
 V. How TO Judge Purposes 
 
 I. To Judge any Act we must Know its Life History S9 
 II. The Good Purpose is Carefully Chosen and Loy- 
 ally Followed 62 
 
 III. It Avoids both Inertia and Dissipation ... 70 
 
 IV. Virtue is the Control of Impulse by Purpose . • 74 
 
 ^ VI. The Darkness of Sin 
 
 I. Sin is Avoidance of Light 77 
 
 II. It is our own Power Turned against Ourself . . 86 
 III. It is Wilful Abandonment of our Aim .... 90 
 
 VII. The Light of Conscience 
 
 I. Conscience is the Sensible and Timely Will to 
 
 Know the Right Act 93 
 
 II. It is Openness to the Light of Truth .... 97 
 III. We can be Overscrupulous, not Overconscien- 
 
 tious 104 
 
 VIII. Conscience, Custom and Law 
 
 I. The Conscience of the Past, as Expressed in Law 
 
 f and Custom 108 
 
 • II. The Relation of Law to Morality 110 
 
 III. The Relation of Custom to Morality . . . .118 
 
 (a) The Significance of Custom . . . .119 
 
 (b) The Effect of Custom on the Sense of 
 
 Guilt 122 
 
 IX. Interests as Life Givers and Life Savers 
 
 1. We See with our Interests, because they are 
 
 Ourselves 125 
 
 II. The Distinction of an Interest from a Wish or a 
 
 Liking 127 
 
 III. Interests as Reformers 129 
 
 IV. All Subjects may become of Interest . . . .135 
 
 V. By the Deepening Process of Work and of Insight 138 
 
 , X. The Choice of Interests 
 
 I. The Common Nature of Interests 142 
 
 II. Classification of Types of Interest 144 
 
 III. Indications of the Right Choice of Interest • . 155 
 
Contents xi 
 
 XI. Effort, Sacrifice, and Drudger? 
 
 I. The Relation of Growth to Effort 158 
 
 II. The Tests of Right Sacrifice 161 
 
 ni. Sacrifice ought always to be a Means to Self- 
 Fulfilment 167 
 
 IV, The Permanent Need of Effort 169 
 
 XII. Selfishness 
 
 I. Selfhood is Essential to Moral Life 173 
 
 II. My Self Consists of all with which I am Iden^ 
 
 tified 177 
 
 III. Selfishness is Wilful Narrowness in Person^ 
 
 Relations 179 
 
 rv. Every Unselfish Act Breaks its Shell of Narrow- 
 ness 184 
 
 XIII. Sympathy 
 
 ' I. Sympathy Expresses the Width of Selfhood . . 188 
 
 11. Perfected Sympathy is Realisation of the Truth . 191 
 
 III. And must Include Firmness and Common Sense . 194 
 
 IV. Sympathy Grows by Intimate Knowledge and 
 
 Devotion 198 
 
 V. And becomes a Creative Force 200 
 
 XIV. Imagination 
 
 ' I. The Meaning of Imagination 202 
 
 II. It is Essential to the Fulfilment of any Aim . . 204 
 III. Faults due to Lack of Imagination 209 
 
 XV. Memory 
 
 I. Memory is Central in Human Life 215 
 
 II. By the Use of Memory we Overcome Temptation 217 ' 
 
 III. The Cultivation of Memory 220 
 
 rvr. Exclusion is one Aspect of Memory .... 223 
 
 ^ V. To Remember is to Attain Integrity .... 325 
 
 XVL Courage 
 
 I. The Difference between Courage and Fearlessness 228 
 
 n. Courage is the Effort to Control Fear .... 230 
 
 UL Suggestions for the Conquest of Fear .... 233 
 
xii Contents 
 
 XVII. Thought Aglow with Feeling 
 
 I. The Inadequacy of Inarticulate Feeling . . . 240 
 IL Thought and Feeling Supplement one another . 243 
 III. Expression through Art 249 
 
 XVIII. Thought and Action 
 
 I. Action without Evasion 253 
 
 II. Times when Thought should be Controlled . . 257 
 
 III. The Bliss of Ignorance is Alien to Growth . • 260 
 
 IV. Thought in the Presence of Temptation . . .262 
 
 XIX. Truth 
 
 I. The Corrosion of Falsehood 265 
 
 II. Reasons for Truthfulness 267 
 
 m. Truthfulness is the Effort to Convey an Accurate 
 
 Impression 270 
 
 rv. The Causes and Treatment of Lying .... 273 
 
 XX. Truth Speaking as a Fine Art 
 
 I. Speaking the Truth in Love 281 
 
 II. The Acquirement of Skill in Truth Speaking . . 283 
 
 III. The Relation of Truth to Loyalty 289 
 
 IV. Truth as the Guardian of Character .... 293 
 
 XXI. Open-Mindedness and Prejudice 
 
 I. Prejudice due to a Mistaken Idea of Loyalty . . 296 
 
 II. The Strength of Open-mindedness 298 
 
 III. Evils due to Prejudice 301 
 
 IV. The Attainment of Fair-mindedness .... 306 
 
 XXII. Self-Government 
 
 L The Paradoxical Nature of Self-government . . 312 
 n. The Ascent from Servitude to a Chosen Obedience 313 
 
 III. Disobedience as an Aspect of Loyal Consecration 319 
 
 IV. The Value of Self-government 322 
 
 XXIII. The Use of Time 
 
 I. The Meaning of Saving Time 325 
 
 n. Aimlessness and Disloyalty are the Thieves of 
 
 Time 227 
 
 ni. The Moulding of Time to Our Ends . . . .333 
 IV. Virtue and Timeliness 337 
 
Contents xiii 
 
 TEACHERS' KEY 341 
 
 Introduction 343 
 
 Methods of Teaching 347 
 
 I. The Meaning of Ethics 351 
 
 II. The Moral and the Involuntary 355 
 
 III. The Power of a Purpose 360 
 
 IV. Goodness and Badness 364 
 
 V. Right and Wrong Judgments 367 
 
 VI. The Darkness of Wrong-Doing 370 
 
 VII. The Light of Conscience 373 
 
 vin. Conscience, Custom and Law 376 
 
 I IX. Interests as Life Givers and Life Savers . . 379 
 
 X. The Choice of Interests 381 
 
 XI. Sacrifice and Drudgery 385 
 
 XII. Selfishness 388 
 
 XIII. Sympathy 392 
 
 XIV. The Value of Imagination 395 
 
 XV. Memory 39S 
 
 XVI. Courage 401 
 
 XVII. Quick Feeling and Steady Thought .... 406 
 
 XVIII. Thought and Action 409 
 
 XIX. Truth 413 
 
 XX. Truth Speaking as a Fine Art 417 
 
 XXI. Open-Mindedness and Prejudice 421 
 
 XXII. Obedience and Self-Government 425 
 
 XXIII. The Use of Time 429 
 
 INDEX . • 433 
 
EVERYDAY ETHICS 
 
 CHAPTER I^ 
 THE DIFFUSION OF ETHICS 
 
 " You can keep no men long, nor Scotchmen at all, off 
 moral or theological discussion. . . . They are to 
 all the world what law is to lawyers, they are every- 
 body's technicalities, the medium through which all 
 consider life and the dialect in which they express 
 their judgment." ^ Moral questions are incessantly 
 discussed by old and young. " It is a disgrace that 
 Tillman was acquitted ! " " Mamma, Charlie ought 
 not to knock down my card house." " Do you 
 think it is right for me to spend so much on that 
 silk waist? " " If you really want to learn the outer 
 roll you should go skating every day that the ice 
 will bear." Questions of right and wrong are woven 
 into all conversation; they are as close to our life as 
 the air we breathe ; but this is not surprising, for any- 
 one who has any interests whatsoever is concerned 
 with ethical problems. The careful study of these 
 issues which we so often touch upon and glide away 
 from is my task in this book. The study of right- 
 1 Robert Louis Stevenson, " Memories and Portraits," p. 153. 
 
2 Everyday Ethics 
 
 choosing and well-doing, — that is, of doing anything 
 well, — is ethics ; it is the study of what to do and how 
 to do it. 
 
 No one begins his moral life by a deliberate choice. 
 Before we know it we find ourselves standing knee- 
 deep in the water of moral decisions and pulled this 
 way and that by eddying currents, the opinions of par- 
 ents and friends. We have been sent to school without 
 being asked our opinion of its value, we have been told 
 that it is babyish to cry, wicked to get dirty, and wrong 
 to steal sugar ; and we have lived close to some wonder- 
 ful, long-sufifering love which has influenced us far 
 more than we begin to know. But sooner or later we 
 are awakened by a decision of our own, great or small, 
 and begin in a dim, fragmentary way to ponder ques- 
 tions of right and wrong, — that is, to study ethics. 
 
 For example, a boy finds himself possessed by a 
 strong impulse to succeed in athletics or in some form 
 of art, to become a great explorer, or to help the poor. 
 If he wants to make a success in athletics, how ought 
 he to go about it ? Two questions immediately arise : — 
 What opportunities are there? What are his own 
 powers? To make a sensible decision, he must know 
 the situation and his own abilities. He must make 
 his choice within the field of athletics by studying 
 sensibly the situation about him. The country is 
 suited to certain sports rather than to others. If 
 there is a wide stretch of land, it gives an opportunity 
 for golf, a small level patch is exactly fitted for tenni% 
 but not nearly large enough for a golf course, — ^the 
 lack of water near by makes rowing impracticable, and 
 
The Diffusion of Ethics 3 
 
 the remoteness from neighbours makes it difficult to 
 organise a football eleven. 
 
 Circumstances seem to favour his playing tennis, 
 but before deciding he must consider also his own 
 power. Is he strong enough for tennis, or has he a 
 weak wrist? Which game is the most interesting, and 
 for which has he most skill ? These questions must be 
 answered before a wise decision can be made. 
 
 On the whole he decides to play golf. How shall 
 he learn? Mainly in three ways. He must have 
 instruction, he must practise, he must study the play 
 of others. 
 
 II 
 
 We come next to a point of special interest. It 
 turns out that if one is to succeed in playing golf, he 
 must acquire and exercise patience, industry, concen- 
 tration, perseverance, pluck, and self-sacrifice. In fact 
 to do what he wants to do really well he must 
 develop a group of powers which are really virtues. 
 But this is not peculiar to athletics. The successful 
 musician must be energetic, persevering, industrious, 
 must overcome fear, and resist allurements, must con- 
 trol himself under provocation ; so also must the sailor, 
 the motorman, the washerwoman, the nurse, the doc- 
 tor, and the soldier. 
 
 This means that it is our chosen work that is the 
 best moral teacher. Though we aim only to be efficient, 
 to make a success of what we undertake, no matter 
 what it is, we find that in the process we develop what 
 
4 Everyday Ethics 
 
 people call " virtues." This point seems to me so im- 
 portant as to need further illustration. 
 
 The Freshman who aspires to play football next 
 autumn has no intention of being virtuous. What he 
 wants is to get on the team, but if he succeeds it will be 
 because he has or acquires a set of powers which are 
 just those which his best friends would want him to 
 have. 
 
 " If Jack would only put the same determination, the 
 same perseverance, the same self-restraint and ambition 
 into other things that he does into football, he would 
 be perfect." 
 
 In this part of his life he is all that they want him 
 to be, and it is there that he is happiest, least con- 
 strained, most expressed and on his mettle. The quali- 
 ties he shows in football are as truly virtues as when 
 they are displayed in war or engineering. 
 
 It is true that a boy may show great self-control in 
 the way he plays football and none at all in the way he 
 spends his money, just as the sailor may show great 
 courage in a storm and none in resisting the temptation 
 to drink. A politician is often very unselfish in making 
 sacrifices for his children, but utterly selfish toward 
 the citizens whom he defrauds by putting in as super- 
 intendent of streets a personal friend who is unfit. 
 There are many people who show their good qualities 
 only in a small fraction of their life, the part where 
 their keen interest is aroused. Here they are fully 
 alive and so are " good." When we study, as we do 
 in ethics, the core of good action, we find it wher- 
 ever anyone is doing his work well, whether he knows 
 
The Dififusion of Ethics 5 
 
 it to be his duty and calls it so, or whether he only feels 
 it to be worth doing. The laws of ethics are the princi- 
 ples which anyone must follow to attain success in any 
 pursuit, and what are called virtues are the powers 
 developed by and necessary to any efficient work. 
 
 It is worth noticing here that it is through activity 
 and efficiency that goodness is reached, not through 
 avoidance of actions that might possibly be dangerous 
 or disturbing. It is impressed upon us from childhood 
 up that being good is the same as keeping quiet, sitting 
 still, not getting dirty, and avoiding breakage of china. 
 
 " Do as you're told. 
 
 Come when you're bid. 
 Shut the door softly 
 And you'll never be chid." 
 
 Now it is true that shutting the door softly and sit- 
 iing still may at times and for some special reason be 
 good acts, but in themselves they tend to stifle and dis- 
 hearten the moral life which grows through activity. 
 When the good characters in books are, like Owen 
 Wister's Virginian, men of unquenchable purpose, 
 the identification of good with stupid, and bad with 
 interesting will lose its meaning. This fallacy still 
 haunts many who are but half aware of it. 
 
 So far I have taken up only the large, far-reach- 
 ing decisions as to one's work — decisions such as 
 are made only a few times in one's life, but no matter 
 how small or great the decision, ethics is always con- 
 cerned with what to do and how to do it. Making a 
 moral decision always means trying to think fearlessly, 
 
6 Everyday Ethics ' 
 
 sensibly, and sympathetically about whatever we pro- 
 pose to do. 
 
 At the opening of the Spanish War, Commodore 
 Dewey was confronted with the question whether or 
 not he should enter Manila Bay and bombard the city. 
 The weight of great responsibility hung over him. 
 He had time to think carefully, as he was bound to 
 think, without flinching from the consequences and 
 without self-deceit. What did he need to consider in 
 order to make the best decision? 
 
 First of all he needed to reenforce in his memory 
 the sense of his obligation — his contract to fulfil the 
 duties of a commodore of the United States. Next he 
 had to decide the question : Will it further the pur- 
 pose for which I am here if I enter Manila Bay and 
 bombard the city ? What will be the gain to the United 
 States in case of success and the loss in case of failure ? 
 He had to consider the danger, not as it affected him- 
 self or his friends, but as it concerned the effective- 
 ness of his fleet and the prestige of his country. 
 The decision to take all necessary risks for himself and 
 his men was made long before ; but he still needed to 
 consider the fitness of his squadron for the task before 
 it and to " size up " the whole situation. He needed, 
 that is, to know all the relevant circumstances and 
 the capacity of the group of men under his com- 
 mand. 
 
 The decision what to do once made, his next ques- 
 tion was how to do it. " Shall the attack be made by 
 night or by day ? How shall I best avoid the torpedoes 
 in the harbour? At what point is the weakest defence 
 
The 7?if5fusion of Ethics 7 
 
 of the city? Is it an advantage or an added danger to 
 cooperate with the insurgent Filipinos?" 
 
 All pursuits have something in common, and the 
 same principles are applicable to every one. A friend 
 of mine, in doubt about his choice of a profession, 
 visited many people who were following different lines 
 of work — lawyers, doctors, business men, politicians, 
 musicians— and asked of each : " What qualities do you 
 need to succeed in your profession ? " Much to his 
 surprise, each answered in almost the same words: 
 " You need energy, perseverance, resource, good 
 judgment, interest in your work, concentration, imag- 
 ination." This is what we have found out in think- 
 ing about different pursuits, and it is what makes 
 the study of ethics, which deals with what is common 
 to all aims, all work, all achievement, universally in- 
 teresting and important.' 
 
 Ill 
 
 If you'are undertaking any work whatsoever, you 
 are in so far interested in ethics. We can picture 
 ethics as like a sun shooting out rays in eveiy direction. 
 If you are interested in anything, the rays from ethics 
 hit you. 
 
 As it is only when you are a tramp without ties or 
 aims that your citizenship becomes unreal, so it is only 
 as you are a moral tramp with no stake in life anywhere 
 that ethics cannot touch you. The tramp, as his name 
 suggests, is always on the move, but yet going nowhere 
 in particular. He will not settle down nor yet travel 
 with any definite purpose. The moral tramp is out- 
 
8 Everyday Ethics 
 
 wardly respectable and usually covers less ground than 
 his ragged brother of the road, but like all tramps he 
 will not stick to anything, accumulate anything, or 
 commit himself to anything. We may like or dislike 
 him and he may like or dislike his beat; but duties he 
 has none. He must first take a hand somewhere in the 
 game of life ; hold some property, get a job, marry, or 
 become an anarchist. As soon as he commits himself 
 in any of these ways he is bound by duties on every 
 side. 
 
 Ethics is a real and living study only because it deals 
 with the myriad interests of all who are taking a hand 
 in the game of life, as citizenship is significant because 
 it includes the myriad activities of all citizens. Wipe 
 out all the pursuits and interests of its citizens and you 
 have not the United States, but an absolute blank. So 
 it is with ethics. Wipe out all the interests toward 
 which ethics radiates, and ethics is nothing; it too is 
 an absolute blank. This point is so important that we 
 need to consider it carefully. Here is our Country to 
 which we owe everything. What should we be without 
 it ? Yet on the other hand without us, that is, without 
 all the lives of its inhabitants, our country would be 
 utterly meaningless. This does not mean that citizen- 
 ship in the United States is but a name. No, it is the 
 greatness of the country that it at the same time moulds 
 and is moulded by the lives of all its citizens. So it is 
 the strength, not the weakness, of ethics that, while 
 concerned with all interests yet identical with none, it 
 draws its life from the eager pursuits of which the 
 Avprld is fijll. Wherever a human being strikes a job, 
 
The Diffusion of Ethics 9' 
 
 there is ethical life, just as when the runner from a vine 
 strikes the earth, there grows a root. Only those who 
 are unrooted are outside of the grip of moral issues. 
 
 IV 
 
 It may easily seem that I am making ethics so 
 central and all-pervasive a subject that it monopolises 
 the world. The scientist may say : " You claim that 
 ethics penetrates all human life, but science penetrates 
 everything, human and non-human. Make room for 
 science." The artist, too, and the lawyer finds material 
 everywhere and will not be crowded out by ethics. 
 There is no need that they should be. Ethics is one 
 point of view from which to look at everything in the 
 world, and science, art, and law are other points of 
 view. The subject of marriage, for example, can be 
 looked at from an ethical point of view. Ought any 
 girl to marry a man who has consumption ? It can be 
 looked at from an artistic point of view, as, in the 
 love scenes of Romeo and Juliet. It can be looked at 
 from a scientific point of view, as it is when the statis- 
 tics of marriage and divorce are stated impartially and 
 without reference to right and wrong or to the happi- 
 ness and tragedy involved. Marriage can be looked at 
 from a legal point of view. The law decides at what 
 age a girl can marry without her parents' consent, 
 what are the rights of a woman to her husband's prop- 
 erty, what degree of ill-treatment is ground for annul- 
 ling a marriage. 
 
 Every subject may have these aspects and countless 
 
10 Everyday Ethics 
 
 ■others. I was once driving to a much-anticipated ball 
 with a friend who, though also invited to the ball, had 
 decided to go to a lecture which I thought very dull. 
 As we drove along we had a hot discussion about the 
 relative value and interest of these two ways of spend- 
 ing the evening. As I was getting out at the house 
 where the ball was to take place, our driver asked a 
 question which brought home to us with a wholesome 
 shock the difference between our point of view and his : 
 " Where did you say," he inquired with a jerk of his 
 head toward my friend in the carriage, " the other 
 freight was to be unloaded ? " 
 
 Everything in the world may be considered on its 
 physical side, its aesthetic side, its legal side, and in 
 countless other aspects. We are interested here in con- 
 sidering everything from its ethical side. 
 
 If we cut off from our present stu3y these other 
 points of view and turn our undivided attention 
 toward ethics we find at the outset an important ques- 
 tion. Can the study of ethics make us good or show 
 us what we ought to do? Only indirectly. A doctor 
 can tell a young man that the use of opium is ruining 
 his health. He can make this vivid by describing what 
 the effect on his brain and his character will be. As a 
 result the man may give up taking opium, but the 
 doctor cannot make him give it up. Nevertheless it 
 is the duty of the doctor to open the patient's eyes; 
 then, if he chooses to go on, it is with his eyes open. 
 
The Diffusion of Ethics ill 
 
 Ethics is like the doctor. It cannot force anyone to be 
 good, but it can make us recognise that, just as small 
 doses of opium gradually kill the body, so selfishness, 
 indolence, falsehood, are suicide of the spiritual nature. 
 
 It is important to realise, also, that ethics cannot 
 touch us at all if we stand aloof from every aim and 
 every interest. The great stream of active life, brimful 
 of questions of right and wrong, flows along continu- 
 ally, but we may sit on the bank and refuse to enter; 
 we may dabble our hands in it and draw them out and 
 let the shining drops slip through our fingers. " If you 
 take small doses of morphine every day you will gradu- 
 ally ruin your health and character," says the doctor. 
 " Let them go," the infatuated man may answer. " If 
 you want to go to college, you must study every even- 
 ing." " I don't care whether I do or not," may be the 
 baffling reply, baffling because the binding force of all 
 these counsels depends on the word if, with which each 
 begins, and if anyone denies his part in each and 
 all of them, moral rules slip ofif him like water off a 
 slanting roof. He is left to vegetate or become a brute 
 as he will. 
 
 Ethics cannot help us against our will ; it cannot help 
 us when we have no will ; neither can it tell us the par- 
 ticular steps we are to take. If you ask : " Does ethics 
 show me what I ought to do?" the answer is again: 
 " No." No book on ethics can tell you what you ought 
 to do, because each life, and so the right choice in any 
 life, is different from any that has been made before. 
 
 A girl is trying to decide whether she ought to go to 
 college or not. No book on ethics can say that she 
 
12 Everyday Ethics 
 
 ought to go to college, nor can it go so far as to say 
 that all girls ought to go to college. She may be in 
 duty bound to stay at home and take care of her blind 
 father, and if it would be wrong for her to go, then it 
 cannot be true that all girls should go, nor even that 
 all girls who can afford it should go. It is the whole 
 significance and joy of our lives that each one is dif- 
 ferent and each decision new, like the first step in a 
 field of unbroken snow. Ethics cannot direct the steps 
 because no book or theory can anticipate our advance 
 into the untrodden future. 
 
 I said that ethics is the study of what to do and how 
 to do it. I need to add at once that it gives the princi- 
 ples or general rules for any act and never the par- 
 ticular decision. We all follow the same principles 
 when we carry out any plan, but we apply them dif- 
 ferently. 
 
 A glance at various careers will make this clearer. 
 We have already seen that if you want to succeed in 
 golf, medicine, society, or anything else you must know 
 your subject thoroughly, know your own capacities, 
 and apply steadily all your powers. The particular 
 rule, however, is different in each case. The golfer 
 says: Keep your eye on the ball. The doctor says: 
 Keep your eye on the patient's lips. The politician 
 says : Keep your eye on the State of New York. The 
 music teacher says : Keep your eye on the notes. 
 
 Ethics is concerned with what is called for in all 
 these different directions, and that is among other 
 things, attention, concentration, intentness. If you are 
 going to do anything well you must look sharp. That 
 
The Diffusion of Ethics 13 
 
 is a universal rule of successful action, and so it is a 
 law of ethics. The particular choice is unique, how- 
 ever, your own and not another's, and so there can be 
 no specific rule. 
 
 Let us turn to the positive side. We already have 
 had glimpses of what it is that ethics can do for us ; it 
 is time to see more fully. Ethics helps us by giving us 
 principles of action as tools for clearing away under- 
 brush. Living is always making our way through an 
 unexplored country, sometimes with dense woods to 
 penetrate, sometimes with rushing rivers to navigate, 
 and sometimes with open green fields where we are 
 tempted to linger. The help ethics can give is very 
 much like the help of having an axe with us on such a 
 journey. The axe does not cut until we swing it, nor 
 unless we keep it sharp ; nor does the axe decide for us 
 what to cut. There are times when we hardly use it 
 because our way is clear, but any day we may meet 
 difficulties in which we should be utterly baffled with- 
 out it. Many a moral question is as baffling and tangled 
 as dense underbrush, and even where the decision is 
 not in itself important it is often puzzling. 
 
 My father and mother are away for a week when I 
 wake up one morning with an uncomfortable cold. 
 Ought I to go to school or not ? Of course, my mother 
 would not want me to make my cold worse, nor, on the 
 other hand, to miss school unnecessarily. At this stage 
 of the question we have a deadlock. Either decision 
 seems wrong. The first way in which the study of 
 ethics would help me is to suggest that I must know 
 the circumstances and my own nature better. How 
 
14 Everyday Ethics 
 
 bad is my cold? Am I feverish? Am I naturally 
 strong? Have I had similar colds which vsrere not in- 
 creased by going out? Is the schoolroom likely to be 
 close or hot? 
 
 If I dislike school, I am likely to find myself saying, 
 " I may be feverish, and I might make my cold wrorse 
 by going to school. Mamma would never want me to 
 do that, and besides there is an examination in algebra 
 to-day and if I go to-morrow I shall not have to 
 take it." 
 
 Ethics clears up this tangle in three ways. It helps 
 us to see which facts are really relevant ; it helps us to 
 clear away self-deceit; and it helps us to put in order 
 our reasons, pro and con, so that instead of a jumble 
 of mixed ideas we have a number of clear arguments 
 on each side and can weigh and balance fairly. It is 
 true that I have a cold, but I am naturally strong; I 
 take my temperature and find I am not feverish; the 
 sky is grey, but it hardly looks like a bad storm, and 
 as for the examination, that has absolutely nothing to 
 do with the question. It ought not to have the slightest 
 weight. On the whole it is fairly clear that I ought to 
 go, and if my cold is made worse I will take that into 
 account another time. 
 
 This last sentence suggests still further the help that 
 careful thought about moral questions gives. It teaches 
 us to glean from our past and from the past of others 
 help that prevents our stumbling over recurring decis- 
 ions or repeating old blunders. What should we 
 think of a captain who went to sea in a ship whose 
 seaworthiness he had never investigated? Yet our 
 
The Diffusion of Ethics 15 
 
 lives with their critical moral decisions are far more 
 important than any boat, and we are the sole com- 
 manders in them. We know it is blameworthy and 
 foolhardy to sign papers whose contents we have not 
 read. Is it not far more blameworthy and foolhardy 
 to take upon ourselves the responsibilities of marriage 
 or of the choice of a profession without all the foresight 
 we can gain ? 
 
 I A general of long experience can look over a be- 
 wildering battle scene, see what is happening, and 
 give the command for the best thing to be done. The 
 smoke, the deafening noise, the masses of wounded, 
 the scattered troops whose colours are so blurred that 
 it is hard to tell friend from foe, are still there for him 
 as for you ; but he has learned to see the important and 
 put aside the irrelevant. He has a plan of battle which 
 gives him a clue to guide his decision, he knows the 
 principles of attack, he has gathered up the experience 
 of other generals and of other battles. So in moral 
 life if we are to be ready for experience we must learn 
 to make our plan of battle and to formulate our princi- 
 ples of attack through study, through practice, and 
 through watching the career of others among us or 
 before us on the field. 
 
 The student of ethics has a rich mine of past expe- 
 rience in which to dig. History shows certain recurring 
 types of moral puzzles into which people fall again and 
 again and which by hook or crook they finally conquer. 
 We aim to anticipate these perils and, before the crisis 
 comes, to avail ourselves of the experiences of the past 
 in tackling these problems apd facing them with sys- 
 
1 6 Everyday Ethics 
 
 tern and deliberation instead of with the desperate 
 courage born of necessity. We aim to pull the future 
 into the present and so live more intensely and less at 
 haphazard. 
 
 We cannot take our morality on trust any more than 
 our politics or religion; neither need we act as if 
 no one had ever had such problems before, nor wait 
 till the moment of temptation before we think out our 
 principles. Sophistry or conventionalism is the result 
 of not anticipating moral problems. Unless we think 
 out our principles we are swayed by the sophistry of 
 momentary desires, or we give up reasoning and accept 
 old answers unquestioned. 
 
 A boatman who canoes down a river frequently 
 meets the problem of the eddy at corners. It has con- 
 fronted thousands and upset hundreds. Similarly in 
 ethics, there are certain whirlpools that come sooner or 
 later in almost every life. They should be anticipated 
 and their problems thought out. You may find a better 
 solution than any hitherto discovered. Ethics does not 
 prejudge the way of meeting the eddy. It suggests 
 how the eddy has been and may be met, and stimulates 
 you to realise the difficulty and to make an effort to 
 find an ideal solution. Ethics is this systematic effort 
 to anticipate and solve recurrent problems and to light 
 up the new problems by fire kindled in the flame oit, 
 past victories. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 BOUNDARIES 
 
 When a person buys a large piece of land, the first 
 thing he does is to find out its boundaries. Otherwise 
 he might waste time and get into trouble by cutting 
 down trees or cultivating fields which did not belong to 
 him. This is what we need to do before we go farther 
 in the consideration of ethics. As I have said already, 
 ethics is the study of right-choosing and well-doing, 
 and anyone who is carrying out any plan whatsoever is 
 concerned with it. But we need to make more definite 
 the boundary lines between what is in the field of 
 ethics, that is of moral life, and what is beyond it, 
 Huxley's desire for a perfectly arranged clockwork 
 life brings us at once in view of the whole question 
 of moral responsibility : " I protest [he writes] that if 
 some great power would agree to make me always 
 think what is true and do what is right, on condition 
 of being turned into a sort of clock and wound up 
 every morning, I would instantly close with the offer." ^ 
 Why is such a proposition utterly repugnant to us in 
 spite of the freedom from sin, failure, doubt and effort 
 which by Huxley's conditions are to go with the accept- 
 
 »T. H. Huxley, "Lay Sermons." p. 3401 
 17 
 
i8 Everyday Ethics 
 
 ance of a clockwork life? We say that it is uninterest- 
 ing, monotonous, dreary, that it would make people all 
 alike, that it is too easy and leaves nothing to strive 
 for ; but underlying all these answers is the deeper one 
 that compulsion to do the right act wipes out the 
 whole moral life which is the life of choice. We should 
 not be ourselves if we were made to do right, we say,, 
 and this is true, because if we did the right mechani-', 
 cally we should lose the most characteristic part of our^ 
 life as human beings, which is the power to choose 
 what to do and how to do it. 
 
 This realisation, that in spite of all the suffering, the 
 disgrace, the struggle involved, we would rather be 
 moral beings than perfect machines, is far-reaching in 
 its significance. It takes away the bitterness even of 
 sorrow, evil, and shame, because we recognise that they 
 are a part of the life of morality, with all its eager 
 outlook and all its possibility of growth. It is better 
 to rise over difficulties than to have them smoothed 
 away, better to resist evil and even to fail and be dis- 
 graced than to live in the choiceless innocence of a 
 violet or a crystal. 
 
 Our reaction against Huxley's suggestion shows 
 us that moral life is the life of choice. The non- 
 responsible or machine-like life is beyond our con- 
 trol. It may be absolutely beneficent in its results or it 
 xnay be destructive of all that is good, but if beyond 
 our control it is non-moral. A sleep-walker may go 
 down stalls with a candle and set the curtains on fire, 
 and the house may burn down. Her action is dis- 
 astrous, but it is not sinful. She may, on the other 
 
Boundaries 19 
 
 hand, put out a fire in her sleep, but though useful, her 
 deed is not praiseworthy. 
 
 Moral life is voluntary, within our control, and we 
 may choose half-heartedly, wilfully, carelessly, nar- 
 rowly. Moral life, therefore, includes sin as well as 
 virtue. The sleep-walker is at the time neither good 
 nor sinful, but anyone who is morally responsible is 
 free either to do right or to sin. 
 
 When Pat, the office boy, is accused of doing wrong 
 and feels that he is not guilty, he may assert this in 
 various ways. He may say :, I was not myself when I 
 did it; I was fast asleep; I was so absorbed that I 
 forgot that you had forbidden it; I did not know it 
 could do any harm; Charlie made me do it; I did 
 it before I had time to think, or I \yas so frightened I 
 could not help it. 
 
 Here are six diiiferent excuses : unconsciousness, ab- 
 sorption, ignorance, force, suddenness of impulse, fear. 
 In each of them the appeal is made : " I was unable 
 to choose, I had no control." Assuming that Pat is 
 accurate in his statements, we can be sure that he is 
 not responsible for the wrongdoing of which he has 
 been accused. We are sure of this, because in the first 
 three cases Pat was unconscious of his act or its con- 
 sequences, while in the last three it was beyond his 
 control, that is, involuntary. We can say then that an 
 irresponsible act is one which is either unconscious or 
 involuntary. 
 
 I once knew a gentle and devoted servant who be- 
 came insane and believed it her duty to murder a man 
 whom she called James Dolan because I1& was about to 
 
20 Everyday Ethics 
 
 cause war between America and England, She was 
 possessed by the idea, as we say; it controlled her 
 instead of her controlling it ; and no matter how tragic 
 the result of her act might have been, we should not 
 call it sinful, because it was forced by an overmastering 
 impulse. 
 
 n 
 
 This example of the non-moral is evident enough. 
 The cases, however, in which people are not responsible 
 shade off into cases where they might have done or 
 known better. The non-moral shades into the moral 
 as violet shades into blue in the rainbow, and though 
 it is easy to mark off the violet of the rainbow from the 
 red, as distinct and even sharply opposed in colour, it 
 is very difficult to see just where the changes come. 
 Many cases are " on the line," as we say in tennis, and 
 we have got to get close and look very carefully 
 before we can judge whether they are to be classified 
 as responsible or not. 
 
 The sleep-walker is not responsible for her deed, 
 when she is wholly unconscious, but how shall we 
 judge a case of entire oblivion, like that of Mag- 
 gie Tulliver in " The Mill on the Floss," who caused 
 the death of her brother's rabbits by forgetting to 
 feed them? She was unconscious that she had, for- 
 gotten the rabbits till too late to save them ; she would 
 not have neglected them if she had thought of it, but 
 the question is, could she have helped forgetting? To 
 answer this we need to study Maggie's, character; 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver gives us a description of Maggie that 
 
Boundaries 21 
 
 brings out vividly her dreamy temperament. "You 
 talk of cuteness, Mr. Tulliver, but I'm sure the child's 
 half an idiot in some things, for if I send her upstairs 
 to fetch anything, she forgets what she's gone for, and 
 perhaps 'ull sit down on the floor i' the sunshine an' 
 plait her hair an' sing to herself like a Bedlam creatur', 
 all the while I'm waiting for her downstairs. That 
 never run i' my family, thank God, no more nor a 
 brown skin as makes her look like a mulatter. I don't 
 like to fly i' the face of Providence, but it seems hard 
 as I should have but one gell and her so comical. 
 There's Lucy Deane, she's such a good child you may 
 set her on a stool and there she'll sit for an hour 
 together and never offer to get off." ^ 
 
 This dreaminess seems to have lain so deep in Mag- 
 gie's nature that it really overwhelmed her remem- 
 brance. She loved Tom intensely ; she meant to remem- 
 ber the rabbits, but it all went out of her head. She 
 was at the time non-responsible. 
 
 ' Nor is such power of absorption wholly undesirable. 
 When a girl becomes so absorbed in her music that 
 she forgets a Latin lesson we have a somewhat similar 
 result from a different cause. We all need to be con- 
 centrated in our work; without concentration no first- 
 rate work is done. Could this girl be at once deeply 
 engrossed in her music and yet free enough to be 
 aware when an hour had passed? We all know the 
 type of practising in which the clock is consulted 
 every few minutes that the proper limit may not 
 be missed. We know, too, how slight is the gain 
 « George Eliot, " The Mill on the Floss." 
 
22 Everyday Ethics 
 
 in musical ability which comes from such half-heafted 
 work and how incapable of steady work the player 
 soon becomes. " When you are practising you ought 
 not to think of anything except your music," the 
 teacher often says. If the girl followed this advice 
 literally, and was wholly absorbed in reading the piano 
 score of Lohengrin, she may have been in so deep a 
 reverie at the time when she ought to have left the 
 music and turned to the Latin lesson that she never 
 once thought of the hour. Although her eyes are open, 
 she is to all intents and purposes asleep, and no 
 more responsible at the time than the sleep-walker. At 
 the time, that is the central point. Unless it had never 
 happened before, she was responsible for not remem- 
 bering how easily she became absorbed in music and 
 for not preparing for this, either by learning her lesson 
 first or by asking someone to call her when the hour 
 was over. 
 
 Ill 
 
 We are always responsible for preparing to become 
 non-responsible. Even the sleep-walker, if she knew 
 that she was in the habit of walking in her sleep, and 
 was likely to do dangerous things, was responsible for 
 not locking herself into her room and putting the 
 matches where she could not reach them. In the same 
 way Maggie Tulliver was responsible for promising 
 impulsively to feed the rabbits, when a little thought 
 would have recalled to her the probability of her for- 
 getting all about it unless she asked someone to remind 
 her of it. Yet Maggie Tulliver learned in her reveries 
 
Boundaries 23 
 
 much that Lucy Deane was never capable of knowing, 
 and it is important to remember that it may be our 
 highest, equally with our lowest, experiences which take 
 us out of the moral sphere. 
 
 It is often our duty to anticipate a period of 
 irresponsibility. In Anne Gilchrist's "Life of Mary 
 Lamb " there is a touching account of her periodic 
 insanity. She felt the attacks coming on, and knew 
 that she was going to become irresponsible. She knew 
 she might kill her brother, as she had killed her mother. 
 " Then would Mary as gently as possible prepare her 
 brother for the duty he must perform. . . . On 
 one occasion Mr. Charles Lloyd met them slowly 
 pacing together a little footpath in Hoxton fields, both 
 weeping bitterly, and found on joining them that 
 they were taking their solemn way to the accustomed 
 asylum." ^ 
 
 This is a case of noble moral preparation for a non- 
 moral state. In little ways the need of such prepara- 
 tion comes up every day. If, while I am asleep some 
 night, the sparks of my wood-fire fly out and burn 
 the rug, I cannot say as an unanswerable excuse : " Oh, 
 it wasn't my fault; I couldn't help it. I was fast 
 asleep." I knew that I was about to go to sleep, that 
 is, to get into an irresponsible or non-moral condition, 
 and I ought to have prepared for it by covering the 
 fire so thoroughly with ashes that the sparks could not 
 fly out. 
 
 Nearly as common as unconscious acts are acts done 
 through ignorance; here, in judging moral respon- 
 
 •Mary Lamb, by Anne Gilchj-ist, p. 97, 
 
24 Everyday Ethics 
 
 sibility, we have always to ask whether the ignorance 
 was unavoidable. Many accidents are caused by cul- 
 pable ignorance. The phrase, " I did not know it was 
 loaded," is almost proverbial as a lame excuse for care- 
 lessness. 
 
 Yet acts which look apparently blameworthy shade 
 imperceptibly into those that are non-moral. A boy 
 is firing off cannon-crackers on the Fourth of July, 
 and having experienced the joyful noise caused by 
 the explosion of a small cracker under a tin can, he 
 puts a cannon-cracker under the can and gets his 
 brother to hold the can down with his foot. The result 
 is a bad injury. Is the first boy responsible? The 
 answer depends wholly on the decision whether he 
 could have foreseen the disastrous effect of the large 
 cracker. If not, he was not responsible. 
 
 We reach here this general conclusion : No one who 
 is practically or actually asleep, in any way not him- 
 self, or necessarily ignorant of what the consequences 
 of his act may be, is responsible for his acts, good or 
 bad. He is responsible for making any preparation 
 he might have made before he lost his control, or, in 
 the case of ignorance, for thinking before he acted. 
 . I have taken up so far cases on the border-line be- 
 tween consciousness and unconsciousness, and shown 
 that when we are unconscious, as in sleep, deep ab- 
 sorption, or any other cause, we are at the time non- 
 moral beings. I come now to a different type of 
 non-responsibility, that brought about by suddenness 
 of temptation. Take, for example, the case of a man 
 of violent temper, who is so fired by a stinging insult 
 
Boundaries 25 
 
 that he instantly stabs his companion with a knife. If 
 we ask him why he did it, he raphes that he could not 
 help it His hand struck the blow before he could con- 
 trol it. If this was true, if the act was as uncon- 
 trollable as winking when we are hit, we can be sure 
 that he was at the moment non-moral, unanswerable 
 for the act his hand did. He was not himself at the 
 time ; he was like an engine with no engineer to regu- 
 late its speed. To be capable of morality you must be 
 yourself. But if, as is highly probable, he had lost 
 his temper at other times, and acted in ways he after- 
 wards regretted, he was responsible for letting himself 
 become irresponsible. 
 
 To judge whether he was sinful, we should need to 
 know what his inheritance and early training were, 
 whether he could have rightly avoided the encounter 
 which aroused his passion, and whether he could have 
 dominated his anger in the early stages when it was 
 only rumbling within him. But to know whether he was 
 or was not responsible for this act we need only to 
 know whether even an instant's glimmer of an alterna- 
 tive action came to liim, or whether, on the contrary, 
 the act of striking was as automatic as that of a 
 clock when the hour and minute hands meet at twelve. 
 
 Similar to temper, in its' sudden and often irresistible 
 power, is the influence of fear. An official is se'/it 
 by the government to the Yosemite with a large 
 sum of money to pay the salaries of the soldiers sta- 
 tioned there to protect the forests from fire. As the 
 coach rounds a corner two masked highwaymen spring 
 from behind the rocks and shout : " Hands up! " Up 
 
26 Everyday Ethics 
 
 go all hands automatically: "As if," the driver said 
 afterward, " you'd done nothing else all your life." 
 The oflficial messenger is covered by a pistol and 
 robbed with the rest of the passengers. 
 
 The question whether he was morally responsible 
 rests wholly on the decision whether he had enough 
 control of himself at the time to choose any alternative 
 act. He may have lost his head completely; his, 
 masterless body may have followed an irresistible 
 impulse of self-protection. To throw up his hands 
 was probably an unconscious act; and whether it was 
 wise or foolish, it was in this case outside the sphere 
 of morals. During the minutes that succeeded this 
 act, while the passengers were being robbed of their 
 money and watches, the official, unless wholly un- 
 nerved, must have had time to think and he thereby 
 became responsible for his next act, whether of sub- 
 mission or of resistance. While not responsible for 
 throwing up his hands, he was in all probability re- 
 sponsible for the decision whether it was wise or fool- 
 ish to take them down. 
 
 In this case, as in the others we have discussed, 
 though the moment's surprise may have swept away 
 all self-control, the preparation for such an event may 
 have been clearly his duty. At some point or other 
 in the man's life there probably was an opportunity 
 for thought on the risk of and the preparation needed 
 for this work. Without opportunity for thought, 
 either at the time or beforehand, there is no moral 
 responsibility. 
 
Boundaries 27 
 
 IV 
 
 The two cases last cottsidered were those in which 
 dominant impulses of anger and fear apparently forced 
 men to act contrary to what they really believed best. 
 We take up next a more subtle case. As Dante passes 
 through the lowest circle of Paradise he sees the Em- 
 press Constance, whom he has often heard of as saintly 
 in her conduct, but snatched by a cruel compulsion away 
 from her convent and forced to marry and live in the 
 world. Dante, in great surprise, inquires of Beatrice 
 why such a holy and innocent person should not be 
 in the highest circle of Paradise. Beatrice answers: 
 " Though there be violence when he who suffers nowise 
 consents to him who compels, these souls were not by 
 reason of that excused. For will unless it wills is not 
 quenched, but does as nature does in fire, though vio- 
 lence a thousand times may wrest it. Wherefore, if 
 it bends little or much it follows the force and thus 
 these did, having power to return to the holy place." * 1 
 
 Constance is not re^onsible for her act. She is 
 responsible for letting her will, which (as Dante 
 believes) was within her control, yield itself to what 
 to her was less noble than the life of her convent. 
 
 Here we reach an important distinction. Moral 
 responsibility means the opportunity for thought, and 
 the facing of alternatives. Where that is present we 
 are responsible because we are capable of desiring a 
 right or wrong act, even though it may be physically 
 impossible for us to carry out either course. When 
 * " Paradise," Canto IV. lines 73-81, Norton's translation. 
 
28 Everyday Ethics 
 
 a stronger comrade seizes a younger boy and prevents 
 him from going home, the small boy is still responsible 
 for wishing to stay out or to go home. Physical force 
 cannot control his vision of the right and wrong alter- 
 native. It is only if the younger boy has no glimmer 
 of an alternative that we can call him non-responsible.^, 
 So Constance was within and not oufcside the sphere 
 of morality. 
 
 The apothecary in " Romeo and Juliet " " who, while 
 selling the poison to Romeo, maintained that his 
 poverty and not his will gave consent, is still more 
 evidently within the sphere of responsibility. We 
 know it, not only in spite of his asseveration : " My 
 poverty, but not my will consents," but largely because 
 of it. Shakspere's wonderful description of his pov- 
 erty prepares us to face the question whether his hunger 
 drove him beyond the power of self-control. 
 
 " I do remember an apothecary. 
 And hereabouts he dwells, whom late I noted. 
 In tattered weeds, with overwhelming brows. 
 Culling of simples, — meagre were his looks. 
 Sharp misery had worn him to the bones." 
 
 It seems at first as if suchTiunger and misery might 
 well have made him irresponsible, yet in this case I 
 think there is no doubt of his moral responsibility. We 
 know this because : He was neither asleep, unconscious, 
 nor insane; he clearly knew the law, and the effect of 
 poison; no physical force nor intimidation were used; 
 he had time to think; by his own statement he recog- 
 nised a possible choice, 
 
 6 Act V, scene i. 
 
Eoundaries 29 
 
 Non-moral acts are those due to unconsciousness or 
 to ignorance. They are automatic and without choice. 
 The act of the apothecary was dehberate and free; 
 hence, whether or no it was right or wrong, it was 
 certainly his own act, and not compelled, as he claimed 
 it to be. 
 
 Through the study of many cases we have now' 
 reached a clear definition of moral action. Such deeds 
 'must be deliberate, the acts of one who is awake and 
 knows what he is doing, and they must be voluntary, 
 that is, the actor must have at least the ghmmer of an 
 alternative choice. 
 
 It is at first startling to realise that every one of us 
 ceases to be responsible during at least one-third of his 
 entire life. In sleep we drop all responsibility and 
 become for the time as passive as lumps of clay. And 
 even during the hours when we call ourselves awake, a 
 large proportion of what we do is a matter of pure habit 
 and not within our control. Many of our habits are 
 so ingrained that we are unaware of them. They are 
 like the rhythmic swing of the right foot with the 
 left arm in walking, so deep-rooted by repetition that 
 change is almost impossible. 
 
 Every one of us has acquired rigid habits ; everyone 
 sleeps a large proportion of his life, spends more or less 
 time in reverie, gets so absorbed in music or worship, 
 in reading or the theatre, that he forgets everything 
 else. We let ourselves become almost like plants, alive 
 but totally unconscious and non-moral. Can this be 
 
30 Everyday Ethics 
 
 right? Surely, when it is done ioi the sake of greater 
 power in active life. Without sleep we should soon 
 become nervous wrecks, battered and unseaworthy. 
 There is for all of us a corresponding need of regular 
 habits. It is the steadying power of regular hours 
 of rising and eating, work and recreation, the com- 
 plete surrender of thought about trifles, that alone 
 makes advance possible. The pianist who has to 
 think about each note cannot play with freedom; his 
 fingers must work automatically before his atten- 
 tion can be free to receive and express the meaning 
 of the music he is playing. If we were aware of 
 every mouthful we ate, or chose freshly each night 
 the hour of going to bed, our attention would be 
 so engrossed by details that all our important work 
 would be badly done or neglected. It is only by choos- 
 ing for a part of our time, and in many of our acts to 
 be non-moral, that we can accomplish anything. It is 
 then right to become irresponsible in every instance 
 where by so doing we gain on the whole in the power 
 of fulfilling our purposes ; if we lose on the whole, it is 
 wrong. 
 
 There is some risk in this. It is a part of every 
 moral life to take risks. The risk of our doing 
 mischief while unconscious is usually not enough to 
 balance the gain of sleep. If, however, I am driving 
 an engine, it is immoral to let myself go to sleep, 
 because the risk is too great. We take risks, for 
 the sake of greater gain : in meditation which may 
 only unfit us for work but ought to strengthen us 
 with new insight , in worship, which may leave us 
 
Boundaries 31 
 
 overwrought and 'nervous, but should give us new 
 vigour and impulse. 
 
 Reverie, too, though a risk, is necessary to the finest 
 moral life, necessary that purposes may not crowd, 
 push and wear out their owner, but be brought into a 
 single whole. 
 
 I " We are too busy, too encumbered, too much occu- 
 pied, too active. We must know how to put our occupa- 
 tion aside ; which does not mean that we must be idle. 
 In inaction which is meditative and attentive the 
 wrinkles of the soul are smoothed away, and the soul 
 itself spreads, unfolds and springs afresh, and, like the 
 trodden grass of the roadside or the bruised leaf of a 
 plant, repairs its injuries, becomes new, spontaneous, 
 true and original. Reverie, like the rain of night, 
 restores colour and force to thoughts which have been 
 blanched and wearied by the heat of the day. With 
 gentle fertilising power it awakens within us a thou- 
 sand sleeping germs, and gathers round us materials 
 for the future and images for the use of talents. Rev- 
 erie is the Sunday of thought, and who knows which 
 is the more important and fruitful for man, the labo- 
 rious tension of the week or the life-giving repose of 
 
 ■ the Sabbath ? It is like a bath which gives vigour and 
 suppleness to the whole being, to the mind as well as 
 to the body." ® 
 
 There are then tracts of life wherein we are non- 
 moral or non-responsible, but as long as this state is 
 chosen because by so doing we can, on the whole, best 
 
 , fulfil our purposes, it is not wrong, but right. 
 
 « Amiel, "Journal Intime," Translated by Mrs. Humphry Ward, 
 vol. i.. p. 43. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 THE POWER OF PURPOSE 
 
 In the last chapter we found that all who are uncon.'- 
 scious of what they are doing and all who are acting 
 involuntarily, that is, without any alternative before 
 them, are not responsible for their actions, and so are 
 excluded from the moral realm. We saw that if Pro- 
 fessor Huxley's wish for a character incapable of 
 wrongdoing had been granted, his choice of such a' 
 character would have been his last moral act. With 
 its fulfilment the whole field of responsible life would 
 have been wiped out as the tide levels the castles we 
 build upon the sand. Moral life is that part of our 
 existence in which we are answerable, in which we 
 choose. 
 
 If a bricklayer, through no carelessness of his own, 
 drops a hod of bricks from the roof and kills a man 
 who is passing below, we say that he is not responsi- 
 ble, because his act was involuntary. He could not 
 help it, he was unconscious of the danger, he did not 
 mean to hurt anyone, he did not do it on purpose. 
 The common expression : " I did it on purpose," is 
 an accurate one. The moral life is the life wherein we 
 carry out our purposes. Since this is so, it becomes 
 important to know just what we mean by a purpose. 
 
 32 
 
The Power of Purpose 33 
 
 I will take up first the difference between a purpose 
 and a fact. It is certainly different to say : " I am on 
 the way to New York " and to say " I am planning 
 to go to New York during the Christmas vacation." 
 Evidently there is a kind of desire or hunger in the 
 purpose that is not in the fact. The fact is, as it were, 
 settled back comfortably in its chair, the purpose leans 
 forward eagerly. The fact rests in the present, the 
 purpose stretches into the future. The fact is at one 
 with itself, the purpose is never at one with itself : it 
 yearns toward what is not itself. A purpose, then, 
 as contrasted with a fact, has desire in it. 
 
 There is the same sort of contrast between a pur- 
 pose and a day-dream. As we dream before the 
 fire we are placid, content. We build with busy 
 fingers our castles in the air. It is easy and delight- 
 ful; but when dinner-time comes we wake to find 
 not only that our castles have crumbled, but that 
 their building has filled the hours we had planned 
 for work. The difference between a dream and a 
 purpose is that the former is passive and the latter 
 active. The dreamer is content, the planner hungry 
 for attainment. 
 
 Wishes are hungry, too. " How I wish I were going 
 to New York; I want to go dreadfully." There seems 
 to be plenty of desire in the wish, but we begin to doubt 
 its genuineness when we ask : " Well, have you taken 
 any steps toward going ? " and are answered. " No, 
 but I wish someone would pay my expenses." " Can't 
 you earn or save the money?" "Well, I suppose I 
 might, if I gave up going to the opera, but I don't 
 
34 Everyday Ethics 
 
 want to do that." The difference between a wish and 
 
 a purpose seems to be this: When we purpose, we 
 
 take the means to our eiid; when we wish, we wait 
 
 for the end to come our way. Wishes often grow 
 
 into purposes, but as long as they are nothing but 
 
 , wishes they remain inactive. "If wishes were horses, 
 
 J beggars would ride." Mr. C. P. Huntington, who died 
 
 t lately and left many millions, started without a cent 
 
 lin the world and won it all by his energy and intelli- 
 
 igence. Here is a beggar who did ride, but it was 
 
 because his wish was also a purpose. I do not admire 
 
 his business standards, but I do admire his energy. 
 
 The difference between a purpose and an impulse is 
 that a purpose has thought in it. " Why did you go 
 out skating?" "Oh, Helen was going, and I went 
 along, too." She simply followed like a sheep who 
 takes the same path as the rest of the flock. " Why 
 did you go out skating?" I ask of another girl. 
 " Because I've made up my mind that I am going to 
 learn the outer roll before the winter is over." 
 
 " Made up my mind " : we use this expression often, 
 but we do not usually realise all that it means. A per- 
 son who has not made up his mind is in a queer state. 
 " I can't decide whether to go out to walk or to stay 
 in the house." Now a little tug pulls me toward the 
 door, " It doesn't seem to be raining much, I guess 
 I'll go." Then another little tug comes in the other 
 direction. "That new novel looks so interesting, I 
 believe I won't go out. But then I always feel soggy 
 and stupid if I don't," so I am tugged toward the door 
 again. " Oh ! it's raining harder now and my hat is 
 
The Power of Purpose 35 
 
 trimmed with velvet." This state is close to that of 
 my being two persons and so morally irresponsible. 
 When on the contrary you have a clear purpose, you 
 make up your mind what to do, quickly or slowly, 
 according to the difficulty of the case, but once for all. 
 " I have an engagement to give a music lesson at 3 
 o'clock. It is 2.35 now; of course I must go at 
 once." 
 
 The difference between a person who has a purpose 
 and whose mind is therefore made up, and one who I 
 is dreaming or vacillating, is so great that we can 
 see it in the very way each walks down the street. 
 The woman who has a definite aim walks straight and 
 steadily; the one without an aim saunters, hesitates at 
 corners and is lured by every shop windc 1. With- 
 out an aim she has no rudder and therefore drifts 
 about on the line of least resistance. 
 
 By distinguishing purposes from facts, dreams, 
 wishes, impulses and fancies, we learn this about the 
 nature of a purpose. A purpose, to be a purpose truly, 
 must have thought, foresight and will. A purpose 
 is more and more distinguished from a whim or a 
 "^dream in proportion as it is clearly chosen and per- 
 sistently held. 
 
 ri 
 
 .There are a good many people who are moved by 
 any impulse and have no steady purpose, nothing 
 with which they are identified. Two girls of fifteen 
 come to pass a fortnight with their aunt at the sea- 
 shore. One plans from the start that she will learn 
 
36 Everyday Ethics 
 
 to swim well before the end of that visit. She sets 
 out each day and without wasting any time or en- 
 ergy in jumping about and splashing the water over 
 her friends, she devotes herself to getting the stroke 
 and forces herself to cut loose as soon as possible 
 from supports and to become confident in the water. 
 The other girl has no aim. When she goes down 
 town the candy shops attract her, and every girl who 
 drops in to call can make her change her occupa- 
 tion. She picks up a magazine article, but does not 
 find it worth finishing. She is excited for half an 
 hour over the plan of getting up a play, but finds it 
 too much trouble to learE her part, ajid abandons it. 
 At the end of the fortnight, the first girl has become 
 a good swimmer, the second has become thoroughly 
 bored. Slft'^has sipped the cream off everything and 
 is satiated but not nourished. This girl is for the 
 time almost outside of morality. It is impossible to 
 help her until she herself will take hold of some pur- 
 pose and stick to it. Like an aimless June bug 
 who is never still, she wearies herself and all those 
 around her. Such a girl is hardly to be called sin- 
 ful, because she has no purpose to which to be 
 loyal ; she is far more like a cork tossed about by the 
 waves. We cannot really tell whether she is either 
 good or bad until we know whether she could hold to 
 a purpose if she had one. 
 
 Tennyson, in " The Lotus Eaters," pictures some 
 sailors who have reached ah enchanted island and 
 eaten of the lotus which brings forgetfulness. Every 
 aim is slipping away from them; even the thought of 
 
The Power of Purpose 37 
 
 their wives and children far away at home is dim and 
 unreal. 
 
 " They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
 Between the sun and moon upon the shore. 
 And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
 Of child and wife and slave, but evermore 
 Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar. 
 Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
 Then someone said: 'We will return no more,* 
 And all at once they sang: ' Our Island home 
 Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.'" 
 
 They seem to be acting in a dastardly way and to 
 be neglecting every duty for the bliss of dreaming on 
 this lovely island, and yet we cannot call them good 
 or bad because they have no purpose. They were 
 responsible for eating of the Lotus if they knew it 
 would bring forgetfulness, but once its subtle influ- 
 ence has taken possession of them, they drift over the 
 border that divides the moral from the irresponsible. 
 The moral life is the life of purpose and no one with 
 a purpose can drift along in the Lotus Eaters' peace. 
 
 Ill 
 
 If we have a purpose it means that we want to do 
 something and so to make something different from 
 what it now is. I have set my heart on having a 
 watch which costs fifty dollars. It is not simply a 
 wish on my part, it is a definite purpose. Such a pur- 
 pose immediately begins to affect both what I do and 
 what I refuse to do. If I am to get a watch and if I 
 
38 Everyday Ethics 
 
 have no way of borrowing the money, I must earn it. 
 If I am going to earn money I must become capable of 
 doing well something that is needed, and I must put 
 aside all that will interfere with my making and sav- 
 ing the money till I have enough for my purpose. I 
 decide to learn wood-carving well enough to earn 
 fifty dollars by selling picture frames. I must work at 
 it every afternoon and refuse all invitations and allure- 
 ments. I am not going to spend any of my earnings 
 until my end is attained. Theatres and magazines 
 are good things in themselves, but they have become 
 wrong for me because I have identified myself with a 
 person who is earning a watch. As soon as I have 
 undertaken my purpose some acts become wrong and 
 others right for me. This is a very important point. It 
 is only through relation to a purpose great or small that 
 acts become either right or wrong. Any purpose at 
 once classifies acts and separates the sheep from the 
 goats. 
 
 The moral life takes hold of us as soon as we begin 
 to aim at any end which we think worth while. Our 
 first impression may be that we have no purpose at 
 all. " Why, I haven't any special end in life," one 
 says, or again, " My purpose is only to make my fathei 
 give me the cash to go to the Newport tournament." 
 
 To one his purpose seems too indefinite and un- 
 analysed, to the other, too concrete and small to be 
 either moral or immoral. Nevertheless, all purposes 
 are included in the moral realm, from the vague pur- 
 pose of " doing good " to the concrete purpose of 
 playing marbles; and by looking more attentively 
 
The Power of Purpose 39 
 
 than we usually do, we shall recognise purposes in 
 ourselves. If you have no end in life, why are you 
 living? The very fact of your living on suggests 
 purpose. The fact of your getting up and dressing 
 in the morning, unless it is pure habit or has no plan 
 at all in it, shows that you are alive and responsible. If 
 you have no purpose in life, why not lie still in bed ? 
 Because it is lazy, because I have to take a music 
 lesson, because I want to go skating. In each of these 
 cases you have a plan, and it is this which prevents 
 you from lying still like a log, or getting up merely 
 from habit. 
 
 You are planning to persuade your family to go 
 to Newport at the time of the tennis tournament. 
 This does not seem to be an important purpose, 
 but it comes under the same head as every other 
 chosen act, and can be judged as right or wrong. It 
 is not the kind of purpose, but the fact that one has 
 any purpose whatsoever that is the password to the 
 moral sphere. Even if a person says, " I hate re- 
 sponsibility ; I'm going to be just as irresponsible as I 
 can," he becomes morally responsible through that 
 purpose; for to resist all impulses toward steady work 
 and to devote oneself to being an animal, is to carry 
 out a difficult project and so to be subject to moral 
 laws. No one can carry out a steady plan of being 
 non-responsible, because he is constantly responsible 
 for that plan and deliberately to choose and cling 
 to a machine-like existence requires gre^t activity, 
 persistency and resplutioij. 
 
40 Everyday Ethics 
 
 IV 
 
 No matter how trivial our plan may be, it Is some- 
 thing with which ethics is concerned. Spencer^ says 
 that moraHty is not at all concerned with such a choice 
 as whether we take our pleasure walk by the waterfall 
 or along the seashore. He is not thinking of people 
 too absorbed to be conscious of choice. He holds that 
 there are many chosen acts which are yet perfectly 
 indifferent. The pedestrian who says : " Shall I go 
 by the waterfall or ramble along the seashore " is not 
 unconscious, lost in reverie, or unaware of any alter- 
 native. He can choose. Still, Spencer says, even 
 when we are wide-awake, entirely ourselves, deliber- 
 ately asking questions, there are many choices with 
 which morality has no concern. 
 
 With this view I differ. Morality, I maintain, 
 is concerned with every choice we make, although 
 of course many are unimportant, like the subor- 
 dinate yet essential details of any work of art. In 
 a great novel or picture, there are many pai'ts 
 which are more prominent than others; the hero and 
 heroine have to be described far more elaborately 
 than the waiter or the distant cousin. But though the 
 novelist will not dwell on these minor characters, we 
 know that anything which comes into his scheme 
 must be appropriately done. So it is with the rest 
 of life. Ethics is concerned with every chosen act, 
 but some are rightly much more prominent in con- 
 sciousness than others. It is perfectly true that the 
 choice between going by the waterfall or rambling 
 * " Data of Ethics," chapter i, section 2. 
 
The Power of Purpose 41 
 
 along the seashore is usually unimportant, but it 
 is the myriad small decisions which disintegrate or 
 strengthen character, just as it is " the thousand name- 
 less, unremembered acts of kindness and of love,"* 
 which make up a good man's life. 
 
 If we go back to what Spencer says we shall see 
 why it sounds true, but is misleading. " Stirring. the 
 fire or opening the window," he says, " are (as cur- 
 rently conceived) acts with which morality has no 
 concern." This is true when such acts are done 
 unconsciously or without purpose, but not when 
 chosen. We recognise this as soon as we come to 
 a real case, a case in which we are told more of 
 the circumstances. As you lie before the camp fire 
 on a bitter cold night, very sleepy, but knowing that 
 your companions are shivering, is it not a moral act 
 to get up and stir the fire? Or if by opening the win- 
 dow, overheated as you are, you are likely to catch 
 a violent cold, is not that an immoral act? Every 
 chosen act of anyone whose life is guided by its purpose 
 is either right or wrong. 
 
 Take one of the other cases of which Spencer 
 speaks, " Reading the newspaper," he says, " is an act 
 with which morality, as currently conceived, has no 
 concern." How untrue this statement is when we 
 examine it! Reading the newspaper may be right 
 or it may be wrong, and it may be of little or of vast 
 importance. For instance, we read the newspapers 
 to get the information necessary to vote intelligently 
 for the next President of the United States. Almost 
 2 Wordsworth, " Tintern Abbey." 
 
42 Everyday Ethics 
 
 all the information of the average man about poli- 
 tics comes from the newspapers, and if nobody in the 
 country read them, voting would be a farce. 
 
 On the other hand, to read a newspaper may be 
 absolutely sinful. Suppose I am left in charge of a 
 baby near the edge of a pond. In my newspaper there 
 is a fascinating article on Salvini's acting and I am 
 tempted to neglect the baby in order to read it. This 
 is clearly not an indifferent act. ' 
 
 The difficulty in Spencer's position seems to be that 
 he speaks of acts like opening a window, or reading 
 a newspaper, as if they might be wholly severed from 
 the rest of the actor's life. Taken out of their setting 
 in this way they are non-moral because they are as 
 meaningless as a single word cut out of a letter. But 
 in reality a chosen act never is without some setting of 
 purpose, and as soon as we are told what the pur- 
 pose is, we see that the act is, like all acts of choice, 
 right or wrong. 
 
 There is, then, no conscious choice with which 
 morality is unconcerned; though some choices should 
 be made swiftly, and without hard thought, while 
 others need long pondering and keen search for 
 light on the situation. I ought usually to think little 
 zibout the direction of my afternoon walk, and long 
 and hard about my choice of a profession, but both 
 decisions are moral whenever they are not purely 
 impulsive. It is obviously wrong to think long on 
 unimportant subjects or briefly on important ones. 
 But what does " important " mean ? It means closely 
 related to your burpqs^. 
 
The Power of Purpose 43 
 
 To have a plan, to be about something-, is then the 
 distinguishing mark of the moral realm, and also the 
 most characteristic trait of humanity. Man is an ani- 
 mal who makes and carries out plans. Other animals 
 seem not to look so far beyond the present moment. 
 " Man looks before and after," and so aims at a new 
 cotton-gin, a new symphony, a new kingdom, while 
 animals build their nests, seek their food and repro- 
 duce their species practically unchanged from century 
 to century. 
 
 If you see a starving cat standing before a bowl of 
 milk, there is certainty as to the result, but if you see 
 a man with a glass of water presented to his parching 
 lips, you cannot predict the result without knowing him 
 through and through. If he is a David, he may pour 
 it on the ground as an offering to the Lord ; if he is a 
 Sir Philip Sidney, he may give it to the dying soldier 
 by his side. We see here strikingly how such men as 
 David or Sidney are factors in their own destiny be- 
 cause they can convert their impulse from a blind 
 impelling force into an intended end. They make up 
 their mind about it, make it theirs instead of being 
 subservient to it; and this means that they take their 
 impulsive desire out of its isolation and bring it into 
 connection with the rest of their life. Just this differ- 
 ence makes the capacity for a moral or an immoral 
 life. The cat, if she is thirsty, drinks. No alternative 
 seems present to her, but in a man, though just as 
 thirsty, other impulses, other plans, other interests 
 
44 Everyday Ethics 
 
 come into play. He draws in other moments of his 
 life, other ideals of himself, to compete with and 
 withstand this domineering craving. Deeper than his 
 parching thirst is his love of his neighbour ; he will not 
 drink the water and see another die of thirst. The 
 impulsive craving for something to satisfy his thirst, 
 if it were his only want, would compel him to drink, 
 but it is not alone, as it would be in an animal. He can 
 think about his neighbour's thirst. It is thought that 
 holds his different desires together, and makes him see 
 what is most important. For thought draws his im- 
 pulses in out of anarchy, out of chaos, and makes them 
 his own, the act of the whole person. 
 
 All the richness and nobility of human life, all 
 man's heroism and genius are made possible by this 
 fundamental tendency to gather up the past and the 
 distant; to shape it into a plan and this plan into a 
 new act. This is the power of purpose which makes 
 man capable of freedom and of progress. 
 
 This power to make a plan is far-reaching in its 
 effects. Man grows with cumulative swiftness. Be- 
 cause a cat acts necessarily on impulse, her wants 
 and the range of her activities never grow. A year 
 hence you will find her seeking the same ends that she 
 seeks now. We talk about the ingenuity with which 
 birds build their nests. Birds' nests look ingenious 
 and complicated ; but each generation of birds builds its 
 nest in practically the same way, no matter how exposed 
 to danger it is, for birds learn little by experience. If 
 man built birds' nests, he would long ago have had 
 umbrella tops, wire doors and gratings for protection 
 
The Power of Purpose 45" 
 
 against grey squirrels and cats. He would have added 
 heaters and made provision for cleanliness. 
 
 The difference between acting on impulse or in- 
 stinct and acting from a purpose, is that impulses 
 alone never enlarge the want, and purposes, carried 
 out, always do. The cat, when she is hungry, 
 snatches at the proffered food, and under like condi- 
 tions always will, but to think about an impulse for 
 food, means to control the unreasoned and momen- 
 tary tendency to seize it. It means to think not only of 
 that moment's impulse, but of other moments, and, as 
 we grow more and more conscious, to think not only 
 of moments, but of a whole lifetime; not only of our 
 own life, but of our family or our country. What 
 seems but a slight distinction, becomes an all-im- 
 portant one. The cat feels hungry and eats. The 
 man feds hungry, realises the necessity of the future 
 supply of food, ploughs, sows seed and gathers into 
 barns ; sends carloads of grain from West to East and 
 over the sea and establishes commerce. The cat looks 
 to the moment; man looks before and after, shapes 
 his destiny and becomes capable of endless growth. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 GOODNESS THE ESSENCE OF MANHOOD* 
 
 I SUPPOSE hardly an hour passes in the lives of most 
 people without their hearing the words, " That's 
 good," or " that's too bad." If a phonograph should 
 i' report conversations held at the same time in different 
 parts of a town it would resound with the conception 
 of goodness. " Get me a good beefsteak." " I want a 
 good piece of silk, one that will not wear out quickly." 
 " Johnny, if you're not good, I shall have to send you 
 upstairs." " I've had such a good time ! " " That's a 
 good drive." " That balloon's no good ; it's all 
 squashed." " That was a good speech of Roosevelt's." 
 " I don't consider that a good policy." " I've got a 
 good typhoid case for you." " Good for you ! " 
 
 Such wide uses of " good " cannot but suggest to us 
 that the goodness of man is part of a larger conception 
 of goodness which runs through the universe. What 
 is the common element in all good things? Take, 
 for example, a poem: When we call a poem good, 
 we mean that it is one in which all the parts are 
 perfectly adjusted, so that each has its rightful place, 
 large or small, as the case may be. We call a 
 
 1 In this chapter my indebtedness to George H. Palmer's 
 "Nature of Goodness" (Houghton, Mifflin, 1903) is very great 
 
 46 
 
Goodness the Essence of Manhood 47 
 
 train good with a similar significance. " That's a 
 good train ; it ought to go to New York in five hours." 
 Ought to, because that is what it is meant to do, what 
 it is fitted for. Goodness seems to mean fulfilHng 
 the purpose, doing what you were meant to do effi- 
 ciently. Goodness is fitness and fitness for a purpose. 
 ,,' We see at once, however, that we do not judge good- 
 ness merely by fitness to any purpose whatsoever. , 
 Kindling wood is good when it lights the fire quickly. 
 But a poem of Kipling's is not proved good by the same 
 test. 
 
 I have read somewhere the story of an Indian, 
 who, seeing John Lawrence with a newspaper, said: 
 " Give me one, Sahib." Lawrence knew he could 
 not read, and was surprised to see him staring for 
 hours at the paper. Finally the Indian gave it up and 
 pronounced it a bad paper. When asked for his rea- 
 sons, he said : " I have held it up many hours and my 
 eyes are as uncomfortable as before." The Indian 
 thought of the paper as a cure for weak eyes, and 
 hence bad if it did not fulfil that purpose. 
 
 " What a bad day it is," says the tennis player. 
 " What a good rain," says the farmer. They are 
 speaking of the same day, but they have very different 
 purposes in mind. Each is right from his own point of 
 view. Anything is good when fitted for the purpose 
 held in mind, and bad when not so fitted. 
 
 In many cases we do not know in relation to what 
 purpose an object should be judged. " Is that good ? " 
 says the child, holding up a tin pan pierced with small 
 holes. " Good for what? " I ask. "For a dipper? Most 
 
48 Everyday Ethics 
 
 decidedly not." Unless we clearly know the puipos.e 
 of anything our judgment is as likely to be wrong as 
 right, or rather we cannot judge at all; knowing the 
 purpose means knowing what anything belongs to, 
 what its relations are. I find a bit of steel and am 
 tempted to throw it away, but my friend comes along 
 and says : " Have you seen the cap that fits over the 
 valve of my bicycle? Oh! I'm so glad; the machine 
 is absolutely no good without it." 
 
 Even a great work of art is of significance through 
 the relation of its parts to a central purpose. No 
 siiigle word of Hamlet's soliloquy, " To be or not 
 to be," has any value by itself. Anybody can say 
 "to" or "not" or "be." Yes; but the soliloquy is 
 admirable because each word is a part of a complex 
 whole, into which it fits and there fulfils its special 
 purpose. The word or the bit of steel is not itself 
 when out of its place. It is the servant of an end 
 greater than itself, and without knowing the whole, 
 of which it is a part, we cannot tell whether it is good 
 or bad. 
 
 We should at first say, for example, that to light a 
 cigar with a hundred-dollar banknote would always 
 be an outrageous use of money. There was once an 
 occasion on which it was the best possible use of the 
 money. During the war in Cuba one of the American 
 generals was approached by an office-seeker. The 
 general knew he was unfit and refused. As the appli- 
 cant rose to go he insidiously slipped a one-hundred- 
 dollar bill into the general's hand. " Please stay and 
 smoke a cigar with me," said the general instantly, 
 
Goodness the Essence of Manhood 49 
 
 and he handed the visitor a cigar. Then he delib- 
 erately took a match and lighting the one-hundred-dol- 
 lar bill held it out to his guest so that he could light his 
 cigar with it. When the bill was in ashes, the general 
 turned again to his work and the dismayed office- 
 seeker retired. The one hundred dollars had served 
 the important purpose of utterly discouraging bribery. 
 
 II 
 
 It is another aspect of the essential relation between 
 goodness and purpose that when an object has no pur- 
 pose, or seems to have none, we cannot call it either 
 good or bad.' We speak naturally of a good golf stick, 
 a good knife, a good pudding, or a good horse, for 
 we have their purpose clearly in mind, but it seems 
 far-fetched to call a stone either good or bad. You 
 would hardly call a sea-anemone or a snail good unless 
 you were seeking specimens, and therefore had a dis- 
 tinct purpose which you were ready to apply as a test. 
 
 It is hard, however, to find examples of absolutely 
 purposeless things, and the reason for this is interest- 
 ing. It is because purpose is the key which man brings 
 with him to unlock every closed door and he almost 
 never leaves it behind. " What's that good for? " we 
 ask, on seeing anything new or strange. We are at sea 
 until we know. "You're a good-for-nothing vaga- 
 bond," exclaims the irate housekeeper to the tramp.- 
 " Good-for-nothing." That is the worst term of re- 
 proach, more disheartening than the sharpest criticism. 
 Here is the wide universe with its myriad opportuni- 
 
50 Everyday Ethics 
 
 ties, needs, and purposes, and you are good in no single 
 one of them all. Yet even the tramp may be a good 
 comrade, for it is hard to find anything that is strictly 
 good for nothing. The very garbage of our city is a 
 fertilizer which helps to beautify our fields. Those 
 who are poorer or more ingenious than ourselves scour 
 our ash heaps to find good things. The ship, after 
 serving its purpose at sea, goes to pieces, water-logged. 
 Has all the goodness gone from it? No, the artist 
 finds it "an unusually good subject"; the buyer of 
 driftwood is willing to pay extra for its saturation with 
 copper, and the barnacles find on it a protecting home. 
 " Dirt is matter in the wrong place," but in its right 
 place, its goodness is preeminent. So many are the 
 purposes of the world, so infinite the fertility of man's 
 growing mind, that the purposeless, that which is " no 
 good," is pushed steadily into lower and lower strata. 
 
 "Imperial Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay. 
 Might stop a hole to keep the wind away." 
 
 "To what base uses we may return." Yes, our 
 bodies return to less noble uses than to hold the con- 
 quering mind of a Caesar or a Shakspere, but they do 
 not become absolutely useless. Purpose is the centre of 
 human life, and just in so far as a man is human, he 
 recognises and constructs purposes. It is the mark 
 of an active and cultivated mind that it sees use, pur- 
 pose, goodness, where others see blankness or badness. 
 
. Goodness the Essence of Manhood 51 
 
 in 
 
 Clearly the " good," is that which is fitted for some 
 purpose. Is it then true that the more purposes any 
 one thing fulfils, the better it is? I was fascinated 
 as a child by an object in our dining-room described 
 as follows: "Day's Patent Chimney Ornaments to 
 represent Gothic architecture are so constructed that 
 they may be used for Fire-screens, Flower or Scent 
 Jars, Candlesticks, Timepiece cases. Candle shades, 
 and various other useful purposes. The patent candle 
 screen may be removed from the stand and used as a 
 hand screen or fan." Of course, it might have been 
 added that it would serve as a reading lesson, an 
 example of elegant English and a paper-weight. That 
 ornament, however, was never made useful. 
 
 Here we can again advance a step. It seems that 
 things are not necessarily better because they serve a 
 great many purposes. The best razor is not the one 
 which is also a knife. The best racing boat is not also 
 the one which is safest for children. Some ends seem 
 to be contradictory ; we have then to face the question 
 of sacrifice. Goodness involves not being everything 
 at once. The Jack of all trades is master of none. 
 
 If then an object is not made good by the number or 
 variety of the purposes for which it can be used, 
 wherein does its goodness consist? What is it that 
 makes a good friend good? A good friend is one 
 who embodies in himself the very essence and flower 
 of friendship. He is delicately adapted to that purpose, 
 as the racehorse is bred to perfection for racing. 
 
52 Everyday Ethics 
 
 Sometimes we say of a very slow horse, " That horse 
 is a cow." A bad horse is hardly to be called a horse, 
 for he has not the characteristic qualities. The good 
 umbrella is one that is well adapted to keep off the 
 rain. The good man is he who has in full measure 
 the qualities of a man. The supreme designation of 
 human goodness is that which Hamlet applies to his 
 father : 
 
 Horatio: "1 saw him once, he was a goodly king.'* 
 Hamlet: " He was a man, take him for all in all, 
 I shall not look upon his like again." =^ 
 
 IV 
 
 When we compare the use of goodness as commonly 
 applied to things with its use in relation to man's 
 conscious ends, we find a great deal of likeness and 
 several important differences. [We will begin with 
 the likeness: 
 
 Goodness means fitness whether we apply the word 
 to the goodness of man or to the goodness of any thing. 
 The good knife is fitted to cut well, that is what 
 a knife is meant for. The good man is he who is 
 fitted for manhood. The Latin word for virtue 
 (virtus) means primarily manliness. The virtuous 
 man is the man who is fully a man, or as we some^ 
 times say, " humane." As the knife is not truly a 
 knife if it has lost its power of cutting, so an im- 
 moral man is hardly a man at all. He is a beast. 
 He is less of a man than I thought him, we say. It 
 is impoirtant to remember the oneness of virtue with 
 2" Hamlet," Act I. scene 2. 
 
Goodness the Essence of Manhood 53 
 
 manhood; for we have a curious way of using the 
 word " virtue," as if it were something conventional 
 and superficial, instead of the life of man when he 
 is truly man. The outer bark of a tree is not essen- 
 tial to its health, it may fall away without injuring 
 ithe tree, but below there is living, growing wood, and 
 '; if this dies, the tree, though it may stand for years, is 
 (Uot alive. So virtue is the growing centre of man's 
 I life, and in its death, he dies. 
 
 We found that the goodness of anything means 
 its fitness for a special purpose, not for the purpose of 
 any other object. This is equally true of the goodness 
 of man. It is not the goodness of anyone else which 
 is our duty, but the goodness for which we are fitted. 
 It is not the duty of St. Gaudens to be a good cook, 
 nor of Edison tO' sell newspapers, nor of Worth to lead 
 an orchestra. It is the duty of St. Gaudens to carry 
 out his own purpose of embodying great national types 
 of character in sculpture, and of Worth to carry out 
 his own purpose of dressmaking. 
 
 As we cannot estimate the worth of anything if we 
 do not know the purpose it serves, so also we cannot 
 estimate any man's act without knowing his purpose. 
 We found in analysing good objects that if any object 
 had and could have no purpose, it was not to be classed 
 as either good or bad. That seems to apply equally 
 to men and to things ; but with this difference, that the 
 man with no purpose as a man sinks into a thing, and 
 is generally far more troublesome than any inanimate 
 object because he incessantly interferes with the pur- 
 poses of others. 
 
54 Everyday Ethics 
 
 We found that it was not best for a piece of Gothic 
 architecture to be also a scent jar and a fan. This 
 is preeminently true of the goodness of man. The 
 question has been admirably illustrated by Professor 
 William James in his " Psychology." * 
 
 " With most objects of desire, physical nature re- 
 stricts our choice to but one of many represented 
 goods. I am often confronted by the necessity of 
 standing by one of my empirical selves and relinquish- 
 ing the rest. Not that I would not if I could be both 
 handsome and fat and well-dressed and a great athlete 
 and make a million a year, be a bon vivant and a lady- 
 killer as well as a philosopher, a philanthropist, states- 
 man, warrior, and African explorer as well as a 
 tone-poet and saint. But the thing is simply impossible. 
 The millionaire's work would run counter to the 
 saint's, the bon vivant and the philanthropist would 
 trip each other up, the philosopher and the lady-killer 
 could not well keep house in the same tenement of 
 clay. Such different characters may conceivably be at 
 the outset of life possible to a man. But to make any 
 one of them actual, the rest must be more or less sup- 
 pressed. So the seeker of his truest, strongest self, 
 must review the list carefully and pick out the one 
 on which to stake his salvation." 
 
 It is important to remember that, in its fundamental 
 idea, goodness is one throughout the vast range of its 
 application from the beefsteak or the knife, to the 
 washerwoman or the statesman. It means always 
 fitness for one's end, fulfilment of what one is meant 
 for. 
 
 ' Wm. James, " Psychology," vol. i., p. 309. 
 
Goodness the Essence of Manhood 55 
 
 To this great substratum of the conception of good- 
 ness, we must, however, add new qualifications when 
 we rise to the goodness of man. We need therefore 
 to notice the differences between the goodness of man 
 and of things. 
 
 " I've got such a good fountain pen. It flovre per- 
 fectly." This sounds natural, but I cannot say, " I've 
 gdt such a virtuous fountain pen." We do not use 
 virtue as applied to things, because they have no 
 choice. It is not the fault of the fountain pen that it 
 is clogged. Virtue and sin are words reserved to ex- 
 press chosen acts. When, therefore, we want to dis- 
 tinguish the goodness characteristic of man from that 
 of things, we call him virtuous. Virtus, — ^manliness, 
 has its own qualities, and these qualities distinguish 
 the goodness of man as man from that of man used as 
 a thing, or even as an animal. Man may be used as a 
 thing, as when in a boatrace a man is occasionally used 
 as ballast and is shifted from side to side to adjust the 
 weight. Here his value is simply his weight, and he is 
 good in so far as he fulfils the purpose of ballast. 
 
 Again man is an animal and may serve the purpose 
 of an animal. In Italy one sees women harnessed to 
 carts and taking the place of horses. They do it poorly, 
 for they are not adapted to it; a horse or a donkey 
 would do it better. But there is something in our feel- 
 ing of surprise and pain at seeing them so harnessed 
 that goes far deeper than the sense that the work is 
 cruelly hard. We feel that these women are treated like 
 
56 Everyday Ethics 
 
 slaves, that they are not serving their own ends and 
 so are not hving a human life. Slavery was an evil 
 not so much because the work was hard or the treat- 
 ment cruel as because forced labour tends to make men 
 incapable of a life of their own. Slavery under Ameri- 
 can civilisation was probably far better for the negroes 
 than the degradation of African, freedom. Slavery may 
 even have been necessary for a time. But all subserv- 
 ient and incessant physical labour tends to dull the finer, 
 more human part of people's nature. For this reason 
 we want as far as is possible to have machine work 
 done by things and brutish work by brutes, and to set 
 men and women free for characteristically human tasks. 
 This brings out a characteristic distinction between 
 men and things. Man can serve his own ends, a thing 
 will serve the end of anyone. The slave in the cotton 
 field was, we sometimes say, a chattel ; the hireling who 
 does the bidding of a crafty politician, is called his 
 tool. These are accurate expressions, for such men 
 have become like things, and are serving an end that 
 is in no way their own end. Shakspere likens the 
 subservient courtier to a sponge : 
 
 Rosencrants : "Take you me for a sponge, my lord?" 
 Hamlet: "Ay, sir; that soaks up the king's countenance, 
 his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king 
 best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape doth 
 nuts, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be at last 
 swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is 
 but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again." * 
 
 Contrast with this the wonderful scene where again 
 speaking to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Hamlet 
 * " Hamlet," Act IV. scene 2. 
 
Goodness the Essence of Manhood 57 
 
 compares playing upon a pipe with playing upon a 
 man's soul. 
 
 " Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make 
 of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know 
 my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; 
 you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my 
 compass: and there is much music, excellent voice, in this 
 little organ; yet cannot you make it speak. S'blood: do you 
 think that I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call 
 me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you 
 cannot play upon me." " 
 
 It takes skill even to play a pipe, but a pipe will 
 serve the ends of anyone who has sufficient skill, while 
 Hamlet has his own ends to serve. 
 
 There is another important difference between the 
 nature of the goodness of man and that of things. 
 Every time a man uses his mind he strengthens it. 
 Every time a man uses his courage he makes it greater, 
 but every time you use a pencil you make it smaller. 
 We have to reverse our standard when we speak of the 
 right usage of a man and of a thing. " Don't use that 
 silk dress so often, you will wear it out," "If you 
 never use your mind, you soon won't have any left." 
 " Of course he can play whist well, he's done it so many 
 times." " Of course the cards are worn out. We've 
 used them so often." A man gains mentally every 
 time he uses his mind, his love grows the more he 
 gives out, his happiness is increased in proportion to 
 the number of those who share it, his sympathy en- 
 larges as he spreads it abroad. A thing then serves 
 another's ends, and is worn out in so doing; a man 
 = " Hamlet," Act III. scene 2. 
 
58 Everyday Ethics 
 
 serves his own ends, and grows more himself by eacK 
 act of service. 
 
 There are pursuits characteristic of man as man. 
 The writing of Shai<spere's plays, the invention of the 
 telephone, the oration at Gettysburg, the painting of 
 the Sistine Madonna; these are purposes which no 
 animal can conceive or carry out. Now if we look at 
 such purposes as these, we shall see what they have 
 that distinguishes them from the pursuits of animals, 
 and makes them peculiarly characteristic of man. Each 
 takes thought, each takes imagination, each requires 
 memory, self-control and sacrifice. We have already 
 seen in analysing the morally responsible life that any 
 purpose involves choice, thought, and will. The power 
 of choice has led man to reject immediate satisfaction 
 in view of some far-reaching sympathy. The thought 
 of man has led to commerce all over the world, and 
 through it we listen to the words of Confucius or of 
 Plato as easily as to those of our neighbour. It gives 
 us the inheritage of countless ages for our birthright. 
 The will of man has led him to the top of the Matter- 
 horn and down to the depths of the sea. The world 
 lies before him and he looks out to alluring glimpses 
 of beauty and mystery that call him with myriad 
 voices to comprehend, and to create his own. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 HOW TO JUDGE PURPOSES 
 
 Certain acts or purposes seem to be always wrong, 
 and others always right. It certainly seems wrong to 
 kill, to take what is not ours, to give pain, to be idle 
 all day; and always right to give up to others, to be 
 liberal, to be industrious. A little experience con- 
 vinces us that this is a mistake, or more truly, that 
 there is no sense in judging acts in this wholesale way. 
 We have already seen that there is no sin in an act 
 which is done by one who is at the time non-responsi- 
 ble. The baby who pulls his mother's earrings and 
 gives great suffering thereby is not sinful. 
 
 Further, the opinions even of educated people differ 
 concerning deliberate acts. Ask a number of people 
 whether deception is ever right. Most of them will 
 answer " No," but several will say : " Yes, when the 
 deception is well meant." Ask them again whether it 
 is ever right to be lazy and a few will reply : " Yes, 
 in case you are very tired." A distinguished Chinese 
 mandarin who taught at Harvard College in 1887, 
 distressed and shocked the neighbours, because he in- 
 sisted on binding up his infant daughter's feet so that 
 they should not grow.^ He certainly gave pain and 
 1 See C. C. Everett's " Poetry, Comedy and Duty," p. 232. 
 
 59 
 
6o Everyday Ethics 
 
 mutilated his daughter's feet so that she was never 
 able to walk. Nevertheless, we cannot call him cruel. 
 The Chinaman knew that his child would be dis- 
 graced if her feet were large. He realised that such 
 a condition would cut her off from association with all 
 of her own rank in China and would make marriage 
 impossible for her. His judgment may have been as 
 kind and far-sighted as that of the doctor who vaccin- 
 ates a crying child. On the other hand, when an in- 
 dulgent mother gives her little boy everything he asks 
 for, this may be a most cruel procedure. The child 
 either gets sick or becomes selfish, grasping, spoilt, like 
 sour milk. We cannot class as sinful all acts which 
 give sharp pain. We must make at least the dis- 
 tinction between a mistaken and a sinful act. The 
 Chinaman may have been mistaken in squeezing his 
 baby's feet; but if he was fully convinced that it was 
 best for her welfare, we cannot call him sinful. 
 
 The case of the Chinese professor brings out a 
 second distinction of importance; we recognise not 
 only the act, which clearly gives pain, but the purpose 
 back of the act, which in this case is to save future 
 pain or disgrace. As I walk along the street, I see a 
 big man suddenly strike a curly-haired girl of three 
 and so push her into the street. " What a brute ! " I 
 exclaim. But as a huge block of ice was about to 
 fall from the roof to the spot where she stood, his 
 instantaneous act probably saved the child's life. I 
 saw an act which I interpreted as brutal. It was really 
 humane. 
 
How to Judge Purposes 6i 
 
 Our conclusion from these cases is important. We 
 can never see sin. We can see a man stealthily take a 
 pocketbook from another's pocket, we can see a man go 
 swaying down the street; but we never can judge by 
 this sight whether either of these men is sinful in the 
 slightest degree. The stealing of the purse may be a 
 prearranged joke, and the swaying may be due to ill-' 
 ness, not to drink. 
 
 We cannot see sin; we cannot condemn acts just 
 because they give pain or look cowardly or selfish. 
 There is only one way of judging any act fairly, and 
 that is with reference to the purpose behind it. We 
 cannot be sure that striking an innocent child, mutilat- 
 ing your baby's feet, sitting idle all day long, running 
 away during battle, or even deliberately murdering 
 your best friend, are sinful acts. We need in each 
 case to know the purpose which led to the act, we need, 
 that is, many facts, ample knowledge of the context of 
 the act. Take for example a murder. Murder is 
 never the whole content of any sane man's purpose; 
 there is in every murderous purpose something else 
 of which the murder seems to be a necessary part. 
 Claudius, the usurping king in " Hamlet," planned to 
 get the crown; to do so, he had to kill his brother. 
 Hamlet planned to be a loyal son by avenging his 
 father's death ; therefore he had to kill his uncle. The 
 deepest purpose in Brutus was to save his country; to 
 gain this end he felt forced to murder Cassar, who 
 seemed to him a menace to the more precious life of 
 the republic. Claudius, Hamlet and Brutus each com- 
 
6z Everyday Ethics 
 
 mitted murder. The three acts look similar, but are 
 in realitjr very different. 
 
 1X\ 
 
 We must penetrate deeper than any visible act 
 Purpose is the characteristic of moral life and eaci' 
 person's purpose is his own and so is unique. Hence 
 if we are to judge whether anyone is acting sinfully, 
 it can only be by knowing whether he is capable of 
 having a purpose at a:ll, and if so, whether he has 
 chosen it earnestly and is follo\*ang it loyally and with 
 an open mind. This means that we can pass just judg- 
 ment only on ourselves and on those whose purposes 
 we know as we know our own. We can demand of 
 ourselves and of all whose purposes we know sympa- 
 thetically, that if there is a purpose, it shall be fully 
 a purpose (as distinguished from a habit or a swarm 
 of dominating impulses), and that it shall be loyally 
 guarded from the dangers of becoming a routine or of 
 being abandoned lightly. 
 
 Let us study a few cases which illustrate this point. 
 Maria Edgeworth tells in her "Moral Tales "^ the 
 story of a child named Rosamond, who has a certain 
 sum of money to spend for new shoes, but who is fas- 
 cinated by a purple vase in the shop of an apothecary, 
 and buys it instead. Rosamond is described as an 
 impulsive child, tempted by each article in every shop 
 window and not much inclined to consider whether 
 
 2 Maria Edgeworth, " Rosamond, and the Purple Jar." — Mora^ 
 Tales. 
 
How to Judge Purposes 63 
 
 the object is all that her fancy paints it. When she has 
 brought the jar home she discovers some water in 
 it and when this is poured out the vase has lost both 
 its colour and its charm. Miss Edgeworth delights to 
 picture the pain which Rosamond suffered when sharp 
 stones pierced her old shoes, and to dwell on her deep 
 repentance of the mistaken choice. There are two 
 sides to this question. The purple vase might not 
 have turned out so disappointingly; it might, as a 
 thing of beauty, have been a joy forever, and far 
 outweighed for her any of the merits of strong shoes ; 
 but it seems from tj|ie story that Rosamond acted much 
 as does an Indian who eats up a month's supply of 
 food at one week's feast. She let the moment's im- 
 pulse rule her instead of remembering the many, many 
 days when the stones would cut her feet, and the other 
 children would laugh at her and make her wish that 
 she was not the girl with a purple jar, but the girl 
 with a pair of strong, new shoes. If she had consid- 
 ered this beforehand, she would have known that she 
 did not really (that is, in view of all the circum- 
 stances) want the vase. 
 
 To be sure whether or not Rosamond's change of 
 plan was well made, we should need to ask the fol- 
 lowing questions: Did she think carefully about the 
 alternative choices: the shoes or the vase? Did she 
 try to remember similar mistakes, which, being an 
 impulsive girl, she must have made before ? Did she 
 imagine how long the month would be, and how much 
 her womout shoes would hurt ? Did she try hard to 
 find out what the vase was like ? Did she try to think 
 
64 Everyday Ethics 
 
 whether it would continue to be what she most wanted 
 during the next month? 
 
 When we answer " No " to these questions, we see 
 that she was to blame because she abandoned her 
 purpose to follow a momentary impulse. 
 
 The story of Jacob and Esau (Genesis, chap. xxv. 
 verses 29-34) gives a somewhat similar illustration: 
 " And Jacob sod pottage : and Esau came from the 
 field, and he was faint : and Esau said to Jacob : ' Feed 
 me, I pray thee, with that same red pottage; for I 
 am faint . . .' And Jacob said : * Sell me this day 
 thy birthright.' And Esau said : ' Behold, I am at the 
 point to die: and what profit shall this birthright do 
 to me?' . . . and he sold his birthright unto 
 Jacob. Then Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of 
 lentils; and he did eat and drink, and rose up, 
 and went his way: thus Esau despised his birth- 
 right." 
 
 Esau coming in faint and hungry from hunting saw 
 the pottage of lentils and with hardly a moment's 
 thought was ready to yield up his birthright to Jacob 
 for the momentary satisfaction of his hunger. Did he 
 exercise much clear-sightedness, memory, imagination, 
 self-control, in this choice? No, for as soon as the 
 pottage was eaten he changed his mind and realised 
 that the birthright was of far deeper concern to him 
 than the lentils. As the Bible says, he had despised 
 his birthright, for he had let a single impulse control 
 his whole future life. It is true that under different 
 circumstances Esau's act might have been right. If 
 Esau had been, as he pretended, at the point of death 
 
How to Judge Purposes 65 
 
 and only to be saved by food, it would have been 
 right for him to take it. We can never condemn an 
 act merely because it satisfies physical needs and 
 subordinates those virhich are called intellectual or 
 spiritual. Rosamond chose the vase in preference to 
 physical comfort and Esau chose physical satisfaction 
 in preference to future success in life. Both were sin- 
 ful acts because they were the issue of half-formed 
 purposes; they were not chosen with clear, resolute 
 attention. We are approaching a very important in-- 
 ference. Sin is always disloyalty to our chosen pur-' 
 pose before we have found one that is more properly 
 our own. It is a double-mindedness that leads to 
 narrow-mindedness. 
 
 Take as another example of a purpose wrongly 
 forsaken, the resolve of Hamlet to avenge his father. 
 Many people would say that this was a bad pur- 
 pose, and that Hamlet was sinful to undertake it. 
 A closer study makes it clear that the real sin in Ham- 
 let was his vacillation after he had determined that 
 this one purpose should wipe all lesser ones from his 
 mind. He chose his purpose under the stress of pas- 
 sionate excitement. He swears that he will sweep to 
 his revenge, that " all trivial fond records " shall be 
 wiped from his memory. " And thy commandment all 
 alona shall live, within the book and volume of my 
 brain, unmixed with baser matter." 
 
 When the excitement caused by the ghost's confes- 
 sion is over Hamlet wavers. He persuades himself 
 that he needs more evidence, though at the same time 
 his sense of disloyalty to his vow is keen. 
 
66 Everyday Ethics 
 
 "O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! 
 . . . • • 
 
 A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, 
 
 Like John-a-dreams — , unpre^nant of my caus«i 
 
 . . . it cannot be. 
 But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall 
 To make oppression bitter; or, ere this, 
 I should have fatted all the region kites 
 With this slave's offal." ^ 
 
 Once more he is roused, but once more he hesitates 
 and resolves to seek more evidence. " I'll have grounds 
 more relative than this." The play before the King 
 furnishes the very evidence that he has required, yet 
 still he does not strike the blovsr. In a moment of 
 excitement he kills Polonius with the expectation of 
 killing Claudius; but, his passion expended in this 
 blow, he lets opportunity after opportunity slip. He 
 still blames himself: 
 
 " How all occasions do inform against me. 
 And spur my dull revenge ! 
 
 . . . I do not know 
 Why yet I live to say. This thing's to do: 
 Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means. 
 To do't." * 
 
 Again he spurs himself on : 
 
 " . . . O, from this time forth. 
 My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth ! " 
 
 Yet even now he does not act. It takes the plot 
 3 " Hamlet," Act II. scene 2. 
 *Act IV. scene 4. 
 
How to Judge Purposes 67 
 
 against his life to rouse him to revenge, and once more, 
 as if in doubt, he asks Horatio : 
 
 "He that hath kill'd my king, and whored my mother; 
 Popp'd in between the election and my hopes; 
 Thrown out his angle for my proper life, 
 And with such cozenage — is't not perfect conscience 
 To quit him with this arm ? " s 
 
 The fight with Laertes comes and Hamlet finally 
 kills Claudius with the poisoned rapier, but even here 
 it is perhaps rather the excitement of his mother's 
 death and the sudden revelation of the double attempt 
 to kill him by poison, that stirs Hamlet, not his will 
 to avenge his father. 
 
 Hamlet's purpose was not fully a purpose ; it lacked 
 the steadiness, the resoluteness of attention which is 
 essential to all good work. He pursued a zigzag 
 course, hot and cold by turns, and impulsive rather 
 than resolute. He was so torn by conflicting im- 
 pulses of doubt and self-reproach for doubt, that even 
 though his insanity was feigned, the strife in his 
 nature made him indeed almost insane. Hamlet is a 
 double-minded man, and so is unstable in all his 
 ways. 
 
 Let us study next a case which exemplifies how pur- 
 pose may degenerate into habit. Two men graduate 
 from college in the same class and start in business as 
 clerks in the same bank. Ten years later one is presi- 
 dent of the bank and the other is still clerk. Both meant 
 at the start to rise in position, but the first man kept see- 
 
 *Act V. scene 2. 
 
68 Everyday Ethics 
 
 ing and making opportunities to be useful to the higher 
 officials : he stayed overtime when there was pressure 
 of work,, he suggested improvements in method and 
 gradually he became the most prominent of the clerks 
 and was promoted. The second clerk opened his books 
 at the stroke of nine and closed them at the stroke of 
 three. He did his accounts accurately, but he did 
 no more than he was told to do. Year by year his 
 books looked neater and his figures more perfect ; yeari 
 by year he did the same work with less thought and; 
 less effort. At the end of ten years the general verdictj 
 is that he is a valuable machine and that the president 
 is a great deal of a man. The clerk has let his pursuit 
 swamp him instead of controlling it. He has fallen 
 into the non-morality of habit, which means stagna- 
 tion. Moral life is of delicate balance. Like a bicycle, 
 it can only be poised by being in motion. 
 
 In contrast with these half-fledged, hesitant purposes 
 which sit on the edge of the nest and never dare to fly 
 off, or which tumble recklessly out without knowing 
 what they are about, let us look at a genuine and char- 
 acteristic purpose. Francis Parkman, whose historic 
 writings have lighted up many dark corners of Ameri- 
 ca's past, was from early youth a lover of the wild 
 country, for, as he used to say, he heard the forest 
 calling him. In college he studied history and eth- 
 nology, and as soon as he was out of college, he fol- 
 lowed the call and started for the wildest part of 
 Oregon. His purpose took a more and more definite 
 shape. It was not alone the wild life among the 
 Indians that attracted him; he wanted to write about 
 
How to Judge Purposes 69 
 
 this life, he wanted to know the past of our country in 
 its less civilised days and to tell men of it. 
 
 Buoyant and exulting in his strength, he took tre- 
 mendous rides and underwent great hardships during 
 his trip in Oregon, and when so weak and feverish that 
 he almost fell off his horse, he still persisted in trav- 
 elling. He came back wrecked in health and was never 
 well again. He suffered agonies which his physicians 
 wholly failed to alleviate. He could not use his eyes, 
 he was sleepless and could walk with difficulty, but he 
 did not give up his purpose. Day by day, resolutely 
 and steadily he worked in the few minutes or hours 
 of comparative freedom from pain. For fourteen 
 years he was unable to do more than gather and ar- 
 range a little material, but while trying to get well he 
 seized every safe opportunity for a bit of work. All 
 the available documents bearing on the history of the 
 period he was studying were read to him, and by his 
 tremendous will and memory, he finally succeeded in 
 weaving together a graphic and consecutive story of 
 early American history. He worked til! the very end 
 of his life, and the result of fifty years of patient, 
 resolute, clear-sighted loyalty to a single purpose, has 
 been to make him one of our foremost historians. 
 
 At the beginning of Parkman's biography is printed 
 the following quotation from one of his writings: 
 " There is a universal law of growth and achievement. 
 The man who knows himself, understands his own 
 powers and aptitudes, forms purposes in accord with 
 them and pursues these purposes steadily, is the man 
 of success." ® 
 
 «"Life of Francis Parkman" by Charles A. Farnham, title 
 page. 
 
•JO Everyday Ethics 
 
 We have revealed to us in Parkman's life a purpose 
 which is truly a purpose, chosen and carried out 
 with dominant will, clear-sightedness and lifelong per- 
 sistence. It is preeminently a good purpose; good, 
 because exactly fitted to the man, fully faced and loy- 
 ally held for fifty years. In order to carry it out he 
 exercised courage, patience, imagination, resolution, 
 industry, unselfish devotion, self-forgetfulness, per- 
 sistency. 
 
 The good purpose then for each man is his own, and 
 so is different in each case ; it is fully a purpose, not a 
 wish, an impulse or a dream, but thoughtful and open- 
 minded. When we act rightly, that is as well as we 
 know how, we try to see and feel all sides of the 
 question, to think hard, to make sure that we really 
 want what we are trying for, and that we really know 
 what it is. Then we hold to our choice persistently, 
 although little tugs and strong ones pull at us. 
 
 Ill 
 
 In the second chapter I compared the distinction 
 between moral and non-responsible life to the boundary 
 lines between two properties. We took up cases in 
 which it was hard to be sure whether a man was or 
 was not responsible for his act and represented these 
 cases as on the border line between the two fields. If 
 we keep to the same type of illustration, we may say 
 that the truly good act for each man is that which 
 aims at the bull's-eye of his purpose. Wrong acts are 
 those which while chosen, and so within the realm of 
 
How to Judge Purposes 71 
 
 responsibility, are yet relatively close to its outer 
 boundary so that the actor often deceives himself into 
 maintaining that they are in the non-moral field. 
 " Why did you hit Charl§y? " " Oh, I was only fool- 
 ing." Fooling ! Fools belong to the non-moral realm. 
 " I've meant to mend my skirt each day this week, but 
 somehow the time slips by." Here is the dawning 
 of a purpose which is slipping off into a pure dream, 
 
 " I know I ought to get down to breakfast with my 
 father at eight; it would make a great difference to 
 his happiness to have me with him, but somehow I 
 can't get out of the habit of sleeping till nine." Here I 
 am running again into the non-moral realm of a habit 
 as uncontrollable as the winking of my eyelid, though 
 my power of considering the fact shows that I am still 
 within the moral boundary, still capable of facing 
 my deeper desire and carrying it through against the 
 force of habit which is holding me tighter and tighter 
 in its clutches every day. 
 
 " I planned to study five pages of history every day 
 this week, but one day someone dropped in and asked 
 me to go to ride, and another morning the water 
 looked so delicious that I couldn't resist going in 
 bathing. On Saturday there was a picnic, and Dora 
 came down for the day on Tuesday, so after all I 
 studied just one morning." Here we see the opposite 
 extreme. Instead of being controlled by any habit, 
 either good or bad, I am pulled about by anybody's 
 plan, and though I have made my own, drop it to go 
 wherever fancy moves. 
 
 These opposite tendencies (either to be controlled 
 
72 Everyday Ethics 
 
 by habit or pulled apart by conflicting desires) are the 
 two great dangers of moral life. To make clearer this 
 idea of the moral life as one throughout, because held 
 together by some purpose, and yet divided, because in 
 it one is always trying to attain more than one has, 
 I will use an illustration which, though inadequate,) 
 may be suggestive. 
 
 Here is a pair of scissors. Suppose the blades were 
 so glued together that they could never open, but were 
 wholly one. It would no longer be a pair of scissors. 
 It might be of some other use, but it has lost what 
 gave it its essential character. 
 
 On the other hand, I may take out the bolt which 
 holds the blades together. Here again I have what 
 is no longer a pair of scissors, but two unmeaning 
 blades of steel, because the bolt which gave them unity 
 and let them fulfil their function is gone. So it is 
 with morally responsible life. It must be held together 
 as one by purpose and yet be ready to open out; 
 it is thus in a sense divided against itself, its future 
 separated from its present by desire to attain some- 
 thing which as yet it has not. A life of pure habit is 
 like the scissors glued together, too much one to be 
 active. A life torn apart by absolutely conflicting im- 
 pulses is like the scissors without the bolt, too divided 
 to be a single life. The poise of moral life is between 
 these two dangers, either of which will kill it. 
 
 We hear that a man has " gone to pieces " ; he is no 
 longer within the control of any plan of his own, but 
 drops into any snare in his pathway as a ball drops 
 into any hole it strikes. On the other hand, we know 
 
How to Judge Purposes 73 
 
 people whom it is impossible to rouse from a narrow 
 routine ; they are becoming like " sticks and stones 
 and senseless things." In college life, the " grinds " 
 whom no deeper call can rouse from work, and 
 the loafers who cannot pull themselves together for 
 an hour of concentration, exemplify these two dan- 
 gers. In later life we hear of two types of nervous 
 prostration, the one due to lack of a steadying and 
 illuminating purpose, the other to a dead-and-alive rou- 
 tine work that is growing narrower each day. In each 
 of these cases, a moral being is becoming gradually 
 non-moral and in so doing, is wrecking his human 
 nature. It is fortunate if he finds it out in time to 
 steer his boat back into the current of his purpose. 
 
 If we turn again to the life of Francis Parkman 
 we see how he must have met and avoided both the 
 danger of abandoning his chosen work and the danger 
 of doing it in a routine way. The temptation to 
 abandon it would have been irresistible to most of us. 
 How can it pay to struggle through a tangled mass of 
 documents when for fourteen years one can work at 
 most for a couple of hours each day? The allotted 
 time, and with it his strength, is gone before he can 
 much more than arrange his material. Yet his pur- 
 pose was so clear and steady that it held out through 
 all temptation; he rested when rest was essential and 
 began again, as soon as work was possible, with un- 
 quenchable fire. On the other hand, there is tempta- 
 tion to let the palsy of routine creep over any work 
 that one has followed for forty years. To work, 
 read and write and still to keep a glowing inter- 
 
74 Everyday Ethics 
 
 est, takes perennial imagination. Again and again 
 the temptation must have been keen to avoid the new 
 research and finish the book at a given time in spite 
 of the glimpses of fresh material virhich might or 
 might not prove valuable and which was sure in any 
 case to mean much hard digging in rocky soil. No 
 man knows at the start, or even at any step on the way, 
 just what his purpose will require of him, and it is in 
 rising to meet the demand of those unforeseeable re- 
 quirements instead of repeating what we already do 
 well, that the finest vigour is shown. 
 
 There is every evidence that Francis Parkman aimed 
 steadily and persistently at the bull's-eye of his pur- 
 pose, neither drifting into abandonment of it nor doing 
 what he did in a routine way. His can stand as the 
 type of a good purpose, unique because his own, clear- 
 sighted, loyal, resolute, open-minded, growing. 
 
 IV 
 
 We can gather together the results of this chapter in 
 a final simile. We may think of virtue as self-gov- 
 ernment, of sin as civil war, and of the non-moral life 
 as anarchy, that is, as total lack of any government. 
 When we visit a new country, we may find plenty of 
 signs of disorder and struggle, or, at the other ex- 
 treme, of stagnation and inertia, but till we know 
 whether there is any government and what the govern- 
 ment is, we cannot really judge of the situation. It 
 may be that there is no one in control (as when 
 people kick and scream under ether), or it may 
 
How to Judge Purposes 75 
 
 be that the government is weak, but is doing its 
 best. When, however, we know that there is a gov- 
 ernment but that part of the nation is struggling to 
 resist the will of the majority, we know there is civi! 
 war. This is what happens in sin. We know better, 
 else we should not be sinful but only mistaken; yet 
 a momentary impulse of laziness, narrowness, or 
 cowardice has overthrown for the time the ruling 
 power which is our own permanent or sane will. We 
 have lost in the fight against our impulse. Virtue, like 
 that of Parkman, is the holding of anarchical impulses 
 under the control of a steady, self-governing purpose. 
 In the course of this chapter we have reached several 
 important conclusions : 
 
 1. We can never see either sin or virtue. 
 
 2. We can never judge of sin or virtue by the con- 
 sequences of an act. 
 
 3. We can judge only by knowing whether the pur- 
 pose of the actor was carefully chosen and followed 
 with loyalty and open mindedness. 
 
 4. It follows that we can accurately judge no one 
 but ourselves and those whose purposes we know 
 equally well. 
 
 We have also made several important distinctions 
 between what is harmful and what is sinful. 
 
 1. An act is bad when its consequences are dis- 
 astrous. 
 
 2. An act is sinful when the doer knows it to be 
 wrong. 
 
 3'. An act may be harmful without being sinful. 
 4. An act may be sinful without being harmful. 
 
76 Everyday Ethics 
 
 In view of what we have found we can give the 
 following definition of virtue : 
 
 To be virtuous is to be open-minded, considerate, 
 and resolute in the choice and execution of that pur- 
 pose for which you believe yourself most fitted, and 
 to follow it till it opens out to a purpose more youv 
 own. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 THE DARKNESS OF SIN 
 
 We worked out in the last chapter two important prin- 
 ciples : ( I ) That no purpose, however cruel, selfish, or 
 cowardly it looks, can justly be condemned at sight, 
 and (2) that virtue is loyalty to purposes chosen and 
 held to with alert intelligence, and thereby steered away 
 on the one hand from the danger of blinded impulse, 
 and on the other, from the danger of blinded habit. 
 This is far different from the ordinary view which 
 labels acts as sinful or virtuous without investigation 
 and which thinks of sin as deliberately chosen. A 
 sympathetic study of cases of acknowledged sin will 
 confirm our view. 
 
 (a) Cruelty. "Why did you hurt Ellen?" I ask 
 of her older brother. " Oh, she is such a cry-baby ! 
 It is good for her to be teased, and I didn't mean 
 really to hurt her," is a typical answer, or " We got 
 fighting and she was mean and I struck her harder 
 than I meant to." The cruel act is never committed 
 with full attention to its cruelty, but with some idea 
 of its fun or a half-sophistical assertion that it will 
 do good. 
 
 (6) Selfishness. An act of selfishness is always 
 more or less blind and unimaginative. I have com- 
 fortably established myself in a car with all my 
 
 n 
 
78 Everyday Ethics 
 
 bags and parcels on the opposite seat. I have bal- 
 anced a great bunch of mountain laurel on top of the 
 bundles and I know it will be injured if I have to give 
 up the extra room. The train stops and a number of 
 people throng by, looking tentatively at my extra seat. 
 1 1 become too busy over my newspaper to notice them ; 
 I persuade myself that there must be seats farther 
 on, or that someone else had better make room, not I. 
 Of course I am blinding myself. I cannot at the same 
 time realise the fatigue of the tired woman whom I 
 keep standing and yet monopolise two seats, but I 
 can shove aside my better impulse by turning my at- 
 tention away. 
 
 (c) Cowardice. Another common sin, cowardice, 
 exemplifies in a diiferent way the tendency to blind 
 ourselves. It is for many of us a recurring temptation 
 to put off going to the dentist's. We know that we 
 ought to go, but in September we decide that there will 
 be more time in November and that it is best not to go 
 until then. When November comes it too has a way 
 of gathering to itself engrossing occupations more im- 
 portant, shall we say, or perhaps more agreeable, than 
 dentistry? How can we force ourselves to go? Only 
 by deliberately facing what we really believe, that the 
 short, business-like torture of a few hours is far bet- 
 ter than the prolonged agony of toothache. If we 
 can hold this fact steadily before our minds, we shall 
 soon be ringing the dentist's doorbell. 
 
 {d) Wilfulness. Wilful abandonment of one's aims 
 is often close to cowardice. There come times of dis* 
 couragement when we grow hopeless of ever learning 
 
The Darkness of Sin 79 
 
 to play golf or the violin. We feel like throwing it all 
 up. To act on such an impulse is wilful, for we really 
 know, if we chose to think about it, that it would be a 
 great waste to neglect the harvest of all our hard-won 
 skill. But when you act wilfully you don't choose to 
 I think. If you listen you can almost hear the click as 
 J your mind shuts up. Then come sophistry, glib argu- 
 ments to excuse ourselves by deceiving ourselves, the 
 snaky " advocatus diavoli " creeping in. 
 
 Walter Wyckoff, Professor of Political Economy at 
 Princeton, became deeply interested in the condition 
 of working men and decided in 1892 that he could 
 get the most accurate knowledge of their life by be- 
 coming for a time one of them. He started from New 
 York without a cent, planning to earn his way to Cali- 
 fornia by the work of his hands. 
 
 Though suffering from hard work and poor food, 
 he earned his way until he reached Chicago. There 
 he shared the plight of an army of workmen who 
 had been attracted by the prospect of work on the 
 World's Fair grounds, and found too late that there 
 was not nearly enough work to go round. Day by 
 day he was refused employment ; all the money he had 
 earned before was spent and he nearly starved. One 
 evening when " despondency had almost conquered 
 hope and worn out courage," and even breaking into 
 a shop in order to get arrested seemed possible, he 
 met a sudden temptation. As he wandered along the 
 streets, hungry and utterly weary, he happened to look 
 up and saw through a wide window an intimate friend 
 reading the paper before an open fire. With a great 
 
8o Everyday Ethics 
 
 longing came the impulse to give up his plan and go 
 in. It was not only hunger, dirt, and cold that were 
 hard to bear. It was loneliness, the need of a familiar 
 face, and of the healing touch of cultivated speech 
 to one who had been cursed at by surly employers. The 
 temptation to throw up his plan was keen. Wyckoff 
 found himself asking : Is the experiment worth while 
 anyway ? How can it do any good ? What difference 
 will it make if I abandon it? Is it not an absurd plan? 
 
 No! Wyckoff knew it was worth while and that 
 the arguments of that moment of despondency and 
 weariness were sophistical. Will conquered wilful- 
 ness and he turned away from his friend's house and 
 went supperless to sleep in the station-house. 
 
 (e) Dishonesty. Many a defaulter has ruined 
 widows whose money was in his trust, but few, if 
 any, face the fact fully. The defaulter always means 
 to return the money which he has borrowed, and week 
 by week takes a little more to cover his past encroach- 
 ments. The type is so common that we recognise it 
 at once. We expect to find a sick daughter for 
 the sake of whose health the first money was stolen. 
 The tendency to call your own spade a spade is ex- 
 ceedingly rare. If Harry finds a purse in the road and 
 keeps it, Jack may exclaim : " How inconceivably dis- 
 honest! " but if it is Jack who finds and decides to keep 
 the money, he does not say : " I know it's wrong, but 
 I am going to do it," but : " Finding is having," or 
 " I am sure I need it more than the person who has 
 lost it." Even professional burglars excuse their raids 
 by theories about the extortions of the rich. 
 
The Darkness of Sin 8i 
 
 The cases just quoted are typical of the nature of 
 sin. I am well aware that the portrait of the sinner is 
 often drawn with very different lines. Cases of de- 
 liberate fiendishness or cool self-acknowledged mean- 
 ness are apt to come to our minds when we use the 
 word " sin." We think of Nero persecuting the Chris- 
 tians ; of Devery, the New York Chief of Police, black- 
 mailing the rich and grinding the poor ; of lago thirst- 
 ing to revenge himself on Othello ; of Quay corrupting 
 legislatures ; of Czolgotz assassinating McKinley. At 
 first all sin seems deliberate and open-eyed, and the 
 typical sinner a cold-blooded villain, but on further 
 thought we shorten our list of deliberate villains by 
 ruling out everyone who is morally irresponsible, as it 
 is probable Nero and Czolgotz were. Terrible as were 
 his acts, Nero probably committed them as uncon- 
 cernedly as a baby crushes a beetle and with as little 
 sense of right or wrong, while McKinley's assassin 
 apparently acted in an insane way for the purpose he 
 thought highest. 
 
 Many of the most appalling acts of history are not 
 sins at all, for sin implies as we have seen, both re- 
 sponsibility and the abandonment of what is acknowl- 
 edged by the sinner himself to be right. 
 
 Then as we get closer to men whose acts we disap- 
 prove, e. g., to Devery and to Quay, we find them not 
 clearly facing the evil consequences of their schemes, 
 but covering up these consequences by illusive names 
 and dwelling on the brighter side. The Chicago alder- 
 man who buys up the voters of his district is (as Miss 
 Jane Addams tdls us *) thought of and thinks of him- 
 
 1 " Democracy and Ethics," Jane Addams, p. 235. 
 
82 Everyday Ethics 
 
 self as a benefactor who attends the funerals of the 
 poor and helps them out in difficulties. 
 
 Croker speaks of himself as " working for my pocket 
 same as the rest of you," referring to the business 
 world, and his famous answer to William T. Stead, 
 of the Review of Reviews, was, I believe, largely 
 tinctured with truth. " Mr. Croker," said Mr. Stead, 
 " as you look back over the years during which you' 
 have been connected with the politics of New York 
 City, can you recall any act that you are ashamed of ? " 
 " No, sir," said Mr. Croker, " no, not one." 
 A clear-sighted purpose to do what the actor fully 
 recognises as wrong is as hard to find as a white robin. 
 In the illusion of distance, we seem to see determined, 
 deliberate sin; as we come nearer, we find either 
 insanity, which precludes realisation of the conse- 
 quences, or a self-deceiving blindness. The sinner 
 always hides even from himself, he is full of plausible 
 arguments, but he is afraid of facing the light. Sin 
 is usually covered up by excuses. No one wants to do 
 wrong, but only to do something which involves 
 wrong-doing. A girl may persuade another to play 
 truant when she knows it is against the school rules, 
 but though she is wilfully doing what is forbidden, she 
 covers it up by saying : " I think the school rules are 
 unjust anyway; it won't really make any difference 
 in our work, and besides it will be such fun to go 
 skating." By this time her attention is fully turned 
 away from the wrongfulness of the act. Self-deceit, 
 narrowness, thoughtlessness, vacillation, blindness, wil- 
 fulness, these and not deliberate clear-sighted reso- 
 
The Darkness of Sin 83 
 
 lution, are characteristic of the sins of ordinary- 
 life. 
 
 These examples show that the bad purpose is essen- 
 tially the blinded, sophistical, vacillating purpose. The 
 sinner keeps out of sight the side of his purpose of 
 which he is ashamed. 
 
 The sinful act is sleepy when it should be awake ; 
 
 The sinful act seeks darkness instead of light; 
 
 The sinful act avoids thought and parades in soph- 
 istry; 
 
 The sinful act vacillates and is uncontrolled. 
 
 So far I have considered the negative side. Let us 
 turn to the positive. Anyone who is trying to do right, 
 must think squarely and with full attention about all 
 the elements involved in his decision. 
 
 " It is hard to hold the right idea steadily enough 
 before our attention to let it exert its adequate effects. 
 Whether it be stimulative or inhibitive, it is too reason- 
 able for us. . . . We shy away at the thought of 
 it. It twinkles and goes out the moment it appears 
 in the margin of our consciousness, and we need a reso- 
 lute efifort of voluntary attention to drag it into the 
 focus of the field and to keep it there long enough for 
 its associative and motor effects to be exerted. . . , 
 If then, you are asked : " In what does a moral act con- 
 sist when reduced to its simplest and most elementary 
 form ? " you can make only one reply. You can say 
 that it consists in the effort of attention by which we 
 hold fast to an idea which, but for that effort of atten- 
 tion, would be driven out of the mind." ^ 
 
 -Wm. James, "Talks to Teachers on Psychology," p. 186. 
 Read also the following pages. 
 
84 Everyday Ethics 
 
 The practical application of this study of sin is clear. 
 When we are tempted to do anything which we feel 
 may be wrong, we should keep persistently in sight 
 those consequences of our act which we find ourselves 
 inclined to push aside. The effect of this is like chang- 
 ing smoky street lamps to electricity in a disreputable 
 part of the town. Evil cannot flourish in a clear and 
 steady light. 
 ' ' It may seem that Prof. James's rule applies only to a 
 certain type of wrong acts, that of the timid and lazy 
 wrong-doer. We all know also the impulsive wrong- 
 doer, the person of headstrong, self-assertive tempera- 
 ment, who is, we say, carried away by passion. These 
 two types may be represented by two streams, one 
 shallow and slow, drifting into eddies, and stagnating 
 in pools; the other rushing, torrent-like, oblivious of 
 all that it sweeps aside in its impetuous course. A 
 headstrong nature tends to act on any impulse as it 
 arises, pushing aside the consciousness of conflicting 
 claims. Its sins are preeminently those of wilful blind- 
 ness. A shallow and slow nature is tempted to be 
 deceitful, lazy, cowardly; its faults are the faults of 
 weakness, vacillation and lack of sustained impulse. 
 Suppose a girl of each of these two types sets out to 
 make ten Christmas presents. The first, of impulsive 
 temperament, will throw herself so hard into the work 
 that she entirely ignores bedtime, lessons, or dinner 
 hours, and makes herself a nuisance to all around her 
 by monopolising the parlour table with her litter of 
 materials. The second will get discouraged and be 
 inclined to give up. She starts readily, but soon loses 
 
The Darkness of Sin 85 
 
 her ambition; she begins neatly, but ends by hiding 
 her big stitches under a frill of lace, or cutting down 
 her list of presents by half. 
 
 We meet these contrasted types in great as well as in 
 small affairs. There is the rash, impulsive speculator, 
 who blindly ignores the fact that he is risking the 
 money which supports his family; and the timid specu- 
 lator, who deceives himself by calling his theft a loan, 
 and then takes more, on the plea of redeeming the first 
 loan. We see selfish acts due either to an overbearing 
 impulse, or to a narrow lack of sympathy. " I know 
 I ought to give Sophia the concert ticket, but I don't 
 care, I'm not going to do it," or " I don't see why 
 Sophia should have it, I don't believe she really 
 wants it." 
 
 I bring up these cases to show that in spite of the 
 wide variety in human nature and the many kinds 
 of excuses made by wrong-doers, one rule of mor- 
 ality holds good for all: Keep your full attention on 
 your purpose so that it bears you steadily forward 
 without sweeping you away. The reason that we are 
 swept away and the reason that we wander into eddies 
 are at bottom the same; the current is not controlled 
 by a clear and steady purpose. 
 
 n 
 
 Let us look back once more to our distinction be- 
 tween the moral and the non-moral. Anyone who is 
 carried without power of control into the stagnation 
 of habit or who is swept away by irresistible impulse 
 
86 Everyday Ethics 
 
 is non-moral ; anyone who lets go and so drifts, or is 
 swept away, is sinful; anyone who steers straight by 
 strong control of the rudder of attention is acting 
 rightly. In every case sin is misused power. Where 
 there is no power, there is, as we have already seen, 
 no sin, and wherever there is power, it may be turned 
 to good. The impulsive nature may have much power 
 which only needs control, and even the self-deceptive 
 person has a little current which will gradually gain 
 force when the channel is deepened and straightened 
 by increased interest in any pursuit. 
 
 We can take here an important step toward an en- 
 lightening definition of sin. Whenever we have power, 
 we have that which may be used either to expand or to 
 explode. Where there is wrong-doing, there is always 
 power turned against itself. Let us see in what ways 
 sin is power turned against itself. Helen Keller ^ gives 
 an account of the tempestuous early years before Miss 
 Sullivan opened to her the ability to receive and to 
 communicate ideas through words. Her nature was 
 full of keen, eager power; but it was without any 
 steady, controlling outlet and so it let itself loose in 
 bursts of passionate temper and destructive violence. 
 That energy which was her strongest ally when gov- 
 erned by the purpose to learn, was wrecking her nature 
 by its turbulent upheaval. It was her own power 
 turned against herself. As soon as she learned what 
 words could open out to her, that same destructive 
 energy, now guided and ordered, led her with wonder- 
 ful swiftness to her fullest life. 
 
 3 " Story of My Life." Helen Keller, chapter iiL 
 
The Darkness of Sin 87 
 
 In Helen Keller's case, the change was so swift that 
 it is hard to be sure whether there was really sin in the 
 destructive rebellion of the early years; but the same 
 misuse of power is seen in cases where, because we 
 judge from the inside, we can be sure of sin. Who 
 does not know something of the energy it takes to 
 avoid confession of a sin because of false pride or 
 cowardice ? 
 
 I remember once taking from the library of my 
 aunt's house a book which was considered unfit for 
 me to read, and craftily concealing it in my bed- 
 room to glean a few pages as I undressed. I knew it 
 was wrong to read the book without permission, but 
 I was still more degraded by the process of conceal- 
 ment which I had to go through whenever a knock came 
 at my door. One day, burying the book under my coat, 
 I took it out to read on the rocks which overhung the 
 sea, when unexpectedly it slipped away from my 
 grasp and plumped into the water. Before I could 
 climb down and fish it out, the leaves were soaked and 
 the red leather binding stained. I was horror-struck. 
 A valuable book which did not belong to me was badly 
 hurt, but, what was worse, there was apparently no 
 way to avoid the humiliating confession that I had 
 read what had been forbidden me as immoral literature 
 and covered my guilt by deceit. There seemed little 
 hope of concealment, yet even then I put an enormous 
 amount of energy into covering my tracks. I dried 
 the leaves carefully one by one in my chamber, guard- 
 ing as best I could against their tearing. I rubbed the 
 edges of the leather binding to try to obliterate the 
 
88 Everyday Ethics 
 
 spot, and I pressed the swollen book under heavy 
 weights. In the end I had to confess, and still more 
 energy went into preparing for the confession. Then 
 came an anti-climax. My aunt took the fact of my 
 reading the book perfectly simply without other com- 
 ment than that it was an intensely interesting story, 
 and she was quite undisturbed by the stains on the 
 leather. Here is a typical act of cowardice involving 
 a disproportionate amount of strategy, skill, tact, en- 
 ergy, all used to a foolish end instead of pushing for- 
 ward a growing plan. 
 
 It may seem that the wilfully lazy person at least 
 does not in sinning turn power against himself. He 
 of all people would seem to be exerting no energy in 
 his listless career. Yet even here close scrutiny shows 
 power turned against itself. I plan to go to the opera ; 
 but I am so lazy that really I can't buy the tickets 
 myself. I wonder how I can manage to get somebody 
 else to buy them for me. As likely as not I put an 
 hour's good, hard thought into planning an act it would 
 take me twenty minutes to carry through and in the 
 end let it fail, because I do not see it carried out. 
 
 Even the lazy person, if sinfully lazy, has power and 
 uses it against his own intent. When the lazy person 
 refuses to work for what he truly wants, we tell him 
 in graphic slang : " It's your own funeral," and the 
 phrase is strictly accurate. By indulging in laziness 
 he is becoming more and more incapable of industry 
 even for what he keenly wants ; he is slipping into that 
 iron grip of habit which is moral death, he is literally 
 committing suicide. 
 
The Darkness of Sin 89 
 
 At the outset, he had power to frame an honourable 
 plan of self-support and to identify himself with it. He 
 knew it would be hard ; but he refused to be a pauper, 
 a parasite, sucking from the veins of society what he 
 had not earned. He set out to work, but laziness 
 blurred the picture of himself as a pauper, and he 
 descended to begging. The energy he might have put 
 into being a self-respecting worker, goes into being 
 a wheedling liar in order to squeeze out loaves of 
 bread and scraps of meat by a pitiful story of unreal 
 woes. Day by day the self-respecting purpose is weak- 
 ened until, final degradation, he ceases to feel degraded. 
 The being who was a man has become an automatic 
 blood-sucker. 
 
 A very important truth follows from the fact that 
 sin is power turned against itself, I mean the truth that 
 as long as power persists there is hope that it may 
 cease from preying on itself and begin to nourish itself. 
 
 Stevenson writes in " Old Mortality " * of a talented 
 friend whose power was turned to ruin his life and 
 who came home like a spent swimmer to die. From 
 the world's point of view, his life was over and dis- 
 astrously ended, but the tide had turned. " From this 
 disaster like a spent swimmer, he came desperately 
 ashore, bankrupt of money and consideration, creeping 
 to the family he had deserted ; with broken wing, never 
 more to rise. But in his face there was a light of 
 knowledge that was new to it. . . . The tale of this 
 great failure is to those who remained true to him the 
 tale of a success. In his youth he took thought for no 
 ♦ "Memories and Portraits," R. L. Stevenson, p. 53. 
 
90 Everyday Ethics 
 
 one but himself; but when he came ashore again, his 
 whole armada lost, he seemed to think of none but 
 others. Thus was our old comrade, like Samson, care- 
 less in his days of strength; but on the coming of 
 adversity and when that strength was gone which had 
 betrayed him — ' for our strength is weakness,' he 
 began to blossom and bring forth." 
 
 Ill 
 
 We are now ready to give a final definition of sin 
 and to see why certain typical sins are forever to be 
 condemned. Sin is wilful abandonment of any chosen 
 purpose, it is disloyalty to your own ties, it is your 
 own power used to destroy you. There is no purpose 
 chosen with full attention and clear facing of all sides 
 of the question that we can call sinful, though it may 
 be injurious. 
 
 Sin is the failure to face and so change, enlarge or 
 confirm a purpose. The sinful act is that which hangs 
 in mid-air, or is blown about by the puff of every 
 whim. The sinful act is essentially the slipshod act. 
 Either to go barefoot or to wear shoes may be a wise 
 decision, but to wear shoes and then be slipshod, is 
 the characteristic of sin. To sleep in a castle or under 
 the open sky are differing purposes, but to start to 
 build a house and leave the boards dangling in air 
 because you are tired of the idea, is sin. To leave 
 your stockings with holes in them because you decide 
 it is more important to pass an examination or to nurse 
 a sick friend, is virtue; but to leave your needle and 
 
The Darkness of Sin 91 
 
 darning cotton hanging to the half-mended stocking, 
 because, first, a new novel, then a piece of candy, and 
 then a hand-organ allures you, is sin. The purpose of 
 mending your stocking is then no more a purpose than 
 a shattered vase is a vase. Neither can hold water. 
 Wilfully to abandon a purpose is to be demoralised, 
 for purpose is the centre of morality. 
 
 If, then, there are certain tendencies which always 
 and everywhere tend to destroy any purpose whatso- 
 ever by preventing it from being fully a purpose, we 
 can condemn these tendencies absolutely. We can say, 
 for example, laziness is always wrong. Why? Be- 
 cause if one has no purpose, like a log, one cannot be 
 lazy, but, if one has any purpose whatsoever, laziness 
 means neglect of that purpose. 
 
 The bell-boy in a hotel is trying to earn enough 
 money to go to college. Is it clear-sighted of him to 
 be lazy? Is that by any possibility the best way of 
 carrying out his purpose ? Will it ever help anyone in 
 carrying out any purpose to be lazy? If not, laziness 
 is always wrong. The same tests may be used in rela- 
 tion to cowardice. If a child plans to learn to swim, 
 will it help him in any conceivable way to be cowardly 7 
 True, he may wisely avoid deep water when he is 
 alone and uncertain of his power, but this is sensible, 
 not cowardly; true also, he may wisely take much 
 longer than his companion in venturing beyond his 
 depth; but cowardice, the avoidance of such risks as 
 are involved in the sensible fulfilment of his careful 
 plan, is always to be condemned, because it is an 
 adversary to any purpose whatsqever. 
 
92 Everyday Ethics 
 
 On the other hand, courage, industry, imagination, 
 clear-sightedness, help us in whatever we undertake, 
 and as the allies of all moral life are universally to be 
 honoured. Without courage, I can no more be a good 
 friend than a good swimmer, just as without imagina- 
 tion and industry I cannot be a good engineer or a 
 good farmer. 
 
 We can say, then, " Every deed is sinful in which 
 you are unfaithful to your purpose." The Greek citi- 
 zen took a vow of faithfulness to the country, and 
 though we make no definite, explicit and public vow, 
 we too, as human beings, have our tie of allegiance. 
 Human life, the life which distinguishes us from ani- 
 mals and things, is the life of purposes and it is the 
 duty of everyone to be loyal, at whatever cost, to his 
 purpose or aim. 
 
 Laziness, selfishness, cowardice, blindness, always 
 hurt you in carrying out that life for which you were 
 meant. They are always and absolutely wrong be- 
 cause they betray the cause to which we all are dedi- 
 cated. This faithfulness or loyalty to our aim, which 
 I have described as the opposite of sin, is often called 
 following our conscience. We must study the meaning 
 of conscience. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 THE LIGHT OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 If we turn back and look along the path we have come, 
 the most striking fact we discover is, that all along our 
 road we have been guided by the clue of purpose. It 
 will meet us at every turn, for it is the keynote of 
 moral life and all harmonies and discords are such in 
 relation to this fundamental note. 
 
 The virtuous man is he who loyally fulfils his chosen 
 purpose, his own and not another's. If everyone had 
 exactly the same purpose and so the same duty, it 
 would be a far less interesting world, but it would be 
 one in which it would be easier to tell whether a man 
 was doing right or wrong. If, for example, we were 
 all playing golf, it would be comparatively easy to 
 judge whether any one of us was doing his best; but, 
 because the range of purpose is as wide as the nature 
 of man, and every purpose is different, no external 
 judgment is possible. We cannot then tell a good 
 purpose or act from a sinful one simply by looking at 
 it. Can we ever tell the difference? Are there any 
 tests ? 
 
 Yes, we have found that any purpose was a virtuous 
 one, if it were chosen and carried through with as 
 
 93 
 
94 Everyday Ethics 
 
 thorough thought, sympathy, and will as possible — in 
 short, with full attention. Whenever we sin we have 
 not put as much vivid attention into our act as we 
 might have done. 
 
 A very common way of speaking of a wrong deed, 
 is to say : That was not done conscientiously, or that 
 was done against conscience. Conscience is_ass»med 
 as the authority by obeying, which we- sbail~do -rightr" 
 Now in the light of all that has been said above about 
 right and wrong, what do we mean by conscience? 
 Whenever we have any hard question to attack, the 
 best way is to think of cases exemplifying what we 
 are studying and to notice carefully what is involved 
 in such cases. The analysis of a case of conscientious 
 action will help us to define conscience. If, for exam- 
 ple, the President of the United States is called on to 
 decide whether to give the Filipinos self-government, 
 how can he make a conscientious decision? We get 
 much light on the question by noticing first what he 
 would not do. 
 
 Would he decide by tossing up a penny? If not, 
 then conscientiousness is not trusting to chance, but is 
 a deliberate or thoughtful decision. 
 
 He may have a strong instinct that freedom is best. 
 Ought he to trust to feeling? If not, then conscien- 
 tiousness is not trusting to instinct. It requires clear 
 thought and persistent study. 
 
 Could he decide conscientiously by earnestly ponder- 
 ing the question in his study? No, for he must be 
 saturated with the facts of the case, and this shows 
 that a conscientious decision is made, not alone 
 
The Light of Conscience 95 
 
 by self-searching, but by an out-going, truth-seeking 
 activity. 
 
 . Could he decide rightly without realising the aspira- 
 tions and the sufferings of the Filipino? If not, then 
 strong, yet, as we saw above, controlled feeling, is 
 necessary to a conscientious decision. 
 
 Could he decide fairly if he felt strongly only the 
 side of the Filipinos and scorned what he called Amer- 
 ican commercialism? If not, conscientiousness means 
 the putting aside of prejudice. 
 
 Would it be a conscientious decision if at any time 
 he decided the question because the endlessness of the 
 search discouraged him? If not, then conscientious 
 action includes the will to persist against difficulties. 
 
 Would it be conscientious to postpone the question 
 indefinitely because there are always more people to 
 consult and more facts to learn? If not, it is conscien- 
 tious to make a decision when the moment for action 
 arrives, in spite of the risk of deciding wrong. 
 
 I will gather up these conclusions: To be consci- 
 entious in deciding this question about the Filipinos, 
 we must use hard thought, warm sympathy, and steady 
 resolution to get at the essential facts. A conscientious 
 decision is one which is based on the most thorough in- 
 vestigation of facts~we~can attain, and to get at these 
 facts we must put aside prejudice for or against either 
 side of the case, we must be industrious and persistent, 
 sympathetic in our attitude toward all whose reports 
 v^e hear, warm in our zeal to obtain the truth, courage- 
 ous to face criticism and to keep at our task in spite of 
 difficulties, unselfish in unwearying devotion. And 
 
96 Everyday Ethics 
 
 last, but not least, we must be resolute to make a 
 decision when the right time comes. 
 
 Evidently all the virtues are flocking in to make our 
 task possible, and this is natural, because the con- 
 scientious act is the act of the whole man recalling and 
 fulfilling his aim. Conscience is not any singje jart of 
 our nature; it is simply ourselves ^vividly recalling and 
 pursuing our task. To be conscientious is to use all 
 our power Jn_facingLan4_ fulfilling our aim. 
 
 PlateTs " Crito " gives a magnificenf example of a 
 conscientious decision in a very difficult case. A 
 wonderful standard of conscientiousness gleams out 
 through the quiet words of Socrates, seeking only to be 
 true to his light and not to let his personal desires affect 
 him for an instant, ready to be convinced that it is right 
 to escape, if reason can convince him, but never taking 
 advantage of his friend's eagerness to save him. At 
 the end, Crito is so impressed by the greatness of the 
 truth revealed through Socrates, that in spite of all his 
 longing for the opposite verdict, he is silent. In study- 
 ing this case, as an example of conscientiousness, we 
 notice the absolute freedom from prejudice or self- 
 seeking in Socrates. His desire is to get the opinion 
 of the good and thoughtful and not to accept the opin- 
 ion of ignorant or biassed men. In his certainty that 
 we must not do wrong that good may come, in his per- 
 sistent search for truth and in his resolute and calm 
 acceptance of it, he never wavered. The voice of con- 
 science murmured in his ears like the sound of the 
 flute : " Let me follow the intimations of the will of 
 God." 
 
The Light of Conscience 97 
 
 " Think not of life and children first and of justice after- 
 wards, but of justice first." 
 
 " Now, you depart in innocence, a sufferer, and not a doer 
 of evil." 
 
 Socrates was wholly at peace in the decision which 
 involved his death, and the reason is that he knew, as 
 few men do, the strongest aim of his life, and had the 
 rare power of thinking without prejudice, thoroughly, 
 fearlessly, resolutely, on what keenly concerned him- 
 self. Even in the written words we find a peace felt 
 by his disciples despite the anguish of his approaching 
 death — a peace due to the sureness and firmness of the 
 decision. Hard as the decision is, it is made without 
 doubt and without regretful turning back. . 
 
 II 
 
 If we study other difficult moral decisions we shall 
 find in each that the clue to the solution of conscientious 
 doubt is found in accordance with the following rules : 
 First, we can make no decision at all unless we know 
 what is the strongest, most central purpose of our lives, 
 and Ccin group our minor ends around it; second, we 
 can only make a truly conscientious dfecision by putting ' 
 aside prejudice; and third, by searching for all im- 
 portant and relevant facts. 
 
 A modern example of the same quality of conscien- 
 tiousness shown in the " Crito," has only recently been 
 , made known to the world. Owing to the delicacy of 
 his lungs, Robert Louis Stevenson was throughout his 
 life forced to seek climates where he could gather 
 
98 Everyday Ethics 
 
 sufficient vitality to work. At the time when this 
 question of conscience confronted him, he was thirty- 
 six years old and had already become well known as 
 an author. He loved his work and was very much 
 absorbed in it. He was married and his wife also was 
 delicate. Though interested in politics, he had never 
 taken an active part in them, but in 1886, his sense 
 of justice was roused by the tolerance of the English 
 Government towards lawless actions, which went on in 
 Ireland without punishment. In spite of his instinctive 
 sympathy for the Irish who hated their English land- 
 lords, he thought it absolutely wrong for the govern- 
 ment to let these landlords be persecuted by the roughs 
 of the neighbourhood and not interfere to enforce law 
 and order. Finally he was startled and shocked by 
 the murder of an English landlord named Curtin and 
 by the constant persecution of his wife and daughters, 
 who lived unprotected on a lonely farm exposed to the 
 insults and annoyances of the rough Irish tenants. 
 Stevenson knew that it was useless to get the English 
 Government to interfere, for they had again and again 
 let such things happen without rebuke, and he began to 
 wonder whether it was not his duty to live on the ex- 
 posed farm, protect the Curtin family and take the risk 
 of being killed. The task was repugnant to him, but 
 he felt that it might be a public duty in view of which 
 all private duty should be put aside, and it seemed to 
 be his duty because there was no one else who would 
 take it up. 
 
 Stevenson has given us in a letter ^ which he wrote 
 1 See " Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson," vol. iL p. 30. 
 
The Light of Conscience 99 
 
 to a friend asking for advice on this subject, so won- 
 derfully accurate an account of a conscientious deci- 
 sion, that we can learn a great deal from the detailed 
 study of it. If we are asked the question : How does 
 one make a conscientious decision, we can answer just 
 as Stevenson did. Here is his question: Ought I to 
 live on this farm in order to protect these women and 
 get redress for them? To answer this question he 
 must consider: 
 
 1. Is the need pressing? Yes, clearly, and no one 
 is supplying it. 
 
 2. Can I do what is needed? Yes, my fame will 
 help even if I am murdered. 
 
 3. Is my doing it compatible with my chosen work ? 
 Yes, I can go- on writing there, and in any event my 
 life is so uncertain that its sacrifice is relatively unim- 
 portant. 
 
 So far the balance is in favour of going. Imagine 
 the temptation to avoid this repugnant, dangerous 
 deed! How easy to persuade oneself that it was 
 wrong. Stevenson takes up and answers the objections 
 to going with the same care and fairness. 
 
 1. It will do no good. He recognises at once that 
 this is the temptation to self-deceit, characteristic of sin. 
 
 2. He considers his duty to his wife, but decides 
 that when one really loves, one love's a man's char- 
 acter, and so would rather suffer than have him un- 
 faithful to duty. 
 
 3. He thinks of all he must give up, biit finds it 
 worth while since the cause is a just one. 
 
 4. He tries to see whether he is deceived into think- 
 
loo Everyday Ethics 
 
 ing it his duty ; whether he is doing it for the sake of 
 excitement or glory; he ends by begging his friend 
 not to dissuade him from the attempt, provided she 
 thinks it is right.^ 
 
 We learn through this example that in any con- 
 scientious decision one puts aside prejudice and seeks 
 for light, dreads self-deception and longs for truth, 
 however much it may cost. One looks thoughtfully 
 and with as much sympathy as possible at all the facts. 
 One considers both the need and one's own life as 
 impartially as if they were not one's own and as sym- 
 pathetically as if they were one's greatest interest. 
 When the evidence is once in, as far as is necessary 
 or possible, the conscientious man makes up his mind 
 and holds to his determination. 
 
 A very difficult moral decision was made by many a 
 Southerner at the outset of our Civil War, between 
 loyalty to his State or to the nation. General Robert 
 Lee was a typical Virginian, a son of that noble and 
 powerful State that gave the nation the services of 
 Washington and of Patrick Henry in the Revolution. 
 His tie to Virginia was intense, it was like the tie a 
 man feels to his mother. He decided as many of us 
 would decide in case of conflict between the two, that 
 loyalty to the State came before loyalty to the national 
 government. General Thomas, who was also a Vir- 
 ginian, decided that his bond to the nation came before \ 
 that to his State. 
 
 Now these decisions, — whether to free the Filipinos 
 
 2 Stevenson finally decided to abandon this plan on account of 
 his father's declining health. 
 
The Light of Conscience loi 
 
 or whether to fight for State or nation, are exceptional 
 only in the magnitude of the issues involved. Problems 
 involving the same type of struggle come to all of us 
 and can rightly be solved only in the same way, that is, 
 first by knowing what is our central or most inclusive 
 purpose, and second, by trying to discover all the im-' 
 portant facts in the case. 
 
 , At the time when I usually study my next day's 
 lessons, someone comes in and asks me to go with her 
 to hear Kreisler play a violin concerto. Which ought 
 I to do? My inclination bends me strongly toward 
 the concert, but I jerk myself to the other side by re- 
 membering that I want to pass my college examinations 
 and that this object is not best attained by going to 
 concerts. Still I love music and it is a rare oppor- 
 tunity to hear a famous violinist. If I have no single 
 over-arching plan my mind will simply rebound like 
 a shuttlecock from one idea to the other, and my final 
 decision will be made by some sweep of impulse, due, 
 probably, to a final word of persuasion from my 
 visitor. " Never mind the old lessons, do come, it 
 will be lots of fun." According to the strength and 
 clearness of my purpose, will be the ease of my decision 
 in this case where the facts are easily known. If my 
 main purpose is to be a violinist, and my plan of going 
 to college is distinctly secondary, I shall hardly hesi- 
 tate at all. If I have never made up my mind which 
 is my more inclusive or central object, I shall vacillate 
 endlessly. ' 
 
 In other decisions our purpose is clear, but a veil 
 hangs over the pertinent facts by which alone we can 
 
ro2 Everyday Ethics 
 
 decide whether a given act will really help or hinder 
 our purpose. A sick-looking, poorly-dressed woman 
 applies to me for aid. I want to help her and I am 
 ready to give freely of my time and money if I can 
 do her good. My purpose is wholly clear. She asks 
 me for money and clothes and I find it hard to decide 
 conscientiously whether I ought to give her any. The 
 whole question is whether money is what will help her, 
 and this decision cannot possibly be made by any con- 
 sideration of my purpose or of the bare issue as pre- 
 sented by the woman, but only with the aid of a 
 thorough investigation of facts. When I have found 
 that the woman's husband earns $io a week and can 
 be made to support her comfortably if pressure is used, 
 my decision is clear. The same act, that of giving 
 money and clothes, becomes right or wrong according 
 to circumstances, and a conscientious decision must 
 always be one which tries to take full account of cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 Ruskin says in the preface of " Sesame and Lilies," 
 that every girl ought to spend part of each day in mak- 
 ing clothes for the poor, and adds : " Even if you 
 should be deceived and give them to the dishonest, 
 never mind, for the pawnbroker must sell them to 
 someone else who has need of them. That is no con- 
 cern of yours. What concerns you is that when you 
 see a half-naked child, you should have good, fresh 
 clothes to give it." 
 
 Is Ruskin's decision to give th^ beggars warm cloth- 
 ing regardless of consequences, a conscientious one? 
 We can be sure only if we know whether he really 
 
The Light of Conscience 103 
 
 tried to get light on the subject. It seems to me, as 
 if he had let himself be prejudiced, that is, had pre- 
 judged the question before tracing the consequences 
 of the acts he advised. Think what would hap- 
 pen if we gave to every poor child. Very soon other 
 ragged children would be sent out, whether they needed 
 clothes or not, to beg; much of the money would be 
 Gpent for drink, and the fathers, finding that they could 
 thus be supported by charity, would become utterly 
 lazy. 
 
 In the Middle Ages no one doubted that it was 
 virtuous to give clothes to the poor indiscriminately; 
 now we know better. Our consciences are more en- 
 lightened. We know that there is no such swift and 
 easy way of doing good. In emergencies we may be 
 able to save another from starvation without much 
 time or efifort; but really to help another means giving 
 oneself, one's strength, thought and sympathy for 
 years. We know that money is quite as likely to do 
 harm as good (because it takes away the need of 
 self-support) unless we help people to raise themselves. 
 
 Ruskin may have been well-meaning, but he was not 
 conscientious. Well-meaning people when thoughtless, 
 should not be called conscientious, for conscientious- 
 ness does not mean following any unquestioned in- 
 stinct, it means putting thought and imagination into 
 our decisions and the efifort to put aside all that makes 
 us unmanly or inhuman, — prejudice, laziness, selfish- 
 ness, brutality. If conscience is simply careful, un- 
 prejudiced thought about moral problems, it is evident 
 that conscience can be educated and enlightened. The 
 
104 Everyday Ethics 
 
 question, Can conscience be educated? does not essen- 
 tially differ from the question, Can man grow in 
 character and knowledge? 
 
 Ill 
 
 This definition of conscience helps to clear the ques- 
 tion whether it is possible to be too conscientious. If 
 we define conscientiousness as the constant will to 
 find the truth and follow it wherever it leads, it is 
 impossible that we can be too conscientious. It is true 
 that what is meant by over-conscientiousness is a real 
 fault and danger; but it is a mistake to use the same 
 word for the central requisite to good living, and also 
 for a sin or flaw. We do not speak of over-courage- 
 ousness, but call it rashness or foolhardiness, for we 
 cannot have too much courage. 
 
 The word " over-scrupulous " is a good substitute 
 for over-conscientious. Here is a description of a 
 scruple by Jeremy Taylor : " A scruple is a great 
 trouble of mind proceeding from a little motive, and 
 a great indisposition by which the conscience though 
 sufficiently determined by proper arguments, dares 
 not proceed to action, or if it do, cannot rest. 
 Very often it hath no reason at all for its induce- 
 ment, but proceeds from indisposition of body, pusil- 
 lanimity, melancholy, a troubled head, sleepless nights, 
 the society of the timorous, from solitariness, ignor- 
 ance or unseasoned, imprudent notices of things, un- 
 digested learning, strong fancy or weak judgment, 
 from anything that may abuse the reason into irresolu- 
 
The Light of Conscience 105 
 
 tion or restlessness. The reason of a scruple is ever 
 as obscure as the light of a glow-worm, not fit to gov- 
 ern any action, and yet it is sufficient to stand in the 
 midst of all its enemies and like the flies of Egypt, vex 
 a whole army." 
 
 We can be too scrupulous, but that is when we are 
 not sufficiently conscientious. A girl who studies so 
 hard when she is tired that she makes herself ill is 
 not conscientious, if we mean by conscience the use of 
 our mind, feeling and will. She ought, if truly con- 
 scientious, to stop working, just as the President ought 
 at a given time to come to a conclusion about the 
 Philippines and act. 
 
 Hamlet was not acting conscientiously when he let 
 himself question his duty again and again after he had 
 vowed to perform it. As he says, he let " the native 
 hue of resolution " be " sicklied o'er with the pale cast 
 of thought," instead of carrying out his resolution. 
 That was lack of conscience, and more truly under- 
 conscientiousness than over-conscientiousness. He 
 was over-scrupulous. 
 
 Conscience is a word of great historical significance, 
 and if it is to keep its significance, we must mean by it 
 the quality shown by Socrates, by Brutus, by Lincoln, 
 by Stevenson, of perfect openness to receive the light, 
 and of a will consecrated to follow it. If used in this 
 sense, it is as absurd to say : " She is too conscientious 
 to act wisely " as it would be to say : " He knows too 
 much about law to be a good judge." 
 
 Let us see just what difference there is between con- 
 scientiousness and scrupulousness. Over-scrupulous 
 
ro6 Everyday Ethics 
 
 people think about themselves when they ought to 
 think about what they are doing, or, they think dis- 
 proportionately about trifles or they rehearse decisions 
 already made to the neglect of more important engage- 
 ments. 
 
 Early in the last century, Dorthea Dix encouraged 
 a group of little girls who were her pupils to write 
 notes to her every evening telling of all the sinful 
 thoughts they had had during the day. The current ' 
 of healthful, vigorous interest, which is goodness, was 
 turned back into a petty, morbid dwelling on self. " I 
 wonder whether I didn't feel a little vain when I put 
 on that new hat." 
 
 What should we think of a general who stopped in 
 the midst of an assault to wonder whether he believed 
 in the cause for which he was fighting? The con- 
 scientious man looks out rather than in, and is too 
 intent on finding out what ought to be done to have 
 time to waste in brooding over his sins. Once and for 
 all in undertaking any work, we have to estimate our 
 own power in regard to it, but this can be done in a 
 wholly impersonal way without over-rating or under- 
 rating ourselves, purely to find out whether it is well 
 to undertake it. As soon as the personal intrudes it 
 blurs our outlook and in so far makes our deed fail; 
 hence it is sinful. 
 
 Again when we have failed in any pursuit we look 
 back to see whether the failure was inevitable and un- 
 foreseeable, or was due to our own fault ; it is sensible 
 to do this in order that we may never so fail again. 
 
 J educate my boy for college and he fails to pass the 
 
The Light of Conscience 107 
 
 examinations. If I am conscientious I try to find out 
 why, in order that I may not repeat the mistake. I 
 look at my motives to see whether selfishness or lazi- 
 ness prevented my being thorough, that is, I ask 
 whether I have been conscientious enough that I may 
 ^tand blameless or guilty in my own judgment. But if 
 this self-examination hinders instead of helps me for 
 future action, it is wrong. I need all my energy for 
 conduct and cannot afford to spend any of it on anxiety 
 about my conduct. 
 
 The habit of deliberate consideration of what we 
 ought to do should be just as little introspective and 
 morbid as the consideration of whether we shall climb 
 Mont Blanc. Before deciding we need to consider its 
 dangers and advantages, after deciding to go we need 
 to consider the best paths and methods of climbing up. 
 If we fail to attain the top or get hurt in coming down, 
 we need to consider why we made such blunders in 
 order that the next ascent may be more successful, but 
 there need be nothing more of morbid analysis in any 
 moral decision than there is in this one. 
 
 What is called over-conscientiousness is moral hy- 
 pochondria, nervousness, not nerve, the very opposite 
 of conscientiousness, because the element of intelli- 
 gence, of vivid attention to what we are about, is left 
 out. As the perpetual will to find the right act, con- 
 science is the true guide of our lives, and the more 
 conscientiousness we possess the more freely will our 
 lives reach out toward their ideal. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 CONSCIENCE, CUSTOM, AND LAW 
 
 When a very small boy breaks a window pane by 
 playing ball on it, we say to the indignant owner : " I 
 am exceedingly sorry, but he did not know any better." 
 When the boy is older, we rebuke him : " You ought to 
 know better," and to the full-grown youth we give 
 the superlative reproof : " You knew better." 
 
 The result is the same as far as the expense of a pane 
 of glass is concerned ; the action was a bad one in the 
 sense that glass was not a fit surface on which to play 
 ball, but the verdict is different in each case. Not 
 to know any better is not to have any conscience 
 on the subject, but when we ought to have known 
 better we have not brought into play all the intelligence 
 we possess, and when we know better we wilfully sup- 
 press the fuller view of the matter which is the insight 
 of conscience. 
 
 Conscience is simply the man himself mindful of his 
 aim. The conscientious act is that which is awake, alert, 
 attentive, resolute. The boy who acknowledges that he 
 knew better than to play ball against the window-pane 
 has admitted that he acted unconscientiously because 
 he blinded himself to the probable consequences of his 
 act. Instead of thinking about the glass he thought 
 
 xoS 
 
Conscience, Custom, and Law 109 
 
 only about playing ball and squeezed out of view the 
 intrusive vision of the whole situation. " It's too much 
 bother to walk over to the barn to play ball and prob- 
 ably the window pane is tough," he argues. 
 
 Anyone who has made up a bed, swept a room or 
 practised a hard piece of music, knows vividly what the 
 difference is between a conscientious and an uncon- 
 scientious act. " My mother always taught me to 
 sweep out the corners of a room into the centre at the 
 start," said one of the best cleaners I ever knew, " be- 
 cause then I had to sweep thoroughly the centre where 
 the dust showed." The conscientious act is that which 
 sweeps out into plain sight the dust of wilful inatten- 
 tion and self-deceit which lurks in the corner. In 
 practising a hard piece of music the unconscientious 
 pupil will find himself going frequently over those 
 joyous phrases where the fingers run easily along and 
 the tune rings out deliciously, and slurring the hard, 
 rugged, irritating passages which he has not con- 
 quered. The really conscientious player thinks not of 
 the pleasure of the moment, but of his aim to know the 
 whole piece, and turns his attention especially to those 
 passages which he finds himself inclined to skip. 
 
 Conscientiousness is the putting away of prejudice 
 and the using of thought, feeling and will ; that is, of 
 all our power, to see and to execute our purpose. It 
 is the whole of us calling out to some insurgent frac- 
 tion. The truly conscientious act is always right, 
 because it is the expression of the best in sight. The 
 act of Brutus in murdering Caesar may have been dis- 
 astrous to Rome, but in so far as it was conscientious. 
 
no Everyday Ethics 
 
 it was free from sin and failed not whe/i judged by the 
 criterion of virtue. There is a saving power in the 
 effort to do our best, however poor that best may be. 
 
 So far we have spoken of conscience as if each 
 act were done without reference to the behefs of those 
 around us, but moral decisions are rich and subtle be- 
 cause of the myriad consciences which have made and 
 are making the atmosphere we breathe. Even apart 
 from the direct influence of those whose teaching and 
 example has made the ground-work of our lives, the 
 conscience of the race affects and sways us in long es- 
 tablished laws and customs. That part of law which 
 concerns us here is the average morality of the past 
 embodied in definite form and with definite penalties. 
 Without its support and control none of us would have 
 a chance to carry out his plans. We are more aware of 
 law as a restraint than as a means of freedom, but the 
 latter aspect is in truth far more important. The 
 " free " savage is daily in danger of his life and ham- 
 pered at every turn by the need of expending energy 
 in self-protection. In civilised countries men are free 
 to pursue their own ends just because a strong bulwark 
 of law surrounds them. It is true of course that any 
 fence which shuts one safely in also shuts out the 
 marauder, and so law has necessarily its aspect of re- 
 straint, but the freedom it gives to the majority far 
 exceeds the restraint to our insurgent impulses. 
 
 II 
 
 Law, then, is the embodied morality of the past 
 and therefore sustains the present Is it ever right 
 
Conscience, Custom, and Law in 
 
 to break through this bulwark? Two instances will 
 bring the issue before us. The laws of the United 
 States require that a duty shall be paid on most 
 articles brought in from foreign countries and that 
 any dutiable goods shall be declared. Many people, 
 however, bring home new clothes (exceeding the 
 free limit), presents for their friends and foreign 
 souvenirs without declaring them, and often bury them 
 in their trunks with such ingenuity that they are 
 not found. The arguments by which such evasions are 
 justified are often as ingenious as the skill shown in 
 hiding the dutiable articles. " The law is an unjust 
 and tyrannical one and ought to be broken ; the law is 
 not really meant to apply to tourists, but only to mer- 
 chants ; it is the custom-house officers' business to find 
 the articles and if they do not, it is not our affair to tell 
 them. We don't believe in protection and it's a shame 
 to pay money which we need to the government which 
 has already an enormous surplus." 
 
 What is buried out of sight in this pleading is the 
 fact that in a democracy every citizen is responsible 
 for its laws, and by his very acceptance of citizenship 
 has pledged himself to obey them, and the fact that 
 deliberate disobedience to any law tends to weaken the 
 structure of government on which the life of his nation 
 has been built up. If I deliberately break the tariff law 
 and you the game law, how can we blame anyone who 
 is disloyal to the civil service law or the liquor law? 
 In breaking any law, we are taking a spoke out of the 
 wheel of government, and implicitly inviting others to 
 do the same ; we are taking the first step, even though 
 
1112 Kveryday Ethics 
 
 it may be a short one, toward anarchy. It is true that 
 there are many laws which are dead shells, long since 
 cast off and now so openly broken that no one cares to 
 change the literal wording of the statutes. Such are 
 many of the Sunday laws in Massachusetts : for exam- 
 ple that which makes golf playing on Sunday a penal 
 offence. Such laws, if openly and constantly broken, 
 ought to be repealed, but the tariff law is not one of 
 these submerged and obsolete laws. It is constantly ' 
 in evidence and desired by the majority of our legis- 
 lators. 
 
 The question which faces us here is whether the sav- 
 ing of money for ourselves justifies us in weakening 
 our government by deliberately breaking its laws. 
 The further question arises whether in case we decide 
 to break the tariff law, it can ever be right to do 
 so by ingenious concealment and evasion. To this 
 last question there seems to me to be only one answer: 
 No ! All of us would condemn the meanness of any- 
 one who concealed himself behind another man and 
 slipped out of a restaurant without paying for his 
 dinner; we should scorn his plea that it was the 
 cashier's business to see that he was paid. There are 
 few but would condemn the dressmaker who before 
 landing winds so many yards of dutiable lace around, 
 her body that she appears to have gained twenty 
 pounds during the night, yet there are not a few who 
 will hide a foreign cameo in the toe of a shoe and 
 fool themselves into thinking it fair play. That such 
 practices are degrading to character is shown by the 
 sophistry of the arguments by which they are sup- 
 
Conscience, Custom, and Law 113 
 
 ported, for sophistry, as we have so often seen, is the 
 boon companion of sin. 
 
 The tariff law in so far as it applies to tourists, is 
 relatively unimportant. It touches only a small and 
 comparatively rich class and these only at rare inter- 
 vals. If, however, we hold that this law 3S unjust, the 
 way to break it is through open protest, through argu- 
 ment before legislatures or voters, Or if the latter is 
 hopeless, through the trial of a test case in court which 
 will thoroughly air the matter before the public. 
 
 We come nearer to the heart of the relation of law 
 to morality when we take up a more complicated and 
 doubtful case. It often happened, shortly before the 
 Civil War, that a fugitive slave would escape to the 
 North and seek shelter in the house of some kind- 
 hearted citizen. The national law still held that fugi- 
 tive slaves should be arrested and returned to their 
 Southern masters, yet this might mean physical torture 
 and was sure to mean a bondage against which most 
 Northerners revolted. Was it right to obey the law 
 and yield the unhappy negro up to his master? We 
 saw in the case of smuggling articles through the 
 Custom House, that breaking any law began the pro- 
 cess of undermining the government. We must face 
 this fact here as we did before, but this time we are 
 dealing with a law that seems not only mistaken and 
 annoying, but wrong and brutal. It may be of help 
 roughly to class under three heads, the laws which 
 we are tempted to disobey. 
 
 I. Many laws like the game laws, or those against 
 obstructing the sidewalks by lingering in groups may 
 
114 Everyday Ethics 
 
 inconvenience a few people, yet are clearly for the good 
 of the whole. 
 
 2. There are laws like those of the tariff, which we 
 may consider mistaken, but which we ought to obey 
 until we have a chance to get them repealed. 
 
 3. There are laws which are really injurious to the 
 community as a whole, but which the majority is not 
 yet ready to repeal. 
 
 The Fugitive Slave Law seems to come under this 
 last head. The North and South were divided in 
 regard to it and Massachusetts had passed a State law 
 more or less in opposition to the national law. There 
 had been much struggle in Congress regarding the 
 whole question, but there seemed no immediate hope of 
 repeal and each slave who escaped brought the issue to a 
 point where a difficult decision must be made and made 
 at once. The question was relatively clear for any 
 judge who must decide in Court whether a slave must 
 be returned or for an officer of the law who was called 
 to arrest a slave. Anyone who has accepted an office 
 under the government and sworn duly to administer 
 its laws, ought fully to have faced the fact that he is 
 a servant of the government and bound to obey its 
 commands and to execute its laws until he resigns his 
 office. 
 
 The question is harder for the private citizen to 
 whom the fugitive negro applies for shelter. To what 
 principles can he appeal in order to make a conscien- 
 tious decision? There are three clues which give real 
 help: First, he must rouse himself to face the situa- 
 tion both from the side of the planter and the slave; 
 
Conscience, Custom, and Law 115 
 
 second, he must think out the meaning of law and 
 government; third, he must try to get at as many 
 important facts in the case as possible. I assume of 
 course that there is time to make a careful decision 
 before any pressing need arises. 
 
 (i) Important decisions are often made in an un- 
 conscientious way, because they are made from prej- 
 udice instead of with a fresh, vivid imagination of the 
 whole situation. One man thinks almost exclusively 
 of the slave, and, moved by compassion, decides that 
 he will shelter in his house anyone who applies to 
 him; another thinks mainly of the property rights of 
 the South, or of his own risk, and decides to wash his 
 hands of the matter. The man who wants to make 
 the best decision, opens himself to receive eagerly yet 
 controledly, all that can truly be said on both sides, 
 like a flower that opens to receive the sunlight. Only 
 in such an attitude is he ready to meet the situation. 
 
 (2) In thinking what law means, he will find as we 
 found in studying the custom-house decision, that 
 loyalty to law rests on the fact that our national life, 
 to which we owe our freedom and protection, is weak- 
 ened by every deliberate disobedience, and that in shel- 
 tering the slave, we are also weakening the nation. We 
 are then brought face to face with a conflict of loyal- 
 ties, that to humanity as embodied in the runaway 
 slave, and that to our nation, which on the whole has 
 fostered a liberal, humane spirit. Is there any act 
 which expresses loyalty to both ? 
 
 (3) A careful investigation of all accessible facts 
 helps our decision by bringing the true situation clearly 
 
ii6 Everyday Ethics 
 
 before us. In this case the struggle which culminated 
 in the Fugitive Slave Law has a long and enlightening 
 history, and a study of the whole situation might fairly 
 lead one to the conclusion that the country was so torn 
 with irreconcilable opinions that it was on the verge 
 of revolution. " This country ca«not long endure half- 
 slave and half-free," Lincoln said, and this realisation 
 makes easier the decision which perhaps furthers, but 
 ini no way initiates a revolution. Each man's duty is 
 new, and each generation has, if it is growing, new 
 light which those who made the laws cannot foresee. 
 Therefore, when the laws cannot be so interpreted 
 or changed as to meet the requirements of a clearer 
 insight, rebellion may be right. A growing seed at 
 some time necessarily bursts its once useful shell, and 
 a once useful law may become a drag on progress, and 
 if it cannot be voted down must be broken. Even 
 when, however, the decision is made to break the law, 
 the method of doing it may be valiant and helpful, or 
 it may be cowardly, and so thwarting to advance. 
 
 "In October, 1851, Jerry McHenry, an athletic 
 mulatto and industrious mechanic who had been living 
 in Syracuse, N. Y., for several years, was claimed as a 
 fugitive slave by a man from Missouri. . . . Jerry 
 was imprisoned over night in a police office to await 
 the conclusion of the examination on the morrow. He 
 had, unknown to himself, many ardent friends, among 
 whom were Rev, Samuel May and Gerrit Smith. May, 
 who had charge of the Unitarian Society of Syracuse, 
 was a rare combination of perfect courage and gentle- 
 ness of spirit. Gerrit Smith, a great-hearted man, and 
 
Conscience, Custom, and Law 117 
 
 a deep thinker on moral and religious subjects, had 
 early espoused the cause of the slaves. 
 
 " Under the lead of these two gentlemen, twenty or 
 thirty resolute men determined to rescue the negro. 
 Early in the evening they made an attack upon the 
 I police office and beat down the prison door with a 
 battering ram; they encountered little resistance and 
 easily overpowered the police without, however, inflict- 
 ing any personal injury. They then led Jerry out, put 
 him into a buggy drawn by a swift pair of horses and 
 took him to a place of refuge in the city, where he re- 
 mained concealed for several days, being finally sent 
 safely through to Canada. Samuel May, Gerrit Smith 
 and another gentleman united in a published acknowl- 
 edgment to the effect that they had done all they could 
 in the rescue of Jerry, that they were ready for trial 
 and would give the court no trouble as to the fact, but 
 would rest their defense upon the unconstitution- 
 ality and extreme wickedness of the Fugitive Slave 
 Law." ^ 
 
 It is by such courageous and open violations of a 
 law held to be wrong, not by evasion and concealment, 
 that moral advance is made. 
 
 Cases which involve less important issues, but which 
 at first sight are puzzling, may often be cleared by such 
 a careful study of principles. A policeman is sent out 
 to arrest a thief. When the thief sees his pursuer, he 
 rushes down a side street and across a frozen river. 
 Just as he is landing on the opposite side, he hears a 
 crash in the ice and realises that the officer has fallen 
 
 1 " History of the United States," J. F. Rhodes, vol. I p. 224. 
 
ii8 Everyday Ethics 
 
 through. Turning back at once, the thief dives in and 
 at the risk of his life, pulls the policeman out. Ought 
 the officer at such a moment to arrest his rescuer or to 
 let him go? His instinct is, of course, to reward so 
 generous and devoted an act by setting the thief free, 
 but further thought w^ould lead him to the conclusion 
 that this would be wrong. The policeman is not en- 
 gaged as a judge of the law, but an executor of it. 
 The fact that the thief is heroic does not undo the fact 
 that he is a menace to property. The decision to let him 
 go does not properly rest in the officer's hands. Hav- 
 ing accepted a position under the city he is an instru- 
 ment for the protection of society and bound to carry 
 out its will. He has no right to let personal gratitude 
 override his loyalty to his chosen purpose, which is to 
 execute the law. He may, however, be present at the 
 trial and convince the jury that they are dealing with 
 a criminal who has greatly redeeming traits and he 
 can afterwards help the offender by giving him a 
 chance to live a self-respecting life. 
 
 m 
 
 Cases such as this in which the right decision is rel- 
 atively clear, slide imperceptibly into cases where cus- 
 tom allows the policeman to make his own decisions, — 
 about arrests for drunkenness or for petty acts of dis- 
 order or violence among boys. Here in judging of 
 right and wrong, we need to study the significance of 
 custom. Gustoin is often spoken of as unwritten law, 
 
Conscience, Custom, and Law 119 
 
 and this is one of its striking distinctions. It is also 
 unlike law in being enforced by no fixed penalty, 
 though the vague punishment of social disapproval 
 expressed by a look of scorn or the omission of an 
 invitation is often more poignant than a heavy fine. 
 Custom, because it is unembodied, changes more easily 
 than law, and affects smaller groups. The sacred 
 custom of one decade may be scorned by the next. A 
 law has sway over a whole city, but there may be in 
 the same space a dozen groups with differing customs. 
 Yet as long as a custom lasts, it asserts itself as if it 
 were all-embracing and ever-enduring. If it is the 
 custom to wear shoes with pointed toes, custom insists 
 that no one worth mentioning can wear broad toes, but 
 once " mannish shoes " become the fashion, the same 
 set looks down on the pinched toes with scorn. Besides 
 such transitory customs as these, which, like mush- 
 rooms, no sooner flourish than they begin to decay, 
 there are strongly rooted customs drawing their sus- 
 tenance from deep and permanent instincts in human 
 nature. Such are the customs of greetings at meeting 
 or parting, the custom of presents on birthdays, of some 
 external form of mourning for the dead. 
 
 In judging custom, we need first to recognise its 
 significance and value. The sources of its value are 
 chiefly these : 
 
 (a) Custom is a social habit and has the same sort 
 of value as any other habit. To question every custom 
 in which we are brought up, is like questioning every 
 movement we make in eating or every word we use in 
 speaking. Social custom, like personal habit, is a 
 
I20 Everyday Ethics 
 
 steadying underpinning which may enable us to be 
 more efficient in individual expression, because not 
 obliged to question and reconstruct every fragment 
 of our daily life. 
 
 (b) Custom holds many up to a standard which they 
 would otherwise fall below. It is customary to 
 provide for one's needy relatives, and the sense of so- 
 cial disapproval for neglect makes an additional motive 
 to strengthen the sense of duty in this respect. Cus- 
 tom is a bulwark by which we are supported and kept 
 from falling much below the standards around us, 
 which may easily be higher than our own. We realise 
 both the support and the restraint of social custom 
 when we meet those enfants terribles who are with- 
 out it, and who speak out brutally whatever is in their 
 mind. The customs of polite society guard sensitive 
 natures against many pricks and thorns. 
 
 It is, however, just the protecting character of so- 
 cial custom which makes it a danger if we accept it 
 blindly. We need to think of ourselves as makers of 
 custom as well as followers of it. We need to remember 
 that the only true loyalty to the good we have received 
 is to go beyond it, so that we may hand down to an- 
 other generation, not the same good, but a better. It 
 is a common custom, and one deplored by most good 
 men, not to declare one's property. Such a custom, 
 though not illegal, and though so fully recognised as 
 not to be misleading, is very inconvenient and some- 
 times leads to an unfair taxation. It ought to be 
 broken up, and can only be so by the organised effort 
 of 3 resolute group. 
 
Conscience, Custom, and Law 121 
 
 " The custom of late hours at dances is a bad one and 
 often regretted by those who help to maintain it. To 
 say that it is the custom and so unchangeable is to 
 ignore the fact that any determined and tactful set of 
 people or even one individual can modify custom. 
 Without fresh consideration and deliberate effort, par- 
 ties grow later and later. They tend to bring about 
 the situation delightfully portrayed in Lewis Carroll's 
 " Hunting of the Snark " : 
 
 "Its habit of getting up late, you'll agree 
 That it carries too far, when I say 
 That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea. 
 And dines on the following day." 
 
 All important customs need fresh consideration. It 
 used to be the custom of a well-to-do Boston family 
 to feed all beggars who came to the door. One of the 
 family decided that this was demoralising and broke 
 up the custom, though for some months the impulse 
 remained to feed the hungry applicants instead of send- 
 ing them to more permanent help from the Associated 
 Charities. On the other hand, a custom that seems 
 injurious may be used for good ends. Paul Leicester 
 Ford tells us in the " Hon. Peter Stirling " ^ how the 
 latter used to frequent saloons against the wishes of his 
 mother and against his own custom, because he found 
 that in this way he could meet the men of his district 
 intimately and in making them his friends, get from 
 them and give to them the most efficient service. 
 
 Custom' for any one of us represents the morality 
 ' See pp. 90, no and 133. 
 
122 Everyday Ethics 
 
 of our special group along certain lines, and is good in 
 so far as it holds us up to the average standard, bad 
 in so far as we misuse it by accepting its decrees instead 
 of doing our part to make them better. 
 
 One of the most striking effects of social custom is 
 seen in the way it affects our sense of guilt. It is 
 sometimes asked whether we can tell when we have 
 done wrong by the feeling of shame. One of the 
 strongest reasons that warns us not to judge sin in this 
 way, is that our sense of social approval or disapproval 
 is so strong that when we break away from custom, we 
 often feel ashamed, though we know that we are con- 
 scientious ; on the other hand we often are not ashamed 
 of what is customary, even when we recognise it as 
 wrong. 
 
 (i) We are ashamed sometimes of what we know 
 is right when the people about us disapprove.* A 
 young man who conscientiously refuses to smoke or 
 drink may feel half-ashamed when his companions 
 laugh at him for a weakling. A boy at school saying 
 his prayers is ashamed of being called " Mammy's dar- 
 ling," although he may be absolutely conscientious. 
 We are often ashamed of things which are not sinful, 
 (but simply slips or mistakes. The country girl, who 
 comes to the city and is laughed at for mispronguncing 
 a word or for tucking her napkin under her throat at 
 dinner, feels dreadfully ashamed. To be dressed too 
 little at an evening party, may give a feeling of em- 
 barrassment so close to shame that it is practically 
 indistinguishable. 
 
 ""The Religious Aspects of Philosophy," Josiah Royce, pp. 
 53> 54- 
 
Conscience, Custom, and Law 123 
 
 We are afraid of the unaccustomed, though it may 
 be right. Ten years ago during a wali<ing trip in the 
 Adirondack Mountains, all the women wisely wore 
 short skirts. It was the only sensible dress, yet at that 
 time it was so uncommon that it was hard not to fee? 
 shame when passing critical eyes. 
 
 (2) On the other hand we are sometimes not 
 ashamed of things which we know are wrong, for sin 
 tends to lessen sensitiveness. A man will avoid paying 
 his fare in the horse-car, excusing himself by saying 
 that the conductor did not ask him and that everyone 
 does it. In such a case he will probably feel no shame. 
 Many people tell so-called " white lies " and are not 
 ashamed, unless they are found out. We keep our 
 bureau drawers in a mess, while conscious that we 
 ought to clear them up, but we only feel ashamed when 
 one of our relations happens to open them. Yet if it 
 was right to have them in confusion before we were 
 found out, it was right afterwards. 
 
 Our consciences easily get hardened and cease to feel 
 shame. Boys will write notes on their cuffs at exam- 
 inations and boast of it, although they are more or less 
 aware that it is wrong. In Dickens' " Oliver Twist," 
 when poor little Oliver is among the gang of thieves, 
 the boy who is known as the Artful Dodger tries to 
 persuade him that it is right to steal. 
 
 "You've been brought up bad," said the Dodger, 
 surveying his boots with much satisfaction when Oliver 
 had polished them. " You'd better begin at once, for 
 you'll come to the trade long before you think it, and 
 you're only losing time, Oliver. If you don't take the 
 
124 Everyday Ethics 
 
 hankechers and watches, some other cove will, so the 
 coves that lost them will be all the worse, and you will 
 be all the worse too, and nobody a ha'penny worth the 
 better, except the chaps wot gets them, and you've just 
 as good a right to them as they have." 
 
 Since, then, we sometimes feel ashamed when we 
 ought not to and do not feel ashamed when we ought 
 to, shame is not a good test of sin, although the two 
 often go together. As a cheap watch is sometimes 
 right and sometimes wrong, now too slow and now 
 to fast, so shame is sometimes aroused without due 
 cause and sometimes slow to wake when we are 
 guilty. But a watch which is sometimes wrong would 
 be absolutely useless if we did not have other time- 
 keepers by which to test it. We can set our watches 
 by better ones or finally by the sun. So the sense of 
 shame would be absolutely no test of guilt if we could 
 not estimate sin by deeper, more thorough consider- 
 ation. The question : Have I tried to put aside prej- 
 udice and to get the truth? gives a far more searching 
 test of right-doing than the feeling of goodness or 
 shame. If I can pass this more searching test then 
 I ought not to feel ashamed. ' 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 INTERESTS AS LIFE GIVERS AND LIFE 
 SAVERS 
 
 Three persons are looking out of the same trolley car 
 as it bowls along a public square. An outsider would 
 say at once that these people are looking at the same 
 objects ; but if we know the individuals well we find that 
 each sees something different and that the reason each 
 sees differently is not on account of his eyes, but of his 
 interests. In this chapter I shall try to show that we 
 see with our interests, grow in moral force by our in- 
 terests, are ourselves only because of our interests. 
 Suppose that there are in the car an artist, a minister, 
 and a lover of birds. The minister will at once see the 
 church that borders one side of the square and the 
 people who stream in; the artist, looking also at the 
 church, will see the carving on the pillars and notice 
 how finely the deep red of the Virginia creeper stands 
 out against the sombre background of grey stone ; the 
 bird lover will miss all this in his joy of the discovery 
 of a robin lingering late in the city. Each one of us 
 who looks out on the world sees not what his retina 
 reflects, but what interests him. 
 
 A man is essentially his interests. If you ask me to 
 describe one of my friends I may tell you his weight and 
 height and the colour of his eyes and hair. You will 
 
 125 
 
126 Everyday Ethics 
 
 then begin to know how he looks on the outside and 
 perhaps you can recognise his figure as you might rec- 
 ognise my description of a yellow house bordering on a 
 marsh without knowing who lived there, but you will 
 really know him — the dweller therein — only by know- 
 ing what interests he has. I know a pair of twins 
 whom the chance acquaintance finds indistinguishable 
 one from the other. Yet really they are very different, 
 for Harry is keenly interested in politics and is a great 
 lover of society, while Tom seems to take no interest 
 in anything but automobiles and watches. Any man 
 of marked character is a man of marked interests. It 
 was the keenness of his interest in the nation, in the 
 triumph of righteousness, in his children, that made 
 Lincoln the man he was. It was the strength of her 
 love of human beings and her interest in restoring them 
 to health that made Florence Nightingale what she was. 
 These interests held her wherever she touched them, 
 they drew her from afar. 
 
 As the magnet attracts iron and no other metal, so 
 his special interest attracts each person. It is this 
 engaging, holding power of any interest, which makes 
 it the centre from which moral life radiates. We saw 
 in the first chapter that while all who had interests of 
 any kind were within the moral sphere, those who 
 have no purpose or interest were morally neuter. 
 If the student denies any interest in going to college 
 it is useless for the instructor to tell him that he will 
 fail in his examinations unless he studies. If a girl 
 has no interest in the theatre the warning that if she 
 wants to see Henry Irving act to-morrow she must 
 
Interests as Life Givers and Life Savers 127 
 
 go to bed at nine to-night has no binding power. It 
 holds her as little as the magnet holds a bit of tin. 
 
 If there were anyone totally without interests, that 
 person would be as non-moral as an idiot. If incapa- 
 ble of acquiring any interest, he would actually be an 
 idiot of the most hopeless type; there is nothing in 
 such a nature to take hold of. Fortunately it is ex- 
 ceedingly rare that a person has no interest, but we all 
 know the type of person before whom the marvellous 
 variety of the world's interests pass as if unnoticed. 
 "No, I am not interested in politics, I don't care for 
 music, charities bore me, I have no use for athletics." 
 Such a person is like a narrow alley between high 
 walls ; it is only for a few minutes of the many hours 
 of the day that the darkness is lighted by the sun of 
 some interest. A large part of the time such a person 
 is hardly more alive than a barnacle which puts out its 
 , tentacles only when food comes near. At the other 
 extreme we see a man whose nature is illumined by love 
 of people, by interest in politics, in art, in nature, in 
 science. Wherever that man goes he finds and he sends 
 out radiance. A person without interests is like a plant 
 without any leaves; inevitably it withers, for the sun 
 only scorches it. To gain any interest is to put forth a 
 new shoot which welcomes and absorbs energy from 
 the sun. 
 
 II 
 
 So far I have not distinguished interest from its 
 boon companion, purpose. Interest is like a seed; 
 purpose, the root springing from the seed which 
 
J 28 Everyday; Ethics 
 
 holds it firm and without which it will wither. So 
 the myriad warm interests of the world which seek to 
 find and sustain the germ of any dawning interest, 
 may be compared to the soil continually formed by all 
 seed. Without this soil made up by the growth of 
 other seeds, no new seed can develop. An interest is 
 the seed of a purpose and so of moral life. Where 
 there is interest there is always hope, but unless the in- 
 terest takes hold of the solid earth and« roots itself in 
 a purpose it soon withers into a liking. 
 
 This brings us to the important distinction between 
 a wish, or a liking, and an interest. I may wish I 
 had wings, I may like flattery; but it would sound 
 queer to say that I had an interest in these things. 
 Seriousness and earnestness are given in the very word 
 interest. If a man has an interest he means business. 
 The true interest commands you and yet is yours, it 
 is loved yet feared, high above you and stretching off 
 to eternity, yet near and familiar as the grass at your 
 feet. In contrast with this a liking is passive, quiescent, 
 luxurious, like a lap-dog. It is contemplative, dreamy, 
 with a tendency to grow flabby from a want of 
 exercise. 
 
 I may like your fine qualities when I see you and 
 yet not be swallowed up by the desire for those quali- 
 ties, or hunger and thirst for them as I must if I have 
 an interest. We have only to indulge a liking not to 
 fight to win it. It does not have, like interest, the 
 necessity to break its chrysalis, the chrysalis of its past 
 accomplishments and success, and to dart off afresh, 
 growing strong by its own flight. 
 
Interests as Life Givers and Life Savers 129 
 
 And yet, in spite of this contrast which I have tried 
 to make as strong as I can, the two are very nearly 
 related in human nature. A liking is usually a half- 
 alive, half-conscious interest, not enough distinguished 
 from present desire, but capable often of transforma- 
 tion without revolution into a genuine interest. Thus 
 a liking for the woods may grow into an interest in 
 beauty and in drawing or into an interest in natural 
 history. A liking for gossip may develop into an 
 interest in psychology; a liking for change into an in- 
 terest in progress; a liking for day-dreamirig into an 
 interest in poetry ; a liking for arguing into an interest 
 in philosophy. 
 
 When, therefore, one makes any new moral invest- 
 ment, for example, the choice whether to be a lawyer 
 or a doctor, to study painting or mathematics, the 
 element of one's interest is always rightly to the fore. 
 What interests me most I shall take hold of with most 
 zeal and earnestness and I shall get most out of it be- 
 cause I shall throw myself most heartily into it. My 
 interest develops into a purpose, however, only when 
 it is strong and steady enough to hold over through 
 times of drudgery and darkness, when it is strongly 
 rooted and becomes an inseparable part of myself. 
 
 HI 
 
 Because interests are the core of personality, which 
 is moral life, to rouse an interest is to awaken moral 
 life, and among all modern appliances none is so ef- 
 fective a life-saver as an interest. A large part of the 
 
130 Everyday Ethics 
 
 mean and seamy lives in the world owe "their faults' 
 to the lack of real and permanent interest. There is 
 no one of us who cannot call to mind some friend whose 
 whole life has been reformed and converted by find- 
 ing an interest. This experience is so common as to 
 be almost commonplace. Men who in college have 
 frittered away time, drifting into vices almost without 
 resistance, occupied with the petty rivalries and jeal- . 
 ousies of secret societies, tired of themselves and of 
 others, a mush of languid tendencies without any leaven 
 of principle or spirit, — it is common to see absolutely a 
 miracle wrought in such men on going to a professional 
 school by the possession of an interest in life. It must 
 be seen to be believed, the way such a fellow will stiffen 
 himself up, shake off parasitic habits and companions, 
 and live a really noble life of devotion to the new 
 master that has possessed him. So Grant, who was 
 shiftless and intemperate until he had an interest 
 sufficient to guide him, mounted under the stimulus of 
 the war to a height of sober heroism that the nation 
 cannot forget. With him it lasted after the imme- 
 diate stimulus was gone. With many the war time was 
 the only oasis of pure life in the desert of moral ffab- 
 biness out of which they came and into which they 
 wandered back ' when the crisis which roused their 
 interest was over. 
 
 Any interest whatsoever, good or bad, will cure a 
 man of certain faults by leaving no time for them. A 
 host of difficulties, weaknesses, and meannesses which 
 beset the path of anyone lacking interests are non- 
 existent and conquered without special effort for him 
 
Interests as Life Givers and Life Savers 131 
 
 by his forgetting them. We have said a good deal 
 in a man's favour in saying that he has an interest, 
 any interest whatsoever, for interests crush out sins 
 and instil virtues. This is what makes part of the im- 
 mense moral value of an interest in athletics — one of 
 the easiest to acquire. In that province of interest the 
 devotee learns what it feels like to act with others for 
 ends beyond himself or to forget himself, sacrifice 
 himself if need be, to the common good, the interest 
 of the whole. He experiences these things and finds 
 without any great sense of moral effort or heroism that 
 they are natural and possible for him. Self-sacrifice, 
 as preached to him at Sunday school, has seemed a 
 thing for creatures unlike himself, for angels and mar- 
 tyrs. Now he finds how natural and necessary it is, 
 how it is the law of life and success. He has heard 
 of self-control and " mastery of his passions " and 
 the words have sounded far away and feeble in his 
 ears. There has been nothing to take hold of. Now 
 he learns that an evil desire is to be driven out 
 by a stronger good one and not by the unaided will 
 or determination of the man in his closet. He learns 
 the love of work, and the difference between work and 
 drudgery. A few years before he would have laughed 
 in the face of anyone who should tell him that he wouldr 
 ever come to love work; it would be like loving pain,^ 
 he has thought. Now, before he knows it, he finds 
 himself loving work, hardship, and difficulty. He 
 tastes the joy of the struggle with worthy obstacles. 
 He knows what seriousness and earnestness mean; he 
 has, in the field of his interest, been as serious, as 
 
f|i- Everyday Ethics 
 
 eafM§ij as ^^Je-minded as the good people whose 
 exhcrtatioiiS JiaW'e had so little effect on him in earlier 
 years. Once to tASti these things, once to know what 
 they are by personal exp^ience, makes it impxassible 
 for him to go on living as before. He will always 
 know what the higher life means. 
 
 I Virtues are nothing in the world btit isatural parts; ; 
 or elements in the movement and life of that very live 
 Cfeatare, an interest. They may have been torn amay,^ 
 item theif context and then given to us as copybook ij 
 rriottoeg, but in any interested man's natural acts, they^^ 
 live, aiid Itiove, and have their being. To carry out al- , 
 most any interest, patience is needed. It is a part of ' 
 good and skilful workmanship to have patience and 
 perseverance, and any good workman unconsciously 
 cultivates these virtues with an eye fixed not on them 
 (they are dead things in themselves), but on the live 
 interest in the work of which they are an element. 
 
 So it is with many other virtues, often and un- 
 wisely impressed on us as something to be sought after 
 directly and for themselves. Take kindness : to make 
 the motto of one's life " be kind " is as impractica'. 
 as to advise anyone to "be quick " ; but kindness and 
 quickness are qualities soon found important by any- 
 one who has a hard piece of work to do. " Good quali- 
 ties " are like the separate notes in a piece of music, 
 each necessiary, but senseless except as parts of the 
 tune. The ±une in morals is an interest in something 
 and there is nothing else in morals byt this. 
 
 Examples of surprising yet deeply fiat^jj-al reformi 
 through the jacquirement of an interest are lQ\ind in! 
 
Interests as Life Givers and Life Savers 133 
 
 'every field of work, and it may be a ribbon, a baby, 
 ;a butterfly, an engine, which rouses the interest and 
 
 ■ sets free the pent-up Hfe. Not long ago, at a summer 
 school for poor children in Boston, there was a girl 
 so stupid, so obstinate, and so indulged by a weak 
 father, that her teachers felt hopeless about her. But in 
 
 ■ this school girls as well as the boys were taught car-' 
 pentry, and this dull impassive girl woke up to an in- 
 terest she had never felt before. She begged to come 
 back after school hours to finish her wood-work; she 
 took the greatest pains to do it well. She was gentle, 
 obedient, industrious, and self-sacrificing, because she 
 was so anxious to accomplish her work well. 
 
 Before long the interest began to spread. She be- 
 came interested in cooking also, and even in drawing. 
 Toward the end of the summer one of her teachers 
 said to her : " Well, Margaret, have you experienced 
 a change of heart? " She nodded her head and said: 
 I " Yes, I have." This is not an exceptional case, it is 
 one of many exhilarating experiences which sustain 
 and renew the hope of teachers everywhere. We see 
 in all such cases the truth that we recognised in the 
 first chapter, the truth that virtues grow on the same 
 branch with interests because they are indeed the fruit 
 of interest. It is easier now to see why this is so. 
 Interests make up personality, and the good man is he 
 whose interests are at work, whose whole power is 
 expressed and increasing, and who is becoming thereby 
 more and more of a person. Where there is interest 
 there is hope. 
 
 The shadowy side of the truth that genuine inter- 
 
134 Everyday Ethics 
 
 ests bring virtues as bodyguards is the well-known fact 
 that a lack of live, growing interests is accompanied by 
 a disreputable crew of petty sins. How soon the people 
 rocking idly on a hotel piazza drift into gossip, and half 
 I malicious criticism of their neighbours ! It is because 
 they have no persistent interests. The unoccupied 
 invalid becomes self-centred and tyrannical. It is be- 
 cause he is cut off from the business that keenly 
 interests him. A supervisor of schools asked the chil- 
 dren in a grammar school whether boys or girls keep 
 up a quarrel longer. " We boys can't keep on being 
 mad," one of the boys answered, " because we want to 
 play football together and you can't keep mad when 
 you are playing football, but the girls haven't anything 
 to do, so they keep on being mad a long time." A 
 strong, active interest drives out brooding as a strong 
 wind drives away fog. This is true in regard to all sins. 
 The loyal citizen has no time to look in the glass and 
 admire his personal appearance; the rich man who 
 ardently loves his college cannot be ungenerous toward 
 it. To be interested in anything is in the literal sense 
 to be in it; it is to put your life into your work, and 
 forget yourself in it; it means, therefore, a heat and 
 vigour of activity that destroys flippancy, idleness, 
 jealousy, morbidness, cowardice. 
 
 IV 
 
 It is, then, the first of moral needs to have some in- 
 terests. Are some subjects universally interesting and 
 others hopelessly dry? At first sight it seems so, and 
 
Interests as Life Givers and Life Savers 135 
 
 it is true that some subjects possess an almost instinc- 
 tive interest to the majority of mankind. A runaway 
 horse, a fire, a love story, a band of soldiers stir more 
 people than a problem in algebra, an essay on com- 
 promise, or a case of agricultural implements. In the 
 first group something is going on swiftly and we are 
 carried with the current. To get into the current of 
 the second group we must labour. The first set of 
 experiences are like jewels flashing on the ground, the 
 second like jewels which must be dug out of a mine. 
 Yet far more true and important than the fact that 
 some subjects are more quickly visible than are others, 
 is the fact that no subjects are wholly or universally 
 uninteresting. 
 
 If we ask ourselves what subjects are dull to us we 
 shall inevitably find on our list those of which we 
 know nothing or only the outer husk, and those which 
 may be familiar in sound but into which we have put 
 no work. Subjects badly taught at school seem ineffa- 
 bly dull, and ponderous books into which we have 
 casually peeped we are sure have no marrow. Yet 
 there is no single subject in the world that may 
 not become of thrilling interest. One of the most 
 striking features of the World's Fair, held at Chicago 
 in 1893, was the almost bewildering variety of the 
 exhibitions. It drove in upon one the vivid realisation 
 that there is nothing that is not of supreme interest to 
 someone and so nothing that may not become of su- 
 preme interest to you. We passed from Esquimaux 
 to Patagonians, slid over forty centuries from cave 
 dwellers tP inventors of electric batteries, wandered 
 
136 Everyday Ethics 
 
 from humming birds to steam engines, from impres- 
 sionist pictures to oil tanks, from geologic strata to 
 the vitascope, from the Chinese theatre to the Sym- 
 phony Orchestra, traced evolution in ships and en- 
 gines as clearly as in animals and knew that every- 
 where among these extraordinary masses and mixtures, 
 someone's keenest interest was represented. Every- 
 thing in the Fair was real, personal, meaningful for 
 someone or it would not have been there. 
 
 It may seem to some of us as if we had no strong 
 interests. It is because we look too far off. We do 
 not need to go far afield to seek interests. No one is 
 so poor but that he has already more than one. First 
 of all we find our warm love encircling the members of 
 our family. They are so close to us that we hardly 
 think of them as an interest, yet if we did it may be 
 that we should plan more thoughtfully and steadily 
 how best to help them. There may be a chance to help 
 my sister by daily coaching to understand the arithme- 
 tic which she finds so baffling, or to teach my younger 
 brother to dance so that he will feel less awkward at 
 parties. I may find, if I stop to notice, that my mother 
 is over-tired by work which I can lessen, or that my 
 father would really care to have me know enough of 
 his business to be able to talk with him sympathetically. 
 
 I have spoken first of family ties, because they are 
 common to all, but we shall also find in ourselves 
 other interests varying widely in character and in 
 strength. How shall we recognise these? When we 
 are playing " hunt the thimble " and similar games, 
 {the pianist indicates the nearness of any seeker to the 
 
Interests as Life Givers and Life Savers 137 
 
 thimble by playing louder, and finally, when he almost, 
 touches it, there is a paean of sound. The seeker knows 
 by the warmth of the music that he is near the hidden 
 prize. It is somewhat in this way that we recognise 
 the dawning of our interests. When certain sub- 
 jects are touched upon, or we are asked to join certain 
 enterprises, We feel warmed, kindled, while others leave 
 ■IS relatively cold and indifferent. These warm spots 
 are the starting points from which our journey into 
 deeper and more wide-reaching purposes naturally 
 begins, 
 
 I know a boy who had a strong taste for making toy 
 engines and ploughs. His ardour and perseverance all 
 seemed to go into this play (although it was more 
 strictly his work) over these inventions, and his studies 
 were neglected. Before very long, however, I found 
 him engrossed in an algebra " lesson. " It is hard 
 work to study algebra, isn't it?" I asked. "Yes," he 
 replied ; " but you must know about it if you are going 
 to make ' works.' " He had decided that mathematics 
 was necessary to future inventions on which he has set 
 his heart, and the once cold and intolerable lesson is 
 now warmed by its linkage with his ardent interest 
 
 It does not rnatter how an interest begins nor in 
 what field it starts. As it flows onward it draws to 
 itself what seemed foreign and leads its possessor into 
 wide and permanent happiness. " As the bees in 
 swarming cling to on.e another in layers till the few are 
 
138 Everyday Ethics 
 
 reached whose feet grapple the bough from which the 
 swarm depends, so with the objects of our thinking, 
 they hang to each other by associated Hnks, but the 
 original source of interest in all of them is the native 
 interest which the earliest one once possessed." ^ 
 
 Earlier in this chapter I said that an unrooted inter- 
 est inevitably withers and that the roots of interest 
 grow only by thorough, persistent work. It is an 
 experience as common as sunset, yet equally irradiated 
 with fresh glory, that any work of which we take firm 
 hold will before long take hold of us. What we put 
 into it in energy and patience we shall get out of it in 
 the newness of life. Without work no interest can 
 permanently live, and the test of interest is the readi- 
 ness to work. If my interest in Harvard University 
 does not become a purpose to help its career, it soon 
 becomes flabby and sentimental. On the other hand, 
 even a weak-kneed interest becomes stronger and more 
 enduring when we work over it. If the philanthropist 
 can once rouse a man or woman to teach one of the 
 classes in his settlement, or to visit some poor family ; 
 if the manager of a fair can once persuade you to make ' 
 articles for her table, the battle is won. Languid as 
 your interest may be at first, you will soon find your- 
 self beginning to be identified with the work and anx- 
 ious for its fulfilment. 
 
 There is nothing in the world permanently and uni- 
 versally uninteresting, nothing which may not at any 
 moment flash into brilliancy or glow with a steadily in- 
 creasing light. The things we think dull may at any 
 
 1 " Talk? to Teachers on Psycbologj'," Wm. ^ames, p. 9^. 
 
Interests as Life Givers and Life Savers 139 
 
 time become absorbing. Nothing is dull but our ears 
 and eyes. 
 
 But if it is true that everything is of interest, shall 
 we say that any interest is as good as any other? 
 If not, what are the characteristics of the best interests? 
 It seems to me that the answer is this : Any interest is 
 better than none, but the best interests for anyone are 
 those that he can make the most of. 
 
 It is very common for girls and boys from eight to 
 twelve years to take a keen interest in collecting 
 postage-stamps of different countries and denomina- 
 tions. This is often an absorbing interest for some 
 months or years and may accomplish much good. It 
 may keep a boy happily occupied and give him his first 
 insight into the steady joy of doing anything hard and 
 thoroughly ; it may train precision and help him to over- 
 come laziness or timidity. It may lead to the beginning 
 of acquaintance with other boys which will ripen into 
 friendship, it may train his taste in colour, it may help 
 him to be observant of small differences among the 
 stamps and lead to the acquirement of a good deal of 
 useful knowledge. It may open out into an interest, 
 in geography, history, language and the character af 
 the people of various nations, and so far outsoar its 
 original limits. 
 
 As a rule, however, an interest in stamp-collecting 
 does not last. The interest which begins vividly dies 
 out or is transformed to some more fruitful soil. 
 The larger the collection and the more easily it is 
 obtained the less it is likely to interest permanently. 
 Anything of which we can obtain the whole in a 
 
140 Everyday Ethics 
 
 relatively short time ceases to interest, and a com- 
 plete collection soon becomes a dull affair unless we 
 have a new person to whom to show it. Repetition 
 palls, and we want new difficulties to conquer. This is 
 -why even in games like golf, which are chosen for 
 amusement, we must have harder and harder hazards 
 and bunkers if our interest is to last. 
 
 Again, gifts pall, and only what we win is luminous. 
 ' This is one of the reasons why the everyday work of 
 the world based on the necessity of bread-winning be- 
 comes in many cases the worker's most enduring inter- 
 est. We have spoken hitherto as if most of us chose 
 our interests from a wide range, but the majority of 
 the world finds its interests in occupations not freely 
 chosen, but in part forced by the immediate need of 
 money. Yet because the man throws himself into his 
 work, it, too, becomes a life-giving interest; and only 
 when work is inhumanly narrow, automatic or re- 
 pugnant does it often fail to arouse interest. 
 
 In our comparison of different interests so far we 
 have found that any keen interest does more to develop 
 ' character than the most ideal pursuit chosen apart from 
 interest. A live interest in football is more valuable 
 than a languid one in literature or in philanthropy. 
 There are many men who can rouse only a pumped- 
 up interest in literature, an interest which will flag 
 ;and collapse when left to itself. These same men 
 will catch fire early and burn fiercely with ever-increas- 
 ing heat over football, and the heat will spread and 
 fopen out this great world to them as nothing else can 
 ,do at that time of life. The same men ten years 
 
Interests as Life Givers and Life Savers 141 
 
 later are not likely to find that an interest in football 
 satisfies them. But if one has kept loyal to what foot- 
 ball has taught him, he will find more fruitful, and so 
 more absorbing, ways to use his power. Football 
 trained in him the courage to go ahead in spite of dan- 
 ger when a rush was to be made; he will find a 
 stronger courage needed in the more intricate game of 
 purifying politics. Football trained him in loyalty to 
 team-play ; he will find more engrossing and enduring j 
 opportunity in loyalty to his city or his nation. His 
 interest in football will have burst its chrysalis and be- 
 come an interest in the growth of his town. Here he 
 finds a continuity that was not possible in the separate 
 games of football, a far richer relationship to men, and 
 as the years go on an increasing scope of activity in- 
 stead of a lessening one. He still may call his work 
 in politics a game as he thinks with affection of the 
 devotion and single-mindedness of any good game, 
 but it is one which calls out his power in a more satis- 
 fying way. , 
 
CHAPTER X 
 THE CHOICE OF INTERESTS 
 
 ' Interests are the kernel of moral life, and the best for 
 each of us are those which nourish us most. This is 
 the outcome of the last chapter. If there were a bag 
 full of unexceptional interests (for example, in music, 
 charity, navigation, cooking, cotton-growing), and we 
 each drew one out from the bag by chance and had to 
 cultivate the particular interest we pulled out, all would 
 go badly. When we imagine Emerson, an awkward, 
 retiring philosopher full of delicate thoughts, set to rule 
 America, and a sturdy soldier like Ulysses S. Grant 
 doomed to write on the Oversoul, it is evident that the 
 f ruitfulness of interests is dependent on their fitness to 
 their owner. It would be far less disastrous to wear 
 one another's clothes than to flop about in or pinch 
 ourselves into another's misfit interests. 
 
 Yet there is after all much that is common even to 
 interests that look far apart, and such interests grow 
 to have more and more in common as we penetrate 
 deeper into them. Any genuine interest, whether in' 
 soap-making or Pueblo relics, in improved pavements, 
 in sculpture, or in your family, is always the same kind 
 of attitude. Anyone who knows what it is to be in- 
 terested in a so-called impersonal object knows that 
 
 14a 
 
The Choice of Interests 143 
 
 there is nothing warmer or more vivid, nothing to 
 which a man can more readily sacrifice himself or in 
 which he can become more thoroughly engrossed. 
 Darwin ^ tells a story of himself which illustrates this : 
 
 " No pursuit at Cambridge was followed with nearly 
 so much eagerness or gave me so much pleasure as col- 
 lecting beetles. It was the mere passion for collecting, 
 for I did not dissect them and rarely compared their 
 external characteristics with published descriptions, but 
 got them named anyhow. I will give a proof of my 
 zeal. One day, on tearing off some old bark, I saw 
 two new kinds of beetles and seized one in each hand ; 
 then I saw a third and new kind which I could not bear 
 to lose, so that I popped the one I held in my right 
 hand into my mouth. Alas 1 it ejected some intensely 
 acid fluid which burned my tongue so that I was forced 
 to spit out the beetle, which was lost, as was also the 
 third one." 
 
 Darwin does not feel any great difference between 
 interest in people and in things, for in the same letter 
 he can speak of " my beloved barnacles," and then a 
 little lower of " my beloved Dr. Gully." 
 
 Any strong interest is warm, intimate, cherished, 
 while also broad in outlook and reasonable in attitude. 
 A scientific man gets to have exactly the feeling for 
 his laboratory that the artist has for his studio and 
 his studies. It is all his own, familiar and warm; 
 all around him is the fruit of his labour and the in- 
 vitation to further devotion. The mother's pride or 
 
 ^ " Life and Letters of Charles Darwin," by Francis Darwin, 
 vol. L p. 43. 
 
144 Everyday Ethics 
 
 disappointment in her children is no more personal a 
 feeling than the artist's or scientist's feeling about what 
 he has helped to bring into being. It is part and parcel 
 of him in the same way ; it is his special field for service 
 and the exercise of his powers, the place that needs 
 him as the mother feels that her children need her. 
 
 She does not think of bringing up her children for 
 someone else and love them merely for the use they 
 will be to the world. They are hers, express her ideal 
 and are loved as such, whether the world ever appre- 
 ciates them or knows of their service. So the artist 
 loves his pictures and the investigator his researches 
 for themselves, because they are his and express his 
 ideals, and only casually and secondarily thinks of their 
 market value. They are as human and personal in- 
 terests as any, for interests are always the same in 
 attitude, however they differ in their objects. There is 
 only one true moral attitude. It is attained in artistic 
 devotion and called by its devotees the artistic or im- 
 personal attitude, equally attained in devotion to people 
 and called by its devotees the personal attitude. 
 
 II 
 
 All interests, then, have much in common, but for 
 convenience in looking at them we can classify them 
 under four heads. 
 
 ( 1 ) Interest in art or creation of the new. 
 
 (2) Interest in care-taking or in protecting and 
 freeing the undeveloped. 
 
 (3) Interest in science or in advancing the boun- 
 daries of knowledge. 
 
The Choice of Interests 145 
 
 (4) Interest in execution or putting knowledge into 
 use. 
 
 Each of these interests may have world-wide or 
 chamber-wide manifestations. 
 
 ( 1 ) When we think of art we are apt to look high 
 to the world of Velasquez or Beethoven, but the art 
 interest and impulse is also present in anyone who 
 loves to arrange flowers or trim a hat. 
 
 (2) The great care-takers of the world have been 
 women like Florence Nightingale or Clara Barton, or 
 men like Father Damien, but the protecting impulse is 
 present wherever any child loves to take care of a baby 
 brother or to nurse a sick plant, 
 
 (3) Great scientists like Darwin or Pasteur are 
 'rare, but the same interest is present in anyone who 
 
 searches to discover for himself all the butterflies of 
 his village. 
 
 (4) Morgan or Cecil Rhodes typify to us the power 
 and interest of putting knowledge into use by organi- 
 sation and system, but the girl who takes an interest in 
 doing the marketing well is moved by a similar impulse. 
 It is true of course that these interests overlap and no 
 great work is done without the interplay of several of 
 them. The great artist must have executive ability 
 and love of truth ; a life-saver, like Clara Barton, must 
 have marked executive power to carry through her 
 work, and Rhodes could not carry out his great schemes 
 without creative imagination and keen sympathy with 
 men. Nevertheless, interest of one kind is apt to 
 preponderate and is suggestive in leading to the right 
 choice of work. 
 
146 Everyday Ethics 
 
 Let us compare some cases of these types of interest, 
 taking first a scientist and a philanthropist, Charles 
 Darwin stands out as the greatest scientist of the nine- 
 teenth century. If we compare his work with that of 
 Dorothea Dix, who at about the same time was engaged 
 in reforming prisons and asylums, it seems at first 
 as though her work was more truly worth while be- 
 cause in it she served humanity, while he was but a 
 " pale acolyte of science." But on closer examination 
 we shall find that there is a vast amount in common be- 
 tween the work of Dorothea Dix and Charles Darwin, 
 and we shall find it hard to say that her work was one 
 whit more serviceable to mankind than his, or that 
 either work was nobler, any more than the flute is 
 more important than the oboe in an orchestral composi- 
 tion which requires both. 
 
 Darwin's work was that for which he was best fit- 
 ted, both mentally and physically. Too much of an 
 invalid to lead a strenuous life, there was almost no 
 time in which he could not quietly and intently follow 
 some experiment among his earth worms or water- 
 soaked seeds. While he was thus engaged, Dorothea 
 Dix ' literally struck off the chains from wretchedly 
 abused insane men and women and gave the despairing 
 prisoner hope. In this view her work seems of far 
 greater service than his, yet knowledge of evolution 
 has helped the wretched and given hope to the impris- 
 oned. It is largely because of what the theory of 
 evolution has brought before us that we no longer give 
 clothes indiscriminately to beggars. 
 
 (a) The wide application of Darwin's evolutionary 
 
The Choice of Interests 147 
 
 theories has made us realise that plants, animals and 
 men may become helpless parasites if they are supported 
 and not obliged to help themselves. There is a little 
 amoeba called Sacculina, whose ancestors once had legs 
 and could move about and feed themselves. It climbed 
 on to another kind of amoeba and attached itself firmly 
 there. Its power of movement and self-support van- 
 ished and now it is only a sucking mouth. The appli- 
 cation of evolutionary principles shows us that this 
 holds true of a tramp. He deliberately lives on society, 
 begs or loafs in the sun all day and drifts every 
 night into a barn or a Wayfarer's Lodge. 
 
 The study of the significance of evolution teaches us 
 to have work at the Wayfarer's Lodge to make the 
 tramp earn his living and so perhaps to extricate him 
 from his parasitic existence. 
 
 (b) Again, evolution teaches us to be more charita- 
 ble toward the poor by proving to us that men's vices 
 are often the result of inheritance and poor surround- 
 ings, just as a plant springs up diseased and stunted 
 in a dry and barren soil. Through this experience 
 we learn that if we give our poor better dwellings, 
 more sun and air, more quiet and privacy, they will 
 gain in character. We see also that a life which is full 
 of temptation and resists even a part of it may be 
 greater than the unexposed life which is innocent. 
 
 (c) If we turn again to the work of Dorothea Dix 
 we see further points of likeness to that of Darwin. 
 She supplied a more direct and pressing need than he, 
 but she also worked out a new principle of treat- 
 ment for the insane, that of treating them as sick and 
 
148 Everyday Ethics 
 
 in need of rest, nourishment and gentleness instead of 
 as possessed by demons and needing to be controlled. 
 No special work can be so far reaching as that which 
 evolves a new principle. Darwin and Miss Dix alike 
 sought a new principle, though she worked first to 
 redress immediate crying needs and he first for the 
 slowly won enlightening truth. 
 
 (d) Was either work greater because it required 
 more of the worker? No. Each was fitted for just 
 that work and served it with entire devotion. Miss 
 Dix's work took rare courage. She had to face a nar- 
 row and blind opposition and to face it with unflinch- 
 ing patience for years. So did Darwin, for both were 
 pioneers, and Darwin had a far more sensitive tem- 
 perament than Dorothea Dix. It seems at first sight 
 far less courageous to write quietly in one's study than 
 to face adverse legislatures and indignant jailors, yet 
 Darwin's courage was called for to the utmost. He 
 had to express and uphold views that hurt and shocked 
 his best friends and his honoured teachers. When he 
 first became convinced that each species came from j 
 lower forms instead of being separately created, he 
 wrote : " I feel as if I were confessing a murder." 
 
 Darwin's work, like that of Dorothea Dix, called 
 for inexhaustible patience. He collected such a mass 
 of facts that he said at one time that it would take him 
 at least a year merely to sort and arrange them. He 
 worked for eighteen years, often amid baffling puzzles, 
 before he thought it right to publish any statement of 
 his ideas. The same patience which Dorthea Dix re- 
 quired to carry through reforms opposed by the inert 
 
The Choice of Interests 149 
 
 and conservative, he needed to open the jails of narrow 
 conservative thought and set truth free. The work 
 of each was greatly needed and was done with the 
 utmost conscientiousness. Neither work can be called 
 the nobler. 
 
 Nor is it easy to say which helped the world the more. 
 Both were right, because both chose the work which 
 roused and set free their full power, not because one 
 directly served persons and the other science. 
 
 We can draw other illustrations from about the same 
 period and study the choice of interests made by an 
 artist and an organiser of men, Ralph Waldo Emerson 
 and Robert G. Shaw. Emerson, while never a vehem- 
 ent abolitionist, was a strong believer in freedom. 
 He went so far as to say that when fugitive slaves 
 were escaping to the North, every house should be 
 built with a hiding place. When the slavery question 
 was most urgent he was for a time uncertain whether 
 it was not his duty to give all his strength to the cause 
 of the Abolitionists. In his private journal he writes 
 in 1852:^ " I waked last night and bemoaned myself 
 because I had not thrown myself into this deplorable 
 question of slavery, which seems to want nothing so 
 much as a few assured voices. But then, in hours of 
 sanity, I recover myself, and say, God must govern 
 His own world, and knows His way out of this pit 
 without my desertion of my post, which has none to 
 guard it but me. I have quite other slaves to free than 
 those negroes, to wit: imprisoned spirits, imprisoned 
 thoughts, far back in the brain of man, far retired in 
 the heaven of invention, and which, important to the 
 
 * " Emerson in Concord," by Edward W. Emerson, p. 78. 
 
i^o Everyday Ethics 
 
 republic of man, have no watchman or lover or de- 
 fender but I." 
 
 In this decision of Emerson's we can see the right 
 principles of any choice. Each of us must free those 
 imprisoned spirits whom we really can free. Had 
 Emerson tried to work directly for people, for example 
 to visit poor families, he would probably have failed 
 to help them to anything like the extent to which his 
 writings have helped his readers. Spurred by the truth 
 which he proclaims so urgently, and so delicately, 
 that each of us should respond to his unique opportun- 
 ity, Emerson's readers are even now doing work among 
 the poor and sick with a zeal and a steadiness due 
 largely to his teaching. He has helped to free those 
 who will set others free. Had he abandoned the im- 
 prisoned thoughts which no one but he could unchain, 
 the cause of abolition would have been the richer but by 
 one man in the wrong place. His was a creative, not 
 an executive, interest. 
 
 At nearly the same time that Emerson decided not 
 to lecture against slavery, another Massachusetts citi- 
 zen faced a similar decision, and came to the opposite 
 conclusion. Robert Gould Shaw was one of the many 
 Harvard graduates who enlisted at the first call of 
 President Lincoln. Toward the end of the war the plan 
 of organising regiments of negroes was tried, and the 
 command of one of these regiments was offered to 
 Shaw. It was a task made doubly hard by the uncer- 
 tainty of the discipline and courage of untried negro 
 soldiers, by the natural abhorrence of the South toward 
 regiments of their own escaped slaves, and by the 
 
The Choice of Interests 151 
 
 almost certain death to which the commander of such 
 a regiment was exposed. To Shaw it was harder 
 because at this time he was on the eve of marriage. 
 For two or three days he hesitated, and even sent a 
 message through his father to Governor Andrew that 
 he could not accept because he was not equal to the 
 task. But before his father had time to deliver the 
 message Robert Shaw telegraphed him to withdraw it 
 — he had decided to go. He wrote to his family that 
 he thought he had decided rightly. " While I was unde- 
 cided I had the feeling as if I were cowardly," he said.' 
 
 He was killed at the disastrous assault on Fort 
 Wagner and his body was thrown into the trench 
 among the negroes. Yet his choice was right. He 
 would not have been Robert Shaw had he refused the 
 command. He would have felt all his life the disgrace 
 of the refusal. He owed it to his country, to himself 
 and to his wife to go. He would not have been worthy 
 of his heroic mother and wife, not truly the man they 
 loved had he been unwilling to give his life to his 
 country. He chose as all must choose, by deciding 
 what called into activity his fullest power and thereby 
 met the greatest need. 
 
 So far we have considered typical interests : science, 
 philanthropy, literature, and leadership. Decisions be- 
 tween the claims of two strong interests meet us at 
 every turn and make the difficulty and the zest of 
 living. Let us take one more case which illustrates 
 the choice between art and care-taking. Ought any- 
 one who has a marked talent for or love of music 
 to put it aside in order to work among the poor? 
 ' " Harv9r4 Memorial Biographies," v. ii. p. 203. 
 
1^2 Everyday Ethics 
 
 Such cases come into our experience every month. 
 I heard lately of a young girl who has a wonderful 
 alto voice. So beautiful and strong is it and so dra- 
 matic her expression that a well-known manager of- 
 fered to take her on a starring tour with Patti. Her 
 love of music had been strong enough to lead her to 
 refuse all other allurements and her one occupation 
 outside of her music was devotion to an invalid mother. 
 Yet when she received this unusually encouraging 
 offer of an important place in a successful opera com- 
 pany she refused it at once and without consulting 
 anyone. 
 
 People are sure to differ about such a problem. To 
 one the loss to the world of an enchanting voice and 
 to the girl of the outlet for her power will be most 
 vivid, to another the loyalty to a deep-rooted tie. In 
 such a case, when the opinions of equally sincere and 
 honourable people differ, what should decide the mat- 
 ter? Only, I believe, the deepest, most characteristic 
 want of the girl herself, in view of all the facts on both 
 sides. She was perhaps wrong to decide impulsively 
 and without advice, but the final test must be this: 
 To which life does her love go out most strongly? 
 Hitherto she had not been obliged to face the alterna- 
 tive. Now she must choose, and she may rightly de- 
 cide either way, but if her choice is right, it will be so 
 because she chose the work which is most herself. 
 If she decides that her main part in the world is per- 
 sonal devotion, she ought to do this in as thorough, 
 open, loyal a way as any professional work. 
 
 The choige of interests is, when carefully viewed, gs 
 
The Choice of Interests 153 
 
 wide as the number of those who choose them, but all 
 interests should be served with the spirit of devotion 
 which will not tolerate blindness, thoughtlessness or 
 irresolution. Whether our calling is to search for an 
 antitoxin for scarlet fever or to nurse a sick mother, it 
 calls for equal intelligence and thoroughness. The 
 choice should be made clearly, prayerfully, not by 
 drifting into the work because it is near at hand. It 
 is easy in either work to have all our time taken up or 
 rather broken up by constant interruptions. If we find 
 that this is so, we need to think freshly whether the 
 work we have chosen is our best work. If it is, we 
 ought to learn to resist unnecessary interruptions and 
 to carry on our task gladly because the work gives us 
 life and ungrudgingly because there is always time 
 for what we put first. We need to study and watch 
 experts in our line of work, and so to guard against 
 mistakes. The scientist who is deaf to the experience 
 of others wastes much time, and those whose delicate 
 task it is really to help any living being will need all 
 the experience they can win from others. 
 
 We have seen how much all genuine interests have 
 in common. 
 
 (i) All interests have to their possessor the same 
 warmth. 
 
 (2) All interests are served in the same spirit of 
 thorough devotion. 
 
 (3) All interests widen their possessor. 
 
 (4) All interests serve a real need, i. e., are rational. 
 
 (5) All interests call out that latent power of full 
 liff which is virtw?, 
 
154 Everyday Ethics 
 
 All genuine interests are needed and it is best that 
 they should be carried on by those whose heat of affec- 
 tion melts away every difficulty. In many cases the 
 scientists or artists, working largely in solitude and 
 without direct relation to people, furnish the resources 
 which will later enable the care-takers and the or- 
 ganisers to do their work, just as the quiet, untended 
 wheatfields of the West make possible the nourish- 
 ment and employment of thousands when the time of 
 ripening comes. Neither the planting and time of 
 growth, nor the harvest can be spared in man's 
 economy, nor can we say which is the more worth while 
 or the more serviceable. If Raphael had spent his life 
 in healing the sick the world would never have seen 
 the life-giving face of the Sistine Madonna. If Colum- 
 bus had devoted himself to the poor, myriads of the 
 immigrants who now throng to and cultivate our west- 
 ern farms would have starved. 
 
 This is equally true of less far-reaching work. 
 Whenever we turn away from our special work to 
 dabble or toil in places where we do not belong we 
 are leaving undone what ought to be done. I said 
 at the outset that the deeper we penetrated into any 
 interest the more we should find it opening out into 
 other types of interest. It is as if we all started from 
 the outside of a circle and penetrated inward toward 
 the centre. At the outset, philanthropy, social life, 
 home duties seem to concern persons, and literature, 
 business and law to touch persons far less. The farther 
 we go the closer will our interests become and the 
 harder will it be to keep the divisions separate. 
 
The Choice of Interests 155 
 
 Sixty years ago there lived in Brunswick, Maine. 
 a woman who used each available moment of freedom 
 to write a few words of a story. Was she working 
 for others ? We can only know when we find that it 
 was Mrs. Stowe writing " Uncle Tom's Cabin," the 
 book which did most to break the chains of slavery. 
 Had she helped individuals all her life she could never 
 have wrought so deeply for the good of all. Any 
 thorough, wide-wake work is sure to call on all sides 
 of a man's nature, and in so doing to bring him closer 
 to all other workers. There is no need to choose any 
 work just because others are doing it, for by choosing 
 the work for which we are fitted we shall find even 
 greater bonds of sympathy. 
 
 Ill 
 
 If, however, it is true that we ought each to choose 
 the work that interests us most, how shall we recognise 
 such work? A few people have a strong, inborn talent^ 
 which has steadily grown with their growth; for' 
 them the choice is relatively clear. Most of us find out ^ 
 our interests by trying several among the most promis- 
 ing and watching the effect. In a group of eight girls 
 in one of my classes there were as many interests, and 
 the interest which roused one would leave the others 
 relatively cold. One was a warm-hearted girl, devoted 
 to children. It seemed clear that she would find her 
 best work in studying kindergarten, and through that 
 she could find her way farther. One was a lover of 
 the country, and in spite of the open scorn of her 
 cockney friend, she resolved that her work should be 
 
156 Everyday Ethics 
 
 on a farm. The city-loving friend was herself an 
 ardent musician, and chose violin-playing for her life 
 work. She hoped to join a women's orchestra as soon 
 as she left school. A fourth became eager at the 
 thought of cooking and household economics, and 
 planned to go to an industrial college for further train- 
 ing. The fifth, a devoted Roman Catholic, had a 
 glimpse of what might lead to an opening for good 
 work in the service of her church. The sixth wanted to 
 work in charities, but had no specific direction; the 
 seventh and eighth wavered between several slight 
 interests which were not yet fully developed or con- 
 stant. It is more than likely that in the course of ten 
 years these girls will have altered their decisions. If 
 they have changed or if they have persevered wisely, 
 it will be because they have tested their interests faith- 
 fully and observantly by something like the following 
 tests : 
 
 ( 1 ) Does it rouse and warm me ? 
 
 (2) Does it overflow into other interests? 
 
 (3) Does it call out the best in me? 
 
 (4) Does it seem to serve a real need? 
 ( 5 ) Is it progressive and fruitful ? 
 
 It is only by the person himself, or by someone who 
 knows him as well or better than he knows himself, 
 that these questions can be truly answered. It is for- 
 tunate for the world that there is such a wide variety 
 of interests, and that subjects which bore me arouse 
 you. Few of us would care to write a dictionary, yet 
 it was a work of great interest to Johnson ; few of us 
 would have the patience to work eighteen years in 
 
The Choice of Interests 157 
 
 experimenting to prove the theory of evolution, yet in 
 it Darwin found his life. We saw in an earlier chap- 
 ter that we could not judge the goodness of any act by 
 sight; we can now add that we cannot judge the good- 
 ness of any interest until we fully share it. 
 
 There has been at times a tendency to condemn any 
 interest in which, by the nature of the case, many can- ' 
 not share. In contradiction to this view, it is evident 
 that in all pioneer work we must be nearly alone, and 
 that it can never be surely foretold of any work while 
 in the pioneer stage whether or not it will run up a 
 blind alley. Any tendency to discourage an interest 
 because it is solitary is likely to result in stagnation. 
 
 Any interest that is human or rational is social in 
 the deepest and most important sense, and the tendency 
 to be scared out of our deepest interests by the opposi- 
 tion or indifference of those around us is a real and 
 common danger. Interests taken up because people 
 are now awake to them would lose their motive and 
 their reason for existence with the fickle popular whim. 
 But an interest taken up because we feel it ours and 
 know that it has not been chosen on account of any 
 prejudice or whim in us, is social because it is serving 
 a cause which we have reason to believe is everybody's 
 cause, and the result of which will accrue to all sooner 
 or later. 
 
 To return, in conclusion, to the application of the 
 positive criterion which we have tried to lay down: 
 How are we to know our interests from our whims? 
 By making sure we are interested, which is best done 
 by trying the interest. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 EFFORT, SACRIFICE, AND DRUDGERY 
 
 If we could go back to the New England of three hun- 
 dred years ago, we should find a standard of duty very 
 different from that set forth in the chapters on interest. 
 To do your duty, the Puritan forefathers held, is to do 
 what is repugnant and hard just because it ought to be 
 done, and there was an implication that the disagree- 
 ableness made the act more virtuous, just as people 
 then thought that the bitterer and more repugnant the 
 taste of any herb, the more virtue it had to cure disease. 
 
 Have we swung to the opposite extreme ? Is it vir- 
 tue to do what you like most because you like it, and is 
 the pleasantness to taste a test of power to save ? Surely 
 not. Both these extremes are but half truths; the 
 choice is never between repugnant duty and frivolous 
 pleasure seeking. 
 
 The ascetics and the Puritans made this great mis- 
 take. They thought that duty was doing what is hard 
 and what you hate. The truth is that duty is doing 
 what is hard and what you love. Dorothea Dix loved 
 her work and found much of it hard. Darwin's work 
 was at times so wearing that he feared he might not 
 live to publish his first book. Father Damien knew 
 that his mission involved almost certain death, but all 
 
 158 
 
Effort, Sacrifice, and Drudgery 159 
 
 three loved their work, and that was why its hardship 
 was welcomed and the rocky soil made to yield har- 
 vests of character as well as of sacrifice. 
 
 On the other hand, when Schiller, who loved poetry 
 with all his heart, was forced by his father to practise 
 surgery, the work was hard and also wrong. Sensitive 
 and unfitted for the work, Schiller suffered intensely, 
 and until he abandoned surgery and turned to literature 
 his nature was starved. To use Schiller as a surgeon 
 was like using a razor as a chisel. The hated work 
 wore away his power through friction. 
 
 If it is true, as I have tried to prove, that the best 
 work for anyone is that to which his love goes forth 
 most ardently and steadily, it might seem to follow 
 that sacrifice and strenuous effort would be eliminated 
 from the best lives. We have already seen that this is 
 not so ; the boy who has a kindling interest in carpentry 
 or football will work harder over it and sacrifice more 
 for it than his plodding and docile neighbour. His 
 interest makes him aglow with a heat which burns 
 through difficulties which dampen the well-meaning but 
 unaroused; his keenness of interest makes possible the 
 sacrifices which are always involved in winning against 
 stubborn difficulties. If we consider why the pursuit 
 of interest demands effort and sacrifice, we find the 
 answer in the nature of moral life which always means 
 choice and growth, and so involves that the easy and 
 finished shall be thrust aside continually for the untried 
 and uncertain, and that much we love shall be rejected 
 for the sake of what we love more, as we lop off some 
 of the branches of a tree to strengthen the main trunk. 
 
i6o Everyday Ethics 
 
 A person of fixed habits wlio leads an unprogressive 
 life, sacrifices nothing. He makes a comfortable pro- 
 gramme for himself and sticks to it. I know a man 
 who goes every morning to play whist at his club, takes 
 a good lunch, goes to a concert or for a walk, smokes 
 his cigar and plays whist again. He has all the money 
 he needs and he makes no sacrifice, but he grows no 
 more than a rose-bush in winter. 
 
 Anyone who is growing sees on all sides opportuni- 
 ties which bear within them the fertile germs of new 
 life to be won only by efifort and sacrifice. There is 
 among my friends a man of large fortune, whose sym- 
 pathy is so vivid that he limits rigidly his personal 
 expenses in order to be freer to express himself as a 
 citizen. During his investigation of the conditions of 
 city life he found that even where playgrounds abound 
 they are not adequately used, and, by careful study and 
 observation, he came to the conclusion that it was be- 
 cause there was no leader to organise games and keep 
 the younger boys from persecution by older ones. He 
 at once secured permission to put up at his own expense 
 a fine equipment for climbing, sliding and jumping. 
 He engaged instructors to encourage the boys, to 
 organise baseball, football and hockey teams in their 
 seasons, and to protect the use of the ground against 
 monopoly. When this work was efficiently done, he 
 could not rest on his laurels. The question of the rela- 
 tion of the playground to the schools arose and must 
 be carefully worked out, and when once the boys have 
 been satisfactorily provided for, the corresponding but 
 distinctly different question arises for the girls. They 
 
Effort, Sacrifice, and Drudgery i6i 
 
 do not want the same forms of amusement which best 
 express the boys. If the playground is to appeal to 
 them, it must have gardens and handiwork, as well as 
 games of basketball. The little children next demand 
 attention, and the parents whose lives are often meagre 
 and deadening. 
 
 There is no limit to the opportunities which open to 
 the growing man and demand his keenest thought, his 
 untiring energy, his daily sacrifice of what once he 
 prized. At first sight we might think that a rich 
 man could do much good without sacrifice. This is 
 but a distant view, which dissolves as we look at his 
 work with the illuminating telescope of appreciation. 
 Like all growing men, he must do without much he 
 would prize for the sake of an outgoing life. Moral 
 life is always in motion and involves doing new hard 
 things. Everything we do a second time is different, 
 both because we are different from having done it 
 before and because it is different from having been 
 done before. 
 
 II 
 
 The degrees of sacrifice in growth differ very largely. 
 Some people seem to grow in straight lines, as it were, 
 and for them the past is included in the present. If a 
 man cares only for engineering or only for football, 
 there is comparatively little need for sacrifice on his 
 part. He has only to seek the best technical school or to 
 join the strongest team, and the sacrifices of time, or 
 health, or society which he must make in order to do 
 
1 62 Everyday Ethics 
 
 this are so easy to him that they are hardly sacrifices. 
 It is people of wide sympathies and varied tastes who 
 are continually confronted with the question of what to 
 sacrifice. When anyone loves not only engineering, but 
 music and painting, politics and philosophy, the theatre 
 and parties, on what principle can he decide which is 
 ;ight to give up ? We can only tell by thorough knowl- 
 edge of the man and of his central, most characteristic 
 nterest. Let us test this by a simple example : 
 
 I am going up the Matterhorn ; I should like a flask 
 of water, a loaf of bread, a slice of beefsteak, a fur 
 coat, a telescope, a mirror to flash with, a rope, 
 spiked boots, an axe, and a photographic camera. 
 All these things are highly desirable, but as I hap- 
 pen not to be an Atlas or a Samson, I simply 
 cannot take them all. Which, then, do I take? Not 
 those which include the others, they are not so com- 
 parable, but those which are most essential to my pur- 
 pose in climbing the Matterhorn. This is always the 
 criterion. I must have spiked boots, some food, an 
 axe, and a rope in order to gO' up at all. Is it best to 
 be cold and hungry for the sake of my telescope, or to 
 do without that and ensure my comfort ? The two are 
 different; on what principle am I, who have both de- 
 sires, to say which is best ? We often try to decide by 
 asking ourselves which is right and going over and 
 over this question in the same form without trying to 
 see what exactly it is we want to know and what is 
 the meaning of our question. Of course we do want 
 " the right," but what the right means as concerns this 
 particular decision we find only by changing the ques- 
 
Effort, Sacrifice, and Drudgery 163 
 
 tion a little and finding out what is our main object in 
 going. 
 
 The question of right sacrifice depends wholly on 
 purpose. If I am simply a mountain-climber, I shall 
 do well to leave behind all except what is necessary to 
 comfort and safety. If I am a member of a rescue 
 party, the rope becomes essential, the photographs 
 should be abandoned. If I am an astronomer, engaged 
 to examine the stars from that mountain-top, my bulky 
 telescope must go at all costs. If I am first of all a 
 photographer to whom the pictures of these peaks and 
 glaciers are priceless, I shall sacrifice even comfort to 
 success in photography. It is in this way alone that we 
 can tell whether any sacrifice is right. 
 
 Let us take a harder case. I am an artist and care 
 very much about my work. Is it right for me ever to 
 marry? Two main questions confront me at once. 
 First, can I keep up my art as fully if I marry? and if 
 not, secondly, what is my deepest life? I think it over 
 It is impossible, '1 decide, for me to carry on my career 
 as an artist as fully and freely when married as now. 
 At present I am free from the responsibility of manag- 
 ing a home and servants or of devoting myself to my 
 husband. My time is my own and my interest is con- 
 centrated on one thing. Whereas if I marry, the re- 
 sponsibilities of that life, and the care of my children, 
 if I have any, make it necessary to put the family life 
 first, and deliberately to subordinate my art. On the 
 other hand, I think of what married life will mean and 
 what its opportunities are. May it not be my best pur- 
 pose to found a home, to join my life to another life 
 
164 Everyday Ethics 
 
 that we may each add whatever is strong in us to the 
 other and so double each other's power; may it not be 
 that the bringing up of my children is my best work ? 
 We cannot decide any such question without knowing 
 much more — for example, the value of my paintings to 
 me and to the world, my capacity for married life — in 
 short, without knowing my character and my interests. 
 But if I rightly marry, instead of studying art, it is 
 because marriage is more essential to my central pur- 
 pose. The love of art still presses its claims, but the 
 first place is refused to it because it is not essential to' 
 or compatible with the central purpose which I now 
 embrace. I do not say, " The care of children is a 
 higher work than the painting of pictures." I only 
 say, " My career as an artist would not be for me so 
 good, so enriching and so fruitful as a married life. 
 Marriage is for me gain and growth in spite of the 
 fact that for it I have sacrificed society and art." How 
 do I know it is growth? Because it fulfils more the 
 purpose which is and has been the purpose underlying 
 my study of history and art and kindergarten. I feel 
 now that when I dabbled in art it was as if I rap 
 errands while the capacity lay dormant in me of com- 
 manding an army. Marriage does not include the 
 exercise of all the activities and interests of art. On 
 the contrary, it rules out some of the activities which 
 are real and good for me, but it satisfies and calls out 
 a larger part, of my nature. It is better that my artistic 
 craving should starve than that I should give up marry- 
 ing, because without marriage the most vital part of 
 my nature is cramped and unexpressed. Once art 
 
Effort, Sacrifice, and Drudgery 165 
 
 satisfied me, but in growing I became conscious of 
 more essential needs in my nature, or rather the old 
 needs unfolded into new meaning. Much in married 
 life may be hard or irksome to me, but I know it is my 
 life and fulfils my purpose better than art. For another 
 person the case might be just the reverse. Each is his 
 own judge. 
 
 , "And truly it demands something god-like in him 
 who has cast off the common motives of humanity and 
 ventured to trust himself for a taskmaster. High be 
 his heart, faithful his will, clear his sight, that he may 
 in good earnest be doctrine, society, law to himself, 
 that a single purpose may be to him as strong as iron 
 necessity to the other." ^ 
 
 Every moral decision depends on purpose, and each 
 is unique. To make any moral decision, we need to 
 know what want is most characteristic of our nature 
 as a whole; this we discover chiefly by realising 
 
 I and making clear to ourselves what cause we have 
 already invested in, what course we are even now pur- 
 
 I suing. We are never in the position of a man with 
 his money in hand ready to invest for the first time. 
 We have always invested already, and the question is 
 always, where is our property now? What have I 
 started to do? With which of my outstanding in- 
 terests shall I identify myself? The answer to these 
 questions we find only as we burrow back behind both 
 seemingly conflicting purposes to the one self repre- 
 sented in both. I want marriage and I want to study 
 painting, but I cannot (when I really face the question) 
 ^ Emerson. " Self Reliance." 
 
1 66 Everyday Ethics 
 
 want both if they are incompatible. If I did I should 
 be so torn by conflicting desires as to be more like two 
 people than one. If I am one self, then that self must 
 find a common element, myself, in both purposes, and 
 if I choose one, it must be because it has more of the 
 common element than the other, and in this sense, and 
 this only, includes the other. 
 
 Moral decisions often look a good deal like the 
 question whether you will have ^/g or ^'^/jg. Child- 
 like, we often reply that we want both, ignoring the 
 prohibitory " whether." Both would be the ideal, but 
 our most complete satisfaction is physically impossible. 
 We must take what is attainable or lose all. It is then 
 morally right to sacrifice one alternative, but only after 
 a long patient struggle to find some way to get both ; 
 a struggle a man would never make if he were not sure 
 that the highest is the most inclusive. But even when 
 we decide that to have both is impossible, we need to 
 know which it is best to have, ^/g or "/iq. It is not 
 easy to tell, but the best way is, of course, to find a 
 common denominator (the self), and then the com- 
 parison is simple, as they are in common terms. Be- 
 tween '^^/i7i and ^^*/i7i there is no difficulty in 
 choosing. 
 
 A good sacrifice is then one which satisfies the larger 
 or more characteristic part of our nature, as good prun- 
 ing enables the tree as a whole to bear more fruit. A 
 wrong sacrifice is one in which the more central or 
 important work is given up for the less, as when 
 Schiller, who was born a poet, wears himself away in 
 the friction of a hated profession, — surgery, or, as one 
 
Effort, Sacrifice, and Drudgery 167 
 
 of my pupils suggested, when the best parlour is sacri- 
 ficed to the use and abuse of cats, who would be as 
 happy in the barn. 
 
 in 
 
 If all sacrifice is of that to which we are less attached 
 for that which is more central in our lives, it follows 
 that no sacrifice ought to be absolute. It is true that 
 men like Father Damien or Robert Shaw go out on 
 their chosen path knowing almost certainly that it is 
 the road to physical death, but to catch sight of the 
 light on their faces is to know that " they lose their 
 life to save it." That with which they are identified 
 transcends death and if, as they are assured, the only 
 road to that life which is truly their life, lies through 
 death, they go toward it with steady feet. They are one 
 with that which is greater than death, greater even than 
 the death of visible failure. It was part of the tragedy 
 of Robert Shaw's death that the occasion of it was un- 
 necessary. Fort Wagner ought never to have been 
 stormed with so small a force. Yet Shaw did not 
 wholly fail ; he proved what most he wanted to prove, 
 I that his negroes were capable of loyal courage. Nearly 
 forty years later, when the St. Gaudens bas-relief of 
 Shaw leading his coloured band was unveiled in Bos- 
 ton, an old negro with whitened hair and glowing eyes 
 stood among the throng. On his uniform was a medal 
 won " for gallantry in battle and for taking desper- 
 ate chances." " I won it when I was with Colonel 
 Shaw at Fort Wagner," he said. 
 
1 68 Everyday Ethics 
 
 An absolute sacrifice in morality is just as wrong as 
 an absolute sacrifice in the business world. " Sacri- 
 fice ! " at the head of Wanamaker's sale advertisement, 
 of course, never means an absolute sacrifice of their 
 business for your advantage. It only means that for 
 the sake of their business as a whole, it pays them toj 
 sell some goods cheaper than they otherwise would. ' 
 Absolute sacrifice is suicide, like cutting off your head 
 to avoid toothache, and can never be right, but sacri- 
 fice of a part for the sake of a more characteristic part 
 is forever necessary. 
 
 We have found two important truths about sacri- 
 fice: (i) That no good sacrifice is absolute, for it 
 must express even through physical death the deepest 
 purpose of the actor, and (2) that all earnest purposes 
 demand sacrifice, as the doctor gives up sleep and the 
 scientist intent on his discovery gives up society. If 
 anyone lives without sacrifice, he is not living a normal, 
 growing life, for sacrifice and effort are elements in 
 growth. 
 
 Professor James, who feels the great danger of soft 
 and flabby living, suggests this rule : * " Do every day 
 or two something for no other reason than its diffi- 
 culty." Such a rule seems a kind of moral gymnastics, 
 valuable possibly for moral invalids, but not neces- 
 sary for the healthy workers of the world. If you do 
 thoroughly any work in which you are interested, it 
 will bring its own sacrifices without any search after 
 hardship for its own sake. 
 
 In the middle of the last century, a group of extrem- 
 2 Wm. James, " Talks to Teachers on Psychology," p. 75. 
 
Effort, Sacrifice, and Drudgery 169 
 
 ists in New England resolved sternly to deny them- 
 selves all luxury and live free from the snares and 
 pitfalls of tea, meat, and butter. Emerson, while in 
 sympathy with their desire for " plain living and high 
 thinking," soon perceived that their enforced absti- 
 nence from the pleasure of eating and drinking tended 
 to turn an abnormally large share of their attention 
 upon eating and drinking. " It is better," he said, " to 
 eat than to be forever desirous of eating." 
 
 It is common knowledge that men of no deliberately 
 self-sacrificing intentions go without alcohol and 
 tobacco because they are in training for the football 
 team, and that means that they will do whatever such 
 training requires. Sacrifice that springs out of the 
 fulfilment of our chosen work is learned without 
 pedantry or self-consciousness, and holds us with a 
 steady grip that is lacking in any artificial effort. 
 The doctor who gets up at night and drives eight 
 miles in a hard snowstorm, the fireman who risks 
 his life again and again to save a baby in a tenement, 
 do not think of themselves as self-sacrificing. They 
 think : " This is my job and I am going to do it," but 
 it is they, and not the Transcendentalists who refuse 
 to eat butter or meat, who stir every nobler impulse 
 in us. 
 
 IV 
 
 What is true of sacrifice is true also of effort. In 
 no progressive work, however much we love it, is 
 effort left out. In whatever we are to do well, we must 
 
170 Everyday Ethics 
 
 have learned the power of " labour, iron labour," the 
 power of holding ourself by sheer grit to a thing at a 
 point where it has become dull, and even more of 
 holding ourself so firmly to the work that we shall 
 not miss seeing the perpetually new openings in it ' 
 which prevent its being dull. The drudgery consists 
 oftentimes in the incessant need to rouse ourselves and 
 rub our eyes, the effort which alone keeps us from going 
 to sleep over our work and missing its growing nature. 
 We all tire of keeping ourselves awake. There is a 
 point just after we have sipped off the cream of any 
 subject which we have made it our purpose to learn 
 thoroughly, when there comes a strong temptation to 
 turn to something new. To hold on doggedly just 
 here is a supreme moral duty. 
 
 Such effort we shall always have to make, no matter 
 how far we advance, but we want to get rid just as 
 fast as is possible of special retarding conditions. Our 
 teachers, physicians, ministers, philanthropists, and all 
 who narrow and widen space and increase or diminish 
 time for us, help to do away as far as is possible with 
 conditions which are obstacles to moral growth. It is 
 unnecessary that the toil of a child to understand 
 arithmetic should be complicated by hard, unexplained 
 words like divisor, multiplicand, and quotient, and the 
 good teacher constantly decreases the drudgery of the 
 uncomprehended. 
 
 So, too, we rightly hope that in not very distant time 
 we may be able to put a great deal more into a small 
 space, as already a telephone saves our time. There 
 ^yould then be far fewer of the special physical sacrifices 
 
Effort, Sacrifice, and Drudgery 171 
 
 which we now have to make. Again, if, as seems pos- 
 sible, we learn to prevent a large part of the illnesses 
 that now occur, much of the time spent in waiting on 
 sick relatives would be saved, as the sewing machine has 
 saved many hours of hand labour. But effort would 
 
 )not die out, for we should demand more of ourselves. 
 The standard of moral living would rise, just as higher 
 
 ' wages have made the standard of material living rise. 
 Things previously considered luxuries are now con- 
 sidered necessaries; so in morals, claims considered 
 supererogations will become duties and desires. Ad- 
 vance does not exterminate an element like sacrifice 
 or effort. It only changes its form. The persistent 
 effort which is needed to make vivid what has be- 
 come routine, we all know well, and we shall always 
 know it. 
 
 While listening to a good music teacher giving a les- 
 son I caught a new note of faithfulness. " I really can't 
 practise on that any more, it bores me too much," said 
 the pupil. " Why, Harold, what a strange state of 
 mind. I don't understand it," said his teacher. (I 
 pricked up my ears, it seemed such a natural state 
 of mind to me.) " If you had learned it perfectly," 
 she went on, " I should understand. Of course to 
 go over and over what you know already is dull, but 
 not where there is anything left for you to conquer. 
 Listen hard, take each little phrase by itself and see 
 if you are doing it with just the touch and evenness 
 and precision and accent it ought to have, doing it 
 as perfectly as it is capable of being done. Study it 
 as if someone else were playing; go over it till you 
 
172 Everyday Ethics 
 
 have satisfied your ear. That is the way to find it in- 
 teresting." 
 
 My very moral ! The carrying out of your purpose 
 in years of labour is drudgery unless you put into 
 every fragment the same ideal and desire which made 
 the first glimpse of the whole so appealing. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 SELFISHNESS 
 
 The question of selfishness has puzzled thinkers for 
 many centuries. Jeremy Bentham, the English philoso- 
 pher, went so far as to say : " Dream not that man 
 will lift his little finger except for his own advantage." 
 Everything anyone does is selfish, he asserts. On the 
 other hand in the long period when asceticism prevailed 
 people tried to get rid of self altogether by giving 
 up everything they cared for, and scourging their 
 shrinking bodies. Thomas a Kempis writes : " My 
 son, thou canst not possess perfect liberty unless thou 
 renounce thyself." * 
 
 In studying ethics we meet at every turn the prob- 
 lem of what selfishness is. We notice at once, how- 
 ever, that not all compounds of the word self are 
 derogatory. Clara Barton is, everyone would say, an 
 unusually self-reliant woman and we wholly respect 
 her for it. If you look up the compounds of self in 
 the dictionary you will find that they are numerous 
 and that perhaps one-third are used as praise-giving, 
 one-third as derogatory, and the remaining one-third 
 in a neutral way. 
 
 Self-centred is a term of reproach, yet self-reliance 
 is a duty. 
 
 1 " Imitation of Christ," p. 1 17. 
 173 
 
174 Everyday Ethics 
 
 Seif-seeking again is a sign of narrowness, but self- 
 possession is all important. But can you possess any- 
 thing you do not seek? 
 
 Self-complacency we all scorn, but self-respect is 
 an important virtue. 
 
 Self-sacrifice is as we have seen essential to all good 
 life, yet surely self-preservation is a duty. 
 
 Self-consciousness is interesting because in ordi- 
 nary usage it is a defect; to the philosopher it is the 
 central characteristic of man. 
 
 Tennyson writes: 
 
 " Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control. These 
 three alone lead life to sovereign power." 
 
 But Christ said : " If any man will come after me let 
 him deny himself." 
 
 In these words and lines we see man's struggle in 
 thought crystallised into language. Our very words 
 as we pick them out dried and pressed in a dictionary 
 show that people now insist on the virtue of denying 
 yourself, again on the duty of relying on yourself, 
 here on the sin of being self-centred and there on the 
 necessity of self-respect, without fully seeing that the 
 one little four-lettered word is twisted and tortured 
 as we throw it about. 
 
 Since during the struggle the word self has become 
 confused, we shall help to disentangle an important 
 skein of thought by carefully untwisting the knots. 
 To do this we have to go back almost to the starting 
 point of moral life. If when walking along the street 
 one sees a little boy give all his pennies to a poor 
 child, one's first instinct is to exclaim ; " Hqav un- 
 
Selfishness 175 
 
 Selfish he is ! " When, however, we learn that his 
 father made him do it, we change our verdict. If he 
 was forced to act thus, he was neither selfish nor un- 
 selfish, because though it was his hands which made 
 the transfer, he did not do it himself. In other 
 words, no one can be selfish or unselfish unless he acts 
 ' of his own accord. 
 I I Professor Royce is fond of pointing out the ab- 
 surdity of forced unselfishness by an extreme case.^ 
 
 " Suppose, a robber meets me in the highway and 
 egotistically demands my purse. If now I manage to 
 disarm him, to present a pistol to his head and ask 
 him to accompany me to the nearest town, evidently 
 the claims of altruism would for that man have a 
 considerably stronger emphasis than they had the mo- 
 ment before." The passerby who saw the robber give 
 money to the traveller may have thought it an unselfish 
 act, but we know it is not, because no forced act can 
 be either selfish or unselfish. This is equally true of 
 any act, good or bad, which is done unconsciously or 
 automatically, and through such considerations we see 
 that to be selfish or unselfish we must have a self. To 
 be either good or wicked we must have a self and 
 all we do must in this sense start from that centre and 
 so express the self. 
 
 There is a good story of a man travelling by night 
 in a Pullman car. As the porter began to make up 
 the berth, he said to the gentleman : " Excuse me, sir, 
 but how do you like your head? " " Well," answered 
 the traveller, " it isn't a very good one, but it is the 
 ^Josiah Royce, "The Religious Aspects of Philosophy," p. 72. 
 
176 Everyday Ethics 
 
 only one I've got, so I try to make the best of it." 
 This answer appHes to everybody. In all we do we 
 must start from our own end, that is, from our self, 
 and we must make the best we can of it. To be either 
 good or bad, we must have a self and every moral 
 act is the act of that self. 
 
 If, now, anyone should say : " Dream not that men 
 will lift their little finger except it be for their own ad- 
 vantage," we should answer : " If you merely mean 
 that whatever a person does must be an expression of 
 his nature, that is true." Of course everything we do 
 must be done because we want it, but if you mean that 
 every man seeks his private advantage, that is ab- 
 surdly untrue. Each man's self is different. One man 
 may like his own bodily comfort better than any- 
 thing else; he takes the best peach, the warm cor- 
 ner, the most comfortable armchair; in the crowded 
 car, he turns over the seat and lets people stand while 
 he puts his feet up. At the other extreme is a woman 
 like Clara Barton, who has identified herself with 
 the relief of suffering. You may say if you choose 
 that she acts for herself (that is, does what she wants), 
 as much as does the selfish man, but the difference is. 
 in the size of the self she works for. The bodily self 
 which to him is all engrossing, is to her just a means 
 to her work. She too has an impulse for comfort, 
 but she denies it. She is willing to yield all bod- 
 ily comfort to the service of her larger self which 
 stretches out all over the universe. The cause of 
 suffering humanity wherever it may be found is 
 that with which she has identified herself. The man 
 
Selfishness 177 
 
 who seeks bodily Gonifort is at home only in his own 
 easy chair by his blazing wood-fire, where he can smoke 
 his good Havana Cigar in peace. Clara Barton is 
 at home wherever there is a cry of distress that she can 
 ease, a starving child that she can feed, a wounded 
 soldier to whom she can bring relief. 
 
 n 
 
 This brings us to a question whose answer has 
 already been suggested in the chapters on Interest, 
 What really is ourself? The fact that our body is 
 separated from other bodies and moves about appar- 
 netly independent of them sometimes leads people to 
 identify it with themselves and to feel that all con- 
 tained in brain or body is themselves, all outside not 
 themselves. We cannot hold this view long when 
 once we face it. It is clearly absurd to call our toe- 
 nails or our hair ourself, and our most intimate friends 
 not ourselves. The one happens to be attached to our 
 body, the other is attached to us, not by chance, but by 
 the strongest cords of our nature. 
 
 " Our fame, our children, the work of our hands, 
 may be as dear to us as our bodies are and arouse the 
 same feelings, the same acts of reprisal if attacked. 
 And our bodies themselves, are they simply ours, or 
 are they us? Certainly men have been ready to dis- 
 own their very bodies and to regard them as mere 
 vestures or even as prisons of clay from which they 
 should some day be glad to escape." ^ 
 
 If then we cannot limit ourselves to our bodies or 
 to our brain, we must reach out to include as ourself all 
 s Wm. James. " Psychology,'' vol. i. p. 291. 
 
178 Everyday Ethics 
 
 that we love, all with which we can identify ourselves, 
 that is, our interests. Emerson was not merely a long- 
 legged man with an angelic smile. He was far mor-2 
 truly his interest in or love of religious truth, and in 
 the expression of that truth, his love of Concord and of 
 his friends and neighbours, his love of children, his 
 interest in America and in nature. 
 
 We reach here an important conclusion : If all we 
 love is ourself, the separation between doing things 
 for ourselves and doing things for others whom we 
 love is broken down. It was an unreal distinction, 
 though it looked firm in the distance, and it crumbles 
 when we really come up against it. There is no one 
 who lives wholly in his narrow shell, shutting out 
 the entire world of people and pursuits. All my inter- 
 ests are, or should be, more than mine, becoming more 
 my own when they are comprehended and grasped by 
 my larger self, the life of all the people I love and rev- 
 erence. That is why it is so hard to have your best 
 friend dislike or misunderstand what you are wrapt up 
 in. Your interest is not fully yours unless he shares it. 
 This is why we rush impetuously to tell our great piece 
 of news. We hardly know it till it has spread to the 
 whole of ourself. How unreal the distinction between 
 ' ourself and those we love is we realise when we think 
 of any strong affection. We all have people so dear 
 to us that their suffering or joy is as real to us or more 
 real than our own. In the noblest souls, selfish in- 
 dulgence at the expense of another would be a far 
 greater pain than any conceivable personal sacrifice.* 
 
 *John Caird, "Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion," 
 p. 278. 
 
Selfishness 179 
 
 I know a woman who hardly feels her own depriva- 
 tion and suffering. It is the suffering of the poor in the 
 slums, of the wounded in body or soul, of the lonely, 
 ugly and insignificant people which troubles her. 
 Can we call it unselfish that she gives money to the 
 poor when it would be far more painful to her to with- 
 hold it? The mother whom you praise for unselfish 
 devotion to her children is hurt, not pleased, by your 
 commendation. Her children are herself, her life 
 So, once more, if you should compliment Edison or 
 Darwin on their unselfish devotion to science they 
 would laugh at the phrase. Our most living interest 
 cannot thus be separated from us, it is ours, but with 
 equal truth, we are it. 
 
 The inadequacy of the distinction between selfish- 
 ness and unselfishness is thus apparent in any relation 
 of strong affection whether it is shown in devotion to 
 science or to people. 
 
 We have found: 
 
 (a) That all responsible or moral acts are our 
 own and in that sense self-chosen. 
 
 (b) That self is not limited by our bodies, but is 
 as wide as our interests. 
 
 (c) That by any strong affection, the division be- 
 tween self and others is obliterated. 
 
 in 
 
 If we are to give the word selfishness any real mean- 
 ing we must re-define it. It cannot mean doing what 
 on the whole you most want, for everyone does that. 
 It cannot mean putting yourself before others, for 
 
i8o Everyday Ethics 
 
 many a mother who gives her peevish child all her 
 time and strength acts selfishly. No, to be selfish is 
 simply to be narrower than your broadest sympathy; 
 blinder than your clearest insight ; more irresolute than 
 your strongest will; more careless than your most 
 thorough thoughtfulness ; in other words, it is to 
 be disloyal to your aim. Selfishness can be accurately 
 distinguished from other sin only by the accent of 
 wilful narrowness in relation to people. The moral 
 sphere is the sphere of self-hood. Within self-hood, we 
 find disloyalty to the growing nature of self which is 
 selfishness or immorality, and response to the grow- 
 ing nature of self, which we call unselfishness when 
 it concerns people. 
 
 Selfishness is trying to foster any part of yourself 
 by cramping your whole self, that is, the open and 
 growing devotion to all you love. The selfish mother 
 is always partial. Instead of thinking of the whole of 
 her child and herself, she weakly gives it all it cries 
 for and refuses to recognise how this will injure the 
 child in the future. Again a selfish" person is private- 
 spirited, instead of outgoing or public-spirited. When 
 we hear that Andrew Carnegie has given $400,000 to 
 Tuskegee, we do not yet know whether his act is 
 selfish or unselfish. It is selfish if it is private-spirited, 
 that is, if he considered only that it would reflect to 
 his own glory, or if he desired merely to be free from 
 the burden of further requests from Tuskegee. It is 
 unselfish, that is, public-spirited, if with careful investi- 
 gation, possibly at the cost of a pleasure trip which he 
 had planned, he devoted tirng and strength to the de^ 
 
• Selfishness i8i 
 
 cision how he could best invest his money in charac- 
 ter-building. As a matter of fact I believe the act 
 was unselfish. Mr. Carnegie refrained from giving to 
 Tuskegee for ten years after he was first asked. He 
 waited until he was thoroughly convinced of the value 
 of the work. Then he gave first $20,000 for the 
 I library and afterwards $400,000 for endowment. His 
 I refusal to give was probably as unselfish as his liberal 
 gift, for both took thought and will. 
 
 Again an unselfish act must be one in which we try 
 to be open-minded, not blinded. It is not easy to judge 
 even with ourselves whether we have been as open- 
 minded as we could, but only by such a test, and not 
 by any result, can a selfish or unselfish act be judged. 
 It probably comes occasionally into the minds of many 
 of us to ask ourselves : Is it not selfish to spend large 
 sums of money on parties, when people in our own 
 community are starving ? The answer is : Not if we 
 have tried fully to face both the opportunity to help 
 the starving, the good done by the social ties, and 
 the joy, the artistic beauty developed and expressed by 
 parties, and have decided candidly that our money 
 is best spent in giving parties. It is selfish if we shut 
 our ears to the needs of the poor in order to quench 
 any qualms of doubt in our minds ; if we deceive our- 
 selves into thinking that we give parties to patronise 
 the florists, the musicians or the caterers, and thereby 
 help the poor, or if we carelessly spend more than will 
 accomplish our end. A Newport woman who said 
 she sought pleasure regardless of expense was cleverly 
 answered : " It seems rather that you seek expense, 
 
1 82 Everyday Ethics 
 
 regardless of pleasure." Only too often the beauty, 
 interest and delight of society is crushed out by the 
 overpowering sense of expense. Every cent which is 
 not spent in really furthering our aim, whether it 
 is weakly given to a tramp or added to a florist's bill, 
 is spent wrongly. 
 
 Such must be our test for ourselves. What is the 
 test for*others ? We cannot judge others without know- 
 ing their motives as well as we know our own. A rich 
 man enters the only store in a small village and buys 
 the last loaf of bread. In the shop at the same time is a 
 starving woman with only five cents who asks for 
 bread. The rich man sees but does not notice her, and 
 goes out bearing with him the only loaf. Our in- 
 stinct is to call him a selfish b;rute. He did not notice 
 her, but ought he not to have noticed her? The an- 
 swer depends wholly on the question (which corre- 
 sponds to those we have discussed in the chapter on 
 " Boundaries ") whether he had even a moment's 
 glimpse of an alternative choice. If he did not he 
 was neither selfish nor unselfish. He may, for exam- 
 ple, have been so intensely absorbed in the thought 
 of a sick child at home that he had neither eyes nor 
 ears for anything else. On the other hand he was 
 selfish if he deliberately or carelessly ignored the 
 woman's need and considered only his own dinner, 
 if, that is, he blinded himself into wilful neglect of his 
 human sympathy. 
 
 You will notice that all along I have spoken of a 
 selfish act not as a narrow or blind act, but as one 
 which is narrower or blinder than it might have been 
 
Selfishness 183 
 
 from the point of view of the actor. Exactly the 
 same outward act may be selfish when done by one 
 person and gloriously unselfish for another, just as 
 it may be an act of dissipation for me to read an easy 
 French story during study hours, and an act of virtue 
 for the beginner to whom it is hard and whose work 
 it is. 
 
 Four people are sitting near one another in church, 
 listening to a missionary sermon. The first is a miser ; 
 he is really moved by the appeal for foreign missions, 
 but to give up his money is like pulling teeth. He 
 wonders how much he ought to give and whether he 
 could keep part of what is in his purse; then with a 
 resolute effort he puts purse and all into the plate. It 
 is an unselfish act, for it is one he thought right and 
 it is a hard one. Next him sits a millionaire, who as 
 the plate passes, conspicuously flourishes a $50 bill so 
 that it is visible to his neighbours and drops it in. At 
 a little distance sit two women, one of whom without 
 a moment's thought drops in all the money she has 
 and the other with great self-restraint refuses to give 
 anything, because she knows her first duty is to her 
 little ones. Here we recognise that the miser and 
 the woman who gave nothing are those who deserve 
 our praise, for each is doing a hard act which takes 
 courage and breadth of view. To the millionaire the 
 gift means only a chance to air his liberality. To 
 the first woman the gift is so instinctive that it is 
 almost automatic or non-moral, because her nature is 
 already an unselfish one. 
 
184 Everyday Ethics 
 
 IV 
 
 We reach next a distinction of significance. There 
 is a difference between reaching beyond one's past in 
 an unselfish act and the possession of an unselfish 
 character. It seems at first almost contradictory when 
 we find that the more unselfish in character any- 
 one becomes the less do we class his special acts 
 as unselfish. If a girl has so unselfish a nature that 
 she loves her father better than herself, the liberality 
 she shows in giving him the best seat or in sacrificing 
 her pleasure for his is not unselfish to the degree of 
 that of the naturally self-centred girl who with a great 
 and deliberate effort to do right, yields her pleasure to 
 that of her father. So our miser at church was more 
 unselfish in the particular act than his generous neigh- 
 bour who gave instinctively. If however he con- 
 tinued year by year to give the same amount until 
 it became automatic he would no longer be acting vm- 
 selfishly. He would have outgrown his own low stand- 
 ard of selfishness and we must then judge his acts by a 
 harder test, just ^s in any ganie such as golf we no 
 longer call goQ4 thg strokgs which wo^ld have satisfied 
 us the year before. In m^raj Ui§, as in golf, "we are 
 engaged in progr/sssively beating o^r owfi best stroke, 
 ,and the lop y^rds which we count as 3 triumph af 
 first becomes simply an average or even ,a f^ijwrg, whejij 
 we have reaehed th,e possij^iijty of a driyie pf 150 yard§. 
 
 f'hpre is an ai?,e,cdote ^old Q^ Afefghain Lincoln 
 ^hich, whether true or not, is phgraptgristijc. Lincoli^ 
 Wjig driving- oi)e day with somg pf his frien^g wheij 
 
Selfishness 185 
 
 he saw a pig struggling helplessly in a ditch. He 
 drove by, but after a few minutes turned back and 
 pulled the muddy pig out of the ditch. On being 
 praised for his act he replied that he did it on his own 
 account as he kept getting more uncomfortable the 
 more he thought of the pig in distress. Shall we call 
 his act unselfish ? It was undoubtedly an expression of 
 the unselfish character of one who had so nourished 
 humanity in himself that he was concerned by the suf- 
 fering of the pig and did not forget it even when it 
 was out of sight. His act however may have been so 
 instinctive an expression of his nature that we can 
 hardly class it as unselfish, for an unselfish act must 
 involve effort and thought. 
 
 A diagram may make clearer the relation between 
 any unselfish act which is always breaking the shell 
 of its past, and the possession of a more or less un- 
 selfish character which corresponds to the size, small 
 or great, of the shell we possess. We find in the world 
 people whose main interest is in 
 their private circle, their house, 
 clothes, or food. Such people may 
 be classified as in the smaller circle, 
 and for them it is a moral or unsel' 
 fish act to pierce into the second cir- 
 cle by enlarging their syrapg|:hy to 
 include ggngrosity to a cousin or neighbour. For thg 
 people who ?ire identified with their family circle it is 
 not unselfish tp act generously toward them. It does 
 require unselfishness to break down the walls which 
 separate png's gxclysivg cjrclf frgta tlif Ji???t, thaj; pf 
 
1 86 Everyday Ethics 
 
 devotion to the nation or to the progress of science. 
 In each case the unselfish act is a breaking of the walls 
 . which separate and narrow us. The order of the cir- 
 cles is irrelevant. There are those to whom animals 
 are more appealing than people, those to whom the 
 nation is more vividly real than their next door neigh- 
 bour. Each of these must follow in different ways 
 the same course of enlarging his mansion to more 
 stately form. 
 
 Do the best people then become more and more in- 
 capable of unselfishness because generous acts are more 
 instinctive to them ? No, not in the world of growing 
 opportunity in which circle spreads beyond circle, for 
 the very breaking of the narrowei bonds shows new 
 chances for unselfishness, though in some cases so 
 altered in form that like the caterpillar and the butter- 
 fly, they are hardly to be recognised as the same. Take 
 again the case of a daughter who loves her father 
 more than herself. Can she be selfish toward him? 
 Yes, it would be really selfish if she indulged an unrea- 
 sonable desire on his part in order to save herself the 
 pain of refusing him. It is a part of unselfishness to 
 be ready to give, as well as to receive, necessary pain. 
 
 Unselfishness is then simply the thoughtful, sympa- 
 thetic, resolute choice of the expanding opportunity in 
 our relation to people ; selfishness, like all sin of which 
 it is one aspect, is wilful blindness to what we ought 
 to see. 
 
 The word selfishness is associated chiefly with 
 actions related to other people, but if we are to retain 
 the word at all it must be enlarged : 
 
Selfishness 187 
 
 (i) In one sense all selfish acts are committed 
 against oneself, for selfishness cramps and pinches the 
 budding life of interests which is most truly ourself. 
 
 (2) It is common to see utterly self-forgetting de- 
 votion to art and science, unselfish because public and 
 faithful, and to see blind, jealous exclusive devotion 
 to a person, devotion thoroughly selfish, because in it 
 one thinks not of the good that both can do, but only 
 of the response to one's own gratification. If we are 
 inspired in the presence of those we love, we must be 
 inspired to do something and avoid luxuriating in the 
 sense of warmth and exaltation for the time, and 
 then falling back or failing to live a wider or deeper 
 life. 
 
 (3) No one can rest on attained unselfishness. Any 
 point that we have reached, however it may look to 
 the outsider a goal, is for us a starting point. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 SYMPATHY 
 
 We have seen that interests are life-givers and life- 
 savers; we now come to a subject as closely related 
 to interest and often as indistinguishable from it as are 
 twin sisters from one another, — the subject of sym- 
 pathy. It is true that we often think of interest as cold 
 and of sympathy as warm, of interest as impersonal 
 and of sympathy as lavished on people, but as I- 
 have already shown, no living interest can be other 
 than glowing and no person can arouse sjTnpathy ex- 
 cept through the interests, present or to come, that 
 make him himself. Interest and sympathy are inex- 
 tricably knit aspects of any identification of ourselves 
 with what is beyond ourselves. 
 
 Because interest and sympathy are inseparable, we 
 see at once that any man without sympathy would be 
 without intelligence. If such a man exists he is hardly 
 human, for his nature is shrivelled to the unreality of 
 a geometrical point. What we do find are two widely 
 severed extremes of sympathy, one narrow and mo- 
 mentary, the other wide and loyal. At one extreme we 
 see a poor idiot child, who, though very demonstrative 
 for the moment, forgets his mother when separated 
 from her sooner than the bereft cow ceases to bellow 
 
 i88 
 
Sympathy 189 
 
 for her calf. His interest can only be roused by the 
 sound of the dinner bell. Most of the day he looks 
 out on the world with vacant eyes, comprehending 
 nothing. 
 
 At the other extreme we encounter the truly human 
 man, the person of wide sympathies who is eagerly in- 
 terested in life on many sides. One such comes vividly ' 
 before me as many such fortunately do to the minds 
 of any one of us. I see him eagerly bending over the 
 newspaper, intent on the latest news of the New York 
 election or the revolution in Panama. I watch the 
 quick sympathy of his eyes as the old carpenter, whom 
 he has not seen for several years, approaches, rubbing 
 a soiled hand on his trousers before he offers it. I 
 picture him as he bends to greet a little girl whom he 
 designates his special friend, or as he stands measuring 
 with his cane the width of the great oak on the lawn. 
 We come to him with our interests or our difficulties 
 as we come to the sun for light, sure of a warm re- 
 ception. He is one of those who because he suffers 
 with those who suffer, rejoices greatly with all those 
 who rejoice. 
 
 Here is one who gleans from the world inexhausti- 
 ble interests and who therefore is young at eighty. It 
 is the same world that his next-door neighbour finds 
 unutterably dull and burdensome. To each in the same 
 mail comes a request for money, a pitiful story of pov- 
 erty and isolation. To the first, it is the dawning of 
 a new interest, to the second another tiresome note to 
 be read and destroyed. The difference in the nature of 
 these two is registered by their sympathies, for sym- 
 
190 Everyday Ethics 
 
 pathy is the sign of the width and depth of self-hood 
 The great man is he whose sympathies are intense, 
 wide and loyal. 
 
 Since sympathy is intricately bound up with interest, 
 it, like interest, grows with knowledge. It is a con- 
 stantly exhilarating experience to find what once was 
 dry and inert to us grow alive and rousing as we pull 
 off the outer husks and discover the seed-corn. How 
 hopelessly stupid Civil Service Reform or the " Critique 
 of Practical Reason " or the Binomial Theorem sound ! 
 Yet in these dark realms many have found and made 
 light, and the professor treasures his first edition of 
 Kant's " Critique," as lovingly and in much the same 
 spirit as the child treasures her Blue Fairybook. 
 
 We all know people whom once, when we knew them 
 slightly, we were afraid of or disliked. Now they are 
 our intimate friends. We look at them wonderingly 
 sometimes and say : " Doesn't it seem strange that 
 there was a time when we were perfectly indifferent to 
 one another? " Yet what has made the difference has 
 been only more thorough knowledge and fully awak- 
 ened sympathy. There are thousands of other people 
 and other interests around us, equally real and warm, 
 though we still treat them as cold. They will become 
 real to us when we realise them. What we cannot 
 make real to ourselves makes no appeal. Many chil- 
 dren inquire eagerly whether a fairy tale is real before 
 they will fully enter into its spirit, but others so steep 
 themselves in the story that it is real to them from the 
 start. Now the lives about us are real and it is only a 
 failure to realise them that makes us unsympathetic 
 
Sympathy 191 
 
 and selfish. We need not only to see ourselves as 
 others see us, but to see others as they see themselves. 
 
 II 
 
 Prof. Josiah Royce in a stirring chapter in " The Re- 
 ligious Aspects of Philosophy " says that all " selfish- 
 ness is due to an illusion." ^ It is only through sym- 
 pathy that we reach the truth, or as we accurately say, 
 realise things and people as they are, see and feel them 
 as real, not as shadows or masks. There are people 
 whose lives are as real to us as our own. These we 
 call friends and brothers, for they are realised as 
 human and so akin, but the outer circle of our ac- 
 quaintance, or of those with whom we deal in business, 
 are often far less real and living to us than the spar- 
 rows at our feet. We think of them as means to 
 our ends, or vaguely and dimly as " strangers " or 
 " foreigners." 
 
 The more we deal with large undertakings and live 
 in great cities, the more easily we slip into the danger 
 of treating outsiders as though they were machines. 
 We call up " Central " on the telephone and though the 
 voice that responds is human, it is to us only a means to 
 our end of asking 20 people to join a sleighing party. 
 We rush one message after another and are annoyed if 
 the connections come slowly ; we are almost unaware 
 of the tired, hurried woman who may be longing 
 to get home to a sick mother. In the early days of 
 the telephone " Central " was less of a callous machine 
 1 " Religious Aspects of Philosophy," pp. 146-170. 
 
192 Everyday Ethics 
 
 than she has now become by the hardening process of 
 being so treated, and when roughly assailed for a 
 number, she burst out once in a pathetic voice, " Oh, I 
 will connect you just as soon as I can if you only 
 will not speak crossly to me." Then for a moment 
 the live woman flashed before the vision' of her 
 interlocutor. 
 
 Such mechanical ideas of his patient may easily be- 
 come fastened on the doctor in a great hospital as day 
 after day numbers of people with similar complaints 
 seek his advice. He gives the same prescription to 
 many, and unless he is a man not only of keen, but of 
 trained sympathy, he will find his expression of it in 
 each recurring case likely to diminish. It seems to 
 him as though these haggard, discouraged faces had 
 been before him many times already, that these pale lips 
 had faltered out the same story, and asked the same 
 question which he has already answered so many times. 
 He is apt to be cross and curt, because of the illusory 
 impression that this same question has been asked 
 again and again by the same patient who carelessly 
 and stupidly forgets what he was told but a moment 
 ago. Yet to each patient the experience is new and 
 critical ; his life or his hope of bread-earning hang on 
 the doctor's word. It is the great and often tragic 
 moment of his life. To remember this freshly every 
 time is to learn the lesson of sympathy. 
 
 Nor do we need the realising power of S)mipathy 
 only in relation to mere acquaintances or in business 
 dealings. There are often strangers within our gates 
 some member of the family whose habits and acts are 
 
Sympathy 193 
 
 known to us, but whose real life is blurred and over- 
 shadowed by the thousand daily trifles about which we 
 talk and talk, yet which choke the avenues of deeper 
 intercourse. Unless we wake to realise this, and ten- 
 derly but steadily clear away the obstruction that hides 
 the stream of his life from us, he will continue to be a 
 stranger though within our gates. 
 
 Sympathy is then the power of making any situation 
 become alive to us through realising it as it is. Though 
 we all possess it to some extent, in some relations and 
 for part of the time, it is easy to show that in most of 
 us it is narrow in its range and intermittent in power. 
 I will try to make this clear by other illustrations. 
 
 Some years ago the papers were full of the acciden- 
 tal sinking of the Victoria^ an English man-of-war, 
 through a collision in a naval drill. She went down 
 with all on board. The account of it was dramatic, 
 and when I met an English friend that afternoon 
 I spoke of it incidentally. His face was agonised 
 and suddenly I realised what it meant. The men on 
 the Victoria were his intimate friends and it was tor- 
 ture to wait till he could hear further details. To 
 me it had been merely a touching story, not a reality 
 which cut and pierced and exalted. That I could hurt 
 my friend by a casual mention of what to him was a 
 darkness that for the time shut out the sun, showed 
 that the veil of illusion was before me. It is this only 
 which makes brutality and selfishness possible. 
 
 Take another case. In the autumn of 1900 we all 
 heard of the capture of Aguinaldo's mother. "Ah, 
 that's one step gained. I hope they will catch Agfuin- 
 
194 Everyday Ethics 
 
 aldo himself next," was the general comment. A few 
 months later, Mrs. John Bass, wife of the correspon- 
 dent of Harper's Weekly, gave me some details : " It 
 was a terrible shame to imprison that poor old lady," 
 she said ; " just imagine ; she is over eighty, and while 
 the United States was still friendly with the Filipinos 
 she had often entertained the American ladies at her 
 house and been most kind to them. Nevertheless 
 when one day they arrested and imprisoned her with 
 Aguinaldo's little boy, not one of the ladies came 
 near her to make things a little more comfortable dur- 
 ing her imprisonment. I went in as soon as I could 
 and found her very unhappy. The baby was playing 
 on the floor and smiling. ' Poor little fellow,' she 
 said, ' how little he knows what danger and suffering 
 his father is going through.' " 
 
 This case illustrates what Prof. Royce means when 
 he says that " selfishness is illusion." We act selfishly 
 whenever we let a veil of laziness or prejudice remain 
 between us and all we can get of the truth. 
 
 Ill 
 
 This definition of Sympathy as the efifort to realise 
 the truth about any situation, cuts off as partial and in- 
 adequate all expressions of sympathy which are so one- 
 sided as to weaken instead of strengthen. If the word 
 sympathy is to keep its hold, it must include firmness 
 and good sense as elements in its structure. We must 
 mean by sympathy not merely thought of others, but a 
 vivid realisation of the whole situation. Many a time 
 
Sympathy 19^ 
 
 two self-effacing women will stand and urge each other 
 to take the only seat in the car until the destination of 
 one of them is reached. When travelling through 
 Europe some years ago, two affectionate sisters were 
 wont to dispute at each hotel, because each was desir- 
 ous that the other should have the better room. Each 
 would have much preferred to rest after her journey 
 in any room rather than to be delayed and wearied by 
 the amicable dispute, but it took some time for them 
 to learn that self-effacement is not sympathy and that 
 when A thinks only of B and B of A, the result is no 
 better than when A thinks only of A and B of B. A 
 and B alike must think of what is best on the whole. 
 
 In any normal life we are so placed that not you or 
 I, but the whole we serve is the goal of our efforts. 
 If the soprano in a quartette should always sing softly 
 in order that the other parts should be heard above 
 hers, she would defeat the aim of the quartette as a 
 whole. So the self-sacrificing member of a family who 
 drops all her interests in order to indulge the wishes of 
 the brothers and sisters who want her always at home 
 and ready to talk or amuse them, is not truly sympa- 
 thetic. To decide just what her best course should be, 
 she must look ahead and around, taking in the situa- 
 tion as a whole, not effacing herself nor ignoring any 
 element 
 
 I know a well-to-do family in which the oldest 
 daughter has been devoted for years to her young sis- 
 ter and brother and to her step-father. They are semi- 
 invalids and have got into the habit of having her en- 
 tertain them by any gossip she can pick up. If she 
 
196 Everyday Ethics 
 
 takes a walk she must on her return tell about every 
 person to whom she bowed and every dog which barked. 
 Her family beg for little scraps of information as a 
 tramp begs for scraps of bread and meat and with as 
 little permanent benefit. The discomfort of their pa- 
 thetically starved lives is for the time relieved, but they 
 never gain the power to make their own life. Mean- 
 while their sister, who was once a person of energy and 
 spirit, has become dulled and saddened by the constant 
 strain of entertaining them. When they die she will 
 be no longer young ; she has cultivated no strong inter- 
 est, she is wholly untrained for the needs of the world. 
 She is only too likely to drift along on the dreary road 
 of seeking entertainment which is the only path she 
 really knows. Her family do not mean to act self- 
 ishly toward her, but they let her pauperise them. She 
 desires to give them the fullest, most constant sym- 
 pathy, but she is steadily making them narrower and 
 more inert, less self-reliant and more dependent on out- 
 side help. Many people who are as ill as they are 
 doing valuable work. 
 
 Now sympathy, in the sense of a warm realisation of 
 the whole situation, its outlook as well as its immediate 
 bearing, would create a new atmosphere about these 
 people. The labour of the daughter would serve to 
 kindle a living interest in her father and sister, and 
 brother instead of blowing a flame without supplying 
 any lasting fuel. Anyone who is truly sympathetic will 
 try not to be legs and arms to another, but to put him 
 on his feet. We must guard against hurting those we 
 love by doing too much for them as we would guard . 
 
Sympathy 197 
 
 against hurting delicate birds by over-handling. It 
 may well be that your profession is to help your family 
 or those about you to get on their feet; and if so, you 
 should do the work as a vocation. If such a piece of 
 work is your vocation, it should be undertaken and car- 
 ried on as systematically and steadily as the building 
 of a temple. Work done in such a spirit is done with 
 full sympathy ; gladly because it is our life work ; liber- 
 ally because we know of no better use for our time; 
 thoroughly because our attention is awake to its 
 needs. And we must never forget that as we are 
 happy and expressed through our service to them, so 
 will those we serve be when they too can in some 
 similar or different way, express themselves through 
 service. Since without sympathy we are not human, 
 everyone needs not only to receive, but to give 
 sympathy. 
 
 Here and again one finds in a great city a lonely man 
 or woman who has no friends. One such had lived in 
 Boston and taken in sewing for several years before 
 she made a single real acquaintance. It was through the 
 new evening schools called Educational Centres that 
 she found not only a chance to study, but what was far 
 better, congenial friends, to whom she could give and 
 from whom she could receive sympathy. Most of us 
 naturally find these opportunities with our family and 
 friends. We do more for them than for strangers be- 
 cause, as we have seen, they are more ourselves. With- 
 out them we are torn asunder and because they are our- 
 selves we are best fitted to help them as we cannot help 
 those who are strangers in spirit. 
 
198 Everyday Ethics 
 
 IV 
 
 We have seen that to be widely or loyally sympathetic 
 is to be really alive. How can one reach out and ob- 
 tain this more abundant life? By throwing oneself 
 wholly and heartily into whatever one does. We all 
 have moments and flashes of sympathy, but unless we 
 seize and use them they fade away. I once heard a 
 famous doctor say to the young probationers who had 
 just beg^n the work of training to be nurses : " I know 
 that every one of you has some sympathy in your heart, 
 some longing to help in the world, else you would not 
 be here. Do not be afraid to express it. You will soon 
 go out to nurse. It may be some dirty woman in a 
 miserable tenement or some cranky, irritable man crip- 
 pled with rheumatism. Pour out every bit of your 
 sympathy. It is only by freely expressing it that more 
 will How in. When we reserve our sympathy it grows 
 stagnant within us. If you see an old woman lying 
 poor and helpless on the bed, think that it might be 
 your own mother who is lying there and speak to her 
 as tenderly as though it were." 
 
 In Shakspere's " Macbeth," he shows with one of 
 those wonderful intuitions that daily deepen our rever- 
 ence for his work, that even a hardened nature like that 
 of Lady Macbeth has still its ray of sympathy which 
 struggles to enter the darkened chambers of the will. 
 Just for the moment, while she looked at Duncan sleep- 
 ing peacefully under the shelter of her own roof, she 
 was moved by pity. He looked like her father, and the 
 resemblance made her realise for an instant that the 
 
Sympathy 199 
 
 gracious, trusting king was as warm, as human, as her 
 father. For a second she saw the truth and sympathy 
 was supreme, but she thrust it aside and the king again 
 became unreal to her, merely an obstacle in the way of 
 her ambition, of no more significance than a rock which 
 we blast because it blocks our avenue. 
 
 If Lady Macbeth had not shown that single ray of 
 humanity, we might have thought her a monster, a 
 hyena, incapable of sympathy and so neither selfish nor 
 unselfish; but knowing that she was once moved by 
 pity, we know her sin. If instead of shoving aside 
 the thought of Duncan, she had kept the realisation 
 of his life and the tragedy of his death as vivid as that 
 of her father, it would have been impossible for her to 
 murder the king or to let Macbeth do it. Full atten- 
 tion, whole-heartedness, annihilate brutality and de- 
 velop sympathy. 
 
 We all have some person or some subject toward 
 which we are whole-hearted. It does not matter what 
 it is; it may be the theatre, it may be our father or 
 baby sister, or it may be a collection of shells. When- 
 ever this warm subject comes into sight, a brilliant 
 light flashes out from it and all is aglow. Now 
 ' round the edges of this central light are places less 
 bright and less the centre of attention, but still far more 
 irradiated than the dark beyond. If we gradually ex- 
 tend our interest to these bright but vaguer edges of 
 our interest, they will come to shine with the fire of 
 our central lamp and beyond them too the dark will be 
 pierced with darts of light. Love of my father leads 
 to interest in his work as a carpenter and then to love 
 
200 Everyday Ethics 
 
 of all manual work. A love of shells may lead to love 
 of biology and so of all science. It is by this flashing 
 of the searchlight of our central interest upon every- 
 thing in its neighbourhood that sympathy grows. 
 
 We often speak of the sympathetic person as one 
 who can draw out others, but we rarely sufficiently 
 realise how constant and how far-reaching is this 
 creative power. The sun draws out the tight green 
 petals of the apple buds and they unfold into new 
 colour and fragrance ; but no less truly or wonderfully 
 sympathy unfolds the richness and delicacy of a na- 
 ture which closes tightly before coldness and indif- 
 ference. 
 
 " We must act on generous presumptions. We must 
 impute virtue. We must invest the world with its own 
 divinity," a friend of mine once said. She followed 
 her own counsel and those who went to her became 
 more and more themselves. 
 
 The principal of a well-known Massachusetts school, 
 a negress, who has won her way to an important posi- 
 tion by her own strength and gentleness, said recently : 
 " The hardest thing that the negroes have to contend 
 against is distrust. It is a hard and often bitter trial 
 to have your advance blocked not only by your own 
 imperfections, but by an almost universal disbelief in 
 your power." " Fortunately," she added, with a 
 slight smile, " the negro by what is perhaps a lucky 
 trait of his tiature, does believe in himself, and the fact 
 
Sympathy 201 
 
 that some gfreat Americans have believed in him is a 
 constant spur to his advance." 
 
 Our distrust holds back, our faith stimulates. George 
 Eliot has beautifully expressed this truth: 
 
 " There are natures in which if they love us we are 
 conscious of having a sort of baptism or consecration. 
 They bind us over to rectitude and purity by their pure 
 belief about us, and our sins become the worst sort 
 of sacrilege which tears down the invisible altar of 
 trust." 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 IMAGINATION 
 
 We are apt to think of imagination as if it belonged 
 chiefly to artists and poets, forgetting that each of us 
 is in his special sphere a creator and possessed of the 
 poetic gift of imagination. With many of us imagi- 
 nation is keen in relation to the people whom we love ; 
 with all of us imagination is kindled and kept shining 
 by sympathy. 
 
 " He must be hungry at boarding-school. I'll send 
 him a box of cake," says the indulgent mother. " I 
 try to see Mrs. Brown nearly every day, for though she 
 seems bright and never says anything, I know she's 
 lonely without her daughters," the kind neighbour ex- 
 plains. There is no one so prosaic but that he becomes , 
 an artist toward his friends, no one so engrossed in the 
 present but that in his plans he uses foresight. I am 
 saving my money to build a house at the seashore. 
 Not a brick is laid; but the idea of that house and of 
 the delicious sea-breezes becomes through imagination 
 real enough to hold me from the visible allurements of 
 sleigh-rides or new clothes. 
 
 Not only in what we plan, but in all that we see we 
 constantly use imagination. The red wall of my 
 
Imagination 203 
 
 neighbour's house looks solid and hard because my 
 imagination leaps to the conclusion that it is made of 
 brick; but my eyes never see the brick. Sitting one 
 day in a hotel at Capri, I beheld an exquisite mountain, 
 blue and distant, but when I went nearer the mountain 
 collapsed and there remained only a board fence, cun- 
 ningly painted to deceive me. 
 
 My father's house is not to me what I see with my 
 eyes. The life within comes flashing before me as soon 
 as I speak of it and as I look at its visible outline it 
 glows with a warmth of meaning the stranger can 
 never know. 
 
 In these everyday illustrations of imagination I 
 have tried to use the word in a sense which distin- 
 guishes it from fancy, for the confusion of these two 
 terms has often played havoc with our understanding 
 of one another's meaning. The distinction between 
 fancy and imagination is this: imagination seeks and 
 tries further to reveal the dawning truth and so is 
 guided by law, while fancy is ungoverned by any such 
 allegiance. The creations of imagination are based on 
 facts, but go beyond the facts in the direction towaid 
 which they point. Fancy too starts from facts and 
 goes beyond them, but cuts loose at once from any 
 loyalty to the trend of reality. Many people have had 
 delicious fancies awakened as they dream over a steam- 
 ing teakettle ; but it is only to a man of trained imag- 
 ination like Watts that the tea kettle suggests new 
 principles and prophetic constructions which reveal 
 themselves at last in the steam-engine. 
 
204 Everyday Ethics 
 
 II 
 
 When we define imagination as the power to follow 
 the spirit and trend of any fact, we begin to see how 
 essential it is to all work, how necessary an ally in 
 moral life. It is" a lantern that throws light on the 
 path ahead and keeps us from the double danger of 
 standing still or stumbling. We shall realise this more 
 
 I vividly by following its use in different parts of experi- 
 ence. 
 
 ' Often my friend begins a sentence and I finish it. 
 If I do this rightly it is because I know my friend. 
 Imagination must always work on the basis of sound 
 knowledge. But not only must my friend know my 
 character, — she must also pay the strictest attention to 
 what I am saying just now. We all know those pro- 
 voking people who complete our half-finished sentences 
 by some interpolation of what we used to say, who 
 cannot distinguish our ten-year-old maxim from this 
 our newborn idea. They have memory, but lack imag- 
 ination. To know what I mean now you must listen 
 to these particuliar words as I speak them and see 
 where they point. If you are following you will know 
 that they point somewhere, as all facts do. 
 
 Keen attention and deep knowledge are both essen- 
 tial to imagination and it is through such imagination 
 that the strongest friendships grow and reveal their 
 creative power. The friend who anticipates your need, 
 and with delicate reverence offers you the opportunity 
 for which your nature half consciously hungered, is as 
 truly a creator as Browning or Raphael, 
 
Imagination 205 
 
 Such opportunities we miss every day through that 
 untimely coldness which chills the emerging insight as 
 frost chills tender petals. A few years ago a woman 
 came to my door and asked to see me. I was busy and 
 my annoyance at being interrupted was increased by 
 finding that all she wanted was to sell me some gaudy- 
 coloured paper sunshades. I said hastily that I did not 
 want any and was about to turn away when an appeal- 
 ing look in the girl's eyes arrested me. It was a very 
 cold night, incongruous enough with paper sunshades, 
 and as soon as I looked at her with any imagination, I 
 saw that she was shivering in the thin ragged shawl 
 which barely covered her shoulders. " Come in and get 
 warm by the fire," I said, " and tell me why you choose 
 to sell these fragile sunshades that few people are likely 
 to want." Then she poured out a pitiful story. She 
 had left her home in New Hampshire on the promise 
 of first-rate pay in a Lynn shoe factory. When she 
 reached Lynn, she was told that there was no work but 
 that there might be later. Most of her money had 
 been spent in railroad tickets and she was without 
 friends in an unknown city. The boarding house to 
 which she went by chance turned out to be disreputable 
 and she left it with almost no money and with little 
 hope of obtaining work. Her only plan was to make 
 the one fancy article she knew how to make and try to 
 sell it. But for a haunted look which roused me from 
 my absorption I should have turned out into cold and 
 danger a girl who was in dire need. 
 
 Imagination is the power to be in whatever we touch. 
 It is through imagination that we fill in the gaps and 
 
2o6 Everyday Ethics 
 
 out of fragments make a whole. Take for example 
 the condensed items of a newspaper's headlines. 
 
 News of the Day. 
 Railroad accident. Forty men killed. 
 The Legislature passes the eight-hour law for fac- 
 ,1 tories. 
 
 Dalton opens its new library. 
 Heavy gales at sea. Campania three days late. 
 Miners at Wilkes-Barre out on a strike. 
 Corner in wheat. 
 
 Each of these items in a newspaper may be read with 
 the maximum or with the minimum of imagination. 
 Every one is of intense interest when seen in its full 
 meaning, and afifects hundreds of lives. Yet so un- 
 imaginative are we that we often read the newspaper 
 in a bored way and as we throw it down complain thdt 
 there is nothing in it. There is indeed nothing in it 
 for those who are " out of it." The strike at Wilkes- 
 Barre may concern us only because it raises the price 
 of coal. But if our imagination is awake, the strike 
 must mean to us a human struggle of intense and far- 
 reaching significance, a struggle for better conditions 
 and a more human life of the labourers, for the rights 
 of employers and for the satisfaction of the needs of the 1 
 public. It should fascinate us like a great surging wave 
 to watch the growth of law as it draws into its sway 
 the new conditions as they arise. The labour move- 
 ment must deeply stir any imaginative onlooker by its 
 new lessons of courage, patience, and. self-sacrifice. 
 
Imagination 207 
 
 Unless we are thus aroused we cannot get a true view, 
 for to be lukewarm in an ardent world is to miss the 
 truth. 
 
 It is equally true whether we undertake business, 
 politics, philanthropy, or sight-seeing, that no growing 
 work is done without penetrative imagination. Some- 
 thing of the same creative impulse which in other dec- 
 ades has made poets is now making great men of 
 business and inventors here in America. They look 
 j through the present with its urgent needs and its raw 
 material; they see the future and daringly they con- 
 struct it. Seventy years ago Chicago was a marshy 
 plain with here and there a rough log cabin. It took 
 keen imagination to realise that because Chicago lay 
 close to the chain of great lakes with a vast extent of 
 uncultivated fertile country to the west, it must be- 
 come a great city. 
 
 So the great diamond-king, Cecil Rhodes, became 
 an empire maker because he combined, in his own 
 phrase, " imaginatic«i and commerce." ^ He was sent 
 to South Africa at the age of seventeen to battle with 
 consumption which a London physician thought would 
 allow him only six months more of life. He improved 
 in health, won an immense fortune and used it to ex- 
 tend the British Empire in South Africa from the 
 Orange River to the Zambesi, Victoria Falls and 
 Mashonaland. The conception of the unity of the 
 English-speaking race, formed in his early manhood 
 and embodied in his now famous will, remained 
 
 1 See article on Cecil Rhodes, by W. T. Stead, Review of 
 Reviews, May, 1902. 
 
2o8 Everyday Ethics 
 
 the great passion of his hfe to which money- 
 making was only a means. And the root from which 
 his ideal and all its consequences sprang seems to have 
 been these words of Aristotle learned at Oxford: 
 
 "Virtue is the highest activity of the soul living for the 
 highest objects." 
 
 The search of Rhodes throughout his early life was 
 for " something sufficiently lofty to make it worth while 
 to spend your entire life for it." This he found in the 
 idea of the domination of Africa by the English-speak- 
 ing race. This he carried out by grasping the com- 
 mercial and political situation in South Africa and 
 moulding it to his ends. 
 
 The work of Cecil Rhodes was so closely linked with 
 politics that it illustrates the need of imagination in that 
 field as well as in business. The politician is often 
 criticised for having his " ear to the ground," yet no 
 great leader can act without listening intently to 
 the murmur of growing ideas among the people. The 
 true leader is not he who does not listen, but he who, 
 while he notes the superficial and temporary mood, 
 hears also and reenforces that undercurrent of com- 
 mon sense which is the motive power of democracy. 
 It needs faith to sustain this spirit of democracy by 
 which the real will of the people becomes the voice of 
 God; it needs constant imagination to foresee and 
 adequately to mould its new channels. 
 
 Who can say what better issues would have been 
 wrought into the history of the United States if Lin- 
 coln, with his far-reaching sympathy and unwearied 
 
Imagination 209 
 
 power of imagination, had lived through the period of 
 Reconstruction? It was a problem which demanded 
 the genius of an inventor and the delicate perception of 
 an artist ; but the short-sighted unimaginative " thor- 
 oughness " of Reconstruction without Lincoln to guide 
 it (the stunted view which saw only the obvious ele- 
 ments), has left the southern problem a sore spot in 
 our national life. 
 
 One would suppose that in sight-seeing, we should 
 all recognise the value of imagination, yet even here 
 few of us gain all that we might if we used its powerful 
 long-distance telescope. When we visit Rome, we 
 may only see a mixture of modern buildings, ugly 
 Renaissance churches, and ruins, with a muddy, slug- 
 gish stream winding through the town. But if we use 
 imagination, we can picture the story of centuries that 
 is written there. We can feel the heart-beats of myth- 
 ical Rome, and see Horatio swim the Tiber; of repub- 
 lican Rome, and watch Brutus when, to save the 
 republic, he stabs Caesar. We can behold the Roman 
 Empire and the gorgeous colouring of its decay; 
 the barbaric invasion with its exuberant destructive- 
 ness; the church militant rising out of the dim cata- 
 combs and bursting into an overpowering luxuriance. 
 Then as we turn to new Italy, it will be with an illu- 
 mined understanding. 
 
 m 
 
 Imagination breaks away not alone the walls of 
 distance and of time, but of circumstance as well. 
 
210 Everyday Ethics 
 
 Always there are going on in a great city at the 
 same time, lives of rejoicing and splendour and lives of 
 sufifering and degradation ; but the walls of our dulness 
 and oblivion keep them rigidly apart. If a gay party 
 was dining sumptuously in a New York restaurant and 
 suddenly the intervening house-walls become transpar- 
 ent and the diners saw a miserable family with ragged 
 clothes and pinched faces huddling over a dying fire, 
 they could not at once go on laughing, talking and eat- 
 ing as before. I do not mean to imply that it would be 
 best for these gay people to sell all they had and give to 
 the poor, because poverty is not the worst of all evils, 
 nor is everyone fitted to relieve it, nor is it best that 
 everyone shall follow the same lines of work. But the 
 poverty, and the degradation which it often entails, are 
 always there and it is only after we have faced these 
 facts and measured their claim on our time and money 
 that we have a right to turn away from the distress. 
 It must not be the walls of ignorance and obtuseness 
 which let us give our time and money to chance pleas- 
 ure or to the round of daily work. 
 
 Such an example as that of the diners in the luxuri- 
 ous restaurant shows us how frequently selfishness is 
 the child of lack of imagination. To keep a hard-work- 
 ing dressmaker for months without the money we owe 
 her for the suit we are wearing, money which she needs I 
 to pay her rent and the wages of her assistants, is only, 
 possible when we are blinded by lack of imagination. ^ 
 
 Cruelty is due in a large measure to lack of imagina- 
 tion and its common excuse is : "I did not realise 
 how it would hurt." From the unconscious brutality 
 
Imagination 21 r 
 
 of children who pull off flies' wings to the deliberate 
 hardening of the heart of Dives who is disgusted 
 by the sight of Lazarus, all degrees of cruelty are due 
 to lack of or stifling of imagination. The civilised 
 world condemns cruelty and insists that even mur- 
 derers shall undergo death with the minimum of phys- 
 ical pain, but it is only the cruder and more visible 
 manifestations which shock us. The cruelty of ridi- 
 cule of the sensitive, of self-absorption at an evening 
 party, of triumph over the down-trodden, still subtly 
 thwarts the helpfulness of our action. 
 
 Conceit is another child of obtuseness, for with any 
 width of imagination we should easily see our rela- 
 tively minute place in the whole. To find the most 
 humble men we must seek them among the greatest, 
 the glory of whose ideal shelters them from any vain 
 imaginings. It is only when we are near-sighted that 
 we can be conceited. 
 
 It would be easy also to find close connections be- 
 tween lack of imagination and such faults as obstinacy, 
 dishonesty, prejudice, laziness and heedlessness, but it 
 is enough here to point out how sordid and resource- 
 less lack of imagination leaves a man and therefore 
 how easily he slips into pettiness of judgment and of 
 act. 
 
 Shelley's ringing words : " A man to be greatly good 
 must imagine intensely and comprehensively," reveal 
 to us more truth with every experience. The man of 
 little imagination may plod along doing about what is 
 expected of him, but he can never be greatly good. 
 Thousands of iridescent opportunities open for a mo- 
 
212 Everyday Ethics 
 
 ment like a rainbow before him, but he sees only the 
 dust on the road. The baby is just a baby to him and 
 he never thinks of its approaching manhood. So the 
 pauper is only a pauper and he is Wind to the revela- 
 tion of patient endurance and courage under hardships. 
 Corruption in business or politics is to him an inevita- 
 ble state of things instead of a war-cry to citizenship, 
 and even the liberality of the rich becomes an excuse 
 for niggardliness. Everywhere he misses the sight 
 of the delicate opportunities which pass swiftly as 
 the shadow of a bird's wing in flight. He is like 
 Wordsworth's Peter Bell: 
 
 "A primrose by the river's brim, 
 A yellow primrose was to him 
 And it was nothing more." 
 
 Nothing more! What might not that primrose have 
 been to the seeking eye of the poet, the artist, the 
 philosopher, the traveller? A symbol of light, of the 
 coming of spring, a flash of golden hope, a gift for a 
 sick child, an early memory whose vividness clouded 
 the present, the flame that lighted a poem. We talk of 
 taking things as they are, but our keenest imagination 
 cannot begin to picture all that they are. 
 
 We need none of us be Peter Bells if we are once 
 aware of the danger. The crannies of imagination 
 which everyone possesses can be enlarged by the 
 growth of live interests that push even walls of stone 
 aside. When we obs.erve a tired woman holding on 
 to the car strap, or watch a child wistfully eyeing a doll, 
 or a small boy rubbing his hands in the hope of looking 
 
Imagination 213 
 
 like a candidate for the baseball team, we are nurturing 
 already a seedling of imagination which may become 
 a constant source of helpfulness and pleasure. Imag- 
 ination is not the effort to reach the far-off, it is the 
 power of really getting at what is near so that we help 
 it to grow instead of stepping on it. 
 
 "These clumsy feet still in the mire. 
 Go crushing blossoms without end, 
 These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 
 Among the heart-strings of a friend. 
 
 "The ill-timed truth we might have kept. 
 
 Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? 
 
 The word we had not sense to say, 
 
 Who knows how grandly it had rung?"* 
 
 IV 
 
 The imaginative man is often taunted with being 
 unpractical, largely perhaps because the man without 
 imagination is not clear-sighted enough to see how 
 many impracticable things his dulness leads him into. 
 I have tried to show that imagination is a most practi- 
 cal and essential quality, so that no work except that 
 which is purely mechanical like knitting or stone- 
 breaking can be well done without it. But to say that 
 imagination is a practical necessity is not to say that it 
 is without danger. Like electricity, it must be con- 
 trolled, and used at the right time and in the right 
 way. 
 
 There are times when for the sake of doing our best 
 in an arithmetic examination, we must not let our- 
 selves wander off into vivid imagination of what we 
 «"The Fool's Prayer," Edward Rowland Sill. 
 
214 Everyday Ethics 
 
 shall do in vacation. When asked what number four 
 apples added to six apples will give, we cannot answer 
 as quickly if at the same time we are picturing the red- 
 ness and juiciness of the apples. 
 
 Part of the time we necessarily use a form of short- 
 hand, such as arithmetic, in order to have time for the 
 free use of our imagination in more important things. 
 As electricity when beyond our control may destroy 
 life or expend itself in fleeting lightning flashes, so 
 uncontrolled imagination may shatter steady work into 
 splinters ; yet this is not to say that imagination is to 
 be avoided, but that like all power, it needs guidance, 
 the guidance of our purpose. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 MEMORY 
 
 Emerson calls memory the thread on which the beads 
 of man's life are strung,* for as a necklace is no neck- ; 
 lace without the thread which holds the beads to- i 
 gether, so man's life is not a human life without the 
 uniting thread of memory which holds our plans and 
 ideas from scattering irretrievably. 
 
 Suppose each word of a sentence dropped into obliv- 
 ion before you heard the next : 
 
 Will. . .you. . .come. . .to. . .dine. . .with. . .me? 
 Let. .us. .have, .faith, .that, .right, .makes, .might. 
 
 The most trivial and the noblest ideas are alike 
 meaningless unless we can remember their sequence. 
 We are always holding words together by the thread 
 of memory, and it is only because we are accustomed 
 to the process that we do not realise how wonderful is 
 this linking of words, sounds or gestures into an 
 enduring meaning. The most exquisite phrase of 
 music, the most moving oration would be nothing un- 
 less we could hold what is past as still present in our 
 thought. We feel this at times when a person speaks 
 so slowly that we almost forget with what idea he 
 began the sentence. The speech loses all significance, 
 
 1 R, W. Emerson, " Works," vol. xii. p. 63, Riverside Edition, 
 
 215 
 
2i6 Everyday Ethics 
 
 Though it is true that we may have physical life 
 without memory, yet without memory we are not 
 human, for memory is necessary to moral life. Mrs. 
 Bosanquet, writing of London conditions, tells us of 
 men there who never work until they have spent their 
 last cent and exhausted all credit. 
 
 " In the place of foresight we find the happy faith that 
 something will turn up, and instead of self-control, the im- 
 pulsive recklessness which may lead indifferently to a 
 prodigal generosity or an almost inconceivable selfishness. 
 
 " The true type of this class lives in the present moment 
 only, — not only is he without foresight — he is almost with- 
 out memory in the sense that his past is so completely past 
 that he has no more organised experience than a child. 
 Hence his life is one incoherent jumble from beginning to 
 end; it would be impossible to make even a connected story 
 of it, for every day merely repeats the mistakes, follies and 
 mishaps of yesterday; all is aimless and drifting."* 
 
 But though it is only when we have memory that 
 human life is open to us, much of our memory is not 
 an attainment, but an inheritance or a habit, just as the 
 apparent courage of a rope-walker may be due either 
 to physical fearlessness or to endless repetition which 
 has made him callous or secure. What concerns us 
 here is not the possession, but the winning and using of 
 memory as the builder of steady and progressive life; 
 hence we shall pass over all the cases of parrot-like 
 memory and of memory due to repetition and speak 
 only of moral memory won by love and thought. 
 «" Aspects of the Social Problem," p. 83. 
 
Memory 217 
 
 II 
 
 A young truant who came in an hour late to Iiis 
 music lesson was asked by his teacher: " Did you for- 
 get your lesson?" "No," he replied with uncom-| 
 mon accuracy, " I did not forget the lesson, but I for- 
 got the importance of it," 
 
 Memory, as the power effectively to recall, to hold 
 steady the importance of what we do and think in 
 relation to our growing aim, is the centre from which 
 virtue radiates; sin is letting go or shoving aside the 
 intrusive monitor. Broken New Year's resolutions 
 have been made the subject of so many jests that 
 the very name has a farcical sound. Why does the 
 drunkard almost never hold to the vow he makes? 
 For lack both of memory and imagination. At the 
 time he makes the vow he does not vividly picture 
 the coming temptation of having his comrades on a 
 freezing night urge him to enter the brilliant, warm 
 saloon, and so he promises more than he can perform. 
 Again when the temptation comes, instead of recalling 
 vividly his vow, he pushes it aside and says : " We'll 
 not count it for this once." But as Professor James 
 wisely remarks : " The man may not count it, but it is 
 being counted nevertheless.* It is stored up against him 
 when the next temptation comes, for every slip makes 
 the next easier. 
 
 So New Year's resolutions are apt to be made sud- 
 denly and without memory of the significance of our 
 past failures. It is no more likely that we shall by a 
 »\Vin. James, "Talks to Teachers," p. 77. 
 
2i8 Everyday Ethics 
 
 sudden vow overcome the habit of laziness than that aa 
 equally fervid vow would enable us to jump a twenty- 
 foot chasm without a fall. With time and labour we 
 can build a bridge across the chasm, and with time 
 and labour we can gain the habit of work. The reso- 
 lution is good only when it lays the cornerstone for the 
 bridge. Our resolutions should be few, definite and 
 attainable without leaps. We should never make a 
 resolution without trying to picture the difficulty of 
 keeping it, nor break one without trying to remember 
 why we made it. 
 
 The difference between the life of a person of con- 
 stant memory and that of the forgetful person, will be 
 shown in all that each of them does. The forgetful 
 person is easily discouraged ; " he has his ups and 
 downs," as we say. Of course he has, for he goes 
 tumbling down the dale instead of crossing the valley 
 by the bridge of memory. The same characteristic 
 that makes him easily disheartened or elated inclines 
 him to be conceited. When his hour of triumph comes, 
 he has forgotten the great men who have built the high- 
 roads over which he has trodden, and takes the whole 
 credit to himself. He is often half-consciously cruel. 
 " I forgot that you would mind if I said that," is his in- 
 valid excuse. He easily loses his temper or acts with 
 foolhardy assurance, for he forgets that there are two 
 sides to a question. He is, of course, careless. He 
 does not know where his papers are because he forgot 
 where he threw them down. He is disloyal, for he 
 lets the memory of the help promised to his friend 
 fade away in an engrossing present. 
 
Memory 219 
 
 These faults are special symptoms of a disease which, 
 like consumption, is wasting his life. He cannot form 
 or execute any far-reaching plan, for before he has 
 gone far, he has forgotten what it stood for and is 
 tempted to abandon it. Without a dogged memory of 
 his aim, Columbus could never have persisted on his 
 voyage when the taunts of his sailors and the agony 
 of long delay drove hope away. 
 
 The forgetful man is a prey to temptation, for he 
 flutters before it helpless and fascinated by its snake-like 
 glitter, instead of rising on wings of recollection and 
 piercing his tormentor with the keen power of an en- 
 during aim. It is the person without memory who has 
 the fatal incapacity for saying " no " ; the present is 
 like a wall shutting out both his past and his future. 
 
 Nor is it only, or mainly, through positive wrong- 
 doing that forgetfulness dwarfs and deforms our lives. 
 Through the callousness due to lack of memory we 
 miss the light touches of new opportunity. 
 
 Sometimes when facing a hard and critical decis-' 
 ion, a boy will look round on the passive faces of 
 his elders and remember that they too have been 
 through hard struggles, have made a decision quite 
 parallel to the one which now makes the world like 
 cloud-drift to him. Oh, for their experience of how 
 the battle was won ! But he rarely asks them, and if 
 he does they rarely help him. Alas ! they have forgot- 
 ten the steps, forgotten the vivid, engrossing nature of 
 their past, just as we forget the burning reality of per- 
 sons who are far from us. It is lost, memory has not 
 held it, imagination cannot resuscitate it, and so they 
 
220 Everyday Ethics 
 
 cannot help us in our fight. Every man must go 
 wearily on bearing his own burden. Between the time 
 of our despair and that of our success there is a gulf of 
 forgetfulness. We take up our bridges after us and 
 throw them away, so that when we meet a similar diffi- 
 culty or hear a voice calling for help from the other 
 side, we know not the way to cross. 
 
 " I forgot, I forgot," is the cry of every sin. This 
 is why Kipling, in the " Recessional," hammers in the 
 need of memory. The people in their triumph and 
 their scorn of the vanquished are in awful peril. 
 
 "The tumult and the shouting dies. 
 
 The captains and the kings depart. 
 
 Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice. 
 
 An humble and a contrite heart. 
 
 Lord God of Hosts be with us yet. 
 
 Lest we forget, — lest we forget ! " 
 
 III 
 
 To realise the importance of memory is instantly to 
 ask : " How can we hold and increase our power of 
 recollection ? " We are guided in the right direction 
 by the answer to a second question : " What things do I 
 we remember?" We remember anything which is 
 often repeated or with which we have many associa- 
 tions. When an act is often repeated it is indeed some- 
 thing far below our consciousness that remembers ; we 
 go to school or return to lunch by an impulse so inev- 
 itable that only the very dreamy can claim any effort 
 of memory >,n the accomplishment. Such memory con- 
 
Memory 22 T 
 
 -cerns us here only when we deliberately repeat an act 
 in order to remember it. 
 
 Memory gained through association is more within 
 our power. The historian cannot forget the date of 
 the French Revolution or who succeeded Louis Napo- 
 leon because it is connected in his mind with so many 
 allied facts, but the little peaks of isolated and miscel- 
 laneous information which are all that to many of us 
 stand out in French history, are easily levelled by the 
 attrition of time. Memory of this type is largely 
 within our control through the making and tracing of 
 associations. 
 
 Everyone has had the experience of trying to re- 
 member something he had forgotten. "What was 
 the name of that woman? " or " What was that bril- 
 liant idea I had last night?" We at once try in a 
 dim way to recall something associated with the thing 
 we are trying to remember. We have a faint idea of 
 where we saw the woman or had the idea, then per- 
 haps of what we were talking about. We dismiss 
 some ideas or names as clearly not what we are seeking 
 and welcome others as " warm." " Oh, it was at the 
 dinner table and Henry was talking about John Hare 
 and I said : " . . . Out comes my brilliant idea. 
 " We make search in our memory for a forgotten idea 
 just as we rummage our house for a lost object. In 
 both cases we visit what seems to us the probable 
 neighbourhood of that which we miss. We turn over 
 the things under which, or within which, or alongside 
 of which it may possibly be ; and if it lies near them it 
 soon comes to view." * 
 
 *Wm, James, "Psychology," voL i., p. 654. 
 
222 Everyday Ethics 
 
 Even an artificial association is often of help, and 
 this is why we direct our attention to what we fear to 
 forget by tying a string round our finger or a knot in 
 our handkerchief. We have all had the sad experience 
 of remembering that the knot meant something, but 
 not in the least remembering what it meant, an experi- 
 ence which brings out the fact that orderly and 
 logical connection is a far surer help than artificial i 
 association. 
 
 But the kernel of living memory is not in these shells 
 of repetition and association or even of logical se- 
 quence, but in the centre from which all conduct radi- 
 ates, — a. vivid interest. The boy who cannot conceive 
 of remembering the difference between the divisor 
 and the dividend, scorns anyone who cannot remem- 
 ber the difference between the quarter-back and the 
 tackle, and the absent-minded girl who forgets to come 
 in at six, will be very present-minded in remember- 
 ing that there is to be a dance at nine. Hence the 
 sovereign perscription for forgetfulness is: Take 
 an undiluted interest, the hotter the better, in any- 
 thing you tend to forget. Put your vivid imagina- 
 tion into it and shove aside other intruding ideas. If 
 it is not of native interest, cultivate it in the soil of 
 allied interest. 
 
 How often we drift in to hear a lecture and drift 
 out again at the end with a few shreds of information 
 clinging to us for a week or two, but no more ours 
 than the threads which we brush off our coats. If 
 you are to go to-night to a lecture on Afghanistan 
 and want to come out a possessor and not a mere re- 
 
Memory 223 
 
 cipient, you can do it. A nest is needed for young 
 ideas ; we must prepare it beforehand by thinking over 
 our knowledge of the subject, by asking what it is 
 that we hope to find out and perhaps by reading some 
 article that will whet our interest. Afghanistan must 
 be for the time our greatest concern. We must avoid 
 the tendency to turn our head to watch the janitor as, 
 in his creaking boots, he tiptoes up to open a window 
 or to notice the very large hands of the lecturer, and 
 even the thought : " Oh ! I entirely forgot to call up 
 Henry on the telephone," must be suppressed. We can 
 make a mental outline of the important points, talk 
 it over with some wiser friend and make a summary 
 of what we remember. Then even the most scatter- 
 brained may glean a little harvest. Forethought, reso- 
 lute interest, and definite recall, these are the guides 
 to memory. 
 
 IV 
 
 We have already seen that exclusion is one important 
 side of memory, and necessarily so, for without the 
 power to exclude, we become like a stream without any 
 banks; in a freshet it will go scattering its water in 
 myriad rivulets over all the plain. The duty of for- 
 getting is an aspect of the duty of memory, and as 
 little to be left to chance. 
 
 The question what and when shall we exclude is 
 part of the question what shall we remember. In the 
 first place a mind burdened with trivial and discon- 
 nected facts is not a help to itself or to others. Note- 
 
224 Everyday Ethics 
 
 books are of real service here to free memory from 
 the clogging of <ietail. The shopper with her list 
 in her bag is a far more agreeable person to meet than 
 the shopper who is endeavouring at once to express 
 her joy in seeing you and to recall what it was she 
 meant to buy at the apothecary's. We ought to leatTi 
 to put aside trivial facts which drive out sympathy 
 and expressiveness. 
 
 Again when we are doing any important work we 
 must forget all else. There is a half-heartedness fatal 
 to efficiency in the work of anyone whose whole at- 
 tention is not on it. We are like motormen, steer- 
 ing through crowded streets and bound to go ahead; 
 if our attention wanders from the work in hand, 
 through daydreams or idle memories, we are un- 
 worthy of our post. In planning we live in the past 
 and future, but in action we must live in the present. 
 
 We must forget the unpleasant and any injuries 
 done to us only when we have learned their lesson. 
 We must not forget any experience from which it is 
 possible for us to gain or give help. I confided a secret 
 to my friend and he went at once and told it to the very 
 person concerned. It is easy for me to brood over the 
 matter and declare that I shall never forget or forgive 
 it; or, if I determine to be charitable, I may simply 
 resolve to put it wholly aside. In neither case am I 
 getting the best out of the experience. I must know 
 why my friend was so disloyal and whether he can ex- 
 plain it, and if he does riot realise that he has done 
 harm, I must bear that fact in mind when I am inclined 
 to trust in him again. 
 
Memory 225 
 
 We should forget as we remember, for the sake of a 
 true perspective. As the artist leaves out certain fea- 
 tures of the landscape which would obscure the signifi- 
 cance of the whole, so we must learn to put the memory 
 of painful accidents, of disagreeable stories, of unjust 
 gossip, of morbid moods, into its place in the back- 
 ground, because we need our energy for the day's 
 work. 
 
 In the beginning of this chapter I used as an illus- 
 tration of memory the simile of a necklace whose 
 beads fall apart without the chain which should hold 
 them together. So our lives fall apart without mem- 
 ory. The past weeks with all they have offered to us 
 of enlightening experience die, and only the present 
 lives. We are spendthrifts, no stock is accumulated. 
 The next spell of " hard times " finds us as unprepared 
 as the last. But human life is human in proportion as it 
 remembers. Then, instead of dying away, it wins 
 integrity and transcends time, for it holds together 
 on a single thread the joys and sorrows, the failures 
 and successes, the beauty and the ugliness, the activity 
 and repose won from experience. The man who thus 
 remembers is the man of wisdom. 
 
 Lincoln, our shrewd, humorous, tender, patient, wise, 
 forgiving president, was a man who remembered. Day 
 by day, in spite of the uproar of politicians and the 
 agony of disaster, he held to the memory of his single 
 purpose to save the Union. In the struggle with an 
 appalling problem, he did not forget the restoring play 
 
226 Everyday Ethics 
 
 of the ludicrous nor did his lightest mood pass with- 
 out a hint of deeper suggestion. No insult could 
 make him bitter, for he remembered the good in the 
 evil; no stress of circumstances could make him less 
 tender to the deserter, for : " I never felt sure but 
 I might drop my gun and run away if I found myself 
 in line of battle." In the time of popular exultation 
 at the capture of Mason and Slidell, he held to the 
 :alm view of the rights of neutrals. Above all, his 
 memory kept him perennially patient against the 
 clamour of those who sought a victory through words. 
 " Gentlemen," he said to some excited Westerners, 
 " suppose all the property you were worth was in gold 
 and you had put it all in the hands of Blondin to carry 
 across the Niagara River on a rope. Would you 
 shake the cable or keep shouting at him: 'Blondin, 
 stand up a little straighter ; Blondin, stoop a little more, 
 go a little faster — lean a little more to the north — 
 lean a little more to the south — ' ? No, you would 
 hold your breath as well as your tongue and keep your 
 hands off till he was safe over. The Government is 
 carrying an enormous weight. Untold treasures are 
 m their hands, they are doing the very best they can. 
 Don't badger them. Keep silence and we will get 
 you safe across." ^ Rooted in Lincoln's nature was 
 living memory, spreading and holding firmer every day 
 through the intensity of his interest, and of his pas- 
 sion to understand. 
 
 If anyone of us says to himself: " But this is Lin« 
 coin, and I cannot do great things," I should replyr. 
 
 ^Ida Torbell, "Life of Abraham Lincoln," vol. iL p. 93. 
 
Memory 227 
 
 " We all have known Lincoln and no one who steadily 
 holds to the vivid memory of that great man can be 
 disloyal to his own trust, however small." It is not 
 alone the brilliant men who accomplish much, it is 
 far more the loyal men and women, those whose mem- 
 ory is constant, who are not turned aside by chance 
 allurements and who turn failure into opportunity. 
 There is no one of us who has not had at some 
 time a searching experience, a life-giving friend whose 
 truth and loving kindness made us long to be worthy 
 of him, a glimpse of wide blue sky and delicate apple 
 blossoms that lifted us to new thoughts, the story of 
 a heroic act that stirred us to fearlessness. If we can 
 hold strongly to the memory of these experiences, our 
 power is assured. Then we shall work over our hard 
 task with the spirit of hymns and thrush notes and of 
 Lincoln never far from us, and our supremest happi- 
 ness shall be holier because we hear always the under- 
 tone of the groaning and travailing creation. 
 
 Dignity, poise, mellowness, courage, charity, order, 
 wisdom, are the fruits of the cultivation of memory, 
 and he who desires to be a loyal friend, a good coun- 
 sellor, a leader of men, must learn not to forget 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 COURAGE 
 
 A MAN and his sister are driving together; the hors^ 
 is startled by an automobile and runs away. The 
 man is greatly frightened, but his sister is quite un- 
 moved. It is in cases of this type that the question 
 of the meaning of that marvellous and ever-growing 
 virtue of courage comes before us, and through the 
 analysis of such cases we may learn what its essen- 
 tial nature is. Is the girl courageous and her brother 
 cowardly? In order to answer we have as always to 
 delve in below the surface and toward the central 
 meaning of the act. In regard to the girl, there are, 
 broadly, three possibilities. She may be calm because 
 she is ignorant of the danger or because she knows ex- 
 actly how to control the horse, or because she realises, 
 in spite of her fear, that it is only by full self-possession 
 that she can do her best. 
 
 Here there are two extremes, one of ignorance, the 
 other of secure knowledge, in which she shows no 
 fresh courage, but in the third she is a conqueror. In 
 the first two cases she is fearless but not courageous, 
 in the third she is fearful but brave. 
 
 Fearlessness then is not the same quality as courage ; 
 on the contrary we have reached the startling conclu- 
 
 223 
 
Courage 229 
 
 sion that unless we are afraid we have no opportunity 
 to exert courage. Courage is not fearlessness, but the 
 recognition of danger and the power of self-control 
 in spite of fear. The man in the runaway accident was 
 much frightened. That fact tells us absolutely nothing 
 as to his courage. He may have known that there was 
 a sharp turn of the road which would surely upset 
 them in a few minutes ; he may have dreaded the dan- 
 ger for her, not for himself; he may have been high- 
 strung and sensitive or unnerved by a similar accident 
 some weeks before, or, on the other hand, he may 
 have been an arrant coward. We cannot judge by 
 appearances. Provided he did the best he could, he 
 was far braver than she if her coolness was either 
 obtuseness or a placid security based on equality to the 
 problem, which Emerson wrongly identifies with cour- 
 age, instead of with fearlessness. To own that you are 
 afraid, and then to set to work to overcome that fear, 
 is of the essence of courage. 
 
 i An officer under fire may shiver, tremble, and feel 
 'numb with fright, but if he remains at his post and 
 does his work well, we call him brave. On the other 
 hand he may avoid the danger or lead his troops out 
 of it and yet be no coward if his act is the only sensible 
 one. But if he runs away panic-stricken, or loses 
 his head and does things obviously wrong, or leaves 
 them obviously undone, we cannot praise his courage. 
 He must be in full control and command of his facul- 
 ties and be doing what he really thinks best whether in 
 retreating or holding his ground. In a panic he is self- 
 condemned, for he runs headlong and does not know 
 
230 Everyday Ethics 
 
 what he is doing, often putting himself into worse 
 danger by his efforts, as people do in theatre fires. He 
 is driven by irrational forces, he knows not what or 
 where. Thus panic or terror, as contrasted with fear, 
 is entirely incompatible with courage. Courage must 
 put panic down entirely if it is to continue to be cour- 
 age, while as we have seen, if it is to be courage, fear 
 must with equal necessity not be abolished. 
 
 It sometimes happens that persons in a panic do the 
 right thing instead of the wrong. The reckless dash 
 of panic drives them to brilliant success instead of to 
 destruction. It may be hard for the onlooker to dis- 
 tinguish such acts from deeds of real courage, but of 
 course the outcome does not change the essentially 
 irrational and immoral character of the act. Our 
 courage does not depend on our going or staying in 
 the presence of danger, nor on what we do or do not 
 do, feel or do not feel, but whether or not we know 
 what we are about and are doing the best we know, 
 in spite of the consciousness of danger. 
 
 This is the first point I want to make. 
 
 II 
 
 Next, I want to bring out the fact that courage is 
 a purely relative thing ; that is there is no one situation 
 or event to which you could drag your candidates for 
 the diploma of courage and after observing their be- 
 haviour, say at a fire or in a storm at sea, decide which 
 were brave and which were cowardly. Many will 
 appear cowardly when they are really showing courag-e, 
 
Courage 231 
 
 others will not be courageous, but rash and foolhardy. 
 The distinction between rashness and courage is the 
 presence of mind in the latter, — of the mind which 
 chooses only the danger which is our danger, the risk 
 that lies across the path up which we ought to go. It is 
 foolhardy to jump upon the front platform of a moving 
 train just because someone has dared you to do it; it 
 is courageous, if it is the only way to warn the engineer 
 of a coming danger. 
 
 Fearlessness then may be due to ignorance or may be 
 an expression of foolhardiness. Courage is always the 
 leap of reason vaulting over fear, because fear bars 
 its way. 
 
 No one need, therefore, be ashamed of feeling fear. 
 On occasions which do not involve physical peril we 
 often do not feel fear when we ought to feel it. We 
 enter lightly into the sacred contracts of our life work, 
 of politics, or of marriage, without the fear of failure 
 and injury to others which guides and guards more 
 sensitive persons; we let ourselves drift into dis- 
 honour because we do not enough dread degradation. 
 It is recklessness, not courage, that lets the drunkard 
 fearlessly enter the saloon, or allows us to accept a 
 friendship without awe before its great responsibility. 
 The gambler in human affection or character would 
 seem courageous did we not know that he was reckless. 
 To be brave is not to be blunted. 
 
 This redefinition of the nature of courage sim- 
 plifies the answer to the question whether women 
 should be any more excused for cowardice than men 
 are. If cowardice is the failure to make an effprt tg 
 
232 Everyday Ethics 
 
 overcome fear, it is always equally reprehensible, but 
 acts which appear to show cowardice in women may 
 really show less cowardice than similar acts in men. 
 Women have been for centuries guarded from dan- 
 ger and kept in sedentary occupations which develop 
 nervousness and not nerve. Still worse, they have been 
 encouraged to be cowardly. A boy who screams when 
 a mouse jumps into sight is despised ; in a girl the 
 scream is thought amusing. The great onward sweep 
 of athletics which is drawing young and old into its 
 flood, is doing part of its best work in making girls 
 physically strong and fearless, and encouraging self- 
 reliance and steadiness in danger. The still greater 
 movement that is leading them into thorough training 
 for work will hold them steady under the harder strain 
 of business responsibility and of criticism. 
 
 Women are and probably always will be physically 
 more sensitive than men, and their courage has often 
 taken the form of fortitude in endurance rather than 
 in initiative. Yet some of the most heroic acts have 
 been done by women. It was Mary who stayed by the 
 cross of Jesus when many of his disciples deserted 
 him. And the courage born of a single-minded 
 (devotion in Joan of Arc gleams out like a star 
 'among the clouded records of French history. Be- 
 cause women have less physical courage or rather 
 physical fearlessness, they have more, not fewer op- 
 portunities of overcoming fear and showing moral 
 courage. Their relative freedom from physical dan- 
 ger should make them welcome the opportunities for 
 courage in daily life, where for most of us courage 
 
Courage 233 
 
 is gained or lost, according as we reject or accept the 
 opportunities to be brave in speaking the truth, in fac- 
 ing ridicule, in mastering difficulty. 
 
 One of the bravest acts of the nineteenth century was 
 one that involved no physical danger. The courage 
 shown by Darwin in his effort to lift an enormous 
 mass of facts into unity, is one not often thought of 
 as heroic, yet he faced for many wearing years, not 
 only the possibility of failure, but scorn, condemna- 
 tion and ridicule if he succeeded. It takes courage to 
 speak the truth where every word will pierce and sting ; 
 it takes courage to confess a wrong act that will never 
 be found out, to refuse to do what you will be jeered 
 at for refusing, to wear old-fashioned and shabby 
 clothes among critical acquaintances, and in acting up 
 to our principles in such things as these, we are be- 
 coming fitted for greater responsibility. 
 
 Ill 
 
 How can we get over being afraid, and how, if 
 afraid, can we keep from cowardice? This question 
 must be answered not at once by a single rule, 
 but by a study of the nature and occasions of fear. 
 There are many times of fear in which there is 
 no real danger, but when a vague terror of the un- 
 known or a sudden onrush of exaggerated self-con- 
 sciousness makes the solid situation tremulous. Such 
 fear is cured by definite knowledge and by practice. 
 When we have discovered by walking up to it that 
 our ghost is a towel, the dre^d will be less next time. 
 
234 Everyday Ethics 
 
 This is the type of fear that grows in the dark and 
 is withered by full light, and on to it the light of 
 reason must be steadily turned. Courage is always the 
 effort to hold to the reasonable in the presence of temp- 
 tation to panic. Another example will make this more 
 evident. 
 
 It is essential for me to catch a special train and to 
 do it I must walk up the railroad track. Suddenly I 
 see two trains approaching, one in each direction, and 
 I must keep to the narrow space between the tracks. 
 I know there is room even if both pass me at the same 
 time. If I could keep that knowledge bright and pol- 
 ished in my mind, I should have no fear, or if I were 
 absolutely engrossed in my errand I might hardly be 
 aware of the danger. At either extreme of knowledge 
 or ignorance, I am fearless. But I am in an interme- 
 diate stage in which I know and yet don't know, 
 don't " realise," as we say. As the headlights ap- 
 proach and get big and broad till they seem to 
 tower over me, I begin to lose faith, faith in my- 
 self, and in my memory of the former experience. 
 " It can't be wide enough, no matter whether it is 
 or not. I was wrong, I didn't measure right before." 
 I begin to distrust my senses and knowledge. At 
 bottom I know there is room, but anarchic impulses 
 to panic upset my confidence. I reason to myself: 
 " You fool, you know all cars are the same width and 
 that there is room between two tracks, and you know 
 that you are in the middle." But the unreasoning, 
 " Oh, it's coming, it will crush me. I must be right on 
 the trafk.. I myst ha,ve reasoijed \yrong,'' as§ail me, 
 
Courage 235 
 
 relax the grip of reason and push me into helpless fear 
 or unreasoning terror, flabby, collapsed. 
 
 So in our fear of ghosts, things in the dark, 
 nightmares and impossible things generally, we dis- 
 trust our reason. We get over it in the milder 
 cases by reasoning about it, and by convincing our- 
 selves that it is all nonsense, cannot be so. When 
 there is slight danger or danger only for the un- 
 trained, definite knowledge and regular practice will 
 make us fearless. Many acts like the courage of the 
 horse-trainer or the steeple-painter, or of the public 
 speaker, which we look upon with amazement, are 
 simply products of practice and training. 
 
 It is helpful to realise at this point that almost no 
 <)ne is fearless on every occasion, and that fearlessness 
 can be gained step by step, in one kind of danger after 
 another till we are sufficiently relieved from fear not 
 to have it a wearing factor in our days. We go on 
 step by step, but it is important to remember that some 
 of us have shorter legs than others and must take the 
 larger leaps of courage only when we have been in 
 practice a long time. 
 
 Those cases must also be faced in which there h 
 imminent and appalling risk. To face these we must 
 call round us the guardians of our peace. First of 
 all we must recall vividly our purpose, and why it 
 has led us into the darkness. As Robert Shaw rode 
 up to the steep embrasure of Fort Wagner, what held 
 him serene and steady was the memory of his aim 
 to prove the courage of the regiment and to be worthy 
 of his trust. When we bear before us the strong 
 
236 Everyday Ethics 
 
 shield of our purpose, the arrows of fear cannot pierce 
 us. It is part of the strength of this purpose that it 
 makes us dread cowardice worse than any other pain. 
 Those who feel this can meet the whirlwind. 
 
 No one can read the life of Dorothy Pattison, or 
 " Sister Dora " as she was lovingly called, without be- 
 ing refreshed by the great well-spring of her convic- 
 tion which gave her so abundantly the courage of 
 initiative, the courage to talce responsibility, the 
 courage to endure, the courage to refuse. Story after 
 story of her life illustrates these qualities. Once in 
 travelling in a third-class railroad carriage some 
 drunken sailors near her began to swear. " Sister 
 Dora's whole soul burned within her, and she thought : 
 ' Shall I sit still and hear this ? ' but there came the 
 reflection ' what will they do to me if I interfere? ' and 
 this dread kept her silent a moment or two longer. The 
 language became more and more violent. It passed 
 through her mind ' what must these men think of any 
 woman who can sit by and hear such words unmoved ? ' 
 At once she stood up to her full height and called 
 out loudly : ' I will not hear the Master whom I serve 
 spoken of in this way.' Immediately they dragged 
 her down into her seat with a torrent of oaths, and 
 one of the most violent roared : ' Hold your jaw, 
 you fool ; do you want your face smashed in ? ' They 
 held her down on the seat between them, nor did she 
 attempt to struggle, satisfied with her open protest. 
 At the next station they let her go, and she quickly got 
 out of the carriage. A minute after while she was 
 standing on the platform she heard a rough voice be- 
 
Courage 237 
 
 hind her : ' Shake hands, mum, you're a good-plucked 
 one, you are. You were right and we were wrong.' " '■ 
 
 Such courage is of the essence of all courage. 
 " Moral courage consists in the disregard of ordinary 
 fears out of absorbing desire of and devotion to some 
 great superior principle." ^ 
 
 Another help toward overcoming cowardice is the 
 realisation that far greater than any danger of pain 
 or death is the danger of shrivelling away. If we 
 travel to distant lands there is one chance in many 
 thousands that we may catch typhoid fever, but if we 
 refuse all risks there are one hundred chances out of 
 a hundred that we shall catch the fatal disease of 
 timidity, which causes a gradual atrophy of our whole 
 nature. And to be alive is not merely to keep our 
 hearts beating or to eat three times a day, but to 
 love, to work, to grow, to garner. Stevenson has best 
 shown us this in life and word : 
 
 " A man should stop his ears against paralysing terror 
 and run the race that is set before him with a single mind. 
 . . . That eminent chemist who took his walks abroad in 
 tin shoes, and subsisted wholly upon tepid milk, had all his 
 work cut out for him in considerate dealings with his 
 own digestion. So soon as prudence has begun to grow 
 up in the brain like a dismal fungus, it finds its first ex- 
 pression in a paralysis of generous acts. The victim begins 
 to shrink spiritually; he develops a taste for parlours with 
 a regulated temperature and takes his morality on the prin- 
 ciple of tin shoes and tepid milk. The care of one im- 
 portant body or soul becomes so engrossing that all the 
 
 1 " Sister Dora," by Margaret Lonsdale, p. 79. Roberts Bros., 
 Boston, 1880. 
 - Phillips Brooks, Essays and Addresses, p. 324. 
 
238 Everyday Ethics 
 
 noises of the outer world begin to come thin and faint into 
 the parlour with the regulated temperature ; and the tin shoes 
 go equably forward over blood and rain. To be overwise is 
 to ossify. . . . Does not life go down with a better grace 
 foaming in full body over a precipice, than miserably strag- 
 gling to an end in sandy deltas ? " ^ 
 
 It is also a help to realise the utter uselessness of 
 fear. 
 
 " Fear is not only the least agreeable of human emotions, 
 so that one should at any cost conquer it; it is also the 
 most superfluous. For fear does not prevent the approach 
 of that which is feared, it only exhausts beforehand the 
 strength which one needs to meet the thing he fears. Most 
 of the things which we fear to meet are not in reality so 
 terrible as they appear to be when looked at from afar. 
 When they meet us they can be borne. . . . If as one's 
 trouble approached, he should say to himself : ' This is 
 likely to last about three days,' one would in many cases be 
 justified by the event and at any rate would proceed to meet 
 the trouble with a better courage. On the whole the best 
 defence against fear ... is the conviction that every fear 
 is a symptom of some wrong condition in ourselves. If one 
 searches for the weakness and rids himself of it, then for 
 the most part, fear will vanish also."* 
 
 Finally we all of us know how much easier it is to 
 be brave when we are with comrades whose stimulus 
 makes us ashamed of fear. This sustaining help we 
 can always have if we will. The cloud of witnesses are 
 always near us, and their voices proclaim, whenever 
 we listen, the triumph of the spiritual over death and 
 
 3 Robert Louis Stevenson, " Virginibus Puerisque," pp. 166, 170. 
 * Carl Hilty, " Happiness," trans, by Francis G. Peabody, p. 47. 
 
Courage 239 
 
 defeat. Remember in your moment of trembling and 
 doubt, that Socrates could follow truth when it led 
 by self-condemnation to death; that Darwin with- 
 stood the storm of ridicule and reproach that greeted 
 his lifework ; that Washington faced the discontent of 
 his men and the scepticism of Congress with undaunted 
 fortitude; that Shaw rode serenely to his massacre; 
 that St. Paul counted it gain to suffer persecution. 
 Hearing those voices, you too will shout for joy in the 
 ! victory of the martyrs. To remember is to be in- 
 vincible. 
 
 We have more courage than we know because the 
 emergency itself draws together our scattered forces 
 and thus it is that the marvellous happens: 
 
 " So near is grandeur to our dust. 
 So close is God to man. 
 When duty whispers low : Thou must ! 
 The youth replies: I can." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 THOUGHT AGLOW WITH FEELING 
 
 "There's such a thing as arguing and there's such 
 a thing as knowing outright. Didn't you ever know 
 of a man's taking off a cat to lose, that his little girl 
 didn't want drowned, and leaving him ashore twenty 
 or thirty miles bee-line, and that cat being back again 
 the next day purrin' round as if nothing hadn't hap- 
 pened ? When you'll tell me how that cat inquires his 
 way home, I'll tell you how I know John Wood ain't 
 guilty." 
 
 This clever plea is from a story of ingenuity and 
 humanity, the story of Eli, by Heman W. Chaplin.* 
 Eli, a warm-hearted, uneducated fisherman, has been 
 drawn a member of a jury to try for bank robbei-y an 
 intimate and lifelong friend. The circumstantial evi- ' 
 dence seems clear and convincing; every juror but 
 Eli is ready to pronounce Wood guilty, but Eli stub- 
 bornly refuses to agree, though he can give no reason 
 on the other side. Finally in a burst of feeling he 
 pours out the words given above. He turns out to 
 be in the right. Wood is finally proved innocent by 
 the confession of the president of the bank, and Eli's 
 courage in resisting the temptation to yield to the jeers 
 
 i"Five Hundred Dollars, and Other Stories," p. 56. 
 340 
 
Thought Aglow with Feeling 241 
 
 and threats of the other jurors is justified and ap- 
 plauded. 
 
 But it is one thing to say that Eli was wholly right to 
 trust to his feelings in this case, and another to say that 
 feeling is a valid and sufficient guide. The story brings 
 us to the kernel of the question of the relation between 
 thought and feeling. First of all we have to distinguish 
 between impulse and the instinct born of long experi- 
 ence. Many of us have sudden impulses and if we 
 should trace their results, we should find them quite as 
 apt to be wrong as right. We have impulses to run 
 away when there is nothing to be afraid of, impulses to 
 be annoyed with some kind person just because we have 
 indigestion. Often a little thought will make us see 
 how foolish these impulses are, although at the time 
 they were so self-assertive. On the other hand there 
 are instincts really due to strong subconscious evi- 
 dence based on long and intimate experience. 
 
 Eli had really good reasons for an apparently arbi- 
 trary act. The evidence was all circumstantial, not 
 direct. He knew John Wood's character through and 
 through; it had been tested by hard trials; it shone 
 forth in unselfish acts. Character does not reverse 
 itself in a day, and nothing, except possibly Wood's 
 own confession, could have convinced EH of his guilt. 
 Eli was entirely right; we are all fortunate enough 
 to have friends of whom our knowledge is so intimate 
 that nothing can make us doubt. Their integrity is 
 as sure as to-morrow's sunrise. 
 
 But Eli's overwhelming and valid conviction was 
 significant only to himself, and this is the root-difficulty 
 
:242 Everyday Ethics 
 
 of all feeling. He appealed to a deep-seated but un- 
 analysable instinct. " When you tell me how that cat 
 inquired his way home, I'll tell you how I know John 
 Wood ain't guilty." 
 
 We all have similar instincts based in many cases 
 on something valid, but they do not convince anyone 
 else. If when you are blindfolded something is put 
 into your hand, you may feel and feel it till you are < 
 sure it is a diamond. It may be actually worthless and 
 in any case you have no convincing knowledge until 
 the diamond is tested. In the same way your feeling 
 against some person may be a priceless clue to con- 
 duct, but as long as it is only feeling, there is no way 
 of testing its value. 
 
 Hegel, one of the greatest of modern philosophers, 
 felt keenly this difficulty in the nature of feeling. He 
 says : " It frequently happens that a man appeals to 
 feeling when reasons fail. Such a man must be left to 
 himself, for, with the appeal to his own feeling, the 
 community between us is broken off." So Eli, rely- 
 ing only on his feeling, was cut off from communica- 
 tion with the other jurors. If Eli could have made 
 vivid to the jury the long, full years in which Wood 
 had been trusted and faithful, the temptations under 
 which he had shown a scrupulous honesty, if he had 
 told of Wood's perfect unselfishness in every human 
 relation, he might have convinced them that Wood 
 should not be condemned without direct and absolute 
 proof. But it is the fatal weakness of feelings, too in- 
 definite to find expression, that they are unconvincing, 
 except to those who already agree. If the real culprit 
 
Thought Aglow with Feeling 243 
 
 had not confessed there would have been an endless 
 deadlock unless Eli could have translated his inar- 
 ticulate feeling into convincing arguments. 
 
 A second difficulty arises from the same cause. 
 Feelings which are not carefully thought out and ex- 
 pressed, are liable some day to grow cold and die. 
 Just as your inarticulate feeling cannot move the cold 
 outsider, so the knowledge that you once felt hot cannot 
 make you glow when your mood is wintry. When 
 you first hear from the lips of Pundita Ramabai 
 about the needs of the starving in India, you may 
 feel that it is to their relief that you must devote your 
 life ; but unless you have carefully and calmly thought 
 it out, the vivid impression will fade and the remem- 
 brance of all that you must sacrifice will crowd out 
 that emotional impulse. 
 
 This is what happened in a charity sermon described, 
 I think, by Mark Twain. When the preacher hadi 
 poured out his eloquence for fifteen minutes, one of his 
 hearers was moved to give all he possessed; half an 
 hour later, as the sermon went on, he meditated a 
 small, reasonable contribution, and by the end of an 
 hour, he had grown icy and declared : " I won't give 
 a cent." 
 
 Thought, like solid metal, gives endurance to the 
 heat of feeling which without it would quickly ra- 
 diate away. 
 
 II 
 
 It is a very common and disastrous tendency in hu- 
 man nature to act as though the world was built on the 
 
244 Everyday Ethics 
 
 principle of a pair of scales, so that whatever raised 
 one side of any question must necessarily lower the 
 other. If you like the country it is often assumed that 
 you must dislike the city; if you delight in society 
 that you must abhor solitude. Misled by a similar 
 fallacy, people are wont to suppose that if you value 
 thought, you must despise feeling. Fortunately, when 
 we are asked whether we prefer head or heart we 
 can ignore the alternative and greedily answer: "I 
 want both ! " This greediness is peculiarly essen- 
 tial in the question of thought and feeling : " Both 
 always " must be our answer. Thought warmed by 
 the heat of feeling is the only true thought, and if 
 for any length of time we find ourselves without feel- 
 ing we can be sure that we are not doing our best 
 thinking. 
 
 It often turns out that what seems to the outsider 
 a cold and analytical occupation is full of emotion. 
 There is feeling in it on a different side from that at 
 which the outsider is looking. The doctor, talking of 
 his thirty cases of pneumonia, seems cold to the un- 
 scientific observer because he does not feel the glow of 
 scientific experience. It is dark to us at night though 
 elsewhere the sun is still shining. 
 
 The inseparable relation between warmth of emotion 
 and wisdom in poise of judgment, we see in Lin- 
 coln's attitude toward emancipation. He was indeed 
 accused of coldness regarding it; the Abolitionists 
 did not see that he was dealing with a larger cause, 
 the salvation of the Union, in which slavery was only 
 one element. He too thought the institution wrong, 
 
Thought Aglow with Feeling 245 
 
 but not to be dealt with till the time was ripe. He 
 knew too well how quickly the good of any issue is 
 destroyed if it is untimely born. " I do not want to 
 issue a document that the whole world will see must 
 necessarily be inoperative like the Pope's bull against 
 the comet." He was willing to resign the Presidency 
 rather than act without conviction. Yet those who 
 were with him in the days before the emancipation 
 proclamation, say : " It is doubtful if Mr. Lincoln, 
 ' in all his political career, ever had a measure more 
 at heart than his scheme for Compensated Emanci- 
 pation." " 
 
 There is the white heat of a fused purpose in Lin- 
 coln's appeal to Congress for the acceptance of his plan 
 for emancipation with compensation. " The dogmas 
 of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. 
 The occasion is piled high with difficulty and we must 
 rise to meet it. As our case is new so must we think 
 anew, and act anew. We must disenthrall ourselves 
 and then we shall save our country." ^ 
 
 We see always in men of Lincoln's calibre how 
 intimate and inseparable are thought and emotion. At 
 a distance we may be struck either by their mar- 
 vellous instinct for the right word and act or by their 
 extraordinarily keen analysis. Seen more closely we 
 behold the intricate interweaving of both. The in- 
 tuition which looked like a miraculous air plant, turns 
 out to have roots in a long training, and the keen 
 analysis is one aspect only of an intense but controlled 
 emotion. The subjects on which we have pondered 
 most are often those in regard to which we feel the 
 
 2 "Life of Lincoln," Ida TarUll, vol. ii., p. in. 
 2 Ibid., p. 122- 
 
i/^6 Everyday Ethics 
 
 most, but our feeling is held steady by the weight of 
 solid experience instead of being so light that the breath 
 of a changing mood can puff it here and there. 
 
 It follows then that in no subject should we trust 
 to feeling alone, because, as we have seen, feeling with- 
 our thought is inarticulate, evanescent, and often mis- 
 leading. It was a warm impulse which moved Con- 
 gress to give the full right of suffrage to the whole 
 negro race after the Civil War, but because the prob- 
 able consequences had not been carefully faced, the 
 generous act turned out a curse. So it was when the 
 chivalric young Shelley offered to marry Harriet 
 Westbrook in order to save her from being forced 
 by her father to go back to school. He acted on feel- 
 ing without facing the consequences and so brought 
 misery to both their lives. 
 
 A short time ago it was popularly believed that in 
 questions of philanthropy, all one needed was to trust 
 to one's kindly impulses. It has been a lesson slowly 
 and painfully learned, that this is not true. If you 
 give money to the shivering child selling matches in 
 a snowstorm, ten more children will be out offering 
 matches for sale in the next snowstorm. If you lend 
 money to all who ask a loan, you will destroy someone's 
 energy and his self-respect. In all such cases you 
 must think just as hard and sympathetically as you 
 can ; you must put both feeling and thought into your 
 task, — feeling to make all the facts really vivid, and 
 thought to make the decision wise and lasting in 
 its effect. 
 
 Not even in art can we glean the most merely by 
 
Thought Aglow with Feeling 247 
 
 trusting our first instinct of admiration or dislike. 
 People object to analysing a beautiful picture or mov- 
 ing scene and to a certain extent their instinct is right. 
 If we are to handle delicate and beautiful things we 
 must handle them with sensitive touch. Neverthe- 
 less the helplessness of pure feeling is at once evident. 
 You care very much for a symphony by Beethoven 
 and your friend does not. How are you to help her 
 to appreciate it? Feeling meets feeling and both are 
 powerless, but if you find out why you like the 
 symphony, what passages in it especially move you, 
 what there is in common between the music you enjoy 
 and that which she likes, or even how the beauty you 
 find in music is parallel to that which she finds in a 
 running brook or a leaping horse, you may help her 
 to see what you mean. Then if she listens hard she 
 may hear what will give her joy. The experience of 
 being thus convinced is a valuable one. 
 
 Some people like and some people dislike the Puvis 
 de Chavannes frescoes in the Boston Public Library. 
 At first they seemed to me cold, trivial and artificial, 
 unworthy of the dignity of the library. One day I 
 made this criticism to a friend who said : " You are 
 looking for the wrong thing in those pictures ; they are 
 not expressive of high moral ideals nor of realistic 
 scenery. They are primarily decorative. See the 
 wonderful sweep and lightness of the drapery, the up- 
 ward floating of the figures, the dreaminess of the 
 spring sky." Now when I see them I am aware of this 
 beauty. By putting his meaning into words, my friend 
 enlightened and enriched me. 
 
248 Everyday Ethics 
 
 In the closer and more subtle questions of love and 
 of religion, the same truth holds. In both we rightly 
 resent the crude destructive interference of an un- 
 sympathetic outsider; v^^e knov^r that all we can put 
 into words would be at best a tiny fragment of what 
 our love or our religion stands for. Yet in both we 
 are in great danger if we depend on feeling alone. 
 
 Amiel says : " Women wish to be love?d without a 
 why or wherefore ; not because they are pretty or wise 
 or good, but because they are themselves." 
 
 The real meaning of the desire to be loved for 
 yourself is the true instinct, to be loved not for any 
 part of yourself nor for anything you are just for the 
 moment and so may outgrow, nor for the sura of your- 
 self added bit by bit in a mechanical aggregate, but 
 for the whole of yourself. Yet to be loved for the 
 whole of yourself is not to be loved without reason. 
 It is to be loved with mind and strength as well as with 
 all one's heart. To be loved without a why or where- 
 fore is very dangerous. Many a mother loves her son 
 in such a way. Mrs. Bosanquet * tells of an adoring 
 widow whose whole hopes centred on her boy, to 
 whom she gave a good education and for whom she 
 secured a position in a lawyer's office. He squandered 
 away all her money and drank himself to death. If 
 she had loved him with an intelligent love, she could 
 have guarded against his weakness and she might have 
 saved him. 
 
 We love best what we know most comprehendingly. 
 Sometimes after his death, we write a life of our best 
 *" Aspects of thf Social Problem," p. 12^, 
 
Thought Aglow with Feeling 249 
 
 friend and put into words all that we can convey of 
 his character. It is not the whole of him, something 
 eludes us as we watch it and there is much we can 
 never put into words. Nevertheless we know our 
 friend not less well but far better because we have 
 tried from the glowing centre of a great love to follow 
 the radii of his life. Dry, cold analysis is of course 
 out of place here, because it is untrue. So is the pre- 
 mature forcing of emotion into expression. The only 
 place for abstract, cold thinking is in processes like 
 arithmetic, a temporary shorthand that never mistakes 
 its figures for the realities they represent. 
 
 Ill 
 
 We need, however, to distinguish two ideas which 
 are often confused: trust in thought and trust in 
 speech. A good many of us are untrained in the control 
 of words and they entangle our ideas as did the words 
 of Mr. Tulliver in " The Mill on the Floss " : " No, 
 Bessie, I didn't just mean the mole. I meant it to 
 stand for summat else, but never mind, it's puzzling 
 work, talking is. Things have got so twisted round 
 and wrapt up in unreasonable words, that aren't a 
 bit like 'em, as -I'm clean at fault often and often. 
 Everything winds about so, the more straightforward 
 you are, the worse you're puzzled." 
 
 I have no doubt that Mr. Tulliver's feeling went far 
 beyond what it was possible to him to convey in words 
 to his prosaic wife, who must have everything put 
 down m bJadc and white. 
 
250 Everyday Ethics 
 
 And so it is with more educated people when first 
 they touch a new experience. " Things that cannot be 
 said look eloquently through the eyes, and touch is 
 almost a necessity for conveying the tenderest af- 
 fection," while there are many things too subtle to 
 be said as yet, or perhaps ever, except in music or 
 drawing. But we must remember that music and 
 painting are as much a language as words, a more 
 subtle language, and therefore more adapted accurately 
 to express the most delicate ideas. When drawing and 
 music are treated not merely as the property of the 
 gifted, but as important means of expression for every- 
 one, they will become more and more a general posses- 
 sion and give us all an opportunity to express clearly 
 what as yet we feel but dimly. 
 
 It is not only in conveying what is subtle or uplifted 
 that our speech is inadequate. Try to describe a 
 crotchet stitch or a mashie stroke to one who has 
 never seen such things and you are entirely at a loss. 
 So an engineer without his paper and pencil feels 
 as helpless to express his knowledge as a stutterer in 
 speech. We all begin to draw with forks on the table 
 cloth when questions of location arise and we nearly all 
 stumble in directing a man even three or four blocks. 
 These facts are interesting because they tend to show 
 that it is not always lack of thought' or of reality be- 
 hind our feeling that makes us shrink from expression, 
 but rather a lack of the fitting medium. The richness 
 and variety of life cannot be cramped into any one 
 language and especially not into speech. 
 
Thought Aglow with Feeling 251 
 
 "Life goes before us, infinite in complication, attended 
 by the most various and surprising meteors, appealing at 
 once to the eye, to the ear, to the mind, — the seat of won- 
 der, — to the touch, so thrillingly delicate, and to the belly 
 so imperious when starved. It combines and employs in its 
 manifestation the method and material not of one art only, 
 but of all the arts. Music is but an arbitrary trifling with 
 a few of life's majestic chords; painting is but a shadow 
 of its pageantry of light and colour; literature does but 
 drily indicate that wealth of incident, of moral obligation, 
 of virtue, vice, action, rapture, and agony with which it teems. 
 
 " To compete with the flavour of wine, the beauty of the 
 dawn, the scorching of fire, the bitterness of death and 
 separation, here are indeed labours for a Hercules in a 
 dress coat armed with a pen and a dictionary to depict the 
 passions." " 
 
 " We have not enough speech to tell the tenth part of 
 our feelings. Let him who doubts this recall one of his 
 own vain attempts to convey what made the oddest of 
 dreams entrancing in loveliness, to convey that aroma of 
 thought, the conscious absence of which made him a fool 
 in his own eyes when he spoke such silly words as alone 
 presented themselves for the service. I can no more de- 
 scribe the emotion aroused in my mind by a grey cloud 
 parting over a grey stone, by the smell of a sweet pea, by 
 a long pennon of striped grass, than I can tell what the 
 glory of God is. The man whose poetry is like nature in 
 that it produces individual, incommunicable moods, a sense 
 of elevated, tender, marvellous and evanescent existence, 
 must be a poet indeed. 
 
 "Every dawn of such feeling is a light-brushed bubble, 
 rendering visible for a moment the dark sea of our being 
 which lies beyond the lights of our consciousness and is the 
 stufif and region of our eternal growth." ^ 
 
 " R. L. Stevenson, " Memoirs and Portraits,'' p. 281. 
 
 « George MacDonald, " Robert Falconer," p. 215. 
 
252 Everyday Ethics 
 
 The stuff and region of our growth! I want to 
 pause a moment on this, for it indicates one important 
 reason for the common deep reverence for feeling 
 and also a clear suggestion of its essential relation 
 ;to thought. It is because we are growing that we 
 cannot put everything into expression. It is only 
 the complete that can be fully stated. When we 
 feel strongly without power of adequate expression, 
 it may well be because we are just touching the hem 
 of the garment of a new insight. We are right to 
 wait till it comes more within our grasp. But it is 
 no less true that these visions of the beyond will 
 fade away unless we try more and more to draw them 
 into expression, for it is by the expression of the 
 seemingly inexpressible that advance is made. The 
 very poets who uphold the supremacy of feeling have 
 put into words what no one had dared to imagine 
 could be said, and thus the gropings of one generation 
 bring the next into the sunlight. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 THOUGHT AND ACTION 
 
 At the time of the Spanish War there was printed a' 
 little pamphlet called : " A Message to Garcia," ^ which 
 ran like wildfire from person to person, spreading its 
 spark of eagerly welcomed truth. 
 
 The central figure of the story is Rowan, who car- 
 ried the message and the situation is briefly this: 
 "When the war between Spain and the United 
 States broke out, it was very necessary to commu- 
 nicate quickly with the leader of the insurgents. Gar- 
 cia was somewhere in the mountains of Cuba — no 
 one knew where. No mail or telegraph message could 
 reach him. The President must secure his coopera- 
 tion and quickly." 
 
 At this critical moment Rowan was thought of and 
 sent for by President McKinley. He was given a letter 
 to Garcia with the simple command to deliver it as 
 quickly as possible. Rowan took the letter without a 
 word, " sealed it up in an oilskin pouch, strapped it 
 over his heart, within four days landed by night off the 
 coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the 
 jungle and in three weeks came out on the other side 
 of the island, having traversed a hostile country on 
 foot and delivered his letter to Garcia." 
 
 1 " A Message to Garcia," by Elbert Hubbard, Roycroft Press, 
 1899. 
 
 253 
 
254 Everyday Ethics 
 
 The essence o£ the story is in the instant and silent 
 acceptance of the mission and its loyal fulfilment. 
 Hubbard points out that these qualities are rare and 
 illustrates it thus : " You, reader, put this matter to a 
 test. You are sitting in your office — six clerks are 
 within call. Summon any one and make this request : 
 ' Please look in the encyclopedia and make a brief 
 memorandum for me concerning the life of Corregio.' 
 Will the clerk quickly say : ' Yes, sir,' and go do the 
 task? On your life he will not. He will look at you 
 out of a fishy eye and ask one or more of the following 
 questions : ' Who was he ? Which encyclopedia ? 
 Where is the encyclopedia? Was I hired for that? 
 Don't you mean Bismarck? What's the matter with 
 Charlie doing it? Is he dead? Is there any hurry? 
 Shan't I bring you the book and let you look it up 
 yourself? What do you want to know for? ' And I 
 will lay you ten to one that after you have answered 
 the questions and explained how and where to find the 
 information and why you want it, the clerk will go off 
 and get one of the other clerks to help him try to find 
 Garcia and then come back and tell you there is no 
 such man." 
 
 Don't argue about it; go and do it. That is the 
 pointed significance of this tale. We make, how- 
 ever, a wrong application of the story if we take 
 it to mean that all work should be begun at once 
 and without planning. We all know the person who 
 acts without thinking and the mess he makes of it. 
 If I have a hem to turn or a window-pane to fit, it does 
 not pay to start in at once and do it, for if I do it with- 
 
Thought and Action 255 
 
 out careful planning, it is more than likely that I shall 
 have to do it all over again or that it will take me far 
 longer than is necessary. Nothing that has not be- 
 come mechanical or instinctive can be well done with- 
 out thought. 
 ;' But though the " Message to Garcia " may seem to 
 , urge action rather than thought, what it really encour- 
 ages is thoughtful action — action that meets new dif- 
 4 Acuities and improvises undiscouraged a new way of 
 , meeting each, action that has some originality in it 
 and much dogged refusal to take no for an answer 
 when circumstances try to refuse our passage onward. 
 On the hospital ship Bay State, which sailed from 
 Boston to Porto Rico in September, 1898, to bring 
 home sick and wounded soldiers, there were a number 
 of young doctors under the direction of Dr. Herbert 
 L. Burrell. As the ship neared Porto Rico it was 
 ^ found that everything had been packed in the hold 
 without any inventory or any system. There were pro- 
 visions, stores of medicine, bandages, instruments, and 
 they were mixed indiscriminately. It was absolutely 
 necessary, not only to know where each article was, 
 but to arrange them so that they could be conven- 
 iently distributed at each port at which the ship 
 was to stop and enough kept in reserve for the needs 
 of the sick soldiers on the homeward voyage. It 
 was intensely hot in the hold, but the young doc- 
 tors, who were chafing for work, at once proposed 
 to " fall on the job." " No," said Dr. Burrell, " sit 
 down and keep still," and he himself sat down at 
 a table and apparently did nothing for half an hour. 
 
256 Everyday Ethics 
 
 while the assistants inwardly fretted at the delay. At 
 the end of that time, however, he had a careful plan of 
 action, which saved not only time, but strength and 
 labour. Each man was ordered to dress in the coolest 
 of pajamas, to take charge of a single compartment, to 
 leave the heavy lifting to the corps of sailors, to shout 
 out the list of articles to the nurse at the top of the 
 stairs, and to corne up on deck every half hour for 
 air. V 
 
 This type of deliberate planning seems at first 
 almost in opposition to Rowan's swift, leopard-like 
 spring into the jungle, but there is less difference 
 than there seems. Both Rowan and the doctor did 
 instantly and accurately what was necessary to do, 
 and nothing else. Rowan acted alone, and therefore 
 kept to himself the planning. Dr. Burrell acted as 
 the leader of a group. It is true that Rowan's 
 mind was on its way to Cuba as soon as the message 
 was given, but so was Dr. Burrell's on his task. The 
 situation, and therefore the act, was different, but the 
 striking likeness is in the questions each did not ask. 
 The clerk who was requested to write about Corregio 
 asked not pertinent, but impertinent, questions. He 
 used the questions as a buffer to protect him from the 
 weight of his own job and to put off the labour of 
 thinking. He wanted someone else to use his mind 
 for him and hand over the results. He was not think- 
 ing, but shirking, because he was unwilling " to take 
 hold and lift." 
 
 It is not action without thought that is commended 
 in Elbert Hubbard's sketch, but action without evasion. 
 
Thought and Action 257 
 
 II 
 
 There are undoubtedly times, however, when we 
 ought to act without fresh thought. Many of these are 
 cases in which our action must be instant to be elTec- 
 tive, and where long habit has trained us to do almost 
 automatically what is needed. When the engineer 
 sees a train approaching his on the same track, he has 
 reversed the engine and blown the whistle almost before 
 any thought can move him. But when such an act is 
 reasonable it is guided by past experience which at 
 one time was deliberate and conscious. He who acts 
 rightly in an emergency is not the haphazard man 
 who follows the impulse born of the moment, but 
 the man whose experience is within his grasp so that 
 in an instant he can call the required portion into 
 service. 
 
 In any emergency we have to trust largely to the 
 guidance of our past, and according as that past has 
 been brave or cowardly, generous or selfish, thoughtful 
 or careless, so will our act be. It is therefore true that 
 our acts in crises are prepared for, though not at the 
 instant of action. Those who use thought in every- 
 day life are those who show its influence in an 
 emergency. 
 
 Action without fresh thought is imperative when 
 we have once definitely decided that our path is the 
 right one. There is never any end to what may be 
 said on each side of a question, nor to the new evidence 
 that tnay come up. But in any decision there comes 
 a time when the value of the new evidence that slowly 
 
258 Everyday Ethics 
 
 dribbles in is outweighed by the gain of sturdy action. 
 Even a partially wrong decision becomes more "fruitful 
 than further hesitation. We can make stepping-stones 
 of our mistakes, but indecision is a crumbling structure 
 on which we cannot climb anywhere. The length of 
 time rightly spent in securing and weighing evidence 
 differs in each case, but the same principle holds. There 
 is always the danger of going off at halfcock and of 
 never going off at all. In shooting, we aim with ut- 
 most care, and then there comes a moment when we 
 must aim no more, but pull the trigger. In drawing, 
 we look at our subject and think how best to express 
 its beauty, but if the lines are to be true they must be 
 drawn at last with a swift decisive movement. 
 
 So it is in all moral decisions. " I need to earn 
 money to support my mother," a boy writes to me. 
 " Ought I to go through the high school, and so be 
 fitted to earn a larger salary, or ought I to go to work 
 with only the grammar school training?" It is a 
 very important decision. The letter is signed, " Anx- 
 iously your-s." I must turn to the largest supply of 
 facts I can glean; carefully weigh the opportunity 
 and the pressure of need, and then put my ingenuity 
 into getting the best out of the situation. The balance 
 may be almost even and the decision consequently 
 very difficult, but in that case also there comes a 
 time when the value of energetic action in either 
 direction outweighs that of any new evidence; then 
 the decision, right or wrong, must be made. 
 
 Hamlet is an extreme example of waste of energy in 
 rehearsing a decision after it is clearly made. His 
 
Thought and Action 259 
 
 speech to Horatio (Act III, Scene 2) expresses touch- 
 ingly his sense of his own lack : 
 
 " Blessed are those whose blood and judgment are so well 
 commingled 
 That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger to play what 
 stop she will." 
 
 Horatio has what Hamlet lacks, steady emotion 
 controlled by sensible thought. Hamlet alternates be- 
 tween brooding inaction and bursts of wild excitement. 
 
 In Hamlet thought degenerated into worry. He 
 knew that he had evidence enough, yet he returned to 
 the old question. Thought goes straight ahead, slowly 
 or swiftly, but worry returns on itself in a vicious cir- 
 cle. " I wonder whether I really can jump that brook." 
 I measure it with my eyes, compare it with other jumps, 
 and decide that I can. Then the old doubt arises: 
 " Suppose it is wider than I think." There is no end 
 to a circle, and no end to the circular process of worry 
 except by a clean jump across the brook of doubt. 
 "Look before you leap," but not after yoii have de- 
 cided to leap nor while you are leaping. 
 
 Of course, some of us are born happy-go-lucky, 
 others unhappily timorous, and each has to learn by 
 experience his own proper time-exposure to the light 
 of reflection, but it holds throughout that trifles should 
 be quickly and, if necessary, arbitrarily decided so that 
 we may make liberal expenditure of time and strength 
 on important questions. If your house lies on B Street, 
 midway between A Street and C Street, the decision 
 whether to leave the electric car at A Street or at C 
 
26o Everyday Ethics 
 
 Street must be arbitrarily made. What dress shall I 
 wear ? What pudding shall I order ? What word shall 
 I write? Which road shall I take? Indecision over 
 such questions is often a sign of weakness or fatigue, 
 and the decision becomes more mountainous the more 
 we look at it. To turn away for a time or to act with- 
 out further consideration is then the sensible course. 
 
 It is then true that : 
 
 (i) In emergencies, 
 
 (2) When decisions have been carefully made and 
 no really enlightening new evidence is visible, 
 
 (3) In trifling decisions, 
 
 (4) In all cases wherein thought has degenerated 
 into worry, 
 
 we ought to bring our will co bear and stop thinking. 
 
 HI 
 
 Some people would insist here that thought should 
 also be avoided when it might bring unhappiness. The' 
 old proverb, " where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly toi 
 be wise," is commonly accepted as true, yet its validity- 
 depends wholly on the concealed implication that bliss 
 is the most desirable end. It does not hold for any- 
 one who prefers activity, advance or helpfulness to 
 bliss; therefore as soon as we look into the life oi 
 anyone who has counted in the world's work, the 
 force of the proverb is shattered. We cannot con- 
 ceive that Lincoln would prefer the bliss of ignorance 
 to the aching strain of his effort to preserve the Union, 
 or that Florence Nightingale would prefer the con- 
 
Thought and Action 261 
 
 tentment that came from not knowing the condition 
 of the wounded to the agony and the joy of caring 
 for them. 
 
 Put in the scales the bliss of ignorance against the 
 insight of growth or the opportunity of service, and 
 bliss is found utterly wanting. To shut in bliss by the 
 barrier of ignorance is to any growing nature an 
 insult, for one of the great experiences which, till 
 we reach it, seems self-contradictory, is the joy of 
 awakening to a painful discovery of our past mistakes, 
 because through being known they can be overcome. 
 
 It is clear then that the bliss of ignorance is not to 
 be desired, when by knowledge we can advance faster 
 or be of service. I may be yery happily reading by 
 the pond where a child is in danger of drowning, but 
 though it interrupts my contentment, I do not hesitate 
 to prefer the struggle and anxiety that comes from the 
 effort to rescue him. 
 
 ' The question is harder in cases where the coming 
 of knowledge means the shattering of the shell of past 
 contentment and does not make apparent the growth of 
 any stronger and larger protection. A country girl 
 from a simple home is invited to visit rich relatives in a 
 large city. There she comes suddenly face to face with 
 a life fuller than she had ever dreamed of. On all 
 sides of her are opportunities for study, for society, 
 for beauty, and the luxury to which she has been unac- 
 customed has a double charm. She realises that her 
 clothes, which once seemed superb and all-sufficing, 
 are cheap and unfashionable, that her ideas are crude 
 and badly expressed. Is it really gain for such a 
 
262 Everyday Ethics 
 
 girl to have this knowledge, which crushes the bliss 
 of her ignorance? It is not, of course, possible to 
 give any answer to such a question without a thorough 
 understanding of the girl's surroundings. A test of 
 gain or loss may be made by measuring the degree to 
 which such a girl can carry her new insight with her 
 to enrich the life at home or to work out new condi- 
 tions. If she can do this, even after a long struggle, 
 the pain may be worth while ; but there may be cases in 
 which she is swamped by the flood of unattainable de- 
 sires. Those who by opening new inlets break up the 
 charm of the narrow outlook must always remember 
 that they are bound not to drop the helm until the boat 
 is safely steered into wider channels. It is better to 
 give a girl no new experience than to drop her in its 
 bewilderment before she can get her bearings. 
 
 The amount of knowledge that we can stand at any 
 time must vary with the height of our banks and the 
 swiftness of our current. Where we have little purpose 
 and sluggish power of reaction we can stand but little 
 new experience, but unless we take all we can include 
 we shall stagnate. 
 
 IV 
 
 I have already dwelt on the importance of thought 
 in all moral life. It is always by thought that we repel 
 temptation, because by thought we bring back to con- 
 sciousness all those facts which the pressure of tempta- 
 tion squeezes out of sight. By thought we connect our 
 special duty of the moment with the main current of 
 our ideal, as a telephone operator connects our branch 
 
_■ Thought and Action 26;^ 
 
 wire with the main line and enables us to hear voices 
 which before were inaudible. 
 
 A rosy-cheeked apple hangs on my neighbour's tree 
 and the branch which bears it stretches out into my 
 garden. With a little judicious shaking the apple will 
 fall on my side of the fence. It looks deliciously ripe 
 and juicy, and almost unconsciously my hand reaches 
 out toward it. I stop myself, for I think : " It is not 
 really mine. I shouldn't want my neighbour to steal 
 my pears. I do not want to encourage other people to 
 do this. Why, really, on the whole I don't want that 
 bobbing apple. When I recollect the price, it costs too 
 much." 
 
 It is by recollection also that I am buoyed up to do 
 an uncongenial duty. If I fix my full attention on my 
 desire to pass the college examinations, my natural 
 impulse to sit on a comfortable sofa and read " Life " 
 will be abashed. The unattractiveness of the work lay 
 in its aloofness from the end really wanted; when I 
 have connected the stupid means with the desired end 
 the work is not nearly as repellent. "A moral act 
 consists in the effort of attention by which we hold 
 fast to an idea. . . . To think, in short, is the secret 
 of will, just as it is the secret of memory." ^ 
 
 But here again, as we saw in discussing the " Mes- 
 sage to Garcia," we must distinguish genuine thought 
 from all the worthless and injurious brands that adopt 
 the same trade-mark. Of these imitations the very 
 worst is sophistry. There are people who can al- 
 ways argue themselves into the possession of plaus- 
 ible reasons for doing what they know is wrong: 
 
 * William Jaroes, " Talks to Teachers on Psychology," p. 187. 
 
264 Everyday Ethics 
 
 " I am going to Paris this summer to get a few 
 dresses. We are not well off, and it is economical 
 to buy one's clothes abroad. Yes, my father will be 
 alone all summer, but it is excellent for him to have 
 the quiet; I really think he needs it. It is hard for 
 me to go away, but it is better for him not to be as de- 
 pendent on me as he is, and I do it wholly for his sake." 
 
 We sometimes dignify such babblings with the name 
 of argument, but this is as false as to say that bang- 
 ing seven consecutive notes on the piano is music. 
 Sophistry takes the highest material for the basest 
 purpose. As a medicine may be used to poison, so 
 language may be perverted till it poisons the soul. 
 
 But if we distinguish thought from its caricature — 
 sophistry — it is clear that there is no more reason for 
 abandoning thought because it is sometimes perverted 
 to sophistry than there is for abandoning food because 
 it sometimes has poison put into it. If I learn by ex- 
 perience that my first impulse is apt to be right and 
 that further reasoning tends only to delay or confuse 
 me, I ought to act on impulse; but if, as is perhaps 
 fully as common, the first allurement of nev^r desire 
 pushes out for the moment all memory of other claims, 
 I should draw them back by swift, imaginative thought. 
 
 Each of us is unique, and the same quantity of 
 thought can no more be prescribed for all than the 
 same amount of exercise. If exercise becomes a strain, 
 it should be lessened, and if thought becomes worry or 
 sophistry it is worse than useless; nevertheless our 
 moral, like our physical, muscles, grow firm and effi- 
 cient by steady, well-regulated exercise, 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 TRUTH 
 
 "Though the cause of evil prosper. 
 Yet 'tis Truth alone is strong." 
 
 Lowell wrote as he looked out prophetically on the 
 coming struggle of the Civil War. His faith rested 
 not alone on experience, but on the self-destroying na- 
 ture of falsehood that eats away the structure of hon- 
 esty on which every falsehood must rest. Falsehood 
 is of so corrosive, so mordant a character that it cannot 
 be carried on at all without a solid substratum of truth. 
 The liar must speak truth most of the time, and steadily 
 brace himself against the truthfulness of the commu- 
 nity, else he could not successfully lie. In lying a man 
 contradicts himself, for he has to depend for his credit 
 on the very truth which he is at the same time 
 destroying. He warms himself by setting his own 
 house on fire. 
 
 We can see this principle at work everywhere. 
 A great and flourishing institution is Tammany Hall, 
 with its marvellously intricate and efifective system of 
 securing votes. It looks impregnable, yet just so far 
 as it is based on corruption it is in constant danger. 
 If the leaders of Tammany realised the irresistible 
 power of truth they would tremble at the birth of every 
 
 ?65 
 
266 Everyday Ethics 
 
 child, for each may be the .means of its destruction. 
 Every knave who is jealous of it may combine against 
 it and every honourable man will oppose it. It lives, in 
 so far as it is evil, only through the laziness or selfish- 
 ness of people who do not belong to it. When William 
 Travers Jerome speaks out what is true concerning 
 'Tammany and concerning those who tacitly support it 
 because they have not courage enough to be against it, 
 the structure trembles. If the leaders attempt to 
 strengthen it by increased bribery they really weaken it, 
 because the whole organisation is artificial, painfully 
 built upon corruption, intimidation and deception. The 
 more rottenness they add the more quickly they dis- 
 integrate the internal honesty on which success de- 
 pends. For this intricate system of bribery and cor- 
 ruption is absolutely dependent on the honesty of its 
 members within the tribe, while at the same time 
 it is dependent on their dishonesty toward outsiders. 
 Its system, in so far as it is corrupt, will be destroyed 
 either by downright honesty or downright dishonesty. 
 Its life hangs on the trembling balance between the 
 two. Tammany dreads alike the man who will accept 
 no bribe and the man who will accept any bribe. The 
 former will expose, the latter betray. When Tammany 
 has once introduced the principle of dishonesty toward 
 all but itself, it has sown the seeds of its own destruc- 
 tion. More than one can play at the game of making 
 exceptions to truth telling, and if a member is not sure 
 of another's loyalty to the gang the game is up. 
 
 Thus the liar always undermines by his lie that con- 
 fidence on which he depends for the effectiveness of his 
 
Truth 267 
 
 lie. Like the morphine habit, lying is a slow means 
 of suicide. As soon as the reaction of distrust caused 
 by a lie arises, lies must be given in increased doses 
 until, through constant repetition, they become inert. 
 The feebleness of lies in a community of liars carries 
 its own lesson. 
 
 Contrast with this the life of an institution like the 
 Merit System in the Public Service.' In so far as its 
 object is to obtain purity of administration, based on 
 the motto : " Thou shalt not use public office for pri- 
 vate gain," it is sure to triumph. Its friends, its critics, 
 and its enemies alike will help it. Those who join it 
 will do so from disinterested motives; it will be only 
 the gainer by criticism, for it has nothing to hide, and 
 the misdeeds of its enemies will only make it more 
 evident that the great majority of men are letting 
 themselves be defrauded for the gain of a few. 
 
 The message of truth is indelible. Every attempt 
 to erase it only polishes more brilliantly its shining 
 surface, every criticism of special statements of truth 
 only writes in clearer letters the enduring message of 
 Truth. Truth, being what is, is at work day and night, 
 whether we sleep or wake; falsehood, what is not, is 
 supported only by our painful effort. 
 
 II 
 
 I have tried to show the inherent weakness of all 
 falsity and the strength of truth. If some member of 
 an oriental state, where truth is but lightly regarded, 
 should ask why we held it in such supreme honour, my 
 
268 Everyday Ethics 
 
 first answer would be: Truth is reality, and to oppose 
 it is to buck up with our pigmy weakness against the 
 whole order of the universe. 
 
 V-Chen we look closely at the effect of truthfulness on 
 a community we see also that it is truth of speech and 
 of action that holds society together and makes our 
 complicated civilisation possible. If we could trust the 
 honesty and veracity of no one, the vast structure of 
 I our intricate life would be shattered at a blow. We 
 should all be milking cows, baking bread and weaving 
 wool. Edison must leave his electrical experiments, 
 Emerson his essay-writing, and Riis his sociology; 
 each and all must return to the most primitive and 
 mechanical activities. 
 
 We sometimes see gangs of labourers with an over- 
 seer whose sole occupation is to watch them. It is 
 lack of dependence on the veracity of his gang that 
 drives him to that wasteful expedient. In communities 
 where no man trusts another the life of each is squan- 
 dered in watching or in escaping the watchers. It is 
 because we can depend on our milkmen, bricklayers, 
 cooks, butchers, policemen, bank clerks, and firemen 
 that we can carry on our special work unhampered, 
 unworried, free. Lies kill freedom, destroy the mean- 
 ing of speech, and cut our communications. 
 
 We are awed and fascinated by a new invention like 
 the phonograph, but we often forget what a still more 
 marvellous possession is language itself. From the 
 first word of a savage to the complicated code by which 
 a deep-sea cable bears a message of sympathy from 
 Roosevelt to King Edward we use always this won- 
 
Truth 269 
 
 derful human instrument which has made it possible 
 for us to know the works of, Shakspere and of Con- 
 fucius, and links all nations by a common bond of 
 communication. Now there is no instrument, however 
 valuable, which may not be destroyed by misuse. As 
 the surgeon's knife, which has saved many lives, may, 
 be spoiled by being used as a screw-driver, so language, 
 which was made to communicate thought, may be used^ 
 to conceal and pervert thought and is thus diestroyed. , 
 A friend of mine, a real-estate broker, once attempted 
 the task of redeeming the language of his trade by 
 speaking accurately. A customer asked the price of 
 a lot of land. The broker gave it, and added that he 
 had had another offer for the same land and that he 
 must decide the next day. The customer returned in 
 a week and said : " I'll take the land you spoke of last 
 week at the price named." " I sold it," said the broker, 
 " six days ago." His customer was irate. " Why 
 didn't you let me know ? That wasn't fair dealing ! " 
 " But I did ; I told you a week ago that the lot would 
 be sold the next day." " Oh, but of course nobody 
 believes a statement of that kind, I supposed you 
 meant a month hence, at the shortest." 
 
 With every lie we begin to destroy the significance 
 of language on which all human intercourse depends. 
 Those who ask why truth-speaking is right only ask 
 because they believe they will receive a truthful answer. 
 Without respect for truth any question is vain. As 
 soon as we have much reason to doubt the veracity of 
 any answer, all earnest talk is silenced. A lady who 
 feared she had heart trouble asked her doctor whether 
 
270 Everyday Ethics 
 
 it was so. He answered truly that she had no such 
 trouble, but she did not believe him. She knew his 
 kindly habit of lying, and his renewed assurances only 
 made her doubt the more. There was nothing he could 
 5ay, for he had killed her trust. A lie is not so differ- 
 ent from a murder; indeed, the life of human trust 
 that it kills is more precious than physical existence. 
 
 Ill 
 
 In view of what has been said of the strength of 
 truth and of the self-contradiction and destructiveness 
 of lying, let us first give a definition of truth in 
 order to clear the ground of those misstatements which 
 are not lies at all. Truthfulness is the conscientious 
 effort to convey an accurate impression. The points 
 of importance in this definition are : 
 
 1. That truthfulness is not equivalent to accuracy, 
 but does aim at accuracy. 
 
 2. That truthfulness is always the attempt to give 
 the right impression, not to state what is literally cor- 
 rect, though misleading. 
 
 A little girl came sobbing into my room a short time 
 ago : " Oh dear, I said there were some stamps in the 
 case, and when I went to get them there weren't any, 
 so I have told a lie! " This over-scrupulous little per- 
 son was greatly consoled by being told that you cannot 
 tell a lie without knowing it. 
 
 Again, a well-recognised form or convention which 
 no longer deceives is not a lie. We write " My dear 
 Mr. Smith " to the stranger without any untruthful- 
 
Truth 271 
 
 ness, for the words are worn so thin by misusage that 
 they no longer arouse any of the natural implications of 
 affection, though the word " dear " in the middle 
 of a note is still significant. For a similar reason 
 the " regret " in answer to a formal invitation is 
 no lie, however little sorrow you feel. You do not 
 expect the recipient to be touched for an instant b>' 
 your sorrow, even if you have said that you " regret 
 exceedingly." 
 
 Closely associated with such empty forms, there are 
 phrases which have not become meaningless and in 
 using which we are able to lie. I tell my maid to say 
 that I am " not at home," and comfortably ensconce 
 myself before my fire. I justify the phrase by saying 
 that it deceives no one. This is true in some places, 
 for example in London, but if I feel a bit embarrassed 
 at being seen at the window by a guest who has just 
 been told that I am not at home I may suspect myself 
 of the wish to deceive. Why not say that I am en- 
 gaged? Because people would insist on coming in. 
 In that case my " not at home " does intentionally de- 
 ceive; truth is always to be tested by intention. 
 
 This same criterion is valid in the case of games. 
 When you play " Twenty Questions " your answers 
 are meant to mislead as far as is consistent with literal 
 accuracy; but this is not lying, because it is fully ex- 
 pected by your opponent, who knows that it is one of 
 the rules of the game. A joke, or a secret which is 
 soon to be revealed, is accepted by society as so much 
 a part of the social game that it has passed out of the 
 realm of truth and lying, though there are always 
 
272 Everyday Ethics 
 
 border-line cases in which misstatements become de- 
 structive of confidence. On April ist a whole flood of 
 deceptions spring gaily forth, but they cause no bitter- 
 ness, no distrust beyond that day, for they, too, are 
 part of an accepted game. But imagine a perpetual 
 April Fools' Day! Life would not be worth living. 
 Under the same heading come the recognised decep- 
 tions of the larger game of war. Here, as in tennis or 
 football, there are definite agreements regarding the 
 deceits which are to be permitted as long as the war 
 or the game lasts, and because understood they are not 
 untruthful. 
 
 It is of more importance to insist that, because truth- 
 fulness is the attempt to convey an accurate impression, 
 it requires sensitiveness to the point of view of the 
 hearer. A brutal statement is never a true statement. 
 If a timid patient, who has a slight lung trouble, asks 
 a doctor whether she has consumption, and he hastily 
 replies, " Yes," his answer, though literally accurate, 
 is essentially untrue. To her the prediction implied 
 is of misery and death, while he may know that the 
 trouble is perfectly curable. The thoroughly truthful 
 person is not he who states the bare facts, but he who 
 tries to give the true impression to his hearer. 
 
 One more point of importance in distinguishing 
 truth from falsehood needs to be made clear. To be( 
 truthful does not require us to blurt out any momentary 
 feeling just because it is there. When I come down 
 in the morning, feeling annoyed because the buttons 
 came off my suit as I was hurrying to be punctual, I 
 do not need to express the irritation which I feel toward 
 
Truth 273 
 
 society in general and my innocent family in particular. 
 My momentary impulse may make me abhor the sight 
 of the friendly guest who has come to pay me a call. 
 Truthfulness does not require me to tell her so, nor 
 indeed am I truthful, (because I am not myself), until 
 I have tried to recover and bring into the foreground, 
 where it belongs, my belief in hospitality. 
 
 I think it should now be clear (0) that in any con- 
 vention, joke, fairy-story, or game, we are truthful as 
 long as we follow the rules of the game, and (b) that 
 a truthful statement is always one which tries to be 
 tactful and thorough, not bare and partial. 
 
 IV 
 
 Armed by these explanations, we are ready to ad- 
 vance a step in the direction of learning to check false- 
 hood by making a diagnosis of the causes of lying 
 which differ so markedly that they can be cured only by 
 very different treatment. On the border-line between 
 mistakes and lies are the cases, so common in children, 
 of careless or imaginative misstatements. " Oh, 
 Mamma, I saw three big foxes with bushy tails in the 
 woods as I came home ! " There is half-conscious in- 
 accuracy in the statement, yet the child is so excited, 
 both by his own visions and by his desire to arouse 
 interest, that it is not strictly a lie. His imagination 
 has slipped over the border-line that divided reality 
 from invention. As we grow older the boundary grows 
 more definite, and the lies due to imagination decrease, 
 though in artistic temperaments the desire to make a 
 
274 Everyday Ethics 
 
 statement harmonious may blur and alter the crude 
 outlines of fact. 
 
 Such lies in children can be cured, not by severe 
 rebuke, but by accepting the foxes and fairies as be- 
 longing to the land of the imagination and trying to 
 make the children keep the distinction clear between 
 such dramatic fancies and loyalty to their word. 
 
 Like the lies of imagination, the lies of thoughtless-\ 
 ness come very near the border-line that separates inac- 
 curacy from untruthfulness. The myriad careless, un- 
 weighed, exaggerated statements which flutter about 
 the air, lighting here and there, are hardly to be charac- 
 terised as lies, though they do almost as much harm in 
 weakening the significance of speech. " He is a per- 
 fect brute," we calmly say, having once seen him flog 
 a horse. " She is not worth knowing," we enunciate 
 after two days' acquaintance. Such carelessness when 
 once recognised in ourselves becomes untruthful. 
 
 How can we overcome the habit of making such 
 slap-dash statements? Only when we see the conse- 
 quences. We find that because we usually exaggerate, 
 our word is more and more distrusted, that because we 
 have used superlatives indiscriminately we have no con- 
 vincing language to express genuine condemnation or 
 appreciation, and above all, that our flippant judgment 
 has hurt the reputation of someone whom a more care- 
 ful estimate would have helped. When we have felt 
 how our carelessness blasts our power of expression, we 
 must patiently begin again, often stiffly at first, as in 
 any other new effort, to rebuild in ourselves the power 
 of delicate and accurate statement. 
 
Truth 275 
 
 To speak the truth is much harder than to exagger- 
 ate, as accurate colouring is harder than chromo. In 
 truth, however, is the only lasting satisfaction. 
 
 Lies of shyness or embarrassment are often so nearly 
 uncontrollable as to be on the border-line of responsi- 
 bility. I have known a timid girl to make baldly in- 
 accurate statements at her first party. She said she had 
 seen a Velasquez in the Madrid gallery, when she had 
 never been in Spain, and expressed a liking for olives, 
 which she detested. The words fell from her mouth 
 and she knew they were false, yet she was too timid 
 to face the ignominy of recalling them. This is an 
 extreme case of the innumerable lies caused by fear. 
 " Timidity," says a vigorous woman, " makes people 
 untruthful, and I am going to beat it out of my 
 children!" 
 
 Under the heading of the lies of cowardice comes the 
 swarm of lies that are told to cover a misdeed, conceal 
 a blunder, or make a pleasing impression. It takes 
 many years for a sensitive person to get over the 
 notion, due often to the standards of parents and 
 nurses, that to break a valuable vase is far worse than 
 to tell a lie, and even among high-minded people a 
 skilful lie is often more condoned than the awkward 
 crudity of an unpleasant truth. 
 
 Lies due to fear are best overcome, like any other 
 type of fear, by facing what it is that one truly dreads 
 and by steady practice. When once we have thoroughly 
 learned to dread cowardice more than disgrace, the 
 temptation to lie in order to cover up an awkward slip 
 or fault will cease. The more we lean on the truth 
 
276 Everyday Ethics 
 
 alone the more we shall feel its strong protection around 
 us, while the- crumbling walls of falsehood under which 
 we used to hide will reveal their treacherous weak- 
 ness. It is enlightening to see how much more success- 
 ful and popular are the fearlessly truthful people who 
 come out boldly with a confession of their ignorance 
 or awkwardness. People lie to prevent anyone from 
 opening the door of the closet which holds the prover- 
 bial skeleton. If once we bring the skeleton out where 
 it is plainly visible it soon ceases to be an object either 
 of terror or of curiosity. It matters very little that you 
 cannot speak French with a Parisian accent, that you 
 wait on table in a summer hotel to earn your tuition, 
 or that you are not engaged for all the winter's dances, 
 but as long as you try to conceal any of these facts 
 they become pitfalls for lying. Once openly admitted, 
 the dread of discovery is gone and with it vanish the 
 lies of concealment. 
 
 Probably more lies are due to fear than to any other 
 cause, but with a very different kind of temperament 
 lying may be the result not of self-distrust, but of self- 
 assertion and ambition. Lying and corruption honey- 
 comb the business and politics of our great cities and 
 threaten the stability of democratic government. When 
 the roots of this form of lie are traced they seem to 
 lead back to selfishness, and, like all selfishness, can 
 only be eradicated by the widening of interest. 
 
 For those of us who are not in public life or business 
 the tangle of temptations to lie is apt to trip us up in 
 social relations. The dishonest politician turns his at- 
 tention away from the wrong done to the city and 
 
Truth 277 
 
 looks only to the immediate and apparent advantage 
 to himself and his heelers. It may not be a very differ- 
 ent motive which leads a charitable society to assure 
 Mrs. Midas that she will make an excellent president 
 of the School for Crippled Children when it is Mrs. 
 Midas's money that alone secures her candidacy. As 
 lies of fear are outgrown when we come to dread 
 cowardice more than discovery, so lies due to selfish- 
 ness will drop away as we identify ourselves with a 
 cause that is greater than our former meagre ambition. 
 
 When I am concerned to have the president of the 
 Home for Crippled Children a person who will make 
 that institution do its best work I shall resist the tempta- 
 tion to deceive Mrs. Midas into accepting the position. 
 It will mean less to me to be invited to hear Richard 
 StrauSs play at her musicals than to have the Home for 
 Crippled Children the best of its kind. Any strong 
 interest builds up truth within the boundaries of that 
 interest. The corrupt politician will not be dishon- 
 est toward his heelers or his children. He realises 
 that his life is bound up with theirs. The rough boys 
 gathered together in a working boys' club will at first 
 steal from the club, then, as their loyalty increases, 
 they will steal for it, until a wider sympathy leads them 
 to be honest toward all the community of which they 
 feel themselves a part.^ The patriot cannot be dis- 
 honest in public affairs, for he is identified with his 
 nation. 
 
 In almost all of these cases — even in the case of the 
 
 1 See article on " Street Gangs," " The Outlook," August 22, 
 1903. 
 
278 Everyday Ethics 
 
 corrupt politician — the motive of self-seeking in decep- 
 tion is blended with the motive of kindliness. The 
 impulse to give pleasure, and even more to avoid giving 
 pain, is strong in human nature, and it is a mistaken 
 soft-heartedness that is the cause of a large percentage 
 of lies. When a girl who is poor and cannot afiford a 
 new dress asks me anxiously whether her shabby, old- 
 fashioned gown looks well, how can I tell her that it is 
 dowdy ? So I slip into saying that it is very pretty, and 
 in ninety cases out of a hundred feel no compunction 
 because the immediate effect is so soothing. 
 
 The immediate effect! Yes, but in every one of 
 these cases we must look further to get at the real re- 
 sults. Lies of carelessness, of exaggeration, of fear, 
 of self-seeking, and of kindliness, seem^ at first as harm- 
 less as the immediate effect of the powder blown into a 
 boy*s hand from a toy pistol. It takes time for the 
 deadly results to show. It is not an exaggeration to 
 compare the effects of lying with those of blood-poison- 
 ing, for lying poisons and destroys all confidence. 
 
 Lies of kindliness, like those of courtesy, can best be 
 overcome by identifying ourselves not with an imme- 
 diate, but with a permanent, kindness, and the special 
 difficulties can, as in the former case, be overcome by 
 forethought. When the poor girl asked me anxiously 
 whether I liked her hideous dress, it was a shallow 
 kindliness that made me say yes. I may have made 
 her temporarily happier, but anyone who is eager to 
 know the truth on such a point will also be sensitive to 
 observe either the lack of conviction in my voice or the 
 fact that whenever she asks me such a question I in- 
 
Truth 279 
 
 variably reassure her. It will not take long to make 
 her doubt my word, and then all her content will turn 
 to an uneasiness which no reassurances of mine can 
 overcome, for I have destroyed her confidence. How 
 much better to tell her at the outset that I think her 
 dress would be greatly improved by removing the big 
 red bow of cheap ribbon that does not harmonise with 
 the blue skirt, or that I think she has done remarkably 
 well to make the dress over, but that as it is not in the 
 latest style people will notice it less if she puts on no 
 brilliant colours. Her feelings may, of course, be hurt, ' 
 but I shall have increased her confidence in my real 
 desire to help and I shall have shown her that I honour 
 her too much to lie to her. For is it not the worst 
 insult to people to treat them as weaklings, unable to 
 digest the truth they ask for ? 
 
 I have tried to show that when any question arises 
 whether or not to speak the truth, there is always a 
 short and partial or a long and thorough view. The 
 short view says : " Just this once a lie will not matter. 
 The truth will give sharp pain, the lie will make every- 
 thing smooth." True, if you only look at the moment 
 or the immediate relief of an awkward situation. The 
 long view, the thorough view, looks beyond. It sees 
 that this temporary peace is far outweighed by a last- 
 ing distrust, while even this instant's success is forever , 
 haunted by the final, inevitable disaster which lying 
 brings. The short view excuses the lie because of its 
 infrequency. The long view sees that each lie takes one 
 stone out of the bridge over which all must pass. The 
 loss of one stone does not perceptibly weaken the 
 
28o Everyday Ethics 
 
 structure, but let each of us take out one stone and the 
 bridge will totter. The short view exults in the appar- 
 ent success of its strategy; the long view sees that no 
 such strategy can ultimately succeed, for the lie is but 
 an artificial attempt to prop up an inverted pyramid 
 which becomes more top heavy with every lie, while 
 truth, like a pyramid broadly based on reality, cannot 
 be overturned. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 TRUTH-SPEAKING AS A FINE ART 
 
 Since truthfulness is the effort to give an accurate 
 impression, it is evident that speaking the truth is no 
 easy matter. To be truthful one must not only say 
 what one thinks, but think what one says, and to whom 
 one is speaking. It is not only expression, but impres- 
 sion, that must be borne in mind, and to give the right 
 impression one must carry about with one the search- 
 light of sympathy to light up the dark places toward 
 which one is sailing. 
 
 " Do you like my sketch of Santa Barbara ? " asks a 
 sensitive artist. Well, in fact you do not, but merely 
 to say " no " is often to give him the false impression 
 ■ that you think all his work a failure. Therefore, to be 
 thoroughly truthful you must not only say what you 
 mean, but try your best to make him see what you 
 mean. If you put yourself in his place, your utterance 
 of the fragmentary though literal truth will be checked, 
 and you will so phrase your criticism that while he 
 will realise the lacks which you feel in this canvas, he 
 will also be kept mindful of the warm approval which 
 you feel for the genuineness and sincerity expressed 
 in this faulty sketch as well as in all his work, and the 
 pleasure that you take in other paintings of his. 
 
282 Everyday Ethics 
 
 St. Paul told his friends to speak the truth in love, 
 because he knew that the truth cannot be spoken with- 
 out love, and that when there is loving kindness, the 
 hardest truth-telling is softened and moulded till it 
 can be gladly received. The great open secret of the 
 art of telling a truth that may give pain is to keep 
 throughout a loving and appreciative attitude. Then 
 the truth as it strikes home does not crush, nor rebound 
 in an angry retort, but clears the ground. 
 
 I have been a great deal troubled to watch the extrav- 
 agance of my friends, the Grays, who give expensive 
 dinners and buy most fashionable clothes, when I know 
 that they have not paid their rent. At first I go to 
 their dinners and only inwardly protest at their luxury. 
 One day, when I have been telling an acquaintance 
 about the extravagance of the Grays, I suddenly realise 
 how disloyal, how untrue a friend I am. Is it not an 
 insult to my friends to think that they would be more 
 hurt by my effort to understand and help them than by 
 my distrustful silence in their presence and condemna- 
 tion in their absence ? " True, but it is perfectly useless 
 to give any advice ; people always resent it," I argue. 
 Naturally they resent most " advice," for is not most 
 advice given both at the wrong time and in the wrong 
 way? We accumulate unspoken criticism and resent- 
 ment for weeks, as various instances of our friends' 
 faults occur, and then at an inopportune moment our 
 dammed-up protests break loose and swamp all around 
 them. Then there comes recrimination and bitter mis- 
 understanding, whence I draw the conclusion that it is 
 of no use to speak the truth to your friends, because 
 
Truth-Speaking as a Fine Art 283 
 
 they do not want to hear it, and never act on it. It were 
 as valid to argue that because banging on the piano is 
 not melodious there is no such thing as music. While 
 I am grumbling over the Grays' extravagance, a better 
 friend has quietly and lovingly talked the whole thing 
 over with them, has made them feel her sympathy with 
 their struggle to make the most out of a meagre income, 
 has shown them the wrong they are doing, and has 
 suggested ways of economy which will free instead of 
 cramping them. She succeeds, because throughout she 
 feels and makes felt her abiding love. 
 
 II 
 
 But love is not all that we need in truth-speaking. 
 We need skill, just as a doctor needs not only love of 
 his work, but training and skill in dealing with his 
 cases. Truth-speaking should be prepared for and 
 practised like any other fine art. If at a dancing party 
 no one knew how to steer, the most loving intentions 
 could not save the couples from many awkward bumps 
 and bruises. In truth-speaking, the awkward encoun- 
 ters and the bruised feelings are even more evident; 
 but though the same bumps occur again and again, it 
 is rare that any preparation is made to acquire skill in 
 avoiding them. 
 
 I have a kindly neighbour who habitually sits at her 
 parlour window, and whenever I pass her house she 
 urges me to drop in. Her incessant gossip wearies me, 
 and I one day turn down a back street to avoid passing 
 her house. Alas! she is walking on that very street. 
 
284 Everyday .Ethics 
 
 She pinions me on the sidewalic and says : " Do come 
 in and take tea with me." Caught thus unawares, I 
 say that I have an engagement, that I am very busy to- 
 day, but that otherwise I would come with great pleas- 
 ure. I have bumped up against an awkward situation, 
 and to get out of it I lie, ignominiously and probably 
 without success. Yet this is no new type of the diffi- 
 culty of truth-telling. I have had similar experiences 
 a hundred times, and so has everyone I know. Why 
 should we not be as carefully prepared to deal with 
 such a common emergency as to treat burns or sprains ? 
 Is not the art of conveying a true impression as worthy 
 of study and forethought as clay-modeling or dancing ? 
 
 It is true that when we resolutely turn our backs on 
 lying, and resolve to speak only the truth at whatever 
 cost, we shall not find our task easy, but we shall find 
 it well worth the effort. In any difficult case we need 
 not only sympathy, imagination and loving-kindness, 
 but tact, accuracy, self-control, humility, patience, 
 resolute courage, and, whenever it is possible, fore- 
 thought. 
 
 I have given a number of ordinary cases of courtesy 
 and kindliness in which there is a temptation to lie. 
 Let us see how they, and others of a more searching 
 character, can be met truthfully and yet without 
 brutality. 
 
 The artist shows you his sketch of Santa Barbara 
 and you do not like it. What can you truthfully say ? 
 Perhaps your instinct will be to say nothing at all, and 
 in some cases this is the best solution, but a sensitive 
 person may feel the condemnation of silence more try- 
 
Truth-Speaking as a Fine Art 285 
 
 ing, because of its myriad possibilities, than any definite 
 word. If you know nothing of art, you can truly say 
 that you do not feel competent to judge the picture. 
 You can point out any bit of line or colour that does 
 appeal to you, and if you are genuinely interested in 
 the artist, ask to see other pictures of his that you may 
 like better, or to see the same picture again. If you' 
 are an artist, your suggestions will be really valued, 
 and detailed criticism which can be turned to account 
 is of far more significance to the artist than indiscrim- 
 inate praise. It is usually the vagueness or the whole- 
 sale quality of a condemnation that makes it hard to 
 receive. If criticism is given in such a definite way 
 i ( and is so linked to commendation that the means of im- 
 provement are suggested, any earnest worker will, 
 when he has thought it over, be glad to have had it. 
 Anyone who is doing serious work receives the keenest 
 criticism through the success or failure of that work. 
 He knows this, and he is hungry for any intelligent 
 suggestions that will forestall future failure. Flattery 
 is a stone when he wants bread, and even the most 
 shining and polished gem of politeness fails to feed the 
 hungry. 
 
 Are we not often wrong in assuming that the request 
 for truth is the request for flattery? My hostess asks 
 me whether I enjoyed her party and thought it suc- 
 cessful. " Oh, yes ; I had a splendid time. It was a 
 great success," I answer enthusiastically, although I 
 have just told a friend that it was the stupidest party 
 of the season. Of course I cannot tell the hostess that. 
 It would hurt her dreadfully ; she feels so happy about 
 
286 Everyday Ethics 
 
 the party. All is smoothed and made successful by a 
 courteous lie. 
 
 This is the short view. Let us take a more extensive 
 one. Sometimes people ask questions not for an accu- 
 rate answer, but simply to get a compliment or an 
 encouraging word; then one can take the question no 
 more seriously than it is meant, and turn it aside. But 
 there are also times when a hostess really wants to 
 know whether her party was a success, because if not, 
 she wants to do better next time. This valuable infor- 
 mation it may be almost impossible for her to get. How 
 meaningless and tiresome are all the reiterations of 
 " splendid time ! " How exasperating to have nothing 
 but assurances of a perfection which you have every 
 reason to doubt. The discovery that the party was a 
 failure will hurt for the time, but if she is told consid- 
 erately it will keep her from the far greater disaster 
 of trying to give similar parties and finding the accept- 
 ances gradually dwindle. 
 
 A good deal harder are the cases where warm loving- 
 kindness is expressed in unwelcome ways. A devoted 
 old nurse brings me for a Christmas present a brilliant 
 yellow tidy patiently and lovingly embroidered with 
 impossible pink roses. If she asks me whether I like 
 it, must I tell her that I do not? The short view 
 is to praise it with eloquence, install it on my sofa 
 as long as she is there, and hastily shove it out of 
 sight as soon as she goes. The process must be yearly 
 repeated, for assured that she has delighted me, she will 
 give me a similar token again, and if she comes in 
 unexpectedly she will notice the absence of the tidy 
 
Truth-Speaking as a Fine Art 287 
 
 and perhaps suspect the reason. Can I tell her that I 
 do not think it beautiful ? Yes, if she wants to know, 
 it is, I believe, the only course worthy of the tender 
 loyalty of her devotion to me. It is degrading, un- 
 faithful, to let the petty evasions involved by my lie 
 sully the brave and beautiful tie between us. It is more 
 than probable that when I gently tell her that I think 
 other colours would be prettier, and that perhaps next 
 year she will make me a pin-cushion just like the white 
 one on my bureau which is very worn, she will be 
 relieved rather than hurt. We think that our lies have 
 tightly bottled up the unwelcome truth. It almost 
 invariably leaks out. 
 
 Another case shows more directly the harm done 
 by kindly deception. A young girl asks a distinguished 
 critic for his opinion of her poetry and hands him her 
 little collection of crude, ardent aspirations for his 
 comment. He thinks them impossible, but he cannot 
 bear to hurt her feelings, and so tells her that they 
 have some exquisite lines and are full of promise. She 
 is delighted and encouraged, while he feels happy that 
 he has given her keen pleasure. He does not look 
 down the vista of the years and see how he has turned 
 the current of her life in a wrong direction. Readi- 
 ness to give pain, and to see others bear the pain we 
 have given, is a duty which should not be confined to 
 surgeons. 
 
 Many people, who would not defend lying at any 
 other time, believe that people should sometimes be 
 deceived in cases of critical illness. " He might die 
 if he were told," is the usual argument, and " For the 
 
288 Everyday Ethics 
 
 sake of saving life it is surely right to tell one He." 
 Here is an only child who has pneumonia. His mother 
 who is nursing him would be overcome at the thought 
 that the disease is pneumonia, for her little girl died 
 of it two years before, and if broken down by the 
 knowledge she would be wholly unfit to nurse the child. 
 " It is not pneumonia, is it, doctor? " she asks implor- 
 ingly. Cannot he tell her that it is only bronchitis? 
 Then her full strength will be let free to care for the 
 child, who is sensitive to every shade of his mother's 
 mood. If we are thinking only of the moment and of 
 this single case, we might answer yes, but not if we 
 remember that all lies begin to poison human inter- 
 course. Suppose the doctor lies and the child recovers. 
 Later the mother learns that it was pneumonia that 
 her child had, and in learning this she learns also that 
 the kind doctor will lie whenever he thinks it advisable. 
 Will she . trust his word when the child is ill again ? 
 If he assured her that this time it is not pneumonia, 
 will she believe him even if he speaks the truth ? How 
 indeed can he then drive home his truth? The lie 
 destroys the meaning of language and the confidence 
 between human beings. 
 
 Even with the insane this is pathetically true. A 
 well-known alienist testifies that one of the hardest 
 tasks he has with his insane patients is to restore the 
 confidence destroyed by the well-meant lies of their 
 friends. 
 
 These difficult cases can only be well met by 
 one who, in addition to a penetrating sympathy, has 
 also prepared himself, as any artist prepares for a 
 
Truth-Speaking as a Fine Art 289 
 
 delicate task. The doctor who is to give a true im- 
 pression to the anxious mother or the sick patient must 
 have the daring wisdom born of faith in human nature. 
 He will believe that the soul of man has in it the power 
 to rise to an emergency; that it is only when we ask 
 the utmost that we set free the largest power. He 
 will tell the inquirer, tenderly and firmly, that there is 
 to be a hard battle, but that the hardest fights have 
 been won where doctor, nurse and patient cooperated/ 
 and that courage is one dominant element in the chance 
 of recovery. And if he fails after doing his best there 
 is success even in the failure. It may be true, though 
 it can never be proved, that lying has saved life. It 
 is certain that lying has destroyed trust, which is more 
 valuable than life. We send our sons to war to save 
 the Union ; are we not ready possibly to shorten a few 
 lives for the saving of truth? 
 
 Ill 
 
 Another critical case is apt to come up in any discus- 
 sion of truth-speaking: the right to lie to keep a 
 promise. My friend confides in me a very important 
 secret and some inquisitive outsider asks me whether 
 or not it is true. It is none of his business and I am 
 in honour bound to guard my friend's treasure. This 
 is the situation as commonly given. To tell what I 
 have agreed to keep secret is, it is urged, to lie to my 
 friend, to whom I owe a stronger loyalty than to this 
 impertinent acquaintance. The question as thus put 
 is a choice of loyalties. But why is any lie necessary ? 
 Why not refuse definitely and at once to answer the 
 
290 Everyday Ethics 
 
 question? Because, it is said, this immediately be- 
 trays the secret and thereby you break your word to 
 your friend. This is not true in the hands of a skil- 
 ful truth-speaker. It is perfectly possible to refuse 
 an answer in such a way that the inquirer is as much 
 at sea as he was before he asked the question. The 
 questioner who asks questions which he has no right 
 to ask, can justly be treated as a spy. I can turn on 
 hiri and say : " Let me first ask you a question : 
 Would you open my desk and read my private letters ? 
 Is there any difference between that and the attempt 
 to pry into my private affairs by questions which you 
 know I ought not to answer? Whether this report is 
 true or not, I should equally refuse to tell you, and if 
 yovi choose to say that you know that it is true, your 
 lie may be of serious injury." 
 
 It will be said that in such a case the secret-hunter 
 will announce the news as certain, but I think not, espe- 
 cially if we make a practice of refusing to betray any 
 secrets. 
 
 But even if our friend's secret would be betrayed 
 by our refusal to answer, that is no justification for 
 lying in order to protect it. In earlier times your 
 friend would have expected you to kill or steal for 
 his sake. Is it not a relic of barbarism that holds that 
 we are bound by honour to lie for our friend? Do 
 we not rather dishonour him by the lie? We do not 
 find it necessary to specify in making a promise that 
 we will keep it, unless it can only be kept by murder. 
 It still seems necessary in some cases to specify that 
 we will keep it unless at the cost of truth. 
 
Truth-Speaking as a Fine Art 291 
 
 When we are dealing with friends the power to 
 give the right impression is greater in proportion to 
 the understanding which intimacy brings. You can 
 question or criticise your friend's extravagance on the 
 basis of a friendship that cares, just as he cares him- 
 self, for his enduring good. If he is a loyal friend 
 and if you approach him in the spirit of that loy- 
 alty, you can raise your friendship to a clearer, 
 warmer height than ever before. For the friend 
 who will help the best in you is the one with whom 
 you can be most sincere and unafraid, because his 
 very appeal to your better self expresses his confi- 
 dence in you and gives you hope of his support in your 
 further aspirations. 
 
 I do not mean that we ought to interfere in every 
 half-understood problem of every friend's life, nor 
 that we ought ever to try to impose our standard on 
 one who sees the truth from a different angle, nor 
 that after we have done our best to make him see 
 our point of view and he does not, we should con- 
 demn his conduct. I do mean that a lie to a friend is 
 an insult, because the office of friendship is to give to 
 and receive from your friend the very best, at what- 
 ever cost of humiliation or pain. 
 
 You can go to your extravagant friend and say 
 to him : " I have felt for a long time that we are too 
 good friends to go on misunderstanding one another 
 on any subject. Don't you think so ? " Ten to one your 
 friend agrees and you add : " This is a hard subject to 
 talk about and I have put it off several times, but I am 
 sure you would rather have me talk it out with you 
 
292 Everyday Ethics 
 
 even if it does seem like criticism of you." Your friend 
 agrees again and very probably when your criticism of 
 his extravagance is made he is rather relieved than hurt 
 and is glad of the opportunity fully to clear up his 
 own mind on the subject. For it often happens that 
 we do not see the wrong we are doing because we 
 have not thought out its implications; in that case a 
 friendly criticism quickens our advance by showing 
 us what lies a little further along the line of our own 
 thinking. 
 
 On the other hand what he is doing may be right 
 from his point of view, though wrong from yours, 
 and in that case you must be able to make your point 
 of view clear to him. It may be a long and gradual, 
 process, starting far away from the particular ques- 
 tion, but unless he gets your point of view, the wrong 
 deed will never be wrong to him. Even if he gets youv 
 point of view, his inference about the special deed 
 may be different from yours or you may yourself be- 
 come the convert. But in any case your friendship 
 has become more real. Your pilotage that helped him 
 to quicker discoveries, assured him of your faith and 
 comprehension ; or your point of view, which he doe? 
 not accept, helps him to know you better and perhaps 
 to be surer of himself ; or your revelation to him and 
 his to you has brought you farther on the road of 
 comprehension so that you can never be again where 
 you were before. It has been a furrowing and a fer- 
 tilising, a defining and a deepening of your relation,x 
 and though the ploughing up of the smooth soil was 
 hard and painful, the harvest is a rich reward. 
 
iT ruth-Speaking as a Fine Art 293 
 
 IV 
 
 It is decidedly easier to prepare by forethought 
 to give a right impression in the often recurring prob- 
 lems of ordinary, social courtesy than to tell a hard 
 truth to a friend. When my gossiping neighbor pins 
 me on the street and asks me in to tea, I shall in most 
 cases either weakly yield or get out of it by lying, 
 unless I have thought the situation over beforehand. 
 Why is it that I do not want to see her? On reflec- 
 tion it seems to be both because she bores me and 
 because there are other things I would rather do. 
 How can I tell her that she bores me unspeakably ? I 
 do not need to do so. To speak the truth does not mean 
 to say all that is in my mind. But it is more im- 
 portant to realise that the reason I am bored by this 
 kindly lady is that I have dwelt on her weak points 
 without ever taking the trouble to realise her strong 
 qualities. 
 
 I No one can give a true impression in a frigid state 
 of mind. The first step in speaking a difficult truth is 
 to warm up our realisation of the situation till we 
 see it as it is. My neighbour is endlessly kind and 
 devoted, her life is a bit lonely with no one at home 
 but a paralysed brother to whom she brings all she 
 can of cheer and interest. When I remember this, I 
 suddenly find that I should like to have some part in 
 making his life and hers a little brighter. If I still 
 decide to refuse to go there to tea, it will be in so 
 different a spirit that speaking the truth about it will 
 be comparatively easy. Now I can tell her truly how 
 
294 Everyday Ethics 
 
 glad I should be to do anything for her brother and 
 I can give her the genuine reasons for my refusal, — 
 the other ties to which I am pledged, — it may be the 
 essay I should write or my family claims. Suppose I 
 have no claims? In that case it does not much mat- 
 ter how I spend my time, for anyone who is not steered 
 by a purpose is sure to drift, and my neighbour's 
 urgency may be useful by making me face what it is 
 that I really want to do and therefore what I want 
 to cut off. 
 
 In all these cases I have tried to illustrate the same 
 principles. Really to speak the truth at all times, that 
 is to give the truest impression we can, we must feel 
 the situation with vivid sympathy. It is largely because 
 we are cold and unimaginative that we think it neces- 
 sary to blunder into lying. Again a surprising num- 
 ber of hard truths can be received and even welcomed 
 when they have been carefully thought out instead of 
 blurted out. There will still inevitably be cases in 
 which our truthfulness will give to others and to our- 
 selves pain which a skilful lie would avoid, at least for 
 the time. But pain is not the worst evil in the world. 
 We can all recall in looking back on them, many 
 experiences of pain which we are glad to have had 
 because they brought insight and sympathy or goaded 
 us on to the right path. The willingness both to give 
 and receive pain is one which many of us lack, brought 
 up as we are in hot-house conditions and protected 
 from piercing criticism. The lack makes us over- 
 sensitive and ineffective. 
 
 Truth-speaking is not a recipe for making life easy, 
 
Truth-Speaking as a Fine Art 295 
 
 but for making it worth while, and no one who has 
 thoroughly tested the results of frank, accurate, reliable 
 speech and action will want to go back into the vitiated 
 air of lying. It is evident, however, that truth-telling 
 can surely be based only on right living. If we are 
 sympathetic, generous, courageous, just, it will be pos- 
 sible to be open and true. In so far as we are bitter, 
 avaricious, cowardly, self-deceitful, we shall find it 
 hard to be wholly sincere with others. We cannot 
 isolate truthfulness. To demand truth of ourselves 
 is therefore to demand uprightness ; thus truth becomes 
 the guardian of our character. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 OPEN-MINDEDNESS AND PREJUDICE 
 
 Two men are reading in the evening paper an account 
 of the Democratic Convention. " Outrageous proceed- 
 ings ! " one man says. " The behaviour of the Demo- 
 cratic leaders is a disgrace to the country. The party 
 hasn't a leg to stand on." 
 
 " On the contrary," says the second, " only the 
 Democrats are idealists, the Republicans are nothing 
 but wind-bags and money-kings. There is not a man 
 among them who has any independence." 
 
 It does not take much intelligence to decide on the 
 politics of the speakers, yet neither fully realises that 
 he is prejudiced. He does not see that the heat of the 
 campaign has generated great clouds of black smoke 
 which obscure all the evidence of good in the opposing 
 party. He cannot read the paper as it is. It is ex- 
 purgated and coloured for him by preconceptions. 
 So strongly rooted is his prejudice that he is sure that 
 if it were roughly pulled up it would drag with it 
 much of the ground-work of his life. His prejudices 
 are all tangled with his loyalties and he does not 
 realise that the two can be separated. Unconsciously 
 to himself his judgment is tainted by the deep-dyed 
 impression tha^ you can't be a loyal Republican unless 
 
 296 
 
Open-Mindedness and Prejudice 297 
 
 you find nothing but evil in the Democrats, just as 
 a Harvard man is likely to glorify Harvard by running 
 down Yale, or a country-lover to dwell on the noise 
 and squalor of the city, ignoring its opportunties for 
 education and art. Prejudice is judging before you 
 have sufficient evidence; it is the snapping down of a 
 valve against attention to disturbing facts. 
 
 When anyone is prejudiced against a person he has 
 seen a fragmentary aspect which he dislikes and lets 
 that small bit shut out any further effort to understand 
 the whole man. " He must be horrid, for he has such 
 protruding ears," is a process of arguing that in 
 subtler forms of expression is very common. " I can't 
 bear that Mr. Black," a girl said to me lately. " Do 
 you know him well ? " " No, I have never met him 
 and I never want to. He built his house in such a way 
 as entirely to shut off our view." 
 
 If we could trace many prejudices back to their 
 source we should find that they are due to a mistaken 
 idea of what loyalty is. A lecturer on geology at the 
 University of California happened to remark that cer- 
 tain mountains in Alaska were higher than any in 
 California. One of his pupils came up to him confi- 
 dentially after the lecture and said : " Excuse me, sir, 
 but something in your remarks this morning hurt my 
 feelings. We Californians do not wish to hear that 
 there are any mountains higher than ours." So 
 the devoted Bostonian has been parodied as saying 
 of Heaven : " It is a good place, but it is not 
 Boston." It is loyalty to his beloved country or city 
 which moves the Californian or the Bostonian, yet 
 
298 Everyday Ethics 
 
 we are apt to hear strangers say : " Boston would be 
 a very pleasant place if the people were not so sure 
 that it is the only place in the world." Our mistaken 
 loyalty which refuses to see and amend faults soon 
 weakens the city, the political party, or the petted child 
 we refuse to think other than perfect. 
 
 A New York business man, who had had a large ex- ' 
 perience in making machinery, recently visited both ' 
 England and Germany in order to study their methods. ; 
 He came back convinced that Germany would soon 
 excel England in the production of the best machinery. 
 " If you go to a German machinist and make a sug- 
 gestion toward the improvement of his works, he 
 listens hard and asks for further criticism. Make a 
 similar suggestion to an Englishman and he takes it 
 as an insult. It is inevitable that the Germans will 
 gain faster than the English." 
 
 The weak point of prejudice is that it does not do 
 what it undertakes. It does not defend nor protect 
 its idol. Its loyalty is superficial. We are never thor- 
 oughly loyal to anything which we consider as " not- 
 to-be-improved." True loyalty is keenly aware of the 
 weakness as well as the strength of what it loves, and 
 is eager to see the good in other things because it 
 wants to make what it loves still better. 
 
 n 
 
 Loyalty necessitates open-mindedness. It is equally 
 true, however, that there is no genuine open-minded- 
 tiess without a basis of loyalty. People of ingrained 
 
Open-Mindedness and Prejudice 299 
 
 prejudices are inclined to back themselves up by saying 
 that open-minded people have no strength of character. 
 This is true not of people who have no prejudices, but 
 of people who have no convictions, no chosen loyalties. 
 Such people may call themselves open-minded, but 
 really their view of reality is so blurred and confused 
 by a variety of vague impressions that all is misty. 
 To see anything clearly one must have a point of view, 
 and this is found only by loyalty to some interest. We 
 may be unprejudiced in our views about Central Africa 
 or the nature of the infinite, but it is not until we take 
 a strong interest in geography or mathematics that we 
 are really open-minded about these subjects. 
 
 The open mind is like an open crucible in contrast 
 with a sealed vessel. New experiences can be poured 
 into it without breaking it; but it must not leak. It 
 must have a solid bottom of conviction, else no accumu- 
 lation is possible in it. Facts dribble through and are 
 pushed out by further facts. 
 
 If we kept clear the distinction between the open 
 mind and the sieve-like mind, we should not hold so 
 desperately to our special prejudice. A prejudice often 
 seems to its holder like a life-preserver which is all that 
 keeps his head above water. How can he be open to 
 your view of religion or of the Yale football team 
 without dropping his hold on his own religion, or the 
 strength of the Harvard team and so sinking un- 
 supported? It takes time and experience to realise 
 that truth is always bouyant and will lift one above 
 the waves. 
 
 Prejudiced people are apt to monopolise the adjec- 
 
300 Everyday Ethics 
 
 tive " strong." They forget that a rigid iron bar is 
 ceaselessly exposed to rust and may suddenly snap, 
 while the growing and flexible willow shoot constantly 
 changes, but as constantly absorbs the sun and air 
 into itself. The swarm of critics who resisted Darwin's 
 patient efforts to reach the truth about the evolution of 
 species made a " strong " majority against him and the 
 few friends who understood his work, and doubtless 
 the critics felt as strong as steel. They did not realise 
 that Darwin was irresistible because he rested always 
 and wholly on the truth. He might be proved mis- 
 taken. Good! He rejoiced to know it, because it gave 
 him an opportunity to correct his mistakes and enlarge 
 his view. 
 
 Huxley writes of Darwin : ^ "To the present gen- 
 eration the name of Charles Darwin stands alongside 
 those of Isaac Newton and Michael Faraday, and 
 like them calls up the grand ideal of a searcher after 
 truth and interpreter of nature. They think of him 
 who bore it as a rare combination of genius, industry, 
 and unswerving veracity, who earned his place among 
 the famous men of the age by sheer native power in ' 
 the teeth of a gale of popular prejudice and uncheered 
 by a sign of favour or appreciation from the official 
 fountains of honour, as one who in spite of an acute 
 sensitiveness to praise and blame, and notwithstand- 
 ing provocations which might have excused any out- 
 break, kept himself clear of all envy, hatred, and malice, 
 nor dealt otherwise than fairly and justly with the 
 
 1 " Life and Letters of Charles Darwin," by Francis Darwin, 
 vol. i., p. 533- 
 
Open-Mindedness and Prejudice 301 
 
 unfairness and injustice which was showered upon 
 him, while to the end of his days he was ready to Hsten 
 with patience and respect to the most insignificant of 
 reasonable objections." 
 
 To this splendid testimony of his great friend, Dar- 
 win's own wise and modest entry in his autobiography 
 adds its significant note:^ 
 
 " I had during many years followed a golden rule, namely, ' 
 that whenever a published fact, a new observation or 
 thought came across me which was opposed to my general 
 results, to make a memorandum of it without fail and at 
 once, for I found by experience that such facts and thoughts 
 are more apt to escape from the memory. Owing to this 
 habit, very few objections were raised against my views 
 which I had not at least noticed and attempted to answer." 
 
 It was this open-mindedness born of an intense and 
 enduring loyalty to his work that made Darwin invul- 
 nerable. To be prejudiced is to starve and thwart your 
 own interests by refusing to take in new experience. 
 The open-minded man makes even his adversaries con- 
 tribute to his advance by showing him where he can 
 do better. It is then the open-minded, not the preju- 
 diced, who have enduring strength. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The examples I have already used illustrate the harm 
 of prejudice. The wages of the sin of prejudice, as 
 of all sin, is death, because the wilful closing of atten- 
 
 2 " Life and Letters of Charles Darwin," by Francis Darwin, 
 vol. i., p. 71. 
 
302 Everyday Ethics 
 
 tion against what we ought to hear shuts off our own 
 hfe from us and makes us stunted and withered. We 
 shall see this more clearly by watching the effects of 
 special types of prejudice. 
 
 ! Religious prejudices are much less strong than for- 
 merly; but are we most of us at once loyal to our 
 own convictions, and yet perfectly fair and ready to 
 receive light from creeds which we do not hold ? Long 
 ago the Caliph Omar burnt the Alexandrian Library 
 and thereby deprived mankind of some of the great- 
 est treasures of literature. He said in justification of 
 his act : " Any book which contains what is not in the 
 Koran is dangerous, and any book which contains what 
 is in the Koran is useless." Such an act would be im- 
 possible now, but the spirit which brought about the act 
 is not wholly quenched. Many Protestants are not as 
 ready as they should be to learn from the wisdom and 
 beauty of the Catholic Church, nor Catholics to be- 
 lieve that any Protestant can have the true welfare of 
 Catholic children at heart. Few of us are open-minded 
 enough to appreciate all that the Jews have contributed 
 to religion and still fewer are quite fair to the beliefs 
 of the Chinese. 
 
 I have already touched on political prejudices in 
 their relation to a mistaken party loyalty. It is because 
 we recognise the value of parties and believe our party 
 to be the best, that we should turn our intelligence 
 to see and to win for our side all the good that is to 
 be found in the opposite party. No party which is 
 self-satisfied and sees no virtue in its opponent, has 
 ienduring strengtL Tliis is as true of the reformers 
 
Open-Mindedness and Prejudice 303 
 
 as of the spoilsmen, and it is a sign of quickening 
 power when Jerome or Folk can see the kindliness and 
 force of many corrupt politicians, and yet see also the 
 need of crushing their infamous system of bribery and 
 . , blackmail. 
 
 • Favouritism, or hasty judgment in favour of any- 
 thing which we have not fairly tested, is as much preju- 
 dice as an unreasoned dislike. Patent medicines would 
 cease to waste our money so pitifully did not the preju- 
 dice in favour of any new drug that is alluringly ad- 
 
 y vertised constantly crop up in spite of perpetual proof 
 of the inefficacy of such remedies in the long run. 
 I know a poor seamstress who has saturated herself 
 for years with every remedy that she saw advertised 
 as a cure for headache and indigestion. Result: in- 
 creased indigestion and a fearful array of empty bottles 
 at the original cost of one dollar apiece. 
 
 Social prejudice, whether against a race, a city, a 
 family, or an individual, brings worse results than 
 loss of money. It is far from uncommon to find in 
 people a prejudice against all foreigners. An English- 
 man discussing the Cuban War told his American 
 friend that the United States was wholly wrong to 
 interfere in Cuba: "They are nothing but niggers," 
 
 ' he said, and " I would as readily shoot a nigger as 
 a bear. The Boers are all niggers, too. In fact all 
 nations are niggers except the Anglo-Saxons." By 
 these sweeping condemnations the Englishman shut 
 off from his sympathy a vast number of the most 
 interesting people in the world and shrank into the 
 limits of the narrow shell he had made for himself. 
 
304 Everyday Ethics 
 
 There are not very many people who are open- 
 minded toward the strong qualities of every race. 
 Many of our soldiers despise the Filipinos because they 
 are short (as if size were any criterion of character), 
 and thereby greatly intensify the difficulty of estab- 
 lishing the fair and friendly relations with the natives 
 which our government needs. Few people not brought 
 up among them are wholly free from prejudice against 
 a dark skin, though the " pale-faced " Europeans have 
 a far less rich glow of colour than the bronzed 
 Indians. 
 
 To be unprejudiced is not to force oneself to admire 
 all the traits of any people. We may be quite open- 
 minded and still dislike the Jewish nose, the African 
 lips, or the Chinese eye-slits. We are prejudiced if 
 because of these features we fail to appreciate the keen 
 intelligence of the Jew, the bounteous sunniness of the 
 negro, and the strict honesty of the Chinese merchant. 
 To be unprejudiced is to see things in light and shade 
 and not to let the shadow of a single trait darken the 
 whole of character. 
 
 People who dislike all Japanese or all negroes are 
 apt to harbour also a prejudice against what they con- 
 sider unpardonable traits in an individual of their own 
 race. " He has such an affected manner, he must be a 
 chump." " I don't want to know her. She dresses 
 like the old scratch." Perhaps the manner or the dress 
 is not admirable, but we need not therefore allow the 
 offensive manner or dress to envelop the whole person 
 in its unattractiveness. You might as well reject the 
 chestnut because of its prickly burr. When you have 
 
Open-Mindedness and Prejudice 305 
 
 penetrated the shell of manner, of which the owner is 
 often quite unconscious, you may find a rich kernel of 
 good sense and humour, and the worn old-fashioned 
 dress may come even to look beautiful when you see 
 it as symbolic of the generosity of a girl who is rigidly 
 economising in order to send her sister to Europe. 
 
 An untidy looking woman with two dirty-faced 
 children clambers laboriously into the electric car and 
 sits down next to you. Your instinct is to shrink 
 away and condemn the woman as slovenly, because 
 " there is no excuse for dirt however poor one is." 
 You smile sarcastically with your comrade over 
 the cheap, flimsy finery the children wear. Yet even 
 this apparently fair criticism is prejudice if you have 
 not tried to realise the life of the woman. Perhaps 
 she is burdened with a poverty that would be crush- 
 ing to you, and is taking the two babies to see their 
 old grandmother who gave them that cheap lace col- 
 lar and the imitation coral beads. It has been hard to 
 get off so early and leave everything ready for her 
 husband's supper, and the little baby fell on the slippery 
 crossing and got muddy. 
 
 "Judge not; the workings of his brain^ 
 And of his heart thou can'st not see. 
 What looks to thy dim eyes a stain. 
 
 In God's clear sight may only be 
 A scar won from some well fought field 
 .Where thou would'st only shrink and yield." ^ 
 SA. A. Procter. 
 
3o6 Everyday Ethics 
 
 IV 
 
 Prejudice makes us dwindle, shrivel and grow 
 wrinkled like a dry pea. What can we do to become 
 more open-minded? I will suggest three ways: 
 
 1. The cultivation of sympathy by first-hand ex- 
 perience. 
 
 2. The search for truth. 
 
 3. The practice of humour in regard to our own 
 affairs. 
 
 I. Prejudice is always due to second-hand or in- 
 adequate knowledge. If, having felt how narrowing 
 prejudice is we can turn our attention toward finding 
 out more of that against which we are prejudiced, we 
 shall soon see the prejudice vanishing like fog in the 
 heat of the sun. Why do I hate history or despise the 
 Japanese? In all probability because the history I 
 plodded through at school was dry, and because 
 I only know the Japanese by hearsay. Some day I 
 come across Rhodes' " History of the United States," 
 where the drama of the upheaval and development of 
 our country in its fight against slavery is pictured, 
 and I find it as exciting as a novel. The blended right 
 and wrong of both North and South, the pathetically 
 stupid mistakes of reconstruction which only increased 
 the irritation of the wounded South, the noble courtesy 
 of Lee, Lincoln's patient wisdom and the agony of the 
 country in his death, all these become alive. It is 
 not history that bores me, but the dry bones of his- 
 tory that I was forced to gnaw at school. 
 
 I have been prejudiced against the Japanese because 
 
Open-Mindedness and Prejudice 307 
 
 people have told me that though outwardly courteous 
 they are unfaithful and mean. " I have had eleven 
 Japanese cooks and every one left in a few weeks 
 without any real excuse." This sounds most unsatis- 
 factory until I get a further clue. " No, you can't 
 keep Japs any length of time," says a second woman, 
 " they are always trying to go off to school." This 
 largely accounts for it. The Japanese are unsatisfac- 
 tory as servants partly because they are progressive, 
 and use the money gained as servants to prepare them- 
 selves to be something better than servants. To be 
 unprejudiced about the Japanese is not to respect 
 everything they do. It is the effort to see as much 
 as one can of the reasons for their acts, and never to 
 condemn until we have understood. 
 The sentiment of the lines: 
 
 " I do not like you Dr. Fell, 
 ■ The reason why I cannot tell," 
 
 has often been commended as expressing an infallibly 
 true instinct. But ten to one the dislike was due to 
 prejudice, and the only way to find out whether it is 
 prejudice or not is to know why you dislike the doctor. 
 It is as likely as not to be because he uses a tooth- 
 pick in public, or because he is corpulent, and once 
 knowing this you can prevent yourself from turning 
 your face against the good in the man and become 
 aware of his generosity and his devotion to the poor. 
 " Dislike is a disease," says a friend of mine. He 
 does not mean that condemnation or distrust is always 
 
3o8 Everyday Ethics 
 
 wrong, but that the simple reaction of dishise is, like 
 fear, something to be looked at further till its meaning 
 is clear and it either dies out or is changed into a definite 
 rejection of evil. 
 
 And further, the experience (which becomes in- 
 creasingly common as we look for it), that the best 
 of anyone or anything does not appear until we draw 
 it forth by sympathy, should teach us to subdue preju- 
 dice and act on faith in the best. Geology looks stupid 
 from the outside, but I can have faith that it is not so, 
 because physiology, which used to seem equally unin- 
 teresting, has become illumined by a closer view. 
 Madeline appears uninteresting on the surface, but 
 perhaps that is because she is shy and so inexpressive, 
 as Louise used to be before I knew her. " We ought 
 at least to do a man as much justice as a picture and 
 put him in a good light," Emerson says. If you are 
 tempted to be prejudiced against any person, try to 
 draw otit his strong points. Many people are unin- 
 teresting or uninviting on several sides. It is no more 
 use banging away on these than on the doorless aide 
 of a house. But while there may be positively no en- 
 trance from the side of social skill or of literary taste, 
 you may find an open door on the side of athletics or 
 of cooking. 
 
 2. The second great help in the treatment of preju- 
 dice is the search for truth. The truth-seeker can 
 never allow himself to be prejudiced because thereby 
 he would injure what he cares for most. Because 
 experience has taught him how many and how unex- 
 pected are the sources of error he withholds judgment 
 
Open-Mindedness and Prejudice 309 
 
 until proof is overwhelming. Scientific training stimu- 
 lates this habit of suspending judgment by showing 
 up the irretrievable failures of the careless and preju- 
 diced. It eradicates superstition, which is one of the 
 ' commonest forms of prejudice. You do not find a 
 j scientific man with a belief that it is unlucky to break 
 I a mirror or to sit thirteen at table. He knows that 
 1 the evidence does not warrant it. 
 'I 3. A third great help toward open-mindedness is 
 the cultivation of a sense of humour with regard to 
 your own affairs, for humour like sympathy involves 
 a withdrawal from preoccupation and so a truer per- 
 spective. If we watch people who are markedly lack- 
 ing in humour we usually find that they are fanatic, 
 touchy, or narrow-minded. We often hear the ex- 
 pression : " He takes himself too seriously." There 
 is truth in the idea though it is inaccurately expressed. 
 Life is serious ; we can hardly take it too earnestly, but 
 we often take our bit of it disproportionately. " How 
 is your wife? " asked the friends of a careworn house- 
 keeper a century ago. " Oh, Sal's all beat out," was 
 the answer ; " a fly got into the best parlour and she's 
 been cleaning up after it all day." That fly, looming 
 large and darkening the sky like the monstrous crow 
 in " Through the Looking-Glass," shut out all the hori- 
 zon. It would quickly have dwindled could she have 
 felt the humour of the situation and the absurd size 
 of that fly in relation to the scheme of the universe. 
 There was a picture in " Punch " some years ago of 
 an awkward stout gentleman evidently making his first 
 effort at riding. A little Irish boy stands jeeringly on 
 
3IO Everyday Ethics 
 
 the sidewalk and calls out : " Say, sir, ye ought to 
 get off and see yourself ride ! " It is the power of 
 seeing ourselves ride that humour gives, and by so 
 seeing ourselves we get a better perspective than is 
 possible when we are jammed close to the high wall 
 of our immediate success or failure. 
 
 That such humour can be cultivated is, I believe, 
 proved by experience. Compared with the glee of the 
 bystanders, it is often a very forced laugh at myself 
 that I give when I pull myself out of the mud puddle 
 in which I have fallen, but any laugh is better than 
 none and I shall laugh more easily a second time. To 
 see the funny side of the situation is to withdraw a bit 
 from the vivid realisation of how dirty my clothes are, 
 and see what a ludicrous object I am. 
 
 It is often the same power which helps one to over- ■ 
 come the tense narrowness of anger. Two girls ol 
 thirteen went up to bed very much out of temper last, 
 winter because they thought I had been unfair in send- 
 ing them up so early. Solemnity and righteous wrath 
 were strongly written on their faces and they meant 
 never to forgive or forget the insult to their dignity. 
 As they silently entered their chamber, a mirror sud- 
 denly showed them the absurd twists of their counte- 
 nances and both at once burst out laughing. The 
 mirror had revealed the minuteness of the affair. 
 
 Who has not been in a crowded and hot electric car 
 and scowled to see more passengers coming up the 
 steps, and to cap the climax heard the trolley slip off? 
 As the conductor vainly struggles to set the trolley 
 straight what a relief it gives to the tensity of our feel- 
 
Open-Mindedness and Prejudice 311 
 
 ings to hear someone call out ; " By Jove, this car is 
 so crowded that even the trolley can't get on ! " 
 
 Mr. Dooley's articles have been not merely a joy and 
 refreshment to the nation, but they have taught some of 
 the truths we needed most and taught them in the way 
 in which they could best be received and remembered. 
 His article on Christian Science with its brilliant asser- 
 tion that if the Christian Scientists only had a little 
 more science and the doctors a little more Christianity 
 all would be well, thrust gaily home a double-edged 
 truth that made for open-mindedness. 
 
 We can open the tight shell of prejudice and, 
 become open-minded by developing in ourselves the 
 habit of appreciation, the love of truth, and the im- 
 partiality of humour. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 SELF-GOVERNMENT 
 
 We are so accustomed to the phrases of democracy 
 that their familiarity blurs the extraordinary signifi- 
 cance of self-government. Yet to one who had never 
 heard of the idea it would seem absurd and self-con- 
 tradictory. " It takes at least two to make a govern- 
 ment," he would maintain, " one to command and one 
 to submit. Self-government can have no meaning, 
 for the ruler and the servant are one. If the debtor 
 were his own creditor the debt would be cancelled." 
 
 Yet self-government is not only a familiar political 
 aspiration, it is also the touchstone of moral life. 
 There is no moral life until we begin to make and to 
 follow our own laws. All advance in character consists 
 in making me obey Me. We practise self-government 
 when we obey the laws of our State. " Get off the 
 grass ! " shouts the policeman who disturbs your lux- 
 urious rest in the public park. As you reluctantly 
 move on, it does not occur to you that you are obeying 
 yourself, yet your vote helped to elect the legislator 
 who voted to pass the park statutes, and a fraction of 
 the taxes you pay provides part of the salary of the 
 policeman who is thus annoying you. Ypu are prdeF" 
 jjig yourself of? the grass. 
 
 312 
 
Self-Government 313 
 
 The significance of self-government is still more evi- 
 dent when there is no policeman to visibly embody and 
 execute your will. " I only wish I could go with you 
 to see Mansfield in ' Henry V.,' but I simply must study 
 to-night." Who is servant and who is ruler when I thus , 
 order myself about and cut off a desired pleasure for the 
 sake of mastering some dry pages of history? I, that is 
 my larger or more enduring purpose, commands and 
 subdues the eager impulse whose fulfilment would 
 injure my real aim, as the loafer crushes the newly 
 planted grass which he nevertheless wishes to have 
 grow. 
 
 From these examples we see that self-government 
 is never an escape from government. Whether I sub- 
 mit to the decrees of the Czar or hold loyally to my 
 own chosen plans when I am tempted to forsake them, 
 I still am law-abiding, but only in proportion as I 
 obey my own law am I free. 
 
 II 
 
 Some examples of the ascent from servitude to self- 
 government will illustrate this distinction. A terri- 
 fied and fettered slave follows absolutely his master's 
 slightest command. We do not commend his virtue, 
 for the dreaded whip and the hope-killing years of 
 bondage have crushed his initiative. He is almost as 
 machine-like as the ship which must obey the turn of 
 the rudder. It is often convenient for a master to 
 have this unreasoning, unquestioning submission. But 
 he buys it only at the cost pf crushing intelligence and 
 
314 Everyday Ethics 
 
 making the man a machine, a weather-cock, which can- 
 not resist the wind that blows upon it. 
 
 The Hfe of a man who is ruled by his own impulses 
 and passions seems at first sight very different from 
 that of the slave. Such a man thinks himself as free 
 as air. Cannot he do exactly what he wants with 
 every minute of his time? He is not held with his: 
 nose to the grindstone like men who have to earn their 
 living. 
 
 One day such a man decides that he will do r. ' 
 stroke of work just for a change, and suddenly finds- 
 that he can no more carry forward any concentrated or' 
 consecutive work than he can lift a barrel of lead. As 
 soon as he begins to read a serious book he has an 
 irresistible impulse to smoke a cigarette or to look out' 
 of the window. He has yielded to his impulses all his/ 
 life and now he is their slave. It takes a strong and',, 
 persistent will to throw off the servitude into which! 
 he has fallen. He is like a fettered convict with 
 meagre chances of escape. 
 
 At the two extremes of absolute subservience to the 
 will of any master or to our whim, we are equally 
 slaves, and so insidious is the approach of the en- 
 snaring habit that there are few who have not some 
 part of themselves tangled in its stifling web. It is 
 only one person in a thousand who can hold himself 
 so intent on his work that he does not automatically 
 obey the impulse to look up if he hears a rustle at the 
 door, or whose mind does not slip uncontrolledly away 
 during some part of a lecture. 
 
 Such servitude (to whirn or despot) is clearly dis- 
 
Self-Government 315 
 
 tinguished from self-government in that the slave 
 submits to a master, the disciple accepts one. Military 
 discipline may look exactly like penal servitude, yet 
 it may mean freedom because the subordinate has 
 chosen to enlist, has identified himself with the army, 
 and can honourably retire from service at the end 
 of his term. Even in cases of disastrous blunders, 
 such as the charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava, 
 the soldiers are still identified with the army and may 
 realise that in order to carry out any complicated plan 
 the army must act as a unit. 
 
 In war the subaltern has but little self-government 
 or fresh initiative beyond his first agreement to enlist 
 and his power to retire or re-enlist at the end of his 
 term. But in war we encounter a condition rare in 
 other parts of life, the need that an immense body of 
 men shall act in entire unity. The leader of the Light 
 Brigade was right to obey even the blundering com- 
 mand of his superior, because he knew that any refusal 
 on his part might defeat some plan of the campaign 
 that involved other branches of the army. To assert 
 his own judgment would be to destroy the unity essen- 
 tial to the success of the army. When such need of 
 instant and united action exists, submission to au- 
 thority is essential. We see this in a storm at sea. The 
 captain must for the time be a despot. There is no 
 time to consult the men. The democratic form of 
 government : " It is moved and seconded that we lower 
 the jib; all in favor will say aye," is entirely out of 
 place. But though we have to revert to a momentary 
 tyranny whenever there is need of instant and combined 
 
3i6 Everyday Ethics 
 
 action, such tyranny, if long continued, develops a 
 mechanical response to command that is fatal to in- 
 itiative and at last to intelligence. 
 
 Professor James tells the story of an old soldier 
 who when his fighting days were over took a position 
 as butler. One day a military man, who was calling 
 on the family in whose house the old soldier served, 
 noticed the erect bearing of the butler as he brought 
 in the tea cups and shouted : " Attention ! Present 
 arms ! " Instantly the old man's hands went up and 
 the tea cups crashed on the ground. This machine- 
 like obedience so useful in war is disastrous in peace 
 and those who demand it except in emergencies will 
 smash what is more valuable than the best of 
 china. 
 
 Mr. Alleyne Ireland was some years ago employed 
 as an engineer by an English company in the Straits 
 Settlements. One morning when he came to report to 
 the overseer he received the order to light fires under 
 the boilers of engines numbers 8, 13, and 14. Mr. 
 Ireland knew that there was no water in boiler number 
 13, but he also knew that the overseer invariably de- 
 sired unquestioning obedience. " Did I understand you 
 to say numbers 8, 13, and 14?" Mr. Ireland asked.' 
 " 8, 13, and 14," was the reply. " All right, sir." Half 
 an hour later Mr. Ireland came back to report : " I 
 regret to say that there was no water in boiler number 
 13 and the melting of the floor has caused a loss of 
 about £200." 
 
 The overseer looked up sharply for an instant, and 
 then said simply, " Very well, you may go." But 
 
Self-Government 317 
 
 as Ireland was leaving the office, the overseer called 
 him back : " One moment, Ireland ! If I ever tell you 
 to do such a thing again, do it! " 
 
 The overseer in this case preferred to have an autom- 
 aton to do his work rather than an intelligent man 
 who would act not on the literal order, but on a rea-j 
 sonable interpretation of that order. There are many' 
 parents who demand the same unreasoning obedience 
 with its convenient definiteness and silence. They for- 
 get that they are crushing out of their children the 
 power to make intelligent decisions when they can no 
 longer be governed by their parents. 
 
 There come times when the subservient child is left 
 like Casablanca in Mrs. Hemans' poem, alone on the 
 burning deck. Brought up with an overwhelming 
 loyalty to the letter of his father's command, he reso- 
 lutely stays where he has been told to stay till the flames 
 destroy him. How can such unreasoning submission 
 fail to cause death, moral death if not physical? If 
 there had not been in the poem a flavour of sentimen- 
 tality that has laid it open to parody, it might have 
 done real harm by holding up an ideal of unquestion- 
 ing subservience under conditions when such subserv- 
 ience means insanity. 
 
 Robert Browning in a letter written to Elizabeth 
 Barrett, at a time when she hesitated to take a trip to 
 Italy for her health because of her father's vehement 
 opposition, gives with equal fairness and firmness the 
 principles underlying both obedience and self-govern- 
 ment. 
 
3 1 8 Everyday Ethics 
 
 "I truly wish you may never feel what I have to bear in 
 looking on quite powerless and silent while you are sub- 
 jected to this treatment which I refuse to characterise, so 
 blind is it for blindness. You ask whether you should obey 
 this ' No-Reason ' ? I will tell you. All passive obedience 
 and implicit submission of will and intellect is by far too 
 easy. Chop off your legs, you will never go astray, stifle 
 your reason altogether and you will find it difficult to reason 
 ill. . . . There is no reward proposed for the feat of 
 breathing and a great one for that of believing, conse- 
 quently there must go a great deal more of effort to this 
 latter than is implied in the getting rid of it at once by 
 adopting the direction of an infallible church or private 
 judgment of another, for all our life is some form of re- 
 ligion, and all our action some belief, and there is but one 
 law however modified for the greater and the less. In your 
 case I do think you are called upon to do your duty to your-' 
 self, — that is to God in the end. Your own reason should 
 examine the matter in dispute by every light that can be 
 put in requisition, — and every interest that appears to be 
 affected by your conduct should have its utmost claims con- 
 sidered, — your father's in the first place and that interest 
 not in the miserable limits of a few days' pique or whim; 
 but in its whole extent . . . the hereafter which all 
 rudimentary passion prevents his seeing. . . . And this 
 examination made with whatever earnestness you will, I 
 do think and am sure that on its conclusion you should act 
 in confidence that a duty has been performed, difficult or 
 how were it a duty? Will it not be infinitely harder to act 
 so than to blindly adopt his pleasure and die under it? 
 Who cannot do that? I fling these hasty rough words over 
 the paper fast as they will fall, knowing to whom I cast 
 them and that any sense they contain or point to will be 
 caught and understood and presented in a better light. 
 
 " The hard thing, this is what I want to say, is to act on 
 one's own best conviction, not to abjure it and accept an- 
 
Self-Government 319 
 
 other will and say there is my plain duty, easy it is whether 
 plain or no." ^ 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett in recognising the truth of Brown- 
 ing's words, escaped out of the servitude of fear and 
 entangling habit into the freedom of self-government. 
 iUnder different conditions she might just as freely 
 have accepted as her own the will of her parents, as a 
 householder who wants a strongly built house accepts 
 the trained judgment of the carpenter as better than 
 and representative of his own. For since self-govern- 
 ment is always in part representative government, free- 
 dom consists not in the refusal to submit to authority, 
 but in the choice of the authority which you accept. 
 
 Nor is instant obedience uncharacteristic of self- 
 government, though if the act has any moral signifi- 
 I cance its principle must at some time have been thought 
 out. Anyone who has a clear and definite purpose 
 , will in an emergency follow any leader whose judg- 
 ment he respects more quickly than will the undis- 
 ciplined mind. His training and purpose will make 
 him more, not less, capable of taking a subordinate 
 part in a game or in any situation which requires team- 
 play. He will show the power to carry out without 
 hesitation any course of conduct however hard or dis- 
 agreeable, which he has once deliberately accepted as 
 essential to his plan. 
 
 Ill 
 
 All this analysis of self-government shows that 
 1 " Letters of Robert and Elizabeth Browning,'' vol. i., pp. 220, 
 
 321. 
 
320 Everyday Ethics 
 
 there is no situation which does not involve obedience, 
 but that acceptance of the authority of your own pur- 
 pose is self-government. As we attain manhood and 
 put away childish things, we must more and more fol- 
 low our own calling. It will lead us to obey the laws 
 of our state or of our parents in so far as they are ex- 
 pressive of our truest will, but in many cases the very 
 strength of our devotion to the best we know will 
 make us seem disloyal to those who cannot see our aim. 
 ' In the life of Martin Luther, seen in its relation to 
 the Reformation movement, we have an example that 
 illustrates this point. From the point of view of 
 the Church of Rome Luther was utterly disobedient, 
 for in the face of the Pope and Council he insisted on 
 his heretical doctrine. 
 
 " Unless I be convicted of error by the scriptures or 
 by powerful reasons, neither can I nor will I dare to 
 retract anything. It is dangerous to act against one's 
 conscience. . . . Here stand I. . . . I can do 
 no otherwise. God help me." Yet these are not the 
 words of one wilfully disobedient. On the contrary, 
 underlying his disobedience to the Pope, and forcing 
 him to that disobedience as the pressure within forces 
 the eruption of a mountain, was a controlling loyalty, 
 a higher obedience. Luther is so wholly obedient to 
 the law of conscience, that he must disobey the law 
 of the church. The case of Luther is not an exceptional 
 one and the truth it exemplifies is important. Obedi- 
 ence and disobedience are parts of a single act seen 
 from different points of view. 
 
 William Penn was imprisoned again and again for 
 
Self-Government 321 
 
 disobedience to authority because he was constantly and 
 persistently loyal to conviction, not alone in preaching 
 the heretical Quaker doctrine, but in refusing to take 
 any oath, — even the oath of allegiance, because of his 
 literal acceptance of the biblical command : Swear not 
 at all. Even the apparently arbitrary refusal to re- 
 move his hat in the presence of anyone, be he peasant 
 or king, was symbolic of loyalty to God which refused 
 obeisance to man. As the moon is dark on the side 
 unillumined by the sun, so Penn's stubborn non-con- 
 formity to the laws and customs of England looks 
 dark until we see it in the light of his loyalty to his 
 conviction. 
 
 I have tried to show that to become self-governing 
 is to become more, not less, law-abiding, for self-gov- 
 ernment means the control and subordination of our 
 unruly whims, in order that we may freely fulfil our 
 contracts. I make an agreement with my publishers 
 to have my book ready to print by the first of October. 
 This decision is my free choice, but as soon as I have 
 made it I am bound in loyalty to fulfil my contract, 
 and that means cutting off pleasures which I should 
 otherwise have had. I am asked on a trip to Mexico, 
 but in order to keep my contract, I must refuse and 
 keep steadily at work. All my family are going to see 
 a polo game and urge me to come. My impulse to go 
 must be held back firmly for the sake of obedience to 
 my chosen task. 
 
 The obligation is the same if the ideal I have chosen 
 concerns other people more closely. I have decided 
 to devote the year to helping an invalid brother work 
 
322 Everyday Ethics 
 
 out for himself the utmost he can make of his cramped 
 hfe by trial of different climates and occupations. That 
 decision commands me, forbids any severing of pur- 
 pose, directs and orders my days in conformity to its 
 decrees. 
 
 IV 
 
 There is just as much obedience in self-government 
 as there is in slavery. The question is : Shall we obey 
 the tyranny of our M^hims, habits and fears, or the 
 commanding voice of our calling? What then is the 
 value of self-government above that of submission to 
 any external command ? Wholly this. Self-government 
 develops initiative and forethought, and thus makes 
 one capable of meeting new issues. Submission stunts 
 character and makes it so automatic that it can work 
 only in the familiar grooves. 
 
 The value of self-government as moral training is 
 shown unmistakably in the work of the George Junior 
 Republic at Freeville, New York. About ten years 
 ago when Mr. William George took a number of poor 
 boys on a country outing, he noticed with great interest 
 how much more loyally they held to a rule agreed 
 to by the group than to any command of his. As he 
 thought this over it occurred to him that a miniature 
 community might be formed in which the boys and 
 girls themselves should make and be governed by their 
 own laws instead of by the rules made by any older 
 person. Mr. George decided that the penalties for 
 disobedience to their laws and the enforcement of these 
 penalties should be in the hands of the children them- 
 
Self-Government 323 
 
 selves. He reserved for himself only the position of 
 Judge of the Supreme Court, a court of final appeal 
 in case any very difficult question arose. In all other 
 respects the boys and girls v^^ere made absolutely self- 
 governing. They have their own bank, with money 
 of the Republic in aluminum coin, they choose the 
 employment which they prefer at current wages, or if 
 they choose not to work they take the consequences and 
 are sent to the poorhouse where the scanty food pro- 
 vided by the severe laws of the industrious community 
 soon makes work more attractive than the results of 
 idleness. 
 
 Almost anyone imagining beforehand the effects of 
 such unrestrained liberty on children of poor and often 
 criminal associations, would have prophesied complete 
 disaster and anarchy. Was it likely that untrained, 
 ignorant children, taken without any question as to 
 character from the city streets, would make rules that 
 would restrain their own impulses to license? 
 
 The results of Mr. George's experiment have indeed 
 been against all appearances, but true to reality. Boys 
 who were ready to steal in the streets of New York 
 have found that they do not want stealing in their 
 own community. The need for laws against larceny 
 is quickly seen when one is a property holder. The 
 class of boys whose impulse it has been for years 
 to smoke cigarettes have made it an offence even to 
 have tobacco in one's possession. The rules by which 
 the citizens of the George Junior Republic govern 
 themselves are far stricter than those an older person 
 could have enforced. A little chap who pilfered apples 
 
324 Everyday Ethics 
 
 from the neighbouring farmers, was put on probation 
 for three months by the boy judge and warned that any 
 repetition of the offence will mean heavy fines or im- 
 prisonment. 
 
 The George Junior Republic is making real to its 
 citizens the truth that in so far as we do anything in 
 ,the world we must be obedient to the claims and com- 
 mands implied by that undertaking and that when 
 we live together we must respect one another's freedom. 
 
 Such boys coming back to citizenship in the United 
 States, will have a perma?ient realisation of the com- 
 mon sense of law, for they know what it means to make 
 and execute laws as well as unwillingly to submit 
 to them. They will understand the words of Lincoln 
 that democracy is " government of the people by the 
 people and for the people," for they will know that 
 they are not merely individuals or members of a family, 
 but part of the community in which the good of all is 
 the good of each. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 THE USE OF TIME 
 
 Some years ago I came across an article on Time in 
 which the following illustration was used. A boat has 
 drifted out to sea and in it a girl lies fast asleep, 
 while the long broken chain of her pearl necklace 
 hangs over the boat's edge and pearl after pearl drops 
 into the ocean. The situation is more picturesque 
 than probable, but the illustration of the irrecoverable- 
 ness of wasted time is vivid and accurate. The days 
 drop one by one into oblivion while we dream content- 
 edly on, but sometimes at anniversaries or when we 
 face a long piece of work, we wake with a start to 
 realise that time is precious and that it is slipping away. 
 With what clasp can we hold the days and years to- 
 gether? The difficulty of the answer depends on the 
 almost contradictory character of time. It cannot 
 be saved and stored away like money, and curiously 
 enough to have it pass slowly is not to use it econom- 
 ically. It is one of the strange characteristics of time 
 that it goes fastest when we are getting most out of 
 it. The endlessness of an hour at the dentist's or 
 while waiting for a train in a hot railroad station is 
 proverbial, but it is not in such hours of intense con- 
 sciousness of every second that we save time. The full 
 
 J25 
 
326 Everyday Ethics 
 
 value of time like the full value of money is got, not 
 by hoarding it, but by spending it for what will bring 
 the greatest return. The miser who never spends a 
 cent for any but the bare necessities of existence is 
 as poor as though all his coin were counterfeit, and 
 anyone who grudges the time spent on what adds sig- 
 nificance to his life is weighed down as futilely as the 
 miser with his money bags. 
 
 Time is the raw material of all life; its many uses 
 are found only when we learn to convert the hard 
 grain into nourishment. It is not until our time is 
 moulded and held together by a warm interest that 
 it begins to be of value to us, and we get more and 
 more out of time in proportion to the intensity, the 
 width, and the loyalty of our interest. There is but 
 one way of saving time. We save time by spending 
 it liberally in the enriching and fulfilling of our Indi- 
 vidual aim. 
 
 There are two points of importance in this defini- 
 tion : ( I ) We cannot tell in the least whether anyone 
 is saving or wasting time until we know his aim, and 
 (2) the ways of saving time are as various as are 
 the different interests people follow. Louis Agassiz 
 lying for hours motionless in the woods is using time 
 to the full, for he is attaining the knowledge of birds 
 which is his purpose. In the thick of a fire raging 
 in a tenement house a man is rushing from room to 
 room with untiring activity. He is wasting his time. 
 No thought goes into his work, for he throws mirrors 
 out of the fifth story window, and carefully carries a 
 mattress down the stairs. 
 
The Use of Time 327 
 
 n 
 
 If saving time means spending it liberally in the 
 attainment and enlarging of our purpose, we waste 
 time in one of two ways: (i) By not having any 
 aim, and (2) by disloyalty to the aim we have chosen. 
 We all know how an aimless collegian will waste his 
 money, but it is even more true that he will waste his 
 time. There is nothing to prevent his doing whatever 
 he is asked, nothing to make him hold and assimilate 
 the mouthful of experience he snatches from passing 
 bushes as he browses along. It is only when he gets 
 a definite and steady aim that he pulls up and chooses 
 among the tempting morsels that dangle above him, 
 those which will feed his purpose. Men do ten times 
 as much and fifty times as satisfactory work in the 
 professional schools as in college, because by that time 
 they have begun to hear like the roar of a cataract the 
 strong and steady sound of their chosen work. 
 
 Thus the first recipe for saving time is to know 
 what you want to spend it for. Two women go shop- 
 ping. One looks in every window and is attracted by 
 a bit of lace, a bargain sale of furs or a Japanese auc- 
 tion. She wanders into a store, cannot decide what 
 she wants, finds the bargains poor, wanders out, and 
 finally after spending the whole afternoon " shopping " 
 comes home with half a pound of candy. The second 
 makes a list beforehand of what she wants and of 
 the shops in which she can get it. She goes straight 
 to the spot, turning resolutely aside from all tempta- 
 tions, buys what she needs and is back in an hoyr. 
 
328 Everyday Ethics 
 
 It is often noticed that it is the busiest people who 
 have most time. No wonder. They have clear and 
 definite aims which they constantly serve. What we 
 observe in such people is first of all their concentration. 
 As soon as a decision is to be made or an act carried 
 out their whole attention is on it. There is a list 
 to be made of people to be invited to a musical. The 
 leisurely person drifts along, speaking of any names 
 that occur to her, and discussing by the way the 
 manners and customs of each guest. The busy man 
 takes a sheet of paper and a visiting list and, going 
 through the list alphabetically, he notes down on paper 
 every name he wants. The leisurely person is so en- 
 grossed and excited over the great event of the mu- 
 sical that she never entirely puts the thought of it aside 
 and interrupts anything she is doing to write one 
 more address. She is like a hen with one chicken in 
 her cackling eagerness, and devotes more scratching 
 and twisting to the one great event of her musical 
 than the busy person gives to a dozen business under- 
 takings. 
 
 As soon as we are in the habit of guiding ourselves 
 by our aim, instead of being tossed about by the waves 
 of circumstance, we cease to kill time and consequently 
 we have more than those who murder their odd mo- 
 ments. Chance events bring all of us now and then 
 to places where the train is late or the oculist keeps 
 us waiting. It is at such times of intermission be- 
 tween the acts that many people proceed to kill time, 
 by drifting off like a log in the line of least resistance. 
 There are other people, however, who, instead of killing 
 
The Use of Time 329 
 
 time welcome the chance of filling the time. They look 
 round at once for the best that can be discovered. 
 A pocket edition of Shakspere or of Lincoln's ad- 
 dresses is always their travelling companion, and they 
 seize the chance to read; there is a new type of loco- 
 motive on the track which they want to study, or an 
 interesting looking woman sitting opposite with whom 
 the common misfortune makes an opening for a good 
 talk. 
 
 People of definite aims also have more time because 
 having economised time in unimportant decisions or 
 routine work, they are liberal in spending time when- 
 ever they find what is well worth while. These people 
 know the inestimable value of friendship and they 
 do not leave it to chance meetings. One of the most 
 loyal workers I ever knew was an artist whose devo- 
 tion to her work often kept her busy from five in the 
 morning till twelve at night. " People have a right 
 to expect that you will be true to your contract," she 
 would say, " and when I promise that a stained glass 
 window shall be ready for a birthday gift or a me- 
 morial service, I will keep my word at any cost." Yet 
 this busy artist always had a life-giving welcome full 
 of the glow of realisation for each of her friends. " I 
 have just fifteen minutes before an appointment. Come 
 right in and we will make the very rnost of it." 
 
 Watch the lives of the people who are guided by 
 the illumination of a clear ideal, and you will notice 
 both how freely they give of their time, their strength, 
 their money to the cause they serve and how austerely 
 find resolutely they refuse distractions. They are loyal 
 
330 Everyday Ethics 
 
 to their aim. Aimlessness and disloyalty are the thieves 
 of time — procrastination is but one of their numerous 
 offspring. 
 
 Those forms of disloyalty, which hide under the 
 cover of goodness, are more subtly destructive than 
 the rest. It is often said, and more often implied 
 by our conduct, that certain occupations are always 
 good for everyone. To read Shakspere is surely 
 never a waste of time for anybody! Yes, it is. Just 
 in so far as at any time it holds you from your own 
 work instead of being a help, direct or indirect, toward 
 it. Shakspere's work is indeed so human and com- 
 prehensive that there is hardly any activity it may not 
 enrich at some time, but how easy it is to persuade 
 myself that it really would be all wrong to miss 
 seeing " As You Like It," when the compass of my 
 own work points hard away from any interruption. 
 Unfaithfulness is not inactivity, but following any 
 other than the path which will lead to my goal. 
 
 " But surely it is never a waste of time to do a 
 kind act." Yes, it sometimes is, for it is often a weak 
 kind-heartedness which lets one spend on odds and 
 ends of errands for anyone who asks it, the time that 
 steadily used would build up a fruitful life. Unless 
 such fragmentary kindliness is one's special work it 
 is as much a dissipation as is the buying of sticks of 
 candy and bananas with the odd pennies which when 
 accumulated will buy a barrel of flour. 
 
 This does not mean that amusement or variety or 
 kindness are to be put aside for the sake of strict ad- 
 herence to a single line of advance, All work and no 
 
The Use of Time 331 
 
 play makes Jack so dull a boy that the dulness taints 
 even his laborious results. Thus arises the duty of 
 pleasure side by side with the pleasure of duty. The 
 artist who stands all the time close to his palette soon 
 sees nothing but blotches of paint, or fails to distin- 
 guish what is expressive from what is unmeaning. 
 He finds the beauty of his first conception fade, and to 
 do his own work as well as it can be done, he must go 
 out to find refreshment wherever it blossoms for him, 
 — on the distant hills, at the theatre, or with the gayest 
 of comrades. While he is away from his work he may 
 wholly forget it, but as he looks back later he measures 
 the value of the amusement in relation to the move- 
 ment of his life as a whole, in which his painting is 
 the mainspring. 
 
 " The longest way about is the shortest way home " 
 is in this connection a true proverb, for the stimulus 
 of books and people, football games and sunsets that 
 seem remote from our work often call out a fruitful 
 activity that could not be won by plodding. But to 
 drop down in a strawberry patch entirely oblivious of 
 anything but the juicy fruit is not often finding the 
 shortest way home. There are myriad examples of dis- 
 loyal waste of time, but they are nearly all of the type 
 of strawberry picking on the way home. There is a 
 carelessness which drops into work without planning. 
 " I threw all my clothes into my trunk as quickly as 
 I could and now I find I have forgotten the dress I 
 most need." 
 
 There is repetition of what is already sufficiently 
 achieved. To go ovei; ag%in a well-learned lesson or 
 
332 Everyday Ethics 
 
 a well-written paper is a waste of time, because it 
 does not take one toward home. 
 
 There is inattention which lets us jump up to look 
 at the passing fire engine in the midst of our work, 
 and dawdling which shows that we are not alive to the 
 significance of what we are doing. These common 
 ways of wasting time all lead us off into side tracks 
 instead of taking us toward home. 
 
 How shall we distinguish such disloyalty from a 
 rightful breadth of life? Only by taking every now 
 and then a quiet time in which to face what it is that 
 will make our lives most what we want them to be. 
 Then if looking at fire engines or going once more 
 over our lesson will on the whole further that life at any 
 time, these acts are right; if not, they are wrong. For 
 many of us the best life will aim to include time for 
 reading, for our favourite form of art, for quiet in 
 which to garner the harvests of the past and prepare 
 for the future, and above all free space to welcome 
 to help and to be enriched by our friends. 
 
 The hospitality of our purpose will thus include what 
 on a smaller view might seem to lead away from it, 
 but though in many cases it will be hard to decide just 
 what time is best spent in recreation, the test will 
 always be the same. Is what I am doing enriching 
 my aim or is it dissipating it? 
 
 Franklin in his ingenious " Poor Richard's Al- 
 manac," says : " If you were a servant would you not 
 be ashamed to have your master catch you idle ? You 
 are your own master. Be ashamed to catch yourself 
 idle ! " How many of us are there who have not 
 
The Use of Time 333 
 
 caught ourselves idle in the midst of our task? How 
 many have used every minute of the hour we planned 
 for work ? " Time goes so fast," we say ; " it is im- 
 possible to accomplish much in a day." Yes, especially 
 when in many of its minutes we have been untrue to 
 our aim. " Profligacy," says Ejnerson, " does not con- 
 sist in spending years of time or chests of money, but in 
 spending them off the line of your career." We waste 
 time by carelessness, by not planning ahead, by repeti- 
 tion, by inattention, by dawdling, by forgetting, by 
 worry and indecision, and all these faults show disloy- 
 alty to our aim. It is because men on the whole have 
 a clearer aim and keener training in learning its 
 importance that they waste less time than the av- 
 erage woman of leisure who has not found her 
 vocation. 
 
 in 
 
 Since time is the raw material of life, we must, in 
 order to make our lives worth while, know how to 
 handle and mould our hours in accordance with our 
 ends. These ends are different for each, but there 
 are certain means to success which are common to 
 all ends. We need to know:^ 
 
 1. How to begin. 
 
 2. How to keep on. 
 
 3. When to end. 
 
 Half the trouble with most people comes from not 
 knowing how to begin. A young friend of mine has 
 just failed in his college examinations. When he came 
 
334 Everyday Ethics 
 
 in to tell me about it he said : " I don't see how it hap- 
 pened, for I have studied twice as much as the other 
 fellows." I have no doubt he thought that he had 
 studied, but it was in a peculiar way. He planned 
 to study from two till six. About two you would 
 /hear him say : " Oh, bother it ! I have got such a 
 beastly hard Latin lesson." At half-past two you 
 would find him looking over a funny paper. By three 
 I o'clock he had begun to work, but it was not long 
 before his seat was empty. An irresistible hunger 
 had driven him to the kitchen for apples. He has never 
 learned how to begin, and that lack will grow greater 
 with every indulgence. 
 
 The difficulty is almost as wide as humanity. Nearly 
 everyone finds it hard to begin, but certain special 
 directions may help to make it easier. It is a great 
 help to put yourself in a place where you are unlikely 
 to be interrupted or distracted. Avoid rooms where 
 the sound of voices or the ring of the doorbell can 
 easily be heard, and keep away from windows opening 
 on a busy street. On the positive side one of the 
 greatest helps to concentration is saturation in your 
 subject or, if the subject itself is dry, in the aim toward 
 which you are working. If the boy who failed to begin 
 work had called up before himself in all its vividness 
 the joy and interest of college life and the ignominy 
 of failure, his attention would have turned irresistibly 
 toward his work. One great difficulty in beginning 
 is parallel to that which we feel in talking with a 
 stranger. Our minds are remote and full of other 
 sympathies and do not welcome the alien. But when 
 
The Use of Time 335 
 
 we picture the significance of our work it ceases to 
 feel alien and we greet it as a friend. 
 
 Two other practical hints I have found of use. 
 
 ( I ) If you always find difficulty in beginning, leave 
 your work the day before with its hardest points so far 
 mastered that there will be an easy and therefore an 
 I alluring bit on which to start in the morning. 
 j (2) If you find yourself dull and listless in begin- 
 ning work so that your mind wanders constantly or the 
 work is so poorly done that it all has to be done over 
 and the big stitches picked out, it is often a help to 
 wake yourself up by what one of my friends calls 
 a " Shakspere cocktail," that is by reading a bit of 
 Shakspere, or of any literature that most rouses and 
 stimulates you. Those whom literature does not 
 quickly rouse may find an equivalent stimulus in five 
 minutes' exercise with the windows open, or in a 
 short discussion of the subject in hand with a friend. 
 
 After we have learned how to begin we have won a 
 critical part of the battle, but not all of it. In almost 
 any new work there is an easy piece at the beginning 
 into which we rush with the zest of a fresh experience. 
 Then comes a long uphill pull, and it is only after many 
 discouragements that we get our second wind and 
 exult in the steep places more than in the easy grades. 
 It is during the first uphill stretch that we need to 
 know how to keep on. It may be that what we need 
 is a short change, a brisk walk, or a different occupa- 
 tion for a time, but in the main the directions are like 
 those for the beginning. What really holds us to our 
 task is either the habit of work learned through many 
 
336 Everyday Ethics 
 
 days of practice, or it is the vivid realisation of what 
 it is which makes the hard work well worth while. 
 As I look back to what has seemed drudgery in work, 
 I remember it most strongly in work whose meaning 
 I did not appreciate. If my teachers had succeeded 
 in making me see and feel why I was studying French 
 or history, or that the study called " literature " was 
 of the same nature as the stories I loved to read, I 
 could have gone at it with renewed zeal. It is always 
 by recalling why we are working that we can make 
 ourselves really want the means because we want 
 the end. 
 
 I have said that the secret of saving time is to have 
 an interest and to hold to it, and that we hold to it most 
 loyally by realising it as if it were a star by which 
 we were steering. The star grows dim when the 
 fog of forgetfulness obscures it, but if we have once 
 clearly seen what our work means in its full outcome 
 and income, we can drive away any fog by the warmth 
 of memory. Phillips Brooks said that even though the 
 day labourer could dig a ditch to earn a dollar a day, 
 he would dig it better if he realised that he was digging 
 it for the great thirsty city; the stupidest work can 
 be quicker and better done if it is seen as part of the 
 making of a home. The home of everyone is in his 
 strongest interest, whatever that may be, and it is by 
 drawing that interest into the full light of day that 
 he will hold himself to his best work. 
 
 4. How to end. 
 
 It is by the same outlook at the significance of our 
 work that we learn when to put it aside. There comes 
 
The Use of Time 337 
 
 a time in any occupation when we begin to put more 
 and more energy into what we accomplish and get 
 smaller and smaller returns. Unless we are held by 
 some pressing contract this is the time to end and 
 to end decisively. To use time well we must learn 
 to distinguish this point from the protestations of 
 our laziness, and when we reach it to cut work short 
 with a good clean stroke. The inertia which made 
 it hard to start will often make it hard to stop when 
 the machine has begun to turn; in both cases we 
 can save time by withdrawal from the immediate 
 occupation and by recollection of what it is we are 
 trying to accomplish in the long run. It is the fresh 
 view, the orderly view, the clear view of our work 
 from such a distance as will let us see it as a whole, 
 which will help us to begin, to keep on, and to end well. 
 
 IV 
 
 In discussing the use of time we are of course deal> 
 ing with all moral questions, since, as I said, time is 
 the material out of which life can be moulded. The 
 need of a whole-hearted interest, and of loyalty and 
 open-mindedness in the service of that interest, is the 
 motive of every chapter in this book. 
 
 As all roads lead to Rome because it is the capital 
 city of the nation, so the journey of any successful 
 and efficient life is guided by signposts pointing always 
 to the goal of its purpose. How can we save time? 
 Only by having a warm controlling interest to which 
 we are loyal. Without such an interest we are tossed 
 
338 Everyday Ethics 
 
 about like drifting seaweed; with it we climb higher 
 and higher, building, like the coral insects, a structure 
 of beauty and strength out of our lives. It is the 
 glow and zest of our aim which makes us ourselves; 
 without it we are like passing shadows on a wail, the 
 reflection of the people about us. Our living interest 
 makes us value time as the opportunity to express that 
 interest. 
 
 Virtues are simply the necessary means to the ful- 
 filment of any aim. In these days of secure protection 
 by police and fire departments, it might seem as though 
 there were little need of courage, but just as soon as I 
 decide to play baseball or to win a prize at school I 
 have got to show courage in all its forms. I must have 
 the courage to take criticism, the courage to stick to 
 my work, the courage to refuse distractions, the cour- 
 age to attack a new task that looks impossible, the 
 courage to meet possible failure in the right spirit, the 
 courage to take responsibility. To use time well we 
 need all the virtues. To use it in work we need im- 
 agination and courage to begin, memory to keep on, 
 truthfulness and open-mindedness to stop, disinterest- 
 edness to choose our work. In proportion as my in- 
 terest is strong and growing I shall require more 
 courage of myself, more patience, more devotion, more 
 open-mindedness and truth. 
 
 This is why we see the finest characters among those 
 children who are devoted to a baby sister; this is 
 why the boy who is absorbed in clay modeling de- 
 velops truthfulness, sympathy and self-control. He 
 knows that in order to use his time in the swiftest 
 
The Use of Time 339 
 
 furtherance of his aim he must have these virtues. 
 In old times people were told to cultivate the virtues 
 for their own sake. You might as well expect flowers 
 to grow when cut off from their roots. Virtues grow 
 from the root of interest and flower in the strong 
 sunlight of love. 
 
TEACHERS' KEY 
 
TEACHERS' KEY 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 The teacher of ethics has an incomparable opportunity tc 
 arouse interest in his subject, because moral questions have 
 already been eagerly discussed by his pupils out of school. 
 Girls and boys of thirteen to eighteen rarely read history 
 or study mathematics of their own accord or apart from 
 any lesson, but there is no one who has not to some ex- 
 tent been roused by questions of right and wrong. If we are 
 to make vivid to children the granting of the Mag^a Charta, 
 we have to lift them by our enthusiasm to places largely 
 undreamed of by them; but when we discuss fair play or 
 honour, their own experience comes instantly to the fore. 
 I My aim in this book is to take up the living issues already 
 present to girls and boys of thirteen to eighteen, and to work 
 out thoroughly the problems which they themselves have 
 begun to feel and discuss but which they rarely carry far. I 
 wish to connect these questions with aspects of their lives 
 other than those of school, — with athletics, with society, with 
 any kind of art which appeals to them or any story they may 
 ,be reading, and above all with any striking event which may 
 have interested them. At the outset the teacher of ethics 
 carefully culls and dangles before the pupil's eyes problems 
 which he knows by experience will make their mouths water, 
 but by the end of the term he will know that he has failed un- 
 less they are bringing problems to him and enriching his ma- 
 terial in every lesson. I think the teacher of ethics has not 
 Mjeen successful unless the outlook of the students has mark- 
 edly widened, so that their interest in local and national 
 politics, and their study of history and literature shine with 
 light reflected frpm the class discussions, 
 
344 Everyday Ethics 
 
 There is, so far as I know, no systematic book on ethics 
 written for students of thirteen to eighteen, and written with 
 the point of view of giving increasingly solid food to inter- 
 ests already hungry. There are books for younger chil- 
 dren, but many of them are tinged with a sentimentalism 
 which makes healthy children reject them; there are many 
 sugar-coated moral stories, often good, but unsystematic, and 
 so not developing thoughtfulness. Finally there are many 
 , technical books on ethics designed, primarily, for college 
 students, and unintelligible to school boys and girls. 
 
 This book is based on a ten years' experience in teaching 
 ethics which has led me to reject much I once thought val- 
 uable, and to add more and more from the treasure-house of 
 biography and literature. There the most indelible moral 
 lessons are found, — ^lessons which are the better assimilated 
 because they are not crammed down, but drunk in for their 
 own sake. 
 
 I have left out many subjects ordinarily discussed in eth- 
 ical text-books. No one under twenty who is not precocious 
 or morbid is interested in the discussion of free will ; it is as- 
 sumed as instinctively as free breathing. No one brought 
 up in a healthy society seriously maintains as true the doc 
 trine of egoistic hedonism, however much at times he may 
 act on it. The great Kantian doctrine of the good will a? 
 the only good, is equally unappealing to active boys and girls. 
 Hence I have touched but little the questions of ethical j 
 motive, of pleasure-seeking, and of freedom. 
 
 I want this book to be a cluster of glowing experiences, ' 
 fresh with their own meaning; therefore I have kept refer- 
 ences to authors out of the text and have given in the Teach- 
 ers' Key references not only to books on ethics, but to books 
 of general literature which, because alive, are full of moral 
 significance. 
 
 Essential to my plan is the method of teaching by questions 
 which are answered by the pupils before a subject is dis- 
 cussed in class. Definite questions are magnets attracting 
 interest, and those who have distinctly committed theiri- 
 
Introduction 345 
 
 selves by written answers on any subject, bring to the lesson 
 a keen intelligence, most stimulating to all the members of the 
 class and to the teacher. The questions cling to the students 
 like winged seeds during the days in which they are ponder- 
 ing them, and often attach themselves in unexpected quarters 
 of the school or home. Each -teacher should, of course, 
 evolve new questions as fast as new events and new interests 
 touch the community, but the best type of questions will, I 
 believe, have the following characteristics: 
 
 1. They will be closely connected with interests already 
 formed by the pupils. 
 
 2. They will lead them into new experience. 
 
 3. They will be based largely on concrete examples. 
 
 4. In so far as they are historical they will make vivid 
 when discussed, some important character or issue. 
 
 5. They will never be answerable by a simple yes or no,— 
 reasons will always be called for. 
 
 6. They will be so framed that differences of opinion about 
 them will naturally arise. Such discussion will lead the class 
 to a reconstruction of opinion from a larger outlook. 
 
 7. They will be progressively harder as the year goes on, 
 and will demand more and more that the students themselves 
 shall supply the illustrations. 
 
 More and more the pupils should do the work as they grow 
 alert in the desire to find out the truth, and to convince one 
 another and their teacher. The teacher should as soon as 
 possible become merely a steersman in uncertain waters, a 
 leader who in the end points out the one harbour to which 
 many inlets lead. While stating clearly his own view he 
 should avoid dogmatism, and as the lessons advance he should 
 bring up again from another side any question over which 
 the pupils have formerly differed. 
 
 I am quite aware that what I have called lessons in ethics 
 might rather be called lessons in thinking. The study of 
 ethics is essentially the effort to think out problems of con- 
 duct as sensibly, as fairly, and in as broad and sympathetic 
 a way as we can. I suppose that such a study never directly 
 
346 Everyday Ethics 
 
 helps to make us " good," yet it should be one of the strong 
 influences for good, if through it we become more capable of 
 thinking passionately on burning questions without preju- 
 dice, of thinking with warm sympathy about what only dis- 
 tantly touches us, and of thinking straight in spite of the 
 tortuous temptations of sophistry. Such thinking will be 
 still further an influence for good if through it we are led 
 to close acquaintance with the experience of struggle and 
 conquest, of failure, temptation, and life-giving service met 
 by our fellow workers and our predecessors along the path 
 of experience, so that the sound of their voices rings in our 
 ears, their victory our spur, their self-surrender our trum- 
 pet-call. 
 
 Yet even here we do not reach the profoundest influence of 
 ethical study which ought to help us to find how and where 
 to take our place in the ranks. It is at this goal that my plan 
 aims. There is little about duty in this book because that 
 word has been held so far from direct contact with everyday 
 experience that it has lost its piercing quality except in the 
 military realm where the soldier or the nurse knows that to 
 be " on duty " is to be utterly loyal to your chosen task 
 wherever it may lead you. 
 
 My central ethical doctrine is that he who has found the 
 vocation for which he is fitted has found his duty, and that 
 without some inkling of a chosen work duty is meaningless. 
 Out of loyalty to our chosen work springs all moral life, for 
 an enduring interest is a master who leads us to a joyous 
 self-expression and for that very reason to self-sacrifice, self- 
 forgetfulness, and self-surrender. 
 
METHODS OF TEACHING 
 
 The aim of these discussions on ethics is to train the 
 
 pupils in fair and thorough thinking, to clear their views of 
 
 I right and wrong, to enlarge their experience, and to in- 
 
 ' crease their power of sympathetic and considerate judgment 
 
 hy helping them to know those who have been loyal to their 
 
 convictions. I have found that this is best accomplished by 
 
 'a series of questions which are answered in writing and the 
 
 "answers handed in before each subject is discussed in class. 
 
 The special questions here given have all been tested by 
 use in a number of classes. Many have been omitted or 
 changed because I have found them ineffective and unstimu- 
 lating, and I hope that all who use this book will supply new 
 questions especially adapted to the students whom they teach. 
 No question whose answer is obvious (for example the 
 question: "Is it wrong to cheat?") can possibly be inter- 
 esting, and I have found that the best and most helpful dis- 
 cussions always arise over questions on which the pupils 
 differ (for example, the question: "Is truthfulness always 
 compatible with courtesy?"). 
 
 Healthy-minded students are apt to shy away from ques- 
 tions of pointedly personal application (for example, the 
 question : " Is it polite to meet a teacher without saying 
 'good-morning?'"), and such moral lessons are best taught 
 indirectly or by contagion. Many of my questions are wide- 
 reaching rather than confined to the daily life of the students : , 
 first, because I want to enforce the truth that the principles 
 of ethics are universal, and, second, because directly personal 
 applications are better brought up through class discussion 
 than by written answers. In my early experience in teach- 
 ing I often made my questions too abstract. I found for 
 example that when I asked for the meaning of Milton's line, 
 "They also serve who only stand and wait," the answers 
 
 347 
 
348 Everyday Ethics 
 
 frequently showed entire lack of comprehension, though the 
 question : " In what ways can an invalid be of real use in 
 the world ? " would be well answered. 
 My questions have been planned: 
 
 1. To cover without repetition the main issues of the com- 
 ing topic of discussion. 
 
 2. To bear on real experience. 
 
 3. To call out interests already possessed by the pupil but 
 not fully thought out. 
 
 4. To strike the narrow line between too great difficulty 
 and condescension. 
 
 5. To develop the power of reasoning and to awaken imag- 
 ination and sympathy. 
 
 .6. To bring out systematically the principles of ethics. 
 
 The written answers to each set of questions have in my 
 experience varied in length from two foolscap pages to nine- 
 teen. A strict application of the rule that no question is to 
 be answered merely by yes or no, prevents verj meagre 
 answers, and if the subject is well-taught the papers will be- 
 come longer as the pupil realises and holds together the 
 different aspects of moral life. 
 
 I have found it wise to let the students discuss the ques- 
 tions freely at home or with any friend, provided that each 
 pupil writes his answers by himself. Free discussion of the 
 questions out of school greatly increases the pupils' interest 
 and stimulates their thought; any copying of ideas is so 
 easily detected and makes the paper so weak that I have only ^ 
 once known it done. 
 
 The answers to questions should be handed in two days 
 before the lesson in order that the teacher may have time to 
 correct, compare and mark them. This method enables him 
 to know before speaking on any topic just what each pupil 
 thinks about it, so that he can ask him to elaborate or exem- 
 plify his views, can contrast the differing opinions in the 
 class, and can show their strength or weakness. 
 
 Discussion in class is apt to be so animated that it has to 
 be guided in order to keep it from wandering from the sub- 
 
Methods of Teaching 349 
 
 Ject in hand. THe summaries and definitions which are to 
 be written down by the class when any important point is 
 brought out in each lesson, will serve to draw the wanderers 
 back to the central issue. 
 
 The teacher of ethics ought always to work with a black- 
 board at hand. On this should be written the varying opin- 
 ions of the pupils as they are brought out in class, so that 
 these opinions can be compared and their strong and weak 
 points made evident. On it one can draw diagrams to illus- 
 trate graphically the more important points, and on it should 
 be written definitions and sentences of compressed sugges' 
 tiveness which are to be copied and memorised. 
 
 A number of examination papers have been added to the 
 set of questions ; by the answers to these examinations I test 
 the success of my teaching. Satisfactorily to answer these 
 examinations the student must have understood his notes 
 and have followed the development of the course. An exami- 
 nation should be given at least once in two months, and each 
 pupil should prepare for it by a review of his notes and 
 written papers. In marking the weekly questions I estimate 
 the vigour, originality and thoroughness of the discussion, 
 not the fact that the pupil's opinion agrees or does not agree 
 with mine. As the examinations are reviews, I mark them 
 high when the student has understood and mastered what 
 he has been taught and can defend his own opinion about it, 
 
 I find that almost all the students desire to preserve 
 their questions, notes and compositions. To do this in the 
 most satisfactory way, punched thesis paper should be used, 
 and the questions on each subject should precede the answers, 
 and be followed by notes given in class by the teacher. The 
 whole can then be put into a cover and will stand for the 
 pupil's own book on ethics. 
 
 Many of the sets of questions are headed by a reference 
 to passages in literature which furnish suggestion and 
 stimulus rather than a direct answer to any question. These 
 references aim to give the pupil a taste of nourishing think- 
 ing and to whet his appetite for more. 
 
350 Everyday Ethics 
 
 If any class in a school is reading Shakspere or is 
 familiar with such writers as George Eliot, Browning or 
 Lowell, new and helpful illustrations of ethical principles 
 can be drawn from these sources. As a further means of 
 keeping the study in close touch with life the teacher should 
 aim to show that great men like Socrates, Darwin, Lincoln, 
 and Parkman have lived out the principles that he and his 
 pupils struggle to discuss. 
 
 In case the class or teacher is unable to give the time to 
 writing and correcting written work, it is possible to use 
 these same questions without written preparation, but the 
 opinions will be far more crude and the gain proportionally 
 much less. In some cases the answers can take the place of 
 English composition and will be found especially valuable as 
 a test of power, because forensic writing is more difficult as 
 well as more important than the making of abstracts or 
 descriptions. In my own teaching I have given 40 or 60 
 minutes to each exercise. If a shorter time is all that can 
 be had, some of the questions can be omitted or the topic 
 subdivided. 
 
 I should be glad to answer any further questions as to the 
 methods of teaching, and to receive any suggestions from the 
 experience of those who use this book. 
 
 190 Maklborouch Sikeei, Boston, Mass. 
 
SUBJECT I 
 THE MEANING OF ETHICS 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Give an example of a question of right and wrong. 
 
 2. Does it require any goodness to play football well? Can 
 a boy play football hard and persistently without gaining any 
 virtues ? 
 
 3. "Mary is such a satisfactory child. She sits quiet for 
 hours and always does exactly what she is told without 
 asking why." Does such a person seem to you good? Why 
 or why not? 
 
 4. What qualities does anyone need in order to lead an 
 orchestra, or to succeed in politics? 
 
 5. Henry is trying to decide whether he ought to go to 
 college or not. He is talented but poor, his father has died 
 and his mother is not strong. What ought he to consider 
 before deciding? Why? 
 
 6. It is a wet day and I wake up with a sore throat. My 
 mother and father are away from home. I wonder whether 
 I ought to go to school. What attitude of mind do I need 
 in order to make a right decision? 
 
 7. Is one more apt to be virtuous when he is doing what 
 he likes or when he is doing what he dislikes? Give an 
 example. 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The main points to be brought out in this first chapter 
 are: 
 
 I. The live and appealing character of ethics, which 
 springs from the fact that already we all are engrossed in 
 
 351 
 
352 
 
 Everyday Ethics 
 
 moral questions. This can be illustrated by the answers to 
 question i. 
 
 2. That in studying ethics we think carefully and 
 thoroughly about what to do and how to do it. 
 
 3. That the laws of ethics apply to everyone who is try- 
 ing to accomplish anything whatsoever. This is illustrated 
 by question 2. 
 
 4. That there is a right and wrong about every subject. 
 This is illustrated by the diagram of the centralness of 
 ethics which should be drawn on the blackboard. 
 
 g. That goodness means active loyalty to our interests and 
 that no one can be successful without having moral qualities. 
 This is to be brought out by questions 3, 4, and 7. 
 
 6. That ethics can help us to think straight, sympathet- 
 ically and thoroughly. This is brought out by questions 5 
 and 6. 
 
 Make the class, one by one, name the moral qualities that 
 
The Meaning of Ethics 353 
 
 are needed to play football or to learn to play the violin well. 
 Write these lists on the blackboard and show how the same 
 virtues are needed in very different pursuits. 
 
 Ask the members of the class to notice before the next 
 lesson how often they hear the words, " right," " wrong," 
 •ought," "good," "wicked," used. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 1. 'A man sets out to be a scientist and explorer ; show that 
 his choice of a hot or cold climate, of hunting or navigation, 
 of anthropology or ethnology must depend on his fitness and 
 the opportunity. 
 
 2. A girl wants to become a musician. Her choice be- 
 tween violin, 'cello, singing, or piano is determined by her 
 own capacities and by the opportunities and needs about 
 her. 
 
 3. A woman wishes to make it her life work to help the 
 poor. She must know the best and most fruitful sphere 
 of helpfulness and her own talent (for example her love of 
 children, her efficiency in running clubs.) 
 
 4. Take examples from your own experience or that of 
 the class to show how any work eagerly followed leads to 
 virtue. Show the moral qualities needed in nursing or in 
 guiding an electric car through crowded streets. 
 
 5. To show the value of the study of ethics in relation to 
 living, which involves constant moral decisions, compare the 
 need of studying ethics with the need of examining an auto-| 
 mobile before you buy it, or seeing whether a sample of 
 cloth will wash before making up a dress. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Ethics is the study of right choosing and well doing, of 
 how to do the right thing in the right way. 
 
 Everyone who acts consciously is concerned with ethics, 
 and therefore it is of interest to everyone. 
 
2^4^ Everyday Ethics 
 
 In any moral choice we need to consider (a) our oppor- 
 tunity and (6) our fitness. 
 
 To carry out any plan we need (a) instruction or the 
 observation of others, and (&) practice. 
 
 Success in anything whatsoever depends on our having or 
 acquiring virtues. To be good is to be absolutely loyal to 
 the interest that is most yourself. 
 
 Ethics helps us : — 
 
 (a) To think straight and not deceive ourselves. 
 
 (b) To think clearly and not lose our heads. 
 
 ,(c) To think sympathetically on many sides of a question. 
 
SUBJECT II 
 
 THE MORAL AND THE INVOLUNTARY 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Prof. Huxley says (Lay Sermons, p. 340) : " I pro- 
 test that if some great power would agree to make me always 
 think what is true and do what is right on condition of being 
 turned into a sort of clock and wound up every morning 
 before I got out of bed, I should instantly close with the 
 offer and should be a better and happier man." Why should 
 you not want to be so made? 
 
 2. A sleepwalker gets up one night and going downstairs 
 with a candle sets the lace curtains on fire and the house 
 burns down. Is she in any way responsible? 
 
 3. A poor woman has fallen on the slippery sidewalk. I 
 see that she has hurt herself badly and needs to go at once 
 to the hospital. My friend's carriage is at the door ready 
 to take her for a pleasure drive. I lift the injured woman 
 into it and drive to the hospital. Am I responsible for taking 
 the carriage? Am I blameworthy? What is the difference 
 between being responsible and being blameworthy? 
 
 4. When Maggie Tulliver (in "The Mill on the Floss") 
 forgot about feeding her brother Tom's rabbits and they 
 starved, was she morally responsible or not? 
 
 5. A girl who cares intensely for music sits down to 
 practise " Lohengrin " for an hour. She becomes so ab- 
 sorbed in it that she forgets everything else and when bed- 
 time comes her lessons are unlearned. Is she to blame or; 
 not? If you were her school teacher, what questions 
 should you ask her in order to find out whether she could 
 have helped it? 
 
 6. A violent-tempered woman lets a cruel taunt escape her 
 in a sudden fit of overpowering anger. Can you be sure that 
 8^he is responsible? On what facts would- it dependB 
 
 355 
 
3^6 Everyday Ethics 
 
 7. A government official is sent to the Yosemite with a 
 large sum of money in his charge. As the coach rounds a 
 corner two highwaymen spring out and shout : " Hands 
 up ! " Up go the official's hands automatically and while one 
 bandit covers him with a pistol the other proceeds to rob 
 him. What further facts would you need in order to decide 
 whether he could have controlled his acts? 
 
 8. Read " Romeo and Juliet," Act V, Scene I, and say 
 whether you think the apothecary was responsible for selling 
 the poison. " My poverty but not my will consents," he said. 
 Are we responsible for what we do against our wills ? 
 
 9. A boy is firing off cannon crackers on the Fourth of 
 July, and having found that a small cracker when exploded 
 under a tin can makes a magnificent noise, he tries it with 
 a large cracker and the result is a bad injury to his sister. Is 
 the boy responsible? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The principal point on which to insist in this chapter is 
 the distinction between voluntary and involuntary acts, for 
 ethics is concerned only with acts which are chosen. This 
 distinction is clearly implied in questions i and 2, but it is 
 necessary to make sure that it is held to throughout every 
 answer. There will be a tendency among the students to 
 decide whether a person is guilty rather than whether he is 
 responsible, and they must be made to see that an act may 
 be harmful without being in the least sinful (Question 2), 
 and also that a person may be responsible and at the same 
 time right in his act (Question 3). This boundary between 
 responsible and non-responsible acts is graphically marked 
 out by the diagrams on page 357. 
 
 Many acts lie near the border line between the voluntary 
 and the involuntary. Forgetfulness, sudden anger, f^ar, may 
 Cause involuntary acts. Such cases are given in questions 
 4, 5, 6, and 7. 
 
The Moral and the Involuntary 357 
 
 Our responsibility in such cases is to guard against any 
 harm we are likely to do when we become irresponsible. 
 
 That we are responsible for any chosen act, whether or 
 not it is repugnant to us, is implied in question 8. 
 
 NQNMORALr 
 I MO=SAL ) 
 
 I SINFUL VIRTUOUS / 
 
 ^ Any act if moral (i. e. either right or wrong), falls within the inner 
 circle. Professor Huxley's choice of an automatic life wipes out moral 
 life. Illustrate on the blackboard by erasing the inner circle. 
 
 Sleep, as clearly s non-moral 
 condition. 
 
 [. Forgetfulness, as a borderline 
 case and therefore bard to 
 judge. 
 
 Diagram to illustrate the difficulty of judging acts close to borderline 
 between the voluntary and the involuntary. 
 
 Question 9 will give an opportunity to show that we are 
 responsible for the results of our ignorance whenever we are 
 
358 Everyday Ethics 
 
 at all aware of the danger of such ignorance, and have any 
 power to overcome it. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 (a) Of non-moral conduct. 
 
 1. A baby who keeps its tired mother awake all night by 
 fretting is neither good nor bad. 
 
 2. If an apothecary wrongly marks a box of powders and 
 the nurse, following -the directions, gives an overdose of 
 medicine, she is not responsible no matter what are the 
 results. 
 
 (6)0/ the need of preparation for becoming non-responsible. 
 
 1. If a boy knows that certain comrades irritate him so 
 that he loses his temper, the facing of this fact before he 
 meets them will keep him from discussion or lead him to 
 avoid their society. 
 
 2. A girl is easily absorbed in novel reading. If she has 
 charge of a child she must put the child in absolute safety 
 before beginning to read. 
 
 3. Was King Alfred responsible for letting the cakes 
 burn? 
 
 4. A man who has been in violent mobs knows that he is 
 apt to be carried away by the feeling of the crowd and to do 
 things which he greatly regrets. He is responsible for let- 
 ting himself join any mob. 
 
 5. A girl promises not to tell of her friend's engagement, 
 but forgets and reveals it. Is she morally responsible? 
 (c) Of the relation of habit to involuntary action. 
 
 Use illustrations from the chapter on Habit in Professor 
 William James's " Psychology." 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 If we were made to act the right mechanically, we should 
 not be ourselves, for it is moral life that makes us ourselves 
 and moral life is the life of choice. , 
 
The Moral and the Involuntary 359 
 
 Before judging whether any act is praiseworthy or blame- 
 worthy, we need to know whether it was involuntary. 
 
 No unconscious or involuntary acts are either virtuous 
 or sinful. We are, however, responsible for preparing to be- 
 come irresponsible, and we are responsible whenever we 
 have a moment's glimpse of a better or worse choice. We 
 are responsible when we act against our better judgment, 
 but not when physically or mentally powerless. 
 
 The difficulty, in many cases, of judging whether anyone 
 is responsible or not should teach us to be charitable. 
 
SUBJECT III 
 
 THE POWER OF A PURPOSE 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. "I wish something would turn up so that I might go 
 to New York to hear the opera," said the first man. " I 
 have decided to go to New York to hear the opera," said 
 the second. In what ways does the first man's state of mind 
 differ from that of the second man? 
 
 2. If you have set your heart on owning a watch which 
 costs fifty dollars and have no way of borrowing the money, 
 what will such a purpose make you do and what will it 
 prevent you from doing? 
 
 3. Do you know anyone who has no purpose in life? If 
 so, describe one day in the life of such a person and the 
 difference between such a day and that of anyone who has 
 a definite aim. 
 
 4. If you have to decide whether to spend a winter in 
 Europe or to stay at home and take a year's study in college, 
 what should you consider in order to make up your mind? 
 
 5. Read Tennyson's poem, " The Lotus Eaters." Do the 
 sailors here described seem to you to be morally responsible ? 
 Why or why not? 
 
 6. " School is over, all my work is done and my family 
 do not need me. Is it either right or wrong for me to loaf 
 all the morning ? " 
 
 7. Read Spencer's " Data of Ethics," Chap, i. Sec. 2. Do 
 you agree with Spencer that there are some chosen acts 
 with which morality is not concerned? If so, give an ex- 
 ample of one. 
 
 8. (a) If a scientific man tried to invent and build a 
 perfect bird's nest, would he at first succeed better or wor?e 
 
 369 
 
The Power of a Purpose 361 
 
 than the birds do? Would he succeed better or worse after 
 a trial of five years and why? 
 
 (b) Give two examples of work done by men of which 
 animals are incapable. 
 
 NOTES 
 
 In the last chapter we showed that where anyone acts 
 J involuntarily, or in unavoidable ignorance, he is not re- 
 sponsible. In this chapter we want to show that the key of 
 moral life is purpose and to make it very clear what a pur- 
 pose is and does. 
 
 To show what a purpose is we distinguish it from a fact, a 
 wish, a vague idea, or an instinct, and by this analysis prove 
 that it includes thought, will and foresight. (Question i.) 
 
 To show what a purpose does, we use the illustration of , 
 making up your mind, of the effort to earn money or to 
 learn swimming. (Question 2.) 
 
 Through the illustration of the Lotus eaters we show 
 that it is only when one has a purpose that any act becomes 
 right or wrong for him. We must make it clear that many 
 people have purposes of which they are only dimly aware. 
 (Questions 3, 5 and 6.) 
 
 Next we need to explain that though ethics is concerned 
 with all conscious acts, we ought to spend much thought 
 only on what nearly or deeply concerns our purpose. 
 (Question 7.) 
 
 Finally we must bring out the organic relation between 
 purpose and progress. (Question 8.) 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 1. " Surely it was because you did not know how late it 
 was that you sat up." " No, I did it on purpose." 
 
 This answer does not tell us whether the child was right 
 or wrong, but it does tell us that he was responsible. 
 
 2. If a boy agrees to play football, it becomes wrong for 
 
362 
 
 Everyday Ethics 
 
 him to stop in the middle of the game because he is being 
 defeated, or because he suddenly wishes to play marbles. 
 
 Show by the diagram how the Lotus eaters have drifted out 
 of the sphere of moral distinctions into the wider and less 
 human area of the non-moral. 
 
 \^m Lotus-eater en first reaching 
 ** the island. 
 
 .Lotus-eater after taking Iotu& 
 
 II. 
 
 Show by the diagram how the dotted path of the purpose- 
 less A differs from the straight path of B, who goes to buy 
 shoes. 
 
 
 
 
 CANDY SHOP 
 
 
 
 
 Iprieno-b HouaEJ 
 
 
 
 
 * \ 
 
 y 
 
 V 
 
 SHOE 
 STORE 
 
 NOME 
 
 B 
 
 
 -- "--\ 
 
 J 
 
 
 
 1 1 
 
 Bu«mr-Gui»» 
 
 A 
 
 '" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 6H0P WINDOW 
 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 To enter moral life we must have some purpose, great or 
 small. Without an^ aim we are neither goo4 nor sijiful. 
 
The Power of a Purpose 363 
 
 As soon as we have any purpose some acts become wrong 
 and others right for us. 
 
 Morality is concerned with all conscious acts, for when- 
 ever an act is chosen we are responsible for it. 
 
 Moral life is the life in which we carry out our purposes ; 
 this requires foresight, sympathy, and will. 
 
 No decision can rightly be made without a knowledge of 
 our deepest interest and purpose. 
 
 It is immoral to think long on unimportant or briefly on 
 important subjects; "important" means closely related to 
 our purpose. 
 
SUBJECT IV 
 GOODNESS AND BADNESS 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 Read A. P. Peabody's " Moral Philosophy," pp. 28 to 31. 
 
 1. If you were showing an automobile to someone who 
 had never seen one before and he asked, "What is the dif- 
 ference between a good and a bad automobile ? " what should 
 you answer? What is the difference between a good poem 
 and a bad poem, a good horse and a bad horse? Is there 
 any characteristic common to all good things? 
 
 2. " Oh, what a bad day ! " exclaims the tennis player as 
 he sees the rain. " What an excellent day for my crops," 
 exclaims the farmer. What is it that makes these two 
 people think of the same event as good and as bad? 
 
 3. Why is it not a good use of a volume of Shakspere 
 to kindle a fire with its pages ? 
 
 4. Give an example of anything that is absolutely good 
 for nothing and always will be. 
 
 5. St. Gaudens, the sculptor, excels in making statues, 
 Delmonico's French cook excels in making pastry. If each 
 one of them was forced to do the other's work instead of 
 his own, do you think it would be good or bad for the 
 character of each? Why? 
 
 6. In Italy one often sees worAen harnessed to carts and 
 serving the purpose of horses. If it does not injure their 
 health, have we any reason to feel that such a use of women 
 is bad? Why or why not? 
 
 7. "Don't wear your best suit so often, you will wear it 
 out." " If you do not use your mind at all you soon will 
 not have any left." What differences between the nature 
 of things and of human beings do these remarks suggest? 
 
 a64 
 
Goodness and Badness 365 
 
 8. It is frequently said that the negroes before the war 
 were happier than they are now. If this is so, is their free- 
 dom a misfortune or a gain, and why? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The object of this chapter is (o) to bring out the likeness 
 and the difference between the goodness of things and the 
 goodness of man, and (6) to show that the good life is simply 
 the richest and most characteristic life that each one of us can 
 live. The good life for each person differs because each 
 person is different, but goodness in every case means fitness 
 for the purpose in mind. This is brought out in questions 
 I, 2, and 3. 
 
 Questions 3 and 5 show that though things or people may 
 be used for many purposes, the best purpose is that for which 
 they are meant. 
 
 Question 4 brings out the point that the varied possibilities 
 of goodness in anything forbid our being sure that any ob- 
 ject is useless. 
 
 Question 7 shows that while things wear out with use, 
 man's mind and character strengthen. 
 
 Questions 6 and 8 are meant to show that while things 
 serve the ends of others, man should serve his own ends. 
 
 For additional illustrations and suggestions read the 
 chapter on " Goodness " in George H. Palmer's " Nature of, 
 Goodness." 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Things are good when they are fitted for the purpose for 
 which they were meant. 
 
 If we do not know the purpose of anything, we cannot 
 tell whether it is good or bad. 
 
 If a thing has no purpose, it is neither good nor bad, ex- 
 cept as it interferes with other purposes. It is characteristic 
 
366 Everyday Ethics 
 
 of man to find purposes for what before was considered 
 useless. 
 
 The good man is he who is pre-eminently human, that is, 
 who is fitted for the purpose of manhood. 
 
 Things serve the purpose of man, and man serves his own 
 purpose. 
 
 Things wear out with use, but character grows stronger. 
 
SUBJECT V 
 
 RIGHT AND WRONG JUDGMENTS 
 
 Read "Ethical Religion," by Wm. Salter, pp. 94-101. 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. A highly educated Chinese mandarin, who taught at 
 Harvard College some years ago, aroused much indignation 
 among Cambridge people because he tied up and pressed 
 his infant daughter's feet so that they should not grow. 
 Was he cruel ? 
 
 2. Is laziness ever right? Is cowardice ever right? 
 ''That soldier turned and ran during the battle of Gettys- 
 burg. Wasn't he a coward ? " " See that woman ! She has 
 sat with her arms folded all day. How lazy she is ! " Are 
 these fair judgments, and why? 
 
 3. Kindness is always a virtue. " My mother is the kind- 
 est person in the world. She gives me everything I ask." 
 Why is this false reasoning? 
 
 4. A child of ten is given three dollars and is told that 
 this must supply all her wants for a month. Her shoes are 
 worn out and she at first means to spend the money on a 
 new pair, but she sees in a shop window a large and 
 beautiful purple vase and in an instant changes her mind 
 and buys the vase. Was this a bad plan ? Would it always 
 
 I be wrong for anyone who had no good shoes to spend 
 money on beautiful things? 
 
 5. Why was Esau's act in giving up his birthright to 
 Jacob for a mess of pottage a wrong one? 
 
 6. If Hamlet fully decided that he ought to avenge his 
 father by killing Claudius, was it good or sinful of him 
 to delay so long before he did it? 
 
 ^67 
 
368 
 
 Everyday Ethics 
 
 7. Nansen left his wife to earn her living and spent the 
 best years of his life in the almost hopeless search for the 
 North Pole. How can we judge whether he was sinful or 
 virtuous in doing this? 
 
 8. Francis Parkman, who wrote many volumes of Amer- 
 ican history, suffered most of his life from severe neuralgia 
 and weak eyes. What qualities did it require for him to 
 carry out his purpose of writing history? 
 
 Diagram showing the narrow path of right action between stagnation 
 and dissipation. 
 
 NOTES 
 
 Now that we have defined goodness as fitness for your 
 own purpose, and advance in virtue as the process of so 
 fitting yourself, we are ready to learn how to make fair 
 judgments of character. The central points accented in this 
 chapter are: 
 
 I. That we can never judge from the outside. The ap- 
 parently brutal or lazy act may be done with excellent 
 motives and vice-versa. This is brought out by Questions 
 I, 2, and 3. 
 
Right and Wrong Judgments 369 
 
 i. To judge any act as virtuous or sinful we must know 
 the purpose back of it. This is brought out especially in 
 Question 6. 
 
 3. It follows that we can surely judge only ourselves and 
 those whose purposes we know as well as our own. This is 
 brought out in Question 7. 
 
 4. It is always wrong not to hold loyally to a chosen pur- 
 pose until something better is seen. This is brought out in 
 Questions 4, 5, and 6. 
 
 5. Loyalty to any purpose requires memory, imagination, 
 courage, perseverance. This is brought out in Question 8. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 To judge any act as sinful or virtuous, we must know the 
 purpose behind it. We can truly judge only ourselves and 
 those whose purposes we know. 
 
 An act is bad when its consequences are disastrous. 
 
 An act is sinful when the doer knows it to be wrong. 
 
 An act may be harmful without being sinful. 
 
 An act may be sinful without being harmful. 
 
 A purpose is good when it is carefully chosen as the best 
 we can see, and loyally followed until we see something 
 better. 
 
 To be virtuous is to be open-minded, considerate and 
 resolute in the choice and execution of that purpose for 
 which you believe yourself to be most fitted, 
 
 "The man who knows himself, understands his own 
 powers, and pursues his purpose steadily, is the man of 
 success." (Francis Parkman.) 
 
SUBJECT VI 
 THE DARKNESS OF WRONG-DOING 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. I am travelling from New Hampshire to Boston with 
 a large number of bundles and am delighted to secure an 
 extra seat on which to deposit them. Gradually the car fills 
 up and all who pass by look wistfully at my seat. If I con- 
 tinue to keep my parcels on it, by what arguments can I 
 deceive myself into maintaining that this is right? 
 
 2. If you have a strong temptation to avoid going to the 
 dentist's, how can you best force yourself to go ? If you are 
 discouraged about playing golf how can you best help your- 
 self to fresh endeavour? 
 
 3. What are the principal differences between an excuse 
 for tardiness at school and a valid reason for tardiness at 
 school ? 
 
 4. If you knew someone of whom you were very fond, 
 but who cheated in examinations, what would you say to 
 him to make him really prefer not to cheat ? What probably 
 makes him do it? 
 
 5. Susan has an impulsive, adventurous, careless nature, 
 easily aroused to enthusiasm which as easily dies out. Jennie 
 is slow, timid, and indifferent, but gentle, docile, and per- 
 sistent. What faults is each likely to have, and which char- 
 acter gives more promise of improvement? How will Susan 
 be tempted to sin and how will Jennie? How can each 
 strengthen her better self? 
 
 6. In her early days Helen Keller, when thwarted in any 
 way, showed a furious temper which largely disappeared 
 when she learned to understand hand-signs and to read. 
 In this case what became of her temper? 
 
 370 
 
The Darkness of Wrong Doing 371 
 
 7. If a girl has done something she is heartily ashamed 
 of, is it better for her to confess it or conceal it? Why? 
 
 8. Read Robert Louis Stevenson's essay, " Old Mortal- 
 ity " (Memories and Portraits, p. 50-56, author's edition, 
 Scribner, 1887). Was the life of Stevenson's friend a 
 successful one? Was it a good or a bad life? 
 
 9. Is there any case in which cowardice or laziness will 
 help anyone to carry out his purpose? Why, or why not? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The points to be brought out in this chapter are: 
 
 1. That sin always involves self-deception and conversely 
 that conquest over sin means the effort to face clearly our 
 widest outlook. This is illustrated by Questions i, 2, 3 and 4. 
 
 2. That sin is always short-sighted. This is illustrated by 
 Questions 4 and 9. 
 
 3. That sin means power turned in the wrong direction. 
 This is illustrated by Questions 5 and 6. 
 
 4. That when any such power is turned in the right direc- 
 tion we are redeemed. This is illustrated by Questions 7 
 and 8. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Compare the power of wrong-doing, — a power which de- 
 feats our own deepest purposes, with steam that explodes 
 the boiler instead of making the train go forward. Use the 
 same illustration to show that even in a lazy person there is 
 a little steam which through his laziness leaks out, instead 
 of bearing him ahead. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 All sin is unfaithfulness to one's aim. 
 Self-deceit, selfishness, jealousy, cowardice, laziness, in- 
 jure every purpose and therefore are always wrong. 
 
372 Everyday Ethics 
 
 The wrong-doer hides under the cover of self-decfeit and 
 sophistry, for he dreads the light of truth. 
 
 When tempted to do wrong, turn your attention fully and 
 sympathetically on what you are inclined to shove out of 
 sight. 
 
 Sin is power turned in the wrong direction. It is wilful 
 disloyalty to the best you know. 
 
 Where there is power there is hope, for by turning that 
 power in the right direction the wrong-doer can redeem 
 himself. 
 
SUBJECT vn 
 
 THE LIGHT OF CONSCIENCE 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Imagine that you are just elected President of the 
 United States, and want to settle conscientiously the ques- 
 tion whether to give the Filipinos an independent govern- 
 ment or not. How should you go to work to make a 
 
 ' conscientious decision? 
 
 2. Read Plato's " Crito." If Socrates knew that he was 
 innocent and falsely condemned, that he could do great good 
 by living, and that his children needed him, was he right 
 or wrong in refusing to escape from prison, and why? 
 
 3. When the Civil War broke out, General Robert Lee 
 thought it his duty to be loyal to his State, Virginia; Gen- 
 eral Thomas, also a Virginian, thought it his duty to be loyal 
 to the nation. Each followed his conscience. Could both 
 be right, and if so, why? 
 
 4. Ruskin says in the preface to " Sesame and Lilies " that 
 every girl ought to spend part of each day in making 
 clothes for the poor, and adds : " Even if you should be 
 deceived and give them to the dishonest, and hear of their 
 being taken at once to the pawnbroker's, never mind, for 
 the pawnbroker must sell them to someone else who has 
 need of them. That is no concern of yours. What con- 
 cerns you is only that when you see a half-naked child, you 
 should have good and fresh clothes to give it." Why is this 
 plan of Ruskin's not a thoroughly conscientious one? 
 
 5. New Englanders are often told that they are too con- 
 scientious. If conscience is our guiding light, can we have 
 too much of it? What does over-conscientiousness mean? 
 
 6. When ought conscience to be active in our lives? 
 What would be the result of having conscience steadily 
 active ? 
 
 373 
 
374 Everyday Ethics 
 
 7. Are there any cases when conscience is in doubt? Try 
 to think of a case. 
 
 8. Think over your answers to the questions above and 
 say what you mean by conscience. Is it always right? Can 
 it be changed by education? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The aim of this chapter is so to re-define conscience that 
 it shall not be thought of as a mysterious or separate faculty, 
 but as the person himself when he is fully alive and thinking 
 about conduct. As the wrong-doer deliberately turns to the 
 dark, so the conscientious person when in doubt seeks the 
 strongest light. This is brought out in Question I. 
 
 Conscience is the thorough use of thought, of sympathy, 
 and of resolution to get at all the facts we need. This is 
 implied in Questions 2 and 4. 
 
 Two people may make opposite decisions under similar 
 circumstances and yet both be morally right, that is, wholly 
 conscientious. In these cases we need to distinguish the 
 use of right as correct from its use as conscientious. This 
 is brought out in Question 3. 
 
 We may wholly desire to do our best, that is, to act con- 
 scientiously, and yet doubt what is the right act either 
 (a) because we cannot get at the facts of the case, or (&) 
 because we do not clearly know our own aim. This should 
 be brought out in the consideration of the answers to 
 Question 7. 
 
 If conscientiousness is the timely and sensible will to 
 know what is right, we cannot have too much. We need 
 not less but more in order to be thoroughly successful. This 
 answers Questions 5 and 8. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 An example of a thoroughly unconscientious act is found 
 in George Eliot's " Middlemarch." 1 
 
 *Vol. i. p. 290 ff.. Handy Volume Edition. Estes and Lauriat 
 
The Light of Conscience 375 
 
 Notice how Bulstrode avoids thinking and deceives him- 
 self, drifting rather than advancing into acts that lead to 
 RafHes's death. 
 
 Contrast with this the act of Shakspere's Brutus in 
 murdering Caesar; show the eiifort of Brutus to get light, 
 his deep Anxiety, his sleepless nights, and finally, his un- 
 wavering conviction. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Any conscientious decision takes thought, sympathy anc" 
 resolution to get at all the facts. 
 
 To make a conscientious decision, we must know our 
 central purpose and the facts of the case. 
 
 Conscience is the constant will to know what is right, 
 and to do it. 
 
 We cannot be too conscientious, but we can be over- 
 scrupulous. Over-scrupulous people think too long about 
 trifles and decisions already made, or they think of them- 
 selves when they ought to think of what they are doing. 
 
SUBJECT VIII 
 
 CONSCIENCE, CUSTOM, AND LAW 
 
 Read Palmer's "Field of Ethics," pp. 44-49 and 56-65. 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Describe the conscientious way of practising a hard 
 piece of music and compare it with the unconscientious way. 
 What are the principal differences between conscientious 
 and unconscientious acts? 
 
 2. Is being conscientious the same as meaning well, or as 
 doing as you are told? If not, why not? 
 
 3. Many people who know the law of the land take goods 
 through the Custom House without declaring them. Can 
 this be conscientiously done? 
 
 4. Before the Emancipation Proclamation many slaves es- 
 caped to the North. Was it right or wrong for a citizen 
 of Boston to break the law and hide a fugitive slave in his 
 house, or ought he to have returned the slave to his master? 
 Why? 
 
 5. An officer is sent out to arrest a thief. As the thief 
 sees his pursuer coming, he darts down a side street and 
 across a frozen river. Just as he is landing on the oppo- 
 site bank, he hears a crash in the ice and realises that the 
 officer has fallen through. Turning back at once the thief 
 dives in, and, at the risk of his life, pulls the officer out. 
 Ought the officer then to arrest the thief or to let him go? 
 
 6. On what principle do you decide in all these cases when 
 it is right to obey the law and when to disobey it? What is 
 the value of having laws? Do they make people freer or 
 more constrained? 
 
 •J. If it is the custom in New York to play cards for 
 
 37$ 
 
Conscience, Custom, and Law 377 
 
 money, does that make it any more right to do it? If it 
 is the custom to have very late hours at parties, is it right 
 to follow the custom? When ought we to follow and when 
 to disregard custom? Give an example. 
 
 8. Can we always tell whether we have been sinful by the 
 feeling of shame? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 In this chapter I have aimed to bring out the relation of 
 conscience to law (which roughly embodies the average 
 morality of the past) and to customs, which differ from 
 laws in being vaguer and unenforced by prescribed pen- 
 alties. 
 
 Both laws and customs, in so far as they touch moral is- 
 sues, hold us by their influence to an average standard and 
 tend to prevent our falling below or rising far above this 
 standard. 
 
 Our relation to the laws of our country is more definite 
 and important than the relation we have to the customs of 
 our set, because by accepting the benefits of citizenship 
 we have implicitly agreed to obey the state and national 
 laws. This should be brought out in answer to Questions 3, 
 S and 6. 
 
 Customs are much more flexible than laws and we our- 
 selves can help to break up bad and to make better customs. 
 This should be accented in the answers to Question 7. 
 
 In a self-governing country, laws should be changed 
 rather than broken, and when any law is conscientiously 
 broken it should be done without evasion of our respon- 
 sibility. This is brought out by questions 3 and 4. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Discuss any laws and customs that are specially applicable 
 to your class, 
 flay that is against the rules in football i$ often justified 
 
378 Everyday Ethics 
 
 on the ground that it is customary and right if the 
 umpire does not find it out. 
 
 The shooting of deer out of season, the illegal speed of 
 automobile driving, the smuggling of liquor into a Pro- 
 hibition town are common examples of the breaking of laws 
 for private ends. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Law is the average morality of the past, embodied in . 
 statutes. It protects and frees us so that we can pursue 
 our individual ends. 
 
 As citizens we implicitly agree to keep the laws of our 
 state and nation. 
 
 When we break any live law we weaken our government. 
 We ought not, therefore, to break any law that can by 
 reasonable means be altered. 
 
 We should break no law without trying to realise the 
 value of laws and without considering all sides of the case. 
 
 Custom is a social habit and holds many of us up to the 
 average standard of morality. 
 
 True loyalty to the good in custom should make us ready 
 to break any bad custom whenever we can help to form a 
 better one. 
 
SUBJECT IX 
 
 INTERESTS AS LIFE GIVERS AND LIFE SAVERS 
 
 Read William James : " Talks to Teachers," pp. 91-99. 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. If several people are looking out of the same car win- 
 dow at once, do they see the same things or different things ? 
 Imagine any three people and say what each would see. 
 
 2. If a stranger asked you to give him an idea of one of 
 the men whom you know well, what should you think it im- 
 portant to tell? 
 
 3. Is it positively a duty to have interests? Can a per- 
 son who is without any interests be good? Can we be 
 interested in such a person? 
 
 4. Before the Civil War broke out, Grant, who was then 
 a man of 37, was a miserable failure, whose family was 
 ashamed of him. Four years later he was one of the most 
 famous and powerful men in the United States. What does 
 it seem to you made this change in Grant? Give any ex- 
 ample you know in which an interest has helped a person? 
 
 5. Is there anything in the world that is absolutely unin- 
 teresting? Give an example. 
 
 6. (a) Is it better for a man's character to have a strong 
 interest in football or a moderate interest in study, and why? 
 
 (b) What faults are cured by any keen interest? 
 
 7. Why is an interest in collecting postage stamps not 
 likely to be a permanent one? If we made a complete col- 
 lection could we continue to be interested? 
 
 8. Does hard work increase or lessen any interest? Give 
 an example. 
 
 379 
 
380 Everyday Ethics 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The aim of this chapter is to bring out the central and 
 constant relation of love, or strong interest, to personality, 
 and therefore to the forming of personality which is known 
 as duty. 
 
 " Love is too young to know what conscience itl^ 
 But who knows not conscience is born of love." 
 
 I have tried to show, that we see with our interests. 
 (Question i.) 
 
 2. That our interests are the characteristic part of us. 
 ( Question 2.) 
 
 3. That without germ or possibility of interest we are 
 non-moral. (Question 3.) 
 
 4. That interest in anything, when strong and lasting, will 
 reform character. (Questions 4 and 6.) 
 
 5. That to last interest must grow and be loyally served. 
 (Questions 7 and 8.) 
 
 6. That anything in the world may become of interest. 
 (Question 5.) 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Without interests there would be no moral liie. 
 
 We become more ourselves as we find and express our 
 true interests. 
 
 Interests, therefore, are life-givers and life-savers. Where 
 there is interest there is hope. 
 
 The best receipt for becoming good is to take an interest 
 in something and hold to it. 
 
 We get interest: 
 
 (a) By throwing ourselves into the interests we have. 
 
 (b) By connecting anything that seems dull with some 
 object which we already want. 
 
 (c) By taking hard hold of any subject until it takes 
 hold of us. 
 
SUBJECT X 
 
 THE CHOICE OF INTERESTS 
 
 Read " Noble Lives and Noble Deeds," edited by Edward 
 A. Horton, pp. 13-15 and 103-105. 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Darwin devoted his life to science. Dorothea Dix 
 devoted hers to the improvement of prisons and asylums. 
 Which interest do you consider the nobler, and why? 
 
 2. Within a short time of his marriage Robert Shaw was 
 asked to undertake the organisation of a negro regiment 
 and later to lead it against Fort Wagner. This meant almost 
 certain death. Was Shaw right to undertake a work which 
 has left his wife and mother lonely for forty years? 
 
 3. If anyone has a great talent for mathematics ought 
 he or she to give up the work in order to do charity work? 
 If so, why? Are there any exceptions? 
 
 4. If you had a perfectly free choice, to what should you 
 prefer to give most of your time, and why? 
 
 5. What ought anyone to consider when choosing his pro- 
 fession between different subjects which interest him? 
 
 6. A talented writer married a somewhat extravagant 
 wife. In order to support her and his children he had to 
 write books so rapidly that they are unworthy of him. 
 Ought he to have remained unmarried? 
 
 7. Ought everyone to spend a large proportion of his time 
 in doing things for others? Ought women td <fc) this more 
 than men, and if so, why? 
 
 8. Give a list of professions in which work is done for 
 others and a list "f those in which nothing is done for others. 
 
 381 
 
382 Everyday Ethics 
 
 NOTES 
 
 Since interest is the source of virtue, the choice of in- 
 terest is central in moral life. This chapter aims to answer 
 the question : What interests shall we choose ? 
 
 The best way to attack this question is to break down the 
 unreal distinction between personal and impersonal interests, 
 to show that all interests require the same open, loving 
 devotion, and that work in science may help people fully 
 as much in the long run as philanthropy. 
 
 This is brought out by Question I. 
 
 We get help toward realising where our main interest 
 lies by classifying interests roughly as of four types. The 
 study of these types and of their relation is brought out in 
 Questions i, 2, 3, 5 and 8. 
 
 The ultimate test of what is our best work is made by find- 
 ing what rouses us most and for what we are best fitted. 
 
 This is brought out by Questions 4, 5, 6 and 7, 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 To illustrate that it is best that each person should do his 
 special work, show how mistaken it would have been for 
 Watts, the inventor of the steam engine, to make philan- 
 thropy his life work. 
 
 Show the unhappiness and inefficiency of Schiller when 
 obliged to devote himself to surgery. 
 
 Read in Darwin's life the account of the fear of his family 
 that he would be a disgrace to them, because j)f his appar- 
 ently useless zeal when a young man for making collections 
 and for shooting. 
 
 Read Henry James's "Lesson of the Master," and bring 
 out the point that the writer in the story was wrong to have 
 married unless he had carefully considered what he owed 
 to art and to his wife and children. Show that we cannot 
 judge whether his decision was right, but that we can say 
 that he ought not to have married without trying to realise 
 all that marriage would mean. 
 
The Choice of Interests 385 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Interests may be divided into four classes: 
 
 1. Artistic. 
 
 2. Care-taking. 
 
 3. Scientific. 
 
 4. Executive. 
 
 ' To find your own interest: 
 
 Look round carefully and choose that which feels warmest 
 If you have no strong interest, try any one that you think 
 
 good, and watch the results. 
 Ask yourself — 
 
 1. Does it call out the best of me? 
 
 2. Does it make me like other things and people more? 
 
 3. Is it likely to be helpful ? 
 
 4. Does my interest grow? 
 Anything we do may be done 
 
 (o) selfishly, 
 
 (b) for others, 
 
 (c) for its own sake. 
 
 It is not selfish to do anything for its own sake, unless we 
 are thereby neglecting what we know is more our work. 
 
 EXAMINATION I 
 
 1. What is ethics and why is it an important study? 
 What, so far, has been the gain to you of studying it? 
 
 2. I am asked a sudden question and a lie slips out in 
 answer before I have any time to consider. Am I responsi- 
 ble for the lie? Why or why not? Does it make any dif- 
 ference in regard to my responsibility if the lie concerned 
 something important? Why, or why not? 
 
 3. If a man was shipwrecked and forced to live alone on 
 a desert island, would he have any duties? If so, why, and 
 what would they be? 
 
 4. What do you mean by a truly good person? Give an 
 example. Is a bad man as truly a man as is a good man? 
 
384 Everyday Ethics 
 
 5. Give an example of a sinful act and of a harmful 4Ct 
 and explain the difference. 
 
 6. A man in a country town in New England feels doubt- 
 ful whether he ought to play golf on Sunday afternoons. 
 What points would he need to think of in order to make a 
 conscientious decision ? 
 
 7. Why does a strong interest develop character? 
 
SUBJECT XI 
 
 SACRIFICE AND DRUDGERY 
 
 Read " Blessed be Drudgery," by Wm. Gannett, pp. 1-12. 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Professor James says : " Do every day or two something 
 for no other reason than its difficulty." Is this a good rule? 
 Does doing your duty always mean doing what you dislike? 
 
 2. Sir Walter Scott's partners in business failed and in- 
 volved him in their debts. In order to earn money he wrote 
 his later novels so fast that the work became a burden to him 
 and the novels were poor. Was this drudgery likely to be 
 good or bad for Scott's character, and was he right to submit 
 to it? 
 
 3. I am going up the Matterhorn. I should like to take 
 a jug of water, a slice of beefsteak, a fur coat, a rope to 
 attach in case of danger, a telescope, spiked boots and a 
 photographic camera. How shall I decide which of my 
 wants to sacrifice? 
 
 4. Father Damien left his home and country to live and 
 die in taking care of the lepers. If he chose this work of 
 his own accord, was it an absolute sacrifice on his part? 
 Why, or why not? 
 
 5. What is the meaning of the words: "He that loseth 
 his life shall find it " ? Give an illustration. 
 
 6. Would it be an advantage or a disadvantage to man if 
 all that he needed was supplied by nature, if, for example, 
 tools grew on trees and clothes fell from the skies? Would 
 it be an advantage from the point of view of character and 
 of progress if everyone was obliged to work for a living? 
 
 3.81 
 
386 Everyday Ethics 
 
 7. Ought we to try to get rid of drudgery just as far as 
 IS possible? Does drudgery improve character? 
 
 8. Is there any good work done without sacrifice? Is there 
 any good work which is wholly a sacrifice? Give examples. 
 
 NOTES 
 
 Our chapters on Interest give the material from which to 
 make a definition of duty that shall be true to life. 
 
 Duty is doing with all your might what you love and 
 believe in. It does not mean doing what you dislike jusj 
 iecause you dislike it, but it always means doing your utmost. 
 ■ It involves overcoming all slackness and cowardice, and de- 
 manding more and more of yourself, and this will always 
 be hard work. This is brought out by Questions i and 6. 
 
 Doing what you really want and believe in also involves 
 sacrifice. 
 
 (a) Sacrifice of comfort and of leisure to the claims of 
 your work. 
 
 (b) Sacrifice of other desires which are incompatible with 
 your work. 
 
 (c) Giving up the achieved and easy for the sake of 
 advance. 
 
 These points are brought out in Questions 5 and 8. 
 
 Absolute sacrifice is always wrong, and equally so is a life 
 without any effort. These points are brought out in Ques- 
 tions 4 and 6. 
 
 We ought to get rid of any drudgery that retards progress, 
 but the doing away of drudgery does not mean a life without 
 discipline. Question 7. 
 
 The choice of what to accept or what to give up can only 
 be rightly made in relation to our most characteristic purpose. 
 This is illustrated by Questions 2 and 3. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Read William B. Yeats's poem, " The Countess Cathleen,' 
 for a noble illustration of the right kind of sacrifice. 
 
Sacrifice and Drudgery 387 
 
 Read Phillips Brooks's sermon, "The Symbol and the 
 Reality." 
 
 Discuss the question whether the automatic machine-work 
 of saw-mills and factories has on the whole decreased man's 
 labour or only redirected it. 
 
 A country-lover finds that she is much tired by having 
 to go into town every day for her work in a milliner's store. 
 The question arises what to sacrifice, the joy of the country 
 or the advantages of her work in the city. How shall she 
 decide, and why? 
 
 Is it wise for every one of us to be fitted to do all the 
 common necessary tasks, such as cooking, carpentry, plumb- 
 'ing, or is it better that talented people should be free from 
 such drudgery? 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Duty is not doing hard things just because they are hard, 
 but doing your work with vigor because you believe in it. 
 
 Any growing person must make sacrifices, but always for 
 the sake of what he wants more than that which he sacrifices. 
 
 The choice of what to keep and what to give up should 
 always be made by considering our deepest purpose. 
 
SUBJECT XII 
 SELFISHNESS 
 Read John Caird's " Philosophy of Religion," pp. 276-28a 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. "That little boy gives all his pennies to poor children, 
 How generous he is!" Is this an accurate judgment? In 
 what does the generosity of an act consist? 
 
 2. Lincoln was driving one day when he passed a pig 
 struggling helplessly in a ditch. After a few minutes he 
 turned back and pulled the pig out of the ditch. On bein^ 
 praised for his act, he replied that he did it on his own 
 account, as he kept getting more and more uncomfortable 
 as he thought of the pig in distress. Was Lincoln selfish or 
 unselfish in this act, and why? 
 
 3. If I love my father more than myself, is it selfish or 
 unselfish on my part to give up my pleasure to his? 
 
 4. Andrew Carnegie has given $20,000 to Tuskegee. What 
 other facts should we need in order to decide whether this 
 was an unselfish action? 
 
 5. A miser and a public-spirited citizen are asked to sub- 
 scribe to a park which will benefit the poor of a city. If 
 each subscribes the same amount, which will exercise more 
 unselfishness in this act, and why? 
 
 6. Can we be selfish toward ourselves? 
 
 7. A rich man buys the last loaf of bread in the only bak- 
 er's shop of a small village. In the shop at the same time is 
 a starving woman with only five cents; she asks for bread 
 The rich man sees, but does not notice her. Is he then self- 
 ish? What do we need to consider? 
 
 388 
 
Selfishness 389 
 
 8. Is it selfish to spend large sums of money in giving 
 entertainments when people in our own community are starv- 
 ing? If not, why not? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 Familiar as is the word selfish, the effort to define it and 
 to test what acts are selfish or unselfish soon shows how 
 inadequate is our knowledge of its meaning. My classes 
 find the set of questions on selfishness harder than any other 
 set. 
 
 We need, therefore, first to make it clear that though any 
 voluntary act is an expression of oneself, it is not thereby 
 selfish. Indeed no act can be either selfish or unselfish un- 
 less it is voluntary. This is brought out in Question i. 
 
 But though everyone acts for what on the whole he most 
 wants, the width of outlook in different people varies enor- 
 mously. The person of an unselfish character is the person 
 of wide sympathies. This is brought out in Question 2. 
 
 My self, in the truest sense, consists of all that I love, or 
 
 as we sometimes say, of all with which I am identified. But 
 
 j if all that I love becomes thereby identified with myself, the 
 
 consideration either of selfishness or of unselfishness is tran- 
 
 I scended when we truly love. This is brought out in Ques- 
 
 I tion 3. 
 
 In Question 4 it is made clear that it is not the act, but the 
 object of the act, that makes it unselfish. 
 
 Further, we must notice that the same act may require 
 great unselfishness in one person and none at all in another.' 
 This is shown in Question 5. 
 
 Selfishness, then, consists in being narrower, or blinder, 
 in our personal relations than we are capable of being, and 
 Jn this sense we can act selfishly toward ourselves. (Ques- 
 tion 4.) 
 
 It is impossible to judge from the outside whether an act 
 is selfish or unselfish, but the criterion is always the same — 
 Are we acting up to the best we know? Are we trying to 
 
390 Everyday Ethics 
 
 be open-minded ? This is to be brought out in Questions 7 
 andS. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The self of bodily comfort. 
 
 The self in its family connec- 
 tions. 
 
 The self as a cittzea of a 
 nation. 
 
 The self as interested in 
 human progress. 
 
 This diagram is intended to show:- 
 
 (o) That the size of the self differs indefinitely in differ- 
 ent persons, so that while a few persons are identified with 
 bodily comfort, others are identified with world-wide move- 
 ments for progress, which include the bodily, family and 
 national interests of all. The former self is narrow and self- 
 ish ; the latter wide and unselfish. 
 
 (b) That in an unselfish act one presses beyond a narrow 
 circle into a wider one. When the glutton gives up part of 
 his dinner to a hungry friend, he may widen himself by 
 doing what for him is a broadening and so an unselfish act. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Every moral act is an act of selfhood, but the size of 
 the self differs. (Compare Clara Barton and any glutton.) 
 We are whatever we care for, or are identified with. 
 
 The division between self and others is wiped out by love. 
 
Selfishness 391 
 
 Selfishness is acting from a sympathy narrower than the best 
 we are capable of. 
 A selfish act is partial, an unselfish act is impartial, 
 A selfish act is private-spirited, an unselfish act is public- 
 spirited. 
 A selfisU act is prejudiced, an unselfish act is open-minded. 
 
SUBJECT XIII 
 SYMPATHY 
 
 Read Royce, " Religious Aspects of Philosophy," pp. 149- I 
 156. 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Why does Professor Royce say that all selfishness 
 comes from an illusion? Give an illustration of what he 
 means. 
 
 2. Is it possible for a person to be intelligent and at the 
 same time to be unsympathetic toward every subject? Does 
 keen sympathy help or hurt the perspn to whom one gives it ? 
 Give an example. 
 
 3. Two sympathetic sisters, who were travelling together, 
 used to dispute as to which should have the best room at the 
 hotel. Each wanted the other to have it, and in their ardent 
 disputes both became much fatigued and neither was satisfied. 
 Was this true unselfishness? What would have been the 
 best thing to do? 
 
 4. A girl of twenty has two invalid brothers and an old 
 father. She has a strong taste for music and wants, to go 
 to concerts and to practise the violin four hours a day. 
 Her family call her unsympathetic for so doing, and want her 
 to stay with them, and amuse them all the time. What ought 
 she to do? 
 
 5. In a rehearsal of a vocal quartette the conductor said 
 to the soprano, " You are not singing loud enough." " Oh, 
 I am singing softly on purpose," she answered. "Miss 
 Brown, the alto, needs musical engagements very badly and 
 I want her voice to be heard over mine so that people will 
 think she has a good strong voice and ask her to sing." 
 W§s t)ie soprano right or wrong, and why? 
 
 39a 
 
Sympathy 393 
 
 6. Why is it right to do more for our family and friends 
 than we do for strangers? Is it right to care more when 
 Americans are hurt in an accident than when Germans are? 
 Why? 
 
 7. Lady Macbeth said that she could not kill Duncan be- 
 cause " he resembled her father as he slept." Did this show 
 sympathy on her part? How could she have overcome her 
 desire to have Macbeth kill the king? 
 
 8. A rich boy, who has always been indulged, gjrows up 
 with very narrow sympathies. In what ways can his sympa- 
 thies best be widened? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The central idea of this chapter is that as without sym- 
 pathy we are inhuman, so also in proportion to the width 
 and loyalty of our sympathy we become more of a person. 
 This is brought out in Question 2. 
 
 Sympathy, like interest, grows by thorough and intimate 
 knowledge. At the time when we fully comprehend and 
 realise the real life of any person or any subject we cannot 
 treat it coldly or selfishly. Selfishness, therefore, is an illu- 
 sion, for it means that we are not seeing things as they 
 really are. This is suggested in Question i. 
 
 The definition of sympathy, as the power to realise the 
 live truth about anything, shows us that any weakening 
 subservience to others is not truly an expression of sympa- 
 thy. This is brought out in Questions 3 and 4. 
 
 In all the best relations of life we work not so much for 
 each other as for an end which includes us all, but which is 
 far greater than any of us. This is brought out in Ques- 
 tion 5. 
 
 Since sympathy is the well-spring of life, it becomes all- 
 important to know how we can best acquire and increase it. 
 First we must realise that for each of us there are special 
 springs of sympathy which rise easily and flow quickly and 
 these it is our special province to use and increase. TJiis is 
 brought oi;t Jn Questiop $, 
 
394 Everyday Ethics 
 
 When we turn our full attention on any subject about 
 which we already feel a glimmer of sympathy, our sympathy 
 will increase and extend. This is brought out in Questions 
 7 and 8. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 The strength, width, and loyalty of your sympathy show 
 how much of a person you are. 
 
 Whenever we are unsympathetic we are under an illusion. 
 
 Sympathy means the vivid consideration, not only of peo- 
 ple, but of the whole situation, and should include firmness 
 and common sense. 
 
 Anyone who is truly sympathetic will try not to be legs 
 and arms to another, but to put him on his feet. 
 
 We can gain sympathy by throwing ourselves heartily into 
 all we do and by trying to realise the lives of all whom we 
 meet. 
 
 We must learn to see ourselves as others see us, and to 
 see others as they see themselves. 
 
 True sympathy makes people show their best and grow 
 to be their best selves. 
 
SUBJECT XIV 
 THE VALUE OF IMAGINATION 
 Read Wm. James's " Talks to Teachers," pp. 229-234. 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Do men need imagination (o) in business, (6) in poli- 
 tics, (c) in sight-seeing? Give an example of each. Is 
 there any work in which no imagination is needed? 
 
 2. In what ways does the career of Napoleon show imag- 
 ination? Give an illustration. 
 
 3. " A primrose by a river's brim, 
 
 A yellow primrose was to him. 
 And it was nothing more." 
 What else might it have been? 
 
 4. Describe something that we see with our eyes and 
 something that we picture through our power of imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 5. (a) " A man to be greatly good must imagine intensely 
 and comprehensively." Is this true? Why? 
 
 6. (a) Give an example of an inconsiderate act done by 
 an unimaginative person which no one of quick imagination 
 would have committed. 
 
 (6) What sins are due largely to lack of imagination? 
 
 7. A party of people in New York are dining luxuriously 
 at a restaurant. Next door a family of eight is huddling 
 supperless round a dying fire. If for an instant this scene 
 became visible to the diners, would they be sinful to go on 
 eating and laughing? 
 
 8. " Every Jack sees in his Jill charms and perfections to 
 which we stolid onlookers are stone cold." Has Jack or the 
 outsider the truest view of Jill and why? 
 
 9. Does it seems to you that the man who has a keen 
 
 395 
 
396 Everyday Ethics 
 
 imagination is likely to be more or less practical than the 
 man who has very little? Why? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 Imagination is to be distinguished from fancy in that 
 imagination is always guided by and loyal to the trend of 
 reality while fancy is ungoverned. This distinction should 
 be made clear to the class. 
 
 We need imagination in whatever we undertake unless the 
 1 work is purely mechanical, and even in this case the man of 
 ' imagination will soon devise ways to minimise the drudgery. 
 This is brought out in Questions i and 2. 
 
 The same fact viewed with or without imaginative insight 
 may be commonplace or full pf romance. This is brought 
 out in Question 3. 
 
 That we all have some imagination is shown by the fact 
 that in all we see we also construct. This is brought out by 
 Question 4. 
 
 So far we have-not dwelt on the direct relation of imag- 
 ination to goodness. The remaining questions illustrate this 
 relation. Question 5 brings out the reasons why intense and 
 comprehensive imagination is necessary to goodness, and 
 Questions 6 and 7 enforce this by concrete illustrations of 
 the misdeeds which are due to callousness. 
 
 Question 8 shows the close link between true affection and 
 imagination, and Question 9 sums up the value of imagina- 
 tion by drawing out its practical bearings. Since imagina- 
 tion is of supreme value in moral life, it must be cultivated; 
 it can best be widened by enlarging the crannies of imagina- 
 tion which we already possess. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS ' 
 
 Take any interest that is especially keen in members of 
 the class and show how much imagination they use in rela- 
 tion to it. 
 
The Value of Imagination 397 
 
 For example, show how the idea of success in athletics 
 will make a boy give up other pleasure, or how the sight of 
 an invitation to a dance will make a girl's spirits rise; how 
 much imagination people show in buying furs in summer or by 
 planting trees in a park for the benefit of future generations. 
 Take, for examples of constructive imagination, the gift to 
 the city of Boston by Benjamin Franklin which was not to 
 be used for one hundred years, or the foresight shown by the 
 writers of the Constitution of the United States. 
 
 Show that it is lack of imagination which makes people 
 stare at a deformed woman, call Italians " dagoes," or poorer 
 children " muckers," and injure property which is not theirs. 
 
 On the general subject of imagination read C. C. Ever 
 ett's " Poetry, Comedy, and Duty." 
 
 As examples of vivid imagination in poetry read to the 
 class Kipling's " Deep Sea Cable," Leigh Hunt's " The Fish 
 and the Man," Emily Dickinson's " Railroad Train " and 
 " The Snake." 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Imagination is the power to make anything real and to 
 make dull subjects become alive. 
 
 Through imagination we fill in the gaps and make a whole 
 out of fragments. 
 
 Without imagination we cannot see truly, for to be luke- 
 warm in a glowing world is to miss the truth. 
 
 We all possess imagination, but do not use if enough. 
 
 Selfishness, cruelty, dishonesty, shiftlessness, prejudice, 
 are due to lack of imagination. 
 
 Imagination breaks down the barriers of time, distance and 
 difference of circumstance and lets us see things as they are. 
 
 The use of imagination is as valuable and as practicable 
 as is the use of electricity, but like electricity it must be 
 directed and controlled by one's purpose. 
 
SUBJECT XV 
 MEMORY, 
 
 Read Emerson's " Natural History of Intellect," pp. 74-78. 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. In what way would a strong memory help to keep any- 
 one out of temptation? Give an example. What does 
 memory add to life? 
 
 2. Is it a good or a bad plan to make New Year's resolu- 
 tions? Why? How can we prevent ourselves from break- 
 ing or forgetting them? 
 
 3. I have been to see an intimate friend who lives in India 
 and whom I have not met for years. It was a most unsatis- 
 factory visit for we talked about nothing but trifles like the 
 heat and the voyage. How could I have made the visit more 
 satisfactory ? 
 
 4. Give an example of the kind of things you remember 
 best and of those you are likely to forget. 
 
 5. If you wanted to remember what was said at an impor- 
 tant lecture and had no note book, how should you plan to 
 do it? 
 
 6. " I can't tell my engagements now, for my note book is 
 my memory, and I left it at home this morning." Is it wise 
 or unwise to depend on note books? What are the dangers 
 and the advantages? 
 
 7. How can anyone teach himself not to forget? 
 
 I 8. Why is deliberate forgetting sometimes a duty? What 
 things ought we to forget and what to remember? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 Read Emerson's " Essay on Memory." 
 Memory is central to moral life because without memory 
 39& 
 
Memory 399 
 
 it is impossible to carry out any plan and all responsibility 
 ceases. 
 
 But not only is it true that without memory there is no 
 moral life, it is also by using our memory that we overcome 
 temptation. This is brought out in Questions i and 2. 
 
 Read on this subject Professor Wm. James's "Talks to 
 Teachers on Psychology," p. 184. 
 
 I It is not merely in the overcoming of specific temptations 
 that we require active memory. We need it also to glean the 
 largest harvest from any experience. This is shown by Ques- 
 tion 3. 
 
 We are helped to see how to develop memory by classify- 
 ing what it is we naturally do remember, and by observing 
 our own methods of recalling or fixing in our mind any im- 
 portant topic. See Questions 4, 5 and 6. 
 
 Forethought, resolute interest, and careful, systematic re- 
 call, these are the principal means by which we can keep 
 ourselves from forgetting what we need to hold fast. This 
 is the answer to Question 7. 
 
 The duty of forgetting is simply one aspect of the duty of 
 memory. We must try to put aside for the time all that 
 will interfere with our most pressing aim. We can rightly 
 assign the memory of disconnected facts to note books ; we 
 must learn to shove aside the trivial for the sake of the im- 
 portant, and to cease dwelling on anything whose lesson we 
 have learned. (Question 8.) 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Read the chapter on memory in Wm. James's " Larger 
 Psychology." 
 
 A very interesting illustration of the need of forgetting 
 will be found in an essay by Alice Meynell, " A Woman 
 in Grey," in the volume of her essays called " The Colour 
 of Life." 
 
 The class should study Kipling's " Recessional " from the 
 point of view of the need of memory. 
 
400 Everyday Ethics 
 
 Show how the statesman, the wise counsellor, the historian, 
 the artist, need memory. 
 
 Show how quickly anger or unreasoning discouragement 
 would be diminished by a sensible use of memory. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Memory holds our lives together and so helps us to liv* 
 with the whole of ourselves. 
 
 In planning, we must live in the future and in the past, 
 in acting, we must live in the present. 
 
 Never make a resolution without recalling the difficultj^l 
 of keeping it. 
 
 Never break a resolution without trying to think why you 
 made it. 
 
 Without memory we are easily led into temptation and 
 are easily discouraged. Without memory we cannot help 
 other people. 
 
 If you want to remember a special subject (a) put your 
 imagination into what you wish not to forget. (6) Shove 
 aside other ideas, (c) Recall the connection with things that 
 you are interested in. (d) Impress it by some definite act 
 (e.g.. Drawing or writing). 
 
SUBJECT XVI 
 
 COURAGE 
 
 Read Phillips Brooks's " Essay and Addresses," pp. 320- 
 329- 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. A man and his sister are driving together when the 
 horse runs away. The man is much frightened, the woman 
 not at all. Does this show that she is brave and he cowardly ? 
 What facts do we need in order to be sure? 
 
 2. If an officer trembles with fear when under fire, but 
 remains at his post, is he brave or cowardly? If he avoids 
 danger is he a coward? 
 
 3. When Robert Shaw led the despised negro regiment 
 into battle, was it physical courage that made him scorn 
 danger and moral courage that made him face derision, or 
 is there but one kind of courage? 
 
 4. Give a definition of cowardice. Should women be more 
 excused for cowardice than men? Why, or why not? 
 
 5. Are there any times when we ought to feel fear? Are 
 there any times when we ought to be cowardly? Give an 
 example of fear and of cowardice and show the difference 
 between them. 
 
 6. What opportunities are there to show courage in a 
 peaceful and civilised country? Are there any such oppor- 
 tunities in school life? 
 
 7. What act is among the bravest you know of in history 
 or literature? What conditions make an act especially 
 brave ? 
 
 8. How does one get over being afraid and how, if afraid, 
 does one keep oneself from cowardice? 
 
 401 
 
402 Everyday Ethics 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The aim of this chapter is (a) to distinguish the moral 
 virtue of courage from the quality often mistaken for it, 
 namely fearlessness, (6) to show the opportunities for 
 courage that lie all about us, and (c) to point to the main 
 sources from which courage may be drawn. 
 
 Courage always involves the effort to control fear and 
 therefore is clearly distinguished from fearlessness, which 
 may be due to obtuseness, to ignorance or to the knowledge 
 that one is safe in spite of appearances. This is brought out 
 in Questions i and 2. 
 
 It should also be brought out in the discussion of Question 
 2 that we cannot rightly condemn any act as cowardly. The 
 same act may be due to courage in one man, to fearlessness 
 in a second, and to cowardice in a third. 
 
 The definition of courage as the effort to control fear 
 through a devotion to a purpose greater than any personal 
 loss, indicates that there is only one kind of courage properly 
 so called and that is the courage due to the conquest of fear 
 through a stronger love. So called " physical " courage is 
 either fearlessness (native or acquired) or it is moral courage 
 exercised under conditions of physical danger. This dis- 
 tinction can be brought out in the discussion of the answers 
 to Question 3, and it is met again in Question 4. No one is 
 to be excused more than another for the same degree of 
 cowardice, but the more sensitive or untrained the nature 
 the more courageous is the act of resistance to fear. The 
 difference of fear and cowardice should be richly illustrated 
 in the answers to Question 5. 
 
 We come now to the daily opportunities for courage, 
 many of which will be suggested by the class in answer to 
 Question 6. 
 
 The choice of the bravest act known in history or liter- 
 ature in answer to Question 7, gives an opportunity to dis- 
 cuss the essence of courage and its direct relation to self- 
 conquest. A pamphlet by Sherman Hoar on "American 
 
Courage 403 
 
 Courage " gives excellent examples of different types of 
 heroism. 
 
 Finally we need to consider the steps by which cowardice 
 is overcome, and in this connection the organic relation of 
 courage to devotion to our aim, and to loyal memory of that 
 ideal should be brought out. (Question 8.) 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Read Emerson's essay on " Courage " in " Society and Soli- 
 tude," and discuss the question whether courage consists in 
 being equal to the problem before you. 
 
 Read in Charles Wagner's " Vaillance " the chapter on Fear 
 ' and show by different cases that " perfect love casteth out 
 icar," by freeing us from egotism, and making us one with 
 a cause to which it is worth giving our life. 
 
 Read Carl Hilty's pages on the uselessness of fear in his 
 "Happiness," page 47 (translated by Francis G. Peabody), 
 and R. L. Stevenson's essay on " Crabbed Age and Youth." 
 
 Opportunities for courage in times of peace are common 
 in the life of policemen, firemen, engineers, nurses, doctors, 
 horse-breakers, athletes, divers, politicians and business 
 men who follow their own convictions. We can show courage 
 in facing ridicule, in confessing wrong-doing, in standing 
 by those who are disliked, in dressing according to our means 
 instead of copying those richer than ourselves, in speaking 
 the truth, in giving and taking unflinchingly all necessary 
 pain. 
 
 If the class has read Hamlet, discuss the question whether 
 it took courage in Hamlet to follow the ghost in spite of the 
 warnings of Horatio. Discuss the difference between rash- 
 ness, recklessness and courage, and show that courage is 
 the effort to keep one's presence of mind in the face of 
 dreaded danger, whereas recklessness is unaware of or pays 
 no heed to the danger, while rashness makes no attempt to 
 judge of the wisdom of its daring act. 
 
 If the class is familiar with Sbak^pere there is an unr 
 
404 Everyday Ethics 
 
 usually rich field of illustration. Compare and contrast the 
 courage shown by Brutus and by Portia in Julius Caesar, by 
 Antonio in the Merchant of Venice, by Othello, by Cordelia 
 in King Lear, by Henry V. 
 
 Courage is so fertile a subject that a second lesson may 
 well be devoted to it, I have therefore added an additional 
 set of questions. 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS— 2D SET 
 
 Read "American Courage," by Sherman Hoar, pp. 1-26. 
 
 1. Which of the examples of courage which he gives seems 
 to you noblest, and why? 
 
 2. (o) If a band of train robbers should demand the sur- 
 render of all he possessed from an unarmed man in the car 
 would it be courage or rashness on his part to resist? 
 
 (6) Would there be any circumstances we should need to 
 know in order to decide? 
 
 (c) Can a rash act be brave, and if so how does one dis- 
 tinguish rashness from courage? 
 
 3. " Always do what you are afraid to do." Is this a good 
 rule? Are there any exceptions to it? 
 
 4. If you were afraid to speak in public, how should you try 
 to conquer your fear? 
 
 5. Henry Lawrence was once insulted and challenged to 
 a duel. In spite of the entreaties of his wife he accepted the 
 challenge. How are we to tell whether this showed courage 
 or cowardice in him? Is there any insult which demands a 
 blow? 
 
 6. (a) If Lincoln's restoration of Mason and Slidell to 
 England was an act of great foresight, does that make it any 
 less courageous? 
 
 (b) Can we have courage without foresight? 
 
 (c) If we know the exact result of an action is there any 
 opportunity for courage? 
 
 7. Can a man be prudent and heroic at the same time? 
 
 8. Is discretion the better part of valour? If so when and 
 why? 
 
Courage 405 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Without fear there is no fresh exercise of courage. 
 
 Courage is the control of fear by faith in and devotion to 
 our aim. " Perfect love casteth out fear." 
 
 All growing people are sometimes afraid, but no one need 
 be cowardly, for cowardice is the failure to try to overcome 
 fear; it is the avoidance of a danger which lies across our 
 path of advance. 
 
 Cowardice makes the soul dwindle, and no danger is as 
 great as the danger of becoming less of a person. We should 
 dread the pain of cowardice more than any other pain. 
 
 We can increase our courage by knowledge, by practice, 
 by constant memory of our aim, by the inspiration of noble 
 lives, and by religious faith. 
 
SUBJECT XVit 
 QtfiCK FEELING AND STEADY THOUGHT. 
 
 Read " Five Hundred Dollars," by C. W. H. (Heman W. 
 Chaplin), pp. 143-162. 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Do you agree with Eli that "there's such a thing as 
 arguing and there's such a thing as knowing outright"? 
 Why was it right for Eli to trust to his feeling? 
 
 2. Suppose a friend said to you : " Whenever I hear one 
 side of an argument I am instantly converted to that side, 
 but when I hear the other side I forget the first. Why does 
 this happen and what shall I do about it?" What advice 
 should you give? 
 
 3. If you feel that a Beethoven symphony is beautiful and 
 your friend does not care for it at all, how are you to make 
 her see your point of view? 
 
 4. Amiel says : " Women wish to be loved without a why 
 or a wherefore; not because they are pretty or wise or good, 
 but because they are themselves." Does this seem to you 
 natural and wise ? 
 
 5- " I knew Mr. Black was untrustworthy. I was con- 
 vinced of it the moment I laid eyes on him." Is such an 
 instinct generally reliable ? Under what circumstances would 
 it be apt to be wrong? 
 
 I 6. Are there any subjects in which it is best to trust to 
 ( feeling? Is this true of business, of religion? 
 ' 7. Why are impulsive people more attractive than thought- 
 ful ones? To which should you go if you wanted important 
 advice ? Why ? 
 
 8. If you have put a great deal of thought into any work 
 are you likely to have more or less feeling about it than if 
 you had done it impulsively ? Give an example. 
 
 406 
 
Quick Feeling and Steady Thought 407 
 
 9. Do the greatest men trust more to instinct or to thought ? 
 Give an example. Does a charity worker require more 
 thought or feeling in his work? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The main purpose of the chapter is to break down the 
 sharp division between thought and feeling and to show : 
 
 1. That feeling and thought are not widely separated, but 
 closely related. We feel most strongly about that into which 
 we have put the most persistent thought. 
 
 2. The separation of thought from feeling is both psy- 
 chologically inaccurate and disastrous in practice. All good 
 thought is warmed to life by the heat of feeling and all ef- 
 fective feeling is held steady by thought. This is brought 
 out in Question 6. 
 
 3. The danger of feeling not based on reason is four-fold: 
 (a) It is unconvincing except to those who share it. 
 
 (6) It is inarticulate. 
 
 (c) It grows cold. 
 
 (d) It leads to harmful acts of impulse. 
 
 This is brought out in Questions i, 2, 3, and 5. 
 
 The true significance of the popular trust in feeling is that 
 feeling has a wholeness and warmth without which thought 
 becomes disconnected from experience. This is brought out 
 in Questions 5 and 8. 
 
 The final conclusion is that feeling grows by the exercise 
 of thought and all live thought has its roots in feeling. The 
 warm, steady glow of trained, thoughtful emotion, has made 
 possible the great charities, reforms and inventions of the 
 world. This is brought out in Question 9. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Give as examples of the close relation of thought to feel- 
 ing, Lincoln's passion for the Union; the intense patriotism 
 of Nolan in Edward E. Hale's " Man Without a Country," 
 or Darwin's devotion to his growing seedlings, 
 
4o8 Everyday Ethics 
 
 As examples of the limitations of unreasoning impulses, 
 take the following cases : 
 
 A little newsboy who ought to be at school is selling papers 
 in the cold. My impulse is to give him a quarter. I thereby 
 encourage his parents to send him out again. 
 
 I look out of the window and see boys and girls skating 
 and at once become possessed with the impulse to join them. 
 All idea of work is driven out of my mind. 
 
 I hear a fire alarm and cannot resist going to the fire, al- 
 though if I thought about it I should remember an important 
 engagement. 
 
 I Show the distinction between unroused, mechanical analy- 
 /sis, such as may be appropriate and useful in adding up 
 '.fractions or in copying music, and the burning thought that 
 ' goes into planning new tactics for an army, shown in Napo- 
 leon's campaigns. 
 
 An experienced doctor may have quick and accurate intui- 
 tions concerning the illness of a patient, an expert in charity 
 can judge quickly of the need of an applicant. Show how 
 different are the intuitions based on long experience from 
 those made without such knowledge. Read on this subject 
 William D. Howells's " Essays and Impressions." 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Feeling is the source of thought and without thought feel- 
 ing would be lifeless. 
 All good thought is warm thought. 
 All sound feeling is based on thought at some time. 
 
 1. Feeling without thought cannot convince anyone. 
 
 2. It is inarticulate. 
 
 3. Feeling grows cold unless it is sustained by thought. 
 
 4. Feeling without thought often leads to harmful acts. 
 In any new or important work we need glowing thought 
 
 and trained emotion. 
 
SUBJECT XVIII 
 THOUGHT AND ACTION 
 
 Read Palmer's " Nature of Goodness," pp. 224-233. 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. A passenger is sitting with the engineer in his engine. 
 Suddenly a train is seen approaching at full speed on the 
 same track. If both the engineer and the passenger acted 
 instantly, why would the act of the engineer be more likely 
 to be reasonable? 
 
 Would there be any thought in it? 
 
 2. If you have a hard piece of work to do, will thought 
 about it make you do it faster or slower in the end? Give an 
 example. 
 
 3. In what way does thought about any subject help one 
 in action? Give an example. 
 
 4. (a) Are there any times when we ought to stop think- 
 ing? 
 
 (6) What is the difference between thinking and 
 worrying? 
 
 5. " Where ignorance is bliss 
 
 'Tis folly to be wise." 
 Do you agree with this? Why, or why not? 
 
 6. Would Hamlet have been a greater man if ne had 
 thought less? Why, or why not? Did Hamlet feel too 
 little? 
 
 7. " This weighin' things doos wal enough 
 
 When war cools down an' comes to writin'. 
 But when its makin' the true stuff 
 Is pison-mad, pigheaded, fightin'." 
 
 — Lowell, " Biglow Papers." 
 Is pigheaded fighting ever right, and if so, why? What 
 is the difference between obstinacy and firmness? 
 
 409 
 
4IO Everyday Ethics 
 
 8. A girl is walking home at dusk when she is met by 
 some very attractive friends who urge her to come to their 
 house where they are going to have great fun. She knows 
 that her mother would disapprove of her being out late and 
 hesitates. Would she be more likely to decide right if she 
 followed her first impulse, or if she tried to reason about it? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The aim of this chapter is to clear up the tangle that often 
 surrounds the relation of thought to action by showing, in 
 what ways and at what times reflection is of value. 
 
 The first distinction that needs to be made is between 
 thought in preparation for action and thought at the instant 
 of action. This is brought out in Question I. 
 
 Thought at some time is needed in any act that has not 
 become purely mechanical through repetition, but genuine 
 thought must be distinguished from irrelevant questioning. 
 This difference is brought out in Question 2. 
 
 Thought about any situation helps us to bring the act into 
 relation with the rest of our purposes so that we shall not 
 later regret it. The danger of impulsive action should be 
 exemplified by various examples, such as cutting out a dress 
 without thinking of the most economical method, buying a 
 horse before counting the cost of keeping him, or accepting 
 a responsibility that we have not time to fulfil. These points 
 should be brought out by the answers to Question 3. 
 
 On the other hand thinking is only one aspect of life and 
 we ought to control it when rest is imperative, when the 
 matter in hand is trifling, when energetic and prompt action || 
 is needed, and when a decision has already been made to the ' 
 best of our ability. This is brought out in Questions 4, 6 
 and 7. 
 
 It is often argued that ignorance is apt to be bliss and 
 that therefore the effort at understanding is a mistake. It 
 should be brought out in answer to Question 5, that this is 
 only true when pleasure and not progress is the aim of 
 life, 
 
Thought and Action '411 
 
 The special relation of thought to the overcoming; of temp- 
 tation is brought out in Question 8. Recollection of our 
 deepest aim will keep us from wrong doing and will make 
 us ready for outwardly dull tasks that have an important sig- 
 nificance. But, as we before distinguished between thought 
 and irrelevant questioning or worry, so here we must dis- 
 tinguish between thought and sophistry. All sophistry is 
 1 poisonous and should be rejected the instant it is recognised. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The answers to Question 3 will suggest new illustrations 
 which should be followed out. In Jacob Riis's " Making of 
 an American," there are various instances given of impulsive 
 or thoughtless action that could have been controlled or 
 moulded by thought. At one time, for example, Riis spent 
 all his money for a horse, when he could not ride and had 
 no stable. 
 
 On the relation of thought to action and especially to temp- 
 tation, read Professor James's " Talks to Teachers on Psy- 
 chology," pages 169-189. Use in the class his examples of 
 getting up in the morning and of the drunkard's thought 
 about the effects of drinking. 
 
 Bring out the point that many bodily acts are best done 
 without thought and use as an example the verse: 
 
 " The centipede was happy quite. 
 
 Until the toad for fun 
 Said, 'Pray which leg comes after which?' 
 This worked her mind to such a pitch 
 She lay distracted in a ditch, 
 
 Considering how to run," 
 
 quoted in Professor George H. Palmer's " Nature of Good- 
 ness," p. 214. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 Thought delays action at first by making us compare dif- 
 ferent ideals and plans, but sensible thought makes action 
 
412 Everyday Ethics 
 
 more effective and permanent and therefore saves time in 
 the end. 
 We should control thought: 
 
 1. When it is time to act. 
 
 2. When we have once carefully decided on an act and no 
 new evidence is at hand. 
 
 3. When we need rest. 
 
 4. When the subject is trifling and thought about it inter- 
 feres with our work. 
 
 5. When we find ourselves arguing falsely. 
 
 6. When we are worrying, that is when thought goes 
 round and round instead of going straight ahead. 
 
 EXAMINATION II 
 
 1. Does a man of strong imagination require more or less 
 courage in meeting danger than an unimaginative one? If 
 so, why is it not better to be without imagination? 
 
 2. Give a definition of a selfish act which clearly distin- 
 guishes it from an unselfish one and from a harmful act done 
 in ignorance. Give an example of an act that is certainly 
 unselfish. 
 
 3. If a football player is devoted to the success of his 
 team is it accurate to call him a self-sacrificing man ? Why, 
 or why not? 
 
 4. Ought we to trust wholly to instinct throughout any 
 friendship or should we at any time stop and think about it? 
 If the latter, what ought we to consider? > 
 
 5. Show why a person with little memory can never be a 
 really good friend. 
 
 6. Ruskin says: "What we think or what we know or 
 what we believe is of little consequence, the only thing of 
 consequence is what we do." Is this true or false, and why? 
 
 7. If you wanted to help a bored and unhappy person who 
 was well off and had no special claims, in what ways should 
 you try to help? 
 
SUBJECT XIX 
 TRUTH 
 Read James Russell Lowell's Poem, " The Present Crisis." 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Why does Lowell believe that — 
 
 " Though the cause of evil prosper. 
 Yet 'tis Truth alone is strong?" 
 
 Is this proved by history ? Give an example. 
 
 2. It is well known that Eastern nations value truth less 
 than we do. If a native of Japan should ask you why you 
 thought truth-speaking right, what should you answer? 
 What would happen if everyone told lies? 
 
 3. " To speak the truth is to say what you think." Is this 
 an adequate definition? If not, give a better or more com- 
 plete one. 
 
 4. Is it right to use the phrases : " I am glad to see you," 
 or " I regret extremely," in cases where you have no such 
 feeling? 
 
 Is there any real difiference of principle between " white 
 lies " and black ones, and if so what is it ? 
 
 5. If by saying what is literally accurate we intentionally 
 give a false impression, is it any less untrue than if we told 
 a direct lie? Which seems to you the worst? 
 
 6. Name all the motives you can think of which lead peo- 
 ple to falsehood in speech and in action. Are any of these 
 motives as important as truthfulness? 
 
 7. If you had charge of a child who was inclined to lie, 
 by what method should you try to overcome this habit? 
 Would the method differ with different children? 
 
 413 
 
414 Everyday Ethics 
 
 8. If you seriously ask anyone a question do you ever 
 want a false answer? Is there any reason for treating other 
 people differently in this respect from the way in which you 
 would want to be treated? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 The live and weighty question: Why is it right to speak 
 , the truth? leads us to an analysis of the nature of truth. 
 In order to bring to bear the full force of the might of 
 truth, we must first show that truth is reality and there- 
 fore always triumphs, while conversely falsehood always 
 bears in itself the germs of its own destruction. This should 
 be brought out by the answers to Question i, and illustrated 
 by the downfall of corruption throughout history, — for ex- 
 ample in the fall of Rome, in the breaking up of the Tweed 
 Ring, in the abolition of slavery, and on the positive side by 
 the rise of Christianity, or the advance of the Merit System 
 in England and America. 
 
 The fact that our whole civilisation is supported on truth, 
 and its twin virtue honesty, is brought out in Question 2, 
 and cannot be too forcibly impressed on the pupils. Their 
 realisation of the importance of truth-speaking will depend 
 largely on their full recognition of the relation between hon- 
 esty and community life. 
 
 We next analyse the essence of truth-speaking and it is 
 seen to consist not in literal accuracy nor in brutal frank- 
 ness, but in the careful effort to convey the right impres- 
 sion. This is brought out in Questions 3, 4 and 5. 
 
 An analysis of the motives of lying will help to bring out 
 ir what ways the temptation to lie arises in people of differ- 
 ing temperament. The motives are very varied and include 
 love of excitement, embarrassment, carelessness, cowardice, 
 self-seeking, politeness, and soft-heartedness. Many of 
 these lies are almost beyond the border of consciousness and 
 can best be overcome by being clearly faced. Lies due to 
 fear or self-seeking are cured by the enlarging of faith and 
 
Truth 415 
 
 sympathy, and lies due to mistaken kindliness by showing 
 their ultimate harm and their destructive quality. Clearly 
 the treatment of the habit of lying differs with its cause as 
 does the treatment of symptoms in disease. This should be 
 brought out in the answers to Questions 6 and 7. 
 
 In Question 8 I have tried to show that the great majority 
 of serious questioners want to hear the truth and that there- 
 fore to lie to them is not doing as we would be done by. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 It is important to make the strength of truth and the 
 instability of falsehood vivid by varied illustrations and 
 similes. Truth may be represented and drawn on the black- 
 board as a pyramid resting firmly on its base, and falsehood 
 as an inverted pyramid which always tends to tumble over, 
 and is propped up, if at all, only by external supports which 
 will themselves decay. Every lie makes the structure more 
 top-heavy and its fall more certain. 
 
 Again falsehood may be compared to a cankerworm, gnaw- 
 ing away bit by bit the entire fibre of the leaves of an elm 
 tree, so that though at first the effect is not noticeable, the 
 tree is finally left bare and dry. 
 
 The use of lies to avoid giving discomfort may be. accur- 
 ately compared to a wheel-grease which, though it at first 
 makes the wheels turn smoothly and noiselessly, yet contains 
 in itself an acid that all the time is eating out the structure 
 jf the wheel so that by and by no movement will be pos- 
 sible. 
 
 Stevenson says: "The cruelest lies are often told in 
 jilence. A man may have sat for hours and not opened his 
 i-eeth and yet come out of that room a disloyal friend and a 
 vile calumniator." Discuss the truth of this statement in 
 class and let the pupils illustrate it by examples. 
 
 "A lie is the abandonment of the dignity of man," Kant 
 said. Show why this is so. 
 
41 6 Everyday Ethics 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Truthfulness is the conscientious effort to convey an ac- 
 curate impression. 
 
 Conventions, passing jokes, fairy tales, and games where 
 deception plays a part are not lies, because they are under- 
 stood by those concerned in them. 
 
 We lie when in any serious situation, not understood as a 
 joke or game, we aim to give a wrong impression. This is 
 equally true whether we use literal accuracy or not and 
 whether we succeed or fail in deceiving. 
 
 Reasons for truth-speaking: 
 
 Truth is reality and bears up all who rest on it. 
 
 Falsehoods are unreal and must crumble in the end. 
 
 All lies begin to poison human intercourse, to make lan- 
 guage meaningless, to destroy civilisation. 
 
 Every lie takes one stone out of the bridge over which 
 everyone must pass. 
 
SUBJECT XX 
 
 TRUTH SPEAKING AS A FINE ART 
 
 Read R. L. Stevenson on "Truth of Intercourse," "Vir- 
 ginibus Pueresque," pp. 63-76. 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Do you agree with Stevenson that it is hard to speak the 
 truth? Why, or why not? 
 
 2. What qualities are needed in order to give a true im- 
 pression on a difficult and delicate subject which the hearer 
 is likely to misunderstand? Give an example. 
 
 3. Is absolute truthfulness compatible with perfect cour- 
 tesy? 
 
 4. A friend gave me a concert ticket. I found the concert 
 extremely dull. What ought I to say if my friend asks me 
 how I enjoyed it? 
 
 5. What are the common occasions on which people are 
 tempted to lie? Is there any use in trying to prepare be- 
 forehand how to meet similar occasions without lying? Give 
 an example. 
 
 6. Two people are your friends. One is so tender-hearted 
 and kindly that he will not hurt your feelings by a hard 
 truth, even though he has to lie in order to make you com- 
 fortable. The second is loyal and downright and always says 
 what he thinks, no matter what question you ask. Which is 
 the friend to be preferred, and why? 
 
 7. Do the occasions in which we are tempted to deceive 
 diminish or increase as we gain in character and in experi- 
 ence ? Why ? 
 
 8. Are there any cases in which it is right to lie, and if 
 so how do you distinguish these cases from those in which 
 it is wrong? 
 
 417 
 
41 8 Everyday Ethics 
 
 NOTES 
 
 It is not sufficiently recognised that because speaking the 
 truth means the effort to convey an accurate impression, it 
 is no unskilled task, but really a fine art. Truth can only 
 be conveyed when one is in a loving and outgoing attitude 
 and ready to put forethought and ingenuity into the delivery 
 of the new message. This should be brought out in the 
 answers to Question i. 
 
 Again, so inwrought is truth with the whole of charac- 
 ter that to convey the truth in any difficult situation re- 
 quires courage, patience, imagination, self-control, sympathy, 
 firmness, perseverance. The significance of this, — the fact 
 that truth is no isolated virtue, but the centre of moral 
 life, — should be brought out in the discussion of Question 2. 
 
 In the next three questions we discuss vvays and means of 
 the most successful truth-telling. Some members of the class 
 will be apt to maintain that truth-speaking is not always 
 compatible with courtesy. I think it can be shown that, when 
 spoken with the right motive and in the most considerate 
 way, truth is far more courteous than a lie. For in the first 
 place a lie in answer to a deliberate question is an insult to 
 the seriousness or the valour of the questioner ; it brands him 
 as an outcast or a weakling. In the second place the lie, 
 though it maintains a temporary appearance of courtesy, is 
 of so flimsy a material that it soon wears through, and then 
 no matter how great the desire to give p.easure by one's just 
 commendation the chance is forfeited. On a brief and 
 shallow survey, lying seems courteous, more widely and thor- 
 oughly looked at the polite lie shows the discourtesy born of 
 distrust This should be brought out in answer to Ques- 
 tion 3. 
 
 In Question 4 a specific case is taken up and comment on 
 the answers should include the suggestion that when we 
 courteously lie we almost always involve ourselves in further 
 lies. 
 
 When we have clearly faced both the need and the diffi- 
 
Truth Speaking as a Fine Art 419 
 
 culty of truth-speaking- we are ready to answer Question 5. 
 Is it possible to prepare for common moral emergencies as 
 we have learned to prepare ourselves for physical emergen- 
 cies ? I believe that it is and that we shall find it of greater 
 ■value than can be realised without a thorough trial. By fac- 
 ing probable situations of difficulty beforehand in a sym- 
 I pathetic and thorough way, we shall greatly diminish the 
 danger either of lying to or quarrelling with our hearer. 
 
 Various examples of this are given in the text. 
 
 Question 6 exemplifies the relation of friendship to truth- 
 fulness. Almost everyone wants on the whole the truthful, 
 and therefore the reliable, friend, even though he may give 
 more pain than he who tries at all cost to spare one's feel- 
 ings. 
 
 Finally in Questions 7 and 8 we sum up the whole issue. 
 The teacher should here re-enforce three points: 
 
 1. The relation of truth to the whole structure of civili- 
 sation. 
 
 2. The self-destructive character of lying as it is seen 
 whenever we take a long, thorough view of the consequences 
 of a lie. 
 
 3. The inseparable relation of truth to uprightness of 
 character. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS AND QUESTIONS 
 
 If I know that the sidewalk is going to be slippery, I 
 provide beforehand against the danger of falling by wearing 
 overshoes; so if I know that I am likely to be questioned 
 by my hostess about her party or by an acquaintance about a/ 
 secret which I am pledged to keep, I should provide before-^ 
 hand against the danger of slipping either by lying or by 
 betrayal. 
 
 Grant when a boy was sent by his father to buy a colt. 
 " My father told me to offer you $20 at first and if you re- 
 fused $25," he said to the dealer before asking the price. 
 Ought everyone to practise such direct honesty ? What would 
 
420 Everyday Ethics 
 
 be the results good or bad if all were absolutely straightfor- 
 ward in business ? 
 Discuss Shakspere's lines: 
 
 " This, above all. To thine own self be true 
 
 And it must follow as the night the day 
 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man." 
 
 Why is this so? 
 
 Are there in our time any occasions when we ought to be a 
 
 martyr for the sake of truth ? If so give an example. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 To speak the truth we need sympathy, patience, accuracy, 
 firmness, courage, imagination and memory. 
 
 Truth-speaking requires skill, and such skill can only be 
 gained by practice and by careful and considerate forethought 
 about difficult cases. 
 
 To lie to anyone is to treat him as an outcast or a weak- 
 ling, and is therefore an act of disdain, not of true cour- 
 tesy. 
 
 To convey a true impression we must feel warmly and live 
 uprightly. 
 
 .We should be ready both to give and to receive pain if 
 thereby we can strengthen'' the bond of truth. 
 
SUBJECT XXI 
 OPENMINDEDNESS AND PREJUDICE 
 Read Knowlson's " Art of Thinking," pp. 34-44. 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. What do you mean by prejudice? Give an example. 
 Ought one ever to have any prejudices? 
 
 2. Is it possible to be wholly loyal to our family or to 
 our country and yet be willing to admit that any other set 
 of people or any other nation is greater? Why, or why 
 not? 
 
 3. (a) What is the difference between a strong convic- 
 tion and a strong prejudice? 
 
 (6) Give an example of a great man who, by his open- 
 mindedness, helped the progress of the world. 
 
 1 4. On what subjects are people most likely to be preju- 
 diced? What harm does his prejudice do to the person who 
 has it? 
 
 I 5. If you see a poor woman with a torn skirt, walking with 
 two children whose faces are dirty and whose boot-buttons 
 are off, have you a right to judge that she is slovenly? 
 Why, or why not? 
 
 6. " I do not like you Dr. Fell, 
 
 The reason why I cannot teJl." 
 
 Has anyone a right to like or dislike a person without in 
 the least knowing the reason? If not, what ought we to do 
 about it? 
 
 7. If you had a strong prejudice against negroes or China- 
 men how should you try to get rid of it? 
 
 4,21 
 
422 Everyday Ethics 
 
 8. Is a sense of humour apt to make anyone more or less 
 openminded than if he had none? Why? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 When we penetrate below obvious falsehood or careless 
 exaggeration we find a subtler type of untruth, namely prej- 
 udice, which is a deliberate exclusion of the light of reality. 
 
 Prejudice is the harder to combat because its adherents 
 associate it with loyalty and strength. In the answers to 
 Questions 2 and 3, it should therefore be shown that the' 
 truest loyalty necessitates openmindedness, for all preju- 
 dice in favour of what we love prevents us from making it 
 even better than it is, and so weakens instead of strengthen- 
 ing. It should also be shown that openmindedness is wholly 
 compatible with intense conviction, as is illustrated by the 
 life of Socrates, of St. Paul, of Darwin, of Lincoln. 
 
 We come next to a study of common cases of prejudice in 
 order to learn where our prison walls are and how to batter 
 them down. In the answers to Question 4 we shall see that 
 our prejudices of race, caste, and creed are futile efforts to de- 
 fend ourselves by exclusion, instead of becoming invulnera- 
 ble through including the good points of those who differ 
 from us. 
 
 In Questions 5 and 6 we consider the prejudgments formed 
 by taking a superficial view of anything and letting it lead 
 us to condemn the whole. Can we rightly judge that dirt 
 means slovenliness? Not until we too have known the 
 stress of poverty. Have we any right to let an unreasoned 
 dislike rule our conduct? No, our dislike may possibly be 
 justifiable and significant, but until we try to trace its source 
 and to see whether it is due to superficial traits we run great 
 danger of being unjust. 
 
 The question then remains: How shall we best get over 
 prejudice? In the answers to Questions 7 and 8, three im- 
 portant ways are suggested. When we find ourselves inclined 
 to be prejudiced we must arouse our sympathy to appreciate 
 
Openmindedness and Prejudice 423 
 
 the good points of that which we are inclined to depreciate, 
 we must put ourselves in the attitude of truth-seekers and 
 not of partisans, and we must cultivate a sense of humour 
 that will prevent our own views of affairs from becoming 
 like near foothills that cut off the mountains of broader 
 experience beyond. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Discuss the prejudices of caste and race and bring out the 
 appealing side in types of people whom we tend to con- 
 demn. 
 
 Discuss common superstitions such as those of breaking a 
 mirror, travelling on Friday or sitting thirteen at table, and 
 show their unreasonableness. 
 
 Read Mr. Dooley's paper on "The Heathen Chinee," in 
 " Mr. Dooley in Peace and War," and bring out the prejudice 
 of our judgment against Chinamen. 
 
 Emerson says: (Essays, ist Series, Intellect.) "God 
 offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose. 
 Take which you please, you can never have both. . . . 
 He in whom the love of repose predominates will accept the 
 first creed, the first philosophy, the first political party he 
 meets, — most likely his father's. He gets rest, commodity 
 and reputation, but he shuts the door of truth." Discuss 
 the question whether a prejudiced person can be wholly 
 truthful. 
 
 Illustrate the value of openmindedness by the attitude of 
 Socrates, of St. Paul, of Darwin, of Lincoln and show how 
 hard to maintain and how helpful to the world their perfect 
 love of truth has been. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 Prejudice is a blind judgment unguided by the light of 
 truth. 
 
 The truthseeker will not intentionally deceive by word or 
 by silence, by exaggeration or by prejudice. 
 
424 Everyday Ethics 
 
 Loyaltj to anyone requires openmindedness toward the 
 good in others. 
 
 " We ought at least to do a man as much justice as a pic- 
 ture and put him in a good light." — Emerson. 
 
 Prejudice shuts one off from widening experience and 
 makes the soul shrivel. 
 
 To free ourselves from prejudice we miist love truth 
 better than any of our opinions ; we must want progress more 
 than self-satisfaction, we must cultivate a sense of humour 
 in regard to our own affairs, we must turn the warmth of- 
 sympathy toward that which we are inclined to depreciate. 
 
SUBJECT XXII 
 OBEDIENCE AND SELF-GOVERNMENT 
 Read Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech. 
 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. What do you mean by self-government? Is it a wise 
 plan to give college students self-government? What good 
 and what harm might come of it? 
 
 2. " I should love to go with you to see Mansfield act, but 
 I simply must study or I shall not pass my examinations." 
 Why is this an act of self-government? Is it any better to 
 obey yourself than to obey an outsider? Why? 
 
 3. A Russian peasant obeys the decrees of the Czar. An 
 American obeys the laws of his country. Is there any differ- 
 ence in the kind of obedience in these two cases? In what 
 ways is it true that the United States stands for government 
 of the people, by the people, and for the people? 
 
 4. If a boy always does exactly what he pleases at every 
 moment, is he free or not? Give an illustration. 
 
 5. If the leader of the Light Brigade at Balaklava knew 
 that someone had blundered, why was he right to obey the 
 command? 
 
 Would such blind obedience have been right in time of 
 peace ? 
 
 6. Was Casablanca in Mrs. Hemans' poem, "The boy 
 stood on the burning deck," right or wrong to obey his father 
 and stay on the burning ship till he perished? Why? Are 
 there any times when we ought to obey without thinking? 
 
 7. William Penn was imprisoned many times for diso- 
 bedience to authority. The accusations against him were: 
 
 (o) That he insisted on preaching the Quaker doctrine. 
 
 425 
 
426 Everyday Ethics 
 
 (b) That he would not take off his hat even to the 
 King. 
 
 (c) That he would not take the oath of allegiance. 
 Was Penn right or wrong in these acts of disobedience, 
 
 and should you make any distinction in the three cases ? 
 
 8. (o) Is there any act which is not one of obedience to 
 something? 
 
 (6) If disobedience to external authority is ever right, on 
 what principle shall we decide when it is right? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 It is of great importance to explain the meaning of self- 
 government, for without self-government there can be no 
 moral life. Bring out first its apparently paradoxical nature. 
 Government involves both master and servant; but when 
 master and servant are one and the same person, how is any 
 obedience possible? Show in answer to Question I that 
 this command given by our own larger insight to our momen- 
 tary impulses is everywhere present, though paradoxical, 
 and that it is of the essence of all moral life. Illustrate this 
 by the value of self-government at college. 
 
 Self-government then is the obedience of the momentary 
 or narrow wish to the more lasting, chosen purpose, and is 
 shown not only in great decisions, but in every right choice. 
 This is brought out by Question 2. 
 
 In Question 3 we apply this idea of self-government to 
 national relations. The will of all of us must for the good 
 of all control the anarchical will of any of us. In Russia, on 
 the contrary, the arbitrary will of a small aristocracy domi- 
 nates the will of the many. 
 
 The condition of servitude illustrated by any tyranny 
 seems very different from servitude to our whims or habits, 
 but it is essentially the same. Both gradually crush the 
 power of will and make action automatic. This relation of 
 caprice to slavery should be brought out in Question 4. 
 
 Sofnewbat higher in tl>e ascent toward self-governrnent J8 
 
"Obedience and Self-Government 427 
 
 military obedience, which is at least based on a free choice, 
 though the bondage may be absolute after it is accepted. In 
 times of peace blind obedience to command, such as is illus- 
 trated in Question 5, would be wrong except in emergencies 
 where instant and united action is imperative. 
 
 , Obedience to parents is, at its highest, obedience to what is 
 recognised as our wiser self, but even here such obedient* 
 should be to the spirit, not the letter of command, and must 
 
 ; develop more and more into the pursuance of our own uniqua 
 law. This is brought out in Question 6. 
 
 By the examples given so far it ought to become cleai 
 to the class that obedience and disobedience are not two 
 sharply sundered acts, but that all obedience involves diS' 
 obedience. This is brought out in Question 7. 
 
 When should we disobey external authority? Always and 
 only when it conflicts with an obedience to a higher and 
 more devoted aim. In every right act the consecration to 
 obedience must outweigh the necessary disobedience which 
 is involved. Question 8. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The chapter on obedience in Charles Wagner's " Vail- 
 lance," gives exactly the right conception of its nature and 
 should be read and discussed by the class. 
 
 The evil results of subservience to another's arbitrary will 
 are well shown in the chapter called " The effects of Mind- 
 ing on the Mind," in Charlotte Oilman's book " Concerning 
 Children." 
 
 Show that true freedom can never be given, but must 
 always be won, and illustrate this by the petty tyranny of 
 bosses in city politics due to the indifference of well-meaning 
 citizens. 
 
 All habits which are not our servants become our masters 
 and rule us as an inflexible tyrant rules his slaves. Read 
 on this subject Professor William James's chapter on 
 " Habit " in his " Psychology." 
 
428 Everyday Ethics 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 All obedience is submission to authority, but self-govern- 
 ment is Joyal obedience to one's largest and most enduring 
 purpose. 
 
 All right obedience is the expression of yourself in the best 
 service you know. Self-government trains one's mind and 
 character and makes one ready for new decisions. 
 
 All right disobedience must be for the sake of a higher 
 obedience. 
 
 We should obey instantly: 
 
 1. Commands which we have previously decided are right. 
 
 2. In emergencies when someone knows better than we 
 do. 
 
 3. When we have joined a group under a leader whom we 
 trust. 
 
 4. In little things in order to save energ^r. 
 
SUBJECT XXIII 
 THE USE OF TIME 
 
 Read Stevenson's " Virginibus Puerisque," pp. 117-125. 
 QUESTIONS FOR THE CLASS 
 
 1. Since all time has to be spent in doing something and 
 since it is impossible to hoard it what do we mean by saving 
 time and how is it done ? 
 
 What is the use of saving it? 
 
 2. In what ways do people waste time? Are these ways the 
 same for everyone? Does all amusement waste time and all 
 work save it? 
 
 3. Many people who have a hard piece of work to do are 
 inclined to look out of the window, write a note, or dip into 
 a book instead. In what ways can this habit best be over- 
 come? Is it always a waste of time to do odds and ends 
 when one has an important piece of work on hand ? Give an 
 example. 
 
 4. Do men or women waste more time as a rule, and why ? 
 Why do the busiest people have most time? 
 
 5. Are there any circumstances in which it is right to try 
 to kill time? Give an example of what you mean by killing 
 time. 
 
 6. Do you agree with Stevenson that a faculty for idle- 
 ness is good? Why, or why not? What is the meaning and 
 value of leisure? 
 
 7. Emerson says: "Profligacy does not consist in spend- 
 ing years of time or chests of money but in spending them 
 off the line of your career." Give an illustration of what he 
 means by this. If we are our own masters is there any dis- 
 loyalty in wasting time? 
 
 8. If you look forward ten years what do you hope 
 
 429 
 
430 Everyday Ethics 
 
 that those years will bring you ? Would it be bettc/ to have 
 them bring wide experience or the power to do any one 
 thing really well? 
 
 NOTES 
 
 Time is the raw material for all moral life and hence our 
 use of time is the test of our uprightness. To save time is 
 to spend it consistently and liberally on the vocation to which 
 we are called. 
 
 This should be brought out by Question i. 
 
 But if saving time is spending it to further our aim, the 
 act which saves time for one person may be a waste for 
 another, and so, as always, we cannot judge whether any act 
 is a waste of time without knowing the purpose of the actor. 
 Our definition of saving time classifies all waste of time as 
 due either to aimlessness or to disloyalty to a chosen aim. 
 
 This should be brought out in Question 2, and is further 
 illustrated by Question 3. To overcome our restless dis- 
 loyalty we must try to recall our aim in all its vividness. 
 
 The relation of time to purpose is again accented in Ques- 
 tion 4. Women as a rule waste more time than men simply 
 because their purposes are less definite and their training less 
 thorough. But this statement applies only to the woman of 
 the so-called leisure class, and to her only because she has 
 not definite enough demands on her loyalty. 
 
 The busiest people have most time because they have clear 
 and definite aims ; the pressure of work has taught them how 
 to use wisely every spare moment. As any interest in- 
 creases the value of money, so a purpose increases the value 
 of time. For this reason the live and busy people never kill 
 time. If it is unavailable for one purpose they eagerly seize 
 it for another. These points should be brought out by Ques- 
 tions 4 and 5. 
 
 If we lay such stress on the use of time, there seems to be 
 at first sight no place for rest, leisure and for the human 
 touches of beauty and kindliness. This would be true did 
 not thorough loyalty to an advancing aim require of us fresh 
 
The Use of Time 431 
 
 insight and sympathy. Such fresh insight is gathered by 
 most of us in times of what we rightly call recreation, the 
 renewing of ourselves that we may be more, not less, loyal 
 to our ideal. Stevenson has well brought out this point and 
 in the discussion of Questions 6 and 7 it should be clearly 
 shown that refreshment is not disloyalty, but a saner loyalty, 
 while wasting time is always sinful, whether or not we are 
 our own employers. 
 
 Question 8, as the final question of this course, aims to 
 make the students face their own future in the light of the 
 principles discussed above. 
 
 ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The literature on the subject of Time is unusually good. 
 Read Carl Hilty's pages on how to work, " Happiness," trans- 
 lated by Francis G. Peabody, p. 73, Emerson's essay on 
 " Power in the Conduct of Life," and in Franklin's " Poor 
 Richard's Almanac " the pages on the value of industry. Let 
 the class learn Emerson's poem " Days," and the description 
 of the passing of time in " As You Like It." 
 
 Compare the short life of Shelley or Mozart with that of 
 a vagabond who dies of old age, and show how much more 
 meaningful time is to the former. 
 
 Show how Louis Agassiz lying in the woods may be mak- 
 ing a far more active use of time than a bewildered man 
 rushing to and fro during a fire. 
 
 Bring out the value of time as the stuff life is made of, and 
 show both that we need work to make the most of time, and 
 that all earnest work is needed. He who wastes time blocks 
 the track over which the train of life is moving. 
 
 SUMMARY TO BE WRITTEN BY THE CLASS 
 
 " Dost thou love life ; then do not squander time, for that 
 is the stuff life is made of." — Poor Richard's Almanac. 
 
 We save time by spending it liberally in the enriching and 
 fulfilling of our aim. 
 
432 Everyday Ethics 
 
 We waste time by aimlessness and by disloyalty to ou» 
 aim. 
 To save time in any work 
 (a») We must recall vividly why we are at work. 
 
 (b) We must face the consequences of not working. 
 
 (c) We must put ourselves in places where we are not 
 likely to be interrupted. 
 
 (rf) We must deliberately resist distraction. 
 
 {e) We must guard against carelessness, unnecessary 
 repetition, dawdling, inattention, worry, indecision. 
 
 " If you were a servant would you not be ashamed to have 
 your master catch you idle? You are your own master. Be 
 ashamed to catch yourself idle." — Poor Richard's Almanac. 
 
 The best use of time usually includes a liberal enrichment 
 of our lives by friendship, by beauty, by quiet preparation. 
 
 EXAMINATION III 
 
 1. What changes, if any, have our discussions of truth 
 and falsehood made in your ideas of the importance of truth ? 
 What now seem to you the reasons for truth-speaking and 
 the exceptions, if there are any? 
 
 2. Has anyone a right to make a promise to keep a secret, 
 if keeping it will probably involve lying? Has anyone a 
 right to help a friend by stealing? What, if anything, is the ' 
 difference in the two cases? 
 
 3. " Sin is power turned against oneself." Show (o) why ' 
 to be sinful at all one must have some power, and (&) why 
 in doing what we know is wrong we hurt ourselves. 
 
 4. Give a definition of self-government. Is it harder stead- 
 ily to obey yourself or to submit to orders ? Why ? 
 
 5. In what ways will the fact of having a definite aim in life 
 change a person? How and why will it affect his use of 
 time, his happiness, his relation to his friends? What vir- 
 tues will it develop? 
 
 6. Mention the special points in this course on ethics that 
 Stand out in your mind as being the most important. 
 
INDEX 
 
INDEX 
 
 Act, involuntary, 29, 356, 359; 
 relation of to purpose, 42 
 
 Action, in emergency, 257; 
 without evasion, 256; with- 
 out fresh thought, 257 
 
 Activity, not passivity, needed 
 for goodness, 5 
 
 Aimlessness and irresponsi- 
 bility, 36; waste of time 
 through, 229 
 
 Amusement, value of, 331 
 
 Art, the language of, 250; of 
 truth speaking, 281, 417 ; view 
 of, compared with that of 
 ethics, 9 
 
 Articulateness, need of, 247 
 
 Attention, essence of a moral 
 act, 83, 94, 263; repels temp- 
 tation, 85 
 
 Boundary between voluntary 
 and involuntary acts, 17 
 
 Browning, Robert, letter on 
 obedience, 318 
 
 Chaplin, Heman W., Story of 
 
 Eli, 240 
 Choice, ethics concerned with 
 
 every, 40 ; necessary to moral 
 
 life, 18 
 Conscientiousness, 93; analysis 
 
 of, 94, 109; definition of, 96, 
 
 100, 108, 109, 374; relation to 
 
 law, no; right use of, 106, 
 
 107 
 Courage, 228, 401 ; contrasted 
 
 with fearlessness, 228, 231, 
 
 402; control by reason, 234; 
 
 definitions of, 229, 237, 402; 
 
 helps in acquiring, J33-239; 
 
 occasions for the exercise of, 
 233, 403; rashness compared 
 with, 231 
 
 Cowardice, definition of, 231 ; 
 suggestions for overcoming, 
 235-239, 405 ; distinction from 
 fear, 402 
 
 Custom, 118; danger of, 120; 
 relation to sense of guilt, 
 122; relation to sense of law, 
 377; value of, 119, 378 
 
 Darwin, Charles, 143, 146, 232, 
 
 300, 301 
 Deception, harm done by 
 
 kindly, 287 
 Disloyalty, the thief of time, 
 
 3?9 
 Dix, Dorothea, 106, 146 
 Drudgery, 170-172, 386 
 Duty, an aspect of interest, 7, 
 
 380; definition of, 158, 386 
 
 Effort, sacrifice and drudgery, 
 158, 38s ; permanent need of, 
 159; relation to progress, 
 169 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 149, 
 165 
 
 Ethics, concerned with all con- 
 scious acts, 40; definition of, 
 I ; laws of, 12, 353 ; relation 
 to special decisions, 12-16; 
 relation to goodness, 10; re- 
 lation to will, 11; teaching, 
 methods of, 347-349; univer- 
 sal interest of, i, 7; value of 
 study of, 13-16, 346, 354 
 
 Examinations, questions for, 
 383, 412, 432 
 
 435 
 
436 
 
 Index 
 
 Facts, necessary to conscien- 
 tious decision, loi 
 Falsehood, corrosion of, 265 
 Faults, cured by an interest, 
 130; due to lack of interest, 
 
 Fear, conquest of, 233; influ- 
 ence of, on responsibility, 25 ; 
 uselessness of, 238 
 
 Fearlessness, contrasted with 
 courage, 228 ; gained by prac- 
 tice, 23s 
 
 Feeling, danger of trust in, 
 241, 246, 407; relation to 
 knowledge, 248; relation to 
 thought, 244, 407, 408 
 
 Forgetfulness, faults due to, 
 218; question of responsibil- 
 ity for, 20-22, 37 
 
 Forgetting, an aspect of mem- 
 ory, 223 
 
 Franklin, Benjamin, Poor 
 Richard's Almanac, 332 
 
 Friendship, demands truthful- 
 ness, 291 
 
 George Junior Republic, 322 
 
 Good for nothing, 49 
 
 Goodness, common elements in 
 all, 46; definition of human, 
 354 ; essence of manhood, 
 46; of things, 52, 36s; rela- 
 tion to purpose, 47-53. 365; 
 relation to virtue, 55, 365 
 
 contrasted with fancy, 203, 
 396; definition of, 204, 397; 
 faults due to lack of, 210, 
 397; practical, 213, 397; rela- 
 tion to goodness, 396; value 
 of, 204-212 
 
 Instinct, contrasted with pur- 
 pose, 45; must be tested by 
 experience, 242, 264 
 
 Interests, choice of, 142-157, 
 382; classification of, 144, 
 383 ; common nature of, 142 ; 
 growth of, 138, 370; kernel 
 of moral life, 8, 126, 131, 
 380; life givers and life 
 savers, 125, 129, 133; make 
 up personality, 125; non- 
 moral if without, 127; per- 
 sonal and impersonal not 
 separable, 154 ; relation to 
 liking, 128; relation to pur- 
 pose, 128; recognition of, 
 137-155; subjects of native, 
 135 
 
 Irresponsibility, cannot be 
 chosen, 39; definition of 
 moral, 24; preparation for, 
 22; right when for the sake 
 of future moral activity, 29 
 
 James, William, Psychology, 
 54, 177; Talks to Teachers 
 on Psychology, 83, 168 
 
 Judgment, of acts, 59, 182, 369; 
 of purposes, 60-75, 369 
 
 Habit, 67, 71 
 
 Hilty, Carl, Happiness, 238 
 
 Humour, 309, 423 
 
 Huxley, T. H., desire for au- 
 tomatic goodness, 17; sketch 
 of Darwin's character, 300 
 
 Ignorance, and bliss, 260; in 
 relation to moral responsi- 
 bility, 23 
 
 Imagination^ all possess, 202;, 
 
 Language, destroyed by lying, 
 
 268 
 Laziness, always self-defeating, 
 
 Law, in its relation to morality, 
 110-118, 378; Fugitive Slavej 
 113-117; meaning of, 115; 
 Tariff, 11 1 
 
 Lincoln, Abraham, anecdote of, 
 185; attitude toward eman- 
 cipation, 244; strength, of 
 memory in, 225, 
 
Index 
 
 437 
 
 Loyalty, breadth of experience 
 and, 332; necessitates open- 
 mindedness, 298 
 
 Luther, Martin, 320 
 
 Lying, causes of, 273, 414 ; defi- 
 nition of, 416; destroys 
 language, 269; destroys so- 
 ciety, 268 ; self-destructive, 
 26s, 278, 415; treatment of, 
 274. 41S 
 
 Memory, 215, 398; association 
 a help to, 221 ; cultivation of, 
 400; definition of, 217; ex- 
 clusion, one aspect of, 223, 
 399; interest the key to, 
 222; necessary to human life, 
 215 ; qualities associated 
 with, 227; value of, 219, 225, 
 
 399 
 Message to Garcia, Hubbard, 
 
 2S3 
 Moral, action, definition of, 
 29; decision, the nature of, 
 S ; life involves the power of 
 choice, 18; life, temptations 
 in, 72; responsibility, 19 
 
 Non-moral, action, definition 
 of, 29; cases often difficult to 
 distinguish, 20; life com- 
 pared with anarchy, 74 
 
 Obedience, automatic crushes 
 intelligence, 317; instant, oc- 
 casions for, 315, 420; rela- 
 tion to disobedience, 320, 
 427 ; relation to past thought, 
 
 319 
 
 Obligation, see Duty 
 
 Openmindedness, 296, 421 ; 
 growth in, 306, 424; relation 
 to faith, 308; relation to loy- 
 alty, 298, 422; relation to 
 strength, 300; relation to 
 truth, 308 
 
 OverscrupulousneaSi 104-106, 
 375 
 
 Parkman, Francis, 68, 73 
 
 Penn, William, 320 
 
 Personality, growth of through 
 sympathy, 393 
 
 Plans, the characteristic of 
 moral life, 43 
 
 Power of redemption, 89 _ 
 
 Prejudice, 296, 419; associated 
 with loyalty, 296-298, 422 ; 
 definition of, 297; due to in- 
 adequate knowledge, 306; in-' 
 compatible with conscien- , 
 tiousness, 103, 115; not a 
 life-preserver, 299; overcom- 
 ing of, 306, 422, 424 ; types of ' 
 common, 301 ; weakness of, 
 299 
 
 Purpose, 32, 360; classifies 
 acts as right or wrong, 38; 
 contrast with fact, day 
 dream, wish, impulse, _ 33 ; 
 definition of, 35; definition 
 of a good, 70 ; involves moral 
 responsibility, 38; knowledge 
 of, necessary for conscien- 
 tious decision, loi ; power for 
 progress, 44; relation to 
 goodness , 47, 49, 338, 363 ; 
 tendencies which destroy are 
 always wrong, 91 
 
 Qualities, good, grow through 
 the pursuit of interest, 4; 
 needed in all pursuits, 7 
 
 Questions, best type of ethical, 
 34S, 347. 348; value of, 344 
 
 Recreation, value of, 331, 431 
 
 Resolutions, New Years', 217, 
 400 
 
 Responsibility for preparing to 
 become non-responsible, 22, 
 26, 359; for will, 27; neces- 
 sary to moral life, 18; ob- 
 literated by Huxle/s idea of 
 automatic goodness, I? 
 
 Rhodes, CecU, 207 
 
438 
 
 Index 
 
 Royce, Josiah, Religious As- 
 spects of Philosophy, 175, 
 191, 392 
 
 Ruskin, Sesame and Lilies, 102 
 
 Sacrifice, necessary to good- 
 ness, 54, 386; never absolute, 
 167, 386; never an end in 
 itself, 168; principle for 
 choice of, 162-166; relation 
 to progress, 160, 386; rela- 
 tion to purpose, 163, 169, 387 
 
 Science, view of compared 
 with that of ethics, 9 
 
 Self, and others not separable, 
 178; usage of, confused, 174 
 
 Self-government, 3i2,_ 425 ; 
 choice of authority in, 320, 
 427; definition of, 426; moral 
 value of, 322; paradox of, 
 312, 426 ; relation to freedom, 
 313; relation to loyalty, 321 
 
 Selfhood, meaning of, 177, 
 389; necessary to moral life, 
 175; width of, 176 
 
 Selfishness, 173, 388; in act, 
 184; in character, 184; defi- 
 nition of, 180, 389, 391; dia- 
 gram of, 390; example of 
 typical, 77; hurts oneself, 
 187; illusion of, 191; rela- 
 tion to individual standard, 
 183, 184, 389; test of, 389 
 
 Servitude, ascent from, 313; 
 to impulse, 314, 426 
 
 Shame, not an accurate test of 
 guilt, 122-124 
 
 Shaw, Robert Gould, 150 
 
 Sin, always tends to blind it- 
 self, 77-i83; characteristic of, 
 83; civil war of, 74; dark- 
 ness of, 77, _ 371 ; definition 
 of. 90. 372 ; disloyalty to pur- 
 pose in, 25, 371; distin- 
 guished from irresponsibility, 
 6s; misused power in, 86, 
 371; never seen, 61 
 
 Socrates, argument of in the 
 Crito, 96 
 
 Sophistry, 263 
 
 Speech, not the only language, 
 249 
 
 Spencer, Herbert, statement 
 about non-moral acts, 40 
 
 Stevenson, Robert Louis, 
 analysis of a moral decision, 
 97; on prudence, 237 
 
 Success, Parkman's definition 
 of, 69; virtues are necessary 
 to, 3. 4 
 
 Sympathy, 188, 201, 392; crea- 
 tive power of, 200; definition 
 of, 394; growth of, 198-200, 
 393; loyalty to the whole in, 
 igs; relation to intelligence, 
 188; relation to interest, 188, 
 393; relation to knowledge, 
 190; relation to realisation, 
 193 
 
 Teachers' Key, 343 
 
 Temper, 24 
 
 Temptation and attention, 84, 
 85, 399 
 
 Thought, aglow with feeling, 
 240, 408; and action, 253, 
 409-412; controls momentary 
 impulse, 44, 410; repels 
 temptation, 263 
 
 Time, 325, 429; killing, 328, 
 430; saved by definiteness 
 of aim, 326, 430, 431 ; use of 
 in relation to one's purpose, 
 337; wasting, 327, 330, 333, 
 430, 433 
 
 Truth, is reality, 267, 414 
 
 Truthfulness, 265 ; definition of, 
 270, 416; guardian of char- 
 acter, 29s ; holds society to- 
 gether, 268, 414; increases 
 with interest, 277; loyalty 
 and, 289; requires syrnpathy, 
 272; short and long view of, 
 279, 286; tested by intention. 
 
 Truth-speaking, difficulty of, 
 281; fine art of, 281, 417; 
 preparation for difficult, 288, 
 
Index 
 
 439 
 
 ittg; qualities needed in, 284, 
 418, 420; relation to cour- 
 tesy, 418 ;_ relation of love to, 
 282 ; requires warmth of feel- 
 ing, 293; skill needed iti, 
 283 
 
 , Unselfishness, 181 ; definition 
 of, 186; diagram of growth 
 in, 185 
 
 Virtue, a condition of success, 
 4; definition of, 76, 369; dis- 
 
 tinction from goodness in 
 things, 55-58; fitness for 
 manhood, 52; relation to in- 
 terest, 130-133, 380; as self- 
 government, 75 
 
 Will, responsibility for, 27 
 
 Work, best moral teacher, 3; 
 
 how to begin and end, 333- 
 
 337; increases interest, 138, 
 
 140 ; power of holding to, 335 
 
 Worry, definition of, 259, 412 
 
 Wyckoff, Walter, experience 
 
 in Chicago, 79 
 
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