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PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
HKW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO - DALLAS ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., Limited
LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA MELBOURNE
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TORONTO
PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
BY CHARLES S. GARDNER
Professor of Homiletics and Sociology in The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary
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THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1918
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COPTBIOHT, 1918
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Set up and electrotyped. Published, April, 1918
TO
THE MEMORY
OF
ELLEN WOOD GARDNER
MY MOTHER AND
ARIADNE TURNER GARDNER
MY WIFE
TO EACH OF WHOM I OWE
A DEBT TOO GREAT FOR WORDS
4
PREFACE
The field of educational psychology has been very thoroughly worked over, though the last word has by no means been said. The help which teachers have derived from it is very great, and no one now is considered equipped for that noble profession who has not mastered its principles. But so far as my knowledge extends there have been few serious efforts to apply modern psychology to preaching. Indeed, the statement might be made even more nearly abso- lute without doing violence to facts. There have been homi- letical works almost without number, applying the formal rules of logic and rhetoric to sermon-making, and books on elocution are even more numerous. But the works dis- cussing the preparation and delivery of sermons rarely, if ever, approach the subject from the standpoint of modern functional psychology. The psychological conceptions un- derlying most of these treatises belong to a stage of psycho- logical thought long since past.
But there seems to be just as much reason for applying the principles of modern psychology to preaching as for ap- plying them to teaching. And the works on educational psychology will not suffice for this purpose, although they are often suggestive and helpful to the preacher. In some respects educational and homiletical psychology coincide, but they are by no means coextensive ; and when they cover the same ground there are of necessity important differences of emphasis.
In this book some aspects of the psychology of religion are discussed, because they lie within the scope of the au- thor's plan ; but the book is not a treatise on the psychology of religion. It is simply an attempt to make a thorough-
PREFACE
going application of psychological principles to preaching. However, it is something more than an " application." It has grown out of the author's effort to teach homiletical psychology to young ministers ; and he has found that many of them have so inadequate a grasp of psychology that a good deal of exj)lanation had to precede the application. He has, therefore, gone more thoroughly into an exposition of the general principles of psychology than would be neces- sary in a book which sought only to make an application of a science already understood. He has in consequence under- taken a somewhat independent discussion of those aspects of psychology which seemed to him most important in their bearing on preaching. It is hoped, of course, that the book may secure a wide reading among ministers generally, and even among other public speakers ; and it is probable that numbers of them can not safely be assumed to have a very thorough acquaintance with the rather new but fascinating science of functional psychology. It is hoped that this is a sufficient apology for what may seem to some an unduly ambitious attempt by a theological professor.
Two of the chapters have been previously published, — that on Belief in The Revie^v and Expositor, and that on Assemblies in the American Journal of Sociology; and they appear here with the consent of those periodicals.
I feel it needless to try to express in detail my obligation to numerous writers on psychology. The names of many, but by no means all. of those to whom I feel deeply in- debted are mentioned in the text or in foot-note references. I wish to acknowledge my especial, indebtedness to the mem- bers of the Faculty of the institution in which I have the honor to teach, for many valuable criticisms upon several chapters which were read to them I am also under deep obligation to the Reverend Edward L. Grace, D. D., for a critical reading of the entire manuscript and many valuable suggestions.
Charles S. Gardner.
Louisville, Ky., February i8th, 1918.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
General Controls of Conduct i
Reflexes. Structural and functional definition of in- stincts. Instincts not racial habits. Less rigidly organized in men than in lower animals. Native dispositions to be distinguished from instincts. Some native dispositions transmissible by heredity, others not. The conditions un- der which consciousness appears. Its function is adapta- tion to a complex and variable environment. Habit — its physical basis and relation to consciousness. Man more largely a creature of habit than lower animals. Man less controlled by habit in a more complex and changeable en- vironment. Rationality becomes more dominant. Differ- ent theories of the subconscious. As yet comparatively little light upon the problem.
CHAPTER H Mental Im.\ges 19
Their nature. Forms of imagery corresponding to every sense. Differences in individual capacity for imagery. Conditions of the recall of images. Selection of details in recall. Inexactness of the recalled image. Images the material of the intellectual life. Relation to literary style and to practical achievement.
CHAPTER HI Mental Systems 34
Processes of organization. Concepts built up in various fields of experience. Reflective and unreflective organiza- tion, and the functions of concepts thus formed. Organi- zation of mental images is the process of acquiring mean-
CONTENTS
ing. Use, or functional, meanings. Theoretical, or critical, meanings. Differentiation of mental systems. Differen- tiating influences — occupations, organic differences, nien- tal environments. Effect of differentiation of meanings. Practical problems involved. The problem of understand- ing. The problem of exposition. The problem of con- troversy. The problem of co-operation.
CHAPTER IV Feeling 65
Feelings and feeling-tones. Feelings and emotions. Pain and unpleasantness. Physiological and psychical factors of feeling, and their relation to one another. The cause of pleasantness and unpleasantness. The relation of feeling to desire. Feeling and habit. The feeling-tone as related to the strength of the stimulus. Intelligence and the enrichment of the emotional life. Bearing upon the practical problems of preaching.
CHAPTER V Sentiments and Ideals 94
Definition of sentiment. Sentiments classified as con- crete and abstract. Sentiments classified according to their moral value. Tendency to centralize character about one sentiment. Analysis of an ideal. The ideal as a pure construction of the imagination, and as realized in a single specimen of a class. Relation of ideals to sentiments. How these emotional dispositions are developed. The great task and opportunity of the preacher.
CHAPTER VI The Excitation OF Feeling . . 115
Ways of arousing feeling. Two ways of arousing feel- ing at the disposal of the orator — peculiar personal char- acteristics, and communication by expression. Voluntary control of the feelings. " Tearing a passion to tatters." Dramatic action — its nature and value to the orator. Style — especially the skilful use of pictorial language and rhythm. The importance of harmony Iictwecn feel- ings aroused by different stimuli. Individual variations in emotional power.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER VII PACE
Belief 135
Belief conditioned by previous mental content. Six dif- ferent ways the mind may react to a new presentation — compulsory acceptance ; passive acceptance ; positive acceptance; tentative acceptance; suspension of judgment; positive rejection. The nature of belief — acceptance as a safe basis of action. Function of doubt. The closed mind. Intiuence of feeling upon belief, doubt and rejec- tion. Three classes of beliefs — primitive credulity, ra- tional conviction, and vital assurance. Belief originating in feeling given intellectual form. Intellectual reorgan- ization involves distress of heart. The relation of the preacher to religious doubt.
CHAPTER VIII Attention 164
Its nature — focalized consciousness. Its function — to select among the objects of the environment and to direct action. Compulsory attention. Voluntary attention. Spontaneous attention. The orator should seek for spon- taneous attention by keeping in line with the hearer's dominant interest. Its scope. Its constant shifting from one object to another. Its fluctuations. Three different wave-lengths note4.
CHAPTER IX Voluntary Action 186
Responsiveness of the living being to its surroundings. These responses leave modifications in the organism. Modes of responsiveness characterizing the vegetable, animal, and human grades of life. Increasing complexity of organisms as the grades are ascended. Corresponding psychical development. The distinctive mark of volun- tary action. Life is onward-moving, forth-reaching. On the human level it is also consciously directed toward ends. The higher and more distant the end, the more vol- untary the act. The problem of freedom. Is freedom an illusion, or is necessity? The relation of feeling to volun- tary action. The preacher interested primarily in the character of the mental processes rather than the overt act.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER X Suggestion 209
Distinction between normal and abnormal suggestion. Three types of organisms — the aggressive, the stubborn (or resistant), and the passive. Suggestibility varies in- versely as the insistence of the organism on its autonomy. Varies inversely as the mental equipment and organization. Suggestible classes — children, women (about certain mat- ters), those who have lived in a narrow environment, those without stable mental life. Normal suggestion should be indirect. Securing the confidence of the subject important. High emotion increases suggestilMlity. Im- portance of repetition. Suggestion as contrasted with ra- tional persuasion, which should be the aim of the preacher.
CHAPTER XI Assemblies 236
The accidental concourse. Psychology of the street throng. The inspirational gathering. Three stages of psychic fusion. The passing of the assembly into the sec- ond and third stages a process of inhibiting rational con- trol. Individuals not equally susceptible to crowd-sugges- tion. Methods of promoting psychic fusion — close seat- ing of the people, concerted bodily movement, singing, passionate oratory. Emotions best adapted to produce fusion — fear, anger, the tender feeling, the sentiment of liberty, the love of old things. Is the process of psychic fusion conducive to genuine religious experience? The psychology of the deliberative body.
CHAPTER Xn Mental Epidemics 265
The sweep of a common emotional excitement over a social group. Results either from like response to same stimuli or from communication of feeling, or from both. The mental epidemic is wave-like. Each wave of collective emotion is followed by a reaction in the opposite direc- tion. Two powerful mental epidemics can not occur at the
CONTENTS
PAGE
same time in the same group. They spread along lines of mental homogeneity. An uncultured population specially subject to extreme excitements. They occur readily as to matters about which the group has little or no experience; but often experience is a predisposing cause. Often the prevalence in a population of a certain temperamental type renders the group more suggestible. In primitive stage of society such epidemics quite frequent; and spread readily in all directions. In the middle stage the caste system prevails and mental epidemics spread only within class lines. In modern industrial society they are less in- tense, more diffusive and less durable. Excessive phe- nomena of this type are becoming rarer.
CHAPTER XIII
Occupational Types 290
These types real and important, notwithstanding indi- vidual variations within the type. First, the ministerial type. Breadth of the minister's occupation. Narrowing tendencies. The habit of dogmatism. Habitual gravity of tone and manner. The demand of modern life for a buoy- ant and happy disposition. The minister a moral pathol- ogist. But tends to over-emphasize loyalty to the eccle- siastical institution as a virtue. Economic dependence tends to mould the type unfortunately. Spiritual leader- ship requires independence of spirit. Second, the labour- ing class type. The condition of the labourer's life as affecting his intelligence. His labour is physical, long con- tinued, exhausting. He deals only with material reality, and that of the grosser kind. Works in a social vacuum. His leisure is brief. His life in the cities, however, stim- ulates intelligence. His life conditions prevent a high de- velopment of his emotional nature ; and set serious limi- tations upon his ethical development. Relation of the min- ister to the labourer's problem. Third, the business type. Definition of " business man." His importance in modern life. His intellectual characteristics. Deals with quanti- ties which can be weighed and measured, which gives him practical, non-theoretical mind, and disposes him to a quantitative evaluation of things. In ethics this type places emphasis upon the practical virtues which lie at the basis of successful business. A double standard of ethics. Religious life similarly affected. The type is non-mystical, non-theological, "practical," non-sectarian. Its influence upon the religious tendencies of to-day.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER XIV The Modern Mind 338
Two general factors of the environment — the natural and the human. Under primitive conditions the natural factors were dominant. Men lived in the midst of mys- terious, uncontrolled nature. Human groups were small, with little communication, and with simple organization. The world was filled with non-human spirits. Natural phenomena given a religious interpretation. Under mod- ern conditions — best represented by city life — the human and humanly controlled factors of environment domi- nate man's consciousness. Men have little contact with original nature. Dangers, diseases, success and failure originate largely in social conditions. Modern man's familiarity with machinery. Human contacts and the social organization preoccupy attention. The great de- velopment of science. Modern man can not tolerate lone- liness. Aesthetic interest in nature develops. Life ad- justs itself to the rhythms of social life rather than the rhythms of nature. Strenuousness of life increases. The passion for achievement grows. Interest in future life de- clines. Scientific answers to all questions desired. The universe of natural phenomena depersonalized. Confusion as to the relation of God to the natural world. Re- ligious interpretation of life declining. The social struggle acute, and colours all thinking. Emphasis on the ethical aspect of life and religion. Christianity born in an age not unlike this, and corrupted as the world reverted to primitive conditions. Present conditions, on the whole, favourable to the revival of original Christianity.
PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
CHAPTER I
GENERAL CONTROLS OF CONDUCT
We are accustomed to think of ourselves as rational be- ings, i.e., as persons who are guided in our activities by ra- tional considerations ; but if we scrutinize our conduct we shall, perhaps, be surprised to discover what a large propor- tion of our actions are never reflected upon, but are per- formed under the impulsion of certain tendencies which at best are but imperfectly subject to the control of reason, even when the conscious effort is made to resist or to guide them, and which usually influence us without being con- sciously guided at all. After infancy reason can and does exercise a general and, in the developing personality, a stronger regulative supervision over these tendencies or- ganized in us. But it is doubtless true that at best they in- fluence the rational processes quite as much as the rational processes influence them; and it can hardly be questioned that in the majority of human beings they actually do more in determining the conclusions reached by thinking than thinking does in regulating them. What are the general controls of conduct?
I. Reflexes. A reflex act " is one in which a muscular movement occurs in immediate response to a sensory stim- ulation without the interposition of consciousness." ^ This immediacy of response seems to be due to the fact that in the nervous organization, especially that part of it located
1 Angell, " Psychology," p. 286.
I
2 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
in the spinal cord, certain ingoing and outgoing nerves are closely connected, so that the impulse started by the sensa- tion goes straight on through without being diverted in its course. Consciousness may be aroused and may to a cer- tain extent be able to inhibit the responsive act ; though that is often not possible. If one touches a red-hot iron he will almost inevitably jerk back his hand; and it requires the most strenuous exertion of the will to inhibit this re- flex muscular action. Only for a little while can we stop the winking of the eyes, and if a cinder enters the eye we can not resist the tendency to shut the lids. Ordinarily and normally, reflex actions go on without awakening con- sciousness ; but under certain conditions the nervous im- pulse instead of passing immediately and entirely through the outgoing nerve to produce a motor response, radiates in some measure to nervous centres which are located higher up and which directly condition consciousness. These re- flex actions are not automatic in the sense in which the proc- esses of digestion and circulation of the blood and other so-called automatisms are ; for the latter are not in any appreciable measure subject to the immediate control of the will, however much they may be indirectly and gradually modified by conscious attitudes. These automatisms are physiological and, although of the greatest importance to public speaking, can not properly be treated in a discussion of psychological phenomena. To be sure, they might with a considerable show of reason be regarded as reflexes of a more fundamental and thoroughly organized character ; or the reflexes might be regarded as automatisms a little less rigidly organized and a little more exposed to the direct interference of consciousness.
We need not dwell upon the reflexes, though they are not without interest to the speaker in some respects. As he stands before an audience he is an object of sense to them; he influences them mainly, if not exclusively, through eye and ear sensations, and many of the responses he evokes from them are of the reflex type ; and many of their move-
GENERAL CONTROLS OF CONDUCT 3
ments are reflexive actions in response to the sensations arising from their physical circumstances. Especially is this true of children, who have Httle power to restrain these reflexive tendencies. But far more important are —
II. The instincts. Instincts may be defined either in terms of structure or of function. First, as to structure. If we think of a reflex as a direct connection or co-ordina- tion of a nerve which receives a sensation with a nerve which controls the movement of a muscle, so that the stim- ulation of the first causes an immediate contraction of the second, then the best way to think of an instinct on its physical side is as a combination or complication of a number of reflexes; so that the stimulation of a nerve which receives the sensation is followed by a series of re- flex actions terminating finally in an adaptive movement of the body. The dividing line between the reflex and the in- stinct is not easy to draw. Perhaps it is better to say that the one gradually merges into the other. But the char- acteristic mark of the first is simplicity, and of the second, complexity of nervous co-ordination. Second, as to func- tion, it may be defined " as the faculty of acting in such a way as to produce certain ends, without foresight of the ends, and without previous education in the performance." ^ " Instincts are functional correlations of structure." An- gell says: " If the activity involves a number of acts, each one of which, considered singly and alone, is relatively use- less, but all of which taken together lead up to some adap- tive consequence, such as the building of a nest, the feeding of young, etc., it will be safe to call the action instinctive." 2 McDougall defines an instinct " as an inherited or innate psycho-physical disposition which determines its possessor to perceive, and to pay attention to, objects of a certain class, to experience an emotional excitement of a particular quality upon perceiving such an object, and to act in regard to it in a particular manner, or, at least, to experience an
1 James, "Psychology, Briefer Course," p. 391.
2 " Psychology," p. 288.
4 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
impulse to such action." ' This very carefully framed definition seems to include too much in the way of intel- lectual process for instinctive action, pure and simple ; but doubtless describes quite accurately the operation as it actually takes place in the higher animals and in men, in whom it rarely or never occurs without involving intel- lectual and emotional processes which are not strictly parts of it.
In brief, we may sum up by saying that an instinct is, structurally, a certain inherited, complex co-ordination of nerves; and, functionally, an inherited tendency to act in a certain way in the presence of certain stimuli. To what extent does it involve consciousness? That is difficult to say. But it seems to be well established that consciousness in any clear and definite sense of the term — what is some- times called " correlated consciousness '' — is connected only with the upper brain centres, the cerebral cortex ; and in animals whose nervous systems have not developed these higher functions the instinctive adjustments are made with- out consciousness. Consciousness is involved just so far as the cortex is developed and correlated with the lower instinctive centres. As James says, " there is no fore-sight of the ends," and where there is no fore-sight of ends it is reasonable to suppose that there is just as little conscious realization of the meaning of the action for the organism — i.e., there is little or no emotional interpretation of the action, although the physical aspects of emotional experience are present. Sensation must be very unclear and the feel- ing-tones very slight, if present at all. Other things being equal, consciousness becomes more clear, luminous, intense as the scale of organic complexity is ascended ; and this is as true with respect to feeling on its conscious side as it is with respect to intelligence.
Instinct is sometimes called racial habit. This has the sound of a felicitous phrase, and seems to give an insight into its real nature ; but it also seems to imply the transmis-
1 " Social Psychology," p. 29.
GENERAL CONTROLS OF CONDUCT 5
sion of acquired characters from one generation to another. How else could a race consisting of a succession of distinct persons acquire a habit? But the weight of scientific opin- ion is decidedly against this assumption. It is, therefore, better not to speak of instincts as racial habits, notwithstand- ing the very obvious superficial likeness ; for they seem to constitute a class of phenomena quite different from habits. One of the characteristic marks of a habit is that it is not transmissible by heredity, whereas one of the most char- acteristic marks of an instinct is that it is hereditary. A habit is acquired in and by individual experience ; an instinct is given at the beginning of experience — certainly so far as the individual is concerned. The problem of the origin and perpetuation of instincts, since they are racial traits, is one with the origin and perpetuation of species ; and these are problems which do not come within the scope of a psycho- logical discussion, though they do have a most important bearing upon the philosophical interpretation of the in- stincts.
But important for this discussion are the facts that they are racial traits, that they are inherited and that they are the most significant controls of conduct with which the in- dividual begins his career in the world. There are, how- ever, individual variations in instincts. The same instincts are far from being equally strong in different individuals, though they are all present in all normal examples of the species. The instinct of flight, for instance, is very strong in some, and very weak in others; and so with all the in- stincts. One instinct may be dominant in one, and a quite different instinct dominant in another individual; and by reason of the dominancy of one or another of the instincts, the same stimulus may provoke a different instinctive re- sponse in different individuals. The situation which pro- duces self-abasement in one may excite self-assertion in an- other. The fact of individual variation in the strength of the instincts is too much a matter of every-day observa- tion to require emphasis here.
6 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
A fact not so obvious but quite as important is that the instincts can be modified in their strength by experience. Habit — which will be discussed in a later section of this chapter — reinforces some and weakens others. A person born with the fear instinct dominant may, by cultivating persistently his weaker instinct of pugnacity or aggres- siveness, overcome to a large extent this original handi- cap. One born with the appropriating instinct in normal strength may by the formation of the proper habit very much reduce it, and develop a character of great liberality and generosity; or magnify it until it becomes the supreme principle of conduct and so develop a character of un- scrupulous covetousness. While, therefore, instincts are in a certain measure fixed, they are far from being abso- lutely unchangeable factors of experience. The environ- ment in which the person lives, especially the part of it which he is brought into direct relation with, acts as a selective influence, stimulating some of his instincts and developing them to greater power; and, by leaving others without stimulation, inevitably condemns them to be weak- ened through atrophy. By way of application it may be remarked in passing that preaching is one method, and may be a very effective one, of bringing the person into more vital and stimulating relation with certain most important phases of his environment and thus may gradually but powerfully modify the strength of his various instincts.
Another fact of prime importance is that the instinctive organization of the human species is much less definite, fixed and rigid than that of the lower animals. The in- stincts of inferior species can hardly be modified by exper- ience. However, it may be done within narrow limits in the case of those which stand highest among the sub-human orders of life ; but as the scale is descended this capacity becomes more limited, until finally at the lower end it reaches zero. But in man the instinctive organization is, if the crude expression may be tolerated, very much looser, and is subject to the possibility of almost indefinite modi-
GENERAL CONTROLS OF CONDUCT 7
fication, though, of course, it cannot be annulled. The in- stincts are, then, and continue to be, most important factors in determining resi)onses to the environment ; but they are far from being so dominant as in the lower ranks of life, and do not act with anything like the same precision and invariability. It may be true, though the statement cannot be made dogmatically, that in the history of man's develop- ment his instincts have on the whole become less definite, less rigid in the regularity and uniformity of their action, and more modifiable. With the higher development of the race they certainly do play a less dominant role as controls of conduct. This does not mean that they are destined to disappear with the continued advance of mankind ; but that other controls of conduct will become relatively stronger.
III. Native dispositions form a distinct class of psychic phenomena. Sometimes they are classified as instincts; but improperly so, unless instincts should be regarded as in- cluding all inborn tendencies. It seems better not to con- fuse them with instincts. The latter are definitely or- ganized and specific nervous co-ordinations. Native dis- positions are not ; they are only general tendencies of the nervous constitution. One may, for instance, be conserva- tive or radical ; irritable or placid ; thoughtful or heedless ; brilliant or dull ; queer or normal, etc., etc. The disposi- tions do not control conduct as the instincts do, by the automatic setting off of a pre-formed series of nervous co- ordinations. When a disposition is active the specific motor responses may vary greatly according to other conditions; but the disposition w^ill impart to the act its characteristic quality and direction. The conservative under the control of his disposition may perform a great variety of specific acts, many of which are similar to those of the radical whom he is opposing, but manifestly they have a very different meaning.
Some of the native dispositions are transmitted by heredity and some are not. Unquestionably many racial and family traits belong to this class of phenomena and are
8 PSVCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
SO transmitted ; but it is equally obvious that children often have constitutional dispositions which are peculiar to them- selves. If under the head of native dispositions must be classed many general traits of an hereditary character, so also must many personal traits which seem to represent so many individual variations.
It is needless to speak of the importance of these dis- positions. They are extremely important factors in every human relation ; and until one's native dispositions are known, it is idle even to guess what responses he will make to many stimuli. For a leader of men they are of the ut- most significance. But they are so very different in dif- ferent people and in the same person are often compounded in such puzzling ways that few generalizations concerning them can be made, and the study of them in individual men alone can greatly profit. It is especially the preacher's duty to study them with care,
IV. Consciousness. Consciousness is so intimate and familiar a fact that we seldom stop to consider the marvel and mystery of it. We can not define it, for any term we can use in the definition involves it. It does not exist as an abstract reality. We can not be conscious except as we are conscious of something. Concretely it occurs as sen- sation or image or feeling-tone, or all combined. Some- times it is used as practically synonymous with responsive- ness to environment; but this use of it is vague, and im- plies that it is a property of every form of matter; for mat- ter in every form is in some sense responsive to environ- ment. Such an idea of consciousness is, therefore, unsat- isfactory and leads to confusion of thought. It is better to use the term in the ordinary acceptation, as inward aware- ness. It may be described as an inward light which falls upon the stream of experience. Let us think of it as ex- perience become luminous.
It is important to consider the conditions under which it appears. Parallel with the decrease of the definiteness and dominance of the instincts in the higher orders of life,
GENERAL CONTROLS OF CONDUCT 9
and most notably in man, runs an increase in the complex- ity of the nervous organization, which is truly wonderful in the brute world, but in man, and especially in highly de- veloped men, becomes phenomenal. If we think of a nerve as a line along which a stimulus is transmitted, the highly complex nervous organization of a cultured man presents a system of such lines all but infinite in its intricacy, com- prehending subordinate and sub-subordinate systems, and all so inter-related that a stimulation affecting any part of it will spread to larger and larger areas, according to the de- gree of its intensity and to the general condition of the or- ganism ; and it often radiates along these myriad paths of conduction until it involves the whole system. This in- crease in complexity of nervous organization is the physical basis of a corresponding increase in the number of possible reactions upon the environment. In a simple reflex act there is just the one reaction possible. In a purely in- stinctive action the reaction is more complex than in the re- flex, but there is still no alternative. But with the increase of the complexity of the nervous organization the organ- ism more and more acquires the power to retain and revive the impressions made by past reactions and to utilize them in some measure in making subsequent responses. At the same time the various sensory areas become linked up to- gether. Thus with the power to retain and revive past im- pressions and the linking together of the several sense cen- tres, it becomes possible for the organism to react in sev- eral different ways to the same stimulus ; and it is not only possible, there is a tendency for it to do so. Naturally these tendencies often conflict with one another, and some means of resolving the conflict is needed. It is just here that consciousness makes its appearance. These conflicting motor tendencies create a general tension in the organism, which, as we shall see, is the physical basis of feeling; and the means of resolving the conflict is the revival of past im- pressions, which always appear as mental images ; and these, as we shall see, constitute the elements of the intel-
lO PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
lectual process. The organism has advanced to the rank of a conscious and, according to the measure of its conscious- ness, a self-directing being. The instinctive reactions be- come less definite and mechanical and fall more and more under the direction of consciousness. In even the highest species below the human level we see only the rudimentary stages of this ; but in man the power of conscious self-di- rection stands out as his crowning trait, the mark of his dig- nity in the universe of living things.
With the growing complexity of the nervous organization and the retention and use of past experience — in a word, with the development of consciousness — it is clear that there is not only the possibility of responding in different ways to the same stimulus, but also the possibility of re- sponding to a far greater number of stimuli, i.e., to more complicated and varying situations than the instincts equip us for dealing with adequately. When the instincts prove sufficient for conserving the vital interests of the organism, the environment is quite simple and practically unchang- ing. The conscious and self-directing organism can live and move successfully in a larger, more varied and change- ful world. The more the consciousness is developed, the larger, more varied and changeable becomes the world in which it is possible to live with satisfaction; and it is hard to set any limits in our imagination to this possible develop- ment.
It would seem, then, that the function of consciousness is to enable the organism to adapt itself to a complex and variable environment. Unquestionably it does this ; but this function may be so represented as to carry the imjilication that consciousness is simply and only a serviceable instru- ment of the living organism, which it enables to survive longer. But does this not " place the cart before the horse"? Is consciousness subordinate to the animal or- ganism? I should prefer to say, and it seems to be in accord with all the facts, that consciousness is a higher form or manifestation of life, and that on this higher level the liv-
GENERAL CONTROLS OF CONDUCT II
ing being can survive and find satisfaction in a larger world — is in correspondence with a wider, more varied and variable environment, and can develop itself indefinitely in such an environment. It is life become luminous and, as it becomes luminous, dominating and controlling its environ- ment. Consciousness marks the shifting of supremacy from the environment to the living being. Life below the con- scious level is subject to external conditions; can only adapt itself to those conditions ; and that only within nar- row limits. As it rises to the level of consciousness it in- creases its power to adapt itself to those conditions ; but its increased adaptability to environment is less signficant than the fact that as it becomes conscious it acquires the power to adapt the environment to itself and make external conditions and forces promote its ends. Increasing con- sciousness is an increasing conquest of environment. Its advent means the increased adaptability of the organism; but it means also that the adaptability has become creative. This interpretation of the advent of consciousness in the scheme of life is manifestly correct from the point of view of science, and is of the utmost significance for phi- losophy. But into that we may not go.
V. In connection with the meaning and function of consciousness it is important to consider habit. When an act has once been performed it is easier to do a second time, and with each repetition is easier still. The ease with which it is done does not increase uniformly; there is a certain rhythm, or tendency to rhythm, in the formation of a habit. But the general trend is toward increasing ease. As, with repetition, the ease increases the act requires less conscious- ness in its performance. Gradually the perfonnance drops below the level of clear consciousness and finally, perhaps, below the level of consciousness altogether. It becomes automatic, in a sense ; " it does itself." The explanation usually given is the formation of neural pathways through which the impulse discharges — i.e., the impulse as it passes through a series of nerve cells tends to form connections be-
12 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
tween them, meeting and overcoming at first a certain resist- ance ; but the connection between the cells becomes more firmly established with every passage of the impulse over that track, and so the resistance becomes less and less until after a while it practically ceases. As the connections are more securely fixed and the resistance declines, conscious- ness disappears. After a time the impulse passes through, almost automatically, along this Hne of no resistance. Doubtless this is as nearly as we can describe the process. It leaves much to be desired in the way of explanation. The existence of so many established connections or " path- ways " involving, it would seem, the same nervous elements it rather difficult to conceive; but as yet no other hypothe- sis so plausible has been suggested. We are not concerned, however, with the physiological basis but only with the great significance of the fact of habit. There is no capability of the organism of greater practical importance than this. The reflexes and instincts represent the individual life as or- ganized at birth; the habits represent the life as organ- ized under the control of consciousness. As pointed out above, the habits may modify the strength of the in- stincts, and, possibly, in some small measure, of the refle-xes also, though the reflexes and instincts are not thereby elim- inated. The habits are superimposed upon them, and act as organized reinforcements or inhibitions of them. One may, therefore, through the formation of habits organize his life to an almost unlimited extent. The true psycholo- gist will not deny that new impartations of life may be made to the individual life from the psychical universe; but such impartations will in some way be conditioned by the adaptation of the individual life to that part of its envir- onment, and the organization of these newly imparted im- pulses or forces will be subject to the law of habit-formation, and the formation of habits takes place under the control of consciousness. When once the habit is thoroughly estab- lished, consciousness is not concerned with it longer, excejjt when the performance of its characteristic act is interfered
GENERAL CONTROLS OF CONDUCT 1 3
with or when there is, for some reason, a voluntary effort to change it. The same is true not only with reference to habits of action but with reference to habits of thought and feeling also. It holds as to the whole mass of habitual proc- esses built up in the experience of the human personality and constituting the personal character.
In this connection we may note a distinction between the animal and the human organism which is interesting, if not of particular significance, for our specific purpose. It is a notable fact that the human infant is born with a nervous system only partially organized. In this respect it is broadly distinguished from the young of other species. They are born with a nervous system already organized so completely and fixedly that only slight modifications of it can be eflfected through experience. But the human child has a brain mass which to a large extent is without organ- ization and waiting to be organized in personal experience; and, as we have seen, the organization with which it be- gins its career is less fixed and definite than is the case with animals of lower orders. Now, this looser instinctive or- ganization means that the nervous co-ordinations, forming the so-called " neural pathways "as given at birth, are not so thoroughly established and that, therefore, the impulses do not pass through to motor expression so free from re- sistance ; hence the instinctive reactions of the human species involve more consciousness than those of the sub- human. But the difiference in this respect appears most notably in the process of organizing the unorganized mass of nervous substance. This is, throughout, a process of habit-formation. But habits when formed have not the fixedness of the instincts. They are more easily inhibited, more readily modified, and in a life of varied experiences are undergoing continual change. We can see, then, that consciousness is a very much larger factor in the life of man than in the life of the lower animal. The human consciousness is clearer, more intense, more definite, larger in volume, if the expression may be allowed, than the animal
14 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
consciousness. Human experience is far more luminous. We often make the mistake of reading into the actions of the beasts the measure of consciousness we ourselves pos- sess. It is, perhaps, a fortunate error and leads to the cul- tivation of a larger sympathy with animals and to a more humane treatment of them. But it is also fortunate for the beasts that they do not have the measure of conscious- ness that man has. else the life they must of necessity live would be intolerable. Their consciousness in its sensa- tional, ideational and emotional factors must be exceedingly dim, and as the lower end of the scale of life is approached, it is a question whether consciousness in any clearly defined sense of the term can be attributed to them. As we go down the ranks of living things consciousness must ap- proximate the zero point.
But, though the human species is marked of? sharply from the brute world by the degree of consciousness, we must not assume that all men have the same measure of this inward light. The more highly developed the man is, the wider the range of his experience, the larger the fund of his ideas, the more luminous will his consciousness be. Especially is this true of the man who lives in a varied and changeful environ- ment. We have seen that consciousness is developed as a function of adaptation to changes in the environment for which the instincts are not adequate. But even an environ- ment so complex and variable that the instincts will not suf- fice may, however, be comparatively simple, stable and uni- form, so that the formation of a number of habits may furnish a supplement which will be approximately adequate. In such a relatively simple and uniform environment life becomes " rutty." It moves along in the same channels from day to day, month to month, perhaps from year to year, with comparatively few unusual events to disturb its even tenor. Habitual modes of doing things become deeply ingrained. The consciousness of persons so situated be- comes lax. They go through the daily routine in a mental state half dream-like, which is only now and then inter-
GENERAL CONTROLS OF CONDUCT 15
rupted by flashes of more intense wakefulness occasioned by tlie rare occurrences which call for more alert consciousness ; and in these extraordinary moments their consciousness is likely to be confused and flustered rather than alert in the proper sense of the word. There is no question that the character of the environment to which one must adjust himself has very much to do with the normal state of his consciousness. It may be straining the word, but it would not be far from the truth to say that a person living in a simple and monotonous environment forms a " habit " of dim and misty consciousness, and vice versa. In the changeful environment mental alertness in considerable measure is required in order to survive, certainly in order to prosper; and under such conditions the necessity of con- tinually readjusting oneself prevents many of the habits of life from becoming so fixed as they do in relatively un- changing surroundings ; but since as a rule the number of activities in which individuals engage in such complex surroundings is increased, the habits formed, while more often changed, are more numerous.
Now, it seems to be a law of social development that the environment in which men normally live becomes more complex and changeful from generation to generation. This being true, the inevitable inference is that, on the aver- age and normally, the human consciousness rises in clear- ness, intensity, alertness from age to age, and reason be- comes an ever larger and more dominant factor in the lives of men. The conditions of life become more stimulating; life becomes more dynamic ; consciousness becomes more intense, luminous, regnant ; a greater demand is made upon the self-directing capacity of the personality.
If the foregoing statements are accepted, it would seem to be an inevitable conclusion that the function of persuasion assumes greater and greater importance in human life with each upward advance. It is a fact which can hardly fail to arrest attention that the arts of persuasion develop with the progress of society. Oratory is bom with liberty and dies
l6 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
with it. As men become more free, more consciously self- directing, the appeal to their rational nature and through that to their emotions becomes more appropriate and more necessary if one seeks to influence their action. On the lower levels of development custom and physical force are the prevailing means of influencing the actions of men; in the later stages they lose their effectiveness, and a larger use must be made of appeals to rational and moral consid- erations. Literature becomes relatively more important; but this does not mean that public speech declines in power. It must, however, follow the general trend and become more rational, depending less upon the direct stimulation of the basal instincts, crude emotions and fixed prejudices, and more upon the excitation of the higher feelings by the pres- entation of ideas. Preaching should keep pace with this movement, and if it does, the sphere of its usefulness will not contract but expand. If it be true — and at most it seems to be true only in a relative sense — that preaching is declining in power, the explanation can only be found in the defective character of the preaching. Certainly the oppor- tunities for influencing the actions of men by moral suasion become larger and more various ; and if preachers find their power failing, it only emphasizes their duty better to adapt their noble function to the changing conditions of human life.
VI. This chapter should not be closed without some ref- erence to the perplexing problem of the subconscious, al- though it has no very direct bearing upon the subject of preaching. Coe ^ has given a good summary of the the- ories of the subconscious as follows: "Three types of theory exist : ( i ) The neural theory, which holds that all deliverances called subconscious are due to restimulation of brain tracts that have been organized in a particular way through previous experiences of the individual. Ac- cording to this view, there is no subconscious elaboration or ripening, but only plain reproduction. (2) The dissocia-
1 " The Psychology of Religion." pp. 202-3.
GENERAL CONTROLS OF CONDUCT 1 7
tion theory, which, starting with the fact that the field of at- tention includes a penumbra as well as a focus, holds that the pcnumbral items of experience can be combined and elaborated while remaining within the penumbra, and thus, when the focus of attention shifts to them, can appear as ready made. (3) The theory of a detached subconscious- ness. This phrase was devised, I believe, by a persistent critic of the theory, the late Professor Pierce. It covers all views that assert that each of us has a ' double ' or second- ary self, an understratum of psychic existence, possessed of powers and character of its own that outrun and are sep- arate from the ordinary. Here belongs the notion, wide- spread of late, that God is present to us as this substratum of our self or as an obscure second self."
There is no question that there is a large element of truth in the first and second ty^ies of theory. There is more question as to the third. The psychologists are rather shy of this hypothesis, which is due to the fact that, in the nature of the case, it is not possible scientifically either to es- tablish or disprove it. It belongs rather to the realm of philosophy than to that of psychology. But there is no good reason to doubt that at least it points in the direction of a truth. The individual personality, while it has a certain separateness, is rooted in the universe. The human organ- ism is both psychical and physical ; and there is no good rea- son to suppose that in this tu^o-fold constitution it is essen- tially different from the universe in which it is rooted. So far as we can see, the universe, as at present constituted, is also psycho-physical, whatever may be one's metaphysical theory as to the ultimate priority of the psychical or physi- cal. As an organism of this general type, the individual is somehow mysteriously dove-tailed into the universal order. From that part of the universe which we know as physical come flowing into the physical organism of man below the level of consciousness elements and influences which pro- foundly influence this aspect of his being. There is no good reason to doubt that likewise from that part of the universe
l8 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
which we call psychical there flow into the psychical organ- ism of man below the level of consciousness impulses and influences that extensively modify this aspect of his being, and sometimes break into the realm of his conscious ex- perience. But here we have manifestly passed over the line that separates psychology from philosophy ; for while there are psychological facts that give hints and intimations pointing in the direction of this conclusion, psychology itself cannot make any authoritative assertions on the sub- ject. We dwell upon it here in order to emphasize two cau- tions. First, the psychologist, because he cannot make a scientific examination of the metaphysical roots of the human personality, ought not to treat the matter contemptuously, as one about which an intelligent opinion cannot be formed. Second, the religious philosophers should not make too free a use of this mysterious aspect of life as a means of ex- plaining difficulties and solving problems ; should not use the subconscious as a convenient " city of refuge " when they find themselves in trouble. The proper attitude with respect to this problematical phase of human experience is one of scientific reserve, if it may be so expressed. It indi- cates neither safe judgment nor a disinterested love of truth to jump to conclusions when there are so few surely at- tested facts and when their proper interpretation is so un- certain. It is better to confess frankly the limitations of our knowledge and tread warily upon the brink of the sub- terranean river which flows through the cavernous depths of our psychic life. Across its waters our feeble torches cast but flickering lights and into its dark depths our vision penetrates hardly at all.
CHAPTER II
MENTAL IMAGES
What is a mental image? The question is a difficult one. It seems to be a copy or a likeness of something; but of what is it a copy? The common notion is that it is a copy or likeness of something which is external to the mind and exists apart from the mind. But if we think more carefully about it this conception of the image seems less satisfactory. If it can legitimately be called a likeness at all, it must be a likeness of an object as experienced, and not as it exists apart from experience. Indeed, are we justified in saying that psychic and physical phenomena resemble one another? It would seem that the two orders of phenomena are so entirely disparate that a resemblance of a fact in one series to an object in the other is out of the question — un- less, indeed, we accepted some form of idealism, or the ex- treme view that the reality known is constituted in the act of knowing. Those who believe in the thoroughgoing dualism of mind and matter should hesitate to say that the image resembles the object. How can a conscious process, which is supposed to have no spatial character at all, be like an external, extended, space-filling object? What prop- erties have they in common? It would seem that they are fundamentally and absolutely unlike; that there is no com- mon term and no possibility of comparing them. There is no way for the mind to get outside itself and compare its own conscious process, the image, with the object as a thing wholly apart from consciousness. What is that external world, as existing wholly apart from consciousness, and what is it like ? We have no means of knowing. The ques-
19
20 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
tion brings us up squarely against a stone wall beyond which we cannot go. It plunges us into the old problem which has been the philosophical puzzle of the ages. Really we can only compare states of consciousness with one an- other. All that we can or need say here is that the mental image is constituted in experience. It is the resultant of the reaction of the conscious organism to a stimulus — perhaps is that reaction itself — and by it the organism is enabled to recognize the same stimulus when it recurs. In the ex- perience some modification of the brain substance seems to occur, though it is quite difficult to conceive of the exact nature of this modification. However, it seems clear that the modification of the cellular structure of the brain can not be said to he the image, because the latter is a phase of consciousness, and the former is supposed to continue to exist during a lapse of consciousness ; but it is the physical basis, or counterpart, or coefficient of the psychic fact. In brief, then, we may define a mental image as a conscious copv of an experience. Further than this we cannot go in the inquiry as to the nature of the image without passing out of the territory of psychology proper into that of the theory of knowledge.
I. Forms of Imagery. There is a form of imagery cor- res])onding to each of the modes of sensation — visual, auditory tactual, gustatory, olfactory, kinesthetic, etc. A perfectly normal person would be able to form mental images corresponding to all these forms of experience ; and, there- fore, the inner world of images should be a psychic counter- part of the whole environment as experienced in sensation. But the per,fectly normal mind is probably not in existence. As a matter of fact persons diflfer greatly in their capac- ity for the several forms of imagery. Some have little capacity, or but a rudimentary one. for visual images, while having a strong faculty for auditory or other forms ; or TAce versa. Again, those who are endowed with an excel- lent capacity for visual images may be able to see with the eye of the mind only still objects, while others can readily
MENTAL IMAGES 21
visualize objects in motion. Here, for instance, is a man's testimony of his memory of a great fire. He heard the bells, the tramp of feet upon the side-walk, his own puffing and blowing and that of others running with him to the fire, the noise of cracking and breaking glass, the roar of the blaze, the excited voices of the crowd ; but had no distinct visual image of the fire itself.^ All sorts of variations oc- cur. Some minds revel in images of colour, while some are almost colour blank ; others are especially rich in images of form, etc., etc. By far the greater number of people have the capacity for visual imagery. Indeed, only a very small per cent, seem to be destitute of it, if any are absolutely so ; and the capacity for no other form of imagery is so gen- erally possessed, a fact which indicates that the eye is the most serviceable of all the sense-functions. However, those who are relatively destitute of the capacity for visual imagery are by their very numbers of sufficient importance to receive consideration from public speakers. A speaker who relies mainly upon visual imagery for the expression of his thought is likely always to fail adequately to convey his meaning to a considerable proportion of his audience; if he is himself deficient in visual imagery, his efficiency as a public speaker wnll be most seriously curtailed. It be- hooves every public speaker to study his ow-n capacity for every form of imagery, so that he may not be partially in- sulated, so to speak, from some of his hearers.
It is not easy to account for these curious variations in the capacity for the several forms of imagery. The ab- sence of the capacity for any particular form does not indi- cate that the person is destitute of the corresponding sense. At any rate, the external organs of the sense are present and seem active. But that is not by any means a sure indi- cation that the man is really getting his experience in terms of that sense. The non-visualist, for instance, seems to be using his eyes in ordinary experience ; why can he not recall his experience in terms of vision? Probably it in-
1 Scott's " Psychology of Public Speaking," p. 30.
22 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
dicates some obscure defect in the nervous organization by reason of which the visual impression, though it may be to some extent momentarily serviceable, is not definite and deep enough to be recalled.
In passing it is interesting to note the fact that the char- acteristic form of one's mental imagery has an important in- fluence upon his mental processes and modes of utterance. The visualist is likely to be slow and deliberate in speech, while the speaker who uses mainly or largely auditory or kinesthetic images is likely to be more rapid. And since vis- ual images usually have greater distinctiveness and vividness than others — or perhaps it is better to say, possess these qualities in greater degree for most minds — the speaker who is particularly strong in this imaginal form is likely not only to be more deliberate in manner and utterance, but also to be regarded as clearer in statement ; and, since the logical arrangement of ideas is always spatially conceived, he is more likely to be a " logical speaker." The jumbling of images is due to the fact that they are not clearly visu- alized, and illogical arrangement is due to the same defect of imagination.
II. Recall of the image. It is as difficult to understand how the image, when once it has passed out of conscious- ness, can be recalled, or revived, or reconstituted, as it is to conceive of its essential nature. The image, strictl}' speak- ing, seems to cease to be. The physical counterpart, or co- efficient, the brain modification, seems to persist ; the image itself, however, as a modification or phase of consciousness, disappears. lUit under proper conditions it reappears ; though it is more accurate to say that another image like it appears on the basis of the impression on the nerve-sub- stance, which probably has persisted. The " revived " or " recalled " image is a new fact or phase of consciousness; and cannot, therefore, be identical with the original one. If they are thought of as identical, the implication is that the image is a distinct, substantive entity which disappears from consciousness for a time and reappears, without having
MENTAL IMAGES 23
ceased to be. But such a notion is untenable, according to modern conceptions of mental processes. The image is a fact, a functioning of consciousness, and when it disappears it has by the very definition ceased to be. The conscious- ness is no longer functioning that way. If the image is " re- called," where has it been in the meantime ? A very ques- tionable metaphysic underlies this terminology. But these terms are in such common use and it is so difficult to dis- pense with them without substituting for them cumbersome and awkward phrases, that I shall continue, after entering the foregoing caveat, to make use of them.
I. Conditions of recall. The possibility of recalling the image after its disappearance is conditioned in several ways. First, an impression, if it is not reinforced by repeated ex- periences or by repeated revivals of the image, tends to fade with the lapse of time. Hence, as a rule, the difficulty of recalling an image increases with time. Second, the impres- sion, which is supposed to be made upon the brain, must be strong enough to effect in the brain cells a modification of sufficient depth not to be totally eft'aced by succeeding im- pressions. There are many facts which seem to show that subsequent impressions do modify and weaken preceding ones. As a result the power to recall any image decreases with the number and strength of the impressions made sub- sequently. An apparent exception to this rule is seen in the relative ease with which old persons recall the experiences of early life. But the exception is only apparent. We must remember that, other things being equal, the impressions made early in life are written more deeply into the organiza- tion of the brain than those made later in life. Relatively speaking, the earlier impressions find the ground unoc- cupied, and in a certain measure pre-empt it ; and the or- ganism is then more resilient and responsive and the ex- periences, therefore, more intense and vivid. When, there- fore, the disorganization of the brain takes place in age, the impressions of later years, not being so deeply organized in the nervous constitution as those of youth, go first.
24 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
Strictly speaking, this is a phenomenon of the disorganiza- tion rather than of the organization of the mind. Third, the impressions received when the mind is alert and reacts with energy upon the stimuli will survive longer in their integrity than those which are received in moments of mental relaxa- tion. Some minds do not habitually react with vigour, and do not therefore have much retentiveness. Some react w^ith much more vigour to certain classes of stimuli than to others, and their retentiveness varies accordingly. A mind that is habitually lax and slothful finds it especially difficult to re- vive distinct and definite images of ex]:)erience. Its mental reproductions of experience are a sort of blur. Very often, certainly, in cases of poor recollection the fault is to be found in the character of the original experience. There was not sufficient alertness ; the mental reaction upon the stimulus was not vigorous ; the impression upon the brain was indistinct and indefinite. Such an experience it is im- possible to revive clearly because the experience itself lacked clearness. We may state it as a law that the vividness of the recalled experience will vary with the vividness of the orig- inal experience. It cannot be too much emphasized that in cases of bad memory the deficiency in all probability is in the state of the attention in the original experience. Because of failure here many public speakers find themselves deficient in vivid mental images and effective illustrative material. Fourth, each impression seems to be modified by, or in some measure to blend with, or somehow to be linked up with other impressions, both those which precede and those which follow it. It may be true, therefore, that no impression once definitely made is entirely lost from the brain, except by the process of disorganization referred to above. It may, however, survive not as a distinct impression, the physical basis for a revival of a distinguishable individual image, but as a factor in a total composite impression. This linking of impressions with one another and their reciprocal modification is doubtless the physical counterpart of the " association of ideas," and of the formation of con-
MENTAL IMAGES 2$
cepts and standards, to which more detailed reference will be made later. Certainly the organization of the images into logical wholes facilitates their revival ; in fact, one might say that the facility with which an image can be re- vived is in proportion to the number of relations established between it and other images.
2, Inexactness of the recalled image. The revival of a previous experience in the form of an image is never abso- lutely exact. It usually is sufficiently so to serve as a guide to further experience, and that is its function. If it did not resemble the original experience of all, or enough to in- sure recognition, it would be useless. Ordinarily our mental images serve well enough our practical purposes ; but it is certain that all the details of the original experience in their precise relations and proportions are never reproduced. This is obviously due to the fact that each impression made upon the brain is in some measure modified both by the pre- ceding and succeeding ones. Wundt says in speaking of memory images : '* Memory images and sense perceptions differ, not only in quality and intensity, but most emphatic- ally in their elementary composition. . . . The incomplete- ness of the memory idea is much more characteristic than the small intensity of its elements. For example, when I remember an acquaintance, the image I have of his face and figure are not mere obscure reproductions of what I have in consciousness when I look directly at him, but most of the features do not exist at all in the reproduced ideas. Con- nected with the few ideational elements which are really present . . . are certain factors added through contiguity and certain complications, such as the environrrients in which I saw my acquanintance, his name, and finally, and more especially, certain affective elements which were present at the meeting." ^ Another eminent psychologist remarks that besides the loss in sensuous liveliness " there take place in apparently the most perfect reproduction slight transformations of the content. Individual ele-
1" Outlines of Psychology" (trans, by Judd), p. 282.
26 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
merits appear changed in form ; original constituents of the sensation are left out, and some which were originally not there are added. To what extent this process goes on in the consciously impressed perceptual image and how inex- act the reproduction is as against the requirement of abso- lute agreement " ^ recent investigations have strikingly dem- onstrated. Indeed such an exact reproduction would not be consistent with the practical purpose of the image. It would violate the law of mental economy. Were it so, the memory would soon be burdened with a mass of useless and therefore meaningless details, which would gradually impede action until the mental life would be paralyzed by a plethora of valueless material.
Selection is the characteristic of the action of intelligence. From the countless number of details of actual experience it selects for reproduction in images and organization in memory those which seem to be worth while, i.e., which seem to be useful in the further ordering of experience. In each act of reproduction there is present a controlling inter- est which determines the selection of details. This is true, as we have just seen, in involuntary, and is especially true in voluntary, reproduction. This holds good of the professional historian as well as of the story-teller, though in the two cases the interest is different. With the historian that inter- est is objective truth. If he is true to his proper task, he is aiming to reproduce past events in their actual relations and significance, not to prove a proposition or to produce a given effect upon his reader or hearer. But he can not hope to reproduce experience as it took place in detail ; he must select, because it is practically impossible to reproduce experience in all its details, and if it were practicable it would be of no value even for his objective purpose, which is to gather up facts and give a literary reproduction of them in their significant relations, so that they may serve as a guide in further social action. He therefore leaves out all that is not necessary to give the significant occurrences of the
1 Elsenhans, " Lehrbuch der Psychologic," p. 169.
MENTAL IMAGES 27
past their setting in a true context. He selects and or- ganizes his material with that object in view. In doing this he is of necessity subject to the general laws and the indi- vidual peculiarities of his own mind, which are inevitably reflected in his investigations and formulations ; and so in a very real sense historical narration is subjectively condi- tioned. Since, however, the historian's aim is to discover and relate the significant facts of past social experience and thus to act as an organ of social memory, his interest must be objective. The moment any personal interest of his, such as the desire to advance the fortunes of a political party or to maintain a particular theory, influences his selection and interpretation of materials, that moment and to that extent, his work is vitiated as history. In the narration of the or- ator it is different. His interest is more subjective, and legitimately so. Whatever his purpose may be. it looks beyond merely a true reproduction of past experience; he aims at producing some more or less definite and immedi- ate eflfects upon his hearers, to persuade them of the correct- ness of his opinions and to evoke in them an emotional re- sponse of some sort. Naturally, therefore, he handles his material with a certain freedom which is not permissible to the historian.
Whether the story-teller is telling an imaginary story or narrating an event, it is certain that he will be guided in the selection of details by the subjective purpose dominant at the moment. Moreover, he tells the story as a rule when in a state of unusual feeling. Under the influence of high feeling every experience, whether actual or representative, is materially different from what it would be otherwise. In the first place, the feeling is a powerful selective influence determining what details of the present occurrence or of the revived image will receive attention; second, the phases of the experience which are thus brought into the focus of at- tention are exaggerated, are felt to be greater, more im- portant than they normally are, and this very exaggeration of them tends to exclude from consciousness other phases
28 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
of the experience; third, when under high feeHng the mind is always uncritical and fails to discriminate between the details of this particular experience and the details of other experiences which may have become associated, and are likely to be revived, with it. These modifications are likely to take place with every narration of the story. It is easy, therefore, to see how a story often retold, especially when retold under the stress of high feeling, comes to lose almost all resemblance to the truth, and this without any intention on the part of the speaker to pervert the truth. As to the matter of veracity in such cases, a recent writer says : ^ "In creative imagination the creator is aware of the modification of the content. Along with the rest of the content he has the peculiar factor which we call newness, or novelty. He is aware that his content is a new combination. But in the general modification of content which we men- tioned above, the person is less apt to be aware of the changes. The fisherman who magnifies into a three- pounder the minnow which escaped ; the student who relates the hard-luck story of how he ' failed ' in examination through no fault of his scholarship; are in many cases quite sincere and base their tales on imagined content which has undergone progressive improvement since it was experienced in perception."
This is a matter of great importance to the preacher especially. The spirit of truth, of reality, should be the very atmosphere in which his discourse moves. He is especially given to the relation of stories of his own experi- ence, or that of others, as illustrative matter ; and the criti- cism is often heard that the stories told in sermons are in- credible, or at least sufficiently lacking in verisimilitude to produce a most disagreeable and hurtful impression upon those who listen critically. Those whom he succeeds in sweeping along on the wave of his own emotion will be as uncritical in hearing as he is in narrating the incident ; but the calmer and more careful hearers can not but be repelled.
1 Dunlap, " A System of Psychology," pp. 162-3.
MENTAL IMAGES 29
More than once has the writer heard harsh judgments passed upon preachers by the hard-headed — but not neces- sarily the hard-hearted — hearers who did not understand the psychology of public speaking. Sucii hearers, therefore, sometimes attribute to the preacher deliberate carelessness as to the truth — a charge which in some instances may not be altogether undeserved. But if the great majority of preachers may on scientific grounds be acquitted of the charge of the deliberate perversion of the truth in such cases, they should not be excused from the duty of under- standing the psychological processes involved and of avoid- ing the abuses which discredit both their message and their personal integrity. " That man lies," said a sturdy, hon- est man to me. after he had heard an impassioned evange- list tell some remarkable stories without any apparent con- sciousness that he was straining the credulity of his audi- ence. Truth may be stranger than fiction, but that fact hardly gives currency as actual facts to stories that bear the obvious evidences of having been shaped up for the occa- sion.
III. These mental images are our intellectual stock-in- trade. They are, so to speak, the materials of mental life. It is maintained by some psychologists that it is possible to think without images ; but it is an open issue in psychology, and opinions as to the question should not be dogmatically ex- pressed. It is a question of fact and cannot be determined on a priori grounds. The presumption, however, seems to me to be clearly against the contention, and the arguments for it seem far from conclusive. A process of thinking may take place without any images of the things of the original experience appearing definitely in consciousness ; but a care- ful scrutiny of consciousness in such cases will doubtless discover that there are images of some sort present — per- haps faint traces of images in which the original experi- ence is representatively present; or if not, images at least of words with the accompanying " feeling " that they can at will be translated into the distinct images of the experience ;
30 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
and the probable explanation of this "feeling" is that there is a nascent reproduction of the image in connection with the words — a reproduction which is too inchoate and in- definite to get into clear consciousness, but is sufficient to surround the words with a certain shadow of the imagery. If there is no other imagery present except that of the words, then the original experience has a second or third hand representation, so to speak, in that.
The original experience may, then, be represented, first, by particular concrete images ; though, as said above, they never represent the experience without modification. Or, second, it may be represented by generic images, concepts, in which many concrete images have been moulded together into a sort of type. But all the qualities or marks of the concept are rarely, if ever, in consciousness at once. Usually — if not always — certain of the qualities or marks which belong to it are in consciousness doing service for it and performing its function of representing the original experience. Or, third, the original experience may be rep- resented only by the word-images, which are mere signs of concepts and may be used in the economy of mental life as a substitute for the concepts, into which they are always con- sciously convertible. Images of some sort, it seems, there must be if conscious mental processes are to go on. This seems to me to be true even when we are thinking abstract relations. Are they not always thought in spatial terms? If I am thinking the relations represented by the preposi- tions — such as " by," " to," " from," " in," etc. — there are corresponding spatial images of location or direction in my mind. And so it may be accepted that we think in images and only in images, of some sort or other.
By means of these images we not only retain or revive the past, but in terms of them alone can we forecast the future. As they are reconstituted in consciousness they bring with them, usually in proportion to the adequacy with which they perform their representative function, the emotional colour- ing of the original experience. It is by their means, there-
MENTAL IMAGES 3 1
fore, that the continuity of our conscious life is maintained and we are able to connect the future with the past. By them we realize our personal identity through the years, and can link those years together with a purpose. They are the materials out of which we form our plans. With them we construct our ideal worlds and build our systems of phi- losophy. As already indicated, language is only a system of conventional signs whose function is to represent them in their relations and combinations ; and language is meaning- less unless it is the conscious bearer of this precious freight, i.e., unless the words are at least accompanied by the "feel- ing '' that they can, when there is need for it, call into con- sciousness the images for which they stand. That royal function of miind, imagination, is absolutely limited in every phase of its task of guiding life into larger and larger fields of experience by the number, range, variety, distinctiveness and vividness of these images. Whatsoever sphere of activity a man is engaged in, his efficiency will depend upon the range of his experience and upon his ability to make an effective use of it ; and this is equivalent to saying, will depend upon the number and variety of relevant images in his mind, their distinctiveness, their vividness and their proper correlation with one another. This is no more true of the poet or the orator than it is of the man of action. The impractical vis- ionary is usually supposed to be a man " of too much imag- ination " ; but his trouble is deficiency rather than excess of imagination. It may be that he has too few images or a too limited variety, i.e., his experience may be too narrow. Or it may be that his mental images are badly correlated with one another. As he uses these images to construct his practical ideal and to lay out his plans for its realization, their number, variety, vividness and organization are insuf- ficient to enable him to forecast his enterprise in all its essential elements, to " see " it in mental vision in proper re- lation to all its essential conditions. Plence his failure. The trouble is that he sees too little, not too much. There are difficulties which he does not foresee, relations and cir-
32 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
cumstances he does not anticipate ; and upon the unforeseen his plans are shipwrecked. Therefore, it is not strictly ac- curate to call him " visionary." He invariably comes, in the execution of his undertakings, upon conditions which he did not see in advance and which are vitally important ; and for that reason he is ineffective.
The bearing of what has been said upon the quality of literary style, spoken or written, is obvious. The public speaker especially needs to use many particular, definite, vivid images ; but his thought must, or at least should, be logical, i.e., his mental images should be properly organized. As the images are organized, they assume a more general, schematic character, become concepts ; and as the process of organization goes on to higher and higher stages, these concepts become more and more abstract, and the style loses proportionately its realistic, sensuous, picturesque character. A study of the evolution of language brings out with strik- ing force the fact that language grows more abstract and mental imagery less concrete and sensuous with the general advance of culture. In the more primitive languages there is a separate word or form of a word for almost every simple specific act or movement and every object; while now our most specific words usually stand for classes rather than for strictly individual things.^ It is, in fact, this gen- eral tendency which sometimes leads to the belief that poetry declines with the advance of scientific knowledge. But there are compensations. If with the growth and organiza- tion of knowledge there is a tendency towards wider and wider generalization and the emptying of words of con- crete reference, there is reason to believe that in some direc- tions at least there has been a great increase in the fineness of sense discriminations. There has doubtless been a loss in other directions. But we have good evidence that the modern man is, in the appreciation of shades of colour in
1 For an interesting discussion of this characteristic of primitive language see " Les Fonctions Mental dans Les Socictes Inferieure," by Levy-Bruhl, pp. 131-159.
MENTAL IMAGES 33
particular, vastly superior to men in lower stages of de- velopment ; at any rate, the freer use of colour-terms by mod- ern masters of style has done much to compensate for the losses in concreteness and vividness in other directions. However, the terms for shades of colour appeal more strongly to persons of culture — especially esthetic cul- ture — than to persons of lower mental grades, as we should expect from the fact that colour appreciation seems to have grown with the general advance of culture. Such a mastery of mental imagery as will give access to the minds of both the lower and the higher order is not easy.
But the public speaker, and especially the preacher, should strive to achieve excellence both in the concreteness of his imagery and the breadth of his generalizations, so that he may make an effective appeal to all grades of culture in his audience. For immediate effectiveness he should not fail to cultivate the power to recall the whole range of his experi- ence in particular, concrete, definite, vivid images ; and this means that he should cultivate the habit of close, concen- trated, energetic attention as well as varied observation. For the fact cannot be too much insisted on that if the images are distinct, definite, clear, vivid, it is because there was alert, energetic reaction of the mind in the original ex- perience. But for eflFectiveness of style it is not enough that the images be concrete and vivid and abundant; they must be correlated. A chaotic stream of vivid images is not ef- fective, except under abnormal circumstances. The mind of the speaker, and especially is this true of the preacher, should not be a chaos but a cosmos ; for his objective is not a mere aimless play upon the motor impulses of a thought- less throng, but the moving of men along definite lines to- ward the realization of individual and social ideals which are the embodiment of perfect order.
CHAPTER III
MENTAL SYSTEMS
Thinking may be defined as an eflfort to carry out or complete an arrested response to a stimulus by bringing the revived images of past experience to bear upon the situation. It is an attempt to solve a present problem by means of past experience. The j^roblem may be a puzzling practical situ- ation, with respect to which one is uncertam what course to pursue, and in which, therefore, the response is arrested — i.e., a state of things in which the instinctive or habitual re- sponse is not adequate. Were the situation an entirely familiar one, an instinctive or habitual reaction would be sufficient ; there would be no need for thought, and it would not take place. " Direct, immediate discharge or exjjression of an impulsive tendency is fatal to thinking. Only when the impulse is to some extent checked and thrown back upon itself does reflection ensue. . . . Every vital activity of any depth and range inevitably meets obstacles in the course of its effort to realize itself." ^ But the problem may not be so immediately practical ; it may be a problem of curiosity, and therefore chiefly of an intellectual character. The practical meaning, the proper motor response, may not be obvious, or if obvious, may not be immediately required. In either kind of a situation the thinking process takes place in an effort to answer one or more of the questions : What? When? Where? How? Why? These ques- tions can only be answered by correlating this situation with the rest of experience. In this process our knowledge grows ; our experience extends beyond the narrow limits of
1 Dewey, " How We Think," p. 64.
34
MENTAL SYSTEMS 35
the instinctive, and not only extends but is systematized ; for experience can not extend beyond its rudimentary stages, can not become varied, rich and adequate to the needs of grow- ing life except as new individual experiences are treasured up in the organism, represented in mental images, and or- ganized into systems.
I. PROCESSES OF ORGANIZATION
I. Concepts built up in various fields of experience. As pointed out in the preceding chapter, if our images repre- sented original experience in all its details, and, if when revived, appeared in the accidental and often haphazard order of the original sensations they would often form only a heterogeneous multitude, having no relations of prac- tical value among themselves, and the very purpose of thought would be defeated. They must be sorted out, asso- ciated together, fused into types or moulded into concepts which represent whole masses of particular and concrete experiences, in order that they may become effective tools for our use. If when the word " tree " is mentioned there were called up all the detailed images of all the trees one's eyes had ever rested upon, the consciousness would be swamped by a mass of useless particulars. As a matter of fact, they are all fused and fashioned into an image which represents all of them and is easily recalled and used. As one's experience extends, the concept will be found to rep- resent a class of objects which at the same time forms part of a larger class and divides up into a number of sub-classes. For instance, the concept " tree " is found to belong to a much larger class of objects, plants or vegetables; and at the same time to include a number of varieties of trees. Thus the mental organization goes on by a process of broader generalization, on the one hand ; and discrimination and division on the other. At the same time concepts are forming in adjacent fields of experience, and these fields of experience are coming to be related to one another. While the child is acquiring the notion " tree," he is also forming
36 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
the concepts " bird " and " colour," and many others, and will be weaving them into a more or less complex system of relations with one another, because they all lie in closely adjacent fields of experience, and in his responses to stimuli coming from those fields he has almost inevitably connected them together. In the meantime he will be building up in somewhat widely separated fields of experience other sys- tems of ideas. Before long these widely separated fields will come to be more or less closely correlated in his mind — at first those in which he is most active and which do not lie too far apart, and gradually those more remote.
2, Reflective and unreflective organization. In the be- ginning of the construction of one's system of ideas the process is unreflective. ^ It begins, indeed, in the instinctive and largely random reactions of the baby. It is continued in the more or less accidental generalizations and formula- tions of the growing child, who does not realize that he is forming concepts of the various kinds of objects that come within the range of his experience and that he is relating them to one another in a mental system. He is intent only upon the satisfaction of his active impulses. With develop- ing life his practical ends become more conscious, more definite ; but the experiences controlled by these practical ends continue to be the bases of his correlations of ideas. But, while this is true, his rapidly multiplying relations and expanding activities are compelling him to deal with more and more complex situations, to set for himself more distant ends which can be reached only by a longer and more com- plicated series of means. Again and again he finds that the organization of ideas as it has taken shape in his mind is not adequate to guide him in these new and more difficult situations. He is forced by his mental embarrassments, by his mistakes and failures, to revise and in some measure to reconstruct his concepts and the systems into which they have been linked. This process involves reflection ; though at first, of course, it is very partial and uncritical. But it is
1 See Miller's " Psychology of Thinking," pp. 206-223.
MENTAL SYSTEMS 37
likely to become more and more critical and extensive as his experience broadens and his activities become more varied in the more complex relations of life. The boy that grows up on a farm soon comes to have vague notions of the sev- eral kinds of animals and tools used and of the several kinds of crops raised on the farm. He comes to know about horses, cows, pigs, fowls ; plows, wagons, reapers, buggies ; wheat, corn, oats, potatoes, etc. And he acquires crude notions of their relations to one another, and of the rela- tions and functions of the farm as a whole. With the pass- ing of the months his concepts of these various objects and of their relations to one another become more adequate, more definite, more distinct, through actual dealing with them. By visits to the neighbouring town he becomes vaguely acquainted with other modes of life ; and as he takes an increasing share both in raising the products of the farm and in marketing them in the town his concept of the farm and its relation to the rest of the world is enriched. His childish notions are undergoing continuous revision, and becoming larger and more complex. His mental system is passing through the double process of, first, unreflective organization and, second, reflective reorganization as the exigencies of his broadening experience require ; but it re- mains as yet mainly unreflective in character. By and by he is sent for education to the agricultural college; and there he studies the principles of farming as they have been sifted and formulated by experts from the general experi- ence of men. He learns the chemical composition of va- rious soils and the adaptation of the several kinds of seeds to the several kinds of soil, and the most approved methods of cultivation and the chemical and biological laws under- lying these methods. He sees farming conducted according to these principles and critically observes the processes. He is instructed as to the relation of agriculture to the general economic and cultural order of society. His system of ideas relating to that general field of experience has now been re- flectively reorganized with approximate thoroughness. He
38 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
is a scientific farmer. But we need only consider how few fanners — indeed, how few men in any walk of life — receive so thorough a training in their occupation, in order to realize that the great majority of men have for the most part unreflectively organized systems of ideas corresponding to the central fields of their experience ; and answering to the collateral and secondary fields of their experience there are systems of ideas even more crudely unreflective, full of gaps and inconsistencies, chaotic and vague.
In a completed act of thought Professor Dewey distin- guishes five separate steps : A felt difficulty ; its location and definition ; suggestions of possible solution ; development by reasoning of the bearings of the suggestions ; further ob- servations and experiment leading to acceptance or rejec- tion.^ He states that the characteristic which distinguishes reflective from unreflective thinking is in the second step. In reflective thinking care is exercised in the location and definition of the difficulty. The situation which causes doubt and difficulty is carefully scrutinized. This is doubt- less true; but in reflection all the latter four steps are more carefully taken than in unreflective thought. The difficulty is accurately located and defined ; the suggested solution is not acted upon so quickly; alternative suggestions are sought for before proceeding ; the development by reasoning of these suggested solutions is more patient and thorough ; and the final testing of the tentative conclusion by further observation and experiment is more adequate. The general characteristics of reflection are self-control, suspended judg- ment, deliberate effort to grasp all the elements of the prob- lem, to consider all possible solutions and to accept only those which bear the test of experience. These constitute in their perfection the ideal scientific attitude. This atti- tude, if maintained, will fill out many of the gaps and re- move many of the latent inconsistencies which are certain to inhere in an unreflective correlation of ideas, and result in an organization of ideas adequate to the guidance of action
1 " How We Think," p. 72.
MENTAL SYSTEMS 39
in the more complex and problematical situations that may arise.
If one is a philosopher, or in so far as one proposes to himself as an aim the correlation of the systems of ideas corresponding to the several fields of his experience, he may approximate mental unity and consistency more closely. He will construct a consciously held philosophy. I say " consciously held," because most men — perhaps all men — do form a philosophy, i.e., do come to have a more or less unified view of the " world," which means, of course, the totality of experience; although in many cases the man him- self does not realize what his philosophy is. A philosophy is the unification of all one's knowledge in one system ; and even when pursued as a conscious end with great and long- continued labour never attains to absolute consistency. When it grows up not as an end sought but as a result of activities directed to quite other ends, as is the case with most men, it is a more or less accidental by-product and is most likely to be full of inconsistencies, because in practical life the ideas and systems of ideas are brought into con- sistency only so far as it is necessary to do so in order to attain the more proximate ends toward which most of our daily acts are directed. Often a correlation of ideas which is sufficient to guide action in simple situations and to the attainment of proximate ends proves quite insufficient in more complex situations and the attainment of more distant ends. A man may be, for instance, an unqualified pacifist, and in ordinary simple situations may be able to see how the national life can be conducted on that principle ; but when a world-war, such as has convlused the whole human universe, threatens the very life of nations and apparently the most precious interests of humanity, it is not so easy to see how to steer the ship of State through these troubled waters by that simple principle. A philosophy is an organization of one's experience intended to serve as a guide of action in the attainment of the ultimate and most general end of exist- ence. When consciously undertaken and wrought out with
40 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
great patience and learning it may prove inadequate, even disastrously misleading How utterly unsafe, then, may a philosophy be which has grown up as a mere blind result, so to speak, out of a narrow range of petty experiences !
Often particular correlations of ideas which are formed in an uncritical manner in some field of experience petrify, so to speak, and, for one reason or another, persist in a re- markable way, lying in the mind as flinty formations which resist the reflective, rationalizing process. Some popular beliefs of a quasi-superstitious character are of this sort, and probably have their origin in hasty, unreflective think- ing. For instance, the notion that when the visible Moon has a certain shape it indicates rain or dry weather; that potatoes should be planted during a certain phase of the moon's changes: that the number 13 is unlucky: or that an enterprise begun on Friday will turn out badly, — all such notions are probably crude and hasty generalizations of ex- perience. Perhaps some coincidence, occurring under strik- ing circumstances, was observed and related by some person- age of importance ; was spread by suggestion among an un- critical populace ; became itself a selective influence direct- ing attention to its accidental recurrences, while its failures to recur passed without notice ; was handed down to suc- ceeding generations, as a traditional saying supposed to have its basis in generations of cumulative experience; and thus came to have a great prestige with uncritical minds, clinging even to many minds accustomed in some measure to the practice of critical reflection. The persistence of these beliefs even in circles of average culture is a striking in- dication of the fact that the mental systems of most men are very largely of the unreflective type.
Individual personal prejudices also result from the hard- ening of hasty and unreflective judgments, when they be- come associated with deep feelings. For instance, one " gets an impression " of some person as a result of casual acquaintance. It may be wrong; but becoming linked up at once with a feeling of aversion or attraction, it persists as
MENTAL SYSTEMS 4I
a prejudice. In subsequent experience with that person it puts one in an attitude of antagonism or friendHness which inevitably evokes such responses as will justify the original judgment; and so it i)ersists through life, perhaps, resisting the rational process of reflection. Such prejudices may, of course, grow up in any of one's relations and in any field of experience.
Sometimes they partake both of the nature of non-ra- tional popular belief and of personal prejudice. Of this type often are the attitudes of great national groups toward one another. As an outgrowth both of unreflective per- sonal experience and of social suggestion, national groups may come to have notions of one another which a critical examination would show to be gross caricatures, but which unconsciously colour the personal experiences with one an- other of the individuals of the groups. Deep feelings of aversion or attraction become involved ; and the national prejudices so engendered resist all the efforts of rational criticism to dissolve them. In conjunction with other causes they are often responsible for the frightful tragedy of war. This is a matter for earnest thought in this age of the world when international relations constitute so great and pressing a problem.
Surely a thoroughly rational ordering of human conduct, attaineil by the critical control of all the processes of thought, is much to be desired; but is a rare achievement indeed. In fact, it is never achieved. Some non-rational popular beliefs, some individual and group prejudices may be found even in the most enlightened intelligences ; and are, of course, much more numerous in minds less accustomed to critical reflection. Indeed, in such minds it is not uncom- mon to see such a petrifaction of the main parts of the mental system ; and then we have " the closed mind," a phenomenon discussed elsewhere.^
1 See Chap. VIII.
42 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
II. MEANING
The meaning of a sensation or a mental image is its reference to other parts of our experience. As isolated, a thing means nothing. To give it significance, it must be taken from its isolation and connected up with other things in consciousness. Pillsbury ^ has maintained, and justly, that a thing cannot get into consciousness except as it is judged, or given meaning, related to other parts of one's experience. Many things come into consciousness as strange, singular, anomalous. Do not these things get into consciousness without being received into the mental sys- tem, without acquiring meaning? No. For when anything is pronounced " strange," " anomalous," it is thereby judged — it is a strange thing. Now " thing " is one category of meaning and " strange " is another. The thing gets into the vestibule of the mental system, so to speak, but its prob- lematical character is, to the mind which is not atrophied, a constant irritant, inciting the effort to incorj^orate it more thoroughly into the system. As an example, I recall my experience at the time of the Charleston earthquake, in 1888. I was sitting in my chamber in Nashville, Tenn., reading aloud to my wife. We felt a shock, apparently a sudden upward push of the house, repeated two or three times. The reading stopped and we enquired simul- taneously, " What was that ? " The occurrence came into our consciousness as a shock, an upward push of the house, and as such was associated with other of our experiences, i.e., was given meaning. But as a shock there was some- thing strange and disconcerting about it. In a moment we exclaimed, " That felt like an earthquake." Here was a tentative association of it with another definite circle of experiences. The next morning the dispatches confirmed our inference. The incident was now more fully under- stood ; it had acquired more definite and certain meaning, was taken up into a larger circle of experiences. And yet
* " Psychology of Reasoning," p. 104, flF.
MENTAL SYSTEMS 43
it was far from being wholly understood, though its mean- ing was much more complete than when we recognized it only as a peculiar kind of shock. The large question re- mained, What is an earthquake? A vibration of a portion of the earth's surface. So far, so good; the meaning has grown. The rude shock is definitely related to a large body of experiences. But what causes the earth to quake ? The answer to this question expands the meaning by relating the event to another large circle of knowledge. And in the last analysis, the limits of the possible meaning of that shock are not reached until it is definitely located in the totality of cosmic phenomena. Manifestly, then, the organization of one's mental system is the process by which all the mental elements acquire meaning. And the total possible meaning of any sensation or image is the perception of all those relations with other experiences which in any possible way might influence one's action or attitude. Not only does each experience added to a mental system receive additional meaning according to the extent and content of the system, but it also contributes its increment of meaning to every other fact with which it thus becomes related. Is not the ideal of mental development the organization of a system of knowledge which correlates each fact with the whole uni- verse of possible experiences, so that each item becomes a bearer of the meaning of the whole?
Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies ; — Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower — but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is.
I. Primary or functional meaning. In the earlier stages of mental organization the meaning of a thing is quite ob- viously its use or function. The use meaning of a thing enables one easily to identify it among other things and to know how to adjust oneself to it in ordinary situations.
44 PSYCHOLOGY AND TREACHING
To the child a ball is a thing that rolls, a round thing. How does it come to attach that meaning to that object? By the actual exercise of rolling the ball. A knife means some- thing to cut with, a meaning which is developed by the use of the knife; and for a time that meaning sufifices to identify that object and to indicate one's proper adjustment to it. After a while the child becomes acquainted with other objects which are used for cutting, but in a different way. Then it begins to make more definite its meaning for knife; the particular use of the knife and the corre- sponding form of it enter into the meaning. The ob- ject and its function come to be more definitely distin- guished from other objects and their functions as its mean- ing expands.
It is apparent that the use meanings are built up in unre- flective experience. By the phrase, " unreflective .expe- rience," is meant experience in which the attention is directed to the realization of some proximate practical end, and not to the systematic correlation of ideas with more or less conscious reference to some far-off end. The use mean- ings thus grow up as a sort of by-product of practical experience, and consist of the revived sensations of move- ment or strain which accompany actual adjustments. An examination of definitions formulated by children shows clearly that in the beginning one's system of meanings is built up and used in this way; and if any adult will examine his own mental equipment he will be surprised to discover how much of it remains of this character to the end. Let one consider the vast number of objects of which he has a sufficiently definite notion to guide him in every-day dealing with them, but of which he would find it quite impossible to give off-hand a clear-cut, systematic or scientifically ac- curate definition, and he will realize that by far the greater number of objects which have entered into his expe- rience have for him only a functional meaning. Sup- pose you were called on to give at once a definition of " chair " which would be logically complete and exact
MENTAL SYSTEMS 45
Even if you were a philosopher you would probably fail. You would probably have to fall back upon the use meaning — it is something to sit on. In this respect, if in no other, we all retain our childhood to the end of our days.
2. Secondary or theoretical meaning and its relation to the functional. As the mental system is reflectively reor- ganized each unit of experience is brought into more con- scious and definite relations with others, and with more ex- tensive sections of the system. Its meaning thus becomes at once more explicit and more complex, while the reference to its function becomes more remote. Usually the theoretical definition of an object makes no immediate reference to its ordinary use, but gives it a definite location in a wide circle of concepts and seeks particularly to fix it in a genetic series, to define it in terms of the facts which conditioned its appearance. The movement is from concrete, practical, meaning to abstract, theoretical meaning. But in theo- retical meaning there is an implicit reference to use or func- tion. In the last analysis all knowledge, though it may be sought by some minds for its own sake, has as its function the guidance of conduct, in the broad sense of the word. It is the equipment of a man for proper adjustment to his total environment. The primary use meanings of an object guide one's adjustment to it in simple and ordinary sit- uations and furnish a sufficient basis for rules of action ; but there are exceptions to all rules. The theoretical, or scientific, meanings, seeing things in their relation to the whole range of experience as treasured up in one's system of concepts, guide adjustment in varying and exceptional situations, and give a basis for universal principles of action to which there are no exceptions.
But neither type of meaning is sufficient apart from the other. The simple use meanings need to be enlarged and corrected by the scientific in order that all essential elements which are not obvious may be included, and in order that they may be purged of all unessential elements, which might in unusual circumstances lead astray; and the scientific
46 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
need to be subjected to the test of practice in order that they may be " reaHzed," or be adequately grasped, and that they may be kept free from useless and misleading elements. A theoretical meaning becomes much more real to one when he becomes viviilly conscious how it determines or modifies action. The idea must be interpreted in terms of the kin- sesthetic sensations in order that one may get a lively sense of its meaning. And when the meaning of the concept is thus reduced to its lowest terms it is not only more vividly realized, but its adequacy or inadequacy, its truth or false- ness, is more readily perceived. Thus the theoretical mean- ings must be tested by being reduced to the functional mean- ings. They are not scientific, nor are they established as meanings, until confirmed by practical application. The practical application should be by experiment, when that is possible, as it usually is in the physical sciences, and to a certain extent in psychology ; or by repeated recurrence under various and widely different circumstances, as in the social sciences.
The " practical " man is one who puts great emphasis upon the use meanings, and usually speaks with contempt of theory. The " theoretical " man is one who places the emphasis upon the abstract meanings and is mainly inter- ested in knowledge as an end. He finds his satisfaction in the systematic correlation of ideas, with secondary, if any, reference to their practical applications. Both attitudes are partial and lead to unsatisfactory results. The practical man who wholly discards theory will be short-sighted and narrow, " bumptious " and full of prejudices, and in un- familiar circumstances is liable to gross error ; the theoretical man, neglecting practical applications, will be fanciful and fall into many absurdities, because his think- ing lacks the correction of facts. The two attitudes com- bined will yield both " common sense " and breadth of vision ; will enable one to keep his feet planted firmly upon the solid earth of reality and yet see, beyond the details
MENTAL SYSTEMS 47
of the present and the near, the far-off relations of his action in time and space.
III. DIFFERENTIATION OF MENTAL SYSTEMS
Before proceeding to indicate the practical applications of these principles which have been rather abstractly set forth, another truth of great importance should be taken into consideration. It is a fact of capital significance that as social development proceeds the mental systems of men, whether considered as individuals or as groups, undergo a progressive differentiation.
I. Differentiating influences. The first of these we men- tion is the occupation. Obviously the occupation is of great significance in the development of the mental life. Usually it is the tie which more than any other gives unity to the ideas built up in several contiguous fields of experience. Says Professor Dewey : " Adults normally carry on some occupation, profession, pursuit; and this occupation fur- nishes the continuous axis about which their knowledge, their beliefs and their habits of reaching conclusions are organized." ^ Certainly for the average man the system of ideas built up in the general field of experience compre- hended in his occupation will form throughout life the core of his mental organization. What is meant by " occupa- tion " is that series of activities, whether economic, political, religious, or scientific, which chiefly engages one's attention and energy. Sometimes, in fact, a man's nominal occupation is really his avocation, and rice versa. Nom- inally William Carey was a shoe-maker, but his real occu- pation was not making shoes; it was the propagation of Christianity in heathen lands. Paul's occupation was not tent-making, though that was his method of earning his living. The major part of his time and energy was given to preaching to the Gentiles. Edmund Clarence Stedman's oc- cupation was really that of a literary critic, though he would
1 " How We Think," p. 41.
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probably be classified in a directory of occupations as a banker or financier. And it is, of course, the real occupation which is so dominant in the formation of a man's mental system. In fields of experience not immediately involved in this he may form systems of ideas which are only loosely related to his central system ; and in fields still more distant he may build up systems which are never brought into any perceptible correlation with the one organized in the occupa- tion. But in so far as he attains to mental unification — and, of course, he must have some degree of mental unity — it will in the main come through the assimilation of all his other systems of ideas to this dominant one ; and doubtless this dominant one will, in any case, act as a sort of subcon- scious control, determining more or less completely both the content and the form of the systems built up in remote fields, although both within the dominant system and between it and the subordinate ones many inconsistencies are likely to remain.
Of course, the ideas originating in the subordinate or col- lateral fields react upon the central system and modify to some extent the view of life and mode of thought which are the resultant of one's chief activities ; and some rare men, perhaps, are so broad in their sympathies and so many sided and versatile in their intellectual life that their mental development can not be determined by the narrow limits of a specialized occupation. But ordinarily people engaged in the various forms of " practical work " and in the so-called " professions " do not rise far above these limits; and those who devote themselves to scientific pursuits usually find themselves inevitably limited to fractional departments of any great realm of science, and these constitute the axes around which their mental systems are organized.
In connection with the dominant influence of the occupa- tion we must consider the fact that our modern life is char- acterized by a minute and constantly increasing division of labour. The dififercntiation of occupations has gone on until it has become a fact of most striking significance; and the
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process is not only not checked but is proceeding at an ac- celerating rate. It seems to be due to the operation of fundamental laws of being ; and, while it is true that the ap- pearance of new forms of activity sometimes leads to the discontinuance of old forms, each new form, after it appears, leads most likely to the introduction of several others. Thus the total number of differentiated forms of activity is constantly on the increase. All men are becoming special- ized. A glance backward to earlier social conditions is sufficient to confirm the statement that this specialization is a rapidly increasing process. If we recall how in early society, before the beginning of the exchange of goods be- tween groups, all the customary forms of activity were carried on within one small circle, without any clear division of labour except between the sexes; if we further consider how, with the expansion of the groups and the establishment of relations between neighbouring groups, the differentia- tion of occupations within each group proceeded ; and if we follow this process until it issues in the almost infinite maze of differentiated activity of our present-day hfe, we shall perceive that we are now stationed where the past develop- ment, like a broadening Amazon, expands into an era of com- plicated specialization of truly oceanic proportions. There are some seventeen thousand different occupational desig- nations in current use, though many of them indicate forms of activity so nearly alike that our Census Bureau finds that there are only about ten thousand which are of service in its enumeration. By far the greater number of these are of comparatively recent origin. Who can tell to what extent this process of specialization is to go, or how profoundly it is to modify the mental development of the people?
But the differentiation of occupations, though very im- portant, is by no means the only influence at work produc- ing variations and divergences among the mental systems of men. Native organic differences are also important causes of these divergences. Human beings do not inherit a com- pletely and rigidly organized nervous constitution, but each
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is bom with certain peculiar predispositions fixed in his nervous system, and these exert a very great influence upon the formation of his mental system. One's inborn tend- encies may render him reactionary, radical or conservative in disposition ; they may give him a penchant for some form of art, or for some special role in politics, or for some par- ticular science, or for a specific line of business, or for some other form of specialized activity. In this way they may have a determining influence in the selection of his occupa- tion, though, for various reasons, the form of activity for which he has this special turn of mind may not be the one in which he actually engages. Men often drift into occupations for which they are not naturally adapted. In any case, these individual organic tendencies control largely the direction of a man's attention and give greater weight in his mind to certain facts and considerations than to others, and thus influence profoundly the constitution of his mental system. So it happens that different men build up within the same general field of occupational experience systems of ideas dissimilar in important respects.
Nor should it be forgotten that, quite apart from the influence of occupations and of native diflferences, the intel- lectual environment in which one grows up or lives for a long time is an important factor in moulding his mind. It needs but a glance over any extensive social group to see that it tends to break up into an increasing number of such intellectual environments, each resulting from the peculiar synthesis of sociological conditions prevailing in some par- ticular part of the country, or in some stratum or section of the society. From some special environment each man in- evitably receives influences which have much to do in deter- mining his processes of thought and his mental organization. If his innate tendencies are not strongly divergent and the mode of thought developed by his occupation does not pre- vent, he simply conforms, assumes the mental attitude which is general in his locality, or in his class, or in his group of friends, or in the literature which he reads. If his innate
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tendencies are strongly divergent he will react against the influences of his environment. But whether his attitude be one of conformity or of resistance, that environment will be equally powerful in the formation of his mental system. The radical who lives in an atmosphere of proscription will develop an intellectual life very different from that which he would in an atmosphere of freedom. Indeed, a man who is a radical in one intellectual atmosphere might quite con- ceivably have been a conservative had he dwelt in another, and z'ice versa. An environment is equally powerful in its influence upon the conformist and the non-conformist. It may assimilate or it may alienate, but it can not be ignored. Now, as these several processes of diflferentiation go on, each crossing and modifying the other, the mental systems of men necessarily become more and more highly differen- tiated; men become more variant and widely sundered in their intellectual interests and modes of thought. It is sometimes said that there is an even stronger counter tend- ency. It is declared that the development of intercom- munication in various ways — the increase of travel, the publication of knowledge of every sort, the reading habit, etc. — swells enormously the fund of common ideas, and tends towards the establishment of common standards and points of view. Then there is the practice of using over wide areas the same text-books in the public schools. The stronger movement, therefore, is sometimes declared to be in the direction of a dead level of mental uniformity. But this is a superficial view. It is true that the tendency is for all knowledge to be made available for every man ; that the views of every man are coming more and more to be ac- cessible to all men. And we may, if we choose, imagine this to go on until the theoretical limit is reached, and all that every man thinks is placed at the disposal of all men. What of it? Would it reduce the mental Hfe of men to a dead uniformity ? It would have rather the opposite effect. No individual can appropriate all ideas. He simply has an ever-enlarging fund of other men's ideas to draw upon in
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organizing his own mental system, which will be formed under the control of the individualizing influences just dis- cussed. The system of ideas growing up as a result of the differentiating influences at work upon him operates as a selecting principle, determining what ideas out of the gen- eral fund available for him he will actually appropriate, and also the particular relations in which he will organize them in his own mind ; and the availability of an increasing store of other men's thoughts simply multiplies the number of individual permutations possible and also the possible range of variation of these individual combinations. One could arrange a thousand bricks into many structural forms which would be very unlike one another; but a million bricks are capable of a far greater number of structural combinations each of which would be still more unique. So with the units of the mental life. Of course, there is much that is common in the experiences of men and, therefore, much that is common to their intellectual systems ; but this com- mon factor, while it may grow absolutely larger, must grow relatively smaller in the continuous development of social life.
2. The effect of the differentiation upon meaning. We have seen that the total meaning of a mental image is deter- mined by its particular setting in the total system. The group of images with which it is immediately connected give its specific meaning; but the entire system constitutes the background of its significance. The whole system gives to each image a certain perspective through which it is viewed. It thus bears, in addition to its specific content of meaning, a certain atmosphere of meaning imparted to it by its general relations in the whole body of one's thought. These general relations may not come into the focus of con- sciousness but only into the fringe, but are nevertheless im- portant elements of meaning.
It is apparent, then, that to persons whose mental systems are differently constituted the same image must have a somewhat different meaning. In so far as the systems
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approximate each other will the meanings be similar; in so far as they diverge will the meanings be different. The same is true of the same person at different stages of his development. Think what the sun means to a child of three or four summers and what it means to the same person after he has become a scientific astronomer. In the first case the sun is just a great luminous body in the sky; in the latter case he thinks of the sun in terms of the immeas- urable spaces and magnitudes of the heavens and thei unnumbered aeons of cosmic development. The difference in the meaning of the same object to the same person at different stages of development indicates what great differ- ences of meanings may attach to the same objects in the minds of men who stand on different levels of culture. To convey a meaning from one mind to another absolutely without modification is impossible. The possibility of doing so would imply identical mental systems in the two minds, which is out of the question. A statement made to a group of persons will receive a somewhat different interpretation in each mind. This is true even of a mathematical formula, which is the nearest possible approach to the fixation of a meaning in a pattern invariable for all minds. Certainly in this extreme case there is a very different atmosphere of meaning for different persons. Would not the same mathe- matical formula arouse a very different set of associations, remote references and suggestions, a different atmosphere of meaning, in the mind of the average school boy from what it would in the mind of Pierre Simon La Place? In the case of a formula of physical science the difference would probably be greater, because the subject matter of physical science does not lend itself to exact definitions, can not be cut into invariable patterns, like the subject matter of mathematics. In the use of a theological formula the diver- gence of meanings is still greater. It seems to be inevitable that men who subscribe to the same theological formulas should fill them with more or less different meanings, each interpreting the formulas through the medium of his own
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intellectual system. We are not referring to the fact that men sometimes dishonestly subscribe to creeds which they do not believe, but to the psychological necessity men are under of attaching to the terms of formulas which they honestly accept meanings which are determined by their own systems of ideas. It is interesting, for instance, to consider what different meanings may be borne by the word " God " in the minds of people who are of different grades of cul- ture or whose minds have been formed in different environ- ments. In the mind of a person bred in a gentle and cul- tured Christian home, it has one meaning ; in the mind of a savage, quite another. In the mind of an ignorant rustic it calls up one set of associations ; in the mind of the phil- osopher Spinoza it had quite another. Contrast the mean- ing which it conveys to the mind of a Wall Street broker with that which it conveyed to Francis, the saint, or to Swedenborg, the mystic, or to Herbert Spencer, the agnos- tic. And when particular theological terms, which connote such great varieties of meaning in different minds, are com- bined into a lengthy formula, it is inevitable that this will stand for a widely different content of meaning in each mind. The practical significance of this fact grows when it is remembered that, by reason of the continual diff'eren- tiation of occupations and other influences tending in the same direction, the mental systems of men are becoming more and more varied and divergent.
The divergence of meanings increases as the mental sys- tems become more critically organized. When the emphasis is put upon the uses or functions of things men's ideas of those things approximate more closely, and this is the more true as those uses or functions concern us in more conmion ways and in the more simple and ordinary situations. For instance, three persons are looking at a locomotive engine. One of them is a little child; to it the engine is just a big thing with big wheels, which puffs out smoke and pulls the train. Another is the engineer ; to him it is a complicated piece of machinery, which he more or less adequately under-
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Stands, and is used for pulling the train. A third is a pro- fessor of economics ; to him also it is a complicated organiza- tion of parts and functions (dimly understood for the most part), the invention of which occurred at a particular point in economic history and which has performed a most im- portant function in the economic development of society. The latter associations may be in the focus of his attention, or only in the fringe, and so may constitute only a surround- ing nebula of meaning. In either case they distinguish the meaning in his mind from that in the others. But to him also the engine is something that pulls the train. In this last point all the meanings, so divergent in other respects, agree, because that is the one aspect of the engine which is most obvious and most manifestly affects the daily lives of men. We may say, then, that the use meanings of things are like threads that run through variant mental systems, giving them unity; and when these use meanings are of an obvious, every-day character, the larger is the number of mental systems which they unite and the more closely the systems are united. On the other hand, those meanings which are constituted in the effort to systematize one's knowledge reflectively will become more and more unlike in different minds the more general, abstract, theoretical they become.
This divergence of niental systems in their theoretical meanings is to a limited extent overcome by the precision given to technical terms. A technical term is a coin of the realm which passes at its face value among all the in- habitants. It is supposed to mean the same thing in every mind; and it approximates this generality of meaning as nearly as is possible. But in every mind these terms of fixed meaning are organized into larger bodies of ideas, and, in these larger correlations of thought, acquire quite different atmospheres of meaning. When, therefore, the effort is made by means of carefully framed definitions to reduce a number of minds to a common denominator in their thought upon some subject, only partial success can be expected.
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For instance, two men use the term " evolution " with quite the same technical significance ; but one of them may be in his philosophy a Christian theist and the other a materialistic atheist, and by reason of this different philosophical setting the term will inevitably have a very different atmosphere of meaning in the two minds.
IV. PRACTICAL PROBLEMS INVOLVED
I. The first of these is the problem of understanding. That persons often misunderstand one another is the veriest commonplace of experience, and it constitutes one of the most persistent and serious problems of ever\'-day life. It is important to inquire how the difficulty can be overcome, so that minds sharply differentiated may still be able to understand one another well enough at least to hold profit- able intercourse and not to do each other serious injustice by misinterpretation. Fortunately it seems to be true that wide and varied experience, acquaintance with many phases of life and general intellectual culture not only lead to a higher differentiation of individual minds, but seem also to improve the productive or constructive imagination. By a sympathetic use of the constructive imagination a man whose mind is very diflferent in organization from another's can, if he is acquainted with the conditions under which the other has lived, approximately represent to himself his men- tal system and thus get the clue to his meanings. Of course, men who are naturally gifted with imagination will always be able to do this with more success than others; but breadth of experience and general culture will greatly aid the highly endowed as well as the mediocre minds.
The first and most urgent problem of the public speaker, whether he be a lawyer before a jury, a statesman before the people or a preacher before his congregation, is to make himself understood. Only the dishonest politician can profit by a confusion of meaning. If in rare cases one may rightly conceal his thought from some of his hearers, as Jesus seems to have done on at least one occasion, it is
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never legitimate to mislead. But if the speaker tries never so hard to make himself clear, he will often have cause to wonder at the strange meanings attributed by various hearers to statements which seem to him to be capable of only one interpretation. There is laid upon him the necessity of entering, as far as is humanly possible, into the mental systems of his hearers and of limiting himself as closely as practicable to the use meanings that are common to his own and the various minds of his auditors. For he is addressing an audience all of whose mental systems are different from his own ; but that is not the worst of it — all their mental systems are difterent from one another. Be- fore him are represented mental divergences arising from organic differences, differences of occupation, various types and stages of culture, and usually also divergences arising from various mental environments in which the hearers have lived. But as a rule the preacher is in a worse case than any other public speaker, for usually his audiences are not selected on any definite principle, unless it be that of creed, and that counts for less than ever before as a prin- ciple by which a mentally homogeneous group may be brought together. His audiences are likely to be a sort of omnium gatherum. And his disadvantage is increased by the fact that he has usually had special training in an order of ideas and terms which in recent times seem to be becom- ing less and less familiar to the people. This does not mean that he should quit studying theology, but that he needs more and more to study the daily life of the people as well. It is obvious to one who closely studies preaching today that comparatively few preachers realize the extent to which they are not understood, or are positively misunder- stood, in their solemn deliverances. They simply do not know how seriously they are insulated mentally from the masses of the people.
It is worthy of note that the speaker has the advantage of the writer in two ways. He is permitted greater latitude in repetition, and he may interpret his meaning not only by
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words, but by intonations, gesticulations and changes of facial expression — all of which are very important ways of conveying meaning. But he has one serious disad- vantage — he has to make his meaning apparent at once. The hearer can not linger upon words, phrases and sentences to extract their meaning, as the reader can ; and if the hearer attempts to carry them away in memory to ponder upon their meaning, it will be found that the probability of misapprehension and misinterpretation will be greatly increased.
But the problem of understanding is a double one. We must not only try to make others understand us ; it is equally important for us to understand others. We must not only communicate ; we must interpret. And the latter is quite as difficult to do as the former. In every-day intercourse we face this difficulty, and it should, perhaps, challenge one's conscience more strongly than the difficulty of accurately communicating one's own thought, though usually people are much more careless about it. For certain classes of public speakers also it is a problem which will engage most serious attention, if they be conscientious, and this is par- ticularly true of the preacher, whose function is so largely one of interpretation.
2. The problem of exposition. This is really a com- bination of the problems of communication and interpreta- tion. Much of preaching is and should be exposition, i.e., taking the ideas of one, and communicating them to another mind. It is, so to speak, a three-cornered process. A must take B's thought and communicate it to C. Now, A has one mental system; B — if only a single person — represents another; C — if only a single person — still another. In order to understand B perfectly, A has his first difficult task. Me can not do so until he has comprehended B's mental system in its completeness. It is manifest that he can do this only approximately. His second difficulty is to communicate B's thought to C. To do this perfectly he must comprehend adequately not only B's but also C's men-
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tal system. Manifestly he can do this only approximately. The problem of exposition as thus stated is difficult enough. But it is rare that the process is so simple. As a matter of fact, B often represented not one person but several. For instance, in the case of the preacher, the first task is to understand the Bible. But the Bible contains the writings of many men, and to render the matter more serious still, those men lived in remote and widely separated periods of time, and in strikingly different mental environments. Moreover, C represents as a rule not a single person but a congregation made up of many mental types. The purpose is not to exaggerate the difficulty. The bare statement of it makes it appear serious enough ; but it is desirable that preachers shall become more sensible of its magnitude. Perhaps it would make the dogmatism of their interpreta- tions and deliverances more modest, and contribute some- what to their humility.
3. The problem of creedal union. Creeds and general formulas of every kind become less and less available as bases of union in every sphere of life. It is increasingly difficult to get men to agree upon them, especially if they are theoretical in character. Where the functional mean- ings prevail in theological statements, it is easier to secure agreement. For example, if we say that Jesus cleanses the consciences of those who heartily yield themselves to him, and gives them moral power, we can count upon very general assent from Christian people. But if we set forth some theory of these facts, those same people will fly apart into widely separated and opposing groups. In the case of a creedal statement which in the past has acquired a wide acceptance, an ever wider latitude of private interpretation must and will be allowed. And what is true of creedal statements is true of abstract formulas of every kind. This tendency is an obvious fact of our present day relig- ious, political and philosophical life. New theoretical creeds will spring up but will be able to rally to their standards smaller proportions of the total population ; and
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the only religious creed that bids fair to appproximate uni- versal acceptance is that which, with a minimum of abstract formula, makes central and regnant the principle of private interpretation.
4. As these principles governing the formation of mental systems are more clearly understood, the more apparent becomes the utter futility of many of the bitter contro- versies which have disturbed the peace of the world. Many, indeed most, of them have been veritable logomachies. It is mainly, if not exclusively, in the sphere of the use meanings that they serve a good purpose. They are useful in bringing out all relevant facts and thus clearing up practical issues ; but even in matters of this sort their value is often neutralized by hopeless misunderstandings and the bad feelings which they engender. In matters of theoretical interest, particularly in the realms of science, philosophy and theology, there is hardly anything that can be said in their favour. When one considers the brood of evil passions which they have produced in the souls of men, giving license, yea, even sanction, to the most diabolical impulses of human nature ; when one tries to estimate the value of the precious lives sacrificed in the blind effort to settle by the sword or gibbet controversies which could not be settled by arguments because men were so differentiated in their mental life that they simply could not understand one another ; and when one further reflects that, apart from the frightful tragedies which have been enacted, much of the best energy of the human spirit has run to waste in these futile struggles — energy which, if properly directed, would have led humanity centuries further on the upward way, — one must conclude that unseemly controversy, having its basis in ignorance and misunderstanding, has been, and yet is, one of the most serious evils which has afflicted our world. With very dif- ferent mental systems and, therefore, different meanings for all their important words, men controvert with a passion which rises in intensity as the misunderstanding deepens. Each begins with the intention of convincing the other of a
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truth, but often ends by convincing himself that the other is a liar. Controversy can not be intellectually profitable and can only be morally hurtful, if conducted without a full recognition of the extreme difficulty with which men can understand one another especially in matters which involve their more important reflective systems of ideas. Asso- ciated with the same terms in the opposing minds there will always be different suggestions, implications, references more or less remote — in a word, different atmospheres of meaning — which it is quite impossible to communicate to one another. 1 his general setting of a term in a mental sys- tem is often the most important element of its meaning; and not only do the antagonists in a controversy fail to appre- hend this part of each other's meaning, but, on the contrary, each imparts to a term used by the other the particular at- mosphere of meaning which it has in his own mind. Con- troversy, therefore, has been and must continue to be a comparatively barren exercise of the human understanding; and, unless conducted with great self-control and supreme humility of spirit, will not only not clarify the truth but will darken it by clouds of passion.
5. The problem of co-operation. In the light of these principles we can see why it is so much easier as a rule to get men to agree on things to be done than on a system to be believed ; and why it is easier to secure agreement on specific things to be done than on a general statement of policy, the latter implying a more extensive unity in their systems of thought. Men can often unite in doing a certain thing, when they cannot at all unite in a statement of the reasons why it should be done; and the more elaborate such a statement is the less likely is agreement in it. A large number of persons may approve a certain act, but back of the approval may lie very different systems of ideas and courses of reasoning; for the use meanings, which are built up unreflectively in the ordinary activities of life, are usually, in mature minds, connected up with a broader sys- tem of reflectively organized concepts. The narrow use
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meanings may constitute a basis of co-operation in doing some act, while in the larger meanings involved there may be differences or, in extreme cases, opposition. Sometimes it happens that two men agree that a certain thing ought to be done, and associate themselves together for doing it with entirely different or directly opposite ends in view. For instance, two men favour the extension of governmental control over corporations, or the fixing of a minimum wage ; the one because he regards such a measure as a distinct advance toward the socialistic organization of society, the other as a means of warding off socialism and maintaining society on a competitive basis. Two men contribute to foreign missions ; the one because he conceives it to be a process of spreading a higher civilization in this world and redeeming human society, the other in order that some indi- vidual souls may be saved from the doom of a world which is beyond redemption. In many cases a wholly different or contradictory system of meanings constitutes the mental background of the same action.
We may see in the religious tendencies of our times a notable exemplification of the principles we have discussed. While the disintegration of authoritative creeds has pro- ceeded apace, the groups originally united on the bases of creeds have maintained an effective unity. Institutional forms of activity have grown up in each communion, and while the bonds of common belief have been becoming looser and the actual theological unity has been crumbling, the members have found the institutional activities a practical basis of association and co-operation, although sometimes they engage in these activities with very different concep- tions of their real significance. Moreover, as the theolog- ical cohesion has become less marked, the emphasis has fallen more and more upon the ethical and social meaning of religion ; and groups that once stood aloof from each other as solid theological unions, and whose creeds are now falling into a sort of anarchy of individual convictions, are
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drawing near to one another and co-operating in social movements and many forms of ethical endeavour. The systems of theoretical meanings in religion have become impracticable as bases of extensive union ; and both within and between the separate communions the use meanings of practical life form the chief available bases of associated action on a large scale. In this we find the psychological explanation of both the integrating and disintegrating processes which have attracted so much attention in the religious world.
We find here also the explanation of the fact that men have a growing disinclinaton to enter into forms of asso- ciation which are expected to be permanent. The per- manent association of a large number of individuals implies a degree of permanent mental uniformity which in these days rarely exists, and so hinders the free development of the personality which is so precious a privilege of modern men. And yet this is not the manifestation of an anti- social spirit. It is not difficult to secure the co-operation of large numbers for specific, proximate, practical ends. In fact, such temporary combinations were never so frequently formed or so numerous in the history of the world. But the ease with which co-operative combinations are formed is balanced by the ease with which they are dissolved as soon as the proximate ends for which they are organized are secured. It is an indication of the vast growth of the voluntary princii)le of association in modern society. There is no reason, therefore, either to hope for or to dread a permanent organic union of various religious groups upon either a theological or an institutional basis. Human asso- ciation becomes, so to speak, more fluid with the passing generations ; and the organized co-operative relations of men more and more resemble, not the rigid strata of rock which give configuration to the solid earth, but the waves and bil- lows of the changeful sea, forever forming only to be re- formed in different shape. But there is this difference —
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the movement in society is not, like that of the sea, a static agitation (if I may coin a paradox), but means on the whole a progress toward a higher average development of indi- vidual personalities and the more thorough democratization of the social order.
CHAPTER IV
FEELING
Feelings are exceptionally changeful and variable fac- tors of experience, and easly blend into compounds whose elements are hard to distinguish. Moreover, a feeling can not easily be seized by the attention and held steadily enough before consciousness for critical study. It is diffi- cult, indeed, to do this in the case of any mental phenomenon — so much so that some psychologists are disposed to de- preciate the value of introspection as a scientific method ; but it is especially difficult when we are seeking to analyze and describe feelings. When we try to do this we are apt to find ourselves engaged in a chase after a constantly elusive phenomenon, always on the trail of it, ever about to seize it, but never quite succeeding. It is possible, however, to secure insight into this realm of our experience, if we have sufficient patience and industry, and for those whose occupation it is to persuade men to action nothing is more important. We shall, therefore, devote this and the two succeeding chapters to a study of this most problematical aspect of our mental life.
I. It will help us to keep our bearings in this hazy region if we make at the beginning and keep in mind the distinction between feelings and feeling-tones.
(i) As to feeling-tones. A feeling-tone is an accom- paniment of conscious experience. It surrounds or en- velops the focal point of consciousness. We are justified, perhaps, in saying that it is an accompaniment of all con- scious processes, though psychologists are not entirely agreed as to this point. Some maintain that there are con- scious mental states which have no feeling-tones at all, are
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entirely neutral. But there are reasons to regard this judgment as inaccurate. For practical purposes, no doubt, some mental states may be treated as destitute of emotional meaning; but in scientific accuracy it is better to say that every state of consciousness has some feeling-tone, even though it be for the time a negligible factor. The point v^here the emotional colour of experience absolutely dis- appears will be found to be the point v^'here consciousness itself disappears. But it does not follow that there is a definite and fixed proportion between them ; for the inten- sity of a state of consciousness does not always involve a corresponding intensity of feeling-tone. The intensity of the conscious state is only one of the several factors which determine the intensity of feeling. What those other fac- tors are we shall seek to determine later ; at present we need only to remark that while strong feeling-tones imply intense states of consciousness, the converse may not be true, be- cause in any given state of consciousness the feeling-tone is only one factor, and the several factors entering into any state of consciousness vary independently according to their own laws. Our only concern now is to insist that every state of consciousness has a certain tone of feeling. This is the peculiarly subjective phase, or reference, of every experience, its meaning for the self ; and is always either pleasant or unpleasant. It is, therefore, the basis of our valuation of our experiences and of our attribution of values to the external objects of experience.
(2) As to feelings. A feeling should be distinguished from a feeling-tone. The tone of pleasantness or unpleas- antness is a part, or a factor, of the feeling; and the other factor is a blended mass of organic sensations, i.e., sensa- tions of changes or disturbances of the vital processes of the organism. This distinction, it seems to me, throws light upon some problems about which psychologists have been divided. Wundt and his followers, for instance, have claimed that every feeling may be located somewhere in each of three scales, or as he expresses it, every feeling
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has three " dimensions." A given feeling is found in each of the scales, pleasantness-unpleasantness, tension-relax- ation, excitement-quiescence. This doctrine has been much criticised on the ground that the last two couplets of terms apply to the sensational factors of consciousness but not to feeling per se. The misunderstanding seems to me to arise out of the fact that both Wundt and his critics have failed to make the distinction, mentioned above, between feeling and feeling-tone. They both seem to treat the pleasantness or unpleasantness of a sensation as a feeling. But a feeling is in fact a sensation or blended mass of sensations plus a feeling-tone of pleasantness or unpleasantness which indi- cates its meaning for the organism. Wundt's " tension-re- laxation " and " excitement-quiescence " may be simply organic sensational factors of a given state of consciousness, as his critics maintain ; but these have their inevitable ac- companiment of pleasant or unpleasant tone, and with this constitute a feeling.
This distinction, it seems to me, enables us to resolve another difficulty in which many writers on the subject find themselves. If a feeling is nothing more than the pleasant- ness or unpleasantness of an experience, then it would seem that there are only two kinds of feelings. But is it true that there is no difference between pleasant feelings or between unpleasant feehngs except that of degree? May not two pleasant feelings be different in kind as well as in degree? If a feeling is composed of a mass of more or less definite sensations plus a feeling-tone of pleasantness or unpleasantness, the answer obviously is, yes. The feeling aroused by the news of my friend's recovery from a critical illness is different in kind, and not alone in degree, from that aroused by a drink of cold water on a hot day. The chagrin aroused by the defeat of my favourite base-ball team is a different feeling from the sense of sin. They are both unpleasant and, if the unpleasantness is the feeling then there is no difference between them as feelings except possibly one of degree. This is contrary to common sense
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and to the testimony of consciousness. The mere pleasant- ness or unpleasantness of the organic sensations may be dis- tinguished in thought from them ; but as a matter of fact the sensation, or mass of sensations, and its feeling-tone are integral and inseparable parts of a single experience, and this is a feeling.
2. Feeling and emotion. Among our affective expe- riences there are some which have a more specific, definite and intense character than others. These are called " the emotions," and by psychologists are often treated separately as phenomena distinct from the feelings in general. It is not possible to give a satisfactory list of the emotions ; but anger, fear, joy, grief, shame, pride, and sexual excitement are the principal primary emotions, though they may be blended with one another in many complex forms, and each of them has its moral, intellectual or aesthetic correlative. Each of them is supposed to result from the excitation of a particular instinct. " Each of the principal instincts con- ditions some one kind of emotional excitement whose quality is specific and peculiar to it ; and the emotional excitement of specific quality that is the affective aspect of the operation of any one of the principal instincts may be called a primary emotion." ^ On the physical side they are marked by cer- tain characteristic disturbances of the nervous system, and on the psychical side they are marked by certain masses of blended sensations usually with intense feeling-tones. For instance, " in anger we ordinarily find the breathing dis- turbed, the circulation irregular and many of the voluntary muscles, e.g., those of the hands and face, tense and rigid. These muscular movements are inevitably reported by dis- tinct modifications in the tone of consciousness. In grief an opposite type of muscular condition is met with, i.e., de- pression of motor tonicity throughout most of the system." ^
Now, in what respects are these differentiated from our
* MacDougal, " Social Psychology," p. 47. 2Angell, "Psychology," p. 137.
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general affective experiences? It is evident that, although they are usually treated separately as " the emotions," they do not constitute a fundamentally distinct type of expe- riences. They stand out from among the other phenomena of our feeling life by reason of several distinct marks. First, they seem to be more immediately connected with the definite, fundamental and strongly organized instincts of the organism. Second, they are more intense. Third, they are more definite, i.e., they affect in more definite ways definite tracts of the nervous system ; the sensations of these nervous changes are, therefore, more definite, and the feel- ing-tones accompanying them are apt to be intense and definite also. They are the outstanding elevations — the chains of mountains, so to speak — in the general landscape of the emotional life.^
We have, then, feelings ; emotions, which are only feelings of a more definite, pronounced and intense character; and feeling-tones, that indicate the meaning for the organism of the internal disturbances reported to us by the organic sensations, which are constituent elements of every feeling and emotion.
3. Another distinction which should be drawn is that between pain and unpleasantness. It is not of great prac- tical importance, but will at least avoid confusion. It is now maintained by all psychologists that pain is a specific sensation with a special set of nerves as its bearers, and may itself be located in the scale of pleasantness-unpleasantness. It is a well known fact that there are certain pains which up to a certain point are pleasant, although, of course, nearly all sensations of pain in all degrees of intensity have the unpleasant feeling-tone. The matter is referred to here, however, not because of its practical interest, but mainly in order to explain the avoidance in this discussion of the terms " pain " and " painful " in the description of feelings.
1 See Maier, " Psychologic des Emotionalen Denkens," pp. 413- 418.
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The terms " unpleasant " and " unpleasantness," or " dis- agreeable " and " disagreeableness " are consistently used instead, although so much longer and less euphonious.
4. Does the physiological disturbance cause the feeling- tone or does the feeling-tone cause the physiological dis- turbance ? As it is often expressed, do we feel sorry because we cry or do we cry because we feel sorry? It used to be considered as a matter of course — as it is yet by the un- sophisticated — that when we experienced an unpleasant feeling this feeling caused and manifested itself in certain motor effects, certain physiological disturbances. It was supposed that the perception of a danger caused a feeling of fear and that the feeling of fear caused the trembling, etc. ; or that the manifestation by one person of a hostile purpose against another aroused in the latter a feel- ing of anger and that this feeling caused the contraction of certain facial muscles, the doubling of the fists, the quickening of the heart-beat, etc. This naive conception of the relation between the feeling and its motor accom- paniment is held by many psychologists today to be just the reverse of the truth. On the contrary, so it is claimed, the presence of a danger starts certain motor reactions in the reflexive and instinctive nervous organization and these physiological disturbances are echoed in consciousness as the feeling of fear; and so with all other feelings. The feeling, according to this theory, is always the reaction in consciousness of the excitation of the reflexive and in- stinctive co-ordinations of the nervous system. The pri- mary effect of the stimulus is physiological and the sec- ondary effect is psychical. This is the celebrated James- Lange theory of the emotions, so called because it was pro- pounded about the same time by those two eminent psychol- ogists. While there are many facts which seem to confirm this theory, and while it is unquestionably true that a feel- ing is never unaccompanied by some organic disturbance, the conclusion that the feeling is caused by the physiological reaction is not necessary. We are psycho-physical organ-
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isms ; it is quite possible, and there are good reasons which render it quite probable, that the physical excitation and the conscious realization of its meaning for the organism, are simultaneous effects of the stimulus. The psycho-physical organism reacts to every stimulus that enters consciousness with a double response — one psychical (affective), the other physical (nervous and muscular). Why think of either as preceding the other in time? However, the important prac- tical consideration is that there always accompany feelings certain physiological excitations. These organic disturb- ances corresponding to the various feelings are of great sig- nificance, and must be carefully considered in order to arrive at an understanding of the emotional life.
5. It is a matter of great theoretical and even greater practical importance to understand the relation of feeling, i.e., the conscious side of emotion, to the motor, or physical side. They do not stand in a fixed or invariable ratio to one another. To bring out this relation I shall quote from Angell.^ " The peculiar feeling which marks off each emo- tion from other emotions is primarily due to the different reactions which various objects call forth. These reactions are in turn determined by circumstances which may lie in- definitely far back in the early history of the race, but in each case they require for their effective manipulation special forms of co-ordination of the incoming with the out- going ner\^es. Every emotional reaction represents, there- fore, the survival of acts originally useful. ... In the pres- ent-day individual these originally valuable reactions are not commonly executed as they once were, for they are no longer unequivocally useful. But they appear now in the form of attitudes or tendencies to actions, which are, how- ever, in part inhibited from expression. This inhibition is due to the fact that, owing to our personal experience and present complex structure, the emotional stimulus tends to produce two or more different motor reactions, instead of producing simply the old, instinctive, hereditary one. The
1 " Psychology," pp. 327-333.
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emotion is in essence our consciousness of the conflict between the several reactions which the stimulus tends to call forth. The conflict subsides only when the two or more groups of nascently aroused co-ordinations are in some way unified and brought into a larger and more inclusive co-ordination. . . . The point we here make is that we should not become so vividly aware of the movement were there not a tendency to inhibit them, exercised by tendencies to make other movements. . . . The emotion is a state of tension, and this fact is all too likely to be submerged from notice in our disposition to emphasize the objective basis of our emotion rather than the mental experience in which it is apprehended."
This matter will become clearer if we consider certain facts in the constitution of our bodies. The several organs of the body fall into two groups broadly distinguished as to their general functions, i. There is a group of organs the general function of which is to effect adjustments between the organism and the external environment. 2. There is a group which have for their function the carrying on of cer- tain vital processes within the body, such as respiration, digestion, circulation of the blood and secretion. The first group falls into two distinct classes, (i) There are certain parts of the organism which are adapted to the purpose of apprising us of the qualities and location of the objects with which we have to do in the environment. Under this head come the several senses — the organs of sight, hearing, touch, taste, smell. (2) There are certain parts which are adapted to act upon the objects of the external environment, either for the purpose of modifying them or changing the relations of the body to them. Among these organs are the legs and feet, the arms and hands. To this class belong also the organs of mastication, and in it also may be included the vocal organs and the facial muscles.
Now fi.x attention upon these two divisions of the first group. When through any of the senses the organism re- ceives a stimulus and the impulse which the stimulus excites
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passes into immediate, full and unhindered expression through the organs whose function it is to act upon the external environment there is little or no feeling. Feeling proper arises when the impulse is more or less checked, hin- dered from immediate and full expression through those channels — i.e., when it is deflected and causes a reaction in the muscles connected with the second general group of functions. The impulse thus deflected causes a tension in the vital organs which carry on the processes of digestion, respiration, circulation of the blood and secretion; and this tension is interpreted in consciousness as pleasant or un- pleasant. If the reaction is purely reflex or instinctive, i.e., if the impulse passes into motor expression absolutely un- checked, it will hardly be conscious at all. It is true that reflex actions, and especially instinctive actions, are fre- quently reported in consciousness ; but they are not con- trolled by consciousness ; and that one is conscious of them at all is probably due to the fact that the nerve current as it passes over the reflex arc often radiates to other parts of the nervous system and produces consciousness as a " by- product." We may say, then, that just in so far as the impulse is restrained from immediate and full expression in reflexive reaction and is converted into organic tension it will become conscious, and pleasantly or unpleasantly con- scious according to conditions. However, this is true only within limits; for as we shall see later on, the organic dis- turbances may become so great as to result in unconscious- ness. The deflection of the impulse and its partial or com- plete conversion into tension of the vital organs result from the conflict of motor tendencies due to the more complex structure of the higher organisms and to the accumulation of the effects of past individual experience, as set forth in the above quotation from Angell.
We may conclude, then, that unrestrained external motor manifestation is not a sign of deep or intense feeling-tones. Ribot remarks, " It is a sort of psychological law that the intensity of consciousness should vary inversely as the in-
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tensity of the movement produced." ^ Intense feeling is the accompaniment of restrained, controlled, regulated motor manifestation. Cultivated persons whose physical expres- sions are restrained and controlled feel more deeply, i.e., have a deeper conscious realization of the meaning of their experiences, other things being equal, than uncultivated per- sons who practise little self-restraint. Undiscriminating people often make serious mistakes as to this. As a rule it is not the person who is leaping or clapping his hands who really feels the joy or grief most keenly, but the quiet, self- controlled person at his side, in whom conflicting and mu- tually hindering motor tendencies are aroused, resulting in a temporary state of organic tension and suspended action until rational processes intervene, resolve the conflict and release the impulse through the selected motor channel, or else inhibit it altogether. The public speaker who aims to produce these stormy demonstrations should be apprised of the fact that in effecting such results he is missing the higher and more serious practical end, since the impulse created by his appeal, instead of moving centrally the per- sonality of the hearer, simply takes the form of an imme- diate reflexive muscular reaction unattended by any deep and keen realization of its meaning. But the worst of it is that the inhibitive capacity of the organism has thus been weakened, and this capacity is the very basis of the possibility of deep feeling. The capacity for deep feeling is cultivated by self-restraint. In a word, demoralization and the dis- integration of the personality result from the failure to re- strain the impulses.
Of course, the foregoing statements as to the relative depth and intensity of the conscious side of feeling in per- sons of low and of high mental development should not be taken without qualification. " Other things being equal," we have said. But other things are not always equal. Peo- ple, for instance, differ from one another widely in their natural sensibility ; and for that matter the sensibility of
1 " The Psychology of the Emotions," p. 224.
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the same person is not always the same. It may happen that the cultivated person is naturally of dull sensibility, and that the uncultivated person has naturally very keen sen- sibility. In that case the natural difference may overbal- ance the cultural difference. Of course, if the quietness of the cultivated individual is not the result of self-restraint but of naturally dull sensibility, the lack of external demon- stration is not the sign of deep conscious feeling; but then the internal organic tension will be absent. The point is that external demonstration and inward organic tension are generally in inverse proportion to one another. When the organic tension becomes so great that it cannot be con- trolled, it veliez'es itself through the external demonstration ; the point at which the control breaks down is high or low according to the degree of the mental development, and the feeling-tone is proportionate to the internal tension. It can- not be questioned, therefore, that, given equal natural sen- sibility, the quiet, self-restrained person has the deeper con- scious feeling response to a stimulus of the same intensity. It should be borne in mind, too, that culture normally tends to develop the natural sensibility, as it does all other capac- ities. In general, the statement unquestionably holds good that quietness and self-possession in exciting situations indi- cate intense rather than weak feeling-tones.
6. An important question now to be considered is, why do some experiences cause pleasant and others unpleasant states of consciousness? In order to answer this question we must remember that every conscious being begins its existence with a very complex organization. First, there is the organization which it inherits as a member of the race to which it belongs, wherein it is constituted like all other members of its race. In the second place, it has stamped upon it at the beginning of its existence certain individual characteristics, due, perhaps, in part, to the conditions under which its generation took place, though it is not possible to give an adequate explanation of individual variations. These special characteristics of its individual organization
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will, as a rule, be more marked — i.e., the individuals of a race will at birth be more sharply differentiated from one another in their peculiar organization — the more highly developed the race is and the more varied and complex the life-conditions of the race are. Men, for instance, are probably more highly differentiated from one another at the very beginning of individual life than the lower animals are. But, in the third place, the individual organism thus equipped at birth has the capacity to acquire habits, to re- ceive relatively permanent modifications of its general struc- ture, and especially of its nervous organization, resulting from its individual experience. Man's capacity in this re- spect is immeasurably above that of the lower orders of life, and the variations among men in this respect also are far greater than in inferior species. Of course, the term " organization " should not be understood in the static, but in the dynamic sense ; it should not be taken as indicating simply or mainly a fixed adjustment of parts to one another, but functionally as referring to regular and correlated modes of the operation of vital forces. There is in the organism a more or less fixed relation and proportion of physical parts; but the more significant thing in its constitution is that the vital processes or reactions are related to one another in regular and characteristic ways. Now, this correlation of the vital processes is different in different organisms ac- cording to their constitution and acquired habits. We must bear in mind, in the third place, that processes of activity are going on in the adjustment of the organism to its en- vironment. These current activities are largely under the control of the organic and acquired tendencies; but not wholly so, for in that case it would be impossible to acquire habits at all. They are in some measure guided by intel- ligence, i.e., they are voluntary. Their function is the adaptation of the organism to a complex and changing en- vironment, and they result in the further organization of the life. The organization of rational beings is not com- plete, and the organization is proceeding in these voluntary,
FEELING "JJ
intelligently guided activities. We have, then, the inherited organic constitution and functions ; these inherited charac- teristics as modified by habits acquired ; and these, in turn, undergoing modification by voluntary processes from mo- ment to moment. It is obvious, therefore, that the condi- tions of feeling are both obscure and extremely complicated. *' Emotions," says Angell, '' are extremely complex proc- esses, so far at least as the organic activities which condi- tion them. In emotions we are not only conscious of the emotional object, as in ordinary perceptual acts, we are also overwhelmed by a mass of sensational and affective elements brought about by the intra-organic activities of our own musculature.'' He makes this remark with reference to the definite and distinctive emotions discussed above ; but it is also manifestly true of all our feeling experiences. Indeed, it is probably more difficult to analyze the organic proc- esses involved in the less definite and pronounced feelings than those involved in the emotions proper.
Now, when some experience occurs which brings about a change in these vital processes and the change is of sufficient moment to be taken notice of in consciousness, it is regis- tered there either as pleasant or unpleasant. // it quickens, or promotes or intensifies a vital process it is felt as pleas- ant; if it arrests or retards or represses a vital process it is felt as unpleasant. From this point of view we may get an idea as to why so few, comparatively, of our experiences have pure or unmixed feeling-tones. Let us suppose that a habit represents a partial arrest of an organic vital process. The indulgence of the habit will give pleasure ; but it will be accompanied by a more or less vague undertone of un- pleasantness ; which is certain to be the case unless the habit has become so inveterate as to cause a permanent modifica- tion of the organic process, and even then a close scrutiny of consciousness would doubtless discover that the pleasure was not entirely unmixed. If a voluntary activity runs counter to an organic tendency, the unpleasantness will likely be pronounced. Often, however, an acute feeling of
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unpleasantness resulting from interference with a vital process of the organism by indulgence of a pleasant habit follows rather than accompanies the disturbing act. The pleasure afforded by the indulgence completely drowns out the organic protest at the moment; but after the pleasure is gone, the organism reacts, to the general discomfort of the transgressor. A momentary activity which runs counter to an habitual process is likewise felt as decidedly disagreeable, although the activity may be such as to give great pleasure by reason of its coincidence with some other tendency. The feeling-tone is mixed. Thus by reason of the varying and often conflicting influences of natural vital processes, habits and current activities, it comes to pass that few of our experiences are without mixed feeling-tones. However, our feelings are so variable, and usually are so complicated and blended, so difficult to follow by introspection in their manifold transformations, that a detailed analysis of the physical and psychical conditions of the compound feeling- tone is quite impossible.
But it is of great practical importance to bear in mind that pleasantness and unpleasantness simply represent the stimulation and the arrest of the vital processes characteris- tic of the actual status or activity of the organism at a given time. Feeling has an indispensable function to perform in the life of an organism. The significance of that function may be greatly over-estimated or greatly under-estimated ; and the knowledge is not of more importance to any one than to him who undertakes to guide the development of the religious life. The function of feeling is, first, to advertise, to put the organism on notice that a given experience either quickens or represses subtile vital processes going on in it. In the second place, its function is to influence action. There is never any action — that is. intelligent, voluntary action — without feeling. To be without feeling is to be destitute of preferences, values, standards, motives — to be entirely indifferent to all possible considerations alike. It is apparent, however, that while feeling plays a most important
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role in life, it is entirely inadequate as a guide for life. That an experience gives pleasure means nothing more than that it falls in with some present vital or habitual tendencies and processes of the organism ; and that it causes unpleas- antness means only that it runs counter to some such tend- encies and processes. Those tendencies and processes may need to be encouraged or to be restrained, judged by stand- ards established in universal human experience ; but as to this the present feeling can give no trustworthy verdict. Feeling is at once indispensable and inadequate for the proper guidance of life.
7. The relation of feeling to desire. Desire in itself is neither a pleasant nor an unpleasant state of consciousness, but it is accompanied by a compound feeling-tone in which both pleasantness and unpleasantness are found. Desire is the nisus, the conscious reaching or straining of the or- ganism toward a possible situation which it is believed would afford more satisfaction than the actual one. On the one side there is a sense of discomfort or maladjustment asso- ciated with the actual situation ; on the other there is the mental image of a possible situation in which the adjustment would be more satisfactory, and this mental image is asso- ciated with pleasure. Sometimes the unpleasant tone is dominant in the consciousness of desire and sometimes the pleasant. Two conditions determine which tone is domi- nant. It depends in part upon the vividness of the image of the actual situation as compared with the vividness of the image of the possible situation. If the former is more vivid at the moment, the unpleasant tone predominates ; if the lat- ter, the pleasant tone. But it is also conditioned by the sense of the possibility of the anticipated situation. If its possibility is strong and near, that tends to give predom- inance to the pleasant tone ; if weak and remote, it tends to reduce the pleasant tone. If the sense of its absolute im- possibility possesses the consciousness, the desire dies. De- sire cannot live except as it feeds upon the possibility of realizing the desirable thing ; the possibility must be believed
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in, or at least assumed for the time being. As the possibility becomes more and more remote, the desire becomes weaker and weaker, fading to a wish, which itself can live only as the wished-for object is thought of as possible, for the ob- vious reason that if it ceases to be thought of as possible it will cease to hold the serious attention, and the wish will be extinguished as a feebly burning candle when, like a snuffer, the sense of absolute impossibility settles down over it. A boy who has a disagreeable task desires to go to a ball game. His attention alternates between the actual dis- agreeable situation and the contemplated agreeable one, and his heart beats faster or slower as now one and now the other stands at the focus of attention ; there is a rapid change in the predominant tone of pleasantness or unpleas- antness in his mixed feeling. By and by he is informed by an unrelenting father that he cannot go ; the desire fades out into a wish as from time to time he thinks of going as if it were possible, until at last his mind is permanently diverted from it.
Desire, then, is characterized by a difference of feeling- tones connected with the mental representations of two situations, one actual the other possible. To arouse desire, therefore, it is necessary " to work upon the feelings," to hold before the mind in which the desire is sought to be awakened a possible situation which promises more satis- faction than the present one. But whether the portrayal of a possible situation will promise more satisfaction to a given mind depends upon the actual organization of that mind. It must fall in with, quicken or promote certain vital processes of that organism which are more central or at any rate more dominant in it than the organic tendencies which find stimulation in the actual state of things. For this reason it is apparent that in the effort to lift men to a higher moral state an appeal based upon the emotion of fear is often justifiable. It creates dissatisfaction with the actual moral status, but does not arouse a desire for a higher status per se. It creates a desire to break with evil habits
FEELING 8l
because the final results of vice, foreseen as a certain future situation, outweigh in unpleasantness the pleasure of in- dulgence and are more disagreeable than the practice of virtue. While justifiable, therefore, in dealing with persons of low moral development, its immediate results are only negative ; and, as negative in results, the appeal to fear is of little permanent value except as it may open the way for a subsequent effective appeal to a different class of feelings. However, often when dissatisfaction with the evil moral status has been produced, a proper representation of virtue may awaken desire for it on its own account; because it may be so represented as to fall in with certain tendencies and processes, which, though they may be inhibited or sup- pressed by the opposite tendencies that have been greatly strengthened by bad habits, seem never to be wholly ex- tirpated from the normal human being. But it is quite pos- sible to paint virtue in such colours as to make it repulsive, or at least unattractive. The ideal which charms the soul of a saint is without any effective appeal to the average man of the world. The contemplation of it will arouse in him no pleasure ; or if it starts a faint echo of pleasant emotion, it is apt to impress him with a sense of impossibility which kills desire. This phase of experience will be considered more at length in another chapter ; our purpose here is to em- phasize the fact that feeling lies at the basis of desire and that feeling has its basis in the vital organization as given at birth and modified by subsequent experience.
8. Feeling and habit. It is of great practical impor- tance to note the effect upon feeling of the repetition of any experience. In general the eft"ect tends to diminish with repetition, and this tendency is marked when the repetition occurs at regular intervals. One " becomes used to it," in common parlance. The organism ever tends to adapt itself to its environment. Strictly speaking, the organism comes by degrees to be permanently modified by the repeated ex- perience, a vital habit grows up corresponding to that ex- perience ; its occurrence ceases by degrees to be recorded in
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consciousness and therefore to call forth less and less feel- ing; and after a while its cessation will call forth an un- pleasant feeling-tone. In this way an acquired taste is formed and a craving for a certain kind of stimulus. One's daily life affords so many confirmations of the statement that it needs no demonstration.
But daily experience also presents certain facts which do not seem to conform to this law, and which require explana- tion. On examination they appear to be only apparent exceptions. For instance, one may be so situated that he hears a noise repeated at intervals. At first it may excite very little feeling at all ; but its repetition attracts attention, and, as the attention is directed towards it, becomes increas- ingly pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. By reason of the direction of the attention to it the sensibility of the organism to that particular sound is heightened for a time and the pleasure or displeasure which it causes grows greater with repetition during that time. In this way a morbid state of extreme sensibility may be induced, and a noise (or any other stimulus) which at first was practically indiflferent may come to excite a high degree of feeling. It constitutes, however, only an apparent exception to the law of adaptation stated above. The repetition produces more intense feeling for a time only because on account of the special conditions the normal sensibility of the organism to that stimulus is temporarily increased ; and all the while the law of adaptation has been operating, and when the special causes which produced the abnormal sensibility have ceased to operate, it will be found that the feeling response to that experience will be less in proportion to the number of times it has been repeated. Habit has supervened, and in order to secure a feeling response equal to the first one it is neces- sary to increase the strength of the stimulus about in propor- tion to the number of repetitions. Exactly what the ratio is experimental Psychology has not been able to state with precision. It seems that the strength of the stimulus must be increased in something like geometrical ratio. This is
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a fact of transcendant importance to those whose special occupation it is to persuade men to action, which of neces- sity involves appeals to the feelings.
How often does the preacher find his congregation grow- ing more unresponsive to an appeal which once was effec- tive with them ! And this explains why it is that he so often finds it necessary to employ other means for the purpose of inducing in his hearers a heightened state of susceptibility to an old appeal in order to secure a response which afore- time came so readily. How often does the politician find his audiences listening with increasing coldness to phrases and slogans which once seemed to open as by magic the flood-gates of political passion ! In such cases the preacher and the politician may not realize how effectively the law of adaptation has been at work in their own souls also ; are not aware that the same series of ideas which they are re- peating to less responsive hearers no longer evoke in their own hearts the same sincerity and depth of feeling. From this point of view we may understand better the causes which are impelling so many preachers, especially evangel- ists, to the employment of " sensational " methods. These adventitious and sometimes questionable devices may serve the purpose of inducing for the time being a heightened sen- sibility to worn-out appeals to feeling, but the law of adap- tation cannot be successfully evaded, as the extraordinary unresponsiveness of people who have been often influenced by these methods abundantly shows ; and the constant em- ployment of such means of inducing temporary sensibility only makes more precipitous the way that leads down to absolute insensibility.
9. The strength of the stimulus as related to the feel- ing-tone, (i) It takes a stimulus of a certain strength to awaken consciousness at all; and persons differ in this re- spect as to different stimuli. But after a stimulus has passed the threshold of consciousness, its strength deter- mines the character of the feeling-tone it awakens. (2) A stimulus of a certain strength may awaken a pleasant feel-
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ing-tone, but if increased beyond a certain point it will pro- duce unpleasantness, because it then becomes obstructive of vital processes, disturbing and disorganizing in tendency. (3) And there is a point beyond which an emotion, pleasant or unpleasant, will produce unconsciousness, because it over- taxes the power of the organism, exhausts the vital energy of the nervous system, or of those parts of it which are directly involved. (4) Strong emotion of any kind involves a rapid consumption of nervous energy; and after it has passed leaves the organism apathetic. If the exhaustion has been profound and general — and this, of course, is more likely to result from excessive unpleasant emotion — the organism will fall into a state of indifference to all stimuli. There will be for a time a general incapacity for feeling of any kind. (5) If the exhaustion has been partial, involving only certain parts of the nervous system or certain vital processes, there is likely to be for a time an apathetic unre- sponsiveness to the particlar class of stimuli which called forth the excessive emotion and also to those of the same general tendency ; but there may be an abnormal responsive- ness to stimuli of the opposite type. A period of excessive joy is almost certain to be followed by a period of depres- sion in which there will be an unusual sensibility to all sug- gestions of unhappiness and sorrow. A period of optimism in business has its inevitable sequence of pessimism or of panic. A period of extreme exaltation of the religious feel- ings will be followed by a time of indifference or of laxity, of unbelief or worldliness, as surely as the night follows the day. (6) Indeed, the indulgence of excessive emotions is most demoralizing, no matter what interest arouses them. It tends towards the disorganization of the personality, and is altogether inconsistent with the development of a high type of character. In politics it is a great hindrance to the development of a high and stable social order. In religion it is no less injurious than in other spheres of life; it is inconsistent with the attainment of the high ethical aims of Christianity. It is noteworthy that politics and religion are
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the two spheres in which this demoralization is most likely to appear, because one's political and religious convictions and ideals are so personal and subjective, so thoroughly steeped in feeling. In those spheres, and particularly in re- ligion, the feelings are of fundamental importance, but for that very reason are sources of immeasurable danger. In normal conditions moderate feelings are always to be pre- ferred. They are more healthy ; the reaction is never severe or dangerous. The arousing of abnormally high emotion is never justifiable except in dealing with abnormal condi- tions, and should then be regarded as a temporary expedient to be discontinued as soon as normal conditions can be re- stored. The preachers who aim at high emotional effects, as being in themselves valuable, should be apprised of the fact that such demonstrations result as a rule only in weak- ening the foundations of moral order in society by derang- ing the mental organization of the individuals who are the subjects of their exploits.
In saying this there is no intention to discount the import- ance of feeling. On the contrary, that function is of prime importance as a guide in the adjustment of the organism to its environment, but manifestly it is not of itself sufficient for this purpose. Feeling announces a present fact, it does not look ahead. Grant Allen's statement — " neither pleas- ure nor pain is prophetic " — is a most important truth. Only in the simplest possible situation, only in a matter of immediate and momentary interest, is feeling by itself a safe guide for action. As life conditions become more com- plex, as the ends of activity become higher and more re- mote, as the series of means to ends grow longer and more complicated, it becomes increasingly necessary that emotion be controlled and directed, that it may not lead to the de- struction rather than the promotion of the life. Control and direction are functions of the rational powers. As long as emotion remains under the control and direction of the reason it is not excessive, no matter how intense and strong it may be ; and it clearly depends upon the strength and sta-
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bility of the controlling faculty whether a stimulus of a given strength will awaken an uncontrollable emotion or not. The point at which an emotion of a given strength will break the leash of reason is not the same in all persons. For one person, therefore, a stimulation of a given strength may be excessive, and for another not.
In religion especially the emotions should not run wild, but should be kept under control of reason. In that sphere one has to do with very powerful emotions which spring from the fundamental instincts ; the conditions under which those emotions must determine action are extremely com- plex, comprehending all the more obscure as well as all the more obvious factors of one's total life-situation; the end towards which it is their function to impel is the highest and most remote of our existence, viz. : the attainment of ultimate individual perfection in harmony wnth the uni- verse. In a word, religion is the supreme, most complicated and far-reaching problem of life. If in the ordinary tasks of every-day life emotions which are less deeply rooted in the foundations of personality and which work in a limited set of conditions, towards the attainment of proximate and secondary ends need to be directed and controlled by intel- ligence in order to avoid disaster, how much more should reason be kept firmly regnant in its directive function in religion ?
10. Intelligence and the enrichment of the emotional life. Besides the general effect of intensifying the feeling-tones, as above suggested, growing intelligence has other important effects upon the character of the feelings.
In the first place, the wider the range of ideas the more numerous are the available stimuli which produce feeling, and the richer, therefore, becomes the emotional life. It is not alone one's perceptions or immediate experiences which arouse emotion. In mental images, ideas, there is available a store of representative experiences, each with its appro- priate emotional colouring, which is limited only by the ex- tent, variety and clearness of one's knowledge and the con-
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structive power of one's imagination. It is true that ordi- narily the primary sensational experiences evoke a keener feeling than the images, the secondary and representative experiences ; but this is not by any means always the case. In any case the advantage is all with the person who pos- sesses a wealth of ideas. His primary experiences will not be the fewer on account of his intellectual culture ; and the higher organization of the mind which is developed in the building up of an extensive system of ideas implies the in- creasing activity of those inhibitive processes which are the condition of more intense feeling-tones in these experiences. In addition, the numerous mental images at the disposal of his memory and imagination afiford the opportunity for a correspondingly large number of emotional experiences, which may be of moderate or strong intensity according to conditions. The practical value of this resource for the en- richment of the life of feeling is incalculable. We have but to recall John Bunyan in the Bedford jail to realize how, even with a comparatively limited range of ideas, a vivid and constructive imagination could convert a filthy dungeon life into a pilgrim's march to glory. The invalid shut up within four walls with no out-look upon the world save that af- forded by the window-casement, may yet by means of abundant knowledge live a life of infinitely more varied emotional interest than the most busy participant in the world's activity, if the latter's mind is an ignorant waste, barren of ideas. It is, perhaps, the saddest of the many sad penalties of ignorance that it restricts so narrowly the range of emotional stimuli and thus limits so disastrously the interest of life. Life becomes, comparatively speaking, a Sahara of meaningless routine, with only here and there a bubbling spring of feeling in the midst of a narrow oasis of palms. A great thinker picks up a pebble on the beach, and as he examines it trains of ideas are started which lead him to exclaim in a transport of holy joy, " O God, I think thy thoughts after thee ! " The ignoramus treads that peb- ble under his feet without a remote suggestion of an emo-
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tional thrill. A group stand upon the mountain brow gazing at the sunset. The souls of some of them are borne away on a deep tide of aesthetic and religious emotions; others of them chatter, or giggle, or blink stupidly at the glory. This poverty of emotional experience entailed by ignorance is no- where more evident or more lamentable than in the relig- ious life. If general culture had no other advantage for the religious character, there would be ample justification of the demand for education in the extension which it affords of the possible range of stimuli for the religious feelings.
In the second place, culture involves a general elevation of the feelings, though this depends, of course, on the char- acter of the culture, i.e., upon the content of the mental system and the habits of mental activity formed in its devel- opment. Tichenor says, " Affection depends primarily upon the total disposition or arrangement of consciousness," ^ and Angell remarks, " Emotions are not dependent upon bodily conditions alone for a soil favourable to their development. . . . But another circumstance must be added, if we are to include all the conditioning factors. This additional con- sideration is found in trains of ideas which possess our con- sciousness at any moment, and particularly in those general habits of thought and reflection which characterize our more distinctly intellectual life." ^ It is clear, then, that a high degree of culture must profoundly modify our emotional life, not only in the way of intensifying its salient incidents and in the multiplication of available emotional stimuli, but in the elevation of the feeHngs ; for culture is the process of developing the organism into a higher and more complex organization in which it becomes more variously responsive to its environment, and at the same time responsive, not only to its crude physical, but also to its ideal factors. For we must remember that the environment of a human being is not simply the limited, bare, crude world which we immedi- ately come in contact with through the bodily senses and to
1 " Text Book of Psychology," p. 258. 2 " Psycholoyy," p. 336.
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which the reflexes and instincts give us our primary adapta- tion ; but it is the universe as it has been penetrated, ex- plored, investigated, organized and interpreted by the col- lective activity of men throughout the ages. The ignorant man's mental organization correlates him only with the cruder, more obvious and sensuously insistent elements of this universe, and his emotional life must be of a correspond- ing order. The mental organization of the cultured man correlates him, according to the grade of his culture, with a broader realm of that universe and with aspects of it that do not so immediately force themselves on the senses — with the achievements of men in modifying its crude ele- ments to serve their practical and ideal ends, with the higher and fine interpretations of it which have been given by the thinkers, seers, poets and saints of the human race. Mani- festly the stimulus which perhaps awakens in the mind no emotional response at all or only an immediate and spas- modic motor reaction attended with little thought and a low intensity of feeling-tone, may evoke in a man of culture a long series of ideas to which his soul responds in an equally long series of feeling-tones, like a great organ under the hand of a master of harmonies. There is as much difference between the emotional life of a man of high culture and that of the rustic as between the harmonies that may be evoked from a modern grand pianoforte and the rude melodies struck from the ancient dulcimer. Ribot says that " a sav- age, even a barbarian, is not moved by the splendours of civ- ilized life, but only by its petty and puerile sides." ^ The mental system of the savage is so poor in content and so low in organization that the most glorious achievements of civil- ization, its social institutions, its sciences, arts, philosophies, religions, call forth in him no ideational and, therefore, no emotional response, not even a healthy and stimulating wonder; and among the denizens of this civilization there are variations in emotional capacity, based upon the gra- dations of mental organization, which, without great exag-
1 " The Psychology of the Emotions," p. 190,
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geration, may be said to lie all the way between the zenith and the nadir of the universe of feeling.
II. But what bearing have these general truths upon the practical problems in which we are especially interested?
( I ) As already hinted, they give a mighty emphasis to the value of culture in religious life. In the first place, especially is this true with reference to the preacher him- self. The lack of culture in the pulpit may not be fatal to a certain efTectiveness. The man of low mental organiza- tion is able to move his hearers of the same mental grade along the level of his own emotional life ; but the poverty of his emotional life leaves him but poorly equipped for the very important task of developing in them higher and finer types of religious experience. Moreover, it leaves him in large measure insulated from the large and growing com- munity of cultured minds, who often are in sad need of religious inspiration. The crudeness of his emotional life repels them. To a large extent he is incapacitated to be- come their religious inspirer and guide. He lacks the ability to lead those on the lower levels towards the upper alti- tudes of the religious experience, and also the ability to lead those of higher culture to their appropriate service of the uncultivated. In the largest sense of that noble word, his pastoral function is in the main a failure ; for to be a " pas- tor " surely means something more than to be an adminis- trator of the machinery of the church organization and a kindly visitor in the homes of the people. It means to be a feeder of the people, an inspirational force in their lives, to develop as far as possible the whole range of their emotional capacities, and especially to organize their entire emotional life around the great truths of religious faith and to harness these dynamic factors in suitable ways to the inspiring task of Christianity — the building of a social order of which mutual service in self-realization shall be the organic prin- ciple.
If, on the other hand, we consider the matter from the point of view of his own personality, this sad limitation of
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his eflfectiveness in his proper function is evidence of the fact that his own rehgious hfe is poor, barren and destitute of the spiritual riches that might be his ; for, looked at sub- jectively, spiritual values consist in the emotional realiza- tion of spiritual verities.
(2) While culture lifts the religious feelings to higher levels, it contributes also another important advantage. It tends to bring about a more even, regular, continuous flow of the feelings in general. In a man of low mental organ- ization life tends to differentiate into two clearly marked types of experience. On the one hand, his ordinary re- actions are on the habitual plane, and are attended by states of dim and diffused consciousness. His daily life is a monotonous series of actions controlled for the most part by simple reflexes, instincts and habits. On the other hand, his emotional life is likely to be in strong contrast with this habitual regularity, i.e., to be of the discontinuous, ebullient type. As a whole his life will be characterized by stretches of dreary, feelingless monotony punctuated at irregular intervals by outbursts of excessive emotional manifestation, attended by what, in comparison with his ordinary experiences, may be called intense states of con- sciousness. This is certainly true of the religious life of this class of people. In the man of culture, on the contrary, reflexes, instincts and habits play a large role, indeed ; but in his ordinary activities these unconscious or partially conscious controls of conduct are not nearly so dominant. To a far greater extent they are in him modi- fied by the rational processes. And while his ordinary reactions are thus lifted in large measure above the merely habitual plane, his emotional life tends to move with fewer violent variations or fluctuations along a general level. Other things equal, he is less spasmodic in his feelings. The very multiplicity and variety of the emotional stimuli which play their part in his experience conduce to this result, and so does the higher complexity of his mental organiza- tion with its mutually inhibiting motor tendencies. These
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numerous and various stimuli acting continually upon or within the organism translate themselves into feelings of many shades and intensities ; and connected with these feel- ings are motives which afford more frequent and regular impulsions to action. The result is more constancy of rational activity in the sphere of life in which these feel- ings manifest themselves. We may expect, therefore, that in the sphere of religion culture will contribute to steadi- ness, continuity, orderliness of religious life, without reduc- ing it to the mere routine of formalism. Indeed it will not subtract from, but rather enhance its total emotional rich- ness. Other things being equal, the higher the culture the fewer and shorter will be the periods of spiritual dulness or stupor; the more uninterrupted will be the movement toward the realization of spiritual ideals. By the man of lower mental grade this undemonstrative continuity in the processes of the religious life may be misinterpreted as a lack of feeling, for the thoughtless are in the habit of measuring the feeling, the purely conscious side of emotion, solely by the quantity of the external motor exhibition. But we have seen the error involved in this standard of judg- ment. Spiritual frost does not settle upon the higher alti- tudes as frequently as upon the lowlands of life, reversing the order of physical nature. Upon the mountain tops of human development there is more of warmth, as well as of purity of air, than in the coves and valleys.
It is easy for us to see from this point of view how intimately the development of religion in general is bound up with the progress of a broad, high and rounded culture. To be sure, there are types of culture which obstruct the development of religious life. Such types are one-sided and develop certain mental functions while they leave others neglected or atrophied, or even positively repress them. It is probably true, indeed, that any partial or fractional cul- ture, even that which singles out the distinctively religious functions for exclusive emphasis, will result in an abnormal and, therefore, undesirable religious development. It is the
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culture which develops the entire range of human capacities that brings the religious life to its highest fruition. In a word, the realization of the highest possible type of religious character will coincide with the realization of a perfect humanity. The promotion of a rounded and balanced cul- ture is, therefore, a most important function of the pulpit.
CHAPTER V
SENTIMENTS AND IDEALS
We are now in a position to discuss sentiments and ideals, matters of supreme importance to all public speakers, and especially to preachers, because they figure so largely in the religious life. They are here discussed together, because, though quite distinct, they have so much in common.
I. We shall consider, first, the sentiments.
I. As to the definition. To Mr. Alexander F. Shand, an eminent English psychologist, is due the credit of having first pointed out the important fact that, with the develop- ment of personality, the emotions are organized into sys- tems. These systems, into which the primary emotions are organized, he calls sentiments.^ Following Shand, Mc- Dougall defines a sentiment as " an organized system of emotional tendencies centered about some object." ^ It is an obvious fact that as a personality develops it acquires more or less permanent and definite emotional attitudes towards various objects. The objects may be material things, animals, persons, groups of persons, institutions, or abstract principles. For example, one is almost certain to acquire a definite and more or less permanent emotional attitude towards a house in which he has lived ; or a dog which he owns; or his mother, father, wife, child, friend, or enemy, etc. ; or a particular city, state, nation, school, church, etc., or the principles of truth, justice, benevolence, selfishness, etc. When he sees such an object, or the mental image of it comes into his mind, certain feelings are aroused, either incipiently or in power. The tendency is always pres-
1 See especially "The Foundations of Character." pp. 24-63. •"An Introduction to Social Psychology," p. 122.
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ent. These emotional attitudes or tendencies, when devel- oped into actual feelings may take a great many forms ac- cording to circumstances. For instance, if my favourite dog is hurt. I feel pity for the animal and, perhaps, anger towards the person who injured it. If my mother is absent, I feel a longing for her; if she is in danger, the emotion of fear is aroused in me; if she has died, to my longing is added deep grief. Likewise if one has acquired a strong love of justice and sees it violated, sympathy is aroused for the vic- tim of it and anger, or the moral form of it, indignation, for the perpetrator. These hypothetical examples are sufficient to make it apparent that the sentiment controls the primary emotions. It is not a feeling, but a disposition, a tendency to have certain feelings with respect to certain objects, ac- cording to circumstances.
2. Classification of sentiments. Sentiments may be clas- sified according to the kinds of objects around which the emotional dispositions are organized, or according to the moral import of the reactions which they call forth.
(i) According to the first principle of classification we have concrete or particular, and abstract or general senti- ments. The concrete sentiments may, as intimated in the preceding paragraph, be classified as those organized around (a) inanimate things, (b) living beings below the human level, (c) individual persons, either the self or other selves, (d) groups of persons, (e) individual institutions. Among abstract sentiments are, first of all, the emotional disposi- tions organized about generic institutions, using the term in a broad and somewhat indefinite sense — as, for instance, the Church considered not as any particular denomination or local body, but as organized Christianity; or the State — not any special state, but organized political society; or Law — meaning not any specific law or code, but the formu- lated public will ; or the Family — having reference not to any particular family, but to the organization of human beings on the basis of marital union ; or Property — not any one's personal possessions, but the social institution; and
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SO on. A second class of abstract sentiments are those which have as their objects broad general principles of truth, or of conduct, or qualities of character. The well developed man has sentiments with respect to fair play, justice, cour- age, liberty, veracity, etc., and with respect to their oppo- sites. A person without such sentiments is a moral inverte- brate, i.e., he is on a low plane of moral development.
Now if we analyse the sentiments which seem to be or- ganized around concrete objects, it will appear that many of them are really much more complex than they at first appear. For instance, one's sentiment for a particular house is quite likely to grow largely out of the human asso- ciations that cluster about it. One's feeling for an animal may be due to the fact that it has long been a pet in the household and recalls more or less distinct memories con- nected therewith. One's sentiment for a person may be organized not so much about his concrete individuality, per se, as around the principles he has stood for, the causes with which he has identified himself, his achievements — that is, about the social meaning of his personality. George Wash- ington was and is " first in the hearts of his countrymen," not because they have had immediate personal contact with him and love him for his simple individuality, and not alto- gether because they have come to know and love his indi- viduality through historical acquaintance with him, but be- cause he fought and suffered for his country's liberty and was the chief founder of the nation. A sentiment may be, and often is, thus compounded of several elements. Even a son's emotional attitude towards his own father may have its origin partly in the direct and immediate relations be- tween the two and partly in the son's conceptions of the father's broader experience with and relations to the world ; or the son may have developed the abstract sentiment for fatherhood, and this will modify his emotional attitude to- wards his own father. The sentiment for Jesus entertained by a Christian is organized around an individual person and has in it the feelings induced ijy his own personal experi-
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ence, but includes also his love of holiness, truth, benev- olence, self-sacritice, and all that goes to make up his con- ception of moral and spiritual perfection as realized in Jesus. On the other hand, the abstract sentiments are built up out of the concrete and can hardly persist as vital elements of one's character except upon the basis of the concrete. If we do not love individual men our sentiment for humanity will hardly be kept alive. If our hearts do not respond properly to individual acts of justice or injustice, we shall not maintain a vigorous love of justice as an abstract prin- ciple. The sentiment for a thing may be due solely to its symbolical meaning. Our country's flag arouses in us cer- tain emotions, but it does so not as a few square yards of bunting with red, white and blue colours upon it ; but because it is a symbol of all the glorious meaning our country has for us. After a voyage abroad the sight of the shores of our native land starts a tide of emotion, not because those rocks and cliffs and stretches of sandy beach are so much more attractive than other rocks, cliffs and beaches, but because they bring innumerable suggestions of personal experiences, of human associations and of national principles and ideals, which are of the very warp and woof of our lives. It is obvious that while we may classify sentiments as concrete or as abstract according to the objects to which they relate, many of them are very complex, and not a few are com- pounded of both factors.
(2) According to the second principle of classification the sentiments are ranged in a scale of moral values.
It should be said at once that there are no sentiments which are good or bad, per sc, i.e., as feeling dispositions without respect to their objects. Our sentiments are tend- encies to be attracted to or repelled by certain objects ; they are dispositions to feel in some of their forms, degrees and combinations with other feelings, the great generic emotions of tenderness and anger for objects. And attraction and re- pulsion, love and hate, are never in themselves wrong. Their moral significance all depends upon what attracts or
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repels, what is loved or hated. But while moral character can not be attributed to the sentiments per se, they are of the utmost ethical importance because in them our most impor- tant relations with the objects of our environment, and espedially the persons and principles of our social environ- ment, are mainly determined ; and in those relations lies the very meaning of our moral and spiritual life. One's senti- ments, being his emotional attitudes, lie at the very centre of his personality and determine his conduct in his most mean- ingful reactions upon the objects outside himself, and even with respect to himself his conduct is determined by his sentiment for self. It is evident, therefore, that they are the fundamental elements of character and the supreme reg- ulators of conduct. Perhaps the most significant elements of personality are the sentiments. What objects does a man love, not temporarily and spasmodically, but what can he be counted on to have that feeling for whenever it, or the idea of it, is present to his mind? What does he hate, not in un- related and capricious outbursts of anger, but what is it that regularly excites such an emotion in him whenever he has occasion to think of it? What does he reverence? What does he despise? What does he honour? What does he respect? The answers to these and similar questions evi- dently disclose his character and indicate his conduct ; and they are only the statement of his sentiments. Sentiments may be classified, then, as good or bad according to the objects around which they are organized. Our intuitions tell us that it is wrong to hate certain objects and wrong to love others.
But it is equally evident that among sentiments that are approved by a healthy conscience not all are of equal moral value; and likewise among those which are properly dis- approved not all are of equal demerit. In both the positive and negative scales of moral value there are gradations of sentiments, according to the objects around which they are organized. Can we mark off with clearness these grada- tions of the moral values of the sentiments? To attempt to
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do SO in detail would lead into a hopeless tangle of casuisti- cal distinctions and controversies ; but in a general way it can be done so as to be of some practical helpfulness.
It is obvious, first, that attachment to a material thing or to an animal is not of equal moral rank with attachment to a person. A special feeling for a house or a dog manifestly does not have as high a moral significance as a special feeling for a human being. There are persons who seem to have a stronger and more highly developed sentiment for a partic- ular animal than they have for any person ; but it surely requires no argument to show that it is abnormal and indi- cates a moral character that is either perverted or arrested in its development. Even when human associations are the chief factors in a sentiment organized about a material thing or an animal, though that fact elevates it in the scale of sentiments, we cannot attribute to it the same moral sig- nificance that we do to a sentiment for a human being. This is true, first, for the reason that things are inferior to moral personalities and can not have the same reaction upon those who assume an attitude toward them ; second, for the reason that sentiments for them ordinarily determine con- duct with respect to them only, or with respect to persons only as related to them, which means that an individual with sentiments so organized is in his feeling and conduct sub- ordinating fellow men to things that are lower in the scale of being. His moral life is turned upside down.
In the second place, the sentiments we have for persons are not all of equal moral significance. Consider the senti- ments for one's self. One may have for one's self the senti- ment of self-love, pure and simple; or the sentiment of self- respect, which is self-love blended with and controlled by the sentiment for personality as such, which involves a like re- spect for other personalities. This is unquestionably of a far higher moral order than the pure egoism of self-love. The child is egoistic ; as it becomes mature the self-love, un- less it is modified by the abstract sentiment for personality, will become selfishness ; or in so far as it manifests itself in
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a demand for an exaggerated respect on the part of others, egotism; or when blended with admiration for self, pride or vanity. One's love for his father, or mother, or wife, or child, or friend, considered as a feeling-disposition in and by itself, is worthy of approval ; but is elevated by being blended with the abstract sentiment of regard for personality as such; and if uncontrolled by the general sentiments of love of truth, justice, etc., may even lead to wrong moral conduct in our relations with other persons. Likewise one's love for his country is in itself a worthy feeling; but it is Hfted to a higher level when blended with the abstract sentiment of respect for the dignity of nationality, for this involves a corresponding respect for other national groups ; and unless the sentiment of i)atriotism is modified and held in restraint by supreme devotion to justice and humanity, it may lead to the perpetration of outrageous international wrongs. One's love for God, based upon the conviction that God has favoured or blessed or saved him, is good ; but it is better when to it has been added reverence for the divine charac- ter as the embodiment of perfect truth, justice and love. This analysis might be pursued indefinitely, but enough has been said to indicate that our attachments to individual persons, groups or institutions are given a higher moral worth by combination with the loftier abstract sentiments.
Now, surely if it is true of the sentiments which attach us to persons or groups, or institutions, that they should be controlled by the abstract or universal sentiments, it is far more true of the sentiments included in the generic attitude of hatred. The sentiments of repulsion, if per- mitted to run riot without such restraint, are thoroughly anti-social and would lead to the dissolution of society ; but when thoroughly subjected to the higher sentiments which are organized around universal principles of conduct, they become powerful motives to truly ethical conduct ; for then individual persons, groups and institutions are hated only as they are the embodiments of unethical principles of con-
SENTIMENTS AND IDEALS lOI
duct. There are no sentiments of love or admiration for the morally bad principles of conduct. Nobody loves in- justice, or inhumanity, or untruth, or any other abstract prin- ciple of conduct of an immoral or anti-social character, however often they may be led to the performance of indi- vidual acts or the assumption of individual attitudes of such a character under the impulsion of the concrete sentiments. And herein lies one of the distinguishing excellences of the abstract sentiments. Another excellence is that they are organized around general ideas, which means that in them the emotions are under the control of reason. They are lifted as far as possible above the instinct-controlled level of life. In them the instincts impel, but do not direct.
It will be noted that the moral significance of only those abstract sentiments organized about principles of conduct has been considered. But what about the abstract senti- ments organized with respect to generic institutions? In- stitutions are the organized relations of men to one another ; and are, therefore, the embodiments of ethical principles. Our sentiments for them are blended with those organized with respect to moral principles. The generic institutions are idealizations of particular ones, and the sentiments or- ganized about them are never of an immoral or anti-social character ; and are of a more ideal character than those felt for particular institutions. Now, one does not have a sen- timent of attachment for a particular institution the anti- social character of which is apparent to him, and much less for a generic institution which is the idealization of a par- ticular one of this character. It is a notable fact that the institutions whose anti-social character is manifest are never defended except as necessary or unavoidable evils. An evil institution, such as the saloon or the brothel, does not inspire a sentiment of love or devotion even in the hearts of those whose material interests may lead them to defend its existence and extenuate its evil. And the tendency to ex- tenuate its evil while defending it as a necessary evil is sig-
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nificant ; it shows how contrary to nature it is to feel a senti- ment of devotion for an evil institution, and this is more emphatically true as to generic institutions.
We have seen, then, two processes going on in the devel- oping personality. First, the primary emotions become or- ganized into sentiments or emotional dispositions ; and, sec- ond, with broadening experience and ripening intelligence abstract sentiments are built up on the basis of the concrete, and control or modify their action. The personality may, of course, be arrested in its development, and become per- manently organized around some concrete sentiment, even one of the lowest moral value ; and it must be admitted that the abstract sentiments in many people never reach a high development, for this would require a correspondingly high development of the intelligence. But I am speaking only of the normal trend of development.
3. We must turn now to the consideration of another most important process which goes on in the development of personality. Some one sentiment tends to become dominant and controlling in the whole system. The developing per- sonality tends toward unity and centralization, and some one sentiment becomes the focal point of the unity or the axis of centralization. As it becomes controlling, it tends to exclude or to dwarf all sentiments that are not consistent with it ; and by monopolizing one's energy may weaken even those which are not inconsistent with, but only com- plementary to it. This is a matter of such great importance that we should dwell upon it at some length. To illustrate : a man has a feeling-disposition with regard to his own property, which within narrow limits is proper and right. If his personality is arrested in its development and comes to be organized permanently around that sentiment as dominant, a large number of sentiments of far higher order are excluded. The development of the corresponding abstract sentiment for property as a social institution may even be prevented. Then the character crystallizes in
SENTIMENTS AND IDEALS IO3
avarice. But suppose the abstract sentiment for private property as a generic institution is developed and becomes dominant, as there is reason to beHeve that it has done in the minds of many men of the present generation; such a person is Hfted above avarice, but feels supremely the dig- nity and inviolability of the individual property right and is more quick to resent any supposed entrenchment upon or limitation of that right than any other. The destruction or confiscation of property — and he will see confiscation in all measures that tend to place restrictions upon the use of property according to pleasure by the individual or cor- porate owner — seems to him the highest crime and excites in him the most intense anger. Other human rights make but a feeble appeal to him at best, if they seem to conflict with this sacred right; and the danger is that he may lose a normal sense of the value of human life and happiness even when they are consistent with maintaining the sacred- ness of private property. Such a sentiment for private property is believed by many to have become so strong in modern life and to have become so deeply embedded in the organic law of modern states that it has dwarfed the feeling for the.sacredness of human life, liberty and happiness. The sentiment of justice — in the narrow sense of exact retribu- tion, or collective retaliation for individual offences — may become so dominant as to dwarf, if not destroy, the feeling of pity and the sense of brotherhood for the offender. The feeling of devotion to a particular church or denomination may become so strong in a person that it will absorb, so to speak, his emotional energy and seriously weaken his senti- ment of human brotherhood for those without its pale. Or the sentiment for the church as the generic institution of religion may come to dominate a man so thoroughly that he will cease to realize that it is only an instrument for the conservation and promotion of fundamental human in- terests. Further examples need not be added to show how universal is the tendency for one sentiment to dominate
I04 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
Others and to become the supreme organizing principle of a personaHty. The emotional life always tends to centralize itself around one sentiment.
But is not such a character onesided? And is onesided- ness of character inevitable? This raises the question, which has most important significance, both theoretical and practical, is there any one sentiment which correlates in due proportion all sentiments Avhich can be morally ap- proved? If there be such a sentiment it would seem to be either the love for God or the love for humanity. But experience shows that the character dominated by the first tends to become absorbed in mystical contemplation and devotion, or in theological speculation and contention, ac- cording to temperament ; and that the energy of the char- acter dominated by the second is expended in passionate lamentation over human woes, or in practical philanthropy, according to temperament. Both types of character are ex- cellent, but both are onesided — the very thing to be avoided. Neither the Jacob Boehnies nor the Abou ben Adhems are ideal characters. It is of striking significance that the supreme moral code of the ancient world embodied the two sentiments — love for God and love for one's neighbour — in two co-ordinate tables of the law. And it is of still greater significance that he who in the judgment of a major- ity of the most advanced peoples of the modern world was the supreme religious and moral example of the race sum- marized that ancient law in the two commandments : " Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy mind and soul and strength, and thy neighbour as thyself "; and embodied these two sentiments in perfect co-ordination in his char- acter and conduct. It would seem, then, that the balanced and perfect type of human character is organized around these two great sentiments as co-ordinate.
If we closely examine these sentiments we shall see that they not only supplement but enrich one another. The first, alone, or when it absorbs into itself the emotional energy of a person, tends to take the form of an emotional
SENTIMENTS AND IDEALS IO5
ecstasy or a mystical detachment from the world, both of which are deficient in ethical value. The second, alone, tends toward a conception of man which, while entirely ethical, is shallow, superficial, and inadequate in the appre- ciation of human dignity. Neither sentiment, therefore, comes to its full development without the other. Taken together, they constitute the two foci of the ellipse of per- fect character — the one attaching us to the infinite person to whom we are subordinate, the other to the finite persons with whom we are co-ordinate. Together they correlate in due proportion all the sentiments which can be morally approved, and organize the human character into a perfect unity.
II. Let us turn now to consider ideals. As stated at the beginning of this chapter, our sentiments and ideals are closely related though distinct.
I. Analysis. An ideal has been defined as "an image plus a meaning plus a strong emotional colouring." ^ This is true as far as is goes, but it does not go far enough. An ideal involves, first, an idea of a perfect type of any thing or state of things, any person or group of persons. Of course, this idea of perfection is an idea entertained by some person or persons; it is not strictly correct, therefore, to speak of perfect ideals, because the human conception of the perfect type of anything is necessarily a relative and chang- ing thing. Doubtless God's ideals are absolute ; but they are, of course, unknown to men except as they are stated in terms of human ideas, which are relative. Second, it involves a mental reference to imperfect types, actual or possible, of the things or persons in question. If the idea of the perfect type is in the focus of attention, it is fringed with more or less distinct images of the imperfect specimens ; or if the lat- ter are in the centre of consciousness, the image of the per- fect is in the background. These images of the perfect and imperfect types constitute the intellectual factors of the ideal. Third, it involves a desire that the perfect type become ^Bagley, "Educational Values," p. 58.
ro6 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
actual. As the attention centres upon the image of the per- fect a pleasant feeling-tone accompanies it ; as it centres upon the imperfect, an unpleasant feeling-tone. It is in this desire with its varying feeling-tones that the emotional fac- tors of the ideal are found. Perhaps this abstract analysis needs illustration. Let us suppose that a passionate lover of flowers takes a rose and exclaims, " This is an ideal rose." Manifestly he is contemplating what seems to him a rela- tively perfect specimen of that species of flower. But in call- ing it " ideal " he certainly has in the background of his mind the more or less distinct images of roses less perfect, and he has also some measure of desire that all roses should realize this beauty. He feels that this is a standard for all roses to be measured by ; that florists should seek to bring them all as nearly as possible up to this standard. In contemplating it as an ideal he has a feeling of satisfaction mixed, or alter- nating, with dissatisfaction at the imperfection of the specimens which fall below this standard. The same is true of one's ideal of personal character. He has in mind the image of a personality in which is embodied in relative per- fection those elements of character which seem to him good. In contrast with this image there are more or less distinct images of personalities that are in some respects inferior; and there is present the emotionally toned desire that they should realize the perfect type. Similar intellec- tual and emotional factors enter into all ideals, individual or social.
These factors are, of course, very variable in their strength. As one contemplates the ideal, at one time the intellectual factors, the ideas, may be very vivid and the desire with its feeling-tones may be at a minimum — re- duced to an almost colourless wish ; but at another time the emotional factors may be very powerful, rising into the strength of a passion, while the intellectual processes in- volved may be very indistinct. They may vary also with respect to the different ideals which a person may cherish. It may be characteristic of some of one's ideals that they
SENTIMENTS AND IDEALS IO7
embody very distinct and vivid concepts with comparatively weak feelings ; or very hazy concepts with very powerful emotions. I do not mean to imply by this form of state- ment that the intensities of the intellectual and emotional factors are necessarily in inverse ratio. That may be so, and I suspect that the tendency is that way ; but we are not justified in claiming that it always is and must be so. The point insisted on is that these factors may vary with respect to one's different ideals and with respect to the same ideal at different times. It is obvious, too, that they vary with the temperamental peculiarities of different persons. In some persons the intellectual factors are predominant in all mental processes, and in others the emotional factors. Perhaps it is for this reason that idealists and reformers usually divide into two classes : those who are chiefly inter- ested in formulating the concepts or ideas, and those who mainly devote their energies to striving for their actual embodiment — i.e., the intellectualists and the emotionalists. But it is important to bear in mind that both factors are always present in some proportion.
2. An ideal is either a pure product of the constructive imagination, without any objective reality corresponding to it, or an image of an objective fact which actually embodies the highest conception one can form of that type of reality; that is, it may be a realized or an unrealized ideal. But like all constructions of the imagination, the unrealized ideal is based upon experience. The elements of which it is con- structed are found in the ideas of actual things. The un- realized ideal of a horse or a house is necessarily fashioned on the basis of one's knowledge of real horses or houses; and one's social Utopia is based upon his acquaintance with actual social facts. Inevitably, therefore, our experience conditions and limits the formation of our ideals. This is true because our ideas — the intellectual factors of our ideals — are the products of experience, and can have no other origin. It is impossible for the child to have the same ideal in its intellectual factors as the adult; for one gen-
I08 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
eration to cherish the same social ideal as another, so far as definite concepts are concerned ; for one person, indeed, to hold an ideal precisely identical in its intellectual aspects with that held by another. We may try to develop in a group of persons an exactly identical ideal ; but inevitably the peculiar experience of each, as organized in his ideas, will give a somewhat singular shape to the ideal which is formed in his mind and cherished in his heart. One's ideals are integral parts of his mental system, which is in some respects different from the mental system of every other. Of course, these differences between the mental systems of men who live in the same general environment and have the same general forms of experience are not always of great practical importance; but our modern life is so highly differentiated, so variously complex, that one is sometimes startled at the wide differences between the points of view, modes of thought and ideals of men w-ho move side by side in many of the activities of hfe. It is of great practical importance not only to be aware of the fact, which can hardly be hidden from any one who knows men, but to understand its causes and significance. What we see in our modern life is a vast medley of various and more or less conflicting ideals, individual and social. It is the inevitable psychological result of the marvellous differentiation of human activities in a highly complex and multifarious civilization.^
3. It is apparent that sentiments and ideals are closely related. Ideals may be classified as a species of sentiments. They are emotional dispositions organized around a certain class of ideas, or around certain objects which embody these ideas. They differ from other sentiments in the fact that the ideas which constitute the intellectual core of them are conceived as perfect states or conditions which are goals to be striven for. It is characteristic of all positive sentiments that, in the absence of their objects, a desire for them is felt. The peculiarity of the ideal is that its object is thought of as
* See Chapter on Mental Systems.
SENTIMENTS AND IDEALS IO9
absent in the sense that it is unreaHzed, or at most realized in only one, or a portion, of the class of objects to which it belongs. Sentiments other than ideals are indices of character as already organized ; ideals are sign boards which point the direction in which character is developing. One's other sentiments determine in large measure, if not wholly, his ideals ; for, though he may be given the idea of a perfect state far above the actual, how can he desire it if it does not connect somewhere with the feeling-dispositions already organized in him ? As the character is organized and some sentiment becomes dominant, some supreme ideal will also develop in harmony therewith.
But, since ideals indicate the direction in which character is growing, does not this doctrine imply a necessary and inevitable continuity without breach in the development of character? Such a conclusion would leave out of account a most important aspect of the matter. Sentiments are organized in experience, and this is true of ideals. Expe- rience is the reaction of the personality upon various phases of one's environment. To develop new sentiments or ideals which modify or disintegrate old sentiments and ideals, the persons must have new experiences, must be surrounded with a new environment or brought into new relations with parts of the existing environment. And certainly so long as the crystallization of the character is not absolute, this is a possibility that is ever open. It should be said that we are using the word environment in its broadest significance — including not only the material conditions of life, but the whole universe of personal beings, human and divine.
III. There is clearly no danger of overestimating the im- portance of sentiments and ideals, whether we look at the individual, the community or the nation. " The whole his- tory of moral progress as we pass down the ages is the record of a succession of changing ideals." ^ These are true words. Sentiments and ideals are of the very substance of character, personal and social. They are supremely signifi-
1 MacCunn, "The Making of Character," p. 141.
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cant for teachers and preachers. Indeed, are they not supremely significant for all men ? The making of char- acter is the one serious business in the world. No man has begun to get the right point of view upon his work until he looks at it in its relation to character-making. The failure to do this is what degrades so much of the world's work. But in an especial way this matter is important for preachers ; for their business in a peculiarly direct way is aimed at the development of right sentiments and ideals. However strongly they may believe in and insist on the direct regenerating and sanctifying action of the Divine Spirit upon the hearts of men — and I do strongly believe in it — the only way in which they can relate themselves to this process is by developing the proper mental attitudes and emotional dispositions in the people to whom they minister. A right emotional attitude seems to be the necessary condi- tion for the redeeming action of the Divine upon the human spirit, and right emotional attitudes are the necessary condi- tions for the development of the spiritual life after it has been initiated. At any rate, however these emotional dispo- sitions may be related to the action of the Divine Spirit — a matter about which theologians have found it difficult to reach an agreement — it is certain that they have a vital re- lation to the origin and progress of the spiritual life, and it is certain also that they are very largely under the control of human agencies. And it is the preacher's high privilege and responsibility to influence the spiritual life from begin- ning to end by developing these dispositions.
IV. This leads to the question, how are these emotional dispositions developed ? To be concrete, let us ask how a child's sentiment for its mother is developed. That senti- ment is not in-born; but from the beginning of life the Httle one has numerous and varying experiences of its mother. Normally these experiences are such as to give satisfaction to its varying needs and are attended by pleasant feelings ; her absence is accompanied by the consciousness of unsatis- fied needs and unpleasant feelings. There thus grows up
SENTIMENTS AND IDEALS III
around her person a feeling-disposition, a tendency to feel about her in certain ways under certain conditions. As the child advances into the age of reason, he begins to think about his mother's relation to him. He perceives that her tender kindness and helpfulness toward him are fixed dispo- sitions in her ; he sees more and more clearly what his mother means and has meant to him, and the emotional dis- position of unthinking childhood is extended, deepened, strengthened, rationalized. He observes other mothers in relation to their children, and gradually there grows up in his mind the concept of motherhood in gen- eral and in connection therewith a certain feeling-disposi- tion, which reacts upon and elevates the disposition he has toward his own mother. The very idea of motherhood warms his heart with a complex of feelings, according to the connection in which he thinks it. He sees a mother with a child in her arms, and the sight fills him with a feeling at once tender and reverential. He hears an un- grateful son speak disrespectfully of his mother, and it excites a contemptuous indignation for the unnatural in- grate. With advancing age and enlarging experience, the sentiment becomes stronger and tenderer. The presence or memory of his own mother floods his soul with a feeling sweet beyond expression and almost worshipful in its rev- erence. But it is evident that his noble sentiment originated in and has been developed through the innumerable and varied experiences which have kindled in him pleasant emo- tions with respect to her. And this sentiment will certainly be deeper and stronger if throughout this course of expe- rience he has given practical expression of his growing love for her.
This crude sketch of the development of one of our finest sentiments is intended to help us to grasp clearly the simple and essential elements of the process. The repeated excita- tion of the appropriate feelings in connection with an object or an idea, and the appropriate expression of those feelings — such is the simple process by which sentiments are devel-
IIJ PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
oped. Fundamentally it is a process of habit formation. But at one point we should be on guard : it is to be accom- plished not so much by the identical repetition of one act intended to excite a pleasant feeling. For unfortunately the continued repetition of this one act will gradually cease to excite feeling. It comes rather by varied experiences which excite the appropriate feelings.
I can not stop here to dwell upon the importance of read- ing as a means of developing the sentiments, though its importance can hardly be over-estimated. Especially are certain kinds of literature, such as poetry and fiction, appro- priate for this purpose. The sentiments and ideals of the average person are, in our reading age, created and modified to a very large extent by the poems and stories which he reads ; and with many people the drama also is a potent factor in the development of feeling-dispositions.
Our purpose, however, is not to discuss the significance of literature and the drama for our emotional life — to which a whole chapter, or many chapters, might well be devoted; but it is to emphasize the relation of preaching to this most important aspect of character-making. To direct and or- ganize the emotional life of the people is a principal business of preaching — perhaps it would not be an exaggeration to say that it is the chief function. And the method is obvious. If the preacher's object is, for instance, to develop in his hearers the sentiment of love for God, the idea of God must be repeatedly presented to them in such ways as to be attrac- tive, to awaken in them pleasant feelings with respect to Him ; but if the love they are led to feel for Him is to be reverential, the feeling of reverence must also be repeatedly aroused. His goodness, kindness, self-sacrifice must be pre- sented in varied lights together with His majesty and holi- ness, and in such ways as to arouse the appropriate feelings. If the aim is to develop the sentiment of love for humanity, then humanity, both in the concrete and the abstract, must be so presented as to arouse a kindly, brotherly feeling for individual men, and for man in the abstract, and incite to its
SENTIMENTS AND IDEALS IIJ
practical expression. How often does the preacher by his sneers at human frailties, his depreciation of human virtues, his one-sided exaggeration of the moral depravity of human nature, tend to develop in his hearers misantliropy rather than the noble sentiment of philanthropy, the twin sentiment of the love of God ! Indeed he has sometimes represented God to the people in such a barbarous caricature as to de- velop, at the very best, no higher feeling than that of a cer- tain fearful awe, and at the worst a positive disposition of hostility. Of course, the moral failings of men should not be ignored nor the depravity of the human heart covered up ; but the essential dignity of human nature may be effectively impressed without hiding its scars, and the infinite precious- ness of the humblest human personality may be so presented as to appeal to the noblest feelings, without minimizing its weakness. Nor should the character of God be so repre- sented as to leave out His stern moral severity ; for the law is as truly an expression of His character as is mercy. But this can be so done as to stir more profoundly the feeling of love for Him. To develop these noblest sentiments of love for God and love for man one need not cover up human sin nor hide the divine holiness.
To develop these sentiments until they become dominant in the lives of the people is the supreme business of the preacher. What a noble function! More than any other worker in the great process of character-building, he deals directly with sentiments and ideals. His primary business is with the emotional life. He should not — he must not — omit teaching; for his task is precisely that of refining and rationalizing the crude emotions of the instinctive life, or- ganizing them around great ideas and principles, so that they to whom he ministers shall come to have fixed tendencies to right feeling when they deal with situations involving ideas and principles. This defines his most vital relation not only to individual lives but to the social life. It is his great task to help the world toward a better organization of society primarily by building up right public sentiments and ideals.
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To do SO he must, to be sure, have a clear intellectual grasp of social facts and principles ; for without this he may be a most effective hindrance to social progress by organizing the emotional life of the people around false or imperfect con- ceptions of social relations. But having acquired true ideas of social processes and relations, let him devote himself to developing right emotional dispositions in connection with them, being assured that there is no other work in the whole great process of social advancement so much needed. For apart from proper emotional dispositions, the clearest and most comprehensive ideas and principles are without power to control the actions of men.
CHAPTER VI
THE EXCITATION OF FEELING
In the two preceding chapters emphasis has been laid upon the importance of the relation which the emotional life bears to preaching. It is well now to consider the most effective means and methods of exciting feeling.
Emotion is always aroused in one of three ways. The first is immediate experience, i.e., some contact with the environment which directly affects one's own personal wel- fare, physical or mental — for example, the prick of a thorn, a good dinner, a harsh voice, a sweet melody, a desirable gift, a happy discovery, the death of a loved one, etc., etc. The second is sympathy with another in his experience. When we witness the signs of feeling in another it excites a similar feeling in us. This is true even when we do not perceive the cause of the feeling. We tend to laugh when we see others laugh, although we may not know what is causing the hilarity. If we see another weeping, it arouses a sympathetic sorrow in us before we discover the cause of theirs. A band of happy, romping children makes the heart of every one who is not a misanthrope beat with glad- ness. This may be called mediate or sympathetic experi- ence. If when we discover the cause of the emotion it is seen to be something which would, if experienced by us, arouse in us a similar one, the sympathetic feeling is deepened. If, on the other hand, it turns out to be some- thing which would arouse in us a different or opposite feel- ing, there is a reaction, and the .sympathetic feeling is likely to be turned into disgust. If I saw a woman weeping as if her heart would break, I should, before I knew the cause,
Il6 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
experience a keen sympathetic grief ; but if I should learn that the cause of her angiiish was the death of a poodle dog, my participation in her grief would come to a rather abrupt end. That is, whenever the feeling of another seems to us incongruous or incommensurate with its cause, it arouses a dissimilar or opposite feeling in us. The third means of arousing feeling is the mental representation, the image or idea either of an immediate personal experience which would awaken feeling, or of an experience of another which would arouse sympathy. This may be called a secondary or representative experience.
Broadly speaking, there are two means at the disposal of the orator for arousing the feelings of his audience.
I. Delivery. By delivery is meant all the physical proc- esses involved in the communication of the speaker's thought and feeling — general bearing, poses, gestures, contraction of the facial muscles, modulation of the voice, etc. We shall not stop to consider whether there be any occult, secret, unanalysable power by which one mind may impress another apart from physical expressions. Some persons seem to possess such a power, and it may be that all have some measure of it. But whatever power of such a kind there may be, it lies in its very nature beyond the reach of profit- able discussion. Certainly the ordinary means by which one person communicates his ideas and feelings to others or awakens them in others is physical action of some sort. The appeal is to the eye and ear, or more exactly to the mind through the eye and the ear.
In delivery two ways in which feeling may be aroused in the audience should be distinguished.
(i) By some peculiarity in the appearance, the manner or the voice of the speaker. The peculiarity may excite pleasant or unpleasant feelings. Slovenly or neat dress, awkward or easy manner, harsh or sweet tones of the voice, etc., will inevitably produce corresponding emotional reac- tions. There is here no communication of feeling; for in- born peculiarities of bearing, appearance, manner, voice,
THE EXCITATION OF FEELING II7
etc., do not necessarily express the feeling of a man and seem to bear no definite relation to the emotional life, although one can hardly divest himself of the impression that there is some indefinite relation between the two. But, however that may be, it is manifest that the speaker should be ex- ceedingly careful as to this matter. His personal pecu- liarities will inevitably impress his hearers in such a way as to assist or hinder the impression which he desires to make upon them. These personal peculiarities may awaken in them feelings which will elTectively aid or wholly negative the proper emotional response which he wishes to induce in them. Even when he has the proper feeling himself, his unfortunate personal peculiarities may render it next to im- possible for him to secure the proper emotional response from them. That is a sad spectacle, though it sometimes becomes sadly ridiculous. What should the preacher do in such circumstances? Get rid of the peculiarity, of course, if that be possible; at any rate, by constant training and dis- cipline reduce it to a minimum, and cultivate to the max- imum whatever pleasure-exciting traits he may be endow^ed with. With this advice, let us pass to another and more important element in delivery.
(2) The excitation of emotion by expression and com- munication. We have seen that every feeling has a phys- iological side — the contraction of certain groups of mus- cles. It has also been pointed out that the parts of the muscular system more immediately involved in feeling are those connected with the organic processes of circulation, respiration and secretion. The contraction of the sets of muscles controlling the organs by which we react upon the external world do not involve the purely psychical or con- scious side of feeling, except as it may induce a tension or disturbance in the muscles controlling the more vital proc- esses mentioned ; and this it usually does. Now, while the contraction of the muscles controlling the externally acting organs may cause feeling by inducing disturbance in the central vital processes, it is also true that the internal organic
Il8 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
tension tends to induce contractions in these outwardly act- ing muscles, and in this way the feeling may express itself through them to other persons. A feeling of any kind which involves an organic disturbance of much intensity is likely to lead to some appropriate movement of the arms and legs. If the inward disturbance is very great it is al- most certain to result in a wild or aimless flinging about of the arms or stamping of the feet, or induce a trembling of the entire muscular system which affects the whole bodily frame. If the emotion is depressing, it will produce relax- ation, and then the body will droop or sway and seem about to collapse. A deep feeling often leads to the utterance of a cry or a moan. A comparatively slight organic disturb- ance may induce the contraction of the facial muscles, which accounts for the fact that changes in the countenance are among the surest indications of feeling in all degrees of intensity. It is clear, then, that those parts of our muscu- lature which are not immediately involved in the feeling ex- perience may become very effective expressions of feeling to others. But it should be borne in mind that the expres- sion through any of the larger muscles of the external group is really a discharge of the feeling. The energy expended in the movements of the arms and legs, especially, is so much subtracted from the inward organic contractions with which the feeling-tones are immediately connected. This may be true even as to the expressions through the contrac- tion of the facial muscles; but in this case the effect is too slight to be of significance. The principle may be briefly formulated thus : the more demonstration through the ex- ternal muscles — those of the arms and legs and vocal or- gans— the less becomes the internal tension, and the lower the feeling-tones. Such demonstrations not only express and therefore relieve feelings of great intensity; but. if in- dulged in before intense feelings have been developed, may also prevent them.
In this connection arises the very interesting question which has been much discussed by psychologists, to what
THE EXCITATION OF FEELING II9
extent has a person voluntary control of his emotions? Can one by a simple act of the will induce in himself any emotion he desires to experience? If so, how? Can he inhibit, annul, any emotion which has been aroused in him- self? And how? Actors have been questioned as to whether they consciously feel the emotions the physical manifestations of which they assume, and they do not agree in their answers. Possibly this disagreement is due to the failure of at least some of them to understand all that is implied in the question. At any rate it is extremely prob- able, if not certain, that whenever the organic tensions which constitute the physical side of the emotions are really induced, the corresponding feeling-tones are always present. The feeling on its conscious side consists of a mass of or- ganic sensations plus their feeling-tones. If the organic disturbances are really induced, the organic sensations must be present, and the feeling-tone in some degree of inten- sity will inevitably accompany. Can, then, the organic ten- sion be induced at will? Not immediately, not by a sheer fiat of the will directed straight upon that part of the mus- cular system. It must be done by fixing the attention upon the appropriate mental images. One cannot make himself feel the emotion of anger by simply saying, " I will be an- gry " ; but he can by vividly imagining a situation which would arouse his anger. The will induces the emotion by choosing to dwell upon the appropriate ideas. Likewise one can induce the feeling of gratitude by fixing his attention upon the mental image of a situation or act which would in- cite that feeling. On the other hand, how can one inhibit or annul an emotion which he already feels? The answer is, by voluntarily relaxing the muscular tensions which con- stitute the physical side of the emotion. If in the heat of anger he will by an act of the will relax his tense muscles the anger will at once cool. But here also it is really the direction of the attention which accomplishes the result. In the resolve to relax, the attention is directed away from the act or situation or idea which aroused the anger and is
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directed upon the act of muscular relaxation itself. The same result might be accomplished by the resolute fixing of the attention in any other direction away from the cause of the anger. The voluntary control of one's own emotion is, then, a matter of the control, or the direction, of the attention.
One can, however, be more successful in controlling the contraction of the externally acting organs by a sheer reso- lution of the will, directed immediately upon the muscles controlling them; and can thus, without experiencing the appropriate emotions, imitate at least many of the move- ments by which the emotions normally express themselves to others through these organs. He can clinch his fist, or ex- tend his arms in pleading gestures, or stamp his feet, or scream or moan, etc., by a direct act of the will without the corresponding emotions. However, these actions, if they are true forms of the expression of the emotions tend to induce in some measure the corresponding internal ten- sions with their attendant states of consciousness ; but this is usually accomplished only in small measure. The dis- proportion in such a case between the external demonstra- tion and the internal disturbance is too evident, and makes a proportionately weak impression on the observer. There is too much thunder and too little lightning; too much sound and fury, signifying nothing.
It is apparent now what is the psychological explanation of " tearing a passion to tatters." It is outward demonstra- tion which is not the expression of a corresponding inward, or organic disturbance; violent contraction of the external muscular system, when the internal systems controlling the vital processes are not tense with emotion, and there is therefore little conscious realization of the meaning of what is being said with much vociferation and gesticulation. High and loud tones of voice, and excited flinging of the arms and stamping of the feet are not acceptable, not even pardonable, except as the expressions of genuine emotions of a corresponding intensity. It is impossible by .such super- ficial means to conceal the deficiency of real emotion, for
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genuine feeling has other and finer means of manifestation. The organic disturbances, which are the true physical coun- terpart of conscious feeling, not only are apparent to ob- servers, but are difficult indeed to conceal. These are re- vealed in subtile modulations of tone, facial expressions and indefinite bodily tensions which can hardly be analysed and described in detail, and at most can be but imperfectly imitated at will even by the most consummate art ; but can nevertheless be perceived by the eyes and ears. Especially can those whose emotional life has been refined and deepened by intellectual culture see through this external show of emotion and perceive as by a sixth sense whether it be a mere hollow mask or a bona fide expression of gen- uine and vital processes. They whose emotional life is crude, who are susceptible only to the grosser emotions, respond more readily to mere loudness and violence of de- livery; but the excitement thus communicated to them is mainly physical, as is that which awakens it, and consists mainly of the reflex or instinctive twitching of the nerves without much conscious appreciation of the ideas presented. This is characteristic of the emotional experience of the ignorant and rude — the kind of emotional experiences of which they are most capable ; and doubtless this is the reason why speakers who are successful with audiences of this grade of culture almost invaribly fall into the use of this method, while speakers acceptable to audiences of higher culture always use less violence in delivery. There is noticeable a sort of natural selection of speakers on this principle for various types of audiences.
But while the manner of delivery should have a certain adaptation to the audience, it is a sound rule to guard against " beating the air," i.e., against excessive or dispro- portionate gesticulation and vociferation. Every feeling, and every grade of intensity of every feeling, has its appro- priate and proportionate expression in voice and gesture, and all beyond that is not only wasted energy on the part of the speaker but is likely to cause a revulsion of feeling
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on the part of an audience. Each audience will bear or will require more or less of it, according to its average level of culture; but in every case there is a limit beyond which it becomes intolerable. But apart from the grade of culture of the audience, there is a second important qualifying con- dition. Even the casual observer must have noted the fact that a large assembly calls for higher tones of voice and more vigorous gesticulation than a small gathering, and the speaker will by a sort of instinct use them. Higher tones of voice are, of course, necessary simply in order to be heard, and as there is a natural correlation of the tones of the voice with gestures, the higher pitch of voice is almost inevitably accompanied by more vigorous gesticulation. And there is not only need of louder tones in order to be heard, but of more ample physical movements in order to be adequately seen. This, however, is not the whole explanation. In a great mass of people the emotional situation is more in- tense,^ and this naturally affects the speaker, intensifying his emotions, which normally find vent in more emphatic and excited modes of expression. A third qualification of the rule should also be noted. Much depends upon the speaker's temperamental peculiarities. His nervous system may be so organized that he tends naturally to over-do, or — what is almost as bad — under-do vociferation and ges- ticulation. Either defect should, of course, be corrected as far as possible by stern self-discipline under the direction of a competent instructor in expression. But all qualifying conditions aside, the rule is a safe one — avoid excessive vociferation and gesticulation. Restraint of a tendency to free expression of feeling in these ways, if it be manifestly the exercise of self-control, and not timidity or embarrass- ment, heightens the effect upon intelligent hearers, because it increases the internal organic tension in the speaker and produces a similar effect upon the observers. For the prin- ciple is that, so far as emotional effects are concerned,^ the
* See Chapter on Assemblies.
2 Of course, the voice and gesture have another use besides the
THE EXCITATION OF FEELING I23
only function of tone and gesture is to aid in inducing in the hearer the organic tensions with which the conscious side of feehng is always linked.
Let us now turn to note the distinction between arousing feeling by dramatic action and by the simple expression of it in voice and gesture. Dramatic action involves, of course, the use of voice and gesture ; but its function is to enable the hearer or spectator to see mentally the actions of a per- son or persons not actually present. It is representative ac- tion ; and as such is a very effective means of arousing emo- tion. But it aims not so much at communicating the emotion of the speaker or actor — though it usually does this — as at enabling the audience to witness the actions, with their accompanying emotions, of other persons who are not really present, and to experience in some meas- ure the feelings w^hich would be aroused by witnessing the actual performance of the actions. Of course, as it ap- proaches perfection it tends to produce the illusion of reality or actuality. This is the ideal of the actor; though it is doubtful whether it is ever realized except momentarily. However great and however sustained may be the power of the actor, it is doubtful whether he can banish from the back-ground of the spectator's consciousness the realization of the fact that he is not the person represented, and there are inevitable incidents upon the stage that hinder the com- plete consummation of the illusion. Our concern, however, is not with the professional actor, but with the dramatic ac- tion of the orator. Certainly the illusion of actuality in his representation is not to be expected, perhaps not to be desired. Dramatic action in the orator is like a sketch in art ; it is an outline, with details omitted, of the situation and action represented, giving just enough to enable the imagination of the hearer easily to complete the scene. Often the actor himself does no more. Possibly this is
excitation of feeling. It is obvious that they have an important function in the communication of ideas. They express thought as well as feeling.
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the reason why the actor at times does not feel adequately the emotion which he portrays. He may give by the use of voice and gesture only the rough draft, so to speak, of the situation or action which he represents, with little of the internal physical accompaniments of the emotion and so with little consciousness of the corresponding feeling-tones. It is possible thus to awaken in the spectator, whose imag- ination completes the scene, a more intense feeling-tone than he himself has. As a rule, however, it is certain that the actor or orator will arouse no more feeling in an audience than he experiences. If his own imagination does not ade- quately realize the scene, his sketchy portrayal of it will hardly be accurate enough to stimulate the imagination of the hearer to realize it with sufficient vividness. And if his own soul is stirred he will communicate emotion as well as induce it through the activity of the hearer's imagination.
But it is better for the orator not to be too realistic in dramatic action. He is not an actor. Opinions will prob- ably differ, but it is the author's conviction that the preacher should not aim at producing the illusion of actuality in the portrayal of scenes and actions. The attempt is likely to prove dismally abortive ; for he is not trained for it and has not, as the actor has, the scenery of the stage which is intended to aid in producing the illusion. Moreover, he is normally and usually aiming not simply at high emotional effects, but at immediate action or decision ; and the drama- tism which is so realistic as to produce the illusion of ac- tuality will probably stir an emotion of too high an inten- sity to lead to thoroughly rational determination — and this the preacher should avoid. And yet in this respect most preaching errs by deficiency rather than by excess. The average preacher is sadly lacking in dramatic power. How many sermons, otherwise good, are wanting in power be- cause the preacher utterly fails to make men. incidents, situations embodying the truths he is seeking to impress, live before his hearers! Thrilling actions and events are re- lated without appropriate — and perhaps with quite inap-
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propriate — dramatic action. At best, the imagination of the audience is not assisted in the emotional realization of the scene ; and sometimes is actually hindered by the blundering, unsympathetic presentation. Such preaching may be " di- dactic," but is certainly not dynamic. It may be instructional in form, but is not instructive in fact. If the preacher were only a pedagogue, such a method would be unsuited to his task, for Psychology has taught us that " dry " presentation is not good pedagogy. But he is not in a class room ; he is before a congregation, and there dramatic action is an ele- ment of power without which he can rarely be effective.
2. There is available for the speaker another very effec- tive means of arousing emotion in an audience — style, or the skilful use of language. The use of language is a large subject, and the purpose here is to consider it solely as a means of exciting emotion. With reference to its possible emotional effects let us emphasize, first, the necessity of " pictorial " language.
In the first place, it is a fact of common experience, and stressed in all the books on Rhetoric, that images of con- crete things and situations are most effective in this respect. The reason is that it is concrete things and situations which form the staple of our primary experiences. With the ex- ception of a relatively few who are devoted to philosophical pursuits, the very substance of life is the experience of con- crete realities. We are helped in this by general and ab- stract ideas, which have been aptly termed " condensed ex- perience," but primarily experience is the interaction be- tween the human organism and actual things and persons. To the philosopher generalizations and abstractions may be the realities with which he is most intimately concerned, and by means of them comparatively strong feelings may be stirred in him ; but not so with ordinary persons. The gen- eralized and abstract formulations of experience count for little in their lives. The generalization is getieral because in it the particular images are no longer realized as such ; and the abstraction is abstract because it is detached from things
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in their concrete individualities. The feehng-tones con- nected with them are, therefore, in most minds very shght — too pale and thin to be considerable factors in their emotional life, too weak to have important influence upon their actions and attitudes. While, then, there are indi- vidual differences due to native peculiarities and to habits acquired in experience, the rule is that the more detailed, vivid, realistic the mental images are, the more intense will be the feelings they will arouse. Compare, for instance, the different intensity of the feelings aroused by the state- ment, " a man was run down and killed on the street by an automobile " ; and the more detailed statement. " John Smith was run down and killed on Fourth Avenue this morning by Henry Jones' automobile." In the latter, the scene is more vividly reproduced by the imagination ; the intensity of the emotion aroused is more nearly equal to that which the ac- tual sight of the event would excite. Especially will this be true if John Smith and Henry Jones are names of persons of your acquaintance, and not mere symbols which convey vague generic images of two men. Still more intense would be the emotion if further details were given as to the hour, the exact spot on Fourth Avenue where it took place, supposing, of course, the hearer to be familiar with that street. The rule for the speaker is, therefore, be concrete, vivid, realistic ; give specific details ; stimulate the imag- ination of the hearer to reproduce the scene.
But some qualifications of this rule should be made. The speaker may give too many details. Even the simplest ob- jects are very complex. In the description of a horse, a man, a tree, details may be multiplied until the most capable imagination is completely swamped and no definite image at all is conveyed. Speakers not un frequently err in this way. Our mental images are more or less sketchy repro- ductions of our perceptions. But even in perception one does not take in all the details of an object. If he did he would spend his whole life upon a comparatively few ob- jects. In perception he notes only a few characteristic
THE EXCITATION OF FEELING 12/
qualities or features of an object, and the mental image never reproduces these in full. If this be true of the single object, how much more true is it of situations and occur- rences which involve several or many objects in their rela- tions to one another? How mistaken it is, then, for a speaker in describing an object or a scene, or in relating an occurrence, to over-load his description or narration with a mass of details which even the attention of an observer would neglect as unimportant ! He must select. He has use for only a few significant or " telling " details ; and it is in the selection that the narrator shows his skill, or lack of it. He should first form a definite conception of the whole incident or history, its general meaning, and the particular meaning or lesson he purposes to draw from it ; and then select the details with respect to that. It is an art of high order, and might almost as well be called the art of omis- sion. And if the incident has been witnessed by the nar- rator, it involves the art of observ^ation, in which men have very unequal skill.
It is possible for the narrator of an event to stir in a hearer who witnessed it a more definite, if not a more in- tense, emotion than the sight of it aroused; for the mind of the witness may have been confused or for some reason may have overlooked significant details, which the narrator brings to his attention. This leads us to consider a second qualification of the rule. The description of an object or the narration of an event is also its interpretation. Much depends upon the relative emphasis upon the details. Any occurrence may be related in such ways as to give very various impressions of its meaning and evoke quite different or opposite emotions. An artful narrator may emphasize really insignificant aspects of an occurrence and thus dis- tort its real significance. Or, if stressing only significant aspects, he may over-emphasize some and under-emphasize others, and arouse a corresponding feeling. Therefore, conscientious speakers — and in this class all preachers cer- tainly ought to be included — will, in seeking to arouse feel-
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ing by description and narration, strive not only for con- creteness and vividness but also for truth, and will disdain the artful method of misrepresentation to produce desired emotional effects.
A third qualification is that the speaker should in detailed description and narration have respect to the mental atti- tudes and states of his hearers. He may with the best inten- tion introduce details which, while unimportant to the true interpretation of the incident, will spoil the effect by excit- ing in some of his hearers a feeling quite different from that which he intends ; and a story which will call forth one emo- tion in one person may stir a very different one in others. To many persons the stories of the sayings and doings of drunken men are very amusing; to others they may be dis- gusting, and to some who have had tragical experiences in connection therewith, they may be inexpressibly painful. Mr. Wyche, president of the American Story Tellers' League, says he found that " Uncle Remus' " stories, so ir- resistibly humorous to audiences of White people, were not well received by Negro audiences, because the negroes in- terpreted them as a sort of reflection on their race.
(2) But there is another quality of style which is of great importance in arousing feeling. Rhythm of speech is hardly inferior to the pictorial quality of the words as a means of kindling feeling. The whole universe of expe- rience — i.e., the universe as experienced — is rhythmical. There are recurring periods in the solar system. The year, the month, the day, each has its periodicity. There are longer and shorter rhythms in the history of mankind, and each human life has rhythms, and rhythms within rhythms. The vibrations of atoms ; the waves of ether which cause the sensations of light, and of the atmosphere which cause sound ; the movements of the winds, of the waters of the sea ; the variations of the weather ; geological periods and cycles of climatic change — all are rhythmical. Rhythm nms through all things which come within the scope of man's experience. His mental processes are rhythmical;
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and it is jnst possible that these mental rhythms are the ex- planation of tlie rhythmical character of the universe of his experience. These mental rhythms seem to be closely re- lated to the attention waves and are, therefore, helpful in thinking. But doubtless no part of our mental life is so completely responsive to and dependent upon rhythm as our emotional experiences. We tend to read rhythm into every series of sensations, no matter how devoid of periodicity it may be. A series which is unrhythmical is inevitably un- pleasant, and if we cannot read into it some regularity of recurring periods it soon becomes intolerable. And to every sort of rhythm our nature responds in feeling-tones of some intensity, i.e., if it coincides even approximately with the peculiar rhythms of our own organism. For, while there are certain fundamental and universal rhythms to which all human organisms respond, each individual doubt- less has his own peculiarities in this respect, as in all others. The reason for the emotional responsiveness to this par- ticular type of stimuli is, perhaps, to be looked for in the constitution and operation of the vital organs of the body. No part of the body is so completely subject to regular alternations of tension and relaxation as these organs ; no other functions proceed with such rhythmical regularity; and possibly for this reason no other part of our muscula- ture is so sensitive to stimulations of this kind. This may be fanciful, but, at any rate, the parts of our musculature which control the activity of these organs seem to be most immediately and powerfully affected by such stimuli. A series of sounds following each other in a simple rhythm, though they may not have been heard before and are asso- ciated with no ideas, will, by the reaction which they set up within those parts of the nervous system immediately related to the vital processes, evoke emotional responses of some intensity, which in turn call up more or less definite mental images.
As stated above, different persons vary by nature in their responsiveness to rhythms, no doubt on account of variations
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in the constitution of their nervous systems. All normal persons seem to be responsive in some measure to the simple meters, though not all equally. As the rhythms become more complex wide differences of natural susceptibility be- come apparent. Some are by nature readily responsive to very complex rhythms, as the born musicians and lovers of music, who are lifted into ecstasy by involved harmonies which to ordinary hearers are only endless tangles of notes. Being beyond the range of their responsiveness, such har- monies are to hearers of the latter class likely to be dis- agreeable because the rhythms are too complex for their ears. However, within the limits of natural capability it is a matter of education. By constant exercise and training the naturally dull may learn to enjoy to some extent the complicated harmonies of great classical productions. The same is true of poetry, which in its origin was not clearly differentiated from, and in its whole development has been closely related to, music. The two arts are, for obvious reasons, of the utmost importance to the emotional life. The music and hymns of religion, of patriotism and of the simpler personal relations and experiences, have played a great, doubtless the dominant, role in the development and culture of the emotions. Their significance and value can hardly be overestimated. Through them chiefly the great sentiments, which are the most powerful factors in the in- spiration, direction and control of human conduct, have been organized. It is questionable whether those who compose a people's music and poetry, especially its songs, do not exert a greater influence upon its destinies than those who formulate its religious and political creeds.
But our concern now is not with music and poetry, com- manding as are their functions in human life, but with public speech, in which rhythm is a most important element. In speech there is, first, a rhythm of the words themselves. On this it is necessary to dwell only for a moment. Some words are, when pronounced, harsh, awkward, unrhythmical. They offend the ear ; they grate upon the nerves. They
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may be respectable words and convey definite and accurate meanings ; but for them the speaker has, as a rule, only one use. If he can utilize them so as to connect the unpleasant feeling-tones which they arouse with some idea or object against which he wishes to create a feeling-disposition, well and good. For that purpose they are very serviceable, and the skilful orator will hold them in reserve for that alone. Now and then, to be sure, a speaker whose words are usually soft and mellifluous may use those of unpleasant sound as a musician does his discords, to emphasize the beauty of his normal speech ; but otherwise he should bar the door of his lips against them.
More important is the arrangement of words and clauses in sentences. Sentence rhythm is, in part, a matter of the collocation of words in such a way that they follow one an- other easily in pronunciation, flow into one another without bringing two inharmonious sounds together. This gives fluency of style, which is very pleasing. But of equal if not greater significance are the number of predications in the sentence and the alternation of short and long sentences. It is an interesting fact that each speaker or writer has his own average number of predications in a sentence, his own aver- age length of sentences, and his own average alternation of long and short sentences. For instance, a close examina- tion of Macaulay's writing shows that the average number of predications in the sentences of his entire History of England is 2 : 30. The average length of the sentences is 23: 43 words; and there is an average of thirty-four simple sentences to every hundred.^ These peculiarities seem to be connected with one's emotional organization and to indicate very accurately the emotional rhythms of his personality ; though they are, of course, in some measure subject to modi- fication through culture. And yet if any man's written or spoken productions be examined, these proportions are so constant and general that they must indicate an organization of the emotional nature so fundamental that they can only
1 See Scott's " Psychology of Public Speaking," pp. 136-7.
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in a measure be changed. To force a radical change, were it practicable, would most probably result in a strained artificiality of style which would be very unpleasant. He can, however, develop these qualities of style, which he can- not fundamentally change ; can so cultivate himself that the peculiar rhythm of style which naturally flows from his emotional organization may find its purest and most ade- quate expression. By the general culture of his inner life, i.e., by developing his capacity of feeling until he acquires the power to realize with proper intensity a wider range of the feelings normal to man, he may doubtless modify to a considerable extent the fundamental emotional trends of his nature, and in this way largely influence his style, so that it will be more responsive to various emotional rhythms.
Important also is the structure of the sentence, as simple or involved, periodic or loose and straggling.^ Each, of course, has his own penchant for involution or simplicity in the construction of sentences ; but this, it would appear, is less deeply rooted in his psychological constitution, is more a matter of intellectual habit and can, therefore, be more easily modified by practice than his tendency to use sentences of a certain length, containing a certain number of predica- tions, or than his tendency to use a certain proportion of long and short sentences. One can by mechanically work- ing over his sentences relieve them of obscurity and invo- lution ; and by constant attention, correct this fault in his spoken language until he becomes master of a clear and simple style. But if he tries in this way to eflfect a funda- mental change in the peculiarities of his style mentioned above, he will either fail altogether or end by deforming his own characteristic mode of expression without acquiring facility in another.
3. Now, in conclusion, it is apparent that there should be
1 Reference here may be made to any standard work on Rhetoric. See a pood discussion of the structure of sentences in Broadus' "Preparation and Delivery of Sermons," pp. 375-6, 386-8. A good discussion of this matter from the psychological point of view may be found in Scott's " Psychology of Public Speaking," Chap. VIII.
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harmony between the emotions evoked by the three types of emotional stimuli we have discussed, viz., rhythm of style, images or ideas, and the manner of delivery. If there is dis- harmony between the emotions awakened by these several forms of stimuli, the result will be that the inharmonious emotions will tend to cancel one another ; and the effect will be reduced, or may be rendered altogether unpleasant. It is perhaps not an exaggeration to say that every feeling or general class of feelings, either simple or complex — such as love, hate, joy, sorrow, indignation, reverence, admiration, contrition, hope, fear, etc., etc. — has not only its appropriate ideational or imaginal stimuli and its suitable expression in tones, gestures and poses of the body, but also its peculiar rhythms. Hence it is that nearly all men find it easy to give a proper rendering of some emotions and to awaken them in the hearer; and difficult, if not impossible, to express and awaken others. Napoleon was a genius in stirring the martial feelings in his soldiers, but doubtless would have found it impossible to melt them to tears of compassion for the suffering and dying. Each man has his particular emo- tional vein, and has a corresponding control of that class of feelings in others. Some orators have an extraordinary command of pathos ; others of humour — and these are often found together ; others are witty, and find it easy to kindle with that divine spark the emotion of pleasant surprise; others awaken with ease aggressive self-feeling, and stir their hearers to combat or achievement ; others have a genius for consolation, and comfort the sorrowing; others are prone to fan the flames of anger ; others bear us up on the currents of lofty aspiration ; others speak, and the tumul- tuous impulses of the heart sink into an unrippled calm, like the waves of Galilee under the command of Jesus. It is well that there is such a variety in the emotional power of speakers. But it is fortunate when a speaker has a variously responsive soul and can touch the whole gamut of human feelings, as some rarely gifted men seem able to do. Too often the preacher is limited in the range of his emotional ap-
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peals. If he relates in vivid imagery the most pathetic inci- dent, the style and delivery are too vigorous and strident and the effect is either lost or is positively disagreeable. Or he may wish to arouse in his hearers a martial ardour and send them forth to storm the strong-holds of evil, and there is no fight in his style and his delivery suggests a retreat rather than a charge. Doubtless this is one of the main reasons why the people soon tire of a preacher, and for him a change of pastorates becomes the chief desideratum. The emotional life of the congregation starves. If it iSfOne of the principal functions of preaching to cultivate the sentiments, the emo- tional dispositions, of the people and organize their emo- tional life around great ethical and spiritual principles, surely the preacher should strive to acquire the largest pos- sible command of the means by which feelings of the most various types may be aroused.
CHAPTER VII
BELIEF
Attention has been called to the fact that anything pre- sented to a mind is accepted as real without hesitation or questioning unless there is something in the experience or the organization of that mind which opposes it. There seems, however, to be one limiting condition. In order to make clear what that is let us use one of Prof. James' illustrations. " Suppose," he says, " a new-born mind, en- tirely blank and waiting for experience to begin. Suppose that it begins in the form of a visual impression of a lighted candle against a dark background and nothing else, so that while this image lasts it constitutes the entire universe known to the mind in question. Suppose, moreover, that the candle is only imaginary and that no ' original ' of it is recognized by us Psychologists outside. . . . Will this hal- lucinatory candle be believed in, will it have a real existence for the mind?"^
Now, this question he answers in the affirmative. But in this he is, it seems to me, manifestly mistaken. In the first place, it involves an error to speak of the candle in such a case as " known." Knowledge involves consciousness of relation, and this implies the presence of two or more images in consciousness. The perception of relations, or any an- alysis of this total impression into its constitutent elements, is not possible before there have been present to conscious- ness more than one presentation. Indeed, if we can legit- imately speak of " consciousness " at all in such a hypotheti- cal situation, we can only mean a primordial and undiiTer-
1 " Principles of Psychology," Vol. II, p. 287.
135
136 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
entiated psychical state which really precedes conciousness in any clearly defined sense of the word. Knowledge, in any accurate meaning of the term, is inapplicable here and so is belief. The child would neither accept nor reject the pres- entation — it would be neither real nor unreal. To speak of the child's accepting it as real or rejecting it as unreal is to attribute to the child our own mental processes. To say that because the child does not reject the candle-impres- sion as unreal it accepts it as real, is to assume that the logical category of contradiction applies to that primordial mental experience, that the child is conscious of the relation of images to one another, whereas by hypothesis this is the single and sole image which has entered into its experience. For the mental act or attitude of belief to occur it is neces- sary that there should have been more than one experience, more than one image, more than a simple and undiffer- entiated mental content ; and that a beginning at least should have been made in the organization or correlation of those contents — a process which goes on very rapidly in the life of the child.
Whenever, then, the mind's reaction to a stimulus is suf- ficiently definite to be called belief or unbelief it is con- ditioned by the present mental content and organization. " Possession is nine points of the law " is a saw which has as much validity in the psychological as in the economic realm. The mind reacts as a whole upon a new presenta- tion. In more abstract phrase we may say that the appro- priation of new mental material is a function of the mind as previously organised. After the new material has been in- corporated into the mental system it then plays its part also in determining the mental attitude toward subsequent pres- entations.
I. There are as many as six distinguishable ways in which the mind may react to new presentations.
I. First, it may feel itself compelled to accept the new presentation as real or true. It is helpless before the pres- entation; cannot resist it. There may be no perceived
BELIEF 137
opposition between the presentation and the mental organ- ization and consequently no impulse to reject it, and no hesitation in accepting it; and in such a situation, as will later be pointed out, the mind cannot reject what is pre- sented to it. But it is not this negative inabiUty of which I now speak. The characteristic note of the reaction now under consideration is that the presentation has a positive and compelling character ; it must be received; it not only bears credentials which entitle it to be believed, but it comes too strongly armed to be rejected. It may be in large measure inconsistent with the mental organization in both its ideational and affective elements, but so much the worse for the mental organization. The presentation in this case necessitates a reorganization, and that means, of course, that it is disagreeable and would be rejected if that were practicable. There may arise an impulse to reject it, but the sense of necessity overwhelms such an impulse at its very birth; the presentation asserts itself and compels belief, whether or no. In such situations the mind is dealing either with presentations of the sensory type, which come with the clear and emphatic testimony of the senses ; or with those which bear the stamp of logical necessity, such as mathemat- ical axioms and the demonstrations based upon them, or the principles of contradiction, identity, etc.
We shall not enter here into the question, which belongs to the theory of knowledge, whether or not these axiomatic principles themselves have an empirical origin. If their origin should be accounted for in that way, it seems evident that at any rate they do not originate in the experience of the present-day individual, though doubtless they are devel- oped, brought into conciousness, through individual experi- ence. Certain it is that when the mind is confronted by the clear testimony of the senses or by an axiom, it feels the necessity of accepting such a presentation as real, or true, provided it occurs in harmony with the conditions under which our senses normally give us information or under which our minds normally act. The only hesitation or ques-
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tion which we feel to be permissible is as to whether the con- ditions of perception are normal. If we are convinced that they are normal it puts an end to hesitation.
Now, should this mental reaction be called belief? I think so. If I ask why I thus unhesitatingly accept the tes- timony of my senses or the truth of the mathematical axiom, the only answer that can be given is that I believe my senses give a correct report of reality or that I believe my mind is so constituted as to know truth. The fact that this belief is developed into full consciousness in philosophical meditation after the experience and is not a part of the conscious expe- rience at the moment of perception makes no essential dif- ference. It was implicit in the act. I accept and must ac- cept the testimony of my senses or the truth of the axiom when such a presentation is made under normal conditions ; but this necessity does not change its character as belief.
2. The mind may passively admit the presentation as true. In this case the new presentation, being not of the sensory or axiomatic order, does not call forth the sense of necessity. It does not in any positive or significant way agree with the already existing mental content or organiza- tion. It simply does not consciously conflict with anything in the mental system. It is simply negative with respect to the present mental content. So far as what is already in consciousness is concerned there is no positive reason for accepting or rejecting it. It is then passively admitted, taken as true. It finds ample room in the world of belief as constituted. The best examples of this kind of belief are found in children. The child, for instance, is told the story of Santa Claus. Its limited experience contains nothing that is inconsistent with the story ; it, therefore, accepts, be- lieves it. At first this experience may be thought to be identical in principle with that described in James' illustra- tion ; but this would be a mistake. In the acceptance of Santa Claus as real the child is acting with an already organ- ized consciousness, whereas in the first presentation to the new-born babe there is no previous experience, no organized
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consciousness, no criteria of reality, no basis for the forma- tion of a judgment as to the reahty or unreaHty of any- thing. When it beheves in the existence of Santa Glaus the presentation bears some relation to the existing content of consciousness, a relation which may be described as nega- tive agreement, and any presentation which bears this rela- tion to its experience is accepted as true. But in James' illustration there is no relation whatever with any other content of the mind for the simple reason that there is no other content, and therefore no mental attitude of belief such as is here described. This type of belief may well be described as primitive credulity. Many of the contents of the child's mental world are of this character. Indeed, to the end of its life, though it may grow to be a great philos- opher with an extensive and critically constructed mental system, many of its beliefs will continue to be of this order, accepted simply because it is of the nature of the mind to accept what is presented to it, if there is no conscious con- flict with the mental life as previously organized. But the building up of an elaborate and reflective correlation of ex- perience establishes a habit of critical examination, which takes the form of intellectual caution and which is applied, often with no conscious intention, to new presentations, especially in the sphere of one's principal activity and usually in matters of incidental interest ; so that, as a general rule, with broadening experience credulity becomes a diminish- ing factor in determining beliefs. But it is an extremely im- portant factor in the lives of children, of ignorant persons and of all persons of limited experience.
3. The mind may positively receive the new presentation, may welcome it with more or less cordiality. As in the second case, it is not of the sensory or axiomatic type. It does not come bearing credentials of inherent and irresistible validity, like the clear testimony of the senses or the logical axiom. But though it is not in itself irresistible, it is at once felt to be in positive agreement with the existing mental content. It fits into the system. With more or less definite-
I40 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
ness it is perceived to dove-tail into the mental structure so as to fill out in some measure the " noetic pattern," to use a phrase of Marshall's. It is an element which carries a step toward fulfilment the incomplete mental organization. When this peculiar experience is of a pronounced type, the new presentation is felt to be not only a supplement to but a confirmation of the system of ideas, not only fitting in har- moniously with it but bringing to it an increment of stabil- ity ; and is accompanied, therefore, by a distinctly pleasant feeling-tone. So to speak, the mind stretches out to it glad hands of welcome and ushers it into a room which seems prepared for it beforehand,
For inducing an act of belief like this it is, of course, only necessary that the new presentation should be in harmony with the content of consciousness at the time. There may be other elements of experience not at the time in conscious- ness with which the agreement would not be so entire ; and later when the effort is made to bring these elements into conscious relation with the new fact or idea, trouble may be- gin— a quarrel may arise between these elements and the new-comer so cordially welcomed at first. Again, there may be implicit disharmony between the new presentation and the elements that were in consciousness when it was accepted, and this disharmony may subsequently become apparent. The very host that welcomed the new inmate may discover on further acquaintance that there were deep- seated incompatibilities which did not appear at the time. Subsequent reflection may make these apparent, and thus an unexpected conflict may result. This, of course, is more likely to occur in active and progressive than in static mental conditions. But whatever the subsequent fate of the new fact or idea may be, it is believed, accepted as true or real, if it seems to be in harmony with the conscious mental sys- tem at the time of perception ; and this acceptance is em- phatic, i.e., the belief is positive, in proportion as it is felt to confinn that system. If in the course of later reflection and mental reorganization that first " feeling " is justified.
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the positiveness of the beHef will be increased. It will be- come deeply rooted in the mental world.
4. The mind may receive the presentation with more or less suspicion, as tentatively true or real. This species of reaction is determined by the fact that, while the new pres- entation seems to be in agreement with the mental system, there accompanies its acceptance a vague sense of un- certainty as to whether the agreement is actual or com- plete. This vague uncertainty may be due to the general attitude of caution induced by manifold experience ; or to the fact that the disagreeing factors are in the background, or perhaps below the threshold, of consciousness, and are in- directly projecting their influence into the conscious field. Every one has had experiences coloured in this way. For instance, a politician assures us of his devotion to the public welfare; but, although there is nothing known to us in his character or career to excite distrust and we therefore accept his assurances, we have been so often disappointed in men of this class that an almost inevitable shade of distrust goes with our acceptance. Or sometimes when a statement is made to us on good authority ^ur minds are shadowed by a dim doubt of its correctness, the reasons for which we cannot expHcitly state. We believe the statement — it seems to be in agreement with our experience — and wonder that our belief of it is not more hearty. There is a semi- conscious impulse to question, but not of sufficient strength to cause a suspension of judgment. There is merely a nascent sense of the possibility of discord with parts of our experience which are not now in consciousness. Closely akin to this attitude, most probably identical with it in prin- ciple, is our acceptance of an hypothesis which seems to em- body an illuminating principle, but which carries with it the possibility of failure in some as yet untried application. We believe it ; but for a time, possibly forever, there accom- panies it a shadow of uncertainty which is not strong enough to neutralize its convincing power, but which nevertheless enters into and modifies our mental attitude. With broad-
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ening experience that uncertainty may finally disappear and thus the mental attitude gradually change from a tentative to an unqualified belief.
5. The mind may keep the presentation standing at the door, awaiting investigation. This type of reaction is of great importance. It is the attitude of suspended judgment. The presentation which is a candidate for incorporation in our system of beliefs is held up for examination. This may be due, first, to its strangeness. The sense of possible con- flict with our organized experience may be so pronounced that we cannot admit the new presentation as true until that question is at least tentatively settled. It is a situation similar to that described in the last paragraph ; but with this important difference — the sense of uncertainty is much greater, and the quantitative difference in the sense of un- certainty is so great as to result in a mental reaction qual- itatively different. This may occur even in connection with the action of one of our senses. If the fact to which one sense testifies is an exceedingly strange one, we do not always accept it at once. We suspend judgment until we have assured ourselves tljat the sense is acting under normal conditions, and we commonly do this by tr}'ing the testimony of one sense against that of another. The eye, for instance, may testify to a ghostly apparition, and we test its truth by touch or some other sense. If the senses agree we accept their testimony as true. In principle the same course is often pursued when an hypothesis is proposed for the ex- planation of a problem and carries with it a " feeling " of important disagreement with our system of ideas, although the exact nature of the disagreement may not be obvious. We hold the proposition in suspense and investigate to see whether the suspected disagreement is actual and just how far it extends. If we discover that the discord is not mani- fest, or is only slight, the suspense of judgment which ar- rested the acceptance of the hypothesis gives way to the qualified acceptance discussed above.
The suspended judgment may be due, second, to the fact
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that two presentations which are clearly inconsistent with each other are offered to the mind at the same time ; as, for instance, two mutually exclusive hypotheses which are proposed as alternative explanations of the same phenome- non. Each may have some points of agreement with the mental system, and neither may be in obvious discord with it. But while either hypothesis might, so far as its own evi- dence is concerned, be tentatively accepted, manifest conflict with one another will keep either from being adopted until investigation has determined which of them stands in the more obvious and general agreement with our organized experience.
Or, third, this attitude may be due to the fact that there is manifest disagreement between that which offers itself and the mental system in which it seeks to be incorporated. The opposition may be more or less radical ; but in such a case the acceptance will clearly require a more or less thorough reorganization of the mental life. The history of the conflict between science and theology is full of examples of this situation ; indeed, it is a frequently recurring phase of the progress of thought, and of the development of each individual mind which rises above the level of simple tra- ditionalism. But when this conflict takes place between a new idea and old system of ideas and results in the specific mental attitude of doubt, it is evident that the disagreement is not absolute ; the new idea must find some point of attach- ment to the mental organization, otherwise it would be in- stantly rejected, and doubt, the attitude of suspended judg- ment, would not occur.
6. The mind may positively and unequivocally reject the new presentation — shut the door, so to speak, in its face. This may be called the attitude of the closed mind. The new idea is not given any showing at all. There is no suspension of judgment, no hanging fire, no investigation. Judgment is pronounced at once. The fact that its disagree- ment with the mental system is profound, and that it would, if judged as real, necessitate a general reconstruction of the
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mental world makes the new idea too disturbing to minds that have reached a certain stage of crystallization. If the disagreement is entire, it is judged as absurd and utterly unworthy of consideration. The whole mind reacts against it and judges it as untrue. There is no doubt in the atti- tude of the closed mind. Its characteristic note is the assertion of unconditional adherence to the existing system of beliefs and the simultaneous rejection of the presentation which conflicts with it. Of course, no mind becomes so completely crystallized as to resist unconditionally new ideas of every description; but it not unfrequently happens that one's system of ideas pertaining to some particular field of thought becomes so fixed as to exclude, automatically, so to speak, every suggestion which would involve any change of importance. This is often noticeable in the domain of the- ology or of politics. It is characteristic of the mental or- ganization of those who have reached advanced age in a provincial environment.
II. Several important consequences may be deduced from the foregoing analysis of the mental functions, belief and doubt.
I. The specific character, the quale, of belief is the ac- ceptance of a presentation as true. But what exactly is meant by " true " ? Without being led into a detailed dis- cussion of this difficult question, an answer sufficient for our purpose is that the " truth" of a presentation means that it may be taken as a safe basis of action. This is the true mark and measure of belief. All thinking has reference ultimately to action. One's mental system is his equip- ment for the direction and control of action, using the word in the general sense of conduct ; and the reception of any new elements among his beliefs signifies the preparedness and purpose to act in accordance therewith when the occa- sion for it arises. The function of mind is to receive im- pressions, or presentations, from the environment, treasure them, correlate them and translate them into suitable acts of adjustment. That which to a mind is suitable to be trans-
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lated into action is to that mind the "true"; and is be- lieved. That which the mind suspects can not be acted upon safely is doubted. The body of beliefs which one holds is his correlation with the environment. By translating them into conduct as occasions arise he eflfects his adjustments to environment from moment to moment. There would seem, then, to be no line of absolute demarcation between knowledge and belief. They overlap and shade into one another. Our knowledge consists of the body of beliefs that have been thoroughly tested and found by actual results to be sure and safe guides to action. Our behef, which is not also knowledge, consists of the body of judgments which have been incorporated in our mental systems but which have not as yet been sufficiently tested to stand within that narrow circle. Knowledge is thoroughly tested belief ; and within this limit knowledge and belief are designations of the same mental content viewed from different angles.
We have spoken of doubt as a state or attitude resulting from the arrest of the process of believing, and this exactly indicates its true character. It has been said truly that it is doubt which demands explanation, not belief.^ It is nat- ural, normal to believe. It is the primary function of the mind to receive impressions from the environment and translate them into adjustments. In other words, it is its function to believe and govern action accordingly. Doubt arises in the arrest of this primary function through a con- flict between the practical tendencies of these impressions. Out of this state of things issues the secondary function of mind, thinking, i.e., comparison, deliberation, the effort to bring these conflicting tendencies into harmony, to correlate them in a higher unity ; and as the environment to which ad- justment must be made by the highly developed person be- comes e.xceedingly complex and changeful, this function comes to be so important that we ordinarily think of it as primary rather than secondary.
2. Doubt, then, in its very nature is a temporary func-
1 Pillsbury's " Psychology of Reasoning," p. 25.
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tion. Chronic doubt is hurtful and ultimately ruinous. If it becomes permanent, it means the partial or complete sus- pension of the life-process in tlie sphere in which it obtains. Life is a process of adjustment, and doubt is an arrest of this process, and can be justified only as a means of avoid- ing a maladjustment, or as a step toward a more adequate adjustment, a wider and more complete correlation with en- vironment. It is somewhat like a surgical operation, which is intended to relieve a maladjustment of some sort ; but a surgery which would keep a man's body perpetually on the operating table under the dissecting knife would be crim- inal. And doubt which keeps the mind in a perpetual sus- pense will certainly result in maiming the life in some of its functions, and if it becomes universal will destroy the per- sonality. It would mean the abdication of both the primary and secondary functions of mind. Doubt is justifiable* zvheit, and only when, it is a temporary stage in the organisa- tion of a more adequate belief. As we climb up the moun- tain side to the higher altitudes whence we may have a wider outlook upon the universe of reality, it is often necessary that we pass through belts of cloud ; and that which justifies and rewards us for climbing through the choking mists is the grander prospect which opens out above them.
3. The closed mind, on the other hand, is equally fatal. It avoids the dangers of chronic doubt, but has dangers of its own that are just as great. It leads one by a different route to a different destination, but one that is as far re- moved from the true ends of life. The closed mind has a belief and is active, therefore ; whereas the mind suspended in chronic doubt is paralysed. But the closed mind directs its activities more and more against reality. The beliefs of such a mind represent a certain correlation with a certain order of environing conditions. But this attitude could be justified only on two grounds — (i) that those beliefs rep- resent a perfect correlation with those conditions, (2) that those conditions undergo no change. We know as a mat-
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ter of fact that neither of these assumptions is ever realized in the experience of finite minds. The correlation is never perfect and the conditions are always changing. The closed mind, therefore, falls into an increasingly serious maladjust- ment to the actual conditions of life, which is only another way of saying into increasingly hurtful error and opposi- tion to the truth ; and this means that its activities are ever increasingly destructive to itself and others. To assume this attitude is to abdicate both the primary and the second- ary functions of the mind ; for we must remember that its primary function is to receive impressions from the environ- ment and direct conduct according to them, and if all pres- entations not in agreement with the existing mental system are to be on that ground rejected, this function is no longer performed so far as its most important value for life is con- cerned. It also means the discontinuance of the function of thinking, for the characteristic mark of thought is the comparison of ideas with one another, and its most impor- tant value for life is the resolution of conflicts between them, the elimination of the totally false and the correlation of those which are in any measure true into a higher unity, a larger truth. For the close mind the thinking does not pass beyond the primary stage of perceiving the disagree- ment with the present mental system, whereupon the new idea is instantly judged as false. The most dangerous man in politics — excepting him whose vote is for sale — is the one who will not consider new ideas, and the same attitude of mind in religion is a constant obstruction to the progress of the truth.
The only mental attitude, therefore, which is consistent with the maintenance and development of life is that of the open mind, which is exposed, indeed, to the dangers of doubt but which is also accessible to larger truth, whose shadow doubt so often is. In this attitude we may move forever upward toward the infinitely distant goal of abso- lute truth, the perfect mental correlation with the universe of reality. The open mind is as far removed from the
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paralysis of chronic doubt as it is from the dead crystalliza- tion of the mind which never doubts because it refuses to think. The open mind is not at all inconsistent with positive conviction and constructive activity; rather the contrary. It has convictions that have been so thoroughly tested in the crucible of thought that opposing ideas can be met without awakening disturbing fears ; and its activity is constructive because the true definition of construction is the more per- fect correlation of life with environment.
III. If we compare the conditions under which belief and doubt occur and the conditions under which feeling arises, the intimate connection between them becomes ap- parent.
In the first place, it is evident that the act of belief, con- sidered in and by itself alone, is pleasantly toned, because it is an experience which falls in with and quickens the mental process actually going on. This, however, is often obscured by the fact that the content of the belief, the thing believed, imposes a decided check upon the deeper instinc- tive tendencies and processes of life. The pleasure which the mere act of believing causes is thus submerged and lost in the stronger tide of unpleasantness caused by the disagree- able idea or fact believed. Likewise the suspense of doubt, in and by itself, is always unpleasant; except, perhaps, in the case of the chronic doubter, who has formed the habit of doubt, which each suspension of judgment coincides with and strengthens. And even then, as in the case of every bad habit, the experience is not one of pure and unmixed pleas- ure but is shot through with a vague unpleasantness, due to the fact that the habit is in opposition to fundamental vital processes.
In the second place, it is apparent not only that belief and doubt are accompanied by feeling-tones but that these atti- tudes are in some measure determined by feelings. Differ- ences of opinion may exist as to the emphasis which should be placed upon feeling as a factor in determining these re- actions, and it may be claimed that it does not play an
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equally important role in their determination in all minds, because all minds are not equal in their capacity for feeling. Minds vary in sensibility ; vary not only as to the keenness of the feeling awakened by the same stimulus but as to the strength of their feeling responses in general. And, other things being equal, the mind of keen and delicate sensibility may possibly be more influenced by feeling in the accept- ance of presentations than the mind of dull sensibility. However that may be, it is certain that in minds of unusual sensibility the influence of the feelings in this respect is more apparent ; though, perhaps, if we could lay bare the inner life of all minds we should discover that they differ from one another in this matter, not as to the extent to which feeling influences the acceptance of new ideas or facts, but as to the intensity or positiveness of the beliefs so determined. The mind of extreme sensibility holds its beliefs more pas- sionately, more dogmatically, than the mind of dull sensi- bility. Its beliefs have for a mind of great sensibility a value, a preciousness, which they do not have for a mind of the opposite type ; though probably feeling is equally potent in each in determining the content of belief.
But how does feeling operate in the determination of belief? Manifestly it is not the sole factor. It does not operate apart from the organized experience as represented in the system of ideas. Belief is the acceptance of a pres- entation and its instalment in this system of ideas based upon the perception of agreement between the two. Feel- ing, then, must become influential in determining belief by exercising some measure of control over the action of con- sciousness as organized in this system. It operates as a power behind the throne.
First, it influences the direction of the attention. Feel- ing is the peculiar emphasis of meaning for the self with which each presentation is clothed as consciousness is di- rected upon it. It is obvious that the specific feeling which accompanies the direction of the attention does not de- termine this act; but the mood, or the course of feeling, or
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the general emotional situation, which is the resultant of the preceding mental activity, will unquestionably influence the direction of the attention. Among the presentations filing in a continuous series across the threshold of the mind, or appealing for its recognition all at once, some are singled out and given consideration ; others are neglected, or pass on with scant attention. The mind is interested in some of them and not in others, and towards the latter it assumes no definite conscious attitude. Towards the former it as- sumes a definite attitude, which as it develops must resolve itself into belief — acceptance as real or true; or doubt — hesitation to accept as true or real; or rejection — judgment as untrue or unreal. Feeling, therefore, has much to do in the direction of this selective process which singles out the matter upon which consciousness is concentrated ; and this surely is a most important function.
Second, feeling not only has much to do in controlling the direction of the attention, but is also very influential in de- termining the attitude which the mind takes toward the new object. Not only the general mood or state of feeling, but the specific feeling which accompanies the concentration of consciousness upon the object determines to a large extent how the mind will treat it. If the feeling excited by the ob- ject is distinctly unpleasant, it inevitably tends to induce hes- itation, and this is practically another name for doubt. This is especially true if the feeling is one that arises out of the deep instinctive stratum of our mental life. The fact or idea against which a strong feeling raises this initial pro- test is not likely to be accepted until it has shown clear cre- dentials, even though there may be no apparent intellectual inconsistency, no disagreement with the system of ideas. It will be required to give positive and convincing evidence of its right to stand within the circle of beliefs. The merely negative evidence of the absence of perceived disagreement will not suffice. If it runs counter to our desires, our in- clinations, our hopes, it will be held up for further investiga- tion, if it is not instantly rejected.
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Moreover, while the investigation is going on its points of agreement with our mental system are minimized and its points of disagreement magnified ; points of disagreement are diligently sought for and points of agreement are not. Throughout the whole process, therefore, feeling is active and powerfully influences the action of the intellect. If the feeling aroused by the presentation is emphatically unpleas- ant, it is rarely possible to keep the balances of the judgment even. Such an unpleasant feeling excites suspicion against the object, to begin with; acts as sheriff to arrest the sus- pect ; then assumes the role of the detective to search out the damaging evidence; plays attorney for the prosecution; undertakes to weigh the evidence as juror, and even seeks to interpret the law as judge. It is omnipresent, urgent, subtilely influencing the proceedings at every stage. Pos- sibly it becomes too busy and domineering and in the highly organized person may cause a reaction by awakening some counter-feeling, such as mental self-respect, or the love of truth for truth's sake, or the sense of justice ; and in this way only can the original feeling of displeasure evoked by the disagreeable idea or fact be checked and held within proper limits. But in persons whose mental development is not high, the feeling, pleasant or unpleasant, called forth by a presentation generally secures a verdict for or against it, unless the evidence the other way is overwhelming. The speaker who wishes to secure assent to a proposition will always find himself rowing against a powerful current, if it excites a decidedly disagreeable feeling. If, on the other hand, the feeling aroused is a distinctly pleasant one, he finds himself sailing both with wind and current in his favour. Such a decidedly agreeable feeling directs attention to its points of agreement with the system of ideas and diverts attention from its disagreements ; underscores the former and leaves the latter unemphasized, even when they are too obvious to be wholly overlooked ; searches for agreements, which it is likely to find because it seeks for them ; and, unless by its excesses it starts into activity some counter-
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feeling, which enters the game, or unless the disagreements with one's organized experience are so numerous, distinct and obtrusive as to render reconcihation impossible, it will probably secure the mind's assent to the new presentation.
Now, when we reflect that the majority of the contents of one's intellectual system have secured their introduction into it through these processes, it is apparent that, while feeling does not exercise an absolute control — since many unpleas- ant things have to be accepted — it has been a most potent factor in the organization of one's whole system of beliefs; and, through its extensive control over the activity of the system which it has been so potent in forming, is constantly influencing the incorporation of new materials in it.
IV. If we look back over the foregoing analysis of mental attitudes, we perceive that there are three general classes of beliefs — those which have their basis in the nat- ural credulity of the mind, those which rest principally upon positive agreement with the intellectual system, and those which derive their certification chiefly from powerful feel- ings that spring from one's instinctive organization. The first can be referred to the suggestibility of the mind ; the second to its rationality ; and the third, if I may coin a word, to its affectability, i.e., to its capacity for suffering and en- joyment. We are beings who have conscious needs and desires, who must live or die and who crave life. Out of this deep instinctive substratum of our nature spring long- ings for certain kinds of satisfactions, and these longings generate belief in the reality of those objects which are necessary to their satisfaction.
We may distinguish, then, primitive credulity, rational conviction and vital assurance. Credulity believes things because it is told that they are true. It is natural and beauti- ful in the child, because the child has had but little experi- ence and has, therefore, no well-established positive standard of critical judgment. In credulity its mental life normally begins. But it does not by any means excite our admiration when we observe it in the grown person, because the grown
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person has had experience and opportunity to organize his intellectual life, and thus should be equipped to weigh and consider all presentations that seek admittance to his mind as truth. We consider it, therefore, abnormal and repre- hensible for him, in matters of important concern, to accept what he is told without the exercise of his own reason. In no matter of great practical importance should his belief rest blindly upon authority, the subjective correlate of which is suggestibility. It should have its roots in himself. It should be tested in the crucible of his own intellect. If he believes the statements of others it should not be the acqui- escence of mere credulity, but the assent of a rationally acting mind. Vital assurance also stands in antithesis to credulous belief, but not to rational conviction. It is dis- tinct from the latter in principle but is not inconsistent with it. By its very nature its content often is not subject to final ratification by the logical faculty. That content, however, should not be inconsistent with the rational con- clusions of the mind ; and if such an inconsistency appears, the strength of the vital assurance is weakened in proportion to the depth of the antagonism. There should be harmony between the two in order to secure inward peace and unity and a high degree of practical efficiency. And on the whole there is a tendency for the two types of belief to coincide.
Sometimes, however, it happens that a man builds up a belief on what seems to him at the time a rational basis; but subsequently, when a powerful stimulation of the in- stinctive nature occurs, he finds that this belief denies sat- isfaction to some of his most vital longings. Sometimes, again, it happens that beliefs which do satisfy the instinctive longings are wrought into an intellectual system which new knowledge seems to render untenable. Then there is dis- tress of mind. In the long run a man will usually build a structure of belief that is consistent with the central cravings of his nature; but such a fortunate adjustment does not always take place, and he is then left with a permanent and more or less painful discord in his mental life. Such situa-
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tions have been frequent in the history of religion, and especially so in recent times. Sometimes again, a man will entertain a belief of the credulous or the rational type, which has comparatively little influence upon his practical life until some powerful stimulation of his instinctive nature vivifies it and converts it into a vital assurance which pro- foundly modifies his conduct. Many a man accepts the ex- istence of God through social suggestion, or as a result of reasoning; but the belief remains to a large extent formal and inoperative so far as the more important aspects of con- duct are concerned, until in some great crisis his vital long- ing for divine support and fellowship is awakened and the realization of God becomes the source of his deepest satis- faction and the controlling influence in his conduct.
The distinction between these types of belief must not be understood to imply that feeling is not operative in the formation of all of them. The distinction lies, first, in the diflfcrent degrees and modes of influence exerted by the in- tellect and the feelings in their formation ; and, second, in the operation of a special class of feelings in the production of vital assurances. Feeling has comparatively little to do with what is accepted by the credulous mind under the in- fluence of suggestion; although it is not an insignificant factor. In rational conviction the intellect plays a far more positive role than in credulity and a far less dominant role than in vital assurance; though feeling has a more definite and important part in it than in credulity. In vital assurance, as already indicated, a special class of feelings which spring from the deepest depths of our nature is the controlling factor. The sponsor, the guarantor, of vital assurance is neither external authority nor the intellectual system, but the fundamental needs of human nature voicing themselves in powerful emotions when deep instincts are excited.
One's real religious belief, stripped of all the remnants or accretions of credulity, belongs to the class of vital assur- ances. It is the affirmation of the reality of the super-
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sensible objects and relations which are felt to be necessary for the satisfaction of the fundamental needs of the per- sonality. It declares that back of all sensory experiences — the material universe — are beings, activities, tendencies, ends, which constitute the ultimate meaning of all life. In this assurance the cognitive activity is motived by deep in- stinctive longings. These postulates of the heart are at most only negatively controlled by the intellectual system ; and often the stress of these vital needs impels the intellect to reconstruct the system of ideas which places its veto upon them. It has been truly said : ** The soul likes to project that which is most deeply rooted in its own being furthest beyond itself. The objective lies for it, so to speak, in the middle distance ; but that which is inmost, which originates in the most subjective stratum of the soul, it extends from itself into an Absolute, Overobjective." * That is, our own inmost heart postulates for us a universe of reality that lies beyond the objective world of the senses. The formulation of this reality is the work of the intellect, but in that work it is controlled by affection and desire. The soul, using the imagination as a brush, paints the far background of exist- ence in the colours of its own intimate feelings. We require a spiritual world which will answer and satisfy our central cravings. Thus the Psalmist cried, " My soul thirsteth for God."
Since, however, we are under the necessity of conceiving, of clothing in intellectual forms, the supersensible reality which the heart postulates, no little trouble arises in the realm of belief. The materials which the intellect uses are sensuous images. Its most abstract constructions are built up out of these images. We have to dress up the super- sensible in the garments furnished by the senses. When the intellect has thus formulated what the heart has postulated in the realm beyond the senses, these forms themselves can not be changed without a profound disturbance of the heart. But as the intellectual system undergoes reorganization, as 1 Simmel, " Die Probleme der Geschichtsphilosophie," p. 154.
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it inevitably must in active minds, those forms which are part and parcel of that system must share in the recon- struction. Hence arises religious doubt. If, as sometimes happens, the intellect in its reconstituted system of ideas repudiates entirely these forms and undertakes by itself to give an account of all reality, the result is a rationalistic phi- losophy, which inevitably leaves the deeper cravings of the heart unsatisfied. Such a system cannot long endure. The heart will make its demands heard. On the other hand ; if the heart demands that the forms in which its postulates have been clothed by the intellect shall never be altered, one of two results will inevitably follow — either intellectual growth will be arrested, or else the old forms will be filled with a new content of meaning.
The struggle between the head and the heart is one of the most significant phenomena of our times. In some persons their reconcilation is never efifected. The most notable ex- ample, perhaps, of this refusal of the head and the heart to co-operate was Herbert Spencer. There is a singular pathos in the following words near the end of his Auto- biography. After discussing the vastness and the manifold mystery of the universe, and declaring the impotency of the intellect to comprehend it, he adds : " And along with this rises the paralyzing thought — what if, of all that is thus incomprehensible to us, there exists no comprehension any- where? No wonder that men take refuge in authoritative dogma ! . . . Thus religious creeds, which in one way or other, occupy the sphere which rational interpretation seeks to occupy and fails, and fails the more, the more it seeks, I have come to regard with sympathy based on com- munity of need ; feeling that dissent from them results from inability to accept the solutions offered, joined with a wish that solutions could be found." He was only a distinguished member of that large, and probably growing, community of souls whose hearts require a religious interpretation of the universe, but whose intellectual systems are in disagreement with any such interpretation as has been offered.
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There is a still larger number who have not repudiated all religious interpretations, leaving their hearts in naked want, but are more or less conscious of lack of harmony between their systems of thought and these interpretations, and yet strive to hold on to both. They can take refuge on neither horn of the dilemma. There is lack of unity in their inner lives. The sense of uncertainty hangs like a discouraging shadow over their mental life, not wholly par- alyzing but relaxing the nerve of religious belief. Their mental equilibrium, so far as religion is concerned, is very unstable. Religious belief has a very insecure support in in- tellectual forms. It stands like a tree clinging with a few roots to the bank of the stream whose waters have nearly deprived it of sustaining earth.
As preachers we must face the immensely significant fact that we are living in an era of doubt. The age is dynamic, changeful. Modes of life are constantly and rapidly chang- ing; so are points of view. New discoveries are made al- most every year, some of them seeming to call for profound alterations in our conceptions of the world. Radical the- ories are ever and anon propounded, and some of them with apparent foundation in facts. No sooner are funda- mental questions supposed to be settled than they are re- opened. Men's heads grow dizzy. Nor is it possible to foresee a time when it will be otherwise. Rather the tumult of intellectual change seems on the increase. But in the meantime the instinctive hunger of the soul abides. How shall we find a way to keep secure the postulates of the heart and harmonize them with the conclusions of the intellect? We cannot afford to set ourselves against the increase of knowledge or the process of intellectual reconstruction. That would stultify us and would not preserve our vital as- surance of the essential spirituality of the universe.
But before we proceed to consider the relation of the preacher to the religious doubt of this age, we should note the fact that there is a species of doubt which originates in personal inclinations. Feeling may generate doubt as well
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as belief. Evil habits of life often give rise to feelings which repel a religious conception of the world, and in- fluence the intellect to question the existence of a holy Su- preme Being and the moral order of the world. The debauche, the thief, the murderer have powerful reasons, not of the intellectual but of the emotional type, for wishing that the world were without a moral meaning or a moral ruler; and in this region of the mental life, more absolutely than in any other, " the wish is father to the thought."
V. In conclusion, some paragraphs must be given to the consideration of the practical question toward which this discussion has looked from the beginning, namely, the preacher's relation to religious doubt. The question as it relates to the preacher's own doubts cannot now be consid- ered in detail ; though it may be remarked in passing that his attitude toward other doubters will be necessarily in- fluenced by his own experience.
Every case of doubt is clearly a special problem and should be dealt with as such. Personal idiosyncrasies figure largely in each, and only general rules can be laid down. But in any case the preacher's primary duty is to understand. It is the especial function of preaching to present religious truth in such a way as to secure its intelligent and whole- hearted acceptance, and through genuine belief to influence conduct in right directions. But if the preacher be igno- rant of the nature of doubt and of the conditions under which it arises, his dealing with it will be unintelligent, misdirected and often disastrous. In general it may also be said that sympathetic treatment alone is appropriate and eflPective. Denunciation, while it has its limited function in preaching, should never be used to bring the doubter to the belief of the truth. The preacher who in such cases in- dulges in denunciation, with the notion that he is following the example of Jesus, makes a capital mistake from which a knowledge of the nature of doubt would have saved him. Those cases which called forth the lightning-like denuncia- tions of Jesus were typical examples, not of doubt, but of the
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closed mind, a mental state which lies at the opposite ex- treme from doubt.
There is, of course, a form of doubt which is called dis- honest, and dishonesty should always be severely dealt with. But careful discrimination should be exercised in this mat- ter. If doubt really exists, no matter what influences have induced it, it is a real state of mental uncertainty; and de- nunciation is misdirected if aimed at this state. Let it rather be directed at those courses of conduct which have induced it. If evil courses of conduct Have resulted in doubt as to religious verities, it should be remembered that deeper down than these perverse habits lie the old vital needs which, when they can find voice, speak always in favour of the religious interpretation of the world. To remove the doubt thus originated, the most effective method is to awaken from their somnolence these vital needs and make them vividly conscious, that the soul may be flooded with those primal and powerful feelings on the waves of which belief rides to rightful dominion. Criticism of the immoral conduct, coupled with sincere sympathy for the transgressor, is the appropriate means for the preacher to use. To de- nounce the doubt as such is more likely to strengthen than to dispel it. To demonstrate that the doubt is not justified on intellectual grounds is ineffective, because it does not really originate in the inconsistency of belief with the intel- lectual system, and therefore a merely logical reconciliation of the two will not remove it. If the mere disagreeable- ness of the religious truth is the only real cause of its being held in the suspense of doubt — as is the case in the kind of doubt we are now considering — it is only necessary, in order to turn the scales in its favour, to arouse a more pow- erful counter-feeling which springs from a lower depth of the personality.
But it is a more difficult problem to deal effectively with the doubt which arises from a real conflict between the pos- tulates of the heart and the intellectual system of the doubter. Here denunciation is manifestly absurd. Denunciation im-
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plies moral dereliction ; and in this case the doubter is con- scious that moral dereliction is not the source of his doubt. Harsh criticism, the prophecy of future calamity, dogmatic assertion of every kind fall wide of the mark, and are likely to be interpreted as the mere rage of intellectual impotency. The rational aspect of the doubt must be squarely met, and should be met in the broadest and fairest spirit. Here especially personal sympathy and kindliness are of the ut- most importance ; but genuine intellectual sympathy is needed also ; and it is not always easy for the preacher to have this. The psychological reason for this difficulty is easy to perceive. The mental processes involved in the ex- ercise of the ministerial function render it easier for the preacher to maintain an attitude of belief than for persons engaged in other occupations. We do not mean to attribute to preachers anything more than the ordinary weakness of human nature, when we say that the fact that it is to his professional and economic interest to maintain that atti- tude may not be without some unconscious influence upon him. It is only to assume that he is normally human. He must maintain an attitude of positive belief in order to be successful in the work to which he has devoted his life. Not only does doubt, if it becomes chronic, cripple his real effectiveness, but a reputation for heresy endangers the prospect of his securing employment by the churches. Of course, if the latter consideration comes to figure even semi- consciously in the determination of his attitude, he is dwell- ing next door to downright dishonesty ; and a general ac- quaintance with preachers forbids the assumption of this as a consciously operating motive in the lives of any except a small and contemptil^le minority of them. On the con- trary, I am persuaded that in some cases the knowledge of the danger of being subconsciously influenced by this material consideration leads conscientious men to entertain suggestions of doubt which, perhaps, otherwise would not trouble them, and to search their minds with an excessive
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keenness of scrutiny. However, after all has been said, it would be an assumption of their superiority to ordinary human limitations to suppose that good ministers are never subject to the unconscious operation of this influence.
But apart from this, the characteristic direction of the preacher's attention tends to keep his mind focused upon the reli,i[^ious needs of men ; these needs are more constantly vocal in his own consciousness and more apparent to him in the lives of others than is the case with men in other occupations. When he contemplates the intellectual prob- lems of religion he approaches them, therefore, with a more pronounced bias in favour of the reality of the objects of religious belief than other men usually do. The reasons for belief receive a relatively greater emphasis and the rea- sons against, a relatively weaker one than they do in most other minds engaged in these investigations. Other things being equal, therefore, the preacher's peculiar point of view and modes of thought render it easier for him than for most other men to maintain an attitude of positive belief. Other things, to be sure, are not always equal ; and hence it should not be invariably assumed, as a matter of course, that others are more troubled by doubts than the minister. Especially should we bear in mind that the minister, if he uses his opportunities for study as he should, will become acquainted with many of the intellectual difficulties pertaining to re- ligion which many of his hearers who are not engaged in intellectual pursuits never have to wrestle with, and their belief will, therefore, not be subjected to such severe tests as his. But we repeat that, other things being equal, he will find it easier than others to maintain a positive belief in the realities of religion. For this reason his intellectual sympathy with doubters is likely to be deficient. Openness of mind as to these matters is likely to decrease with the years ; and without conscious effort, motived by the desire to keep in sympathy with those who are struggling with the intellectual problems of religion, his bark may be found at
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last with furled sails stranded in stagnant waters which have been cut off by the drifting sands from the deep currents and strong winds of the open sea.
If the preacher's mission is to get the truths of religion believed, it is essential that he should present them in such a way as to render them accessible to the perplexed and questioning minds of this age. At the same time it is equally important that he, while apprehending and appreciating the difficulties of the doubter, should hold and present his beliefs with the positiveness of assured conviction. The doubter is not assisted in the attainment of mental unity by discovering that the preacher has question marks paren- thetically inserted after all his more important statements. The preacher should certainly be a believer, a genuine and enthusiastic believer ; but an open minded believer. His beliefs should not be of the hot-house variety, whose life can be assured only by keeping them in an atmosphere arti- ficially warmed under a glass cover, with roots protected from the chilly soil ; but should have the health and hardi- hood of the plant that thrives and grows amidst the winds and frosts of the open air. It is only thus that he can secure the confidence of the doubter; and this is a matter of the first importance. When the doubters have become convinced that he is a brave and intelligent believer who has not shrunk from looking squarely in the eye the most frowning difficulties, a believer whose crown of confidence is lustrous because it has been fairly won upon the battle- field, their hearts more readily open to him, and the firm ut- terance of his conviction stirs deeper depths in their souls. The preacher is too often insulated from his doubting hearers because they think that he does not understand them and can not sympathize wnth them, and they too often have the impression that he would have less assurance if he had more knowledge, and would be less dogmatic if he had more courage. But the preacher who can convince his hearers of his opcn-mindedness, his absolute sincerity and his intellec- tual courage, and yet proclaims his message with a sure
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note of positive conviction, blended with a note of sincere sympathy for those who have not been able to attain to his assurance, will grip the mind and heart of this perplexed and questioning age. He will be a real defender of the faith, because he will be a builder of the faith.
CHAPTER VIII
ATTENTION
In the development of a mind the world of experience gradually comes to be clearly distinguished into two parts: the ego and the non-ego — the me and the not-me. At first the self is not differentiated from the body; but with the progress of the intellectual life that important distinction is made, and the body becomes a sort of middle ground be- tween the self and the not-self ; while the former deepens into an interior psychical centre, the focus of thought and feeling, and the latter broadens out into an objective world.^ The ego becomes a point and the non-ego an indefinite exten- sion ; the one a unit and the other a multitude. The multi- tude of objects stand over against me, the subject; and life resolves itself into a series of adjustments which I make to these objects. I am one and at a given instant can perform but a single act, though that act may be either a simple or a complex movement; and either ideal or physical, or both. At the moment I can make the adjustment with reference only to one object, or a small group of objects considered as a unit. My adaptation to my environment must be made bit by bit. If the objects which compose my total environ- ment were all vividly and equally present to my conscious- ness at each instant, and I were equipped with the neces- sary capacity, I would be able to act with reference to all of them at once ; it would not be necessary for me to pick out from among them a single one, or a small group, and for the instant have exclusive or primary reference to them in my act. But as it is, that is exactly what I have to do. My
1 See Baldwin's " Thought and Things," Vol. I, p. 250, flf.
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consciousness must focalize upon a limited section of my environment at every moment and guide my action with reference to that.^
This limitation of my consciousness would be very unfor- tunate if it were necessary or even important for me to act with reference to all the objects in my environment at once. But this is never the case. Usually it is only one or a small group of objects to which at a given instant it is necessary for me to adjust myself ; the rest for the time being can be disregarded. Sometimes, indeed, one is placed in a situation which at the very same instant requires ad- justment to a number of objects greater than his capacity to hold together in consciousness. If the adjustments re- quired by such a situation are of a vitally important charac- ter, there is grave danger of injury; and if there is no peril involved, there is danger of committing an embarrassing blunder. If, for instance, one is crossing a public square which is thronged with swift vehicles moving in all direc- tions, he is in peril because he needs to adjust himself at the same instant to a greater number of objects than he can hold in clear consciousness at once. If he is accosted by a number of persons at the same moment he is confused and embarrassed for the same reason. In such situations we are helped by two powers of the mind. First, consciousness can focus upon one after another of the objects with great rapidity. Second, if the required adjustment is one which we have often made, it will be made automatically, placing little if any tax upon consciousness. Usually with the aid of these facilitating capacities of the mind we can succeed in adjusting ourselves to such situations with sufficient promptness and accuracy to avoid destruction and attain to a considerable measure of satisfaction.
In the foregoing statement we have the main outlines of the doctrine of the attention, which will now be discussed in detail.
I. Its nature. Attention is focalized consciousness. 1 See Arnold's " Attention and Interest," p. 94.
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Consciousness is always to some extent focalized. Its form is a bright point surrounded by an indefinite, fading border, which James has called the " fringe." It is a matter of no importance whether, as most writers state it, the normal form of consciousness be conceived as that of a clear centre surrounded by a border which gradually shades off to un- consciousness ; or, according to others, as a stream which runs " at two different levels, the higher that of the clear, the lower that of the obscure." ^ In both cases we are using figures of speech which are not to be taken too literally. Both of them are useful figures and help us to understand the nature of the attention. The more intense conscious- ness is, the more pronounced is this form ; as consciousness becomes less and less intense the form becomes less pro- nounced, until consciousness and its form disappear together. To attend to an object is to direct the focus of conscious- ness upon it, and close attention is intense focalization. In- attention is usually the direction of the focus toward some object other than that to which it should at the time be directed. Absolute inattention is simply the disappearance of consciousness. Lax or careless attention is low intensity, accompanied by diversion to other objects.
II. Its function. Attention is the selective action of con- sciousness — the picking out of a small section of the en- vironment from among the multitude of things that encom- pass us and considering that, while all else either stands in the twilight border, or is enveloped in the total darkness which surrounds the illuminated area of consciousness. All our senses are, during our waking hours, so many open avenues along which innumerable impressions are reaching us all the time. Sights, sounds, contacts, smells, tastes, variations in temperature are making their appeals to us from without, while from within numerous organic sensations are continually knocking at the door of consciousness. As a matter of fact few of these stimuli, either from without or from within, get recognition. Most of them never get
iJichenor, "A Text-book of Psychology," p. 277.
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over the threshold of consciousness. Most of those which succeed in getting beyond the threshold are never ushered into the central office where the chief business of life is being transacted. Here in the focal point of consciousness the main process of adaptation is going on. Those sensations, or stimuli, gain admittance there which are directly involved in the effort we arc making to get into more satisfactory relations with the environment. What sort of credentials must they present to gain admittance there?
First, they may appear to be significantly connected with some interest which we are at the time pursuing. In pro- portion as the interest with which they are connected is cen- tral in our purpose will their claim to recognition be strengthened, and also in proportion to what we conceive the importance of their relation to it to be. If you are absorbed in the effort to conclude a trade with a man, the colour of his hair will not be likely to fix your attention, unless it should be taken by you as an indication of his tem- perament and thus become related to the dominant interest of the moment. On the other hand, if you had made a wager with some one that you would meet a certain num- ber of red-haired men as you walked down the street, the colour of the hair of each man you met would attract your attention. If a geologist and a botanist should walk through a certain district for the purpose of studying, one its geological formation and the other its flora, their attention would be attracted by entirely different objects. If the geologist were interested in a secondary way in botany also, the weeds and flowers, trees and shrubs would receive an incidental share of his attention ; but his interest would be chiefly engaged by rocks and earth-deposits. A detective who is working up the solution of a problematical crime will be attracted by certain details which would escape the notice of the average person, because they seem to his expert eye to be significantly related to the problem he is trying to solve. To sum up, attention always moves along the line of in- terest.
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Second, those objects draw attention to themselves which are out of the ordinary, and do so in proportion to their rarity or strangeness. To say that we are accustomed to anything is to say in other words that we are adapted to it ; and as attention is the adaptive function of consciousness it must concern itself with that which is not customary. And, since attention is consciousness engaged in the process of guiding adjustment, each successive act of adjustment, after the adaptation has been effected, falls under the law of habit and takes place with less attention, or even while it is di- rected elsewhere. The young lady sits at the piano and draws the harmony from its keys, but her attention is most likely directed upon the young man who stands by her side and turns the pages of the music ; the keys and notes occupy the obscure margin of consciousness. The greater number of the adjustments we are actually making throughout our waking life never get beyond the dim borders of our con- sciousness. It is the unusual adjustments which occupy the foreground of the mental picture. But as in a picture, there is no sharp demarcation between the foreground and the background. The successive acts of adjustments, of which the substance of life consists, lie all the way between the extremes of the unconscious and habitual and the abso- lutely new, upon which the surprised consciousness is most intensely focused. The reign of habit is continually e.x- tending over the realm of our experience, and with it the shadow of the unconscious with its broad fringe of twilight. And the darkness would ultimately settle upon it all if the realm of experience were not extending also. It is the en- trance of the new into our lives which keeps consciousness alert, the attention active and the intelligence growing. In people who live under monotonous conditions or in a comparatively unchanging environment, consciousness is at a low tension ; in people who live in a changeful environ- ment, it is at a high tension. The attention is more active because it is continually challenged by new experiences. Consciousness focalizes upon the unusual, for the obvious
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reason that there is where it is needed in the guidance of adjustment.
This is only another statement of the principle that in- terest controls attention. The fundamental and all-inclu- sive interest of life is adjustment, and hence the intrusion of a new object or situation into our experience, even though it may not connect itself with the specific purpose which is at the moment controlling conduct, will attract attention because it directly appeals to an interest which includes all others. Yet the specific and momentarily dominant pur- pose may have so completely absorbed the consciousness that a new situation not connected with it would have to be of the most striking or pressing character to displace it from the focus, — for instance, the case of the philosopher who was so deeply immersed in his speculation that his foot was thrust too near the fire and the sole of his shoe burnt off before he became aware of it. Concentration upon any act or process of adjustment is well, but there is a limit beyond which it may be injurious; for life is the realization of interests through continuous adaptations, and our in- terests are numerous and varied. There is a possibility, if we suffer attention to be too thoroughly monopolized by one interest, of sacrificing others of equal or greater im- portance.
Third, from the foregoing it is apparent that attention is closely related to volition. Angell remarks that " volition as a strictly mental affair is neither more nor less than a matter of attention. When we can keep our attention firmly fixed upon a line of conduct to the exclusion of all competitors, our decision is already made ! " ^ When there is hesitation and difficulty in reaching a decision, it results from the fact that two or more incompatible lines of conduct are present in consciousness, which focalizes now upon one and now upon another. When focused upon one there is an impulse to act in that direction ; then as the attention is drawn to the other a motor impulse to act along
1 " Psychology-," p. 345.
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that line accompanies it. The direction of the attention on first one and then another of several alternatives is the essential thing in the process of deliberation which precedes choice. If the attention can be kept on one to the exclusion of others, the action will take place along that line. The fixing and holding of the attention upon one as opposed to the others is the act of choice, is decision, is all that there is of volition, except the release of the impulse through the motor channels of expression. But this leads naturally to the consideration of the different kinds of attention.
III. There are three kinds of attention ; or more prop- erly speaking, one's interest may determine the direction of his attention in three different ways. It is not strictly cor- rect to speak of different kinds or forms of attention, for attention is always simply focalized consciousness. But that focalization takes place under different conditions, and these differences really constitute the basis of the classifica- tion now to be made.
I. Compulsory attention. This is the attention which is directed upon a stimulus that forces itself into the focus of consciousness. It may be because it is so powerful or so persistent or so startling, or has some other quality which enables it to interrupt the mental processes that are going on. A loud noise, a keen or gnawing pain, a great surprise, an unexpected good fortune — whatever it may be that breaks in upon the current of one's thoughts and forces them in another direction, or powerfully reinforces the mental processes along the line in which they are moving — produces compulsory attention. Interruption, however, is the usual characteristic of this kind of attention. These in- terrupting experiences which we can not neglect occur fre- quently during our waking hours and sometimes crash through the brittle shell of slumber within which the brain retreats from the stimulations that overtax it. They can compel attention because they appeal so strongly to the fundamental interest of life. The survival interest of the organism requires that such sudden or unusual changes in
ATTENTION I7T
the environment should not go unheeded. If the nervous system be in a state of excessive irritability many stimuli which have in them no menace or other important sig- nificance for the normal constitution and might safely be neglected under ordinary circumstances force themselves nevertheless upon the consciousness of the person so af- fected. But the abnormal nervous condition gives them special significance for those persons. Sometimes people have abnormal sensitiveness to certain kinds of stimuli. One may be so fastidious that the slightest lack of tidiness in an- other may disconcert him ; or a certain tone of the voice may be extremely painful, even the very timbre of the voice may be irritating ; or a certain gesture or attitude may be so un- pleasant as to divert the mind from the ideas of a speaker.
It not unfrequently happens that the attention which a public speaker " commands " is of the compulsory type. It may be that it is not what he says, but his manner that compels attention. The peculiarity may be pleasant or un- pleasant. A marvellously musical voice may bewitch the ears of the auditors ; a raucous or grating or squeaking voice, an unusual intonation, or some other striking charac- teristic — attractive or repellent — may irresistibly arrest at- tention until through familiarity it loses its compelling power. If it is not positively pleasing, it is a misfortune, and stands in the way of achieving the best results, because it invests the ideas the speaker is presenting with disagree- able feelings, and draws the attention of the hearers upon it- self and therefore away from what he is saying. Even if not unpleasant, such a striking mode of presentation, when very pronounced, may, though winning applause for the orator, divert attention from the subject matter of his dis- course; whereas his subject, his cause, the speaker and especially the preacher, should strive always to keep in the focus of his hearers' consciousness. In a word, compulsory attention, even when elicited by some pleasing peculiarity or device of the orator, is really centred upon the orator him- self, or his method, and not upon his message. But more
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often compulsory attention is unpleasant. Frequently the stimulus itself is an unpleasant one, and even when it is not, it usually interrupts the current of consciousness ; and this of itself is disagreeable, though if the object or situation which obtrudes itself is agreeable, the resulting pleasure may im- mediately swallow up the momentarily unpleasant sensation. But to this disagreeal)le sensation is a^ded the irritation of a stimulus which is offensive. As a rule the experience is annoying or painful.
As an example of a bold oratorical device for securing compulsory attention, the story — how authentic I do not know — is told of Henry Ward Beecher, that as he arose to preach one warm day, he wiped the perspiration from his brow and exclaimed, "It is damned hot!" After a pause, he explained to the shocked congregation, " That is what I heard a man say awhile ago as I was entering the house," and proceeded to preach a strong sermon against the use of profane language. Of course, it was effective in compelling attention. It startled everybody, though to the sensation lovers, of whom there were perhaps not a few present, it was doubtless a pleasant shock. But while it compelled attention and made the occasion memorable, may it not in fact have diverted attention from the moral and spiritual import of his message? It is possible that throughout the discourse and subsequently when the occa- sion was recalled the attention of those who heard was focused more upon that startling introduction than upon the wholesome lesson which his sermon inculcated. It is certainly far from the purpose of this discussion to insist upon tameness as a duty of the pulpit. Alas! there seems to be no occasion for that. The purpose is to show that often the devices used to compel attention are most likely to divert it from the subject matter of the discourse. Per- haps the line between the legitimate and the illegitimate in sensation should be drawn just here: "sensationalism" is objectionable because it ordinarily means the use of devices for compelling attention in such a way that the interest is
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centred upon the speaker himself, or his methods, rather than upon his message.
2. Vokmtary attention, in which the concentration of the mind takes place under the control of the will. It is a matter of choice, and is based upon some measure of delib- eration, or weighing of alternatives. It implies a tendency to attend to something else. This divergent tendency has to be overcome, which involves strain. Voluntary atten- tion presupposes a considerable degree of mental organ- ization, the existence of a plan and purpose and the cen- tralized control of one's energies in the realization of the purpose. Angell says : " When we say that in voluntary attention we force ourselves to attend to some particular object or idea, what we evidently mean is that the mind in its entirety is brought to bear in suppressing certain dis- turbing objects or ideas, and in bringing to the front the chosen ones. The act of voluntary attention is, in short, an expression of the sovereignty of the whole mind over its lesser parts, i.e., over the disturbing or alluring ideas and sensations." ^ It is not quite correct to say that " the mind in its entirety is brought to bear in suppressing certain dis- turbing objects or ideas," This real situation is that there are two mental tendencies opposing one another, and the characteristic note of the process is the effort to attain men- tal unity, to bring " the mind in its entirety " to act along a certain line, or to focalize upon one object to the exclusion of others. There is a recurrent swinging of the attention away from one object of interest to another and a repeated pulling of it back. This is wearisome and disagreeable. There is not only much unpleasantness but much waste of energy in the exercise of voluntary attention. As the men- tal energy diminishes by reason of the strain, the unpleas- antness of the process increases ; there is a decrease of power to direct the mind to the chosen object, or more properly speaking, to keep the choice fixed upon a certain object ; and after awhile the point is reached where voluntary attention
* " Psychology," pp. 72-73.
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to that object becomes impossible until after a period of rest.
Now, the unpleasantness which accompanies this process of straining has a tendency to make the object which occa- sions it repulsive. The facts or ideas which have to be learned or acquired in this disagreeable way are not likely to be appreciated — certainly not at the time ; and the danger is that they may become permanently associated with the disagreeable feeling incidental to the strained effort to attend to them. So truths of great value may be forever discounted in the mind of one who has become acquainted with them in this unfortunate way. One can hardly doubt that the truths of religion have thus often greatly suffered.
But one may well ask, how, if all truth is to be com- municated in such a way as to avoid this effort, is the will to be educated? If truth must regularly be presented so as to make the minimum draft upon the voluntary attention, how will one acquire the power of voluntary direction of his mind, which is so necessary to fit him to cope success- fully with the actual conditions of life? Surely in the actual conduct of one's life, in the adjustment of oneself to an ever-changing environment which takes very little account of personal inclinations, it is extremely important that he should acquire the self-mastery which can come alone from the oft-repeated and prolonged exercise of the voluntary at- tention.
It is evident that much depends upon what the purpose is in presenting truth. If the purpose is exclusively or mainly disciplinary, i.e.. if the aim is to develop a useful mental habit, one method will be appropriate. If, on the other hand, the aim is to get certain truths accepted most readily, believed most heartily, appreciated most highly and acted on most promptly, another method will be suitable. In preaching and in all forms of persuasive oratory the latter purpose is controlling. We do not preach for the purpose of giving the hearers a needed exercise in the control of the attention ; preaching is not adapted to that purpose.
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The hearer is at liberty to attend or not ; and while a sense of duty may constrain some conscientious auditors to at- tend to the truth uninterestingly presented, their number is not large, and tlie great majority will most certainly exercise their privilege not to listen.
The preacher or other public speaker, therefore, should make as small a demand as possible on the voluntary atten- tion of his hearers. If he finds them inattentive it is gen- erally useless, and often suicidal, to scold or lecture them for their failure to listen. If they listen to him " from a sense of duty," they will give him at best only a divided attention ; and the disagreeable feeling attendant upon the strain not only reacts against him personally but gives a repellent cast to the truth he wishes them heartily to receive. Of course it would be a serious mistake to present the truths of religion in such a way as to make people believe that the religious life is " a primrose path," an easy way, which involves no toil and sacrifice and pain. Deep and serious truth, stern duty, arduous struggle for high and diflficult ideals may be urged upon the conscience in such a way as to associate them with agreeable feelings and invest them with an ethical charm which creates enthusiasm for them in the human heart. But it certainly does not con- tribute to that result to have to listen to their presentation from a sheer sense of duty. To contemplate a great truth or a high duty through the medium of unpleasant feelings aroused by the necessity of giving strained attention to a dull speaker is to strip the truth and duty of the charm which they naturally have for the normal human mind, and with which, at any rate, they ought to be invested whenever possible.
3. Spontaneous attention. This form of attention may be negatively described as a concentration of consciousness which is not forced by an external stimulus and at the same time is without internal strain. The object of such atten- tion is not thrust into the focus by any strong or sudden appeal from without, nor brought and held there by an eflfort
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from within. Positively it may be described as a concen- tration of consciousness under the control of some inclina- tion which for the time dominates the mind without any serious competition. We often give attention to an object at a certain time because it is itself so interesting that it absorbs the mind. In compulsory attention we attend to an object not because it is interesting to us, not because it appeals to a present dominant inclination in us, but because our organism instinctively takes note of every stimulus which by reason of its sudden, violent, strange or strik- ing character may bear an important relation to its welfare; because it may menace some organic interest. The response is reflexive or instinctive. In voluntary or strained attention there is a competition between objects that appeal to differ- ent inclinations, or between an intrinsically interesting object and some stimulus that seeks to force itself upon our con- sciousness. But in spontaneous attention the mind is dwell- ing on something which is in itself interesting, and so in- teresting that at the moment it takes practically complete possession of our thoughts. Under such circumstances the mind drifts. The attention may move from one object to another quite suddenly and rapidly; but the drifting and shifting take place under the control of some interest which, having its origin in some situation or other, rises to the sur- face and for the moment directs the current of thought. The process is well exemplified in our reveries and day- dreams. What we think about when we " turn our minds loose " and nothing disturbs us, are objects of spontaneous attention.
Now these inclinations (or interests) which select the objects of spontaneous attention represent the constitution of the mind as at the time organized. The mental organ- ization is revealed also, and sometimes more adequately revealed, in voluntary attention ; but this rather represents the mind in the process of further organization, while spon- taneous attention simply shows the mind off guard, in
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relaxation, and is one of the surest indications of the present status of the character.
It is obvious that the orator should, if possible, secure for his message the spontaneous attention of his hearers. His message may, to be sure, be opposed to some very pro- nounced inclinations of theirs, and this is very frequently the case with the preacher. When this is so he has a serious difficulty to overcome. His objective may, indeed, be to effect a profound change in their inclinations. This sets the supreme problem for the orator, and it calls for a skill in the application of psychological principles which amounts to a high art. How shall he secure the spontaneous attention of his hearers, which requires him to present his message so as to appeal to some inclination of theirs, when the message itself opposes some of their strong inclinations? The only way is to stimulate some inclination not opposed to the mes- sage so effectively that it will overflow their consciousness with the corresponding feelings and submerge the opposing inclinations. This is the noblest function of the great art of illustration; and of almost if not quite equal value is the dramatic art. By the skilful use of these arts the message may be clothed in forms which enable it to hold the spon- taneous attention, even if otherwise it would be uninterest- ing or positively repellent. The remarkable cultivation and effective use in recent years of the art of story-telling for the moral and religious instruction of the young is a most striking testimony to the soundness of this homiletical prin- ciple— secure the spontaneous attention of the hearer.
IV. Its scope. Many experiments have been conducted to determine how many objects can be attended to at the same time, and apparently very different conclusions have been reached by different psychologists. Some of them maintain that but one single object can stand in the focus at a given instant; others that as many as six objects can be attended to at once.^ But there is some lack of clearness in
1 See Tichenor's " Text-book of Psychology," pp. 287 ff.
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the discussions of those who take the latter position. They seem to confound the attention with the span of conscious- ness. The span of consciousness may, and perhaps always does, cover several objects, but this includes not only the clear focus but the less clear background as well. When the experimental evidence is closely studied it seems to es- tablish the contention that we can focus consciousness on only a single object at any absolutely single point of time. That object may, however, be complex, i.e., may consist of several objects grasped as a unity; but in that case the separate constituents of the unity do not stand singly in the clear focus, nor any one of them, but the entire group as a group. This by subsequent acts of attention may be broken up into its elements, and its parts or phases attended to one after another.
V. Its constant shifting. The narrow scope of the atten- tion would be exceedingly unfortunate were it not compen- sated for by the rapid and constant flitting of attention from one thing to another. If we should compare the attention to a search-light turned upon objects, then we should think of it as darting its searching beam rapidly now this way and now that. No one can have failed to notice this character- istic of his mental life. The attention can hardly be pinned down to a single point. If it is, consciousness begins to drop toward drowsy extinction, or the mind falls into a sort of hypnotic trance. The very life of normal consciousness consists in this constant moving from one object to another. We do not have any certain knowledge of the cause of this exceeding restlessness of the mind. Is it due to the speedy exhaustion of the delicate brain cells employed in any act of attention ? That is conceivable ; but we simply do not know. Certainly it will appear to be a most fortunate characteristic of our minds, if we consider a few facts in their relation to one another.
First, is the fact that we live in a very complex, many- sided environment. We have to bring ourselves into ad- justment to a great multitude of things. Second, these
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many things are constantly changing their positions or atti- tudes relative to ourselves; or, on the other hand, we are, because of our limitations and our numerous needs, driven to constant changes of our positions and attitudes with re- spect to them. Third, as we have already said, our con- sciousness is able to bring itself into definite and clear rela- tion with but one, or at most a few, of those objects at any moment. Under such conditions a consciousness which re- fuses to remain fixed upon any one point but persistently moves on from one to another manifestly has a decided " survival value." To be sure, its shifting is not at random, though it may often appear so. Its movements are not un- related or chaotic. From the very first, organic interest ex- ercises a general directing influence ; more or less definite laws of association play their part in regulating the move- ments; and with the growth of experience and the higher organization of the mind the self-conscious will gains an increasing domination over this activity. But the movement is incessant, except in sleep — if indeed it wholly ceases then ; and by virtue of it we are able to carry ourselves with some measure of safety and success amidst the multitu- dinous objects of a very changeful environment.
What this characteristic of the attention means for the public speaker is obvious. The attention of his hearers will move on. He should not dwell upon a single point longer than is necessary for them to grasp it. If he does, one of two things will happen. Either they will become drowsy or their minds will flit away to other things, which most prob- ably will be wholly unrelated to his discourse. In any case he will lose their attention, and any method he may adopt to compel them to listen will be unavailing. Speaking of this aspect of our mental activity Angell says : " So far as attention is really an activity of the relating or adjusting kind its work is done when the relation between the mind and the thing attended to is once established. This is the mental, as distinguished from the physiological, part of the adjustment, and attention must go elsewhere, because it is
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intrinsically the adjusting act itself." ^ This means that the discourse must have movement ; and different phases of the subject must be presented with a rapidity corresponding to the rapidity of this normal mental movement. How im- perative this is in speaking to children, a very little expe- rience will show. But in fact it is just as imperative in addressing adults of any grade of maturity and culture. Adults, especially persons of culture, can grasp more com- plex ideas, and their attention can therefore be held longer within a given field; but all the time it will be moving from one to another aspect of this group of related objects or ideas. The shifting of the attention of the mature is just as incessant and rapid as that of the immature mind. It does not appear to be so, first, because the mature mind will dwell longer within a given field ; but it does so only because it finds in that field a greater number of points of interest upon which to fix the attention. Second, it does not appear to drift so rapidly as the mind of the child, because, having better voluntary control of the motor nerves and more respect for the conventionalities, the older person will not be so " fidgety " and will more thoroughly mask his in- attention ; but his mind will be leaping away from the dis- course which does not move on to fresh phases of the sub- ject, as wantonly as that of the child. People are not always giving attention when they sit with their eyes directed to- wards the speaker. The mature mind leaps from one thing to another as rapidly as the immature, but it does not leap so far, perhaps, and its superior control of the muscles may better conceal what is going on. " Move on " is the order which Psychology gives to the speaker.
If he is rapid and skillful enough in his progress, he may control the mental movement of his audience; otherwise that movement will go on under the control of inclinations, in- terests, associations which may be quite foreign to his pur- pose. But if there is danger of going too slowly it is also possible to move too rapidly for the best results, and this is
1 " Psychology," p. 79
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especially true when the ideas presented are complex. A certain time is necessary for the attention to seize adequately the object or idea. When the relation is once established between the attending mind and the object, another should be immediately presented in order to prevent wandering to something irrelevant ; but sometimes an exceedingly rapid speaker will present his ideas in such quick succession that the average hearer will be unable adequately to seize them, or " take them in." The result is a confused impression. Of course, the time required varies with the constitution of diflFerent minds — some normally acting more slowly than others; varies also according to age — the adult usually taking less time than the child, if the idea is at all complex ; varies, too, according to the degree of culture or mental dis- cipline — the trained mind acting more quickly than the untrained ; varies further according to mental freshness — fatigue lengthening the time necessary. But notwithstand- ing the many varying factors present in any situation, it is a safe rule that phenomenally slow as well as phenomenally rapid presentation should be avoided.
VI. Its intensity or degree. The concentration of con- sciousness varies in intensity, and tends to vary according to regular rhythms. Attention fluctuates, is wave-like. It is difficult to determine even approximately the normal length of these waves. Experimental psychologists have not been able to make much progress in reducing this aspect of attention to definite formulation. It is settled, however, that in visual impressions which are just strong enough to be perceived there is a fluctuation of a few seconds in length, which very closely corresponds to a certain rhythm of the breathing and the pulse-beat, known as the Traube-Hering wave. Experience teaches also that there are longer waves. They might be called minute waves and hour waves, were it not that the use of these terms would convey the impres- sion that these periods of concentration and relaxation of consciousness bear some exact relation to these measures of time, which they do not. In fact, so many factors of
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variation enter in — such as individual constitution, the degree of mental training, mental maturity, fatigue, etc. — that it is impossible to make any statement about the length cf these that is at once general and accurate. Hardly any two persons can be supposed to have an equal capacity to maintain their attention at a given level for a given time. Nor is the same person's capacity hardly ever the same at two different times or with respect to two different objects. All that can be said, therefore, is that there are fluctuations, varying in length with different persons and with the same person under diff'erent conditions, which usually last for some seconds, or some minutes ; and others longer, which can only be measured by hour periods. It is also well estab- lished not only by common experience but also by systematic experiment, that there is a diurnal fluctuation. ^ " The periods of the day most favourable for work are the former half of the morning and the latter half of the afternoon. The morning period again is better than the afternoon period." This conclusion may seem to be negatived by the fact that many persons find they can do their best work at night. But this is probably due to the fact that they can then work more free from the distractions which fill the hours of the day, and which are so likely to have their effect, no matter how one may strive to isolate himself or how apparently unconscious of them he may be, and not to an increase of the attentive power at that period of the day. However, allowance should always be made for individual peculiarities.
The cause of these fluctuations, it can hardly be doubted, is fatigue. As before noted, it has been suggested that the rapid shifting of the attention is due to the exhaustion of the cells of the brain involved in attending to successive objects. That would imply, however, that each act of at- tention called into play a different group of cells from that engaged in the preceding act. Whether that is so or not cannot be determined, and need not concern us here. But
1 Arnold, "Attention and Interest," pp. 91, 247.
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the evidence is strong that the human brain is differentiated into a number of areas which are specialized centres of various forms of mental activity ; and there is no question that attention involves nervous tension, nor that overtaxed brain cells respond to stimuli more slowly, with less ac- curacy and with less intensity or vigour than fresh ones. We have good ground to believe that when a tract of the brain involved in any form of mental activity becomes fatigued, the intensity of the activity must be lowered, or in case of complete exhaustion, altogether stopped, until recuperation takes place. But when one centre or group of centres becomes fatigued, a flow of energy from sur- rounding areas sets in to restore the equilibrium. Now, it is very probable that variations in the intensity or clear- ness of the attention are only the conscious side of this process of exhaustion and recuperation. The shorter fluc- tuations correspond to the rise and fall of the supply of energy in the smaller areas, and the longer fluctuation to this process in the larger areas. ^
Skillful public speaking must take cognizance of these conditions of the mental life. It is manifest that voluntary attention imposes a very heavy tax upon the nervous energy ; spontaneous attention makes a much lighter draft. This is an additional reason for seeking, whenever practicable, attention of the latter type. But in any case, and especially when the speaker can only avail himself of the voluntary attention of the hearer, the discourse should certainly adapt itself to the inevitable fluctuations of this function. Speak- ing generally, the sentence should correspond to a single pulse of the attention. This is particularly true of the spoken sentence; for in reading a written sentence the reader may expend upon it two or more pulses of attention, but with the spoken sentence this is hardly practicable. Likewise we may say that the paragraph, or in spoken dis- course, the development of a single point or brief phase of
1 For an interesting discussion of this whole subject, see "The Fluctuation of the .Attention," by Hylan, Psychological Review series of Monograph Supplements, Vol. II, No. 2.
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the thought, should in a general way correspond to the longer wave — what we have called a minute wave, though the phrase does not indicate that it is just a minute in length. And so the discourse should in a general way answer to what we have called, for want of a better designa- tion, the hour wave, though it should not be forgotten that the phrase does not mean that it should be exactly an hour long, but simply that it can be measured only in terms of the hour. But should the discourse occupy the whole length of this wave? If it does, it will end with the down- ward dip of the wave, and the address which concludes with the attention of the hearers relaxed will be to a large extent ineffective. If the discourse must be a lengthy one, and especially when delivered to a popular audience, it should be broken somewhere near the middle by something divert- ing and relaxing. If the audience is composed of persons who have formed the habit of giving long-continued close attention to the subject matter of the discourse or matters related thereto, one may reasonably calculate upon holding their sustained attention to the end ; but not otherwise. In preaching and all forms of popular discourse, an address of such length, unless broken in half by a few moments of diversion and relaxation, will inevitably produce weariness, and probably disgust. It is not an accident that for serious discourses such as sermons to popular audiences a conven- tional limit of about thirty minutes has been set. It is de- manded by the laws of the attention. A discourse of this character should occupy only the upward swell of the longer attention wave. Nor is it an accident that popular lec- tures, which are usually at least an hour long, are required to be interspersed with diverting passages, even when their aim is instruction. If they are intended to be simply enter- taining, i.e., if they appeal chiefly or exclusively to the emo- tions of the audience, they should consist not entirely of humour or pathos, but of alternations of the two; for the normal human mind soon tires of humour or pathos alone,
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and the attention becomes lax unless relieved by a swing in the opposite direction.
The laws of the attention set limits and standards for public discourse which the speaker ignores at the peril of failure.
CHAPTER IX
VOLUNTARY ACTION
What do we mean by voluntary action? To say that it is action directed or controlled by the will is no answer ; for the question only recurs in a different form — what is the will? Voluntary action may be defined, somewhat tech- nically, as the intelligent reaction of the organism to stimuli — a definition which, while it involves all the essential elements of the voluntary process, requires much explana- tion.
Two fundamentally important truths about life need to be clearly conceived in order to secure a satisfactory idea of the function of will.
I. The first is the responsiveness of the living being to its surroundings. The organism is continually played upon by numerous influences and answers by responses from within. All action is reaction. One does not act in vacuo, but always with respect to some situation. From the simple reflexes up to the most complicated series of intelligent actions, activity always has reference to some factor or factors of the environment. The life-process in one of its most important aspects consists of a series of reactions to stimuli. The process seems to follow a certain rhythm, periods of comparative quiescence and activity following one another with a general regularity ; but response to en- vironing conditions never wholly ceases in a living being. The man who is in a profound slumber is not absolutely out of touch with his surroundings, unless he is sleeping the sleep of death.
Furthermore, when the organism is stimulated and reacts,
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this experience leaves a trace in it, i.e., in some way modi- fies it ; and as a result of this modification the response to a subsequent stimulus, of the same or of a different kind, will not be quite the same as before. These traces left in the organism and the resulting modification of subsequent re- sponses may be so slight as to escape the most discriminat- ing observation. Indeed, in the lower ranges of life they are hardly observable, and the truth of the statement as applied to the lowest ranges may be fairly called in ques- tion. It is probable, however, that wherever there is life some slight organic modification results from experience but on the inferior levels it is of negligible importance so far as the history of the individual organism is concerned.
The decreasing importance of these modifications in the lower grades of life is only one aspect of the general truth that responsiveness to environment increases as the scale of life is ascended. In fact, the relative position of an or- ganism in the scale of life is determined by its responsive- ness to environment. In the vegetable kingdom the rose- bush responds to climatic or seasonal changes, but the limits within which it may respond are very narrow. It is rooted to one spot, unless transplanted by human skill. In that fixed locality it may dress itself in green and blush with red blossoms under the caressing touch of Summer. But how much more restricted is its adaptability than that of the wild goose, which feels the approach of Winter from afar and wings its way after the retreating Summer ; or of the animals which freely rove abroad in search of food and protect themselves from the cold blasts by heavy coats of hair or even acquire the skill to build themselves shelters against the storms? But animal adaptability sinks into insignificance as compared with the capacity of man to bring himself into satisfactory relations with a complex and changing environment.
The modes of responsiveness which characterize these three grades of life — the vegetable, the animal and the human — are sensitivity, sensitivity plus motility, and sen-
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sitivity plus motility plus rationality. " Sensitivity " is, I know, a very questionable word with which to indicate tiie mode of responsiveness which characterizes vegetable life, because it has acquired its meaning in application to animal organisms ; but there is no existing word which is more appropriate. Its etymology is against this use of it; but in the absence of a suitable term I venture to stretch the proprieties of language so far as to use it in this appli- cation. By motility is meant the ability of an organism to move itself from place to place by the contraction of the muscles of some of its organs. Precisely what is meant by rationality will be explained a little later. It will be noted that each higher grade retains the mode or modes of adap- tability of that which is below it, while on the higher level these modes are far more highly developed. The plant has what I have called " sensitivity," for want of a better term ; but the animal has sensitivity more highly and variously developed than the plant and has motility in addition. Man has both sensitivity and motility far more highly and variously developed than the animal, notwithstanding the fact that in some specific senses and in some specific forms of locomotion he may be inferior to some animals ; and has in addition the wondrous capacity of rationality. Of course there are no absolute lines of demarcation between these modes ; each lower one merges into the next higher. There are plants, for instance, which seem to possess in some small measure the mode of adaptation which we call motility; e.g,. the sensitive plants have contractility, which is the funda- mental element in motility. It is even more difiicult to determine at what point exactly rationality is added to motility; and yet, broadly speaking, we know that it is a distinctively human characteristic, though there may be suggestions of its presence in the higher animals.
If we look at this advance from the lower to the higher modes of adaptability from another point of view, there is at once evident a corresponding increase in the complexity of the physical organization. The organization of the plant
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is complex enough almost to baffle our efforts at analysis. But it is not to be compared with the intricate differentia- tion of functions in the animal body. The latter's elab- orate apparatus of bony and muscular structure, of nutri- tive and circulatory functions and of specialized senses, all interrelated in a maze of simple and compound reflex ner- vous circuits, forms a microcosm which excites the amaze- ment of every intelligent student. But one is lost in won- der when he penetrates beyond the physiological organ- ization into the biological realm and begins to consider the microscopical constitution and organization of the highly specialized cells of which these several organs arc com]iosed. The body of man duplicates the essential functions of the animal organism, while in the human brain it comes to be a veritable marvel of unity in complexity, wherein the reflex and instinctive nervous organization of the animal, suitably modified, is crowned with a dome of grey matter, the subtile intricacy and delicacy of whose organization constitutes the miracle of the material universe. It is a material instru- ment which places at the disposal of man a vast range and variety of possible reactions upon his environment. In some mysterious way it is intimately related to conscious- ness, using the word in its narrower and more usual mean- ing; and in an equally mysterious way it seems closely con- nected with that capacity in which man so far excels all lower creatures — the power to retain and revive past in- dividual experiences.
This leads me to observe that corresponding to this rising scale of organic complexity there is a parallel psychical de- velopment. We are at a loss to characterize the mode of life of the vegetable kingdom; but we are safe in assuming that, properly speaking, it is not a psychical life. There is nothing in the plant corresponding to consciousness in the ordinary sense of that word. Those who take con- sciousness to be a universal quality or mode of life, must, of course, make it co-extensive with life; and must, there- fore, maintain that there is a vegetable consciousness. But
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in the sense in which the word is used throughout this book it is not apphcable in that realm. Can the Hfe of the lowest forms of animal organisms be regarded as psychical? Is consciousness, in the ordinary acceptation of the word, found in those protoplasmic beings which are not killed when divided, but each of whose parts persists as an independent being? Here we are on debatable ground; but we may be sure that whatever consciousness may be there, if any, is of an exceedingly low order — so dim, diffused and con- fused as hardly to merit the name. In the higher species of animals consciousness is unquestionably present; but there is every reason to believe that it is still quite vague and indefinite, and plays a subordinate role in their history. Their activities are dominated by automatisms, reflexes and instincts, and whatever consciousness is connected with these activities is not, except in a very low degree, con- trolling; but in the main is merely accompanying and ob- servant. Angell remarks that " we shall find conscious- ness at those points where there is incapacity on the part of the purely physiological mechanism to cope with the de- mands of the surroundings. If the reflexes and automatic acts were wholly competent to steer the organism through- out its course, there is no reason to suppose that conscious- ness would ever put in its appearance." ^ As the autom- atisms and reflexes prove inadequate to adjust the organism to a varied and changing environment there is developed the cortex of the brain, which in one of its important functions may be likened to a highly complicated switch-board. By means of this, an incoming stimulus, instead of running mechanically over a fixed path to predestined motor results, can be switched on to any one of a great number of motor tracks, or may be simultaneously connected with several systems of motor nerves commanding the activity of as many bodily organs. Or the stimulus may be totally in- hibited, in which case it is dissipated in a general and more or less violent agitation or tension of the entire nervous 1 " Psychology," p. 58.
VOLUNTARY ACTION I9I
system. In either case the significant thing is that it is controlled. But how ?
]\lan has the unique power of retaining his past experi- ences in the form of mental images and of using them rep- resentatively, of combining them in lengthy series of con- cepts and judgments, in the light of which he deals with new situations as they arise. This is rationality. When stimuli of variant and often contradictory tendencies come into his experience and compete with one another, these ideas in which his past experience is stored up are revivified and under their guidance he resolves the conflict — he chooses. This choice follows upon suspense (the arrest of the motor response), however brief, and deliberation (the weighing against one another of the relevant considerations arising from past experience) ; and it precedes the liberation of the impulse along a certain motor path. It is the end of the deliberating process, which is intellectual, and the beginning of the acting process, which is motor — the point at which the one process passes into the other. Some impulses are inhibited and others are given the right of way ; or some compromise is effected and the antagonistic impulses are unitedly turned in a direction different from that in which either was tending. The action is directed, controlled by the mental life as organized in individual experience, i. e., by the personality ; and exactly herein lies the unique, char- acteristic quality of voluntary action. A reflex action is not voluntary. I do not will to withdraw my hand when it comes in contact with a coal of fire, though I may will not to withdraw it. A purely instinctive action is not volun- tary : a man does not ivill to flee from a lion which is charg- ing upon him. nor are the successive co-ordinations of his muscles in the process of flight acts of will. Voluntary action is that in which the reflexive and instinctive activities are in some measure brought under the deliberate control of intelligence.
The relation of will to a series of reflexive or instinctive actions may be simply that of initiation. We may volun-
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tarily start a foreseen train of such actions and then it is fair to call the whole series voluntary. When a base-ball player runs a base there may be but one act of volition, a setting off a whole train of reflexive-instinctive muscular contractions, but we rightly call the whole complex act of running the base voluntary. Habitual actions may likewise be voluntary, in that they may represent original choices in the formation of the habit; and after the habit has become fixed a train of habitual acts may be voluntarily initiated, " touched off," as it were, by a single volition, as when a pianist begins to play a piece of familiar music. But always and everywhere, if the action is truly voluntary, it must be, either mediately or immediately, the result of choice and under the direction of intelligence, the organized indi-« vidual experience, the personality.
II. A second fundamental fact of life must be consid- ered if we would properly appreciate the significance of the function of will. To Bergson chiefly we owe the keen realization of the forth-reaching, onzcard-moving character of life. Duration or time is its element, change is its process. It is essentially transitive and dynamic, the very antithesis of the static. At each instant it tends to pass, and is passing, from one state into another. This charac- teristic becomes more pronounced as the level of life rises. It is more obvious in the animal than in the vegetable ; more manifest in man than in the beast. Increase the volume of life, and its " urge," its forward tension, its projection (elan) seems to increase i)roportionately. We may question, in- deed, whether it does not increase in geometrical rather than in arithmetical ratio. Perhaps its nearest analogue is the law of physical motion — the momentum is the mass multi- plied by the velocity. Life and its manifestations are not, of course, like material objects and movements, capable of mathematical formulation. But certainly with its on- ward movement, its transition through time, it normally develops in volume, and, with its fuller development, its
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dynamic forward trend, its self-projection into the future, increases in energy.
What is of even greater importance is that the onward movement of life not only increases in energy as it attains to higher levels, but is more and more consciously directed towards ends. It is telic from the beginning in the sense that it is moving towards ends ; but on the lower levels the striving, so far as individual organisms are concerned, seems to be blind. The ends are not anticipated, not fore- casted ; the goal toward which the energies are directed is not present in the form of an idea in consciousness. In- deed, as we have already pointed out, consciousness does not seem to exist in the sub-animal forms of life, and pos- sibly not in the very lowest of the animal forms ; and in the higher of them it is certainly vague and nebulous. The illumination of consciousness in the sphere of the inverte- brates may be likened to that of a starless night, and in the higher beasts probably never rises above the relative inten- sity of starlight. In a consciousness so highly developed as that of a dog, " coming events may cast their shadows be- fore," provided they are quite near in time, but then in all probability only as dim apprehensions, vague fore-feelings. How different with man ! Probably in no respect is the nor- mal human consciousness more sharply differentiated from the indefinite psychic life of the lower creatures. Man looks ahead. He forms a quite definite mental picture of the future. He sets ends for his activity ; he constructs ideals. True, his ideals are not always sufficiently in har- mony with reality to be practicable ; and when his ideals are practicable, his power of accompHshment often falls far short of their realization. His forecasts may be cruelly mocked by events which he could neither foresee nor con- trol. Disappointment which often amounts to tragedy is an inevitable incident of this incessant forecasting and planning, and the tension of anxiety often drains off into useless channels the energy which should be devoted to
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achievement, but the forecasting and planning \\411 not cease.
With the extension of experience and the accumulation of ideas in which that is treasured, with the growth of the con- structive imagination, which, from the psychological point of view, is the main line of human development, man projects his life more and more consciously, more and more definitely and with ever-increasing energy into the future, and strives to control its development according to definite plans, and with increasing success. As the future becomes the past, the plans undergo continual modification ; but nor- mally they do not contract but expand and take in further stretches of the future. This is true of individual expe- rience and also of collective life. As a man's personality develops he realizes more keenly that his individuality is a thread in the whole cloth of human destiny which is being woven upon the loom of the ages. He identifies himself more completely with the whole past, the whole present and the whole future of humanity and this lengthens his per- spective, in every direction. His consciousness becomes a focal point of light which penetrates the veil of darkness that shrouds the things that have been and illuminates with steadier and stronger beams the track along which he is moving into the things that are to be. But in the future his interest is more and more definitely located as his develop- ment proceeds, and the past and the present, in the last analysis, claim his attention chiefly because of their pos- sible bearing upon that contingent part of his destiny which lies ahead of him.
Now, voluntary action is that which is directed toward a consciously conceived or imaged end. The forecast of the future is its motive. We might say that instead of being pushed or driven from behind, the voluntary actor is drawn from before ; but then we should be reminded that the idea of the end at which his action is aimed is a fact of present experience, that we cannot really experience the future, which by its very nature lies wholly beyond experience ;
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that one is actually moving forward under the guidance of an idea which is a part of present experience and fashioned out of past experience. This is all true ; and yet the specific quality of this imaged end or goal of action is that it is felt as somehow projected forward; it is a sort of blazed path- way into the chaotic and formless future. It may be fash- ioned out of the elements of past experience, but somehow there has been wrought into its texture a certain quality of fntureness, so to speak, so that in following it one cannot divest himself of the consciousness that he is being at- tracted rather than pushed forward. The head-light may be generated by electric currents coursing the wires which lie back of the engine, but its beams illuminate the track ahead and not behind.
An important distinction between voluntary actions should here be noticed. Every act which involves choice between alternatives and is motived by an end is voluntary ; but acts which have reference to more distant and more general ends have the voluntary character in a higher de- gree than those which have reference to specific ends nearer at hand. A youth deliberates as to whether he will go swimming or attend a ball game, and decides in favour of the latter. His act has the voluntary character. At an- other time he wrestles with the question, which of two col- leges offering different advantages he will attend, and this is only a particular phase of the larger problem of his life- work — whether he will be a lawyer or a minister ; and he decides with reference to that. This act has the volitional quality in a higher degree. Again, he faces the still larger question of the general meaning of life — what character his life as a whole shall bear, whether it shall be devoted to some small private end such as the gaining of money, or to some large and generous purpose such as the advance- ment of the well-being of his fellow-men. When he has made up his mind as to this fundamental question he deter- mines the specific issues as they arise according to their relation to this general scheme of life. Such conduct has
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the voluntary character in a yet higher degree. In the three successive situations his action calls into play the personality in a larger and more intensive way — expresses larger measures of self-determination. The more remote and general an end, the attainment of which involves the use of a longer series of means and a more persistent mental attitude, the more distinctive and pronounced is the volun- tary character of the action or series of actions leading up to it ; because they are the expression of a personality more highly organized and unified, and acting as a whole. As the personality becomes more highly developed, organized into a unity around some central and dominating i)urpose, it moves upward further from the impulsive, instinct-contr'oUed level of life towards the level of thoroughly rational activity. The instincts remain in operation ; but their activities are correlated within a great intelligent plan, harnessed like mettlesome steeds to the chosen task of life and directed by a masterful purpose.
It is not the purpose of this chapter to attempt an answer to that question which has been mooted since man began to reflect upon the problem of his own life — is the will free? But to pass on without a definite statement as to this matter would seem evasive. The trend of psychological thinking is toward the affirmation of a limited and conditioned free- dom. The activity of the present can never be wholly un- related to the activity of the past. In a very real sense our ability to act now is conditioned by what we and our ances- tors have done before ; in fact, is conditioned by the whole past activity of the universe as it is registered in the cir- cumstances which now environ us. But this is far from implying that the universe, including each individual life, is a closed mechanical system and that every thought of the mind, every feeling of the heart, every choice of the will, finds its explanation in the law of the transformation of energy. We do not know, to begin with, that what is called mechanical energy — the real nature of which nobody im- derstands — is a fixed quantity. It is assumed to be and
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our limited experience seems to confirm the assumption ; but our experience is very limited to bear so important and uni- versal a generalization. But granted that it is so ; that fact would not be inconsistent with a real determination of the direction of physical energy by the mind. It is only neces- sary to assume — what seems to be an obvious fact of ex- perience — that psychical energy is distinct from physical energy. Recurring to what was said on a foregoing page as to the likeness of the cortex to a complicated switch- board, it is obvious that the nervous energy released by the stimulation of an afferent nerve may be switched on to any one of a multitude of efferent tracks. Now, why may we not suppose this to be done by a distinct psychical entity, called the mind, without any increase or diminution of the nervous energy? Whether the motor discharge takes place wholly through one group of muscles, or is directed partly upon a definite group of muscles and partly translated into general organic tension, or is converted wholly into emo- tional disturbance, it would be exactly equal to the energy transmitted to the cortex by the afferent nerve, the course it would take being determined by the choosing mind, the will. The brakeman who turns the switch which diverts a train of cars on to one of many alternate tracks neither adds to nor subtracts from the mechanical momentum of the train.
But it may be contended that the act of turning the ner- vous energy into one motor path rather than another is work and involves the expenditure of energy ; and it may be asked, what, then, is this energy which controls and directs the expenditure of the physical energy, and whence comes it? Manifestly it must be either a form of mechanical energy differentiated for this function, or a wholly different and peculiar kind of energy. The former alternative is adopted by the materialist; the latter by the believer in spiritual realities. But the materialistic assumption is wholly gratuitous. Experimental Psychology has not yet been able to show an exact equation between the energy of the stimulus and that of the motor response, much less to
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demonstrate that the whole process takes place without the intervention of an immaterial entity to determine the charac- ter of the response. So long as this is the case it is pre- sumptuous to ask that we discard the testimony of our consciousness in favour of a theory which has no apparent advantage as an explanation and no demonstrable basis in fact.
This leads me to ask, why be so jealous of any hypothesis that squints in the direction of independent psychical caus- ation? The true answer to this goes to the heart of the strenuous objection now offered to the theory of freedom by a certain group of scientific men. Because, on the hypothesis of freedom, it is thought to be impossible to give a scientific explanation of human life. To say that the existence of real freedom renders a science of human nature mipossible and to conclude, therefore, against the existence of freedom is manifestly to beg the whole question. In the first place, there can never be a science of human action based upon a pre-judgment of this fundamental question to begin with ; for this is a renunciation of the scientific atti- tude at the start, and a science, in the true sense of the word, can never be built up by that method. In the second place, the fact of rational freedom, i.e., the existence of a real psychical cause which is not included in a chain of inevitable sequences, does not necessarily imply that its action will be capricious, inconsequential, incalculable. It is surely conceivable that the decisions of a rational mind, although uncaused by antecedent events, should neverthe- less be orderly and regular, explicable and calculable, if all the conditions in view of which they were rendered were known. Is it absurd to suppose that the actions of a mind that was free and therefore rationally guided would be rationally explicable? May there not be order without necessity?
Indeed, it is fair to ask whether necessity is not an illu- sion, rather than freedom. May not the attribution of necessity to the sequences which we observe in the material
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world be best accounted for by the limitations of the observ- ing mind and the imperfection of the observation? Maybe it is because we observe these from the outside and cannot observe them from within that we read mechanical neces- sity into them. Certainly so far as we know, every phe- nomenon of the world which we call material may be in reality a determination of a free will. Perhaps what ap- pears to us, looking on from without, to be a necessary event resulting from a mechanical cause would, if we could interpret the process from the inside, appear in its true character as a psychical determination motived by a " be- cause." At bottom it is a question not of regularity or order, on the one hand, and of irregularity and chaos, on the other; but of the nature of the nexus between two succes- sive phenomena. Why does this situation follow that which regularly precedes it? Mechanical necessity, says the materialistic determinist. And yet he can hardly make quite clear what he means by the phrase. An intelligible universe is not necessarily a universe of necessity. The affirmation of a universe of mechanical necessity is a form of pure metaphysical dogmatism which has its origin in devotion to physical science, coupled with shallow think- ing. All that is necessary to render a science of life pos- sible is that we should be able to correlate its phenomena according to some definite principle ; but that principle need not be mechanical necessity ; it may be free rationality. It is a fact of the utmost significance that in the only case in which it is possible for us to study the process of change from within, freedom is given as a primary datum of expe- rience ; while in the case in which we study phenomena wholly from without, we have an almost irresistible tendency to read mechanism and necessity into them. At one extreme of experience lie our self-conscious activities ; at the other, the observed processes of the material world. Midway between are our observations of the actions of other persons. In the first we can hardly convince our- selves, except in theory, that we are not free ; in the second.
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it is even more difficult to convince ourselves that there is any freedom ; in the third we attribute freedom by what I shall venture to call instinctive inference, by reading our own consciousness of freedom into the similar actions of others, unless we assume an immediate, intuitive knowledge of other minds. In other words, the further removed from our immediate cognition the inner principle or cause of change is, the more it assumes the appearance of mechanical necessity.
It would seem that the obvious fact just stated would excite suspicion of the correctness of our interpretation of the changes in the external world, of which we have only an external, mediate and remote knowledge at best; rather than weaken our confidence in the testimony of our con- sciousness as to those changes of which we have an internal and immediate knowledge. To read into the changes we observe in external objects a necessity which certainly may be only an appearance due to the limitation of our knowl- edge, and then in defiance of the persistent witness of our own consciousness to cast the shadow of that necessity back upon our subjective experiences, of which we do have first- hand knowledge, is a procedure which cannot be justified in reason. We simply cannot divest ourselves of the con- sciousness that when we choose one of two or more alterna- tives we are free and might have chosen otherwise. It is easy, of course, to say that this consciousness is an illusion due to the fact that we are ignorant of all the nervous processes involved ; but it is far from convincing. The fact is that our ignorance of mechanical process and of the nature of that which we call mechanical energy is very much greater, and our notion of it is much more likely to be mis- taken. The science of natural processes, instead of present- ing facts which authorize this discrediting of common sense, points clearly towards the confirmation of its testimony; and philosophy throws the weight of its most serious consid- erations in the same side of the scale. We are justified in affirming confidently that the ethical life has a real founda-
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tion in the freedom of the human personaHty and that our freedom may be both intensively and extensively developed to greater potentiality.
It is important for those who seek to persuade men to action to acquire as definite a conception as possible of the relation of emotion to voluntary action. If we recall the conditions which cover the origin and intensity of feeling, we shall realize that it must play an important role in the voluntary process. The old view was that feeling gave rise to action, was the spring which set off the voluntary process. Certain psychologists have now reacted to an almost dia- metrically opposite view of their relation. According to these writers the conative tendency, i.e., the tendency to action, is original and primary ; feeling is a resultant and has really no important function in the origination or con- trol of action. It is simply the tone of the organic experi- ence, an accompaniment, and, while it is important in the valuation of the experience, is no more the impelling cause or occasion of action than the shadow of a walking man is the cause or spring of his movement.
The truth seems to lie midway between these extreme views. We may grant that the feeling does not first come into existence and then precipitate action or impel the or- ganism to move. Action may have its ultimate genesis in the nature of the organism as a constitutional tendency to action. I grant that the tendency to act is the essential nature of an organism and that the stimuli of the environ- ment only evoke or liberate or " set off " this tendency. But every stimulation of the organism, certainly every one that is registered in consciousness, evokes a two-fold response — one physical, the other psychical ; one a nervous excitation which tends to issue in a muscular contraction, the other a state of consciousness. Again, the state of consciousness which thus arises also has two aspects, a double " intention " — one objective, the other subjective. That is, the con- sciousness will focahze upon an object, whether it be a thing of sense or an idea ; and at the same time it develops an in-
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ward, subjective reference. There is a realization of the subject which stands over against that object. Every con- scious state, certainly every ordinary one, has this polarity, object-subject ; though conditions may render either the sub- ject or the object more prominent at the moment. Further- more, the meaning of the object for the subject is always a phase of this consciousness, very prominent or very incon- spicuous as the case may be. Now, when consciousness assumes this polar form of the object-subject relation the function is cognitive. When it appreciates the meaning of the object for the subject the function is affective — it is feeling. Simultaneously with the development of this con- scious state the nervous excitation is passing or tending to pass into some form of muscular contraction — some motor response to the stimulus which has occasioned the whole process. The feeling and the motor response are thus con- comitant. It can hardly be said, therefore, that the feeling which accompanies a given act is its motive, or prompts it.
But the facts just stated do not at all imply that feeling has no influence in determining voluntary action. The proc- ess as described does not include certain factors which are characteristic of voluntary action. The specific character- istics of volition are, first, the presence in consciousness of two or more ends ; second, the choice of one of these imaged ends as against the other, which involves more or less of deliberation, i.e., the holding in check of the motor response until the meaning of the several ends for the self shall have been considered; and third, the fiat or resolution to realize the one selected, which is followed by the release of the nervous energy in one direction rather than another. Now, each of these ideas of ends is accompanied l)y feeling; the deliberation consists in comparing the values of these ends, i.e., their affective meaning for the self; the decision, there- fore, is in the last analysis grounded in feeling.
If there were space to go into further details it could be shown that in other more indirect and remote ways feeling plays a great role in determining voluntary courses of
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action. Moods, those indefinite and more enduring states of feeling, react upon the whole course of mental life, in- fluencing the direction of one's attention, ideating processes and valuations, and so enter as indirect but important factors into choices and decisions. The sentiments, " those organ- ized systems of emotional tendencies centred about certain objects," ^ constitute yet more powerful and pervasive in- fluences which play continually upon our voluntary life and determine its courses more fundamentally than we realize. Of still greater importance are a man's ideals — which have been inadequately defined as ideas plus a strong emotional colouring.2 Sentiments and ideals have been discussed in previous chapters and we need not dwell longer upon them here; but it is important to observe that as the life rises to higher levels, as action falls more and more under the control of far-reaching purposes and general ends and as the personality becomes more highly organized and unified, the sentiments and ideals become more potential fac- tors. Or perhaps the statement should be reversed. The more highly the sentiments and ideals are developed and the more important they become as factors of one's mental life, the more comprehensive become the purposes and the more general the ends which control his action.
Feeling, then, does not play a dwindling part in the vol- untary life as it develops to higher stages. A wise and ef- fective appeal to feeling is necessary if you would secure from men a voluntary response; and if you are seeking to bring those under your influence to choose to live for high and distant and universal ends, one of your first and most important tasks is the development and organization of their emotional life. How this is done is discussed elsewhere in some detail. Here we need only call attention to the ex- tensive control over the development of character and des- tiny which lies in the hands of parents, teachers, preachers and all who in any way work directly upon human person-
1 MacDoiigall, " Introduction to Social Psychology," p. 122.
2 Bagley, " Educational Values," p. 58.
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ality, by reason of their power to establish an abiding asso- ciation of certain feelings with certain objects and ideas and thus to fix the direction of those persistent courses of vol- untary action, which alone lead to notable achievement in any sphere of life.
But another principle of great practical importance must not be lost from view if serious mistakes are to be avoided. While the improvement of the voluntary life consists largely in the organization of feeling-dispositions around certain real or ideal objects, and involves, therefore, frequent ap- peals to the appropriate feelings in connection with these objects, the excitation of excessive feeling in relation to any object whatsoever never secures voluntary action at all. Again and again should it be repeated that, beyond a certain intensity, emotion — no matter what its character — renders deliberation and choice impossible ; the whole psycho-physi- cal organism is thrown into violent commotion or abnormal tension ; the intellectual processes are disturbed or totally hindered ; and the action which results from such powerful stimulation may be a correct index of the reflex or in- stinctive organization, but does not in any true sense repre- sent the personality. In such emotional states we speak of a man being " swept off his feet," or " playing the fool," or " acting silly ;" or we may say he is " beside himself," " he is not accountably for what he says," " he is crazy " or " daft." In more scientific phrase, his personality is for the time being disorganized. From the point of view of volition his actions are chaotic and capricious ; they are not rationally controlled ; they are not co-ordinated toward intelligently selected ends ; they are non-personal and would be of little significance if they did not so often result in positive injury to the moral and spiritual constitution. Such experiences do not normally tend toward the establishment of that bal- ance of the emotional and intellectual processes which is so marked a characteristic of the highest and noblest personal- ities. They tend rather to disturb that balance, to bring the organism under the domination of the reflexive and in-
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stinctive controls of conduct, to reduce to smaller propor- tions the rational control and so to restrict within narrower limits the range and freedom of voluntary action, and this without any compensation in the enrichment of the feel- ings.
Such an emotional disturbance may serve a good purpose in exceptional conditions. Doubtless electrical storms, hur- ricanes and tornadoes, floods and earthquakes, all have nec- essary functions in the economy of nature ; but we neverthe- less count ourselves fortunate when such convulsions and upheavals are rare. They indicate that the equilibrium of cosmic forces has been lost and can be regained only by violent readjustments, which imperil many interests; and however necessary they may be, leave behind them a trail of wreckage and death. Sometimes abnormal processses are required to correct abnormal conditions, though it is by no means always so : and when they are, the sooner they can be dispensed with the better. So it is with storms of emotional excitement.
The public speaker, and especially the preacher, should be a man of strong will. What does that expression mean? Often it means in common speech a man of powerful im- pulses ; but while a man of powerful impulses acts vigor- ously, he may not have a strong will. A strong will is one in which powerful impulses are subject to an equally power- ful self-control. The impulsive and inhibitive factors of personality should balance one another; but both must be strong to make a strong will. The man of energetic im- pulses and weak self-control is " wilful," which means that he is unreasonable, that he is disproportionately feeble in the intellectual and directive functions of his personality. Sometimes we call him " head-strong " — an expression which is singularly infelicitous, because his strength is em- phatically not in his head. The more accurate, though much less elegant, characterization of him is " bull-headed." But a man's impulsive nature can hardly be too energetic if the inhibitive functions are in due proportion. The greatest
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public speakers have been notable in this respect. Their powerful impulses enable them to stir an audience; but their equally powerful self-restraint, while making the impression of reserved force, checks unhealthy excesses. They make a balanced and proportionate appeal to the emotional and in- tellectual faculties of their hearers. They react with great energy upon their audiences, but they react upon the whole nature of those under their influence.
The preacher should aim above all else at eliciting a vol- untary response from those to whom he appeals. The lawyer before a jury seeks a verdict that will acquit or con- demn, according to his relation to the prisoner. He is not interested primarily in the mental processes by which the jurors reach the desired decision. He is interested in the jury only as an instrumentality by which an end is to be reached which lies wholly beyond them. Too often the pol- itician also seeks to secure a response from the people with- out any concern as to the character of the mental processes involved. This is the specific mark of the demagogue. Some- times the same spirit of demagogism invades the pulpit and the minister seeks a response from his congregation with little solicitude as to the character of the mental processes by which he secures " results." Visible results are the end. But he may not be aware that visible results secured by cer- tain methods may be accompanied by very disastrous in- visible results. The preacher is interested, and interested primarily, in the character of the psychical processes by which he gets results, because his " jury " is not a means to an ulterior end ; the development of character is his objective, if he is a true minister. If any ulterior motive sways him he should instantly leave the pulpit.
Popular applause, excited demonstrations, numerous pro- fessions of religion do not necessarily imply that men have been stimulated to the intelligent consideration of great ethi- cal and religious issues and to choices which have turned their lives in new directions. These visible results have often been accomplished in ways which hindered the char-
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acteristic processes of the will and left the personality weaker than before. We may say without exaggeration that in overt responses to religious appeals everything depends upon the character of the mental processes which lead to these responses. Are the responses intelligent? Do they represent the personality ? To insist that they be rational, the outcome of deliberation, personal in the true meaning of the word, is not to reduce religious experience to a cold and colourless intellectual calculation. I do not hesitate to say that to exclude feeling from religious experience is to de- stroy its character as religious ; but to exclude intelligent deliberation and choice is to reduce it to a mere blind re- action without ethical significance. It was characteristic of the Founder of Christianity that, while making powerful appeals to the deep emotions, he refused to accept a follow- ing which was not the result of serious deliberation and choice. " For which of you, desiring to build a tower, doth not sit down first and count the cost, whether he have wherewith to complete it? Lest haply when he hath laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all that behold begin to mock him, saying, ' this man began to build and was not able to finish.' Or what king as he goeth to encounter an- other king in war. will not sit down first and take counsel whether he be able with ten thousand to meet him that Cometh against him with twenty thousand?"^ And it is certain that no religion can ever be a potent factor in the promotion of the ethical life which does not put heavy em- phasis just here. The emotion is valuable only as it re- sults in intelligent decision.
It is in voluntary action that the real man functions, and the preaching that does not secure this is useless or worse than useless. If the preacher is conscientious, then the more intelligent he is the less will he value superficial and temporary emotional effects, however dramatic and sensa- tional they may be. The transient and meretricious glory in which they envelop him will but add to his repugnance
iLuke 14: 28-31.
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for the pitiable sham of such false pulpit success. He will desire to develop true feeling-; but, with his great Master, he will prefer to check the tides of an unintelligent emotion and drive home upon the minds of his hearers the strenuous difficulties of the spiritual life, to the irrevocable choice of which he is calling them.
CHAPTER X
SUGGESTION
A GENTLEMAN remarked : " The psychologists write learn- edly these days about ' suggestion,' as if they had discovered something new. I have been making ' suggestions ' all my life." The humorous words, not untinged with sarcasm, have exactly as much point as if he had said : " The physi- ologists write learnedly about digestion, as if they had dis- covered something new, whereas I have been digesting food all my life." Processes, of course, must go on long before the science of them grows up. There were living organisms ages before there was any Biology ; vegetation grew un- counted ages before there was a Botany ; men produced and exchanged goods for many centuries before a science of Economics was dreamed of. Critical reflection upon the on- goings of nature and life arose after the world was old, and there are many regions yet into which the search-light of methodical observation has not been flashed. The scien- tific study of suggestion as a distinct psychical process is comparatively recent. It is probable that the study of hypnosis and other kindred abnormal phenomena, so power- fully attractive to the scientific attention, led to the analysis of the normal process of suggestion, just as in many other instances attention to the exceptional has awakened interest in the far more important facts which, because of their familiarity, escaped observation.
The word " suggestion " as used in popular speech is ex- tremely indefinite in meaning. In popular parlance, " to suggest " is about the same as " to indicate," " to point out," " to call attention to." In this vague meaning suggestion is simply the bringing to the mind a presentation which in some way influences or modifies the current of thought;
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and so many definitions have been given it by psychologists that it has little more precision in scientific than in popular usage. However, if all the varying scientific uses of the term be carefully considered, it becomes evident that it points to a fairly definite and highly important class of mental phe- nomena. The essential characteristic of the process in- dicated is that there is brought before the mind a presenta- tion under such conditions as tend to secure its uncritical acceptance. Frequently it is an idea imparted by one per- son to another, and this is the kind of suggestion in which we are particularly interested in this discussion. Or it may be an idea which the mind voluntarily calls up and main- tains in the focus of attention until it dominates conscious- ness, in which case the process is known as auto-suggestion. But however the presentation is made, the point is that it is made under conditions which tend to secure its uncritical acceptance, to give it exclusive right of way in the mind.
Before going further we should draw the important dis- tinction between normal and abnormal suggestion. By normal suggestion is meant the influencing of people through securing their uncritical acceptance of ideas under ordi- nary conditions and by ordinary means. Abnormal sugges- tion is that which is used under the extraordinary condi- tions of hysteria or hypnosis. Hysteria is an abnormal nerv- ous condition very favourable to the uncritical acceptance of ideas; and hypnosis is a state of abnormal suggestibility in- duced by the use of certain kinds of suggestion. Just what that state is nobody really knows. In some respects it strikingly resembles ordinary sleep, and in other respects it is as strikingly dissimilar. The physiological conditions of hypnotism are very obscure, and about all that can be said with certainty as to the psychological conditions is that the self-direction of the subject is reduced to a very low degree ; and when the trance is deepest, almost annihilated, though not quite. The control is transferred to another person, the operator. It is difficult to say whether the mob-state should be characterized as normal or abnormal, according to this
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classification ; but it is unimportant, especially as that class of phenomena will receive special treatment in another chapter. Obviously, whatever exceptional and mysterious features may differentiate these abnormal states and proc- esses from those of ordinary life, the suggestion which is practised in them falls within our general definition — the bringing of presentations before the mind in such a way as to secure their uncritical acceptance.^
But while hypnotic suggestion falls within this general definition, it is nevertheless dififerentiated markedly from all other forms. Usually the subject must co-operate with the operator in the induction of the hypnotic state. He must fix his attention in a given direction or upon a given object, thus narrowing the range of his consciousness, and passively submit himself to the suggestive power of the hypnotist. Such co-operation seems to be generally necessary, except when the subject has been frequently hypnotized by the same operator. Repetition brings him more and more under the operator's influence, and his co-operation becomes less and less necessary, i.e., he graduallly loses his power to resist the influence of the one who has thus become his hypnotic mas- ter. Now and then there may be a case in which a person is at the beginning unable to resist a particular operator ; and in these rare instances, of course, the statement does not hold good that the consent and co-operation of the subject is necessary. But as a general rule it is true.^ This power to fix the attention upon a certain object implies, of course, an important measure of will power, a mental organiza- tion of a fair measure of strength and stability. The im- pression sometimes prevails that weak-minded persons can with ease, while the strong-minded can only with difficulty, be hypnotized. This is not at all the case. Moll says: " The ability to give the thoughts a certain prescribed direc- tion is partly natural capacity, partly a matter of habit, and often an afifair of will. Those, on the contrary, who can by no possibility fix their attention, who suffer from con-
1 Moll's " Hypnotism," p. 55. 2 ibj^.^ p, 55.
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tinned absence of mind, can hardly be hypnotized at all. It is especially among the nervous that a strikingly large num- ber of this class are to be found, who cannot hold fast to a thought, in whom a perpetual wandering of the mind pre- dominates. The disposition to hypnosis is also not espe- cially common among those persons who are otherwise very impressible. It is well known that there are some who can be easily influenced in life, who believe all they are told, upon whom the most unimportant trifles make an impres- sion, nevertheless, when an effort is made to hypnoti;:e them, they offer a lively resistance, and the typical symptoms of hypnosis cannot be induced in them,"^ It seems then, as Moll intimates, that persons of weak mental organization are easily influenced by normal suggestion, by reason of the very conditions that render them intractible to the abnormal process. The " lively resistance " to the abnormal process offered by those who are so easily influenced in ordinary ex- perience is probably to be explained as a reaction of the or- ganism under the emotion of fear rather than as intelligent, self-controlled opposition. But more anon as to the condi- tions of normal suggestibility.
It is important that we should clearly grasp the funda- mental psychological principles which underlie the gen- eral phenomena of suggestibility. We have previously em- phasized the truth that the function of thinking is to guide the organism in its adjustment to the environment. The image of an act is, it is said, the incipiency of the act — it is accompanied by the innervation of the motor tracts which are brought into play in the performance of the act. There is a tendency for those muscles to contract whose contrac- tions are parts of the act when performed. When one thinks a word there is an innervation of the muscles of the vocal organs used in its pronunciation. When one thinks of walking, especially if the idea is vivid, there starts a nerve current to the muscles employed in that process. " In thinking of a visual object, e.g., of an illuminated sign, there
1 Ibid., p. 51.
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are movements of accommodation and converf:^ence of the eyes, if the person is of the visual type. In thinking of the sound of an orchestra there are changes in the tension of the muscles of the tympanum of the ear, or in the neck muscles," ^ and so on. It follows therefore that every idea of an act will result in the action, unless hindered by a com- peting idea, or ideas ; provided, of course, there is no sub- jective or objective physical impediment that prevents the actual performance of it. no paralysis of the muscles or no material obstruction to the movement. And if the act be thus rendered impossible of execution, there will neverthe- less be a tendency to perform it. Clearly, then, when the idea of an action is imparted to a person under such condi- tions that no contrary idea is brought into consciousness with it, while the normal conditions of movement are pres- ent, the action will inevitably be performed. This general psychological truth has been experimentally confirmed times without number. It is a theoretical truism and an experi- mental commonplace. The idea imparted may, how- ever, not be an idea of an action, and may not directly refer to action at all. But when presented, will be ac- cepted by the mind as true, i.e., as a reliable basis for pos- sible action, unless there is present in consciousness some contrary or inconsistent idea. This proposition has been so much insisted upon in a preceding chap- ter that it is unnecessary to elaborate it here. We need only to repeat that the primary mental function is belief, the acceptance of a presentation as true, and when a pres- entation is rejected as false it is only because there is some- thing in the mental life as already organized which conflicts with it and prevails against it. In order, therefore, to con- trol the belief of a person it is only necessary to introduce an idea into his mind in such a way as to prevent any opposing idea or contrary feeling from coming into his con- sciousness with it; or if any opposing mental content should make its appearance, to effect its suppression.
1 Dunlap, " A System of Psychology," p. 158.
214 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
In addition to these elementary psychological principles, there are two other truths that must be considered in order to understand the phenomena of normal suggestibility. The first is that every organism shows some degree of resist- ance to interference with its autonomy. One of the essen- tial characteristics of an organism is that it has some degree of spontaneity, some capacity for development from within, some measure of autonomy. If it were to lose its autonomy altogether, it would cease to be an organism. Resistance to interference with its autonomy is a manifestation of the in- stinct of self-preservation. The second truth is that the higher the organism stands in the scale of development, i.e., the more complex and the more highly integrated are its functions, the more jealous will it be of its autonomy, the more highly will it appreciate its capacity for development from within, the more stoutly will it resist any encroach- ment upon its independent life. In other words, the more of an organism it is, the more will it value its fundamental character as an organism, the more vigorously will it main- tain and assert this character. The higher the type of or- ganism, indeed, the more dynamic will it be ; not only will its resistance to domination by environing agencies be greater, but its disposition to exert a positive, controlling, shaping in- fluence u])on its environment will increase. According to this principle personalities may be classified as passive, stub- born (resistant), and aggressive. Perhaps a better designa- tion of the second and third types would be " the contrary " and "the creative." Of course, none are absolutely passive — to be so would be ipso facto the negation of personality. Likewise none are absolutely stubborn or resistant; and none are absolutely aggressive. The passive have, of course, some self -activity; the stubborn are in some measure subject to outside influence and exert some measure of posi- tive control over others ; the aggressive may also be in- fluenced to some extent and are under the necessity some- times of maintaining themselves by negative resistance. But
SUGGESTION 21 5
relatively speaking, these three adjectives describe three very distinct types of disposition.
In the light of what has been said we may formulate two fundamental laws of normal suggestibility.
I. Suggestibility varies, other things being equal, in- versely as the insistence of the personality upon maintaining its autonomy. The passive are the most suggestible of the three types. The aggressive have little susceptibility to this kind of influence unless the suggestions given run parallel with their strong passions or settled purposes ; and then their susceptibility will depend upon the degree to which their ra- tional powers have been developed. The stubborn or neg- atively resistant type seem wholly and abnormally preoccu- pied with the desire to maintain their independence. They are " contrary," and this contrariness seems to arise out of the fact that with them the normal tendency to differentiate themselves from others can realize itself not through posi- tive and constructive action, but only by setting themselves in opposition to others. They have a personality highly enough developed to be jealous of its independence, but not highly enough developed to manifest and satisfy self- feeling in creative action. They can maintain the consciousness of personal autonomy only by jealously resisting others. They are not easily susceptible to direct suggestion because they are perpetually on the defensive. As with a besieged city, every avenue of approach is guarded and every gate is locked. They can be taken only by consummate strategy. Suggestions from others arouse opposition simply because they come from others. Being deficient in aggressive, crea- tive energy themselves, they realize that they cannot follow the suggestions of others without sinking into merely passive echoes of their social environment. The only way in which they can be managed is through the method of what may be called counter-suggestion — a suggestion in one direction may be given them in order to awaken their resistance and cause them to react in the opposite direction. To this kind
2l6 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
of suggestion they are, if of low mental grade, quite sus- ceptible.
2. Other things equal, normal suggestibility varies in- versely as the mental equipment and organization. The wider the range of one's ideas and the more thoroughly in- tegrated in an intellectual system they are, the less subject to normal suggestion will one be, other conditions remaining the same. If the store of ideas is a rich and varied one, the greater is the likelihood that there will be in the mental sys- tem something contrary to any idea that may be suggested. This is self-evident. But an equally important considera- tion is that if the collection of ideas is well organized, uni- fied, or correlated into a system there is a greater probability that any suggested idea will awaken and bring into con- sciousness any such opposing idea. This is the great ad- vantage of mental organization, just as it is the advantage of organization in any other realm of life. It is well known and often remarked that a man may have a wealth of resources, but if they are loosely organized they are likely not to be available at the particular moment when they are most needed. A badly organized army, although having a large and splendid body of men with ample equipment, may be defeated by a smaller body of less amply provisioned troops, if the latter is greatly superior in organization. How often does a man exclaim, after committing some fool- ish act, " I ought to have known better — I did know better, but I was off my guard ; I was caught napping." There was in his mind knowledge which, if it had been available at the proper moment, would have saved him from the blunder ; but he " did not think " until it was too late ; and the knowl- edge which ought to have guided action only reflected its vain and belated light back upon the pitfalls which it should have made visible in advance. The ultimate cause of these blunders and vain regrets is that the mental system is lack- ing in adequate organization, so that a given impulse does not call into consciousness all of the contents of the mind which are relevant. From somebody or some
SUGGESTION 217
situation there comes a " suggestion," and, as it does not call forth into the light all the ideas which should be brought into relation with it, it passes on unchallenged into action. Afterwards these ideas come straggling in, led by the string of some chance association, just as if a detachment of troops which had become separated from the main army and did not hear the roar of the cannon should come stumbling by accident upon the battlefield after the engagement had been fought and lost. The physiological basis of this loose men- tal organization, we are told, is the lack of a sufficient number of well-established neural connections between the specialized brain-centres, so that a stimulation of one is not promptly communicated to all the others. However that may be, it is certainly a fact that in people of low mental development there is, on the psychological side, a lack of close correlation between the various groups of ideas ; so that they are readily responsive to normal suggestion, though, on account of their deficiency in the power of in- hibition, they may not be easily capable of the concentration of attention which is necessary for the induction of the hypnotic state. Their normal suggestibility consists in the fact that an idea imparted to them is likely not to call into consciousness ideas that are relevant, and is likely, therefore, to be uncritically accepted and acted upon.
It is important to note that the manner in which one's mental organization has been built up has much to do with his suggestibility. We have previously noted that a mental system which grows up unreflectively — which is non-theo- retical in character — will have many gaps and inconsist- encies in it. The mental structure will be lacking in general coherence and unity. On the other hand, one whose mental system is mainly theoretical in character, i.e., has not been tested in practical experience, will also be deficient, not in unity, but in a certain sense of reality. Usually such a mental system will not be, either in its constituent ele- ments or in their connections with one another, so vividly realized, so " stamped in," as one that has been built up
2l8 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
through both practice and reflection. Reflection bestows upon it a more systematic unity ; practical experience gives actually stronger coherency. Now if one's mental organiza- tion is the result of both practical experience and reflection, he will be less suggestible than if it were chiefly the prod- uct of either theory or unreflective experience. His system of ideas will have greater solidity and persistence, more grip; will more completely dominate the conscious life and, therefore, will have more power to inhibit or expel contrary suggestions.
It is obvious in the light of these " laws of suggestibility " that all men are in some measure suggestible. Nobody has a collection of ideas which comprehends all that are rel- evant to all the suggestions that may be oflfered ; nobody has a perfect organization of his mental contents ; nobody, as al- ready said, is absolutely resistant or aggressive in relation to other persons. Therefore nobody is beyond the reach of the mental influence called normal suggestion. But varia- tions among people in this respect are very great, and there are certain classes which are especially subject to it. Children are by far the most important of these classes. The reasons for their extraordinary suggestibiHty are ap- parent. Physiologically, the child is equipped with the requisite biological automatisms, a series of well established nervous reflexes and a number of more complex nervous co- ordinations, which appear to come into action at suitable stages in its development, but which are much less rigidly fixed than in the young of the lower animals. In addition there is a brain mass which is unorganized and is destined to receive organization in the individual's own experience. On the mental side, there is, corresponding to this physical or- ganization, a large number of sensori-motor reactions and more or less indefinite instincts, which successively develop as the child grows ; but there is not present, of course, any system of ideas, for this is waiting to be constituted in indi- vidual experience. Now, the absence of a system of ideas, of a mental organization built up in personal experience,
SUGGESTION 219
leaves the child without any controls of conduct except those given in its inherited nervous constitution and the sugges- tions that come to it from others. Hence the extensive role which suggestion plays in the life of the child. There is doubtless a primal stage in its mental history in which the distinction between the real and unreal is not apprehended by it, in which it cannot accurately be said to exercise belief, but in which each external impression is simply made upon its mind without being in a conscious way related to others. Gradually sense impressions received in this way form the basis of a mental system ; but long after the process of build- ing up a mental system has begun, the child is almost help- less before suggestion and accepts as real any idea imparted, and acts upon it unless it happens to collide with some in- herited constitutional tendency.
The growth of a mind is like the development of a new country. At first it is open to invasion from every direction, with nothing to determine the character of the incoming peo- ples and nothing to control the distribution of the rapidly increasing population, except the configuration of its surface and the location of its natural resources. Sparse settle- ments are quickly planted here and there, between which, as they grow in size, paths of intercommunication are opened up. Steadily these population centres increase in number and dimension and connecting lines of travel and traffic multiply, until a vast, complex, interrelated society is or- ganized. As the social organization proceeds, the intro- duction of new people and new social influences from with- out is regulated with reference to the possibility of assim- ilating them to the existing system of social life. The in- fantile period of the individual life corresponds to the earlier stages of this development. Into the new country come pouring people from everywhere with little regulation, re- ceived with the open hospitality of the wide, vacant, fertile spaces. Just so the child-mind takes whatever comes to it. It simply cannot critically examine what is told it ; it has no criteria established in its experience by which to judge. If
220 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
it is assured that in fairyland men grow as tall as trees, its own experience may have become extensive enough to make the statement appear wonderful, perhaps, but not impos- sible ; and maybe its ideas of trees and men are so indefinite and uncorrected that the statement does not cause wonder, much less scepticism. At this stage almost every impres- sion which the child receives comes to it with the force of reality. It is by suggestion alone that its stock of ideas is increased. Instruction of the little one proceeds by sug- gestion, and it is only at a later period and gradually that suggestions, pure and simple, can be replaced by rational processes as the method of teaching. Suggestion in the in- fantile period is the proper method, and there is not about it then the malodorous atmosphere of indirection and eva- sion which is apt to accompany it when used as a means of influencing adults, and this for the simple reason that there is little in the child's mind which it is necessary to evade in order to induce it to accept at once an imparted idea. The indirection and evasion which are associated with sugges- tion, in the technical sense of the word, are usually occa- sioned by the necessity of avoiding hindrances and obstruc- tions which have their roots in the mental system organized in personal life. Very few such impediments are found in the child's life.
Women constitute another unusually suggestible class. This statement must, of course, be accepted with much qual- ification, but as a general proposition it is true. It is prob- ably not due at all to any essential inferiority of the female mind. Into the relative mental ability of the sexes this is not the place to go ; but it may be said that the differences which exist are in all probability mainly functional, i.e., have their origin in the different functions that men and women have fulfilled throughout the history of the race, and seem under the conditions of modern life to be undergoing con- siderable modification, though they can never wholly dis- appear. The sex functions have their basis in, or, it might with equal plausibility be urged, form the basis of certain
SUGGESTION 221
biological differences — at any rate are closely associated with biological peculiarities — which doubtless modify to some extent the mental operations of men and women. But into that somewhat obscure question we are not called to go. The greater suggestibility of women is certainly due in the main to the more limited range of their activities, and to the inferior education which as a rule they have received. From the beginning of human society women have moved in a narrower and more monotonous circle of experience than men, and for ages it was not felt that education was a part of the appropriate preparation for their function in life. They have been regarded as subject to men. In regard to most matters a woman's mental life was simply the echo or shadow of the opinions and beliefs of the men of her group, and, if she were married, those of her husband in par- ticular. To be suggestible was regarded as one of her chief feminine excellencies. In politics, in religion, in general views of life she was expected to reflect the ideas of the men on whom her life was dependent. In certain peculiarly sexual virtues alone was she expected to be superior to them, but at the same time was not expected to be intolerant of their dereliction. The status of women is much the same even today, although it has been greatly modified in some parts of the world.
The education which they have received has been such as fitted in with this conception of their relation to the other sex. It was long after extensive provision for the educa- tion of men had become a settled social policy before schools for women were established ; and then the courses of study provided for them were not selected with a view to the de- velopment of their rational powers, but aimed rather at equipping them with certain " accomplishments " which would supplement their natural graces and reinforce their personal charms, but leave them deficient in mental organ- ization and for the most part innocent of ideas. In some parts of the world a great change, amounting almost to a revolution, has been witnessed in the last forty years. But
222 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
this revolution has as yet only indirectly influenced the lives of the great masses of women.
Under these circumstances it would be remarkable if women were not far more suggestible then men. In mat- ters which lie wholly beyond the range of their experience they, of course, accept with little questioning what they have heard or read, just as everybody does. There are many important affairs in which they take only an indirect or secondary interest, about which they entertain, however, very positive and perhaps intolerant opinions — the reflec- tion of the opinions of their fathers or husbands or broth- ers, or the men to whom they for some reason look for leading. This is true as to politics, theology, and the the- ory of life in general. In these matters women are very suggestible, if the suggestions come from the men who are their acknowledged leaders ; extremely unsuggestible if the suggestions come from some other source and conflict with the authority which they have accepted. Most women have no first-hand interest in such matters. Their primary in- terest is in persons, not theories, and from the persons who enjoy their supreme confidence and allegiance they usually receive uncritically their theoretical views, which are likely to be held with passionate positiveness simply because the personal relations which determine them involve such deep feelings. It is their extreme readiness to receive sug- gestions as to such matters from certain persons which renders them extraordinarily resistant to suggestions from others.
Women are also more subject to collective suggestion than men. Prevalent social standards and codes are more readily accepted by them, and it is alleged that " fashion " is all-powerful with them. Probably men would have diffi- culty in establishing their claim to as great a degree of superiority in this respect as they assume ; but all the con- ditions of their life tend to make women especially sus- ceptible to this form of suggestion. It is quite impossible to explain on any other ground numerous anomalies and
SUGGESTION 223
irrationalities in the fashions of female dress which sud- denly sweep over the civilized world and as suddenly give way to some other " mode," perhaps even more absurd than that which it replaces. But here also is noticeable a limita- tion of their suggcstiblity. If they are disposed to accept uncritically the views of the men who possess their loyalty in matters of theological anl political opinion and the gen- eral theory of life, their minds are quite closed to sugges- tions from the same source as to fashion in dress. Here without question they follow other gods, unless we except a certain class of " new women " who in their ambition to enjoy the privileges of masculinity try to ape the dress of men. Within the range of their experience and knowledge and about matters which they have come to think of as within their peculiar sphere of life, they are no more sug- gestible than men. It is not a question of the comparative mental ability of men and women, but of the comparative range of their experience and interests ; and from the origin of society women have been confined within a much nar- rower and more monotonous circle of life. Always and everywhere persons so situated are readily influenced by means of suggestion, and especially so if the suggestion is concerning matters outside the range of their experience. The mental organization of such persons is of a lower grade, however great may be their natural capabilities. It is in contact with a varied and stimulating environment, either in first-hand experience or through literature — or preferably in both ways — that the mental life becomes highly and pro- portionately organized and susceptibility to suggestion cor- respondingly reduced.
But sometimes it happens that persons who live in an extensive and stimulating environment, who have varied contacts with the world and read much, are nevertheless un- usually susceptible. They have many ideas, but their mental life never loses its chaotic, loosely correlated, ununi- fied character ; and they remain especially suggestible. Doubtless their weakness is due to some constitutional de-
224 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
feet of the brain rather than the lack of proper education. There are, of course, all degrees of defective variation from the normal organization of the brain. Many who are not technically classed as " defectives " are nevertheless not up to the standard of normality. They live among normal people, and participate usefully in the ordinary functions of life and keep their heads above water in the competitive struggle ; but are exceedingly suggestible and are always under the control of more powerful minds, because their mental life can never attain to the unity and coherence necessary for self-direction.
We must turn now to the consideration of the effective methods of suggestion.
I. Normal suggestion, in order to be effective, must be indirect. It must not come as a command. Yielding to a command, whether based upon recognized authority or upon force, is a different thing from accepting a sugges- tion. Even in hypnosis the suggestion is received not as a command based upon recognised authority or force; and in the normal process the distinction is still broader. If the suggestion is given as a command in normal suggestion it at once arouses the resistance of the organism to the abridg- ment of its autonomy. After a person has been brought by some means under the abnormal control of the suggester, the suggestion may be given in the form of a command ; but has a different significance to the subject even then. Under ordinary conditions the suggestion is ineffective if given in a form likely to make the subject feel that the control of an- other is being forced on him, or that he is being made the dupe of another. The more highly developed the person- ality of the subject is, the more necessary is the skilful avoidance of any act or manner which would make the im- pression that there was an intention to interfere with his per- sonal autonomy, the more evident must be the scrupulous respect for his personal independence. To evince a high valuation of the subject's personality adds much to the ef- fectiveness of the suggestion, and in the case of weak or
SUGGESTION 22$
vain persons it may even help for it to take the form of gross flattery. This is one of the well-known artifices of the po- litical demagogue ; indeed, is a favourite method of demagogy in every sphere of life. But with an average audience or an individual of experience it must be used with caution lest it defeat its own ends. It is fatal to make the impression of flattery ; for the paradox holds true that while there is no- body who does not like to be flattered, everybody resents flattery and despises the flatterer. But when attempting to exert suggestive influence upon a highly developed person- ality the visible indirection of the method is, perhaps, even more fatal to success than a direct efl^ort to control him. In any case the indirection should not be obvious to the subject. Hence it is that a most effective method often is a great show of frankness and straightforwardness, which is the very perfection of indirection.
But indirection is essential to the effectiveness of nor- mal suggestion not only because it respects personal inde- pendence, but because it avoids arousing into activity what- ever contents of the mind may be opposed to the idea sug- gested. The idea which is presented directly is far more likely, under normal conditions, to call into consciousness ideas of an opposing tendency. It comes boldly knocking at the front door and will not be likely to gain admittance with- out at least waking up the inmates of the house and increas- ing the chances that it will be challenged before crossing the threshold. If the idea is presented in such a way as to make the person feel that it has occurred to him, is the product of his own mental activity, it has the advantage of enlisting self-respect on its side, and this adds greatly to its suggestive force.
2. It is important to secure the confidence of the sub- ject. To do this the first essential is to make the impression that the suggestion comes from a disinterested source. If in making the suggestion there is any indication that the sug- gester has a personal end to attain the effect is, of course, at once fatal to success. If the impression is conveyed that
226 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
the person imparting the idea is not only without a personal interest to serve, but is positively devoted to the interest of the one he seeks to influence ; if he can appear to be sacri- ficing some personal interest, he can enormously increase the force of his suggestion. He not only disarms criticism and opposition but arouses sympathy and wins afifection, which lends a great moral force to his suggestions. This is based upon the well-known fact, which reflects the highest credit on human nature, that disinterested devotion to the welfare of others confers a mighty moral authority. It is not strange that men who are moved by motives less divine should often wear the livery of love, sometimes, perhaps, without fully realizing the ethical significance of what they are doing. The politician magnifies his service to the peo- ple. Sometimes the preacher magnifies not his calling, as Paul did, but his sacrifices and hardships, only half con- scious, let us hope, that he is thus seeking an influence with the people which will lead them to be more tolerant of his shortcomings and derelictions, more uncritical in the accept- ance of his favourite notions and, possibly, disposed to con- tribute more freely and less questioningly to his material support. But whether the impression of disinterested devo- tion be the result of artful design or not, it is an important condition of suggestive power.
A second important method of securing the confidence which gives force to one's suggestion is to make the im- pression that one is a recognized authority on the subject of which he speaks. Give one prestige in any walk of life or in any department of thought, and it imparts a strange sug- gestive force to what he says. A man achieves a world- wide reputation as a chemist, and the masses of men accept unquestioningly his declarations on chemical subjects, how- ever improbable they may be. A man who has come to be the acknowledged leader of his political party will find that his words carry in the minds of the people a weight alto- gether out of proportion to their reasonableness or his real wisdom. The people often listen with rapt attention to one
SUGGESTION 227
who has acquired a wide reputation as a great preacher, even though his utterances may be very commonplace and would be so regarded if they came from an obscure man. Eminence gives to a person's utterances extraordinary weight even about matters concerning which he has no ex- pert knowledge or special skill. Distinction, reputation, high position give authority, predispose people to belief, tend to allay doubts and questionings, and induce uncritical acceptance of the statements which come from so impres- sive a source. It is a popular susceptibility to this form of suggestion which gives to great leaders in any line of thought or activity a power over the uncultured populace that is so extensive, so absolute and so permanent, and that is often so sadly in excess of their personal worth and abil- ity. A man of mediocre ability may by shrewd self-adver- tisement acquire on this ground an authority in religious and political bodies which would be laughable were it not so serious in its practical import. Sometimes a veritable char- latan secures in this way a greater influence over many peo- ple than men of sound character and ripe wisdom can ac- quire. It would, however, be a capital mistake to draw from these facts an inference prejudicial to democracy; for we must remember that under a system of absolutism the monarch by reason of his exaltation possesses extravagant suggestive power over the masses of the people, and at the same time is, himself, by the very conditions of his life and training, often peculiarly suggestible along certain lines; and cunning self-seekers flourish by exploiting this weakness of the sovereign, and their machinations are carried on in secret and are not given the publicity which they cannot wholly avoid in a democracy. Sooner or later publicity will destroy the power of a mere demagogue. " You can- not fool all the people all the time."
Often, however, a man's suggestive power rests upon a foundation more secure than mere reputation or popular prestige. It may be the result of some peculiar and unde- finable quality of his personality. Some men have a strange
aa8 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
power to cast a spell over others. It is popularly called " personal magnetism," though that is by no means a de- scriptive phrase, only a name for our ignorance. Some- times it seems to be a charming winsomeness that takes us willing captives ; sometimes we feel a contagious enthusiasm which, like a pervasive warmth, penetrates and thaws out the frost of our indifference, or even our opposition ; some- times we find ourselves quietly submitting without a struggle to the sheer dominating strength of a personality, as to a mighty force of nature against which we feel it vain to strive. But whatever form this power takes it seems to master us by the inhibition of our individual rational powers, so that the ideas of the masterful personality are grafted upon our pliant minds. A far more useful and socially val- uable type of personality is that which influences us not by inhibition but by stimulation. Some men seem to wake up all that is latent in our own personalities. In their pres- ence we seem to be most truly and fully ourselves. But the kind of personal force we have been describing is that which, though it may induce in us pleasant feelings, limits or suspends in some degree our self-activity. It is not pleasant to realize that such personal force may be found in connection with personal unworthiness ; but there certainly does not seem to be any fixed and invariable connection be- tween such qualities and ethical soundness of character, and frequently the demagogue and the charlatan are personally almost irresistible. But whether men so gifted be good or bad, they are able to cast their spell on individuals and audi- ences and sway them by the power of suggestion. Their presence and bearing secure confidence by driving out of the field of consciousness for the time being all opposing ideas.
Still another method of securing the confidence of the subject is to begin on common ground with him ; emphasize beliefs which he holds and particularly those which he holds with especial tenacity; encourage his peculiar prejudices and predilections. This is highly effective, whether it be an
SUGGESTION 329
individual or an audience one is seeking to influence sug- gestively. The prepossession which it creates in one's favour renders the subject uncritical, forestalls or weakens the force of any objections which may chance to arise in the mind. Persons who have intense prejudices, and ill-bal- anced people who place excessive emphasis upon certain pet notions, doctrines or theories, are peculiarly susceptible to suggestion by this method; and who has not his irrational convictions, adhesion to which seems to him the surest guaranty of rationality, and his favourite doctrine or theory which seems to him to be the very axis of the sphere of truth? The skilful suggester, approaching him on this '* blind side," stands an excellent chance of inserting some idea into his mind and securing its uncritical acceptance; for surely, the subject feels, one who is wise enough to share this prejudice and has insight enough to appreciate the car- dinal truth of this doctrine or theory can be trusted to have safe and sound ideas in general.
3. The fact has previously been mentioned that all men are in some measure subject to suggestive influence; but there is one condition under which all men are easy victims. Any person who is under the sway of a strong emotion or a mighty passion is extraordinarily suggestible in the general direction of that emotion or passion. Suppose an incident has occurred which has excited in a man the fear that his house may be burglarized. One need only whisper to him in the night that a burglar is in the house in order to start him out with bated breath and with pistol in hand to sur- prise and shoot the intruder. A man who is consumed with the passion of political ambition needs only to be told by a few friends that he is the logical candidate for the legis- lature or the governorship to plunge with confident en- thusiasm into the campaign. Those few favouring voices are multiplied in his too willing ears to the volume of a loud popular demand. The girl who is really in love with a young man accepts with unquestioning faith the slightest assurance that his character is irreproachable. The people
230 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
who have been stirred to deep resentment by the knowledge that illegitimate influences have been exerted by special in- terests upon their representatives in the government are apt to accept without examination every charge of bribery and corruption; and the artful demagogues know only too well how to avail themselves of the heightened popular sug- gestibility in order to cast a fatal suspicion upon the true friends of the people's interests. The emotion or passion in such cases acts as a powerful inhibition of all contrary ideas, narrows the field of consciousness and gives particu- larly free right of way to the appropriate suggestion. The idea which prompts to action in the line of the emotion or passion is like a boat which is rowed with the stream, while the ideas of a contrary tendency must breast the momentum of the current. It is evident that, since almost every man has some pronounced emotional tendency and is the subject of some master passion, most people are easily influenced by suggestion if only the proper line of approach to the citadel of their personality can be discovered. Hence one of the most effective ways of inducing suggestibility is to stir the emotions, inflame the passions of the subject.
4. Repetition is often necessary to render suggestion effective. It appears that the motor effect of the idea ac- cumulates with successive repetitions. The motor impulse imparted by the suggestion does not pass away immediately, and if before it dies out completely the strength of the second impulse is added to the remaining strength of the first, the pressure increases, like the weight of an accumu- lating mass of water against a dam. Manifestly when repetition is necessary, the suggested idea has met with some degree of resistance. There is often in the mental situation some contrary tendency which does not spring from clearly conscious reasons. It may be some idea or " reason " which is not at the time in consciousness, but whose influence is projected into the conscious field ; or it may be the mere iilind " pull " of a disposition or a habit ; but when the suggestion meets with this sort of resistance, it is important
SUGGESTION 23I
to prevent any definite contrary ideas from becoming con- scious, until the suggested idea by this cumulative effect can over-bear this blind obstruction. If in this way the obstruction is not soon overcome ; if the process of sugges- tion is discontinued so long as to lose cumulative motor effect, one, or perhaps both, of two results will follow. First, the law of habit will intervene to give greater relative strength to the resistance. We say sometimes that a man has become " hardened " to certain influences. His re- sistance may not be based upon any definite reasons but he becomes more and more indifferent to such appeals. This blind momentum of his nature, having prevailed again and again against counter influences, has become practically immovable. Second, if the suggestion fails and is discon- tinued, there is always the probability that ideas which at first were operative only in a sub-conscious way will rise into clear consciousness and become far more powerful as definite reasons against the suggestion. But this leads to the consideration of a matter which we must now dis- cuss in some detail.
Repetition should not be continuous nor occur with too much regularity. In the first place, it soon becomes, under ordinary conditions, intolerably wearisome. I have heard of an evangelist whose entire discourse on one occasion con- sisted of the repetition, in different tones of voice and with endless variations of emphasis, of one single passage of scripture which described in terrible terms the perdition of the wicked. The effect was said to have been startling. But in that particular case the religious excitement had been running high for several days and the conditions were extraordinary. Ordinarily such a procedure would prove a fiasco. In the second place, the repetition, if it occurs at such regular intervals as to attract attention to the regii- larity, will cause a diversion which will tend to destroy the effect ; and it will also excite the suspicion of artful design, which will prevent success. The oftener it recurs regularly without success, the less will be its power. The law of
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habit-formation will see to that. If the suggestion be re- peated by ditiferent persons at irregular intervals, in such a way as to avoid making the impression of collusion, the sug- gestive effect is heightened. We are familiar with the stock illustration of the power of a suggestion repeated in this way. A man walks down the street in the morning feeling in excellent health. He meets a friend who remarks, " Why, what is the matter? You do not look at all well this morning." From time to time throughout the day other friends make the same or similar remarks concerning his appearance. In the evening the man returns home looking and feeling unwell. There is added to the cumulative effect of mere repetition the massive effect of collective sugges- tion. The same declaration made by two men is more im- pressive than the declaration made twice by one man ; and the repetition of a statement by a thousand persons may be overwhelming, while a thousand repetitions of it by one person might be wholly ineffective. Beyond a certain point, which is soon reached, repetition by the same person ceases to add force, if it does not excite suspicion or disgust. But the greater the number of persons who concur in the affirmation of any proposition, the greater becomes its sug- gestive power. However, collective suggestion will receive consideration later on and need not be dwelt upon here.
5. Suggestion aims at immediate or speedy effects. Its effectiveness is usually in proportion to the immediateness of the response. The reason is obvious. In normal sug- gestion the lapse of time increases the opportunity for bringing out all relevant considerations and for a rational examination of the idea suggested, in which it may be in- telligently rejected; or if thoughtfully adopted, its accept- ance will be the result not of suggestibility but of rational activity. It is noticeable that those who rely upon sugges- tion as a method of influencing others usually insist upon immediate action, while those who instinctively resist this kind of influence usually insist upon postj)onement of action, and it is a healthy instinct. The desire to postpone action
SUGGESTION ^33
may be, and often is, the result of moral inertia, or of a habit that has enfeebled the will, or of a positive inclination in a wrong direction. This is so often the case that one hesitates to say anything to encourage the deferring of action in response to an appeal. But it is nevertheless true that, if the response is one of thoughtless impulse, a mere nervous reaction under the power of suggestion, its ethical value is naught. The only antidote for an enfeebled will is to stimulate to voluntary action, the rational control of con- duct; and an immediate motor reaction induced merely by suggestion only adds to the enfeeblement of the will. There is no curative power, no redemptive virtue in it. One is thus often precipitated into action which is subsequently deplored and can only with difficulty be reconsidered; or committed to a position from which he would gladly recede but cannot without self-stultification ; and so goes on through life embarrassed and morally compromised by the conscious- ness of standing in false relations. This exactly describes the situation of thousands who today are enrolled as mem- bers of Christian churches ; and, while it enables the churches to make a brave show as to numerical strength, is one of the chief causes of the comparative lack of power of organized Christianity. I make bold to say that the dis- astrous results of this false psychological method are more general and more irremediable in the realm of religion than anywhere else.
The very terms of the definition as well as the whole fore- going discussion imply that there is an art of suggestion. That art is, consciously or unconsciously, used in a great variety of circumstances in practical life. The huckster vending his wares, the politician seeking votes for his party, the lawyer pleading before a jury, the veteran in vice tempt- ing his companion to go astray, the drummer seeking an order, the salesman behind the counter, the advertiser in the newspaper (perhaps this is the field in which the art is most systematically employed and most highly developed), and others in various lines of activity too numerous to mention
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make use of this art. It is also obvious from what has been said that it may sometimes be legitimately used for worthy purposes. But while it is freely granted that it has its spheres of legitimate use, it is also true that those spheres are limited. It is brought under suspicion by the very fact that it aims at the tmcritical acceptance of the presentation. There is in it a certain lack of openness and straightforwardness. It is not exactly a form of mental burglary; but when one is dealing with adults it procures assent, belief and action — captures the mind — by indirec- tion and evasion.
This characteristic sharply dififerentiates suggestion from persuasion. Both aim at influencing the belief and action of another; but the methods are very different, if not directly opposite. Persuasion seeks something more than uncritical assent and unreflective action; its objective is rational con- viction and action, which is the reaction of the nhole mind. Its method, therefore, is to face all the essential issues, to meet and fairly allay all opposing considerations by open reasoning. In persuasion, appeals to the feelings are legiti- mate, important ; but the appeals must be made in the light of all the relevant facts and conditions. In suggestion the eflfort is to avoid arousing the self of the person into full activity, often to reduce his self-activity to a minimum, and thus to graft one's own idea or purpose on to his mental life. In persuasion the effort is to help another in his self-activity to reach a rational and satisfactory conclusion, by a skilful and truthful presentation of the favouring and opposing considerations. This is the ideal, but of course persuasion often falls short of this ideal ; it may degenerate into an illegitimate appeal to motives which should have but a small influence, if any, in determining the decision — a form of pressure which over-bears the reasons which ought to be determinative. Or the temptation to adopt the method of suggestion may become too strong, and the persuader seek to win his point by diverting attention from considerations which it would be inconvenient for him to meet by counter-
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vailing arguments. But when the resort is made either to irrational passion or to suggestive indirection, the high func- tion of persuasion is abdicated ; and that surely is the true function of preaching. The ancient prophet represented Jehovah as issuing his broad and open invitation to men in these v^^ords : " Come now, and let us reason together." The great apostle of the Christian epoch uses even more emphatic language: "but [we] have renounced the hidden things of dishonesty, not walking in craftiness nor handling the word of God deceitfully; but by manifestation of the truth commending ourselves to every man's conscience in the sight of God." Again he says, " we persuade men." No nobler activity can engage one's mind than the per- suasion of men to right action, and the fruition of such endeavour is the sweetest and most satisfying to which men can attain. Let the preacher, above all men, cultivate a scrupulous conscience as to the psychological method which he uses ; and, guarding against all cheap and false substi- tutes, keep himself faithfully to his function and make his appeals to the rational nature of men.
This duty is emphasized by the fact that the conditions under which convention requires that preaching usually be done render the method of suggestion peculiarly easy. No reply, no questioning, no interruption is permitted.
CHAPTER XI
ASSEMBLIES
When a number of persons are assembled the mental processes of each are modified, so that his feeling, thinking and acting are different from what they would be were he alone. Each is more or less conscious of the presence of the others, and this consciousness affects in some measure his general mental state; this modification of his mental state is reflected, however slightly, in his bearing and action, and, in turn, reacts upon the mental state of those in his presence. There is initiated at once a series of interactions between the persons assembled which can not stop until they are again dispersed. This class of psychic phenomena is of peculiar interest, and increasingly so in this age of dense massing of population and of great popular gatherings.
We may for convenience divide assemblies into several classes. The two chief classes we shall distinguish accord- ing to the absence or presence of a common purpose in the coming together of the people.
I. There is the purely accidental concourse. A number of persons find themselves near to one another by accident, as each pursues his individual way. They are there with no common purpose, and have no other sort of common interest in being there. They have spatial unity, so to speak ; they are in the same locality at the same time, and perhaps this unity is only for the moment. Have they any psychical unity?
Now, the proposition as to mental interaction was stated as universal, but it may fairly be questioned whether it liolds good as to the accidental concourse. When, for instance — to take an extreme case — a number of people, each of
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whom is bent upon his own separate purpose and going his own way, find themselves in juxtaposition on the street, can it he claimed with reason that there results a modification of the mental life of each? Certainly in such a case the interaction is at a minimum; and yet a little careful intro- spection and observation seem to me to show that even under such circumstances the thinking of the individual, although he be absorbed in his own affairs at the time and oblivious of the presence of the others, is not quite the same as it would be if he were isolated. It would seem that there must be some distraction of the attention, even in the case of those most habituated to street life. Rut this does not constitute mental unification. It is probable that there is also some more positive subconscious influence resulting from the presence of others. This is, however, a matter of only theoretical interest and may be passed by. From the psychological point of view the matter of chief im- portance about such chance assemblies is that they may be so easily converted into crowds with a decided mental unity. A slight incident may arrest the passing throng on the sidewalk and focus the attention of all; and instantly the interaction of many minds, even if it were wholly absent before, becomes obvious and more or less powerful accord- ing to circumstances. A mob may originate in this way, when the incident which focuses the attention of the throng is of a highly exciting character, especially if it arouses to a high intensity some of the more powerful emotions and some strong leader is ready with the appropriate sugges- tion.
To the preacher the psychology of the street throng is of interest because of the revival of street preaching — a method of reaching the masses which has been so efifectually used by the Salvation Army and is now copied by an in- creasing number of Christian workers. Its efTectiveness consists, first, in the contrast which a religious service and appeal ofifer to the environment of street life, where men are usually engaged in the diligent pursuit of material values.
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The soft, sweet strains of a Christian hymn rising amidst the din and roar of traffic is a most eflfective means of arrest- ing the attention ; and the appeal to men to turn their thought toward the things that transcend time and sense often succeeds, by its very strangeness in such surround- ings, in awakening a thrill in a heart that would under ordinary circumstances be wholly unresponsive. In the second place, the voice of the singer or preacher often falls upon the ears of a passer-by at " the psychological mo- ment " ; for a man is often peculiarly conscious under these conditions of the strain and pressure of life, of the sordid- ness of materialism, of the mocking vanity of a life of trans- gression, of the need of moral cleansing, spiritual consola- tion and support. At such moments his mind and heart are quite susceptible to the religious appeal. But notwith- standing these advantages, street preaching is not easy. Only a few are sufficiently interested to be held ; the urge of business is upon them. Many stop for a moment and then move on, and newcomers are constantly arriving. The speaker addresses a moving procession which swarms by a little nucleus of interested listeners. It is extremely difficult to secure a sufficiently stable group to induce mental unity. The diverting and distracting influences are very hard to overcome. Something is required which excites powerful emotions in order to form a unified psychological group under such conditions.
II. The purposive assembly. In this a group of people are brought together by the same purpose.
Of course, the common purposes which bring crowds of people together are very various and of all degrees of im- portance. The throng gathered to see or hear the " re- turns" after an election; or to pass through the gates to the train at a railway station ; or to gaze at an interesting exhibit or performance at a " fair " — and many others that will occur to the reader — afford profitable opportunities for the study of mass psychology ; but may be passed by as having little significance for the special interest of this dis-
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cussion. Under the general class of purposive assemblies there are two types which it is specially important for us to consider.
I. The inspirational gathering. I shall use the term, in- spirational, rather broadly. I mean by inspirational gather- ing the coming together of people for the purpose of being stimulated or inspired by appeals to their intellectual or emotional nature. It includes, at one extreme, a group as- sembled for mere entertainment ; and, at the other, a class assembled in the lecture room for instruction. Rut in any case the appeal is, with whatever difiference of emphasis, to both the intellect and the emotions.
This kind of assembly has three clearly defined marks. First, it is physically segregated — usually shut up within the walls of a building, though in some cases it meets in the open air. This gives it the unity of locality in such a way as to emphasize the consciousness of unity. The persons so brought together feel their unity all the more from the fact that they are separated as a group from other men, i.e., the local unity itself develops a certain measure of psychic unity. Second, its members have a unity of purpose in being present. Often this sense of common purpose in being together is only relative and indefinite, and in the case of the average church congregation, some of whom are present solely, and many partly, from force of habit, other motives operate which are only remotely related, if related at all, to the purpose which is supposed to have influenced them. However, on the whole, such gatherings have a certain unity of purpose, loose and indefinite as it may be, which constitutes a psychical bond of considerable strength. Third, — and this is a very important characteristic which differentiates it sharply from other kinds of assemblies — its members are there to be entertained or stimulated or influenced in some definite way. They may take part, more or less, in some of the exercises or proceedings, but pri- marily they are drawn thither by the deliberate and con- scious purpose of receiving some intellectual or emotional
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stimulation. Such an assemblage is the audience at a lec- ture, the crowd at a theatre, the congregation at a church. In the latter, however ritualistic or informal may be the serv- ice and however much or little the people may participate in it, their fundamental purpose is to receive religious in- spiration, which they expect to come chiefly from the leader. This receptive attitude is a very significant factor in the psychological situation, an important condition of the psychical effects which may be developed. It manifestly renders it easier to bring about mental unity or fusion than under ordinary conditions. In gatherings of this type we may distinguish three stages of mental unity.
(i) In the primary stage the fusion is low and there is a high degree of self-conscious individuality in the members. There is, as already indicated, a certain degree of mental unity due to the local separateness of the assembly, to the similarity of puri^ose in being present, and to the common attitude of receptivity. But this is all. Each person is self-centred, and there is little common feeling. The critical faculties of each are in the ascendant, and the words and acts of the speaker or leader, in so far as they succeed in securing attention, are coolly weighed in each auditor's mental balances; while the thoughts of those whose atten- tion has not been secured are busily engaged with their personal interests, or idly drifting according to the laws of association, or sinking toward the level of drowsy extinction. Perhaps the interest is keen but predominantly intellectual, and is thus of a character to accentuate the individuality of each and keep the psychic fusion at a minimum. But whether there be an exclusively intellectual activity, or an anarchic wandering of the attention, or a somnolent relax- ation of consciousness, there is little common emotion, very little blending of the separate units into a psychical mass in which each realizes that his mental reactions coincide with those of others. The speaker addressing such a group will feel that his words are falling upon critical or indif- ferent or sleepy ears.
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(2) The secondary stage is marked off from the primary by no hard and fast lines ; but is characterized by the low- ered individuality and the increased mental fusion of the personal units composing the assembly. The intellectual activity of each is less indepenrlent and autonomous, is more limited by a common emotional state into which all have been brought. Emotion has a very important in- fluence upon the activity of the intellect. Up to a certain point it stimulates intellectual action, and beyond that point hinders it more and more ; but whether stimulating, as in its lower degrees, or inhibitive, as in its higher intensities, emotion is always dircctiz'e of whatever intellectual ac- tivities are going on ; because feeling defines, if it does not determine, the line of interest, and it is interest which en- gages the intellect. Consequently in a gathering in which common feeling of considerable strength has been developed the individuals are partly blended into a psychical mass in which the one pervasive emotion intensifies the conscious- ness of unity and orients the intellects of all in a given direction. The tendency to individualistic thinking, i.e., thinking independent of, or diverse from, that of the as- sembly as a whole, is to a large extent inhibited. Mark that it is the tendency to diverse thinking that is inhibited ; the individual is not conscious of the limitation which is upon him. In so far as he is fused with the others he simply does not tend to think differently from the mass ; or, to state it in different words, to the extent to which his indi- viduality has been merged he feels no impulse to assert his mental independence. He is not aware that his mental au- tonomy is curtailed.
But in this stage the individuality of the units has not wholly disappeared. The fusion is partial only ; a measure of independence remains to the average person. He is more suggestible ; is more thoroughly under the influence of the speaker ; he is less able to recollect and utilize all the resources of his intellect by bringing them to bear upon what is said or proposed. He is less critical, more easily con-
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vinced and led. But his will has not been paralyzed; his action still represents his personality, though not the out- come of so thorough and deliberate a consideration of all the issues involved. There are many cases in which the indi- vidual has become so thoroughly subject to habit, so warped in his inclinations, so biased in mental action by long per- sistence in certain courses of conduct that he is incapable under ordinary conditions of weighing with approximate fairness the pros and cons of an issue that involves those habits and inclinations. The scales of his judgment are loaded ; or he sees the better way but is unable to choose it when the test comes. The habitual drinker, the sensual libertine, the veterans of vice and the victims of bad habits in general see the evil of their ways, but have become so perverted that the reasons against indulgence are not effec- tive with them, but are borne down and smothered by the clamorous insistence of appetite, which gives exaggerated force to the considerations in favour of indulgence. Fre- quently in these sad cases of onesided or perverted develop- ment it is the contagion of the crowd, if it does not reach the point of excess, which, by acting as an inhibition of these vicious inclinations, balances the man up and gives his rational nature a better chance to assert itself ; and by the aid of this influence he may be able to reach and fortify himself in moral decisions which give a new direction to his hfe.
(3) The third stage of psychic fusion is reached when the individuality of the personal units has disappeared ; or per- haps we should say, when the only elements of individuality left to them are the reflexive and instinctive peculiarities of their individual nervous constitutions, and even these may be in part suspended. The modifications of their emotional natures resulting from their intellectual organ- ization have disappeared. The fusion is complete. This is the mob state. The individual no longer thinks, reasons, chooses. His action does not represent his personality, but is simply his reflexive and instinctive reaction under the
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powerful influence of the crowd-suggestion. He has reached a stage which is similar to, though not identical with, hypnosis. It should again be noted that he is not conscious of the limitation that is upon him ; he does not realize that the action of his rational faculties is suspended. He simply does not differentiate himself in thought from the mass. His actions no more represent himself than those of the hypnotic subject under the influence of the operator. Indeed, his true self is more completely annihilated for the time. The hypnotic subject nearly always refuses to obey a suggestion which runs counter to his instincts and deep moral habits. But in the mob state the personality is so completely suspended that a man may be induced to do things which are in absolute contradiction to his self-respect and his profoundest moral convictions. How often is a man thus led to commit murder who would be horrified at the suggestion under ordinary circumstances and would re- sist it even in the hypnotic trance ! Not only ridiculous but disgraceful acts are sometimes performed under the sway of the crowd-suggestion, the sense of personal de- cency being lost in the wholesale collapse of the personality. It is doubtless true that when the psychic fusion of the crowd reaches its limit, it involves a disintegration of the personality more thoroughgoing than can be accomplished by any other known means, except certain forms of dis- ease. Of course, there is no responsibility, in the ordinary sense of the word, for the deed performed under such con- ditions. The individuals in such a mass — I speak only of the extreme phenomena of this type — are like so many leaves in a tornado. They are merely a herd of cattle in a panic or a fury — except that there is in each one a tem- porarily paralysed rational and voluntary power, which may by some means be awakened again into activity. Until that is done their action, because of the complexity of the forces involved, is more incalculable than the shifting of the wind. The mob may not only do deeds that are disgraceful or criminal, but also deeds that are chivalrous or heroic.
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And whether its acts are despicable, horrible or noble de- pends upon the character of the emotion which at any time may be in the ascendant; and as the emotions are exceed- ingly unstable and variable, the mob's performances may quickly shift from one extreme of the moral scale to the other; yet, strictly speaking, a mob is not an ethical entity and its acts are non-ethical.
The passing of an assembly into the second and third stages of unity may be accurately described as a process of inhibiting the intellectual or rational control of conduct, which is accomplished by collective suggestion in a state of high emotion. But the rational control itself is essentially of an inhibitive character. The normal personality con- sists, first, of a substratum of inherited nerve co-ordinations, refiexive and instinctive ; and, second, of a system of habits and ideas which are the deposit of personal experience, plus a certain inscrutable and indefinable power of choice which develops along with the organization of the mind. Now, the impulses of the instinctive nature are more or less con- trolled by the mental organization which is the result of individual experience ; and this control is exercised mainly, if not exclusively, by the arrest of many of the conflicting impulses which originate in the numerous contacts with our environment or in our organic sensations. By the stopping of some impulses the right of way is given to others, which thus pass on into realization as our volitions. In a fused mass of men the collective suggestion simply suspends these individual inhibitive functions ; and in so far as they are suspended, the reflexes and instincts are left exposed to be played upon by the external influences of the crowd or mob.
Now, these reflexes and instincts constitute our racial in- heritance ; they are the parts of our nature in which, not- withstanding individual j)eculiarities, we are most nearly identical with our fellow men. They are a common patrimony. It is in the mental systems built up in personal experience that we are most widely differentiated, and it is
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by the inter-stimulation of their common instincts and the simultaneous suppression or susj^ension of their unlike in- tellectual systems that men are fused into a psychic mass.
If we should ask whether it is more important to stress the common elements in our human nature, to develop in men the consciousness of their community of life; or to emphasize their divergent variations, to make them sensible of their distinctive individualities, the true answer would be that both should be done in about equal proportions. We are living under conditions which promote a very high differentiation of men, and which at the same time bring the population together in increasingly vast and dense com- munities and favour and facilitate the assembling of men in ever larger masses. A notable phenomenon of urban life everywhere is the building of mammoth auditoriums for the gathering of people in great numbers ; and there is a tend- ency to the enlargement of lecture halls, theatres and churches. These frequent large aggregations of people, in which, as we shall see, collective suggestion is greater and the units are more readily fused than in smaller ones, con- stitute one of the most effective means of developing and strengthening the consciousness of the unity of men in an age of high specialization of individuals and groups; if only the process of psychic fusion can be kept from going to the excess which effaces the sense of individual responsibility, disintegrates and weakens personality, and results in hurtful collective action.
The first stage of mental unity of the assembly is best suited to instruction. The class in the lecture room has this degree of unity. A certain measure of common feeling is desirable as a means of intellectual quickening, but the development of the feeling beyond a low intensity should be avoided. Wherever the didactic purpose is the con- trolling one in bringing people together, care should be taken to keep the assembly in the primary stage of fusion. When the purpose is inspiration rather than instruction, aiming not at the impartation of ideas or their correlation,
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but at the organization of emotional dispositions around cer- tain ideas, the development and strengthening of common ideals and sentiments, the secondary stage of fusion is desirable. Suppose, for instance, that the preacher desires to teach his congregation, to enlarge and improve their con- ception of God. This can not be done by developing a tide of emotion which puts limitations upon the actions of the individual intellects and leads to the uncritical acceptance of the ideas he imparts. The method should be an appeal to their individual rational powers with the aim of produc- ing conviction. On the other hand, suppose it is his desire to cultivate the sentiment of loyalty to Christ ; then he should strive to develop in connection with their inellectual conception of Christ the appropriate feeling of devotion to him — to organize in the minds of his auditors a fixed cor- relation of certain emotions with their idea of his character; and this involves, of course, strong and repeated stimulation of the affective side of their natures. But if the emotional tide runs so high as to submerge the intellectual life and drown all definite ideas in its flood, the second purpose as well as the first is wholly defeated. No sentiment is then developed, no ideal is established, but only a thirst is created for wild and senseless emotional intoxication which is dis- organizing and debilitating in its effects upon personality. The third stage of psychic fusion should, therefore, always be avoided.
But our division of the process of fusion into three stages is a logical one and does not correspond to the reality, except in a general way. As a matter of fact, while these three stages are in a general way distinguishable, the assembly does not pass as a whole from one into the other. There are in it persons of various degrees of suggestibility. Those of the greatest suggestibility are the first to suffer the arrest of the intellectual processes and lose their individuality, while those who are least suggestible maintain their mental autonomy until the extreme limit of emotional excitement is reached. Children, women (as a rule), persons of limited
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experience or of loose mental organization are apt to fall first wholly under the spell of the crowd-suggestion ; but as the tide rises others, according to the measure of their in- experience or of the instability of their mental organization, succumb to its prevailing power. It is like cutting the dykes and flooding a region. First the low lands, then the plains, then the up-lands are submerged by the rising waters, until only the higher hills stand out above the waves. It is this fact of greatly unequal suggestibility which consti- tutes a grave problem for the leader of the assembly when it seems desirable to develop a considerable degree of emo- tional fusion. That which is necessary to stimulate in some members of the congregation a proper sense of their com- munity of life with their fellows may prove too powerful a stimulation of others ; so that while the leader is accom- plishing good results in one direction he is doing harm in another. In dealing with this aspect of the matter the highest judgment and skill should be exercised by those who are responsible. Especially does this apply to the preacher. In order to awaken the consciences of some and create in them a thrill of spiritual affection, the children, the weaker women, and the ill-balanced men may be led into demonstra- tions which are not only meaningless but permanently hurt- ful. Discriminating wisdom and a thorough understanding of psychological laws are needed by men who are making religious appeals to promiscuous assemblies.
Doubtless nobody can maintain himself wholly inde- pendent of the contagion of the crowd. But the strong personalities of the resistant or aggressive type can in some measure retain their self-possession even in extreme sit- uations. Such strong personalities may even prevail against the contagion and break the spell which threatens to swamp the individualities of all. If there be several such persons in the crowd their natural impulse will be to get together, so that they may reinforce one another in their common resistance and form a more effective breakwater against the tidal wave. In doing this, however, they will inevitably
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develop a considerable measure of mental unity among themselves, so as to act concertedly; their reaction against the contagious influence forces them, to some extent, into psychical fusion with one another. They are much more able to stem the general tide when close together and acting as a unit than when scattered throughout the crowd as iso- lated centres of resistance. It is another case '* of united we stand, divided we fall." But if there is a considerable number of such persons, and they come together so as to form a distinct group, there is always danger that the as- sembly will develop into two opposing groups, each of which will be under the sway of the mob-mind — forming a sort of double-headed mob. This not unfrequently happens, and then it is that irrational violence reaches, perhaps, its maximum. On the other hand, if such persons remain scattered throughout the crowd and from several centres undertake to resist the contagion and break up the unity by interruptions and counter-demonstrations of any sort, the situation is likely to become one of extreme agitation ; the intellectual process will be inhibited in all. partially if not wholly ; but the only emotion which will be dominant will be confused excitement, and there will be what may be called a chaotic crowd. In such a situation one part of the fusion process takes place — the inhibition of the rational process. All individualities are reduced to a com- mon denominator, but that is only a powerful, though vague, agitation caused by psychical cross-currents ; and in no other sense does mental unification take place.
We should turn now to consider the means and methods by which the process of fusion may be promoted.
The first is the close crowding of the people. Bodily proximity of a group of persons renders the passing of in- fluences from one to another much more rapid and easy. Slight movements, subtile and fleeting changes of counte- nance are more readily observed, and the ideas and feelings of which they are the expression are more surely and rapidly communicated. Wide separation tends to produce
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mental isolation and the peculiarities of the mental indi- viduality become relatively more prominent. The equal- izing and levelling effect of the interaction of the individuals is reduced about in proportion to the distances which sep- arate them. When they are thinly scattered about the place of assembly it is more difficult to focus their attention upon the same idea or to start a general current of feeling.
We should guard carefully against the fallacious notion that there passes from one to another and envelops the whole crowd a subtile fluid or ethereal substance. We are prone to interpret the facts in such materialistic terms. There is not the slightest reason to believe that anything of the kind takes place. Let us also put a question mark after another notion which, though plausible, is equally unsup- ported by facts. It has been maintained that in the fusing of individuals into a crowd there comes into existence, by a process of " creative synthesis," a new psychical entity, a " social mind." ^ But there is no convincing reason for supposing that anything more takes place than the modifica- tion and common orientation of many distinct minds through their reaction on one another. What we kno7v takes place is the communication of ideas, feelings, mental attitudes by means of their physical expression, which we instinctively, or by habitual skill, read with lightning-like rapidity, and which modifies the activity of each communicating mind.
The crowding of people promotes the fusion in other ways. The bodily movements of all are thus limited. They can not shift their positions, change their physical attitudes, turn about, stretch out their liml)s, etc. This has the effect of lessening their sense of individuality in two ways. First, the similarity of their bodily attitudes, together with their inability to vary them without difficulty, reacts upon their mental states, tending to give them unity of mental attitude. Second, the physical restraint tends to depress the self-feel- ing. Sidis says: " If anything gives us a strong sense of
1 See Boodin on " The Existence of Social Minds," American Journal of Sociology, July, 1913.
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our individuality it is surely our voluntary movements. . . . Conversely the life of the individual self sinks, shrinks with the decrease of variety and intensity of volun- tary movements." ^ Ross, quoting the foregoing vi^ords, adds : " Often a furious, naughty child will suddenly be- come meek and obedient after being held a moment as in a vise. On the play-ground a saucy boy will abruptly sur- render and ' take it back ' when held firmly on the ground without power to move hand or foot. The cause is not fear but deflation of the ego." - Crowding, then, appears to promote the spread of ideas and feelings, the bringing of all individuals to a common state of mind, and, at the same time, the lowering of the self-feeling or the sense of individuality ; and is thus one of the chief means of merging many sepa- rate and differentiated personalities into one psychical mass. A second important means of accomplishing the same re- sult is concerted bodily movement. Just as the necessity of keeping the body in the same attitude or position by reason of close crowding has the tendency to induce mental unity in a group, so does the performance of the same act at the same time by all the persons present. If all stand or leap or shout or kneel or hold up the right hand or bend for- ward or sing or repeat a formula, or do anything else which may occur to the leader, it develops a consciousness of oneness and breaks up the personal isolation in which the sense of individuality is at a maximum. One reason why the prevention of bodily movements by crowding furthers the fusion process is that persons widely separated in a gathering will move individually without respect to the movements of others, and this keeps alive the sense of indi- viduality, whereas the same movements, if performed by all, would have the opposite tendency. An expert leader, when he is seeking to develop mental unity and solidarity in an assembly, will always insist upon " all joining in" whatever concerted action he proposes. If some refuse to participate
1 " Psycholop:y of Suggestion," p. 289. 2 " Social Psychology," p. 44.
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it manifestly obstructs the unifying process, while if all take part the unifying effect is very great.
It is upon this one means of inducing mental unity that ritualistic bodies, whether churches or lodges, chiefly rely; but, although its whole tendency is in that direction, the ritualistic method is not so well adapted to produce intense effects as the non-ritualistic. And the reason doubtless is that the formulae and concerted actions required by the rituals are not. as a rule, such as to stir intense emotions, and that their frequent repetition takes off the keen edge of the feelings which they do excite. In non-ritualistic bodies concerted action is used more effectively as a means of fusion because prescribed formulae are not employed, and the common movements suggested in informal exercises are not fixed and habitual, but, being unusual or at least infre- quent, are more stimulating to the emotions. When used in connection with other means to the same end they gener- ally secure a more complete submergence of the individuality than ever occurs in ritualistic observances. Hence the phenomena of psychical fusion are observed much more frequently and are much more striking in bodies which use a minimum of prescribed ritual. In fact the ritual, by rea- son of its habitual or customary character, tends to prevent more than a moderate degree of mental fusion.
Singing, especially if it is congregational, is a quite effec- tive means of melting the assembled individuals into a psychical mass. Its effectiveness lies both in the fact that it is concerted action and in its power as a stimulus of the emotions. By reason of its rhythmical quality it is one of the most natural expressions of the feelings, and con- versely, one of the most unfailing means of arousing feel- ing. This is true even when the music is devoid of idea- tional content. The rhythmical sounds alone develop corresponding effects, according to their length and com- bination. " A short musical unit tends to light, vivacious, or joyful effects, irrespective of the rapidity of succession of notes or of the melodic intervals employed. A unit
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which " draws out " the specious present [i.e., the span of consciousness] sHghtly beyond the normal length produces a sombre effect. A still longer unit which is divided between two not long spans of consciousness, gives an effect which is solemn but not sad." ^ But in all songs there are ideas which are organized with appropriate emotions into definite sentiments, and which greatly contribute to the emotional effect when the music is suitable. There is, therefore, no surer and easier way to develop mental contagion than to have a gathering of people join in singing. But for this purpose much depends upon the character of the music and the ideas of the song. The rhythm of the music must correspond to the rhythm of the simpler feelings, and the ideas must be correspondingly simple. " In music of the so- called intellectual sort there is no regular relation between the musical unit and the span of consciousness ; the unity here is intentionally ideational and does not appeal to the average hearer." ^ In such music the emphasis is placed upon the intellectual processes of appreciation, and this tends to prevent complete fusion. Who has not observed the difference between the hymns and tunes used in Sunday Schools and evangelistic meetings, on the one hand, and those used in " regular churches services," on the other? In a word, to be most effective in producing fusion the sing- ing must be such as strongly stimulates those elements of our mental life which we have in common with our fellow men rather than those elements in which we are most highly differentiated. Since children and youths are undeveloped men and women, they represent that which is most generic in human nature; and that is the reason why songs of the same general type are best adapted to use in the Sunday School, in evangelistic meetings and in all gatherings where a high degree of mental unity is sought for. It is hardly possible to overestimate the value of our patriotic songs, our ballads which are expressions of the more universal sen-
^ Dunlap, "A System of Psychology," p. 312. 2 Ibid . p. 31.3.
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timents of love and longing and our more popular religious hymns, as means of developing and maintaining a sense of community of life with our fellow men.
Mental fusion may also be promoted by imaginative, pas- sionate oratory. If a speaker has intense feeling himself, is gifted with the power of conveying his ideas and emo- tions by means of concrete and vivid images and dramatic action, it is often possible for him without the aid of other means, and sometimes even when other influences are adverse, to convert a cold and critical audience into a highly fused and suggestible crowd. Doubtless there is not on record a more signal demonstration of the power of sheer oratory to overcome psychological difficulties than the triumph of Henry Ward Beecher in England in 1863. In his defence of the policy of the North in the great Civil War, he faced every time a coldly critical and largely hostile gathering of Britishers. He was interrupted from the be- ginning by questions, taunts, insults, rotten eggs and all those intimidating methods in which British audiences excel. As, despite those violent attempts to silence him, his mag- nificent patience, self-possession and good humour, rein- forced by a matchless imaginative and histrionic power, won over sections of the throng, the desperation of his opponents increased ; and they redoubled their efforts to break up the mental unity which they felt to be growing, but without avail ; and always in the end he remained master, though his mastery was not always equally complete. He had only one condition in his favour — the close crowding of his audiences. Of course, when all other conditions are fa- vourable, the task of the orator is comparatively easy. For example, when Mr. Bryan made his remarkable address at the National Democratic Convention in Chicago in 1896, nearly all the psychological conditions were in his favour. There was, to be sure, an opposing group in the convention, but they were in a decided minority ; and the debate which his address concluded had stirred intense feeling. He was the magnetic and eloquent voice of the majority; his sen-
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tences, made rhythmical by his own emotion, and the mas- terly use he made of imagery which associated his cause with some of the deepest and most powerful sentiments of our human hearts, developed a tide of emotion which set the convention wild (perhaps literally) and overwhelmed his oppenents.^
We should turn now to a consideration of the kinds of emotion which are most effective in welding heterogeneous individuals into a homogeneous crowd. These are to be found among the emotions which are embedded most deeply in the instincts of human nature. When aroused they are the most powerful, the most pervasively contagious and the most difficult to control.
First, we may consider fear, which in the psychology books is generally mentioned as the first of the simple emo- tions. How powerful it is, how completely in its intense developments it paralyses reason, how thoroughly sug- gestible it renders its subject — or victim — needs no dem- onstration or illustration. Every man's experience fur- nishes numerous examples of its power to upset the rational processes. When a group of people are seized by this emo- tion and it is intensified by reflection from face to face, or by screams and shrieks, it quickly overwhelms reason and conscience, and all other emotions as well, in its turbid flood ; and men are converted into maddened beasts, each of whom seeks only his own safety. While, therefore, it annihilates the higher individualizing factors of the several personalities and fuses them in the sense that they are all reduced to a like mental state which is intensified by reflection from one to another, it desocializes them, so to speak ; it deadens the social instincts of each and so has a certain disintegrating effect. This is especially notable in panics. It reduces the individuals to a common denominator, but that common de- nominator is an impulse to take care of self without regard to others. There is no emotion which, when it gains ex- clusive sway, is so absolutely demoralizing. And yet when
1 See Scott's " Psychology of Public Speaking," pp. 165-6.
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it is refined and moralized, kept under the control of intel- ligence and conscience, it becomes a worthy motive. When dominated by conscience, blended with love and transfigured into reverence, it becomes one of our noblest sentiments. In this regenerated form it retains, though in a much lower degree, its fusing power and may be most properly used by the orator or preacher. But in its baser form of physi- cal fear it should never be appealed to by one who aims at spiritual results.
Another emotion which is most effective in welding a crowd is anger. This is one of the most powerful emotions, and all normal persons are capable of it, although there are great variations in the development of the pugnacious in- stinct among men. When a common hostile feeling against any object is aroused in a group of persons, its power to unify and blend them is unsurpassed. The heat of the anger which envelops them all melts them into conscious oneness, and the conscious unity is considerably strength- ened by the sense of conflict with the person or persons against whom the hostility is directed ; for conflict with an outside enemy is a very efficacious means of unifying the members of a group. This is the emotion that usually sways a mob. Elsewhere we have pointed out how it may convulse a whole neighbourhood, or section, or nation, in- stantly quieting or suspending all internal antagonisms, and solidifying all interests. Here we consider it only as it de- velops and manifests itself in an assembled multitude. It is so easily aroused, is so intensified by reflection back and forth between individuals, and so quickly overwhelms reason that only extreme situations will justify appeals to it. There is always great danger of inducing the mob-state, if not mob-action. But while its crude form is always de- moralizing and the orator, especially the preacher, should rarely or never make an appeal to it. it may, nevertheless, like fear, be redeemed and transformed by being moralized, and thus converted into one of the noblest, most healthful and valuable of all human feelings — indignation ; and thus
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by continual association with our ethical principles may be organized into a sentiment of hatred, not for men, but for all conduct that is low and selfish. The development of this sentiment is one of the great tasks of the preacher. Even in this higher form the emotion of anger is a potent means of fusing a crowd ; and the ability to stir the moral indignation of an audience has been a chief element of power of many great orators, and should be cultivated by all preachers.
What writers on psychology call " the tender emotion " is another which is powerful as a means of melting an as- sembly of heterogeneous individuals into a homogeneous psychical mass. The forms in which it is most serviceable to the orator are the love of parents for their children, the love of children for their mothers (the love for fathers tak- ing rather the form of reverence), the love of men and women for little children, and the compassion which all normal people feel for the unfortunate, the weak and the helpless victims of injustice. In a general way the order of mention indicates the order in which forms of the tender emotion have historically developed in power. It is prob- able that the last three have only in comparatively recent times attained to approximate universality as powerful sentiments, though now one can rarely be found who is not susceptible to these appeals. Such appeals may, of course, be overdone, but they rarely produce unhealthy psychological effects. Persons of weak intellectual organization may easily be overcome and thrown into a mental state from which no rational action can be expected. This, it is to be feared, not unfrequently happens in "high pressure" evan- gelistic services, when the danger of failing to meet one's mother in heaven is urged too strongly as a motive for con- secrating oneself to Christian service. But in general these sentiments are so pure, so free from intermixture with the grosser passions of our nature, that they rarely produce excessive or demoralizing effects. They always tend to in- cite men to courses of action which they believe to be good ; and when the appeal to them is overdone, the cor-
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rection is usually found in the disgust which it excites in the minds of all normal people. The orator whose motives are pure but whose judgment is not discriminating, may, of course, make an unfortunate use of this emotion, but it can- not be used as a means of promoting a cause that is mani- festly bad. If the preacher fails to make an extensive (though, of course, discriminating) use of it, he will cer- tainly not only fail on many occasions " to carry his au- dience with him," but will also fail to do what he might in the ethical education of the people.
The sentiment of liberty, which has its basis in the in- stinct of self-assertion, or the self-asserting disposition, is of increasing importance in modern life as a social force ; and when skilfully appealed to is capable of producing strong emotional effects. The fundamental trend in society is toward democracy, which in the last analysis has its genesis in the individualizing tendency of the social process. It can not be finally resisted, and can be retarded only by slowing down the social process, which normally becomes more dynamic all the time ; and hence the sentiment of liberty continually grows more powerful. The conception of liberty is modified from epoch to epoch ; but the modifications are in the direction of increasing depth and breath. Men do not crave less liberty but more ; though, on the whole, their idea of it is less confused with license and more consistent with stable social order, in which alone it can be realized. The emotion, therefore, which may be evoked by a skilful appeal to this sentiment will always be strong, and powerful as a means of fusing an audience ; but will not lend itself so readily to the development of the mob-mind. When the conception of liberty is chiefly negative, the appeal to this sentiment in its crude stage is apt to produce excesses, be- cause it awakens the impulse to unregulated self-indulgence and arouses anger at the social forces which limit one's in- dividual action — unchaining emotions that are primal, basal, crude and undisciplined. This is the true psychology of the French Revolution and of similar, though less in-
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tense, social convulsions in other lands. When the concep- tion of liberty is positive, men may be deeply stirred by appeals to their desire for self-realization; but in this case the sentiment is more highly developed, and the emotions called forth are of a higher order, more ethical and amenable to rational considerations. As the impulse to unregulated living has been replaced by the desire for self-realization, so the emotion evoked by appeal to this sentiment has been transformed into moral enthusiasm. In religion the pas- sion for liberty grows stronger every day ; but it does not seek satisfaction so much as formerly by blatant denial of religious verities and the contemptuous ridicule of the re- ligious sentiments so characteristic of the " infidels " of the last, and especially of the eighteenth, century. On the con- trary, it is more and more clearly perceived that true re- ligious liberty is found in the interpretation of the universe as religious and the voluntary acceptance of the law of God as supreme. The appeal to this sentiment by the preacher receives a deep emotional response which is rationally con- trolled and profoundly ethical.
I shall mention but one more of the emotional dispositions which are available to the orator as specially efficacious means of unifying and mastering an audience. That is the sentiment of conservatism or attachment to that which is old. It has its base in the conservative disposition, which was once nearly all-powerful. But the rapidly changing conditions of modern life have greatly weakened it, and must weaken it yet more. Indeed, our life has become so varied and changeful that some people are in danger of fall- ing victims to the passion for novelty. The stimulation of change has become a habit with them and forms the basis of a craving for the continual repetition of the sensation which the unexpected produces. That is the only sort of repetition which they will endure. But notwithstanding this tendency, the attachment to the old and the customary still retains a strangely potent sway over the average human mind. Through long ages the monotonous conditions of
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life and the consequent persistence of modes of life from generation to generation have wrought into the very struc- ture of the human mind a regard for old things as old which probably can never be wholly eliminated, and which doubt- less it would not be wise to eradicate entirely. But with most men it is so deeply ingrained and so thoroughly dom- inating that an adroit appeal to it has always been able to evoke an emotion which paralyses reason, drowns the voice of conscience, obstructs human progress and makes martyrs of the beneficent innovators of the race. It has been power- ful in all spheres of life, in one, perhaps, as much as in another; but in no sphere certainly has it been more freely utilized than in religion as a means of converting reasonable people into mobs and hurling them in furious masses against men who dared to question the truth and sacredness of tra- ditional dogmas and practices. By it have all the prophets been slain — and the cry which it has always inspired is " the prophets are dead."
Now, the passion for the new as such is not sufficiently developed in a sufficiently large number of people to make it effective as a means of crowd-fusion, except under very ex- traordinary circumstances, if ever. It may, indeed, become a passion and render one irrationally intolerant of the old ; but the new always appeals to curiosity and awakens intel- ligence, in some measure at least, and for that reason is not adapted to the development of the mob-mind. But as a pas- sion it renders one irrational in his dislike of the old, and should never be appealed to by an orator whose motives are good. On the other hand, the passion for the old as such is so strong in such a large proportion of the people and is so violent when inflamed, that the conscientious orator — and especially the preacher — should never put the lighted torch of eloquence to that magazine of explosive emotion. Such an appeal is non-rational and should never be made. It is often easy enough to convert an audience into a mob by such an appeal skilfully made; but the use of it at once raises the suspicion either of sinister design which is not
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scrupulous as to method, or of desperation, born of con- scious inability to carry one's point by the appeal to reason.
In the light of the foregoing discussion a question of very great importance demands an answer: Is the process of psychic fusion conducive to genuine religious experience? A categorical and unqualified answer can not be given with- out conflict with the facts. High pressure revivals do result in the improvement of the lives of some persons; but it is quite certain that they result in an equally permanent de- moralization and spiritual depreciation of other lives — just as we should expect. Not a few people have become so utterly perverted in the moral habits contracted in their in- dividual experience, and so abnormally subject to grossly evil impulses, that a powerful counter-stimulation of their emotional nature is necessary in order that better impulses may have any chance at all to influence their choices. But, of course, there is always danger, when this counter-stimula- tion is applied through the collective emotion of the crowd, that the reason of the person in question, as well as that of others, will be so paralysed that the resulting action will not represent choice at all ; and then there is every reason to believe that the efTect upon character is demoralizing, and only demoralizing. The moral pervert returns to his wal- lowing in the mire, and his last state is worse than the first ; and meanwhile others who are more normal and who are swept by the same tide of irrational emotion into false pro- fessions and relations are religiously " queered " for the rest of their lives. It is probable, however, that a moderate de- gree of emotional fusion is usually helpful in religious expe- rience. It is quite possible that men in their individual experience have acquired habits or inclinations which, in part, render them inaccessible to spiritual influences. In other words, there may be wrought into the elements that differentiate them from others dispositions or tendencies which render them unresponsive to the spiritual call. It would seem, then, that the fusion process by which the differential elements of their personalities are reduced in
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Strength might, if not carried to an excess which obliterates their reason, render them to some extent more open to divine influences. We have stated it as a possibiHty, but can it not be safely asserted as a universal fact that each man does acquire in individual experience some peculiar attitude of mind, or mode of thought, or point of view — a mental trait of some kind or other — which forms an obstruction to the forces of moral regeneration? If this be true — and it is en- tirely consonant with the teaching of psychology — the con- clusion is that a moderate degree of mental fusion is nor- mally conducive to genuine religious experience, especially in the case of adults.
2. Something should be said in conclusion about the de- liberative body. Manifestly this is an assembly of a distinct psychological type. It is at the farthest possible remove from the accidental concourse; and the individuals compos- ing it are drawn together for the definite purpose, not of receiving some intellectual or emotional stimulation, but of taking part in discussion and contributing each his part to- ward a collective decision of certain issues. This gives them a special attitude of mind, which largely determines the character of the mental processes of the body. So long as this attitude is maintained the suggestibility of each is reduced to a minimum ; his critical faculties are in the as- cendant. But how shall this attitude be preserved?
(i) In the first place it is much easier to maintain the deliberative attitude if the assembly is a small one. The reasons are obvious. The greater the number of persons between whom a common feeling is reflected back and forth, the more intense becomes the emotion. A dozen people who read in each other's faces the same impulse or sentiment will each be proportionately affected; if a thousand people see the same feeling reflected in each other's countenances, each is again proportionately affected, though one qualifying condition must be taken into account, viz., that each will be more powerfully affected by those near him than by those more distant, because he discerns more clearly the bodily
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expressions of their mental states and hence receives a more definite and powerful stimulation from them. After an assembly passes a certain magnitude it no longer increases in general suggestibility strictly in proportion to its size; but up to a certain point it does approximately. Again, in a large assembly the people are more likely to be closely seated, and the effect of physical crowding, as before noted, is to facilitate the rapid spread of common feeling in full power in all directions. Furthermore, the speaker who ad- dresses a large gathering must use higher tones of voice and will normally make more vigorous gestures, from the natural desire to be adequately seen and heard. But the more elevated tones and the freer gesticulatory movements natu- rally excite stronger feelings in the audience and react upon the speaker's own mind to intensify his emotion, which in turn is communicated to his hearers.
The assembly, then, when it becomes very large is almost certain to lose its deliberative character, wholly or in part ; and to assume the character of a mass-meeting which is sub- ject to the spell of a few orators who have exceptional voices, and to be swept by gusts of intense, pervasive emo- tion. As a result it is customary for the real deliberations of such a body to take place in committee rooms ; and the decisions reached in these small groups are reported to the assembly and advocated by persuasive orators, who usually secure their ratification. A very potent argument often presented in favour of such a committee report is that the committee has had amply opportunity to think the whole subject through from every point of view — a tacit confes- sion that the psychological situation renders it impracticable for the assembly as a whole to do so. Since the trend in re- cent times is toward large assemblies of the deliberative type, as of others, the tendency, as might be expected, is toward the formulation in committee rooms of the deliverances of such bodies. If, therefore, these assemblies are to be what their name indicates, if the fusion process which increases suggestibility and renders careful thought diflficult or im-
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possible is to be avoided, the bodies should be kept small; otherwise the deliberation will have to be done exclusively by committees, while the assembly is turned into a mere ratification mass-meeting.
(2) But the deliberative assembly, even when small, needs special safeguards against the tendency to fusion. These special safeguards are found in the rules of parliamentary practice — rigid conventional methods of procedure espe- cially fashioned to hold individual as well as collective im- pulses in check and to give free play to the rational processes. When, however, the emotions are powerfully stimulated these artificial devices for restraint snap like weak cords; and the president, together with the rest of the assembly, is swept along in the irresistible current. Or if the body de- generates into a double-headed mob or into a chaotic crowd, the gentleman who holds the gavel may " lose his head," i.e., his intellectual processes may be inhibited, and, being caught in the cross-currents of emotion, he may be tossed about hke a cork on the choppy waves.
If, however, the assembly avoids the emotional storms and maintains the calmness of dispassionate thought, the ef- fect of rational discussion will be to modify the thinking of each individual ; and so there will appear most likely a distinct tendency toward unity of thought. This is implied in the very function of such a body, which is to reach and render a collective decision. The stronger minds, while being more or less modified in their positions, will be able to lead the weaker ones and thus chiefly determine the evolu- tion of the collective conclusion. Usually the discussion will result in the cleavage of the assembly into two or more par- ties around two or more leaders, or groups of leaders ; in which case the two processes of unification and division go on at the same time. But unless the whole process is to end in a deadlock, the unification must proceed until a majority of the members have been brought to substantial agreement. The intellectual unity, or unity of conviction, results from the give and take of debate and is an organization of many
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varied and at first conflicting opinions ; and is an entirely different sort of thing from the unity which is induced by the inhibition of free rational processes and the emotional fusion of individuals.
It is true, however, that the method of reaching collective or group decisions is undergoing a profound change. That change is the result of the enormous development of inter- communication. Now-a-days the discussion of questions in which a large body of people are interested is carried on in the press, and the people reach their conclusions on the basis of their reading, supplemented by correspondence and pri- vate conversation, for which the increasingly numerous per- sonal contacts of modern life afford a large opportunity. The result is that the deliberative assembly, so-called, is com- ing to be less and less an organ of collective discussion and deliberation, and more and more a means of simply register- ing the decisions of the group. At the same time it is not- able that the deliverances of such assemblies no longer im- press the people with the sense of authority and finality, as they did in the days in which they were, far more than they now are, the organs through which the public made up its mind. The tendency is to bring such bodies more di- rectly under the control of public opinion — to revise, criti- cise and perhaps nullify their acts more freely in the larger forum of the press, in which the people are assembled not in body but in mind. It is a singular paradox that along with the vast growth and complication of social organization the direct control by the people of their affairs is growing at the expense of the indirect method. Legislative and quasi- legislative bodies of every description, in all spheres of life, are compelled to act more and more as the mere registering organs of the public will and to refer their acts back to the people for their approval or disapproval.
CHAPTER XII
MENTAL EPIDEMICS
The term " epidemic " has been so closely associated with morbid phenomena of a certain type that one hesitates to use it to designate the class of mental experiences here to be discussed. But the lack of a better word will justify its use.
A mental epidemic is the sweep of a common emotional excitement over a whole social group. The group may be a neighbourhood, a city, a nation, a party, a sect, a class, a sex, or any other well defined and relatively permanent segment of the population which has some common interest and some means of frequent intercommunication. Through such a group are all the time flowing mental currents which main- tain its unity of thought and feeling and its collective indi- viduality. Without such a constant flow of ideas and senti- ments the group would disintegrate, just as the physical or- ganism would decompose if the circulation of the blood were to stop. However, the term mental epidemic is not applied to the regular processes by which mental unity is maintained, but only to those waves of emotion which give the people a more intensive unity than the ordinary.
There are two broad classes of mental epidemics between which the distinction should be emphasized. As in a crowd the fusion may be more or less complete, and injurious or healthy accordingly, so the mental unity induced in the larger group may be only what is necessary to insure con- certed and vigorous action under the control of intelligence; or it may become so passionate, so overwhelming in emo- tional intensity, as to be demoralizing even when the excite- ment centres about some unobjectionable or really important interest. To the more intense forms of such excitement the terms, " popular mania " or " craze," should be applied. It
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is, of course, impossible to draw a hard and fast line be- tween normal and abnormal phenomena of this type ; but the distinction is nevertheless one of great practical importance, for in general it coincides with the distinction between healthy and unhealthy group action.
The phenomena to which the term, " popular mania," is appHed are common emotional states which are intense enough to stop in large measure, if not wholly, the rational processes. The people become " wild." The reader who lived in a certain section of the South during the epoch of the land booms along in the eighties of the last century can recall typical experiences of this kind. A land company would be organized and, by advertisement far and wide, would " boom " a village or town as destined in a short time to become a great city. The enthusiasm would spread with astonishing rapidity. Conservative, cool-headed sceptics, who could see no real basis for such extravagant expecta- tions, were ridiculed as old fogies, or denounced as " kick- ers " who were indifferent or unfriendly to the interests of the community. Streets were opened through old fields or thick forests — traces of some of them remaining to this day as visible relics of the craze of a third of a century ago. Building lots were sold at high figures over areas large enough to contain the population of a metropolis ; and the purchasers saw fortunes in these investments. In a little while the crest of the wave of excitement passed ; the shrewder ones began to unload. Scepticism spread rapidly, and one by one the boom bubbles burst, leaving many people sadder and wiser.
As illustrative of the extreme irrationality which may characterize such phenomena the tulip mania in Holland has been frequently referred to. Sidis ^ relates the story as fol- lows : " About the year 1634 the Dutch became suddenly possessed with a mania for tulips. The ordinary industry of the country was neglected, and the population, even to its lowest dregs, embarked in the tulip trade. The tulip rose
* " The Psychology of Suggestion," pp. 343-345-
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rapidly in value, and when the mania was in full swing some daring speculators invested as much as one hundred thou- sand Horins in the purchase of forty roots. The bulbs were as precious as diamonds ; they were sold by their weight in perits, a weight less than a grain." ..." Many speculators grew suddenly rich. The epidemic of tulipomania raged with intense fury, the enthusiasm filled every heart, and confidence was at its height. A golden bait hung tempt- ingly out before the people, and one after another they rushed to the tulip market like flies around a honey pot. Every one imagined that the passion for tulips would last forever, and that the wealthy from every part of the world would send to Holland and pay whatever prices were asked for them. The riches of Europe would be concentrated on the shores of the Zuyder Zee. Nobles, citizens, farmers, mechanics, seamen, footmen, maid-servants, chimney-sweeps and old-clothes women dabbled in tulips. Houses and lands were offered for sale at ruinously low prices, or assigned in payment of bargains made at the tulip markets. So conta- gious was the epidemic that foreigners became smitten with the same frenzy, and money poured into Holland from all directions.
" The speculative mania did not last long ; social suggestion began to work in the opposite direction, and a universal panic suddenly seized on the minds of the Dutch. Instead of buying every one was trying to sell. Tulips fell below their normal value. Thousands of merchants were utterly ruined, and a cry of lamentation arose in the land." This description, doubtless, is too highly wrought, but well illus- trates the absurdities into which a people of average intel- ligence can be precipitated by the all-pervasive sweep of mental contagion.
Among epidemics of the extreme type, which we have called manias, are to be classed financial panics, speculative crazes, extravagant religious revivals, popular terrors such as the " great fear " which swept over France in the year 1789; and every form of emotional excitement that may
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obsess groups of people, and, by upsetting the control of rea- son, lead to absurdity, folly and even immorality of conduct. Among the less extreme and quite healthy types belong gen- uine religious revivals, which are never irrational and always ethical ; educational enthusiasms ; popular indignation at po- litical corruption, such as not long since swept the United States; agitations against gross miscarriages of justice, such as stirred the French people and the whole world in con- nection with the celebrated Dreyfus case ; and I should in- clude also a war spirit which is inspired by genuine patriot- ism or devotion to liljerty and justice, though it may easily degenerate into an epidemic of the unhealthy type. In gen- eral it may be said that popular excitements which have their origin in the stimulation of the higher sentiments nearly always give the population a common orientation to- ward healthy action ; and, unless corrupted by some baser emotion and degraded from their ethical character, cannot leave behind them the moral devastation always found in the wake of the more extreme, irrational and unethical types of mental epidemics. Even the Crusades are not an excep- tion to this ; for while there was much extravagant absurdity, from the modern point of view, connected with them, they were motived by the highest sentiment of which the peo- ple of that day were capable.
I. We should bear in mind that mental epidemics are the result of two fundamental processes which are present in all social action. First, the like response to stimuli by like- minded persons. People of a similar mental organization respond in similar ways to the same stimuli ; people of un- like mental organization respond to the same stimuli in dif- ferent ways. We have no other way of measuring their mental likeness and unlikeness. This is too obvious to re- quire any elaboration. The second process is the communi- cation of mental states from one to another. This process is not so simple in the phenomena we are now discussing as it is in assemblies. The group as a whole does not assemble, though the assembling of small companies within the general
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group may be an important part of the process ; and personal contacts in the ordinary affairs of Hfe are also included in it. Travellers moving from place to place are important chan- nels through which ideas and emotions are spread abroad. In present-day society, books, magazines and especially news- papers play a very great part in generalizing ideas and bring- ing all the minds in a group to a common state of feeling.
While these two processes are both always present and effective in bringing about mental unity in a group, it is not easy in many cases to determine their relative importance; though sometimes it is possible to say with certainty that the one or the other is the predominant factor. For instance, in the common terror inspired by an earthquake shock we are sure that the chief cause is the like response to the same stimulus, though communication of feeling from one to an- other is by no means an inconsiderable factor. On the other hand, enthusiasm for a political candidate is likely to be mainly a matter of communication, and yet if the candidate is a well-known man of striking personality the other factor may be the chief one. In the spread of an emotion by read- ing the same books and periodicals it might at first appear that a like response to the same stimulus is the sole explana- tion, but a closer consideration will show that the other process is going on here also. The emotions of the one who is setting forth the ideas or relating the events are in- tensified by the mental image, however vague it may be, of the multitudes whom he is addressing in this indirect way. In fact the multitudes are, in image, present to his con- sciousness. Likewise the reader's emotions are intensified by the more or less vague consciousness of the multitudes of other readers whose feelings are also being stirred. Com- munication of emotion takes place here, too. It is an ideal communication but is none the less real. In studying the mental epidemic, it is w^ell to bear in mind that each process plays a more or less important part in it, and their rela- tive importance may have considerable significance in its proper interpretation.
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II. We can hardly claim to be able as yet to state the " laws " of mental epidemics. Such phenomena are too complex, the factors entering into them are too many and various to permit of accurate analysis ; and yet it is possible to formulate some of the characteristics of them which are so universal that it is hardly straining language to call them laws.
I. They are wave-like. They increase in intensity, reach a maximum pitch and gradually die away. This, as we know, is a general characteristic of feeling. Collective emo- tions are rhythmical, just as the emotions of the individ- ual. The waves, of course, are of very unequal height and length, according to the nature of the interests in connec- tion with which they appear and the complex and sometimes obscure conditions which give rise to them. The popular excitement may run its course in a day or in a few days, or it may persist for weeks or months. And within a wave of great length are always included briefer rhythms, or shorter waves of greater intensity. When a popular mood, or long persisting trend of collective emotion, is in the ascendant, any incident or suggested idea in line with it finds open and uncritical minds, and the emotional impulse connected with this idea or incident is reinforced by the full power of the general current of feeling. If the idea or incident is a highly exciting one — and it will always be more exciting under these than under other conditions — the result will be a temporary intensifying of the prevailing emotion. We may speak of the general or longer wave as primary and the shorter one as secondary. For example, in the first stage of the great war the majority of the people of the United States were under the sway of a decided anti-German feeling; but during this time several incidents of a highly exciting nature occurred. Particularly was this true of the sinking of the great steamer, Lusitania. These incidents superinduced what I have called secondary waves of extraordinary in- tensity. On the other hand, any suggestion which runs counter to the prevailing current will be ineffective, or at any
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rate much weakened in force, until the dominant emotion has spent itself.^
2. Eacli wave of collective emotion is followed by a re- action in the ojiposite direction. Times of depression fol- low times of elation. Periods of sensuous enjoyment alter- nate with periods of moral contrition and severity. After the laxity of Charles I and his court came the rigours of Puritanism, and after this had run its course came the resto- ration of the corrupt court of Charles II and the reopening of the flood-gates of carnality. The panic and the specu- lative fever chase each other. It is hard to say what is the cause of the reaction ; but it is a general fact.
3. Two powerful popular emotions can not occur at the same time. This is obviously true if the emotions are op- posite, or antagonistic to one another; if one prevails it in- hibits the another. It is also true when the two are not op- posite but only difTerent, i.e., are concerned with dififerent interests. For instance, before the world war broke out the people of the United States were rnildly excited about
1 A caution, perhaps, needs to be observed if we are not to enter- tain a false conception of these " waves." We are using a material image, and this may lead 11s to think of these waves as continuous states of feeling ; but it will be well for us to remember that in such " waves " of popular emotion no individual is throughout its dura- tion in a continuous state of the characteristic feeling. Each per- son has recurrent states of feeling with regard to the particular interest which is for the time dominant, as his attention is from time to time directed to it; but naturally this occurs often, and hence he has a frequent recurrence of the characteristic feeling. Obviously he can not be thinking and feeling about that particular interest all the time ; and there are, doubtless, times of greater or less length when no single individual in the group is in that par- ticular state of feeling — for instance, they may all be asleep. The use of the phrase, " wave of popular feeling," means simply that for a period of some length a large proportion of the people are having frequently recurring states of feeling of a certain type. It is true, however, that there does persist during such a period of mental epidemic an unusual susceptibility to the stimuli which arouse that particular type of feeling.
Neither should we think of a wave of popular feeling as an emotional experience of a great mind over and above particular persons. There is no over individual social mind ; but there are in- dividual social minds, i.e., individual minds are social.
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conditions in Mexico; but after the excitement incident to the great war seized upon the pubHc mind of America the Mexican situation, although gravely accentuated and im- periling important interests of this country, attracted little at- tention and caused hardly a thrill of emotion. One cannot reasonably expect a great wave of religious feeling to sweep a community during a period of deep and pervasive political excitement. Why is this? Perhaps it is due, in part, to the fact that people at any given time have only a certain amount of energy. At any rate, whatever may be the ultimate ex- planation, the human mind normally tends to centralize and unify its activity ; some interest comes to be for a time dom- inant, and around it both the intellectual and emotional activ- ities are organized.
4. These excitements spread along lines of mental ho- mogeneity, of common interest and frequent contact. This is an obvious and inevitable consequence of the fact before pointed out that they result partly from a similar response of like-minded people to the same stimuli ; and partly from the communication of ideas and feelings from one to another.
III. What are the general conditions which are favour- able to the occurrence of mental epidemics?
I. A large uncultured population. By an uncultured population is meant people who are ignorant, uneducated ; people who have had but a limited and monotonous experi- ence, and people of low mental organization. Among these classes an excitement of any kind which strongly stimulates the instincts will spread rapidly. As this large number are swept into the psychical vortex the suction becomes very powerful. Minds of a higher order are drawn in. As the swirl of the engulfing current thus widens, it looses from their moorings minds that are yet more securely anchored in reason; and so goes on spreading until the steadiest intellects become dizzy and normal thinking and acting become all but impossible. If there were but a small proportion of people of inferior intelligence the current could not attain sufficient force to disturb the mental equilibrium of the leaders. To
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change the figure, the multitude of easily influenced minds constitute so much highly inflammable material which a very little spark will ignite, and as the flames spread struc- tures which are well fortified against fire are irresistibly en- veloped in the general conflagration. We must not forget that all men are in some measure suggestible, and as the vol- ume of suggestion increases it subdues one after another the more highly organized and independent minds in the re- verse order of their stability. A multitude of weak minds reacting upon one another and intensifying their common excitement can upset the rational processes of a stronger mind on which they individually would have but an insig- nificant influence. Herein lies the chief danger of a mental epidemic. It is always likely to result in the reversal of the normal social process — the leadership of the stronger minds ; and so, in group action, it usually means the domina- tion of intelligence by instinct.
2. A mental epidemic may occur among a people of good intelligence if the suggested idea which starts the excite- ment is such that their past experience furnishes no stand- ard by which it can be critically tested. It should be kept in mind that all people are highly suggestible as to matters that lie beyond the range of their experience ; though even under this condition all are not equally suggestible, because, apart from temperamental predispositions which may have something to do with one's responsiveness to suggestions, there is in such a case no obstruction to the suggestion ex- cept the cautious and critical disposition of mind which may have had its origin in past experience. This critical mental attitude implies a somewhat varied experience and consider- able reflection, and not a large proportion of any popula- tion is likely to have acquired it. It does not, therefore, prove to be a very serious obstruction to the general accept- ance of the idea which generates the contagious emotion. The people generally being unable to judge critically the sug- gestions which thus lie outside of the range of their knowl- edge, and not having acquired the critical capacity which en-
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ables them to maintain an attitude of scepticism on general principles, are without the means of protecting themselves against the emotional tide. This is a purely negative condi- tion and of itself does not furnish an adequate explana- tion of a mental epidemic; but it is of great practical impor- tance because it gives an open opportunity for positive causes to work unhindered. We may in this way account in large part for the town booms in the South, referred to above. The southern people could not be fairly called unintelligent ; but their civilization had been for the most part of the rural type ; they were not acquainted with the conditions and laws of modem industrial development and had had little expe- rience in city-building. Much was said about that time of the vast natural resources of their section of the country ; they were just awakening to the realization that their land must inevitably attract large investments of capital. And so, lack- ing the experience and knowledge which would have given them a better appreciation of the time-element always neces- sary in the development of a great industrial civilization, their imaginations saw their towns expanding as by magic into vast cities within a decade, while shrewd land agents, themselves partly under the spell of the contagion, painted glowing pictures of the rise of factories, the influx of pop- ulation and the fat fortunes which awaited those who in- vested early in town lots.
3. Positive conditions also may be found in the experi- ence of a people, which may have been such as to predispose them to accept without question suggestions of a certain kind.
Consider, for instance, the " Great Fear " that obsessed the minds of the French people in the months of July and August, 1789. A report, originating nobody knew where, that the king was going to send brigands among the people to rob them, was readily believed, and the cry, " The brig- ands are coming! " was enough to cast a spell of terror over a neighbourhood. A predisposing cause of the uncritical ac- ceptance of the idea was clearly the fact that the people had
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learned by sad experience that they had httle to expect from their government but oppression and exploitation. Other predisposing conditions were doubtless also present ; but the state of mind resulting from the well-known selfishness and brutality of the ruling classes was certainly a chief factor in the situation.
Indeed, collective moods, if the expression may be al- lowed, are very important predisposing conditions. Often they are manifestly the result of the experience, especially the cumulative result of repeated experiences, of a people who have suffered imder special conditions. A succession of experiences of the same general tendency is likely to pro- duce a state of abnormal mental irritability, an attitude of mind expectant of similar experiences, a disposition to inter- pret in that sense any occurrence which by any possibility can be so construed. A man whom a series of misfortunes has befallen is predisposed to accept the slightest intimation that further adversities are impending; and the man who has had a nm of good fortune is equally easy to be convinced that the fickle goddess will continue to smile upon him ; and this is as true of a whole population as it is of an individual. In this way may be developed what I have called a collective mood, or a general trend of expectancy, which renders the people so affected highly suggestible along that line.
The predisposing conditions may be due to profound and extensive social changes. In such times the institutions of society which once satisfied the needs of the people cease to do so ; but they persist and become formalized, fossilized. Men feel that in and through these institutions they are no longer satisfactorily adjusted to one another. The masses, and also many of the higher and finer spirits, become restless and discontented, but few even of the latter clearly perceive where the trouble lies and still less clearly the proper course to take for its correction. No longer attached in their hearts to the existing forms and institutions ; feeling deeply the need of new principles and adjustments, and being unable of themselves to discover the principles and bring
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about the adjustments, the masses of the people are ex- tremely suggestible and yield readily to the appeal of a strong leader who comes proposing a definite principle and program. The great movements which have lifted the world to higher moral and spiritual levels have generally had their origin in and, in part certainly, owe their prevalence to such conditions. These movements are initiated by some great, dominating personality, or group of personalities ; but master first the "common people " and through them finally prevail. Christianity itself thus arose and spread; and thus the great reforms of Christianity have been ac- complished. The conmion people heard Jesus gladly. To the common people did Savonarola, Huss, Wyckliff, Lu- ther, Wesley, and many others, make their appeal. Thus re- forms in other religions have been achieved. Thus modern democracy won the day — Hampden, Washington, Lincoln, as well as the great democratic leaders of this generation, found their support among the common people. y\long this road the beneficent reforms of the present hour are march- ing to victory. Upon the common people the mighty men who lead the way to better things must lean for support.
The everlasting tendency is for institutionalized culture to become unresponsive to the living needs of humanity. At the same time the interests of the dominant classes come to be identified with this institutionalized culture and so uncom- promisingly opposed to all reforming or revolutionizing en- thusiasms ; while the " lower classes " gradually come to a dim and inarticulate realization that the institutions of so- ciety no longer serve their interests. Then some great spirit with deep ethical insight and prophetic vision arises and voices the dumb spiritual needs, the blind ethical hungers, of the populace, and from him emanates the mighty emotional tide which sweeps all before it. But every movement is always in danger, especially in its earlier stages, of falling into demoralizing excesses because of the low intelligence and high suggestibilty of the ignorant masses. And there is always danger lest the populace in its fickleness fall under
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the sway of a counter suggestion and become the foolish destroyer of its own deliverers. Thus Jesus suffered, and many another who has followed him in devotion to the in- terests of the people.
The truth is that a great enthusiasm of any kind, whatever its ethical import, spreads along the line of least resistance, and the line of least resistance runs through the highly sug- gestible minds of the populace. Along the high road of pop- ular suggestibility have travelled all the moralizing and all the demoralizing enthusiasms that have blessed or blasted humanity.
4. The prevalence among a population of a certain con- stitutional disposition may have much to do with their sug- gestibility. In general the races bred in northern latitudes will be less volatile, more inhibitive and therefore less sug- gestible than races bred in southern climes. The severity of the climate drove the former into the seclusion of the home, compelled them to practise a more careful foresight and a firmer self-control. This cause operating through many generations tended to fix these traits as racial characteris- tics. These temperamental differences do not imply that the people of northern races have less feeling, in the sense of less conscious realization of the meaning of their experi- ences, but they manifest their feelings less quickly and readily in outward action ; their inhibitive powers are more highly developed. Of course, such a statement does not by any means hold good of all the individuals of the races compared ; but means simply that a larger proportion of individuals of a certain temperament are found in a race developed in one environment than in that developed in an- other; that the conditions of life are more favourable to the " survival " of a given temperamental type, which thus be- comes dominant through the process of natural selection, and influences the whole population by the law of imitation. Contrast, for instance, the English and the Latin types, the German and the Celtic. Or set the present social develop- ment of Russia over against the history of France in the
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eighteenth century. The political struggle in Russia in this generation is similar in many essential respects to that of France in the Revolutionary Epoch, and the social condi- tions are much the same. But how dififerently do the Rus- sians go about it! There are points of similarity in method, to be sure ; but the contrasts arc more profound and striking than the resemblances. Violence is characteristic of both movements ; but in Russia it seems to be limited to small groups of desperate and unbalanced men and women ; while in France practically the whole population was swept by tempests of violent fury. Among races the Italic, Celtic and Hellenic groups seem to be more subject to sudden emo- tional seizures of the entire population, more readily dom- inated or obsessed by a single idea or sentiment than any other of the peoples that have attained to a high culture ; vv^hile the Teutonic and the Slavic groups are less so.^
These temperamental differences which manifest them- selves among the advanced peoples doubtless also exist among the l)ackward ; but all races in the early stages of de- velopment are highly suggestible, because of the decided pre- dominance of the instinctive over the intellectual factors of personality, and are therefore quite subject to mental epi- demics.
IV. We may now properly ask : What bearing has the progress of society upon the phenomena we are studying?
1 The paragraph above was written before I became acquainted with the illuminating and suggestive work of Professor Ellsworth Huntington on "Civilization and Climate"; and perhaps should be somewhat modified in the light which he has cast upon this rather obscure subject. His conclusion, whicli he has apparently demon- strated in the main, is that a very high development of civilization depends chiefly upon three climatic factors — first, the general prev- alence of moderate temperatures; second a considerable degree of humidity; and, third, a marked variability of the weatiier. It seems, then, that long-continued extremes of either heat or cold, great aridity of the atmosphere and uniformitv of weather conditions are all depressing and tend to prevent a high development of human energy. However, it appears to be true tliat races developed in warm latitudes show certain temperamental qualities not found in the races bred in cold regions. For while extremes of heat and cold both depress, they affect the nervous system in different ways-
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Let US for convenience divide the development of society into three general stages.
First, the primitive stage. In this stage the social life is simple and undifferentiated ; at least the differentiation is at a minimum. This state of things is favourable to the sweep of such an excitement over a whole population with un- diminished power. The population is not split up into sharply defined classes, except along the lines of sex and age. These being the only groupings which are clearly dis- tinct from one another in interest, experience and mental or- ganization, they indicate the only cleavages which offer any obstruction to the sweep of contagious emotion over the en- tire population ; and it is obvious that, apart from these lim- itations, an emotional excitement will spread with equal facility and with full power, in every direction, somewhat like a flood of water over a level plain.
Second, there is what I shall call the middle stage. In this stage the society is sharply divided into quite distinct classes. The caste system prevails. Between the classes almost impassable chasms run. Each class has its own standards, its own point of view, its own interests. Its sympathies are largely shut up within its own membership ; what takes place in the social strata below or above it excites but a languid, or at most a curious, interest in the hearts of those who move within its circle. Intercourse with the members of other classes is reduced by the spirit of ex- clusiveness to the minimum absolutely necessary for carry- ing on the functions of life: and the inevitable contacts are made quite perfunctory, emptied as far as possible of all per- sonal content. The upper classes scorn to imitate the lower ones ; and where the demarcation is so broad and fixed the people of the lower classes can ape the upper only in the most superficial way, if at all, and view from afar, most often without appreciative insight, the emotions which agi- tate their superiors. The water of sympathy does not flow down from above to the lower social levels — unless there be a veritable flood — because it is too carefully held back by
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the dykes thrown up by pride and convention ; and it cannot flow from the lower to the higher levels except under the highest pressure. But emotion spreads readily and rapidly within the class lines. The members of one class, therefore, may be swept by a common emotion which docs not cause even a tremor in the breasts of others who rank below or above them in the social scale. For example, the Negroes in our Southern states may be under the spell of a most in- tense mental epidemic — convulsed by a common fear or a common elation, or wild with religious fanaticism — while the whites look on with only an amused interest ; and the whites may be " crazed " by a financial panic or a land boom, while the black man pursues the even tenor of his way, mak- ing the forest vocal with his plantation melody or the fields ring with his care-free laughter. The Southern states are, however, far from being typical of the middle stage of social development I am now describing. For typical societies of this kind we must look to lands where the social stratification is yet unmodified by the powerful influences of modern in- dustrialism.
There are only two conditions under which the excitement prevailing in one class is likely to overleap the social chasm and infect another. If it becomes overwhelming in its in- tensity it may spread across class lines. This condition was approximated in the tremendous war excitement that con- vulsed Southern society in the early sixties of the last cen- tury. In that case the cause of the excitement was one that affected, indirectly at least, the relations of the two classes to one another — though fortunately the Negroes had only a dim apprehension of that fact, and were in sympathy with their white masters ; but notwithstanding this, the agitation was only imperfectly communicated to them. If, on the other hand, the excitement grows directly out of the rela- tions of the classes to each other and they both are clearly conscious of this, it will spread across the line ; but in this case it will not on the two sides take the form of a single emotion but of two opposite or antagonistic emotions, and
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the effect is not a mental unification of the two classes but a broadening and deepening of the hiatus between them. This was well exemplified in the great social storms of the Reconstruction Era in the South, and in the racial excite- ments which have occurred intermittently ever since. There are, indeed, no more effective barriers to the spread of a common emotion than distinctions of class, and the effectiveness of the barriers is in direct ratio to the sharpness and fixity of these distinctions. When they become rigid and impassable as in a caste system, noth- ing but a profound excitement which directly concerns some fundamental and universal human interest can give a common orientation of mind to the whole pop- ulation, and then the emotion must be so intense that it suspends all the acquired controls of conduct and leaves the fundamental instincts in complete ascend- ancy. What takes place then is not so much a communica- tion of emotion or the radiation of an excitement from a centre, as a like instinctive reaction to a stimulus too power- ful to be responded to by reason.
The third stage in social development is our modern in- dustrial society. In this the caste system has dissolved or is dissolving. The hiatus between classes is no longer impass- able. Families may sink from a higher into a lower, or rise from a lower into a higher, class within two generations or even one. The distinctions on the whole remain clear enough, but the lines of demarcation between the class fron- tiers are almost blotted out. Even in western European countries, where the traditional aristocratic stratification of society was only less rigifl than in India, the classical land of the caste, the tendency to substitute open classes for the closed-class system has profoundly modified the social organization ; while in the United States the only clearly de- fined principle of stratification is income, which determines the standard of living and thus the general lines within which reciprocal social intercourse is practicable.
One might infer from this that the trend is toward the
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reinstatement of the simple undifferentiated type of society. But this is far from the fact. If the lines between classes have become wavering and indistinct, the specializa- tion of occupations has been going on at the same time on a quite remarkable scale ; and the occupational differentia- tion produces a great variety of social types. Those en- gaged in the same occupation develop a certain similarity of mental organization, which becomes in some cases very pronounced. They have their common interests, and in the more important occupations they have more frequent con- tacts with one another, or at any rate their relations with one another are likely to be more sympathetic, full and free, offering a more open path for the spread of common ideas and emotions. On the other hand, however, the important fact must be noted that occupations have been thoroughly in- dividualized ; almost every trace of hereditary occupations has vanished. The father follows one trade or profession and the son a different one, or the several sons several dif- ferent ones. And thus within the same family more than one occupational type is very often found. Moreover, in the modern world the great diversification of interests has mul- tiplied and varied the relations of men to one another be- yond all parallel. It is obvious, therefore, that a great and increasing number of social ties run across the occui)ational lines, as well as across the crevices of class distinctions. While the social cleavages have been greatly multi])lied in number there is vastly more criss-crossing of social relation- ship. As the differentiation of specialized groups goes on within society, the threads which knit them together also multiply. If I may use so crude a figure, the social garment has many more seams but the seams are much more closely stitched.
The density of the population must also be taken into con- sideration. It is greater than ever and is constantly in- creasing. Thus social contacts are much more numerous than ever both within and across group-lines, though it must
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be admitted that these contacts become more and more per- functory and non-personal.
Another notable feature of modern life is the vast exten- sion of the means of communication. Men travel much more often and, as a rule, much farther than they used to. The number of people who read has also greatly increased, and they read more than they ever did before, and while the members of each class and occupation read a literature which is somewhat specialized and adapted to their tastes and needs, much of the literature that pours from the press circulates through all classes and forms a line along which ideas and emotions may be communicated across class divi- sions. The leading newspapers and magazines circulate over extensive areas and bring into one mental community great numbers of men widely separated in local communities. Books pour from the press in an increasing flood, and many of them are read by tens of thousands in all parts of the world and in all the strata of society. Along the in- numerable telegraph and telephone wires the thoughts and emotions which engage the minds and hearts of men in one part of the world are flashed to distant peoples. It is not an exaggeration to say that the civilized world is coming to be, in some real sense of the word, one mental community. At the same time it should be borne in mind that this tends not to make all men alike in thought and feeling, but really individualizes the mental systems of men.^
Now what relation have these great tendencies of modern life to the phenomena of mental epidemics?
In the first place, it would be reasonable to look for the more frequent occurrence of epidemics in modern society. This may be expected to result from the vast extension of intercommunication, which brings widely separated com- munities into mental touch. This close inter-relation of distant sections of humanity and the wider knowledge of what is going on in the world vastly multiply the
1 See Chapter III.
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number of stimuli that start tides of social emotion. In these days there come to our knowledge many exciting in- cidents and situations of which men living in the compar- atively isolated communities of earlier times would never have heard. For instance, the celebrated Dreyfus case pro- foundly moved men in all parts of the world ; but only a century previous the detailed knowledge of it and the attend- ant excitement would have been limited to France, and prob- ably to a section of the French people. In 1904-5 the whole civilized world was electrified by the Russo-Japanese war. A tide of sympathy with and admiration for the Japanese swept the people of England and America, A hundred years ago we should have had meagre reports of it after all its stirring incidents had become cold history; and it would not have started a single thrill. In fact, a hundred years ago Russia and Japan had no communication with one another, hostile or friendly, and our knowledge of them was too misty to engage our interest in either. A century ago even the great war in Europe, if it had been possible then on so co- lossal a scale, would have been too far away to involve our country and our reports of it too meager to stir us as under the conditions of today. But the frequency of mental epi- demics is due not only to the wonderful extension of inter- communication. The greater density of population and the increasing tension of life probably tend in the same direc- tion. Life is more urgent and dynamic. Men venture farther and dare more, plan and achieve or fail on a larger scale ; and in such circumstances we should naturally expect a more frequent occurrence of events that startle or shock the public mind and generate waves of common emotion.
In the second place, a reasonable inference would be that the epidemic would be more diffusive, i.e., would radiate in all directions more readily than in the middle stage of social development. For while class distinctions remain and oc- cupational groups have become more numerous and more highly specialized, the dividing lines are crossed by many more threads of relationship. So to speak, the walls sep-
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arating these various groups are more numerous, but they are not so high nor so thick, and they are pierced by many more gates through which ideas and emotions may be more readily communicated than through the less numerous but thicker, higher and more unbroken walls that separated the larger divisions of a caste system. In a rigidly stratified, static, traditional, custom-ruled society the common emotion spread only within the limits of the caste, and assumed a greater intensity because within those impassable bounds there was so little mental differentiation. The mental epi- demic could propagate itself in but one direction, but in that one direction gathered greater force. But the substitution of " open classes " for the caste system has profoundly changed the situation and, therefore, collective emotions dif- fuse themselves more readily.
In the third place, we should expect these epidemics to be much reduced in intensity in the modern world. The chasms between classes are not so broad as they once were and emotions spread across them more easily ; but they nev- ertheless constitute serious obstructions to the spread of social emotion. The lines of mental cleavage between occu- pations by no means form impassable barriers, but they are of sufficient importance to check the communication of mental states and prevent in some measure like responses to the same stimuli. For instance, the same situation is likely to call forth a difTerent reaction in the minds of lawyers, merchants, labourers and preachers, unless it be so powerful an appeal to the fundamental instincts as to upset in large measure the intellectual processes. The higher individual- ization of men is not conducive to the unhindered sweep of a common feeling.
Still another condition tends to lower the intensity of mental epidemics. The average man today has many inter- ests, corresponding to the many relations in which he stands to his fellow men ; and every one of these interests and rela- tions claims a part of his attention, time and energy. In this respect his situation is in contrast with that of the aver-
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age man of by-gone ages. The multiplication and dif- ferentiation of the interests of the individual are among the most characteristic features of modern life. When some current of social emotion pours through a community of such persons it is not nearly so likely to become powerful enough to monopolize time and thought, because the other interests are clamouring for attention, and their neglect is apt to entail serious consequences. It is hard now, therefore, to secure the focalization of attention necessary for the devel- opment of very high waves of common emotion. On the whole, then, our premises lead irresistibly to the conclu- sion that mental epidemics must be, as a rule, less over- whelming in their intensity now than in past times.
Now, are these inferences, that greater frequency, more diffusiveness and lowered intensity characterize mental epi- demics in modern society, in accord with the facts?
It does not seem that there can be any reasonable ques- tion as to greater frequency. The appeal, of course, is to history, and there is scarecly a doubt that the facts con- firm our contention. If there be such a doubt it probably arises from the fact that the mental epidemics of earlier times were more isolated and more striking; and seen in the perspective of history appear to be closer together in time than the less pronounced types of the same phenomena through which we are living. There is even less ground for doubt as to greater diffusion and reduced intensity. It is, of course, difficult or impossible to measure the force of a mental movement or to determine the extent to which, as compared with other movements, it spreads through all classes of the population ; but I am persuaded that a careful study of this class of phenomena as they have been re- corded will convince the sceptical that the propositions above stated have a firm basis in facts. Limitation of space will not permit me to go here into an examination of the histori- cal evidence ; but one fact which is apparently inconsistent with our conclusion should be briefly noticed, viz., the severity of financial panics in modern times. As a matter
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of fact the financial panic is a phenomenon which can ap- pear in an intense form only in a rather highly organized system of national or international economy. It was simply impossible in a tribal or household system of economy. Strictly speaking, it seems that financial panics of a violent species are phenomena characteristic of the intermediate stages of economic organization on a national scale. They cannot occur until the financial system of the country has attained to a considerable degree of unity ; but as it develops it tends to become so highly centralized and integrated in some one great institution that each unit of the system is supported by the strength of the whole, and this gives a steadiness which inspires confidence and allays the excite- ment which would lead to demoralization. When all the conditions are taken into consideration it is probable that mental epidemics of this variety, as of every other, are becoming more frequent, more diffusive and less violent. Assuming the truth of this contention, we may safely con- clude that the general tendency is away from excessive and demoralizing, towards more moderate and healthy expe- riences of this kind. We shall probably never witness again the wild insanities which from time to time afflicted society in the ]\Iiddle Ages. It is not probable that such fanatical movements as the Crusades or such a madness as the anti- witchcraft mania will ever be possible again, nor should we except a repetition of such abnormal religious revivals as that which swept like wild-fire over the frontier population of Kentucky and Tennessee in 1800. This may be ac- counted for by the general increase of intelligence, but the general increase of intelligence is itself coincident with and conditioned by the social processes so rudely sketched.
It is useless to argue as to the moral and social value of these abnormal religious excitements. Unquestionably some good results followed them, directly and indirectly ; but it is also beyond dispute that these benefits were purchased at the cost of much injury. We have no scales in which we can weigh the good and ill effects ; but it is certain that the
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good effects of all mental epidemics are proportionally greater as these social emotions are checked and brought under the direction of intelligence. In proportion as the crude and violent emotions are rationalized into high senti- ments do they become socializing agencies, means of ethical education and spiritual advancement. It is a mistake of capital importance to try by artificial methods to bring on excessive religious excitements. In the first place, the effort is doomed to failure. The history of acute mental epi- demics shows beyond question that they can rarely if ever be deliberately started. They do not originate in that way. The state of general abnormal suggestibility which they imply can not be induced at will. It is due to causes that lie beyond the power of any man or body of men. Only a weak imitation of such excitements can be produced by deliberate effort. In the second place, it ought not to be done, if it could be. To submerge the intelligence in a tide of irra- tional emotion does not advance true religion. The charac- ters of men are not transformed into likeness to Christ by the reflexive twitching of the nerves, as in " the jerks," nor by a reversion to the canine type, as in the " barking exer- cise," in which men " gathered in groups, on all fours, like dogs, growling and snapping the teeth at the foot of a tree as the minister preached, — a practice which they designated as ' treeing the devil.' " ^
One of the most pernicious superstitions that has hindered the progress of true religion is the notion, which has been so prevalent in backward societies and has survived so per- sistently during the whole Christian era, that the operation of the Divine Spirit is especially manifest in an over- wrought emotional state in which the intelligence is swamped. Can any valid reason be given why we should expect the Divine Spirit to be present in human emotion more than in the operation of the reason and the conscience? The apostle Paul had to contend in his day against this very superstition, and he warns the Corinthians that " the
1 Davenport, " Primitive Traits in Religious Revivals," p. 80.
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spirits of the prophets are subject to the prophets." ^ That is to say, if the emotion passes the bounds of self-control it loses its religious value. The false notion that the Divine Spirit is especially present in high emotion, every generation of constructive religious leaders has had to combat. If religion perishes of drought in the arid sterility of intellec- tualism — as it certainly does — it is overwhelmed and drowned in the tidal waves of pure emotionalism. It may be thought that the danger lies today in the direction of in- tellectualism. Granting that this may be true as to a small section of the population, it is by no means a general danger. But the evidence seems clear that we are passing out of the era of virulent mental epidemics, and that fanaticism, ter- rors, manias, wild and dehumanizing emotional convulsions of every variety, are diminishing factors in modern life. It would certainly be too much to claim that we are beyond the danger of their recurrence. Here and there in peculiar cir- cumstances and under the unfortunate leadership of men who have extraordinary power to arouse emotion without any counter-balancing appeal to the intelligence, religious excitements may yet be developed to the point of demoraliz- ing excess. But we should be encouraged by the fact that such mental excitements, as in more primitive times occa- sionally swept the land like a West Indian storm, become less intense, less extensive and of shorter duration. Nor should we fear that genuine religious revivals will become a thing of the past. Man will always be an emotional being, but in his upward development his emotions will be more thor- oughly incorporated in the unity of a rational personality and organized into sentiments and ideals. Communities will always be subject to waves of common feeling, which will prompt to united action ; but collective action will be Jess spasmodic and irregular, more rational, ethical and or- derlv. The religious revival will more than gain in moral significance and social value all that it loses in wild ex- travagance and abnormal demonstration.
1 1 Corinthians. Chap. 14.
CHAPTER XIII
OCCUPATIONAL TYPES
No argument is required to show that one's occupation determines to a large extent his habitual mental processes. In adult life it appears to be the chief factor in giving direc- tion and form to the intellectual and emotional development. Its importance in this respect, while always predominant, will depend on how nearly the occupation monopolizes the time and energy of the person, i.e., upon the relative amount of leisure he has and how he uses it. If his leisure is ample and so used as to bring him into other and different currents of thought and feeling, to introduce new interests into his life and to give him points of view upon life different from those of his occupation, it will in a corresponding measure modify the development of his inner life. In other words, an occupation which leaves little leisure is, second only to the instinctive inheritance and the environment of child- hood, the chief determining factor in fashioning the per- sonality. Ample leisure, if so used as to bring one into other circles of interest, renders the occupation relativel\- less dominant; and yet it must be remembered that the habits formed in the occupation will most likely influence the use of the leisure time. One's leisure is spent according to inclination and taste ; and inclination and taste, while not wholly determined by one's customary activities, are largely controlled by them. Without going into details we may say, then, that although the use of leisure may have some, and certain uses of it a considerable, tendency to soften the hard lines of occupational specialization, its effect is limited. That those who pursue the same occupation or similar ones tend to resemble one another in their modes of thought
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and to conform to a type is a fact of common experience; but such types are somewhat indefinite and hard to describe. Indeed, individual variations within the same type are so numerous and so great, and there are so many individual exceptions, that no generalizations can be made which hold good absolutely and always. And yet these types are very real, and every one who seeks to influence men generally should study them. It would be interesting theoretically to study in detail the various psychological types which result from the many specialized activities of men ; but for our practical purpose we need consider only three.
I. THE MINISTERIAL TYPE
Of course, it is not the intention to intimate that all minis- ters are alike. As has just been suggested, not all persons engaged in any occupation conform completely to the type which that occupation tends to produce ; and variety in •modes of thought and mental attitudes is in no class more strikingly obvious than among ministers. But experience teaches us that the ministerial occupation does tend to de- velop certain habits of mind. The average minister uncon- sciously and almost inevitably assumes such characteristic attitudes that he can nearly always be correctly classified, after a little conversation, by any intelligent stranger. His way of looking at things which are even remote from his daily work, the general run of his ideas, his " manners," his tones, his speech — all betray him. Sometimes the minis- terial flavour of his personality is too subtile to be described, but can readily be perceived. If calling attention to these things succeeds only in making him self-conscious, the result will be nothing better than an added awkwardness ; but the intelligent minister will find benefit from studying his own occupational type because it will enable him to check himself up and correct in some measure a strong tendency to a one- sided development of his personality.
I. Consider the breadth of his occupation. If we should try to define the occupation of the modern minister by rea-
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soiling inductively from the actual facts, we should find con- siderable diftkulty. What a variety of things he is called upon to do ! In these later days he is supposed to be obliged to dabble in some way in almost everything that goes on. But setting aside the faddist notions that are current as a result of the idea, very true in itself, that the preacher should relate his work to all phases of life, we still have difficulty in making out exactly the range of the modern min- ister's legitimate activity. It is sometimes jestingly declared that, to meet the demands of a large congregation in a modern community, he must make more public addresses and of a vastly more varied character than a lawyer, read as much as a learned scholar, visit more people than a busy physician, exercise as much executive ability as the head of a great corporation, travel nearly as many miles as a " drummer," cultivate as much tact and adaptability as a politician, and withal must spend as much time in prayer and meditation as a saint. And there is almost as much truth as jest in the remark. No other occupation demands the exer- cise of so great a variety of talents. Thinking upon this aspect of his work, one is tempted to say that he can be a specialist only in an indefinite sense of the word, if at all. Indeed his function must be quite broadly defined ; and yet, though broad in scope and varied in details, it is definite enough in principle. Ideally it is to bring the whole mes- sage of Jesus to the whole life of men. It would seem, then, that his occupation is well adapted to develop a full and well rounded personality, a broadly human type. This is quite true. He needs to know all truth, as far as is humanly possible; to meet and deal with all classes and conditions of men ; to enter into intelligent sympathy with all human activities and varieties of character. Surely an occupation which is full of such varied demands and stimulations will mould a large and noble human type.
There is, however, great danger that it will develop a mental type that is versatile but shallow. Unquestionably this occurs so often that critics who make this charge against
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ministers as a class have some show of justification. Does not the average minister, in the effort to respond to the nu- merous calls made upon him, learn something about a great many aspects of life, without acquiring a very thorough knowledge of any one of them ; dip into a great many sub- jects, without penetrating to the depths of any of them? Thus he comes to be a man of very varied but not very accurate information, a pleasant companion, an interesting " conversationalist," an excellent " entertainer " in the social circle, but unable to speak with authority upon any theme.
2. The narrowing tendencies of his occupation. Not- withstanding the breadth of his specialty there are certain causes at work in his occupation that tend to cast him in a narrow mould.
( I ) There is a tendency to the habit of dogmatism. The preacher is appointed to deliver a message which he believes to be from God. Hence there must be a note of positive- ness, of certainty, of authority in his deliverances. He must often be dogmatic in utterance. From this arises a need for caution, lest he should fall into a habit of dogmatic ut- terance that is quite unjustifiable.
In the first place, he should remember that he is delivering his understanding of the divine message. He is an inter- preter, and it is his interpretation which he is preaching. God's message, when one can be absolutely sure about it, should be proclaimed with the emphasis of finality. But the minister should never forget that his understanding of the divine will is always subject to error, and is never absolute. The divine will is always right and is not open to debate ; but how easily he may be mistaken as to what that will is, and especially as to its application to particular situations ! However much he may insist upon the infallibility of the Bible, that is a quite diflferent matter from his interpreta- tion of the Bible ; and the latter he certainly has no right to proclaim as the final and unquestionable truth. How easily and unconsciously some preachers err here ! He should never forget that every human mind has its bias, which in-
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evitably and, for the most part, unconsciously determines where it will place the emphasis, what aspects of any sub- ject it will consider as primary or as unimportant, or en- tirely overlook; and that this bias of his own mind will determine in large measure the results of his thinking. In view of his inevitable limitations, can the preacher be sure enough of his message to justify intolerance? Intolerance has been a notable bane of the ministerial function in all ages. In this age particularly the preacher should be on his guard against it ; for intolerance is especially offensive to men who live under modern conditions, which tend to de- velop the spirit of tolerance. No man can set himself up for an oracle now with a hope of impressing intelligent men with anything but his own egotism or fanatical folly.
The tendency of the ministerial function toward intol- erance is strengthened by the fact that, according to the conventional conditions under which the preacher usually speaks, he " has the floor to himself." No reply is made to his utterances, certainly not at the time, and generally not at all. His deliverances usually go without public chal- lenge. Rarely is he called upon to prove the truth of his declarations ; and this fact only imposes on his conscience the heavier obligation to be careful and cautious, to look on the other side, and to measure his words. Too often a preacher is insensible to this obligation of honour, and cul- tivates license in dogmatism and intolerance because the decorum proper to religious services leaves him an open field to deliver his own opinions as the unquestionable truth of God. Of course, he should not suiYer his caution in this matter to render him weak in his religious convic- tions or negative, timid and doubtful in his utterance of them. But it should lead him to more patient and thorough study, a greater respect for dififering points of view and a more humble consciousness of his limitations.
Again, he sometimes has occasion to deal with matters about which he has some general information, but about which he can hardly be presumed to have special knowledge.
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In such matters especially he should beware lest he suffer the positiveness of utterance usual and permissible to him in the realm of his special knowledge to give a tone of offensive dogmatism to his statements. His deliverances on such questions are especially likely to be called in question ; and errors of fact or half-baked opinions stated with dog- matic cocksureness will discredit him in the eyes of all in- telligent people, and weaken the force of the genuine truth which he proclaims. Often he should make reference to such matters and he should by no means be timid and nerve- less in doing it ; but let him lay aside his dogmatism, and above all his intolerance, when he is called upon to discuss such questions, and let him be sure of his facts, and patient and fair and cautious in presenting them.
In a word, the preacher should strenuously strive against the habit of dogmatism which, by reason of the character of his message and the conditions under which he usually speaks, is so likely to grow upon him. If he should always be positive, sometimes dogmatic and, on rare occasions, even intolerant in utterance, let him seek sedulously never to fall into these attitudes simply through force of habit. His usual positiveness, occasional dogmatism and rare intoler- ance should always be the result of careful study and thought, and of profound conviction. The mere habit of positiveness has little value ; the habit of dogmatism has less ; the habit of intolerance is always positi\ely offensive.
(2) The tendency to a merely habitual and superficial gravity of tone and manner. The preacher is dealing almost continually with the most sacred things, the most solemn and awful realities — sin, salvation, the religious meaning of life, death, eternity, God. As a minister of the gospel he is " set apart " to study and explain these solemn realities and aspects of human experience, and guide men in their relations to them. It is natural, therefore, that he should have an extraordinary sense of the solemnity of life ; and this is as it should be. The minister who is deficient in the conscious realization of the deeper issues of life is unfit to
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be a spiritual adviser of men. All the world feels contempt for the minister of religion who is given to levity. It is a sure sign that his character is shallow, and that he is simply incapable of perceiving and feeling the moral and spiritual significance of living. But it is easy for him just through his familiarity with things regarded as peculiarly sacred to fall into the mere habit of gravity, going about with " a long face " and speaking in tones that quench the natural glad- ness of life which healthy people feel. Such a manner and tone when they become merely habitual are likely to become superficial and to indicate no longer real depth and sincerity of feeling; and when thus detached from reality they are ridiculous, if not disgusting and offensive, to those who are normally constituted.
Moreover, the fact that he is " set apart " to the ministry will, if he is not careful, have a most unfortunate reaction upon his habitual bearing. What does this " setting apart " mean? Does it mean a sanctimonious isolation from the ordinary life of the people? Manifestly he is set apart from the ordinary occupations of men not in order that he may be detached from other men in sympathy, but rather for the very opposite reason — that he may, while giving more time to the study of the deeper issues of life and to direct communion with God, also enter more particularly and variously into sympathy with men in all the walks of life. Not that he may be specialized into aloofness from other men, but generalized into more universal community with them — this is the true meaning of his ordination to the ministry. The minister has often interpreted his " set- ing apart to the ministry" in the sense of separateness — as if thereafter he was to be one apart from his fellows, dwelling in a region above them and inaccessible to them; and with this is likely to go a subconscious assumption that he is no longer subject to the same motives and passions which influence other men, is neither to be judged by the same standards nor to receive the same treatment. This sense of abnormal separateness and aloofness has from old
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shown itself in the professional dress of the minister. The distinctive garb so often worn by him not only indicates this conception of himself, but also strengthens it. He would be more than human if the regular wearing of a distinctive dress did not subtilely react upon his consciousness. It is a visible advertisement ; and however little observers may in their hearts respect the symbolical significance of the pecu- liar pattern of his clothes, it naturally, almost inevitably, affects their attitude toward him ; nor does it affect their attitude toward him more than it does his attitude toward himself. It is an outward sign of the old, old spirit of priestcraft. And unfortunately the spirit of priestcraft is not yet dead. In some quarters it lingers in visible strength, and in others where it is weakening there is a distinct re- action, with an effort to revive it. The truth is that this conception of the ministry is so inveterate, so deeply im- bedded in the religious traditions of the world, and is so much in accord with certain persistent trends of human nature that the people are quite as responsible for its con- tinued survival as the ministers themselves. But all human experience demonstrates beyond reasonable question that when ministers of religion yield to this tendency and in their thought of themselves become detached from their fellow men, the inevitable result is that their official duties become perfunctory, their genuine spirituality decays and religion dry-rots.
But notwithstanding this reactionary tendency, we must recognize that the general trend of modern life is in the opposite direction. In fact, the minister of habitual gravity, of solemn aloofness, is fast becoming a thiiig of the past, lingering yet in some backward communities, but rapidly disappearing in the more advanced. Modern life is not only more gladsome and optimistic but more rational and demo- cratic. Religious sentiments and ideals are undergoing a parallel transformation. The ministerial type is also chang- ing. The minister we have been describing was much more common in the olden time. Now he finds himself strangely
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out of place. The demand is for ministers of happy, sunny disposition. The pastor is expected to be cheerful, enter- taining, even in the pulpit, always so in the home except in the most serious crises of life; and in the social circle he is expected to be the life of the group. His " long face," if he have one, must be left in his study when he goes out among the people. Being himself under the same influences which have driven away the austere solemnity that shadowed the lives of men in the olden times, and responding to the popular demand for brightness and cheerfulness in men of his calling, he is coming to be an apostle of happiness, a man who brings with him joy and laughter. It is felt by many that the tendency in this direction is towards an extreme as unfortunate as his professional solemnity of former days. And certainly it is well that he should be careful and not suffer himself to become a mere entertainer, whose func- tion it is to make people feel pleasant and to provoke hilarity. Let it be said again, levity becomes him not. In order to prove that he is not " solemncholy," it is not neces- sary for him to degenerate into a teller of funny stories, a mere jester. Perhaps, however, for the majority of minis- ters the popular demand that they shall be buoyant and good-humoured will only serve as a corrective of the in- fluences that tend toward habitual and formal solemnity; and so yield us on the whole a healthy and soundly human
type.
(3) The preacher is concerned primarily and continually with the application of what seems to him to be the will of God to the actual lives of men. His conception of the will of God is the standard by which he is accustomed to measure the actions of men. He contemplates men as sinners, living in very imperfect conformity with the standard which he regards as divine, and as a consequence exposed to the divine condemnation, from which they can be rescued only by the gracious power of God. He is. or should be and naturally considers himself to be. an expert in moral pathol- ogy. Just as the expert physician looks at men with the
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eye of a physical pathologist and, therefore, sees many evi- dences of physical weakness and deficiency where ordinary people see none, just because he is judging every man in the light of an ideal physical manhood; so the preacher habitually regards men from the moral and spiritual point of view and measures them against his moral and spiritual ideal.
Now, this ideal is likely to be far more influenced than he realizes by the fact that his function is, as a rule, per- formed in and through an institution, the church. Every institutionalized function tends to develop an ideal of life into which loyalty to the institution enters as a very im- portant factor ; and the tendency is for that to become the chief factor in the ideal. For instance, the political leader comes quite naturally to judge the character of men by the standard of loyalty to the party. The jurist tends to have an exaggerated idea of the law as a standard of righteousness and of conformity to the law as the criterion of character. It is also true of the business man. Likewise the minister may easily fall into the habit of judging men too much ac- cording to their attitude toward the church. His ideal of. righteousness tends to become churchly. The man who attends church regularly, supports it with his means, and up- holds the minister in his eccelsiastical function, is the good man. His dereliction in other relations is likely to be min- imized. H in his church relations he is beyond criticism, does not the minister often treat his failures in other re- spects as venial ? Certainly the preacher's ideal of righteous- ness may, if he is not careful, be narrowed to the point of having its ethical vitality destroyed, by reason of the fact that he is engaged in an institutionalized function. Preach- ing can hardly cease to be an institutionalized function ; but the preacher should with all his might resist having his ideal standard of conduct whittled down to mere loyalty to an institution, even though that institution be the church. This charge is so often — and, it is to be feared, so truthfully — made against preachers that it is well to emphasize that he is
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only following a general trend of human nature in doing so — a trend which manifests itself just as often and just as objectionably in men of other occupations. But it is espe- cially sad and hurtful when preachers yield to this tendency; for they are moral mentors and guides on whom devolves an exceptionally heavy responsibility. Nowhere will they find more inspiration to resist this narrowing tendency than in the example of their great Master. To a greater extent than many realize the tragedy of the life of Jesus grew out of his struggle against such a narrow and devitalized stand- ard of righteousness.
But if the i)reacher be on his guard against this unfor- tunate tendency and cherish a higher and more vital stand- ard, the very practice of measuring actual life by an exalted standard may, and not infrequently does, produce in him a pessimistic view of the world ; though such a tendency does not seem so strong with men of this class as with those whose ideal is cast in the narrow mould of " churchianity." The reason doubtless is that the influences of modern life are much more favourable to the larger, saner ethical ideal of religious life than to the formal ideal of churchliness. The man who cherishes the higher ideal is more likely to feel himself to be fighting with the trend of the age. Moreover, he feels himself to be more in harmony with God. But notwithstanding this, the en- thusiastic minister who contemplates the imperfections of actual moral achievement and the snail-like progress of the world in the light of a great and glowing ethical ideal will often need to resist a tendency to discouragement, and does not always escape the spiritual tragedy of crystallizing in a mental attitude of pessimism, which means the decadence of his power and finally the ending together of his useful- ness and of his spiritual vitality. The best preventives, and the best remedies, if the disease has been contracted, are a deeper sympathy with the mind of Jesus, a more vital real- ization of God's presence in the world, a closer and more sympathetic touch with the lives of his fellow men. A weak
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sense of the divine presence in the world is the source of much ministerial pessimism; ignorance of the past is the mother of much more ; and the rest may easily spring from a lack of sympathetic insight into the struggles and as- pirations of living men. In this age above all others pes- simism, gloominess of spirit, should be avoided by preachers, because it isolates them so completely from the generation in which they live. Modern life, as we have seen, is much more gladsome than the life of former times — a fact which is due in no small measure to better economic conditions and to a wide-spread and growing belief in the progress of the world, which is based upon a better knowledge of the past.
(4) The preacher, along with persons engaged in several other occupations, lives in economic dependence. The work of this class of persons does in fact add to the material values of a community, and sometimes adds far more than they receive ; but it does so indirectly, and the value of their services to economic welfare is not always apparent to them or to others. But within this general group there are two classes. First, there are those whose services are engaged and paid for by individuals acting separately. Each in- dividual, whether a person or a corporation, requires only a portion of their time and energy. The physician, for in- stance, has his clients who as separate individuals engage his services, and the continuance of the relation depends alone upon the mutual satisfaction of the two. Likewise with the lawyer. Second, there are those whose entire energy and time are engaged by a single employer, whether a person or a corporation. Manifestly there is a wide dif- ference between the economic situation and relations of these two classes. As a rule, ministers belong to the latter class, though evangelists and those who do " occasional preaching " belong to the former ; and pastors who serve two or more churches occupy a middle ground between the two classes. We now have in mind pastors whose entire time is engaged by single churches, though much of what is said
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applies also to pastors whose time is divided between dif- ferent churches.
But another important distinction is to be noted between ministers serving in denominations centrally organized and those belonging to denominations organized on the principle of local church autonomy. Economically the position of these two classes is in principle the same, though the prin- ciple applies differently in the two cases. In the centrally organized denominations the individual minister's imme- diate responsibility is to the central or controlling officials to whom primarily he must look for employment ; in the denominations organized on the principle of local autonomy he must look for employment primarily to the local congre- gations. However, in the latter there are central officials of the general bodies who are called upon frequently to act as " go-betweens," although they are not appointed for this purpose ; while in the centrally organized denominations the trend is toward giving the local congregations a larger in- fluence in the selection and retention of their pastors. The principle, however it works in differently organized bodies, is that the individual minister is dependent for employment and economic welfare on some corporate body, whether it be a local congregation or a group of officials representing the denominational body, which officials are coming more and more to be merely the organs through which the local con- gregations make their wishes known and effective.
Now, this situation usually exerts a potent influence in determining the habitual attitude and bearing of the minis- ter ; and it is no wonder. The constant pressure of a power- ful consideration like the necessity of providing bread and meat for oneself and one's family must profoundly influ- ence ordinary human beings. That from time to time in human history rare personalities have appeared who have risen above this consideration only brings out in relief the fact that it is an all but imiversal influence and one of the most fundamental and potent that aflfects our human nature. It may be said that ministers should be superior to it; but
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that is a requirement that as a class they should be spiritual heroes. It is an ideal, but a high and difficult ideal ; and the fact is that ordinarily it is not attained. The great majority of ministers are more or less influenced — if not consciously, .then unconsciously — by the material consid- eration that they need an economic basis for their lives. They can secure this only by meeting with some measure of satisfaction the wishes of those who employ their services.
Along with this goes another consideration which, whether it be superior to the one just mentioned or not, seems at any rate to be less material, and which weighs heavily with many ministers — the desire for appreciative recognition and promotion to positions of greater influence. To this also it may be felt that the man devoted to so holy a calling should be superior — and that we are far from disputing. The minister's distinction and promotion should come through the very humility and unselfishness of his service. But those who urge this should consider that such humility ought not by any means to be peculiar to him. To the Christian law of promotion through self-forgetful service all the followers of Christ are subject alike. Preachers are fashioned from the common clay of humanity ; and it is to bring in by the back door, so to speak, the old notion of priestcraft if they are to be regarded as belonging to a dif- ferent order of beings from their fellow Christians.
It can hardly be denied that the habitual mental attitude and personal bearing of the average minister is to a con- siderable extent moulded by these influences. If in these matters so important to his happiness he feels himself to be dependent upon higher ecclesiastical officials, it is useless to deny that there is a tendency for him to become sub- servient, fawning, a flatterer of his superiors; if he avoids this depth of degradation, he is likely, at least, to seek, on the one hand, to avoid conflict with them ; and, on the other, to realize their specific requirements in his work. And even in the later case, his own personality is in some measure sacrificed. If in more democratically organized bodies he
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feels himself dependent in these important matters upon the pleasure of the local membership, he is constantly under the temptation to become a time-server, flattering his people, saying things he thinks they would like to hear, timid in exposing their faults, keeping sometimes his own deepest convictions and highest enthusiasms under the lid of a shame- ful silence until they lose their life. Especially is he in danger of an attitude of timidity with respect to the wealthier and more influential members. But he is con- scious of the importance of " keeping on the good side " of all, for even a comparatively insignificant person may by persistent agitation render his position untenable.
The situation is complicated and rendered more difficult by the fact that he is supposed to be the spiritual leader of his people, and to exercise a high degree of moral authority over them. His function is not to ifollow. To be sure, he can not drive, he can not dictate. He can only advise and admonish ; and in doing this he can no longer, except among the backward and yet priest-ridden population, wield the potent weapon with which once the minister of religion coerced his spiritual subjects — his supposed control over their eternal destinies. Superstitious fear no longer affords a basis for his spiritual control. His admonition and per- suasion must be rational and backed l)y no forces except the appeal of truth and the moral power of personality ; and an essential element of this personal power is the conscious- ness of independence. The effective discharge of his func- tion of persuasive leadership requires that he should not ir- ritate the people by his manner or by insistence upon his petty personal notions ; and that he should avoid conflicting with their prejudices and tastes when no essential principle is involved. He should, of course, be adaptable, loiowing how " to be all things to all men." There is no sacrifice of his independence in this ; though some preachers of small caliber seem to be able to find no larger and more fruitful way of asserting their independence than by refusing to adapt themselves to the prejudices and whims of their pec-
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pie when no real principle is at stake. But independence is to be asserted in larger matters wherein principles are to be maintained ; and here the sense of economic dependence and the desire for popular favour may be fatally weakening. It is noteworthy that the great Apostle who made it a special point to cultivate adaptability to all sorts of people " that he might win some," was equally careful to maintain his economic independence. The argument does not touch the question as to the duty of the people to support their min- isters — that goes without saying ; but it is intended to stress the duty of the minister to guard jealously against the weakening of his consciousness of independence, and by consequence his moral leadership, through the desire for popularity and the sense of helpless economic dependence upon people whom he should persuade, admonish, rebuke and direct.
Of course, I do not mean to imply that ministers are, or are in danger of becoming, a class of craven hirelings, who dare not assert their right to their own souls. Such charges are made by those who have little knowledge of preachers. But nevertheless let us not ignore the fact that the steady pressure of these economic needs and of the desire for pop- ular favour may have, and in innumerable cases does have, an unfortunate effect upon their habitual attitudes, of which they are hardly conscious. It is exactly the subconscious effects which are most dangerous. There are men of spiritual enthusiasm intense enough to neutralize the action of such influences, and a few men by the sheer innate strength of their personalities dominate their congregations, drawing around them people who are swayed by their " magnetism," repelling others who will not accept their leadership, and thus fashioning the ideals and determining the spirit of their churches. But with men of smaller mould the case is not so. Do not many of them sometimes solace themselves with the thought that they are following the example of the Apostle who " made himself all things to all men that he might win some," when in fact they are
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yielding to the silent and continual pull of the considerations we have been discussing? And no man should assume that as a matter of course he is not being swayed by them. Theoretically it is probable that the majority of ministers are thus more or less influenced; and a close and un- prejudiced study of them seems to confirm the theoretical probability that these influences contribute to the formation of the ministerial type. " Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall."
II. THE WAGE-EARNING TYPE
The term " labouring man " needs exact definition. In the more narrow and definite sense a labouring man is one who is engaged in handling, for a wage, the implements or machinery of industry belonging to others. In a somewhat more indefinite sense of the words, the labouring class in- cludes all who do manual labour for a wage. In a yet wider and more indefinite sense, all are included who work for a wage. A wage, of course, must be distinguished from a salary. A " wage " is the remuneration given those who do those forms of work which we feel to be more menial, and paid at very short intervals. A salary is a more dignified form of compensation than a wage. Many a sal- aried worker whose work is far less important and respon- sible than that of the wage-earner would nevertheless scorn to be classed with the latter.
In this discussion the phrase, labouring men, is used in the narrowest and most definite sense, though much that will be said applies just as well, perhaps, to the wider classes of labourers mentioned.
The importance of the labouring class is increasing with the growth of industry, the more extensive use of machinery and the more highly complex and varied forms of machinery. The class is growing fast in numbers notwith- standing the fact that mechanical invention is striving con- tinually to reduce the number of operatives required for a given output of production. The rapid differentiation of
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modern industry and the increasing consumption of goods, which results from the astonishing accumulation of wealth and the constantly rising standards of living, more than overcome, it seems, the tendency to the economy of human labour ; and as a consequence the labouring class is a steadily enlarging one. The problems of that class are coming to be the most acute in our present-day civilization. The con- sciousness of this fact is evident in our political life, and not a whit less so in our religious life. The problem of the labouring man is a most imperative challenge to the preacher. If our preaching can not win him to a religious life, it is a failure in one of its most important tasks. If the preacher and the labouring man are drifting farther apart, as is so frequently alleged, it means that the ministry is unsuccessful in the effort to relate its message vitally to the most acute problem of our age. Surely the situation is grave enough to call for a most careful study of the labour- ing man from the homiletical point of view.
I. Consider the conditions of his life as affecting his in- tellectual development.
(i) As to his work.
(a) His labour is physical. It requires comparatively few thought reactions in his brain, but develops quite dis- proportionately the motor centres and tends to form certain fixed habits of physical movement. It is long continued and exhausting. The margin of leisure is small and the margin of surplus energy is equally so. His work has, therefore, not only given him little preparation for intellectual occupa- tion or entertainment in his brief leisure, but has in consid- erable measure positively unfitted him for it. Furthermore, as industry becomes more extensive and machinery more in- tricate, the tasks of labour are more and more subdivided, and each individual gives his attention to a more limited proc- ess or phase of a process. Hence, in his labour he is not required to think the whole process. His intellectual fac- ulties lack, therefore, even the stimulation that would come from " thinking together " or correlating all parts of the
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general process in which he is engaged. One may question whether his opportunities in this respect are inferior to those of workers who in the clays of handicraft were not so nar- rowly specialized. Probably they are not ; for both the handicraftsman and the more specialized tender of a limited machine process soon become quite familiar with the move- ments involved, and as the movements become habitual they cease to engage acute attention, since all habitual processes inevitably drop below the level of clear consciousness. It is only when the machine goes wrong or the tool is acci- dentally mishandled that the labourer becomes fully con- scious of his activity. At the same time the necessity of overlooking the machine or handling the tool accurately prevents his becoming absorbed in thought on any other subject. His mind must hover near the machine or tool, though neither gives any vigorous occupation to his mind. Attention, thought, is but little required. How habitual, monotonous, uninteresting such an occupation becomes may readily be imagined ! We must remember that the develop- ment of the brain areas connected with the intellectual processes is, other things being equal, in proportion to the number, variety and intensity of the stimulations to thought to which one is called on to respond. Consciousness must be constantly focalizing upon objects, upon different objects, and this must be done intensely, in order that the associa- tional areas of the brain be highly developed in capacity and fully correlated in their activity. The labouring man at his work may be said to live ordinarily in a state of dif- fused consciou.sness, i.e., his consciousness is usually not intense because his actions are performed under the control of habit.
It may be said, indeed, that his work is throughout an application or embodiment of thought. But the thought is not his, except in a secondary sense as he makes the thought of another his own while giving it material form ; and as stated above, he thinks, or needs to think, the process in only a limited way. It is his to do only the mechanical
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part in the embodiment of thought; but even this has some intellectual value and saves his work from utter mental bar- renness. However, the intellectual and the mechanical parts of the process of embodying thought in material forms are becoming more and more highly specialized and differ- entiated with the further application of machinery to pro- duction. The designer, who is likely to be a " salaried " person, formulates the idea of the thing to be made, and the machine does the rest, it being only necessary to have a man watch the machine and keep it in working order — which as we have seen requires no great mental activity.
(b) The labouring man deals in his work only with the material forms of reality. He handles wood, iron, earth. His machine or his tool is a material thing and shapes material things. He has no direct dealing with life in any of its forms. It is the relations and reactions of dead mat- ter with which he is concerned. Mechanical forces, proc- esses and results occupy him. Not the transmutation of lifeless matter into living forms, not the relations to and reactions upon one another of living things, not the watch- ing and guidance of the mysterious principle of life in its growth; not the endless, various and fascinating play of ideas in the construction of arguments, in discussion, in in- vention, in the building of systems of thought, in the creation of beautiful ideals — none of these things is the object of his attention in his work, none of these is involved in the processes of his work. Crude matter, physical forces, mechanical processes — these are the elements with and upon which he works.
Here we must emphasize a principle which psychologists have not stressed as they should. Those things are most real to a man to which he spends most of his time and energy adjusting himself. One can get a lively sense of the reality of anything only by adjusting himself to it in some way or other — by working with and upon it; and those things which he spends most of his time and energy work- ing with and upon will inevitably have for him an emphatic
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reality, so to speak, which other things can not in the nature of the case have. This is a well accepted principle of the science of education ; and it has far-reaching implications. This is why the supersensible world of ideas and systems of ideas is so real and engaging to the philosopher and not so to other men. This is why God and the spiritual world are so vitally real to the saint and such shadowy realities to most other men. But we need not multiply illustrations of a prin- ciple so nearly self-evident. Ajiply it to the case in hand. Is it not manifest that to the labourer, engaged as we have indicated, matter must have a reality which less obvious things of life and mind can not possibly have? Is not the tendency toward materialism of the crudest type inevitably inherent in the very nature and conditions of his work? This is an aspect of our " social problem " which is worthy of the attention of every thoughtful man. And above all other men it should be chiefly interesting to the preacher.
(c) Relatively speaking, the labouring man works in a social vacuum. The occupations vary greatly as to the number and value of the social contacts involved in their pursuit. Some kinds of work require an isolation almost total while the workers are engaged in them ; others require frequent and varied contacts with men. And this is of the greatest importance in determining the value of an occu- pation as a means of personal development. When we re- member that personality develops chiefly, if not exclusively, in and by means of social contacts, the reaction of persons upon one another, it becomes obvious that the work which involves social isolation is of the least value in this respect. Being insulated from his fellows, the workingman is de- prived of all that stimulation which comes from the meet- ing of men, and from which is derived so much of the quickening of the human mind. Of course, his isolation is not absolute. In some of these occupations the men work in companies, or "gangs," and the mere presence of one's fellows has some value, because, first, it prevents loneli- ness, and, second, renders possible concerted habitual move-
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ments or the correlation of successive movements; and the work is thereby made easier and more pleasant. But such contact has only a minimum of intellectual value. Fre- quently the workingman is fenced off by prohibitions — no one must speak to him. " Don't talk to the motorman." The worker is not to engage in conversation with his fel- low workmen, unless some exigency should require consul- tation ; and outsiders are forbidden to approach him. And were there no such prohibitions, the nature of the work usually renders conversation impracticable. From eight to twelve hours out of the twenty-four, according to the length of his " day," he dwells in a social vacuum. The merchant, the banker, the lawyer, the physician, the minister, are, in and by their work, brought into stimulating contact with their fel- low men. They work in a tonic social medium. The higher brain centres are developed by these numerous and varied stimuli. But for the period of his work the workingman is often almost as lonely as Robinson Crusoe without his man Friday He has his machine or tool, his monotonous muscular movements, which soon become semi-conscious ; and his imagination is forbidden to wander far from a work which, though vminteresting, tethers his mind while it affords no mental stimulation. Such an occupation manifestly has little value for the development of his personality; and in this respect stands in sharp contrast with many other forms of work. Sometimes the minister or the merchant or the manufacturer will say in response to the labourer's demand for shorter hours : " I work ten hours a day ; why should the labourer always be clamouring for a shorter day?" It is an utterly thoughtless remark, and absolutely ignores the essential differences in the nature and conditions of various forms of work.
(2) So much for the actual labour which he performs. Let us now consider the relation of his leisure to his intel- lectual life. We need to enquire both as to its length and as to the use which he ordinarily makes of it. As nearly as I can ascertain the average working day in this country is
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about nine and a half hours. Allowing nine hours for eating and sleeping, we are safe in assuming that the average labouring man has approximately five and a half hours of leisure. Within this time he must satisfy his domestic in- stincts in association with his family, his social craving for contact with his fellows, his normal desire for recreation of some sort, and whatever appetite he may have for reading. His social craving will be strong, because this fundamental and ineradicable instinct has had little opportunity for satis- faction in the course of his work — has rather been starved ; but the circle of companionship within which it must be gratified will surely have little in it to stimulate the intellect or to refine the taste. A brain deadened by the uninterest- ing monotony of his labour and unstimulated by quickening social contacts will not likely be impelled toward literature by an intense hunger for knowledge.
If he belongs to a labour union that proves to be his chief intellectual school. There he finds much satisfaction of his social desires, and there he comes in contact with the most vigorous and thoughtful personalities among his com- peers. Through that medium he becomes acquainted with the literature that relates to the most obvious interests of his life. The discussions in which he there participates are crude enough, to be sure, and the literature through which his mind is brought into contact with the great world, though often strong and keen in thought, is very narrow in its general outlook. As his daily labour is linked with tools and machinery and the material things which they are transforming, so the discussions and the literature deal with the material concerns of his life. But limited and crude as it is, the educational function of the union is of inestimable value to him and is the chief agency by which any intellectual stimulation comes to awaken thought and afford a basis for the higher development of his personality.
It must also be borne in mind that the labouring man usually lives in a city. Cities are great complex social ag- gregates. There life is most highly diflferentiated, most
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various, most stimulating. There the heights and depths of life are visible ; there its infinite varieties thrust themselves upon the attention. The labouring man has some touch, even though it be a minimum touch, with that vast com- plexity of life; and his intellect is, in some measure, stimu- lated by it — though it also exposes him to moral tempta- tions which are peculiarly adapted to appeal to his weak- nesses and too often lead him to the ruin of all life's values.
II. We need not dwell long upon the effect of his life- conditions on the development of the emotional side of his personality. Ihe emotional life is limited by the range and variety of one's experiences. Each experience excites in us some feeling. The greater the number and variety of these experiences, the greater the num])er and variety of emo- tional responses. Everything we see, hear, touch, read, think, do, has its reverberation, so to speak, in the feelings. The man who is able to travel much, to move through various circles of society, to have frequent contact with many varieties of his fellow men, to see nature in many of its ever-changing aspects and moods, to read widely and to bring together ideas from several realms of knowledge, to contemplate works of art appreciatively — he will have a correspondingly rich, varied and delicately shaded emotional life. Now, it is exactly in these respects that the labouring man's life is so poor and narrowly limited. Hence the poverty of his emotional life. It is necessarily crude. We should naturally expect what we actually see — a full de- velopment of the fundamental, crude emotions, with but lit- tle of the delicacy and refinement of sentiment or *' socialized emotion," as it has been called, which is one of the richest and most precious fruits of culture.
Moreover, the inhibitive power of the mind, which is de- pendent upon a strong organization of the upper brain cen- tres — the power to arrest impulse and control emotion, which is the sign-manual, so to speak, of high personality — is necessarily deficient in him. How should it be otherwise? As compared with those whose life-conditions tend to de-
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velop the intellectual and inhibitive mental functions, he is impulsive, easily loses mental equilibrium under the stress of high emotion, is mobbish in disposition and likely to be unrestrained and violent in the expression of feeling.
III. It is even more important to study his ethical pecu- liarities as determined by the conditions of his life. The conditions which react so powerfully upon his intellectual and emotional life must have an important determining effect on his morality. Whatever may be one's theory of the origin of the moral sense, nobody will maintain that its genesis is to be found in the experiences of the personal life ; but it certainly is indefinitely modified in its strength and activity by the practices and habits of personal life. Per- sonal habits may blunt the keenness of moral perception, pervert it, give it a onesided development ; and thus in gen- eral determine the characteristics of the moral life. Study- ing the life of the labouring man from this point of view, we see what we have every reason to expect, that in the primary virtues of truth and kindness he is quite the peer of his fel- low men. His life-conditions tend to develop these funda- mental virtues in him as strongly as they are developed in other men, possibly somewhat more strongly. Jane Addams has called attention to the kindness of the poor to one another,^ and no one is better equipped by experience, sym- pathy and scientific insight to interpret their lives. Though the labourer deals with reality in its crudest forms, as we have pointed out, it seems certain that the handling of phys- ical things is as good a discipline as one can have in what we may call the truth-habit. Physical things do not He; they act according to their laws ; they do not deceive, and you can not deceive them. But without going into any over- refinements, it is sufficient to say that lying is a social vice which arises in the effort to mislead other men. and the labouring man's limited social relations and constant em- ployment with physical things afford, at most, few oppor- tunities to serve oneself by lying.
1 " Democracy and Social Ethics," pp. 19-22.
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There are, however, certain moral dangers which arise from the labouring man's situation. The constant overtax of his body, the dreary monotony of his work, the lack of mental stimulation in it, and all too frequently his under- feeding, render him an especially easy victim of the tempta- tion to strong drink. Here is a vital point at which the drink problem is connected with our industrial system, a matter which is sometimes overlooked by temperance re- formers. Weary in body, vacant in mind, he is too apt to seek in the saloon the social contact which he craves, and in alcohol the stimulation for his nervous system which has been taxed near to the point of exhaustion in its motor centres and left unstimulated in its higher, inhibitive func- tions ; and so into the hell of drunkenness he too often plunges, both pushed and pulled by forces arising from the conditions under which his life must be spent.
We must consider, also, the demoralizing efifect of ir- regularity of employment. Students of economics stress the evils resulting from unemployment and irregular employ- ment, which they find to be caused mainly by economic mal- adjustment. " Even in such fat years as 1899, 1900, 1901, it appears, the average trade unionist loses one out of every five or six working days." ^ Booth in his " Life and Labours in London " (quoted in Adams and Sumner) says : " The irregularity immediately resulting from fluctuations in demand, seasons and other causes is a sufficiently serious evil in itself, but other results, as serious, if not more so, follow in its track. Casual employment is found almost invariably to involve deterioration in both the physique and character of those engaged in it. . . . The hopeless hand- to-mouth existence into which they thus tend to drift is of all things least conducive to thrift; self-reliance is weakened, and habits of idleness, unsteadiness and intemperance are formed. . . . The efl^ects of such casual work are even more marked in the next generation." " The curse of the American workingman," say Adams and Sumner, " is ir-
1 Adams and Sumner, " Labor Problems," p. 165.
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regular employment."' Its general efifect upon personality must be seriously demoralizing. It might be cynically re- marked that it adds to his leisure, for which he so stren- uously contends ; but it does not do so in such a way as to lead to a regular use of leisure for cultural purposes. It is exceedingly depressing and dissipating, increases anxiety, induces recklessness, and tends towards moral disintegra- tion generally.
Moreover, there is an ethical limitation set for him by his life-conditions. His class consciousness is intense. This, it seems, can not be otherwise. With the possible ex- ception of the very rich, the labouring men constitute the most clearly defined class in our society. The interests and life-problems of this class are of the most urgent kind. Those interests are, indeed, fundamental, and under their pressure the labourers are being irresistibly compacted and welded into a distinct social group. On the basis of those interests it is simply inevitable that there should grow up a class consciousness which must in the nature of things be more and more accentuated by all the rapidly developing conditions of our industrial life. It is worse than useless to scold the labourers for it. They simply can not help it ; and to denounce them for it only promotes it, and at the same time betrays a singular lack of insight into the sociological laws that are at work around us. This class consciousness is growing extensively, for labouring men are coming more and more to realize their essential community of interests. Their labour organizations — an absolute necessity for their economic salvation — promote and must promote it. It must also develop intensively. Every economic struggle, whether successful or unsuccessful, must inevitably leave the class consciousness stronger. Class consciousness is only the realization of a community of interests by a number of persons. It will be strong in proportion as those interests are felt to be vital, and in proportion as they are felt to be menaced. The clash of class with class inevitably deepens it. There are only two possible ways to dissipate it. One is to
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satisfy those interests which by a universal law of human nature give rise to it ; the other is absolutely to crush out the group. The latter alternative is not likely to be undertaken.
Now, the ethical life is conditioned by' the group con- sciousness, both extensively and intensively. One's con- sciousness of obligation does not extend beyond the limits of his group consciousness. If there is no fellow-feeling, no " consciousness of kind," there is no sense of obligation to another. Likewise as this group consciousness grows in- tense or becomes attenuated, the feeling of obligation be- comes more or less imperative or positive. I am not now speaking of the ultimate nature and basis of moral obliga- tion but of the sphere in which the obligation, whatever its nature and basis, is felt to be operative. And, subjectively considered, moral obligation begins with, ends with, and varies in strength with our consciousness of community of life. Furthermore, it is a fact of which there are innum- erable examples in everyday life that whenever any one group-feeling becomes intensified or inflamed, it tends to dominate consciousness and to dwarf or exclude every con- trary sense of obligation which may grow out of any other group relation in which one may stand. For instance, we have a common race consciousness with a limited group, and we have a common consciousness of humanity with a much wider group; but if the race consciousness has been greatly intensified or violently inflamed it tends to dwarf or to drown out completely the obligations of humanity, or vice versa. We often witness the appalling fact that when different social classes clash and grip each other in a vital conflict, every broader and more humane consideration which ordinarily controls or modifies the actions of those involved is neglected; and then we have in very truth a death struggle.
How these laws of our moral experience apply in the matter we are discussing is apparent. We behold the fact which so often startles us that labouring men when engaged in a combat with capital will, because of their impulsiveness
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and because of the inflammation of their class conscious- ness, commit violence against property or persons, or at any rate look with only half-hearted protest upon such acts when committed in their interest. And with equal truth it may be said that capitalists are frequently guilty of acts of op- pression and cruelty which are not a whit less offensive to our common humanity. To be sure, they are not so likely to resort to personal violence, for two reasons — first, they are usually more highly developed in personality and more self-controlled ; second, they have money and can hire ruf- fians to do acts of violence for them, or are as a rule in con- trol of the machinery of the law and can use the force of the State to overcome their antagonists.
The labouring class are bent upon securing a larger share of the products of industry. This demand is in the very focus of their class consciousness. Around it their thoughts, aml)itions, struggles revolve. The literature they read deals with it. The discussions to which they most fre- quently and most interestedly listen and in which they take part have this for their principal subject matter. Is it any wonder that they thus tend to become materialistic in their ideals? For our ideals, if they do not have their roots in the group relations in which we stand, are most certainly modified by them. Are not our ideals mental projections above and beyond us of the interests we are seeking to realize ? No man can seriously cherish an ideal which does not receive its form and content from the interest which is habitually in the focus of his consciousness. This is true both of the personal and the social ideals toward which one strives. We should expect, therefore, that the labouring man would become materialistic in his philosophy of society, seeing in the economic interest the determining fac- tor in social evolution and in the general satisfaction of physical wants the true goal of social progress.
IV. These conditions necessarily react powerfully upon his religious life. That his religious conceptions are crude, as the inevitable result of his low mental development, goes
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without saying. In his emotional Hfe he most readily re- sponds to the cruder stimuli. In so far, therefore, as the religious motives appeal to him they must be mainly of that sort ; and his emotional responses are likely to be correspond- ingly impulsive, demonstrative, unregulated.
But of far more consequence is the fact that, on account of the materialization of his ideals, he is drifting beyond the appeal of spiritual religion ; for religion must reach a man through his ideals. Furthermore, he is drifting out of sym- pathy with organized religion in general ; for he is persuaded — and with some measure of truth, it must be confessed — that organized religion stands for the present industrial order. I am quite disposed to believe those who assure us that a reaction has set in : but if it be true, it is because organized religion gives some evidence of changing its at- titude. The injustice of the present industrial system is the uppermost fact in the consciousness of an increasing number of wage earners. Organized religion has come to appear to many of them as an institution maintained by the economic class by which they feel themselves to be ex- ploited ; and maintained for the purpose of reconciling them to the exploitation. Believing themselves to be the victims of an unrighteous economic arrangement, their attitude of hostility to the church springs both from their most keenly felt material interest and their sense of righteousness. Now, when conscience and material interest conflict, as they so often do, the result is a more or less unstable attitude ; but when these two powerful forces combine to determine a man's attitude the result is a positiveness and aggressive- ness which have to be seriously reckoned with. Conscience and material interest pulling together are a powerful team. My purpose here is not to discuss whether, or to what ex- tent, this attitude is justifiable; nor to offer suggestions as to how the situation is to be remedied and the disastrous breach is to be healed ; but merely to trace its genesis and to indicate how, by natural sequence, it results from the labourer's life conditions. It seems to me that it is the almost
320 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
inevitable psychological outcome of those conditions. The more seriously this situation is studied, the less will it appear to be the result of mere perversity or depravity on the part of the labouring class ; on the contrary, the more clearly will it appear to be the spiritual resultant of social condi- tions which the labourers themselves are striving to abolish, somewhat impulsively and blindly, we grant, but with a strenuous earnestness which is not lacking in ethical enthu- siasm. For preachers and churches in general it creates a problem of the utmost importance. Before it is solved it will require a thoroughgoing restudy of the whole ethical and social content of Christianity. If Christianity has a prac- tical word to say on this subject, if it offers a solution, or can put the thought of this age into a path that leads to a solution, it is certain that it will be able to secure a sym- pathetic hearing from the class that has been so seriously alienated. But it will not be easy. The labouring men have come to think of the problem of their lives in terms of this world. And they can not be won back to allegiance to Chris- tianity, i.e., organized Christianity, by a promise of compen- sation, in the world to come, for what they regard as mani- fest wrongs which the church will not antagonize here.
It is manifest that the economic situation has become at heart a spiritual problem. Go deep enough into it, and you always strike a spiritual core. The demand is not that the church shall leave her proper sphere and busy herself with issues that are foreign to her mission ; but that she shall un- dertake to grapple with and solve a prol)lem which has arisen within her proper sphere, and which has its roots in the life conditions of those to whom she is commissioned to minister. It may be improper for the church, a spiritual institution, to invade an alien territory and undertake to set things right there ; but the fact is that the economic forces have invaded the spiritual realm and are working havoc there. It is surely a significant phenomenon that there is today a growing hostility toward*; the church within the very class among whom the Lord of the church found his most
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sympathetic hearers. And how can the modern preacher claim to represent his Master, if that class turns from him in the conviction that he is blind to the inequitable conditions which are breeding spiritual disaster, or is afraid to speak out when he sees them?
III. THE BUSINESS TYPE
For the purpose of this discussion, business may be de- fined as the direction of industry in the production and distribution of material goods. The business man may be simply a capitalist, an investor, who stands at some distance from the actual conduct of the industry; or he may be re- lated to it both as investor and director; or he may be the manager of a corporate industry; or he may be manager of a subordinate department of such an industry ; or he may be conducting a small business in which he is the sole, or chief investor, and of which he is the executive head. If in any shape or form he has the direction of industry, he may be classed as a " business man."
But here a distinction must be noted which we shall have to bear in mind throughout the discussion. The manage- ment or direction of business corporations is to be broadly differentiated from the conduct of an individual business. The partnership is an intermediate or transitional form. The more deei)ly one meditates upon it, the more clearly will he perceive the far-reaching significance of this distinc- tion. It is not so apparent nor so significant when the cor- poration is a small one, though the distinction is real even then ; but when the corporation becomes very large it is obvious and impressive. In corporations the relations in- volved become extensive and decidedly more impersonal. In an individual business the relations between the business man and his employees and customers are definitely personal. To be sure, as the individual business becomes large and complex the relations involved lose much of their personal character ; but at the same time the business tends to assume the corporate form, and especially to use corporate methods.
322 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACIUNG
The distinction between the individual and corporate forms of business is important for this discussion because they tend to produce somewhat different mental types, and the larger the corporate business becomes the more pronounced is the differentiation. The man of " big business " is a definite and extremely significant species of the genus " business man," and is, it seems to me, the logical though somewhat exaggerated development of the type which corporate ac- tivity, so characteristic a feature of our time, tends to pro- duce. And yet an undue emphasis on this distinction would not be consistent with the purpose we have here in mind, which is to bring out those broad mental characteristics which are common to business men of all grades.
I. Consider the importance of the business man. In the early ages of the world he was cither non-existent, or insig- nificant and despised. Under the system of strict clan economy business men did not exist as a differentiated class; under the system of domestic, or household, economy the class began to develop, and the business men were mostly travelling salesmen who went hither and thither, generally in groups, wherever the danger was not too great, and carried with them the goods they had for sale. The pedlar is a survival of that early type. Under the system of town economy, which followed, manufactures in the literal sense of the term developed, business grew in volume, and the men engaged in it increased in importance. As the sys- tem of national economy grew up on the basis of the town system, the business men came to figure largely in public estimation. Today we live in a world economy ; the manu- facture and exchange of goods have assumed enormous pro- portions and absorbed the energies of a large proportion of the people ; the direction of industry offers a very great and attractive field for personal achievement and the winning of fortune and distinction, and requires ability of a high order. It is quite impossible to foresee any limit to this economic development. Certainly it is drawing into its service larger volumes of human energy every day. Men are now enam-
OCCUPATIONAL TYPES 323
cured of the great task of mastering nature and organizing natural forces in the service of human need. Each new advance in this movement opens to view yet greater pos- sibiHties. In the meantime the economic organization has seemed to become a vast and powerful system, independent of the individuals engaged in it, which masters and moulds the multitudes of men whom it draws into its varied ac- tivities.^ Business men have come naturally in this business age to be the dominant class in society. This is true even in Europe, where the stratification of society based on the Feudal System yet persists, and is coming to be so even in the Orient, so recently invaded by modern ideas and methods. In the United States the evolution of the business man into the personage of dominant power is most com- plete.
In politics it is a recognized fact that no man can hope to be elected to any office of importance who has the business men opposed to him. Politics are more and more concerned with economic questions ; and in one way or another business is so closely connected with political organization, manage- ment and aims that politics might not unfairly be called a branch of business. The money which corporations expend in political activity is a regular item in their expense ac- count. A policy that hurts business is on that account con- demned ; if it encourages and fosters business, that is the end of controversy. In the State, business rules, and that means that business men are the ruling class. But is it not equally true in the church? In the local church business men dominate in fact, whether they do in form or not ; and in general denominational affairs their influence is tran- scendant whenever they feel enough interest to bring it to bear. The local congregation and the general ecclesiastical body have to be financed in all their enterprises, and church enterprises, whether local or general, and especially the lat- ter, are projected on an ever larger scale ; which means that the financial liberality of business men must be relied on
^ See Sombart's " Der Bourgeois," p. 446, ff.
324 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
more and more. But he who holds the purse strings wields the power in any enterprise which must be financed. It is claimed by many observers that we have entered a period of plutocracy in religious affairs, as well as in politics. But it is not the purpose to discuss that question here. The fact to which attention is called seems to be an inevitable inci- dent of the trend of things in this age ; and is mentioned here not for the purpose of dwelling upon its social and spiritual implications, but in order to emphasize the importance for the preacher, as well as for all other social leaders, of un- derstanding the modern business type of mind.
2. What are the characteristics of that type?
(i) Let us consider the intellectual characteristics.
In the first place, the typical business man is keen and alert. He must be so or he will soon cease to be a business man, in the proper sense of the word, and become the em- ploye of some man who has these mental qualities. It is possible, of course, to refer to individual cases in which men who are slow and dull in mind are, by reason of pecu- liar conditions, able to maintain the status of business men ; but when closely studied these apparent exceptions will only prove the rule. The business man is often dealing with conditions which are complex, changeful and urgent. Suc- cess requires quick, clear insight, rapid analysis of the sit- uation into its incidental and essential features, the instant seizing of the main point and prompt decision. If his intel- lectual operations are unreliable or too slow, the penalty is that he drops from among the directors of industry. He can not afford to nod at his post ; he must " keep his eyes open " and his wits about him. And not only does success presuppose a considerable measure of these intellectual qualities; practice develops them. The intensifying compe- tition of modern business, the continually quickening pace in the whole economic sphere and the growing complexity of the conditions with which the business man must deal make it more and more imperative that he shall possess and cul-
occupaT"ional types 325
tivate mental alertness and discrimination. A relentless process of economic selection is ever going on.
In the second place, it is equally true that the typical busi- ness man"s intellectual life is quite limited in range. His intellectual views and habits are formed for the most part in first-hand dealings with men and things. Too often he is educated in business and by business only. To be sure, an increasing number of business men are college bred; even the university man is not so much a rara avis among them as he used to be. And so a larger proportion of men of this class have been brought into some acquaintance with the wider ranges of intellectual life than was ever the case before. But even they usually succumb to the mental habits developed by " the street " ; settle down to the dis- tinctive point of view of business, and lose all lively interest in the intellectual problems not directly involved in the ur- gencies of their daily lives. That tendency is quite natural, just as it is with men in every other walk of life; and yet it is probable that in most lines of business the pressure is so high, the possibilities of failure so numerous, and the ma- terial rewards of success so alluring to average human na- ture, that his work monopolizes the energies of the business man to an exceptional degree, and thus sets very definite limits to his intellectual outlook, while stimulating power- fully his intellectual processes within those limits. For this reason the mental processes and habits of his occu- pation become more deeply stamped in, and the point of view of his occupation more fixed than is the case with most other men.
In the third place, the business man is little given to theorizing. He is absorbed in dealing with living persons, concrete things, actual situations that are constantly chang- ing. Perforce he must cultivate the opportunist habit of mind. From one day's end to another he is engaged in measuring the strength and direction of the more obvious and objective forces that are playing about him, and has little time for inquiring into their ultimate origin, history and
326 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
final goal. He is in the thick of the fray ; he does not occupy a detached position of passionless observation, where he can speculate, correlate, theorize. In fact he fails to appreciate the value of theory ; he is not likely to have much regard for the theory of business itself. His ideas of men and things are such as grow up, without philosophical reflection, as a net result of the actual tussle of business dealing with them. Normally his mind moves in the region of proximate or secondary causes. Rarely does he make the effort to penetrate to primary causes ; or if he does, sec- ondary are apt to appear to him to be primary causes. Whatever may be the ultimate explanation of any state of things, it must, so he reasons, be dealt with here and now ; and when the practical adjustment is found, his interest in the matter terminates. Hence we call him a '' practical man," and that title pleases him better than any other. Re- calling a distinction previously made.' we may say that, as a rule, his mental system has been built up unreflectively. I do not mean to say that he does not reflect much. He re- flects a great deal upon the practical problems of his busi- ness ; but the concepts which thus grow up in his mind are usually not logically analysed and worked over so as to secure theoretical consistency. The meanings which he or- dinarily attaches to the words with which he is most familiar are the use or functional meanings, quite sufficient to guide his practical activity, but lacking the clear distinction, fine discrimination and broad comprehensiveness of theoretical thought.
In the fourth place, he is given to a quantitative evaluation of things. He is in the habit of dealing with things that can be weighed, measured, counted, calculated ; and tends through force of habit to estimate everything in such terms. His type does not get hold of a thing securely and satisfac- torily until it has in some way been quantitatively expressed. A singularly interesting expression of this tendency as seen in religion has been observed in the Layman's Missionary
1 See Chap. III.
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Movement. As soon as the business men took up the mis- sionary propaganda seriously they began to calculate — how many people are there in the world who have not heard the Gospel? How many people can a single missionary be ex- pected to reach in his life-time? How many missionaries, on this basis, is it necessary to send out in order to carry out the Great Commission in this generation ? How much will it take to support one missionary? Manifestly that would be a business-like carrying out of the Commission ; but manifestly also it would be a rather mechanical performance. There are non-measurable and non-calculable elements of the problem which it does not take into consideration, and they are the most vital and spiritual elements in it. In any other sphere this type of mind is likely to proceed in the same way. Often the tendency is to substitute a quanti- tative for a qualitative standard. What is a man worth? That means, how many dollars is he worth? The price of a picture often determines its grade as a work of art. It is not such a grossly materialistic attitude of mind as it seems to be ; but indicates rather the necessity for this type of mind of having some calculable measure of excellence, and calculation is a process of measuring things quanti- tatively. We must bear in mind the principle that men have the keenest sense of the reality of those things with which they are constantly dealing. It is much the same in estimating results. Concerning any plan, program or movement a man of this mental type wishes to know what will be the " practical result," and by practical result is meant a result that can be seen, calculated, measured. By this " rough and ready " standard all ideas, theories, doc- trines are judged. The development of this type of mind is the inevitable resultant of the fact that in this industrial and commercial age the activities of the great majority of men, and especially the dominant class of men, are chiefly occupied with handling measurable quantities. It is an in- teresting fact that with the development of modern industrial capitalism the demand for exactness of measurement and
328 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
calculation has steadily grown and exact book-keeping has become a highly developed art, a business habit and an in- dispensable condition of success,^ and it is one of the in- fluences which accentuate the mode of thought we are describing.
(2) This mental type is marked by certain ethical pecu- liarities.
(a) It deals with ethical very much as it does with intel- lectual questions. Such a man gives little attention to the theoretical aspects of ethical questions; his test is, What is the "practical" result? He does not trouble himself very much as to abstract principles of right and wrong. To arouse his enthusiasm in a moral cause you should show him two things : First, that the evil you are attacking is a practical injury to men, i.e., produces injurious effects which can be seen and measured. Those moral or immoral acts which are striking, vivid, dramatic, measurable, impress him most. If you can make him see that the injury is economic also, you are the more likely to win him ; not because he makes the interests of business the standard of right and wrong, but because business prosperity is a value of the obvious, measurable, " practical " kind which appeals to him most strongly. He can perceive and feel the evil of any- thing much more keenly when he sees its injurious economic effects. Again we emphasize the principle — the form of reality which is most real to a man is that with which he deals most. Second, you must make him see that your plan of opposition promises " practical " results under conditions as they are. He has little patience with what seem to him to be the visionary programs of theoretical men. In his daily contact with the world he has to adjust himself to existing conditions and be satisfied to accept the half loaf when he cannot get the whole one ; and that seems to him to be the sensible thing in all struggles for moral improve- ment. Yet the game does not seem to him to be worth the candle if the struggle does not give a definite promise of an
1 Sombart's " Der Bourgeois," p. 18.
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improvement which is obvious and measurable, and within a measurable time.
(b) The typical business man emphasizes the virtues that lie at the basis of successful business. First in the hst would doubtless be honesty, which is the form of the general virtue of truthfulness or integrity that has acquired a rather definite business significance. In the early days when busi- ness first appeared as a distinct occupation it was associated with deceit, misrepresentation, dishonesty. But as the man- ufacture and exchange of goods have gradually come to be vast and highly differentiated activities in which innumer- able multitudes of people are engaged and knit together in ten thousand interdependent relations, it has become increas- ingly necessary to stress the virtue of honesty. Business relations under modern conditions are impossible unless the business representations of men can be generally relied upon, especially when they enter into definite engagements. The sacredness of contracts is the corner-stone of the modern economic structure. To change the figure, we may call it the key-stone of the arch of business. Without it the whole edi- fice would collapse. It has come to be recognized as the chief function of the law to guard contracts and the right of free contract. Honesty, therefore, in the sense of strict re- liability in one's business promises, is a virtue which has the very emphatic sanction of the modern economic mind. Promptness in keeping engagements is another. In the early period of the modern capitalistic era industry was much em- phasized, and is still stressed among those who are engaged in individual businesses, and as a virtue of employes is yet everywhere felt to be imperative : but it is not felt as binding upon themselves by the class of idle capitalists, whose main relation to economic activity is to clip coupons and endorse dividend checks. And the development of this class is, it is to be feared, modifying for the worse our ideal in this re- spect. In the early days of the present economic era fru- gality was also a most highly praised virtue ; but with the vast increase in wealth in recent decades and the consequent
330 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
general trend toward luxurious living and self-indulgence, it is losing imperativeness, if not falling into disrepute among the w^ell-to-do classes, and through their example lies lightly upon the consciences of the poor. Diligence and loyalty on the part of employes are heavily emphasized as moral obli- gations throughout the business world ; but it is worthy of note that the reciprocal obligations on the part of employers have been much more tardy in acquiring social imperative- ness, and even yet have not done so in anything like the same measure. It is only another indication of the fact that business men are the dominant class in our society, and, therefore, set our standards. Naturally they perceive more readily and feel more keenly the obligations of employes than they do their own, and so place the stress. Sobriety, or temperance, the abstention from intoxicating drinks, is a requirement felt throughout the business world to be almost as imperative as honesty, for the obvious rea- son that the opposite vice inevitably leads to economic dis- aster in one way or another. Of course, other influences also have contributed to the exaltation of this virtue.
(c) The business man accepts, more or less subcon- sciously, a double standard of ethics. Sombart ^ has called attention to a phase of recent ethical development, which though not obvious at first, is full of interest. With the growth of the elaborate modern economic organization, cer- tain virtues — such as frugality and solidity, or reliability — are " objectivised," i.e., they come to be attached to the char- acter and conduct of the business enterprise itself rather than to the personal character and conduct of the business man. This is due to the fact that the business has become corporate and impersonal rather than individual and per- sonal. For instance, the great business corporation is man- aged according to the strictest economy — no waste is per- mitted ; but in their personal lives the capitalistic owners of the business may use the money thus frugally acquired in the most lavish and wasteful expenditures. And the corpora-
1 " Der Bourgeois," p. 336, ff.
OCCUPATIONAL TYPES 33I
tion may be thoroughly solid and reliable, honest to the core, when so much could not be said of the personal character and conduct of the several share-holders. Obviously this can hardly be the case before the business has been thor- oughly differentiated from the personality of the business man. The moral character of the owner of an individual business is necessarily reflected in large measure in the moral character of the business.
But it is also true — and this is of far greater signifi- cance — that the business may be conducted according to ethical principles far lower than those which control the private and personal life of the business man. Hence we may frequently observe the anomaly of a corporation com- posed of upright and benevolent individuals coolly adopting and ruthlessly prosecuting a business policy which overrides all righteousness as well as benevolence. And the business man does not seem to realize that he is living according to wholly inconsistent standards of conduct. The notion seems to have grown up that business has a code of its own, dif- ferent from the ethics of personal relations ; and the notion has developed in clearness with the growth of corporate as distinguished from individual enterprise. Out of these con- ditions arise some of the most serious ethical and social problems of our time. " Business is business " — this verb- ally self-evident but morally questionable proposition is only a euphemistic form in which business asserts its independ- ence of the accepted standards of personal ethics. This is not the place to attempt the solution of the problem — but it is far-reaching in its moral import, and most emphatically challenges the attention of the minister.
In his personal disposition and action the business man is usually kindly and generous. In former days, after the business class had attained to a position of thorough respect- ability but before the rise of the capitalistic economy, the standards that regulated personal conduct were recognized as obligatory in business also, though it is doubtful if kindness and consideration for others were so much em-
332 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
phasized as they now are in personal relations. As the business man's life has become sharply differentiated into corporate and personal conduct, the ethical standard of the former has in some important respects fallen while that of the latter has on the whole probably risen. As man to man, he is, as a rule, lenient or even indulg^ent in his judgment of others, courteous, kind, self-sacrificing, ready to help, with an ear always open to the cry of need. Never, per- haps, have these virtues been so much in the ascendant in personal relations as they are today when the business man is dominant. Of course, it will be borne in mind that the effort is to characterize a class, a type to which there are many individual exceptions. But certainly as general prop- ositions the foregoing statements can hardly be called in question.
(3) Most important of all, for our purpose, are the business man's religious peculiarities. These, however, may be considered as the outgrowth of his intellectual and moral qualities.
(a) He is non-mystical. Being accustomed to deal with things which are substantial and can be measured, weighed, counted, there is little mysticism in his mental make-up. Its vagueness baffles and offends him. To the type of mind formed in economic-experience, mystical-experience appears unreal, a dealing with shadows — nay, not shadows, for shadows are cast by substantial realities — but rather ghostly figments, to which nothing actual corresponds. The typical economic man would spell the word a little differently, but to his mind more appropriately — misticistn. And yet mysti- cism is very deeply rooted in the mental life of man, and it is very hard to eradicate it altogether; and sometimes it co- exists with a decidedly economic turn of mind. But strictly speaking it is not consistent with this mental type ; and I venture to affirm that the mystical type of Christian experi- ence has declined in proportion as the economic type of mind has become general and dominant.
(b) He is non- theological. To him theology seems the-
OCCUPATIONAL TYPES 333
oretical and impractical; and, since he does not take much to theory and does take decidedly to the practical, theologi- cal doctrines and creedal formularies do not appeal to him strongly. Hence questions as to orthodoxy and heresy do not, as a rule, interest him very much. He fancies that he does not see any essential difference between the practical conduct of those who make much of their orthodoxy and that of those who are accounted heretical — and the practical conduct of contending theological groups often seems to him to fall below the impersonal standards recognized in com- petitive business. He is broadly tolerant in matters of re- ligious opinion ; and his tolerance grows partly out of his indifference as to opinions which cannot be submitted to the rough and ready tests which he is in the habit of applying. Moreover, he is strenuously occupied with quite different matters, and is a firm believer in the division of labour, and therefore leaves matters of theology to be settled by the min- isters of his religious group as a part of their function — willing enough to leave such troublesome, and as he thinks, relatively unimportant aft'airs to those who have a taste for them. Of course, many business men prefer that their pastors be orthodox — whatever that may mean — because heresy has a bad sound and is usually disturbing ; and men of naturally conservative disposition oppose heresy simply on the ground that it disturbs the established order. But this attitude is far from being universal. Others like the taste of heresy in the pulpit, because it breaks the monotony ; and they champion the heretical minister, not so much be- cause they regard his particular opinions as matters of first- rate importance, as because they think his non-conformity a sign of independence of spirit — and they believe in that, particularly in theology. But their interest is most likely not in the orthodoxy or the heresy, per se.
His interest is always in the practical aspect of religion. But let us define this notion a little more carefully. In the first place, he looks at the ethical quality which religion im- parts to conduct. Does the religion make men more sober.
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honest, reliable, kind, just, generous? Does it improve them as members of society? If so, the religion is justi- fied; if not, its worthlessness is demonstrated. He takes quite seriously the words of Jesus — *' by their fruits ye shall know them." His ethical standards, as we have seen, are profoundly influenced — and not always for the better — by his economic relations and experience ; but the ethical quality of life is for him the supreme test of any religion or creed. In the second place, he likes to see measurable, countable results of Christian effort. He is impressed by crowds at church, numerous additions, a full treasury, imposing church buildings, institutions established, etc. These are results which he can most readily estimate by the criteria he is accustomed to applying in business. It is an inevitable defect of this mental type that it is likely not to perceive and appreciate some of the higher and finer spirit- ual qualities of character and achievement. It does not measure by the standard to which Browning appeals in Rabbi Ben Ezra:
Not on the vulgar mass
Called " work " must sentence pass,
Things done, that took the eye and had the price;
But all the world's coarse thumb
And finger failed to plumb,
So passed in making up the man's account;
All instincts immature.
All purposes unsure;
That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount;
Thoughts hardly to be packed
Into a narrow act.
Fancies that broke through language and escaped:
All I could never be.
All men ignored in me,
That I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.
(c) After the foregoing it hardly need be added that he is not strongly sectarian. Sectarianism results from a
OCCUPATIONAL TYPES 335
peculiar conjunction of influences — free thinking, on the one hand, and emphasis upon the importance of correct theo- logical opinions, on the other. People who are without in- tellectual freedom will, of course, not divide in their opin- ions ; but unless theological opinions are considered of very- great importance, there will be little disposition to contend about them and split the Christian body into fractions on account of them. Now, the trend in this industrial and commercial age is not toward uniformity of opinion in theology — far from it ; but men, while holding their own opinions, are not disposed to trouble themselves much about the opinions of others in religion ; and among business men this is especially true. Being of the " practical " type, such men think that the benevolent and ameliorating enterprises of Christianity are the matters of supreme importance. They are, therefore, disposed to fraternize and co-operate with all those who are interested in promoting these enter- prises, without regard to differences of theological opin- ion. Under the dominance of this type of mind we are wit- nessing a most interesting and important double develop- ment in Christianity — theological disintegration, on the one hand ; and on the other, integration around practical enterprises of the great religious groups, originally organ- ized on the basis of theological differences. Within every one of these great groups, once theologically compact and solid, all sorts of theological differences now prevail, and yet each is kept intact by loyalty to certain institutions and denominational enterprises ; while between these groups the once sharp theological opposition has nearly disappeared, and the tendency to co-operate in the realization of common ideals is growing very strong. Chatting once with a busi- ness man about these matters, I asked him how much in- terest the business men of his acquaintance felt in the ques- tions which divided the denominations. His reply, though slangy, is worth repeating: "not enough." he said, "to grease the pan with," but he declared that their interest in
33^ PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
the practical, ethical, social aims of Christianity was great and growing.
These attitudes of mind have much to do in determining the responses which the preacher receives from the pews. If the business men do not fill our pews, they at least con- stitute the most influential group in our local churches, in most cases ; and in the general denominational bodies, in all cases. And it is obvious that much preaching is not in terms that appeal to them. Many of the terms used in the ordinary pulpit, the average business man does not know the meaning of. Often the interests which seem to the minister most important seem to him unreal or trivial. Sometimes the theological distinctions to which the preacher devotes much time and thought he characterizes as " chew- ing straw." Especially does he take little interest in con- troversy about such matters. As a consequence sectarian preaching, which from the days of the Reformation to a time within the memory of men still living was so much in vogue, is hardly tolerated in any community in which this type of mind has become dominant ; while the preaching which emphasizes the essential unity of Christians and the widest tolerance of diflferences of opinion is applauded. The get-together movement in Christianity becomes increasingly popular. The proposition to dissolve and merge into one the denominational organizations receives little encourage- ment. Too many substantial interests would be imperiled by such a program, and it is beset with an endless number of practical difficulties ; but the cry for co-ordination and co- operation grows louder all the time. This tendency is strengthened by the fact that the business man has become accustomed in the ecenomic world to mammoth enterprises in which many businesses are co-ordinated. He tends to think in these terms. These huge co-ordinated enterprises appeal both to his sense of economy and to his imagination ; and when he turns his attention to the practical problems of Christianity he sees wonderful visions of possible achieve-
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ment through the co-ordination and co-operation of Chris- tian forces.
What the ultimate issue is to be it would be idle to attempt to forecast; but in adjusting ourselves to these conditions it is important to realize that, while other influences are at work in the same direction, these tendencies are in no small measure due to the prevalence of the business type of mind. It would be a mistake to draw the hasty conclusion that this type of mind should dictate the character of our preaching, and that in all cases in which the ministerial and the economic types of mind diverge, the preachers are all wrong and the business men all right. The fact is that we have here two rather highly specialized types, and they should act as correctives to one another. The supremely important thing is that ministers shall not ignore the divergence and that they shall in the presentation of their message under- stand, and in some way or other adapt themselves to, the modes of thought of the business man ; otherwise they will find their efforts to be in large measure a vain beating of the air.
CHAPTER XIV
THE MODERN MIND
Is there a modern mind? The question must be answered in the affirmative; though it is not easy to define precisely the meaning of the phrase. Of course, there is no modern as contrasted with an ancient or primitive mind, if by the phrase one means the appearance of any new mental powers or functions. But there is no doubt that the typical modern man has points of view and modes of thought markedly dif- ferent from those of men living under more primitive con- ditions. Normally he reacts in a different way to almost every situation which calls forth in him any conscious re- sponse. To describe and explain as accurately and ade- quately as space will permit these different mental attitudes and tendencies is the purpose of this chapter. But at the outset we must call attention to the fact that we have among us persons who represent almost every degree of approx- imation to the modern attitude of mind. Many occupy yet almost the original, primitive point of view ; and few minds, perhaps, have been wholly weaned away from the primitive attitude, because the conditions which have brought about so important a readjustment of the mental focus have arisen in comparatively recent times. Those conditions are the profound changes which have taken place in every aspect of the environment in which men live.
Broadly speaking there are two general factors of the environment in which men live — the natural and the human. By the natural is meant the conditions and forces of nature unmodified and uncontrolled by man. The human phase of the environment has three elements: first, the human beings composing the group with which one stands related ; second, human institutions — those relatively fixed systems of re-
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lations in which men are organized ; third, natural objects and forces as they are shaped and controlled by man for his own convenience and comfort, i.e., all the artificial arrange- ments with which we have surrounded ourselves.
If we consider the changes which have taken place in the conditions of human life in the last few centuries we must be struck with the fact that there has been a complete re- versal of the relative importance of the natural and the human factors of man's environment.
I. Let us consider the primitive situation, bearing in mind that we are using the word primitive not strictly in the absolute sense, as referring exclusively to the beginnings of human life in the world; but with reference to rude and un- developed civilization in general, such as that which pre- vailed in Europe during the Middle Ages and prevails now in lands where life has not been transformed by Western culture.
I. Under primitive conditions the natural environment is by far the more important, and gives direction to the thoughts of men and determines their mental attitudes. I\Ien are surrounded by nature unmodified or, at most, but slightly modified by human effort. Its vastness and wild- ness impress them. Its mighty forces are uncontrollable by human power ; and within its mysterious realms lurk dangers which they can not surely anticipate and against which they can not guard themselves. At times smiling and beneficent ; at times frowning and maleficent, it blesses or blasts men, seemingly by caprice ; and they strive with little success to find the clue to its apparent changes of mood. They have no science of natural forms, forces and processes. They are without the very concept of natural law. Nature does not seem to them one and consistent, but to be ani- mated by many different and contradictory purposes. Only within narrow limits have they perceived the threads of uni- formity which bind together natural phenomena. At best, nature seems a vast, discordant synthesis of minor har- monies.
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And yet upon nature they are immediately, continuously, and absolutely dependent for the simplest means of life. Of course, there is a sense in which this may be said of men at every stage of their development ; but primitive men have learned so little of the art of controlling natural forces, have accumulated so small a stock of economic goods and live in such isolation from other human groups that a local drought or storm or pestilence leaves them without any reserve power or other human resource. They feel themselves en- compassed by and helplessly dependent upon vast, dimly ap- prehended forces, of whose operations, which mean imme- diate weal or woe to them, they have practically no compre- hension and control.
2. The dominance of the interests which grow out of the pressure of the natural environment upon the human spirit is so complete, it appears, because the human environment is at this stage relatively so insignificant. In the first place, the number of human beings with whom an individual in such a social state has any conscious relationship is small. The groups in which men live are not large, and intercom- munication between them is difficult and rare. Even when many of them are comprehended in one great political em- pire, as in the European States of the Middle Ages or in China of the present day, communication between them is slow and uncertain, and for the individuals of any one group the distant groups are practically non-existent. The round of one's life is spent in a small circle of human con- tacts. In the second place, the system of social life is sim- ple. There are not a great many organized relationships in which men stand to one another. The family is the main institution ; besides it are the priesthood and the civil magis- tracy, both of which are comparatively simple in constitu- tution, and if one looks back far enough, both of them are seen to merge in the head of the kinship group. In the third place, very little has been done in the creation of artificial conditions of living. Buildings are small and simple in structure. Roads are little more than trails through vast
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wildernesses or over barren wastes. Conveyances are equally rude. Tools are simple and machinery is practically non-existent. Cities are few and far between, and small ; their streets are unpaved, unlighted, uncleaned ; and public modes of transportation, even of the rudest sort, are un- heard of. On the other hand, all the cosmic forces run wild in their might; only the feeblest beginnings have been made in the conquest of them for the service of man. It is apparent, therefore, that adjustment to the human environ- ment is nothing like so insistent and dominating a problem as the establishment and maintenance of satisfactory rela- tions with the natural environment.
3. What mental eflfects does living under such conditions produce ?
It is inevitable that men should interpret these cosmic forces in terms of their own consciousness. Under the cir- cumstances it is practically certain that their representation of them will take the form of a multitude of spirits, good and bad, hidden behind the natural forms and expressing their purposes, more or less capricious, through natural phenomena. If by any means the people have come to have the idea of the unity of God, they are likely to bring this lofty conception into some sort of consistency with the lower notion of a world swarming with good and bad spirits. Being without science and impressed with the mystery of natural forces and processes, the notion of magic, sym- pathetic and contagious, obsesses their minds ; and through its arts they fancy they are able to defend themselves to some extent against evil beings whose ill will menaces them, and to control in some measure the multitude of spirits surrounding them. So all-encompassing is this natural en- vironment, so immediately and absolutely are men de- pendent upon it, sO closely does it press upon them with benefits and injuries, that adjustment to it monopolizes human attention. It becomes the most insistent problem of human life. Inevitably the habit grows upon them of inter- preting the varying fortunes of their lives in terms of their
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relations with those non-human beings, of whose wills natural events are supposed to be the expression. All the occurrences of life except the acts of their own wills are accounted for by the activity of these beings ; and often even the acts of the human will are so explained. Mag- ical arts grow apace. Taboos and ceremonial perfor- mances multiply around all the more notable exf)eriences of men. In the course of advancing intelligence these fungus growths are removed ; but the sense of an all-encom- passing superhuman presence remains so long as people live in such an environment. Of the two factors of the religious relation — the human and the superhuman — the first is felt to be comparatively insignificant. The superhuman spirit, good or bad, is believed often to take possession of the human spirit, speak through it and use it according to pleasure. Superhuman influences overflow — submerge, so to speak — the whole realm of human existence. The priesthood attains to great power and often dominates the civil order. The religious official, regarded as the repre- sentative of the superhuman world, is the most important personage in the community and his utterances on any mat- ter carry the utmost weight.
When in the course of events, the reason begins — as it inevitably must, sooner or later — to formulate theories of the world, theological problems are uppermost and mainly engage the rational activities. Theological opinions are felt to be matters of transcendent importance. There is no tol- eration of divergence from the theological conceptions gen- erally held by the group. As these divergences appear, de- spite the intolerance, the groupings of men are determined by their various opinions on religious subjects. These dif- ferences form the line of profound social cleavage ; and often become the source of the most ardent and uncom- promising animosities which array men against one another.
II. We may now turn to consider the modern situation. It is evident that with the increase of the population and the accumulation of human experience, the human factors of the
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environment become relatively more and more important. In a survey of the history of human development it becomes apparent that progress has taken place, on the whole, step by step as the human group has become larger and human control over natural forms and forces has extended. The process of civilization has been a movement from a situation in which the human factor was at a minimum toward a sit- uation in which it is at a maximum. As a general statement this unquestionably holds good, notwithstanding some facts which seem to contradict it. Sometimes an alarmed cry arises for a reversal of the process and a return to more primitive conditions ; but real improvement is to be effected not by a return to conditions in which the human environ- ment is relatively less dominant, but by pressing forward to conditions in which the human control of the natural en- vironment shall be more nearly complete and shall be directed by a more conscious social purpose.
In our study we may secure better results by having in mind the modern city, for there this characteristic feature of modern life is most pronounced and its significance most apparent. The gathering of people into these municipal ag- gregations has always been a marked feature of social de- velopment ; but in recent times, especially under the influ- ence of modem industrialism, the drawing of people in mul- titudes from rural districts into these great centres has been a phenomenon of extraordinary importance. On account of the natural increase of the population and the city-ward tendency of the population under industrialism, we have such municipal aggregations as were never seen before, and they are growing at a rate which is astonishing. On account of the progress of invention, these masses of people live under conditions far more highly artificialized than men have ever dreamed of before. The characteristic feature of city life has always been the prominence of the human en- vironment. The conditions of life are largely human and humanly controlled. Rut this is far more true of the mod- em city than of the cities of former ages. It is true also of
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the country in large measure, especially of the districts con- tiguous to the cities, but less and less so as one moves far- ther away from the great urban centres. The fact is that rural districts are being progressively suburbanized. Ex- cellent roads are being built ; vehicles of every description improved; trolley-lines and telephone wires extended into remote sections ; and up-to-date methods of heating and light- ing installed in residences. Along with this trend the primeval wilderness is giving way to intensively cultivated fields and scientifically cultivated forests. The whole as- pect of the country has been changed by human effort, and the original natural environment has been highly artificial- ized even in remote rural districts.
If we reflect upon the rapid growth of cities, the extend- ing influence of the cities upon the country, the general increase in the density of the population, and the rapid rate at which all the conditions of life, even in the country, are being artificialized — i.e., humanly organized and controlled, we may safely conclude that the modern city-bred man most nearly represents the trend of human development in this age. Into the study of this type and the conditions under which it is developed let us go somewhat in detail.
I. First, as to the environmental conditions.
In the city a man has comparatively little contact with nature in any of its original forms. He does not walk on Mother Earth. His vision does not range over the rolling hills, nor penetrate the shadowy recesses of the forest. His ears are assaulted by a deafening complex of all the dis- cordant noises with which his own stormy energy has been able to break the primeval silence. He sees little of the sky, which is hidden behind his heaven climbing walls and even when glimpsed is darkened by the smoke, which looks like an angry but ineffectual protest of nature against his im- pertinent disturbance of her ancient quietude. And while he thus obscures the day. he illuminates the night with the obtrusive glare of the electric lamps, which make the modest moon, Nature's invention, look pale and abashed. Of
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course, he does not transcend nature. That is impossible. But he sees around him not nature in its pristine state, in which its massive forms and resistless forces dominate and overawe him, but as it is worked upon, shaped, controlled, and made to serve his ends. The enumeration of all the mechanical devices and appliances by which we have so largely overcome the limitations of time and space and com- pelled the earth and sea and air to yield up their treasures to us and to become the media through which our desires are realized, would form only a series of tedious platitudes. Let us consider some of the less hackneyed aspects of our theme.
In the city a man's dangers — at least those that are the most obvious — are man-made. From morn till night he runs the gauntlet of danger ; but for the most part it is danger that arises from the conditions of the associated life of the city. He may be knocked down, run over, broken, or maimed, or sawed asunder, or crushed, or sufifocated, or burned, or blown to atoms ; but the perils that most threat- eningly encompass him are the forces and processes that are organized and directed by men.
Likewise with an increasing number of his diseases. There is already a long and growing list of occupational diseases which have their origin in the conditions under which men and women, as things now are, must work in the cities. Some of the most loathsome and deadly diseases arise from or are fostered by the horrible housing condi- tions under which great masses of the population are com- pelled to live, because no better accommodations are avail- able for the poor, and because this grade of houses is ex- ceptionally remunerative. Furthermore, one needs but look around to see the great multitude of physical wrecks whose nerves, over-strained, unstrung, jangled by the strenuous conditions of city life, are enough of themselves to make life a perpetual misery, while they furnish also the best breed- ing-ground for flocks of other diseases. And many of the diseases which do not originate in the man-made conditions
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are rendered far more dangerous by reason of the human crowding.
In the city one's success or failure seems to depend most directly upon one's fellowmen or upon oneself in competi- tion with one's fellowmen. The gravamen of the economic struggle is competition with men. Of course, the thought- ful man sees nature in the background and perceives that man in his economic efforts is coping with natural forces and processes, and that nature gradually falls under the sway of the human will. The focal point, however, in the economic consciousness of most men is not the collective effort to master the material world, but is their relative par- ticipation in the social wealth thus created. And not only the general wealth but the distribution whereby men find their places in the economic gradation of society seems to be very definitely due to a series of human efforts and ar- rangements. If a man be poor he is likely to feel that his poverty is due largely, at any rate, to conditions and proc- esses which are socially determined, and could be socially changed. If he be rich, he may, like the celebrated Mr. Baer of anthracite coal fame, when his title to control so large a part of the world's natural wealth was challenged, set up the claim that God has committed so much to the rich, because presumably they are the best fitted to administer it wisely ; though as a matter of fact such men really attribute the greatness of their accumulations not to God but to their own energy and wisdom, working in a humanly organized economic system which they highly approve. In a word, poverty and riches, success and failure, appear to be the results of personal qualities working in a man-made eco- nomic environment. They are not ordained by a super- human power.
The modern man has become accustomed to vast systems of machinery with their mazes of interrelated parts. The machine is, perhaps, the most characteristic feature of our modern civilization. It is the development of the tool ; but the tool was a simple instrument which a man used as a sort
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of supplement to his body. The machine is an apparatus which serves more than one important function — the most notable of which, from our point of view, is that it taps cos- mic energy, which it brings into the service of man to do his will under the direction of his intelligence. It is an organ- ization of material things for controlling the forces before which men once stood in impotent awe. It is a method of taming heat, light, steam, electricity, gravitation ; and as more occult realms of natural energy are opened up it sub- dues them also to human purposes. There is no apparent limit to this process ; but, generally speaking, with this ad- vancing conquest of nature the appliances through which its forces are trained to human service become more elab- orately complex. Between the directing mind and the end at which it aims is interposed an ever longer and more intri- cate series of mechanical means ; until the human intel- ligence seems almost dwarfed by the very vastness of the material organization it has invented.
Turning now from the consideration of the artificial en- vironment which men have built up around themselves, let us think of the multiplicity of the human contacts in the city. One is continually rubbing against one's fellowmen. The relationships and contacts get to be so numerous that many of them become to a large extent habitual. The con- sciousness attending them is not vivid or intense. Many of them come only within the fringe of consciousness. This is a merciful provision, for the economy of our vital energy — life in the city would be intolerable, impossible, indeed, if it were not so. Nevertheless, the whole field of attention of the dweller in the city is usually filled with these human contacts and relations. Their multiplicity and importance, the inevitable and urgent character of many of them, render it necessary to the preservation and promotion of life that they occupy prevailingly the foreground of one's conscious- ness. It is men, men, men ! Turn where we will, we see them ; or if we do not at the moment see them, we see the work of their hands or we hear the sounds of their activities.
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If for a little rest and relief from this omnipresent and sometimes oppressive sense of human presence, one betakes himself to a park, he is confronted by others, who, like him- self, have fled for rest to the bosom of nature. But there nature is not simply nature any more. Every path, every bush, the green grass and the trees are mute witnesses of the art and care of man. Even the birds and the squirrels are " socialized." There is no relief except in flight from the city ; and ordinarily one must travel a great distance to get away from the obtrusive evidences of the monopolizing presence and activity of man. In the city his soul is simply immersed in the consciousness of the human environment.
The consciousness of one's fellowmen is forced upon him not only by the multiplicity of personal contacts but also by the extent and variety of the institutional relations which encompass him. What we may call the social machinery has become even more vast and complex than the mechanical appliances which men use. We have noted the fact that there was not much social organization in primitive life ; in modern life it has grown until it is bewildering and op- pressive. Let any man of average importance in an ad- vanced modern community count up the various organized relations in which he stands, and he will probably be sur- prised. Let him look at the economic system of which he is a member. How far reaching and complicated it is! Then let him think of the educational system, and of the political system, and of the ecclesiastical. Then the benevolent or- ders must be taken into account ; and the literary societies, the art clubs, the civic organizations, and the convivial — the whole endless range of voluntary associations projected for the promotion of every interest under the sun. The or- ganized and institutional relations of men are growing more numerous all the time and all are becoming more elaborate and complex (except the family, an exception of capital im- portance), and the limits of this process of organizing life no man can foresee. We are already so linked up with our fellows in this way that we often think of the social organ-
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ization as a huge and intricate machine in which the main business of Hfe is for each one to play his Httle perfunctory part ; and it greatly helps to preoccupy the consciousness of each person with the human environment, which so en- compasses him that he sees or hears or thinks little else.
Another vitally important aspect of the modern situation is the development of science. It is closely connected with the growing importance of the human factors of the en- vironment, of which it presupposes a considerable develop- ment; and is the chief method whereby men have been able to master and fashion their material environment. Science is the systematic study of facts for the purpose of ascer- taining their law. To be more specific: The subject mat- ter of science is experience ; its method is experiment, so far as that is possible ; its aim is to organize experience accord- ing to its uniformities, so as to enable men to secure a more extensive control of their environment and better adapt themselves to those aspects of it which they cannot control. Science calls upon her devotees to divest themselves of all prejudice, to sit humbly at the feet of Nature and learn of her, and advance their welfare by ascertaining her laws. " Control through knowledge " is her dictum.
It is superfluous to dwell upon the success of the scientific method. Certainly it has immensely broadened the realm of man's control of natural forces, and accelerated his task of organizing about him an environment of his own mak- ing. Opposed uncompromisingly at first, it has vindicated itself by helpful results that are indisputable and has finally won the undivided loyalty of the modern world.
2. Now, what efifect does living under these modern con- ditions have upon the thinking and feeling of men ? What dispositions and mental attitudes does it tend to induce?
(i) The modern man cannot long tolerate loneliness. If he becomes weary of the presence of men and the strain which that imposes, as he sometimes does, and finds his way into the solitudes to stand face to face with primeval nature, he may for a few days enjoy the silent gloom of the
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forest or the solemn grandeur of glens and crags or the wild freedom of the waste of waters ; but the loneliness which soon falls like lead upon his aching heart discloses the fact that the predominantly human environment to which he is accustomed has become for him the very breath of life. The intolerable pain of being alone is an interest- ing phase of the psychology of the modern city man. City life may afford the conditions for the greatest privacy of certain aspects of the individual and family life ; and a man may be more lonely in a great city than anywhere else, if he be a stranger, but it is, nevertheless, true that the normal city-bred man has become so accustomed to the presence of his fellowmen, his habitual processes of feeling and think- ing have been so prevailingly determined by the human en- vironment, that loneliness, and especially loneliness in the midst of the wild forms, the vast spaces and the deep silence of primeval nature, is peculiarly oppressive and pro- foundly, though vaguely, disturbing.
(2) Out of this very estrangement of man from nature in its primitive, untamed forms arises the aesthetic delight in nature which is so marked a characteristic of the modern mind. As a rule it is not the men who live in daily contact with nature in whom its colours and forms awaken the re- sponses which are called aesthetic. Usually it is the man who lives or has been bred in an artificial environment. Under the conditions of life in the early world when men lived in much closer familiarity with hills and streams and forests, with clouds and storms and the glorious panorama of the heavens, there was not the same thrill of joy in look- ing upon them as modern men feel. It is most interesting to observe the different feeling for and treatment of nature in the early and later literatures of the world. Of course, in making such broad generalizations it must be remembered that they are relative and approximate only. But in a gen- eral way it can be said that nature, simply as nature, is rarely if ever the inspiration of the writer in the early literature. His utterances are likely to be rich, almost riotously rich,
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in natural tropes. Metaphors and similes drawn from natural objects seem to be the customary dress for his pas- sionate thought, but the inspiration of his passion is not nature itself, but the purposes and actions of the gods whom he fancies he sees in nature. The thought of the modern writer is not likely to be so gorgeously arrayed in natural tropes, but far more frequently do you find him standing in rapt contemplation before natural objects, deriving his inspiration from them, delighting in them on their own account, and giving a loving, sometimes entrancing, descrip- tion of them in confidence that he could not give a keener delight to a large circle of readers. His interest in nature is aesthetic, not religious. It has been pointed out ^ that landscape painting, so important a feature of modern, and so insignificant a feature of early art, has developed in connec- tion with the highly artificial conditions of modem city life, under which man has been divorced from his primitive in- timacy with nature.
(3) The same writer calls attention to the fact that what might be called the rhythmical adjustment to nature is much less perfect in modern than it was in primitive conditions. Primevally man's food supply was usually abundant and as- sured at certain seasons of the year and limited and pre- carious at others, and his life expanded and contracted, so to speak, with the seasons. In other respects, also, the variations of his life ran parallel with the seasonal changes much more closely than is the case in civilized lands today ; and the explanation is evident — the recent extension of his control over nature, artificializing the conditions under which he lives. Even the adaptation of his life to the diurnal rhythm of nature, the alternations of the waking and the sleeping periods, is to a large extent broken up under the conditions of city life, and through the operation of the same causes. In a word, his life must adapt itself more and more to the varying tides of social life and less to the regu- lar alternations of nature.
1 Simmel, " Philosophic des Geldes," pp. 543-4-
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(4) The modern spirit is strenuous. The complex and crowded human environment is extremely stimulating. The primeval natural environment at times powerfully stimu- lated the minds of men; but on the whole it was soporific as compared with the thronging and tumultuous life in the midst of which the modern man moves. Indeed, many people are over-stimulated today. Only those of fairly sound nervous constitutions can stand the strain. Everybody works under high pressure ; when men play they feel that it is dull unless the pressure is high ; and perhaps no class of people live under higher pressure than those who do not work at all. The development of society inevitably quickens the pace of life. Everything must move faster. Men become impatient of slow movement in every sphere of life, and especially in the pulpit. This speeding-up process continues ; and no one can see any prospect that it will cease in the future. For- tunately, life tends to adapt itself to the constantly accelerat- ing pace in various ways. Men's minds become more alert ; and by learning to economize time and personal energy and to use more effectively the energy of natural forces, the majority of people not only survive but manage to accom- plish more and more.
(5) The passion for achievement is a characteristic of the modern age. This would seem to be a natural result of living in an environment which is so stimulating and is so largely the product of human effort. Under this stimulation the sense of individual personality is intensified, and the environment teems with suggestions and inducements to give expressions to personality in forms of constructive eflfort. Sometimes the destructive impulse dominates, but that is ex- ceptional. The conditions of life today stimulate men to impress themselves in some way upon their environment, either by subduing the yet unsubdued realms of nature or by reorganizing some part of the human world. This striv- ing for achievement takes the form of both individual and collective efifort, which are not inconsistent with one another but are always co-ordinated in any important enterprise.
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And this is pre-eminently the age of large enterprises. Social groups are so large and the human organization is so immense that men are stimulated not only to achieve, but to achieve largely. Men have a craving to do things and to see things done on a colossal scale, which is the natural psycho- logical effect of living in such a vast humanly organized en- vironment. This desire is almost an obsession of the mod- ern mind. Notwithstanding all the expressions of horror at the unspeakable tragedy of the great war, it is probable that millions of people feel a half-conscious pride in the fact that this generation has conducted war on a scale which utterly dwarfs all previous efforts of men in this sanguinary business. The achievements of men rapidly build up about them an environment which kindles to a more intense flame the desire to accomplish things on a still larger scale. It is a spirit which grows upon its own success. Where will it end?
A very important result is that attention is focused more and more upon this present life, and, to a corresponding de- gree, is diverted from the existence beyond this. Com- petent observers in all walks of society testify that interest and belief in personal immortality are declining; and, in part, it seems to be accounted for by the constant occupation of the attention with the possibilities and problems of the stimulating environment in which men live today. This is surely a deeply important aspect of the religious life of our time, and seriously challenges the thought of every intel- ligent preacher.
(6) The great development of science has wrought — or perhaps we should say is working — a most significant change in the mental attitude of men toward the whole uni- verse of phenomena, though the change was first effected and is yet most obvious with respect to the physical world. Of course, there are many men who have been only partially affected by this influence. But science has become the main factor in determining the mode of thought of the educated world; and through the activities of the intellectual classes
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who are under its sway it is potent in forming the general mental attitude of the age. Its influence has become atmos- pheric; and even the most ignorant rustic's mode of thought has been profoundly modified by it, though he be innocent of its first principles. But the number of those who have no acquaintance with the general principles of science is rapidly diminishing. The natural sciences form a very im- portant part of the curricula of all schools ; and scientific method prevails in the study of all other subjects. Surely and rapidly the mental life of the rising generation is being cast in the scientific mould. Let us notice some of the par- ticular aspects of the great mental change which has thus been brought about.
First, men are becoming accustomed to regard all things as open to scientific inquiry. There is no precinct, however sacred, which can successfully resist the entrance of the great questioner, investigator, tester — Science. Conse- quently every assumption of prejudice, every hope that springs from desire, every tenet of faith, every formulation of human experience, which has not been examined and es- tablished scientifically, is felt to be wanting in suitable cre- dentials for the men of this age. All the persuasions and convictions of men which are not certified by this great Guarantor of positive truth are felt by those whose minds have been cast in the scientific mould to be insecurely founded. Everything is open to question. It is therefore an age that really teems with unsolved problems. Doubt- less the confidence in science is overweening, just as was the confidence in traditional authority which it has displaced. Science can speak with authority only within certain limits. But we are now stating the actual facts as to the mental attitude characteristic of the age. not justifying that attitude, and the statements made are none too strong. If science has its limitations, there is a feeling that those limits must be determined according to scientific method. In other words, there is a general conviction that no other authority can legitimately set the bounds beyond which science has
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no right to speak. Doubtless the final test must be prag- matic. Science thrusts its questions into every sphere and seeks to apply its methods there, and in the end her right to be there can only l)e determined by the result. Does the ap- plication of the scientific method in any given realm yield results that promote the fundamental human interests? If so, it is justified; otherwise, not.
In the second place, it has a tendency to depersonalize the whole universe of natural phenomena. Natural occurrences the law of which has not been discovered men are almost certain to refer to a non-human personal agency. Before the notion of natural law had been acquired, anything that took place and was not obviously accounted for by human agency was referred to non-human personal beings of one description or another. But when a law of nature has been discovered we are no longer disposed to refer the phenomena covered by it to the activity of a personal being. Now, science cultivates the habit of thinking that all change throughout the universe takes place according to law, and that the law is ascertainable by the human mind. The universality of natural law may be regarded as a fixed as- sumption, or presupposition, of the modern mind; and so may the confidence that by scientific investigation men are destined to approximate more and more closely an adequate knowledge of the laws of nature. As the realm of dis- covered natural law has broadened, the sphere of activity of those non-human personalities has contracted, until many men believe that the progress of natural science is destined to eliminate every trace of it. Most men think of the uni- verse, especially the physical universe, as being operated by a vast system of laws. For most minds when the law of any phenomenon is found out, it is felt to be explained. That phenomenon is adequately accounted for. When any phenomenon is puzzling, the modern mind is convinced that there is a law that will explain it. and investigators set about the search for it. After a while some lucky man finds it. " Eureka." That fact is classed among the things explained,
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and the investigator starts upon the trail of some other puz- zHng fact. So accustomed are modern men to this way of thinking that few realize what a radical and far reaching change in the conception of the universe it represents, and how profoundly it has modified man's mental attitude toward physical nature in particular. We may readily grant that this is shallow thinking. But even those who think more deeply find it difficult to connect these regular processes of nature with the activity of a personal being, or personal beings, in an intelligible way. Impersonal forces and laws seem to intervene somehow between the events and the acts of volition to which they are at most only indirectly re- ferred.
This conception of the universe is greatly reinforced by the modern man's familiarity with machinery. Many minds which loyally maintain a theistic conception of the universe have derived from the machine their idea of the relation of the physical world to the divine intelligence. They seem to think that God made the universe and ordained the laws of nature ; and that nature operates under the control of those laws, which really determine all specific changes. The sig- nificant aspect of it is that for their thought the actual per- sonal activity of God is moved back one or perhaps many links in the chain of causation. God is in the background, and intervening between His will and the events of the natural world is a vast apparatus of forces and laws, im- personal and unchangeable in their operation. In the thought of such persons, God is no more personally respon- sible for any human tragedies that may result from the operation of those laws than the engineer is for the mangling of an unfortunate victim who is accidentally caught in the machinery which he is superintending. Another significant aspect of this mode of thought is that while God moves far- ther into the background, the human control of these natural forces becomes more obvious and extensive. Men see that they are actually gaining power to direct the oper- ation of those forces before which they once stood in help-
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less, trembling awe as the expressions of the moods and voli- tions of mysterious superhuman beings ; and there is nd wonder that they should think of the human intelligence as already something more than a novice in the midst of the universal machinery of natural forces, rapidly acquiring the skill either to bend them to human service or to protect man against the dangers of their uncontrolled operation.
There are others whose philosophy is more spiritual and who think of nature as animated by a great soul whose life pulsates through it all, causing all change. But the univer- sal life of this type of thought is in constant danger of losing the distinctive marks of personality. So in one way or another the modern trend is to depersonalize the entire universe wherein natural law is seen to obtain.
What is the explanation of this tendency? It is not safe to dogmatize as to the reason. But we offer the following tentative explanation. It is probably due to an inclination, almost irresistible, to regard the acts of personalities as variable or incalculable. Human personalities are so largely impulsive, so little controlled by rational considerations, that they seem incalculable. It is doubtless true that the more completely controlled by impulse a person is, the more cal- culable his action would really be, if all the obscure and com- plex conditions of the action could be seen and understood. But these are always hidden for the most part. Even the actor himself, especially if he is impulsive, is often just as ig- norant of these conditions as his fellow-men, or more so. It is also true that action absolutely controlled by reason would always appear regular, orderly, calculable, if all the con- siderations influencing it were clearly apparent. But such a person would be moving on a plane far above the level of the intelligence of men as now constituted ; his reasons would often be hidden from their view ; and he would al- most certainly appear to them irregular and incalculable. Or if his action occurred with a regularity that was obvious, it would inevitably often appear arbitrary and unreasonable ; or mechanical and non-moral. We have, therefore, come to
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associate a large measure of variability, irregularity and incalculability of procedure with personality; and when we discover that a series of phenomena recurs according to a fixed and invariable sequence, we attribute it to the agency of non-personal forces.
But it is not alone the perception of the universal prev- alence of law which makes this tendency so strong. So far as the regularity and uniformity of natural phenomena are concerned, it is possible to interpret them as the expressions of a rational and orderly mind, though there is a strong ten- dency to do otherwise. But upon the modern mind nature makes an impression of being non-moral, which for most men completely precludes the interpretation of natural proc- esses in terms of personal will. While in a general way and on the whole, nature appears to favour the development of life, in a concrete and specific way it is amazingly indifferent to moral distinctions. The plague sweeps away the good and the bad alike ; the drouth !)urns the fields that belong to the saint just as it does those that belong to the sinner; earthquakes tumble into ruins the homes of the virtuous and the vicious, the temples of worship and the haunts of wickedness with a striking lack of discrimination. What does the lightning ask as to the character of the man or the structure destroyed by its bolt? And nature bestows her favours in the same indiscriminate fashion. Of course, a series of actions of the most rational character may seem non-moral or even immoral to one who does not see the rational and moral considerations guiding the actor. But the general conception of nature in the thought of this age is that its processes absolutely ignore moral distinctions. If we postulate as the ultimate goal of the processes of nature some far-off moral end — in the progress toward which they so strangely ignore the moral distinctions — we are walking by faith, not by scientific sight.
For these reasons the modern mind has become very much confused as to the relation of God to the universe. Once men seemed to find little difficulty in giving a religious inter-
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pretation of natural phenomena. The minister of religion proclaimed with assured conviction the divine purposes in storms and pestilences, in smiling fields of plenty, in sun- shine and rain, in sickness and health, in eclipses and con- junctions of the heavenly bodies, in all the natural occur- rences which touched, or seemed to touch, the interests of human beings ; and the people received these interpretations with almost unquestioning assent. But now the preacher is usually hesitant or dumb on this theme ; and when he con- tinues the role of interpreter of the religious significance of natural phenomena, his utterances are treated by minds formed in the scientific mould as impious presumption or idle guessing.
But the difficulty becomes more serious still when natural law comes to be considered as universal, covering the realm of mind as w^ell as that of the physical world. If, as its sway is perceived to extend in all directions, natural law precludes the interpretation of the phenomena it covers in terms of the free determination of personal will, what must be the inevitable conclusion of the whole matter? That is a philosophical problem of the first magnitude ; and it is not within the purview of this book to offer a solution of it, though I can not refrain from offering one or two sugges- tions as to the direction in which the solution must be sought. First, the concepts of " natural law," " cause " and " effect " must be subjected to a radical criticism, which will certainly show that as usually held they are exceedingly crude and superficial ideas — objectivizing and hypostatizing pure men- tal constructions. A natural law, reduced to simple terms, is only the uniformity or invariability of a series of phenomena. But that uniformity or invariability of se- quences we erect into an objective entity, and regard it, thus objectivized, as the explanation of the invariable sequences of which it is, in fact, only the human formulation. We have thus expelled from the natural universe the multitude of phantom spirits with which the primitive man populated it as his explanation of natural phenomena and replaced
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them with impersonal natural laws, which are as truly men- tal constructions of ours as the spirits were of primitive men. It may well be asked whether, apart from the dis- covery of the uniformities of nature, which the primitive man did not perceive, we have really made any advance in this matter. In the second place, our concepts of " will " and " freedom " must also undergo a careful revision. Along these lines it will probably be possible to bring about a consistent correlation of natural law with personal action. But such a philosophical solution of the difficulty, if effected, will modify popular modes of thought only after a long time ; and it is the analysis of those popular modes of thought which now engages us. Certainly the scientific and growingly popular conception of natural processes and laws as wholly mechanical and non-moral, devoid of the impress of personal will and purpose, presents a serious problem for the preacher ; because it renders it very difficult to give a religious interpretation of the universe, which seems throughout to be the sphere of natural law.
(7) The fact that the foreground of the consciousness of the modern man is occupied for the most part with human relationships and a humanly controlled environment adds to the confusion and helps to remove God, so to speak, into the background of thought. The suggestions of God's pres- ence are not so frequent or obvious, nor the sense of His presence so constant. The environment does not seem so manifestly to point one toward the superhuman. Religion is not eliminated. Those primal instincts which are organ- ized into the very foundation of the personality and with which the religious consciousness is so closely connected can not be suppressed. Again and again occurrences happen in which a superhuman being seems to crash through the humanly organized environment and to advertise his pres- ence in a most impressive and solemn way. But do not these occasions become less frequent, as man's control over nature extends? At any rate, the religious interpretation of concrete experiences is less common and is felt by the
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average man to have far less reality than under the con- trasted conditions of more primitive life.
Those deep instincts, indeed, which assert themselves in moments of exceptional crisis or peril and compel us to give a religious interpretation of experience are not in many minds habitually supported by the intellectual processes. In the supreme excitement of those unusual impending dangers, the rational processes are inhibited ; and the naked instincts seem to control the reaction in such situations. The man becomes suddenly religious and calls on God ; but when the excitement is over and he drops back into his ordinary in- tellectual grooves, he moves along again on a level on which there is no very definite or urgent sense of the immediate activity of God in the processes of the world. The ordi- nary incidents of experience are traced no further than to secondary natural causes, or to human actions and condi- tions. In the minds of many people living in our great centres of population the sense of God becomes very faint — seems, indeed, to survive only in those fundamental in- stincts which form the roots of it ; and is rarely awakened into life except in certain great crises, which are probably becoming more rare with the extension of human control.
All experience seems to show that the vitality of re- ligious belief is closely connected with the more pressing problems of human existence, if it be not true that it is a flower that grows in the soil of the more urgent hu- man needs. Unquestionably the sense of deep need adds greatly to the feeling of reality of those objects in which alone the need can find satisfaction. We elsewhere suggest that faith, in the sense of religious belief, might be defined as the soul's affirmation of the reality of those supersensible objects which seem necessary to the satisfac- tion of its fundamental needs. Now, the foremost and most urgent problem of men under modern conditions is not ad- justment to a mysterious and uncontrollable physical uni- verse. There are still difficulties, of course, in that realm of our experience; but the conviction exists in many minds
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that we have in the wonderful resources of inventive human genius at least the clue to adjustment with that part of our environment. At any rate, the sense of maladjustment seems stronger in the field of the human environment. Ethical and social problems are to the front in the conscious- ness of modern men. Human intelligence and will are largely preoccupied with the need of establishing and main- taining satisfactory relations of men with one another; which is true not so much as to individual contacts as to the many-sided and complicated institutional life. This human and humanly controlled environment presses upon a man from every side ; it encompasses him like an atmosphere. With the crowding together of men in dense populations, there come the increasing complexity and interdependence of the social organization and the multiplication of rela- tionships ; and in and through it all there is a pervading consciousness of maladjustment and of distress, which at bottom is more moral than it is physical, though elements of the latter are by no means wanting. There is, indeed, the sense of being caught in a vast and tangled maze of problems whose urgency is only equalled by their enor- mous difficulty. Nearly all thoughtful minds have a feel- ing that, as members of a great social order, we are under the necessity of working out solutions of prob- lems whose widely ramifying difficulties are among the most baffling which have ever confronted the human mind. They constitute a most insistent challenge to the intelligence and the conscience of the modern mind, and their emotional ap- peal is hardly less strong.
Take but a momentary glance into the vast social life whose tides surge around us. Problems stare at you like sphinxes no matter in what direction you turn your gaze. Now, there are some problems which have a more universal character than others; some which are more practical than others ; some that are more inevitable than others ; and there are some which are notable in that they have all three char- acteristics. They are universal, that is they press upon all
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the people ; they are practical in that they call for action ; they are inevitable in that they must be met one way or another. The problems of social adjustment are of this character. If we look into the economic sphere, what do we see ? We see that its problems come home to everybody ; that they touch our daily lives in the most practical ways; and also that no- evasion of them is possible. It is evident, too, that our attitude toward these problems has its subtle and far-reaching reaction upon all other departments of our interests and activity. Around about these issues can be seen the myriads of human beings swiftly grouping them- selves into great masses with increasingly definite programs of action. The issue of this mighty controversy is nothing less than a drastic reorganization of human society. One can not read the literature of this subject, as it comes warm from all the groaning printing presses of the land, without perceiving that these problems are calling forth not only the most daring and ingenious exploits of human intelligence, but also the deepest and most serious passions of the human soul. All our interests are involved, whether material and selfish, or ideal and moral.
If one looks into the political sphere there is a similar situation. More and more the State is being drawn into the consideration of the economic problems. Mighty economic forces are struggling for the control of the sovereign au- thority. But apart from this struggle of the economic giants in the political arena, there are deep and vital ques- tions concerning the relation of the individual to the State ; concerning the causes of crime and the treatment of the criminal ; concerning the relations between the local and the general governments ; concerning the relations between the great nations of the earth, involving tariffs, immigration, ar- maments, peace and war, international tribunals — all of them questions of social adjustment of profound significance and of the utmost urgency. If these things were true un- der the normal conditions which existed prior to the out- burst of the great war, how tremendously has this enormous
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crisis emphasized them ! This convulsion of the world of humanity has given to all the problems of economic and political adjustment such compelling urgency that they tax the energy of the human spirit to the utmost, and must con- tinue to do so after the storm has passed.
If attention be turned to the religious sphere, one surely finds nothing there but bristling problems. But among them all there is none that is more practically pressing and acute than that of the adjustment of the religious forces and groups to one another. Within each separate denomination questions of adjustment are urgent. Between separate de- nominational organizations the problem is even more acute. It confronts us most insistently on the home field ; it looms large on the foreign mission field ; and perhaps no issue in religious debate develops a higher intensity of emotion. Cor- relation and co-operation are advocated with profound passion and resisted with a passion even more uncom- promising, if not so buoyant and aggressive.
Now, is there any wonder that men living in an environ- ment like this, which fairly seethes with problems of ad- justing men to one another individually and collectively, per- sonally and institutionally, nationally and internationally, should come to have a keen sense of the need of an ade- quate social ethic? There has been a lightening of the pressure of need on the one side of life, in respect to one of the great factors of environment, and an aggrava- tion of it on another side of life, in respect to the other great factor of the environment. This explains why the religion which would make an effective appeal to modern men, even those who have the strongest religious inclina- tions, must make manifest to them its ethical and social values. These values are exactly the most convincing cre- dentials which religion can present to the modern mind. The too general failure of current Christianity to meet these needs is one of the most potent reasons for the wide- spread scepticism and indifference to organized religion so notable in our great centres of population.
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The growth of the democratic spirit is a notable result of the modern conditions. The profound changes we have dis- cussed inevitably bring about the breakdown of the caste spirit. Class barriers, if they do not fall away, are so much weakened that men pass with ease from one social grade to another, and a significant change comes about in the attitude both of the lower and of the upper ranks of society. The lowly of the earth lift their heads and aspire. Those masses which, under the conditions of early society were so passive and inert, so destitute of the sense of individual personal worth, feel under modern conditions the kindling of a strange flame in their hearts. Once they toiled and slaved, beast-like, rebelling only when goaded beyond possible en- durance ; but even then beast-like, hardly thinking of them- selves in human terms. Now they feel themselves to be men and claim with increasingly emphatic insistence all the privileges of humanity. Their minds under the powerful social stimulus of modern life wake up and cry out for knowledge, and, with the attainment of knowledge, they reach out for political and industrial power. Personal am- bitions stir within them. Each feels himself to be " as good as anybody else." They look with growing discontent upon the unequal and inequitable division of the world's goods, economic and cultural. If the bitterness which they feel sometimes bursts forth in deeds of violence, we need not be surprised.
That sombre genius, Amiel,^ has bitterly declared that these modern conditions were the breeding ground of spleen and envy. And it must be admitted that the intensification of the competitive struggle may and sometimes does result from the kindling of all men's spirits with the ambition which says " I am as good as anybody." It often expresses itself in the determination " to have as much as others at all costs." But, while it often finds expression in crude, un- ethical struggle to surpass others, even by pulling others down, the democratic spirit is at heart not anti-social. Its
1 Fragments d'un Journal Intime, Tome I, p. 31.
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true and growing and permanent expression is the struggle to realize equality of opportunity for all and the complete unification of the interests of all. Evidently this spirit could not have a large growth among men until social de- velopment had reached a stage which accustomed men to regard the conditions of life as largely determined by man.
The aspiring ambition of the lowly is answered in the modern world by an equally significant change of attitude on the part of those more fortunately situated. The social- democratic spirit has strangely infected " the upper classes." Men and women of those classes feel that the real meaning of life is to be found in this struggle to equalize human op- portunities and unify human interests — to build about men an environment which will assure to all the fundamental con- ditions of a truly human existence and stimulate every one to realize in the service of all the best and highest of which he is capable. This conception of the true mission of the fortunately situated could not have become so dominant until after men had come to realize that the environment in which they lived was in its most significant factors man- made. But neither could the social spirit have attained the proportions of a popular enthusiasm, influencing all classes, if the souls of men had not been touched by Christian in- spiration. This spirit exactly answers the genius of Chris- tianity ; and neither can attain a triumph without a triumph of the other. It is a great task of the pulpit to inculcate those principles which, while emphasizing the right to free individual self-expression, point men to service as the true road to self-realization.
(8) If we ask more specifically as to the influence of all these conditions upon the idea of God, we shall find that conception undergoing modification in two general direc- tions.
First, as to the idea of God in the minds of those whose mental attitudes have been profoundly influenced by science, as well as by the humanly controlled environment. They form a comparatively small group, to be sure ; but even in
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numbers they are not insignificant, and they are an exceed- ingly important factor in their influence upon the intellectual life of the rising generation. In this group the tendency is toward vagueness and indefiniteness in their conception of the divine nature. God is regarded as a great influence or principle, the soul of goodness, truth, righteousness, beauty. But He is not clearly personalized. Perhaps there has been no more succinct expression of this idea of God than Matthew Arnold's memorable phrase — " a power not our- selves that make 3 for righteousness." To such minds the attribution of definite personality to God seems to belittle Him, and also to involve too many rational difficulties. So the idea hangs in the background of their minds as a sort of semi-luminous cloud — beautiful but indefinite.
We can see now. I think, how there has come to be a class of men who exhibit a high ethical and social enthusiasm, while disclaiming attachment to any form of organized Christianity and any definite theological belief. It may be true, and probably is, that ethical enthusiasm involves implicitly a conception of and an attitude toward the uni- verse which is essentially religious. However that may be, it is certain that under modern conditions there are to be found many ethical idealists whose religious presuppositions are too indefinite to receive an intelligible theological for- mulation. This type constitutes an interesting psychological phenomenon of our present-day life. They are not " the moralists " who were the objects of such severe warnings from the old-time preachers. They are not men who are looking for individual salvation on the ground of negative goodness, or a formal correctness of life — an attitude of mind which has certain fairly definite theological presup- positions. The men of whom we now are speaking are striving for social salvation rather than complacently cal- culating upon individual salvation ; and have as little patience with a negative and formal goodness as the preacher who is passionately pointing out the delusive character of " mere morality." They are enthusiasts, idealists, altruists. Their
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intellects are lit only by the afterglow of a faith whose sun is set, but their lives are fruitful in ethical ideals and enterprise. This interesting phenomenon is mentioned not for the purpose of discussing it according to its importance, but only to point out the relation between the mental atti- tude of such men and the conditions of our modern life.
Second, we consider those whose thought of God, while it has been influenced more or less by the scientific spirit, has been mainly determined by the practical, daily contact with a predominantly human environment. With them the tendency is to magnify humanity and to humanize God. By the latter expression we do not mean to imply that an an- thropomorphic conception of God has not prevailed at every stage of human progress. But the primitive man's idea of God was deeply coloured by the mysterious and awful as- pects of nature; while the tendency of modern life is to purge the God-idea of these elements. The religious book ^ which is perhaps the most widely read and most remarkable produced in this stormy epoch proclaims outright and with the enthusiasm of intense conviction a finite and human God. And there are many signs indicating that among the ortho- dox the drift, while it has not by any means reached that extreme, is in the same general direction.
The sentiment of awe in religion has been weakened. Men do not prostrate themselves before the deity with such a profound sense of their own nothingness. They do not think of themselves any more as the mere pawns on the chessboard of the universe. The sense of human power, human worth, human dignity, is a significant feature of the modern man's religious consciousness. This change, wrought by modern conditions of life, is more easily felt than formulated ; but somehow humanity stands for more in Christian thought and feeling. The kindlier, human aspects of Christianity receive a greater relative emphasis. The humanity of Jesus is far more emphasized, and this even when his essential unity with God is not denied. Indeed,
1 Wells, " God, The Invisible King."
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the Unitarian revolt does not seem to have been a result of the conditions now under consideration, but was rather a metaphysical protest growing out of the logical difficulty involved in the doctrine of the trinity, and based upon con- ceptions of God and man which modern conditions are pro- foundly modifying. In the religious consciousness of men of this type the hiatus between the divine and the human seems very much less than to men of the earlier period. Man has not been deified, though some extremists go almost that far; nor has God been abased to the rank and propor- tions of man, though His personality has been more humanly conceived. The complaint is not unfrequently heard that people are not as reverent as they were in the olden time. In a certain sense the statement is true. But it is a mistake to attribute this wholly or mainly to a lack of respect for divine and holy things. It is just as likely to be due to an increased respect for man, a higher appreciation of the human, simply as such, and to the growing feeling that God is actuated by motives that human beings can understand and looks with kindly and sympathetic interest upon the ordinary human impulses and experiences of every sort. The sense of being in the presence of God does not under ordinary conditions repress the natural human impulses as it did in former times and under other circumstances. The most devout people gathered in a place dedicated to the worship of the Divine Being do not have the consciousness of the presence of a mysterious and awful majesty whose power is directed by purposes which lie wholly beyond the comprehension of men and into which it is presumption for them to inquire. There was a certain strain of vague terror characteristic of the earlier type of piety which seems to have almost disappeared from the religious experience of this age. How much we may have gained, and how much we may have lost, by this subtile climatic change in the religious life is a question for serious thought ; but that such a change has been going on can hardly be questioned. Nor can it be doubted that the increasing importance of the human as
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against the natural factors of the environment is largely re- sponsible for it, although it should be kept in mind that other equally pervasive and perhaps as powerful forces are working in the same general direction.
The same tendency may be observed in the growing belief in man's control over his spiritual destinies. The evan- gelistic appeal places more emphasis upon the decisions of the human will. One listening to the evangelists, today, is struck by the frequency and prominence of such phrases as " making up one's mind," " deciding for Christ " and " ac- cepting or rejecting Christ " ; and this even among those by whom the ancient doctrines of divine fore-ordination and unconditional election are still theoretically retained. Like- wise, in the theory of preaching most widely current today, there is an unwonted emphasis upon the influencing of the human will as the definite objective in preaching. The notion is already widespread and rapidlly spreading both among the religious psychologists and the unsophisticated plain people that the religious life is fundamentally a matter of training and education, of surrounding the young with the proper human environment. Even among the most con- servative there has been a decided increase in the sense of the importance of the educational process in the genesis and development of the religious life. The eternal destiny of the soul is, today, thought to be in the main the fruition of the individual's own volition plus the influences of his human environment — certainly this is far more true now than in any previous age of the world. Heaven and hell are felt to be the issues of human choices and human condi- tions, among those who maintain a definite and robust belief in hell — for other general causes, mainly of a sociological character, have to a large extent weakened that belief in the popular mind. In general, man's relation to God is thought of as one of co-operation or of opposition far more than in primitive conditions ; and this growing sense of man's con- trol over his spiritual destiny seems to have some connection with the consciousness of the range and power of human
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volition, which is naturally developed by living in an environ- ment humanly organized and controlled.
These conditions are producing a notable change in the whole realm of philosophical thinking. The pervasive in- fluence of modern conditions has not been crystallized into a complete and definite philosophical system ; indeed, these conditions are not favourable to the formation and general acceptance of a logically finished system of thought. Life is too complex, too dynamic, too changeful to yield itself read- ily to finished theoretical formulation. The elaboration of completed systems of philosophy was much better suited to a simpler and more static condition of society. But if no rounded system of philosophy has sprung from the condi- tions of our present-day life, nor is likely to, there is never- theless a well-defined drift in philosophical thinking. Those types of theoretical thought, known as Pragmatism, Human- ism, Voluntarism, Personalism, seem to be in part at least the natural reaction upon the speculative intellect of the relative prominence of the humanly controlled environment. Underlying them all is the general idea that human wills are dynamic, creative forces co-operating with or opposing, it may be, a higher will or wills, and all together fashioning a universe which is in course of construction. It looks like a simple, universal inference which a theoretical mind could hardly fail to draw from the visible and evermore thrilling achievements of man's intelligence in actually fashioning the world in which he lives. This type of thought has had a profound influence upon the theological thinking of our times, for theological thought must always take the colour of the philosophy that prevails in any given age. Elaborately wrought out and widely accepted systems of theology seem to become more rare, though perhaps there has been no de- cline of interest in the intellectual problems of religion. INIen think upon these problems yet, and think profoundly, and the conclusions which they reach seem to be notably in- fluenced by the humanistic and pragmatic modes of thought which have come to be so prevalent in our times.
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When a child is born, today, it is the heir of a marvellously rich human culture. All the accumulated achievements of the past of the human race are round about the newborn man — ideals, ethical codes, governments, laws, economies, religions, sciences, philosophies ; and all are organized into a vast aggregation of institutions behind which lies the long perspective of a rich and varied history. Into this great and manysided culture the newcomer must be initiated. That is the work of education, and the educational period is neces- sarily lengthened as this culture becomes richer and more ex- tensive. Indeed, it already requires more than a life-time for a man to gain a fair acquaintance with the accumulated results of human progress. The stream of culture dwindles to a tiny brooklet as we trace it back into the depths of an- tiquity ; but, today, it has become a mighty Amazon, whose shores lie beyond the reach of the eye. The human domin- ion over nature has become so extensive, the human organi- zation of life has become so vast and multifarious, that from the cradle to the grave one's time is chiefly taken up in get- ting acquainted with and adjusting oneself to it all. Not only so; this social life which is now truly oceanic in its sweep has become less and less the merely fortuitous re- sultant of a myriad of human wills, each striving for its own ends unconscious of its correlation with the others ; and is coming to be directed more and more by a conscious col- lective intelligence and purpose. Each individual is coming to participate more and more consciously in social decisions and in helping to organize an environment in which the human factors are increasingly dominant. If a man's life were not affected down to its very roots by such conditions it would be a miracle ; and when we reflect that the human environment must become proportionately more and more dominant throughout indefinite future time, its significance for the mental and religious Hfe of man becomes a matter of the first importance.
Are we to conclude, then, that religion is destined to dis- appear? Far from it. It is useless to deny that profound
THE MODERN MIND 373
changes are taking place in religious ideas and in religious experience. It must be so in view of such a profound change in the conditions of human life. Every thoughtful man can readily sympathize with those earnest souls who are deeply apprehensive as to the future of spiritual religion. It is no wonder that it should appear to many good men as if modern tendencies are putting in peril the fundamental truths of Christianity. Unquestionably it is a time for most serious consideration ; and the complacency of the easy- going optimism which can see no danger anywhere is far more irritating than reassuring. But surely a pessimistic in- terpretation of those modern tendencies is not the only possible one, and is not necessary. A far greater em- phasis must and will be placed upon the ethical and social aspects of religion, both in thought and in experience. But does that indicate the decline of religion or the disappearance of Christianity? May we not conclude that it points rather in the opposite direction? Christianity originated in an age not unlike this, though one by no means so far removed from primitive conditions. It took root first and most vigorously in cities and achieved its greatest triumphs among people who lived in an environment largely human and humanly controlled. The great ideal which in the New Testament epoch lay like a rosy cloud on the horizon of the future was that of a redeemed and glorified city life. But the primitive modes of thought still remaining in that civilization had already begim to modify Christianity to its disadvantage, when the barbarian invasion swept Europe back into condi- tions almost as primitive as those which marked the tribal societies from which the ancient world had developed. Christianity then almost entirely lost its original simplicity and was corrupted by the elaboration of imposing cere- monies — many of them thought of as having a magical potency — which dwarfed its ethical and social meaning ; and was perverted by the establishment of a priesthood which administered the magical rites and interposed itself between God and the common people. Notwithstanding the present
374 PSYCHOLOGY AND PREACHING
seeming peril to many of the essential truths of religion, is it not reasonable to interpret the confused changes now going on as a gradual emergence of the fundamental principle of Christianity, so long obscured? Certainly the conditions of the present time have tended to place the emphasis upon the ethical element of Christianity. And did not Jesus place the emphasis there ? A great conservative scholar says : " Our Lord's personal teachings consist mainly of mor- ality." ^ The natural inference would seem to be that Christianity in its primal and essential character as a prin- ciple of life is peculiarly adapted to the conditions of this age.
1 Broadus, " Preparation and Delivery of Sermons," p. 86.
INDEX
Achievement, results of modern passion for, 352-353.
Action, voluntary. See Volun- tary action.
Adams and Sumner, " Labor Problems," quoted, 315-316.
Addams, Jane, cited on kindness of poor to one another, 314.
Adjustment, function of atten- tion as consciousness engaged in guiding, 168-169.
Alertness of modern mind, as compared with mind of primi- tive man, 352.
Amiel, "Journal Intime," cited, 365-
Angell, J. R., definition of reflex act quoted from, 1 : quoted as to definition of instinct, 3 ; on the emotions, 68 ; on relation of feeling, the conscious side of emotion, to the motor, or physical side, 71-72; on the emotions as complex proc- esses, 77; on relation between emotions and culture, 88 ; on volition and attention, 169; on voluntary attention, 173 ; on shifting of the attention, 179-180; on the sphere of con- sciousness, 190.
Anger, as an emotion effective in welding a crowd, 255-256.
Animals, instinct of lower, com- pared with those of human species, 6-7 ; effect of differ- ence between nervous systems of young of, and those of young of human species, 13- 14; mode of responsiveness which characterizes, 187-188; question of consciousness and psychical life existent in, 189- 190.
375
Arnold, Felix, "Attention and Interest," cited, 165; on fluc- tuations in attention-waves, 182.
Arnold, Matthew, idea of God expressed by, 367.
Assemblies, effect of, on mental processes of the individual, 236 ; classes of, 236 flf. ; the ac- cidental concourse, 236-238 ; the purposive assembly; 238 ff. ; the inspirational gather- ing, 239; three stages of men- tal unity in inspirational gath- erings, 240-244; stage of mental unity of, suited to in- struction, 245-246; methods of promoting process of fusion in, 248-254; kinds of emotion most effective in promoting mental fusion in, 254-260; question as to whether process of psychic fusion is conducive to genuine religious expe- rience, 260-261 ; the deliber- ative body, 261-264; change in character of deliberative as- semblies, 264.
Association, influences affecting principles of, in modern so- ciety, 63-64.
Association of ideas, linking of mental impressions the physi- cal counterpart of, 24.
Assurance, vital, as one of the classes of belief, 152, 153-154.
Attention, direction of, influ- enced by feeling, 149-150; out- lines of doctrine of, 164-165; definition of, 165; nature of, 165-166; function of, as the selective action of conscious- ness, 166 ff. ; moving of, along line of interest, 167; relation
17^
INDEX
of, to volition. 169-170; classi- fication of, in three ways, 170; compulsory, 170-173 ; volun- tary, 173-175; spontaneous, 175-177; narrow scope of, 177-178; constant shifting of, 178-181 ; fluctuations in inten- sity or degree of, 181-183; making sentences and para- graphs correspond to pulses of, 183-185.
Authority, importance of, as a suggestive force, 226-227.
Autonomy, resistance of an or- ganism to interference with its, 214: the higher the or- ganism, the greater its jeal- ousy for its, 214; suggestibil- ity varies inversely as the insistence of the personality upon maintaining its, 215-216.
Awe, weakening of sense of, in present-day religion, 368.
Bagley, W. C, "Educational Values," cited, 105, 203.
Baldwin. J. M.. "Thought and Things," cited, 164.
Beecher, Henry Ward, device of, for compelling attention. 172; power of oratory to promote mental fusion shown by, 253
Belief, discussion of, 135 ff. ; connection between doubt and, 145-146, 148-149; operation of feeling in the determination of, 149-152; primitive credu- lity, rational conviction, and vital assurance the three gen- eral classes of, 152-154; feel- ing operative in formation of all three classes, 154; religious belief a member of class of vital assurance, 154-155.
Bergson, H. L., cited as to the forth-reaching, onward-mov- ing character of life. 192.
Bodily movement, concerted, as a means of promoting process of fusion in a crowd, 250-253.
Boodin. J. E.. " The Existence of Social Minds," cited, 249.
Booth, " Life and Labours in London," quoted, 315.
Broadus, J. A., " Preparation and Delivery of Sermons," discussion of structure of sen- tences - in, 132 n. ; quoted on morality in Christ's personal teachings, 374.
Bryan, W. J., power of oratory shown by, 253-254.
Business man. defined, 321 ; dis- tinction made between the in- dividual and the corporate type of, 321-322: importance of, under modern conditions, 322-324 ; intellectual charac- teristics of, 324-328; ethical peculiarities of, ■>y2^-2,Z'2^\ dou- ble standard of ethics accepted by. ?,2>^^2>7)^ ; religious pecu- liarities of, 332-337.
Character-making, importance of sentiments and ideals in, 109- iio, 112-114.
Children, extraordinary sugges- tibility of, 218-220; quick ef- fect of crowd-suggestion upon, 246-247.
Christianity, predisposing condi- tions favouring rise of, 276; modern emphasis upon ethical element of, 374.
City, environmental conditions in the, and mental effects of,
343-349-
Class consciousness among la- bouring men. and effect on their ethical life. 316-318.
Climatic factors, efi'ect of, in mental epidemics. 2~y-2yS:
Closed mind, attitude of the, 143-144; dangers of this con- dition, 146-147; advantages posessed by the open mind over, 147-148.
Coe, summary of theories of the subconscious by, 16-17,
Collective moods, among the pre-
INDEX
377
disposing conditions of mental epidemics, 274-275.
Communication, relation of easy means of, to mental epidemics, 283.
Compulsory attention, character- istics of, 170-172.
Concerted action, a means of promoting process of fusion in an assembly, 250-253.
Confidence of subject, securing the, in use of suggestion, 225- 229.
Consciousness, relation between reflex acts and, 2; question of extent of, involved in instinct, 4; discussion of, as one of the controls of conduct, 8-1 1; is life become luminous, 11; re- lation of habit to, 11-16; dim- ness of, in animals as com- pared with man, 13-14; feel- ing-tones an accompaniment of, 65-66 ; why some expe- riences cause pleasant and others unpleasant states of, 75-79; attention defined as fo- calized, 165-166; attention the selective action of, 166-168; attention the adaptive function of, 168; species of concentra- tion of. involved in spontan- eous attention, 175-176; the span of, 178; varying degrees of intensity of concentration of, t8i ; degrees of, in veg- etable, animal, and human or- ganisms, 189-191 ; labouring man at his work characterized by state of diffused, 308.
Conservatism, appeal to senti- ment of, as a means of pro- moting mental fusion, 258-260.
Control of emotions, extent of voluntary, i 18-120.
Controls of conduct, general, l- 18.
Controversies, futility of, made apparent, 60-61.
.Conviction, rational, as one of the classes of belief, 152-153.
necessity of, in preachers, in treatment of doubt, 162-163.
Co-operation, problem of, as re- lated to differentiation of mental systems, 61-64.
Co-ordination and co-operation of Christian forces, approved by the business man, 336-337.
Crazes, popular, 265-266; exam- ples of, 266-268.
Creative synthesis, theory of a, 249- ,
Credulity, primitive, as one of the classes of belief, 152-153.
Creedal union, problem of, re- sulting from differentiation of mental system, 59-60.
Crowding of people, as a means of promoting process of men- tal fusion, 248-250.
Crowd-suggestion, development of state of, 242-244: members of assembly first to yield to, 246-247.
Crowds, psychology of, 236-238; fallacious notions concerning, 249. See Assemblies.
Crusades, generally healthy character of, viewed as mental epidemics, 268; why impossible under conditions of modern society, 287.
Culture, enrichment of life through, 86-8g; value of, in religious life, 90-91; more even, regular, continuous flow of the feelings brought about by. 91-92; intimate relation of religion and, 92-93.
Davenport, F. M., quoted con- cerning religious revivals, 288.
Deliberative assembly, special attitude of mind of individuals composing, 261 ; desirability of keeping small, 261-263; safe- guards needed by against tendency to fusion, 26^, ; tend- ency toward unity of tliought in, of a different breed from unity induced by emotionaj
378
INDEX
fusion of individuals, 263- 2()4; steps leading to present- day change in character of the, 264.
Delivery, consideration of, as a means of arousing feeling, 116-125.
Democratic spirit, growth of, as a result of modern conditions,
365- ^ .
Denunciation, avoidance of, in treatment of doubt, 158- 161.
Descriptive speech, effectiveness of, for arousing feeling, 125- 128.
Desire, relation of feeling to, 79-81.
Detached subconsciousness, the- ory of a, 17-18.
Devotion, creating impression of, a condition of suggestive power, 226.
Dewey, John, " How We Think," quoted, 34, 38, 47.
Differentiation of mental sys- tems 47 fF. ; influences which cause, 47-52 ; influences of native organic differences, 49- 50 ; influences of intellectual environment, 50-51 ; high de- gree of differentiation result- ing from the various influ- ences, 51-52; effect of upon meaning, 52-56.
Diseases due to modern environ- mental conditions. 345-346.
Dishonesty, form of doubt called. 159.
Dispositions, native, place of, among controls of conduct, 7-8.
Dissociation theory of the sub- conscious, 16-17.
Division of labour, influence of, upon mental systems, 48-49.
Dogmatism, danger of tendency to habit of, in ministers, 293-
295- Doubt, a state or attitude result- ing from the arrest of the process of believing, 142-143;
explanation of, demanded rather than of belief, 145; when justifiable, 146; intimate connection between belief and, 148-152; the present an era of, 157; the preacher's relation to religions. 15S-163.
Drama, influence of. in develop- ing the sentiments, 112; use of, to secure spontaneous at- tention, 177.
Dramatic action, arousing of feeling by, 120-123; distinction between arousing feeling by, and by expression of it in voice and gesture, 123-125.
Dunlap, " A System of Psychol- ogy," quoted, 28, 212-213; quoted on effects to be achieved by singing in assem- blies, 251-252.
Economic dependence of minis- ters, effects of. 301-306.
Economic problems, pressure of modern, for consideration in political sphere, 363-364.
Education, results from, in the enrichment of life and exten- sion of religious feelings, 86-
89.
Elsenhans, quoted concerning memory images, 25-26.
Emotion, feeling and. 68-69; re- lation between physiological disturbance and feeling-tone, 70-71 ; relation of feeling, the conscious side of, to the motor, or physical side. 71-75: com- plexity of. as a process. TJ\ effects of indulgence in exces- sive, 84; three ways of arous- ing, 115; excitation of. by ex- pression and communication as a means of arousing feeling, 117-125; skilful use of lan- guage as a means of arousing, 125-132; deliberation and choice rendered impossible by, 204; suggestibility of those un- der sway of, 229-230; kinds
INDEX
379
of, most effective in promot- ing mental fusion, 254 ff. ; fear, 254-255; anger, 255-256; love, 256-257 ; that which is evoked by appeal to sentiment of lib- erty. 257-258; sentiment of conservatism, or attachment to that which is old, 258-260; question as to value of emo- tional fusion, 260-261 ; corri- munication of, in mental epi- demics, 269 ; necessity of keep- ing religious, within bounds of self-control, 288-289.
Emotional life, intelligence and the enrichment of the, 86-go; direction and organization of, the chief function of preach- ing, 112.
Emotions, when organized into systems, become sentiments, 94; question of extent of vol- untary control of, 1 18-120; re- sponsiveness of, to rhythm, 129-132.
Employment, effects of irregu- lar, on labouring man, 315- 316.
Environment, effect of, on in- stincts, 6; function of con- sciousness to enable the or- ganism to adapt itself to, 10- 11; effect of, on individual's consciousness, 14-15 ; influ- ence of the intellectual, on mental system, 50-51; organs of body which effect adjust- ments between organism and the external, 72 ; change of, to develop new sentiments or ideals, 109: relation of shift- ing of attention to complexity and many-sidedness of, 178- 179; responsiveness of the liv- ing being to its, 186-192 ; con- ditions of, working to produce the modern mind, 338-349 ; the natural and the human factors of. 338-33Q ; comparative im- portance of the natural, under primitive conditions, 339-340 ;
dominance of interests grow- ing out of pressure of the nat- ural, 340-341 ; mental effects produced by living under con- ditions of natural, 341-342; mental effects of conditions under the modern, 342-344 ; conditions of modern, 344- 349; effect of modern, on thinking and feeling of men, 349 ff. ; modern conditions which stimulate men to im- press themselves upon their, 352-353 ; modern view that re- ligious life is a matter of proper human, 370.
Epidemics, mental. See Mental epidemics.
Ethics, double standard of, ac- cepted by the business man, Z2iO-?,2,2 ; emphasis placed by present-day conditions upon element of, in Christianity,
374- Excitation of feeling, means and
methods of, 1 15-134. Exposition, problem of, resulting
from differentiation of mental
systems, 58-59. Expression and communication,
excitation of emotion by, 117-
125.
Fashion, influence of, on women due to their collective sugges- tibility, 222-223.
Fatigue, the cause of fluctuation in attention, 182-183.
Fear, as an emotion for pro- moting mental fusion in crowds, 254-255.
Feeling, problem of, in mental life, 65 ; distinction between feeling-tone and, 65-68; emo- tion and, 68-69; distinction be- tween pain and unpleasant- ness, 69-70 ; relation between physiological disturbance and feeling-tone, 70-71 ; relation of feeling, or conscious side of emotion, to the motor, or
38o
INDEX
physical side, 71-75 : why some experiences cause pleasant and others unpleasant states of consciousness, 75-79: relation of, to desire, 79-81 ; and habit, 81-83; strength of stimulus as related to the feeling-tone, 83- 86; effect of growing intelli- gence upon character of, 86- 90; effective means and methods of exciting, 115 ff. ; delivery as a means of arous- ing. 1 16-125; exciting of, by skilful use of language, 125- 132; necessity of harmony be- tween emotions evoked, for arousing of, 133-134; opera- tion of, in the determination of belief, 149-152, 154.
Feeling-tones, distinguished from feelings, 65-68; relation be- tween physiological disturb- ance and, 70-71.
Fiction, appropriate for purpose of developing the sentiments, 112.
Flattery, impression of, to be avoided in exerting suggestive influence, 225.
Fluctuation of the attention, 181-185.
Tocalized consciousness, atten- tion as, 165-166.
Forecasting, power of, confined to consciousness of human or- ganisms, 193.
Freedom of the will, question of, 196-200.
Frugality, formerly held a vir- tue by the business man, 329.
Function, instinct defined in terms of, 3.
Functional meaning, 43-45.
Fusion, means of promoting process of, in assemblies, 248- 254-
Garb, psychological effect of the
preacher's, 297. God, different meanings borne by
the word, 54; means of devel-
oping love for. by preachers, 112; preacher's interpretation of message of, 293-294; influ- ences leading to present day confusion as to relation of, to the universe, 358-359; sup- planting of, in the modern mind, by human relationships and humanly controlled en- vironment, 360-366; idea of, in minds influenced by science and by humanly controlled en- vironment, 366-367 ; concep- tion of, held by ethical ideal- ists, 367-308 ; humanizing of, by one class of modern thinkers, 368; modern view of man's relation to, as one of co-operation or of opposition,
370-371-
Gravity, preacher's tendency to habitual and merely superficial, 295-298.
Great Fear. the. an illustration of mental epidemic, 267; pre- disposing causes of, 274-275.
Habit, instinct improperly view- ed, as, 4-5 ; influence of, on instincts, 6; discussion of, among the controls of con- duct, 11-16; relation of feel- ing and, 81-83 ; development of sentiments and ideals a process of habit formation, 111-112.
Head and heart, struggle be- tween, a significant phe- nomenon, 156.
Historians, selection in recall of images by, 26-27.
Honesty, the first virtue among business men, 32g.
Humanity, love of, to be devel- oped by preachers by use of sentiments and ideals, 112-113.
Huntington, Ellsworth, " Civil- ization and Climate," cited, 278 n.
Hylan, " The Fluctuation of the Attention," cited, 183.
INDEX
381
Hypnosis, state of abnoral sug- gestibility called, 210; differ- entiated from other forms of suggestion, 211-212; similarity of crowd-suggestion to, 243.
Hvsteria, abnormal nervous con- dition called, 210.
Ideals, sentiments and, dis- cussed, 94 ff. ; definition and analysis of, 105-107; closeness of relation between sentiments and, 108-109; importance of sentiments and, as character- makers, loo-iio; process of development of sentiments and, 110-114.
Ignorance, penalty of, seen in limiting of interest of life, 87- 88.
Illustration, use of. to secure spontaneous attention, 177.
Imagery, forms of, 20-22.
Images, mental. See Mental images.
Imagination, use of, to solve problems of understanding, 56.
Immortality, modern decline in interest and belief in per- sonal, 353.
Independence, the preacher's preservation of his, 304-306.
Indignation, transformation of emotion of anger into, 255- 256.
Indirection, method of, in nor- mal suggestion, 224-225.
Industry, as a virtue emphasized by the business man, 329.
Inspirational gathering, the, 239 ff.
Instincts, definition and explan- ation of, ^-7.
Instruction, stage of mental unity of assembly best suited to, 245-246.
Intellect, struggle between the, and the inclinations, 156; in- secure support found for re- ligious beliefs in intellectual forms, 157.
Intellectual characteristics of business type of mind, 324- 328.
Intellectual environment, influ- ence of, on mental system, 50-
Intellectualism and emotionalism compared as to value in re- ligion, 288-289.
Intelligence, effect of, upon en- richment of the emotional life, 86-90.
Intensity of attention, 181-185.
Interest, the moving of attention along the line of, 167 ; state of, in spontaneous attention, 175- 176.
Interruption, the characteristic of compulsory attention, 170.
Intolerance, necessity of guard- ing against, by ministers, 293- 294.
Isolation of labouring men, so- cial effect of, 310-31 1.
James, William, quoted concern- ing definition of instinct, 3 ; on consciousness involved in in- stinct, 4; on belief, 135.
James-Lange theory of the emo- tions, 70.
Jesus, conditions favouring re- forms at the time of, 275-276; present-day emphasis on hu- manity of, 368; morality in personal teachings of, 374.
Labouring men, defined, 306; importance and growth of class, 306-307 ; acuteness of problems of, 307; conditions of life as affecting their intellec- tual development, 307-310; in- evitable trend of, toward ma- terialism of the crudest type, 310; relation of leisure of, to their intellectual life, 31 1-3 13; characteristics of emotional side of personality of, 313- 314; ethical peculiarities of, 314-318; reaction of condi-
382
INDEX
tions of, upon their religious life, 318-319.
Land booms in South, example of popular mania, 266.
Language, evolution of, with ad- vance of culture, 32 ; skilful use of, as a means of arousing emotion, 125-132.
Layman's Missionary Movement, tendency of business type of mind shown in, 326-327.
Leisure, effect of, upon develop- ment of mental life, 290; re- sults of labouring man's lack of. 307-308, 311-313-
Levity, an unbecoming quality in minTsters, 296, 298.
Liberty, use of emotion evoked by sentiment of, for promoting mental fusion, 257^258.
Life, the forth-reaching, on- ward-moving character of, 192-194.
Literary style, relation between mental images and, 32-33.
Literature, different feelings for nature shown in early and later, 350-351-
Locomotive engine, divergence in significance of, to different mental systems, 54-55.
Loneliness, intolerance of, by modern man, 349-350.
Love, as a means of promoting mental fusion in an assembly, 256-257.
MacCunn, John, quoted as to importance of ideals, 109.
McDougall, William, definition of an instinct by, quoted, 3-4; quoted on emotions, 68; defi- nition of sentiment by, 94 ; quoted on the sentiments, 203.
Machinery, effect of familiarity with, upon modern conception of universe, 356-357.
Maier, cited on the emotions, 69.
Man. instinctive organization of,
compared with that of ani- mals, 6-7.
Materialism, how tendency of labouring man is toward, 310; effect of the labouring man's, on his religious side, 319-320.
Meaning, of sensation or mental image, 42 ; primary or func- tional, 43-45 ; secondary or theoretical, and its relation to the functional, 45-47 ; effect upon, of differentiation of mental systems, 52-56.
Mental epidemics, defined, 265; two broad classes of, dis- tinguished, 265-266; popular manias or crazes, 266-268; two fundamental processes re- sulting in, 268-269; laws of, 270 ff. ; movement in waves, 270-271 ; waves of collective emotion followed by reaction in opposite direction, 271 ; two powerful popular emotions can not occur at same time, 271- 272 ; spread of, along lines of mental homogeneity, common interest, and frequent contact, 272; conditions favourable to occurrence of, 272-278; bear- ing of progress of society upon phenomena of, 278 ff. ; rela- tion of tendencies of modern life to, 283-287; greater value of, when brought under direc- tion of intelligence, 288.
Mental equipment and organ- ization, suggestibility varies inversely as the, 216-218.
Mental image, question of what is a, 19-20; defined as a con- scious copy of an experience, 20 ; forms of imagery, 20-22 ; recall of the image, 22-29; viewed as our intellectual stock-in-trade, 29-33.
Mental systems, 34 ff. ; processes of organization, 35-39; con- struction of a philosophy, 39- 40; meaning of sensation or mental image, 42-43 ; primary
INDEX
383
or functional meaning, 43- 45; secondary or theoretical meaning and its relation to the functional, 45-47 ; differentia- tion of mental systems, 47- 52; effect upon meaning, of the differentiation of, 5-^-56; practical problems involved, 56-64.
Methods of suggestion, 224-235.
Miller, " Psychology of Think- ing," cited, 36.
Mind, the modern. See Modern mind.
Ministers, study of, as a psycho- logical type, 291 ff. ; breadth of occupation, 291-293 ; dan- ger of development of a ver- satile but shallow mental type, 292-293 ; the narrowing tend- encies of occupation, 293 ff. ; tendency to habit of dogma- tism, 293-295 ; tendency to merely habitual and superficial gravity of tone and manner, 295-2^; chief concern of, with application of will of God to lives of men, 298-301 ; influ- ence of economic dependence of, 301-306. See Preachers.
Mobs, anger the emotion that usually sways, 255-256.
Mob-state, question as to whether normal or abnormal, 210-21 1 ; origins of, 237; steps leading to stage of psychic fusion which is the, 242 ; acts of mass of individuals in a, 243-244.
Modern mind, the, 338 ff. ; con- ditions of environment which produce the, as contrasted with conditions under primi- tive environment, 338-349; ef- fect of modern environmental conditions on dispositions and mental attiudes, 349 ff. ; in- tolerance of loneliness, 34^ 350; aesthetic delight in na- ture, .350-351 ; less perfect rhythmical adjustment to na-
ture, 351 ; strenuous, over- stimulated character, 352 ; pas- sion for achievement, 352-353 ; effects wrought by great de- velopment of science, 353-360; removal of God into the back- ground of thought, 360-366; modification of idea of God, 366-374.
Moll, Albert, quoted on hyp- notism, 211-212.
Morality, of labouring man, 314- 318; in Christ's personal teach- ings, 374.
Mother, development of a child's sentiment for its, 110- III.
Motility, sensitivity plus, as the mode of responsiveness char- acterizing animal life, 187-188.
Music, reasons for importance of, to the emotional life, 130; for promoting process of fu- sion in assemblies, 251-253.
Mysticism, of religions of primi- tive peoples, 341-342; lacking in the business type of mind, 332.
Natural environment, compara- tive importance of, under primitve conditions, 339-340; dominance of interests grow- ing out of pressure of the, 340-341 ; mental effects pro- duced by living under condi- tions of, 341-342.
Natural law, tendencies favour- ing present-day reign of, 353- 358; philosophical problem presented by, and suggested solution, 359-360.
Nature, aesthetic delight in, char- acteristic of modern mind, 350- 351; rhythmical adjustment to, less perfect in modern than in primitive conditions, 351.
Neural theory of the subcon- scious, 16.
Normal and abnormal sugges- tion. 210-211.
3^4
INDEX
Occupation, significance of, in development of mental life, 47-49; determination of hab- itual mental processes by, 290.
Occnpational types, 290 ff. ; the ministerial. 291-306; the wage- earning, 306-321 ; the business type, 321-337-
Old, passions aroused by appeal to sentiment for the, 25&-260.
Openness, lack of, characteristic of art of suggestion, 233-234.
Oratory, development of, with progress of society, 15-16; promotion of mental fusion by imaginative, passionate, 253-
254- Organs of body, grouped accord- ing to function, ^2.
Pain, distinction between un- pleasantness and, 69-70.
Panics, effect of emotion of fear shown in, 254: financial, as ex- amples of mental epidemics, 267 ; peculiarity of financial, among mental epidemics of modern times, 286-287.
Passion, suggestibility of those under sway of, 229-230.
Paul, the apostle, on keeping re- ligious emotions within bounds of self-control, 288-289.
Peculiarity, arousing of feeling by a, 116-117.
Personality, power of, as a sug- gestive force, 227-228.
Persuasion, greater importance of function of, in human life, with each upward advance, 15; distinction between suggestion and, 234-235.
Philosophical thinking, trend of present-day, 371.
Philosophy, construction of a, by men, 39; definition of a, 39.
Physiological disturbance, rela- tion between feeling-tone and, 70-71.
Pictorial language, effectiveness of, for arousing feeling, 125- 128.
Pierce, Professor, inventor and critic of phrase " detached subconsciousness," 17.
Pillsbury, " Psychology of Rea- soning," cited, 42 ; on doubt and belief, 145.
Pleasant and unpleasant states of consciousness, cause of, by different experiences, 75-79.
Poetry, appropriateness of, for developing the sentiments, 112; importance of, to the emo- tional life, 130.
Politics, demoralization in, re- sulting from indulgence in ex- cessive emotions, 84-85.
Popular manias, 265-266; illus- trations of, 266-268. See Mental epidemics.
Population, relation of density of, to mental epidemics, 282- 283.
Preachers, how sentiments and ideals are supremely signifi- cant to, 109-110; relation of, to religious doubt, 158-163; means of compelling attention by, 171-172; should make as small demand as possible on voluntary attention, 174-175; means of securing spontaneous attention, 177; significance to, of mental characteristic of shifting attention, 179-181 ; heed to be paid by, to fluc- tuations of the attention, 183- 185 ; should be men of strong will, 205-206; should aim at eliciting a voluntary response from their hearers, 206; dis- tinction to be observed by, be- tween suggestion and persua- sion, 235 ; how method of sug- gestion is rendered easy to, 235 ; special wisdom and un- derstanding of psychological laws necessary to, in making appeals to promiscuous assem-
INDEX
385
blies, 247; use of emotion of fear by, 255 ; use of anger by, 255-256; use of love, 257; use of appeal to sentiment of lib- erty', 258; appeal to sentiment for the old to be avoided by, 259-260 ; problems presented to, by labouring class, 307; im- portance to, of problem pre- sented by labouring class and modern economic conditions, 320-321; religious peculiarities of the business man to be spe- cially noted by, :>,^6-t,jI,7 ; note to be taken by, of modern de- cline in belief in personal im- mortality, 353; problem pre- sented to, by modern popular conception of natural law, 360: task of, to point men to service as the true road to self- realization, 366. Preaching, as one method of modifying strength of in- stincts, 6; progress of, with advance of society, 16; rela- tion between mental images and, 32-33 ; problem of making one's self understood, 56-58; problem of exposition in, 58- 59; loss of strength of stimu- lus resulting from repetition, 83 ; danger of high emotional effects in, 84-86; value of cul- ture in, 90-91 ; importance of, as a means of developing sen- timents and ideals, 112-114; effective means and methods of exiciting feelings in, 115-
Prejudices, origin and nature of, 40-44; responsibility of na- tional, for war, 41 ; sharing of, as a means of securing confi- dence, 22S-229.
Presentations, six ways in which the mind may react to new, 136-144; consequences to be deduced from, 144-148.
Prestige, suggestive force of, 226-227.
Primary and secondary mean- ing, 43-47.
Processes of mental organ- ization, 35-41.
Public opinion, influence of, on deliberative assemblies, 264.
Purposive assembly, the, 238 ff.
Racial habit, view of instinct as, 4-5 ; effect of, upon sugges- tibility of a population, 277- 278.
Rationality, sensitivity plus mo- tivity plus, the mode of re- sponsiveness characterizing human life, 187-188; what con- stitutes rationality, 191.
Reading, importance of, for de- veloping the sentiments, 112.
Reality of anything, sense of, derived by adjusting oneself to it, 309-310.
Recall of mental image, 22 ff. ; conditions of recall, 23-25 ; in- exactness of recalled image, 25-29.
Reflective and unreflective or- ganization in mental system,
36-41.
Reflexes, definition and elucida- tion of, 1-3 ; distinction be- tween instincts and, 3.
Regularity in repetition, avoid- ance of, 231-232.
Religion, demoralizing effects in, of indulgence of excessive emotions, 84-86; relation be- tween growing intelligence and, 86-89; close relation be- tween culture and, 90-93 ; the outlook for, 372-3y4.
Religious experience, value to, of process of psychic fusion, 260-261.
Religious movements, conditions favourable to, as a form of mental epidemic, 276.
Religious peculiarities of the business man, 332-337.
Repetition, suggestion rendered
386
INDEX
effective by, 230-23 T ; cautions regarding use of, 231-232.
Repetition of experience, effect of, upon feeling, 81-83.
Reputation, importance of, as a suggestive force, 226-227.
Resistance of an organism to in- terference with its autonomy, 214.
Response, character of, to be elicited by the preacher from those to whom he appeals, 206-207 ; immediateness of, es- sential to effectiveness of sug- gestion, 232-233.
Responsiveness of the living being to its surroundings, 186; modes of, which characterize the vegetable, the animal, and the human grades of life, 187- 188.
Revivals, discussion of value of, 260-261 ; mental epidemics il- lustrated by, 267, 268; certain type of, impossible under con- ditions of modern society, 287 ; mistake of bringing on, by ar- tificial methods, 288; no ground for fear that genuine, are things of the past, 289; loss in extravagance made up by gain in moral significance and social value, 289.
Rhythm, in intensity of atten- tion, 181-185; of singing in as- semblies, 251-252.
Rhythm of speech, arousing feeling by, 128-132.
Rhythmical adjustment to na- ture, less perfect; in modern than in primitive conditions,
.351- Ribot. T. A., "The Psychology of the Emotions," quoted, T2,-
74. ,. .
Ritualistic and non-ntualistic methods contrasted as means of inducing mental unity, 251.
Ross, E. A.. " Social Psychol- ogy," quoted, 250.
Russia, reasons for points of dif-
ference between revolution in, and French Revolution, 278.
Science, effect of development of. on modern environmental conditions, 349 : effects upon mental attitude of men, 353- 360.
Scott, W. D., " Psychology of Public Speaking," cited, 21, 131, 254; discussion of sen- tence-structure from psycho- logical point of view, 132 n.
Sectarianism, reasons for busi- ness man's lack of, 334-336.
Selection, a characteristic of the action of intelligence, 26-27.
Sensation, legitimate and ille- gitimate in, 172-173.
Sensationalism, why objection- able, 172-173.
Sensitivity, the mode of respon- siveness which characterizes vegetable life, 187-188; plus motility, characterizing animal life, 188; plus motility plus ra- tionality, characterizing human life, 188.
Sentence-structure, importance of, in public speaking, 132.
Sentiments, discussion of ideals and, 94 ff. ; definition of, 94- 95 ; classification of, as con- crete or particular and abstract or general, 95-97; classified by scale of moral values, 97-102 ; close relation between ideals and, 108-109; ideals deter- mined in large measure by, 109 ; importance of ideals and, 109-110; supreme importance of, for character-making, 109- 110; process of development of, 110-114.
Shand, Alexander F., definition of sentiments by, 94.
Sidis, Boris, " Psychology of Suggestion," quoted, 249-250; story of tulip craze in Hol- land related by, 266-267.
Simmel, " Die Probleme der
INDEX
387
Geschichtsphilosophie," quot- ed, 155; cited concerning ef- fect of modern environmental conditions on man's attitude toward nature, 351.
Singing, effectiveness of, in pro- moting process of fusion in assemblies, 251-253.
Social changes, predisposing con- ditions to mental epidemics found in, 275-276.
Social mind, theory of a, 249.
Social organization, lack of, under conditions of primitive life, 340-341 ; bewildering growth of, in modern life, 348-
349-
Social problems, pressure of modern, 362-363.
Society, stages of, and their bearing upon phenomena of mental epidemics, 278-287.
Sombart, ^' Der Bourgeois," cited, 323, 328, 330.
Specialization, influence of pres- ent-day, on mental systems, 48-49.
Speculation, crazes for, as ex- amples of mental epidemics, 267.
Spencer, Herbert, struggle be- tween head and heart illus- trated by, 156.
Spontaneous attention, discus- sion of, 175-177.
Stimuli, like response to, by like- minded persons, resulting in mental epidemics, 268-269.
Stimulus, loss of strength of, from repetition, 82-83 ; strength of, as related to the feeling-tone, 83-86.
Story-telling, influences affecting selection of details in, 26, 27- 28; as a means of securing spontaneous attention, 177.
Street preaching, sources of ef- fectiveness of, 237-23S ; dis- advantage of, in lack of uni- fied psychological group of hearers, 238.
Structure, instinct defined in terms of, 3.
Style in speaking, as a means of arousing emotion, 125-132.
Subconscious, problem and the- ories of the, 16-18.
Suggestibility, fundamental prin- ciples underlying phenomena of, 212-215; varies inversely as the insistence of the per- sonality upon maintaining its autonomy, 215 ; varies in- versely as the mental equip- ment and organization, 216- 218; of children, 218-220; of women, 220-223 ; reasons for, in other classes of persons, 223-224; of races in early stages of development, 278.
Suggestion, discussion of, 209 fF. ; indefiniteness of meaning as used in popular speech, 209- 210 ; the essential characteris- tic of process of, 210; distinc- tion between normal and ab- normal, 210-211; hysteria and hypnosis, 210-21 1; hypnotic suggestion differentiated from other forms of, 211-212; psy- chological principles which un- derlie phenomenon, 212-215; two fundamental laws of nor- mal suggestibility, 215-218; nobody beyond the reach of, 218; extraordinary sugges- tibility of children, 21&-220; women unsually open to in- fluence of, 220-223 ; causes of suggestibility in other classes of persons. 223-224; effective methods of, 224 ff. ; must be indirect, 224-225 ; importance of securing confidence of sub- ject, 225-226; importance of prestige in, 226-227 ; power of personality in, 227-228; shar- ing of prejudices as a means of, 228-229 ; susceptibility of those under sway of strong emotion, 229-230: use of repe- tition to render effective, 230-
388
INDEX
232; effectiveness of, propor- tional to immediateness of re- sponse, 232-2.33 ; art of, char- acterized by lack of openness and straightforwardness, 233- 234; sharp differentiation be- tween persuasion and, 234- 235 ; warning to preachers re- garding, 235; collective, in mobs, 242-244. Superhuman influences, domi- nance of, over people living in conditions of natural environ- ment, 341-342-
Teachers, supreme significance of sentiments and ideals to, 109-110.
Technical terms, divergence of mental systems in their theo- retfcal meanings to an extent overcome by, 55-56.
Terrors, popular, as examples of mental epidemics, 267.
Theological thinking, influence of modern philosophical think- ing felt by, 2,7'i-
Theology, attitude of business type of mind toward, 3.32-334-
Theoretical meaning and its re- lation to the functional, 45-47-
Thinking, defined, 34; the psy- chology of, 35 ff. ; the func- tion of, to guide the organism in its adjustment to the en- vironment, 212.
Titchener, I-:. B., "Text-book of Psychology," quoted, 88; quoted on form of conscious- ness, 166; cited on scope of attention, 177.
Traube-Hering wave, the, 181.
Tulip craze in Holland, example of popular mania, 266-267.
Uncultured population, condition favourable to mental epidemic created by, 272-273.
Understanding, problem of, re- sulting from differentiation of
mental systems, 56-58; double character of problem, 58.
Unemployment, evils of, 315.
Unitarian revolt, reasons for the, 369.
Unity, psychical, in an accidental concourse, 236-238; lack of, in street preacher's audiences, 238; of the inspirational gath- ering, 239-240; tiiree stages of mental, in inspirational gath- erings, 240-244.
Universe, effect of scientific in- quiry on modern conception of, 355-357; confusion in the modern mind as to relation of God to the, 358-359.
Unpleasantness, distinction be- tween pain and, 69-70; cause of, by some experiences, and of pleasantness by others, 75- 79-
Vegetable life, mode of respon- siveness characterizing, 187- 188; psychical life wanting in, 189.
Versatility and shallowness, danger of development of combination, in ministers, 292- 293-
Virtues at the basis of success- ful business, 2i2()-},2,o.
Vital assurance, one of the three classes of belief, 152, 153-154.
Vital processes, correlation of, in the organism, 76 ; connec- tion of, with pleasant and un- pleasant states of conscious- ness, 77-79.
Vividness of recalled experience, law of, 24.
Volition, close relation of atten- tion to, 169-170.
Voluntary action, meaning of, 186; fundamental truths neces- sary to conception of, 186 ff. ; viewed as that which is di- rected toward a consciously conceived or imaged end.
INDEX
389
194-195 ; distinction between degrees of, 195 ; securing of, by preaching, 206-208; stimu- lation to, the only antidote for an enfeebled will, 233. Voluntary attention, characteris- tics of, 173-175.
Wage-earners. See Labouring men.
War, responsibility of national prejudices for, 41 ; problems of economic and political ad- justment raised by the great, 363-364.
Waves, movement of mental epi- demics in, 270-271 ; following of, by reaction in opposite di- rection, 271 ; impossibility of
two occurring at same time, 271-272.
Wells, H. G., " God, the Invisible King," by, 368.
Will, fundamental truths neces- sary to a satisfactory idea of function of the, 186 fif. ; ques- tion of freedom of the, 196- 200; strength of, a necessary quality in preachers, 205-206.
Women, unusual suggestibility of, 220-223 ; rapid effect of crowd-suggestion upon, 246- 247.
Work, best times for, 182.
Wundt, W. M., quoted concern- ing memory images, 25 ; fail- ure of, to distinguish between feeling and feeling-tone, 66- 67.
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This book is designed to set forth the main principles of effective platform delivery, and to provide a large body of material for stu- dent practice. The work, laid out may be used to form a separate course of study, or a course of training running parallel with a course in debating or other original speaking. It has been prepared with a view also to that large number who want to speak, or have to speak, but cannot have the advantage of a teacher. Much is there- fore said in the way of caution, and untechnical language is used throughout.
The discussion of principles in Part One is intended as a help towards the student's understanding of his task, and also as a common basis of criticism in the relation between teacher and pupil. The pre- liminary fundamental work of Part Two, Technical Training, deals first with the right formation of tone, the development of voice as such, the securing of a fi.xed right vocal habit. Following comes the adapting of this improved voice to the varieties of use, or expres- sional effect, demanded of the pubhc speaker. After this critical detailed drill, the student is to take the platform, and apply his acquired technique to continued discourse, receiving criticism after each entire piece of work.
The question as to what should be the plan and the content of Part Three, Platform Practice, has been determined simply by asking what are the distinctly varied conditions under which men most frequently speak. It is regarded as profitable for the student to practice, at least to some extent, in all the several kinds of speech here chosen. In thus cultivating versatility, he will greatly enlarge his power of expression, and will at length discover wherein lies his own special capability.
The principal aim in choosing the selections has been to have them sufficiently alive to be attractive to younger speakers, and not so heavy as to be unsuited to their powers. Some of them have proved effective by use; many others are new. In all cases they are of good quality.
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