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THE FOUNDATIONS OF PERSONALITY

BY
ABRAHAM MYERSON, M.D.




CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

I. THE ORGANIC BASIS OF CHARACTER

II. THE ENVIRONMENTAL BASIS OF CHARACTER

III. MEMORY AND HABIT

IV. STIMULATION, INHIBITION, ORGANIZING ENERGY, CHOICE
     AND CONSCIOUSNESS

V. HYSTERIA, SUBCONSCIOUSNESS AND FREUDIANISM

VI. EMOTION, INSTINCT, INTELLIGENCE AND WILL

VII. EXCITEMENT, MONOTONY AND INTEREST

VIII. THE SENTIMENTS OF LOVE, FRIENDSHIP, HATE, PITY
     AND DUTY, COMPENSATION AND ESCAPE

IX. ENERGY RELEASE AND THE EMOTIONS

X. COURAGE, RESIGNATION, SUBLIMATION, PATIENCE, THE
     WISH AND ANHEDONIA

XI. THE EVOLUTION OF CHARACTER WITH ESPECIAL REFERENCE
     TO THE GROWTH OF PURPOSE AND PERSONALITY

XII. THE METHODS OF PURPOSE-WORK CHARACTERS

XIII. THE QUALITIES OF THE LEADER AND THE FOLLOWER

XIV. SEX CHARACTERS AND DOMESTICITY

XV. PLAY, RECREATION, HUMOR AND PLEASURE SEEKING

XVI. RELIGIOUS CHARACTERS. DISHARMONY IN CHARACTER

XVII. SOME CHARACTER TYPES





THE FOUNDATIONS OF PERSONALITY

INTRODUCTION

Man's interest in character is founded on an intensely practical
need. In whatsoever relationship we deal with our fellows, we
base our intercourse largely on our understanding of their
characters. The trader asks concerning his customer, "Is he
honest?" and the teacher asks about the pupil, "Is he earnest?"
The friend bases his friendship on his good opinion of his
friend; the foe seeks to know the weak points in the hated one's
make-up; and the maiden yearning for her lover whispers to,
herself, "Is he true?" Upon our success in reading the character
of others, upon our understanding of ourselves hangs a good deal
of our life's success or failure.

Because the feelings are in part mirrored on the face and body,
the experience of mankind has become crystallized in beliefs,
opinions and systems of character reading which are based on
physiognomy, shape of head, lines of hand, gait and even the
method of dress and the handwriting. Some of these all men
believe in, at least in part. For example, every one judges
character to a certain extent by facial expression, manner,
carriage and dress. A few of the methods used have become
organized into specialties, such as the study of the head or
phrenology, and the study of the hand or palmistry. All of these
systems are really "materialistic" in that they postulate so
close a union of mind and body as to make them inseparable.

But there are grave difficulties in the way of character-judging
by these methods. Take, for example, the study of the physiognomy
as a means to character understanding. All the physiognomists, as
well as the average man, look upon the high, wide brow as related
to great intelligence. And so it is--sometimes. But it is also
found in connection with disease of the brain, as in
hydrocephalus, and in old cases of rickets. You may step into
hospitals for the feeble-minded or for the insane and find here
and there a high, noble brow. Conversely you may attend a
scientific convention and find that the finest paper of the
meeting will be read not by some Olympian-browed member, but by a
man with a low, receding forehead, who nevertheless possesses a
high-grade intellect.

So for centuries men have recognized in the large aquiline nose a
sign of power and ability. Napoleon's famous dictum that no man
with this type of proboscis is a fool has been accepted by many,
most of whom, like Napoleon probably, have large aquiline noses.
The number of failures with this facial peculiarity has never
been studied, nor has any one remarked that many a highly
successful man has a snub nose. And in fact the only kind of a
nose that has a real character value is the one presenting no
obstruction to breathing. The assigned value given to a "pretty"
nose has no relation to character, except as its owner is vain
because of it.

One might go on indefinitely discussing the various features of
the face and discovering that only a vague relationship to
character existed. The thick, moist lower lip is the sensual lip,
say the physiognomists, but there are saints with sensual lips
and chaste thoughts. Squinty eyes may indicate a shifty
character, but more often they indicate conjunctivitis or some
defect of the optical apparatus. A square jaw indicates
determination and courage, but a study of the faces of men who
won medals in war for heroism does not reveal a preponderance of
square jaws. In fact, man is a mosaic of characters, and a fine
nature in one direction may be injured by a defect in another;
even if one part of the face really did mean something definite,
no one could figure out its character value because of the
influence of other features--contradictory, inconsistent,
supplementary. Just as the wisest man of his day took bribes as
Lord Chancellor, so the finest face may be invalidated by some
disharmony, and a fatal weakness may disintegrate a splendid
character. Moreover, no one really studies faces disinterestedly,
impartially, without prejudice. We like or dislike too readily,
we are blinded by the race, sex and age of the one studied, and,
most fatal of all, we judge by standards of beauty that are
totally misleading. The sweetest face may hide the most arrant
egoist, for facial beauty has very little to do with the nature
behind the face. In fact, facial make-up is more influenced by
diet, disease and racial tendency than by character.

It would be idle to take up in any detail the claims of
phrenologist and palmist. The former had a very respectable start
in the work of Broca and Gall[1] in that the localization of
function in the various parts of the brain made at least partly
logical the belief that the conformation of the head also
indicated functions of character. But there are two fatal flaws
in the system of phrenological claims. First, even if there were
an exact cerebral localization of powers, which there is not, it
would by no means follow that the shape of the head outlined the
brain. In fact, it does not, for the long-headed are not
long-brained, nor are the short-headed short-brained. Second, the
size and disposal of the sinuses, the state of nutrition in
childhood have far more to do with the "bumps" of the head than
brain or character. The bump of philoprogenitiveness has in my
experience more often been the result of rickets than a sign of
parental love.

[1] It is to be remembered that phrenology had a good standing at
one time, though it has since lapsed into quackdom. This is the
history of many a "short cut" into knowledge. Thus the wisest men
of past centuries believed in astrology. Paracelsus, who gave to
the world the use of Hg in therapeutics, relied in large part for
his diagnosis and cures upon alchemy and astrology.


Without meaning to pun, we may dismiss the claims of palmistry
offhand. Normally the lines of the hand do not change from birth
to death, but character does change. The hand, its shape and its
texture are markedly influenced by illness,[1] toil and care. And
gait, carriage, clothes and the dozen and one details by which we
judge our fellows indicate health, strength, training and
culture, all of which are components of character, or rather are
characters of importance but give no clue to the deeper-lying
traits.

[1] Notably is the shape of the hand changed by chronic heart and
lung disease and by arthritis. But the influence of the
endocrinal secretions is very great.


As a matter of fact, judgment of character will never be attained
through the study of face, form or hand. As language is a means
not only of expressing truth but of disguising it, so these
surface phenomena are as often masks as guides. Any sober-minded
student of life, intent on knowing himself or his fellows, will
seek no royal road to this knowledge, but will endeavor to
understand the fundamental forces of character, will strive to
trace the threads of conduct back to their origins in motive,
intelligence, instinct and emotion.

We have emphasized the practical value of some sort of character
analysis in dealing with others. But to know himself has a hugely
practical value to every man, since upon that knowledge depends
self-correction. For "man is the only animal that deliberately
undertakes while reshaping his outer world to reshape himself
also."[1] Moreover, man is the only seeker of perfection; he is a
deep, intense critic of himself. To reach nobility of character
is not a practical aim, but is held to be an end sufficient in
itself. So man constantly probes into himself--"Are my purposes
good; is my will strong--how can I strengthen my control, how
make righteous my instincts and emotions?" It is true that there
is a worship--and always has been--of efficiency and success as
against character; that man has tended to ask more often, "What
has he done?" or, "What has he got?" rather than, "What is he?"
and that therefore man in his self-analysis has often asked, "How
shall I get?" or, "How shall I do?" In the largest sense these
questions are also questions of character, for even if we discard
as inadequate the psychology which considers behavior alone as
important, conduct is the fruit of character, without which it is
sterile.

[1] Hocking.


This book does not aim at any short cuts by which man may know
himself or his neighbor. It seeks to analyze the fundamentals of
personality, avoiding metaphysics as the plague. It does not
define character or seek to separate it from mind and
personality. Written by a neurologist, a physician in the active
practice of his profession, it cannot fail to bear more of the
imprint of medicine, of neurology, than of psychology and
philosophy. Yet it has also laid under contribution these fields
of human effort. Mainly it will, I hope, bear the marks of
everyday experience, of contact with the world and with men and
women and children as brother, husband, father, son, lover,
hater, citizen, doer and observer. For it is this plurality of
contact that vitalizes, and he who has not drawn his universals
of character out of the particulars of everyday life is a
cloistered theorist, aloof from reality.



CHAPTER I. THE ORGANIC BASIS OF CHARACTER

The history of Man's thought is the real history of mankind. Back
of all the events of history are the curious systems of beliefs
for which men have lived and died. Struggling to understand
himself, Man has built up and discarded superstitions, theologies
and sciences.

Early in this strange and fascinating history he divided himself
into two parts--a body and a mind. Working together with body,
mind somehow was of different stuff and origin than body and had
only a mysterious connection with it. Theology supported this
belief; metaphysics and philosophy debated it with an acumen that
was practically sterile of usefulness. Mind and body "interacted"
in some mysterious way; mind and body were "parallel" and so set
that thought-processes and brain-processes ran side by side
without really having anything to do with one another.[1] With
the development of modern anatomy, physiology and psychology, the
time is ripe for men boldly to say that applying the principle of
causation in a practical manner leaves no doubt that mind and
character are organic, are functions of the organism and do not
exist independently of it. I emphasize "practical" in relation to
causation because it would be idle for us here to enter into the
philosophy of cause and effect. Such discussion is not taken
seriously by the very philosophers who most earnestly enter into
it.

[1] William James in Volume 1 of his "Psychology" gives an
interesting resume of the theories that consider the relationship
of mind (thought and consciousness) to body. He quotes the
"lucky" paragraph from Tyndall, "The passage from the physics of
the brain to the corresponding facts of consciousness is
unthinkable. Granted that a definite thought and a definite
molecular action in the brain occur simultaneously; we do not
possess the intellectual organ, or apparently any trace of the
organ which would enable us to pass by a process of reasoning
from one to the other." This is the "parallel" theory which
postulates a hideous waste of energy in the universe and which
throws out of count the same kind of reasoning by which Tyndall
worked on light, heat, etc. We cannot understand the beginning
and the end of motion, we cannot understand causation. Probably
when Tyndall's thoughts came slowly and he was fatigued he
said--"Well, a good cup of coffee will make me think faster." In
conceding this practical connection between mind and body, every
"spiritualist" philosopher gives away his case whenever he rests
or eats.


The statement that mind is a function of the organism is not
necessarily "materialistic." The body is a living thing and as
such is as "spiritualistic" as life itself. Enzymes, internal
secretions, nervous activities are the products of cells whose
powers are indeed drawn from the ocean of life.

To prove this statement, which is a cardinal thesis of this book,
I shall adduce facts of scientific and facts of common knowledge.
One might start with the statement that the death of the body
brings about the abolition of mind and character, but this, of
course, proves nothing, since it might well be that the body was
a lever for the expression of mind and character, and with its
disappearance as a functioning agent such expression was no
longer possible.

It is convenient to divide our exposition into two parts, the
first the dependence upon proper brain function and structure,
and the second the dependence upon the proper health of other
organs. For it is not true that mind and character are functions
of the brain alone; they are functions of the entire organism.
The brain is simply the largest and most active of the organs
upon which the mental life depends; but there are minute organs,
as we shall see, upon whose activity the brain absolutely
depends.

Any injury to the brain may destroy or seriously impair the
mentality of the individual. This is too well known to need
detailed exposition. Yet some cases of this type are fundamental
in the exquisite way they prove (if anything can be proven) the
dependence of mind upon bodily structure.

In some cases of fracture of the skull, a piece of bone pressing
upon the brain may profoundly alter memory, mood and character.
Removal of the piece of bone restores the mind to normality. This
is also true of brain tumor of certain types, for example,
frontal endotheliomata, where early removal of the growth
demonstrates first that a "physical" agent changes mind and
character, and second that a "physical" agent, such as the knife
of the surgeon, may act to reestablish mentality.

In cases of hydrocephalus (or water on the brain), where there is
an abnormal secretion of cerebro-spinal fluid acting to increase
the pressure on the brain, the simple expedient of withdrawing
the fluid by lumbar puncture brings about normal mental life. As
the fluid again collects, the mental life becomes cloudy, and the
character alters (irritability, depressed mood, changed purpose,
lowered will); another lumbar puncture and presto!--the
individual is for a time made over more completely than
conversion changes a sinner,--and more easily.

Take the case of the disease known as General Paresis, officially
called Dementia Paralytica. This disease is caused by syphilis
and is one of its late results. The pathological changes are
widespread throughout the brain but may at the onset be confined
mostly to the frontal lobes. The very first change may be--and
usually is--a change in character! The man hitherto kind and
gentle becomes irritable, perhaps even brutal. One whose sex
morals have been of the most conventional kind, a loyal husband,
suddenly becomes a profligate, reckless and debauched, perhaps
even perverted. The man of firm purposes and indefatigable
industry may lose his grip upon the ambitions and strivings of
his lifetime and become an inert slacker, to the amazement of his
associates. Many a fine character, many a splendid mind, has
reached a lofty height and then crumbled before the assaults of
this disease upon the brain. Philosopher, poet, artist,
statesman, captain of industry, handicraftsman, peasant,
courtesan and housewife,--all are lowered to the same level of
dementia and destroyed character by the consequences of the
thickened meninges, the altered blood vessels and the injured
nerve cells.

Now and then one is fortunate enough to treat with success an
early case of General Paresis. And then the reversed miracle
takes place, unfortunately too rarely! The disordered mind, the
altered character, leaps upward to its old place,--after being
dosed by the marvelous drug Salvarsan, created by the German
Jewish scientist, Paul Ehrlich.

Of extraordinary interest are the rare cases of loss of personal
identity seen after brain injury, say in war. A man is knocked
unconscious by a blow and upon restoration of consciousness is
separated from that past in which his ego resides. He does not
know his history or his name, and that continuity of the "self"
so deeply prized and held by all religions to be part of his
immortality is gone. Then after a little while, a few days or
weeks, the disarranged neuronic pathways reestablish themselves
as usual,--and the ego comes back to the man.

One might cite the feeble-mindedness that results from
meningitis, brain tumor, brain abscess, brain wounds, etc., as
further evidence of the dependence of mind upon brain, of its
status as a function of brain. No philosopher seriously doubts
that equilibrium and movement are functions of the brain, and yet
to prove this there is no evidence of any other kind than that
cited to prove the relationship of mind to brain.[1] And what
applies to the intelligence applies as forcibly to character, for
purpose, emotion, mood, instinct and will are altered with these
diseases.

[1] Except that equilibrium does not itself judge of its
relationship to brain, whereas mind is the sole judge of its
relationship and dependence on brain. Since everything in the
world is a mental event, mentality cannot be dependent upon
anything, and everything depends upon mind for its existence, or
at least its recognition. But we get nowhere by such "logic" gone
mad. Apply the same kind of reasoning to brain-mind, body-mind
relationship which anatomists and physiologists apply to other
functions, and one can no longer separate body and mind.


Interesting as is the relationship between mind and character and
the brain, it is at the present overshadowed by the fascinating
relationship between these psychical activities and the bodily
organs. What I am about to cite from medicine and biology is part
of the finest achievements of these sciences and hints at a
future in which a true science of mind and character will appear.

Certain of the glands of the body are described as glands of
internal secretions in that the products of their activity, their
secretions, are poured into the blood stream rather than on the
surface of the body or into the digestive tract. The most
prominent of these glands, all of which are very small and
extraordinarily active, are as follows:

The Pituitary Body (Hypophysis)--a tiny structure which is
situated at the base of the brain but is not a part of that
organ.

The Pineal Body (Epiphysis)--a still smaller structure, located
within the brain substance, having, however, no relationship to
the brain. This gland has only lately acquired a significance.
Descartes thought it the seat of the soul because it is situated
in the middle of the brain.

The Thyroid gland, a somewhat larger body, situated in the front
of the neck, just beneath the larynx. We shall deal with this in
some detail later on.

The Parathyroids, minute organs, four in number, just behind the
thyroid.

The Thymus, a gland placed just within the thorax, which reaches
its maximum size at birth and then gradually recedes until at
twenty it has almost disappeared.

The Adrenal glands, one on each side of the body, above and
adjacent to the kidney. These glands, which are each made up of
two opposing structures, stand in intimate relation to the
sympathetic nervous system and secrete a substance called
adrenalin.

The Sex organs, the ovary in the female and the testicle in the
male, in addition to producing the female egg (ovum) and the male
seed (sperm), respectively, produce substances of unknown
character that have hugely important roles in the establishment
of mind, temperament and sex character.

Without going into the details of the functions of the endocrine
glands, one may say that they are "the managers of the human
body." Every individual, from the time he is born until the time
he dies, is under the influence of these many different kinds of
elements,--some of them having to do with the development of the
bones and teeth, some with the development of the body and
nervous system, some with the development of the mind, etc. (and
character), and later on with reproduction. These glands are not
independent of one another but interact in a marvelous manner so
that under or overaction of any one of them upsets a balance that
exists between them, and thus produces a disorder that is quite
generalized in its effects. The work on this subject is a tribute
to medicine and one pauses in respect and admiration before the
names and labors of Brown, Sequard, Addison, Graves and Basedow,
Horsley, King, Schiff, Schafer, Takamine, Marie, Cushing, Kendal,
Sajous and others of equal insight and patient endeavor.

But let us pass over to the specific instances that bear on our
thesis, to wit, that mind and character are functions of the
organism and have their seat not only in the brain but in the
entire organism.

How do the endocrines prove this? As well as they prove that
physical growth and the growth of the secondary sex characters
are dependent on these glands. Take diseases of the thyroid gland
as the first and shining example.

The thyroid secretes a substance which substantially is an
"iodized globulin,"--and which can be separated from the gland
products. This secretion has the main effect of "activating
metabolism" (Vassale and Generali); in ordinary phrase it acts to
increase the discharge of energy of the cells of the body. In all
living things there is a twofold process constantly going on:
first the building up of energy by means of the foodstuffs, air
and water taken in, and second a discharge of energy in the form
of heat, motion and--in my belief --emotion and thought itself,
though this would be denied by many psychologists. Yet how escape
this conclusion from the following facts?

There is a congenital disease called cretinism which essentially
is due to a lack of thyroid secretion. This disease is
particularly prevalent in Southern France, Spain, Upper Italy and
Switzerland. It is characterized mainly by marked dwarfism and
imbecility, so that the adult untreated cretin remains about as
large as a three or four-year-old child and has the mental level
about that of a child of the same age. But, this comparison as to
intelligence is a gross injustice to the child, for it leaves out
the difference in character between the child and the cretin. The
latter has none of the curiosity, the seeking for experience, the
active interest, the pliant expanding will, the sweet capacity
for affection, friendship and love present in the average child.
The cretin is a travesty on the human being in body, mind and
character.

But feed him thyroid gland. Mind you, the dried substance of the
glands, not of human beings, but of mere sheep. The cretin begins
to grow mentally and physically and loses to a large extent the
grotesqueness of his appearance. He grows taller; his tongue no
longer lolls in his mouth; the hair becomes finer, the hands less
coarse, and the patient exhibits more normal human emotions,
purposes, intelligence. True, he does not reach normality, but
that is because other defects beside the thyroid defect exist and
are not altered by the thyroid feeding.

There is a much more spectacular disease to be cited, --a
relatively infrequent but well-understood condition called
myxoedema, which occurs mainly in women and is also due to a
deficiency in the thyroid secretion. As a result the patient, who
may have been a bright, capable, energetic person, full of the
eager purposes and emotions of life, gradually becomes dull,
stupid, apathetic, without fear, anger, love, joy or sorrow, and
without purpose or striving. In addition the body changes, the
hair becomes coarse and scanty, the skin thick and swollen (hence
the name of the disease) and various changes take place in the
sweat secretion, the heart action, etc.

Then, having made the diagnosis, work the great miracle! Obtain
the dried thyroid glands of the sheep, prepared by the great drug
houses as a by-product of the butcher business, and feed this
poor, transformed creature with these glands! No fairy waving a
magical wand ever worked a greater enchantment, for with the
first dose the patient improves and in a relatively short time is
restored to normal in skin, hair, sweat, etc., and MIND and
character! To every physician who has seen this happen under his
own eyes and by his direction there comes a conviction that mind
and character have their seat in the organic activities of the
body,--and nowhere else.

An interesting confirmation of this is that when the thyroid is
overactive, a condition called hyperthyroidism, the patient
becomes very restless and thin, shows excessive emotionality,
sleeplessness, has a rapid heart action, tremor and many other
signs not necessary to detail here. The thyroid in these cases is
usually swollen. One of the methods used to treat the disease is
to remove some of the gland surgically. In the early days an
operator would occasionally remove too, much gland and then the
symptoms, of myxoedema would occur. This necessitated the
artificial feeding of thyroid the rest of the patient's life!
With the proper dosage of the gland substance the patient remains
normal; with too little she becomes dull and stupid; with too
much she becomes unstable and emotional!

There are plenty of other examples of the influence of the
endocrines on mind, character and personality. I here briefly
mention a few of these.

In the disease called acromegaly, which is due to a change in the
pituitary gland, amongst other things are noted "melancholic
tendencies, loss of memory and mental and physical torpor."

A very profound effect on character and personality, exclusive of
intelligence, is that of the sex glands. One need not accept the
Freudian extravagances regarding the way in which the sex
feelings and impulses enter into our thoughts, emotions, purposes
and acts. No unbiased observer of himself or his fellows but
knows that the satisfaction or non-satisfaction of the sex
feeling, its excitation or its suppression are of great
importance in the destinies of character. Further, man as
herdsman and man as tyrant have carried on huge experiments to
show how necessary to normal character the sex glands are.

As herdsman he has castrated his male Bos and obtained the ox.
And the ox is the symbol of patience, docility, steady labor,
without lust or passion,--and the very opposite of his
non-castrated brother, the bull. The bull is the symbol of
irritability and unteachableness, who will not be easily yoked or
led and who is the incarnation of lust and passion. One is the
male transformed into neuter gender; and the other is rampant
with the fierceness of his sex.

Compare the eunuch and the normal man. If the eunuch state be
imposed in infancy, the shape of the body, its hairiness, the
quality of the voice and the character are altered in
characteristic manner. The eunuch essentially is neither man nor
woman, but a repelling Something intermediate.

Enough has been said to show that mind and character are
dependent upon the health of the brain and the glands of the
body; that somewhere in the interaction of tissues, in the
chemistry of life, arises thought, purpose, emotion, conduct and
deed. But we need not go so far afield as pathology to show this,
for common experience demonstrates it as well.

If character is control of emotions, firmness of purpose,
cheerfulness of outlook and vigor of thought and memory, then the
tired man, worn out by work or a long vigil, is changed in
character. Such a person in the majority of cases is irritable,
showing lack of control and emotion; he slackens in his life's
purposes, loses cheerfulness and outlook and finds it difficult
to concentrate his thoughts or to recall his memories. Though
this change is temporary and disappears with rest, the essential
fact is not altered, namely, fatigue alters character. It is also
true that not all persons show this vulnerability to fatigue in
equal measure. For that matter, neither do they show an equal
liability to infectious diseases, equal reaction to alcohol or
injury. The feeling of vigor which rest gives changes the
expression of personality to a marked degree. It is true that we
are not apt to think of the tired man as changed in character;
yet we must admit on reflection that he has undergone
transformation.

Even a loaded bowel may, as is well known, alter the reaction to
life. Among men who are coarse in their language there is a
salutation more pertinent than elegant that inquires into the
state of the bowels.[1] The famous story of Voltaire and the
Englishman, in which the sage agreed to suicide because life was
not worth living when his digestion was disordered and who broke
his agreement when he purged himself, illustrates how closely
mood is related to the intestinal tract. And mood is the
background of the psychic life, upon which depends the direction
of our thoughts, cheerful or otherwise, the vigor of our will and
purpose. Mood itself arises in part from the influences that
stream into the muscles, joints, heart, lungs, liver, spleen,
kidneys, digestive tract and all the organs and tissues by way of
the afferent nerves (sympathetic and cerebro-spinal). Mood is
thus in part a reflection of the health and proper working of the
organism; it is the most important aspect of the
subconsciousness, and upon it rests the structure of character
and personality.

[1] What is called coarse is frequently crudely true. Thus, in
the streets, in the workshops, and where men untrammeled by
niceties engage in personalities the one who believes the other
to be a "crank" informs him in crude language that he has
intestinal stasis (to put the diagnosis in medical language) and
advises him accordingly to "take a pill."


This does not mean that only the healthy are cheerful, or that
the sick are discouraged. To affirm the dependence of mind upon
body is not to deny that one may build up faith, hope, courage,
through example and precept, or that one may not inherit a
cheerfulness and courage (or the reverse). "There are men," says
James, "who are born under a cloud." But exceptional individuals
aside, the mass of mankind generates its mood either in the
tissues of the body or in the circumstances of life.

Children, because they have not built up standards of thought,
mood and act, demonstrate in a remarkable manner the dependence
of their character upon health.

A child shows the onset of an illness by a complete change in
character. I remember one sociable, amiable lad of two, rich in
the curiosity and expanding friendliness of that time of life,
who became sick with diphtheria. All his basic moods became
altered, and all his wholesome reactions to life disappeared. He
was cross and contrary, he had no interest in people or in
things, he acted very much as do those patients in an insane
hospital who suffer from Dementia Praecox. What is character if
it is not interest and curiosity, friendliness and love,
obedience and trust, cheerfulness and courage? Yet a sick child,
especially if very young, loses all these and takes on the
reverse characters. The little lad spoken of became "himself"
again when the fever and the pain lifted. Yet for a long time
afterward he showed a greater liability to fear than before, and
it was not until six months or more had repaired the more subtle
damage to his organism that he became the hardy little adventurer
in life that he had been before the illness.

There is plenty of chemical proof of this thesis as here set
forth. Men have from time immemorial put things "in their bellies
to steal their brains away." The chemical substance known as
ethyl alcohol has been an artificial basis of good fellowship the
world over, as well as furnishing a very fair share of the
tragedy, the misery and the humor of the world. This is because,
when ingested in any amount, its absorption produces changes in
the flow of thought, in the attitude toward life, in the mood,
the emotions, the purposes, the conduct,--in a word, in
character. One sees the austere man, when drunk, become ribald;
the repressed, close-fisted become open-mouthed and
open-hearted; the kindly, perhaps brutal; the controlled,
uncontrolled. In the change of character it effects is the regret
over its passing and the greatest reason for prohibition.

Alcohol causes several well-defined mental diseases as well as
mere drunkenness. In Delirium Tremens there is an acute delirium,
with confusion, excitement and auditory and visual hallucinations
of all kinds. The latter symptom is so prominent as to give the
reason for the popular name of the "snakes." In alcoholic
hallucinosis the patient has delusions of persecution and hears
voices accusing him of all kinds of wrong-doing. Very
frequently, as all the medical writers note, these voices are
"conscience exteriorized"; that is, the voices say of him just
what he has been saying of himself in the struggle against drink.
Then there is Alcoholic Paranoia, a disease in which the main
change is a delusion of jealousy directed against the mate, who
is accused of infidelity. It is interesting that in the last two
diseases the patient is "clear-headed"; memory and orientation
are good; the patient speaks well and gives no gross signs of his
trouble. As the effects of the alcohol wear away, the patient
recovers,--i.e., his character returns to its normal.

It becomes necessary at this point to take up a reverse side of
our study, namely, what is often called the influence of "mind
over matter." Such cures of disease as seem to follow prayer and
faith are cited; such incidents as the great strength of men
under emotion or the disturbances of the body by ideas are listed
as examples. This is not the place to discuss cures by faith. It
suffices to say this: that in the first place most of such cures
relate to hysteria, a disease we shall discuss later but which is
characterized by symptoms that appear and disappear like magic. I
have seen "cured" (and have "cured") such patients, affected with
paralysis, deafness, dumbness, blindness, etc., with reasoning,
electricity, bitter tonics, fake electrodes, hypnotism, and in
one case by a forcible slap upon a prominent and naked part of
the body. Hysteria has been the basis of many a saint's
reputation and likewise has aided many a physician into
affluence.

Nor is the effect of coincidence taken into account in estimating
cures, whether by faith or by drugs. Many a physician has owed
his start to the fact that he was called in on some obscure case
just when the patient was on the turn towards recovery. He then
receives the credit that belonged to Nature. Medical men
understand this,--that many diseases are "self-limited" and pass
through a cycle influenced but little by treatment. But faith
curists do not so understand, and neither does the mass of
people, so that neither one nor the other separates "post hoc"
from "propter hoc." If the truth were told, most of the miracle
and faith cures that are not of hysterical origin are due to
coincidence. Faith curists report in detail their successes, but
we have no statistics whatever of their failures.

If thought is a product of the brain activated by the rest of the
organism, it would be perfectly natural to expect that thought
would influence the organism. That thought is intimately
associated with impulses to action is well known. This action
largely takes place in the speech muscles but also it irradiates
into the rest of the organism. Especially is this true if the
thought is associated with some emotion. Emotion, as we shall
discuss it later, is at least in large part a bodily reaction, a
disturbance in heart, lungs, abdominal organs, blood vessels,
sympathetic nervous system, endocrines, etc. The effect of
thought and emotion upon the body, whether to heighten its
activity or to lower its activity, is, from my point of view,
merely the effect of one function of the organism upon others. We
are not surprised if digestion affects thinking and mood, and we
need not be surprised if thought and mood disturb or improve
digestion. And we may substitute for digestion any other organic
function.

As a working basis, substantiated by the kind of proof we use in
our daily lives in laboratories and machine shops, we may state
that mind, character and personality are organic in their origin
and are functions of the entire organism. What a man thinks, does
and feels (or perhaps we should reverse this order) is the result
of environmental forces playing upon a marvelously intricate
organism in which every part reacts on every other part, in which
nervous energy influences digestion and digestion influences
nervous energy, in which enzymes, hormones, and endocrines engage
in an extraordinary game of checks and balance, which in the
normal course of events make for the individual's welfare. What a
man thinks, does, and feels influences the fate of his organism
from one end of life to the other.

We have not adduced in favor of the organic nature of mind,
character and personality the facts of heredity. This is a most
important set of facts, for if the egg and the sperm carry
mentality and personality, they may be presumed to carry them in
some organic form, as organic potentialities, just as they carry
size,[1] color, sex, etc. That abnormal mind is inherited is
shown in family insanity in the second, third and fourth
generation cases of mental disease. Certain types of
feeble-mindedness surely are transmitted from generation to
generation, as witness the case of the famous (or infamous) Jukes
family. In this group vagabondage, crime, immorality and other
character abnormalities appeared linked with the
feeble-mindedness. But there is plenty of evidence to show that
normal character qualities are inherited as well as the
abnormal.[2] Galton, the father of eugenics, collected facts from
the history of successful families to prove this. It is true that
he failed to take into account the facts of SOCIAL heredity, in
that a gifted man establishes a place for himself and a tradition
for his family that is of great help to his son. Nevertheless,
musical ability runs in families and races, as does athletic
ability, high temper, passion, etc. In short, at least the
potentialities, the capacities for character, are transmitted
together with other qualities as part of the capital of heredity.

[1] I have collected and published from the records and wards of
the State Hospital at Taunton, Mass., many such cases. The whole
subject is to be reviewed in a following book on the transmission
of mental disease, but no one seriously doubts that there is a
transference of "insane" character from generation to generation.
In fact, I believe that a little too much stress hag been laid on
this aspect of mental disease and not enough on the fact that
sickness may injure a family stock and cause the descendants to
be insane. Any one who has seen a single case of congenital
General Paresis, where a child has a mental disease due to the
syphilis of a parent, and can doubt that character and mind are
organic, simply is blinded by theological or metaphysical
prejudice.

[2] See his book "Genius."


This means that in studying character and personality, we must
start with an analysis of the physical make-up of the individual.
We are not yet at the point in science where we can easily get at
the activities of the endocrinal glands in normal mentality. We
are able to recognize certain fundamental types, but more we
cannot do; nor are we able to measure nervous energy except in
relatively crude ways, but these crude ways have great value
under certain conditions.

When there has been a change in personality, the question of
bodily disease is always paramount. The first questions to be
asked under such circumstances are, "Is this person sick?" "Is
the brain involved?" "Are endocrinal glands involved?" "Is there
disease of some organ of the body, acting to lower the feeling of
well-being, acting to slacken the purposes and the will or to
obscure the intelligence?"

There are other important questions of this type to answer, some
of which may be deferred for the time. Meanwhile, the next
equally fundamental thesis is on the effect of the environment
upon mind, character and personality.



CHAPTER II. THE ENVIRONMENTAL BASIS OF CHARACTER

From the time any one of us is born into the world he is subject
to the influences of forces that reach backwards to the earliest
days of the race. The "dead hand" rules,--yes, and the dead
thought, belief and custom continue to shape the lives and
character of the living. The invention and development of speech
and writing have brought into every man's career the mental life
and character of all his own ancestors and the ancestors of every
other man.

A child is not born merely to a father and a mother. He is born
to a group, fiercely and definitely prejudiced in custom, belief
and ideal, with ways of doing, feeling and thinking which it
seeks to impose on each of its new members. Family, tribe, race
and nation all demand of each accession that he accept their
ideals, habits and beliefs on peril of disapproval and even of
punishment. And man is so constituted that the approval and
disapproval of his group mean more to him even than his life.

The social setting into which each one is born is his social
heredity. "The heredity with which civilization is most
supremely concerned," says Sir Edwin Ray Lankester, "is not that
which is inborn in the individual. It is the SOCIAL inheritance
which constitutes the dominant factor in human progress."[1] It
is this social inheritance which shapes our characters,
rough-hewn by nature. It is by the light of each person's social
inheritance that we must also judge his character.

[1] The Eugenists fiercely contest this statement, and rightly,
for it is extreme. Society is threatened at its roots by the
present high birth rate of the low grade and the low birth rate
of the high grade. Environment, culture, can do much, but they
cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Neither can heredity
make a silk purse out of silk; without culture and the
environmental influences, without social heredity, the silk
remains crude and with no special value. The aims of a rational
society, which we are born a thousand years too soon to see would
be twofold: to control marriage and birth so that the number of
the unfit would be kept as low as possible, and then to bring
fostering influences to bear on the fit.


"Education," says Oliver Wendell Holmes, "is only second to
nature. Imagine all the infants born this year in Boston and
Timbuctoo to change places!" And education is merely social
inheritance organized by parents and teachers for the sake of
molding the scholar into usefulness and conformity to the group
into which he is born. There may be in each individual an innate
capacity for this ability or that, for expressing and controlling
this or that emotion, for developing this or that purpose. Which
ability will be developed, which emotion or purpose will be
expressed, is a matter of the age in which a man is born, the
country in which he lives, the family which claims him as its
own. In a warrior age the fighting spirit chooses war as its
vocation and develops a warlike character; in a peaceful time
that same fighting spirit may seek to bring about such reforms as
will do away with war.[1] When the world said that a man might
and really ought now and then to beat his wife and rule her by
force, the really conformable man did so, while his descendant,
living in a time and country where woman is the domestic "boss,"
submits, humorously and otherwise, to a good-natured henpecking.
And in the times where a woman had no vocation but that of
housewife, the wife of larger ability merely became a
discontented, futile woman; whereas in an age which opens up
politics to her, the same type of person expands into a vigorous,
dominating political leader. Though the force of the water remain
the same, the nature of the land determines whether the water
shall collect as a river, carrying the produce of the land to the
sea, or as a stagnant lake in which idlers fish. Time, social
circumstances, education and a thousand and one factors determine
whether one shall be a "Village Hampden," quarreling in a petty
way with a petty autocrat over some petty thing, or a national
Hampden, whose defiance of a tyrannical king stirs a nation into
revolt.

[1] Indeed, a reformer is to-day called a crusader, though the
knight of the twelfth century armed cap-a-pie for a joust with
the Saracen would hardly recognize as his spiritual descendant a
sedentary person preaching against rum. Yet to the student of
character there is nothing anomalous in the transformation.


How conceptions of right and wrong, of proper and improper
conduct, ideals and thoughts arise, it is not my function to
treat in detail. That intelligence primarily uses the method of
trial and error to learn is as true of groups as of individuals;
and established methods of doing things--customs--are often
enough temporary conclusions, though they last a thousand years.
The feeling that such group customs are right and that to depart
from them is wrong, is perhaps based on a specific instinct, the
moral instinct; but much more likely, in my opinion, is it
obedience to leadership, fear of social disapproval and
punishment, conscience, imitation, suggestibility and sympathy,
all of which are parts of that social cement substance, the
social instinct. No child ever learns "what is right and wrong"
except through teaching, but no child would ever conform, except
through gross fear, unless he found himself urged by deep-seated
instincts to be in conformity, in harmony and in sympathy with
his group,--to be one with that group. Perhaps it is true, as
Bergson suggests, as Galton[1] hints and as Samuel Butler boldly
states, that there are no real individuals in life but we are
merely different aspects of reality or, to phrase it
materialistically, corpuscles in the blood stream of an organism
too vast and complicated to be encompassed by our imagination.
Just as a white blood cell obeys laws of which it can have no
conception, fulfills purposes whose meaning transcends its own
welfare, so we, with all our self-consciousness and all the
paraphernalia of individuality, are perhaps parts of a life we
cannot understand.

[1] For example, read what the hard-headed Galton says
("Hereditary Genius," p. 376):

"There is decidedly a solidarity as well as a separateness in all
human and probably in all lives whatsoever, and this
consideration goes far, I think, to establish an opinion that the
constitution of the living universe is a pure theism and that its
form of activity is what may he described as cooperative. It
points to the conclusion that all life is single in its essence,
but various, ever-varying and interactive in its manifestations,
and that men and all other living animals are active workers and
sharers in a vastly more extended system of cosmic action than
any of ourselves, much less of them, can possibly comprehend. It
also suggests that they may contribute, more or less
unconsciously, to the manifestation of a far higher life than our
own, somewhat as . . . the individual cells of one of the more
complex animals contribute to the manifestations of its higher
order of personality." Perhaps such a unity is the basis of
instinct, of knowledge without teaching, of desire and wish that
has not the individual welfare as its basis. No man can reject
such phenomena as telepathy or thought transference merely
because he cannot understand them on a basis of strict human
individuality. To reject because one cannot understand is the
arrogance of the "clerico-academic" type of William James.


No one can read the stories of travelers or the writings of
anthropologists without concluding that codes of belief and
action arise out of the efforts of groups to understand and to
influence nature and that out of this practical effort AND
seeking of a harmonious reality arises morality. "Man seeks the
truth, a world that does not contradict itself, that does not
deceive, that does not change; a real world,--a world in which
there is no suffering. Contradiction, deception and variability
are the causes of suffering. He does not doubt there is such a
thing as, a world as it might be, and he would fain find a road
to it."[1] But alas, intelligence and knowledge both are
imperfect, and one group seeking a truth that will bring them
good crops, fine families, victory over enemies, riches, power
and fellowship, as well as a harmonious universe, finds it in
idol worship and polygamy; another group seeking the same truth
finds it in Christianity and monogamy. And the members of some
groups are born to ideals, customs and habits that make it right
for a member to sing obscene songs and to be obscene at certain
periods, to kill and destroy the enemy, to sacrifice the
unbeliever, to worship a clay image, to have as many wives as
possible, and that make it WRONG to do otherwise. Indeed, he who
wishes a child to believe absolutely in a code of morals would
better postpone teaching him the customs and beliefs of other
people until habit has made him adamant to new ideas.

[1] Nietzsche.


It is with pleasure that I turn the attention of the reader to
the work of Frazier in the growth of human belief, custom and
institutions that he has incorporated into the stupendous series
of books called "The Golden Bough." The things that influence us
most in our lives are heritages, not much changed, from the
beliefs of primitive societies. Believing that the forces of the
world were animate, like himself, and that they might be moved,
persuaded, cajoled and frightened into favorable action,
undeveloped man based most of his customs on efforts to obtain
some desired result from the gods. Out of these customs grew the
majority of our institutions; out of these queer beliefs and
superstitions, out of witchcraft, sympathetic magic, the "Old
Man" idea, the primitive reaction to sleep, epilepsy and death
grew medicine, science, religion, festivals, the kingship, the
idea of soul and most of the other governing and directing ideas
of our lives. It is true that the noble beliefs and sciences also
grew from these rude seeds, but with them and permeating our
social structure are crops of atrophied ideas, hampering customs,
cramping ideals. Further, in every race in every country, in
every family, there are somewhat different assortments of these
directing traditional forces; and it is these social inheritances
which are more responsible for difference in people than a native
difference in stock.

Consider the difference that being born and brought up in Turkey
and being born, let us say, in New York City, would make in two
children of exactly the same disposition, mental caliber and
physical structure. One would grow up a Turk and the other a New
Yorker, and the mere fact that they had the same original
capacity for thought, feeling and action would not alter the
result that in character the two men would stand almost at
opposite poles. One need not judge between them and say that one
was superior to the other, for while I feel that the New Yorker
might stand OUR inspection better, I am certain that the Turk
would be more pleasing to Turkish ideas. The point is that they
would be different and that the differences would result solely
from the environmental forces of natural conditions and social
inheritance.

Study the immigrant to the United States and his descendant,
American born and bred. Compare Irishman and Irish-American,
Russian Jew and his American-born descendant; compare Englishman
and the Anglo-Saxon New England descendant. Here is a race, the
Jew, which in the Ghetto and under circumstances that built up a
tremendously powerful set of traditions and customs developed a
very distinctive type of human being. Poor in physique, with
little physical pugnacity, but worshiping, learning and reaching
out for wealth and power in an unusually successful manner, the
crucible of an adverse and hostile environment rendered him
totally different in manners from his Gentile neighbors. With a
high birth rate and an intensely close and pure family life, the
Ghetto Jew lived and died shut off by the restrictions placed
upon him and his own social heredity from the life of the country
of his birth. Then came immigration to the United States through
one cause or another,--and note the results.

With the old social heredity still at work, another set of
customs, traditions and beliefs comes into open competition with
it in the bosom of the American Jew. Nowhere is the struggle
between the old and the new generations so intense as in the home
of the Orthodox Jew. His descendant is clean-shaven and no longer
observes (or observes only perfunctorily or with many a gross
inconsistency) the dietary and household laws. He is a free
spender and luxurious in his habits as compared with his
economical, ascetic forefathers. He marries late and the birth
rate drops with most astonishing rapidity, so that in one
generation the children of parents who had eight or ten children
have families of one or two or three children. He becomes a
follower of sports, and with his love for scholarship still
strong, as witness his production of scholars and scientists, the
remarkable rise of the Jewish prize fighter stands out as a
divergence from tradition that mocks at theories of inborn racial
characters. And a third generation differs in customs, manners,
ideals, purposes and physique but little from the social class of
Americans in which the individual members move. The names become
Anglicized; gone are the Abrahams and Isaacs and Jacobs, the
Rachels and Leahs and Rebeccas, and in their place are Vernon,
Mortimer, Winthrop, Alice, Helen and Elizabeth. And this change
in name symbolizes the revolution in essential characters.

Has the racial stock changed in one generation or two? No. A new
social heredity has overcome--or at least in part supplanted--an
older social heredity and released and developed characters
hitherto held in check. In every human being--and this is a theme
we shall enlarge upon later--there are potential lines of
development far outnumbering those that can be manifested, and
each environment and tradition calls forth some and suppresses
others. Every man is a garden planted with all kinds of seeds;
tradition and teaching are the gardeners that allow only certain
ones to come to bloom. In each age, each country and each family
there is a different gardener at work, repressing certain trends
in the individual, favoring and bringing to an exaggerated growth
other trends.

That each family, or type of family, acts in this way is
recognized in the value given to the home life. The home, because
of its sequestration, allows for the growth of individual types
better than would a community house where the same traditions and
ideals governed the life of each child. In the home the parents
seek to cultivate the specific type of character they favor. The
home is par excellence the place where prejudice and social
attitude are fostered. Though the mother and father seek to give
broadmindedness and wide culture to the child, their efforts must
largely be governed by their own attitudes and reactions,--in
short, by their own character and the resultant examples and
teaching. It is true that the native character of the child may
make him resistant to the teachings of the parents or may even
develop counter-prejudices, to react violently against the
gardening. This is the case when the child is of an opposing
temperament or when in the course of time he falls under the
influence of ideals and traditions that are opposed to those of
his home. Unless the home combines interest and freedom, together
with teaching, certain children become violent rebels, and,
seeking freedom and interest outside of the home, find themselves
in a conflict, both with their home teaching and the home
teachers, that shakes the unity and the happiness of parent and
child. Like all civil wars this war between new and old
generations reaches great bitterness.

In studying the cases of several hundred delinquent girls, as a
consultant to the Parole Department of Massachusetts, it was
found that the family life of the girls could be classified in
two ways. The majority of the girls that reached the Reformatory
came from bad homes,--homes in which drunkenness, prostitution,
feeble-mindedness, and insanity were common traits of the
parents. Or else the girls were orphans brought up by a
stepmother or some careless foster mother. In any case, through
either example, cruelty or neglect, they drifted into the
streets.

And the streets! Only the poor child (or the child brought up
over strictly) can know the lure of the streets. THERE is
excitement, THERE is freedom from prohibitions and inhibitions.
So the boy or girl finds a world without discipline, is without
the restraints imposed on the sex instincts and comes under the
influence of derelicts, sex-adventurers, thieves, vagabonds and
the aimless of all sorts. Into this university of the vices most
of the girls I am speaking of drifted, largely because the home
influence either was of the street type or had no advantages to
offer in competition with the street.

But the child on the streets is no more a solitary individual
than the savage is, or for that matter the civilized man. He
quickly forms part of a group, a roving group, called "The Gang."
In the large cities gangs are usually composed of boys of one age
or nearly so; in the small towns the gangs will consist of the
boys of a neighborhood. In fact, regardless of whether they are
street children or home children, boys form gangs spontaneously.
The gang is the first voluntary organization of society, for the
home, in so far as the child is concerned, is an involuntary
organization. The gang has its leader or leaders, usually the
strongest or the best fighter. At any rate, the best fighter is
the nominal leader, though a shrewder lad may assume the real
power. The gang has rules, it plays according to regulations, its
quarrels are settled according to a code, property has a definite
status and distribution.[1] The members of the gang are always
quarreling with each other, but here, as in the larger
aggregations of older human beings, "politics ends at the
border," and the gang is a unit against foreign aggression.
Indeed, gangs of a neighborhood may league against a group of
other gangs, as did the quarreling cities of Greece against
Persia.

[1] In the gang of which I was a member there was a ritual in the
formation of partnership, an association within the association.
Two boys, fond of each other and desiring to become partners,
would link little fingers, while a third boy acting as a sort of
priest--an elder of the gang--would raise his hand and strike the
link, shouting, "Partners, partners, never break!" This ritual
was a symbol of the unity of the pair, so that they fought for
each other, shared all personal goods (such as candy, pocket
money, etc.,) and were to be loyal and sympathetic throughout
life. Alas, dear partner of my boyhood, most gallant of fighters
and most generous of souls, where are you, and where is our
friendship, now?


For the student of mankind the gang is one of the most
fascinating phenomena. Here the power of tradition, without the
aid of records, is seen. Throughout America, in a mysterious way,
all the boys start spinning tops at a certain season and then
suddenly cease and begin, to play marbles. Without any
standardization of a central type they have the same rules for
their games, call them by the same names and use in their songs
the same rhymes and airs. Every generation of children has the
same jokes and trick games: "Eight and eight are sixteen, stick
your nose in kerosene"--"A dead cat, I one it, you two it, I
three it, you four it, I five it, you six it, I seven it, you
eight it!" The fact is, of course, that there are no generations
as distinct entities; there are always individuals of one age,
and there is a mutual teaching and learning going on at all
times, which is the basis of transmission of tradition. Children
are usually more conservative and greater sticklers for form and
propriety than even men are; only now and then a freer mind
arises whose courage and pertinacity change things.

Therefore, in the understanding of character the influence of the
environment becomes of as fundamental importance as the
consideration of the organic make-up of the individual. The
environment in the form of tradition, social ideal, social
status, economic situation, race, religion, family, education is
thus on the one hand the directing, guiding, eliciting factor in
character and on the other is the repressing, inhibiting,
limiting factor.

Putting the whole thing in another way: the organism is the
Microcosmos, or little world, in which the potentialities of
character are elaborated in the germ plasm we inherit from our
ancestors, in the healthy interaction of brain with the rest of
the body, especially the internal glands. The outside world is
the Macrocosmos, or large world, and includes the physical
conditions of existence (climate, altitude, plentiness of food,
access to the sea) as well as the social conditions of existence
(state of culture of times and race and family). The social
conditions of existence are of especial interest in that they
reach back ages before the individual was born so that the lives,
thoughts, ideals of the dead may dominate the character of the
living.

This macrocosmos both brings to light and stifles the character
peculiarities of the microcosmos and the character of no man, as
we see or know it, ever expresses in any complete manner his
innate possibilities.

The question arises: What is the basis of the influence of the
social heredity, of the forces, in the character of the person
born in a social group? Certain aspects of this we must deal with
later, in order to keep to a unified presentation of the subject.
Other aspects are pertinently to be discussed now.

The link that binds man to man is called the social instinct,
though perhaps it would be better to call it the group of social
instincts. The link is one of feeling, primarily, though it has
associated with it, in an indissoluble way, purpose and action.
The existence of the social instinct is undisputed; its
explanation is varied and ranges from the mystical to the
evolutionary. For the mystical (which crops out in Bergson,
Butler and even in Galton), the unity of life is its basis, and
there is a sort of recognition of parts formerly united but now
separate individuals. This does not explain hate, racial and
individual. The evolutionary aspect has received its best
handling in recent years in Trotter's "The Herd," where the
social instincts are traced in their relation to human history.
One writer after another has placed as basic in social instinct,
sympathy, imitation, suggestibility and the recognition of
"likeness." These are merely names for a spreading of emotion
from one member of a group to another, for a something that makes
members of the group teachable and makes them wish to teach; that
is back of the wish to conform and help and has two sets of
guiding forces, reward and its derivative praise; punishment and
its derivative blame. Perhaps the term "derivative" is not
correct, and perhaps praise and blame are primary and reward and
punishment secondary.

So eminent a philosopher as the elder Mill declared the
distribution of praise and blame is the greatest problem of
society." This view of the place of praise and blame in the
organization of character and in directing the efforts and
activity of men is hardly exaggerated. From birth to death the
pleasure of reward and praise and the pain of punishment and
blame are immensely powerful human motives. It is true that now
and then individuals seek punishment and blame, but this is
always to win the favor of others or of the most important
observer of men's actions,--God, The child is trained through the
effect of reward and punishment, praise and blame; and these are
used to set up, on the one hand, habits of conduct, and on the
other an inner mentor and guide called Conscience. It may be true
that conscience is innate in its potentialities, but whether that
is so or not, it is the teaching and training of the times or of
some group that gives to conscience its peculiar trend in any
individual case. And before a child has any inward mentor it
depends for its knowledge of right and wrong upon the efforts of
its parents, their use of praise-reward and blame-punishment; it
reacts to these measures in accordance with the strength and
vigor of its social instincts and in accordance with its fear of
punishment and desire for reward. The feelings of duty and the
prickings of conscience serve to consolidate a structure already
formed.

Here we must discuss a matter of fundamental importance in
character analysis. Men are not born equal in any respect. This
inequality extends to every power, possibility and peculiarity
and has its widest range in the mental and character life. A tall
man is perhaps a foot taller than a very short man; a giant is
perhaps twice as tall as a dwarf. A very fleet runner can "do" a
hundred yards in ten seconds, and there are few except the
crippled or aged who cannot run the distance in twenty seconds.
Only in the fables has the hero the strength of a dozen men. But
where dexterity or knowledge enters things become different, and
one man can do what the most of men cannot even prepare to do.
Where abstract thought or talent or genius is involved the
greatest human variability is seen. There we have Pascals who are
mathematicians at five and discoverers at sixteen; there we have
Mozarts, composers at three; there we have our inspired boy
preachers already consecrated to their great ideal of work; and
we have also our Jesse Pomeroys, fiendish murderers before
adolescence. I believe with Carlyle that it is the heroes, the
geniuses of the race, to whom we owe its achievements; and the
hero and the genius are the men and women of "greatest
variability" in powers. The first weapon, the starting of fire,
the song that became "a folk song" were created by the
prehistoric geniuses and became the social heritage of the group
or race. And "common man" did little to develop religions or even
superstitions; he merely accepted the belief of a leader.

This digression is to emphasize that children and the men and
women they grow to be are widely variable in their native social
feeling, in their response to praise, blame, reward and
punishmept. One child eagerly responds to all, is moved by
praise, loves reward, fears punishment and hates blame. Another
child responds mainly to reward, is but little moved by praise,
fears punishment and laughs at blame. Still another only fears
punishment, while there is a type of deeply antisocial nature
which goes his own way, seeking his own egoistic purposes,
uninfluenced by the opinion of others, accepting reward cynically
and fighting against punishment. More than that, each child shows
peculiarities in the types of praise, reward, blame and
punishment that move him. Some children need corporal
punishment[1] and others who are made rebels by it are melted
into conformity by ostracism.

[1] It is a wishy-washy ideal of teaching that regards pain as
equivalent to cruelty. On the contrary, it may be real cruelty to
spare pain,--cruelty to the future of the child. Pain is a great
teacher, whether inflicted by the knife one has been told not to
play with, or by the parent when the injunction not to play with
the knife has been disregarded.


The distribution of praise and blame constitutes the distribution
of public opinion. Wherever public opinion is free to exercise
its power it is a weapon of extraordinary potency before which
almost nothing can stand. One might define a free nation as one
where public opinion has no limits,[1] where no one is prevented
from the expression of belief about the action of others, and no
one is exempted from the pressure of opinion. Conversely an
autocracy is one where there is but little room for the public
use of praise and but little power to blame, especially in regard
to the rulers. But in all societies, whether free or otherwise,
people are constantly praising, constantly blaming one another,
whether over the teacups or the wine glasses, in the sewing
circle or the smoking rooms, in the midst of families, in the
press, in the great halls of the states and nations. These are
"the mallets" by which society beats or attempts to beat
individuals into the accepted shape.

[1] In fact, Oliver Wendell Holmes has defined as the great
object of human society the free growth and expression of human
thought. How far we are from that ideal!


Men and women and children all strive to be praised, if not by
their own group, by some other group or by some generation. It
is, therefore, a high achievement to introduce a new ideal of
character and personality to the group. Men--whose opinion as to
desirability and praiseworthiness has been the prepotent
opinion--love best of all beauty in woman. Therefore, the ideal
of beauty as an achievement is a leading factor in the character
formation of most girls and young women. The first question girls
ask about one another is, "Is she pretty?" and in their criticism
of one another the personal appearance is the first and most,
important subject discussed. A personal beauty ideal has little
value to the character; in fact, it tends to exaggerate vanity
and triviality and selfishness; it leads away from the higher
aspects of reality. If you ask the majority of women which would
they rather be, very beautiful or very intelligent, most will say
without question (in their frank moments) that they would rather
be very beautiful. Those who are attempting to introduce the
ideal of intelligence as a goal to women need of course to
balance it with other ideals, but if successful they will
revolutionize the attitude of women toward life and change the
trend of their character.

Such ideals as beauty and wealth, however, do not acquire their
imperativeness unless at the same time they gratify some
deep-seated group of desires or instincts. Wealth gives too many
things to catalogue here, but fundamentally it gives power, and
so beauty which may lead to wealth is always a source of power,
although this power carries with it danger to the owner. Mankind
has been praising unselfishness for thousands of years, and all
men hate to be called selfish, but selfishness still rules in the
lives of most of the people of the world. Chastity and continence
receive the praise of the religious of the world, as well as of
the ascetic-minded of all types, yet the majority of men, in
theory accepting this ideal, reject it in practice. Selfishness
leads to self-gratification and pleasure; chastity imposes a
burden on desire, and praise and blame are in this instance not
powerful enough to control mankind's acts, though powerful enough
to influence them. Wherever social pressure and education
influence men and women to conduct which is contrary to the
gratification of fundamental desires, it causes an uneasiness, an
unhappiness and discomfort upon which Graham Wallas[1] has laid
great stress as the balked desire. The history of man is made up
of the struggle of normal instincts, emotions and purposes
against the mistaken inhibitions and prohibitions, against
mistaken praise and blame, reward and punishment. Moral and
ethical ideals develop institutions, and these often press too
heavily upon the life and activities of those who accept them as
authoritative.

[1] See his book "The Great Society" for a fine discussion of
this important matter.


We have spoken as if praise and blame invariably had the same
results. On the contrary, though in general they tend to bring
about uniformity and conformity, people vary remarkably from one
another in their reaction and the same person is not uniform in
his reactions. The reaction to praise is on the whole an
increased happiness and vigor, but of course it may, when
undeserved, demoralize the character and lead to a foolish vanity
and to inefficiency. To those whose conscience is highly
developed, undeserved praise is painful in that it leads to a
feeling that one is deceiving others. Speaking broadly, this is a
rare reaction. Most people accept praise as their due, just as
they attribute success to their merits.[1] The reaction to blame
may be anger, if the blame is felt to be undeserved, and there
are people of irritable ego who respond in this way to all blame
or even the hint of adverse criticism. The reaction may be
humiliation and lowered self-valuation, greatly deenergizing the
character and lowering efficiency. There, again, though this
reaction occurs in some degree to all, others are so constituted
that all criticism or blame is extremely painful and needs to be
tempered with praise and encouragement. Where blame is felt to be
deserved, and where the character is one of striving after
betterment, where the ego is neither irritable nor tender, blame
is an aid to growth and efficiency. Many a man flares up under
blame who "cools" down when he sees the justice of the criticism,
and changes accordingly.

[1] A very striking example of this was noticeable during the
Great War. American business men in general, producers,
distributors, wholesalers, retailers and speculators all got
"rich,"--some in extraordinary measure. Did many of them
attribute this to the fact that there was a "sellers' market"
caused by the conditions over which the individual business man
had no control? On the contrary, the overwhelming majority quite
complacently attributed the success (which later proved
ephemeral) to their own ability.


Therefore, in estimating the character of any individual, one
must ask into the nature of his environment, the traits and
teachings of the group from which he comes and among whom he has
lived. To understand any one this inquiry must be detailed and
reach back into his early life. Yet not too much stress must be
laid upon certain influences in regard to certain qualities. For
example, the average child is not influenced greatly by
immorality until near puberty, but dishonesty and bad manners
strike at him from early childhood. The large group, the small
group, family life, gang life influence character, but not
necessarily in a direct way. They may act to develop counter-
prejudices, for there is no one so bitter against alcoholism as
the man whose father was a drunkard and who himself revolts
against it. And there is no one so radical as he whose youth was
cramped by too much conservatism.

One might easily classify people according to their reaction to
reward, praise, punishment and blame. This would lead us too far
afield. But at least it is safe to say that in using these
factors in directing conduct and character the individual must be
studied in a detailed way. The average child, the average man and
woman is found only in statistics. Everywhere, to deal
successfully, one must deal with the individual.

There is a praise-reacting type to whom praise acts as a tonic of
incomparable worth, especially when he who administers the praise
is respected. And there are employers, teachers and parents who
ignore this fact entirely, who use praise too little or not at
all and who rely on adverse criticism. The hunger for
appreciation is a deep, intense need, and many of the problems of
life would melt before the proper use of praise.

"Fine words butter no parsnips" means that reward of other kinds
is needed to give substance to praise. Praise only without reward
losses its value. "I get lots of 'Thank you's' and 'You are a
good fellow'," complained a porter to me once, "but I cannot
bring up my family on them." In their hearts, no matter what they
say, the majority of people place highly him who is just in
compensation and reward and they want substantial goods. Many a
young scientist of my acquaintance has found that election to
learned societies and praise and respect palled on him as
compared to a living salary. Money can be exchanged for
vacations, education, books, good times and the opportunity of
helping others, but praise has no cash exchange value.

Blame and punishment are intensely individual matters. Where they
are used to correct and to better the character, where they are
the tools of the friends and teacher and not the weapons of the
enemy, great care must be used. Character building is an aim, not
a technique, and the end has justified the means. Society has
just about come to the conclusion that merely punishing the
criminal does not reform him, and merely to punish the child has
but part of the effect desired. In character training punishment
and blame must bring PAIN, but that pain must be felt to be
deserved (at least in the older child and adult) and not arouse
lasting anger or humiliation. It must teach the error of the ways
and prepare the recipient for instruction as to the right away.
Often enough the pain of punishment and blame widens the breach
between the teacher and pupil merely because the former has
inflicted pain without recompense.

One might put it thus: The pleasure of praise and reward must
energize, the pain of blame and punishment. must teach, else
teacher and society have misused these social tools.

"Very well," I hear some readers say, "is conscience to be
dismissed so shortly? Have not men dared to do right in the face
of a world that blamed and punished; have they not stood without
praise or reward or the fellowship of others for the actions
their conscience dictated?"

Yes, indeed. What, then, is conscience? For the common thought of
the world it is an inward mentor placed by God within the bosom
of man to guide him, to goad him, even, into choosing right and
avoiding wrong. Where the conception of conscience is not quite
so literal and direct it is held to be an immanent something of
innate origin. Whatever it may be, it surely does not guide us
very accurately or well, for there are opposing consciences on
every side of every question, and opponents find themselves
equally spurred by conscience to action and are equally convinced
of righteousness. In the long run it would be difficult to decide
which did more harm in the world, a conscientious persecutor or
bigot, an Alvarez or James the First, or a dissolute,
conscienceless sensualist like Charles the Second. Certainly
consciences differ as widely as digestions.

Conscience, so it seems to me, arises in early childhood with the
appearance of fixed purposes. It is entirely guided at first by
teaching and by praise and blame, for the infant gives no
evidence of conscience. But the infant (or young child) soon
wants to please, wants the favor and smiles of its parents. Why
does it wish to please? Is there a something irreducible in the
desire? I do not know and cannot pretend to answer.

This, however, may be definitely stated. Conscience arises or
grows in the struggle between opposing desires and purposes in
the course of which one purpose becomes recognized as the proper
guide to conduct. Let us take a simple case from the moral
struggles of the child.

A three-year-old, wandering into the kitchen, with mother in the
back yard hanging out the clothes, makes the startling discovery
that there is a pan of tarts, apple tarts, on the kitchen table,
easily within reach, especially if Master Three-Year-Old pulls up
a chair. Tarts! The child becomes excited, his mouth waters, and
those tarts become the symbol and substance of pleasure,--and
within his reach. But in the back of his mind, urging him to stop
and consider, is the memory of mother's injunction, "You must
always ask for tarts or candy or any goodies before you take
them." And there is the pain of punishment and scolding and the
vision of father, looking stern and not playing with one. These
are distant, faint memories, weak forces,--but they influence
conduct so that the little one takes a tart and eats it hurriedly
before mother returns and then runs into the dining room or
bedroom. Thus, instead of merely obeying an impulse to take the
tart, as an uninstructed child would, he has now become a little
thief and has had his first real moral struggle.

But it is a grim law that sensual pleasures do not last beyond
the period of gratification. If this were not so there could be
no morality in the world, and conscience would never reach any
importance. Whether we gratify sex appetite or gastric hunger,
the pleasure goes at once. True, there may be a short afterglow
of good feeling, but rarely is it strongly affective, and very
often it is replaced by a positive repulsion for the appetite. On
the other hand, to be out of conformity with your group is a
permanent pain, and the fear of being found out is an anxiety
often too great to be endured. And so our child, with the tart
gone, wishes he had not taken it, perhaps not clearly or
verbally; he is regretful, let us say. Out of this regret, out of
this fear of being found out, out of the pain of nonconformity,
arises the conscience feeling which says, "Thou shalt not" or
"Thou shalt," according to social teaching.

It may be objected that "Conscience often arrays itself against
society, against social teaching, against perhaps all men." It is
not my place to trace the growth in mind of the idea of the
Absolute Good, or absolute right and wrong, with which a man must
align himself. I believe it is the strength of the ego feeling
which gives to some the vigor and unyieldingness of their
conscience. "I am right," says such a person, "and the rest of
the world is wrong. God is with me, my conscience and future
times will agree," thus appealing to the distant tribunal as
James pointed out. All the insane hospitals have their sufferers
for conscience's sake, paranoid personalities whose egos have
expanded to infallibility and whose consciences are
correspondingly developed.

Conscience thus represents the power of the permanent purposes
and ideals of the individuals, and it wars on the less permanent
desires and impulses, because there is in memory the uneasiness
and anxiety that resulted from indulgence and the pain of the
feeling of inferiority that results when one is hiding a secret
weakness or undergoing reproof or punishment. This group of
permanent purposes, ideals and aspirations corresponds closely to
the censor of the Freudian concept and here is an example where a
new name successfully disguises an age-old thought.

In other words, conscience is social in its origin, developing
differently in different people according to their teaching,
intelligence, will, ego-feeling, instincts, etc. From the
standpoint of character analysis there are many types of people
in regard to conscience development.

In respect to the reactions to praise and blame the following
types are conspicuous:

1. A "weak" group in whom these act as apparently the sole
motives.

2. A group energized by love of praise.

3. A group energized mainly by fear of blame.

4. A type that scorns anything but material reward.

5. Another, that "takes advantage" of reward; likes praise but is
merely made conceited by it, hates blame but is merely made angry
by it, fears punishment and finds its main goad to good conduct
in this fear.

6. Then there are those in whom all these motives operate in
greater or lesser degree,--the so-called normal person. In
reality he has his special inclinations and dreads.

7. The majority of people are influenced mainly by the group with
which they have cast their positions, the blame of others being
relatively unimportant or arousing anger. For there is this great
difference between our reactions to praise and blame: that while
the praise of almost any one and for almost any quality is
welcome, the blame of only a few is taken "well," and for the
rest there is anger, contempt or defiance. The influence of blame
varies with the respect, love and especially acknowledged
superiority of the blamer. The "boss" has a right to blame and so
has father or mother while we are children, but we resent
bitterly the blame of a fellow employee; "he has no right to
blame," and we rebel against the blame of our parents when we
grow up. In fact, the war of the old and new generations starts
with the criticism of the elder folk and the resentment of the
younger folk.

It will be seen that reaction to praise and blame, etc., will
depend upon the irritability of ego feeling, the love of
superiority and the dislike for inferiority. This basic situation
we must defer discussing, but what is of importance is that the
primitive disciplinary weapons we have discussed never lose their
cardinal value and remain throughout life and in all societies
the prime modes of thought and conduct.

In similar fashion the conscience types might be depicted. From
the over-conscientious who rigidly hold themselves to an ideal,
who watch every departure from perfection with agony and
self-reproach, and who may either reach the highest level or
"break down" and become inefficient to the almost conscienceless
group, doing only what seems more profitable, are many
intermediate types merging one with the other.

There are people whose conscience is localized, as the
self-sacrificing father who is a pirate in business, or as the
policeman who holds rigidly to conscience in courage and loyalty
to his fellows, but who finds no internal reproach when he takes
a bribe or perjures himself about a criminal. What we call a code
is really a localized conscience, and there are many men whose
consciences do not permit seduction of the virgin but who are
quite easy in mind about an intrigue with a married woman. So,
too, you may be as wily as you please in business but find
cheating at cards base and unthinkable. Conscience in the
abstract may be a divine entity, but in the realities of everyday
life it is a medley of motives, purposes and teachings, varying
from the grotesque and mischief-working to the sublime and
splendid.



CHAPTER III. MEMORY AND HABIT

There are two qualities of nervous tissues (possibly of all
living tissue) that are basic in all nervous and mental
processes. They are dependent upon the modificability of nerve
cells and fibers by stimuli, e. g., a light flashing through the
pupil and passing along the optical tracts to the occipital
cortex produces changes which constitute the basis of visual
memory. Experience modifies nervous tissue in definite manner,
and SOMETHING remembers. Who remembers? Who is conscious? Believe
what you please about that, call it ego, soul, call it
consciousness dipped out of a cosmic consciousness; and I have no
quarrel with you.

Memory has its mechanics, in the association of ideas, which
preoccupied the early English psychologists and philosophers; it
is the basis of thought and also of action, and it is a prime
mystery. We know its pathology, we think that memories for speech
have loci in the brain, the so-called motor memories in Broca's
area.[1] We know that a hemorrhage in these areas or in the
fibers passing from them, or a tumor pressing on them may destroy
or temporarily abolish these memories, so that a man may KNOW
what he wishes to say, understand speech and be unable to say it,
though he may write it (motor aphasia). In sensory aphasia the
defect is a loss of the capacity to understand spoken speech,
though the patient may be able to say what he himself wishes. (It
is fair to say that the definite location of these capacities in
definite areas has been challenged by Marie, Moutier and others,
but this denial does not deny the organic brain location of
speech memories; it merely affirms that they are scattered rather
than concentrated in one area.)

[1] Foot of the left or right third frontal convolutions,
auditory speech in the supramarginal, etc.


In its widest phases memory alters with the state of the brain.
In childhood impressibility is high, but until the age or four or
five the duration of impression is low, and likewise the power of
voluntary recall. In youth (eighteen-twenty) all these capacities
are perhaps at their highest. As time goes on impressibility
seems first of all to be lost, so that it becomes harder and
harder to learn new things, to remember new faces, new names.

The typical difficulty of middle age is to remember names,
because these have no real relationship or logical value and must
be arbitrarily remembered. The typical senile defect is the
dropping out of the recent memories, though the past may be
preserved in its entirety. With any disease of the brain,
temporary or permanent, amnesia or memory loss may and usually is
present (e. g., general paresis, tumor, cerebral
arteriosclerosis, etc.). As the result of Carbon monoxide
poisoning, as after accidental or attempted suicidal gas
inhalation, the memory, especially for the most recent events, is
impaired and the patient cannot remember the events as they
occur; he passes from moment to moment unconnected to the recent
past, though his remote past is clear. Since memory is the basis
of certainty, of the feeling of reality, these unfortunates are
afflicted with an uncertainty, a sense of unreality, that is
almost agonizing. As the effects of the poison wear off, which
even in favorable cases takes months, the impressibility returns
but never reaches normality again.

Unquestionably there is an inherent congenital difference in
memory capacity. There are people who are prodigies of memory as
there are those who are prodigies of physical strength,--and
without training. The IMPRESSIBILITY for memories can in no way
be increased except through the stimulation of interest and a
certain heightening of attention through emotion. For the man or
woman concerned with memory the first point of importance is to
find some value in the fact or thing to be learned. Before a
subject is broached to students the teacher should make clear its
practical and theoretic value to the students. Too often that is
the last thing done and it is only when the course is finished
that its practical meaning is stressed or even indicated. In
fact, throughout, teaching the value of the subject should
constantly be emphasized, if possible, by illustrations from
life. There are only a few who love knowledge for its own sake,
but there are many who become eager for learning when it is made
practical.

The number of associations given to a fact determines to a large
extent its permanence in memory and the power of recalling it. In
my own teaching I always instruct my students in the technique of
memorizing, as follows:

1. Listen attentively, making only as many notes as necessary to
recall the leading facts. The auditory memories are thus given
the first place.

2. Go home and read up the subject in your textbooks, again
making notes. Thus is added the visual associations.

3. Write out in brief form the substance of the lecture, deriving
your knowledge from both the lecture and the book. You thus add
another set of associations to your memories of the subject.

4. Teach the subject to or discuss it with a fellow student. By
this you vitalize the memories you have, you link them firmly
together, you lend to them the ardor of usefulness and of
victory. You are forced to realize where the gaps, the lacunae of
your knowledge come, and are made to fill them in.

Thus the best way to remember a fact is to find a use for it and
to link it to your interests and your purposes. Unrelated it has
no value; related it becomes in fact a part of you. After that
the mechanics of memory necessitate the making of as many
pathways to that fact as possible, and this means deliberately to
associate the fact by sound, by speech and by action. The
advertised schemes of memory training are simply association
schemes, old as the hills, and having value indeed, but too much
is claimed for them. A splendid memory is born, not made; but any
memory, except where disease has entered, can be improved by
training.

It is because lectures on the whole do not supply enough
associations or arouse enough interest that the lecture is the
poorest method of teaching or learning. Man's mind sticks easily
to things, but with difficulty to words about things. To maintain
attention for an hour or so, while sitting, is a task, and there
develops a tendency either to a hypnoidal state in which the mind
follows uncritically, or to a restless uneasiness with wandering
mind and fatigue of body. A demonstration, on the other hand, a
laboratory experiment with short, personal instruction, a bodily
contact with the problem calls into play interest, enthusiasm,
curiosity, motor images, the use of the hands, and is THE method
of teaching.

There are at present excellent psychological methods of testing
out the memory capacity. Every one engaged in any responsible
work, or troubled about his memory, should be so tested. While
there are other qualities of mind of great importance, memory is
basic, and no one can really understand himself who is in doubt
about his memory. In such diseases as neurasthenia one of the
commonest complaints is the "loss of memory," which greatly
troubles the patient. As a matter of fact, what is impaired is
interest and attention, and when the patient realizes this he is
usually quite relieved. The man who has a poor memory may become
very successful if he develops systems of recording, filing,
indexing, but his possibilities of knowledge are greatly reduced
by his defect.[1]

[1] It is the growth of the subject matter of knowledge that
makes necessary the elaborate systems of indexing, etc., now so
important. It is as much as man can do to follow the places where
the men work, let alone what they are doing. This growth of
knowledge is getting to be an extra-human phenomenon. Of this
Graham Wallas has written entertainingly.


A second fundamental ability of living tissue, and of particular
importance in character, is habit formation. Habit resides in the
fact that once living tissue has been traversed by a stimulus and
has responded by an act, three things result:

1. The pathway for that stimulus becomes more permeable; becomes,
as it were, grooved or like a track laid across the living
structure of the nervous system.

2. The responding element is more easily stirred into activity,
responds with more vigor and with less effort.

3. Consciousness, at first invoked, recedes more and more, until
the habit-action of whatever type tends to become automatic.
There is in this last peculiarity a tendency for the habit to
establish itself as independent of the personality, and if an
injurious or undesired habit, to set up the worst of the
conflicts of life,--a conflict between one's intention and an
automaton in the shape of a powerfully entrenched habit.

Habits are economical of thought and energy, generally speaking;
that is their main recommendation. A dozen examples present
themselves at once as illustrative: piano playing, with its
intense concentration on each note, with consciousness attending
to the action of each muscle, and then practice, habit formation,
and the ease and power of execution with the mind free to wander
off in the moods suggested by the music, or to busy itself with
improvisations, flourishes and the artistic touches. Before true
artistry can come, technique must be relegated to habit. So with
typewriting, driving an automobile, etc.

More fundamental than these, which are largely skill habits, are
the organic habits. One of the triumphs of pediatrics depends
upon the realization that the baby's welfare hangs on regular
habits of feeding, that he is not to be fed except at stated
intervals; as a result processes of digestion are set going in a
regular, harmonious manner. In other words, these processes may
be said to "get to know" what is expected of them and act
accordingly. The mother's time is economized and the strain of
nursing is lessened. In adults, regular hours of eating make it
possible for the juices of digestion to be secreted as the food
is ingested; in other words, an habitual adjustment takes place.

If there were one single health habit that I would have
inculcated above all others, it would be the habit of regularly
evacuating the bowels. While constipation is not the worst ill in
the world, it causes much trouble, annoyance and a considerable
degree of ill health, and, in my opinion, a considerable degree
of unhappiness. A physician may be pardoned for frank advice: all
the matters concerning the bowels, such as coarse foods, plenty
of water and exercise, are secondary compared to the habit of
going to the stool at the same time each day, whether there be
desire or not. A child should be trained in this matter as
definitely as he is trained to brush his teeth. In fact, I think
that the former habit is more important than the latter. The mood
of man is remarkably related to the condition of his
gastro-intestinal tract and the involuntary muscle of that tract
is indirectly under the control of the will through habit
formation.

Sleep[1] the mysterious, the death in life which we all seek each
night, is likewise regulated by habit. Arising from the need of
relief from consciousness and bodily exertion, the mechanism of
sleep is still not well understood. Is there a toxic influence at
work? is the body poisoned by itself, as it were, as has been
postulated; is there a toxin of fatigue, or is there a
"vaso-motor" reaction, a shift of the blood supply causing a
cerebral anaemia and thus creating the "sleepy" feeling? The
capacity to sleep is a factor of great importance and we shall
deal with it later under a separate heading as part of the
mechanism of success and failure. At present we shall simply
point out that each person builds up a set of habits regarding
sleep,--as to hour, kind of place, warmth, companionship,
ventilation and even the side of the body he shall lie on, and
that a change in these preliminary matters is often attended by
insomnia. Moreover, a change from the habitual in the general
conduct of life--a new city or town, a strange bed, a disturbance
in the moods and emotions--may upset the sleep capacity. Those in
whom excitement persists, or whose emotions are persistent,
become easily burdened with the dreaded insomnia. Sleep is
dependent on an exclusion of excitement and exciting influences.
If, however, exciting influences become habitual they lose their
power over the organism and then the individual can sleep on a
battle field, in a boiler factory, or almost anywhere.
Conversely, many a New Yorker is lulled to sleep by the roar of
the great city who, finds that the quiet of the country keeps him
awake.

[1] As good a book as any on the subject of sleep is Boris
Sidis's little monograph.


Sleeplessness often enough is a habit. Something happens to a man
that deeply stirs him, as an insult, or a falling out with a
friend, or the loss of money,--something which disturbs what we
call his poise or peace of mind. He becomes sleepless because,
when he goes to bed and the shock-absorbing objects of daily
interest are removed, his thoughts revert back to his difficulty;
he becomes again humiliated or grieved or thrown into an
emotional turmoil that prevents sleep. After the first night of
insomnia a new factor enters,--the fear of sleeplessness and the
conviction that one will not sleep. After a time the insult has
lost its sting, or the difficulty has been adjusted, there is no
more emotional distress, but there is the established
sleeplessness, based on habitual emotional reaction to sleep. I
know one lady whose fear reached the stage where she could not
even bear the thought of night and darkness. It is in these cases
that a powerful drug used two or three nights in succession
breaks up the sleepless habit and reestablishes the power to
sleep.

People differ in their capacity to form habits and in their love
of habits. The normal habits, thoroughness, neatness and method
come easily to some and are never really acquired by others.
People of an impetuous, explosive or reckless character, keenly
alive to every shade of difference in things, find it hard to be
methodical, to carry on routine. The impatient person has similar
difficulties. Whereas others take readily to the same methods of
doing things day by day; and these are usually non-explosive,
well inhibited, patient persons, to whom the way a thing is done
is as important as the goal itself.

Here comes a very entertaining problem, the question of the value
of habits. Good habits save time and energy, tend to eliminate
useless labor and make for peace and quiet. But there is a large
body of persons who come to value habits for themselves and,
indeed, this is true to a certain extent of all of us. Once an
accustomed way of doing things is established it becomes not only
a path of least resistance, but a sort of fixed point of view,
and, if one may mix metaphors a trifle, a sort of trunk for the
ego to twine itself around. There is uneasiness in the thought of
breaking up habits, an uneasiness that grows the more as we
become older and is deepened into agony if the habit is tinged
with our status in life, if it has become a sort of measure of
our respectability. Thus a good housekeeper falls into the habits
of doing things which were originally a mark of her ability,
which she holds as sacred and values above her health and energy.
There are people who fiercely resent a new way of doing things;
they have woven their most minor habits into their ego feeling
and thus make a personal issue of innovations. These are the
upholders of the established; they hate change as such; they are
efficient but not progressive. In its pathological form this type
becomes the "health fiends" who never vary in their diet or in
their clothing, who arise at a certain time, take their "plunge"
regardless, take their exercise and their breakfasts alike as a
health measure without real enjoyment, etc., who grow weary if
they stay up half an hour or so beyond their ordinary bedtime;
they are the individuals who fall into health cults, become
vegetarians, raw food exponents, etc.

Opposed to the group that falls into habits very readily is the
group that finds it difficult to acquire habitual ways of working
and living. All of us seek change and variety, as well as
stability. Some cannot easily form habits because they are
quickly bored by the habitual. These restless folk are the
failures or the great successes, according to their intelligence
and good fortune. There is a low-grade intelligence type, without
purpose and energy, and there is a high-grade intelligence type,
seeking the ideal, restless under imperfection and restraint,
disdaining the commonplace and the habits that go with it. Is
their disdain of habit-forming and customs the result of their
unconventional ways, or do their unconventional ways result
because they cannot easily form habits? It is very probable that
the true wanderer and Bohemian finds it difficult, at least in
youth, to form habits, and that the pseudo-Bohemian is merely an
imitation.

Habit is so intimately a part of all traits and abilities that we
would be anticipating several chapters of this book did we go
into all the habit types. Social conditions, desire, fatigue,
monotony, purpose, intelligence, inhibition, all enter into habit
and habit formation. Youth experiments with habit; old age clings
to it. Efficiency is the result of good habits but originality is
the reward of some who discard habits. A nation forms habits
which seem to be part of its nature, until emigration to another
land shows the falsity of this belief. So with individuals: a man
feels he must eat or drink so much, gratify his sex appetite so
often, sleep so many hours, exercise this or that amount, seek
his entertainment in this or that fashion,--until something
happens to make the habit impossible and he finds that what he
thought a deeply rooted mode of living was a superficial routine.
Though good habits may lead to success they may also bar the way
to the pleasures of experience; that is their danger. A man who
finds that he must do this or that in such a way had better
beware; he is getting old, no matter what his age.[1] For we grow
older as we lose mobility,--in joints, muscles, skin and our ways
of doing, feeling and thinking! It is a transitory stage of the
final immobility of Death.

[1] Says the talkative Autocrat of the Breakfast Table: "There is
one mark of age that strikes me more than any of the physical
ones; I mean the formation of Habits. An old man who shrinks into
himself falls into ways that become as positive and as much
beyond the reach of outside influences as if they were governed
by clock work."


We have not considered the pathological habits, such as
alcoholism, excessive smoking and eating, perverse sex habits.
The latter, the perverse sex habits, will be studied when
discussing the sex feelings and purposes in their entirety.
Alcoholism is not yet a dead issue in this country though those
who are sincere in wishing their fellows well hope it soon will
be. It stands, however, as a sort of paradigm of bad habit-
forming and presents a problem in treatment that is typical of
such habits.

Not all persons have a liability to the alcoholic habit. For most
people lack of real desire or pleasure prevented alcoholism. The
majority of those who drank little or not at all were not in the
least tempted by the drug. "Will power" rarely had anything to do
with their abstinence and the complacency with which they held
themselves up as an example to the drunken had all the flavor of
Phariseeism. To some the taste is not pleasing, to others the
immediate effects are so terrifying as automatically to shut off
excess. Many people become dizzy or nauseated almost at once and
even lose the power of locomotion or speech.

In many countries and during many centuries most of those who
became alcoholic were such largely through the social setting
given to alcohol. Because of the psychological effects of this
drug in removing restraint, inhibition and formality, in its
various forms it became the symbol of good-fellowship; and
because it has an apparent stimulation and heat-producing effect
there grew up the notion that it aided hard labor and helped
resist hardship. As the symbol of good-fellowship it grew into a
tradition of the most binding kind, so that no good time, no
coming together was complete without it, and its power is
celebrated in picturesque songs and picturesque sayings the world
over. Hospitality, tolerance, good humor, kindliness and the
pleasant breaking down of the barriers between man and man, and
also between man and woman, all these lured generation after
generation into the alcoholic habit.

There are relatively normal types of the heavy drinker,--the
socially minded and the hard manual worker. But there is a large
group of those who find in alcohol a relief from the burden of
their moods, who find in its real effect, the release from
inhibitions, a reason for drinking beyond the reach of reason. Do
you feel that the endless monotony of your existence can no
longer be borne,--drink deep and you color your life to suit
yourself. Do disappointment and despair gnaw at your love of life
so that nothing seems worth while,--some bottled "essence of
sunshine" will give new, fresh value to existence. Are you a
victim of strange, uncaused fluctuations of mood so that
periodically you descend to a bottomless pit of melancholy,
--well, then, why suffer, when over the bar a man will furnish
you a release from agony? And so men of certain types of
temperament, or with unhappy experiences, form the alcoholic
habit because it gives them surcease from pain; it deals out to
them, temporarily, a new world with happier mood, lessened
tension and greater success.

Seeking relief[1] from distressing thoughts or moods is perhaps
one of the main causes of the narcotic habit. The feeling of
inferiority, one of the most painful of mental conditions, is
responsible for the use not only of alcohol but also of other
drugs, such as cocaine, heroin, morphine, etc. One of the most
typical cases of this I have known is of a young man of
twenty-five, a tall fellow with a very unattractive face who had
this feeling of inferiority almost to the point of agony,
especially in the presence of young women, but also in any
situation where he would be noticed. He was fast becoming a
hermit when he discovered that a few drinks completely removed
this feeling. From that time on he became a steady drinker, with
now and then a short period when he would try to stop drinking,
only to resume when he found himself obsessed again by the
dreaded inferiority complex.

[1] This is the main theme of De Quincey's "Confessions of an
Opium Eater."


Similarly a shameful position, such as that of the prostitute or
the chronic criminal, is "relieved" by alcohol and drugs, so that
the majority of these types of unfortunates are either drunkards
or "dopes." Too often have reformers reversed the relationship,
believing that alcohol caused prostitution and crime. Of course
that relationship exists, but more often, in my experience, the
alcohol is used to keep up the "ego" feeling, without which few
can bear life.

Curiously enough, one of the sex perversions, masturbation, has
in a few cases a similar genesis. I have known patients who, when
under the influence of depression, or humiliated in some way or
other, found a compensating pleasure in the act. Here we come to
a cardinal truth in the understanding of ourselves and our
fellows and one we shall pursue in detail later,--that face to
face with mental pain, men seek relief or pleasure or both by
alcohol, drugs, sensual pleasures of all kinds, and that the
secret explanation of all such habits is that they offer
compensation for some pain and are turned to at such times. What
one man seeks in work, another man seeks in religion, another
finds in self-flagellation, and still others seek in alcohol,
morphine, sexual excesses, etc.

With the increasing excitement and tension of our times there is
a constant search for relief, and here is the origin of much of
the smoking. Most men find in the deliberate puff, in the slow
inhalation and in the prolonged exhalation with the formation of
the white cloud of smoke, a shifting of consciousness from the
major businesses of their mind, from a constant tension to a
minor business not requiring concentration and thereby breaking
up in a pleasurable, rhythmic fashion the sense of effort. When
one is alone the fatigue and even the pain of one's thinking is
relieved by shifting the attention to the smoking. Keeping one's
attention at a high and constant pitch is apt to produce a
restless fatigue and this is often offset to the smoker by his
habit. Excessive smoking may cause "nervousness" but as a matter
of fact it is more often a means by which the excessively nervous
try to relieve themselves. Of course it is not good therapeutics
under such conditions, but I believe that in moderation smoking
does no harm and is an innocent pleasure.

Some of the pathological motor habits, such as the tics, often
have a curious background. The most common tics are snuffing,
blinking, shaking of the head, facial contortions of one kind or
another. These arise usually under exciting conditions or in the
excitable, sometimes in the acutely self-conscious. Frequently
they represent a motor outlet for this excitement; they are the
motor analogues of crying, shouting, laughing, etc. (Indeed, a
common habit is the one so frequently heard,--a little laugh when
there is no feeling of merriment and no occasion for it.) Motor
activity discharges tension and is pleasurable and these tics
furnish a momentary pleasure; they relieve a feeling that some of
the victims compare to an itch and the habit thus is based on a
seeking of relief, even though that relief is obtained in a way
that distresses the more settled purposes of the individual.

In the establishment of good habits, those desirable from the
point of view of the important issues of life, training is of
course essential. But in the training of children, certain things
must be kept in mind: the usefulness, the practical value must be
presented to the child's mind in a way he can understand, or else
various ways of energizing him to help in the formation of the
habit must be used--praise and blame, reward and punishment.
Further, these habits are not to be held holy; cleanliness and
method are desirable acquisitions but not so desirable as a
feeling of freedom to play and experiment with life and things.
If the child is constantly worried lest he get too dirty, or
fears to play in his room because he may disorder it, he is
forming the good habits of cleanliness and method but also the
worse one of worry.

In the breaking of a bad habit, its root in desire and difficulty
must be discovered. Often enough a man does not face the source
of his trouble, preferring not to. I am not at all sure that it
is best in all cases for a man to know his own weakness; in fact,
I feel convinced to the contrary in some cases. But in the
majority of difficulties, self-revelation is salutary and makes
an intelligent coping with the situation possible. Here is the
value of the good friend, the respected pastor, the wise doctor.
The human being will always need a confessor and a confidante,
and he who is struggling with a habit is in utmost need of such
help.

Shall the struggler with a bad habit break it with its thralldom?
Shall he say to his chains, "From this time, nevermore!" To some
men it is given to win the victory this way, to rise to the
heights of a stubborn resolution and to be free. But not to many
is this possible. To others there is a long history of repeated
effort and repeated failures and then--one day there comes a
feeling of power, perhaps through a great love, a great cause, a
sermon heard, a chance sentence, or a bitter experience, and
then, like a religious conversion, the tracks of the old habit
are obliterated, never to be used again.

I have in mind two men, both heavy drinkers but differing in
everything else. One was a philosopher who saw the world in that
dreadful, clear white light of which Jack London[1] spoke, that
light which leaves no cozy, pleasant obscurities, in which Truth,
the naked, is horrible to look at, when life seems too unreal,
when purposes seem most futile. At such times he would get drunk
and be happy for the time being, and afterwards find himself
bitterly repentant, though even that was a pleasure compared to
the hollow world in which his sober self dwelt. Then one day,
when all his friends had given him up as hopeless, as destined
for disaster, he read a book. "The Varieties of Religious
Experience," by William James, came to him as a clear light comes
to a man lost in the darkness; he saw himself as a "sick soul,"
obsessed with the idea that he saw life relentlessly and clearly.
There came to him the conviction that he had been arrogant, a
conceited ass, bent on ruin, "a sickly soul," he said. Out of
that realization grew resolutions that needed no vowing or
pledging, for as simply as a man turns from one road to another
he turned from his habit into healthy-minded work.

[1] Jack London's "John Barleycorn."


The other was an essentially healthy-minded man but he loved
joviality, freedom and good fellowship. Without ever knowing how
he came to it, he found himself a confirmed drinker, holding an
inferior place, passed by men of lesser caliber. He struggled
fitfully but always slipped when the next "good fellow" slapped
him on the back and invited him to have a drink. One day he
stepped out of a barroom with a group of his cronies, and though
he walked straight there was a reckless, happy feeling in him
that pushed him on to his folly. A young lady standing on a
street corner waiting for a car caught his eye. Signaling to his
companions, he walked up to her, put his arms around her and
kissed her. The girl stood as if petrified, then she pushed him
off and looked him up and down deliberately with cold scorn in
her eyes. Then she took off her glove and slapped him across the
face with it, as if disdaining to use her hand. With that she
walked away.

The man was a gentleman, and he stood there stricken. The laugh
of his companions aroused him. He saw them as if they were
himself, with a horror and disgust that made him suddenly run
away from them.

"From that moment I never again had the slightest desire for
drink. The slap sobered me for good."

While these conversions occur now and then there are certain
practical points in the breaking of a habit that need attention
in each case.

In the first place it is best in the majority of instances to
avoid the particular stimuli and associations that set off the
habit. The stimulus is a kind of trigger; pull it and the habit
can hardly be checked. Whatever the situation is that acts as the
temptation, avoid it. Not for nothing do men pray, "Lead us not
into temptation." The will needs no such exercise and rarely
stands up well against such strain. This may mean a removal for
the time being from the source of temptation, a flying away to
gain strength.

Further, a substitution of habit, of purpose, is necessary. Some
line of activities must be selected to fill in the vacuum. A
hobby is needed, a devotion to some larger purpose, whether it be
in work or social activity. "Nature abhors a vacuum"; boredom
must be avoided, for that is a pain, awakening desire. The
gymnasium, golf, sports of all kinds are substitute pleasures of
great value.

Third, harness a friend, a superior or a respected equal to the
yoke with you. Pull double harness; let him lend his strength to
yours. Throw away pride; confess and receive new energy from his
sympathy and wisdom. If you are lucky enough to have such a
friend, or some wise counselor, thank God for him. For here is
where the true friend finds his highest value.

In the analysis of any character the question of the kind of
habits formed demands attention. Since almost all traits become
matters of habit, such an inquiry would sooner or later lead to a
catalogue of qualities. What is here pertinent is this,--that one
might inquire into the kind of habits that are easily formed by
the individual and the kind that are not. Habits fall into groups
such as these:

1. Relating to care of the body: cleanliness, diet, exercise,
bowel function, sleep. Here we learn about personal tidiness or
the reverse, foppery, dandyism, gluttony, asceticism, etc.

2. Relating to method, efficiency, neatness in work: some people
find it almost impossible to become methodical or neat; others
become obsessed by these qualities to the exclusion of mobility.

3. Relating to the pursuit of pleasure: type of pleasure sought,
time given to it, hobbies.

4. Relating to special habits: alcohol, tobacco, drugs, sex
perversions.

5. Relating to study and advancement: love of books, attendance
at lectures.

Especially in the study of children is some such scheme
essential, for then one gets a definite idea of their defects and
takes definite efforts to make habitual the desired practice, or
else one sees the special trend, and, if it is good, fosters it.
This, of course, is the long and short of character development.



CHAPTER IV. STIMULATION, INHIBITION, ORGANIZING ENERGY, CHOICE
AND CONSCIOUSNESS

There are three fundamental factors in the relation of any
organism to the environment and in the relation of the various
parts of an organism to each other which we must now consider. To
consider a living thing of any kind as something separate from
the stimuli the world streams in on it, or to consider it as a
real unit, is a mistake that falsifies most of the thinking of
the world.

On us, as living things, the universe pours in stimuli of a few
kinds. Or rather there are few kinds of stimuli we are
specialized to receive and react to; there may be innumerable
other kinds to which we cannot react because they do not reach
us. The world for us is a collection of things that we see, hear,
smell, taste and feel, but there may be vast reaches of things
for which we have no avenues of approach,--completely
unimaginable things because our images are built upon our senses.

To some of the stimuli the world pours in on us we must react
properly or die. Certain "mechanisms" with which we are equipped
must respond to these stimuli or the forces of the world destroy
us. A lion on the horizon must awaken flight, or concealment, or
the modified fight reaction of using weapons; extreme cold or
heat must start up impulses and reflexes leading away from their
disintegrating effects. Food must, when smelled or seen, lead us
to conduct whereby we supply ourselves or we die from hunger.
Dangers and needs awaken reactions, both through instinctive
responses and through intelligence. The main activities of life
are to be classed as "averting" and "acquiring," for if life
showers us with the things we would or need to have, it also
pelts us with the things we fear, hate or despise. It would be
interesting to know which activities are the most numerous;
presumably the lucky or successful man is busy acquiring while
the unlucky or unsuccessful finds himself busiest averting. The
averting activities are directed largely against the
disagreeable, disgusting, dangerous and the undesired; the
acquiring activities are directed toward the pleasant, the
necessary, the desired. The problems of life are to know what is
really good or bad for us and how to acquire the one and avert
the other. While there are certain things that "naturally"[1] are
deemed good or bad, there are more that are so regarded through
training and education. Morality and Taste are alike concerned
with bringing about attitudes that will determine the "right"
response to the stimuli of the world.

[1] I place in quotations NATURALLY because it is difficult to
know what is "natural" and what is cultural. In the widest sense
everything is natural; in the narrowest very few things are
natural. Cooked food, clothing, houses, marriages, education,
etc., are not found in a state of nature, any more than clocks
and plays by Ibsen are. Our judgment as to what is good and bad
is mainly instinctive leaning directed or smothered by education.


The stimuli that thus pour in upon the individual, and to which
he must react, must find an organism ready to respond in some way
or other. A sleeping man naturally does not adjust himself to
danger, nor does a paralyzed man fly. The most attractive female
in the world causes no response in the very young male child and
perhaps stirs only reminiscences in the aged. Food, which causes
the saliva to flow in the mouth of the hungry, may disgust the
full. Throughout life there are factors in the internal life of
the organism instantly changing one's reaction to things of
physical, mental and moral significance. He talks loudest of
restraint and control who has no desire; and in satiation even
the sinner sees the beauty of asceticism. There must be a
coincidence of stimulus, readiness and opportunity for the full,
successful response to take place.[1]

[1] A slang epigram puts it better: The time, the place, and the
girl.


The simplest response to any stimulus from the outer world is the
reflex act. Theoretically a reflex act is dependent upon the
interaction of a sensory surface, a sensory nerve cell, a motor
nerve cell and a muscle, i. e., a receptive apparatus and a motor
apparatus in such close union that the will and intelligence play
no part. Thus if one puts his finger on a hot stove he withdraws
it immediately, and such responses are present even in the
decapitated frog and human for a short time. So if light streams
in on the wide-open pupil of the eye, it contracts, grows
smaller, without any effort of the will, and in fact entirely
without the consciousness of the individual. Swallowing is a
series of reflexes in a row, so that food in the back part of the
mouth sets a reflex going that carries it beyond the epiglottis;
another reflex carries it to the esophagus and then one reflex
after the other transports the food the rest of the way. Except
for the first effort of swallowing, the rest is entirely
involuntary and even unconscious. Those readers who are
interested would do well to read the work of Pavlow on the
conditioned reflex, in which the great Russian physiologist
builds up all action on a basis of a modification of the
primitive reflex which he calls the "conditioned reflex."[1]

[1] Pavlow is one of the scientists who regard all mental life as
built up out of reflexes. The immediate reflex is only one
variety; thought, emotion, etc., are merely reflexes placed end
to end. Pavlow divides action into two trends, one due to an
unconditioned reflex, of innate structure, and the other a
modified or conditioned reflex which arises because some stimulus
has become associated with the reflex act. Thus saliva dripping
from a dog's mouth at the smell of food is an unconditioned
reflex; if a bell is heard at the same time the food is smelled
then in the course of time the saliva flows at the sound of the
bell alone,--a conditioned reflex. A very complex system has been
built up of this kind of facts, which I have criticized
elsewhere.


The simple reflex, immediate response to a stimulus, has only a
limited field in human life or adult life. Sherrington points out
in his notable book, "The Integrative Action of the Nervous
System," that there is a play of the entire organism on each
responding element, and there is also a competition throughout
each pathway to action. Let us examine this a little closer.

A man is hungry, let us say; i. e., there arise from his
gastro-intestinal tract and from the tissues stimuli which arouse
motor mechanisms to action and the man seeks food. The need of
the body arouses desire in the form of an organic sensation and
this arouses mechanisms whose function is to satisfy that desire.
Let us assume that he finds something that looks good and he is
about to seize it when an odor, called disagreeable, assails his
nostrils from the food, which stops him. Then there arises a
competition for action between the desire for food and the visual
stimulus, associated memories, etc., on the one hand, and the
odor, the awakened fear, memories, disgust, etc., on the other
hand. This struggle for action, for use of the mechanisms of
action, is the struggling of choosing, one of the fundamental
phenomena of life. In order for a choice to become manifest, what
is known as inhibition must come into play; an impulse to action
must be checked in order that an opposing action can be
effective. The movement of rejection uses muscles that oppose the
movement of acquirement; e. g., one uses the triceps and the
other the biceps, muscles situated in opposite sides of the upper
arm and having antagonistic action. In order for triceps to act,
biceps must be inhibited from action, and in that inhibition is a
fundamental function of the organism. In every function of the
body there are opposing groups of forces; for every dilator there
is a contractor, for every accelerator of action there is
inhibition. Nature drives by two reins, and one is a checkrein.

This function of inhibition, then, delays, retards or prevents an
action and is in one sense a higher function than the response to
stimulation. Its main seat is the cerebrum, the "highest" nervous
tissue, whereas reflex and instinctive actions usually are in the
vegetative nervous system, the spinal cord, the bulbar regions
and the mid-brain, all of which are lower centers. Choice, which
is intimately associated with inhibition, is par excellence a
cerebral function and in general is associated with intense
consciousness. The act of choosing brings to the circumstances
the whole past history of the individual; it marshals his
resources of judgment, intelligence, will, purposes and desires.
In choice lies the fate of the personality, for it is basically
related to habit formation. Further, in the dynamics of life a
right, proper choice, an appropriate choice, opens wide the door
of opportunity, whereas an unfortunate choice may commit one to
the mercies of wrecking forces. Education should aim to teach
proper choosing and then proper action.

The capacity for perceiving and responding to stimuli, for
inhibiting or delaying action and for choosing, are of cardinal
importance in our study. But there is another phase of life and
character without which everything else lacks unity and is
unintelligible. From the beginning of life to the end there is
choice. Who and what chooses? From infancy one sees the war of
purposes and desires and the gradual rise of one purpose or set
of purposes into dominance,--in short, the growth of unity, the
growth of personality. The common man calls this unity his soul,
the philosopher speaks of the ego and implies some such thing as
this organizing energy of character.

But a naturalistic view of character must reject such a
metaphysical entity, for one sees the organizing energy increase
and diminish with the rest of character through health, age,
environment, etc. Further, there is at work in all living things
a similar something that organizes the action of the humblest bit
of protoplasm. This organizing energy of character will be, for
us, that something inherent in all life which tends to
individualize each living thing. It is as if all life were
originally of one piece and then, spreading itself throughout the
world, it tended to differentiate and develop (according to the
Spencerian formula) into genera, species, groups and individuals.
This organizing energy works up the experiences of the individual
so that new formulae for action develop, so that what is
experienced becomes the basis of future reaction.

It must be remembered that the world we live in has its great
habits. Night follows day in a cycle that never fails, the
seasons are repeated each year, and there is a periodicity in the
lives of plants and animals that is manifested in growth,
nutrition, mating and resting. Things happen again and again,
though in slightly altered form, and our desires, satisfied now,
soon repeat their urge. The great organic needs and sensations
repeat themselves and with the periodic world of outer experience
must be dealt with according to a more or less settled policy. It
is the organizing energy that works out the policy, that learns,
inhibits, chooses and acts,--and it is the essential
character-developing principle. For like our bodily organs which
are whipped into line by the nervous system, our impulses,
instincts, and reflexes[1] have their own policy of action and
therefore need, for the good of the entire organism, discipline
and coordination. It may sound as if the body were made up of
warring entities and states and that there gradually arose a
centralized good, and though the analogy may lead to error, it
offers a convenient method of thinking.

[1] Roux, the great French biologist, has shown that each tissue
and each cell competes with the other tissues and the other
cells. The organism, though it reaches a practical working unity
as viewed by consciousness, is nevertheless no entity; it is a
collection, an aggregate of living cells which are organized on a
cooperation basis just as men are, but maintain individuality and
competition nevertheless.


Moreover, the organizing energy seems often to be at work when
consciousness itself is at rest, as in sleep. Often enough a man
debates and debates on lines of conduct and wakes up with his
problem solved. Or he works hard to learn and goes to bed
discouraged, because the matter is a jumble, and wakes up in the
morning with an orderly and useful arrangement of the facts. A
writer seeks to find the proper opening,--and gives up in a
frenzy of despair. He is perhaps walking or driving when suddenly
he lifts his head as one does who is listening to a longed-for
voice, and in himself he finds the phrases that he longs for.
Something within has set itself, so it seems, the task of
bringing the right associations into consciousness. What we call
quickness of mind, energy of mind, is largely this function.

It is this which adapts us to different situations, different
groups, by calling into play organized modes of talking or
acting. We pass from a group of ladies in whose presence we have
been friendly but decorous, perhaps unconventionally formal, to a
group of business intimates, men of long acquaintance. Without
even being conscious of it we lounge around, feet on the table,
carelessly dropping cigarette ash to the floor, using language
chosen for force rather than elegance; we discuss sports, women,
business and a whole group of different emotions, habits and
purposes come to the surface, though we were not at all conscious
of having repressed them while in the presence of the ladies. A
faux pas is where the organizer has "slipped" on his job; lack of
tact implies in part a rigid organizing energy, neither plastic
nor versatile enough.

We are now ready to face certain developments of these three main
factors, viz., the response to stimuli; choice and inhibition,
and the organizing energy. Largely we might classify people
according to the type of vigor of their reactions to stimuli, the
quality and vigor of choice and of inhibition, and the quality
and vigor of the organizing energy. We note that there are people
who have, as it were, exquisitely sensitive feelers for the
stimuli of one kind or another and who react vigorously, perhaps
excessively; that there are others of a duller, less reactive
nature, largely because they are stimuli-proof. Others are
under-inhibited, follow desire or outer stimulus without heed,
without a brake; others are over-inhibited, too cautious, too
full of doubt, unable to choose the reaction that seems
appropriate. The organizing energy of some is low; they never
seem to unify their experiences into a code of life and living;
they are like a string of beads loosely strung together with
disharmonious emotions, desires, purposes. In others this energy
is high, they chew the cud of every experience and (to change the
metaphor) they weld life's happenings, their memories, their
emotions and purposes into a more unified ego, a real I,
harmonious, self-enlightened; clearly conscious of aim and end
and striving bravely towards it. Or there is over-unification and
fanaticism, with narrow aim and little sympathy for other aims.
Sketched in this very broad way we see masses of people, rather
than individuals, and we are not finely adjusted to our subject.

Psychologists rarely concern themselves to any extent with these
matters; they deal mainly with their outgrowths,--emotions,
instinct, intelligence and will. We are at once beset with
difficulties which are resolved mainly by ignoring them. In such
a book as this we are not concerned with the fundamental nature
of these divisions of the mental life, we must omit such
questions as the relation of instinct to racial habit, or the
evolution of instinct from habit, if that is really its origin.
Again I must repeat that we shall deal with these as organic, as
arising in the sensitized individual as a result of environmental
forces, as manifestations of a life which is as yet--and perhaps
always will be--mysterious to us. We shall best consider these
manifestations of mental activity as an interplay of the
reactions of stimulation, inhibition, choice, organizing energy,
and not as separate and totally different matters. We shall see
that probably emotion is one aspect of reaction to the world,
while instinct is merely another aspect; that intelligence is a
cerebral shift of instinct, and that will is no unity but the
energy of instincts and purposes.

Before we go farther we must squarely face a problem of human
thought. Man, since he started reflecting about himself, has been
puzzled about his consciousness. How can a person be aware of
himself, and what identifies and links together each phase of
consciousness? There is an enormous range of thought on this
subject: from those who identified consciousness as the only
reality and considered what the average person holds as
realities--things and people--as only phases of consciousness, to
those who, like Huxley, regard consciousness as an
"epi-pbenomenon," a sort of overture to brain activity and having
nothing whatever to do with action, nothing to do with choice and
plan, so that, as Lloyd Morgan points out, "An unconscious
Shakespeare writes plays acted by an unconscious troupe of actors
to an unconscious audience." The first extreme view, that of
Berkeley and the idealists, nullifies all other realities save
that of the individual thinker and reduces one to the absurdities
of Solipsism where a man writes books to convince persons
conjured up by himself and having no existence outside of
himself; the other view nullifies that which seems to each of us
the very essence of himself.

I shall take a very simple view of consciousness,[1] simply
because I shall deliberately dodge the great difficulties.
Consciousness is the result of the activities of a group of more
or less permanently excited areas of the brain--areas having to
do with positions of the head, eyes and shoulders; areas having
to do with vision, hearing and smell; areas having to do with
speech,--these constituting extremely mobile, extremely active
parts of the organism. From these consciousness may irradiate to
the activities of almost every part of the organism, in different
degrees. We are often extremely conscious of the activities of
the hands, in less degree of the legs; we may become wrapped up
almost completely in a sensation emanating from the sex organs,
and under fear or excitement the heart may pound so that we feel
and are conscious of it as ordinarily we can never be. The state
of consciousness called interest may shift our feeling of self to
any part of our body (as in pain, when a part usually out of
consciousness swings into it, or when the hand of a lover grips
our own so that the great reality of our life at the moment seems
to be the consciousness of the hand) or it may fasten us to an
outside object until our world narrows to that object, nothing
else having any conscious value. This latter phenomenon is very
striking in children; they become fascinated by something they
hear or see and project themselves, as it were, into that object;
they become the "soapiness of soap, or the wetness of water" (to
use Chesterton's phrase), and when they listen to a story they
hold nothing in reserve. Consciousness may busy itself with its
past phases, with the preceding thought, emotion, sensation
--how, I do not know--or it may occupy itself mainly with the
world of things which are hereby declared to have a reality in
our theory. In the first instances we have introspection and
subjectiveness, and in the second we have extroversion and
objectivity.

[1] For discussion of consciousness read Berkeley, Locke, Hume,
Spencer, Lotze, Moyan, James, Wundt, Munsterberg and every other
philosopher and psychologist. I have not attempted to discuss the
matter from the philosopher's point of view for the very obvious
reason that I am no philosopher.


Since consciousness is most intense when the new or unfamiliar is
seen, heard, felt or attempted, we may assume it has a chief
function in acquainting the individual with the new and
unfamiliar and in the establishment of habitual reactions, We are
extraordinarily conscious of a queer, unexplainable thing on the
horizon, we bring into the limelight (or IT brings into the
limelight) all our possible reactions,--fear, flight, anger,
fight, circumvention, curiosity and the movements of
investigation; we are thrown into the maelstrom of choice. Choice
and consciousness, doubt and consciousness, are directly related;
it is only when conduct becomes established as habit, with
choosing relegated to the background, that consciousness, in so
far as the act is concerned, becomes diminished.

A moderate constant sensation tends to disappear from
consciousness, as when we keep our hand in warm water. It then
takes a certain increase of the stimulus to keep the sensation
from lapsing out of consciousness. This lapsing out of
consciousness of the steady stimulus, in its ramifications, is
responsible for a good deal of the activity of man, since
sensation is a goal of effort.[1] Under emotion we become aware
of two sets of things,--the reaction of our body in its sum
total of pleasure or the reverse, and second the object that sets
up this reaction. Consciousness fastens itself on the body and on
the world, and the bodily reaction becomes a guide for future
action. Extreme bodily reactions are painful and may result in
the abolishing of consciousness.

[1] The physiologists speak of this phenomenon under the heading
of the Weber-Fechner law, after the two physiologists who gave it
prominence. James pokes a good deal of fun at the "law," which is
expressed mathematically. Perhaps the mathematics should have
been eliminated as too "scientific" for our present attainment,
but it does remain true that it is not the ACTUAL stimulus
increase that is important in sensation or perception, but the
RELATIVE stimulus increase. This is behind all of "getting used
to things"; it removes the pain from humiliation and also the
novelty from joy. It is the reason behind all of the searching
for novelty and excitement.


We assume that consciousness is organic, though we concede that
it may be true that it is borrowed from a great pool of
consciousness[1] out of which we all come. Consciousness IS
organic because a blow on the head may abolish it as may drugs
and disease, or a shifting of the blood supply as in emotion or
fatigue in the form of sleep, etc. Where does it go to and how
does it come back? The savage answered that question by building
up the idea of a soul, a thing that might migrate, had an
independent existence, took journeys in the form of dreams and
lived and flourished after death. Most of these ideas still
persist, perhaps as much through the fear of annihilation as
anything else, but as to whether or not they are true this book
does not concern itself. We have no proof of these matters, but
we can prove that we can play on consciousness as we play on a
piano, through the body and brain. A blow injures groups of nerve
cells and consciousness disappears; when they recover, it
returns. Where does any function go when structure is injured? We
have practically the same kind of proof for the position of
consciousness as a function of the brain and body that we have
for gastric juice as a secretion of gastric cells.

[1] Even if it were true that consciousness is the only reality,
nobody really believes it in that nobody acts as if it were true.
Conversely, everybody acts as if trees, rocks, and people were
realities; as if fatigue, sickness, age, etc., affected
consciousness. That is why, in this book, we are discarding as
irrelevant the "ultimate" truth concerning consciousness. My
humble belief is that the ultimate truth in this matter will
never concern us because we shall never know it.


However widely we spread the function of consciousness and its
domain, we still leave a large field of activities untouched. And
so we come to the conception of the subconsciousness. There are
two prevailing sets of opinions concerning the subconscious.

The first is quite matter-of-fact. It states that the movements
and activities of a large part of the body are outside of the
realm of consciousness, such as the activities of the great
viscera--heart, lungs, intestines, liver, blood vessels, sex
glands--and are largely operated by the vegetative nervous
system.[1] There are influences pouring into the brain from these
organs, together with influences from muscles, joints, tendons,
and these influences, though not consciously itemized, are the
subconsciously received stimuli which give us feelings of vigor,
energy, courage, hopefulness, or the reverse, according to the
state of the organism. In health the ordinary result of these
stimuli is good, though people may have health in that no
definite disease is present, and yet there is some deficiency in
the energy-arousing viscera which brings a lowered coenesthesia,
a lessened vigor and lowered mood. In youth the state of the
organs brings a state of well feeling; in old age there is a
constant feeling of a low balance of energy and mood, and the
person is always on the verge of unpleasant feeling. In the great
change periods of life--at puberty and the climacteric (or the
menopause)--the sudden change in the activity of the sex organs
may produce great alterations[2] in the coenaesthesia and
therefore in the energy and mood of the individual.

[1] This is not the place to describe the vegetative nervous
system. (It was formerly called the sympathetic nervous system,
but this term is now limited to one part of this system, and the
term autonomic to another part, although some writers still use
the term sympathetic for the whole, and others [the English] the
term autonomic for the whole.) This system is the nervous
mechanism of organic life, regulating heart, lungs, blood
vessels, intestines, sex organs, acting together with endocrines,
etc. A huge amount of work has been done of late years on this
system and we know definitely that it stimulates, inhibits and
regulates these organs, and also that it records their
activities. We are commencing to believe that this system is
fully as important, in mental life, as the brain. See Langley,
Schaeffer, Higier, etc.

[2] This is especially true of the menopause in women, and often
enough of each menstrual period. That there is a climacteric in
men is not so clear, but something corresponding to it occurs, at
least in the case of some men.


In addition, these activities, which are so all-important,
determine the basic conduct by arousing the basic appetites and
desires of the individual. It is the change in the
gastro-intestinal tract and in the tissues of the body that
starts up the hunger feeling and the impulses which prompt men to
seek food; in other words, this type of coenaesthesia has set
going all the physical and mental activities relating to food; it
is the basic impulse behind agriculture and stock raising, as
well as energizing work activities of all kinds. It is the
tension in the seminal vessels of the male that wakes up his
passion, if it is not the sole source of that passion. Sex desire
in the adult male has many elements in it, not pertinent at
present, but the coenaesthetic influence of the physical
structures is its starting point. In men as well as women there
is a cycle of desire, with height due to physical tension and
abyss following the discharge or disappearance of tension, that
profoundly influences life and conduct. Here the sympathetic
nervous system and the internal secretion of the genital glands
awaken into sexual activity brain, spinal cord and muscles, so
that the individual seeks a mate, plunges into marriage and
directs his conduct, conscious of taste and desire, but largely
unconscious of the physical condition that is impelling him on.
In this sense the subconscious activities dominate in life,
because the functions of nutrition and reproduction are largely
unconscious in their origin, but there is no organized, plotting
subconsciousness at work.

Once a thing is experienced, it is stored in memory. What is the
basis and position of a memory when we are not conscious of it,
when our conscious minds are busy with other matters? What
happens when a desire is repressed, inhibited into inaction; when
consciousness revolts against part of its own content? Is a
"forgotten" memory ever really lost, or a desire that is
squelched and thrust out of "mind" really made inactive? Do our
inhibitions really inhibit, or do we build up another self or set
of selves that rise to the surface under strange forms, under the
guise of disease manifestations?

Sigmund Freud and his followers have made definite answers to the
foregoing, answers that are incorporated in a doctrine called
Freudianism. Freud is an Austrian Jew, a physician, and one that
soon specialized in nervous and mental diseases. Early in his
career he did some excellent work in the study of the paralysis
of childhood (infantile hemiplegia), but his attention and that
of an older colleague, Breuer, were soon drawn (as has occurred
to almost every neurologist) to the manifestations of that
extraordinary disease, hysteria. Hysteria has played so important
a role in human history, and Freud's ideas are permeating so
deeply into modern thought that I deem it advisable to devote a
chapter to them.




CHAPTER V. HYSTERIA, SUBCONSCIOUSNESS AND FREUDIANISM

Hysteria was known to the ancients and in fact is as old as the
written history of mankind. Considered essentially a disease of
women, it was given its present name which is derived from
"hysteron," the Greek name for the womb. We know to-day that men
also are victims of this malady, though it arises under somewhat
different circumstances than is the case with the other sex. Men
and women, living in the same world and side by side, are placed
in greatly different positions in that world, are governed by
different traditions and are placed under the influences of
differing ambitions, expectations, hopes and fears. Hysteria
arises largely out of the emotional and volitional reactions of
life, and these reactions differ in the sexes.

It was a group of French neurologists, headed by Charcot--and
including very illustrious men, such as Janet and Marie, who paid
the first scientific attention to the disease. Under their
analyses hysteria was defined as a mental disease in which
certain symptoms appeared prominently.

1. Charcot especially paid attention to what are known as the
attacks. The hysteric patient (usually a woman, and so we shall
speak of the patient as "she") under emotional stress and strain,
following a quarrel or a disagreement or perhaps some
disagreeable, humiliating situation, shows alarming symptoms.
Perhaps she falls (never in a way to injure herself) to the floor
and apparently loses consciousness, closes her eyes, rolls her
head from side to side, moans, clenches her fists, lifts her body
from the floor so that it rests on head and heels (opisthotonic
hysteria), shrieks now and then and altogether presents a
terrifying spectacle. Or else she twitches all over, weeps,
moans, laughs and shouts, and rushes around the room, beating her
head on the walls; or she may lie or stand in a very dramatic
pose, perhaps indicating passion or fear or anger. The attacks
are characterized by a few main peculiarities, which are that the
patient usually has had an emotional upset or is in some
disagreeable situation, that she does not hurt herself by her
falls, that consciousness is never completely abolished and
fluctuates so that now she seems almost "awake" and then she
seems almost in a complete stupor, and that the expression of
emotion in the attack is often very prominent. These symptoms are
readily differentiated from what is seen in epilepsy.[1]

[1] The French writers of the school of Babinski deny that the
above symptom and even the majority of the following have a real
existence in hysteria. The English, American and German
neurologists and the rest of the French school describe hysteria
substantially as I am here describing it.


2. The hysteric paralyses which are featured in all the
literatures of the world are curious manifestations and often
very stubborn. Following an accident (especially in industry and
in war) and after some emotional difficulty there is a paralysis
of some part of the body. The arm or some particular part of the
arm cannot be moved by the will, is paralyzed; or else the
difficulty involves one or both legs. Sometimes speech is gone,
or the power of moving the head; occasionally the difficulty is
with one side of the face, etc. Usually the paralysis comes on
suddenly, but often it comes on gradually. Modern neurology soon
discovered that these paralyses were quite unlike those seen when
there is "real" injury to the brain, spinal cord or the
peripheral nerves. They corresponded to the layman's idea of a
part. Thus a paralysis of the arm ends at the shoulder, a
paralysis of the feet at the ankle, and in ways not necessary to
detail here differ from what occurs when the organic structure of
the nervous system is involved. For example, the reflexes in
hysteria are unaltered, and stiffness when it occurs is not the
stiffness of organic disease. If a neurologist were to have a
hysteric paralysis a very interesting problem in diagnosis would
be presented.

Further, the paralysis yields in spectacular fashion to various
procedures or else disappears spontaneously in remarkable fashion
overnight. Paralyses of this type have disappeared under
hypnosis, violent electric shocks, "magical" liniments, threats,
prayers, the healer's, the fakir's, the doctor's personal
influence; under circumstances of danger (a fire, a row, etc.);
by pilgrimages to Lourdes, St. Anne de Beaupre, the Temple of
Diana, the relic of a saint; by the influence of sudden joy,
fear, anger; by the work of the psychoanalyst and by that of the
osteopath! Every great religious leader and every savage medicine
man beating a tom-tom has had to, prove his pretensions to
greatness by healing the sick--so intensely practical is man--and
he has proved his divinity by curing the hysterics, so that they
threw away their crutches, or jumped blithely out of bed, or used
their arms, perhaps for the first time in years. Hysteria has
caused more talk of the influence of mind over body than all
other manifestations of mental peculiarity put together. Wherever
there is anything to be gained by hysteric paralyses, these
appear in much greater frequency than under ordinary
circumstances. Thus the possibility of recovering damages seems
to play a role in bringing about a paralysis that defies
treatment until the litigation is settled; similarly the
possibility of being removed from the fighting line played a
large part in the causation of war hysteric paralysis.

3. A group of sensory phenomena is conspicuous in hysteria,
sometimes combined with the paralyses and attacks but often
existing alone. A part of the body will become curiously
insensitive to stimulation. Thus one may thrust a pin into any
part without evoking any pain and APPARENTLY without being felt;
one may rub the cornea of the eye, that exquisitely sensitive
part, without arousing a reaction; one may push a throat stick
against the uvula as it hangs from the palate without arousing
the normal and very lively reflex of "gagging." These insensitive
areas, known as stigmata, played a very important role in the
epidemic of witchcraft hunting of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries, when the witch was so diagnosed if she felt no pain
when a needle was thrust into her. Mankind has often enough
worshiped the insane and mentally aberrant and has as often been
diabolically cruel to them.

What has been stated of the paralyses is true of the insensitive
areas; they correspond to an idea of a part and not to an
anatomical unit. Thus a loss of sensation will reach up to the
wrist (glove type) all around, front and back, or to the elbow or
the shoulder, etc. No organically caused anaesthetic area ever
does this, and so the neurologist is able, usually, to separate
the two conditions. And the anaesthesias yield as do the hysteric
paralyses to a variety of agents, from prayer and persuasion to a
bitter tonic or a blow. I confess to a weird feeling in the
presence of a hysteric whose arm can be thrust through and
through with a needle without apparently suffering any pain, and
it seems to me that this may be the explanation of the fortitude
of those martyrs who have astonished and sometimes converted
their persecutors by their sublime resistance to torture.

There has been described as part of hysteria the hysteric
temperament. The characteristics of this temperament are the
emotional instability, the strong desire for sympathy, the effort
to obtain one's desire through weakness, through the appeal to
the sympathy of others, an irritable egoism never satisfied and
without firm purpose. It is true that the majority of peace-time
hysterics show this peculiar temperament, but it is also true
that the war-time hysterics often enough were of "normal"
character, without prior evidence of weakness.

As I before mentioned, Freud became greatly interested in this
group of patients and especially in the female patients, since in
ordinary neurological practice the male hysteric is not common.
Out of his experience and effort he built up a system of beliefs
and treatment, the evolution of which is interesting, but which
is not here important.

At the present time the Freudian doctrine hangs on the following
beliefs:

1. That from the beginning to the end of life everything in the
mental activities of man has a cause and a meaning, and that
these causes and meanings may be traced back to infancy. No slip
of the tongue is accidental; it has purpose and this purpose can
be traced by psychoanalysis. So with hysteric phenomena: the
paralyses, the sensory changes, all the queer and startling
things represent something of importance and of value to the
subconscious.

2. There is in man a subconscious mentality, having wills,
purposes, strivings, desires, passions. These trends are the raw,
native, uninhibited desires of man; they are our lusts, our crude
unsocialized desires, arising out of a metaphysical,
undifferentiated yearning called libido. In the Freudian
"psychology" the libido is mainly sex desire and takes the form
of homosexual feelings, incest feelings (desire for the father or
for the mother--the oedipus complex), desire for the sister or
brother.[1] (The human being, according to Freud, goes through
three stages in his sex life: first, a sex attachment to himself
marked by thumb sucking, masturbation, etc., second, an
attachment to the same sex--homosexuality--and, finally, the
attachment or desire for the opposite sex.) In the practical
application of the Freudian psychology to the patients the sex
conflicts (of which we shall speak shortly) are all important;
the subconsciousness is largely taken up with sex and with
efforts to obtain gratification for these sex desires.

[1] The Freudians would protest against this. Libido is the life
energy,--but all the Freudian analyses of actual cases published
make libido sex, and usually "perverse." (I put the perverse in
quotations because I fear to be called prudish by Freudians.)


3. But, the theory continues, the conscious personality is the
socialized personality, having aims and ends not consistent with
desire for mother, homosexual cravings, lust for a married man or
woman. So there ensues a battle between desire and inhibition.
The inhibiting agent is a something called the censor, who pushes
back into the subconsciousness the socially tabooed, the socially
abhorrent desires; represses emotions and instincts that are
socially out of order. But there is no real victory for the
consciousness, for the complex (the name given to a desire or
wish with its attendant ideas, emotions and motor manifestations)
is still active, subconsciously changing the life of the person,
causing him to make slips in his speech, expressing itself in his
dreams and his work, and if sufficiently powerful, giving rise to
nervous or mental disease of one type or another. Nothing is ever
forgotten, according to Freud, and the reason our childhood is
not voluntarily remembered is because it is full of forbidden
desires and curiosities and the developing censor thrusts it all
into the subconsciousness, where it continues to make trouble all
the rest of the individual's life. In fact, a cardinal part of
Freudianism (which he and his followers are lately modifying) is
that it is the results of the "psychic traumata" (psychical
injuries) of infancy and childhood that cause the hysteria of the
adult; and these psychical traumata are largely (about ninety-
nine per cent.) sexual.

4. Freudianism has borrowed the time-honored dictum that every
sensation has a natural result in action and has elaborated it
into the statement that every affective state, every desire and
craving of whatever sort, needs a motor discharge, an avenue of
outlet. If the desire or emotion is inhibited, its excitement is
transferred with it into the subconscious and that excitement may
attach itself to other excitements and break into consciousness
as a mental disturbance of one type or another. If you can get at
the complex by psychoanalysis, by dragging it to the light, by
making it conscious, you discharge the excitement and health is
restored. This originally was very important in the Freudian work
and was called by the crude term of catharsis.

5. How can one get at these subterranean cravings and strivings,
at the fact that originally one desired one's mother and was
jealous of one's father, or vice versa? Here Freud developed an
elaborate technique based on the following:

Though the censor sits on the lid of the subconsciousness, that
wily self has ways and means of expression. In dreams, in humor,
in the slip of the tongue, in forgetfulness, in myths of the
race, in the symptoms of the hysteric patient, in the creations
of writers and artists, the subconsciousness seeks to symbolize
in innocent (or acceptable) form its crude wishes. By taking a
dream, for example, and analyzing it by what is known as the free
association method, one discovers the real meaning of the terms
used, the meaning behind the symbol; and behind the apparent
dream-content one sees revealed the wishes and disorganizing
desires of the subconscious or the real person. For throughout
Freud's work, though not so definitely expressed, there is the
idea that the subconscious is by far the most important part of
the personality, and that the social purposes, the moral
injunctions and feelings are not the real purposes and real
desires of the real personality.

In analyzing dreams, the symbols become quite standardized. The
horses, dogs, beards, queer situations of the dream (falling,
walking without clothes, picking up money, etc.), the demons,
ghosts, flying, relate definitely to sex situations, sex organs,
sex desires. (The Freudians are apt to deny this theoretically,
but practically every dream of the thousands they publish is a
sex dream of crude content.) Naturally a "pure" girl is quite
shocked when told that because she dreamed she was riding a gray
horse in a green meadow that she really has bad (and still is
troubled by) incestuous desires for her father, but that is the
way to cure her of her neurasthenia or fatigue or obsession of
one kind or other.

I have not attempted a detailed account of the technique of free
association, nor the Freudian account of humor, etc. There are
plenty of books on the market written by Freud himself and his
followers. Frankly I advise the average person not to read them.
I am opposed to the Freudian account of life and character,
though recognizing that he has caused the psychologist to examine
life with more realism, to strip away pretense, to be familiar
with the crude and to examine conduct with the microscope.

I do not believe there is an ORGANIZED subconsciousness, having a
PERSONALITY. Most of the work which proves this has been done on
hysterics. Hysterics are usually proficient liars, are very
suggestible and quite apt to give the examiner what he looks for,
because they seek his friendly interest and eager study. Wherever
I have checked up the "subconscious" facts as revealed by the
patient as a result of his psychoanalysis or through hypnosis, I
have found but little truth. On the other hand, the Freudians
practically never check up the statements of their patients; if a
woman tells all sorts of tales of her husband's attitude toward
her, or of the attitude of her parents, it is taken for granted
that she tells the truth. My belief is that had the statements of
Freud's patients been carefully investigated he would probably
never have evolved his theories.

The Freudians have made no consecutive study of normal childhood,
though they lay great stress on this period of life and in fact
trace the symptoms of their patients back to "infantile trauma."
Most of Freud's ideas on sex development can be traced to, the
one four-and-a-half-years-old child he analyzed, who was as
representative of normal childhood as the little chess champion
of nine years now astounding the world is representative of the
chess ability of the average child. Moreover, the basis of the
technique is the free association, an association released from
inhibitions of all kinds. There isn't any such thing, as
Professor Woodworth has pointed out. All associations are
conditioned by the physical condition of the patient, by his
mood, by the nature of the environment he finds himself in, by
the personality of the examiner and his powers of suggesting, his
purposes and (very important) by the patient's purposes, which he
cannot bid "Disappear!" As for the results of treatment, every
neurologist meets patients again and again who have been
"psychoanalyzed" without results. Moreover, psychoneurotic
patients get well without treatment, as do all other classes of
the sick, and the Christian Scientist, the osteopath and the
chiropractic also have records of "cures."

This is not the place to discuss in further detail the Freudian
ideas (the wish, the symbol, the jargon of transference, etc).
The leading follower of Freud, Jung, has already broken away from
the parent church, and there is an amusing cry of heresy raised.
Soon the eminent Austrian will have the pleasure of seeing a
half-dozen schools that have split off from his own,--followers
of Bleuler, Jung, Adler and others.

There IS a subconsciousness in that much of the nervous activity
of the organism has but little or no relation to consciousness.
There are mechanisms laid down by heredity and by the racial
structure that accomplish great functions without any but the
most indirect effect on consciousness and without any control by
the conscious personality. We are spurred on to sex life, to
marriage, to the care of our children by instinct; but the
instinct is not a personality any more than the automatic
heartbeat is. We repress a forbidden desire; if we are successful
and really overcome the desire by setting up new desires or in
some other way, the inhibited desire is not locked up in a
subterranean limbo. There is nothing pathological about
inhibition, for inhibition is as normal a part of character as
desire, and the social instinct which bids us inhibit is as
fundamental as the sex instinct. Most conflicts are on a
conscious plane, but most people will not admit to any one else
their deeply abhorrent desires. To all of us, or nearly all, come
desires and temptations that we would not acknowledge for the
world. If a wise examiner succeeds in getting us to admit them,
it is very agreeable to find a scapegoat in the form of the
subconsciousness. I have often said this to students: if all our
thoughts and conscious desires could be exposed, the most of us
would almost die of shame. True, we do not clearly understand
ourselves and our conflicts and explanation is often necessary,
but that is not equivalent to the subconsciousness; it merely
means that introspection is not sagacious.

Nor is it true, in my belief, that dreams are important psychical
events, nor that the subconsciousness evades a censor in
elaborating them. To what end would that be done? What would be
the use of it? Suppose that Freud and his school had never been;
then dreams would always be useless, for they would have no
interpreter. Men have dreamed in the countless ages before Freud
was born,--in vain. Think how the poor, misguided
subconsciousness has labored for nothing,--and how grateful it
should be to Freud! Dreams are results and have the same kind of
function that a stomach-ache has.

Things, experiences are forgotten, and whether they are
remembered or not depends upon the number of times they are
experienced, the attention they are given, the use they are put
to and the quality of the brain experiencing them. Disease and
old age may lower the recording power of the brain so that
experiences and sensations do not stick, and now and then the
brain is hypermnesic so that things are remembered with
surprising ease.

The conflicts of life are generally conscious conflicts, in my
experience. Desires and lusts that one does not know of do no
harm; it is the conflict which we cannot settle, the choice we
cannot make, the doubt we cannot resolve, that injures. It is not
those who find it easy to inhibit a desire or any impulse that
are troubled, though they may and do grow narrow. It is those
whose unlawful or discordant desires are not easily inhibited who
find themselves the theater of a constant struggle that breaks
them down. The uneasiness of a desire that arises from the
activity of the sex organs is not a manifestation of a
subconscious personality, unless we include in our personality
our livers, spleen and internal organs of all kinds. Such an
uneasiness may not be clearly understood by the individual merely
because the uneasiness is diffuse and not localized. But there is
no personality, Do will, wish or desire in that uneasiness; it
may and does cause to arise in the conscious personality wills
and wishes and desires against which there is rebellion and
because of which there is conflict.

Upon the issue of the conflicts within the personality hangs the
fate of the individual. Race-old lines of conduct are inhibited
by custom, tradition, teaching, conformity and the social
instinct and its allies. Here is a subject worthy of extended
consideration.

Freud has done the thought of our times a great service in
emphasizing conflict. From the earliest restriction laid by men
on his own conduct, wrestling with desire and temptation has been
the greatest of man's struggles. Internal warfare between
opposing purposes and desires may proceed to a disruption of the
personality, to failure and unhappiness, or else to a solidified
personality, efficient, single-minded and successful. Freud's
work has directed our attention to the thousand and one aberrant
desires that we will hardly acknowledge to ourselves, and he has
forced the professional worker in abnormal and normal mental life
to disregard his own prejudices, to strip away the camouflage
that we put over our motives and our struggles. Together with
Jung and Bleuler, he has helped our science of character a great
deal through no other method than by arousing it to action
against him. In order to fight him, our thought has been forced
to arm itself with the weapons that he has used.



CHAPTER VI. EMOTION, INSTINCT, INTELLIGENCE AND WILL

In a preceding chapter we discussed man as an organism reacting
against an outside world and spurred on by internal activities
and needs. We discussed stimulation, reflexes, inhibition, choice
and the organizing activity, memory and habit, consciousness and
subconsciousness, all of which are primary activities of the
organism. But these are mere theories of function, for the
activities we are interested in reside in more definite
reactions, of which the foregoing are parts.

We see a dreaded object on the horizon or foresee a
calamity,--and we fear. That state of the organism (note I do not
say that STATE OF MIND) resulting from the vision is an emotion.
We fly at once, we hide, and the action is in obedience to an
instinct. But ordinarily we do not fly or hide haphazard; we
think of ways and means, if only in a rudimentary fashion; we
shape plans, perhaps as we fly; we pick up a stick on the run,
hoping to escape but preparing for the reaction of fight if
cornered. "What shall I do--what shall I do? finds no conscious
answer if the emotion is overwhelming or the instinctive flight a
pell-mell affair; but ordinarily memories of other experiences or
of teaching come into the mind and some effort is made to meet
the situation in an "intelligent" manner.

Here, then, is a response in which three cardinal reactions have
occurred and are blended,--the emotion, the instinctive action,
and the intelligent action; or to make abstractions, emotion,
instinct and intelligence. (Personally, I think half the trouble
with our thought is that, we abstract from our experiences a
common group of associations and believe that the abstraction has
some existence outside our thoughts.) Thus there arise in us, as
a result of things experienced, curious feelings and we speak of
the feelings as emotions; we make a race-old response to a
situation,--an instinctive reaction; our memories, past
experiences and present purposes are stirred into activity, and
we plan and scheme, and this is an intelligent reaction, but
there is in reality no metaphysical entity Emotion, Instinct,
Intelligence. I believe that here the philosophers whose mental
activities are essentially in the direction of forming abstract
ideas have misled us.

What I wish to point out is this: that to any situation all three
reactions may take place and modify one another. We are
insulted--some one slaps our face--the fierce emotion of anger
arises and through us surge waves of feeling manifested on the
motor side by tensed muscles, rapid heart, harsh breathing,
perhaps a general reddening of face and eyes. Instinctively our
fists are clenched, a part of the reaction of fight, and it needs
but the slightest increase of anger to send us leaping on the
aggressor, to fight him perhaps to the death. But no,--the
situation has aroused certain memories and certain inhibitions:
the one who struck us has been our friend and we can see that he
is acting under a mistaken impression, or else we perceive that
he is right, that we have done him a wrong for which his blow is
a sort of just reaction. We are checked by these cerebral
activities, we choose some other reaction than fight; perhaps we
prevent him from further assault, or we turn and walk away, or we
start to explain, to mollify and console, or to remonstrate and
reprove. In other words, "intelligence" steps in to inhibit, to
bring to the surface the possibilities, to choose, and thus
overrides the emotional instinctive reaction. It may not succeed
in the overriding; we may hesitate, inhibit, etc., for only a
second or so, before hot anger overcomes us, and the instinctive
response of fight and retaliation takes place.

These examples might be multiplied a thousandfold. Every day of
our lives situations come up in which there is a blending or an
antagonism between emotional, instinctive and intelligent
responses. In fact, very few acts of the organized human being
are anything else. For every emotion awakens memories of past
emotions and the consequences; every instinct is hampered by
other instincts or by the inhibitions aroused by obstacles; and
intelligence continually struggles against emotion and blind
instinct. Teaching, experience, knowledge, all modify emotional
and instinctive responses so that sometimes they are hardly
recognizable as such. On the other hand, though intelligence
normally occupies the seat of power, it is easily ousted and in
reality only steers and directs the vehicle of life, choosing not
the goal but the road by which the goal can safely be reached.

In general terms we shall define emotions, instincts and
intelligence as follows:

1. For emotions we shall accept a modified James-Lange theory,
supplementing it by the developments of science since their day.
When a thing is seen or heard (or smelled or tasted or thought),
it arouses an emotion; that emotion consists of at least three
parts. First, the arousal of memories and experiences that give
it a value to the individual, make it a desired object or a
dreaded, distasteful object. Second, at the same time, or shortly
preceding or succeeding this, a great variety of changes takes
place in the organism, changes that we shall call the
vaso-visceral-motor changes. This means merely that there is a
series of reactions set up in the sympathetic nervous system, in
the blood vessels and bodily structures they control and in the
glands of internal secretion,--changes which include the blush or
the pallor, the rapid heartbeat, the quickened or labored
breathing, the changes in the digestive tract which include the
vomiting of disgust and the diarrhoea of fear; the changes that
passion brings in the male and the female and many other
alterations to be discussed again. Third, there is then the
feeling of these coenaesthetic changes,--a feeling of
pleasantness, unpleasantness mingled with the basic feeling of
excitement, and from then on that situation is linked in memory
with the feeling that we usually call the emotion but which is
only a part of it. Nevertheless, it becomes the part longed for
or thereafter avoided; it is the value of the emotion to us, as
conscious personalities, although it may be a false, disastrous,
dangerous value. Excitement is the generalized mood change that
results in consciousness in consequence of the
vaso-visceral-motor changes of emotion; it is therefore based on
bodily changes as is the feeling, pleasant or unpleasant, that
also occurs. William James said that we laugh and are therefore
happy; we weep and are therefore sad; the bodily changes are
primary and the feeling secondary. We do not accept this dictum
entirely, but we say that the organism reacts in a complicated
way and that the feeling--sadness, disgust, anger, joy--springs
from the memories and past experiences aroused by a situation as
well as from the widespread bodily excitement also so aroused.
For the neurologist both the cerebral and the sympathetic-
endocrinal components of emotion are important.

For the moment we turn to instinct and instinctive reactions.

2. Man has always wondered that things can be known without
teaching. So slow and painful is the process of mastering a
technique, whether of handicraftsmanship or of art, so imbued are
we with the need of education for the acquirement of knowledge,
that we are taken aback by the realization that all around us are
creatures carrying on the most elaborate technique, going through
the most complicated procedures and apparently possessed of the
surest knowledge without the possibility of teaching. The flight
of birds, the obstetric and nursing procedures of all animals,
and especially the complicated and systematized labors of bees,
ants and other insects, have aroused the wonder, admiration and
awe of scientists. A chick pecks its way out of its egg and
shakes itself,--then immediately starts on the trail of food and
usually needs no instruction as to diet. The female insect lays
its eggs, the male insect fertilizes them, the progeny go through
the states of evolution leading to adult life without teaching
and without the possibility of previous experience. Since the
parent never sees the progeny, and the progeny assume various
shapes and have very varied capacities at these times, there can
be no possible teaching of what is remarkably skillful and
marvelously adapted conduct.[1]

[1] The nature of instinct has been a subject of discussion for
centuries, but it is only within the last fifty years or
thereabouts that instinctive actions have really been studied. I
refer the reader to the works of Darwin, Romanes, Lloyd Morgan,
the Peckhams, Fabre, Hobhouse, and McDougall for details as to
the controversies and the facts obtained.


Herbert Spencer considered the instinct as a series of inevitable
reflexes. The carrion fly, when gravid, deposits her eggs in
putrid meat in order that the larvae may have appropriate food,
although she never sees the larvae or cannot know through
experience their needs. "The smell of putrid meat attracts the
gravid carrion fly. That is, it sets up motions of the wings
which bring the fly to it, and the fly having arrived, the smell,
and the contact combined stimulate the functions of
oviposition."[1] But as all the critics have pointed out, the
theory of compound reflex action leaves out of account that there
are any number of stimuli pouring in on the carrion fly at the
same time that the meat attracts her. The real mystery lies in
that internal condition which makes the smell of the meat act so
inevitably.

[1] Hobhouse.


In fact, it is this internal condition in the living creature
that is the most important single link in instinct. In the
non-mating season the sight of the female has no effect on the
male. But periodically his internal organs become tense with
procreative cells; these change his coenaesthesia; that starts
desire, and desire sets going the mechanisms of search,
courtship, the sexual act and the care of the female while she is
gravid. All instinctive acts have back of them either a tension
or a deficit of some kind or other, brought about by the
awakening of function of some glandular structure, so that the
organism becomes ready to respond to some appropriate outside
stimulus and inaccessible to others. During the mating season,
with certain animals, the stimulus of food has no effect until
there is effected the purposes of the sexual hunger. Changes in
the body due to the activity of sex glands or gastric juices or
any other organic product have two effects. They increase the
stimulation that comes from the thing sought and decrease the
stimulation that comes from other things. In physiological
language, the threshold for the first is lowered and for the
other it is raised.

But this does not explain HOW the changes in glands MAKE the
animal seek this or that, except by saying that the animal has
hereditary structures all primed to explode in the right way. We
may fall back on Bergson's mystical idea that all life is a
unity, and that instinct, which makes one living thing know what
to do with another--to kill it in a scientific way for the good
of the posterity of the killer--is merely the knowledge,
unconscious, that life has of life. That pleasant explanation
projects us back to a darker problem than ever: how life knows
life and why one part of life so obviously seeks to circumvent
the purpose of another part of life.

For us it is best to say that instinct arises out of the racial
and individual needs; that physically there occur changes in the
glands and tissues; that these set up desires which arouse into
action simple or elaborate mechanisms which finally satisfy the
need of the organs and tissues.[1]

[1] Kempf in his book on the vegetative nervous system goes into
great detail the way the visceral needs force the animal or human
to satisfy them. Life is a sort of war between the vegetative and
the central nervous system. There is just enough truth in this
point of view to make it very entertaining.


Even in the low forms of life instincts are not perfect at the
start, or perfect in details, and almost every member of a
species will show individuality in dealing with an obstacle to an
instinctive action. In other words, though there is instinct and
this furnishes the basis for action in the lowest forms of life,
there is also the capacity for learning by experience,--and this
is Intelligence. "The basis of instinct is heredity and we can
impute an action to pure instinct only if it is hereditary. The
other class of actions are those devised by the individual animal
for himself on the basis of his own experience and these are
called generally intelligent. Of intelligence operating within
the sphere of instinct there is ample evidence. There are
modifications of instinctive action directly traceable to
experience which cannot be explained by the interaction of purely
hereditary tendencies and there are cases in which the whole
structure of the instinct is profoundly modified by the
experience of the individual." Hobhouse, whom I quote, goes on to
give many examples of instinctive action modified by experience
and intelligence in the insect and lower animal world.

What I wish especially to point out is that man has many
instinctive bases for conduct, but instincts as such are not
often seen in pure form in man. They are constantly modified by
other instincts and through them runs the influence of
intelligence. The function of intelligence is to control
instincts, to choose ways and means for the fulfillment of
instincts that are blocked, etc. Moreover, the effects of
teachings, ethics, social organization and tradition, operating
through the social instincts, are to repress, inhibit and whip
into conformity every mode of instinctive conduct. The main
instincts are those relating to nutrition and reproduction, the
care of the young, to averting danger or destroying it, to play
and organized activity, to acquiring, perhaps to teaching and
learning and to the social relations generally. But manners creep
in to regulate our methods of eating and the things we shall eat;
and we may not eat at all unless we agree to get the things to
eat a certain way. We may not cohabit except under tremendous
restriction, and marriage with its aims and purposes is sexual in
origin but modified largely and almost beyond recognition by
social consideration, taste, esthetic matters, taboos and
economic conditions. We may not treat our enemy as instinct bids
us do,--for only in war may one kill and here one kills without
any personal purpose or anger, almost without instinct. We may be
compelled through social exigencies to treat our enemy politely,
eat with him, sleep with him and help him out of difficulties and
thus completely thwart one instinctive set of reactions. Play
becomes regulated by rules and customs, becomes motivated by the
desire for superiority, or the desire for gain, and may even
leave the physical field entirely and become purely mental. And
so on. It does no special practical good to discuss instincts as
if they operated in man as such. They become purposes. Therefore
we shall defer the consideration of instincts and purposes in
detail until later chapters of this book.

Since instincts are too rigid to meet the needs of the social and
traditional life of man, they become intellectualized and
socialized into purposes and ambitions, sometimes almost beyond
recognition. Nevertheless, the driving force of instinct is
behind every purpose, every ambition, even though the individual
himself has not the slightest idea of the force that is at work.
This does not mean that instinct acts as a sort of cellar-
plotter, roving around in a subconsciousness, or at least no such
semi-diabolical personality need be postulated, any more than it
need be postulated for the automatic mechanism that regulates
heartbeat or digestion. The organic tensions and depressions that
constitute instinct are not conscious or subconscious; they
affect our conscious personalities so that we desire something,
we fit that desire in with the rest of our desires, we seek the
means of gratifying that desire first in accordance with means
that Nature has given us and second in accordance with social
teaching and our intelligence. If the desire brings us sharply in
contact with obstacles imposed either by circumstances or more
precious desire, we inhibit that desire,--and thus the instinct.
Because organic tensions and depressions are periodic and are
dependent upon the activities of glands and tissues not within
our control, the desires may never be completely squelched and
may arise as often as some outer stimulus brings them into
activity, to plague and disorder the life of the conscious
personality.

3. With this preliminary consideration of instinct, we pass on to
certain of the phases of intelligence. How to define intelligence
is a difficulty best met by ignoring definition. But this much is
true: that the prime function of intelligence is to store up the
past and present experiences so that they can be used in the
future, and that it adds to the rigid mechanism of instinct a
plastic force which by inhibiting and exciting activity according
to need steers the organism through intricate channels.

Instinct, guided by a plan, conveniently called Nature's plan, is
not itself a planner. The discharge of one mechanism discharges
another and so on through a series until an end is reached,--an
end apparently not foreseen by the organism but acting for the
good of the race to which the organism belongs. Intelligence,
often enough not conscious of the plans of Nature,[1] indeed,
decidedly ignorant of these plans, works for some good
established by itself out of stimuli set up by the instincts. It
plans, looks backward and forward, reaches the height of
reflecting on itself, gets to recognize the existence of instinct
and sets itself the task of controlling instinct. Often enough it
fails, instinct breaks through, takes possession of the means of
achievement, accomplishes its purpose--but the failure of
intelligence to control and the misguided control it attempts and
assumes are merely part of the general imperfections of the
organism. A perfect intelligence would be clearly able to
understand its instincts, to give each of them satisfaction by a
perfect compromise, would pick the methods for accomplishment
without error, and storing up the past experiences without loss,
would meet the future according to a plan.


[1] We are at this stage in a very dark place in human thought.
We say that instincts seek the good of the race, or have some
racial purpose, as the sexual instinct has procreation as its
end. But the lover wooing his sweetheart has no procreation plan
in his mind; he is urged on by a desire to win this particular
girl, a desire which is in part sexual, in part admiration of her
beauty, grace, and charm; again it is the pride of possession and
achievement; and further is the result of the social and romantic
ideals taught in books, theaters, etc. He may not have the
slightest desire for a child; as individual he plans one
thing,--but we who watch him see in his approach the racial urge
for procreation and even disregard his purposes as unimportant.
Who and what is the Race, where does it reside, how can it have
purposes? Call it Nature, and we are no better off. We must fall
back on an ancient personalization of forces, and our minds rest
easier when we think of a Planner operating in all of us and
perhaps smiling as He witnesses our strivings.


As we study the nervous systems of animals, we find that with the
apparent growth of intelligence there is a development of that
part of the brain called the cerebrum. In so far as certain other
parts of the brain are concerned--medulla, pons, mid-brain, basal
ganglia cerebellum--we who are human are not essentially superior
to the dog, the cow, the elephant or the monkey. But when the
neopallium, or the cerebrum, is considered, the enormous
superiority of man (and the superiority of the higher over the
lower animals) becomes striking. Anatomically the cerebrum is a
complex elaboration of cells and fibers that have these main
purposes: First, to record in perfect and detailed fashion the
EXPERIENCES of the organism, so that here are memory centers for
visual and auditory experiences, for skin, joint and bone
experiences of all kinds, speech memories, action memories, and
undoubtedly for the recording in some way not understood of the
pleasure-pain feelings. Second, it has a hold, a grip on the
motor mechanism of the body, on the muscles that produce action,
so that the intelligence can nicely adapt movement to the
circumstances, to purpose, and can inhibit the movements that
arise reflexly. Thus in certain diseases, where the part of the
brain involved in movement is injured, voluntary movement
disappears but reflex action is increased. Third, the neopallium,
or cerebrum, is characterized by what are known as association
tracts, i.e., connections of intricate kinds which link together
areas of the brain having different functions and thus allow for
combinations of activity of all kinds. The brain thus acts to
increase the memories of the past, and, as we all know, man is
probably the only animal to whom the past is a controlling force,
sometimes even an overpowering force. It acts to control the
conduct of the individual, to delay or to inhibit it, and it acts
to increase in an astonishing manner the number of reactions
possible. One stimulus arousing cerebral excitement may set going
mechanisms of the brain through associated tracts that will
produce conduct of one kind or another for years to come.

We spoke in a previous chapter of choice as an integral function
of the organism. While choice, when two competing stimuli awake
competing mechanisms, may be non-cerebral in its nature, largely
speaking it is a function of the cerebrum, of the intelligence.
To choose is a constant work of the intelligence, just as to
doubt is an unavailing effort to find a choice. Choice blocked is
doubt, one of the unhappiest of mental states. I shall not
pretend to solve the mystery of WHO chooses,--WHAT chooses;
perhaps there is a constant immortal ego; perhaps there is built
up a series of permanently excited areas which give rise to ego
feeling and predominate in choice; perhaps competing mechanisms,
as they struggle (in Sherrington's sense) for motor pathways,
give origin to the feeling of choice. At any rate, because we
choose is the reason that the concept of will has arisen in the
minds of both philosopher and the man in the street, and much of
our feeling of worth, individuality and power--mental factors of
huge importance in character--arises from the power to choose.
Choice is influenced by--or it is a net result of--the praise and
blame of others, conscience, memory, knowledge of the past, plans
for the future. It is the fulcrum point of conduct!

That animals have intelligence in the sense in which I have used
the term is without doubt. No one who reads the work of Morgan,
the Peckhams, Fabre, Hobhouse and other recent investigators of
the instincts can doubt it. Whether animals think in anything
like the form our thought takes is another matter. We are so
largely verbal in thought that speech and the capacity to speak
seem intimately related to thought. For the mechanics of thought,
for the laws of the association of ideas, the reader is referred
to the psychologists. That minds differ according to whether they
habitually follow one type of associations or another is an old
story. The most annoying individual in the world is the one whose
associations are unguided by a controlling purpose, who rambles
along misdirected by sound associations or by accidental
resemblances in structure of words, or by remote meanings,--who
starts off to tell you that she (the garrulous old lady) went to
the store to get some eggs, that she has a friend in the country
whose boy is in the army (aren't the Germans dreadful, she's glad
she's born in this country), city life is very hard, it isn't so
healthy as the country, thank God her health is good, etc.,
etc.," and she never arrives at the grocery store to buy the
eggs. The organizing of the associations through a goal idea is
part of that organizing energy of the mind and character
previously spoken of. The mind tends automatically to follow the
stimuli that reach it, but the organizing energy has as one of
its functions the preventing of this, and controlled thinking
follows associations that are, as it were, laid down by the goal.
In fatigue, in illness, in certain of the mental diseases, the
failure of the organizing energy brings about failure "to
concentrate" and the tyranny of casual associations annoys and
angers. The stock complaint of the neurasthenic that everything
distracts his attention is a reversion back to the unorganized
conditions of childhood, with this essential difference: that the
neurasthenic rebels against his difficulty in thinking, whereas
the child has no rebellion against that which is his normal
state. Minds differ primarily and hugely in their power of
organizing experience, in so studying and recording the past that
it becomes a guide for the, future. Basic in this is the power of
resisting the irrelevant association, of checking those automatic
mental activities that tend to be stirred up by each sound, each
sight, smell, taste and touch. The man whose task has no appeal
for him has to fight to keep his mind on it, and there are other
people, the so-called absent-minded, who are so over-
concentrated, so wedded to a goal in thought, that lesser matters
are neither remembered nor noticed. In its excess
overconcentration is a handicap, since it robs one of that
alertness for new impressions, new sources of thought so
necessary for growth. The fine mind is that which can pursue
successfully a goal in thought but which picks en route to that
goal, out of the irrelevant associations, something that enriches
its conclusions.

Not often enough is mechanical skill, hand-mindedness, considered
as one of the prime phases of intelligence. Intelligence, en
route to the conquest of the world, made use of that marvelous
instrument, the human hand, which in its opposable thumb and
little finger sharply separates man from the rest of creation.
Studying causes and effects, experimenting to produce effect, the
hand became the principal instrument in investigation, and the
prime verifier of belief. "Seeing is believing" is not nearly so
accurate as "Handling is believing," for there is in touch, and
especially in touch of the hands and in the arm movements, a
Reality component of the first magnitude. But not only in
touching and investigating, but in pushing and pulling and
striking, IN CAUSING CHANGE, does the hand become the symbol and
source of power and efficiency. Undoubtedly this phase of the
hands' activities remained predominant for untold centuries,
during which man made but slow progress in his career toward the
leadership of the world. Then came the phase of tool-making and
using and with that a rush of events that built the cities,
bridged the waters, opened up the Little and the Big as sources
of knowledge and energy for man and gave him the power which he
has used,--but poorly. It is the skill of human hands upon which
the mind of man depends; though we fly through the air and speed
under water, some one has made the tools that made the machine we
use. Therefore, the mechanical skill of man, the capacity to
shape resisting material to purpose, the power of the detailed
applications of the principles of movement and force are high,
special functions of the intelligence. That people differ
enormously in this skill, that it is not necessarily associated
with other phases of intelligence are commonplaces. The dealer in
abstract ideas of great value to the race may be unable to drive
a nail straight, while the man who can build the most intricate
mechanism out of crude iron, wood and metal may be unable to
express any but the commonplaces of existence. Intelligence,
acting through skill, has evolved machinery and the industrial
evolution; acting to discover constant principles operating in
experience, it has established science. Seeking to explain and
control the world of unknown forces, it has evolved theory and
practice. A very essential division of people is on the one hand
those whose effort is to explain things, and who are called
theorists, and those who seek to control things, the practical
persons. There is a constant duel between these two types of
personalities, and since the practical usually control the power
of the world, the theorists and explainers have had rather a hard
time of it, though they are slowly coming into their own.

Another difference between minds is this: that intelligence deals
with the relations between things (this being a prime function of
speech), and intelligence only becomes intellect when it is able
to see the world from the standpoint of abstract ideas, such as
truth, beauty, love, honor, goodness, evil, justice, race,
individual, etc. The wider one can generalize correctly, the
higher the intellect. The practical man rarely seeks wide
generalizations because the truth of these and their value can
only be demonstrated through the course of long periods of time,
during which no good to the individual himself is seen. Besides
which, the practical man knows that the wide generalization may
be an error. Practical aims are usually immediate aims, whereas
the aims of intellect are essentially remote and may project
beyond the life of the thinker himself.

We speak of people as original or as the reverse, with the
understanding that originality is the basis of the world's
progress. To be original in thought is to add new relationships
to those already accepted, or to substitute new ones for the old.
The original person is not easily credulous; he applies to
traditional teaching and procedure the acid test of results. Thus
the astronomers who rejected the theological idea that the earth
was the center of the universe observed that eclipses could not
be explained on such a basis, and Harvey, as he dissected
bullocks' hearts and tied tourniquets around his arms, could not
believe that Galen's teaching on circulation fitted what he saw
of the veins and valves of his arm. The original observer refuses
to slide over stubborn facts; authority has less influence with
him than has an apple dropping downward. In another way the
original thinker is constantly taking apart his experiences and
readjusting the pieces into new combinations of beauty,
usefulness and truth. This he does as artist, inventor and
scientist. Most originality lies in the rejection of old ideas
and methods as not consonant with results and experience; in the
taking apart and the isolation of the components of experience
(analysis) and in their reassemblage into new combinations
(synthesis). The organizing activity of the original mind is
high, and curiosity and interest are usually well maintained.
Unless there is with these traits the quality called good
judgment (i.e., good choice), the original is merely one of those
"pests" who launch half-baked reforms and projects upon a weary
world.

We have spoken of intelligence as controlling and directing
instinct and desire, as inhibiting emotion, as exhibiting itself
in handicraftsmanship, as the builder up of abstractions and the
principles of power and knowledge; we have omitted its
relationship to speech. Without speech and its derivatives, man
would still be a naked savage and not so well off in his struggle
for existence as most of the larger animals. It is possible that
we can think without words, but surely very little thinking is
possible under such circumstances. One might conduct a business
without definite records, but it would be a very small one.
Speech is a means not only of designating things but of the
manifest relations between things. It "short-cuts" thought so
that we may store up a thousand experiences in one word. But its
stupendous value and effects lie in this, that in words not only
do we store up ourselves (could we be self-conscious without
words?) and things, but we are able to interchange ourselves and
our things with any one else in the world who understands our
speech and writings. And we may truly converse with the dead and
be profoundly changed by them. If the germ plasm is the organ of
biological heredity, speech and its derivatives are the organs of
social heredity!

The power of expressing thought in words, of compressing
experiences into spoken and written symbols, of being eloquent or
convincing either by tongue or pen, is thus a high function of
intelligence. The able speaker and writer has always been
powerful, and he has always found a high social value in
promulgating the ideas of those too busy or unfitted for this
task, and he has been the chief agent in the unification of
groups.

The danger that lies in words as the symbols of thought lies in
the fact pointed out by Francis Bacon[1] (and in our day by Wundt
and Jung) that words have been coined by the mass of people and
have come to mean very definitely the relations between things as
conceived by the ignorant majority, so that when the philosopher
or scientist seeks to use them, he finds himself hampered by the
false beliefs inherent in the word and by the lack of precision
in the current use of words. Moreover, words are also a means of
stirring up emotions, hate, love, passion, and become weapons in
a struggle for power and therefore obscure intelligence.

[1] This is Bacon's "Idols of the Market Place."


Words, themselves, arise in our social relations, for the
solitary human would never speak, and the thought we think of as
peculiarly our own is intensely social. Indeed, as Cooley pointed
out, our thought is usually in a dialogue form with an auditor
who listens and whose applause we desire and whose arguments we
meet. In children, who think aloud, this trend is obvious, for
they say, "you, I, no, yes, I mustn't, you mustn't," and terms of
dialogue and social intercourse appear constantly. Thought and
words offer us the basis of definite internal conflict: one part
of us says to the other, "You must not do that," and the other
answers, "What shall I do?" Desire may run along smoothly without
distinct, internal verbal thought until it runs into inhibition
which becomes at once distinctly verbal in its, "No! You musn't!"
But desire obstructed also becomes verbal and we hear within us,
"I will!"

We live secure in the belief that our thoughts are our own and
cannot be "read" by others. Yet in our intercourse we seek to
read the thoughts of others--the real thoughts--recognizing that
just as we do not express ourselves either accurately or
honestly, so may the other be limited or disingenuous. Whenever
there occurs a feeling of inferiority, the face is averted so the
thoughts may not be read, and it is very common for people
mentally diseased to believe that their thoughts are being read
and published. Indeed, the connection between thoughts and the
personality may be severed and the patient mistakes as an outside
voice his own thoughts.

A large part of ancient and modern belief and superstition hinges
on the feeling of power in thought and therefore in words.
Thought CAUSES things as any other power does. Think something
hard, use the appropriate word, and presto,--what you desire is
done. "Faith moves mountains," and the kindred beliefs of the
magic in words have plunged the world into abysses of
superstition. Thought is powerful, words are powerful, if
combined with the appropriate action, and in their indirect
effects. All our triumphs are thought and word products; so, too,
are our defeats.

It is not profitable for us at this stage to study the types of
intelligence in greater detail. In the larger aspects of
intelligence we must regard it as intimately blended with
emotions, mood, instincts, and in its control of them is a
measurement of character. We may ask what is the range of memory,
what is the capacity for choosing, how good is the planning
ability, how active is the organizing ability, what is the type
of associations that predominate and how active is the stream of
thought? What is the skill of the individual? How well does he
use words and to what end does he use them? Intelligence deals
with the variables of life, leaving to instinct the basic
reactions, but it is in these variables that intelligence meets
situations that of themselves would end disastrously for the
individual.

Not a line, so far, on Will. What of the will, basic force in
character and center of a controversy that will never end? Has
man a free will? does his choice of action and thought come from
a power within himself? Is there a uniting will, operating in our
actions, a something of an integral indivisible kind, which is
non-material yet which controls matter?

Taking the free-will idea at its face value leads us nowhere in
our study of character. If character in its totality is organic,
so is will, and it therefore resides in the tissues of our
organism and is subject to its laws. In some mental diseases the
central disturbance is in the will, as Kraepelin postulates in
the disease known as Dementia Praecox. The power of choice and
the power of acting according to choice disappear gradually,
leaving the individual inert and apathetic. The will may alter
its directions in disease (or rather be altered) so that BECAUSE
of a tumor mass in the brain, or a clot of blood, or the
extirpation of his testicles, he chooses and acts on different
principles than ever before in his life. Or you get a man drunk,
introduce into his organism the soluble narcotic alcohol, and you
change his will in the sense that he chooses to be foolish or
immoral or brutal, and acts accordingly. When from Philip drunk
we appeal to Philip sober, we acknowledge that the two Philips
are different and will different things. And the will of the
child is not the will of the adult, nor is that the will of the
old man. If will is organic it cannot be free, but is conditioned
by health, glandular activity, tissue chemistry, age, social
setting, education, intelligence.

Moreover, behind each choice and each act are motives set up by
the whole past of the individual, set up by heredity and
training, by the will of our ancestors and our contemporaries.
Logically and psychologically, we cannot agree that a free agent
has any conditions; and if it has any conditions, it cannot in
any phase be free. To set up an argument for free will one has to
appeal to the consciousness or have a deep religious motive. But
even the ecclesiastical psychologists and even so strong a
believer in free will as Munsterberg take the stand that we may
have two points of view, one--as religiously minded--that there
is a free will, and the other--as scientists--that will is
determined in its operations by causes that reach back in an
endless chain. The power to choose and the power to act may be
heightened by advice and admonitions. In this sense we may
properly tell a man to use his will, and we may seek to introduce
into him motives that will fortify his resolution, remove or
increase his inhibitions, make clearer his choice. But that will
is an entity, existing by itself and pulling at levers of conduct
without itself being organic, need not be entertained by any
serious-minded student of his kind.

Is there a unit, will? A will power? I can see no good evidence
for this belief except the generalizing trend of human thought
and the fallacy that raises abstractions into realities. Napoleon
had a strong will in regard to his battles and a weak one
regarding women. Pitt was a determined statesman but could not
resist the lure of drink. Socrates found no difficulty in dying
for his beliefs, but asked not to be tempted by a beautiful
youth. Francis Bacon took all knowledge to be his province, and
his will was equal to the task, but he found the desire for
riches too great for him. In reality, man is a mosaic of wills;
and the will of each instinct, each desire, each purpose, is the
intensity of that instinct, desire or purpose. In each of us
there is a clash of wills, as the trends in our character oppose
one another. The united self harmonizes its purposes and wills
into as nearly one as possible; the disunited self is standing
unsteadily astride two or more horses. We all know that it is
easy for us to accomplish certain things and difficult to make up
our minds to do others. Like and dislike, facility or difficulty
are part of each purpose and enter into each will as parts.

Such a view does not commit one to fatalism, at least in conduct.
Desiring to accomplish something or desiring to avoid doing
something, both of which are usually considered as part of
willing, we must seek to find motives and influences that will
help us. We must realize that each choice, each act, changes the
world for us and every one else and seek to harmonize our choice
and acts with the purposes we regard as our best. If we seek to
influence others, then this view of the will is the only hopeful
one, for if will is a free entity how can it possibly be
influenced by another agent? The very essence of freedom is to be
noninfluenced. Seeking to galvanize the will of another, there is
need to search for the influences that will increase the energy
of his better purposes, to "appeal to his better self," meaning
that the spurs to his good conduct are applied with greater
force, but that first the nature of the particular things that
spur him on must be discovered. Praise? Blame? Reward?
Punishment? Education? Authority? Logic? Religion? Emotional
appeal? Substitution of new motives and associations?

The will is therefore no unit, but a sum total of things
operating within the sphere of purpose. Purpose we have defined
as arising from instinct and desire and intellectualized and
socialized by intelligence, education, training, tradition, etc.
Will is therefore best studied under the head of purpose and is
an outgrowth of instinct. Each instinct, in its energy, its
fierceness, its permanence, has its will. He who cannot desire
deeply, in whom some powerful instinct does not surge, cannot
will deeply.

If we look at character from the standpoint of emotion, instinct,
purpose and intelligence, we find that emotion is an internal
discharge of energy, which being FELT by the individual becomes
an aim or aversion of his life; that instinctive action is the
passing over of a stimulus directly into hereditary conduct along
race-old motor pathways for purposes that often enough the
individual does not recognize and may even rebel against; that
instinct is without reflection, but that purpose, which is an
outgrowth of instinct guided and controlled by intelligence, is
reflective and self-conscious. Purpose seeks the good of the
individual as understood by him and is often against the welfare
of the race, whereas instinct seeks the good of the race, often
against the welfare of the individual. Intelligence is the path
of the stimulus or need cerebrally directed, lengthened out,
inhibited, elaborated and checked. Often enough faulty, it is the
chief instrument by which man has become the leading figure on
the world stage.



CHAPTER VII. EXCITEMENT, MONOTONY AND INTEREST

No matter what happens in the outside world, be it something we
see, hear or feel, in any sense-field there is an internal
reverberation in our bodies,--excitement. Excitement is the
undifferentiated result of stimuli, whether these come from
without or from within. For a change in the glands of the body
heaps up changes within us, which when felt, become excitement.
Thus at the mating period of animals, at the puberty of man,
there is a quite evident excitement demonstrated in the conduct
of the animal and the adolescent. He who remembers his own
adolescence, or who watches the boy or girl of that age, sees the
excitement in the readiness to laugh, cry, fight or love that is
so striking.

Undoubtedly the mother-stuff of all emotion is the feeling of
excitement. Before any emotion reaches its characteristic
expression there is the preparatory tension of excitement. Joy,
sorrow, anger, fear, wonder, surprise, etc., have in them as a
basis the same consciousness of an internal activity, of a world
within us beginning to seethe. Heart, lungs, blood stream, the
great viscera and the internal glands, cerebrum and sympathetic
nervous system, all participate in this activity, and the outward
visage of excitement is always the wide-open eye, the slightly
parted lips, the flaring nostrils and the slightly tensed muscles
of the whole body. Shouts, cries, the waving of arms and legs,
taking the specific direction of some emotion, make of excitement
a fierce discharger of energy, a fact of great importance in the
understanding of social and pathological phenomena. On the other
hand, excitement may be so intensely internal that it shifts the
blood supply too vigorously from the head and the result is a
swoon. This is more especially true of the excitement that
accompanies sorrow and fear than joy or anger, but even in these
emotions it occurs.

There are some very important phases of excitement that have not
been given sufficient weight in most of the discussions.

1. In the very young, excitement is diffuse and spreads
throughout the organism. An infant starts with a jump at a sudden
sound and shivers at a bright light. A young child is
unrestrained and general in his expression of excitement, no
matter what emotional direction that excitement takes. Bring
about any tension of expectation in a child--have him wait for
your head to appear around the corner as you play peek-a-boo, or
delay opening the box of candy, or pretend you are one thing or
another--and the excitement of the child is manifested in what is
known as eagerness. Attention in children is accompanied by
excitement and is wearying as a natural result, since excitement,
means a physical discharge of energy. A child laughs all over and
weeps with his entire body; his anger involves every muscle of
his body and his fear is an explosion. The young organism cannot
inhibit excitement.

As life goes on, the capacity for localizing or limiting
excitement increases. We become better organized, and the
disrupting force of a stimulus becomes less. Attention becomes
less painful, less tense, i.e., there is less general muscular
and emotional reaction. Expectation is less a physical
matter--perhaps because we have been so often disappointed--and
is more cerebral and the emotions are more reflective and
introspective in their expression and less a physical outburst.
Indeed, the process often enough goes too far, and we long for
the excitement of anticipation and realization. We do not start
at a noise, and though a great crowd will "stir our blood"
(excitement popularly phrased and accurately), we still limit
that excitement so that though we cheer or shout there is a core
of us that is quiet.

This is the case in health. In sickness, especially in that
condition known as neurasthenia, where the main symptoms cluster
around an abnormal liability to fatigue, and also in many other
conditions, there is an increase in the diffusion of excitement
so that one starts all over at a noise, instead of merely turning
to see what it is, so that expectation and attention become
painful and fatiguing. Crowds, though usually pleasurable, become
too exciting, and there is a sort of confusion resulting because
attention and comprehension are interfered with. The neurasthenic
finds himself a prey to stimuli, his reaction is too great and he
fatigues too readily. He finds sleep difficult because the little
noises and discomforts make difficult the relaxation that is so
important. The neurasthenic's voluntary attention is lowered
because of the excitement he feels when his involuntary attention
is aroused.

In the condition called anhedonia, which we shall hear of from
time to time, there is a blocking or dropping out of the sense of
desire and satisfaction even if through habit one eats, drinks,
has sexual relationship, keeps up his work and carries out his
plans. This lack of desire for the joys of life is attended by a
restlessness, a seeking of excitement for a time, until there
arises a curious over-reaction to excitement. The anhedonic
patient finds that noises are very troublesome, that he becomes
unpleasantly excited over music, that company is distressing
because he becomes confused and excited, and crowds, busy scenes
and streets are intolerable. Many a hermit, I fancy, who found
the sensual and ambitious pleasure of life intolerable, who
sought to fly from crowds to the deserts, was anhedonic but he
called it renunciation. (Whether one really ever renounces when
desire is still strong is a nice question. I confess to some
scepticism on this point.)

2. Seeking excitement is one of the great pleasure-trends of
life. In moderation, tension, expectation and the diffuse bodily
reactions are agreeable; there is a feeling of vigor, the
attention is drawn from the self and there is a feeling of being
alive that is pleasurable. The tension must not be too long
sustained, nor the bodily reaction too intense; relaxation and
lowered attention must relieve the excitement from time to time;
but with these kept in mind, it is true that Man is a seeker of
excitement.

This is a factor neglected in the study of great social
phenomena. The growth of cities is not only a result of the
economic forces of the time; it is made permanent by the fact
that the cities are exciting. The multiplicity and variety of the
stimuli of a city--social, sexual, its stir and bustle--make it
difficult for those once habituated ever to tolerate the quiet of
the country. Excitement follows the great law of stimulation; the
same internal effect, the same feeling, requires a greater and
greater stimulus, as well as new stimuli. So, the cities grow
larger, increase their modes of excitement, and the dweller in
the city, unless fortified by a steady purpose, becomes a seeker
of excitement.

Not only is excitement pleasurable when reached through the
intrinsically agreeable but it can be obtained from small doses
of the intrinsically disagreeable. This is the explanation of the
pleasure obtained from the gruesome, from the risk of life or
limb, or from watching others risk life or limb. Aside from the
sense of power obtained by traveling fast, it is the risk, THE
SLIGHT FEAR, producing excitement, that makes the speed maniac a
menace to the highways. And I think that part of the pleasure
obtained from bitter foods is that the disagreeable element is
just sufficient to excite the gastro-intestinal tract. The
fascination of the horrible lies in the excitement produced, an
excitement that turns to horror and disgust if the disagreeable
is presented too closely. Thus we can read with pleasurable
excitement of things that in their reality would shock us into
profoundest pain. The more jaded one is, the more used to
excitement, the more he seeks what are, ordinarily, disagreeable
methods of excitement. Thus pain in slight degree is exciting,
and in the sexual sphere pain is often sought as a means of
heightening the pleasure, especially by women and by the roue. I
suspect also that the haircloth shirt and the sackcloth and ashes
of the anhedonic hermit were painful methods of seeking
excitement.

Sometimes pain is used in small amounts to relieve excitement.
Thus the man who bites his finger nails to the quick gets a
degree of satisfaction from the habit. Indeed, all manner of
habitual and absurd movements, from scratching to pacing up and
down, are efforts to relieve the tension of excitement. One of my
patients under any excitement likes to put his hands in very hot
water, and the pain, by its localization, takes away from the
diffuse and unpleasant excitement. The diffuse uncontrolled
excitement of itching is often relieved by painful biting and
scratching. Here is an effort to localize a feeling and thus
avoid diffuse discomfort, a sort of homeopathic treatment.

3. As a corollary to the need of excitement and its pleasure is
the reaction to monotony. Monotony is one of the most dreaded
factors in the life of man. The internal resources of most of us
are but small; we can furnish excitement and interest from our
own store for but a short time, and there then ensues an intense
yearning for something or somebody that will take up our
attention and give a direction to our thought and action. Under
monotony the thought turns inward, there is daydreaming and
introspection,[1] which are pleasurable only at certain times for
most of us and which grow less pleasurable as we grow older.
Watch the faces of people thinking as they travel alone in
cars,--and rarely does one see a happy face. The lines of the
face droop and sighs are frequent. Monotony and melancholy are
not far apart; monotony and a restless seeking for excitement are
almost synonymous. Of course, what constitutes monotony will
differ in the viewpoint of each person, for some are so
constituted and habituated (for habit is a great factor) that it
takes but few stimuli to arouse a well-sustained interest, and
others need or think they need many things, a constantly changing
set of circumstances for pleasure.

[1] Stanley Hall, in his book "Adolescence," lays great stress on
monotony and its effects. See also Graham Wallas' "The Great
Society."


Restlessness, eager searching for change, intense dissatisfaction
are the natural fruit of monotony. Here is an important item in
the problems of our times. Side by side with growth of the cities
and their excitement is the growing monotony of most labor. The
factory, with its specialized production, reduces the worker to a
cog in the machinery. In some factories, in the name of
efficiency, the windows are whitewashed so that the outside world
is shut out and talking is prohibited; the worker passes his day
performing his unvaried task from morning to night. Under such
circumstances there arises either a burning sense of wrong, of
injustice, of slavery and a thwarting of the individual dignity,
or else a yearning for the end of the day, for dancing, drinking,
gambling, for anything that offers excitement. Or perhaps both
reactions are combined. Our industrial world is poorly organized
economically, as witness the poor distribution of wealth and the
periodic crises, but it is abominably organized from the
standpoint of the happiness of the worker. Of this, more in
another place.

Monotony brings fatigue, because there is a shutting out of the
excitement that acts as an antidote to fatigue-feeling. A man
who works without fatigue six days a week is tired all day Sunday
and longs for Monday. The modern housewife,[1] with her four
walls and the unending, uninteresting tasks, is worn out, and her
fatigue reaction is the greater the more her previous life has
been exciting and varied. Fatigue often enough is present not
because of the work done but because the STIMULUS TO WORK HAS
DISAPPEARED. Monotony is an enemy of character. Variety, in its
normal aspect, is not only the spice of life; it is a great need.
Stabilization of purpose and work are necessary, but a
standardization that stamps out the excitement of variety is a
deadly blow to human happiness.

[1] See my book "The Nervous Housewife!"


Under monotony certain types of personalities develop an intense
inner life, which may be pathological, or it may be exceedingly
fruitful of productive thought.

Some build up a delusional thought and feeling. For delusion
merely means uncorrected thought and belief, and we can only
correct by contact and collision. The whole outer world may
vanish or become hostile and true mental disease develop. Perhaps
it is more nearly correct to say that minds predisposed to mental
disease find in monotony a circumstance favoring disease.

On the other hand, a vigorous mind shut out from outer stimuli[1]
finds in this circumstance the time to develop leisurely, finds a
freedom from distraction that leads to clear views of life and a
proper expression. A periodic retirement from the busy, too-busy
world is necessary for the thinker that he may digest his
material, that he may strip away unessential beliefs, that he may
find what it is he really needs, strives for and ought to have.

[1] Perhaps this is why real genius does not flourish in our
crowded, over-busy days, despite the great amount of talent.


4. Here we come to another corollary of the need for excitement,
the need of relaxation. At any rate, satisfaction and pleasure
need periods of hunger in order to be felt. In the story of
Buddha he is represented as being shielded from all sorrow and
pain, living a life filled with pleasure and excitement, yet he
sought out pain. So excitement, if too long continued--or rather
if a situation that produces excitement of a pleasurable kind be
too long endured--will result in boredom. "Things get to be the
same," whether it be the excitement of love, the city, sports or
what not. This is a basic law of all pleasures. In order that
life may have zest, that excitement may be easily and pleasurably
evoked and by normal means, we need relaxation, periods free from
excitement, or we must pass on to a costly chase for excitement
that brings breakdown of the character.

5. If the seeking of excitement, as such, is one of the prime
pleasures of life, organized excitement in the form of interest
is the directing and guiding principle of activity. At the outset
of life interest is in the main involuntary and is aroused by the
sights, sounds and happenings of the outer world. As time goes
on, as the organism develops, as memories of past experiences
become active, as peculiarities of personality develop, and as
instincts reach activity, interest commences to take definite
direction, to become canalized, so to speak. In fact, the
development of interest is from the diffuse involuntary form of
early childhood to a specialization, a condensation into definite
voluntary channels. This development goes on unevenly, and is a
very variable feature in the lives of all of us. Great ability
expresses itself in a sustained interest; a narrow character is
one with overdeformed, too narrow interest; failure is often the
retention of the childish character of diffuse, involuntary
interest. And the capacity to sustain interest depends not only
on the special strength of the various abilities of the
individual, but remarkably on his energy and health. Sustained
"voluntary" interest is far more fatiguing than involuntary
interest, and where fatigue is already present it becomes
difficult and perhaps impossible. Thus after much work, whether
physical or mental, during and after illness--especially in
influenza, in neurasthenic states generally, or where there is an
inner conflict--interest in its adult form is at a low ebb.

There are two main directions which interest may take, because
there are two worlds in which we live. There is the inner world
of our feelings, our thoughts, our desires and our
struggles,[1]--and there is the outer world, with its people, its
things, its hostilities, its friendships, its problems and facts,
its attractions and repulsions. Man divides his interest between
the two worlds, for in both of them are the values of existence.
The chief source of voluntary interest lies in desire and value,
and though these are frequently in coalescence, so that the thing
we desire is the thing we value, more often they are not in
coalescence and then we have the divided self that James so
eloquently describes. So there are types of men to whom the outer
world, whether it is in its "other people," or its things, or its
facts, or its attractions and repulsions, is the chief source of
interest and these are the objective types, exteriorized folks,
whose values lie in the goods they can accumulate, or the people
they can help, or the external power they exercise, or the
knowledge they possess of the phenomena of the world, or the
things they can do with their hands. These are on the whole
healthy-minded, finding in their pursuits and interest a real
value, rarely stopping from their work to ask, "Why do I work? To
what end? Are things real?" Contrasted with them are those whose
gaze is turned inward, who move through life carrying on the
activities of the average existence but absorbed in their
thoughts, their emotions, their desires, their
conflicts,--perhaps on their sensations and coenaesthetic
streams. Though there is no sharp line of division between the
two types, and all of us are blends in varying degrees, these
latter are the subjective introspective folk, interiorized,
living in the microcosmos, and much more apt than the objective
minded to be "sick souls" obsessed with "whys and wherefores."
They are endlessly putting to themselves unanswerable questions,
are apt to be the mentally unbalanced, or, but now and then, they
furnish the race with one whose answers to the meaning of life
and the direction of efforts guide the steps of millions.

[1] Herbert Spencer's description of these two worlds is the best
in literature. "Principles of Psychology."


There is a good and a bad side to the two types of interest. The
objective minded conquer the world in dealing with what they call
reality. They bridge the water and dig up the earth; they invent,
they plow, they sell and buy, they produce and distribute wealth,
and they deal with the education that teaches how to do all these
things. They find in the outer world an unalterable sense of
reality, and they tend rather naively to accept themselves, their
interests and efforts as normal. In their highest forms they are
the scientist, reducing to law this tangle of outer realities, or
the artist, who though he is a hybrid with deep subjective and
objective interest, nevertheless remodels the outer world to his
concept of beauty. These objective-minded folk, the bulk of the
brawn and in lesser degree of the brain of the world, are apt to
be "materialists," to value mainly quantity and to be
self-complacent. Of course, since no man is purely objective,
there come to them as to all moments of brooding over the eggs of
their inner life, when they wonder whether they have reached out
for the right things and whether the goods they seek or have are
worth while. Such introspective interest comes on them when they
are alone and the outer world does not reach in, or when they
have witnessed death and misfortune, or when sickness and fatigue
have reduced them to a feeling of weakness. For it is true that
the objective minded are more often robust, hearty, with more
natural lust, passion and desire than your introspectionists,
more virile and less sensitive to fine impressions.

The introspectionists, culling, chewing the cud of their
experiences and sensations, find in their own reactions the
realities. In fact, interested in consciousness, they are
sometimes bold enough to deny the realities of anything else.
Where the others build bridges, they build up the ideas of
eternal good and bad, of beauty, of the transitory and the
permanent, of now and eternity. They deal with abstract ideas,
and they luxuriate in emotions. They build up beliefs where
thought is the only reality and is omnipotent. They are the
founders of religious, cults, fads and fancies. They inculcate
the permanent ideals, because they are the only ones who interest
themselves in something beside the show of the universe.

But too often they are the sick folk. Without the hardihood and
the energy to conquer the outer world, they fall back on a world
requiring less energy to study, less energy to conquer. Sometimes
they develop a sense of unreality which vitiates all their
efforts to succeed; or they become hypochondriacs, feeling every
flutter of the heart and every vague ache and pain. The Hamlet
doubting type is an introspectionist and oscillates in his mind
from yea to nay on every question. Such as this type develop
ideas of compensation and power and become cranks and fake
prophets. Or else, and this we shall see again, they become
imbued with a sense of inferiority, feel futile as against the
red-blooded and shrink from others through pain.

Everywhere one sees these phases of interest in antagonism and
cooperation. The "healthy-minded" acknowledge the leadership of a
past introspectionist but despise the contemporary one as futile
and light-headed. The introverted (to use a Freudian term) call
the others Philistines, and mock them for their lack of spiritual
insight, yet in everything they do they depend for aid and
sustenance upon them. Introspection gives no exact measurements
of value, but it gives value and without it, there can be no
wisdom. But always it needs the correction of the outer world to
keep it healthy.

While we have dealt here with the extremes of extrospection and
introspection, it is safe to say that in the vast majority of
people there is a definite and unassailable interest in both of
these directions. Interest in others is not altruism and interest
in the self is not self-interest or egoism. But, on the whole,
they who are not interested in others never become
philanthropists; they who are not interested in things never
become savants; and they who do not dig deep into themselves are
not philosophers. There are, therefore, certain practical aspects
to the study of interest which are essential parts of the
knowledge of character.

1. Is the interest of the one studied controlled by some purpose
or purposes, or is it diffuse, involuntary, not well directed?

2. Is it narrow, so that it excludes the greater part of the
world, or is it easily evoked by a multiplicity of things? In the
breadth of interest is contained the breadth of character, but
not necessarily its intensity or efficiency. There are people of
narrow but intense successful interest, and others of broad,
intense successful interest, but one meets, too frequently,
people quickly interested in anything, but not for long or in a
practical fashion. There is a certain high type of failure that
has this difficulty.

3. Is its main trend outward, and if so, is there some special
feature or features of the world that excite interest?

4. Is its main trend inward, and is he interested in emotions,
thoughts, sensations,--In his mind or his body, in ideas or in
feelings? For it is obvious that the man interested in his ideas
is quite a different person than he who is keenly aware of his
emotions, and that the hypochondriac belongs in a class by
himself.

5. If there are special interests, how do these harmonize with
ability and with well-defined plan and purpose. It is not
sufficient to be keenly interested, though that is necessary. One
of the greatest disharmonies of life is when a man is interested
when he is not proficient, though usually proficiency develops
interest because it gives superiority and achievement.

Interest is heightened by the success of others, for we are
naturally competitive creatures, or by admiration for those
successful in any line of activity. The desire to emulate or
excel or to get power is a mighty factor in the maintenance of
interest. "See how nicely Georgie does it," is a formula for both
children and adults, and if omitted, interest would not be easily
aroused or maintained. In other words, the competitive feeling
and desire in its largest sense are necessary for the
concentrated excitement of interest. So any scheme of social
organization that proposes to do away with competition and desire
for superiority labors under the psychological handicap of
removing the basis of much of the interest in work and study and
must find some substitute for the lacking incentives before it
can seriously ask for the adherence of those with a realistic
view of human nature. One might, it is true, establish traditions
of work, bring about a livelier social conscience as to service,
but these are not sufficient to arouse real interest in the vast
majority of the race. Here and there one finds a man in whom
interest is aroused by the unsolved problem, by the reward of
fame and the pleasure of achievement, but such persons are rare.
The average man (and woman), in my experience, loses interest in
anything that does not directly benefit him or in which his
personal competitive feeling is not aroused. Interest becomes
vague and ill-defined the farther the matter concerned is from
the direct personal good of the individual, and proportionately
it becomes difficult to sustain it.

That is why in our day "dollars and cents" appeals to interest
are made; away with abstracts, away with sentiment; the publicity
man working for a good cause now uses the methods of the man
selling shoes or automobiles: he attempts to show that one's
interest and cooperation are demanded and necessary because one's
direct personal welfare is involved. Whether or not ethically
justifiable, it is a recognition of the fact that interest is
aroused and sustained, for the majority, by some direct personal
involvement.

Thus in education, a fact to be learned, or a subject to be
studied, should be first sketched or placed in some use value to
the student. Knowledge for knowledge's sake is appealing only to
the rare scholar, he who palpitates with interest over the
relationship of things to one another, he who seeks to discover
values. Now and then one finds such a person, one thrown into
sustained excitement by learning, but the great majority of
students, whether in medicine, law or mathematics, are
"practical," meaning that their interests are relatively narrow
and the good they seek an immediate one to be reaped by
themselves. Recognizing this fact in the abstract, the most of
teaching is conducted on the plane of the real scholar, and the
average student is left to find values for himself. From first to
last in teaching I would emphasize usevalue; true, I would seek
to broaden the conception of usevalue, so that a student would
see that usefulness is a social value, but no matter how abstract
and remote the subject, its relationship to usefulness would be
preliminary and continuously emphasized in order to sustain
interest.

Interest, like any other form of excitement, needs new stimuli
and periods of relaxation. People under the driving force of
necessity continue at their work for longer periods of time and
more constantly than is psychologically possible for the
maintaining of interest. So it disappears, and then fatigue sets
in at once,--a fatigue that is increased by the effort to work
and the regret and rebellion at the change. The memory seems to
suffer and a fear is aroused that "I am losing my memory"; the
threat to success brings anguish and often the health becomes
definitely impaired. Overconcentrated, too long maintenance of
interest brings apathy,--an apathy that cannot be dispelled
except by change and rest. Here there is wide individual
variation from those who need frequent change and relaxation
periods to those who can maintain interest in a task almost
indefinitely.

A hobby, or a secondary object of interest, is therefore a real
necessity to the man or woman battling for a purpose, whose
interest must be sustained. It acts to relax, to shift the
excitement and to allow something of the feeling of novelty as
one reapproaches the task.

As a matter of fact, excitement and interest are not easily
separated from their derivatives and elaborations. Desire,
purpose, ambition, imply a force; interest implies a direction
for that force. Interest may be as casual as curiosity aroused by
the novel and strange, or as deep-seated and specialized as a
talent. The born teacher is he who knows how to arouse and
maintain and direct interest; the born achiever is the man whose
interest, quickly aroused, is easily maintained and directs
effort. To find the activity that is natively interesting and yet
suited to one's ability is the aim in vocational guidance.

There are some curious pathological aspects to interest
--"conflict" aspects of the subject. A man finds himself
palpitatingly interested in what is horrible to him, as a bird is
fascinated by a snake. Sex abnormalities have a marvelous
interest to everybody, although many will not admit it. Stories
of crime and bloodshed are read by everybody with great
avidity,--and people will go miles to the site of grim tragedy.
Court rooms are packed whenever a horrible murder is aired or a
nauseating divorce scandal is tried. A chaste woman will read, on
the sly and with inner rebellion, as many pornographic tales as
she can get hold of, and the "carefully" brought up, i. e., those
whose interest has been carefully directed, suddenly become
interested in the forbidden; they seek to peek through windows
when they should be looking straight ahead.

As a matter of fact, interest is as much inhibited as conduct.
"You mustn't ask about that" is the commonest answer a child
gets. "That's a naughty question to ask" runs it a close second.
Can one inhibit interest, which is the excitement caused by the
unknown? The answer is that we can, because a large part of
education is to do this very thing. "Can we inhibit any interest
without injuring all interests?" is a question often put. My
answer would be that it is socially necessary that interest in
certain directions be inhibited, whether it hurts the individual
or not. But the interest in a forbidden direction can be shifted
to a permitted direction, and this should be done. In my opinion,
sex interest can be so handled and a blunt thwarting of this
interest should be avoided. Some explanation leading the child to
larger, less personal aspects of sex should be given.

The interest of the child is often thwarted through sheer
laziness. "Don't bother me" is the reply of a parent shirking a
sacred duty. Interest is the beginning of knowledge, and where it
is discouraged knowledge is discouraged. Any inquiry can be met
on the child's plane of intelligence and comprehension, and the
parent must arrange for the gratification of this fundamental
desire. How? By a question hour each day, perhaps a children's
hour, a home university period where the vital interest of the
child will be satisfied.

To return to the morbid interests: do they arise from secret
morbid desires? The Freudian answer to that would be yes. And so
would many another answer. It is the answer in many cases,
especially where the desire is not so much morbid as forbidden.
The virgin, the continent who are intensely interested in sex are
not morbid, even though they have been forbidden to think of a
natural craving and appetite. But when the interest is for the
horrible it is often the case that the excitement aroused by the
subject is pleasurable, because it is a mild excitement and does
not quite reach disgust. Confronted with the real perversity, the
disgust aroused would quite effectually conquer interest.

And here is a fundamental law of interest: it must lead to a
profitable, pleasurable result or else it tends to disappear. If
this is too bold a statement, let me qualify it by stating that a
profitable, pleasurable result must be foreseen or foreseeable.
Either in some affective state, or in some tangible good,
interest seeks fulfillment. Disappointment is the foe of
interest, and too prolonged a "vestibule of satisfaction" (to use
Hocking's phrase) destroys or impairs interest.



CHAPTER VIII. THE SENTIMENTS OF LOVE, FRIENDSHIP, HATE, PITY AND
DUTY. COMPENSATION AND ESCAPE

I shall ignore the complexities that arise when we seek to
organize our reactions into various groups by making a simple
classification of feeling, for the purposes of this book. There
is a primary result of any stimulation, whether from within
ourselves or without, which we have called excitement. This
excitement may have a pleasurable or an unpleasurable quality,
and we cannot understand just what is back of pleasure and pain
in this sense. Such an explanation, that pleasure is a sign of
good for the organism and pain a sign of bad, is an error in that
often an experience that produces pleasure is a detriment and an
injury. If pleasure were an infallible sign of good, no books on
character, morals or hygiene would need to be written.

This primary excitement, when associated with outer events or
things, becomes differentiated into many forms. Curiosity (or
interest) is the focusing of that excitement on particular
objects or ends, in order that the essential value or meaning of
that object or individual become known. Curiosity and interest
develop into the seeking of experience and the general
intellectual pursuits. We have already discussed this phase of
excitement.

An object of interest may then evoke further feeling. It may be
one's baby, or one's father or a kinsman or a female of the same
species. A type of feeling FAVORABLE to the object is aroused,
called "tender feeling," which is associated with deep-lying
instincts and has endless modifications and variations. Perhaps
its great example is the tender feeling of the mother for the
baby, a feeling so strong that it leads to conduct of self-
sacrifice; conduct that makes nothing of privation, suffering,
even death, if these will help the object of the tender feeling,
the child. Tender feeling of this type, which we call love, is a
theme one cannot discuss dryly, for it sweeps one into reveries;
it suggests softly glowing eyes, not far from tears, tenderly
curved lips, just barely smiling, and the soft humming of the
mother to the babe in her arms. It is the soft feeling which is
the unifying feeling, and when it reaches a group they become
gentle in tone and manners and feel as one. The dream of the
reformer has always been the extension of this tender feeling
from the baby, from the child and the helpless, to all men, thus
abolishing strife, conquering hate, unifying man. This type of
love is also paternal, though it is doubtful whether as such it
ever reaches the intensity it does in the mother. By a sort of
association it spreads to all children, to all little things, to
all helpless things, except where there exists a counter feeling
already well established.

Though typical in the mother, child relationship, tender feeling
or love, exists in many other relationships. The human family,
with its close association, its inculcated unity of interests, in
its highest form is based on the tender feeling. The noble ideal
of the brotherhood of man comes from an extension of the feeling
found in brothers. The brotherly feeling is emphasized, though
the sisterly feeling is fully as strong, merely because the male
member of genus homo has been the articulate member, he has
written and talked as if he, and not his sister, were the
important human personage. So fraternal feeling is tender
feeling, existing between members of the same family, or the love
that we conceive ought to be present. Is such love instinctive,
as is the maternal love? If it is, that instinct is very much
weaker, and hostile feeling, indifference, rivalry, may easily
replace it. We rarely conceive of a mortal world where so intense
a love as that of the mother will be the common feeling; all we
dare hope for is a world in which there will be a fine fraternal
feeling.

Fraternal feeling is born of association together, any task
undertaken en masse, any living together under one roof. Even
when men sit down to eat at the same table, it tends to appear.
So college life, the barracks, secret orders, awaken it, but
here, as always, while it links together the associated, it shuts
out as non-fraternal those not associated.

What we call friendly feeling is a less vehement, more
intellectualized form of tender feeling. It demands a certain
equality and a certain similarity in tastes, though some
friendships are noted for the dissimilarity of the friends.
Friendship lives on reciprocal benefits, tangible or intangible,
though sentimentalists may take exception to this. Primary in it
is the good opinion of the friends and interest in one another;
we cannot be friends with those who think we are foolish or mean
or bad. We ALLOW a friend to say that we have acted wrongly
because we think he has our interest at heart, because he has
shown that he has this interest at heart, though his saying so
sometimes strains the friendship for a while. Friendship ideally
expects no material benefits, but it lives on the spiritual
benefit of sympathy and expressed interest and the flattery of a
taste in common. It is a unification of individuals that has been
glorified as the perfect relationship, since it has no
classifiable instinct behind it and is in a sense democracy at
its noblest. Friendship is easiest formed in youth, because men
are least selfish, least specialized at that time. As time goes
on, alas, our own interests and purposes narrow down in order
that we may succeed; there is less time and energy for
friendship.

Sex love is only in part made up of tender feeling. Passion,
admiration of beauty, desire of possession, the love of conquest,
take away from the "other" feeling that is the basis of
tenderness or true love. We desire so much for ourselves in sex
love that we have not so much capacity for tender feeling as we
usually think we have. The protests of eternal devotion and
unending self-sacrifice are sincere enough but they have this
proviso in the background: "You must give yourself to me." If the
lovers can also be friends, if they have a real harmony of
tastes, desires and ambitions, if they can recede their ego
feeling, know how to compromise, then this added to sex feeling
makes the most genuinely satisfying of all human relations, or at
least the most reciprocal. But the two human beings who fall in
love are rarely enough alike, and their relationship is rarely
one of equality; traditional duties and rights are not equal;
they will seek different things, and their relationship is too
close and intimate to be an easy one to maintain. Sex love and
marriage are different matters, for though they may be the same,
too often they are not. Rarely does sex love maintain itself
without marriage and marriage colors over sex love with parental
feelings, financial interests, home and its emotions, etc. In sex
gratification[1] there is the danger of all sensuous pleasure:
that a periodic appetite gratified often leaves behind it an
ennui, a distaste,--sometimes reaching dislike--of the entire act
and associations.

[1] Stanley Hall says that after sex gratification there is
"taedium vitae," weariness of life. In unsanctioned sex
gratification this is extreme and takes on either bitter
self-reproach or else a hate of the partner. But this is due to
the inner conflict rather than the sex act.


Is all tender feeling, all love, sexual in its essential nature?
The Freudians say yes to this, or what amounts to yes. All mother
love arises from the sex sphere, and it cannot be denied that in
the passionate desire to fondle, to kiss and even to bite there
is something very like the excitement of sex. But there is
something very different in the wish for self-sacrifice, the pity
for the helpless state, the love of the littleness. Women, when
they love men, often add maternal feeling to it, but mainly they
love their strength, size and vigor; and there tenderness and
passion differ. Certainly there seems little of the sexual in the
love of a father for his baby,[1] though the Freudians do not
hesitate in their use of the term homosexual. Apparently all
children have incestuous desire for their parents, if we are to
trust Freud. Without entering into detailed reasoning, I disavow
any truly sexual element in tender feeling. It is part of the
reception we give to objects having a favorable relation to
ourselves. Indeed, we give it to our houses, our dogs, our
cattle; our pipes are hallowed by friendly association, and so
with our books, our clothes and our homes. We extend it in deep,
full measure to the very rocks and rills of our native land or to
some place where we spent happy or tender days. Tender feeling,
love, is inclusive of much of the sex emotion, and the
characteristic mistake of the Freudians of identifying somewhat
similar things has here been made.

[1] It's a very difficult world to live in, if we are to trust
the Freudians. If your boy child loves his mother, that's
heterosexual; if he loves his father, that's homosexual; and the
love of a girl child for her parents simply reverses the above
formula. If your wife says of the baby boy, "How I love him! He
looks just like my father," be careful; that's a daughter-father
complex of a dangerous kind and means the most unhallowed things,
and may cause her to have a nervous breakdown some day!


Love, then, is this tender feeling made purposive and
intelligent. It is a sentiment, in Shand's phrase, and seeks the
good of its object. It may be narrow, it may be broad, it may be
intense or feeble, but in its organized sense it plans, fights
and cherishes. It has organized with it the primary
emotions,--fear if the object is in danger, or anger is evoked
according to the circumstances; joy if the object of love is
enhanced or prospers; sorrow if it is lost or injured under
circumstances that make the lover helpless. Love is not only the
tenderest feeling, but it is also the most heroic and desperate
fighter in behalf of the loved one. Here we are face to face with
the contradictions that we always meet when we personify a
quality or make an abstraction. Love may do the most hateful
things; love may stunt, the character of the lover and the
beloved. In other words, love, tender feeling, must be conjoined
with intelligence, good judgment, determination and fairness
before it is useful. It would be a nice question to determine
just how much harm misguided love has done.

What is pity? Though objects of love always elicit pity, when
helpless or injured, objects of pity are not necessarily objects
of love. In fact, we may pity through contempt. Objective pity is
a type of tender feeling in which there is little or no
self-feeling. We do not extend the ego to the piteous object. We
desire to help, even though the object of pity is an enemy or
disgusting. One of the commonest struggles of life is that
between self-interest and pity,--and the selfish resent any
situation that arouses their pity, because they dislike to give.
Pity tends to disappear from the life of the soldier and is,
indeed, a trait he does not need; in the lives of the strong and
successful, pity is apt to be a hindering quality. In a world in
which competition is keen, the cooperative gentle qualities
hinder success. The weak seek the pity of others; they need it;
and the pity-seeker is a very distinct type. The strong and proud
hate to be pitied, and when wounded they hide, shun their friends
and keep the semblance of strength with a brave face. Pity
directed toward oneself as the object is self-pity,--a quality
found in children and in a certain amiable, weak, egoistic type,
whose eyes are always full of tears as they talk of themselves.
Of course, at times, we are all prone to this vice of character,
but there are some chronically afflicted.

Certain so-called sentimentalists are those who die, tribute
their pity in an erratic fashion. These are the vegetarians who
are sad because it is wrong to kill for food; yet they wear
without compunction the leather of cattle who have neither
committed suicide nor died of old age. And the
anti-vivisectionists view without any stir of pity the children
of the slums and the sick of all kinds. Pity raises man to the
divine but, like all the gentle qualities, it needs guidance by
reason and common sense before it is of any value.

Just as there are objects and individuals recognized or believed
to be as somehow favorable and who evoke tender feeling, so there
are objects and individuals regarded as unfavorable, perhaps
dangerous, who arouse aversion and hatred. The feeling thus
produced is the other great sentiment of life, which on the whole
organizes character and conduct on a great plane. Hatred, a
decidedly primitive reaction, still is powerful in the world and
is back of dissension of all kinds, from lawsuits to war. When
one hates he is attached to the hated object in a fashion just
the reverse of the attachment of love; joy, anger, fear and
sorrow arise under exactly the opposite circumstances, and the
aim and end of hate is to block, thwart and destroy the hated
one. The earlier history of man lays emphasis on the activities
of hate,--war, feats of arms, individual feuds. Hate, unlike
love, needs no moral code or teaching to bring it into activity;
it springs into being and constantly needs repression. Unlikeness
alone often brings it to life; to be too different from others is
recognized as a legitimate reason for hatred. The most important
cause is conflict of interest and wounding of self-feeling and
pride. Revengeful feeling, fostered by tradition and
"patriotism," caused many wars and in its lesser spheres of
operation is back of murders, assaults, insults and the lesser
categories of injuries of all kinds.

The prime emotion of hatred is anger; in its less intense aspect
of aversion it is disgust. The aim and end of anger is
destruction of the offending object; the aim and end of aversion
is removal, ejection. Hate may be and often is a noble sentiment,
though the trend of modern thought, as it minimizes personal
responsibility, is to eliminate hate against persons and
intellectualize hate so that it is reserved for the battle
against ideas. Whether you can really summon all your effort
against any one, against his plans, opinions and actions, unless
you have built up the steady sentiment of hatred for him, is a
nice psychological question. Hate is most intense in little
people, in persons absolutely convinced that their interests,
opinions and plans are sacred, sure of their superiority and
righteousness. Once let insight into yourself, your weakness and
your real motives creep into your mind and your hate against
opponents and obstructors must lessen. Those who realize most the
fallibility of men and women, to whom Pilate's question "What is
truth?" has added to it a more sceptical question, "What is
right," find it hard to hate. Therefore, such persons, the
broad-minded and the most deeply wise, are not the best fighters
for a cause, since their efforts are lessened by sympathy for the
opponent. Here is the marvel of Abraham Lincoln; rich with
insight, he could hate slavery and secession and yet not hate the
southern people. In that division of himself lies his greatness
and his suffering.

The disappearance of personal hate from the world can only come
when men realize the essential unity of mankind. For part of the
psychological origin of hate lies in unlikeness. Great unlikeness
in color and facial line seems to act as a challenge to the
feeling of superiority. Wherever a "different" group challenges
another's superiority, or enters into active competition for the
goods of life, there hate enters in its most virulent form. The
disappearance of the "unlike" feeling is very slow and is
hindered by the existence of small "particular" groups. Little
nationalities,[1] small sects, even exclusive clubs and circles
are means of generating difference and thus hate.

[1] The more nationalities, each with its claim to a great
destiny, the more wars! There is the essential danger and folly
of tribal patriotism.


We shall not enter into the origin of hate through the danger to
purpose, through rivalry among those not separated by unlikeness.
Hate seems to be a chronic anger, or at least that emotion kept
at a more or less constant level by perception of danger and the
threat at personal dignity and worth. Obstructed love or passion
and the feeling of "wrong," i. e., injury done that was not
merited, that the personal conscience does not justify, furnish
the most virulent types of hatred. "Love thine enemies" is still
an impossible injunction for most men.

We cannot hope to trace the feeling of revenge in its effects on
human conduct. Though at present religion and law both prohibit
revengeful acts, the desire "to get even" flames high in almost
every human breast under all kinds of injury or insult. This form
of hate may express itself crudely in the vendetta of the
Sicilian, the feud of the Tennessee mountaineer, or the assault
and battery of an aggrieved husband; it is behind the present-day
conflict in Ireland, and it threatened Europe for forty years
after the Franco-Prussian War, --and no man knows how profoundly
it will influence future world affairs because of the Great War.
Often it disguises itself as justice, the principle of the thing,
in those who will not admit revenge as a motive; and the eclipsed
and beaten take revenge in slander, innuendo and double-edged
praise. To some revenge is a devil to be fought out of their
hearts; to others it is a god that guides every act. We may
define nobility of character as the withdrawal from revenge as a
motive and the substitution for it of justice.

Some hatred expresses itself openly and fearlessly and as such
gains some respect, even from its own object. Other hatred plots
and schemes, the intelligence lends itself to the plans
completely and the whole personality suffers in consequence. Some
hatred, weak and without self-confidence, or seeking the effect
of surprise, is hypocritical, dissimulates, affects friendly
feeling, rubs its hands over insults and awaits the opportune
moment. This type is associated in all minds with a feeling of
disgust, for at bottom we rather admire the "good" hater.

We have spoken of these three specialized and directed outgrowths
of excitement, interest, love and hatred as if they were
primarily directed to the outside world, though in a previous
chapter we discussed the introspective interest. What shall we
call the love and hatred a man has for himself? Is the
self-regarding sentiment any different than the sentiment of love
for others? Is that hate and disgust we feel for ourselves, or
for some action or thought, different from the hate and disgust
we have for others?

Judged by Shand's dicta that anger and fear are aroused if the
object of love is threatened, joy is aroused as it prospers, and
sorrow if it is deeply injured or lost, self-love remarkably
resembles other-love. The pride we take in our own achievements
is unalloyed by jealousy, and there is always a trace of jealousy
in the pride we take in the achievements of others, but there is
no difference in the pride itself. There is no essential
difference in the "good" we seek for ourselves and in the good we
seek for others, for what we seek will depend on our idea of
"good." Thus the ambitious mother seeks for her daughter a rich
husband and the idealist seeks for his son a career of devotion
to the ideal. And the sensualist devoted to the good of his belly
and his pocket loves his child and shows it by feeding and
enriching him.

There seems to be lacking, however, the glow of tender feeling in
self-love. The projection of the self-interest to others has a
passion, a melting in it that self-love never seems to possess,
though it may be constant and ever-operating. Self-regard,
self-admiration or conceit may be very high and deeply felt, but
though more common than real admiration for others, it seldom
reaches the awe and reverence that the projected emotion reaches.

In mental disease, of the type known as Maniac Depressive
insanity, there is a curious oscillation of self-love and
self-admiration. This disease is cyclic, in that two opposing
groups of symptoms tend to appear and displace each other. In the
manic, or excited state, there is greatly heightened activity
with correspondingly heightened feeling of power. Self-love and
admiration reach absurd levels: one is the most beautiful, the
richest and wisest of persons, infallible, irresistible, aye,
perhaps God or Christ. Sometimes the feeling of grandeur, the
euphoria, is less fantastic and the patient imagines himself a
great inventor, a statesman of power and wisdom, a writer of
renown, etc. Suddenly, or perhaps gradually, the change comes;
self-feeling drops into an abyss. "I am the most miserable of
persons, the vilest sinner, hated and rightly by God and man,
cause of suffering and misery. I am no good, no use, a horrible
odor issues from me, I am loathsome to look at, etc., etc."
Desperate suicidal attempts are made, and all the desires that
tend to preserve the individual disappear, including appetite for
food and drink, the power to sleep. It is the most startling of
transitions; one can hardly realize that the dejected, silent
person, sitting in a corner, hiding his face and hardly
breathing, is the same individual who lately tore around the
wards, happy, dancing, singing and boasting of his greatness of
power. Indeed, is he the same individual? No wonder the ancients
regarded such insanity as a possession by an evil spirit. We of a
later day who deal with this disease on the whole are inclined to
the belief that some internal factor of a physical kind is
responsible, some neuronic shift, or some strange, visceral
endocrinal disorder.

While self-hate in this pathological aspect is relatively
uncommon, in every person there are self-critical,
self-condemning activities which sometimes for short periods of
time reach self-hatred and disgust. McDougall makes a good deal
of the self-abasing instinct which makes us lower ourselves
gladly and willingly. This seems to me to be an aspect of the
emotion of admiration and wonder, for we do not wish ordinarily
to kneel at the feet of the insignificant, debased; or it is an
aspect of fear and the effort to obtain conciliation and pity.
But the establishment of ideals for ourselves to which we are not
faithful brings with it a disgust and loathing for self that is
extremely painful and leads to a desire for penance of any kind
In order that we may punish ourselves and feel that we have made
amends. The capacity for self-hate and self-disgust depends
largely upon the development of these ideals and principles of
conscience, of expectation of the self. Frequently there is an
overrigidity, a ceaseless self-examination that now and then
produces miracles of character and achievement but more often
brings the breakdown of health. This is the seeker of perfection
in himself, who will not compromise with his instincts and his
human flesh. There seekers of perfection are among the noblest of
the race, admired in the abstract but condemned by their friends
as "too good," "impractical," as possessors of the "New England
conscience." One of the effects of a Puritanical bringing-up is
a belief that pleasure is unworthy, especially in the sex field
and even in marriage. Now and then one meets a patient caught
between perfectly proper desire and an obsession that such
pleasure is debasing; and a feeling of self-disgust and
self-hatred results that is the more tragic since it is useless.

There are those in whom self-love and self-esteem is at a lower
pressure than with the average man, just as there are those in
whom it is at a much higher pressure. Such people, when fatigued
or when subject to the hostile or even non-friendly opinion of
others, become so-called self-conscious, i. e., are afflicted
with fear and a feeling of inferiority. This may deepen into
self-contempt and self-hatred. Part of what is called confidence
in oneself is self-esteem, and under fatigue, illness, after
punishment of a physical or mental nature, it is apt to
disappear. Very distressing is this in those who have been
accustomed to courage and self-confidence, perhaps whose
occupation makes these qualities necessary. Soldiers, after
gassing or cerebral concussion, men completely without
introspection, fearless and gay with assurance, become
apprehensive, self-analytical and without the least faith in
themselves, so that they approach their work in fear. So with men
who work in high places or where there is risk, such as
steeplejacks, bridge builders, iron workers, engineers; let an
accident happen to them, or let there occur an exhausting disease
with its aftermath of neurasthenia, and the self-esteem and
self-confidence disappear so that in many cases they have to give
up their job.

Because self-disgust and hatred are so painful, compensatory
"mechanisms" have been set up. There is in many people a tendency
to project outward the blame for those acts or thoughts which
they dislike. In the pathological field we get those delusions of
influence that are so common. Thus a patient will attribute his
obscene thoughts and words to a hypnotic effect of some person or
group of persons and saves his own face by the delusion. In
lesser pathological measure, men have fiercely preached against
the snares and wiles of women, refusing to recognize that the
turmoil of unwelcome desire into which they were thrown was
internal in the greater part of its origin and that the woman
often knew little or not at all of the effect she helped produce.
One of the outstanding features in the history of the race has
been this transfer of blame from the desire of men to the agent
which aroused them. Of course, women have played on the desires
of men, but even where this was true the blame for VULNERABILITY
has seldom been fully accepted. Whenever any one has been "weak"
or "foolish" or "sinful," his mind at once seeks avenues of
escape from the blame, from the painful feeling of inferiority
and self-reproach. The avenue of escape selected may be to blame
others as tempting or not warning and not teaching, may become
entirely delusional, or it may take the religious form of
confession, expiation and repentance. There are some so hardy in
their self-esteem that they never suffer, never seek any escape
from self-reproach, largely because they never feel it; and
others, though they seek escape, are continually dragged by
conscience to self-imposed torture. Most of us seek explanations
for our unwelcome conduct on a plane most favorable to our
self-esteem, and there arises an elaborate system of
self-disguise, expiation, repentance and confession that is in a
large part the real inner life of most of us. To explain failure
especially are the avenues of escape utilized. Wounded in his
self-esteem, rare is the one who frankly acknowledges
inferiority. "Pull," "favoritism," "luck," explain the success of
others as do the reverse circumstances explain our failures to
ourselves. Sickness explains it, and so the defeated search in
themselves for the explanation which will in part compensate
them. Escape from inferiority follows many avenues, --by actual
development of superiority, by denying real superiority to
others, or by explaining the inferiority on some acceptable
basis.

Here (as elsewhere in character) there is evident an organic and
a social basis for feeling. We have not emphasized sufficiently a
peculiarity of all human feeling, all emotions, all sentiments.
They have their value to the individual in organizing his
conduct, his standard of value. They are of enormous importance
socially. A great law of feeling of whatever kind, of whatever
elaboration, is this; it tends to spread from individual to
individual and excites whole groups to the same feeling; tender
feeling is contagious, and so is hate. We are somehow so made
that we reverberate at a friendly smile in one way and to the
snarl and stern look of hate in another way. Ordinarily love
awakens love and hate awakens hate, though it may bring fear or
contempt. It is true that we may feel so superior or cherish some
secret hate that will make another's love odious to us, and also
we may admire and worship one who hates us. These are exceptional
cases and are examples of exceptional sentimental stability. It
is of course understood that by love is not meant sex passion.
Here the curious effect of coldness is sometimes to fan the flame
of passion. Desire obstructed often gains in violence, and the
desire to conquer and to possess the proud, that we all feel,
adds to the fire of lust.

Self-esteem, self-confidence, hateful to others if in excess or
if obtrusive, is an essential of the leader. His feeling is
extraordinarily contagious, and the morale of the group is in his
keeping. He must not show fear, or self-distrust or self-lowering
in any way. He must be deliberate, but forceful, vigorous,
masterful. If he has doubts, he must keep them to himself or
exhibit them only to one who loves him, who is not a mere
follower. It is a law of life that the herd follows the
unwounded, confident, egoistic leader and tears to pieces or
deserts the one who is wearying.

The basic sentiments of interest, love and hate, projected
outward or inward, organize personality. Men's characters and
their destinies rest in the things they find interesting, the
persons they love and hate, their self-confidence and
self-esteem, their self-contempt and hatred. And it is true that
often we hate and love the same person or circumstance; we are
divided, secretly, in our tenderest feelings, in our fiercest
hate, more often, alas, in the former. For occasionally
admiration and respect will mitigate hate and render impotent our
aim, but more commonly we are jealous of or envy son, brother,
sister, husband, wife, father, mother and friend. We love our
work but hate its tyranny, and even the ideal that we cherish,
when we examine it too closely, seems overconventionalized, not
enough our own, and it stifles and martyrs too many unpleasant
desires. We rebel against our own affections, against the love
that chains us perhaps to weakness and forces us, weary, to the
wheel.

How deeply the feeling of "right" enters into the sentiments and
their labors needs only a little reflection to understand. Here
we come to the effect of the sentiment of duty, for as such it
may be discussed. The establishment of conscience as our inner
guide to conduct, and even to thought and emotions, has been
studied briefly. On a basis of innate capacity, conscience arises
from the teaching and traditions of the group (or groups). The
individual who has a susceptibility or a readiness to believe and
a desire to be in conformity accepts or evolves for himself
principles of conduct, based on obligation, expectation of reward
and fear of punishment, these entering in various proportions,
according to the type of person. In children, or the very young
child, expectation of reward and fear of punishment are more
important than obligation, and this remains true of many people
throughout life. Gradually right, what we call duty, becomes
established as a guiding principle; but it must struggle with
impulse and the desire for immediate pleasure throughout life. In
fact, one of the dangers of the development of the feeling of
duty lies in the view often held by those guided by principle and
duty that pleasure is in itself somehow wrong and needs
justification. Whereas, in my opinion, pleasure is right and
needs no justification and is wrong only when it offends the
fundamental moralities and purposes of Society.

The feeling of "right" depends to a certain extent on the kind of
teaching in early childhood, but more on the nature of the
individual. It is based on his social feeling, his desire to be
in harmony with a group or a God that essentially stands above
any group. For the idea of God introduces an element having more
authority than the group whom He leads. Here also is a factor of
importance: choice is difficult for the great majority. Placed in
a situation where more than one response is possible, an unhappy
state of bewilderment results unless there are formulae for
action. The leader is the chooser for the group; religion is an
established system of choices even in its "Thou shalt not"
injunctions, and to be at one with God implies that one is
following an infallible leader, and doubt and uncertainty
disappear. Trotter[1] points out clearly the role the feeling of
certitude plays in developing codes. As life becomes more
complex, as more choices appear, the need of an established
method of choosing becomes greater. The careful, cautious,
conscientious types develop a system of principles for choice of
action; they discard the uncertainty of pleasure as a guide for
the certainty of a code laid down and fixed. Duty is the north
star of conduct!

[1] "The Herd and its Instincts in Peace and War."


In passing, an interesting development of our times is worth
noticing. The tendency is to discard established codes, to weaken
dogma and to throw more responsibility on the individual
conscience. That is the meaning of the Protestant reformation,
and it is the meaning of the growth of Unitarianism within the
Protestant church; it is also the meaning of the reform movement
in Judaism. The Catholic church has felt it in the breaking away
of state after state from its authority, which virtually means
that the states have thrown their citizens back on their own
consciences and the state laws. In fact, reliance on law is in
part an effort to escape the necessity of choosing. The pressure
of external authority has its burden, but in giving up its
certainty man also gives up tranquillity. Much of modern
neurasthenia is characterized by a feeling of uncertainty,
unreality, doubt: what is right, what is real? True, as religion
in the dogmatic sense relinquishes its power, ethics grow in
value and men seek some other formula which will compensate for
the dogma. It is no accident that as the old religions lose their
complete control new ones appear, with all-embracing formula,
like Christian Science, New Thought, etc. Though these start with
elastic general principles, sooner or later the directions for
conduct become minute and then fixed. The tragedy of a great
founder of religion like Buddha or Christ is that though he gives
out a great pure principle, his followers must have, demand and
evolve a dogmatic religion with fixed ceremonials. Man, on the
whole, does not want to choose; he wants to have the feeling that
he ought to do this or that according to a code laid down by
authority. This will make a real democracy always impossible.

However the sentiment of duty arises, it becomes the central
feeling in all inner conflicts, and it wrestles with inclination
and the pleasant choice. Duty is the great inhibitor, but also it
says "Thou shalt!" Ideally, duty involves self-sacrifice, and
practically man dislikes self-sacrifice save where love is very
strong. Duty chains a man to his task where he is inclined for a
holiday. Duty may demand a man's life, and that sacrifice seems
easier for men to make than the giving up of power and pelf. (In
the late war it was no great trouble to pass laws conscripting
life; it was impossible to pass laws conscripting wealth. It was
easier for a man to allow his son to go to war than to give up
his wealth en masse.)

The power of the feeling of duty and right over men is very
variable. There are a few to whom the feeling of "ought" is all
powerful; they cannot struggle against it, even though they wish
to. All of their goings, comings and doings are governed thereby,
and even though they find the rest of the world dropping from
them, they resist the herd. For the mass of men duty governs a
few relationships--to family and country--and even here
self-interest is camouflaged by the term "duty" in the phrase "a
man owes a duty to himself." This is the end of real duty. The
average man or woman makes a duty of nonessentials, of
ceremonials, but is greatly moved by the cry of duty if it comes
from authority or from those he respects. He fiercely resents it
if told he is not doing his duty, but is quick to tell others
they are not doing theirs.

There is also a group in whom the sense of duty is almost
completely lacking, or rather fails to govern action. Ordinarily
these are spoken of as lacking moral fiber, but in reality the
organizing energy of character and the inhibition of the impulse
to seek pleasure and present desire is feeble. Sometimes there is
lack of affection toward others, little of the real glow of
tender feeling, either towards children[1] or parents or any one.
Though these are often emotional, they are not, in the good
meaning of the term, sentimental.

[1] It is again to be emphasized that the most vital instincts
may be lacking. Even the maternal feeling may be absent, not only
in the human mother but in the animal mother. So we need not be
surprised if there are those with no sense of right or duty.


Is the sentiment of duty waning? The alarmists say it is and
point to the increase of divorce, falling off in church
attendance, and the unrest among the laboring classes as evidence
that there is a decadence. Pleasure is sought, excitement is the
goal, and sober, solid duty is "forgotten." They point out a
resemblance to the decadent days of Rome, in the rise of luxury
and luxurious tastes, and indicate that duty and the love of
luxury cannot coexist. Woman has forgotten her duty to bear
children and to maintain the home and man has forgotten his duty
to God.

Superficially these critics are right. There is a demand for a
more satisfying life, involving less self sacrifice on the part
of those who have in the past made the bulk of the sacrifices.
Woman, demanding equality, refuses to be regarded as merely a
child bearer and is become a seeker of luxury. The working man,
looking at the world he has built, now able to read, write and
vote, asks why the duty is all on his side. In other words, a
demand for justice, which is merely reciprocal, universal duty,
has weakened something of the sense of duty. In fact, that is the
first effect of the feeling of injustice, of unjust inequality.
Dealing with the emancipated, the old conception of duty as
loyalty under all conditions has not worked, and we need new
ideals of duty on the part of governments and governing groups
before we can get the proper ideals of duty in the governed.

Some of those ideals are commencing to be heard. International
duty for governments is talked of and some are bold to say that
national feeling prevents a real feeling of duty to the world, to
man. These claim that duty must have its origin in the extension
of tender feeling, in fraternity, to all men. In a lesser way
business is commencing to substitute for its former motto,
"Handelschaft ist keine Bruderschaft" (business is no
brotherhood), the ideal of service, as the duty of business.
Everywhere we are commencing to hear of "social duty," of
obligation to the lesser and unfortunate, of the responsibility
of the leaders to the led, of the well to the sick, of the
law-abiding to the criminal. Strange notion, this last, but one
at bottom sound and practical.

In the end, the true sense of duty is in a sense of individual
responsibility. Our age feels this as no other age has felt it.
Other ages have placed responsibility on the Church, on God and
on the State. Difficult and onerous as is the burden, we are
commencing to place duty on the individual, and in that respect
we are not in the least a decadent generation.



CHAPTER IX. ENERGY RELEASE AND THE EMOTIONS

One of the problems in all work is to place things in their right
order, in the order of origin and importance. This difficulty is
almost insoluble when one studies the character of man. As we see
him in operation, the synthesis is so complete that we can hardly
discern the component parts. Inheritance, social pressure,
excitement, interest, love, hate, self-interest, duty and
obligation, --these are not unitary in the least and there is
constantly a false dissection to be made, an artefact, in order
that clearness in presentation may be obtained.

We see men as discharging energy in work and play, in the
activities that help or hurt themselves and the race. They obtain
that energy from the world without, from the sunshine, the air,
the plants and the animals; it is built up in their bodies, it is
discharged either because some inner tension builds up a desire
or because some outer stimulus, environmental or social, directs
it. Though we have no way of measuring one man's energy against
another, we say, perhaps erroneously, "He is very energetic," or
"He is not"; "He is tireless," or "He breaks down easily." As
students of character, we must take this question of the energies
of men into account as integral in our study.

Granting that the human being takes in energy as food and drink
and builds it up into dischargeable tissues, we are not further
concerned with the details of its physiology. How does the
feeling of energy arise, what increases the energy discharge and
what blocks, inhibits or lowers it? For from day to day, from
hour to hour, we are conscious either of a desire to be active, a
feeling of capacity or the reverse. We depend on that feeling of
capacity to guide us, and though it is organic, it has its
mysterious disappearances and marvelous reenforcements.

It arises, so we assume, from the visceral-neuronic activities,
subconsciously, in the sense we have used that word. It therefore
fluctuates with health, with fatigue, with the years. We marvel
at the energy of childhood and youth, and the deepest sadness we
have is the depletion of energy-feeling in old age. We love
energy in ourselves and we yield admiration, willing or
unwilling, to its display in others. The Hero, the leader, is
always energetic. In our times, in America, we demand "pep,"
action and energy-display as an essential in our play and in our
work, and we worship quite too frankly where all men have always
worshiped.

What besides the organic activity, besides health and well-being,
excites the feeling of energy and what depresses it?

1. This feeling is excited by the society of others, by the
herd-feeling, and depressed by long-continued solitude or
loneliness. The stimuli that come from other people's faces,
voices, contacts--their emotions, feelings and manifestations of
energy--are those we are best adapted to react to, those most
valuable in stirring us up. Scenery, the grandeur of the outer
world, finally depress the most of us, and we can bear these
things best in company. Who has not, on a long railroad journey,
watched with weariness and flickering interest valley and hill
and meadow swing by and then sat up with energy and definite
attention as a human being passed along on some rural road?
Lacking these stimuli there is monotony and monotony always has
with it as one of its painful features a subjective sense of
lowered energy, of fatigue. This is the problem of the housewife
and the solitary worker everywhere,--there is failure of the
sense of energy due to a failure to receive new stimuli in their
most potent form, our fellows.

2. The disappearance or injury of desire and purpose. Let there
be a sudden blocking of a purpose or an aim, so that it seems
impossible of fulfillment, and energy-feeling drops; movement,
thought, even feeling seem painful. The will flags, and the whole
world becomes unreal. This is part of the anhedonia we spoke of.

In reality, we have the disappearance of hope as basic in this
adynamia. Hope and courage are in part organic, in part are due
to the belief that a desired goal can be reached. Whether that
goal is health, when one is sick, or riches, or fame, or love and
possession, if it is a well-centralized goal toward which our
main energies are bent, and then seems suddenly impossible to
reach, there is a corresponding paralysis of energy.

Here is where a great difference is seen between individuals and
between one time of life and another. There are some to whom hope
is a shining beacon light never absent; whatever happens, hope
remains, like the beautiful fable of Pandora's box. There are
others to whom any obstruction, any discouraging feature, blots
out hope, and who constantly need the energy of others; their
persuasions and exhortations, for a renewal of energy. Here, as
elsewhere in life, some are givers and others takers of energy.
In the presence of the hopeless it is hard to maintain one's own
feeling of energy and that is why the average man shuns them. He
guards as priceless his own enthusiasm.

Curiously enough, when energy tends to disappear in the face of
disaster to one's plans, a tonic is often enough the reflection,
"it might have been worse" or "there are others worse off."[1]
Though one rebels against the encouraging effect of the last
statement, it does console, it does renew hope. For hope and
energy and desire are competitive, as is every other measure of
value. So long as one is not the worst off, then there is
something left, there is a hopeful element in the situation.
Similarly a certain rough treatment helps, as when Job is told
practically, "After all, who is Man that he should ask for the
fulfillment of his hopes?" A sense of littleness with the rest of
the race acts to bring resignation, and after that has been
established, hope can reappear. For resignation is rarely a
prolonged state of mind; it is a doorway through which we reenter
into the vista-chambers of Hope.

[1] A humorous use of this fact is in the popular "Cheer up, the
worst is yet to come!" This acts as a rough tonic.


And one clearly sees the benefit of a belief, a faith in God.
"Gott in sein Mizpah ist gerecht," cries the orthodox Jew when
his hope is shattered,--"God's decree is just." This is Hope
Eternal; "my purposes are blocked, but were they God's purposes?
No. He would not then block them. I must seek God's purposes."
Faith is really a transcendent Hope, renewing the feeling of
energy.

3. The belief that one has the good opinion of others is a
powerful stimulus to energy and feeling. We have already
considered the effect of praise and blame. Some are so
constituted that they need the approval of others at all times;
they are at the mercy of any one who gives them a cold look or a
harsh word. Others cling to the need of their own self-approval;
they are aristocrats, firm and secure in their self-estimate. Let
their self-esteem crumble, and these proud and haughty ones are
humble, weak, inefficient. We fiercely resent criticism because
in it is a threat to our source of energy, our very feeling of
being alive.

One has shrewdly to examine his fellow men from this angle: "Does
he work up his own steam; are his boilers of energy heated by his
own enthusiasm and his own self-approval? Or does he borrow; can
he work only if others add their fire to his; does his light go
out if his neighbors turn away or are too busy to help him?" One
type of man may be as admirable as another in his gifts, but the
types need different treatment.

Self-valuation is to a large extent our opinion of the valuation
of others of ourselves.[1] We believe people like us, think we
are fine and able, or beautiful, and we react with energy to
difficulties. We may be wrong; they may call us a conceited ass
and laugh at us behind our backs, but so long as we do not find
it out, it doesn't matter. There is, however, no blow quite so
severe as the sudden realization that we have mistaken the
opinion of others, we have been "fooled." To be fooled is to be
lowered in one's own self-esteem, and we like sincerity and hate
insincerity largely because our self-esteem stands on some solid
basis in the one case and on none whatever in the other. Most of
us would rather have people say bad things of us to our face than
run the risk of the ridicule and the foolish feeling that comes
with insincerity. There are some who are always suspicions that
people are insincere in praise or friendly words; they hate being
fooled, they know of no criterion of sincerity and such people
are in an adynamic state most of the time. The difference between
the trusting and the suspicious is that one responds with energy
and belief to the manifestations of friendliness in everybody,
and the other has no such inner response to guide his energy and
his actions. Trust in others is a releaser of energy; distrust
paralyzes it.

[1] To paraphrase Doctor Holmes the biggest factor in John's
self-valuation is HIS idea of Jane's idea of John.


4. Doubt and inability to choose may be contrasted with certitude
and clear choice in their effect on energy release. Of course,
one of the signs of lowered energy is doubt, as a sign of high
energy is certainty. Nevertheless, a situation of critical
importance, in which choice is difficult or digagreeable,
inhibits energy feeling[1] and discharge perhaps as much as any
other mental factor. Especially is this true when the inhibition
concerns a moral situation--"Ought I to do this or that"--and
where the fear of being wrong or doing wrong operates so that the
individual does nothing and develops an obsession of doubt. This
"to be or not to be" attitude is typical of many intelligent
people, yes, even intellectual people. They we so many angles to
a situation, they project so far into the future in their
thoughts, that a weary discouragement comes. To such as these,
the counsel of "action right or wrong but action anyway!" is
good, but the difficulty is to make them overcome their doubts.
Their cerebral oscillation makes them weary but they cannot seem
to stop it; their pendulum of choice never stops at action.

[1] See William James' "Varieties of Religious Experiences," for
beautiful examples. The Russian writers are often narrators of
this struggle.


If one wishes to destroy the energy of any one, the best way to
do it is to sow the seeds of doubt. "Your ideal is a fine one, my
friend, but--isn't it a little sophomoric?" "A nice piece of
work, but--who wants it?" On the other hand, to one obsessed by
doubt it may happen that a whole-hearted endorsement, a
resolution of the doubt, brings with it first relief and then a
swing of energy into the channels of action.

5. Competition is a great factor in energy release. Every one has
seen a horse ambling along, apparently without sufficient energy
to go more than four miles an hour. Suddenly he cocks up his ears
as the sounds of the hoof beats of a rapidly traveling horse are
heard. He shakes his head and to the amazement or amusement of
his driver sets off in rivalry at a two-minute clip. Intensely
cooperative and gregarious as man is, he is as intensely
competitive, spurred on by his observations of the other fellow.
Introduce a definite system of rivalry into a school or an
office, and you release energies never manifested before. There
are some to whom this is the main releaser of energy; struggle,
competition and victory over another is their stimulus. They can
play no game unless there is competition, and the solitary
pleasures and satisfactions, like reading, exploring, a row on
the river or a walk in the woods, cannot arouse them. Others
dislike rivalry or competition; they are too sympathetic to wish
victory over another and also they dread to lose. They prefer
team play and cooperation. The world will always seem different
to these two types. This may be said now that for most of us, who
are somewhat of a blend in this matter, rivalry is pleasant and
stimulating when there is a show of success, but we prefer
cooperation when we foresee failure.

This brings up the interesting phase of precedent in energy
release. Early success, unless it brings too high a
self-valuation, which is its great danger, is remarkably valuable
in releasing energy, and failure establishes a precedent that may
bring doubt, fear and the attendant inhibition of energy. Of
course, failure may bring with it caution and a recasting of
plans and thus constitute the most valuable of experiences. But
if it is too great, or if there is lacking a certain fortitude,
it may act as a paralyzer of energy thenceforth. In the prize
ring this is often noted; the spirit of a man goes with a defeat
and he never again has self-confidence; thereafter his energy is
constantly inhibited.

Emotions have long been studied in their effects on energy. In
fact, every animal that bristles and snarls as it faces a foe is,
unconsciously, attempting to paralyze with fear its opponent, to
render it helpless through the inhibition of action. So with the
lurking tiger; it waits in silence for the prey and seeks the
fascination of surprise as a factor in victory. On the other
hand, the emotion of fear may be a releaser of energy for the
prospective victim; it may release the energies of flight and add
to the power of the animal. In this, there is a unique and
neglected phase of emotion, i.e., if you shake your fist at your
enemy and he runs away or knocks you down, then your
manifestation of anger has been unsuccessful for you but his
reaction has been successful for him. If he becomes so paralyzed
with fear that you can work your will with him, then your anger
is successful while his fear is not. Most of the psychologists
have neglected this phase of emotion. Thus it is hard to
understand the use fainting from terror has to the victim. The
answer is it is useful to him who has caused the victim to faint.

6. For the individual, the emotion of fear has as its function a
preparation for a danger that is foreseen to be too powerful to
be met with effective resistance. Fear says, "It's no use to
fight, fly or hide." Therefore, normally there is a heightening
of energy feeling and action in these two directions. There are
plenty of recorded incidents where fear has enabled men to run
distances utterly impossible to them otherwise. In the fear
states of mental disease, the resistance a frail woman will offer
to her attendants is such that the utmost strength of several
people is required to restrain her. Under these circumstances
fear acts as an energizer, causing physical reactions not
ordinarily within the will of the person. "Fear lends wings," is
the time-honored way of expressing this. The trapped animal makes
"frantic" efforts to escape.

Fear is extraordinarily contagious, perhaps because as herd
members the cry of fear sets us all racing for safety. This is
the grimmest danger from fires in public places or the presence
of a coward in a military unit. Panic occurs with its blind
unreasoning flight, and the result is disastrous. I emphasize
again that emotions are poorly adapted to the welfare of the
individual. Business panics are in large measure the result of
the contagiousness of fear; timidity spreads like wildfire,
distrust and suspicion are aroused and stagnation results without
a "real" basis. In President Wilson's phrase, the panic is
"purely psychological."

Intellectualized, fear becomes one of the driving forces of life,
as Hobbes[1] pointed out. Fear of punishment undoubtedly deters
from crime, though it is not in itself sufficient, and the kind
of punishment becomes important. Fear of hunger has brought
prudence, caution, agriculture into the world. Life insurance has
its root in fear for others, who are really part of one's self;
the fear of the rainy day is back of most of the thrift, though
the acquisitive feeling and duty may also operate powerfully.
Fear of venereal disease impels many a man to continence who
otherwise would follow his desire. And fear of the bad opinion of
others is the most powerful deterrent force in the world. "What
will people say" is, at bottom, fear that they will say bad
things, and though it keeps men from the "bad" conduct, it
inhibits the finer nobler actions as well. There is a great deal
of unconventional untrammeled belief in the world that never
finds expression because of fear.

How deeply the fear of death modifies the life of people it is
impossible to state. To every one there comes the awful
reflection that he, that warmly pulsating being, in love with the
world and with living, "center of the universe," HE himself must
die, must be cold and still and have no will, no power, no
feeling; be buried in the ground. Most of the essential
melancholy of the world is due to this realization, and most of
the feeling of pessimism and futility thus has its origin. Mortal
man--a worm of the earth--a brief flower doomed to perish--and
all of it finds final expression in Gray's marvelous words:

 "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
      And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
  Await alike the inevitable hour.
      The paths of glory lead but to the grave."


[1] Hobbes made fear the most important motive in the conduct of
man.


"Why strive, thou poor creature, for wealth and power; sink
thyself in the, Godhead!" "Turn, turn from vain pursuits; fame,
the bubble, is bound to break as thou art." This is one type of
reaction against this fear,--for men react to the fear of death
variously. If man is mortal, God is not, and there is a life
everlasting. The life everlasting--whether a reality or not--is
conjured up and believed in by an effort to compensate for the
fear of death.

I have a son who, when he was three, manifested great emotion if
death were to enter in a story. "Will anything happen?" he would
ask, meaning, "Will death enter?" And if so, he would beg not to
have that story told. But when he was four, he heard some one say
that there were people who took old automobiles apart, fixed up
the parts and these were then placed in other automobiles.

"That's what God does to us," he cried triumphantly. "When we
die, He takes us apart and puts us into babies, and we live
again." Thereafter he would discuss death as fearlessly as he
spoke of dinner, and all his fears vanished. Here was a typical
rationalization of fear, one that has helped to shape religion,
philosophies, ways of living. And the widespread belief in
immortality is a compensation and a rationalization of the fear
of death.

If some men rationalize in this fashion, others take directly
opposite means. "Eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die."
The popularity of Omar Khayyam rests upon the aptness of his
statement of this side of the case of Man vs. Death, and many a
man who never heard of him has recklessly plunged into
dissipation on the theory, "a short life and a merry one." This
is more truly a pessimism than is the ascetic philosophy.

"Well, then, I must die," says another. "Oh, that I might achieve
before death comes!" So men, appalled by the brief tenure of life
and the haphazard way death strikes, work hard, spurred on by the
wish to leave a great work behind them. This work becomes a Self,
left behind, and here the fear of death is compensated for by a
little longer life in the form of achievement.

Many a father and mother, looking at their children, feel this as
part of their compensation for parenthood. "I shall die and leave
some one behind me," means, "I shall die and yet I shall, in
another form, live." Part of the incentive to parenthood, in a
time which knows how to prevent parenthood and which shirks it as
disagreeable, is the fear of death, of personal annihilation. For
there is in death a blow to one's pride, an indignity in this
annihilation,--Nothingness.

There is a still larger reaction to the fear of death. I have
stated that the feeling of likeness is part of the feeling of
brotherhood and in death is one of the three great likenesses of
man. We are born of the labor of our mothers, our days are full
of strife and trouble and we die. Men's minds have lingered on
these facts. "Man that is born of a woman, is of few days, and
full of trouble." Job did not add to this that he dies, but
elsewhere it appears as the bond for mankind. Reacting to this,
the reflective minds of the race have felt that here was the
unity of man, here the basis of a brotherhood. True, the
Fatherhood of God was given as a logical reason, but always in
every appeal there is the note, "Do we not all die? Why hate one
another then?"

So to the fear of death, as with every other fear, man has
reacted basely and nobly. Man is the only animal that foresees
death and he is the only one to elaborate ethics and religion.
There is more than an accidental connection between these two
facts.

Fear in its foreseeing character is termed worry. As a phase of
character, the liability to worry is of such importance that book
after book has dealt with the subject,--emphasizing the dangers,
the futility and cowardice of it. It is surely idle to tell
people not to worry who live continually on the brink of economic
disaster, or who are facing real danger. But there are types who
find in every possibility of injury a formidable threat, who are
thrown into anguish when they contemplate any evil, remote or
unlikely as it may be. The present and future are not faced with
courage or equanimity; they present themselves as a never-ending
series of threats; threat to health, to fortune, to family,
reputation, everything. Horace Fletcher called this type of
forethought "fear thought." Men and women, brave enough when face
to face with actualities, are cowards when confronting remote
possibilities. The housewife especially is one of these worriers,
and her mind has an affinity for the terrible. I have described
her elsewhere,[1] but she has her prototype among men.

[1] "The Nervous Housewife."


Fear of this type is an injury to the body and character both and
is one of the causes and effects of the widespread neurasthenia
of our day. For fear injures sleep, and this brings on fatigue
and fatigue breeds more fear, --a vicious circle indeed. Fear
disturbs digestion and the energy of the organism is thereby
lowered. The greatest damage by worry is done in the
hypochondriac, the worrier about health. Here, in addition to the
effects of fear, introspection and a minute attention to every
pain and ache demoralize the character, for the sufferer cannot
pay attention to anything else. He becomes selfish, ego-centric
and without the wholesome interest in life as an adventure. I
doubt if there is enough good in too minute a popular education
on disease and health preservation. Morbid attention to health
often results, an evil worse than sickness.

Sometimes, instead of the indiscriminate fear of worry, there are
localized fears, called phobias, which creep or spring into a
man's thoughts and render him miserable. Thus there is fear of
high places, of low places, of darkness, of open places, of
closed places,--fear of dirt, fear of poison and of almost
everything else. A bright young man was locked, at the age of
fourteen, in a closed dark shanty; when released he rushed home
in the greatest terror. Since then he has been afflicted with a
fear of leaving home. He dares venture only about fifty feet and
then is impelled to run back. If anybody hinders his return he
attacks them; if the door is locked he breaks through a window.
He is in a veritable panic, and yet presents no other fears; is a
reader and thinker, clever at his work (he is a painter), but his
fear remains inaccessible and uncontrollable. Often one
experience of this kind builds up an obsessive fear; the
associations left by the experience give the fear an open pathway
to consciousness, without any inhibiting power. As in this case,
the whole life of the individual becomes changed.

Throughout history the man without fear has been idolized. The
hero is courageous, that he must be; the coward is despised,
whatever good may be in him. Consequently, there is in most men a
fear of showing fear; and pride, self-respect, often urge men on
when they really fear. This pride is greater in some races than
others--in the Indian and the Anglo-Saxon--but the Oriental does
not think it wrong to be afraid. In the Great War this fear of
showing fear played a great role in producing shell shock, in
that men shrank from actual cowardice but easily developed
neuroses which carried them from the fighting line.

There is this to add to this little sketch of fear: it turns
easily to anger for both are responses to a threat. I remember in
my boyhood being mortally afraid of a larger boy who one day
chased me, caught me and started to "beat me up." Before I knew
it, the fear had gone and I was fighting him with such fierceness
and fury that in amazement he ran away. So a rat, cornered,
becomes fierce and blood-thirsty and there is always the danger,
in the use of fear as a weapon, that it become changed quite
readily into the fighting spirit.

7. Anger is a primitive reaction and is the backbone of the
fighting spirit. It tends to displace fear, though it may be
combined with it, in one of the most unhappy --because
helpless--mental states. Anger in its commonest form is a violent
energizer and in the stiffened muscles, the set jaw, bared teeth,
and the forward-thrust head and arms one sees the animal prepared
to fight. Anger is aroused at any obstruction, any threat or
injury, from physical violences to the so-called "slight." In
fact, it is the intent of the opponent as understood that makes
up the stimulus to anger in the human being. We forgive a blow if
it is accidental, but even a touch, if in malice or in contempt,
arouses a fierce reaction.

We call becoming angry too readily "losing the temper," and there
is a type known as the irascible in whom anger is the readiest
emotion. The bluff English squire, the man in authority, is this
type, and his anger lasts. In its lesser form anger becomes
irritability, a reaction common to the neurotic and the weak.
When anger is not frank, but manifests itself by a lowered brow
and sidelong look, we speak of sullenness or surliness. The
sullen or surly person, chronically ill-tempered and hostile, is
regarded as unsocial and dangerous, whereas the most lovable
persons are quick to anger and quick to repent.

As a man's anger, so is he. There are some whose anger is always
a reaction against interference with their comfort, their
dignity, their property and their will; it never by any chance is
aroused by the wrongs of others. Usually, however, these folk
camouflage their motive. "It's the principle of the thing I
object to," is its commonest social disguise, which sometimes
successfully hides the real motive from the egoist himself.
Wherever wills and purposes meet in conflict, there anger, or its
offshoot, contempt, is present, and the more egoistic one is, the
more egoistic the sources of anger.

The explosiveness of the anger will depend on the power of
inhibition and the power of the intelligence, as well as on the
strength of the opponent. There are enough whose temper is
uncontrolled in the presence of the weak who manage to be quite
calm in the presence of the strong. I believe there is much less
difference amongst races in this respect than we suspect, and
there is more in tradition and training. There was a time when it
was perfectly proper for a gentleman to lose his temper, but now
that it is held "bad form," most gentlemen manage to control it.

If it is common for men to become angry at ego-injury, there are
in this world, as its leaven of reform, noble spirits who become
angry at the wrongs of others. The world owes its progress to
those whose anger, sustained and intellectualized, becomes the
power behind reform; to those like Abraham Lincoln, who vowed to
destroy slavery because he saw a slave sold down the river; to
the Pinels, outraged by the treatment of the insane; to the
sturdy "Indignant Citizen," who writes to newspapers about what
"is none of his business," but who is too angry to keep still,
and whose anger makes public opinion. Whether anger is useful or
not depends upon its cause and the methods it employs. Righteous
anger, whether against one's own wrongs or the wrongs of others,
is the hall-mark of the brave and noble spirit; mean, egoistic
anger is a great world danger, born of prejudice and egoism. A
violent-tempered child may be such because he is outraged by
wrong; if so, teach him control but do not tell him in modern
wishy-washy fashion that "one must never get angry." Control it,
intellectualize it, do not permit it to destroy effectiveness, as
it is prone to do; but it cannot be eliminated without
endangering personality.

Fear and anger have this in common: whenever the controlling
energy of the mind goes, as in illness, fatigue or early mental
disease, they become more prominent and uncontrolled. This cannot
be overemphasized. When a man (or woman) finds himself
continually getting apprehensive and irritable, then it is the
time to ask, "What's the matter with me," and to get expert
opinion on the subject.

These two emotions are in more need of rationalizing and
intelligent control than the other emotions, for they are more
explosive. Certainly of anger it is truly said that "He who is
master of himself is greater than he who taketh a city." The
angry man is disliked, he arouses unpleasant feelings, he is
unpopular and a nuisance and a danger in the view of his fellows.
The underlying idea underneath courtesy and social regulations is
to avoid anger and humiliation. Controversial subjects are
avoided, and one must not brag or display concern because these
things cause anger and disgust. Politeness and tact are essential
to turn away wrath, to avoid that ego injury that brings anger.

We contrast with the brusque type, careless of whether he arouses
anger, the tactful, which conciliates by avoiding prejudice, and
which hates force and anger as unpleasant. Against the quick to
anger there is the slow type, whose anger may be enduring. We may
contrast egoistic anger with the altruistic and oppose the anger
which is effective with the anger that disturbs reason and
judgment; intellectual anger against brute anger. Rarely do men
show anger to their superiors; extreme provocation and
desperation are necessary. Men flare up easily against equals but
more easily and with mingled contempt against the inferior.
Anger, though behind the fighting spirit, need not bluster or
storm; usually that is a "worked up" condition intended in a
naive way to frighten and intimidate, or through disgust, to win
a point. Anger is not necessarily courage, which replaces it the
higher up one goes in culture.

8. Disgust, also a primary emotion, is one of the basic reactions
of life and civilization. Literally "disagreeable taste," its
facial expression, with mouth open and lower lip drawn down,[1]
is that preliminary to vomiting. We eject or retract when
disgusted; we are not afraid nor are we angry. We say "he--or
she, or it--makes me sick," and this is the stock phrase of
disgust. Inelegant as it is, it exactly expresses the situation.
Disgust easily mingles with fear and anger; it is often dispelled
by curiosity and interest, as in the morbid, as in medical
science, and it of ten displaces less intense curiosity and
interest.

[1] See Darwin's "The Expression of Emotions in Man and Animals,"
--a great book by a great man.


After anything has been accepted as standard in cleanliness, a
deviation in a "lower" direction causes disgust. Those who are
accustomed to clean tablecloths, clean linen are disgusted by
dirty tablecloths, dirty linen. The excreta of the body have been
so effectively tabooed, in the interest perhaps of sanitation,
that their sight or smell is disgusting, and they are used as
symbols of disgust in everyday language. Indeed, the so-called
animal functions have to be decorated and ceremonialized to avoid
disgust. We turn with ridicule and repugnance from him who eats
without "manners" and one of the functions of manners is to avoid
arousing disgust.

Disgust kills desire and passion, and from that fact we may trace
a large part of moral progress. Satiety brings a slight disgust;
thus after a heavy meal there may be contentment but the sight of
food is not at all appealing and often enough rather repelling.
In the sex field, a deep repulsion is often felt when lust alone
has brought the man and woman together or when the situation is
illegal or unhallowed. With satisfaction of desire, the
inhibiting forces come to their own, and the violence of
repentance and disgust may be extreme. Stanley Hall, Havelock
Ellis and other writers lay stress on this; and, indeed, one of
the bases of asceticism is this disgust. Further, when we have no
desires or passion, the sight of others hugging and kissing, or
acting "intimate" in any way, is usually disgusting, an offense
against "good taste" based on the "bad taste" it arouses in the
observer. In memory we are often disgusted at what we did in the
heat of desire, but usually memory itself does not prevent us
from repeating the act; desire itself must slacken. Thus the old
are often intensely disgusted at the conduct of the young, and it
is never wise for a young couple to live with older people. For
in the early days of married life the intensity of the intimate
feelings needs seclusion in order to avoid disgusting others. It
is no accident that Dame Grundy is depicted as an elderly person
with a "sour look"; her prudishness has an origin in disgust at
that which she has outlived. Sometimes the old are wise--not
often enough--and then their humor, love and sympathy keeps them
from disgust.

Love counteracts disgust. The young girl who turns in loathing
from uncleanliness finds it easy and a pleasure to care for her
soiled baby. In fact, tender feeling of any kind overcomes--or
tends to overcome--disgust; and pity, the tenderest of all
feelings and without passion, impels us to march into the very
jaws of disgust. The angry may have no pity,--but they are not
less unkind in commission than the disgusted are unkind in
omission. Thus a too refined breeding leads people away from
effective pity and that sturdiness of conduct which is real
philanthropy. Indeed, too much of refinement increases the number
of disgusting things in the world; he who must have this or that
luxury is not so much pleased with it as disgusted without it.
Raising standards in things material cannot increase the
happiness or contentment of the world, for it merely makes men
impatient and disgusted at lesser standards. We cannot hope to
increase happiness through the material improvements of
civilization.

Self-disgust and shame are not identical but are so kindred that
shame may well be studied here. Shame is lowered self-valuation,
brought on by social or self-disapproval. Usually it is acute
and, like fear, it tends to make the individual hide or fly. It
is based on insight, and there are thus some who are never
ashamed, simply because they do not understand disapproval. Shame
is essentially a feeling of inferiority, and when we say to a
man, "Shame on you," we say, "You have done wrong, humble
yourself, be little!" When we say, "I am ashamed of you," we say,
"I had pride in you; I enlarged myself through you, and now you
make me little." When the community cries shame, it uses a force
that redresses wrong by the need of the one addressed to
vindicate himself. When a man feels shame he feels small,
inferior in his own eyes and in the eyes of others. He feels
impelled, if he is generous, to make amends or to do penance, and
thus he recovers his self-esteem. Unfortunately, shame arises
more frequently and often more violently from a violation of
custom and manner than from a violation of ethics or morals. Thus
we are more ashamed of the so-called "bad break" than of our
failures to be kind. Sometimes our fellow feeling is so strong
that we avoid seeing any one who is humiliated or embarrassed,
because sympathy spreads his feeling to us. Gentle people are
those who dislike to shame any one else, and often one of this
type will endure being wronged rather than reprimand or cause
humiliation and shame. Let something be said to shame any member
of a company and a feeling of shame spreads through the group,
except in the case of those who are very hostile.

Disgust, too, is extremely contagious, especially its
manifestations. One of the most crude of all manifestations, to
spit upon some one, is a symbol taken from disgust, though it has
come to mean contempt, which is a mixture of hatred and disgust.

To raise the tastes and not raise the acquisitions is a sure way
to bring about chronic disgust, which is really an angry
dissatisfaction mixed with disgust. This type of reaction is very
common as a factor in neurasthenia. In fact, my motto is "search
for the disgust" in all cases of neurasthenia and "search for it
in the intimate often secret desires and relationships. Seek for
it in the husband-wife relationship, especially from the
standpoint of the wife." Women, we say, are more refined in their
feelings than men, which is another way of saying they are more
easily disgusted and therefore more easily injured. For disgust
is an injury, when chronic or too easily elicited, and is then a
sign and symbol of weakness.

Thus disgust is a great reenforcer of social taboo and custom, as
well as morality. Just as it fails to keep us from eating the
wrong kind of foods, so it may fail to keep us from the wrong
conduct. Like every emotion it is only in part adapted to our
lives, and in those people where it becomes a prominent emotion
it is a great mischief worker, subordinating life to finickiness
and hindering the growth of generous feeling.

9. We come to two opposite emotions, very readily considered
together. One of the linkings of opposites is in the connection
of Joy and Sorrow. Whether these are primary emotions or
outgrowths of Pleasure and Pain I leave to others. For Shand the
fact that Joy tends to prolong a situation in which it occurs
raises it into an active emotion.

Joy is perhaps the most energizing of the emotions for it tends
to express itself in shouts, smiles and laughter, dancing and
leaping. Sorrow ordinarily is quite the reverse and expresses
itself by immobility, bowed head and hands that shut out from the
view the sights of the world. There is, however, a quiet joy
called relief, which is like sailing into a smooth, safe harbor
after a tempestuous voyage; and there is an agitated grief, with
lamentation, the wringing of hands and self-punishment of a
frantic kind. Joy and triumph are closely associated, sorrow and
defeat likewise. There are some whose rivalry-competitive
feelings are so widespread that they cannot rejoice even at the
triumph of a friend, and a little of that nature is in even the
noblest of us. There are others who find sorrow in defeat of an
enemy, so widespread is their sympathy. This is the generous
victor. For the most of us youth is the most joyous period
because youth finds in its pleasures a novelty and freshness that
tend to disappear with experience. For the same reason the sorrow
of youth, though evanescent, is unreasoning and intense.

Joy and sorrow are reactions and they are noble or the reverse,
according to the nature of the person. Joy may be noble,
sensuous, trivial or mean; many a "jolly" person is such because
he has no real sympathy. At the present time not one of us could
rejoice over anything could we SEE and sympathize deeply with the
misery of Europe and China, to say nothing of that in our own
country. Nay, any wrong to others would blast all our pleasure,
could we really feel it. Fortunately only a few are so cursed
with sympathy. When the capacity for joyous feeling is joined
with fortitude or endurance, then we have the really cheerful,
who spread their feeling everywhere, whom all men love. Where
cheerfulness is due to lack of sympathy and understanding, we
speak of a cheerful idiot; and well does that type merit the
name. There is a modern cult whose followers sing "La, la, la" at
all times and places, who minimize all misfortune, crime,
suffering, who find "good in everything,"--the "Pollyana" tribe.
My objection to them is based on this,--that mankind must see
clearly in order to rid itself of unnecessary suffering. Hiding
one's head (and brains) in a desert of optimism merely
perpetuates evil, even though one sufferer here and there is
deluded into happiness.

Sorrow may enrich the nature or it may embitter and narrow it.
Wisdom may spring from it; indeed, who can be wise who has not
sorrowed? Says Goethe:

 "Wer nie sein Brot in Thranen ass
      Wer nie die kummervollen Nachte
  Auf seinem Bette weinend sass
      Er weiss Euch nicht--himmelischen Machte."


The afflicted in their sorrow may turn from self-seeking to God
and good deeds. But sorrow may come in a trivial nature from
trivial causes; the soul may be plunged into despair because one
has been denied a gift or a pleasure. The demonstrativeness of
grief or sorrow is not at all in proportion to the emotion felt;
it is more often based on the effort to get sympathy and help.
For sorrow is "Help, help" in one form or another, even though
one refuses to be comforted. All our emotions, because they are
socially powerful, become somewhat theatrical; in some completely
theatrical. We are so constituted that emotional display is not
indifferent to us; it pleases, repels, annoys, angers, frightens,
disgusts or awes us according to the kind of emotion displayed,
the displayer and the circumstances.

The psychologists speak of sympathy as this susceptibility to the
emotions of others, but there is an antipathy to their emotions,
as well. If we feel that our emotions will be "well received," we
do not fear to display them, and therein is one of the uses of
the friend. If we feel that they will be poorly received, that
they will annoy or anger or disgust, we strive to repress them.
The expression of emotion, especially of fear and sorrow, has
become synonymous with weakness, and a powerful self-feeling
operates against their display, especially in adults, men and
certain races. It is no accident that the greatest actors are
from the Latin and Hebrew races, for there is a certain
theatricality in fear and sorrow that those schooled to
repression lose. We resent what we call insincerity in emotional
expression because we fear being "fooled," and there are many
whose experiences in being "fooled" chill sympathy with doubt. We
resent insincere sympathy, on the other hand, because we regret
showing weakness before those to whom that weakness is regarded
as such and who perhaps rejoice at it as ridiculous. We like the
emotional expression of children because we can always
sympathize, through our tender feeling with them, and their very
sincerity pleases as well.

Is there a harm in the repression of emotion?[1] Is emotion a
heaped-up tension which, unless it is discharged, causes damage?
Shall man inhibit his anger, fear, joy, sorrow, disgust, at least
in some measure, or shall he express them in gesture, speech and
act? The answer is obvious: he must control them, and in that
term control we mean, not inhibition, not expression in its naive
sense, but that combination of inhibition, expression and
intelligent act we call adjustment. To express fear in the face
of danger or anger at an offense might thwart the whole life's
purpose, might bring disaster and ruin. The emotions are poor
adjustments in their most violent form, their natural form, and
invite disaster by clouding the intelligence and obscuring
permanent purposes. Therefore, they must be controlled. To
establish this control is a primary function of training and
intelligence and does no harm unless carried to excess. True,
there is a relief in emotional expression, a wiping out of sorrow
by tears, an increase of the pleasure of joy in freely laughing,
a discharge of anger in the blow or the hot word, even the
profane word. There is a time and a place for these things, and
to get so "controlled" that one rarely laughs or shows sadness or
anger is to atrophy, to dry up. But the emotional expression
makes it easy to become an habitual weeper or stormer, makes it
easy to become the over-emotional type, whose reaction to life is
futile, undignified and a bodily injury. For emotion is in large
part a display of energy, and the overemotional rarely escape the
depleted neurasthenic state. In fact, hysteria and neurasthenia
are much more common in the races freely expressing emotion than
in the stolid, repressed races. Jew, Italian, French and Irish
figure much more largely than English, Scotch or Norwegian in the
statistics of neurasthenia and hysteria.

[1] Isador N. Coriat's book, "The Repression of Emotions" deals
with the subject from psychoanalytic. point of view.


10. I have said but little on other emotions,--on admiration,
surprise and awe. This group of affective states is of great
importance. Surprise may be either agreeable or disagreeable and
is our reaction to the unexpected. Its expression, facially and
of body, is quite characteristic, with staring eyes and mouth
slightly open, raised eyebrows, hands hanging with fingers
tensely spread apart, so that a thing held therein is apt to
drop. Surprise heightens the feeling of internal tension, and in
all excitement it is an element, in that the novel brings
excitement and surprise, whereas the accustomed gives little
excitement or surprises. In all wit and humor surprise is part of
the technique and constitutes part of the pleasure. Surprise
usually heightens the succeeding feeling, whether of joy, sorrow,
anger, fear, pleasure or pain, or in any form. But sometimes the
effect of surprise is so benumbing that an incapacity to feel, to
realize, is the most marked result and it is only afterward that
the proper emotion or feeling becomes manifest.

The reaction to the unexpected is an important adjustment in
character. There are situations beyond the power of any of us
quickly to adjust ourselves to and we expect the great
catastrophe to surprise and overwhelm. Nevertheless, we judge
people by the way they react to the unexpected; the man who
rallies quickly from the confusion of surprise is, we say,
"cool-headed," keeps his wits about him; and the man who does not
so rally or adjust "loses his head,"--"loses his wits." Part of
this cool-headedness is not only the rallying from surprise but
also the throwing off of fear. A warning has for its purpose,
"Don't be surprised!" and training must teach resources against
the unexpected. "If you expect everything you are armed against
half the trouble of the world." The cautious in character
minimize the number of surprises they may get by preparing. The
impulsive, who rarely prepare, are always in danger from the
unforeseen. Aside from preparation and knowledge, there is in the
condition of the organism a big factor in the reaction to the
unexpected. Fatigue, neurasthenia, hysteria and certain depressed
conditions render a man more liable to react excessively and
badly to surprise. The tired soldier has lessened resources in
wit and courage when surprised, for fatigue heightens the
confusion and numbness of surprise and decreases the scope of
intelligent conduct. Choice is made difficult, and the
neurasthenic doubt is transformed to impotence by surprise.

Face to face with what is recognized as superior to ourselves in
a quality we hold to be good, we fall into that emotional state,
a mingling of surprise and pleasure, called admiration. In its
original usage, admiration meant wonder, and there is in all
admiration something of that feeling which is born in the
presence of the superior. The more profound the admiration, the
greater is the proportion of wonder in the feeling.

We find it difficult to admire where the competitive feeling is
strongly aroused, though there are some who can do so. It is the
essence of good sportsmanship, the ideal aimed at, to admire the
rival for his good qualities, though sticking fast to one's
confidence in oneself. The English and American athletes, perhaps
also the athletes of other countries, make this part of their
code of conduct and so are impelled to act in a way not entirely
sincere. Wherever jealousy or envy are strongly aroused,
admiration is impossible, and so it comes about that men find it
easy to praise men in other noncompetitive fields or for
qualities in which they are not competing. Thus an author may
strongly admire an athlete or a novelist may praise the
historian; a beautiful woman admires another for her learning,
though with some reservation in her praise, and a successful
business man admires the self-sacrificing scientist, albeit there
is a little complacency in his approval.

He is truly generous-hearted who can admire his competitor. I do
not mean lip-admiration, through the fear of being held jealous.
Many a man joins in the praise of one who has outstripped him,
with envy gnawing at his heart, and waits for the first note of
criticism to get out the hammer. "He is very fine--but" is the
formula, and either through innuendo, insinuation or direct
attack, the "subordinate" statement becomes the most sincere and
significant. But there are those who can admire their conqueror,
not only through the masochism that lurks in all of us, but
because they have lifted their ideal of achievement and character
higher than their own possibilities and seek in others the
perfection they cannot hope to have in themselves. In other
words, where competition is hopeless, in the presence of the
greatly superior, a feeling of humility which is really
admiration to the point of worship comes over us, and we can
glory in the quality we love. To admire is to recede the
ego-feeling, is to feel oneself in an ecstasy that becomes
mystical, and in that sense the contradiction arises that we feel
ourselves larger in a unification with the admired one.

Each age, each country, each group and each family set up the
objects and qualities for admiration, in a word, the ideals. Out
of these the individual selects his specialties in admiration,
according to his nature and training. All the world admires
vigor, strength, courage and endurance,--and these in their
physical aspects. The hero of all times has had these qualities:
he is energetic, capable of feats beyond the power of others, is
fearless and bears his ills with equanimity. Beauty, especially
in the woman, but also in man, has received an over-great share
of homage, but here "tastes differ." We have no difficulty in
agreement on what constitutes strength, and we have objective
tests for its measurement; but who can agree on beauty? What one
race prizes as its fairest is scorned by another race. We laugh
at the ideal of beauty of the Hottentot, and the physical
peculiarity they praise most either disgusts or amuses us. But
what is there about a white skin more lovely than a black one,
and why thrill over blue eyes and neglect the brown ones? What is
the rationale for the admiration of slimness as against
stoutness? Indeed, there are races who would turn with scorn from
our slender debutante[1] and worship their more buxom
heavy-busted and wide-hipped beauties. The only "rational" beauty
in face and figure is that which stands as the outer mask of
health, vigor, intelligence and normal procreative function. The
standards set up in each age and place usually arise from local
pride, from the familiar type. The Mongolian who finds beauty in
his slanting-eyed, wide-cheek boned, yellow mate has as valid a
sanction as the Anglo-Saxon who worships at the shrine of his
wide-eyed, straight-nosed blonde.

[1] The peasant type, greatly admired by the agricultural folk of
Central Europe, is stout and ruddy. This is a better ideal of
beauty than the lily-white, slender and dainty maid of the
cultured, who very often can neither work nor bear and nurse
children.


When we leave the physical qualities and pass to the mental we
again find a lack of agreement as to the admirable. All agree
that intelligence is to be admired, but how shall that
intelligence be manifested? In practice, the major part of the
world admires the intelligence that is financially and socially
successful, and the rich and powerful have the greatest share of
the world's praise. Power, strength, and superiority command
admiration, even from the unwilling, and the philosopher who
stands aloof from the world and is without real strength finds
himself admiring a crude, bustling fellow ordering men about.
True, we admire such acknowledged great intelligences as Plato,
Galileo, Newton, Pascal, Darwin, etc., but in reality only a
fragment of the men and women of any country know anything at all
about these men, and the admiration of most is an acceptance of
the authority of others as to what it is proper to admire.
Genuine admiration is in proportion to the intelligence and
idealism of the admirer. And there are in this country a thousand
intense admirers of Babe Ruth and his mighty baseball club to one
who pours out his soul before the image of Pasteur. You may know
a man (or woman) not by his lip-homage, but by what he genuinely
admires, by that which evokes his real enthusiasm and praise.
Judge by that and then note that the most constant admiration of
the women of our country goes out to actresses, actors,
professional beauties, with popular authors and lecturers a bad
second, and that of the men is evoked by prize fighters, ball
players and the rich. No wonder the problems of the world find no
solution, for it is only by fits and starts that men and women
admire real intelligence and real ability. The orator has more
admirers than the thinker, and this is the curse of politics; the
executive has more admirers than the research worker, and this is
the bane of industry; the entertainer is more admired than the
educator, and that is why Charlie Chaplin makes a million a year
and President Eliot received only a few thousand. The race and
the nation has its generous enthusiasms and its bursts of
admiration for the noble, but its real admiration it gives to
those whom it best understands. Fortunately the leaders of the
race have more of generosity and fine admiration than have the
mass they lead. Left to itself, the mass of the race limits its
hero-worship to the lesser, unworthy race of heroes.

The school histories, which should emphasize the admirable as
well as point out the reverse, have played a poor role in
education. The hero they depict is the warrior, and they fire the
hearts of the child with admiration and desire for emulation.
They say almost nothing of the great inventors, scientists and
philanthropists. The teaching of history should, above all, set
up heroes for the child to study, admire and emulate. "When the
half-gods go the gods arrive." The stage of history as taught is
cluttered with the tin-plate shedders of blood to the exclusion
of the greater men.[1]

[1] Plutarch's Lives are an example of the praise and place given
to the soldier and orator; and many a child, reading them, has
burned to be an Alexander or a Caesar. Wells' History, with all
its defects, pushes the "conquerors" to their real place as
enemies of the race.


When the object that confronts us is so superior, so vast, that
we sink into insignificance, then admiration takes on a tinge of
fear in the state or feeling of awe. All men feel awe in the
presence of strength and mystery, so that the concept of God is
that most wrapped up with this emotion, and the ceremonies with
which kings and institutions have been surrounded strike awe by
their magnificence and mystery into the hearts of the governed.
We contemplate natural objects, such as mountains, mighty rivers
and the oceans, with awe because we feel so little and puny in
comparison, and we do not "enjoy" contemplating them because we
hate to feel little. Or else we grow familiar with them, and the
awe disappears. The popular and the familiar are never awe-full,
and even death loses in dignity when one has dissected a few
bodies. So objects viewed by night or in gloom inspire awe,
though seen by day they are stripped of mystery and interest. To
the adolescent boy, woman is a creature to be regarded with
awe,--beautiful, strangely powerful and mysterious. To the
grown-up man, enriched and disillusioned by a few experiences,
woman, though still loved, is no longer worshiped.

Though the reverent spirit is admirable and poetic, it is not by
itself socially valuable. It has been played upon by every false
prophet, every enslaving institution. It prevents free inquiry;
it says to science, "Do not inquire here. They who believe do not
investigate. This is too holy a place for you." We who believe in
science deny that anything can be so holy that it can be
cheapened by light, and we believe that face to face with the
essential mysteries of life itself even the most assiduous and
matter-of-fact must feel awe. Man, the little, has probed into
the secrets of the universe of which he is a part. What he has
learned, what he can learn, make him bow his head with a
reverence no worshiper of dogmatic mysteries can ever feel.



CHAPTER X. COURAGE, RESIGNATION, SUBLIMATION, PATIENCE, THE WISH,
AND ANHEDONIA

In the preceding chapter we spoke of the feeling of energy and
certain of the basic emotions--such as fear, anger, joy, sorrow,
disgust, surprise and admiration. It is important to know that
rarely does a man react to any life situation in which the
feeling of energy is not an emotional constituent and governs in
a general way that reaction. Moreover, fear, anger, joy and the
other feelings described mingle with this energy feeling and so
are built great systems of the affective life.

1. Courage is one of these systems. It is not merely the absence
of fear that constitutes courage, though we interchange
"fearless" with "courageous." Frequently it is the conquest of
fear by the man himself that leads him to the highest courage.
There is a type of courage based on the lack of imagination, the
inability to see ahead the disaster that lurks around every
corner. There is another type of courage based on the philosophy
that to lose control of oneself is the greatest disaster. There
are the nobly proud, whose conception of "ought," of "noblesse
oblige," makes them the real aristocrats of the race.

The fierce, the predisposed to anger are usually courageous.
Unrestrained anger tends to break down imagination and foresight;
caution disappears and the smallest will attack the largest. In
racial propaganda, one way to arouse courage is to arouse anger.
The enemy is represented as all that is despicable and mean and
as threatening the women and children, religion, or the flag. It
is not sufficient to arouse hate, for hate may fear. While
individuals of a fierce type may be cowards, and the gentle often
enough are heroes, the history of the race shows that physical
courage resides more with the fierce races than with the gentle.

Those who feel themselves superior in strength and energy are
much more apt to be courageous than those who feel themselves
inferior. In fact, the latter have to force themselves to
courage, whereas the former's courage is spontaneous. Men do not
fear to be alone in a house as women do, largely because men feel
themselves equal to coping with intruders, who are sure to be
men, while women do not. One of the early signs of chronic
sickness is a feeling of fear, a loss of courage, based on a
feeling of inferiority to emergencies. The Spartans made it part
of that development of courage for which their name stands, to
develop the physique of both their men and women. Their example,
in rational measure, should be followed by all education, for
courage is essential to nobility of character. I emphasize that
such training should be extended to both male and female, for we
cannot expect to have a timorous mother efficiently educate her
boy to be brave, to say nothing of the fact that her own
happiness and efficiency rest on courage.

Tradition is a mighty factor in the production of courage. To
feel that something is expected of one because one's ancestors
lived up to a high standard becomes a guiding feeling in life.
Not to be inferior, not to disappoint expectation, to maintain
the tradition that a "So-and-So" never shows the white feather,
makes, heroes of the soldiers of famous regiments, of firemen and
policemen, of priests, of the scions of distinguished families,
aye, even of races. To every man in the grip of a glorious
tradition it seems as if those back of him are not really dead,
as if they stand with him, and speak with his voice and act in
his deeds. The doctor who knows of the martyrs of his profession
and knows that in the code of his calling there are no diseases
he must hesitate to face, goes with equanimity where others who
are braver in facing death of other kinds do not dare to enter.

Courage is competitive, courage is cooperative, as is every other
phase of the mental life of men. We gather courage as we watch a
fellow worker face his danger with a brave spirit, for we will
not be outdone. Amour propre will not permit us to cringe or give
in, though we are weary to death of a struggle. But also we
thrill with a common feeling at the sight of the hero holding his
own, we are enthused by it, we wish to be with him; and his
shining example moves us to a fellowship in courage. We find
courage in the belief that others are "with us," whether that
courage faces physical or moral danger. To be "with" a man is to
more than double his resources of strength, intelligence and
courage; it is more than an addition, for it multiplies all his
virtues and eliminates his defects. The sum total is the Hero. I
wonder if there really ever has been a truly lonely hero, if
always there has not been some one who said, "I have faith in
you; I am with you!" If a man has lacked human backing, he has
said to himself, "The Highest of all is with me, though I seem to
stand alone. God gives me courage!"

In a profoundly intellectual way, courage depends on a feeling
that one is useful, not futile. Men lose courage, in the sense of
brave and determined effort, when it seems as if progress has
ceased and their place in the world has disappeared. This one
sees frequently in middle-aged men, who find themselves relegated
to secondary places by younger men, who feel that they are
slipping and soon will be dependents.

Hope, the foreseeing of a possible success, is necessary for most
courage, though now and then despair acts with a courage that is
largely pride. The idea of a future world has given more courage
to man in his difficulties than all other conceptions together,
for the essence of the belief in immortality is to transfer hope
and success from the tangle of this world to the clear,
untroubled heavenly other world.

2. Here we must consider other, related qualities. The office of
intelligence is to adjust man to a complex world, to furnish
pathways to a goal which instinct perhaps chooses. Suppose a goal
reached,--say marriage is entered upon with the one that we think
is to give us that satisfaction and happiness we long for. The
marriage does not so result, either because we have expected too
much, or because the partner falls below a reasonable
expectation, or because contradictory elements in the natures of
the wedded pair cannot be reconciled. Unity is not reached;
disunion results, almost, let us say, from the very start. What
happens?

Many adjustments may take place. A crude one is that the pair,
after much quarreling, decide to separate or become divorced, or
on a still cruder, ignoble level, one or the other runs away,
deserts the family. A common adjustment, of an anti-social kind,
forms the basis of much of modern and ancient literature; the
partners seek compensation elsewhere, enter into illicit love
affairs and maintain a dual existence which rarely is peaceful or
happy. Indeed, the nature of the situation, with outraged
conscience and fear of exposure, prevents happiness.

But there are those who in such a situation do what is known as
"make the best of it." They avoid quarrels, they keep up the
pretense of affection, they seek to discover the good qualities
in the mate; they are, as we say, resigned to the situation. To
be resigned is to accept an evil with calmness and equanimity,
but without energy. Resignation and courage are closely related,
though the former is a rather pallid member of the family. The
poor and the miserable everywhere practise this virtue; the
church has raised it perforce to the most needed of qualities; it
is a sort of policy of nonresistance to the evils of the world
and one's own lot.

But resignation represents only one type of legitimate
adjustment, of sublimation. By sublimation is meant the process
of using the energy of a repressed desire and purpose for some
"higher" end. Thus in the case of domestic unhappiness the man
may plunge himself deeply into work and even be unconscious of
the source of his energy. This type of adjustment is thus a form
of compensation and is seen everywhere. In the case of many a
woman who gives herself over to her children without stint you
may find this sublimation against the disappearance of romance,
even if no actual unhappiness exists. Where a woman is childless,
perforce and not per will, an intense communal activity often
develops, leading to good if that activity is intelligent,
leading to harm if it is not. For sublimation develops the crank
and pest as well as the reformer. In every half-baked reform
movement you find those who are striving to sublimate for a
thwarted instinct or purpose.[1]

[1] The historian, Higginson, put it well when he said
substantially, "There is a fringe of insanity around all reform."


Sublimation is the mark of the personality that will not admit
defeat even to itself. The one who does admit defeat becomes
resigned or seeks illicit compensation,--other men, other women,
drink. Freud and his followers believe that the neurasthenic or
hysteric is striving to find compensation through his symptoms or
that he seeks to fly from the situation that way. I believe that
the symptoms of the neurasthenic and hysteric often find a use in
this way, but are not caused by an effort for compensation. That
is, a neurasthenic may learn that his or her pains or aches give
advantages in sympathy, relief from hard tasks or disagreeable
situations; that they cover up or are an excuse for failure and
inferiority,--but the symptoms arise originally from defects in
character or because of the physical and social situation.
Nevertheless, it is well to keep in mind, when dealing with the
"nervous," that often enough their weaknesses are related to
something they may gain through them. This I have called
elsewhere "Will to power through weakness," and it is as old as
Adam and Eve. The weak have their wills and their weapons as have
the strong.

The highest sublimation, in the face of an insuperable obstacle
to purpose or an inescapable life situation, finds a socially
useful substitute in philanthropy, kindness, charity, achievement
of all sorts; the lowest seeks it in a direct but illicit
compensation for the self and in a way that merely increases the
social and personal confusion; and a pathological sublimation in
part, at least, manifests itself iii sickness. These are the
three leading forms, but it must be remembered that there are no
pure types in character; a man may sublimate nobly when his
domestic happiness is threatened but cheat when his business
purposes are blocked; a woman may compensate finely for
childlessness but "go all to pieces" because hair is growing on
her face and the beauty she cherishes must go. Contradictions of
all sorts exist, and he is wise who does not expect too great
consistency from himself or others.

3. "Man," says Hocking, "can prolong the vestibule of his desire
through infinity." By the vestibule of desire this philosopher
means the deferring of satisfaction for any impulse or desire. We
love, but we can wait for love's fulfillment; we desire
achievement, but we can work and watch the approach of our goal.
Something we desire is directly ahead, almost in our reach,--
fame, love, riches, vindication, anything you please from the
sensuous to the sublime satisfaction; and then an obstacle, a
delay, appears, and the vestibule is lengthened out. A man may
even plan for the satisfaction he can never hope to have, and in
his greatest ideal that vestibule reaches through eternity.

That quality which enables a man to work and wait, to stand the
deferring of hope and desire, is patience. The classic figure of
patience sitting on a monument is wrong, for she must sit on the
eager desires of man. Nor is patience only the virtue of the good
and farseeing, for we find patience in the rogue and schemer.
Altruists may be patient or impatient, and so may be the selfish.
Like most of the qualities, patience is to be judged by the
company it keeps.

Nevertheless, the impatient are very often those of small
purposes and are rarely those of great achievement. For all great
purposes have to be spread over time, have to overcome obstacles,
and these must be met with courage and patience. Impatience is
fussiness, fretfulness and a prime breeder of neurasthenia.
Patience is realistic, and though it may seek perfection it puts
up with imperfection as a part of human life. But here I am
drifting into an error against which I warned the reader,--of
making an entity of a conception. People are patient or
impatient, but not necessarily throughout. There are men and
women who fuss and fume over trifles who never falter or fret
when their larger purposes are blocked or deferred. Some cannot
stand detail who plan wisely and with patience. Vice versa, there
are meticulous folk, little people, whose petty obstacles are met
with patience and cheerfulness, who revel in minute detail, but
who want returns soon and cannot wait a long time. We are not to
ask of any man whether he is patient but rather what does he
stand or do patiently? What renders him impatient?

A form of impatience of enormous social importance is that which
manifests itself in cure-alls. A man finds that his will
overcomes some obstacles. Eager to apply this, he announces that
will cures all ills. Impatient of evil, men seek to annihilate it
by denying its existence or by loudly chanting that good thoughts
will destroy it. These are typical impatient solutions in the
sphere of religion; in the sphere of economics men urge
nationalization, free trade, socialism or laissez faire, or some
law or other to change social structure and human nature. War
itself is the most impatient and consequently most socially
destructive method of the methods of the treatment of evil.

While patience is a virtue, it may also be a vice. One may bear
wrongs too patiently or defer satisfaction too long. One meets
every day men and women who help injustice and iniquity by their
patience. We are too patient, at least with the wrongs of others;
perhaps we really do not feel this intensely or for any length of
time. In fact, the difficulty with most of the preaching of life
is its essential insincerity, for it counsels patience for that
which it feels but little. We bear the troubles of others, on the
whole, very well. Nevertheless, there are Griseldas everywhere
whom one would respect far more if they rebelled against their
tyrants and taskmasters. Organized wrong and oppression owe their
existence mainly to the habitual patience of the oppressed. To be
meek and mild and long-suffering in a world containing plenty of
egoists and cannibalistic types is to give them supremacy.[1] We
admire patience only when it is part of a plan of action, not
when it is the mark of a passive nature.

[1] Here the ideals of East and West clash. The East, bearing a
huge burden of misery and essentially pessimistic, exhorts
patience. The West, eager and full of hope, is impatient.


4. Because man foresees he wishes. Rather than the reasoning
animal, we might speak of the human being as the wishing animal.
An automatically working instinct would produce no wish. The
image of something which has been experienced arouses an
excitement akin to the secretion of saliva at the thought of
food. The wish which accompanies the excitement is a
dissatisfaction, a tingling, an incomplete pleasurable emotional
state which presses to action. Sensuous pleasure, power,
conformity to the ideal, whatever direction the wish takes, are
sought because of the wish. Right education is to train towards
right wishing.

Because the wish is the prelude to action, it became all powerful
in mythology and superstition. Certain things would help you get
your wishes, others would obstruct them. Wishes became animate
and had power,--power to destroy an enemy, power to help a
friend, power to bring good to yourself. But certain ceremonies
had to be observed, and certain people, magicians and priests had
to be utilized in order to give the wish its power. Wisdom and
magic were mainly the ways of obtaining wishes. Childhood still
holds to this, and prayer is a faith that your wish, if placed
before the All-Mighty, will be fulfilled.

Since wishing brings a pleasurable excitement, it has its
dangers, in the daydream where wishes are fulfilled without
effort. Power, glory, beauty and admiration are obtained; the
ugly Duckling becomes the Swan, Cinderella becomes the Princess,
Jack kills the Giant and is honored by all men; the girl becomes
the beauty and heroine of romance; the boy becomes the Hero,
taking over power, wealth and beauty as his due. The world of
romance is largely the wish-world, as is the most of the stage.
The happy ending is our wish-fulfillment, and only the
sophisticated and highly cultured object to it. Moulding the
world to the heart's desire has been the principal business of
stage, novel and song.

In the normal relations of life, the wish is the beginning of
will, as something definitely related to a future goal. He who
wishes finds his way to planning and to patient endeavor, IF
training, circumstances and essential character meet. To wish
much is the first step in acquiring much,--but only the first
step. For many it is almost the only step, and in the popular
phrase these have a "wishbone in the place of a backbone." They
are the daydreamers, the inveterate readers of novels, who carry
into adult life what is relatively normal in the child. The
introspective are this latter type; rarely indeed do the
objective personalities spend much time in wishing. Undoubtedly
it is from the introspective that the wish as a symbol and worker
of power gained its influence and meaning. This transformation of
the wish to a power is found in all primitive thought, in the
power of the blessing and the curse, in the delusions of certain
of the insane who build up the belief in their greatness out of
the wish to be great; and in our days New Thought and kindred
beliefs are modernized forms of this ancient fallacy.

It is a comforting thought to those who seek an optimistic point
of view that most men wish to do right. Very few, indeed,
deliberately wish to do wrong. But the difficulty lies in this,
that this wish to do right camouflages all their wishes, no
matter what their essential character. Thus the contestants on
either side of any controversy color as right their opposing
wishes, and cruelties even if they burn people at the stake for
heresy, kill and ruin, degrade and cheat, lie and steal. Thus has
arisen the dictum, "The end justifies the means." The good
desired hallows the methods used, and all kinds of evil have
resulted. Practical wisdom believes that up to a certain point
you must seek your purpose with all the methods at hand. But the
temptation to go farther always operates; a man starts to do
something a little underhanded in behalf of his noble wish and
finds himself committed to conduct unqualifiedly evil.

5. There are certain other emotional states associated with
energy and the energy feeling of great interest. What we call
eagerness, enthusiasm, passion, refers to the intensity of an
instinct, wish, desire or purpose. In childhood this energy is
quite striking; it is one of the great charms of childhood and is
a trait all adults envy. For it is the disappearance of passion,
eagerness and enthusiasm that is the tragedy of old age and which
really constitutes getting old. Youth anticipates with eagerness
and relishes with keen satisfaction. The enthusiasm of typical
youth is easily aroused and sweeps it on to action, a feature
called impulsiveness. Sympathy, pity, hope, sex feeling--all the
self-feelings and all the other feelings--are at once more lively
and more demonstrative in youth, and thus it is that in youth the
reform spirit is at its height and recedes as time goes on. What
we call "experience" chills enthusiasm and passion, but though
hope deferred and a realization of the complexity of human
affairs has a moderating, inhibiting result, there is as much or
more importance to be attached to bodily changes. If you could
attach to the old man's experience and knowledge the body of
youth, with its fresher arteries, more resilient muscles and
joints, its exuberant glands and fresh bodily juices,--desire,
passion, enthusiasm would return. In the chemistry of life,
passion and enthusiasm arise; sickness, fatigue, experience and
time are their antagonists.

This is not to deny that these energy manifestations can be
aroused from the outside. That is the purpose of teaching and
preaching; the purpose of writer and orator. There is a social
spread of enthusiasm that is the most marked feature of crowds
and assemblies, and this eagerness makes a unit of thousands of
diverse personalities. Further, the problem of awakening
enthusiasm and desire is the therapeutic problem of the physician
and especially in the condition described as anhedonia.

In anhedonia, as first described by Ribot, mentioned by James,
and which has recently been worked up by myself as a group of
symptoms in mental and nervous disease, as well as in life in
general, there is a characteristic lack of enthusiasm in
anticipation and realization, a lack of appetite and desire, a
lack of satisfaction. Nothing appeals, and the values drop out of
existence. The victims of anhedonia at first pass from one
"pleasure" to another, hoping each will please and satisfy, but
it does not. Food, drink, work, play, sex, music, art,--all have
lost their savor. Restless, introspective, with a feeling of
unreality gripping at his heart, the patient finds himself
confronting a world that has lost meaning because it has lost
enthusiasm in desire and satisfaction.

How does this unhappy state arise? In the first place, from the
very start of life people differ in the quality of eagerness.
There is a wide variability in these qualities. Of two infants
one will call lustily for whatever he wants, show great glee in
anticipating, great eagerness in seeking, and a high degree of
satisfaction when his desire is gratified. And another will be
lackadaisical in his appetite, whimsical, "hard to please" and
much more difficult to keep pleased. Fatigue will strip the
second child of the capacity to eat and sleep, to say nothing of
his desires for social pleasures, whereas it will only dampen the
zeal and eagerness of the first child. There is a hearty simple
type of person who is naively eager and enthusiastic, full of
desire, passion and enthusiasm, who finds joy and satisfaction in
simple things, whose purposes do not grow stale or monotonous;
there is a finicky type, easily displeased and dissatisfied,
laying weight on trifles, easily made anhedonic, victims of any
reduction in their own energy (which is on the whole low) or of
any disagreeable event. True, these sensitive folk are creators
of beauty and the esthetic, but also they are the victims of the
malady we are here discussing.

Aside from this temperament, training plays its part. I think it
a crime against childhood to make its joys complex or
sophisticated. Too much adult company and adult amusements are
destructive of desire and satisfaction to the child. A boy or
girl whose wishes are at once gratified gets none of the pleasure
of effort and misses one of the essential lessons of life.--that
pleasure and satisfaction must come from the chase and not from
the quarry, from the struggle and effort as well as from the
goal. Montaigne, that wise skeptic, lays much homely emphasis on
this, as indeed all wise men do. But too great a struggle, too
desperate an effort, exhausts, and as a runner lies panting and
motionless at the tape, so we all have seen men reach a desired
place after untold privation and sacrifice and who then found
that there seemed to be no energy, no zeal or desire, no
satisfaction left for them. The too eager and enthusiastic are
exposed, like all the overemotional, to great recessions, great
ebbs, in the volume of their feeling and feel for a time the
direst pain in all experience, the death in life of anhedonia.

After an illness, particularly influenza, when recovery has
seemingly taken place, there develops a lack of energy feeling
and the whole syndrome of anhedonia which lasts until the subtle
damage done by the disease passes off. Half or more of the
"nervousness" in the world is based on actual physical trouble,
and the rest relates to temperament.

When a great purpose or desire has been built up, has drained all
the enthusiasm of the individual and then suddenly becomes
blocked, as in a love affair, or when a business is threatened or
crashes or when beauty starts to leave,--then one sees the
syndrome of anhedonia in essential purity. A great fear, or an
obsessive moral struggle (as when one fights hopelessly against
temptation), has the same effect. The enthusiasm of purpose and
the eagerness of appetite go at once, in certain delicate people,
when pride is seriously injured or when a once established
superiority is crumbled. The humiliated man is anhedonic, even if
he is a philosopher.

The most striking cases are seen in men who have been swung from
humdrum existence to the exciting, disagreeable life of war and
then back to their former life. The former task cannot be taken
up or is carried on with great effort; the zest of things has
disappeared, and what was so longed for while in the service
seems flat and stale, especially if it is now realized that there
are far more interesting fields of effort. In a lesser degree,
the romances that girls feed on unfit them for sober realities,
and the expectation of marriage built up by romantic novel and
theater do far more harm than good. The triangle play or story is
less mischievous than the one which paints married life as an
amorous glow.

One could write a volume on eagerness, enthusiasm and passion,
satisfaction and dissatisfaction. Life, to be worth the living,
must have its enthusiasms, must swing constantly from desire to
satisfaction, or else seems void and painful. Great purposes are
the surest to maintain enthusiasm, little purposes become flat.
He who hitches his wagon to a star must risk indeed, but there is
a thrill to his life outweighing the joy of minor success.

To reenthuse the apathetic is an individual problem. When the
lowered pressure of the energy feeling is physical in origin,
then rest and exercise, massage hydrotherapy, medicines
(especially the bitter tonics), change of scene are valuable. And
even where the cause is not in illness, these procedures have
great value for in stimulating the organism the function of
enthusiasm is recharged. But one does not neglect the value of
new hopes, new interests, friendship, physical pleasure and above
all a new philosophy, a philosophy based on readjustment and the
nobility of struggle. Not all people can thus be reached, for in
some, perhaps many cases, the loss of these desires is the
beginning of mental disease, but patient effort and intelligent
sympathetic understanding still work their miracles.



CHAPTER XI. THE EVOLUTION OF CHARACTER WITH ESPECIAL REFERENCE TO
THE GROWTH OF PURPOSE AND PERSONALITY

There have been various philosophies dealing with the purposes of
man. Man seeks this or that--the eternal good, beauty, happiness,
pleasure, survival--but always he is represented as a seeker. A
very popular doctrine, Hedonism, now somewhat in disfavor,
represents him as seeking pleasurable, affective states. The
difficulty of understanding the essential nature of pleasure and
pain, the fact that what is pleasure to one man is pain to
another, rather discredited this as a psychological explanation.
I think we may phrase the situation fairly on an empirical basis
when we say that seeking arises in instinct but receives its
impulse to continuity by some agreeable affective state of
satisfaction. Man steers towards pleasure and satisfaction of
some type or other, but the force is the unbalance of an
instinct.

When we speak of man as a seeker, we are not separating him from
the rest of living things. All life seeks, and the more mobile a
living thing is the more it seeks. A sessile mussel chained to a
rock seeks little but the fundamentals of nutrition and
generation and these in a simple way. An animal that builds
habitations for its young, courts its mate, plays, teaches and
fights, may do nothing more than seek nutrition and generation,
but it seeks these through many intermediary "end" points,
through many impulses, and thus it has many types of
satisfaction. When a creature develops to the point that it
establishes all kinds of rules governing conduct, when it
establishes sanctions that are eternal and has purposes that have
a terminus in a hereafter which is out of the span of life of the
planner, it becomes quite difficult to say just what it is man
seeks. In fact, every man seeks many things, many satisfactions,
and whatever it may be that Man in the abstract seeks, individual
men differ very decidedly not only as to what they seek but as to
what should be sought.

Our viscera, our tissues, as they function, change by the using
up of energy and the breaking down of materials. That change
brings about sensory disturbances in our body which are not
unpleasant in moderation, which we call hunger, thirst and
fatigue. To relieve these three primitive states we seek food,
drink and rest; we DESIRE food, drink and rest. Desire then is
primitive, organic, arising mainly in the vegetative nervous
system, and it awakens mechanisms that bring us food, drink and
rest. A feeling which we call satisfaction results when the
changes in the viscera and tissues are readjusted or on the way
to readjustment. Here is the simplest paradigm for desire seeking
satisfaction, but it is on a plane rarely found in man, because
his life is too complicated for such formulae to work.

Food must be bought or produced, and this involves cooperation,
competition, self-denial, thrift, science, finance, invention. It
involves ethics, because though you are hungry you must not steal
food or give improper value for it. Moreover, though you are
hungry, you have developed tastes, manners, etc., and you cannot,
must not eat this or that (through religion); you mast eat with
certain implements), and would rather die than violate the
established standards in such matters.[1] Thus to the simple act
of eating, to the satisfaction of a primitive desire set up by a
primitive need, there are any number of obstacles set up by the
complexities of our social existence. The sanction of these
obstacles, their power to influence us, rests in other desires
and purposes arising out of other "needs" of our nature. What are
those needs? They are inherent in what has been called the social
instincts, in that side of our nature which makes us yearn for
approval and swings us into conformity with a group. The group
organizes the activities of its individuals just as an individual
organizes his activities. The evolutionists explain this group
feeling as part of the equipment necessary for survival. Perhaps
this is an adequate account of the situation, but the strength of
the social instincts almost lead one to a more mystical
explanation, a sort of acceptance of the group as the unit and
the individual as an incomplete fragment.

[1] The Sepoy Rebellion had its roots in a food taboo, and
Mussulman, Hebrew and Roman Catholic place a religious value on
diet. Most of the complexities of existence are of our own
creation.


What is true of hunger is true of thirst and fatigue. Desires in
these directions have to accommodate themselves, in greater or
lesser degrees, to the complexities in which our social nature
and customs have involved us. It is true that desires upon which
the actual survival of the individual depend will finally break
through taboo and restriction if completely balked. That is, very
few people will actually starve to death, die of thirst or keep
awake indefinitely, despite any convention or taboo. Nevertheless
there are people who will resist these fundamental desires, as in
the case of MacSwiney, the Irish republican, and as in the case
of martyrs recorded in the history of all peoples. It may be that
in some of these we are dealing with a powerful inhibition of
appetite of the kind seen in anhedonia.

The elaboration of the sex impulses and desires into the purposes
of marriage, the repression into lifelong continence and
chastity, forms one of the most marvelous of chapters in the
psychological history of man. The desire for sex relationship of
the crude kind is very variable both in force, time of appearance
and reaction to discipline and unquestionably arises from the
changes in the sex organs. Both to enhance and repress it are
aims of the culture and custom of each group, and the lower
groups have given actual sexual intercourse a mystical
supernatural value that has at times and in various places raised
it into the basis of cults and religions. Repressed, hampered,
canalized, forbidden, the sex impulses have profoundly modified
clothes, art, religion, morals and philosophy. The sex customs of
any nation demonstrate the extreme plasticity of human desires
and the various twists, turns and customs that tradition declares
holy. There have been whole groups of people that have deemed any
sexual pleasure unholy, and the great religions still deem it
necessary for their leaders to be continent. And the absurdities
of modesty, a modified sex impulse, have made it immoral for a
woman to show her leg above the calf while in her street
clothes,[1] though she may wear a bathing suit without reproach.

[1] This is, of course, not quite so true in 1921 as in 1910.


Whatever a desire is basically, it tends quickly to organize
itself in character. It gathers to itself emotions, sentiments,
intelligence; it plans and it wills, it battles against other
desires. I say IT, as if the desire were an entity, a
personality, but what I mean is that the somatic and cerebral
activities of a desire become so organized as to operate as a
unit. A permanent excitability of these nervous centers as a unit
is engendered, and these are easily aroused either by a stimulus
from the body or from without. Thus the sex impulse arises
directly from tensions within the sex organs but is built up and
elaborated by approval of and admiration for beauty, strength and
intelligence, by the desire for possession and mastery, by
competitive feeling, until it may become drawn out into the
elaborate purpose of marriage or the family.

What is the ego that desires and plans? I do not know, but if it
is in any part a metaphysical entity of permanent nature in so
far it does not become the subject matter of this book. For as a
metaphysical entity it is uncontrollable, and the object of
science is to discover and utilize the controllable elements of
the world. I may point out that even those philosophers and
theologians to whom the ego is an entity of supernatural origin
deny their own standpoint every time they seek to convince,
persuade or force the ego of some one to a new belief or new line
of action; deny it every time they say, "I am tired and I shall
rest; then I shall think better and can plan better." Such a
philosopher says in essence, "I have an entity within me totally
and incommensurably different from my body," and then he goes on
to prove that this entity operates better when the body is rested
and fed than otherwise!

For us the ego is a built-up structure and has its evolution from
the diffuse state of early infancy to the intense, well-defined
state of maturity; it is elaborated by a process that is in part
due to the environment, in part to the inherent structure of man.
We may postulate a continuous excitement of nerve centers as its
basis, and this excitement cognizes other excitement in some
mysterious manner, but no more mysterious than life, instinct or
intelligence are. These excitements struggle for the possession
of an outlet in action, and this is what we call competing
desires, struggle against temptation, etc.

Sometimes one desire is identified with the ego as part of
itself, sometimes the desire is contrasted with the ego and we
say, "I struggled with the desire but it overcame me." Common
language plainly shows the plurality of the personality, even
though the man on the street thinks of himself as a united "I,"
even an invisible "I."

One of the fundamental desires, nay the fundamental desire, is
the expansion of the self, i. e., increased self-esteem. When the
infant sprawls in his basket after his arrival in this world, it
is doubtful if he has a "me" which he separates from the
"non-me." Yet that same infant, a few years later, and through
the rest of his life, believes that in his personality resides
something immortal, and has as his prime pleasure the feeling of
worth and growth of that personality, and as his worst hurt the
feeling of decay and inferiority of that personality.

Let us watch that infant as it sprawls in its little bed, the
darling of a pair of worshiping parents. In that relationship the
child is no solitary individual; society is there already,
watching him, nourishing and teaching him. Already he is in the,
hands of his group who, though seeking his happiness, are
nevertheless determined that he shall obtain it their way. And
from then to the end of his life that group will in large measure
offer him the criteria of values, and his self-esteem will, in
the majority of cases, rest upon his idea of their esteem of him.
In the brooding mother, in the tender father lie dormant all the
judgments of the time on the conduct and guiding motives of the
little one.

The baby throws his arms about, kicks his legs, rolls his eyes.
In these movements arising from internal activities which, we can
only state, relate to vascular distribution, neuronic relations,
visceral and endocrinic activities, is the germ of the impulse to
activity which it is the function of society and the individual
himself to shape into organized useful work. Thus is manifested a
native, inherent, potentiality, which we may call the energy of
the baby, the energy of man, a something which the environment
shapes, but which is created in the laboratory of the individual.
The father and mother are delighted with the fine vigorous
movements of the child, and there is in that delight the approval
that society always gives or tends to give to manifestations of
power. We tend involuntarily to admire strength, even though
misdirected. The strong man always has followers though he be a
villain, and in fact the history of man is to a large extent
based on the fact that the strong man evokes enthusiasm and
obedience.

This impulse to activity is an unrest, and its satisfaction lies
in movement; in other words there is a pleasure or a relief in
mere activity. The need of discharging energy, the desire to do
so, the pleasure and satisfaction in so doing constitute a
cornerstone of the foundation of life and character. This desire
for activity, as we shall call it henceforth, is behind work and
play; it fluctuates with health and disease, with youth and old
age; it becomes harnessed to purpose, it is called into being by
motives or inhibited by conflict and indecision and its
organization is the task of society. Men differ in regard to the
desire for activity, with a range from the inert whose energy is
low to the dynamic types that are ever busy and ever seeking more
to do.

The child's first movements are aimless, but soon the impressions
it receives by striking hands and feet against soft and hard
things bring about a dim knowledge of the boundaries of itself,
and the kinesthetic impulses from joints and muscles help this
knowledge. The outside world commences to separate itself from
the "me," though both are vague and shadowy. Soon it learns that
one part of the outside world is able to satisfy its hunger, to
supply a need, and it commences to recognize the existence of
benevolent outside agencies; and it also learns little by little
that its instinctive cries bring these agencies to it. I do not
mean that the baby has any internal language corresponding to the
idea of outside agency, benevolence, etc., but it gets to know
that its cries are potent, that a breast brings relief and
satisfaction. At first it cries, the breast comes, there is
relief and satisfaction, and it makes no connection or no
connection is made between these events of outer and inner
origin. But the connection is finally made,--desire becomes
definitely articulate in the cry of the baby, which thus becomes
a plea and a summons. Anticipation of good to come appears and
with it the germ of hope and forward looking, and there is
realization or disappointment, joy or anger or sorrow. Thus
desire is linked up with satisfaction in a definite way, ideas
and feelings of demand and supply begin to appear and perhaps
power itself, in the vague notion, "I can get milk," commences to
be felt. Social life starts when the child associates the mother
with the milk, with the desire and the satisfaction. In the
relationship established between mother and baby is the first
great social contact; love, friendship, discipline, teaching and
belief have their origin when, at the mother's breast, the child
separates its mother from the rest of the things of the world.
And not only in the relief of hunger is the mother active, but
she gets to be associated with the relief from wet and irritating
clothes, the pleasant bath, and the pleasure of the change of
position that babies cry for. Her bosom and her arms become
sources of pleasure, and the race has immortalized them as
symbolic of motherhood, in song, in story and in myth.

Not only does he associate the mother with the milk but her very
presence brings him comfort, even when he is not hungry. It is
within the first few months of life that the child shows that he
is a gregarious[1] animal,--gregarious in the sense that he is
unhappy away from others. To be alone is thus felt to be
essentially an evil, to be with others is in itself a good. This
gregarious feeling is the sine qua non of social life: when we
punish any one we draw away from him; when we reward we get
closer to him. All his life the child is to find pleasure in
being with people and unhappiness when away from them, unless he
be one of those in whom the gregarious instinct is lacking. For
instincts may be absent, just as eye pigment is; there are mental
albinos, lacking the color of ordinary human feeling. Or else
some experience may make others hateful to him, or he may have so
intellectualized his life that this instinct has atrophied. This
gregarious feeling will heighten his emotions, he will gather
strength from the feeling that "others are with him," he will
join societies, clubs, organizations in response to the same
feeling that makes sheep graze on a hillside in a group, that
makes the monkeys in a cage squat together, rubbing sides and
elbows. The home in which our child finds himself, though a
social institution, is not gregarious; it gives him only a
limited contact, and as soon as he is able and self-reliant he
seeks out a little herd, and on the streets, in the schoolroom
and playground, he really becomes a happy little herd animal.

[1] One of my children would stop crying if some one merely
entered his room when he was three weeks old. He was, and is, an
intensely gregarious boy.


Let us turn back to the desire for activity. As the power to
direct the eyes develops, as hands become a little more sure,
because certain pathways in brain and cord "myelinize,"[1] become
functional, the outside world attracts in a definite manner and
movements become organized by desires, by purpose. It's a
red-letter day in the calendar of a human being when he first
successfully "reaches" something; then and there is the birth of
power and of successful effort. All our ideas of cause and effect
originate when we cause changes in the world, when we move a
thing from thither to yon. No philosopher, though he becomes so
intellectualized that he cannot understand how one thing or event
causes another, ever escapes from the feeling that HE causes
effects. Purpose, resistance, success, failure, cause, effect,
these become inextricably wound up with our thoughts and beliefs
from the early days when, looking at a dangling string, we
reached for it once, twice, a dozen times and brought it in
triumph to our mouth. And our idea that there were forbidden
things came when the watchful mother took it out of our mouth,
saying, "No, no, baby mustn't!"

[1] At birth, though most of the great nervous pathways are laid
down, they are non-functional largely because the fibers that
compose them are unclothed, non-myelinated. The various kinds of
tracts have different times for becoming "myelinated" as was the
discovery of the great analogist, Flechsig.


At any rate, the organization of activity for definite purposes
starts. The little investigator is apparently obsessed with the
idea that everything it can reach, including its fingers and
toes, are good to eat, for everything reached is at once brought
to the mouth, the primitive curiosity thus being gustatory. In
this research the baby finds that some few things are pleasant,
many indifferent and quite a few disgusting and even painful,
which may remain as a result not far different from that obtained
by investigation in later years. The desire for pleasant things
commences to guide its activities. Every new thing is at once an
object for investigation, perhaps because its possibilities for
pleasure are unknown. That curiosity may have some such origin is
at least a plausible statement. At any rate, desire of a definite
type steps in to organize the mere desire for activity; and
impulse is controlled by purpose.

The child learns to creep, and the delight in progression lies in
the fact that far more things are accessible for investigation,
for rearrangement, for tasting. It is no accident that we speak
of our "tastes" that we say, "I want to taste of experience."
That is exactly what the child creeping on the floor seeks,--to
taste of experience and to anticipate, to realize, to learn. Out
of the desire for activity grows a desire for experience born of
the pleasure of excitement that we spoke of previously. This
desire for experience becomes built up into strange forms under
teaching and through the results of experience. It is very strong
in some who become explorers, roues, vagabonds, scientists as a
result, and it is very weak in others who stay at home and seek
only the safe and limited experience. You see two children in one
room,--and one sits in the middle of the floor, perhaps playing
with a toy or looking around, and the other has investigated the
stove and found it hotter than he supposed, has been under the
table and bumped his head, has found an unusually sweet white
lump which in later life he will call sugar. The good child is
often without sufficient curiosity to be bad, whereas the bad
child may be an overzealous seeker of experience.

So our child reaching out for things develops ideas of cause,
effect and power, commences to have an idea of himself as a cause
and likes the feeling of power. As he learns to walk, the world
widens, his sense of power grows, and his feeling of personality
increases. Meanwhile another side of his nature has been
developing and one fully as important.

The persons in his world have become quite individual; mother is
now not alone, for father is recognized with pleasure as one who
likewise is desirable. He carries one on his shoulder so that a
pleasurable excitement results; he plays with one, holds out
strings and toys and other instruments for the obtaining of
experience. Usually both of these great personages are friendly,
their faces wear a smile or a tender look, and our little one is
so organized that smiles and tender looks awaken comfortable
feelings and he smiles in return. The smile is perhaps the first
great message one human being sends to another; it says, "See, I
am friendly, I wish you well." Later on in the history of the
child, he will learn much about smiles of other kinds, but at
this stage they are all pleasant. Though his parents are usually
friendly and give, now and then they deprive, and they look
different; they say, "No, no!" This "no, no" is social
inhibition, it is backed up by the power of deprivation,
punishment, disapproval; it has its power in a something in our
nature that gives society its power over us. From now there steps
in a factor in the development of character of which we have
already spoken, a group of desires that have their source in the
emotional response of the child to the parent, in the emotional
response of an individual to his group. Out of the social
pressure arises the desire to please, to win approval, to get
justification, and these struggle in the mind of the child with
other desires.

We said the child seeks experience,--but not only on his own
initiative. The father stands against the wall, perhaps with one
foot crossing the other. Soon he feels a pressure and looks down;
there is the little one standing in his imitation of the same
position. Imitation, in my belief, is secondary to a desire for
experience. The child does not imitate everything; he is equipped
to notice only simple things, and these he imitates. Why? The
desire to experience what others are experiencing is a basic
desire; it expresses both a feeling of fellowship and a
competitive feeling. We do not feel a strong tendency to imitate
those we dislike or despise, or do not respect, we tend to
imitate those we love and respect, those for whom we have a
fellow feeling. Part of the fellow feeling is an impulse to
imitate and to receive in a positive way the suggestion offered
by their conduct and manners.

Analogous to imitation, and part of the social instinct, is a
credulity, a willingness to accept as if personally experienced
things stated. Part of the seeking of experience is the asking of
questions, because the mind seeks a cause for every effect, a
something to work from. Indeed, one of the main mental activities
lies in the explaining of things; an unrest is felt in the
presence of the "not understood" which is not stilled until the
unknown is referred back to a thing understood or accepted
without question. The child finds himself in a world with
laid-down beliefs and with explanations of one kind or another
for everything. His group differs from other groups in its
explanations and beliefs; his family even may be peculiar in
these matters. He asks, he is answered and enjoined to believe.
Without credulity there could be no organization of society, no
rituals, no ceremonials, no religions and customs,--but without
the questioning spirit there could be no progress. Most of the
men and women of this world have much credulity and only a feeble
questioning tendency, but there are a few who from the start
subject the answers given them to a rigid scrutiny and who test
belief by results. Let any one read the beliefs of savages, let
him study the beliefs of the civilized in the spirit in which he
would test the statement of the performance of an automobile, and
he can but marvel at man's credulity. Belief and the acceptance
of authority are the conservative forces of society, and they
have their origin in the nursery when the child asks, "Why does
the moon get smaller?" and the mother answers, "Because, dear,
God cuts a piece off every day to make the stars with." The
authorities, recognizing that their power lay in unquestioning
belief, have always sanctified it and made the pious,
non-skeptical type the ideal and punished the non-believer with
death or ostracism. Fortunately for the race, the skeptic, if
silenced, modifies the strength of the belief he attacks and in
the course of time even they who have defended begin to shift
from it and it becomes refuted. Beliefs, as Lecky[1] so well
pointed out, are not so of ten destroyed as become obsolete.

[1] Lecky: "History of European Morals." As he points out, the
belief in witchcraft never was disproved, it simply died because
science made it impossible to believe that witches could
disorganize natural laws.


It may seem as if imitation were a separate principle in mental
growth, and there have been many to state this. As is well known
Tarde made it a leading factor in human development. It seems to
me that it is linked up with desire for experience, desire for
fellowship, and also with a strongly competitive feeling, which
is early manifest in children and which may be called "a want of
what the other fellow has." Children at the age of a year and up
may be perfectly pleased with what they have until they see
another child playing with something,--something perhaps
identical with their own. They then betray a decided,
uncontrollable desire for the other child's toy; they are no
longer content with their own, and by one means or another they
seek to get it,--by forcible means, by wheedling or coaxing, or
by tormenting their parents. The disappearance of contentment
through the competitive feeling, the competitive nature of
desire, the role that envy plays in the happiness and effort of
man, is a thesis emphasized by every moralist and philosopher
since the beginning of things. In the strivings of every man,
though he admit it or not, one of the secret springs of his
energy is this law of desire, that a large part of its power and
persistence is in the competitive feeling, is in envy and the
wish to taste what others are experiencing.

A basic law of desire lies in an observation of Lotze, elaborated
by William James. We may talk of selfishness and altruism as if
they were entirely separate qualities of human nature. But what
seems to be true is that one is an extension of the other, that
is, we are always concerned with the ego feeling, but in the one
case the ego feeling is narrow and in the other case it includes
others as part of the ego. Lotze's observations on clothes shows
that we expend ego feeling in all directions, that we tend to be
as tall as our top hats and as penetrating as our walking sticks,
that the man who has a club in his hand has a tactile sense to
the very end of the club. James in his marvelous chapter on the
various selves points out that a man's interests and affections
are his selves, and that they enclose one another like the petals
of a rose. We may speak of unipetalar selves, who include only
their own bodies in self-feeling; of bipetalar selves who include
in it their families, and from there on we go to selves who
include their work, their community, their nation, until we reach
those very rare souls whose petals cover all living things. So
men extend their self-feeling, if ambitious, to their work, to
their achievements,--if paternal to their children; if domestic,
to wife and home; if patriotic to the nation, etc. Development
lies in the extension of the self-feeling and in the increase of
its intensity. But the obstacle lies in the competitive feelings,
in that dualism of man's nature that makes him yearn not only for
fellowship, but also for superiority. These desires are in
eternal opposition, but are not necessarily antagonistic, any
more than are the thumb and the little finger as they meet in
some task, any more than are excitation and inhibition. Every
function in our lives has its check and balance, and fellowship,
yearning and superiority urge one another.

From the cradle to the grave, we desire fellowship as an addition
to our gregarious feeling. We ask for approval, for we expand
under sympathy and contract under cold criticism. Nothing is so
pleasant as "appreciation," which means taking us at our own
valuation or adding to it,, and there is no complaint so common
as, "They don't understand me," which merely means, "They blame
me without understanding that I really seek the good, that I am
really good, though perhaps I seem not to be." The child who
hurts its thumb runs to its mother for sympathy, and the pain is
compensated for, at least in part, by that sympathy. Throughout
life we desire sympathy for our hurts, except where that sympathy
brings with it a feeling of inferiority. To be helped by others
in one way or another is the practical result of this aspect of
fellowship.

(There is a convincing physical element in the feelings and
desires of man, evidenced in language and phrase. Superiority
equals aboveness, inferiority equals beneathness; sympathy equals
the same feeling. To criticize is to "belittle" and to cause the
feeling of littleness; to praise is "to make a man expand," to
enlarge him. Blame hurts one's feelings,--"He wounded me," etc.)

At the same time we are strangely affected by the condition of
others. Where no competitive-jealousy complex is at work, we
laugh with other people in their happiness, we are moved to tears
by suffering; we admire vigor, beauty and the fine qualities of
others; we accept their purposes and beliefs; we are glad to
agree with the stranger or the friend and hate to disagree. We
establish within ourselves codes and standards largely because we
wish to accept and believe and act in the same way as do those we
want as fellows. Having set up that code as conscience or ideals,
it helps us to govern our lives, it gives a stability in that we
tend at once to resist jealousy, envy, the "wrong" emotions and
actions. "Helping others" becomes a great motive in life,
responding to misery with tears, consolation and kindness,
reacting to the good deeds of others with praise. To be generous
and charitable becomes method for the extension of fellowship.

Asking for help in its varied form of praise, appreciation and
kindness, giving help as appreciation and kindness, are the weak
and strong aspects of the fellowship feelings. It is a cynical
view of life, perhaps, but it is probably true that the weak
phase is more common and more constant than the second. Almost
everybody loves praise and appreciation, for these enlarge the
ego feeling, and some, perhaps most, like to be helped, though
here, as was above stated, there is a feeling of inferiority
aroused which may be painful. Relatively there are few who are
ready to praise, especially those with whom they are in close
contact and with whom they are in a sort of rivalry. The same is
true of genuine appreciation, of real warm fellow feeling; the
leader, the hero, the great man receives that but not the fellow
next door. As for giving, charity, kindness, these are common
enough in a sporadic fashion, but rarely are they sustained and
constant, and often they have to depend on the desire "not to be
outdone," not to seem inferior,--have, as it were, to be shamed
into activity. For there is competition even in fellowship.

There are people, especially among the hysterics, who are deeply
wounded when sympathy is not given, when appreciation and praise
is withheld or if there is the suggestion of criticism. They are
people of a "tender ego," not self-sustaining, demanding the help
of others and reacting to the injury sustained, when it is not
given, by prolonged emotion. These sensitive folk, who form a
most difficult group, do not all react alike, of course. Some
respond with anger and ideas of persecution, some with a
prolonged humiliation and feeling of inferiority; still others
develop symptoms that are meant to appeal to the conscience of
the one who has wounded them. On the other hand, there are those
whose feeling of self sustains them in the face of most
criticism, who depend largely upon the established mentor within
themselves and who seek to conform to the rulings of that inward
mentor. Such people, if not martyred too soon, and if possessed
of a fruitful ideal, lay new criteria for praise and blame.

Contrasting with the desires and purposes of fellowship we find
the desires and purposes of superiority and power. Primarily
these are based on what McDougall calls the instinct of
self-display, which becomes intellectualized and socialized very
early in the career of the child. In fact, we might judge a man
largely by the way he displays himself, whether by some
essentially personal bodily character, some essentially mental
attribute or some essentially moral quantity; whether he seeks
superiority as a means of getting power or as a means of doing
good; whether he seeks it within or without the code. One might
go on indefinitely, including such matters as whether he seeks
superiority with tact or the reverse and whether he understands
the essential shallowness and futility of his pursuit or not. To
be superior is back of most of striving, and it is the most
camouflaged of all human motives and pleasures. For this is true:
that the preaching of humility, of righteous conduct, of service,
of self-sacrifice, by religion and ethics have convinced man that
these are the qualities one ought to have. So men seek, whenever
they can, to dress their other motives and feelings in the garb
of altruism.

Camouflage of motive as a means of social approval has thus
become a very important part of character; we seek constantly to
penetrate the camouflage of our rivals and enemies and bitterly
resist any effort to strip away our own, often enough hiding it
successfully from ourselves. There are few who face boldly their
own egoism, and their sincerity is often admired. Indeed, the
frank child is admired because his egoism is refreshing, i. e.,
he offers no problem to the observer. Out of the uneasiness that
we feel in the presence of dissimulation and insincerity has
arisen the value we place on sincerity, frankness and honesty. To
be accused of insincerity or dishonesty of motive and act is
fiercely resented.

The desire for power and superiority will of course take
different directions in each person, according to his make-up,
teaching and the other circumstances of his life. Property as a
means of pleasure, and as a symbol of achievement and of personal
worth, is valued highly from the earliest days of the child's
life. Very early does the child show that it prizes goods, shows
an acquisitive trend that becomes finally glorified into a goal,
an ambition. Money and goods become the symbol and actuality of
power, triumph, superiority, pleasure, safety, benevolence and a
dozen and one other things. Men who seek money and goods may
therefore be seeking very different things; one is merely
acquisitive, has the miser trend; another loves the game for the
game's sake, picks up houses, bonds, money, ships, as a fighter
picks up trophies, and they stand to him as symbols of his
superiority. Some see in property the fulcrum by which they can
apply the power that will shift the lives of other men and make
of themselves a sort of God or Fate in the destinies of others.
For others, and for all in part, there is in money the safety
against emergencies and further a something that purchases
pleasure, whether that pleasure be of body, or taste or spirit.
Wine and women, pictures and beautiful things, leisure for
research and contemplation,--money buys any and all of these, and
as the symbol of all kinds of value, as the symbol of all kinds
of power, it is sought assiduously by all kinds of men.

There are many who start on their careers with the feeling and
belief that money is a minor value, that to be useful and of
service is greater than to be rich. But this idealistic ambition
in only a few cases stands up against the strain of life. Unless
money comes, a man cannot marry, or if he marries, then his wife
must do without ease and leisure and pretty things, and he must
live in a second-rate way. Sooner or later the idealist feels
himself uneasily inferior, and though he may compensate by
achievement or by developing a strong trend towards
seclusiveness, more often he regrets bitterly his idealism and in
his heart envies the rich. For they, ignorant and arrogant, may
purchase his services, his brains and self-sacrifice and buy
these ingredients of himself with the air of one purchasing a
machine. So the idealist finds himself condemned to a meager
life, unless his idealism brings him wealth, and he drifts in
spirit away from the character of his youth. It is the strain of
life, the fear of old age and sickness, the silent pressure of
the deprivations of a man's beloved ones, the feeling of
helplessness in disaster and the silent envious feeling of
inferiority that makes inroads in the ranks of the idealists so
that at twenty there are ten idealists to the one found at forty.

I remember well one of my colleagues, working patiently in a
laboratory, out of sight of the world and out of the stream of
financial reward, enthused by science and service, who threw up
his work and went into the practice of medicine. "Why?" I asked
him. "Because when one of my brothers took sick and was in dire
need, I who loved him could not help. I had no money, and all my
monographs put together could not help him buy a meal. There is a
cousin of ours, who has grown rich running a cheap moving-picture
house, where the taste of the community is debauched every day.
He lent my brother two thousand dollars out of his superfluities;
it involved no sacrifice to him, for he purchased a third car at
the same time--and yet HE is our savior. Love alone is a torture.
I am going to get money."

The world is built up on the sacrifices of the idealists, and
eternally it crucifies them. Wealth and power are to him who has
a marketable commodity, and one cannot complain when true genius
becomes rich. But the genius to make money may be and often
is--an exploiting type of ability, a selfishly practical
industry, which neither invents nor is of great service. The men
who now do the basic work in invention and scientific work in
laboratories are poorly paid and only now and then honored. Every
year in the United States hundreds of them leave their work in
research and seek "paying jobs," to the impoverishment of the
world, but to their own financial benefit. Countries where the
scramble for wealth is not so keen, where the best brains do not
find themselves pressed into business, produce far more science,
art and literature than we do, with all our wealth. We will
continue to be a second-rate nation in these regards, still
looking for our great American novel and play, still seeking real
singers and artists, until our idealism can withstand the
pressure of our practical civilization.

For here is a great division in people. There are those who
become enthused by the noble aims of life, by the superiority and
service that come in the work of teacher, priest, physician,
scientist, philosopher and philanthropist, and those that seek
superiority and power in wealth, station and influence. Those
who, will fellowship and those who will power is a short way of
putting it, the idealists and the practical is another.
Fellowship is built up on sympathy, pity, friendliness and the
desire to help others; it is essentially democratic, and in it
runs the cooperative activities of man. For it is not true that
"competition is the life of trade"; cooperation is its life. Men
dig ore in mines, others transport their produce, others smelt it
and work it into shape, according to the designs and plans of
still other men; then it is transported by new groups and
marketed by an endless chain of men whose labors dovetail to the
end that mankind has a tool, a habitation or an ornament. The
past and present cooperate in this labor, as do the remote ends
of the earth. Competition is the SPUR of trade; its mighty
sinews, its strong heart and stout lungs are cooperative.

Power is aristocratic, and elaborates and calls into play
competitive spirit. In all men the desire for power and the
desire for fellowship blend and interplay in their ambitions and
activities; in some fellowship predominates, in others power. If
a man specializes in fellowship aims, without learning the secret
of power, he is usually futile and sterile of results; if a man
seeks power only and disregards fellowship, is hated and is a
tyrant, cruel and without pity. To be an idealist and practical
is of course difficult and usually involves a compromise of the
ideal. Some degree of compromise is necessary, and the rigid
idealist would have a better sanction for his refusal to
compromise if he or any one could be sure of the perfection of
his ideal.

The practical seek their own welfare or the welfare of others
through direct means, through exerting the power and the
influence that is money and station. Rarely do they build for a
distant future, and their goal is in some easily and popularly
understood good. What they say and what they do applies to
getting rich or healthy, to being good in a conventional way;
success is their goal and that success lies in the tangibles of
life. They easily become sordid and mean, since it is not
possible always to separate good and evil when one is governed by
expediency and limited idea of welfare. This is also true,--that
while the practical usually tend to lose idealism entirely, and
find themselves the tools of habits and customs they cannot break
from, now and then a practical man reaches a high place of power
and becomes the idealist.

Though all men seek power and fellowship, we have a right to ask
what are a man's leading pursuits. And we must be prepared to
tear off a mask before we understand the most of our fellows, for
society and all of life is permeated with disguise. Now and then
one seeks to appear worse than he is, hates fuss and praise, but
this rare bird (to use slang and Latin in one phrase) is the
exception that proves the rule that men on the whole try to
appear better than they are. Rarely does a man say, "I am after
profit and nothing else," although occasionally he does; rarely
does the scientist say, "I seek fame and reward," even though his
main stimulus may be this desire and not the ideal of adding to
the knowledge of the world. Behind the philanthropist may lurk
the pleasure in changing the lives of others, behind the reformer
the picture of himself in history. The best of men may and do
cherish power motives, and we must say that to seek power is
ethically good, provided it does not injure fellowship. One must
not, however, be misled by words; duty, service, fellowship come
as often to the lips of the selfish as the unselfish.

We spoke of power as a form of superiority. Since all superiority
is comparative, there are various indirect ways of seeking
superiority and avoiding inferiority. One of these is by adverse
criticism of our fellows. The widespread love of gossip, the
quick and ever-present tendency to disparage others, especially
the fortunate and the successful, are manifestations of this type
of superiority seeking. Half the humor of the world is the
pleasure, produced by a technique, of feeling superior to the
boor, the pedant, the fool, the new rich, the pompous, the
over-dignified, etc. Half, more than half, of the conversation
that goes on in boudoir, dining room, over the drinks and in the
smoking room, is criticism, playful and otherwise, of others.
There are people in whom the adversely critical spirit is so
highly developed that they find it hard to praise any one or to
hear any one praised--their criticism leaps to the surface in one
way or another, in the sneer, in the "butt," in the joke, in the
gibe, in the openly expressed attack. This way of being superior
may be direct and open, more often it is disguised. Many a woman
(and man) who denounces the sinner receives from her
contemplation of that sinner the most of her feeling of virtue
and goodness. The more bitterly the self-acknowledged "saint"
denounces the sinner, the more, by implication, he praises
himself.

People seek the strangest roads to the feeling of superiority.
From that classical imbecile who burnt down the Temple of Diana
to the crop of young girls who invent tales of white slavery in
order to stand in the public eye as conspicuous victims,
notoriety has been mistaken for fame by those desperate for
public attention. To be superior some way, even if only in crime
and foolishness, brings about an immense amount of laughable and
deplorable conduct to which only a Juvenal could do justice. The
world yields to superiority such immense tribute that to obtain
recognition as superior becomes a dominant motive. How that
superiority is to be reached presents great difficulties, and the
problem is solved according to the character of the individual.

At the same time that we seek superiority we seek to be liked, to
be esteemed, to be respected. These are not the same things, but
are sufficiently alike in principle to be classed together. With
some the desire to be liked becomes a motive that ruins firmness
of purpose and success, as in the well-known "good
fellow,"--accommodating, obliging and friendly, who sacrifices
achievement to this minor form of fellowship. On a larger plane
there is the writer or artist who sacrifices his best capacities
in order to please the popular fancy, seeks popularity rather
than greatness, for it is seldom that the two coincide. Back of
many a man's "respectability" is the fear of being disliked or
discredited by his group. TO BE RESPECTABLE, TO LIVE SO THAT
NEITHER THE NEIGHBORS NOR ONE'S OWN RATHER UNCRITICAL CONSCIENCE
CAN CRITICIZE, IS PERHAPS THE MOST COMMON AIM IN LIFE. There are
some who are all things to all men, merely out of the desire to
be agreeable, who find it easy to agree with any opinion, because
they have not the courage to be disliked. Even the greatest men
yield to the desire to be admired and liked, though the test of
greatness is unpopularity.

For there never can be a real and lasting democ-racy in belief,
opinion and ideal. The mass must always lag behind the leaders,
since it takes a generation or two for the ideas of the old
leaders to permeate any society. Now and then a great leader
finds a great following in his own lifetime, but his leadership
rarely involves a new principle. There will always be a few
ground breakers, behind them a few straggling followers, and far,
far behind, the great mass of mankind.

This digression aside, to be popular, agreeable and entertaining
are both aims and weapons. Most of us would infinitely rather be
liked than disliked, and with some it is a passion and a
weakness. But to be popular, to be a good fellow, is an
extraordinarily useful trait when combined with firm purposes and
good intelligence. The art of life is to please, though its
business is achievement and success, and here the art may further
the business. Manners, courtesy and certain of the abilities,
such as musical talent, story telling and humor are cultivated
largely, though not wholly, out of the desire to please.

Manners and courtesy are really standardized methods of behavior,
which are to adjust us in a pleasing way to our superiors, equals
and inferiors, and to the various conventional situations of
life. Naturally these will vary greatly in different ages and
different countries. A democracy acknowledging in theory no
superiors will insist that every man be called "sir" and every
woman "madam," whereas an aristocracy laughs at that. In reality
there is no democracy anywhere, and so we address differently the
woman of the mansion and the woman of the hovel, The mistress of
the house calls her maid by her first name but would wonder what
the world is coming to if the maid became as familiar. In a
limited sense, manners and courtesy are conventional ways of
doing things, as the way of living, the tipping of the hat, the
form of greetings, the way of eating, but these conventions have
great value to the majority of people as evidencing breeding and
training or the lack (superiority or inferiority), and also as
removing doubt and choice, so that things run smoothly and
without contradiction. In a more noble sense, manners and
courtesy prescribe conduct in order to proscribe offense to the
self-valuation of others. Convention says, "Address people as if
they were your equals at least; don't contradict brusquely
because that implies their inferiority or stupidity; avoid too
controversial topics since bitterness and humiliation may thus
arise; do not notice defects or disabilities for the same reason;
do not brag or be too conspicuous, since to boast of superiority
is to imply the inferiority of others, and they will dislike
you," etc. We tend to dislike and hate those who make us feel
inferior, except under those special circumstances where
sex-love, awe and admiration enter to make a certain inferiority
desirable or befitting. So a large part of manners and courtesy
concern themselves with the formulae of conduct which avoid this
result to others, and we are also enjoined to conduct ourselves
so that others will not regard us as inferior. We speak of a man
as a "low person" if he eats with his knife, and very few things
so humiliate us as the knowledge that we have behaved in an
unmannerly way. One of the great purposes, then, is to be
conventional, to behave, dress and "look" according to an
accepted standard, one that is laid down for age, sex and social
station. There are people to whom convention is truly almost
holy, and true to our principle of variability, there are others
who hate convention.

Because many writers have shot shafts of satire and ridicule at
convention and custom, and because of the enormous reading
public, the artificial nature of convention has been emphasized
to that large part of the community that desires to be different
merely for the sake of being different, and there is built up a
conventional unconventionality. It has become the mark of the
artist, the great in spirit, to be unconventional (at least in
novels), and so there are a hundred "unconventional" poseurs to
one genuinely free in spirit. Anything that becomes a dogma or a
cult is not unconventional, for it is the standard or the custom
of a group. Most Bohemians, so-called, are poseurs and
conventionalized to their marrow. And most of the really
unconventional are "freaks," "odd sticks" whose grotesque
individualities cannot conform. But in the mass of the
unconventional one finds here and there, like nuggets of gold in
sand, the true reformers of the world.

The "poseurs" in custom have their analogies in the pompous,
over-dignified and over-important; the affected, in a word.
Affectation is felt to be a disharmony between the pose and the
inner values or an attempt to win superiority or "difference" of
a superior kind by acting. In either case it excites ridicule,
hatred or disgust, and shafts at it form part of the stock in
trade of the satirist, humorist and indeed every portrayer of
life. What men demand of each other is sincerity, and even where
the insincerity is merely a habitual pose it arouses hostile
feeling which expresses itself all the way from criticism to the
overt act.

Since to feel superior is so highly prized in social
relationships of all kinds, part of the technique of those
seeking some advantage or other--economic, social, personal--from
those who must be influenced is to give them the feeling of
superiority. Flattery, cajolement, humble supplication and the
finer maneuvers of tact, all have this in mind. These however are
palatable to the intelligent only when felt to be sincere and
when emanating from some one more or less esteemed, though there
are plenty who "fall" for the grossest flattery from almost any
one, whose ego feeling is easily inflated with a corresponding
shrinking in judgment and common sense. In the relations of men
and women, flattery in one shape or another plays an enormous
role --from the effect on women of the statement or implication
in a subtle or gross way that they are charming, and the effect
on men of acknowledged superiority in strength courage or
intelligence. Of course, in both cases the effect is partly in
the physical attractiveness of the flatterer and tends to become
ridiculous when he or she is without charm. The simpering
language that is irresistible when uttered by a starry-eyed maid
of eighteen loses somewhat in beauty and effect when emanating
from the lips of bespectacled forty. The power to use and the
power to resist flattery in any of its forms have played almost
as great a role in the history of the race as strength, beauty or
intelligence.

It would be futile to elaborate in detail the various ways of
seeking superiority or resisting inferiority. Two directions of
this impulse need some attention, as they lead to personality
traits of great importance. "Having one's way" becomes a dominant
desire with many people, and much of the clashing that occurs in
families, organizations and the council chambers of nations
arises from a childish, egoistic seeking of superiority. People
enter into the most heated and sterile arguments, often coming to
blows, if the course of conduct they desire to have followed is
modified or blocked. Even when secretly convinced that they are
wrong, husbands and wives will continue to insist on victory, for
too often the domestic relationship is a struggle for leadership
and dominance rather than a partnership and a conference. Two
heads are better than one when the intelligence within the heads
is of good grade and when the desire for superiority does not
take trivial directions. And the effect of yielding to the whims
of children is to develop an irritable, domineering egoism bent
on having its own way, resisting reasonable compromise or
correction. The greatest benefit of discipline and above all of
contact with equals to a child is in the effect on this phase of
egoism, i. e., that cooperation means compromise; to be
reasonable implies listening with respect to others' plans and to
accept better ways of doing things, even if they have originated
with others; in other ways the subordinating of trivial egoism.
The large families of other days offered the conflict of wills
and its consequent lesson within the home; to-day the solitary
child, or the one whose brother or sister is three, four or five
years younger or older must go into the streets to obtain this
discipline or else go without. The indulged have this form of
inferior egoism more than do those who have been roughly handled,
and so it is more common in women of the better-to-do classes and
in men who have always exercised authority. It is of course found
in what is known as the stubborn person, --he whose will is law
to himself and who seeks to make it law to others. Ordinarily the
stubborn person is merely a nuisance, but also, if he couples
that stubbornness with intelligence and some especial ability, he
may reach great heights, though he is seldom popular.

A sub-form of having one's own way is the adherence to one's own
"opinion." The clash of opinions is in its noblest aspect the
basis of knowledge; the correction of opinion that results when
man meets man is the growth of tolerance and urbanity. Wide
reading, travel and experience teach us that our opinions can
never be absolutely right, and we grow to look upon them in a
detached sort of way. In fact, the prime result of the growth of
intelligence and of experience is to make one, as it were,
objective toward oneself, to view one's own thoughts, beliefs and
emotions with some humor and skepticism. But the uncultured, the
narrow, the inexperienced, the young and the strongly egotistic
never detach themselves from their opinions, and their opinions
are themselves. Attack an opinion, contradict or amend it,--and a
sort of fighting spirit is aroused. Argument differs from
discussion in that it seeks all means to win--ridicule,
sophistry, and personal attack --and it is by far the more
common. There was a time when opinion was entirely enslaved, when
only the ruler might venture on a new belief or its expression;
then there came a time when the right to freedom of opinion and
its expression was conceded, and now, with huge forces
confronting one another, freedom of opinion[1] is again
threatened. But that is an issue larger than our subject.

[1] The most profound contribution to the subject of discussion
and freedom of opinion in recent years has been written by Walter
Lippman in the Atlantic Monthly, September, 1920.


You may judge a man by his type of argument and his reaction to
the opinions of others. One should hold to his own beliefs and
opinions, but only if they withstand the assaults of reason. To
build ego feeling into opinions is to make ignorance sacred. For
most of us there are certain opinions that we will not tolerate,
and there are others to which we are indifferent. There are those
who feel it incumbent on themselves to contradict any opinion,
even if they agree fundamentally with it. The mere fact that some
one else gave it utterance arouses a sort of jealousy. Then there
are others who will not permit any opinion of their own to be
discussed, to whom it is a personal affront to do this. What we
call urbanity is tolerance of other opinions; what we call
reasonableness is the willingness to change opinions if
convinced. What we call vacillation is to have no fixed opinion,
to be influenced at once by the opinions of others. The pleasure
sought in argument is a victory for our opinions and thus for
ourselves.

Here Montaigne's wisdom aptly expresses itself: "We deride
ourselves a hundred times when we mock our neighbor." He is
stubborn and unreasonable who does not agree with us. "Be
reasonable," cry the unreasonable as they argue. "How stubborn
and pigheaded you are," say those inaccessible to reason. The
difficulty in reaching a true estimate of the world, ourselves
and our neighbors lies in the egoism which permeates our beliefs
and opinions.

A second direction of the impulse to superiority is personal
beauty. Not only does the young girl (or any other, male or
female) dress and adorn herself to attract those whose good
opinion she seeks, but also she seeks superiority over her
competitors. Her own self-valuation increases with the
admiration of some and the discomfiture of others. To be
beautiful, attractive or pretty becomes thus a goal to many aims
of the personality; it offers a route to success in obtaining
power, riches, etc.; it yields the longed-for admiration, and it
gives the satisfaction of superiority. It rarely has in it any
ideal of service or of help, though beauty in the abstract is an
ideal of high value. To desire to be beautiful physically as a
leading aim usually leads to selfishness and petty vanity. As a
subsidiary aim it balances character, but unfortunately, as we
have before seen, it is inculcated as a primary aim early in the
life of a girl. True, men seek to be beautiful in a masculine
way, but the goal of masculine beauty is strength, which is
directly serviceable. This is not to say that there are no men
who are vain of their good looks, for there are many. But only
occasionally does one find a man who organizes his life efforts
to be beautiful, who establishes criteria of success or failure
on complexion, hair, features of face and lines of figure. So
long, therefore, as woman can obtain power through beauty and sex
appeal, so long may we expect a trivial trend in her character.

We have lost track of our hypothetical child in the history of
his character development, lost sight of him as he struggles in a
morass of desires and purposes of power, fellowship and
superiority. His situations become still more complex as we watch
him seek to unify his life around permanent purposes, against a
pestering, surging, recurring, temporary desire. He desires, let
us say, to conform to the restriction in sex, but as he
approaches adolescence, within and without stimuli of breathless
ardor assail him. He must inhibit them if he proposes to be
chaste, and his continent road is beset with never-resting
temptations. He calls himself a fool at times for resisting, and
his mind pictures the delights he misses--if not from direct
experience, from information he gathers in books and from those
who know--and if he yields, then self-reproach embitters him. But
correctly to portray the situation is to drop our hypothetical
adolescent, for here is where individual reaction and individual
situations are too varied to be met with in one case. Some do not
inhibit their sex desires at all; others resist now and then,
others yield occasionally; still others remain faithful to the
ideal. Some drop the conventional ideal and replace with
unconventional substitutes, some resist at great cost to
themselves, and others find no difficulty in resisting what is no
temptation at all to them. Passion, resistance, opportunity,
training and sublimation differ as remarkably as nuns differ from
prostitutes.

A similar situation is found in the work purposes. To work
steadily, with industry and unflagging effort, at something
perhaps not inherently attractive is not merely a measure of
energy,--it is a measure of inhibition and will. For there are so
many more immediate pleasures to be had, even if offering only
variety and relaxation. There is the country, there is the lake
for fishing; there is the dance hall where a pretty girl smiles
as your arm encircles her waist; there is the ball field where on
a fine day you may go and forget duty and strained effort in the
swirl of an enthusiasm that emanates from the thousands around
you as they applaud the splendid athletes; there is the good
fellowship and pleasure that beckon as you bend to a task. To
shut these out, to inhibit the temporary "good" for the permanent
good, is the measure of character.

These sex and work situations we must take up in detail in
separate chapters. What is important is that as life goes on,
necessity, the social organization and gradual concentration of
energy canalize the purposes, reduce the power of the irrelevant
and temporary desires. Habit and custom bring a person into
definite relationship with society; the man becomes husband,
father, worker in some definite field of industry; ambition
becomes narrowed down to the possibilities or is entirely
discarded as hopeless. The character becomes a collection of
habits, with some controlling purpose and some characteristic
relaxations. This at least is true of the majority of men. Here
and there are those who have not been able to form a unification
even along such simple lines; they are without steady habits,
derelicts morally, financially and socially, or if with means
independent of personal effort they are wastrels and idlers. And
again there are the doers and thinkers of the world, the
fortunate, whose lives are associated with successful purposes,
whose ambitions grow and grow until they reach the power of which
they dreamed. There are the reformers living in a fever heat of
purpose, disdaining rest and relaxation, dangerously near
fanaticism and not far from mental unbalance, but achieving
through that unbalance things the balanced never have the will to
attempt. He who works merely to get rich or powerful or to
provide food for his family cannot understand the zealots who see
the world as a place where SOMETHING MUST happen,--where slavery
MUST be abolished, women MUST have votes, children MUST go to
school until sixteen, prostitution MUST disappear, alcohol MUST
be prohibited, etc. Such people miss the pretty, pleasant
relaxing joys of life, but they gain in intensity of life what
they lose in diffuseness.

This war of the permanent unified purposes versus the temporary
scattering desires--the power of inhibition --is involved in the
health and vigor of the person. Disease, fatigue and often enough
old age show themselves in lowered purpose, in the failure of the
will (in the sense of the energy of purpose), in a scattering of
activity. Indeed, in the senile states one too often sees the
disappearance of moral control where one least expected it. And
one of the greatest tragedies of our times occurred when an
elderly statesman, on the brink of arterial disease of the brain,
lost the strength and firmness of purpose that hitherto had
characterized him. One of the worst features of the government of
nations is the predominance of old men in the governing bodies.
For not only are they apt to have over-intellectualized life,
not only have they become specialists in purpose and therefore
narrow, but the atrophy of the passions and desires of youth and
middle life has rendered them unfit to legislate for the bulk of
the race, who are the young and middle-aged. It is no true
democracy where old age governs the rest of the periods of life.

Unification of purpose often goes too far. Men lose sight of the
duties they owe to wife and family in their pursuit of wealth or
fame; they forget that relaxation and pleasure-seeking are normal
and legitimate aims. They deify a purpose; they attach it to
themselves so that it becomes more essentially themselves than
their religion or their family. They speak of their work as if
every letter were capitalized and lose sympathy and interest in
the rest of the wide striving world. Men grow hard, even if
philanthropists, in too excessive a devotion to a purpose, and
soon it is their master, and they are its slaves. Happy is he who
can follow his purpose efficiently and earnestly, but who can
find interest in many things, pleasure in the wide range of joys
the world offers and a youthful curiosity and zest in the new.

Every human being, no matter how civilized and unified, how
modern and social in his conduct, has within him a core of
uncivilized, disintegrating, ancient and egoistic desires and
purposes. "I feel two natures struggling within me" is the
epitome of every man's life. This is what has been called
conflict by the psychoanalysts, and my own disagreement with them
is that I believe it to be distinctly conscious in the main. A
man knows that the pretty young girls he meets tempt him from his
allegiance to his wife and his desires to be good; a woman knows
that the prosaic husband no longer pleases, and why he does not
please,--only if you ask either of them bluntly and directly they
will deny their difficulties. The organic activities of the body,
basic in desire of all kinds, are crude and give rise to crude
forbidden wishes, but the struggle that goes on is repressed,
rebelled against and gives rise to trains of secondary
symptoms,--fatigue, headache, indigestion, weariness of life and
many other complaints. It is perfectly proper to complain of
headache, but it is a humiliation to say that you have chosen
wrongly in marriage, or that you are essentially polygamous, or
that an eight-hour day of work at clerking or bookkeeping
disgusts and bores you. People complain of that which is proper
and allows them to maintain self-respect, but they hide that
which may lower them in the eyes of others. Gain their
confidence, show that you see deeper than their words and you get
revelations that need no psychoanalytic technique to elicit and
which are distinctly conscious.

This brings me to the point that the constant inhibition,
blocking and balking of desires and wishes, though in part
socially necessary and ethically justifiable, is decidedly
wearisome, at times to all, and to many at all times. It seems so
easy and pleasant to relax in purposes, in morals, in thought, to
be a vagrant spirit seeking nothing but the pleasures right at
hand; to be like a traditional bee flitting from the rose to rose
of desire. (Only the bee is a decidedly purposive creature, out
for business not pleasure.) "Why all this striving and
self-control?" cries the unorganized in all of us. "Why build up
when Death tears down?" cries the pessimist in our hearts. Great
epochs in history are marked by different answers to these
questions, and in our own civilization there has grown up a
belief that bodily pleasure in itself is wrong, that life is
vanity unless yoked to service and effort. The Puritan idea that
we best serve God in this way has been modified by a more
skeptical idea that we serve man by swinging our efforts away
from bodily pleasure and toward work, organized to some good end;
but essentially the idea of inhibition, control, as the highest
virtue, remains. Such an ideal gains force for a time, then grows
too wearisome, too extreme, and a generation grows up that throws
it off and seeks pleasure frankly; paints, powders, dances,
sings, develops the art of "living," indulges the sense; becomes
loose in morals, and hyperesthetic and over-refined in tastes.
Then the ennui, boredom and disgust that always follow sensual
pleasures become diffuse; happiness cannot come through the
seeking of pleasure and excitement and anhedonia of the exhausted
type arises. Preachers, prophets, seers and poets vigorously
proclaim the futility of pleasure, and the happiness of service;
inhibition comes into its own again and a Puritan cycle
recommences. Stoic, epicurean; Roman republic, Roman empire;
Puritan England, Restoration; Victorian days, early twentieth
century; for to-day we are surging into an era of revolt against
form, custom, tradition; in a word against inhibition.

As with periods, so with people; self-indulgence, i. e.,
indulgence of the passing desires, follows the idealism of
adolescence. Youth sows its wild oats. Then the steadying
purposes appear partly because the pleasure of indulgence passes.
Marriage, responsibility, straining effort mark the passing of
ten or a dozen years; then in middle life, and often before,
things get flat and without savor, monotony creeps in and a
curiosity as to the possibilities of pleasure formerly
experienced is awakened. (I believe that most of the sexual
unfaithfulness in men and women over thirty springs not from
passion but from curiosity.)

There occurs a dangerous age in the late thirties and early
forties, one in which self-indulgence makes itself clamorous. The
monotony of labor, the fatigue of inhibition make themselves
felt, and at this time men (and women) need to add relaxation and
pleasure of a legitimate kind. Golf, the fishing trip, games of
all kinds; legitimate excitement which need not be inhibited is
necessary. This need of excitement without inhibition is behind
most of the gambling and card playing; it explains the
extraordinary attraction of the detective story and the thrilling
movies; it gives great social value to the prize fight and the
ball game where you may see the staid and the sober giving vent
to an excitement that, may fatigue them for a time but which
clears the way for their next day's inhibitions.

Unfortunately too many mistake excitement for happiness. The
forms of relief from inhibition--card playing, sports, the
theater, the thrilling story and the movie--grow to be habits and
lose their exciting value. They can give no permanent relief from
the pain of repression; only a philosophy of life can do that. A
philosophy of life! One might write a few volumes on that (and
there are so many great philosophers already on the market), and
yet such a philosophy would only state that strenuous purpose
must alternate with quiet relaxation; excitement is to be sought
only at periods and never for any length of time; relief from
inhibitions can only be found in legitimate ways or self-reproach
enters. Play, sports, short frequent vacations rather than long
ones, freedom from ceremony as a rule--but now and then a full
indulgence in ceremonials--and a realization that there is no
freedom in self-indulgence.

I remember one Puritanically bred young woman who fled from her
restrictions and inhibitions and joined a "free love" colony in
New York. After two years she left, them and came back to New
England. Her statement of the situation she found herself; it
summarizes all attempts at "freedom." "It wasn't freedom. You
found yourself bound to your desires, a slave to every wish. It
grew awfully tiresome and besides, it brought so many
complications. Sometimes you loved where you weren't loved--and
vice versa. Jealousy was there, oh, so much of it--and pleasure
disappeared after a while. It wasn't conscience--I still believe
that right and wrong are arbitrary matters --but I found myself
envying people who had some guide, some belief, some restrictions
in themselves! For it seemed to me they were more free than I."

The fact is, for most men and women inhibition is no artificial
phenomenon, despite its burdensomeness. It is not only
inevitable, it is desirable. A feeling of power appears when one
resists; there is mental gain, character growth as a result. Life
must be purposive else it is vain and futile, and the feeling of
no achievement and failure is far more disastrous than a thousand
inhibitions.

Though man battles and compromises with himself, he also battles
and compromises with his fellows and circumstances. That is to
say, he must continually adjust himself to the unforeseen, the
obstacle, the favoring circumstance; the possible and impossible;
the certain and uncertain. Adjustment to reality is what the
neurologists call it, but they do not define reality, which
indeed cannot be defined. It is not the same thing for any two
persons. For some reality is success, for others it is virtue.
The scientist smiles at the reality of the love-sick girl, and
she would think his reality a bad dream. The artist says, "Beauty
is the reality"; the miser says, "Cash"; the sentimentalist
answers, "None of this but Love"; and the philosopher, aloof from
all these, defines reality as "Truth." And the skeptic asks,
"What is Truth?" We gain nothing by saying a man must adjust
himself to reality; we say something definite when we say he must
adjust his wishes to his abilities, to the opposing wills,
wisher, and abilities of others; to the needs of his family and
his country; to disease, old age and death; to the flux of the
river of life. In the quickness of adjustment we have a great
character factor; in the farsightedness of adjustment
(foreseeing, planning) we have another. Does a man take his
difficulties with courage and good cheer does he make the "best
of it" or is he plunged into doubt and indecision by obstacles or
complications? Is he calm, cool, collected, well poised, in that
he watches and works without too much emotion and maintains
self-feeling against adversity? We say a man is self-reliant when
he finds in himself resources against obstacles and does not call
on his neighbors for help. We would do well to extend the term to
the one whose fund of courage, hope, energy and resource springs
largely from within himself; who resists the forces that reduce
courage, hope and energy. A higher sort of man not only supplies
himself with the energetic factors of character, but he inspires,
as we say, others; he is a sort of bank of these qualities, with
high reserves which he gives to others. Contrast him with those
whose cry constantly is "Help, help." Charming they may be as
ornaments, but they deplete the treasury of life for their
associates and are only of value as they call out the altruism of
others.

There is no formula for adjustment. Intelligence, insight into
one's powers and capacities, caution, boldness, compromise,
firmness, aggressiveness, tact,--these and a dozen other traits
and qualities come into play. It is a favorite teaching of
optimistic sentimentalists, "Will conquers everything--it is
omnipotent." God's will is,--but no one else's. What happens when
two will and pray for diametrically opposing results? "Then God
is on the side of the heaviest battalions," said Napoleon.
Victory comes to the best prepared, the most intelligent, the
least hampered and the luckiest. Outside of metaphysics and
theology there is no abstract will; it is a part of purpose,
intelligence and instinct and shares in their imperfections and
limitations. To will the impossible is to taste failure, although
it may be difficult to know what is impossible. Fight hard, be
brave, keep your powder dry and have good friends is the best
counsel for adjustment. But learn resignation and cultivate a
sense of humor.

No inspiration in that? Well, I must leave inspiration to others
who have an infallible formula. The best I can offer in
adjustment is the old prayer, "Lord, make me love the chase and
not the quarry! Lord, make me live up to my ideals!"

Out of the welter of conflicts into which the individual is
plunged through his own nature and the nature of the life around
him, out of the experience of the race and the teaching of its
leaders come ideals. Good, Beauty, Justice,--these are good
deeds, beautiful things, true and non-contradictory expressions,
just acts raised to the divine and absolute, and therefore
worshiped. And their opposite, arising from evil deeds, ugly and
disgusting things, misleading experiences and suffering, become
unified into various forms of Evil. Life becomes divided into two
parts, Good and Evil, and personified (by the great majority)
into God and the Devil. Man seeks the Good, hates Evil, esteems
himself when he conforms to the ideal, loathes himself when he
violates it. He cannot judge himself; he wishes to know the
judgment of others and accepts or rejects that judgment.

We say man seeks pleasure, satisfaction, the Good. True. But it
is important to know that essentially he seeks a higher
self-valuation, seeks to establish his own dignity and worth and
has his highest satisfaction when that valuation is reached
through conformity with absolute standards.



CHAPTER XII. THE METHODS OF PURPOSE--WORK CHARACTERS

Having asked concerning any person, "What are his purposes?"
whether of power or fellowship, whether permanent or transitory,
whether adjustable or not, we next ask, "How does he seek their
fulfillment?"

"He who wills the end wills the means" is an old saying, but men
who will the same end may will different means. There have been
those who used assassination to bring about reform, and there are
plenty who use philanthropy to hasten their egoistic aims. The
nihilist who throws a bomb to bring about an altruistic state is
own cousin to the ward heeler who gives coal to his poor
constituents so that his grafting rule may continue.

1. There are those who use the direct route of force to reach
their goal of desire and purpose. They attempt to make no nice
adjustments of their wishes to the wishes of others; the
obstacle, whether human or otherwise must get out of their way or
be forcibly removed or destroyed. "A straight line is the
shortest distance between two points," and there is only one
absolute law,--"the good old rule, the simple plan that they may
take who have the power and they may keep who can." The
individuals who react this way to obstacles are choleric,
passionate, egoistic and in the last analysis somewhat brutal.
This is especially true if they seek force at first, for with
nearly all of us extreme provocation or desperation brings
direct-action measures.

Conspicuously those accustomed to arbitrary power use this
method. They have grown accustomed to believing that their will
or wish is a cause, able to remove obstacles of all kinds. When
at all opposed the angry reaction is extreme, and they tend to
violence at once. The old-fashioned home was modeled in tyranny,
and the force reaction of the father and husband to his children
and wife was sanctioned by law and custom. The attitude of the
employer to employee, universally in the past and still
prominent, was that of the master, able in ancient times to use
physical punishment and in our day to cut off a man's livelihood
if he showed any rebellion. In a larger social way War is crude
brute force, and those who delude themselves that the God of
victory is a righteous God have read history with a befoozled
mind. Force, though the world rests on it, is a terrible weapon
and engenders brutality in him who uses it and rebellion, hate
and humiliation in him upon whom it is used. It is an insult to
the dignity and worth of the human being. It must be used for
disciplining purposes only,--on children, on the criminal, and
then more to restrain than to punish. It cannot disappear from
the world, but it should be minimized. Only the sentimentalized
believe it can disappear entirely, only the brutal rejoice in its
use. Force is a crude way of asserting and obtaining superiority;
the gentle hate to use it, for it arouses their sympathy for
their opponent. Whoever preaches force as the first weapon in any
struggle is either deluded as to its value or an enemy of
mankind.

As a non-inhibited response, force and brutality appear in the
mentally sick. General paresis, cerebral arterio-selerosis,
alcoholic psychoses present classical examples of the impatient
brutal reaction, often in men hitherto patient and gentle.

2. Strategy or cunning appears as a second great method of
obtaining the fulfillment of one's purposes. We all use strategy
in the face of superior or equal power, just as we tend to use
force confronted by inferiority. There is of course a legitimate
use of cunning, but there is also an anti-social trend to it,
quite evident in those who by nature or training are schemers.
The strategist in love, war or business simulates what he does
not feel, is not frank or sincere in his statements and believes
firmly that the end justifies the means. He uses the indirect
force of the lie, the slander, insinuation --he has no aversion
to flattery and bribery--he uses spies and false witnesses. He is
a specialist in the unexpected and seeks to lull suspicion and
disarms watchfulness, waiting for the moment to strike. Sometimes
he weaves so tangled a web that he falls into it himself, and one
of the stock situations in humor, the novel and the stage is
where the cunning schemer falls into the pit he has dug for
others. In his highest aspect he is the diplomat; in his lowest
he is the sneak. People who are weak or cowardly tend to the use
of these methods, but also there is a group of the strong who
hate direct force and rather like the subtler weapons.

The strategist tends to be quite cynical, and his effect on his
fellow men is to increase cynicism and pessimism. They who have
suffered through the schemer grow to suspect their fellows under
any guise. They become suspicious and hard, determined never to
trust any one again. Indeed, practical wisdom to a large extent
is the wisdom of strategy and is full of mottoes and proverbs
inculcating non-generous ideals. When people have been "fooled"
or misled, the most valuable of the social cementing qualities,
faith in one's fellows, is weakened. Despite the disintegrating
effect of unscrupulous shrewdness, it is common enough to hear
men say of a successful votary of the art, "Well, I give him
credit. He is a very clever fellow, and he has brought home the
bacon." Success is so highly prized and admired that the means of
obtaining it becomes secondary in the eyes of the majority.

3. The role of speech in the relationships of human beings is of
course too great to be over-estimated. Speech becomes the prime
weapon in swaying and molding the opinions and acts of others. It
is the medium of the threat of force and the stratagem of
cunning, but also it enters human life as the medium of
persuasion and conviction. The speech ability, the capacity to
use words in attaining purpose, shows as striking variations as
any other capacity.

Though a function of intelligence, the power to speak (and write)
convincingly and easily, is not at all related to other phases of
intelligence. Though it can be cultivated, good verbalism is an
innate ability, and a most valuable one. The power to speak
clearly so as to express what is on one's own mind is uncommon,
as any one can testify who has watched people struggling to
express themselves. "You know" is a very frequent phrase in the
conversation of the average man, and he means that, "My words are
inadequate, but you know what I mean." The delight in the good
writer or speaker is that he relieves other people's
dissatisfaction in their own inadequate expression by saying what
they yearn to say for themselves, thus giving them a vicarious
achievement.

But the power of clear expression is not at all the power of
persuasion, although it may be a part of it. One may clearly
express himself and antagonize others. The persuader seeks to
discover the obstacles to agreement with him in the minds of
others and to remove or nullify them. He may seek to do this by a
clear exposition of his wishes and desires, by showing how these
will benefit the others (or at least not harm them), by meeting
logically or otherwise the objections and demonstrating their
futility. This he will attempt, if he is wise and practical, only
in a limited group or among those who are keen-minded and open to
reason. Even with them he will have to kindle and maintain their
interest, and he must arouse a favorable emotional state.

This latter is the principal goal in persuasion. Every good
speaker or writer who seeks to reach the mass of people needs the
effect of the great feelings--of patriotism, sympathy and
humor--needs flattery, gross or subtle, makes people laugh or
smile or feel kindly disposed to him before he attempts to get
their cooperation. He must place himself on their level, be
regarded as one of them; fellowship and the cooperative
tendencies must be awakened before logic will have value.

The persuader cuts his cloth to suit his case. He is a
psychologist of the intuitive type. He may thunder and scold if
he finds in his audience, whether numbering one or a million, a
tendency to yield to authority, and he then poses as that
authority, handing out his dicta in an awe-inspiring fashion. He
will awaken the latent trend to ridicule and scoffing by pointing
out inconsistency in others, or he may awaken admiration for his
fairness and justice by lauding his opponent, taking care not to
overdo it.

Persuasion is often a part of scheming, rarely is it used by the
forceful, except in the authoritative way or to arouse anger
against the opponent. It is the weapon of those who believe in
democracy, for all exposition has persuasion as its motive. A
statement must not only be true to others,--to the mass.
Therefore persuasion as applied to the great mass of people is
rarely closely knit or a fine exposition of truth and historical
evolution; that one must leave for the highbrow book or treatise.
It is passionate and pleading; it thunders and storms; it has wit
and humor; it deals with symbols and analogies, it plays on the
words of truth, justice, ideals, patriotism. It may be honest and
truthful, but it cannot be really accurate or of high
intellectual value.

And the persuasion that seeks private ends from private audiences
"sizes" up its audience as a preliminary. The capacity to
understand others and to sway them, to impress them according to
their make-up, is a trait of great importance for success or
failure. It needs cultivation, but often it depends on a native
sociability, a friendliness and genuine interest, on a "good
nature" that is what it literally purports to be,--good nature.
Though many of the persuasive kind are insincere and selfish, I
believe that on the whole the taciturn and gruff are less
interested in their fellows than the talkative and cordial.

The persuasive person has a touch of the fighting spirit in the
trait called aggressiveness. He is rarely shy or retiring. To do
well, he must be prepared for rebuffs, and he is possessed of a
species of courage and resistance against refusal and
humiliation. In the highest form the persuader is a teacher and
propagandist, changing the policy of peoples; in the commonest
form he is a salesman, seeking to sell a commodity; in the lowest
he is the faker, trying to hoodwink the credulous.

4. The strong, the crafty, the talkers each seek fulfillment of
purpose from an equal or higher level than their fellows. But
power and fulfillment may be reached at from a lower level, from
the beggar's position, from the place of weakness. There are some
whose existence depends upon the response given to their
supplications, who throw themselves directly on the charity and
tender-heartedness of society. Inefficient, incapable of separate
existence, this parasitic class is known to every social service
group, to every rich or powerful man who helps at least in part
to maintain them. I do not mean those who are physically or
intellectually unable to cope with the world; these are merely
unfortunate. I mean those whose energy and confidence is so low,
or whose lack of pride is such that they are willing to ask for
help continually rather than make their own way.

There is, however, a very interesting type of person who uses
weakness as a weapon to gain a purpose, not support. The tears of
many women have long been recognized as potent in that warfare
that goes on between the sexes; the melting of opposition to the
whim or wish when this manifestation of weakness is used is an
old story. The emotional display renders the man uncomfortable,
it disturbs him, he fears to increase it lest the opponent become
sick, his conscience reproaches him, and he yields rather than
"make a fuss." Tears can be replaced by symptoms of a hysteric
nature. I do not mean that these symptoms are caused by the
effort to win, but they become useful and are made habitual. Nor
is this found only in woman; after an accident there are men in
plenty whose symptoms play a role in securing compensation for
themselves, not necessarily as malingerers. It is in human nature
to desire the sympathy of others, and in some cases this sympathy
is sought because through sympathy some other good will be
forthcoming,--a new dress, a lump sum of money, or merely
securing one's own way. Very noticeably do children tend to
injure themselves if crossed; anger tends to turn on itself, and
the effect on the other party is soon realized, and often
utilized. A child may strike its head against the floor without
any other motive than that arising from hopeless anger, but if
this brings the parents to their knees,[1] the association is
made and the experience becomes part of the working technique of
the child.

[1] This turning of anger upon itself is a factor in
self-destruction. It is seen, so the naturalists say, in the
snake and the asp, and it is common in human relations.


5. There is in man an urge to activity independent of reward save
in the satisfaction that comes from that activity. This current
is organized into work, and the goal becomes achievement. The
most powerful factor in discharging the energies of man is the
desire for achievement. Wealth, superiority, power, philanthropy,
renown, safety and pleasure enormously reinforce this purpose,
but behind the GOOD work of the world is the passion to create,
to make something, to mold the resisting forces of nature into
usefulness and beauty. Handicraftsman, artist, farmer, miner,
housewife, writer,--all labor contradicts the legend that work
is a curse. To gain by work, to obtain desires through labor, is
a method of attainment that is a natural ideal of man.

This makes opportune a discussion of the work-traits. Since ours
is an industrial society, in which the work of a member is his
means of obtaining not only respect, but a living, these traits
are largely those by which he is judged and by which he judges
himself.

Since work for some is their life and for others their means of
obtaining a living, it is obvious that the work-traits may be
all the traits of the individual, or only a few of them. Certain
traits are especially important, and to these we must limit
ourselves.

The energy of the individual. Some are so constituted that they
can constantly discharge their energy at a high rate. These are
the dynamics, the hyperkinetic, the Rooseveltian--strenuous--the
busy people, always able to do more. The modern American life
holds this type as an ideal, though it is quite questionable
whether these rather over-busy people do not lose in reflective
and creative ability. The rushing stream turns the wheels of the
mills, but it is too strenuous for stately ships. This type
however achieves things, is seen often in the fine executive and
usually needs no urging.

There is another fine type not so well adapted to our
civilization, which is easily exhausted, but can accomplish very
much in a short time; in other words discharges energy
intermittently at a high rate. Charles Darwin was of this
kind--intermittently hyperkinetic --obliged to rest after an
hour's labor, but by understanding this, WILLING to rest.
Unfortunately, unless one is a genius or rich, industry does not
make allowances for this type. Industry is organized on
steadiness of energy discharge,--eight hours every day, six days
a week.

The commonest type is the "average" person who is capable of
moderately intense but constant activity. This is the steady man
and woman; it is upon this steadiness that the whole
factory--shop system--is based. That this steadiness deadens,
injures vivacity and makes for restlessness, is another matter.

A distinctly pathological type is found in some feebleminded and
some high mentalities. This unfortunate discharges energy at a
low rate is slow in action and often intermittent as well as
hypokinetic. The loafer and the tramp are of this type. Around
the water front of the seaports one can find the finest specimens
who do odd jobs for as much as will pay for lodging and food and
drink. Perhaps the order of the desired rewards should be
reversed. Every village furnishes individuals of this group,
either unable or unwilling to work consecutively or with energy.
Often purposeless day-dreamers or else bereft of normal human
mentality, these are the chronically unemployed of our social-
industrial system.

It must be remembered that to work steadily every day and in the
same place is not an innate circumstance of man's life. For the
untold centuries before he developed into an agriculturist and a
handicraftsman, he sought his food and his protection in the
simplest way and with little steady labor. Whether as hunter or
fisher or nomad herdsman, he lived in the open air, slept in
caves or in rudely constructed shelters and knew nothing of those
purposes that keep men working from morning till night. It's a
long way from primitive man and his occupations, with their
variety and their relaxations, to the factory hand, shut up in a
shop all day and doing just one thing year in and year out, to
the housewife with her multitudinous, never-ending tasks within
four walls, to the merchant engrossed with profit and loss,
weighing, measuring, buying, selling and worrying without
cessation. The burden of steadiness in labor is new to the race,
and it is only habit, necessity and social valuation that keeps
most men to their wheel.

We would, I think, be oversentimental in our treatment of this
subject if we omitted two hugely important factors in work
character. Two powerful motives operate,--the necessity of
working and work as an escape from ourselves.

Not much need be said of the pressure of necessity. "To eat one
must work." This sentence condenses the threat behind most of the
workers of the world. They cannot stop if they would--for few are
those, even in prosperous communities, who have three months of
idleness in their savings. The feeling of insecurity this fact
brings makes a nightmare out of the lives of the many, for to the
poor worker the charity organization is part of the penalty to be
paid for sickness or unemployment. To my mind there are few
things more pathetic than a good man out of a job, and few things
for which our present society can be so heartily damned. Few even
of the middle class can rest; their way of living leaves them
little reserve, and so they plug along, with necessity as the
spur to their industry.

To escape ourselves! Put any person of adult age, or younger, in
a room with nothing to do but think, and you reduce him to abject
misery and restlessness. Most of our reading, entertainment, has
this object, and if necessity did not spur men on to work
steadily, the tedium of their own thoughts would. To reflect is
pleasant only to a few, and the need of a task is the need of the
average human being. Perhaps once upon a time in some idyllic
age, some fabled age of innocence, time passed pleasantly without
work. To-day, work is the prime way of killing time, adding
therefore to its functions of organizing activity, achievement
and social value of recreation.

Yet contradictory as it seems, though many of us love work for
its own sake, most of us do not love our own work. That is
because few of us choose our work; it is thrust upon us. Happy is
he who has chosen and chosen wisely!

Industry, energy, steadiness are parts of the work-equipment;
enthusiasm, eagerness, the love of work, in short, is another
part. Love of work is not a unitary character; it is a resultant
of many forces and motives. Springing from the love of activity,
it receives its direction from ambition and is reinforced by
success and achievement. Few can continue to love a work at which
they fail, for self-love is injured and that paralyzes the
activity. Here and there is some one who can love his work, even
though he is half-starved as a result,--a poet, a novelist, an
inventor, a scientist, but these dream and hope for better
things. But the bulk of the half-starved labor of the world,
half-starved literally as well as symbolically, has no light of
hope ahead of it and cannot love the work that does not offer a
reward. It is easy for those who reap pleasure and reward from
their labors to sing of the joy of work; business man,
professional man, artist, handicraftsman, farmer,--these may find
in the thing they do the satisfaction of the creative desires and
the reward of seeing their product; but the factory is a
Frankenstein delivering huge masses of products but eating up the
producers. The more specialized it becomes the less each man
creates of the unit, machine or ornament; the less he feels of
achievement. Go into a cotton mill and watch the machines and
their less than human attendants at their over-specialized tasks.
Then ask how such workers can take any joy in work? Let us say
they are paid barely enough to live upon. What food does the
desire for achievement receive? What feeds the love of the
concrete finished product of which a man can proudly say, "I did
it!" The restlessness of this thwarted desire is back of much of
that social restlessness that puzzles, annoys and angers the
better-to-do of the world. As the factory system develops, as
"efficiency" removes more and more of the interest in the task,
social unrest will correspondingly increase. One of the great
problems of society is this:

How are we to maintain or increase production and still maintain
the love of work? To solve this problem will take more than the
efficiency expert who works in the interest of production alone;
it will take the type of expert who seeks to increase human
happiness.

Native industry, the love of work are variables of importance. No
matter what social condition we evolve, there will be some who
will be "slackers," who will regard work as secondary to
pleasure, who will take no joy or pride in the finished product,
who will feel no loyalty to their organization; and vice versa,
there will be those working under the most adverse conditions who
will identify themselves, their wishes and purposes with "the
job" and the product. Nowhere are the qualities of persistent
effort and interest of such importance as in industry, and
nowhere so well rewarded.

In the habits of efficiency we have a group of mechanically
performed actions and stereotyped reactions essential for work.
Except in certain high kinds of work, which depend upon
originality and initiative, method, neatness and exactness are
essential. "Time is money" in most of the business of the world;
in fact time is the great value, since in it life operates. The
unmethodical and untidy waste time as well as offend the esthetic
tastes, as well as directly lose material and information. The
habits in this sense are the tools of industry, though exactness
may be defined as more than a tool, since it is also part of the
final result. He whose work-conscience permits him to be inexact,
permits himself to do less than his best and in that respect
cheats and steals.

The work-conscience is as variably developed as any other type of
conscience. There are those who are rogues in all else but not in
their work. They will not turn out a bad piece of work for they
have identified the best in them with their work. Contrariwise,
there are others who are punctilious in all other phases of
morality who are slackers of an easy standard in their work
efforts. This is as truly a double standard of morals as anything
in the sex sphere,--and as disastrous.

There is on every second wall in America the motto typical of our
country, "Do it now!" To it could be added a much better one, "Do
it well!" The energy of work and its promptness are only valuable
when controlled by an ideal of service and thoroughness. A great
part of the morals of the world is neglected; part of the
responsibility is not felt, in that a code of work is yet to be
enunciated in an authoritative way. I would have it shown
graphically that all inefficiency is a social damage with a
boomerang effect on the inefficient and careless, and in the
earliest school, teaching the need of thoroughness would be
emphasized. Our schools are tending in the other direction; the
curriculum has become so extensive that superficiality is
encouraged, the thorough are penalized, and "to get away with it"
is the motto of most children as a result.

In an ideal community every man and woman will be evaluated as to
intelligence and skill, and a place found accordingly. Since we
live a few centuries too soon to see that community, since jobs
are given out on a sort of catch-as-catch-can plan, it would be
merely a counsel of perfection to urge some such method.

Nevertheless ambitious parents, whose means or whose
self-sacrifice enable them to plan careers for their children,
should take into solemn account, not their own ambitions, but the
ability of the child. A man is apt to see in his son his second
self and to plan for him as for a self that was somehow to
succeed where he failed. But every tub in the ocean of human life
must navigate on its own bottom, and a father's wishes will not
make a poet into a banker or a fool into a philosopher. Nothing
is so disastrous to character as to be misplaced in work, and
there is as much social inefficiency in the high-grade man in the
low-grade place as when the low-grade man occupies a high-grade
place. We have no means of discovering originality, imagination
or special ability in our present-day psychological tests, and we
cannot measure intensity of purpose, courage and the quality of
interest. Yet watching a child through its childhood and its
adolescence ought to tell us whether it is brilliant or stupid,
whether it is hand-minded or word-minded, whether it is brave,
loyal, honest, a leader or a follower, etc. Moreover, the child's
inclinations should play a part in the plans made. A man who
develops a strong will where his desires lead the way will hang
back and be a slacker where dissatisfaction is aroused.

To that employer of labor who seeks more than dividends from his
"hands," who has in mind that he is merely an agent of the
community, and is not obsessed with the idea that he is "boss," I
make bold to make the following suggestions:

Any plan of efficiency must be based on sympathy and human
feeling. To avoid unnecessary fatigue is imperative, not only
because it increases production, but because it increases
happiness. Fatigue may have its origin in little matters,--in a
bad bench, in a poor work table, or an inferior tool. Chronic
fatigue[1] alters character; the drudge and slave are not really
human, and if your workers become drudges, to that degree have
you lapsed from your stewardship. Men react to fatigue in
different ways: one is merely tired, weak and sleepy --a "dope,"
to use ordinary characterization--but another becomes a dangerous
rebel, ready to take fire at any time.

[1] The Gilbreths have written an excellent little book on this
subject. Doctor Charles E. Myers' recent publication, "Mind and
Work," is less explicit, but worth reading.


More important than physical fatigue (or at least as important)
is the fatigue of monotony. If your shop is organized on a highly
mechanical basis, then the worker must be allowed to interrupt
his labors now and then, must have time for a chat, or to change
his position or even to lie down or walk. Monotony disintegrates
mind and body--disintegrates character and personality--brings
about a fierce desire for excitement; and the well-known fact
that factory towns are very immoral is no accident, but the
direct result of monotony and opportunity. It's bad enough that
men and women have to become parts of the machine and thus
lowered in dignity, worth and achievement; it is adding cruelty
to this to whitewash windows, prohibit any conversation and count
every movement. Before you may expect loyalty you must deserve
it, and the record of the owners of industry warrants no great
loyalty on the part of their employees. Annoying restrictions are
more than injuries; they are insults to the self-feeling of the
worker and are never forgotten or forgiven.

That a nation is built on the work of its people--their
steadiness, energy, originality and intelligence, is trite. That
anything is really gained by huge imports and exports when people
live in slums and have their creative work impulses thwarted is
not my idea of value. Factories are necessary to a large
production and a large population, but the idea of quantity seems
somehow to have exercised a baleful magic on the minds of men.
England became "great" through its mills, and its working people
were starved and stunted, body and soul. Of what avail are our
Lawrences and Haverhills when we learn that in the draft
examinations the mill towns showed far more physical defects,
tuberculosis and poor nutrition than the non-factory towns?

Work is the joy of life, because through it we fulfill purposes
of achievement and usefulness. Society must have an organization
to fit the man to his task and his task to the man; it must
organize its rewards on an ethical basis and must find the way to
eliminate unnecessary fatigue and monotony. The machine which
increases production decreases the joy of work; we cannot help
that, therefore society must at least add other rewards to the
labor that is robbed of its finest recompense.

A counsel of perfection! The sad part is that books galore are
written about the ways of changing, but meanwhile the law of
competition and "progress" adds machines to the world, still
further enslaving men and women. We cannot do without
machines,--nor can we do without free men and women. The fact is
that competition is a spur to production and to industrial
malpractice, since the generous employer must adopt the tactics
of his competitors whether in a Southern mill town or in Japan.

I must confess to a feeling of disgust when I read preachments on
the joys of work, on consecrating one's self to one's task. I can
do that, because I do about what I please and when I please, and
so do you, Mister Preacher, and so do the exceptional and the
able and the fortunate here and there and everywhere. But this is
mathematically and socially impossible for the great majority,
and unless a plan of life fits that majority it is best to call
the plan what it is,--an aristocratic creed, meant for the more
able and the more fortunate.



CHAPTER XIII. THE QUALITIES OF THE LEADER AND THE FOLLOWER

The social group, in its descent from the herd, has become an
intensely competitive, highly cooperative organization. There are
two sets of qualities essential to those phases of society that
concern us as students of character.

Out of the mass there come the leaders, those who direct and
organize the thought and action of the group. The leader, in no
matter what sphere he operates, excels in some quality: strength,
courage, audacity, wisdom, organizing ability, eloquence,--or in
pretension to that quality. The leader is a high variable and
somehow is endowed with more of a desired or desirable character
than others. As fighter, thinker or preacher he has made the
history of man. A dozen million common men did not invent the
wheel; it was one aboriginal genius who played with power and saw
that the rolling log might transport his goods. The shadow may
have interested in a mild way every contemporary and ancestor of
the one who discovered that it moved regularly with the sun. And
when a group is confronted by an unknown danger, it is not the
half-courage of the crowd that adds up to bravery and fearless
fighting spirit; it is the one man who responds to the challenge
with courage and sagacity who inspires the rest with a similar
feeling. The leaders of the world stand on each other's
shoulders, and not on the shoulders of the common man. Democracy
does not lie in an equal estimate of men's abilities and worth;
it is in the recognition that the true aristocrat or leader may
arise anywhere; that he must be allowed to develop, no matter who
his ancestors and what his sex or color may be; and that he has
no privileges but those of service and leadership.

The leadership qualities will always be determined by the
character of the group that is to be led and the task to be
performed. Obviously he who is to lead a warrior group of small
numbers in a fray needs be agile, quick of mind, strong and
fearless, whereas a general who sits in a chair at a desk ten
miles from the fighting front and controls a million men fighting
with airships, guns and bayonets must be a technical engineer of
executive ability and experience. The leader whose task is to
exhort a group into some plan of action--the politician, the
popular speaker--needs mainly to appeal to the sympathies and
stir the emotions of his group; his desire to please must be
efficiently yoked with qualities that please his group, and those
qualities will not be the same for a group of East Side
immigrants as for a select Fifth Avenue assemblage. In the one
instance an uncouth, unrestrained passion, fiercely emphasized,
and a bold declaration of ideals of an altruistic type will be
necessary; in the second all that will be ridiculous, but passion
hinted at with suave polished speech and a careful outline of
practical plans are essential. The labor leader, the leader of a
capitalist group, will be different in many qualities, but they
will be alike in their vigor and energy of purpose, in their
aggressive fighting spirit, their proneness to anger at
opposition but controlled when necessary by tact and diplomacy.
They will impress the group they lead as being sincere, honest,
able, knowing how to plan, choose and fight. These last three
qualities are those which the members of the group demand; the
leader must know how to plan, choose and fight for them. Nor, if
he is to succeed easily, must he be too idealistic; he must not
seek too distant purposes; the group must understand him, and
though he must keep them in some awe and fear of him, yet must
they feel that he represents an understandable ideal. The leader
who preaches things out of comprehension arouses the kind of
opposition which finally crucifies him.

The leader must feel superiority to his group, and whether he
proclaims it or not, he usually does. Now and then he is a cold,
careful planner, an actor of emotions he does not feel, a cynic
playing on passions and ideals he does not share. Usually he is
deeply emotional, sometimes deeply intellectual, but not often;
generally he has his ears to the ground and listens for the stir
that tells the way men wish to be led. Then he mounts his horse,
literally or figuratively, brandishes his sword and shouts his
commands.

A leader springs up in every group, under almost all kinds of
circumstances. Let ten men start out for a walk, and in ten
minutes one of them, for some reason or another, is giving the
orders, is choosing and commanding. Often enough the leadership
falls to social rank and standing rather than to leadership
qualities. In fact, that is the chief defect in a society which
builds up rank and social station; leadership falls then to men
by virtue of birth, financial status or some non-relevant
distinction. All one has to do is to read of the misfit leaders
England's "best" turned out to be in the early part of the late
war to realize how inefficient and untrustworthy such leadership
may be. One meaning of democracy is that no man is a leader by
virtue of anything but his virtues, and that opportunity must be
given to the real leader to come into his own.

Leadership means neither selfishness nor altruism, nor does it
connote wisdom. A leader may be rankly egoistic and careless of
the welfare of his people--Alexander, Napoleon--or he may be
imbued with a mission which is altruistic but unwise. Such, in my
opinion, was Peter the Hermit who started the Crusades. The wise
men of the world lead only indirectly,--by a permeation of their
thoughts, slowly, into the thought of the leaders of the race and
from them downwards. Adam Smith exerted a great influence. But
how many read his books? The leaders of thought did, and they
extended his teachings into the community, but certainly not as
Adam Smith taught. Christ made an upheaval in Jerusalem and its
vicinity; a few leaders taught revisions of His doctrines, and as
the doctrines passed along, they became institutionalized and
dogmatized into a total, made up as much of paganism as of
Christ's teachings. It is the tragedy of those whose names
exercise authority in the world that their teachings are often
without great influence. For all of Christ's teachings, the
Christian nations plunge into great wars and repudiate His
doctrines as applicable neither to industry nor international
relations.

If the leader needs certain qualities, the follower needs others.
He must be capable of attachment to the leader or his
institution; he must possess that quality called loyalty. Loyalty
is the transference of the ego-feeling to the group, an
institution or an individual. It has in it perhaps the
self-abasement principle of McDougall, but perhaps it is just as
well to say that admiration, respect and confidence are basic in
it. Loyalty differs from love only in that there is a sort of
inferiority denoted in the first. If you feel yourself superior
to the person or institution claiming your loyalty, you are not
loyal in feeling, though you may be in act; you are bound by
honor or love and not by loyalty.

Loyalty in the inferior may be awakened by many things, but to be
permanent the follower must sooner or later feel himself a part
of the program. He must have not only duties and responsibilities
but benefits, and he must be given a visible symbol of
membership. A child becomes loyal when he is given a badge or
title, and so do men. This is the meaning of uniforms, badges,
titles and privileges; they are symbols of "belonging" and so
become symbols of loyalty. From the higher intellects loyalty can
only be won if they have a share in conference, in the exertion
of power and in identification with the institution in a
privileged way. Though cash and direct benefit do not insure
loyalty, they go a long way toward getting it. Many a man who is
a rebel as a workman is loyal as a foreman, and while here and
there is one who is loyal and leal{sic} whether the wind blows
good or ill, the history and proverbs of men tell very plainly
that loyalty usually disappears with the downfall of the leader,
or when benefits of one kind or another are too long delayed. A
man may be loyal to the leader or institution powerful and
splendid in his youth (usually pride is as much involved as
loyalty), but his children never are.

Disciplinability is a quality of the follower. He must be willing
to sacrifice his freedom of action and choice and turn it over to
another. Rules and regulations are necessary for efficiency. In a
larger sense, they become laws, and the law-abiding are the
disciplined, ready to obey whatever law. Thus the reformers do
not come from the law-abiding in spirit; it is the rebel who
changes laws. Without the law-abiding, disciplined spirit there
would be only anarchy, and though men have obeyed frightful laws
and still do, this is better than no social discipline. A
revolution occurs when the discipline, i.e., the rules and
regulations and the rulers and regulators, have not kept pace
with the new ideas that have permeated society. Men are willing
to be governed; nay, they demand it, but there must be at least a
rude conformity between the governed and the laws by which they
are governed. In other words, discipline of any kind is welcome
if the disciplined believe it to be right and just. Men accept
punishment for infraction of a law if they believe themselves to
be rightfully punished, but rebel against unjust discipline.

There are those who deny either openly or covertly the right of
society to regulate their lives or desires. In modern literature
this type of rebel is quite favor, ably depicted, although he is
usually represented as finally punished in one way or another.
Where a man rebels against a specific type of restriction but
favors another kind he is a reformer; if however he favors merely
the removal of restriction and regulation[1] he is an anarchist
and, in my opinion, without real knowledge of life. While the
rebel who denies the right of discipline exists, he is rare; the
commonest rebel does not deny society's right to regulate but
either will not or cannot keep his rebel desires in conformity.
Most criminals are of this type, and the inability to conform may
arise from many defects in training or original character.

[1] Watch a busy crossing when the traffic policeman is at work,
regulating and disciplining. Everything is orderly,
smooth-working, and no one complains. Let him step away for a
moment; at once there is confusion, danger and the intensely
competitive spirit of the drivers comes out, with the skillful
and reckless and selfish invading the rights of the less skilled,
timid and considerate. The policeman's return is welcomed by the
bulk of the drivers. There are very many points of similarity
between society and the busy crossing which need no elaboration
on my part.


In fact, though we may rebel against discipline and its various
social modifications, most of us are quite anxious that others
shall be disciplined and raise the hue and cry at once when they
rebel. Behind this dislike of the rebel is certainly the feeling
that he predicates a superiority for himself by so doing, and
this injures our self-esteem. Of course there is and may be a
genuine belief that he menaces society and its stability, but
those who raise this cry the loudest are usually themselves
menaced either in authority and power or in some more direct
cashable value.

The qualities which are now to be briefly discussed are in the
main great inhibitions. The moral code is in great part and by
the majority of men understood as inhibition and prohibition. A
man is held to be honest if he does not steal and truthful if he
does not lie. In reality this conception is largely correct, and
it is as we extend our ideas of stealing and lying that we grow
in morality.

Honesty, in relation to property, is the control of the
acquisitive impulses and instincts and is wrapped up with the
idea of private property. The acquisitive impulses are very
strong in most people but not necessarily in all, and we find
great variability here as elsewhere in human character. One child
desires everything he sees, wants it for his own and does not
wish others even to touch it, while another gives away everything
he has. The covetous, the indifferent, the generous, the
hoarders, the spenders,--these are a few of the types one finds
every day in relation to the property and acquisitive feelings.

The spirit of "mine" needs on the whole little encouragement,
though the ways to achieve "mine" are part of education. Mainly
the spirit of "thine" needs encouragement, and most of our law,
as differentiated from religion and ethics, has been built up on
settling disputes in this matter. In its primary form, honesty in
relation to property is the willingness to conform to society's
rulings in this matter, e.g., the belief in ownership as sacred
and that to acquire something desired one must (ethical must) go
through certain recognized procedures. The whole conception rests
on the social instinct's inhibitions of the acquisitive instinct
and in the growth and strength of feelings of conscience and duty
as previously described. Social heredity and tradition operate
very powerfully in the matter of this kind of honesty; to steal,
as we see it, from neighboring tribes is ethical for savage
races, and even to steal such property as women. Throughout the
ages the booty of war was one of the recognized rights of
warriors, and even though to-day we have conventions protecting
the private property of the enemy, this is one of those rules
definitely understood as made to be broken.

Stealing is very common among children, who find their desire for
good things too strong to be inhibited. But very quickly the
average child learns control in so far as certain types of
stealing are concerned. Some, however, never cease to steal, and
in my opinion and experience this is true of those who become
thieves later on. In very few cases do those who are eventually
pickpockets and second-story men first develop their art in
adolescence or youth; they have stolen from earliest childhood.
Those who steal for the first time in adult life are usually
those exposed to great temptations and occupying a position of
trust, such as the bank officer or the trusted employee. Here the
stress of overexpensive tastes, of some financial burden or the
desire to get rich quick through speculation overcome inhibition,
especially as it is too often assumed by the speculator that he
will be able to return the money.

How widespread petty stealing is will be attested to by the hotel
keeper and high-grade restaurant owner, whose yearly losses of
linen, silver and bric-a-brac are enormous. The "best" people do
not think it really wrong to do this, especially if the things
taken have a souvenir value. Farmers whose fruit trees adjoin a
public thoroughfare will also state that the average automobilist
has quite a different code of morals for apples and pears than
for money and gasoline.

"Caveat emptor"--let the buyer beware! This has been the motto of
the seller of merchandise since the beginning of trade. It has
made for a lot of cheating of various kinds, some of which has
persisted as part of the practice of at least many merchants up
to this day. Cheating in weight or quantity led to laws; and
there cannot be any relaxation in these laws, or false scales and
measures immediately appear. Cheating in quality led to
adulterations in food stuffs which were veritably poisonous, so
that it became necessary for each great nation to pass stringent
laws to prevent very respectable and very rich men from poisoning
their customers. Cheating in fabrics still flourishes and in
unsuspected quarters, not always those of the small dealer. And,
misrepresentation flourished in advertising openly and blatantly
until very recently. It is true that advertising has changed its
tastes and uses dignified and high-flown language, protesting the
abnormally virtuous ideal of service of the article advertised;
but can it be true that the makers of every car believe it to be
so remarkable in performance and appearance?

To the credit of American merchants let it be stated that a
widespread improvement has taken place in these matters, and that
on the whole there never was a more unanimous determination to
render service as at present. Yet while the goal of business is
profit, and the goal of the buyer is the bargain, so long will
there be a mutual over-reaching that does not fall far short of
dishonesty.

There are types that are scrupulously honest in that they will
not take a penny of value not obtained in the orthodox way of
buying, trading or earning, who will take advantage of necessity,
whose moral code does not include that fine sense of honor that
spurns taking advantage of adversity. These are the real
profiteers, and in the last analysis they add to their dishonesty
an essential cruelty, though often they are pillars of the
church.

I have dwelt on the dishonest; the types of honest men and women
who give full value in work and goods to all whom they deal with
are of course more numerous. The industrial world revolves around
those who resist temptation, who work faithfully, who give honest
measure and seek no unfair advantage. But that business is no
brotherhood is an old story, and poor human nature finds itself
forced by necessity and competition into ways that are devious
and not strictly honest. It's the system that is at fault, for
men have formed a scheme of creating and distributing values that
severely tries and often weakens their ideals.

Truth in the sense of saying what is true and truth in the sense
of getting at ultimate relations are two different matters. The
first kind of truth is the basis of social intercourse, the
second kind the goal of philosophic efforts.

Speaking the truth invariably is not an easy matter and in the
strictest sense is quite questionable as to value. The white lie,
so-called, the pleasant, assumed interest, the untruth intended
to smooth social relations are shock absorbers and are part of
the courtesy technique.

In a more technical sense, the untruth told to obtain some
advantage or to escape the disagreeable in one form or another is
held to be dishonorable, but is very widely practiced. People are
enraged at being deceived if the deception is the work of an
outsider or one not liked; they are shocked if deceived, lied to,
by one they love. The lie stands as the symbol of weakness, but
to be "taken in" has more than the material hurt the lie
inflicts; it wounds vanity and brings doubt and suspicion into
social relations, all of which are very disagreeable. It is held
by ethical teachers to be worse to lie about faults than to have
committed the faults, though this may be modified to mean only
the minor faults.

All judges and lawyers will testify that "the truth, the whole
truth and nothing but the truth" is very seldom told in court.
Controversy is the enemy of truth, and when the fighting spirit
is aroused, candor disappears. Where any great interest is
involved, where the opponent is seeking to dispossess or to evade
payment, or where legal punishment may be felt, the truth must be
forced from most people. Moreover, passion blinds, and the
natural and astonishing inaccuracy in observation and
reporting[1] that every psychologist knows is multiplied wherever
great emotions are at work. If perjury were really punished, the
business of the courts would be remarkably increased.

[1] Not only is this true in law but in all controversy, whether
theological, scientific, social or personal, the ego-feeling
enters in its narrowest and blindest aspects to defeat honor,
justice and truth.


All this is normal lying,--not habitual but occurring under
certain circumstances. As clearly motivated is the lying of the
braggart, the one who invents stories that emphasize his
exceptional qualities. The braggart however is a mere novice as
compared with the "pathological liar," who does not seem able to
tell the truth, who invents continually and who will often
deceive a whole group before he is found out. The motive here is
that curious type of superiority seeking which is the desire to
be piteously interesting, to hold the center of the stage by
virtue of adverse adventures or misfortunes. Hence the wild
white-slave yarns and the "orphan child" who has been abused.
Every police department knows these girls and boys, as does every
social service agency.

I am afraid we all yield to the desire to be interesting or to
make artistic our adventures. To tell of what happens to us, of
what we have seen or said or done exactly as it was, is
difficult, not only because of faulty memory, but because we like
to make the tale more like a story, because, let us say, of the
artist in us. Life is so incomplete and unfinished! We so rarely
retort as we should have! And a bald recital of most events is
not interesting and so,--the proportions are altered, humor is
introduced, the conversation becomes more witty, especially our
share, and the adventure is made a little more thrilling. And
each who tells of it adds little or much, and in the end what is
told never happened. "The Devil is the father of lies," runs the
old proverb. If so, we have all given birth to some of his
children.

Though direct lying is held to be harmful and socially
disastrous, and evidence of either fear and cowardice or
malevolence, the essential honesty of people is usually summed up
in the term sincerity. The advance of civilization is marked by
the appearance of toleration, the recognition that belief is a
private right, especially as concerns religion, and that
sincerity in belief is more important than the nature of belief.
What is really implied by sincerity is the absence of camouflage
or disguise, so that it becomes possible to know what a man
believes and thinks by his words and his acts. As a matter of
fact, that ideal is neither realized nor desirable, and it is as
wise and natural to inhibit the expression of our beliefs and
feelings as it is to inhibit our actions. To be frank with a man,
to tell him sincerely that we believe he is a scoundrel, and that
we hate him and to show this feeling by act, would be to plunge
the world into barbarism. We must disguise hate, and there are
times when we must disguise love. Sincerity is at the best only
relative; we ought to be sincere about love, religion and the
validity of our purposes, but in the little relationships
sincerity must be replaced by caution, courtesy and the needs of
efficiency. In reality we ask for sincerity only in what is
pleasant to us; the sincere whose frankness and honesty offend we
call boors.

Sincere self-revelation, if well done, is one of the most
esteemed forms of literary production. Montaigne's preface to his
"Essays" is a promise that he lived up to in the sincerity and
frankness of his self and other analysis. "Pepy's Diary" charms
because the naked soul of an Englishman of the seventeenth
century is laid before us, with its trivialities, lusts,
repentance and aspirations. In the latter nineteenth century,
Mary MacLane's diary had an extraordinary vogue because of the
apparent sincerity of the eager original nature there revealed.
We love young children because their selfishness, their
curiosity, their "real" nature, is shown to us in their every
word and act. In their presence we are relaxed, off our guard and
not forced to that eternal hiding and studying that the society
of our equals imposes on us.

We all long for sincerity, but the too sincere are treated much
as the skeptic of Bjoriasen's tale, who was killed by his
friends. As they stood around his body, one said to the other,
"There lies one who kicked us around like a football." The dead
man spoke, "Ah, yes, but I always kicked you to the goal." The
sincere of purpose must always keep his sincerity from wounding
too deeply; he must always be careful and include his own foibles
and failings in his attack, and he must make his efforts witty,
so that he may have the help of laughter. But here the danger is
that he will be listed as a pleasant comedian, and his serious
purpose will be balked by his reputation.

Sincerity, thus, is relative, and the insincere are those whose
purposes, declared by themselves to be altruistic, are none the
less egoistic, whose attachments and affections, loudly
protested, are not lasting and never intense, and whose manners
do not reflect what they themselves are but what they think will
be pleasing and acceptable to others. The relatively sincere seek
to make their outer behavior conform, within the possibilities,
to their inner natures; they are polite but not gushing, devoted
to their friends at heart and in deed, but not too friendly to
their enemies or to those they dislike, and they believe in their
own purposes as good. The unhappiest state possible is when one
starts to question the sincerity and validity of one's own
purposes, from which there results an agonizing paralysis of
purpose. The sincere inspire with faith and cooperation, if there
is a unity of interest, but it must not be forgotten that others
are inspired to hatred and rivalry, if the sincerity is along
antagonistic lines. We are apt to forget that sincerity, like
love, faith and hope, is a beautiful word, but the quality of
sincerity, like the other qualities, may be linked with misguided
purpose. No one doubts the sincerity of the Moslem hordes of the
eighth century in desiring to redeem the world for Mahomet, but
we are quite as sincerely glad that sturdy Charles Martel smashed
them back from Europe. Their very sincerity made them the more
dangerous. In estimating any one's sincerity, it is indispensable
to inquire with what other qualities is this sincerity
linked,--to what nouns of activity is it a qualifying adjective?

Honesty, truthfulness and sincerity are esteemed because there is
in our social structure the great need that men shall trust one
another. The cynic and the worldly wise, and also the experiences
of life, teach "never trust, always be cautious, never confide in
letter or speech," curb the trusting urge in our nature. The
betrayal of trust is the one sin; all other crimes from murder
down may find an excuse in passion or weakness, but when the
trusting are deceived or injured, the cement substance of our
social structure is dissolved and the fabric of our lives
threatened. To trust is to hand over one's destiny to another and
is a manifestation of the mutual dependence of man. It is in part
a judgment of character, it is in part an original trait, is an
absence of that form of fear called suspicion and on its positive
side is a form of courage.

Since it is in part a judgment of character in the most of us, it
tends to grow less prominent as we grow older. The young child is
either very trusting or entirely suspicious, and when his
suspicions are overcome by acquaintance and simple bribes, he
yields his fortunes to any one. (It is a pleasant fiction that
children and dogs know whom to trust, by an intuition.) But as
life proceeds, the most of us find that our judgment of character
is poor, and we hesitate to pin anything momentous on it. Only
where passion blinds us, as in sex love, or when our self-love
and lust for quick gain[1] or hate has been aroused do we lose
the caution that is the antithesis of trust. The expert in human
relations is he who can overcome distrust; the genius in human
relations is he who inspires trust.

For the psychopathologist an enormous interest centers in a group
of people whom we may call paranoic. In his mildest form the
paranoic is that very common "misunderstood" person who distrusts
the attitude and actions of his neighbors, who believes himself
to be injured purposely by every unintentional slight, or rather
who finds insult and injury where others see only forgetfulness
or inattention. Of an inordinate and growing ego, the paranoic of
a pathological trend develops the idea or delusion of
persecution. From the feeling that everything and every one is
against him, he builds up, when some major purpose becomes
balked, a specific belief that so and so or this or "that group
is after me." "They are trying to injure or kill me" because they
are jealous or have some antagonistic purpose. Here we find the
half-baked inventor, whose "inventions" have been turned down for
the very good reason that they are of no value, and who concludes


[1] All the great swindlers show how the lust for gain plus the
wiles of the swindler overcome the caution and suspicion of the
"hard-headed," The Ponzi case is the latest contribution to the
subject.

that some big corporations are in league with the Patent Office
to prevent him from competing with them; here we have the
"would-be" artist or singer or writer whose efforts are not
appreciated, largely because they are foolish, but who believes
that the really successful (and he often names them) hate and
fear him, or that the Catholics are after him, or perhaps the
Jews or the Masons.

In its extreme form the paranoic is rare just as is the extremely
trusting person of saintly type. But in minor form every group
and every institution has its paranoic, hostile, suspicious,
"touchy," quick to believe something is being put over on him and
quick to attribute his failure to others. In that last is a
cardinal point in the compass of character. Some attribute their
failure to others, and some in their self-analysis find the root
of their difficulties and failures in themselves.

Under the feeling of injustice a paranoid trend is easily aroused
in all of us, and we may misinterpret the whole world when
laboring under that feeling, just as we may, if we are correct,
see the social organization very clearly as a result. Therein is
the danger of any injustice and seeming injustice, As a result
condemnation is extreme, wrongly directed and with little
constructive value. We become paranoid, see wrong where there is
none and enemies in those who are friendly.

The over-trusting, over-confidential are the virtuous in excess,
and their damage is usually localized to themselves or their
families. They tell their secrets to any one who politely
expresses an interest, they will hand over their fortunes to the
flattering stranger, to the smooth-tongued. Sometimes they are
merely unworldly, absorbed in unworldly projects, but more often
they are merely trusting fools.

Man the weak, struggling in a world whose forces are pitiless,
whose fairest face hides grim disaster, has sought to find some
one, some force, he might unfailingly trust. He raises his hands
to heaven; he cries, "There is One I can trust. Though He smite
me I shall have faith."



CHAPTER XIV. SEX CHARACTERS AND DOMESTICITY

Originally reproduction is a part of the function of all
protoplasm; and in the primitive life-forms an individual becomes
two by the "simple process" of dividing itself into halves. Had
this method continued into the higher forms most of the trouble
as well as most of the pleasure of human existence would never
occur. Or had the hermaphrodite method of combining two sexes in
the one individual, so frequent in the plant world, found its way
into the higher animals, the moral struggles of man would have
become simplified into that resulting from his, struggles with
similar creatures. Literature would not flourish, the drama would
never have been heard of, dancing and singing would not need the
attention of the uplifter, dress would be a method of keeping
warm, and life would be sane enough but without the delicious
joys of sex-love.

Why are there two sexes?[1] I must refer the reader to the
specialists in this matter, but can assure him that no one knows.
With the rise of Mandel's theory of heredity, it has been assumed
that such a scheme offers a wider variety of possible character
combinations. At present it is safe to say that no one can give a
valid reason for the existence of male and female, and that while
this elaboration of the reproducing individual into two parts may
be necessary for some purpose, at first glance it appears like an
interesting but mysterious complication.

[1] See Lloyd Morgan's book on sex.


I refer the reader to textbooks in anatomy and embryology, and to
the specialists on sex like Krafft-Ebbing, Havelock Ellis and
Ploss for details as to the differences between man and woman.
There are first the essential organs of generation, differing in
the two sexes, the ovary furnishing the egg, the testes
furnishing the seed or sperm; then the organs of sexual contact;
the secondary sex characteristics, such as stature, distribution
of hair, deposits of fat, shape of body and especially of the
pelvis, the voice, smoothness of skin, muscular development, etc.
There is an orderly evolution in the development of sex
characters which starts with earliest embryo life and goes on
regularly until puberty, when there is an extraordinary
development of latent characters and peculiarities. After puberty
maturity is reached by easy stages, and then comes involution or
the recession of sex characters. This is reached in woman rather
suddenly and in man more gradually. The completely differentiated
man differs from his completely differentiated mate in the
texture of his hair, skin, nails; in the width and mobility of
pupils, in the color of his sclera, etc., as well as in the more
essential sex organs.

Indeed there are very essential bodily differences that are
obviously important though not well understood. One is that the
bodily temperature of man is slightly higher than that of woman,
and that he has five million red blood corpuscles to every cubic
millimeter of his blood, while she has four and a half million;
that his brain weighs considerably more but is not heavier
proportionately; that her bodily proportions resemble those of
the child-form[1] more than do his, which some interpret as a
point of superiority for her, while others interpret it as a sign
of inferiority. On the whole, the authorities consider that man
is made for the discharge of energy at a high rate for a short
time, he is the katabolic element, while woman stores up energy
for her children and represents the anabolic element of the race.

[1] See Havelock Ellis.


As a corollary to the above, it is necessary to know that each
human being (and also each higher animal) starts out with the
potential sex organs of both sexes, and that each individual
becomes sexually differentiated at about the eleventh week of
intra-uterine life. Moreover every male has female organs, and
every female has male organs, though in the normal conditions
these are mere vestiges and play no part in the sex life of the
person. Yet this indicates that the separation of male and female
is not absolute, and logically and actually a male may have
female characters, physically and mentally, and vice versa a
female may resemble the male in structure and character.

The sex relations have in the racial sense reproduction as their
object, but it is wise to remember that in the whole living world
only man knows this, and he has known it for only a relatively
short time. Furthermore, in youth, when the sexual life is at its
intensest, this fact, though known, is not really realized, and
in the individual's plans and desires parenthood figures only
incidentally, if at all. Society, in its organization, places its
emphasis on child-bearing, and so indirectly reproduction becomes
a great social aim rather than an individual purpose.

1. The feeling of parenthood is, as every one knows, far stronger
in woman than in man. But here again generalizations are of no
use to us, since there are women who develop only a weak maternal
feeling, while there are men whose intensity of response to
children is almost as great as any woman's. Undoubtedly
occupation in other than the traditional woman's field is
weakening the maternal feeling or is at least competing with it
in a way that divides the modern mother's emotions and purposes
and is largely responsible for her restless nervousness. This I
think may safely be stated: that industry, athleticism,
education, late marriage, etc., are not making for better
physical motherhood.[1] On the contrary, the modern woman has a
harder time in bearing her children, and worst of all she is
showing either a reluctance or an inability to nurse them. Small
families are becoming the rule, especially among the better to
do. On the other hand, the history of the home is the gradual
domestication of the man, his greater devotion to the children
and to his wife. The increase in divorce has its roots in social
issues too big to be discussed with profit here, but perhaps the
principal item is the emancipation of woman who is now freer to
decline unsatisfactory relations with her mate.

[1] "The Nervous Housewife."


2. The sex passion, as a direct feeling, is undoubtedly stronger
in the male, as it is biologically necessary it should be, since
upon him devolves the active part in the sex relationship.[2] The
sexologists point out two types of sex feeling, one of which is
supposed to be typically male, the other typically female.

[2] See Havelock Ellis, Krafft-Ebbing, Freud.


The male feeling is called sadism, after an infamous nobleman who
wrote on the subject. It is a delight in power, especially in
cruelty, and shows itself in a desire for the subjection of the
female. In its pathological forms it substitutes cruelty for the
sexual relation, and we have thus the horrible Jack the Rippers,
etc. The Freudians go to the extreme of seeing in all love of
power a sadism, but the truth is that the sadistic impulse is the
love of power, cruelly or roughly expressed in sex. The cave man
of the stories is a sadist of a type, and one generally approved
of, at least in theory. A little of sadism is shown in the
delight in pinching and biting so often seen; and the expression
"I'd like to eat you up" has a playful sadism in it.

The opposite of sadism is masochism. This is a delight in being
roughly used, in being the victim of aggression. The typical
female is supposed to rejoice in the power and strength of the
male as exerted on her. The admiration women often give to the
uncouthly strong, their praise of virility, is masochistic in its
origin. The desire of the peasant woman to be beaten as a mark of
man's love is supposed to be masochistic, a pleasure in pain,
which is held to be a primitive female reaction.

Sex psychopathology discloses innumerable cases where extreme
sadism and masochism exist in both sexes; that is, not only males
but females are sadistic, and so not only females but males are
masochistic. Undoubtedly in minor degree both qualities express
themselves in male and female; undoubtedly the male is more
frequently a sadist than is the female. Though the majority of
women may thrill in the strength and power of the lover, there
are relatively few American women who will tolerate real
roughness or cruelty. As a matter of fact the basic feelings in
sex love, aside from the sexual urge itself, are tenderness and
admiration. Naturally men desire to protect, and this becomes
part of their tenderness; they admire and love the beauty of
women and are attracted by the essential (or supposed essential)
feminine qualities. And as naturally women desire to be
protected; this enhances their tenderness, and their admiration
is elicited by the peculiar male characters of strength,
hardihood and aggressiveness, as well as by beauty and human
qualities generally. Though the love of conquest is a part of sex
feeling, it is neither male nor female, but is that feeling of
superiority and power so longed for in all relations. Men like to
conquer the proud, reserved, haughty woman because she piques
them, and women often set out to "win" the reserved "woman hater"
for the same reason. Thus tenderness and sex passion, with sadism
and masochism in lesser degree, are basic in sex feeling, but
other qualities enter so largely that any complete analysis is
almost impossible. The belief, engendered by romance and
teaching, that happiness lies in love, spurs youth on. Admiration
for achievement, love of beauty, desire for the social standing
that winning some one gives, desire for home and perhaps even for
children are some of the factors of love.

Sex passion varies enormously in people. In some men it is an
almost constant desire, obsessive, and is relatively uncritical
and unchoosing. Occasionally, though much more rarely, the same
condition is found in women. Such abnormal individuals are almost
certain of social disaster, and when married their conduct
usually leads to divorce or desertion. Then there is a wide range
of types down to the almost sexless persons,[1] the frigid, who
are much more commonly found among women than men. In fact, with
many women active sex desire may never occur, and for others it
is a rarity, while still others find themselves definitely
desirous only after pregnancy. Not only are women less
passionate, but their desire is more "finicky," more in need of
appropriate circumstances, the proper setting and the chosen mate
than with man. In other words, sex desire is more physical and
urgent in the man and more psychical and selective in the woman.

[1] Some claim that the "frigid" woman is such because her mate
is ignorant of the art of love. This is true of some frigid
women. Instruction to men and women about to be married on the
technique of sexual life might well take a fine place in the
curriculum of life.


A curious by-product of the sexual feeling is fetichism. To do it
justice, fetichism is found in all feeling toward others, but is
most developed in sex relation. The fetich is a symbol of the
desired person, thus the handkerchief and glove of the woman or
the hat of the man. Pathologically any part of the dress--the
shoe or the undergarments--may become so closely associated with
sexual feeling as to evoke it indiscriminately or even to
displace it. Normal fetich formation may become a bit foolish and
sentimental but never becomes a predominant factor in sex
relationship.

The history of modesty is the history of the sex taboo. As
pointed out, the sex feelings are the most restricted of any of
the instincts. I despair of giving an adequate summary of this,
but it may be best stated by declaring that all the restrictions
we hold as imperative have, at one time or another in some place,
been regarded as sacred and desirable. Brother and sister
marriages were favored by Egyptian royalty, prostitution was a
rite in Phoenician worship, phallic worship frankly held as a
symbol that which to-day we hold profane (in a silly way), plural
marriage was and is countenanced in a large part of the world
to-day, marriage for love is held as foolish in most countries,
even now. The practice of child restriction now prevalent in
Europe and America would be looked at with horror in those
countries where children of ten or eleven are allowed to marry.
Exogamy, endogamy, monogamy, polygamy,--all these are customs and
taboos, and though in our day and country monogamy has the social
and religious sanction, there is nothing to indicate that this is
a permanent resting place for marriage. Certainly the statistics
of divorce indicate a change in the permanent status of marriage.

What this is meant to emphasize is the social nature of sexual
modesty. Modesty of other kind rests either on a moderate
self-valuation or a desire to avoid offense by not emphasizing
one's own value, or it is both. However sexual modesty
originated, practically it consists in the concealing of certain
parts of the body, avoiding certain topics of conversation,
especially in the presence of the other sex, and behaving in such
fashion as to restrict sexual demonstration. There is a natural
coyness in women which has been socially emphasized by
restrictions in dress, conduct and speech to a ridiculous degree.
Thus it was immodest in our civilization for women to show their
legs, and the leg became the symbol of the femaleness of the
woman or girl, as also did the breast.[1] The body became taboo,
and at present, when women are commencing to dress so that the
legs are shown, the arms are bare, and the back and shoulders
visible, the cry of immodesty, immorality and social
demoralization is raised, as if real morality rested in these
ridiculous, barbaric taboos.

[1] All the anthropologists, Tyler, McLennan, Ellis and
especially Frazier, deal at length with this fascinating subject.
The psychopathologists relate the most extraordinary stories of
fetich love.


But no matter how much one emphasizes the arbitrary nature of
modesty, of the restrictions placed on dress, speech and conduct,
it still remains true that their function is at present to act as
inhibitors. Ridiculous as it is to believe that morality resides
in the length of the skirt or in the degree of paint and powder
on the face, the fact is that usually they who depart too widely
from the conventional in these matters are uninhibited and are as
apt to depart from the conventional in deed as they are in
deportment. There are those who say that we would be far more
moral if we went about naked; that clothes suggest more than
nakedness reveals. This is true of some kinds of clothes--the
half nakedness of the stage or the ballroom, or the coquettish
additions to clothes represented by the dangling tassels --but it
is not true of the riding breeches, or the trim sport clothes, or
the walking suit. The dress of men, though ugly, is useful,
convenient and modest, and there is no doubt that a generation of
free women, determined to become human in appearance, could
evolve a modest and yet decorative costume. All of the
present-day extravagance in female attire, with its ever-changing
fashion, is a medley of commercial intrigues, female competition
and sex excitement. Though the modesty restrictions are absurd,
the motive that obscurely prompts it is not, and the
transgressors either seek notice in a risky way, are foolish, to
speak bluntly, or else are inviting actual sexual advances.

Though we may actually restrict the sex life so that some men and
women become pure in the accepted sense, it will always be true
that men and women will be vaguely or definitely attracted to
each other. Like the atmospheric pressure which though fifteen
pounds to the square inch at the sea level is not felt, so there
exists a sex pressure, excited by men and women in each other.
There is a smoldering excitement always ready to leap into flame
whenever the young and attractive of the sexes meet. The
conventions of modesty tend to restrict the excitement, to
neutralize the sex pressure, but they may be swept aside by
immodesty and the suggestive. The explanation of the anger and
condemnation felt by the moral man in the presence of the
"brazen" woman lies in the threat to his purposes of
respectability and faithfulness; he is angered that this creature
can arouse a conflict in him. The bitterness of the "saint"
against the wanton originates in the ease with which she tempts
him, and his natural conclusion is that the fault lies with her
and not with his own passions. The respectable woman inveigles
against her more untrammeled sister, not so much through her
concern for morality, as through the anger felt against an
unscrupulous competitor who is breaking the rules.

In so far as women are concerned, the sex pressure on them is
increased in many ways. For two years I examined, mentally, the
girls who were listed as sex offenders by the various social
agencies of Boston. As a result of that experience, plus that of
a physician and citizen of the world, a few facts of importance
stand out in my mind.

1. There is a group of men whom one may call sex adventurers.
These are not all of one kind in education, social status and
age, but they seek sex experiences wherever they go and are
always alert for signs that indicate a chance to become intimate.
They take advantage of the widespread tendency to flirt and haunt
the places where the young girls tend to parade up and down
(certain streets in every large city), the public dance halls,
the skating resorts, the crowded public beaches, etc. They regard
themselves as connoisseurs in women and think they know when a
girl is "ripe"; they are ready to spend money and utilize
flattery, gifts and bold wooing, according to their nature and
the way they size up their prey.

2. The female sex adventurer is not so common, except in the
higher criminal classes where the effort to ensnare rich men
calls forth the abilities of certain women. In a limited way the
prostitute, professed or clandestine, is a sex adventurer, but
ordinarily she is merely supplying a demand and has only to exert
herself physically, rarely needing to conquer men's inhibitions.
We omit here the schemes of conquest of girls and women seeking
marriage as too complex for any one but a novelist, and also
because the moral code regards them as legitimate. Women who are
ready to accept sexual advances are common enough in the
uninhibited girl, the dissatisfied married woman, the young
widow, the drug habitue; but aside from the woman who has
capitalized her sex, the sex adventurer is largely male.

What attracts him? For he rarely pesters the good woman, and
ordinarily the average woman is not solicited.

The girl usually "picked up" dresses immodestly or in the extreme
of style, even though she is essentially shabby and poorly clad.
To-day business sees to it that fripperies are within the reach
of every purse.

She usually corresponds to a type of prettiness favored in the
community, often what is nowadays called the chicken type. Plump
legs and fairly prominent bosom and hips are symbols of those
desired among all grades of men, together with a pretty face. The
homely girl finds it much easier to walk unmolested.

If she appears intelligent and firm, the above qualities will
only entitle her to glances, respectful and otherwise. The sex
adventurer hates to be rebuffed, and he is not desperately in
love, so that he will not risk his vanity. If she appears of that
port vivacious type just above the moron level--in other words if
she is neither bright nor really feeble-minded--then sex pressure
is increased. The feeble-minded girl of the moron type, or the
over-innocent and unenlightened girl, is always in danger.

There is further the sexually excited or the uninhibited girl. We
must differentiate between those who attempt no control, and
those whose surge of desire is beyond the normal limits. The
uninhibited of both sexes are a large group, and the bulk of the
prostitutes are deficient in this respect rather than in
intelligence. Sometimes inhibition arrives late, after sexual
immorality has commenced. In men this is common, but
unfortunately for women, society stands in their way when this
occurs with them. "Youth must have its fling" is a masculine
privilege denied to feminine offenders.

The desire for a good time plays havoc with the uninhibited girl.
Unable to find interest in her work, which too often is
uninteresting, desiring good clothes and excitement, she
discovers that these are within her reach if she follows her
instincts. What starts out as a flirtation ends in social
disaster, and a girl finds out that some men who give good times
expect to be paid for them.

Since our study is not a pathological treatise, we must omit
further consideration of the offender and dismiss without more
comment the whole range of the perverter. It suffices to say that
the perverted are often such congenitally, in which case nothing
can be done for them, and others are the results of certain
environments, which range all the way from girls'
boarding-schools to the palaces of kings.

In ancient times, and in many countries to-day, certain
perversions were so common as to defy belief, and we are
compelled to associate with some of the greatest names,
practices[1] that shock us. These same ancients would denounce as
unnatural in as hearty terms the increasing practices of
child-limitation among us.

[1] I pass over as out of the range of this book the question
raised by Freud, whether or not we are all of us homosexual as
well as heterosexual.


The sex desires and instincts struggle with, overcome or
harmonize with the social instincts. It would be impossible to
portray even the simplest sex life from the mental standpoint.
The chastest woman who is unconscious of sex desire is motivated
by romance and the sex feelings and customs of others in her
ideas of happiness and right behavior. The cynical profligate,
indulging every sensual urge, in so far as he can, must guide
himself by the resistance of society, by the necessity of
camouflage, the fear of public opinion and often the impediment
of his own early training. Men and women start out perhaps as
romantic idealists, enter marriage, and in the course of their
experiences become almost frankly sensual. And in the opposite
direction, men and women wildly passionate in youth develop
counter tendencies that swing them into restraint and serene
self-control. There are those to whom sex is mere appetite, to be
indulged and put out of the way, so as not to interfere with the
great purposes of success; there are those to whom it is a
religion, carried on with ceremonials and rites; there are those
to whom it is an obsession, and their minds are in a sexual stew
at all times. There are the under-inhibited, spoken of above, and
there are the over-inhibited, Puritanical, rebelling at the flesh
as such, disguising all their emotions, reluctant to admit their
humanness and the validity of pleasure.


The romantic ideal, glorifying a sort of asexual love of perfect
men and women, asceticism which permits sex only as a sort of
necessary evil and sensuality which proclaims the pleasure of sex
as the only joy and scoffs at inhibition influence the lives of
us all. The effect of the forbidden, the tantalizing curiosity
aroused and the longing to rise above the level of lust make the
sex adjustment the most difficult of all and produce the queerest
results. Sex is a road to power and to failure, a road to health
and sickness. As in all adjustments, there are some who are
conscious of but few difficulties, who are moral or immoral
without struggle or discontent. Contrasted with these are the
ones who find morality a great burden, and those who, yielding to
desire, find continuous inner conflict and dissatisfaction and
lowered self-valuation as a result.

Our society is organized on chastity and continence prior to
marriage, purity and constancy after marriage. That noble ideal
has never been realized; the stories of Pagan times, of the
Middle Ages and of the present day, as well as everyday human
experience, show that the male certainly has not lived up to his
part of the bargain. Legalized prostitution in most countries,
illegal prostitution in the United States and England, in
addition to the enormous amount of clandestine relationships, are
a sufficient commentary on the results. The increasing divorce
rate, the feminist movement, the legalizing of the "illegitimate"
child in Norway and Sweden and the almost certain arrival of
similar laws in all countries indicate a softer attitude toward
sex restrictions. The rapidly increasing age of marriage means
simply that continence will be more and more difficult, for I am
not one of those who believe that the repression of this vital
instinct is without harm. Continence is socially necessary, but
beyond a certain age it is physically and mentally harmful. Man
is thus placed on the horns of a dilemma from which it will take
the greatest wisdom and the finest humanity to extricate him. But
I cannot lay claim to any part of the knowledge and ability
necessary to formulate the plan. Let us at least be candid; let
us not say grandiloquently that the sexual urge can be
indefinitely repressed without harm to the average individual. We
may safely assert that there are people, men and women both, to
whom the sex impulses are vague and of little force, but to the
great majority, at least of men, sex desire is almost a hunger,
and unsatisfied it brings about a restlessness and
dissatisfaction that enters into all the mental life. On what
basis society will meet this situation I do not pretend to know,
but this is certain,--that all over the civilized world there is
apparent an organizing rebellion against the social impediment to
sexual satisfaction.

For it must be remembered that sexual satisfaction is not alone
naked desire. It is that--but sublimated into finer things as
well. It is the desire for stability of affection, for a
sympathetic beloved, an outlet for emotion, a longing for
respectable unitary status. The unit of respectable human life is
the married couple; the girl wants that social recognition, and
so does her man. Both yearn to cast off from their old homes and
start a new one, as an initial step in successful living. The
thought of children--a little form in a little bed, and the man
and woman gazing in an ecstasy of pride and affection upon
it--makes all other pleasures seem unworthy and gives to the ache
for intimacy a high moral sanction.

This brings us to the point where we must consider those
characteristics that make up domesticity and homekeeping. Early
impressions and the consistent teaching of literature, stage,
press and religion have given to the home a semi-sacred
character, which is one of the great components of the desire to
marry, especially for women. The home is, in the minds of most of
those who enter into marriage, a place owned, peculiarly
possessed, and it offers freedom from the restraints of society
and the inhibitions of ceremony and custom. Both the man and
woman like to think that here is the place where their love can
find free expression, where she will care for him and he will
provide for her, and where their children can grow in beauty,
intelligence and moral worth under their guidance. But this is
only the sentimental side of their thought, the part they give
freest expression to because it is most respectable and "nice."
In the background of their minds is the desire for ownership, the
wish to say, "This is mine and here I rule." Into that comes the
ideal that the stability of society is involved and the
homekeeper is its most important citizen, but when we study the
real evolution of the home, study the laws pertaining to the
family, we find that the husband and father had a little kingdom
with wife and children as subjects, and that only gradually has
there come from that monarchical idea the more democratic
conception cherished to-day.

Men and women may be considered as domestic or non-domestic. The
domestic type of man is ordinarily "steady" in purpose and
absorbed more in work than in the seeking of pleasure, is either
strongly inhibited sexually or else rather easily satisfied;
cherishes the ideal of respectability highly; is conventional and
habituated, usually has a strong property feeling and is apt to
have a decided paternal feeling. He may of course be seclusive
and apt to feel the constraints of contact with others as
wearying and unsatisfactory; he is not easily bored or made
restless. All this is a broad sketch; even the most domestic find
in the home a certain amount of tyranny and monotony; they yearn
now and then for adventure and new romance and think of the
freedom of their bachelor days with regret over their passing.
They may decide that married home life is best, but the choice is
not without difficulty and is accompanied by an irrepressible,
though hidden dissatisfaction. On the whole, however, the
domestic man finds the home a haven of relief and a source of
pleasurable feeling.

The non-domestic man may be of a dozen types. Perhaps he is
incurably romantic and hates the thought of settling down and
putting away for good the search for the perfect woman. Perhaps
he is uninhibted sexually or over-excitable in this respect, and
is therefore restless and unfaithful. He may be bored by
monotony, a restless seeker of new experiences and new work,
possessed by the devils of wanderlust. He may be an egoist
incapable of the continuous self-sacrifice and self-abnegation
demanded by the home,--quarrelsome and selfish. Sometimes he is
wedded to an ideal of achievement or work and believes that he
travels best who travels alone. Often in these days of late
marriage he has waited until he could "afford" to marry and then
finds that his habits chain him to single life. Or he may be an
unconventional non-believer in the home and marriage, though
these are really rare. The drinker, the roue, the wanderer, the
selfish, the nonconventional, the soarer, the restless, the
inefficient and the misogynist all make poor husbands and fathers
and find the home a burden too crippling to be borne.

One of the outstanding figures of the past is the domestic woman,
yearning for a home, assiduously and constantly devoted to it,
her husband and her numerous children. Fancy likes to linger on
this old-fashioned housewife, arising in the early morning and
from that time until her bedtime content to bake, cook, wash,
dust, clean, sew, nurse and teach; imagining no other career
possible or proper for her sex; leading a life of self-
sacrifice, toil and devotion. Poet, novelist, artist, and
clergyman have immortalized her, and men for the most part
cherish this type as their mother and dream of it as the ideal
wife.

Perhaps (and probably) this woman rebelled in her heart against
her drudgery and dreamed of better things; perhaps she regretted
the quickly past youth and dreaded the frequent child-bearing.
Whether she did or not, the appearance of a strongly non-domestic
type is part of the history of the latter nineteenth century and
the early twentieth.

The non-domestic women are, like their male prototypes, of many
kinds, and it would be idle to enumerate them. There is the kind
of woman that "has a career," using this term neither
sarcastically nor flatteringly. The successful artist of whatever
sort--painter, musician, actress--has usually been quite spoiled
for domesticity by the reward of money and adulation given her.
Nowhere is the lack of proportion of our society so well
demonstrated as in the hysterical praise given to this kind of
woman, and naturally she cannot consent to the subordination and
seclusion of the home. Then there is the young business woman,
efficient, independent, proud of her place in the bustle and stir
of trade. She is quite willing to marry and often makes an
admirable mother and wife, but sometimes she finds the menial
character of housework, its monotony and dependence too much for
her. The feminist aglow with equality and imbued with too vivid a
feeling of sex antagonism may marry and bear children, but she
rarely becomes a fireside companion of the type the average man
idealizes. Then the vain, the frivolous, the sexually
uncontrolled,--these too make poor choice for him who has set his
heart on a wife who will cook his meals, darn his stockings and
care for the children. To be non-domestic is a privilege or a
right we cannot deny to women, nor is there condemnation in the
term,--it is merely a summary characterization.

Though to remain single is to be freer than to be married and
domestic, yet the race will always have far more domestic
characters. These alone will bear children, and from them the
racial characters will flow rather than from the exceptional and
deviate types, unless the home disappears in the form of some
other method of raising children. After all, the home is a
costly, inefficient method of family life unless it has
advantages for childhood. This it decidedly has, though we have
bad homes aplenty and foolish ones galore. Yet there is for the
child a care, and more important, an immersion in love and tender
feeling, possible in no other way. We should lose the sacred
principles of motherhood and fatherhood, the only example of
consistent and unrewarded love, if the home disappeared. The only
real altruism of any continuous and widespread type is there
found. It is the promise and the possibility of our race that we
see in the living parents. We know that unselfishness exists when
we think of them, and the idealist who dreams of a world set free
from greed and struggle merely enlarges the ideal home.

But we must be realistic, as well as idealistic. A silent or
noisy struggle goes on in the home between the old and the new,
between a rising and a receding generation. An orthodox old
generation looks askance on an heretical new generation; parents
who believe that to play cards or go to theater is the way of
Satan find their children leaving home to do these very things.
Everywhere mothers wonder why daughters like short skirts, powder
and perhaps rouge, when they were brought up on the corset,
crinoline and the bustle; and they rebel against the indictment
passed out broadcast by their children. "You are old-fashioned;
this is the year 1921." When children grow up, their wills clash
with their parents', even in the sweetest, and most loving of
homes. Behind many a girl's anxiety to marry is the desire for
the unobstructed exercise of her will. Parents too often seek in
their children a continuation of their own peculiarities, their
own characters and ideals, forgetting that the continuity of the
generations is true only in a biological sense, but in no other
way. And children grown to strength, power and intelligence think
that each person must seek his experiences himself and forget
that true wisdom lies in what is accepted by all the generations.

Just as we have the types of husbands and the types of wives, so
we judge men and women by the wisdom, dignity and faithfulness of
their parenthood; so we judge them by the kind of children they
are to their parents. In this last we have a point in character
of great importance and one upon which the followers of Freud
have laid much--over-much--stress.

The effect of too affectionate a home training, too assertive
parenthood, is to dwarf the individuality of the child and make
him a sort of parasite, out of contact with his contemporaries,
seclusive and odd. There is a certain brand of goody-goody boy,
brought up tied to his mother's apron strings, who has lost the
essential capacities of mixing with varied types of boys and
girls, who is sensitive, shy and retiring, or who is naively
boorish and unschooled in tact. According to some psychiatrists
this kind of training breeds the mental disease known as Dementia
Praecox, but I seriously doubt it. One often finds that the
goody-goody boy of fifteen becomes the college fullback at
twenty,--that is, once thrown on the world, the really normal get
back their birthright of character. I think it likely that now
and then a feeling of inferiority is bred in this way, a feeling
that may cling and change the current of a boy's life. The real
danger of too close a family life, in whatever way it manifests
itself, is that it cuts into real social life, narrows the field
of influences and sympathies, breeds a type of personality of
perhaps good morals but of poor humanity.

The home must never lose its contact with the world; it should
never be regarded as the real world for which a man works. It is
a place to rest in, to eat in, to work in; in it is the spirit of
family life, redolent of affection, mutual aid and
self-sacrifice; but more than these, it is the nodal point of
affections, concerns and activity which radiate from it to the
rest of the world.



CHAPTER XV. PLAY, RECREATION, HUMOR AND PLEASURE SEEKING

One of the great difficulties in thought is that often the same
word expresses quite different concepts. Some superficial
resemblance has taken possession of the mind and expressed itself
in a unifying word, disregarding the fundamental differences.

Take the word "play." The play of childhood is indeed a
pleasurable activity to the child, but it is really his form of
grappling with life, a serious pursuit of knowledge and a form of
preparation for his adult activities. It is not a way of
relaxation; on the contrary, in play he organizes his activities,
shuffles and reshuffles his ideas and experiences, looking for
the new combinations we call "imaginations." The kitten in its
play prepares to catch its prey later on; and the child digging
in a ditch and making believe "this is a house" and "this is a
river" is a symbol of Man the mighty changing the face of Nature.
The running and catching games like "Tag" and "I spy," "Hide and
go seek," "Rellevo" are really war games, with training in
endurance, agility, cool-headedness, cooperation and rivalry as
their goals. Only as the child grows older, and there is placed
on him the burden of school work, does play commence to change
its serious nature and partake of the frivolous character of
adult life.

For the play of adult life is an effort to find pleasure and
relaxation in the dropping of serious purposes, in the
"forgetting" of cares and worries, by indulging in excitement
which has no fundamental purpose. The pleasure of play for the
adult is in the release of trends from inhibition, exactly as we
may imagine that a harnessed horse, pulling at a load and with
his head held back by a check-rein, might feel if he were turned
loose in a meadow. This is the kind of play spirit manifested in
going out fishing, dressed in old clothes, with men who will not
care whatever is said or done. There is purpose, there is
competition and cooperation and fellowship, but the organization
is a loose one and does not bear heavily. So, too, with the
pleasure of a game of ball for the amateur who plays now and
then. There is organization, control and competition; but unless
one is a poor loser, there is a relaxed tension in that the
purpose is not vital, and one can shout, jump up and down and
express himself in uninhibited excitement. Whether this
excitement has a value in discharging other excitement and
feelings that are inhibited in the daily work is another matter;
if it has such a value, play becomes of necessary importance. In
outdoor games in general, the feeling of physical fitness, of
discharging energy along primordial lines and the happy feeling
that comes merely from color of sky and grass and the outdoor
world, bring a relief from sadness that comes with the work and
life of the city man.

Often the play is an effort to seek excitement and thus to forget
cares, or it is a seeking of excitement for its own sake. Thus
men gamble, not only for the gain but because such excitement as
is aroused offers relief from business worries or home
difficulties. The prize fights, the highly competitive
professional sports of all kinds are frequented and followed by
enormous numbers of men, not only because men greatly admire
physical prowess, but because the intense excitement is sought. I
know more than one business and professional man who goes to the
"fights" because only there can he get a thrill. There is a
generalized mild anhedonia in the community, which has its origin
in the fatigue of overintense purposes, failure to realize ideals
and the difficulties of choice. People who suffer in this way
often seek the sedentary satisfaction of watching competitive
professional games.

Indeed, the hold of competition on man exists not alone in his
rivalry feeling toward others; it is evidenced also in the
excitement he immediately feels in the presence of competitive
struggle, even though he himself has little or no personal stake.
Man is a partisan creature and loves to take sides. This is
remarkably demonstrated by children, and is almost as well shown
in the play of adults. A recent international prize fight
awakened more intense interest than almost any international
event of whatever real importance. That same day it passed
practically unnoticed that America ended a state of war with
Germany.

A law of excitement, that it lies in part in a personal hazard
accounts for the growth of betting at games. The effort to gain
adds to the interest, i. e., excitement. That it adds tension as
well and may result in fatigue and further boredom is not
reckoned with by the bettor or gambler. To follow the middle of
the road in anything is difficult, and nowhere is it more beset
with danger than in the seeking of excitement.

Games of skill of all kinds, whether out of doors or within;
baseball, cricket, billiards, and pool afford, then, the pleasure
of exertion and competition in an exciting way and yet one
removed from too great a stake. Defeat is not bitter, though
victory is sweet; a good game is desired, and an easy opponent is
not welcomed. The spirit of this kind of play has been of great
value to society, for it has brought the feeling of fair play and
sportsmanship to the world. Primitive in its origin, to take
defeat nobly and victory with becoming modesty is the civilizing
influence of sportsmanship. In the past women have lacked
good-fellowship and sportsmanship largely because they played no
competitive-cooperative games.

I shall not attempt to take up in any detail all the forms of
pleasure-excitement seeking. Dancing, music, the theater and the
movies offer outlets both for the artistic impulses and the
seeking of excitement. In the theater and the movies one seeks
also the interest we take in the lives of others, the awakening
of emotions and the happy ending. Only a few people will ever
care for the artistic wholesale calamity of a play like "Hamlet,"
and even they only once in a while.

Men and women seek variety, they seek excitement in any and all
directions, they want relief from the tyranny of purpose and of
care. But also,--they hate a vacuum, they can usually bear
themselves and their thoughts for only a little while, because
their thoughts are often basicly melancholy and full of
dissatisfaction. So they seek escape from themselves; they try to
kill time; reading, playing and going to entertainments. In fact,
most of our reading is actuated by the play spirit, and is an
effort to obtain excitement through the lives of others.

Humor[1] is a form of pleasure seeking and giving, but depends on
a certain technique, the object of which is to elicit the laugh
or its equivalent. The laugh is a discharge of tension, and while
usually it accompanies pleasure, it may indicate the tension of
embarrassment or even complex emotional states. But the laugh or
smile of humor has to be elicited in certain ways, chief of which
are to bring about a feeling of expectation, and by some novel
arrangement of words, to send the mind on a voyage of discovery
which suddenly ends with a burst of pleasure when the "point" is
seen. The pleasure felt in humor arises from the feeling of
novelty, the pleasure of discovering a hidden meaning and the
pleasure in the "point" or motive of the story, joke or conduct.

[1] I use this term to include wit, satire and even certain
phases of the comic.


Usually, the humorous pleasure has these motives: it points at
the folly and absurdity of other people's conduct, thought, logic
and customs. It gives a feeling of superiority, and that is why
all races love to poke fun at other races: certain
characteristics of Jew, Irishman, Yankee, Scot, etc., are
presented in novel and striking fashion, in a playful manner.

It points out the weak and absurd side of people and institutions
with which we have trouble; and this brings in marriage,
business, mothers-in-law, creditors, debtors, as those whose
weakness is exposed by the technique of humor.

Humor likes to explode pretension, pedantry, dignity, pomposity;
we get a feeling of joy whenever those who are superior come a
cropper, which is increased when we feel that they have no right
to their places. So the humorous technique deals with the
get-rich-quick folk, the foolish nobleman, the politician, the
priest (especially in the Middle Ages), etc.

Not only does humor seek to obtain pleasure from an attack on
others and thus to feel superior or to compensate for
inferiority, but also it reaches its highest form in exposing man
himself, including the humorist. The humorist, seeking his own
weaknesses and contradictions, his falsities, strips the disguise
from himself in some surprising way. Bergson points out that to
strip away a disguise is naturely humorous unless it reveals too
rudely the horrible. The humorist takes off the mask from himself
and others, and in so far as we can detach ourselves from pride
and vanity, we laugh. The one who cannot thus detach himself is
"hurt" by humor; the one who somehow has become a spectator of
his own strivings can laugh at himself. Thus humor, in addition
to becoming a compensation and a form of entertainment, is a form
of self-revelation and self-understanding carried on by a
peculiar technique. On the whole this technique depends upon a
hiding of the real meaning of the story or situation under a
disguise of the commonplace. The humorist phrases his words or
develops his situation so as to send the thoughts of the listener
flying in several directions. There is a brief confusion, an
incongruity is felt, then suddenly from under a disguise the
point becomes clear and the laugh is in part one of triumph, in
part one of pleased surprise.

I shall not attempt an analysis of the psychology of humor, for
illustrious writers and thinkers have stubbed their intellectual
toes on this rock for centuries. In later years the analyses of
Freud and Bergson are noted, but there is a list of writers from
Aristotle down whose remarks and observations have brought out
clearly certain trends. For us the direction that any one's humor
takes is a very important phase in the study of character.

Humor is a weapon, and the humorist has two ends in view: the one
to please his audience and to align them on his side, the second
to attack either playfully or seriously some person or
institution with the technique of humor. Certain trends are seen
in humor, one to seek a feeling of superiority by revealing the
inferiority of others in a surprising way, another to release a
burdensome[1] inhibition, a third to play with and in a sense
mock the disagreeable features of life, and the fourth to seek
detachment from one's self, to seek relief from sorrow,
disappointment and deprivation by viewing the self as from afar.

[1] In this way humor is an effort for freedom; through humor one
tastes of experiences otherwise forbidden.


So there is a sarcastic humor which points out the foibles and
weaknesses of others either grossly or delicately. Usually these
others are those differing from one's own group--the Irish, Jew,
farmer, Negro--and the jokes either deal with their personal
appearance (a low humor) or their characteristic expressions,
points of view and actions. The audience is convulsed at their
quaintness or folly, though often enough on the stage the comic
figure delivers a sort of wisdom mingled with his foolishness,
and this adds to the humorous explosion. The sarcastic humor in
its highest form reaches satire, where under a disguise powerful
institutions or the habit and ways of life of a group are
criticized. In polite society people are continually attacking
each other in a kind of warfare called repartee, in which the
tension is kept just without the bounds of real hostility, while
the audience sides with the one whose shaft is the most telling.
In the lower ranks this interchange, which is surprisingly
frequent, is coarse and insulting. It is supposed to be a test of
character to be able to "stand" these attacks with equanimity and
even to join in the laugh against oneself. To "kid" and take
"kidding" is thus an important social trait.

Humor is often used to expose the folly of the pretentious. Much
of the stock in trade of the humorist lies in his attack on the
pedant, the pompous, the great, the new-rich, the over-important
of one kind or another. To find them less than they pretend to be
gives two especial kinds of pleasure to the audience; the first
the stripping away of disguise (Bergson), and the second the
relief of our own feeling of inferiority in their presence by
showing how inferior they really are.

Since inhibition wears on us, the great inhibitions are directly
attacked by the humorist. Thus sex forms one of the great
subjects of humor, and from the obscene story told by those on
whom the sex inhibitions rest lightly to the joke about clothes,
etc., told by those who mock the opposite sex, the whole idea is
to bring about pleasure in the release of inhibitton and the play
of the mind around the forbidden. Freud has some interesting
remarks on this type of humor, which he regards largely as sexual
aggression. It is necessary to say that the release of inhibition
is always that of an inhibition not too strongly felt or
accepted. A really modest person, one to whom the sex code is a
sacred thing, does not find pleasure in a crude sex joke.
Similarly with the inhibition surrounding marriage, which is a
stock subject of humor. The overearnest person dislikes this type
of humor and reacts against it by calling it "in bad taste." In
the Middle Ages (and to-day among those opposed to the Catholic
church), the priest and nun were slyly or coarsely attacked by
the humorist, and in all times those somewhat skeptical find in
religion, its ceremonials and customs, a field for joke and
satire.

The most interesting of the types of humor flirts with the
disagreeable. Man is the only animal foreseeing death and
disaster, and he not only quakes in the knowledge of misfortune,
but also he jokes about it. It may be that the excitement of
approaching in spirit the disagreeable is pleasant, and perhaps
there is pleasure in attacking disaster, even in a playful way.
The ability to joke about other people's misfortunes is not, of
course, a measure of gallantry or courage and usually indicates a
feeling of superiority such as we all tend to feel in the
presence of the unfortunate, even where no element of weakness
has caused their mishap. But to joke about one's own troubles,
danger and disaster at least indicate a sense of proportion, an
ability to stand aloof from oneself.

This propensity is remarkably manifest in hospitals, in war and
wherever disaster or danger is present. The soldiers nickname in
a familiar way all their troubles and all their dangers. The
popular phrases for dying illustrate this,--croaked, flew up the
spout, turned up the toes, etc. In the war the different kinds of
guns and missiles had nicknames, and puns were made on the
various dreaded results of injury. It was declared by the
soldiers that no missile could injure any man unless it has his
name and address on it, which is, of course, a poetical, humorous
comparison of the missile to a longed-for letter. I heard a
wounded man say the only trouble was that the postoffice
department mistook him for another fellow. Grim humor always is
evident in grim situations; it is a way of evasion and escape,
and also it is a challenge.

When one objectifies himself so that he sees himself, his
purposes and his weaknesses in the light in which others might
see him and find him "funny," then he has reached the heights in
humor. Certain people are notoriously lacking in this quality of
detachment, and they cannot laugh at themselves or find any humor
in a situation that annoys, mortifies or hurts them. Others have
it to a remarkable degree, and if they possess at the same time
the art of telling the humorous story about themselves, they
become very popular. This popularity accounts for a good deal of
seeming modesty and humorous self-depiction; it is a sort of
recompense for the self-confessed foible and weakness; it is a
way of seeking the good opinion and applause of others and is
sometimes sought to a ridiculous extreme.

The character and the state of culture stand revealed in the type
of humor enjoyed. If a man laughs heartily at sex jokes, one may
at least say, that while he may live up to the conventions in
this matter, it is certain that he regards the inhibitions as
conventions, even though he give them lip-homage. No one finds
much humor in the things he holds as really sacred, and if these
are attacked in the joke he may laugh, but he is offended and
angry at heart. Any man permits a joke on women in general, but
he will not permit an obscene joke about his wife or his mother.
Humor must not arouse the anger of the audience or the reader,
and in this it resembles wrestling matches and friendly boxing,
which are pleasant as attacks not seriously intended, but the
blows must not exceed a certain play limit or war is declared.

To be entertained, to entertain, to escape from fatigue,
monotony, inhibition, to seek excitement, to while away the time
and thus to escape from failure, regret and sorrow are parts of
the life and character of all. They who have nothing else but
these activities in their lives are to be pitied, and they are
unwise who allow themselves too little amusement and recreation.

But we have not spoken of pleasure as a whole, pleasure apart
from entertainment, play and humor. The satisfaction of any
physical desire is pleasant, so that to eat and drink and have
sexual relations become great pleasure trends. There are some who
live only for these pleasures, ranging from glutton to epicure,
from the brutally passionate to the sexual connoisseur. Others
whose appetites are hearty subordinate them to the main business
of their lives, achievement in some form. There is a whole range
of taste in pleasures of this kind that I do not even attempt to
analyze at this point, even if it were possible for me to analyze
it.

Pleasure in dress, in ceremonials, in all the ornamentation of
life, forms part of the artistic impulses. The love of music is
too lofty to be classed with the other pleasures. This is true of
only a few people. For most of us music is an entertainment and
is usually poorly endured if it constitutes the total
entertainment. As part of the theater, of the movie, of dancing,
it is "appreciated" by everybody. To most it stirs the emotions
so deeply that its pleasure vanishes in fatigue if too long
endured. The capacity to enjoy music, especially the capacity to
express it, is one of the great variables of life. It is true
that the poseurs in music and the arts generally seek superiority
by pretending to a knowledge, interest and pleasure they do not
really have, just as there are some who really try to enjoy what
they feel they should enjoy. Nowhere is there quite so much
pretense and humbug as in the field of the artistic tastes.
Nowhere is the arbitrariness of taste so evident, and nowhere is
the "expert" so likely to be a pretender. I say this in full
recognition of the fact that science and religion have their
modes and pretenses as well as art.

The "progress" of man is marked as much as anything by a change
in "taste," change in what is considered mannerly, beautiful and
pleasant. This progress is called refinement, although this term
is also used in relation to ethics. Refinement in cooking leads
to the art of the chef. Refinement in dress becomes developed
into an intricate, ever-changing relation of clothes and age,
sex, time of day, situation, etc., so that it is unrefined to
wear clothes of certain texture and hues and refined to wear
others. Refinement in manner regulates the tone of voice, the
violence of gesticulation, the exhibition of emotions and the
type of subjects discussed, as well as controlling a dozen and
one other matters, from the way one enters a room to the way one
leaves it. The savage is unrefined, say we, though he has his own
standards of refinement. An American is a boor if he tucks his
napkin in at the neck and uses bread to sop up the gravy on his
plate, whereas Italians find it perfectly proper to do these
things and find the bustle of the American life totally
unrefined.

That refinement and developed taste are matters of convention and
entirely relative is not a new thesis; it is an old accepted
truth. What I wish to point out is this, that every development
in refinement adds some new pleasure to the world but subtracts
some old ones. He who develops his musical tastes from ragtime to
the classics finds joys he knew not of, but is offended and
disgusted whenever he visits friends, attends a movie or a
theater. When people ate with their fingers there was little to
be disgusted at in eating; when people need spotless linen and
eight or ten forks, knives, and spoons for a meal, a single
disarrangement, a spot on the linen, is intolerable. The higher
one builds one's needs and tastes, the more opportunities for
disgust, disappointment and discontent.

Most of the people of the world have never understood this. To
the majority, acquisition, the multiplication of needs, desires
and tastes constitute progress and seem to be the roads to
happiness. Get rich, have horses, autos, beautiful things in the
house, servants, go where you please and when you please,--this
is happiness. The rich man knows it is not, and so does the wise
man. Desires grow with each acquisition, the capacity for
satisfaction diminishes with every gratification, novelty
disappears and with the growth of taste little disharmonies
offend deeply.

Some men have reacted in this way against gratification and
satisfaction, against the building up of needs and tastes, and in
every age we hear of the "simple life," the happy, contented
life, where needs are few and things are "natural." The ascetic
ideal of renunciation is the dominant note in Buddhism and
Christianity; fly from the pleasures of this world, give up and
renounce, for all is vanity and folly. To every struggler this
seems true when the battle is hardest, when achievement seems
futile and empty, and when he whispers to himself, "What is it
all about, anyway?" To stop struggling, to desire only the
plainest food, the plainest clothes, to live without the needless
multiplication of refinements, to work at something essential for
daily bread, to stop competing with one's neighbor in clothes,
houses, ornaments, tastes,--it seems so pleasant and restful. But
the competition gets keener, the struggle harder, tastes
multiply, yesterday's luxury is to-day's need--to what end?

Will mankind ever accept a modified asceticism as its goal? I
think it will be forced to, but it may be that the wish is father
to the thought. Sometimes it seems as if the real crucifixion for
every one of us is in our contending desires and tastes, in the
artificial competing standards that are mislabeled refinement. To
be finicky is to court anhedonia, and the joy of life is in
robust tastes not easily offended and easily gratified.

Perhaps this is irrelevant in a chapter on play and recreation,
but it is easily seen that much of play is a revolt against
refinement and taste, just as much as humor is directed against
them. In play we allow ourselves to shout, laugh aloud and to be
unrefined; we welcome dirt and disorder; we forget clothes and
manners; we are "natural," i. e., unrefined. The higher we build
our tastes the more we need play. If such a thing as a "state of
nature" could be reached, play and recreation in the adult sense
would hardly more than exist.



CHAPTER XVI. RELIGIOUS CHARACTERS. DISHARMONY IN CHARACTER

I find in William James' "Varieties of Religious Experience", the
following definition of religion: "Religion, therefore, as I
shall ask you arbitrarily to take it, shall mean for us the
feelings, acts and experiences of individuals in their solitude
so far as they comprehend themselves to stand in relation to
whatever they may consider the divine."

It seems to me the common man would as soon understand Einstein
as this definition. In fact, the religious trends of the men and
women in this world have many sources and are no more unified
than their humor is. Whether all peoples, no matter how low in
culture, have had religion cannot be settled by a study of the
present inhabitants of the world, for every one of these, though
savage, has tradition and some culture. Theoretically, for the
one who accepts some form of evolution as true, at some time in
man's history he has first asked himself some of the questions
answered by religion.

For my part, as I read the anthropologists (whose answers to the
question of the origin of religion I regard as the only valid
ones, since they are the only ones without prejudice and with
some regard for scientific method), it is the practical needs of
man, his curiosity and his tendency to explain by human force,
which are the first sources of the religions. How to get good
crops, how to catch fish and game, how to win over enemies, how
and whom to marry, what to do to be strong and successful as
individual and group, found various answers in the taboo, the
prayer, the ceremony and the priest, magician and scientist.
Curiosity as to what was behind each phenomenon of nature and the
tendency of man to personalize all force, as well as the awe and
admiration aroused by the strong, wise and crafty contemporary
and ancestor brought into the world the "old man-cult," ancestor-
worship, gods and goddesses of ranging degrees and power, but
very much like men and women except for power and longevity.
Certain natural phenomena--death, sleep, trance, epileptic
attack--all played their part, bringing about ideas of the soul,
immortality, possession, etc. With culture and the growth of
inhibition and knowledge and the use of art and symbols, the
primitive beliefs modified their nature; the gods became one God,
who was gradually stripped of his human desires, wishes,
partialities and attributes until for the majority of the
cultivated he becomes Nature, which in the end is a collection of
laws in which one HOPES there is a unifying purpose. But the vast
majority of the world, even in the so-called civilized countries,
worship taboos, symbols, have a modified polytheistic belief or a
personalized God, still attempt to persuade the Power in their
own behalf, to act favorably to their own purposes and follow
those who claim knowledge of the divine and inscrutable,--the
priest, minister, rabbi, the man of God, in a phrase.

A part of religious feeling arises in civilized man, at least,
from the feeling of awe in the presence of the vast forces of
nature. Here science has contributed to religious feeling, for as
one looks at the stars, his soul bows in worship mainly because
the astronomer, the scientist, has told him that every twinkling
point is a great sun surrounded by planets, and that the light
from them must travel unimaginable millions of miles to reach
him. As the world forces become impersonal they become more
majestic, and a deeper feeling is evoked in their presence.
Science aids true religion by increasing awe, by increasing
knowledge.

A great factor in religion is the longing to compensate for death
and suffering. Religion represents a reaction against fear,
horror and humiliation. It is a cry of triumph in the face of
what otherwise is disaster "I am not man, the worm, sick, old,
doomed to die; I am the heir of the divine and will live forever,
happy and blessed." Whether religious teaching is true or not,
its great value lies in the happiness and surety of those who
believe.

In its very highest sense the religious life is an effort to
identify oneself with the largest purpose in the world. All
cooperative purposes are thus religious, all competitive
nonreligious. The selfish is therefore opposed to the altruistic
purpose, the narrow to the broad. Good is the symbol for the
purposes that seek the welfare of all: evil is the symbol of
those who seek the welfare of a person or a group, regardless of
the rest.

If this definition is correct, then every reformer is religious
and every self-seeker, though he wear all the symbols of a
religion and pray three times a day, is irreligious. I admit no
man or woman to the fellowship of the religious unless in his
heart he seeks some purpose that will lift the world out of
discord and into harmony.

The power of the human being to believe in the face of opposed
fact, inconsistency and unfavorable result is nowhere so well
exemplified as in religion. I do not speak of the untold crimes
and inhumanities done in the name of religion, of human
sacrifice, persecution, religious war,--these are parts of a
chapter in human history outside of the province of this book and
almost too horrible to be contemplated. But men have believed
(and do believe) that some among them knew what God wanted, that
certain procedures, tricks and ceremonies conveyed sanctity and
surety; that cosmic events like storms, droughts, eclipses and
epidemics had personal human meanings, that Infinite Wisdom would
be guided in action by the prayers of ignorance, self-seeking and
hatred, etc., etc. The savage who believes that his medicine
man's antics, paint and feathers will bring rain and fertile soil
has his counterpart in the civilized man who believes that this
or that ceremonial and professed belief insures salvation. Faith
is beautiful in the abstract, but in the concrete it is often the
origin of superstition and amazing folly.[1] However crudely
intelligence and honest scientific effort may work, they soar in
a heaven far above the abyss of credulity.

[1] It would be amusing were it not sad to see how remarkably
well some philosophers use their intelligence and logic to prove
the invalidity of intelligence and logic. They praise emotion,
instinct and "intuition" and such modes of knowing and acting,
yet their works are closely argued, reasoned and appeal
throughout to the intelligence of their readers for acceptance.


True religion in the sense I have used the word has faith in it,
the faith that there is a purpose in the universe, though it
seems impossible for us to discover it. In the personal character
it seeks to establish altruistic feeling and conduct, though it
does not rule out as unworthy self-feeling or seeking. It merely
subordinates them. It does not deny the validity of pleasure, of
the sensuous pleasures; it does not set its face against
drinking, eating, sexual love, play and entertainment, but it
urges a valid purpose as necessary for happiness and morality. It
does not glorify faith as against reason, emotion as against
intelligence; on the contrary, it holds that reason and
intelligence are the governing factors in human life and only by
use of them do we rise from the beast.

So the religious life of those we study will be of great
importance to us. In the majority of cases we shall find that
social heredity, tradition and backing will play the dominant
role, in that most, in name at least, live and die in the faith
in which they were born. We find those who identify form and
ceremonial with religion (the majority), others who identify it
with ethics and morality, and who can conceive no righteousness
out of it. Then there is the strictly modern type of person to
whom right conduct is held to have nothing to do with religious
belief and who measures Christian, Jew, Mohammedan and agnostic
by their acts and not at all by their dogma, and who thus
relegates religion, in the ordinary use of the word, to a rather
useless place in human life. Orthodoxy, piety, tolerance and
skepticism represent attitudes towards organized religion:
altruism, sympathy, good will, and fellowship are the
measurements of the unorganized religion whose mission it is to
find the purpose of life.

We have spoken throughout of man as a mosaic of character, and we
must modify this statement. A mosaic is a static collection,
whereas a man has character struggles, balance and overbalance.
Really to know a man is to get at the proportionate power of his
various trends, to understand his harmonies and disharmonies.

Character development is the story of the unification of the
traits or characters. Disharmony, disproportion of traits and
characters may be progressive and lead to disaster and mental
disease, or a balance may be reached after a struggle and what we
call reform takes place. Though our social life tends to narrow
and repress character, it also tends to harmonize it by the
preventing of excess development of certain traits. The social
person is on the whole well balanced, though he may be mediocre.
On the other hand, the non-social person usually tends to
unbalance in the sense that he becomes odd and eccentric.

What are the chief disharmonies? I mean, of course, glaring
disharmonies, for no one is of harmonious development, with
intelligence, emotions, instincts, desires, purposes in
cooperation with each other. This I propose to consider in more
detail in the next chapter, on some character types, but it will
be of use to sketch the great disharmonies.

Character is dynamic, and a fundamental disharmony, even if not
noticeable early in life, may progress to the point of disruption
of the personality. Thus an individual who is strongly egoistic
in his purposes and aims may succeed if at the same time he is
determined intelligent and shrewd. But let us suppose he has a
son who is as strongly egoistic, is as determined, but lacks
intelligence and shrewdness. Not becoming successful, this person
ascribes his failure to others and develops ideas of persecution.

Again, a true poet is a person of keen sensibilities, but he must
possess at the same time imaginative intelligence and the power
of words. Let these be joined in proper proportions, and his
verse becomes ours and we hail him as a poet. But let him lack
the power of words, and though he sweat with a desire to write he
is a failure or a hack poet, making up by industry what he lacks
in beauty. Suppose there is a man deeply passionate, thrilled by
the beauty of women and desiring them with a fierce ardor, and
yet he has strong inhibitions, great purposes which hold him
steady. Then throughout life he seems calm, chaste and
controlled, and no one knows of the turmoil and battle within
him. We may suppose that old age[1] or a sickness lowers his
inhibiting qualities, and a startling change in conduct results,
one that we can scarcely believe and which we are inclined to
call a complete transformation of personality. In reality, a
disharmony has occurred, some trend has been released, and
conduct, which is a resultant, changes its direction.

[1] Sexual misdemeanor is not uncommon in old men who have
hitherto been of hallowed reputation.


Inhibition control, may develop later than it should, as I have
already mentioned. At adolescence sex desire comes suddenly into
play, but usually in one way or another there are checks upon its
effects already established. But often there is not, and the boy
or girl plunges into a sex life that brings them into violent
conflict with themselves and society. Despite their efforts the
non-ethical conduct continues; despite their tears and vows to
reform they are swept by "temptation" into difficulty. Then
suddenly or gradually, perhaps long after every one despairs of
them, the inhibition appears, and they settle down to a
controlled life. What has happened? We cannot say in anatomical
terms, but from a psychological standpoint the function of
inhibition, delayed in its appearance, finally comes on the
scene. We see this delay in other phases of character; there is
often delay in sex feeling, in the interest in work, in love of
the beautiful, in control of anger, etc. Take the last mentioned:
an irascible child grows into an irascible adolescent and even
into a similar adult, flaring up under the least provocation, to
the dismay and disgust of others and himself. "He can't control
himself," so say others, and so thinks he. He vows reform, but
nothing seems to help. Then like a miracle comes the longed-for
inhibition; anger is still there when his will is crossed or his
opinion scouted, but a firm hand is on it, and he maintains a
calm he had despaired of reaching.

Man is a bundle of disharmonies, as the great Eli Metchnikoff
pointed out, physically, psychologically and sociologically. When
these disharmonies are within average limits we do not notice
them; when they are greater in degree they bring about conduct
that at once claims attention. Sometimes a disharmony is merely
an excess development of some ability, in which case, if the
ability is socially valuable, we have the talented person or the
genius. This is often the case with the artistic abilities and
also with the physical powers. If the disharmony involve an
instinct, an emotion or certain phases of the intelligence, we
are brought face to face with the abnormal.

There is, of course, disharmony through ordinary defect as in
feeble-mindedness, as in absence of some essential emotion or
instinct. These are hopeless situations and belong in the grim
field of psychopathology. Often what seems to be a defect is a
"sleeping" quality, and one that will awaken under appropriate
circumstance. Conspicuously, maternal love is of this nature. One
sees a girl who has no interest in children, considers them bores
and nuisances, who marries with the hope she will be childless,
and with the first baby becomes a passionately devoted mother,
even fiercely maternal.

In the following pages I shall sketch some prominent character
types. This has been done by such masters as Aristotle, Spinoza,
Kant, La Bruyere, Stewart, Ribot, Mill, etc., but with a
different purpose and starting point than mine.

Every great novelist is a professor of character depiction.
Witness Scrooge, Pecksniff, Mark Tapley, Pickwick, Sam Weller and
his father, created by Dickens; the four musketeers, especially
D'Artagnon, of Dumas; Amelia and Rebecca Sharp, George, and the
Major of Thackeray; Jane Austen's heroines and George Eliot's men
and women; the narrators in the famous Canterbury Inn, the
soldiers of Kipling, the Shylocks, Macbeths, Rosalinds and
Falstaffs of the greatest dramatist; the thousand and one
fictitious and yet real figures of literature.

The temperament studies by the psychologists and philosophers
have been too broad and too classical to be of practical value.
Sanguine and choleric temperament, the bilious, the nervous and
the phlegmatic, the quick and the slow, all these are broad
divisions, and no man really exemplifies them. What I propose to
do is less ambitious, but perhaps more practical. I shall take a
few of the qualities with which the previous pages have concerned
themselves and show how they work out in individuals mainly
sketched from life.

It will seem that perhaps a disproportionate number are
pathological, but I wish to insist that there is no sharp line
between the "normal" and "pathological" in character. In fact,
normality is an abstract conception, an ideal never reached or
seen, and each of us only approaches that ideal in greater or
lesser degree. Moreover, certain deviations from the normal are
useful, as the assemblage of qualities that make the genius or
the reformer of certain types. Others are not useful, or at least
not useful in the environment and age in which the deviated
person finds himself. Undoubtedly the abnormal have helped found
religions, for one who "hears" God and "sees" him as do many of
the insane, if intelligent and eloquent at the same time, easily
convinces others; but if such a person occurs in a group with
well-established belief and resistant to the new, the insane
hospital soon lodges the new apostle.

I shall not attempt to consider all the varied shades of harmony
and disharmony, the extraordinary variety of types. There are as
many varieties of persons as there are people, and the
mathematical possibilities exceed computation. Those depicted are
some of the outstanding types, in whom qualities and combinations
of qualities can easily be seen at work.



CHAPTER XVII. SOME CHARACTER TYPES

There is one kind of energy discharger that we may call the
hyperkinetic, controlled practical type. This group is
characterized by great and constant activity, well controlled by
purpose, with eagerness and enthusiasm manifested in each act but
not excessively.

1. A. is one of these people. In school he specialized in
athletics and was a fine all-round player in almost every sport.
When he left high school to go to work he at once entered
business. His employers soon found him to be a tireless worker,
steady and purposeful in everything. In addition to carrying on
his duties by day, A. studied nights, carefully choosing his
subjects so that they related directly to his business. Despite
the fact that his work was hard and his studies exacting, A. had
energy enough left to join social organizations and to take a
leading part in their affairs. He became quickly known as one of
those busy people who always are ready to take on more work.
Naturally this led to his becoming a leader, first in his social
relations and second in his business. Always practical in his
judgments and actions, A. fell in love with the daughter of a
rich family and married her, with the full approval of her
relatives, who were keen enough to see that his energy, power and
control were destined for success.

The leading traits that A. manifests hinge around his high energy
and control. He is honest and conventional, devoted to the ideals
of his group and admires learning, but he is not in any sense a
scholar. He is a poor speaker, in the ordinary sense of that
term, but curiously effective, nevertheless, because his earnest
energy and sturdy common sense win approval as "not a theorist."
But mainly he wins because he is tireless in energy and
enthusiasm and yet has yoked these qualities to ordinary
purposes. The average man he meets understands him thoroughly,
sympathizes with him completely and accepts him as a leader after
his own heart.

So A. has become rich and respected. As times goes on, as he is
brought more and more into contact with large affairs outside of
business; as a trustee of hospitals and a director of charitable
organizations, he broadens out but not into an "unsafe" attitude.
He pities the unfortunate but is not truly sympathetic, in that
it rarely occurs to him that success and failure are relative,
that an accident might have shipwrecked his fortunes and that his
good qualities are as innate as his complexion. For this man
prides himself on his strong will and courage, whereas he merely
has within him a fine engine in whose construction he had no
part.

2. The hyperkinetic, controlled, impractical person. B. is, in
the fundamentals of energy and control, singularly like A., but
because of the nature of his interests and purposes their lives
have completely diverged so that no one would ordinarily
recognize the kinship in type. B. is and always has been a
worker, enthusiastic and enduring, and he has stuck to his last
with a fidelity that is remarkable. He is very likable in the
ordinary sense,--pleasant to look at, cheerful, ready to joke,
laugh or to help the other fellow. Nevertheless, he has only a
few friends and is a distinctly disappointed man at heart,
because his interests are in the ordinary sense, impractical.

B. early became interested in physiology. From the very start he
found in the workings of the human body a fascination that
concentrated his efforts. Poor, he worked hard enough to obtain
scholarships and fellowships in one university after another
until finally he became a Ph. D. Here was a great error from the
practical standpoint; for had he become an M. D., he would have
had a profession that offered an independent financial future.
But, in his zeal, he did not wish to take on the extended program
of the physician, and he saw clearly that he might become a
better scientist as a Ph. D. He became a teacher in one school
after another, did a good deal of research work, but has not been
fortunate enough to make any epoch-making discoveries. He is one
of those splendid, painstaking, energetic men found in every
university who turn out good pieces of work of which only a few
know anything, and from which in the course of time some genius
or lucky scientist culls a few facts upon which to build up a
great theory or a new doctrine. He married one of his own
students, a fine woman but unluckily not very strong, and so
there fell on him many a domestic duty that a thousand extra
dollars a year would have turned over to a maid.

Thus B. is an obscure but respected member of the faculty of a
small university. He teaches well, though he dislikes it, and he
is happy at the times when he works hard at some physiological
problem. He loves his family and has vowed that his son will be a
business man. He feels inferior as he contemplates his obscure
existence, with its precarious financial state, its drudgery and
most of all the gradual disappearance of his ideals. He is frank
to himself alone, wishes he had made money, but is apt to sneer
at the world of the "fat and successful" as less than his
intellectual equal. He compares his own rewards with that of the
successful man knowing less and with a narrower outlook.

Thus, through success, A. is broadening and becoming something of
an idealist. B. is narrowing and through failure is losing his
ideals. This is not an uncommon effect of success and failure.
Where success leads to arrogance and conceit it narrows, but
where the character withstands this result the increased
experience and opportunity is of great value to character.
Failure may embitter and thus narrow through envy and lost
energy, but also it may strip away conceit and overestimation and
thus lead to a richer insight into life.

3. The hyperkinetic, uncontrolled or shallow. This type, although
quick and apparently energetic, is deficient in a fundamental of
the personality, in the organizing energy. This deficiency may
extend into all phases of the mental life or in only a few
phases. Thus we see people whose thinking is rapid, energetic,
but they cannot "stick" to one line of thought long enough to
reach a goal. Others are similarly situated in regard to
purposes; they are enthusiastic, easily stirred into activity,
but rarely do their purposes remain fixed long enough for
success. As a rule this class is inconstant in affections, though
warm and sympathetic. They gush but never organize their
philanthropic efforts, so that they rarely do any real good.
Often the most lovable of people, they are at the same time the
despair of those who know them best.

M. is a woman who makes a fine first impression, is very pretty,
with nice manners and a quick, flattering interest in every one
she meets. She is usually classed as intelligent because she is
vivacious, that is, her mind follows the trend of things quickly,
and she marshals whatever she knows very readily. As one who
knows her well says, "She shows all her goods the first time. You
really do not know how slender her stock in trade is until you
see the same goods and tricks every time you meet her." Needless
to say her critic is a woman.

M. is interested in something new each week. The "new" usually
fascinates her, and she becomes so extraordinarily busy that she
hardly has time to eat or sleep. She is always put on committees
if the organization heads do not know her, but if they do, she is
carefully slated for something of no importance. After a short
time her interest has shifted to something else. Thus she passes
from work in behalf of blind babies to raising funds for a home
for indigent actors; from energy spent in philanthropy to energy
spent in learning the latest dances. Her enthusiasm never cools
off, though its goal always changes.

Fortunately she is married to a rich man who views her with
affection and a shrug of his shoulders. Her children know her;
now and then, she becomes extraordinarily interested in their
welfare, much to their disgust and rebellion, for they have long
since sized her up.

She has often been on the verge of a love affair with some man
who is professionally interested in something into which she has
leaped for a short time. She raves about him, follows him,
flatters and adores him, and then, before the poor fellow knows
where he is at, she is out of love and off somewhere else. This
mutability of affection has undoubtedly saved her from disaster.

Were she not rich, M. would be one of the social problems that
the social workers cannot understand or handle, e. g., there is a
type who never sticks to anything, not because he is bored
quickly, or is inefficient, but because he is at the mercy of the
new and irrelevant. Without sufficient means he throws up his job
and tries to get the new work he longs to do. Sometimes he fails
to get it, and then he becomes an unemployed problem.

This type of uncontrolled energy reaches its height in the
manical or manic phase of the disease already described as manic
depressive insanity. The "manic personality," which need not
become insane, is characterized by high energy, vivacious
emotions, rapid flow of thought and irrelevant associations.

4. The mesokinetic--medium or average in their energy (feeling
and power)--run the range of the vast groups we call the average.
This type is spurred on by necessity, custom and habit to steady
work and steady living. Possessed of practical wisdom, their
world is narrow, their affections only called out for their
kindred and immediate friends. Their interests are largely away
from their work and as a rule do not include the past or future
of the race. Usually conservative, they accept the moral
standards as absolute and are quick to resent changes in custom.
They follow leaders cheerfully, are capable of intense loyalty to
that cause which they believe to stand for their interests. Yet
each individual of the mass of men, though he never rises above
mediocrity, presents to his intimates a grouping of qualities and
peculiarities that gives him a distinct personality.

C. is one of those individuals whose mediocre energy has stood
between him and so-called success. At present he is forty and
occupies about the same position that he did at twenty. As a boy
he was fond of play but never excelled in any sport and never
occupied a place of leadership. He had the usual pugnacious code
of boys, but because he was friendly and good-natured rarely got
into a fight. He liked to read and was rather above the average
in intelligence, but he never tackled the difficult reading,
confining himself to the "interesting" novel and easy
information. He left high school when he was sixteen and
immediately on leaving he dropped all study. He entered an office
as errand boy and was recognized as faithful and industrious, but
he showed no especial initiative or energy. In the course of time
he was promoted from one position to another until he became a
shipper at the age of twenty. Since this time he has remained at
this post without change, except that when he got married and on
a few occasions afterward, when the cost of living rose, his
salary was raised.

C. is married, and his wife often "nags" him because he does not
get ahead. She tells him that he has no energy and fight in him,
that if he would he could do better. Sometimes he takes refuge in
the statement that he has no pull, that those who have been
promoted over his head are favorites for some reason or another,
and he rarely recognizes the superiority of his immediate
superiors, though he is loyal enough to the boss. He lives in
that "quiet despair" that Thoreau so aptly describes as the life
of the average man, and he seeks escape from it in smoking, in
belonging to a variety of fraternal organizations, in the movies
and the detective story. He is a "good" father and husband, which
means that he turns over all his earnings, is faithful and kind.
Except that he admonishes and punishes his children when they are
"bad," he takes no constructive share in their training and
leaves that to the mother, the church and the school. He and his
wife are attached to one another through habit and mutual need,
but they have some time since outlived passion and intense
affection. She has sized him up as a failure and knows herself
doomed to struggle against poverty, and he knows that she
understands him. This mutual "understanding" keeps them at arm's
length except in the face of danger or disaster, when they cling
to each other for comfort and support. This is the history of
many a marriage that on its surface is quiet and peaceful.

The hypokinetic types. We cannot separate energy display from
enthusiasm, courage, intelligence, persistent purpose, etc. If I
have made myself clear in the preceding pages of this book, you
will realize that no character of man works alone, but all
feeling, thought and action is a resultant of forces.
Nevertheless, there are those in whom the fire of life burns high
and others in whom it burns low, and either group may be of
totally different qualities otherwise.

There are people of low energy discharge, and these it seems to
me are of two main kinds,--the one where nothing seems to arouse
or create powerful motives and purposes, and the other in whom
the main defect is a rapidly arising exhaustion. The first I call
the simple hypokinetic group and the other the irritable
hypokinetic group.

The simple hypokinetic person may be one of any grade of
intelligence but more commonly is of low intelligence. In any
school for the feeble-minded one finds the apathetic imbecile,
who can be kept at work by goading and stimulation of one kind or
another, who does not tire especially, but who never works beyond
a low level of speed and enthusiasm.

5. A more interesting type is T. He may be called the intelligent
hypokinetic, the high-grade failure. As a baby he learned to walk
late, though he talked early and well. He played in a leisurely
sort of way, running only when he had to and content as a rule to
be in the house. He was not seclusive, seeming to enjoy the
company of other children, but rarely made any efforts to seek
them out. He was quick to learn but showed only a moderate
curiosity, and he rarely made any investigations on his own
account. It was noticed that he seldom asked "why" in the usual
manner of intelligent children.

He did fairly well in school; he had a wonderful memory and
seemed to see very quickly into intricate problems. It was always
a great surprise of his teachers that he was so bright, as one
said, in comparison to his standing. Once or twice a zealous
teacher sought to stimulate him into more effort and study, but
though he responded for a short time, gradually he slipped back
into his own easy pace. He went through high school, and on the
basis of a splendid memory and a keen intelligence, which by this
time were easily recognized, he was sent to college. He took no
part in athletics and little part in the communal college
activities. He had so good a command of facts and with this so
cynical a point of view that he became quite a college character
and was pointed out as a fellow who could lead his class if he
would. As a matter of fact, nothing could spur him to real
competitive effort.

We may pass briefly over his life. After he left college, he
drifted from one position to another. Usually in some hack
literary line. Were it not for a small income he would have
starved. After a few years he become very fat and gross looking,
and then came a kindly pneumonia which carried him off.

We must not mistake the stolid for the hypokinetic. There was a
classmate of mine in the medical school, a large, quiet fellow,
D. M., who got by everything, as the boys said, by the skin of
his teeth. He worked without enthusiasm or zeal, studied
infrequently and managed to pass along to his second year, at
about the bottom of the class. In that year we took up
bacteriology, the "bug-bear" as one punster put it, of the
school. Just what it was about the subject that aroused D. M. I
never knew, but a remarkable transformation took place. The man
changed over, studied hard, read outside literature and actually
asked for the privilege of working in the laboratory Sundays and
holidays so that he might learn more. When this was known to the
rest of the class, there were bets placed that he would not
"last," but quite to the surprise of everybody D. M. gained in
momentum as he went along. As a matter of fact, his interest on
the subject grew, and he is now a bacteriologist of good
standing. In fact, his lack of interest in other matters has
helped him, since he has no distracting tastes or pleasures.

Thus there are persons of specialized interest and energy, and it
may well be that there is for most of the hypokinetic a line of
work that would act to energize them. The problem, therefore, in
each case is to find the latent ability and interest and to
regard no case as really hopeless. I say this despite the fact
that I believe some cases are hopeless. The pessimistic attitude
on the part of parent or teacher kills effort; the optimistic
attitude fosters energetic effort.

6. The irritable hypokinetic. Irritability[1] of a pathological
type as a phase of lowered energy is well known to every
physiologist and in the practical everyday world is seen in the
tired and sick. There are people who from the very start of life
show lowered endurance, who respond to certain stimuli in an
excessive manner and are easily exhausted. This type the
neurologist calls the congenital neurasthenic, and it may be we
are dealing here with some defect in the elimination of fatigue
products. This, however, is only a guess, and the disease factor,
if there is any, is entirely unknown. I do not pretend that the
person I am to describe is entirely representative of this group.
Indeed, no dozen cases would show all the symptoms and
peculiarities of the irritable hypokinetic group.

[1] One must take care not to mistake the irritability which is
the characteristic of all living tissue for the irritability here
considered.


E. is a man at present thirty years of age. In person he is of
average height, rather slender, with delicate features, somewhat
bald, quick in action and speech. He flushes easily and thus
often has high color, especially when fatigued or excited. This
"vasomotor irritability," as the physicians call it, is quite
common in this group of people, and in fact in all neurasthenia,
whether acquired or congenital. Though I have described E. as
belonging to the slender type of person, it is necessary to say
that stout, rugged-looking people are often irritable and
hypokinetic.

As a child E. "never could stand excitement or strain," as his
mother says. What is meant is this: that he became overexcited
under almost any circumstances and became profoundly fatigued
afterwards. As we have seen, the intense diffusion of excitement
throughout the whole body is a sign of the childish and inferior
organism; as maturity approaches and throughout childhood
excitability decreases and is better localized. When a noise is
heard an infant jumps, and so do people like E., but the better
controlled merely turn their head and eyes to see what the source
of the noise may be. This lack of control of excitement extended
in E.'s case to play, entertainment, novelty of any kind, crowds
and especially to the disagreeable excitement of quarrels,
fights, terrifying experiences, etc. Under anger he trembled,
grew pale, and his shouts and screams were beyond control; under
fear he became actually sick, vomited and showed a liability to
syncope of an alarming kind. E. was not the selfish type of the
neurasthenic; he was gentle and kind and ready to share with
everybody, a lovable boy of an intensely sociable nature.
Nevertheless, his high excitability and his quick fatigue made it
necessary to shelter him, for any effort at toughening merely
brought about a "breakdown."

Here we must reemphasize the fundamental importance of the
fatigue reactions. The normal fatigue reaction is to feel weary,
to desire rest and to be able to rest and sleep. The abnormal
reaction, one directly opposed to the well-being of the
individual, is to feel exhausted, to become restless and to find
it difficult to sleep. There are children who thrive on
excitement and exertion; they sleep sounder for it, they
recuperate readily and gain in strength and endurance with every
ordinary burden put upon them. There are others to whom anything
but the least excitement and exertion acts as a poison, making
them restless and exhausted. Not all children who show this
perverse fatigue reaction grow up with it. It may be only a
temporary phase of their lives, but while it lasts it is very
troublesome.

In E.'s case the overexcitable hypokinetic stage lasted until
about the ninth year, and then there was a great improvement,
though he still was of the same general type. He became a fairly
good runner for a short distance, learned to swim, though he
stood the cold water poorly, was clever and graceful as a dancer
and was quite popular. At sixteen he left school to enter
business, because of the straitened means of his family. He
entered into adolescent period later and suffered greatly from
his sixteenth to nineteenth year from, fatigue, hypochondriacal
fears, and had to have a good deal of medical attention at this
time. Sex questions perplexed him, for he became quite passionate
and at the same time had much moral repugnance to illicit
relations. His sexual curiosity was intense, and he read all
manner of books on the subject, went to the burlesque shows on
the sly and almost became obsessed on sex matters.

At this stage he made only a mediocre showing in his business
career, though his evident honesty secured him promotion to a
clerk's position. After his nineteenth year he seemed to gain
again in energy and endurance and was fairly well until his
twenty-eighth year, though he had to nurse his endurance at all
times, developed very regular habits of sleep, diet, etc., and in
this manner got along. Once he had an opportunity to join an
organization which would have paid him a better salary, but the
hours were irregular, and it would have demanded much exertion
and excitement, so he passed it by.

In 1917 he joined the army, partly because of patriotic motives,
partly because he was convinced that army life might develop his
endurance and energy. He was sent to an army post in the South
and within two months of his entrance had "broken down." He was
sleepless, restless, was irritable and "jumpy," had lost appetite
and the feeling of endurance. Life seemed intolerable, though he
had no desire to do away with himself, for he had no quarrel with
life itself but was disgusted with his inferiority. He was
hospitalized, but this did little good and he was afterwards
discharged as medically unfit.

This, of course, hurt his pride, but essentially he was greatly
relieved. He made but slow improvement until through the
munificence of Uncle Sam he was given a new start in life through
the Vocational Reeducation Board. Like many other city men, he
has dreamed of the "chicken farm" as the ideal occupation free
from too much work and yet lucrative. This, of course, is a
mistaken notion, but while learning the work he is happy and is
slowly regaining his energy. What time will bring forth no one
can tell, but this is certain: throughout his life he will have
to rely on good habits, carefully adjusted to his energy, in
order to protect himself from the bankruptcy that so easily comes
on him. A philosophy of life which will help to control his
irritability is necessary, and the intelligent of the hypokinetic
irritable acquire the habits and the philosophy necessary for
their welfare.

Any neurologist could cite any number of such cases with varying
traits of character, high intelligence or feeble-minded,
controlled in morals or uncontrolled, happily or unhappily
situated, whose central difficulty is an irritable and easily
exhausted store of energy. They are easily excited and excitement
burns them out; that is the long and short of their situation.
Sex, love, hatred, anger, strain, fear in all its forms,
illness,--all these and many other emotions and happenings may
break them down. Such people, and those who care for them, must
not make the mistake of thinking that rough handling,
strenuosity, will cure what is apparently a fixed character.

There is an irritable, high-energy type--irritable
hyperkinetic--that is well contrasted with the foregoing. This
explosive personality works by fits and starts but does not wear
out, merely, as it were, settles down to his ordinary pace when
he rests up. He is like a six-day bicycle racer who plugs along
but every now and then sprints like mad for a few laps and then
comes back to a pace that would kill the average rider. I shall
not trouble to cite such a case, but I can think of at least one
man of good attainments who is of this explosive hyperkinetic
type. He responds to every demand with a burst of energy, and his
quota of ordinary activities is simply appalling.

Neglecting the further types of energy display for the simple
reason that this quality shades off into every conceivable type
and is also a part of every nature, we turn to the types of
emotional mood display. With these it is necessary to consider
excitability as well, and the most interesting beings are here
our objects of study.

I wish first to emphasize my belief that where there is a great
natural variation in excitability and emotionality in
individuals, there is not nearly so much in races as we think,
and that social heredity is tradition and cultural level plays
the more important role in this. My friend and colleague, Dr. A.
Warren Stearns, has made a study which shows that while the
immigrant Italian is excitable and quick to anger and of
revengeful reactions, his American-born descendent has so far
controlled and changed this type of reaction that he does not
especially figure in police records, in murders or assaults. My
own studies of the second and especially the third generation Jew
show there is an almost complete approach to the "American" type
in emotional display, in what is known as poise. This third
generation Jewish-American has dropped all the mannerisms of
excitability in gesture and voice, and his adherence to good form
includes that attitude of nonchalant humor so characteristic of
the American.

1. The generally excitable, overemotional type. This type is more
common in the Latin, Hebrew and Celtic races. In some respects it
corresponds to the hypokinetic irritable, but it is not
necessarily hypokinetic. The artistic type of person, so called,
is of this group, but is, of course, talented as well. Talent
need not be present, and there are persons of no artistic ability
whatever who show a generalized, excitable-emotional temperament.
All young children show the main traits of this type, and there
is something essentially simple about all these folk, no matter
how civilized or sophisticated they get to be.

A. L., a woman of fifty, belongs to this group. She is a Jewess
and now a widow. All of her life her character and temperament
have been the same, and though her experiences have been varied
she has not in any essential altered. This last is rather
characteristic of the group, for experience has but little effect
on their emotional reactions.

A. L. cries very easily and readily, but her tears are easily
dried and her joy is grotesquely childlike. She is readily
frightened, worries without restraint and finds a melancholy
satisfaction in the worst. At the same time, her fears do not
persist and are easily dissipated by encouragement or good
fortune. She is readily angered and "raises a row" with great
facility and without restraint. For this reason her relatives and
friends become panic-stricken when she becomes angry, for they
know that she does not hesitate to make an embarrassing scene. In
the efforts to conciliate her they are apt to give her her own
way, as a result of which she is the proverbial spoiled child,
capitalizing her weakness.

Our Jewess uses her emotions for effect, which means that she has
become theatrical. Though there is reality in her emotional
display, time and the advantages she has gained have brought
enough finish and restraint to her manifestations to gain the
designation artistic. True, it is a crude artistry, for
intelligence does not sufficiently guide it, and her art is used
sometimes indiscriminately and inopportunely. As she grows older
the value of her tears is less, and she is becoming that prime
nuisance, the elderly scold.

Among the emotional types well recognized by the neurologist is
that known as the cyclothymic. In the individuals of this group
there is a periodicity to mood (rather than to emotions). There
is a definitely pathological trend to the cyclothymic, and in its
most marked form one sees the recurring depressions and
excitement of Manic Depressive Insanity.

Aside from these pathological forms, there are persons who show
curious periodic changes in mood. They become depressed for no
especial reason, are "blue" for day after day and then quickly
return to their normal. Sometimes these blue spells alternate
with periods of exaltation and happiness, but in my experience
this is far less common than periodic blue spells, a kind of
recurrent anhedonia.

L. D. is ordinarily what is known as a vivacious person. Bright,
talkative, keen in her discriminations, she has all her life been
at the mercy of strange alterations in mood, alterations which
come and go without what seems to others adequate reason.

As a child L. D. was sick a great deal. She showed an unusual
susceptibility to infection, and it was not until she was nine
years of age that she attended school regularly. Her illnesses
made it impossible to discipline her, and so she has always been
a bit "spoiled," though her kind and generous nature makes her a
charming person. But more important than the fact that she could
not be disciplined is the lowering of energy that these
sicknesses produced, a lowering marked mainly by a liability to
fatigue and depression.

Let there come a sickness, and this woman's stock of hopeful mood
goes and there results a loss of interest in life, a loss of zest
and joyousness.

A digression,--and a return to the theme of the first chapter of
this book. The dependence of the mental life on bodily structure,
equally true in the both sexes, is exquisitely demonstrated in
woman. In many women there occurs an extraordinary increase of
sex desire just before the menstrual period and in some to the
point where it causes great internal conflict. Others show
moderate depression and even confusion at this time, and to the
majority of women some mood and thought change is taken for
granted. At the menopause mental difficulties to the point of
insanity are witnessed, and in some cases the change is
permanent. Back of mood is the entire organic life of the
organism, and back of the nature of our thoughts and deeds is
mood.

A peculiarity of fatigue is remarkably well shown by this person.
When she is tired or convalescent a depressing thought sticks,
becomes an obsession, a fixed idea, to the plague of her life.
Thus when she was nursing her first baby the night feedings
exhausted her. One night, half asleep and half awake, with the
vigorous little animal pulling away at her breast, she watched
the pulsing fontanelle on the top of the baby's head, and the
thought came to her how dreadfully easy it would be to injure the
brain beneath. Her heart pounced in fear, she almost fainted at
the thought, and yet it "stuck" and came back to her with each
random association. I need not detail how the idea recurred a
dozen times a day and brought the fear that she was going insane.
She stopped nursing the baby at night, got a good rest, and the
idea disappeared. She was "able to shake off" when rested that
which was a hideous obsession when fatigued.

Indeed, one might speak of persons of this type as hypothymic as
well as cyclothymic. The hypothymic are those whose stock of
courage and hope is easily exhausted, who become easily
discouraged. They are borrowers of energy and vigor, they need
sturdier folk around them; often they are said to be sensitive,
and while this is sometimes true, it is more often the case that
they are more affected. That is, two persons may notice the same
thing or suffer the same sickness, but the so-called sensitive
has a reserve of courage and energy that disappears, whereas the
other has enough left in stock so that he does not feel any
change.

The extraordinary complexity of human character is well
illustrated by C. D. She is hypothymic or cyclothymic to the
little affairs of life and to the minor illnesses. Yet when her
family fortunes were greatly imperilled by a financial crisis,
she stood up against the strain far better than did her husband,
a man sturdy and buoyant in most of the affairs of life. His ego
was more concerned with financial fortune than was hers, and
against this ill she was the philosopher and not he.

We may well contrast L. D. with her husband. He belongs to the
sturdy in emotions and morals,--the stable. Dark days and bright
days, sickness and health, fatigue and rest seem to impair his
courage, hope and general cheerfulness of mood but little. He has
a high organic balance and a well-built-up philosophy. I started
to say of him that he is an optimist, but this is not true. He is
cheerful, but he does not sing, "Tra la la, all the things that
are, are good." He says, "There are bad things, but I must carry
on and fight the good fight." His is a philosophy of courage and
endurance, but not of optimistic twaddle. He is too wide-brained
to speak of life as "all good" when he knows of inherited
disease, cruelty, preventable poverty, gross neglect and
unmerited misfortune. Yet he lends hope and comfort to the
afflicted, and he has an unvarying comfort for his cyclothymic
mate.

He has built up his ego around a business, one in which there was
sunk not only his own fortune but that of a host of friends. When
this was so threatened as to seem inevitably lost, his ego was
deeply wounded, he lost courage and hope and then needed the
strength of his wife. This she gave, and when the tide of affairs
turned, his own courage was ready and unimpaired. We are like
trees,--the hard, strong, knotty parts of our fiber are
distributed in irregular fashion, and he who seems strongest has
a weak place somewhere. Attack that, and his resistance, courage
and hope disappear.

While there are the types of mood and emotional make-up, there
are curious monothymic types, people who habitually tend to react
with one emotion or mood.

The fear type. It must again be emphasized that we cannot
separate emotion, mood, instinct, intelligence in our analysis.
And so we shall speak of individuals of this or that type when
what we mean is that they reacted habitually and remarkably in
one direction. Thus with the man F., who has quick imagination,
and whose ability to forecast is inextricably mixed with a
liability to fear. It is true that some do not fear because they
do not foresee, and that placidity and calmness are less often
due to courage than to lack of imagination.

F. feared animals excessively as a child and injury to himself as
a boy, so that he played few rough games. To a large extent his
parents fostered this fear in him by carefully guarding and
watching him, by putting him through that neurasthenic regimen so
brilliantly described by Arthur Guiterman in his story of the
aseptic pup. Yet he had a brother as carefully brought up as
himself who became a rough-and-tumble lad, with as little
likelihood to fear as any boy. So that we may only assume that
F.'s training fostered fear in him; it did not cause it.

At the age of thirteen the fear of death entered F.'s life, the
occasion being the death of an uncle. The mourning, the quick
fleeting sight of the dead man in the black box, the interment of
the once vigorous, joyous man in the earth struck terror into the
heart of the boy. From that time much of his life was controlled
by his struggles with the fear of death, and his history is his
reaction to that fear. At fourteen he astonished his
free-thinking family by becoming a devout Christian, by praying,
attending church regularly and by becoming so moral in his
conduct as to warrant the belief that there was something wrong
with him. Indeed, had a psychiatrist examined him at this time,
there is no doubt he would have diagnosed his condition as a
beginning Dementia Precox. But he was not; he simply was
compensating for his fear of death.

At sixteen he entered an academy where he was forced to go into
athletics. The fear of injury and death plagued him so that he
broke down, but this breakdown did not last long, and he
reentered athletics and did fairly well. Indeed, in order to
break himself of fear, he became outwardly a rather daring
gymnast, hoping that what he had so often read of the sickly and
puny becoming strong and vigorous through training would be true
of him. As soon as he reached a stage in school where compulsory
training was dropped, he discontinued athletics, with much inward
relief. In fact, pride, fear of being considered a coward, was
mainly responsible for his efforts in this direction.

In college he fell under the influence of Omar Khayam and the
epicurean reaction to death. He feverishly entered pleasure and
swung easily from religious fervor to a complete agnosticism. He
became a first-nighter, knew all the chorus girls it was
possible for him to become acquainted with, learned to drink but
never learned to enjoy it. In fact, after each sensual indulgence
his reaction against himself led him to a despair which might
have terminated in suicide were it not that he feared death more
than the reproaches of his conscience. Then he fell under the
influence of a group of men and women in his college town,
philanthropists and social reformers, whose enthusiasm and energy
seemed to him miraculous, and as he grew to know them he realized
with a something like ecstasy and yet governed by intelligence,
that in such work was a compensation for death that might satisfy
both his emotions and his intelligence. Again to the surprise of
his parents, and in the face of their prediction that he would
soon "tire" of this fad, he entered into their activities and
proved himself a devoted worker. Too devoted, for now and then he
needs medical attention, and it was in one of these
"neurasthenic" periods that I met him. I learned that the spur
that kept him going, that made him energetic, was the fear that
death would overtake him before he achieved anything worth while;
that he hated to die and was appalled by the thought of death,
but that he could forget all this in work of a socially useful
kind.

F. might almost stand for mankind in his reactions to death. He
seemed to me almost too good to be true as a demonstration of a
pet thesis of mine, namely, that the fear of death is behind an
enormous amount of men's deeds and beliefs. His reaction was of
the compensatory type, where the fear arouses counter-emotions,
counter-activities. F.'s is a noble response to fear, just as the
cowardly reaction is the ignoble response.

I shall not depict the coward. There are some in whose lives the
fear of death, injury, illness or loss is in constant operation
to prevent activity, to lower energy and effort. One finds the
coward very commonly in the clinics for nervous diseases, and in
some cases the formidable term of psychasthenia is merely
camouflage for the more direct English word. There is a type of
the timid, who will not stand up for their rights, who receive
meekly, as if it were their due, the buffets of fortune. This
type is well exemplified in F. B., who passes through life
cheated by every rogue and walked on by any strong-willed person
that comes along. As a boy he was bullied by nearly all his
playmates, did the chores, was selected for the "booh" parts in
games and never dared resent it, though he was fully conscious
that he was being put upon. When he went to work in a factory he
was the one selected for all those practical jokes in which minor
cruelty manifests itself. His parents also bullied him, so that
he was compelled to turn over most of his earnings to them and
was allowed to keep so little that he was shabby, half-starved
and without any of the luxuries for which even his timid soul
longed.

F. B. was mortally afraid of girls; they seemed to him to be
terrible and beautiful creatures, very scornful and
awe-inspiring. They made him feel inferior in a way that sent him
edging from their presence, and though he sometimes surged with
passion he avoided any contact with them.

As a good workman he received good pay, for he chanced, by the
merest luck, to fall into the hands of a kind employer, who
profited by his kindness, for F. B. gave more than a dollar of
value for each dollar he received. Timid, he gave to the employer
a great loyalty, which was in part based on his awe of any
aggressive personality.

In society this man was tongue-tied, embarrassed and overawed by
the well-dressed and prosperous-looking. His sense of inferiority
was in no way compensated for, and to avoid pain he became a sort
of recluse, doing his work and returning to his shell, so to
speak, each night.

When he was thirty-six his mother died, his father having died
earlier. This left him rather well to do, for his thrifty parents
had well utilized his earnings. At once a thoughtful woman of his
acquaintance, distantly related by marriage, set out to capture
him, and by forcing the issue led him to the altar. Needless to
say, she ruled the household, and F. B.'s only consolation lay in
the crop of children that soon appeared in the house, for
timidity is no barrier to parenthood. This consolation rather
tends to disappear as the children grow older, for they become
his masters. Such men as F. B. have a collar around their necks
to which any one may fit a chain.

Does F. B. rejoice in inferiority, in the masochistic sense
spoken of before? Is his humility a sign of inversion, in the
Freudian sense, a sort of homosexuality? Possibly, and there are
very crude and coarse phrases of the common man indicating a
sexual feeling in all victory and defeat. But I am inclined to
call this a sort of monothymia, a mood of fear and negative self-
feeling coloring all the reactions.

I have previously cited the case of the man obsessed by fear in
all the relations of life,--shrinking, self-acknowledged
inferiority--who lost it with "a few drinks under my belt."
"Dutch courage" drove from many a man the inferiority and the
fear that plagued his soul. True, it drove him into a worse
situation, but for a few moments he tasted something of the life
that heroes and the great have. If we can ever find something
that will not degrade as it exalts, all the world will rush to
use it.

Of the monothymic types the choleric or angry are about as common
as those predisposed to fear. The anger emotion is aroused by a
thwarting of the instincts and purposes, and in the main the
strongly egoistic are those most given to explosive or chronic
anger. The angry feeling, however, must be controlled, else
failure or social dislike awaits the choleric. When a man wins
success he frequently allows himself the luxury of indulging his
anger because he feels his power cannot be challenged. The
Duchess in "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," with her choleric
"off with his head" whenever any one contradicted her, is a
caricature, and a very apt one, of this type of person. We think
of the bull-necked Henry the Eighth--"bluff King Hal"--as the
choleric type, though here we also assume a certain cyclothymia,
great good nature alternating with fierce anger.

I have in mind G. as a type of the angry person. G. cannot bear
to have any one contradict him. Either he swallows his
resentment, if he is in the presence of one he cannot afford to
antagonize, or else he starts to abuse the victim verbally. He is
sarcastic or violent according to circumstances; rarely is he
pleasant in manner or speech. Though he is honest and said to be
well-meaning, his ego explodes in the presence of other
self-assertive egos. When a man truckles to him he is angry at
his insincerity; when the other disputes his statements, or even
offers other views, he finds himself confronted by one who has
taken deep offense. As a result G. has no real friends, and this
has added fuel to his anger. Often he has made up his mind to
"control" himself, to keep down his scorn and rage, but rarely
has he been able to maintain a proper attitude for any length of
time.

In the last analysis a high self-valuation is part of the chronic
choleric make-up, a conceit of overweening proportions. The man
who realizes his own proneness to err, and who keeps in mind the
relative unimportance of his aims and powers, is not apt to
explode in the face of opposition or contradiction. G. is as a
rule absolutely sure of his belief, tastes and importance, though
he is crude in knowledge, coarse in tastes and of no particular
importance except to himself. He is the "I am Sir Oracle; when I
ope my lips let no dog bark."

Anger is often associated with brutality or deeds of violence.
There is cold-blooded brutality, but by far the most of it has
anger behind it. I know one man who in his youth was
hot-tempered, i. e., quick to anger and quick to repent, a
charming man who gradually learned control and passed into late
middle life serene and amiable.

One day he was driving his car when it became obstructed by two
young rowdies driving another car. With him was his wife. When he
expostulated with the men, one of them turned with a sneer and
said something insulting at which the other laughed. The next
thing my friend knew he was in the other car, striking heavy
blows at the pair (he is a very powerful man.), and it was only
the opportune arrival of a policeman that prevented a murder.

"Whatever came over me I hardly understand," said he afterwards
sadly. "I used to have rages like that as a boy, but I have been
very well controlled for over thirty years. I was a raging demon
for a while, and it appalls me to think that in me there lurks
such a devil of anger."

Akin to anger, akin to fear, is suspicion. There is a sullen
non-social personality type whose reactions are characterized by
suspicion. He never willingly gives his trust to any one, and
when he hands over his destinies to any one, as all must do now
and then, he is consumed with dread, doubt and latent hostility.

Every one is familiar with men like H. He is full of distrust for
his fellow men. Himself a man of low ideals, he ascribes to every
one the same attitude. "What's in it for you?" is his first
thought concerning anybody with whom he deals.

He has a little store and eyes each customer who comes in as if
they come to rob him. As a result his trade is largely emergency,
transient trade, those who come because they have nowhere else to
go or else do not know him. The salesmen, who supply the articles
he sells have long since cut him off their list for desirable
goods, and his only callers are those salesmen who are working up
new lines and are under orders to try every one. H. has moments
and days when he believes the whole world is against him, and on
such occasions he locks his store and refuses to see any one. But
at his best he cannot yield his ego to full free intercourse with
others. It seems as though there were a hard shell surrounding
him, and the world as it flowed around never brought love and
trust through to him.

H. is not insane in the ordinary sense, but he is one of those
paranoid persons we spoke of previously. Turn to L., a true case
of mental disease, a paranoid whose career strangely resembles
some of the great historic paranoids, for it must be remembered
that man has been imposed upon by those who deceived themselves,
who fully believed the strange and incredible things they
succeeded in making credible to others.

The fantastic paranoid is made up of the same materials as the
rest of us, except that his ego feeling is without insight, and
his suspicion grows and grows until it reaches the delusion of
persecution. L. was a bright boy, always conceited and given to
non-social acts. Thus he never would play with the other boys
unless he were given the leading role, and he could not bear to
hear others praised or to praise them! Parenthetically the role
that jealousy plays in the conduct of men and women needs
exposition, and I recommend that some Ph. D. merit his degree by
a thesis on this subject. When he was a little older he got the
notion that hats were bad for the hair, and being proud of his
own thick black mop, he went without a hat for over a year,
despite the tears and protestations of his family and the
ridicule of his friends. There is no one so ready to die for a
cause, good or bad, as the paranoid.

He entered the medical school, and to this day there is none of
his classmates who has forgotten him. Proud, even haughty, with
only one or two intimates, he studied hard and did very good
work. Now and then he astonished the class by taking direct issue
with some professor, disputing a theory or a fact with the air of
an authority and proposing some other idea, logically developed
but foolishly based, as if his training were sufficient. It is
characteristic of all paranoid philosophy and schemes that they
despise real experimentation, that they start with some postulate
that has no basis in work done and go on with a minute
hyper-logic that deceives the unsophisticated.

Though L. was "bright," there were better men in his class, and
they received the honors. L. was deeply offended at this and
claimed to his own friends that the professors were down on him,
especially a certain professor of medicine, who, so L. intimated,
was afraid that L.'s theories would displace his own and so was
interested to keep him down. This feeling was intensified when he
came up for the examinations to a certain famous hospital and was
turned down. The real reason for this failure was his
unpopularity with his fellow students, for they let it be known
to the examiners that L. would undoubtedly be hard to get along
with, and it was part of the policy of the hospital to consider
the personality of an applicant as well as his ability.

L. obtained a hospital place in a small city and did very good
work, and though his peculiarities were noticed they excited only
a hidden current of amused criticism, while his abilities aroused
a good deal of praise. Stimulated by this, he started practice in
the same city as a surgeon and quickly rose to the leading
position. His indefatigable industry, his absolute self-
confidence and his skill gave him prestige almost at once. His
conceit rose to the highest degree, and his mannerisms commenced
to become offensive to others. He came into collision with the
local medical society because he openly criticized the older men
in practice as "ignoramuses, asses, charlatans, etc.," and indeed
was sued by one of them in the courts. The suit was won by the
plaintiff, the award was five thousand dollars and L. entered an
appeal.

From this on his career turned. In order to contest the case, and
because he began to believe that the courts and lawyers were in
league against him, he studied law and was admitted to the bar.
He had meanwhile married a rich woman who was wholly taken in by
his keen logical exposition of his "wrongs," his imposing manner
of speech and action; and perhaps she really fell in love with
the able, aggressive and handsome man. She financed his law
school studies, for it was necessary for him to give up most of
his practice meanwhile.

As soon as he could appear before the Bar he did so in his own
behalf, for this case had now reached the proportions where it
had spread out into half a dozen cases. He refused to pay his
lawyers, and they sued. One of them dropped the statement that L.
was "crazy," and he brought a suit against the lawyer. Moreover,
he began to believe, because of the adverse judgments, that the
courts were against him, and he wrote article after article in
the radical journals on the corruptness of the courts and entered
a strenuous campaign to provide for the public election and
recall of judges.

These activities brought him in close relations with a group of
unbalanced people operating under the high-sounding name League
of Freedom. These people, led by a man, J., eagerly welcomed L.,
largely because his wife was still financing his ventures. Here
comes a curious fact, and one prominent in the history of man,
for this group, led by two unbalanced men, actually engineered a
real reform, for they brought about a codification of the laws of
their State, a simple codification that made it possible to know
what the laws on any matter really are. This may be stated: the
average balanced person is apt to weigh consequences to himself,
but the paranoid does not; and so, when accident or
circumstances[1] enlist him in a good cause, he is a fighter
without fear and is enormously valuable.

[1] See Lombroso's "Man of Genius" for many such cases.


This success brought L.'s paranoia to the pinnacle of unreason.
He attacked the courts boldly, openly and publicly accused the
judges of corruption, said they were in conspiracy with the Bar
and the medical societies to do him up, added to this list of his
enemies the Irish and the Catholic Church, because the
prosecuting attorney in one county and the judge in that court
were Irish and Catholic, and then turned against his wife because
she now began to doubt his sanity. He brought suits in every
superior court in the State, and at the time he was committed to
an Insane Hospital he had forty trials on, had innumerable
manuscripts of his contemplated reforms, in which were included
the doing away with Insane Hospitals, the examination of all
persons in the State for venereal disease and their cure by a new
remedy of his own, the reform of the judiciary, etc., etc. He
accused his wife of infidelity, felt that he was being followed
by spies and police, claimed that dictagraphs were installed
everywhere to spy on him and had a classical delusional state. He
was committed, but later he escaped from the hospital and is now
at large. The State officials are making no effort to find him,
mainly because they are glad to get rid of him.

While the cases like L. are not common, the "mildly" paranoid
personality is common. Everywhere one finds the man or woman
whose abilities are not recognized, who is discriminated against,
who finds an enemy in every one who does not kotow and who
interprets as hostile every action not directly conciliating or
friendly. In every group of people there is one whose paranoid
temperament must be reckoned with, who is distrustful, conceited
and disruptive. Often they are high-minded, perhaps devoted to an
ideal, and if they convince others of their wrongs they increase
the social disharmonies by creating new social wars, large or
small according to their influence, intelligence and other
circumstances.

The type of the trusting need not be here illustrated by any case
history. Dickens has given us an immortal figure in the genial,
generous and impulsive Mr. Pickwick, and Cervantes satirized
knighthood by depicting the trusting, credulous Don Quixote. We
laugh at these figures, but we love them; they preserve for us
the sweetness of childhood and hurt only themselves and their
own. Trust in one's fellows is not common, because the world is
organized on egoism more than on fellowship. Where fellowship
becomes a code, as in the relations of men associated together
for some great purpose, then a noble trust appears.

So I pass over those whose mood runs all one way the hopeful, the
despondent, the pessimist and the optimist--to other types. We
shall then consider the two great directions of interest,
introspection and extrospection, and those whose lives are
characterized by one or the other direction.

1. The introspective personality is no more of a unit than any
other type. Intelligence, energy and a host of other matters play
their part in the sum total of the character here as elsewhere.

H. I. is what might be called the intellectual introspective
personality. From the very earliest days he became interested in
himself as a thinker. "How do my words mean anything?" he asked
of his perplexed father at the investigative age of five. "Where
do my thoughts go to when I do not think them?" was the problem
he floored a learned uncle with a year later. This type of
curiosity is not uncommon in children; in fact, it is the
conventionality and laziness of the elders that stops children in
their study of the fundamentals. H. was not stopped, for the zeal
of his interest was heightened as time went on.

He played with other boys but early found their conclusions and
discussions primitive. He became an ardent bookworm, reading
incessantly or rather at such times when his parents permitted,
for they were simple folk who were rather alarmed at their boy's
interests and zeal. No noticeable difference from other boys was
noted aside from precocity in study, yet even at the age of ten
life was running in two great currents for this boy. The one
current was the outer world with its ever varied happenings, the
other was the inner world of thoughts and moods, deeply,
fascinatingly interesting. It seemed to H. I. that there were
"two I's, one of which sat just over my head and looking down on
the other I, watching its strivings, its emotions, its thoughts
with a detached and yet palpitating interest. When I watched the
other boys at play I wondered whether they too had this dual
existence, whether they chewed the cud of life over and over
again as I did."

Came puberty with the great sex passions. The vibrating life
within him suddenly became tinged with new interests. One day at
a party a vixen of a girl threw herself boldly in his arms and
tried to push him into a chair. The bodily contact and the swift
bodily reaction threw him into a panic, for the passion that was
aroused was so powerful that he seemed to himself stripped of all
thought and reflection and impelled to actions against which he
rebelled. For he was fully acquainted, at second hand, with sex;
he knew boys and girls who had made excursions into its most
intimate practices and despised them.

This episode gave his introspective trends a new direction. From
now on sex was the theme his fancy embroidered. Curiously enough,
he became more austere than ever, shunned girls and especially
the heroine of his adventure, and even avoided the company of
boys who spoke habitually and "vulgarly" of sex. His mind built
up sex phantasies, sex adventures in which he was the hero and in
which girls he knew and those he imagined were the heroines, but
at the same time, standing aloof as it were, another part of him
seemed to watch his own reactions until "I nearly went crazy." He
became obsessed by a feeling of unreality and adopted a Berkleyan
philosophy of idealism: nothing seemed to exist except his own
consciousness, and that seemed of doubtful existence. He took
long walks by himself, read philosophy and science with avidity,
yet turned by preference to these dreams of sex adventure,
palpitating, alluring, and yet so unreal to his critical self. To
others he was merely a bit moody and detached, though friendly
and kind.

He went to college, and his interest in sex became secondary
almost immediately. His student days were passed at Harvard at a
time when Royce, Palmer, Santayanna, and James ruled in its
philosophy, and H. I. became fascinated by these men and their
subject. His mind was again drawn into introspection, but in an
organized manner. He asked himself continually, "What are the
purposes of life; why do we love; does man will or is he an
automaton who watches the hands go around and thinks he moves
them?" Where before his feeling of unreality was largely
emotional, now it received an intellectual sanction, and he swung
from hither to yon in a never-ending cycle. He became wearied
beyond measure by his thoughts; he envied the beasts of the
field, the laborer in the ditch and all to whom life and living
were realities not in the least to be examined and questioned.
Deliberately he decided to shift his interests,--to buy an
automobile and learn about it; to play cards; to have his love
affair; to taste emotion and pleasure and to seek no intellectual
sanction for them.

He disappeared from college for a year and came back tanned,
ruddy and at rest. He had found a capacity for interest and
emotion outside of himself. He had experienced phases of life
about which he would not talk at first, but in later years he
admitted that he had been a "man of the world." He regretted much
that had happened, but on the whole he rejoiced in an equanimity,
in a capacity for objective interest, that he had never had
before. His introspective trend was still very strong, but it
lent subtlety and wisdom to his life, rather than weakness. Now
and then he became harassed by a feeling of unreality, by a
questioning skepticism that nullified happiness, and he felt
himself divided by his intellect. These he shook off by dropping
his work, by hunting, fishing and accepting simple goals of
activity. Later on he married, and became a scholar of some note.
I think he now relishes life as well as any really thoughtful man
of middle life can.

There is a personality type, the emotional introspective, whose
interest in life is directed toward their own sensations and
emotions. They do not view people or things as having a value in
themselves and for themselves; they deliberately view them as
sources of a personal pleasurable sensation. I do not mean the
crude egoist who asks of anything or anybody, "What good is it
(or he) for me?" but I mean that connoisseur in emotions,
casually blase and bored, who seeks new sensations. This is an
introspective deviation of a serious kind, for the connoisseur in
emotions rarely is happy and usually is most deeply miserable.
Bourget in his remarkable psychological novel, "A Love Crime,"
has admirably drawn one of these characters. The exquisite
Armand, seeking pleasure constantly, is divided into the
sensualist who seduces and ruins and the introspectionist who
watches the proceeding with disgust and disillusion. It is not an
outraged conscience that is at work but the inability to feel
without analyzing the feeling "Ah, for a single passion that
might apply my entire sensibility to another being, like wet
paper against a window pane." This is the eternal tragedy of
sophistication,--that there results an anhedonia in large part
manifested by a restless introspection. The mind is drawn away
from the outside world, and everything is seen out of proportion.

The hypochondriac directs his attention to his health and is in
part a monothymic of the fear type. Moliere's "Le Malade
Imaginaire" is a classical study of this person, and I do not,
presume to better it. Modern popularizing of disease has
distinctly increased the numbers of the hypochondriacs, or at any
rate has made their fears more scientific. Brain tumor, gastric
ulcer, appendicitis, tuberculosis, heart disease, cancer,
syphilis,--often have I seen a hypochondriac run the gamut of
all these deadly diseases and still retain his health. The faddy
habits they form are the sustenance of those who start the varied
forms of vegetarianism, chewing cults, fresh-air fiends,
wet-grass fanatics, back-to-nature societies, and the mild
lunacies of our (and every) age.

One such hypochondriac, J., after suffering from every disease in
the advertising pages of the daily newspapers, developed a system
of habits that finally became a disease in itself. He rose at
6.30 each morning, stood naked in the middle of the room, took
six deep breaths, rolled around on the floor and kicked his arms
and legs about for fifteen minutes, took a drink of cold water,
had a shower bath and a rub-down, shaved, attended to "certain
bodily functions" (his term, not mine), ate a breakfast
consisting of gluten bread, two slices, one and one-half glasses
of milk, a soft-boiled egg (three and one-half minutes) and an
orange; walked to work, taking exactly twenty minutes to do it;
opened the windows wide in his office (fighting with the other
clerks who preferred comfort to fresh air), ate a health luncheon
at noon consisting of Postum, nuts, health bread, and two squares
of milk chocolate; walked home at six, taking exactly 20 minutes
to do it; washed, lay on the couch fifteen minutes with mind
fixed on infinity (a Hindoo trick, so he heard), ate dinner,
which never varied much from rice, cream, potatoes, milk and,
heritage of saner days, a small piece of pie! All the day he
watched each pain and ache, noted whether he belched or spit more
than usual, and at night went to sleep at 10.30. Needless to say
he had no friends, was known as "that nut" and really broke down
from too arduous an introspective existence.

The term self-denial has been used from earliest times to
indicate what we have called inhibition. But self-denial is
fundamentally a wrong term, since it implies that the self is
that which lusts and shirks, and that which controls desire and
holds the individual to a consistent and ethical line of conduct
is not the self. In fact, the self is based on inhibition and
control, and when there is failure in these regards there is
self-failure.

Interesting is the under-inhibited person. I mean by this term
the one who consistently and in most relationship shows an
inability to control the primitive instincts, impulses and
desires. J. F. may stand as a type that becomes the "black sheep"
and in many cases the "criminal." He comes of what is known as a
"good family," which in his case means that the parents are
well-to-do, of good reputation and rather above the average in
intelligence. The brothers and sisters have all done well, are
settled in their ways and are not to be distinguished from the
people of their social set in manners or morals.

It was impossible to discipline J. As a very young child he
resisted his mother's efforts to train him into tidiness or
restraint. He stole whatever he desired, and though he was
alternately punished and pleaded with, though he seemed to desire
to please his parents, he continued to steal whenever there was
opportunity. At six he entered a neighbor's house, and while
there took a purse that was lying on a table, rifled it of its
contents and disappeared for nearly a day, when he was found in a
down-town district, having gorged himself with candy and cake.
From then on his peculations increased, and his conduct became
the scandal of his family, for he stole even from the maids
employed in the house, as well as from guests. In each case the
stealing was apparently motivated to give a good time to himself
and also to certain chums he made here and there in the city. He
would lie to evade punishment, but finally would yield, confess
his guilt, express deepest repentance and accept his punishment
with the sincerity of one fully conscious of deserving it.

In school he did poorly. He was bright enough. In fact, he was
somewhat above the average in memory and comprehension and may be
described as keen, but it was difficult for him to keep his
attention consistently on any subject, and the discipline of
school irked him. He ran away several times to avoid school, and
each time, until he was about fourteen, came back after a few
days,--bedraggled, hungry and repentant. The freedom of the
streets appealed to him as offering a life varied enough to suit
his nature, and with excitement and adventure always in the air.
So he mingled with all kinds of boys and men and at the age of
fourteen shocked his parents by being arrested as one of a gang
that was engaged in robbing drunken men in the slum quarters of
the city. It took all kinds of influence to get him released on
probation, but this was accomplished and then the boy disappeared
from home.

He was gone three years and despite all search had completely
disappeared. His people had given up all hope of seeing him again
(although certain members of his family were not at all saddened
by the prospect) when they received a communication from the
police of a distant city with a photograph of the boy, asking if
it was true that he was their son. It seems that J. had drifted
from place to place, now working as newsboy, stable hand, errand
boy, messenger, theater-usher, until he had reached this city.
There he was wandering on the streets, hungry and ragged, when a
philanthropic old gentleman noticed him. J. has the good fortune
to be very innocent looking, and no matter what his crimes, his
face might belong to a cherub. A friend once stated that if J.
appeared at Heaven's gate, St. Peter would surely take him to be
an angel come back from a stroll and let him in. The
philanthropist stopped, the boy and inquired into his history. J.
told him a very affecting story of being an orphan whom a cruel
guardian had robbed of his heritage and exaggerated his
sufferings until the indignant old fellow threatened to have the
police prosecute his betrayer. With a show of great magnanimity,
J. refused to disclose his real name, and the philanthropist took
him home. He had him clothed and fed, and then, taken by the
boy's engaging manners and bright ways, decided to educate and
adopt him. He was dissuaded from the latter by a friend, but he
sent J. to a private school of good grade. To the surprise of the
old man, J. was continually getting into mischief, and finally he
was accused of stealing. Unable to believe the school
authorities, the old gentleman took the boy home and quizzed him.
He gave an unsatisfactory account of himself and that night
disappeared with a considerable sum of money. The police were
notified, and a week later he was found in a house of the
type--so euphemistically called--of "ill fame." There he was
spending the money lavishly on the inmates and was indulging his
every desire. One of the women, a police stool-pigeon, identified
him as the boy who was wanted by the law, and he was arrested.

Despite the efforts of the parents and the philanthropist, the
boy was given a prison sentence and is still serving it.
Characteristic of this group of personalities are these traits:
(1) an impatience with the arduous, an incapacity or
unwillingness to wait for results in the ordinary way; (2) a
decided dread of monotony, a longing for excitement; (3) an
inability to form permanent purposes and to inhibit the
distracting desires; (4) a desire to win others' good opinion and
sympathy,--therefore he always lavished his money on those whom
that kind of "good fellowship" wins and told pathetic stories to
those whose sentimentality made them easy victims; (5) a weak
kind of egoism, seeking easy ways to pleasure and position,
restless under discipline, always repentant after wrong-doing,
fluent in speech but lacking the courage to face the difficulties
of life.

This under-inhibited type may suddenly reform and apparently
entirely emerge from difficulties. I have in mind a conspicuous
case, a young woman now happily married and the mother of fine
children. When she was thirteen or fourteen the petty pilferings
of her childhood took on a serious character. She began to steal
from the person of strangers and from the homes of friends. She
romanced in the most convincing fashion, told strangers the most
remarkable stories, usually of such a nature as to make her
interesting and an object of sympathy, but which tended to
blacken the reputation of her family. She lost place after place
at work, was sent to a hospital to become a nurse and demoralized
her associates by her lies and her thefts. She was a very sweet
girl in every other way, kindly, generous, self-sacrificing,
studious even, and her character-contradiction made people
reluctant to believe she was not insane. She was discharged from
the hospital, stayed at home for a few months,--and then came the
miracle. She obtained a place in a large business house and
worked there for seven years or up till the time of her marriage.
She was steadily promoted and was accounted the most reliable and
honest employee of the establishment. She handled money and
goods, was absolutely truthful and her earnest efficiency was
noteworthy. Her private life was in complete harmony with this
business career. She helped her parents, who are poor, dressed
modestly, studied nights and yet showed the same fondness for
dancing and good times that the normal girl does. She met a
promising young business man who fell immediately in love with
this demure looking young woman, and they were later married.
Once I asked her how the reform came about. "I don't know
myself," she answered frankly. "I never was happy--when I was the
other way. I always vowed reform, but when there was money around
I'd think and think about it until it was mine. Then I'd spend it
in a silly way to get rid of it fast. I craved good things, and
you know how poor we were. Then I lied just to have people like
me and pity me, even though I called myself a fool while doing
it. Often, often I tried to reform and for a week or two would be
real good. Then perhaps I'd see some money, and I'd try to think
of something else. But that money would come to my mind, and I'd
get hot and dizzy thinking about it. Perhaps I'd say, 'I'll just
look at it,' and finally I'd go and take it--and feel so relieved
and spend it. After I left the hospital it seemed to me that I
could never smile again. I cried all night long; I wanted to die.
I could see one girl who thought I was so good and nice, and her
face as she looked at me when I left! Her eyes were wide open,
and her mouth was so stern, and she looked as if she wanted to
speak but she turned around and walked away. One day I woke up
after a restless night at home, and it seemed to me that I had
strength, that something had turned around in my nature, and
since that day I have never even wanted to steal. I haven't had
to try to be good; it came as natural as eating and sleeping."

The sexually under-inhibited are those whose sex control is
deficient. This may be either from over-passionate nature, bad
example, deficient mentality, vanity and desire for good times,
as in certain girls, etc. To discuss these types would be to
write another book, and so I forbear. But this I wish to
emphasize: that neither age, sex protestation of indifference and
control, occupation or social status, alters the fact that the
history of the sex feelings, impulses and struggles is essential
to a knowledge of character. Without detailing sex types, these
are some that are important.

1. The uninhibited impulsive, passionate (the bulk of the
prostitutes).

2. The controlled, passionate. Very common.

3. The frigid. Not so rare as believed.

4. The extremely passionate (nymphomania, satyriasis). Rare.
Always in trouble.

5. The sensualist, a deliberate seeker of sex pleasure, often
indulging in perversion. Common type.

6. The perverted types,--autoerotic (masturbator), homosexual,
masochists, sadists, fetishist, etc. More common than the
ordinary person dreams.

7. The periodic, to whom sex life is incidental to certain
periods and situations. Common among women, less common among
men.

8. The sublimators, whose sexual activity has somehow been
harnessed to other great activities. Fairly frequent among these
who either through choice or necessity are to remain continent.

9. The anhedonic or exhausted. Found in the sensualists and often
reacted to by the formation of religious and ethical codes, which
eliminate sex,--Tolstoy, the hermits, certain Russian sects, etc.

There is under-inhibition of a good kind. There are
generous-hearted people always ready to give of themselves to
anything or anybody that needs help. Often "fooled" by the
unworthy, they resolve to be calm, judicial and selfish, and
then,--their generous social natures over-ride caution, and again
they plunge into kindness and philanthropy.

F. L. is one of these. As child, boy and young man he was
free-hearted to an extraordinary degree. Ragamuffin, stray dog or
cat, tramp, down and outer of every kind or description, these
enlisted his sympathy and help despite the expostulation and
remonstrance of a series of conventional good people, his mother
and father, his best friends and his outraged wife. The latter
never knew, she used to say, what he would bring home for dinner.
"He always forgot to bring home the steak, but he never forgot to
lug along some derelict." More than once he was robbed, often he
was imposed upon. Once he met an interesting vagabond who spoke
several languages, quoted the Bible with ease and accuracy, and
so fired the heart of our simple man that he bought him clothes
and brought him home to stay. His wife threw up her hands in
despair. "But, my dear," said F. L., "he's a scholar who has
fallen on evil days." "Ah," she answered, "I fear it will be an
evil day for us when you took him home." She had a good chance to
say, "I told you so," when the rogue eloped with the best of
their silver.

Not only is F. L. impulsive and uninhibited in his generosity,
but his "pitch in and help" quality is about as well manifested
in other matters. If he sees a man or boy struggling with a load,
he immediately forgets that he is over fifty and well dressed and
steps right in to help. He saw an ash and garbage man--this is
his wife's star story--struggling to lift a much befouled can
into his wagon. F. L. left his wife and some friends without a
word and with a cheery word threw the can into the wagon.
Unfortunately some of the contents splashed, and F. L. suffered
both in dignity and appearance as a consequence. He had to go
home by back alleys and had to endure the mirth of his friends
for a long time. But it did not change his reactions in the
least, although he was really vexed with himself and endeavored
to be conventional and self-controlled for a while. The point is
that F. L. attempts inhibition of generous impulses and fails as
ignominiously as a drunkard struggling with the desire to drink.

Of course he is of the salt of the earth. Upon such uninhibited
fellowship feeling as his rests the ethical progress of the
world. A dozen inventors contribute less to their fellow men than
does he. For their contributions may be used to destroy or
enslave their fellows, and it is a commonplace that science has
outstripped morals. But his contributions spread kindly feeling
and the notion of the brotherhood of man.

The over-inhibited, those whose every impulse and desire is
subjected to a scrutiny and a blocking, often come to the
attention of the neuropsychiatrist. But there are many "normal"
people who fall into this group, and whose conduct throughout
life is marked by a scrupulosity that is painful to behold. The
over-inhibition may take specific directions, as in the thrifty
who check their desires in the wish to save money, or the
industrious who hold up their pleasures and recreations in the
fear that they are wasting time. A sub-group of the
over-inhibited I call the over-conscientious, and it is one of
these whose history is epitomized here.

K. has always had "ingrowing scruples," as his exasperated mother
once said. As a small child he never obeyed the impulse to take a
piece of cake without looking around to see if his mother and
father approved. He would not play unreservedly, in the
whole-hearted impulsive way of children, but always held back in
his enjoyment as if he feared that perhaps he was not doing just
right. When he started to go to school his fear of doing the
wrong thing made him appear rather slow, though in reality he was
bright. The other children called him a "sissy," mistaking his
conscientiousness for cowardice. This grieved him very much, and
his father undertook to educate him in "rough" ways, in fighting
and wrestling. He succeeded in this to the extent that K. learned
to fight when he believed that he was being wronged, but he never
seemed to learn the aggressiveness necessary to get even a fair
share of his rights. His mother, a similar type, rather
encouraged him in this virtue, much to the disgust of the father.

Not to spend too long a time over K.'s history, we may pass
quickly over his school years until he entered college. He was a
"grind" if there ever was one, studying day and night. He had
developed well physically and because of his hard work stood near
the top of his class. He took no "pleasures" of any kind,--that
is, he played no cards, went to no dances, never took in a show
and of course was strictly moral. It seems that the main factor
that held him back was the notion he had imbibed early in his
career that pleasure itself was somehow not worthy, that an ideal
of work made a sort of sin of wasting time. Whenever he indulged
himself by rest or relaxation, even in so innocent a way as to go
to a ball game, there was in the back of his mind the idea, "I
might have been studying this or that, or working on such a
subject; I am wasting time," and the pleasure would go. By nature
K. was sociable and friendly and was well liked, but he avoided
friendships and social life because of the unpleasant reproaches
of his work conscience and the rigor of his work inhibitions. He
grew tired, developed a neurasthenic set of symptoms, and thus I
first came in contact with him. Once he understood the nature of
his trouble, which I labeled for him as a "hypertrophied work
conscience," he set himself the task of learning to enjoy, of
throwing off inhibition, of innocent self-indulgence, and my
strong point that he would work the better for pleasure took his
fancy at once. He succeeded in part in his efforts, but of course
will always debate over the right and wrong of each step in his
life.

This one example of a high type of the over-inhibited must do for
the group. There is a related type who in ordinary speech find it
"difficult to make up their minds,"--in other words, are unable
to choose. Bleuler has used the term ambivalent, thus comparing
these individuals to a chemical element having two bonds and
impelled to unite with two substances. The ambivalent
personalities are always brought to a place where they yearn for
two opposing kinds of action or they fear to choose one affinity
of action as against the other. They are in the position of the
unfortunate swain who sang, "How happy I could be with either,
were t'other dear charmer away."

M. is one of these helpless ambivalent folk, always running to
others for advice and perplexed to a frenzy by the choices of
life. "What shall I do?" is his prime question, largely because
he fears to commit himself to any line of action. Once a man
chooses, he shuts a great many doors of opportunity and gambles
with Fate that he has chosen right. M. knows this and lacks self-
confidence, i.e., the belief that he will choose for the best or
be able to carry it through. He lacks the gambling spirit, the
willingness to put his destiny to fortune. Often M. deliberates
or rather oscillates for so long a time that the matter is taken
from his hands. Thus, when he fell in love, the fear of being
refused, of making a mistake, prevented him from action, and the
young woman accepted another, less ambivalent suitor.

M. is in business with his father and is entirely a subordinate,
because he cannot choose. He carries out orders well, is very
amiable and gentle, is liked and at the same time held in a mild
contempt. He has physical courage but has not the hardihood of
soul to take on responsibility for choosing. Sometimes he gets
good ideas, but never dares to put them into execution and shifts
that to others.

He hates himself for this weakness in an essential phase of
personality but is gradually accepting himself as an inferior
person, despite intelligence, training and social connection.

Yet his sister is exactly the opposite type. She makes decisions
with great promptness, never hesitates, is "cocksure" and
aggressive. If M. is ambivalent, his sister B. M. is univalent.
Choice is an easy matter to her, though she is not impulsive. She
rapidly deliberates. She never has made any serious errors in
judgment, but if she makes a mistake she shrugs her shoulders and
says, "It's all in the game." Thus she is a leader in her set,
for if some difficulty is encountered, her mind is quickly at
work and prompt with a solution. If she is not brilliant, and she
is not, she collects the plans of her associates and chooses and
modifies until she is ready with her own plan. Her father sighs
as he watches her and regrets that she is not a man. It does not
occur to him or any of his family, including herself, that she
might do a man's work in the business world.

In pathological cases the inability to choose becomes so marked
as to make it impossible for the patient to choose any line of
conduct. "To do or not to do" extends into every relationship and
every situation. The patient cannot choose as to his dress or his
meals; cannot decide whether to stay in or go out, finds it
difficult to choose to cross the street or to open a door; is
thrown into a pendulum of yea and nay about speaking, etc. This
psychasthenic state, the folie du doute of the French, is
accompanied by fear, restlessness and an oppressive feeling of
unreality. The records of every neurologist contain many such
cases, most of whom recover, but a few go on to severe incurable
mental disease.

I pass on, without regard for logic or completeness, to a
personality type that we may call the anhedonic or simpler a
restless, not easily satisfied, easily disgusted group. Some of
these are cyclothymic, over-emotional, often monothymic but I am
discussing them from the standpoint of their satisfaction with
life and its experiences. The ordinary label of "finicky" well
expresses the type, but of course it neglects the basic
psychology. This I have discussed elsewhere in this book and will
here describe two cases, one a congenital type and the other
acquired.

T. was born dissatisfied, so his mother avers. As a baby he was
"a difficult feeding case" because the very slightest cause, the
least change in the milk, upset him, a fact attested to by
vigorous crying. Babies have a variability in desire and
satisfaction quite as much as their elders.

Apparently T. thrived, despite his start, for as a child he was
sturdy looking. Nevertheless, in toys, games, treats, etc., he
was hard to please and easy to displease. He turned up his nose
if a toy were not perfection, and he had to have his food
prepared according to specification or his appetite vanished.
Moreover, he had a very limited range of things he liked, and as
time went on he extended that list but little. He was very choice
in his clothes--not at all a regular boy--and quite disgusted
with dirt and disorder. "A little old maid" somebody called him,
having in mind of course the traditional maiden lady.

As T. grew his capacity for pleasure-feeling did not increase. On
the contrary his attention to the details necessary for his
pleasure made of him one of those finicky connoisseurs who,
though never really pleased with anything, get a sort of pleasure
in pointing out the crudity of other people's tastes and
pleasures. This attitude of superiority is the one compensation
the finicky have, and since they are often fluent of speech and
tend to write and lecture, they impose their notions of good and
bad upon others, who seek to escape being "common." In T.'s case
his attitude toward food, clothes, companions, sports and work
created a tense disharmony in his family, and one of his brothers
labeled him "The Kill-joy." Secretly envious of other people's
simple enjoyment, T. made strenuous efforts at times to overcome
his repugnances and to enlarge the scope of his pleasures, but
because this forfeited for him the superiority he had reached as
a very "refined" person, he never persisted in this process.

When he was twenty he found himself the theater of many
conflicts. He was weary of life, yet lusted for experiences that
his hyperestheticism would not permit him to take. Sex seemed too
crude, and the girls of his age were "silly." Yet their lure and
his own internal tensions dragged him to one place after another,
hoping that he would find the perfect woman, able to understand
him. At last he did find her, so he thought, in the person of a
young woman of twenty-five, a consummate mistress of the arts of
femininity. She sized him up at once, played on his vanity,
extolled his fine tastes and never exposed a single crudity of
her own, until she brought him to the point where his passion for
her, his conviction that he had found "the perfect woman," led
him to propose marriage. Then came the blow: she laughed at him,
called him a silly boy, gave him a lecture as to what constituted
a fine man, extolling crudity, vigor and virility as the prime
virtues.

His world was shattered, and its shadowy pleasures gone. At first
his parents were inclined to believe that this was a good lesson,
that T. would learn from this adventure and become a more hardy
young man. Instead he became sleepless, restless and without
desire for food or drink; he shunned men and women alike; he
stared hollow-eyed at a world full of noise and motion but
without meaning or joy. Deep was this anhedonia, and all
exhortations to "brace up and be a man" failed. Diversion, travel
and all the usual medical consultations and attentions did no
good.

One day he announced to his family that he was all right, that
soon he would be well. He seemed cheerful, talked with some
animation and dressed himself with unusual care. His parents
rejoiced, but one of his brothers did not like what he called a
"gleam" in T.'s eyes. So he followed him, in a skillful manner.
T. walked around for a while, then found his way to a bridge
crossing a swift deep river. He took off his coat, but before he
could mount the rail his watchful brother was upon him. He made
no struggle and consented to come back home. In his coat was a
letter stating that he saw no use in living, that he was not
taking his life because of disappointment in love but because he
felt that he never could enjoy what others found pleasurable, and
that he was an anomaly, a curse to himself and others.

He was sent away to a sanatorium but left it and came home. He
began to eat and drink again, found he could sleep at night (the
sleepless night had filled him with despair) and soon swung back
into his "normal" state. He passes throughout life a spectator of
the joys of others, wondering why his grip on content and desire
is so slender, but also he thinks himself of a finer clay than
his fellows.

As a complement to this case let me cite that of the ex-soldier
S. He reached the age of twenty-two with a very creditable
history. Born of middle-class parents he went through high school
and ranked in the upper third of his class for scholarship. His
physique was good; he was a joyous, popular young fellow; and
wherever he went was pointed out as the clean young American so
representative of our country. That means he worked hard as
assistant executive in a production plant, was ambitious to get
ahead, took special courses to fit himself, read a good deal
about "success" and how to reach it, dressed well, liked his
fellow men and more than liked women, enjoyed sports, a good
time, the theaters, slept well, ate well and surged with the
passions and longings of his youth. Had any one said to him,
"What is there to live for?" he would have had no answer ready
merely because it would have never occurred to him that any one
could really ask so foolish a question.

Came the war. Full of the ardor of patriotism and the longing for
the great experience, he enlisted. He took the "hardships" of
camp life, the long hikes, the daily drills, the food dished out
in tins, as a lark, and his hearty fellowship identified him with
the army, with its profanity, its rough friendliness, its
grumbling but quick obedience and its intense purpose to "show
'em what the American can do." He went overseas and learned that
French patriotism, like the American brand, did not prevent
profiteering, and that enlistment in a common cause does not
allay or abate racial prejudices and antagonisms. This, however,
did not prey on his mind, for he took his Americanism as superior
without argument and was not especially disappointed because of
French customs and morals. He took part in several battles, made
night attacks, bayonetted his first man with a horror that
however disappeared under the glory of victory.

One day as he and a few comrades were in a front line trench,
"Jerry" placed a high explosive "plump in the middle of it." When
S. recovered consciousness, he found himself half covered with
dirt and debris of all kinds, and when he crawled out and brushed
himself off, he saw that of all his comrades he alone survived,
and that they were mangled and mutilated in a most gruesome way.
"Pieces of my friends everywhere," is his terse account. He lay
in the trench, not daring to move for hours, the bitterest
thoughts assailing him,--anger, hatred and disgust for war, the
Germans, his own countrymen; and he even cursed God. When he did
this he shuddered at his blasphemy, became remorseful and prayed
for forgiveness. A little later he crawled out of the trench and
back to where he was picked up by the medical corps and taken to
a hospital. He was examined, nothing wrong was found and he was
sent back to duty.

From that episode dates as typical an anhedonia as I have ever
seen. Gradually he became sleepless and woke each day more tired
than he went to bed. The food displeased him, and he grumbled
over what were formerly trifles. He wearied easily, and nothing
seemed to move him to enthusiasm or desire. He gave up friendship
after friendship, because the friends annoyed him by their noise
and boisterousness. He dreaded the roar of the guns and the
shriek of shells with what amounted to physical agony. He brooded
alone, and though not melancholy in the positive insane sense,
was melancholy in the disappearance of desire, joy, energy,
interest and enthusiasm.

Fortunately the armistice came at this time. S. was examined and
discharged as well because he made no complaints, for he was
anxious to get home. This was his one great desire. At home, with
a nice bed to sleep in, good food to eat and the pleasant faces
of his own people, his "nerves" would yield, he had no doubt. But
he was mistaken; this was not the case. He became no better, and
though he tried his old "job," he found that he could not find
the energy, enthusiasm or concentration necessary for success. He
was then referred to the United States Public Health Service,
where I saw him, and he became my patient.

My first problem was to restore the power of sleeping. This I
succeeded in doing by means that were entirely "physical." With
that accomplished, the man became hopeful of further results, and
this enabled one to bring about a desire for food, again by
physical means, medicine, in short. The problem of awaking S.'s
interest simmered down to that of finding an outlet for his
ambition. The Federal Vocational Board granted him the right to
take up a business course in a college. Though he found the study
hard at first, he was encouraged to keep on and told to expect
little of himself at first. This is an important point, for if a
man holds himself to a high standard under conditions such as
those of S., then failure brings a discouragement that upsets the
treatment. At any rate this method of readjustment, with its
reliance on medicines to bring sleep and appetite and on training
to bring hope and relief from introspection, worked splendidly.

The fact is that no abstruse complicated psychological analysis
was necessary here or in most cases. A man is "jarred" from
light-hearted health to a grim discouraged state. This
discouragement brings with it sleeplessness and loss of appetite,
and there gradually develops a series of habits which lower
endurance and energy. The habit elements in this condition are
not enough recognized, and also the fact that most of the
disability is physical in its development though psychological at
the start. That is, A. had a severe emotional reaction to a
horrible experience; this brought about insomnia and disordered
nutrition, and these, by lowering the endurance and ability,
brought to being a vicious circle of fatigue and depression, in
which fatigue caused depression and depression increased fatigue.
The treatment must be directed at first to the physical factors,
and with these conquered the acquired forms of anhedonia usually
yield readily.

It would be interesting to consider other types related to the
anhedonic personality. The complainer, the whiner, the nag, all
these are basically people who are hard to satisfy. The artistic
temperament (found rather frequently in the non-artistic) is
hyperesthetic, uncontrolled, irritably egoistic and demands
homage and service from others which exceeds the merit of the
individual; in other words, there is added to the anhedonic
element an unreasonableness that is peculiarly exasperating. I
pass these interesting people by and turn to the opposite of the
anhedonic group, the group that is hearty in tastes and
appetites, easily pleased as a rule and often crude in their
relish of life. There are two main divisions of these hearty
simple people,--those who are untrained and relatively
uneducated, and whose simplicity may disappear under cultivation,
and another type--cultivated, educated, wise--who still retain
unspoiled appetite and hearty enjoyment.

Briefly let me introduce Dr. O., an athlete in his youth and
always a lover of the great outdoors.

O. is Homeric in the simplicity of his tastes. A house is a place
in which to sleep, clothes are to keep one warm, food is to eat
and the manner of its service is an indifferent matter. He enjoys
with almost huge pleasure good things to eat and good things to
drink, but as he puts it, "I am as much at home with corned beef
and cabbage as I am with any epicurean chef d'oeuvre. I like the
feel of silk next my body, but cotton pleases me as much." He is
clean and bathes regularly, but has no repulsion against dirt and
disorder. At home, among the utmost refinements of our
present-day life, he prefers the rough bare essentials of
existence. To him beauty is not exotic, but everywhere present,
and he sees it in a workman clad in overalls and breaking stone
quite as much as in a carefully harmonized landscape. He has no
pose about the beauty of nature as against the beauty of man's
creations, and he thinks that a puffing freight engine, dragging
a load of cars up a grade, is as much a thing to enthuse about as
a graceful deer sniffing the scent of the hunter in some pine
grove.

Imbued with a zeal for living and a desire for experience, O. has
not been as successful as one more cautious and less impetuous
might have been. He loves his profession so well that he would
rather spend a day on an interesting case in the ward of some
hospital than to treat half a dozen rich patients in his
consulting room. His purpose is indeed unified; he seeks to learn
and to impart, but the making of money seems to him a necessary
irrelevance, almost an impertinent intrusion upon the real
purposes of life. He is eager to know people, he shows a naive
curiosity about them, an interest that flatters and charms. All
the phenomena of life--esoteric, commonplace, queer and
conventional--are grist to his mill.

His sexual life has not differed greatly from that of other men.
In his early youth his passions outran his inhibitions, and he
tasted of this type of experience with the same gusto with which
he delved into books. As he reached early manhood he fell in love
and pledged himself to chastity. Though he fell out of love soon
his pledge remained in full force, and though he cursed himself
as a fool he held himself aloof from sex adventure. When he was
twenty-seven he again fell in love, had an impetuous and charming
courtship and married. He loves his wife, and there is in their
intimacy a buoyant yet controlled passion which values love for
its own sake. He enters into his duties as father with the same
zeal and appetite that characterizes his every activity.

O. is no mystic, proclaiming his unity with all existence, in the
fashion of Walt Whitman. Rather he is a man with a huge capacity
for pleasure, not easily disgusted or annoyed, with desires that
reach in every direction yet with controlled purpose to guide his
life. As he passes into middle age he finds his pleasures
narrowing, as all men do, and he finds his appetites and tastes
are becoming more restricted. This is because his purpose becomes
more dominant, his habits are more imperious, his energy less
exuberant. In thought O. is almost a pessimist because his
knowledge of life, his intelligence and his sympathy make it
difficult to understand the need of suffering, of disease and of
conflict. But in emotion he still remains an optimist, glad to be
alive at any price and rejoicing in the life of all things.

Apropos of this contradiction between thought and mood, it is
sometimes found reversed. There are those whose philosophy is
optimistic, who will not see aught but good in the world, yet
whose facial expression and actions exhibit an essential
melancholy.

In every category of character there are specialists, individuals
whose main reactions are built around one great trait. Thus there
are those whose egoism takes the form of pride in family, or in
personal beauty, or some intellectual capacity, or in being
independent of others, who worship self-reliance or
self-importance. There are the individuals whose social instincts
express themselves in loquacity, in a talkativeness that is the
main joy of their lives, though not at all the joy of other
lives. A fascinating series of personalities in this respect come
to my mind--L. B., who talks at people, never with them, since he
seems to take no note of their replies; T. K., who seems to
regard conversation as largely a means of demonstrating her
superiority, for she picks her subjects with the care a general
selects his battlefield; F., who is a born pedagogue and seeks to
instruct whoever listens to him, whose conversation is a lecture
and a monologue; R. O., the reticent, says little but that
pertinent and relevant, cynical and shrewd; and R. V., who says
little and that with timidity and error. So there are specialists
in caution and "common sense," self-controlled, never rash,
calculating, cool and egotistic, narrow and successful. Every one
knows this type, as every one knows the "fool," with his poor
judgment, his unwise confidence in himself and others, his lack
of restraint. There is the tactful man, conciliating, pliant,
seeking his purposes through the good will of others which he
obtains by "oil" and agreeableness, and there is the aggressive
man, preferring to fight, energetic, at times rash, apt to be
domineering, and crashing on to victory or defeat according to
the caliber of his opponents and the nature of the circumstances.

Those whose ego feeling is high, whose desire for superiority
matches up well with their feeling of superiority are often
called the conceited. Really they are conceited only if they show
their feelings, as, for example, does W. Wherever he goes W.
seeks to occupy the center of the stage, brags of his
achievements and his fine qualities. "I am the kind" is his
prefix to his bragging. W. thinks that everything he does or says
is interesting to others, and even that his illnesses are
fascinating to others. If he has a cold he takes a remarkable
pride in detailing every pain and ache and every degree of
temperature, as if the experience were remarkable and somehow
creditable. But W. is very jealous of other's achievements and is
bored to death except when he can talk or perform.

W. does not know how to camouflage his egoism, but F. does. Fully
convinced of his own superiority and with a strong urge at all
times to demonstrate this, he "knows enough" to camouflage, to
disguise and modify its manifestations. In this way he manages to
be popular, just as W. is decidedly unpopular, and many mistake
him for modest. When he wishes to put over his own opinion he
prefaces his statements by "they say," and though whatever
organization he enters he wishes to lead, he manages to give the
impression that he is reluctant to take a prominent part. A man
of ability and good judgment, the narrow range of F.'s
sympathies, his lack of sincere cordial feeling, is hidden by a
really artistic assumption of altruism that deceives all save
those who through long acquaintance know his real character. One
sees through W. on first meeting, he wears no mask or disguise;
but F. defies detection, though their natures are not radically
different except in wisdom and tact.

Half and more of the actions, poses and speech of men and women
is to demonstrate superiority or to avoid inferiority. There are
some who feel inwardly inferior, yet disguise this feeling
successfully. This feeling of inferiority may arise from purely
accidental matters, such as appearance, deformity, tone of voice,
etc., and the individual may either hide, become seclusive or
else brazen it out, so to speak.

A famous Boston physician was a splendid example of a brusque,
overbearing mask used to hide a shrinking, timid, subjectively
inferior personality. Always very near-sighted and unattractive,
he was essentially shy and modest but decided or felt that this
was a rough world and the way to get ahead was to be rough.
Towards the weak and sick he was kindness itself--gentle,
sympathetic and patient--but towards his colleagues he was a
boor. Distant, haughty, quick to demand all the consideration due
him, he was noted far and wide for the caustic way he attacked
others for their opinions and beliefs and the respect he required
for his own. The general opinion of physicians was that he was a
conceited, arrogant, aristocratic man, and he was avoided except
for his medical opinion, which was usually very sound. Those
admitted to the sanctum of this man's real self knew him to be
really modest and self-deprecatory, anxious to do right and
almost obsessed by the belief that he knew but little compared to
others.

One day there walked into my office a lady, head of a large
enterprise, who had been pointed out to me some time previously
as the very personification of self-assurance and superiority. A
dignified woman of middle age, whose reserve and correct manners
impressed one at once; she bore out in career and casual
conversation this impression of one whose confidence and belief
in herself were not misplaced, in other words, a harmoniously
developed egotist. What she came to consult me about, was--her
feeling of inferiority!

All of her life, said she, she had been overawed by others. As a
girl her mother ruled her, and her younger sister, more charming
and more vivacious, was the pet of the family. Brought up in a
strict church, she developed a firmness of speech and conduct
that inhibited the frankness and friendliness of her social
contacts. Because of this, and her overserious attitudes
generally, girls of her own age rather avoided her, and she
became painfully self-conscious in their company as well as in
the company of men. She wanted to "let go" but could not, and in
time felt that there was something lacking in her, that people
laughed at her behind her back and that no one really liked her.
Her reaction to this was to determine that she would not show her
real feelings, that she would deal with the world on a basis of
"business only" and cut out friendship from her life. Her
intelligence and her devotion to her work brought her success,
and she would have gone her way without regard for her
"inferiority complex" had not chance thrown in her way a young
woman colleague who saw through her elder's pose and became her
friend. My patient drank in this friendship with an avidity the
greater for her long loneliness, and she was very happy until the
younger woman fell in love with a man and began to neglect her
colleague.

This broke Miss B.'s spirit. "Had I not known friendship I might
have gone on, but now I feel that every one must see what a fool
I am and what a fool I have been. I am more shy than ever, I feel
as if every one were really stronger than I am, and that some day
everybody will see through my pose,--and then where will I be?"

Hide-and-go-seek is one of the great games of adults as well as
of children. We hide our own defects and seek the defects of
others in order to avoid inferiority and to feel competitive
superiority. But there is a deep contradiction in our natures: we
seek to display ourselves as we are to those who we feel love us,
and we hide our real self from the enemy or the stranger. The
protective marking of birds and insects "amateurish compared to
the protective marking we apply to ourselves.

I forbear from depicting further character types. People are not
as easily classified as automobiles, and the combinations
possible exceed computation. Character growth, in each individual
human being, is a growth in likeness to others and a growth in
unlikeness, as well. As we move from childhood to youth, and
thence to middle and old age, qualities appear and recede, and
the personality passes along to unity and harmony or else there
is disintegration. He who believes as I do that the Grecian sage
was immortally right when he enjoined man to know himself will
agree that though understanding character is a difficult
discipline it is the principal science of life. We are only
starting such a science; we need to approach our subject with
candor and without prejudice. Though our subject brings us in
direct contact with the deepest of problems, the meaning of life,
the nature of the Ego and the source of consciousness, these we
must ignore as out of our knowledge. Limiting ourselves to a
humble effort to know our fellow men and our own selves, we shall
find that our efforts not only add to our knowledge but add
unmeasurably to our sympathy with and our love for our fellows.