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associate editors 
Charles R. Henderson Frederick Starr 
George E. Vincent Marion Talbot 

William L Thomas 

Vol. 19 


JULY, 1913 — MAY, 1914 







V. 19 

July, September, November, 191 3 
January, March, May, 1914 

Composed and Printed By 

The University of Chicago Press 

Chicazo, Illinois, U.S.A. 




Ash, Isaac Emery. What Makes a People Lethargic or Energetic ? - 370 

Bernard, L. L. The Southern Sociological Congress - - - - 91 

Blackmar, Frank W. Lester F. Ward -------- 73 

BooDiN, John E. The Existence of Social Minds - - . . . j 

BOROSINI, Victor von. The Italian Triple Alliance of Labor - - 204 

CooLEY, Charles H. The Sphere of Pecuniary Valuation- - - - 188 

Curtis, Henry S. The Playground Survey ------- ^^2 

. The Rural Social Center --....... ^g 

Dealey, James Q. Lester F. Ward --------- 61 

Dealey, William L. The Eugenic-Euthenic Relation in Child Welfare 835 

Ellwood, Charles A. Lester F. Ward -------- 71 

. The Social Function of Religion -------- 289 

Gardner, Charles S. Assemblies ---------231 

Giddings, Franklin H. Lester F. Ward ------- 67 

Gillette, John M. An Outline of Social Study for Elementary Schools 491 

Gillin, J. L. The Sociology of Recreation - - - - - - - 825 

Hayes, Edward C. Effects of Geographic Conditions upon Social 

Realities -------------- gj, 

Henderson, Charles Richmond. "Social Assimilation." America 

and China ------------- 54Q 

Hollingworth, Leta Stetter. Variability as Related to Sex Differ- 
ences in Achievement ---- ^jq 

Howard, George E. Lester F. Ward -------- ^3 

Jenks, Albert Ernest. Assimilation in the Philippines - - - - 773 

Leuba, James H. Sociology and Psychology - - - - - - - 323 

Lippert, Julius. An Autobiographical Sketch - - - - - - 145 

Lloyd, Alfred H. Five Great Battles of Civilization - - - - 166 

McKenzie, Fayette Avery. The Assimilation of the American Indian 761 

Mecklin, John M. The PhUosophy of the Color Line - - - - 343 

Miller, Herbert Adolphus. The Rising National Individualism - 592 

Park, Robert E. Racial Assimilation in Secondary Groups - - - 606 

Parmelee, Maurice. An Introductory Course to the Social Sciences - 236 

Parsons, Elsie Clews. Avoidance --------- 480 

. Teknonymy ------------ 649 

Robinson, Edgar Eugene. Recent Manifestations of Sectionalism - 446 

RocKWOOD, Laura Clarke. A Woman's Handicap in Efficiency - - 229 

Ross, Edward A. Lester F. Ward --------- 64 




Small, Albion W. A Vision of Social Efficiency - - - , - - - 433 

. Lester F. Ward - ----------- 75 

. Shall Science Be Sterilized ? -------- 651 

. The Ford Motor Company Incident ------- 656 

. The " Social Concept " Bugbear 653 

. The Social Gradations of Capital 721 

Thomas, Willl^m I. The Prussian-Polish Situation: An Experiment 

in Assimilation ------------ 624 

VoGT, Paul L. Functional Industrial Relationships and the Wage Rate 753 

Wallis, Louis. The New England Conscience ------ 48 

Weatherly, Ulysses G. Lester F. Ward ------- 68 

Weeks, Arland D. The Crisis Factor in Thinking ----- 485 

Woodruff, Clinton Rogers. Graft and Grafting 468 

Woods, Erville B. The Social Waste of Unguided Personal Ability - 358 

Woods, Robert A. The Neighborhood in Social Reconstruction - - 577 

Yarros, Victor S. Social Science and "What Labor Wants" - - 308 


Adams, Brooks. The Theory of Social Revolution. — Isaac Loos - 842 

Allen, William H. Modern Philanthropy. — C. R. Henderson - - 102 

AscHAFFENBURG, GusTAV. Crime and Its Repression. — C. R. Henderson 690 

Barrows, Isabel C. A Sunny Life. — C. R. Henderson . . . - 264 
Bauer, Arthur. La culture morale aux divers degres de I'enseignment 

public— ff. B. Clark Powell - - - - 258 

Beard, Charles A. American City Government. — A. B. Hall - - 390 
. An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the United 

States.— yl. B. Hall ----------- 405 

Berolzheimer, Fritz. The World's Legal Philosophies.—/. A. Loos - 562 
BoGARDUS, Emory Stephen. An Introduction to the Social Sciences. — 

A. W. Small -------- 380 

BoN, GusTAVE LE. The Psychology of Revolution.— /. ^. Z.005 - - 272 

Bonnier, Pierre. Sexualisme. — H. B. C. Powell ----- 847 
Boyd, James Harrington. Workmen's Compensation and Industrial 

Insurance. — C. R. Henderson --------- 689 

Brooklyn Bureau of Charities. Directory of Speakers on Municipal 

Problems. — C. R. Henderson --------- 850 

Brooks, John Graham. American Syndicalism. — W. E. Walling - - 408 

Bulletin de rOfTice de la protection de I'enforme.— C. R. Henderson - 126 
Bulletin of the Department of Factory Inspection, State of Illinois, Vol. 

I. No. I, October, 1913. — C. R. Henderson ----- 692 

Bureau of Labor. List of Industrial Poisons.— C. R. Henderson - - 264 
Cadbury, Edward. Experiments in Industrial Organization. — J. L. 

Gillin - • - - - - 104 



Caffin, Charles H. Art for Life's Sake.— C. R. Henderson - - - 394 
Castle, William E., Coulter, John M., Davenport, Charles B., 

East, Edward Murray, and Tower, William L. Heredity and 

Eugenics. — R. M. Yerkes - - - 115 

Caullet, p. Elements de sociologie. — E. C. Hayes ----- 401 
Chapin, F. Stuart. An Introduction to the Study of Social Evolution. 

— A . B. Lewis ------------- 849 

Chaste, von Romundt. Ehe und Ehereform. — E. C. Parsons - - 697 
Chatterton-Hill, Georges. The Sociological Value of Christianity. — 

E. L. Schaub ------------- iii 

Cleveland, Frederick A. Organized Democracy. — A.B.Hall - - 681 
Conyngton, Mary. How to Help. A Manual of Practical Charity. — 

C. R. Henderson ------------ 103 

Cutting, R. Fulton. The Church and Society.— £. L. Earp - - 107 
Danielson, Florence H., and Davenport, Charles B. The Hill 

Folk.— i?. M. Yerkes ----------- 260 

Dawley, Thomas Robinson. The Child That Toileth Not.— i?. W. 

Foley --------------- 94 

Dealey, James Quayle. Sociology: Its Simpler Teachings and Appli- 
cations. — H. Woodhead ---------- 565 

. The Family in Its Sociological Aspects. — Howard Woodhead - 688 

DuFOUR. Le syndicalisme et la prochaine revolution. — W. E. Walling- 392 
Ellis, Ha VELOCK. The Task of Social Hygiene.— .4 . B. PFo//e - - 395 
Fairchild, Henry Pratt. Immigration. A World Movement and 

Its American Significance. — F. A. McKenzie ----- 679 
Farnsworth, William Oliver. Uncle and Nephew in the Old French 

Chansons de geste. — W. A. Nitze -------- 667 

Farnum, Henry W. The Economic Utilization of History and Other 

Economic Studies. — H. L. Lutz - - - - - - - - 127 

Ford, James. Co-operation in New England: Urban and Rural. — 

L. L. Bernard - - - - - - - - 103 

George, W. L. Woman and To-Morrow. — F. F. Bernard - - - 414 
Gillette, John M. Constructive Rural Sociology. — E. B. Woods - 400 
GiNi, Corrado. The Contributions of Demography to Eugenics.— 

E. B. Woods - - - - 383 

Granger, Frank. Historical Sociology. — V. E. Helleberg - - - - no 
Grasserie, Raoul de la. Les principes sociologiques du droit public. — 

/. A. Loos --------- 273 

Grotjahn, Alfred. Soziale Pathologic. L. Hektoen - - . - 382 
Henderson, Charles Richmond. Social Programmes in the West. — 

W. T. Cross ------------- 674 

Hcurwich, Isaac A. Immigration and Labor. — F. A. McKenzie - 108 
Housing Problems in America. Proceedings of Second National Confer- 
ence on Housing. — E. W. Burgesi - 697 



Howe, Frederic C. European Cities at Work. — S. E. W. Bedford - 687 

Ho\VERTH, Ir.\ W. Work and Life. — C. A. Ellwood ----- 561 

Hrblicka, Ale§. Early Man in South America. — F.Starr - - - 119 

Hyde, William DeWitt. The Quest of the Best. — Allan Hoben - - 391 

Isaacson, Edward. The New Morality .^ — F. F. Bernard - - - - 250 

ISEMAN, M. S. Race Suicide. — A.B.Wolfe - - - - - - - 113 

Jandus, William. Social Wrongs and Stale Responsibilities. — L. L. 

Bernard --------------254 

Kleek, Mary Van. Women in the Bookbinding Trade. — Lucile Eaves 247 
Kleine, Marcel. Tribunaux pour Enfantes. i*' Congres Inter- 
national, Paris, July, 1911. — C. R. Henderson ----- 692 

KovALEVSKY, Maxime. Sociology. — /. F. Hecker ----- 386 

KuLEMAN, W. Die Berufsvereine. — C. R. Henderson ----- 692 

Lauber, Almon Wheeler. Indian Slavery in Colonial Times within 

the Present Limits of the United States.—^. B. Hall - - - 684 

Leuba, James H. A Psychological Study of ReHgion. — E. L. Talbert - 270 
LE^VINSKI, Jan St. The Origin of Property and the Formation of the 

Village Community. — E. H. Sutherland - - - - - - 851 

Lien, Arnold Johnson. Privileges and Immunities of Citizens of the 

United States.—^. B. Hall --------- 683 

Longuet, Jean. Le mouvement sociaiiste international. — IF. E. Wall- 
ing --------------- 846 

Lucien-Graux. Le divorce des alienes. — C. R. Henderson - - - 691 

LusK, Hugh H. Social Welfare in New Zealand. — E. W. Burgess - - 126 

Macfarland, Charles S. Christian Unity at Work. — C. R. Henderson 266 

McVey, Frank L. The Making of a Town.— 5. E. W. Bedford - - 417 
Majewski, Erasme de. La theorie de I'homme et de la civilisation. — 

/. A. Loos ------------- 274 

Malinowski, B. The Family among the Australian Aborigines. — G. E. 

Howard -------------- 670 

Martin, Edward Sandford. The Unrest of Women. — F. F. Bernard 414 

MiRAGLiA, LuiGi. Comparative Legal Philosophy. — I. A. Loos - - 685 
Mitchell, Hinckley G. The Ethics of the Old Testament. — Louis 

Wallis -------------- loi 

MuLLER, Wilhelm. Das religiose Leben in Amerika. — H. P. J. Selinger 245 
Munro, William B. The Government of American Cities. — E. W. 

Burgess -------------- 696 

MtJNSTERBERG, HuGO. Psychology and Industrial Efficiency. — E. H. 

Sutherland ------------- 556 

Myers, Gustavus. History of the Supreme Court of the United States. 

—W.E.Dodd- ------------ 124 

Neill, Charles P. Report on the Condition of Woman and Child Wage- 
Earners in the United Stales. Vols. IX, X, XII, XV, XVI.— 

F. F. Bernard ------------- 95 



Neill, Charles P. Report on the Condition of Woman and Child 

Wage-Earners in the United States. Vol. XVIII. — F. F. Bernard 413 
OppEiVHEiMER, Franz. The State: Its History and Development 

Viewed Sociologically. — A. W. Small ------- 852 

Orth, Samuel P. Socialism and Democracy in Europe. — F. A. Mc- 

Kenzie -------------- 252 

Ortiz, Fernando. La Identificacion Dactiloscopica. — C. R. Henderson 394 

Parmelee, Maurice. The Science of Human Behavior. — C. C. North - 256 

Parsons, Elsie Clews. Religious Chastity. — F. S. Chapin - - - 693 

. The Old-Fashioned Woman. — F. F. Bernard . - . . 414 

Paz, Enrique Martinez. Los elementos de la sociologia. — A . /. Sleel- 

man --------------- 251 

Perovsky-Petrovo-Solovo. Le sentiment religieux base logique de la 

morale ? — E. L. Talberl ------..-. 249 

Powell, G. Harold. Co-operation in Agriculture. — L. L. Bernard - 679 

Quarterly Journal of the Society of American Indians. — F.Starr - - 122 

QuiLLiN, Frank U. The Color Line in Ohio.— £. W. Burgess - - - 695 

Rambousek, J. Industrial Poisoning. — C. R. Henderson - - - - 693 

Raynaud, Barthelemy. Vers le salaire minimum. — R. C. Chapin - 411 
Rignano, Eugenio. Essais de synthese scientifique.— /. P. Lichlen- 

berger --------------. 254 

Rosenau, M. J. The Milk Question. —Marion Talbot - - - - 114 

San Francisco Relief Survey. — E. L. Talbert ------- 398 

Sears, Amelia. The Charity Visitor: A Practical Handbook for Begin- 
ners. — ^5. P. Breckinridge ---------- 269 

Sixth Annual Report of the State Probation Commission of New York.— 

C. R. Henderson --------.--. ggj 

Small, Albion W. Between Eras: From Capitalism to Democracy. — 

Walter Rauschenbusch ----------- 853 

Stewart, A. H. American Bad Boys in the Making.— C. W. A. Veditz 123 
SzERER, MiECZYSLAW. La Conception sociologique de la peine.— F. 5. 

Chapin -------------- 844 

Tarde, Gabriel. Penal Philosophy.— C. R. Henderson - - - - 266 

Taylor, Graham. Religion in Social Action. — G. H. von Tungeln - - 672 
Thompson, Carl W., and Warber, G. P. Social and Economic Survey 

of a Rural Township in Southern Minnesota. — L. L. Bernard - 676 
Todd, Arthur James. The Primitive Family as an Educational Agency. 

— G. E. Howard ---- --g 

Unpopular Review.—^. W. Small --------- 664 

Urwick, E. J. A Philosophy of Social Progress.— 7. ^. Zoo5 - - - 251'^- 

Veiller, Lawrence. A Model Housing Law.— E. L. Talbert - - - 848 
Walling, William English. The Larger Aspects of Socialism.—/. C. 

Kennedy ---------..... ^g. 

Ward, Lester F. Glimpses of the Cosmos. 1,11,111.— A. W. Small - 659 



Warne, Frank Julian. The Immigrant Invasion.— £. W. Burgess - iii 
Watney, Charles, and Little, James A. Industrial Warfare.— F. H. 

Hankins -------------- 267 

Wilson, Warren H. The Evolution of the Country Community.— 

C. R. Henderson ----- loi 

Winslow, L. Forbes. The Insanity of Passion and Crime. C. R. 

Henderson . . . - 265 

Womer, Parley Paul. The Church and the Labor Conflict. — C. R. 

Henderson 689 


July, 1913 128 

September, 1913 -------------- 275 

November, 1913 - .-. 418 

January, 1914 -------------- 566 

March, 1914 - - - - 699 

May, 1914 -.- 85s 


July, 1913 136 

September, 1913 -- 281 

November, 1913 426 

January, 1914 - -- 5^8 

March, 1914 --.- 713 

May, 1914 - .-- 857 




Number i 



Carleton College 


In looking backward at the social theories of the past, it seems 
to me that they, practically at least, assume the subcramal pomt 
of view. Let us glance briefly at some of these theories. It is 
easy to place the old abstract individualism, with its practical 
egoism. For Hobbes the individual is himself and himself alone. 
Society is but an artificial addition, extraneous to human nature. 
While Hobbes regards the artificial addition as an indispensable 
means to peace and happiness, modern anarchy regards society as 
at best a necessary evil. For Herbert Spencer it is a temporary 
poUce supervision, until human nature shall have embodied withm 
itseH the necessary social instincts for unconstrained livmg together; 
for Nietzsche, it is but a philistine conspiracy on the part of the 
weak and cowardly to suppress the strong and fit. 

The absorbing biological interest of the last generation could not 
help making itself felt in social theory. Society is fundamentally an 
organism, so the biological school tells us. The analogies between 
the organism and society have been worked out into strikmg and 
sometimes fantastic detail: The organism is the union of soul and 

> Presidential address of the Western Philosophical Association delivered at 
Northwestern University, March 21, 1913- 


body, we are told. Though an organism is a whole, it has parts ani- 
mated in their own way and playing into the whole. The organism 
is developed from within outward in a life-history. If we transfer 
these analogies to the state, for example, we find that here too we 
have the union of soul and body, the body being the constitution 
with its articulate provisions. In the state, too, we have members, 
the officials and the offices with their varied spiritual functions, 
forming a coherent internal organization and acting as a unit in 
external relations. The state like the organism grows, though, 
since popular passion and strong individual interest may deflect 
the course, it may not grow quite so regularly as the organism. 
Such in brief is the brilliant sketch of Bluntschli in his The Theory 
of the Stated On the ethical side writers like Leslie Stephen empha- 
size that "the individual is moralized through his identification 
with the social organism"; and that "the conditions, therefore, 
of the security of morality are the conditions of the persistence of 

But after all the social organism is merely a metaphor, a vague 
analogy. Even if we should go so far on the biological side as to 
credit each cell of the complex organism with a mind of its own, 
still we should be entirely ignorant of the flow of energy from one 
cell to another; and our ignorance in the one case furnishes a poor 
explanation of the intimate relations which come within our experi- 
ence in the other. The unity of society, as has often been pointed 
out. is not an organic but a psychological unity. It is a unity of 
value and not a mere unity of external continuity. In order to 
arrive at any intimate understanding of social relations we must 
use psychological and not biological tools. 

More profound in its insight, and more genial to our thinking, 
is the attitude of speculative idealism. Here at least we have a 
recognition that the unity of society must be an intimate unity. 
It must figure somehow within the terms to be related. The 
social unity must be essentially psychological; and it must be more 
than the unity of each individual mind. This is as true in our 
theoretical relations as in our practical. In order to any common 

■ Sec especially pp. i6 ff. 
' Science oj Ethics, p. 454. 


understanding, a supra-individual unity must somehow dip into 
our finite centers. It is this which makes us overlap and makes us 
imply more than we seem. In the words of Emerson: "Persons 
themselves acquaint us with the impersonal. In all conversation 
between two persons tacit reference is made to a third party, to a 
common nature. That third party or common nature is not social; 
it is impersonal; is God."' How intimate this unity is to our 
own individuality is also emphasized by Emerson: "Ineffable is 
the union of man and God in every act of the soul. The simplest 
person who in his integrity worships God becomes God; yet forever 
and forever, the influx of this better and universal self is new and 
unsearchable." This intimacy of life enables the finite person to 
say: "Behold I am born into the great, the universal mind. I the 
imperfect adore my own Perfect. I am somehow receptive of the 
great soul." Of this union the world itself is the "perennial miracle 
which the soul worketh." On the basis of such intimacy with the 
absolute, Green can tell us "the true good is and in its earher form 
was a social good,"^ in which the permanent self and others are 
not to be distinguished. 

The difficulty with the above theory of social relations is of 
course its abstractness. The unity of each and all of the personal 
selves with the absolute is so intimate that social finite relations 
disappear altogether in the abstract background. An entity, 
however, which in this abstract way explains all unity does not 
make us any wiser as regards the various types of concrete unity 
with which we are concerned in our practical social relations. 
There is a great difference between social mind as an abstract, 
permanent idea and social mind as an existing living unity, as warm 
and real as individual mind. To show that the individual and 
society mutually imply each other or that we are socially minded 
is a different thing from showing that social minds exist. Hegel has 
come nearer than anyone else of the speculative idealists to recog- 
nizing the reality of the various types of social mind. For Hegel, 
indeed, the ethical life means precisely this adjustment to social 
institutions. Man is not a stranger in an artificially superimposed 

' From The Oversold. 
^Prolegomena to Ethics, sec. 232. 


society. Social institutions are the concrete embodiments of his 
own deeper will. In his own words: "The various social forces 
are not something foreign to this subject, his spirit bears witness 
to them as to his own being. In them he feels that he is himself, 
and in them too he lives as in an element indistinguishable from 
himself. This relation is more direct and intuitive than even 
faith and trust.'" And again: "Spirit has actuality, and the 
accidents or modes of this actuality are individuals. Hence as 
to the ethical there are only two possible views. Either we start 
from the substantive social system, or we proceed atomically and 
work up from a basis of individuahty. This latter method, because 
it leads to mere juxtaposition, is void of spirit, since mind or 
spirit is not something individual, but the unity of the individual 
and the universal."^ 

When Hegel, however, tries to make clear what he means by 
this spiritual unity, his bias for the abstract and formal vitiates his 
treatment. Thus in discussing the types of social unity he places 
the family lowest, as the unity of feeling; the civic community he 
defines as "an association of members or independent individuals 
in a formal universality. Such an association is occasioned by 
needs, and preserved by law." But a final type of unity is "the 
substantive universal, and the public life dedicated to the main- 
tenance of the universal. This is the state constitution." Thus 
Hegel's abstract method loses the social mind in the mere external 
form and expression of society. To be sure he tells us : "The state 
is the divine will as a present spirit which unfolds itself in the actual 
shape of an organized world. "^ But the state remains a juristic 
abstraction to the end. Mind is finally vested in the absolute self- 
consciousness; and persons and institutions alike must be under- 
stood as expressions of this self-consciousness. The new discovery 
of history is "the unity of the divine and the human"; and this 
unity comes to a focus in each self-conscious personahty. Institu- 
tions are but the expression of this independent self-consciousness. 
As he puts it: "In the state, self-consciousness finds the organic 
development of its real substantive knowing and will; in religion 

' The Philosophy of Right, par. 147. 

2 Ibid., par. 156. ^ jbid., par. 270. 


it finds, in the form of ideal essence, the feeling and the vision of this 
its truth; and in science it finds the free conceived knowledge of 
this truth, seeing it to be one and the same in all its mutually 
completing manifestations, viz., the state, nature, and the ideal 
world."' But they are after all only manifestations — the Self 
writ large; and Hegel in spite of all his efforts to take the social 
point of view, as a result of his abstract method, ends in being a 
rational individualist. The difficulty with idealistic theories in 
general, in spite of the fruitfuhiess of their empirical intuitions, is 
that they have been so anxious to arrive at the Absolute that they 
have slighted the concrete problems of continuity. The abstract 
Absolute becomes an immense solipsist, with no alter. 

Recent theories of society may perhaps be characterized, in 
contrast with abstract individualism on the one hand, and abstract 
universalism on the other, as functional theories. As against 
abstract individualism they emphasize the qualifications in human 
nature for social relations. As against abstract imiversaHsm, they 
emphasize that mind is essentially individual and deny the reality 
of a supra-individual consciousness. In the words of Giddings: 
"The social mind is a concrete thing. It is more than any indi- 
vidual mind and dominates every individual will. Yet it exists 
only in individual minds, and we have no knowledge of any con- 
sciousness but that of individuals. The social consciousness, then, 
is nothing more than the feeling or the thought that appears at the 
same moment in all individuals, or that is propagated from one to 
another through the assembly or the community. The social mind 
is the phenomenon of many individuals in interaction, so playing 
upon one another that they simultaneously feel the same sensation 
or emotion, arrive at one judgment and perhaps act in concert."* 
In the same spirit we are told by Ward: ''There are none so simple 
as literally to personify society and conceive it endowed with wants 
and passions. By the improvement of society they only mean 
such modifications in its constitution and structure as will in their 
opinion result in ameliorating the conditions of its individual 
members."^ In spite of this, society "should imagine itself an 

' Ibid., par. 360. ^ Giddings, The Principles of Sociology, p. 134. 

5 Ward, The Psychic Factors of Civilization, pp. 99 aad 100. 


individual, with all the interests of an individual; and becoming 
fully conscious of these interests, it should pursue them with the 
same indomitable will with which the individual pursues his inter- 
est."' Still we are dealing with an aggregate of individuals, even 
if such individuals should base their actions upon "the science of 
sociology." As Spencer puts it: "By social laws are meant the 
principles of human action in collectivity." 

We may distinguish three types of this functional theory of 
society. The first type of theory starts from the economic division 
of labor, as the complement of the varieties of human needs. This 
type has been stated in an immortal way by Plato in The Republic. 
Plato recognizes here the variety of capacities of human nature, 
as well as the variety of its complex needs. Society must be so 
organized, and education must be so specialized, as to make it 
possible for each human unit to fill its specific function, to do what 
it can do best in the economy of the whole. For Plato and Aris- 
totle alike the conception of society is instrumental. Its purpose 
is the education of the individual in virtue, the attainment of the 
highest possible measure of insight into the meaning of life. This 
is even more strikingly brought out in Plato than in Aristotle, as 
with Plato the doctrine of immortahty plays an essential part in 
the redemptive scheme of life. 

Another type of theory has its basis in individualistic psychol- 
ogy. Its problem is: What are the individual processes or quali- 
fications by means of which we come to share in a common social 
life ? The classical statement of this type of approach goes back to 
Adam Smith: "How selfish, soever, man may be supposed to be, 
there are evidently some principles in his nature, which interest him 
in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to 
him, though he derives nothing from it except the pleasure of seeing 
it. Of this kind is pity or compassion, the emotion which we feel 
for the misery of others, when either we see it or are made to con- 
ceive it in a lively manner. "=" His conception of mind, however, 
remains strictly individual: "As we have no immediate experience 
of what other men feel we can form no idea of the manner in which 

» Ward, The Psychic Factors of Civilization, p. 324. 
» The Theory oj the Moral Sentiments, Part I, chap. i. 


they are affected, but by conceiving what we ourselves should feel 
in the hke situation." We put ourselves in the other man's place 
in our imagination, and thus share with him what he must feel. 
We also learn to regulate our own conduct by what we represent 
to ourselves as his attitude toward us. This representative theory 
of social relations has been formulated more recently by WilHam 
James: "A man's social self is the recognition which he gets from 
his mates. We are not only gregarious animals, liking to be in the 
sight of our fellows, but we have an innate tendency to get ourselves 
noticed, and noticed favorably by our kind. . . . Properly speak- 
ing a man has as many social selves as there are individuals who 
recognize him and carry an image of him in their mind. To wound 
one of these images is to wound him."^ 

Other writers of this psychological school have emphasized 
imitation, as the process by means of which social unity is brought 
about. Says Tarde: "Society may therefore be defined as a 
group of beings who are apt to imitate one another, or who without 
actual imitation are ahke in their possession of common traits as 
an ancient copy of the same model. "^ He even goes so far as to 
say: "What is society? I have answered society is imitation. "^ 
In the same spirit, Baldwin suggests that the social self may be 
likened roughly to a composite photograph: "The variety of per- 
sonalities about him, each impressing him with some one or more 
pecuHarities, exaggerations, deficiencies, inconsistencies or law- 
observing regularities, gradually leave upon him a certain common 
impression, which, while getting application to all personaHties as 
such, yet has to have supplementing in the case of any particular 

individual He ejects it into all the fellows of his social 

group. It becomes then a general social alter."'' Professor Royce, 
carrying out the same method with his own idealistic background, 
comes to regard nature itself as the system of our social agreements, 
and thus only a more comprehensive social unity. 

Still a third type of functional theory takes its start from our 
practical social situation. It assumes at the outset that all our 

' The Principles of Psychology, I, 292 f. 

2 The Laws of Imitation (Eng. trans.), p. 68. 3 Ibid., p. 74. 

" Baldwin, Social and Ethical Interpretations, pp. 292 f. 


consciousness is, as a matter of fact, social. This has been strik- 
ingly expressed by Professor A. W. Moore, a member of the Dewey 
school. In his own words: " *My' consciousness is a function of a 
social process, in which my body or brain or mind is only one factor. 
.... My thinking and feeling may be as truly a function of ' your ' 
brain or mind as of my own. My thinking of sending for you as 
a physician to treat my headache is as truly a function of your 
medically trained brain as of my own aching one."^ Moore thinks 
rightly of this "private consciousness" not only as born of, but as 
growing up in and therefore continuing all the while vitally and 
organically related to, its matrix. Not only in its origin but in 
its continual development and operation it must always be a func- 
tion of the whole social situation of which it is born. It is never 
to be regarded as wholly or merely the function of an individual 
mind or soul or of a single organism or brain. It is always a read- 
justment within a social situation. 

The theory thus baldly stated does not try to define the nature 
of the social situation, neither does it discriminate between situa- 
tions where the motive is individual, and where the social aspects, 
such as language, science, etc., are strictly instrumental and the 
situations where the motive is consciously social. In so far as we 
use the concept social to characterize all our experience, we have 
obviously failed to give the dififerentia between what we may term 
the individual consciousness on the one hand and the group mind 
on the other. Moreover, the word ''function" is ambiguous. 
Are my thinking and the physician's thinking in regard to my head- 
ache, identical states of consciousness ? Or do they merely figure 
with reference to a common problem ? Evidently the latter is all 
that can be meant in this case. It still remains, therefore, to 
explain the nature of that social context in which both our minds 
figure. Does this amount to a common social unity, including both 
minds and having an existence of its own, or are we simply two 
numerically distinct minds thinking of the same object ? 

The value of the above psychological type of treatment lies 
in emphasizing the fact, that there must be certain qualifications 
on the part of the individuals, taken as abstractions, in order for 

'^ Pragmatism and Its Critics, p. 275. 


social communion to take place. Such qualifications are partly 
Instinctive and partly intellectual. On the instinctive side, we 
must distinguish certain specific instincts, such as a tendency 
toward gregariousness, and the parental instinct, from the more 
general innate tendencies such as imitation and sympathy. With- 
out such native qualifications social life would of course be an impas- 
sibility. Lacking those we should have merely artificial restric- 
tions superimposed on atomic units. We should have no genuine 
social life. These innate tendencies are further comphcated and 
enhanced by the intellectual processes which are grafted upon them. 
These intellectual qualifications may be broadly stated as asso- 
ciation and suggestion. By means of imagination we can imitate, 
and sympathize with, not only the immediate perceptual situations 
but the secondary inner situations of the other person's experience. 
A similar experience suggests to us similar trains of ideas and similar 
types of conduct. But these qualifications, whether instinctive or 
intellectual, are mere abstractions or potentiahties looked at from 
the individual pomt of view. Their function is to canalize or make 
definite the intersubjective continuities, as do the terminal instru- 
ments in wireless telegraphy. They are no more social than oxygen 
and hydrogen, when taken separately, are water. Our knowledge 
of social mind may depend upon imitation and suggestion, it may 
involve inferences of the most complicated kind; it certainly pre- 
supposes language for any definiteness of mutual understanding. 
But this does not prove that the existence of a social mind consists 
of those cognitive processes, any more than the existence of a chemi- 
cal compound depends upon our methods of studying it. The exist- 
ence of a new reaUty in each case must be ascertained through the 
pragmatic attitude which we must take toward the specific type 
of unity. 

What I wish to show is that there is a genuine social unity, 
distinct from what we call the unity of individual experience, and 
if not more real, at least more self-sufficient than this. The latter 
may be considered as a group of constant traits which we identify 
in a variety of situations. What we have in reahty is dynamic 
situations. Some of these situations we come to recognize as ph}'si- 
cal, i.e., as having no meaning or value of their own; others again 



we come to acknowledge as social with their own psychological 
unity. In each case we are able to follow the individual factors 
within the varying dynamic situations by virtue of certain constant 
traits which we can identify in the situations, such as the ions in 
chemical compounds, the Mendelian units and the chromosome 
characters in the organic situations, and the personal traits which 
constitute the individual's unique marks of identification in the 
various social unities. 


Instead of starting with the postulate of isolated minds, as 
psychology has done in the past, and then trying to explain how one 
mind can take cognizance of another by means of analogical infer- 
ence, we must start with the postulate of intersubjective continuity 
as an elementary fact. Without this immediate continuity of 
minds— the unique consciousness of mental presence— we should 
have no incentive for our attempts to know about other minds. 
It is the fact that we meet in a common continuum that makes 
us conscious of the need for intersubjective adjustment. Mind, 
like matter, must be conceived as existing in constellations with 
their own continuities and with their own play of parts. We know 
each other, as we know physical things, through common situations. 
And in these social situations, whatever the physical medium or 
symbol, mind is aware of mind; else each mind would lead an ego- 
centric, soHpsistic, and unconscious existence to the end. It is 
usually assumed that social communication means the transforma- 
tion or correspondence of thought to nervous energy, this to muscu- 
lar, this to physical stimuli, these again to physiological changes, 
terminating somehow in the other person's thought. This implies 
complete discontinuity as between these subcranial patches of mind. 
All continuity becomes material continuity. There can here be 
no direct acquaintance. The other mind comes to be regarded as 
an eject, inferred by analogy. That we as a matter of fact do not 
so infer it, that we respond to the voluntary reactions within the 
total situation as immediately as to the physical, does not trouble 
the theorist. Minds are isolated by hypothesis and so made private. 
It is one of the paradoxes of history that mind should thus have 


socialized itself into privacy. It was the emphasis on the physical 
sense-world — an emphasis made necessary through primitive man's 
direct and largely individual struggle with the physical environ- 
ment — that gradually brought this about. As a result of this 
emphasis individuals came to be looked upon as primarily bodies 
with a "breath" inhabiting them; and in a more sophisticated 
age mind is reduced to a function of the brain, an accident in its 
activity. Thus mind, by its extreme emphasis of the instrument, 
not only socializes itself into isolation but actually socializes itself 
out of existence. Social communication becomes merely the polar 
relation between organic contexts of a certain complexity. But 
this emphasis is itself the product of social interaction. It was 
because of our practical social demands that the physical world 
became differentiated from our states of consciousness whether in 
the earlier animistic form or the more abstract psychological form. 
In the earHest primitive Hfe there seems to be no such differentia- 
tion. Here mind is intuited as an ingredient in our common con- 
crete situations. The earliest distinction is not between mind and 
body, but between animated bodies and those not animated. 
Such a distinction, preceding, as it does, all inference, must be 
intuitive, the result of the direct commerce of mind with mind. 
That such a distinction exists even on the animal level; that animals 
do as a matter of fact react differently upon animated things from 
those not animated; and that such an intuition is of fundamental 
importance in the economy of animal life is amply evidenced by 
animal conduct. That there should be illusions in animal hfe, 
extending this intuition to non-animated things, as in the case of 
the fish and the fisherman's artificial fly, is easily explained, once 
we grant the existence of the intersubjective intuition. The whole- 
sale extension of this intuition to nature, however, as in the ani- 
mistic philosophy, cannot be regarded as a primitive reaction, but 
is due to more advanced experience with its abstractions and infer- 
ence, based upon sleep, dreams, etc., as shown by Herbert Spencer. 
The general pragmatic significance of this intersubjective 
continuum is the sympathetic furtherance or the thwarting of 
individual desire. This even for the animal has a different intuitive 
value from the furtherance or hindrance by the inorganic processes 


of nature. It makes a difference whether it is another living dog 
which is contending for the bone or whether the obstacle is merely 
mechanical. The sex instinct takes pecuHar account of comple- 
mentary desire or the absence of it. The gregarious instinct implies 
an intuition of kind as well as of animated things in general. And 
no learning process seems to precede such intuitive recognition. 
Even if this intuition is sometimes made negatively definite by 
the index of smell, as it seems to be in certain species of ants where 
a difference in smell makes them attack a certain other species, 
this does not account for the positive intuition of kind. Where 
the special index occurs it is probably due to special survival reasons. 

Throughout the process of imitation and accommodation in 
which the individual translates his tendencies into terms of himself, 
there is present the immediate intuition of other minds. They are 
reacted on differently from things. It is possible for us to become 
aware of our own purposes only through the consciousness of con- 
flict and co-operation with our fellows. In this we do not first have 
the consciousness of the physiological correspondence of our bodies 
with each other and then deduce internal correspondence from it. 
But the whole problem of psycho-physical correspondence is the 
outcome of our social interest — ^our practical need for intersubjec- 
tive correlation and correspondence. We discovered the funda- 
mental laws of language, logic, and ethics long before we had dis- 
covered even the existence of a nervous system. It is true that we 
come to take a certain bodily behavior as the sign of intersubjective 
relations, but they would not even have been signs except in the 
service of the things signified — ^the evidence of things not seen. It 
is because we are immediately conscious of the reality of other selves 
that we try to understand them and devise instruments for adjust- 
ing ourselves to them. Whether on the level of instinctive affec- 
tion and rivalry or on the level of purposive co-operation, we imply 
the first-hand acquaintance of mind with mind. In our vices as 
in our moral evaluations, in our selfish striving for wealth and power 
as in our seeking for individual or social salvation, we imply the 
sharing of a common fife with others, and their reciprocal response 
to our aims. 

The whole procedure of supposed inference from analogy is 


inverted. We start with a common intuitive life, and through the 
demands of this common Hfe, matter comes to have its instrumental 
significance. Intuitive living and faith come before analogical 
inference. Unless intersubjective continuities were thus directly 
felt, we should have neither basis nor motive for inferences about 
other minds. We no more reason by analogy from our mind to 
other minds than from our body to other bodies. Indeed the basis 
for our arriving at an objective physical world is the practical 
necessity of our common intuitive life. 

The prejudice against social continuities is part of a larger pre- 
judice, pointed out by William James — the prejudice against con- 
junctive relations and the emphasis on disjunctive. In the sociahz- 
ing process of civilization the world becomes crystallized into diverse 
concepts or terms; these come to seem more and more fixed and 
exclusive and as having only external relations to each other. 
Language gives the illusion of substance to our intellectual abstrac- 
tions, whether physical or psychological. And so it comes to pass 
that while it seems clear enough that there are disparate terms or 
entities — quaHties, atoms, and what not — it is hard to find the 
glue that binds the terms together in a common flow of experience. 
This intellectual despair leads men like Bradley to mysticism, 
which, however, is a hopeless surrender rather than a solution. 
What we must do instead is to take a fresh start in the intuitions of 
concrete experience and to realize that what we start with is not 
terms — these are instrumental abstractions — but that we start with 
integral situations. In these concrete situations the conjunctive 
relations have an equal claim with the disjunctive. It is our intel- 
lectual one-sidedness merely that makes the world absurd. For a 
logic hopping on one leg, we must substitute a logic of the concrete. 

While William James emphasized admirably the need of our 
taking the conjunctive relations of the physical world at their face 
value, he still clung to the social discontinuities.^ Here we are 
supposed to have complete insulation, abstract ejects. I insist 
that the prejudice against social continuities is as unwarranted as 

' In A Pluralistic Universe he does indeed, under the influence of Fechner, break 
away from this view of privacy, but the application is to the supposed hierarchy 
of cosmic consciousness rather than to society. 


our prejudice against physical. In each case we must get away 
from our intellectual abstraction and return to the concrete situa- 
tion. The agnostics are at least consistent in holding that mind 
and matter are equally inaccessible and unknowable. But this is 
a gratuitous assumption. In each case we enter into common 
situations. In each case we can regulate our conduct by the prop- 
erties discriminated in such situations. And these common situa- 
tions, experience teaches us, may be mental as well as physical. We 
must learn to take the social continuities at their face value, as 
James has insisted that we must take the physical continuities. 
Isolation and parallelism are of our conceptual making. The real 
world overflows and ignores them. 

It is true that our imagination encounters several obstacles to 
admitting such social continuities. We have become accustomed 
to look upon mental communication as mediated by a nervous 
system and an intervening physical world. But even if this should 
turn out to be always true, it is nothing against intersubjective 
continuities. Electricity, too, is mediated, as we familiarly know 
it, through wires; and even in the case of wireless, we find it con- 
venient as an aid to our imagination to conceive a medium that 
faciHtates its spreading through space. Still, whether electricity 
in the last analysis radiates through empty space or rides over a 
medium, there can be no doubt that the electrical continuities, 
when they are established, are real. They are not material con- 
junctions but immaterial conjunctions. And so with mind. Why 
should we conceive mind as pushing molecules or being insulated 
by them ? Why may not neural processes act as conductors instead 
of insulators ? But however mind may be mediated, whatever 
intervening processes it may ride over, when the continuities are 
established they are recognized as psychological, not as material, 
confluences. They are unique and not to be confused with chemi- 
cal or electrical. Conative co-operation must be recognized as 
different from mechanical reaction. And this, we have seen, is 
done immediately and intuitively in the animal world long before 
inference is known. It is as immediate a discrimination as that of 
quantitative and qualitative difference in physical stimuli and as 
necessary to survival. 


The discovery of the immaterial continuity of electricity helps 
at any rate to emancipate our imagination from the grosser con- 
tinuities of our senses and of molecular physics. We know that 
electricity in its free form possesses remarkable power of intersect- 
ing our seemingly soUd world in all sorts of ways as illustrated in 
X-rays, violet rays, etc. Here the difference in wave-length as well 
as intensity must be taken into account. So, for example, what is 
opaque to X-rays may be translucent to violet rays. The thickness 
to be interpenetrated must also be taken into account. Here, as in 
the case of mental continuities, our practical knowledge of the results 
is clear and definite, while our knowledge of the descriptive side, 
i.e., the means of spreading, is largely speculative. What is certain 
is that there are these immaterial continuities and that they have 
their predictable practical effects. There is nothing contradic- 
tory, therefore, in material and immaterial continuities occupying 
the same space, and in the end the material may have to find their 
explanation in the immaterial. As is the case in electrical continu- 
ities, some psychic states seem more contagious than others; and 
high psychic potentials, in the intenser forms of crowds, make 
minds interpenetrate more fully the enveloping material husk 
and lose themselves in the temporary continuum of mind. At 
any rate, the sense of comradeship is too convincing and absorbing 
in its own right to be reduced to the abstract logic of analogy. 
The intuition of a common life precedes theory. Privacy in our 
world, in so far as there is such a thing — and there evidently is for 
special purposes — means isolation or disconnectedness for the time 
being. It means the failure to figure in a certain dynamic situ- 

Another difficulty which the imagination encounters lies in the 
customary conception of mind. If we identify mind primarily 
with sensations, their persistence and combination by means of 
mechanical association, we have a difficulty, but it is a physical, 
not a mental difi&culty. These facts, while instrumental to will 
and closely bound up with the realization of its tendencies; and 
while in a sense existing in the mind — inlaid in its interests, as a 
diamond in its gold setting — yet are primarily physical facts. 
Mind, however, is primarily a matter of will and affective value. 


Hence telepathy as a communication of ideas is quite distinct from 
what we mean by mental continuity. The former presupposes 
analogous cerebral situations. Mental continuity has reference 
to common will attitudes, common moods, and these may have 
widely different intellectual coloring, as music may have different 
meaning to different listeners. 

This difficulty is closely bound up with another — the failure 
to distinguish between acquaintance and description, intuition and 
knowledge. While the distinction within our experience is purely 
logical, it is none the less important. What we share immediately, 
in social situations, is the acquaintance or intuition, the conscious- 
ness of mental presence. The knowledge about the situation is 
bound up largely with the physical aspect of the mind — the asso- 
ciative contexts of content. It turns out then that the so-called 
privacy, which merely means indirectness of communication, 
pertains primarily to the physical contents of the mind. Even in 
the direct sharing of physical situations we are as it were one 
remove from the certainty of a common world, for here we imply a 
faith in analogous sense organs and nervous systems and here we 
have to allow for pathological instances. Physical sharing can 
only be guaranteed through serial construction and intersubjective 
comparison and so presupposes social communication. 

In studying social facts, therefore, as in studying other domains 
of fact, we must start with intuition. Intuition is not truth, nor 
a substitute for truth, but it is the starting-point and terminus of 
truth. This is the case in all our investigations. Even mathe- 
matics, as Poincare has shown, must start with intuition, however 
much it refines upon it in the process. Our intuitions of social 
continuities are at least as convincing as the intuitions of perceptual 
continuities. And the former, as we have seen, have at any rate 
genetic priority, as it is through our social relations that we come 
to differentiate the world of things and the world of minds. 

The convincingness of social companionship, moreover, has 
nothing to do with our theory as to how it may be brought about. 
The theory is an afterthought and may undergo all sorts of trans- 
mutations. In our blindness we may seek to theorize the facts 
away even while we are assuming them. Thus the soHpsist must 


try to convince his fellows. Fortunately the transitions in nature 
do not depend upon our understanding them. We are not able 
to follow even the simplest of them point for point. We perform 
the juxtapositions but nature estabHshes the continuity under its 
own selective conditions. Nor does energetic continuity involve 
identity in space. If so, it is hard to see what interaction could 
mean. Instead of starting with conceivability or inconceivability, 
as based upon previous custom, we now believe in regulating con- 
ceivabiUty with reference to the facts which we must meet. 

If the theory of social atomism, with its assumption of absolute 
discontinuity, fails to meet the demands of experience, so does the 
theory of absolute continuity. The absolute, since, Hke the ether, 
it explains all continuity in advance, explains no concrete relations. 
The discontinuities must be taken at their face value as must the 
continuities. Like other energies, such as electricity, mind obeys 
certain definite laws of spreading. It is conditioned by interfer- 
ences. It can establish continuity only when the proper conditions 

This conception of social continuity differs, therefore, from that 
of monistic idealism as expressed by Hugo Miinsterberg and von 
Hartmann. Says Miinsterberg: ''In real life spirit touches 
spirit and what mysticism ingeniously unites is in truth not at all 
sundered. The sundering follows first in the service of psycho- 
logical and physical description."^ But the sundering is a real 
part of our mundane practical life; and a theory which fails to 
account for it is practically useless. In the case of von Hartmann 
it is the Unconscious which exercises clairvoyant power (Hellsehen) 
as between part and part. Whether the parts thus abstracted are 
higher or lower in the scale does not alter their clairvoyant insight 
which belongs to the unconscious cosmic will itself. 

If the unconscious soul in the separate portions of an insect, or in the stem 
and the detached buds, is still one, must it not be the same also in the insects 
separate by nature of a community of bees or ants, which even without union 
of the organisms in space still act as harmoniously on one another as the several 
parts of the same organism? Should not the clairvoyance which we have 
found everywhere recurring in the invasions of the Unconscious, and which is so 
supremely astonishing in the limited individual, should not it alone invite this 

' Grundzuge der Psychologie. 


solution, that the individual acts of clairvoyance are simply announcements 
of the everywhere identical Unconscious, wherewith at once everything miracu- 
lous in clairvoyance disappears since now the seer is also the soul of the seen ? 
What opposes this is only the prejudice that the soul is the consciousness.^ 

Yes, everything miraculous does disappear on such a hypothesis, 
but also everything interesting for our practical purposes. What 
we require for our purposes is a hypothesis which will account for 
both the practical discontinuities and the continuities. The h>'po- 
thesis of a transcendental, timeless and spaceless unity fails to meet 
our needs as truly as that of abstract atomism. In the case of 
intersubjective relations, as in the case of chemical and electrical 
energies, continuities are estabhshed under certain conditions, as 
there are discontinuities under other conditions. We are not 
dealing with continuity in the abstract, but with the differences 
made when concrete continuities do take place. The continuities 
and discontinuities are on the same level with the finite individuals 
involved, not on a transcendental level, whatever that may mean. 

We cannot, finally, deduce other minds from the impHcations 
of self-consciousness as a priori philosophers have attempted to do. 
Self-consciousness itself, on the contrary, is the outgrowth of the 
demands for readjustment and adaptation within the social situa- 
tion in which we live and move and have our being. All dehberate 
differentiation and identification, whether of selves or of things, 
mental or physical, is the outcome of the pressure of social interest. 
Selves are known by their context or function in this common 

We must rid our minds of the intellectualism which has so long 
pervaded all our thinking. We have made our convenient abstrac- 
tions from the dynamic stream of reahty, and then we have 
imagined that these abstractions exhausted reality. More and 
more, however, we have come to realize that these abstractions, 
real as they are when taken as aspects of reaUty, must, when they 
are taken apart, be regarded as instrumental. They are conceptual 
tools by means of which we can predict, and dip into, the stream 
of reaUty at definite points. They are "leadings " in our experience 
by means of which we are guided to the creative processes of nature. 

' Philosophy of the Unconscious (Eng. trans.), II, 225, 226. 


The dynamic situation is never a mere addition of certain entities 
with their separate characteristics. The situation has always its 
own atmosphere ; we must discover its own individual traits. 

Even in the inorganic held we have long ago ceased to believe 
that the reality of water consists in the addition of the two gases, 
hydrogen and oxygen, in the abstract numerical proportion of 
H2O, with their separate characters. The formula merely 
furnishes the leading toward nature's creative process. Water 
is a unique individual and satisfies new wants. While it has some 
of the properties of the so-called elements, it also has new properties 
which cannot be found in those elements taken separately. You 
must, besides the abstract factors, take account of a third fact, the 
creative process of nature from which they are abstractions. We 
are in the habit, it is true, of identifying creativeness with the freak- 
ish and unpredictable. These have always appealed to man as 
more or less miraculous. As a matter of fact all happenings, all 
arising of individual compounds must be regarded as creative. 
The elements are real only as they move within a field of energy. 
The negative charges within the atom are conceived as moving 
within a field of positive electricity. We can understand the Hfe 
of the complex organism only when we take account of the vital 
stream of impulse which guides and controls its development and 
its division of labor. And within social unities, we must not stop 
with the abstract factors of the situation, but we must try to 
appreciate the soul of the situation itself, the creative contribution 
of the spiritual process. 

Creative synthesis seems to be of the very nature of reaUty. 
Out of some eighty elements inorganic nature creates endless unique 
situations; out of only four elements arises the variety of organic 
situations. In ideal creativeness, few themes suffice for infinite 
creative production. In any case, the universe gives back more 
than we seem to put in — ^more than our abstract elements or abstract 
individuals. In any case the properties we select for prediction 
are abstractions from the continuities or possible continuities in the 
flow of reality. 

It will be seen that this theory of creative evolution is practically 
the opposite of that of Bergson. For him evolution means division. 


The vital impulse breaks up into its component tendencies, as the 
sky-rocket breaks from the shock of the explosion and the resistance 
of the atmosphere. Such a theory in the end means absolute 
atomism. For us creative evolution means creative synthesis — 
gifts which the universe contributes under certain conditions, over 
and above the finite parts which our selective interest has separated 
out. Souls are contributed by the creative energy of the universe 
in accordance with the complexity of the conditions, physiological 
and social. To the reaHty of these social souls we must now address 


In social compounds as in physical, we must proceed prag- 
matically. We must ask: What difference does it make that we 
figure in various social situations ? Can we take men as the same 
in their separate capacity and in their social capacity ? Is the 
social group but a collection of individuals with their individual 
traits? Or must we recognize a new unity, with its own unique 
properties ? Our intuition somehow indicates that there is a 
difference between mere individuals, or mere aggregates of indi- 
viduals, and the way we feel and act when swayed by a common 
interest. It makes a fundamental difference to us and to the spec- 
tator that we are parts of the social situation. 

In the pragmatic testing of this social intuition, I propose two 
methods of approach — the psychological analysis of the conditions 
and characteristics of the social situation, on the one hand, and the 
practical evaluation of these situations, on the other. Let us first 
glance briefly at the psychological side. 

In order to have a social situation, there must, in the first 
place, be the consciousness of another person or persons. Mere 
continuity with natural energies — the sky, the sea, the landscape — 
is not, for our practical and finite purposes at any rate, a social 
situation. We cannot agree that all situations are social, however 
much their significance for us is interwoven with our social experi- 
ence. The other person, however, need not be bodily present. 
The other mind may be present in a poem, a book of science, a 
symphony, or a report flashed across the wires. We often become 
more absorbed in a book than we do in most conversations. In the 


second place, there must be the consciousness of a common object 
or impulse. People may be conscious of each other's presence only 
in order to dodge each other, like so many automata, on the busy 
avenue. But let an accident happen on the street — the running- 
over of a child by an automobile— and we have a common object 
attracting our attention. Even so, however, if I am too busy, 
trying to catch a train, to stop with the others, I am no part of the 
social situation. It takes time for the human continuity to be felt, 
and there must be abandon to the interest or suggestion. Even 
bodily space-proximity and time-proximity may be dispensed with 
if there is the sustained abandon to a common interest. In a 
great international catastrophe, such as the shipwreck of the 
"Titanic," largely separated portions of humanity become a genuine 
and intense part of a social mind. 

Mere intersubjective continuity is not suflScient to constitute 
a social mind. For this more than an intuitive sense of presence 
of other minds is required. The sense of presence may be negative 
as well as positive. It may mean a stimulus to fight or flight 
instead of to co-operation. In order to have a social mind there 
must be a sense of reciprocal or sympathetic response to the situa- 
tion. On the lower levels this means the abandon to a common 
impulse, on the higher levels it means the leading of a common 
purpose. Without this consciousness of a common conative direc- 
tion, the social continuum, as the particular stream of consciousness, 
fails to be an individual. 

It would seem that social minds must be real if they possess 
characteristics analogous to those of particular minds. One of 
the most important of these characteristics is fusion. Social situa- 
tions present a case similar to the fusion of elementary states within 
the particular mind; and while the greater complexity makes 
analysis more difficult, the laws of fusion seem to be the same. 
Take, for example, the clang in music. This we all recognize as 
one unique individual; and it is only with practice that we learn 
to discriminate some of the tonal qualities within the whole. In 
these fusions we have to take into account the quahty of the com- 
ponents, the intensity of the components, and the number of the 
components. This we must do also in social fusion. But in each 


case, while we can discriminate complexity within the fusion, the 
whole is one imique individual; and the quahties which we dis- 
criminate within the situation owe their character in part to the 
fusion. While we can identify them, they are not a mere repetition 
of the qualities in their separateness. The social fusion seems as 
much a new unity as the individual state of consciousness. We 
must be pragmatic. If the facts indicate such social fusion, we must 
acknowledge it. We may not understand the how of it — the spatial 
and other metaphysical conditions of this continuity. But we 
must remember that we have the same problem in regard to physical 
interaction. Spatial continuity has not been proved for any ener- 
tretic interaction. Atoms or electrons are not absolutely contigu- 
ous. An absolutely continuous and fluid ether is indistinguishable 
from empty space. A rigid ether is only another name for a dy- 
namic field. Somehow, in the situation of sympathetic abandon, 
fruitful as love's embrace, there is created a new soul— an inter- 
individual mmd, which, once it is born, is more than, or at any rate 
different from, the factors which are its antecedents and which 

blend into it. 

Instead of taking as our illustration a specific t>'pe of elementary 
state, we might have taken the individual mind as such, which may 
be considered as a fusion of various fields, bound up with different 
neural substrates. In the various pathological cases of divided 
selves we see what happens when there is functional or organic 
disconnectedness of centers. The continuum of the individual 
mind offers the same problems as we find in intersubjective con- 
tinuity. It is just as great a mystery that part-minds within the 
individual organism can fuse into one as that these individuals 
can become part-minds within the larger social situation. In each 
case the part-minds must overflow, and ride over, intervening 
processes. In each case the part-mind must be more than itself 
in order to function within a common unity. The fact that the 
fusion is more constant and intense within the individual mind is a 
matter of degree, not of difference in kind. What the pathological 
cases bring out is that normally the so-called individual self is in 
reality a colony of selves, an integration of systems of tendencies, 
fusing more or less into a common field and to a greater or less 
extent dominated by a common purpose. 


If we now take account of the individual components of the 
fusion, we find in social fusions as in those of the particular con- 
sciousness that the quality of the components makes a difference. 
You get a different result in a French fusion from what you get in 
an Anglo-Saxon fusion; in a feminine fusion from a masculine 
fusion, given a similar situation. A ladies' tea-party is different 
from a men's smoker, though each may discuss the same subject. 
Race and sex seem to furnish different overtones, even as different 
clangs bring a different character to the compound musical result. 
Different individuals too bring a different quality to the combined 
result. This is true particularly in deliberative groups, where the 
individual give-and-take is more prominent in the situation. 

Further, we must take account of the intensity of the factors 
in the fusion. In the simple musical clang, the fundamental by 
its greater intensity gives the key to the new individual unity. In 
the case of social fusions, too, there is generally some one element 
that furnishes the character to the whole; some volitional factor 
by its strength of affirmation, its faith in the issue, counts for more 
than the other confluent factors and gives the key to the whole. 
This dominant factor we call the leader of the situation. When his 
will overshadows the other factors, when he attracts a large number 
to himself and sways them for a sustained period, when he furnishes 
the enthusiasm which makes the others wilHng to follow blindly for 
weal or woe and to the extent of any personal sacrifice, we may 
call the leader a superman. It is not the quality of the will that 
makes the superman, but the intensity of his affirmation. The 
superman, hke Napoleon, has often been madly selfish. He may 
employ widely different means: he may use striking metaphors; 
he may argue; he may dogmatically repeat; he may simply hurl 
his emotional weight against the future. In any case it is his 
dominant will that wins. Whatever means he uses^ — bullying or 
argument or sympathetic suggestion — he somehow possesses the 
mystic power of making solvent the other wills in the situation. 

The social fusion, however, like the compound clang may be too 
complex for this single dominance. In a deliberative assembly, 
such as our Continental Congress or Constitutional Assembly, a 
group of minds may combine on the basis of abstract principles to 
mold the whole into unity with themselves. 


In social, as in tonal fusion, the number of components must be 
taken into account. A certain social fusion of an intimate kind 
takes place when two sympathetic souls meet in friendship or love. 
Such a fusion is impossible with additional individual factors, 
however congenial otherwise. Three make a different crowd. On 
the other hand, when the appeal is to certain fundamental instincts, 
such as pugnacity, anger, emulation, or pity, and where the over- 
tones of human nature, instead of fusing, are inhibited, the release 
becomes only more effective, the abandon and fusion greater, the 
volume of feeling larger for the larger number that participates. 
The city baseball crowd, grown enthusiastic over its side or indig- 
nant at the umpire, all the more completely forgets itself for the 
immensity of the number that touch elbows; the solemnity and 
suggestion of the religious occasion only gathers impetus and devo- 
tion from the number of those similarly bent. The fundamental 
tendency here, so strong and so invariant in quality, more than 
grows by addition of separate wills. The latent energy of each is 
released by the presence of the other in increasing ratio with the 
confluence of the tendencies in the common sea of interest. The 
fundamental is not a limited quantity in such cases, as it is in 
music. The result is more than the fusion of a vast number of 
identical or similar pre-existent tones. 

Finally, in order to understand the social fusion we must take 
account of the dominant interest, the ruling passion or set of the 
group. Leader and led alike are part of this passion. It may be 
the illusion of military power and glory as in the Napoleonic age ; 
it may be a religious passion as in the case of the Crusades ; it may 
be a sense of outraged justice as in the case of the Declaration of 
Independence. But in any case the leader as well as the led are 
held in the dynamic circuit of one field of interest. They are 
swayed by the same fundamental emotion, tapped by the same 
situation. If the crowd is the victim of an illusion, so is the leader 
and with far greater abandon. It is the fact that he liberates 
this fundamental sentiment, that he voices the passion or rationality 
of the group, that makes him a leader. The strongest individual 
affirmation, even with divine inspiration, is dashed aside for the 
time being, when it runs counter to this dominant tendency. 


The fact that the leader is a function of the situation, as well as 
a dominant exponent of it, gives rise to the wide divergence of 
interpretation as regards leadership or prestige. To some he seems 
a mere cork floating on the current of the common will; to others 
he seems the entire situation, and they would write history as the 
biography of great leaders. Both are partly wrong and partly right. 
He does indicate the set, which holds him in the same grasp as it 
holds the others. He expresses a situation. But he is not a mere 
cork. He contributes volitional definiteness and precipitating 
energy to the set to a greater extent than the other factors. He is 
important, therefore, in the effectiveness and organization of the 
common will. Whether he is a creative or merely explosive factor 
depends upon what he brings in the way of fundamental insight, 
with his strength of affirmation. 

Since the social situation is thus analyzable into certain condi- 
tions — quality, intensity, and number, with the set or field of 
passionate interest in which they figure — we can to a certain extent 
predict social fusions as we can predict tonal fusions. But only 
empirically and partially. In tonal harmonics all a priori theories 
have failed. We must take account of the creative result, the new 
individual unity in each case, and this can be done only by direct 
intuition. Our prediction, therefore, can go no farther than our 
empirical control of the situations. In the case of the social situa- 
tions the complexity is so great and the factors so variant that such 
control and prediction is at best merely approximate. We may 
have bodily the same people, the same leader, the same issue, yet 
time may entirely alter the result. Some great personalities and 
some permanent issues are pretty sure, however, to produce an 
intense social fusion. Religion and the great ethical issues of the 
race, when strongly represented, cannot fail to produce a result. 
Fads again require a very special time and audience to get a sympa- 
thetic hearing. As the mood or set here is transient, so is the fusion 
contingent and ephemeral. 

It will appear from the foregoing that there may be varying 
degrees of social fusion, as there are degrees in the fusion of states 
in what we can sometimes take as a single stream of consciousness. 
The social fusion may vary in focalization all the way from active 


self-conscious social deliberation to the hypnotic abandon of the 
mob or the entrancing ecstasy of the aesthete or mystic. The 
activity in the former case, the solemn argumentation of the master- 
minds who decided on the Declaration of Independence, is a socially 
centered activity, a self-conscious social situation, as the hypnotic 
case is a passive abandon to the situation. The factors in each case, 
however, are quite oblivious of themselves— their own interest or 
danger— they are dominated by the common situation. It was 
this which in the former case argued through each, cast about for 
ways and means, held them in complete subjection to its own 
intensely active purpose. 

This variation in the type of attention has led to diverging 
theories as to what constitutes social unity. Hegel can see the 
social only in the rational, the common burden of thought, the 
articulate sharing of a common plan. For him social consciousness 
must finally be actively focalized or self-conscious. The unmediate, 
the merely felt or sensed, is for Hegel the private and particular. 
On the other hand, Tarde and Le Bon identify the social fusion with 
the passive abandon of the crowd, with the immersed and immediate 
h>T)notic fusion, with its exaggerated suggestibiUty. We must 
recognize that these are extreme types while there exist, between 
them, all the variations with which individualistic psychology has 
made us familiar. As over against the tendency today to call 
upon the subconscious to solve all knotty problems, Hegel's 
emphasis shows at least that the social consciousness need not be 
hopelessly vague and diffuse in order to master our ideas and set 
free our energies. We may be socially active as well as individually 
active. Indeed, individual activity resolves itself largely into the 
particular pull and emphasis which we exercise in the variety of 
social situations in which we figure or at any rate that dominate 
our thinking as to how we would want to figure. Whether either 
thinking or feeUng particularize or socialize depends upon the 
motive or situation which dominates them. 

In producing the hypnotic fusion, certain conditions have been 
pointed out as favorable, such as the inhibition of the large volun- 
tary movements, the control of breathing, the monotonous fixing 
of attention, etc. These conditions have been systematized in the 


mystic oriental religions in order to bring about union with Brahm 
or disappearance in Nirvana. But these are merely instruments 
after all and rather variable instruments at best. They do not 
account for the fusion. Religiously speaking, the external condi- 
tions are but outward and visible signs. The inward and spiritual 
grace of union, whether friendship, or communion with God, is 
a creative gift which we must acknowledge and appreciate as such. 
The conditions seem, moreover, to conflict. In football enthusi- 
asm and religious revivals, free play of reflexes seems to give an 
even more complete fusion than their inhibition. 

We must remember finally in our discussion of this social fusion 
that it is not a mere intellectual fusion of sensations and ideas. 
It may not be this at all. At any rate, it is primarily a volunta- 
ristic fusion — a creative unification of conative tendencies, whether 
of the instinctive or the ideal order. These voluntaristic tendencies 
we have indeed come to recognize as the fundamental aspect of 
mind, individual or social. It matters not how many eyes may be 
looking, how many ears may be hearing, or even how many intel- 
lectual mechanisms may be working at various points of space and 
in connection with various brains, if there is the identical tendency, 
the coalescing in one dynamic field of the various conative energies. 
When minds recognize each other's presence and abandon them- 
selves to a common direction, a new will comes into existence which 
is a different individual from the personal wills. 

This difference shows itself, on the one hand, in certain releases 
of energies and, on the other hand, in certain inhibitions. The 
releases are along the impulsive tendencies which have to do with 
the common object. New levels of energy are tapped by the inten- 
sity of the common abandon. With this goes the absence of any 
sense of personal responsibility. Inhibitions are swept away which 
have held these tendencies in age-long subjection. With the impul- 
sive releases, there go, on the intellectual side, greater suggestibility 
and credulity along the common direction. These may even take 
the form of social illusions and hallucinations under intense condi- 
tions. With the releases, too, there follow the emotional elation 
of invincible power and the feeling of intolerance and dictatorialness 
as regards any interference with the realization of the heightened 


tendency — a dogmatism which is only equaled by the suggesti- 
bility and mobility within the accepted direction. The same 
impulse, which releases the tendencies that are germane to its suc- 
cess, closes the channels which are antagonistic, so far as the fitness 
of the end itself, with the means it involves, wins unqualified 
approval. What in the usual enumeration seem conflicting and 
unrelated qualities thus become functions of the same conative 

Whether we take social fusions, therefore, from the intuitional 
point of view of the participant or of the analysis of the spectator, 
we must recognize that they are not mere collections of individual 
entities, but that, on the contrary, they very much exaggerate 
the facts of interest and unity as we find them in personal experi- 
ence. From the point of view of psychology we must, therefore, 
take account of social minds as being distinct from personal and 
as having their own characteristics. 

We have dwelt particularly on the phenomena of fusion, because 
they seemed to furnish the most important case for our purpose. 
But we might have taken other characteristics. In short, whatever 
can be said of so-called individual minds in the way of characteristics 
can be said of the social mind. It is uniquely selective in the par- 
ticular situation and so can be treated as a subject. It has its own 
identity of traits from moment to moment and from age to age. 
It has its own unique type of unity, whether external or internal — 
association by contiguity or purposive coherence. We must 
recognize its own degree of freedom or restraint under varying 
situations, according as it acts out its own character or is the victim 
of external circumstances. Instead of the analogy of the organism, 
therefore, we would substitute the analogy of the individual as 
known to us through psychological analysis. This analogy can be 
worked out into such detail that we believe that whatever reahty 
can be accorded to the abstract particular mind can be accorded 
to the social mind. 

Another way of approaching the reality of the social mind is 
from the practical relations which it invites or which it makes 
obligatory upon us. We have to deal in a very different way with 
a social group from the way in which we deal with single individuals. 


As a member of a family, a state or a church we have to deal with a 
man differently from what we deal with him in his abstract isola- 
tion. We must take account of the common bond of which he is 
a part, of a larger will which will approve or resent the conduct 
toward a member as a conduct toward its own united self. Except 
for this respect for group solidarity, history, both personal and 
national, would be written entirely otherwise from what it is now. 
From our own practical deaUngs, therefore, we can gain insight 
into the reality of the social mind, as we thus gain insight into the 
individual. We must apply our pragmatic principle that social 
minds are real, if we must take them as real in the practical situa- 
tions of life. What does the business of human life reveal ? What 
is implied in our fundamental attitudes, our practical faith toward 
the world ? We must follow the leading of experience and regard 
that as real which practical human experience proves real. 

Professor Royce has shown in a beautiful and convincing way 
how our spontaneous loyalty may be the means of gaining insight 
into reality. This is true, at any rate, in so far as we can take that 
reality as a social situation and can recognize its spiritual direction. 
Loyalty is not merely a complex of emotions, but a method of 
conduct, where the intention is being continually tested by its 
results. "The central characteristic of the loyal spirit," says 
Royce, "consists in the fact that it conceives and values its cause 
as a reality.'" But we must examine carefully the implications 
of this loyalty as regards the causes which it aims to realize and 
which fulfil its practical and affectional intent. What causes are 
those that we can love, hate, and be loyal to, as genuine psychologi- 
cal unities? How is man's instinctive need for intimacy made 
objective in his environment ? 

In so examining the implications of our practical attitudes, 
we find that some involve mutual sharing or overlapping of souls — 
a unique common life which is something different from individuals 
as taken in their abstract separation, in so far as that is possible, 
or at any rate as taken in other social contexts. Take loyalty 
to friendship as an example: "Loyalty to a friendship," says Royce 
"involves your willingness actively and practically to create and 

' William James and Other Essays, p. 71. 


maintain a life which is to be the united life of yourself and your 
friend — not the life of your friend alone, nor the life of yourself 
and your friend as you exist apart, but the common life, the life 
above and inclusive of your distinctions, the one life that you are 
to live as friends.'" Such a sacrament of friendship, while it lasts, 
is indeed a new life, a spiritual person. Whether it is better or 
worse than either individual which enters into the fusion depends 
upon the dominant motive or character which is brought out in 
this common life. 

The attitude of loyalty may be illustrated in various unities 
of ever-increasing concreteness — the family, the community, the 
class, the state, the church, etc. In each case, where there is the 
concrete spirit of loyalty, we have faith in, and evidence of, this 
larger unity which is somethmg different from the loyalty to the 
composing individuals and where conflicts of loyalty are no longer 
mere individual preferences or dislikes. Family love or honor, 
natural patriotism, religious devotion imply spiritual unities, 
with the unique restraints and inspirations of a new and unique 

We must be careful, however, not to confuse mere conventional 
or legal unity with the sacrament of a common life. People may 
be formally married without being a family; they may live in a 
country and even hurrah for it without any sense of its common 
responsibilities and ideals; they may belong to one church without 
entering into a unity of devotion. We must be able to trace a 
living consciousness of loyalty in order to be warranted in holding 
to one life, just as an individual is not one for inhabiting one outward 
skin, but for the dominant motive, which makes the various tend- 
encies and ideas converge in one direction. Except for this his 
name may be legio. 

Again we must be careful to distinguish potential unity from 
actual. We may hope that there may be a thoroughgoing spiritual 
unity of the English-speaking nations; and such possibility seems 
indeed to be more than a dream. The unity of humanity is at best 
a remote potential unity— an abstract ideal which we hope to make 
concrete in the long ages. It lacks at present both the outside and 

' William James and Other Essays, p. 73. 


visible form and the inward and spiritual grace of one spiritual 
person. As regards our unity with nature, whatever growing sense 
of co-operation there may be between the army of scientists who 
try to write its story, nature itself seems to lack the qualifications 
for enteruig into sympathetic social union with man. 

It is different with the religious unity. Here, indeed, our loyalty 
implies both sentimentally, and, in its practical results, a com- 
panionship, not only as a communion of the faithful, but as a 
union with the divine object of worship — the more and better of 
our ideal nature. A creative union is implied in all genuine reli- 
gious loyalty of which creeds and forms are mere symbols. In true 
religious devotion there arises a new trinity, the divine mind meeting 
our mind in a new bond, where indeed the higher in ourselves is 
brought into significant and fruitful relief. This is merely intensi- 
fied, not more real nor more worshipful, in the diffuse mystic states. 
Anarchism is wrong both as a psychology and as a practical 
estimate of human nature. We are more than separate units. 
We live only as we overlap, as we fuse with other souls in common 
pursuits and interests. We are literally members one of another. 
This common sacramental life must be safeguarded from the acci- 
dents of human history, whether from indifference and disintegra- 
tion within or from selfish manipulation from without. No ideal 
realization can be even conceived apart from social relations, 
though such striving may be out of tune with human temporal 
conditions and may find its only sympathetic complement and 
inspiration in the divine Socius. 

The social mind, further, must be real because in our moments 
of critical evaluation— as well as in our spontaneous loyalty— it 
can be judged as a moral being, i.e., it is subject to praise and blame, 
not as a collection, but as an individual character or type. Indi- 
vidually we may admire the members of a nation which we condemn 
as a group. Again and again we have to censure our neighbor for 
what he is in his larger social capacity— a saloon-keeper, a pohtical 
grafter — though in his narrower social circles we have no fault 
to find with him. 

The evaluation which we place upon a social mind, such as a 
nation, differs with different periods of a nation's development. 


In one period of a nation's development it is power which furnishes 
the dominant motive of a nation's life. Considerations of the claims 
of other unities in such a period have no weight. Fear of conse- 
quences is the only restraint on its self-assertion. At this very time 
we find plenty of instances where the love of power is dominant and 
where weaker nations can be protected, if at all, only by a combina- 
tion which inspires fear. The dismemberment of African Turkey 
is an instance where the restraint of fear did not exist; and the 
averting of a European war over the spoils was due merely to a 
combination of powers which made the conflict too dangerous to 
the would-be contestants. 

Sometimes the commercial motive is the dominant one, and at 
the present time it is often the deeper motive which underlies the 
conflict over spheres of influence. Such a motive, when it dare not 
force territory, may force upon a weaker nation its products — some- 
times injurious products as in the case of the opium traffic in the 

Sometimes the dominant motive is material comfort, which 
soon degenerates into internal weakness and debauchery. This 
is the most debasing of all motives in society as in individuals, and 
soon leads to decay and dissolution, even if external causes do not 
bring the existence of such a state to an end. 

The motives of which we have spoken so far are not ethical. 
They may be non-moral, when they have no moral sentiment for a 
background. They become immoral when a society violates its 
better consciousness of fitness and right. Nations, however, like 
individuals may be dominated by a moral motive, even if this motive 
is not clear and distinct. There is at the present time a powerful 
idealistic undercurrent in many a nation which sometimes comes 
into the focus of its activity and dominates its conduct. The 
reforms going on within various nations for equal rights before the 
law, for mutual service as between classes of society, in a word 
for internal democracy of life, are signs of how vigorous this ethical 
consciousness is at the present time. Nor are signs wanting of 
an ethical consciousness as between nations. The settling of an 
impending war between the two sister-nations of Sweden and Nor- 
way by means of the discussion and recognition of fraternal claims 


instead of by arms; the policy of fair play instituted by John Hay 
as regards the Orient and its powerful international effect; the 
pending of general arbitration treaties as between nations — all 
show the deeper idealism of our day, however much it is sometimes 
obscured by passion and prejudice and however easy is the relapse 
to the primitive impulsive levels. Just because the ethical con- 
sciousness of the nation is so recent, relapse is still to be feared, 
especially in the absence of any other effective sanction than 
national and concerted international force. There are, however, 
unmistakable signs of the spread of an international democracy 
outwitting political states, especially in the growing consciousness 
of the international solidarity of education, of labor, of capital, of 
justice. This is greatly assisted, as between the English-speaking 
nations, by the ties of kinship of institutions and blood. 

The motives in these days of complex life are of course mixed. 
And it is not always easy for the critic, and it is still more difficult 
for the agent, to realize which motive is uppermost. In the blind- 
ness of human nature and the glamor of primitive passion, we often 
misjudge our motives as nations, as well as individuals. What we 
want to do intensely easily comes to seem to ourselves a question 
of right, and not of primitive irrationality. And as spectators, we 
may easily be blinded by our own national prejudices in judging 
another national consciousness. At any rate, the very attempt on 
the part of nations today to make their conduct, as regards both 
internal and external relations, seem ethical to the spectator shows 
the growing power of the ethical motive. 

I might have selected the family or the community instead 
of the nation in illustrating this judgment of motives on the part of 
social minds. The nation, however, has the advantage of staging 
this consciousness in the large. And right now it has the advantage 
of a greater sense of reality as shown in the intense nationalism 
which prevails at present both in the dealings with the rest of the 
world and in dealings with internal problems. The family con- 
sciousness has not shown corresponding development. The family 
in trying to pass from the primitive bonds of dependence and vested 
authority to the ethical stage is in a serious state of disintegration. 
In spite of the ancient character of this social bond, the attempt 


to apply ethical standards is comparatively recent. And even now 
the light manner in which the family is treated by one part of 
humanity and the attempt by another part to enforce an artificial 
unity in violation of all fundamental moral claims shows that the 
ethical consciousness is far from thorough. 

The community consciousness, especially the city community, 
has made tremendous progress in recent years from the mere col- 
lective, laissez /aire ideal and that of non-moral motives such as 
numbers and wealth to a more idealistic level of dealing squarely 
with internal problems for the good of the whole community. 
More and more the sense of responsibility has increased ; and with 
it has come corresponding simphfication and organization of the 
institutional instruments of the community. A new soul is being 
born, at least in a number of instances — the community soul. 

The church is passing through a similar transition from a tradi- 
tional consciousness to a consciousness of thoughtful ethical valua- 
tion of its life and functions. It is no longer a case of mere loyalty 
to a past, however glorious and sacred, with its host of witnesses, 
but there is a deepening sense of responsibiHty to the cause of 
righteousness as made concrete in the whole range of human 
problems. Loyalty to linguistic symbols and aesthetic forms is 
becoming secondary to the desire for improvement and democracy 
in our human relations. With this goes a larger sympathy and 
sense of unity between the different religious communions in the 
service of a common ideal. 


When it comes to the complexity of social reactions, William 
James, even if dealing with the problem from the point of view of 
individualistic psychology, is strildngly true to the facts: "A 
person generally shows a different side of himself to each one of 
different groups. Many a youth, who is demure enough to his 
parents and teachers, swears and swaggers like a pirate among his 
tough young friends. We do not show ourselves to our children 
as to our club companions, to the customers as to the laborers we 
employ, to our own masters and employers as to our intimate 
friends. From this there results what is practically a division of 


the man into several selves."' These several selves, however, 
must not be taken as entities, limited to one body. They are rather 
social intersection points, dififerent types of social continuities. 
The various social situations cut the personal selves in different 
planes; they liberate, and make confluent, different levels of tend- 
ency and so produce different controls and fusions. 

In contrast with the creative physical situation, which is appar- 
ently exclusive of other situations, so that the chemical element 
can figure in only one situation at a time, the social unities are inter- 
penetrative; they are not spatially and temporally exclusive. The 
same instinctive center may and does figure in a large number of 
social minds at the same time, even though one of these may give 
the dominant tone for the time being. This makes life vastly more 
complex than the old individualistic atomism could grasp. This 
also makes it of momentous significance in what social situations 
the instinctive center of mind figures. We must try to create and 
control social situations, in order that we may emerge with the 
desired social atmosphere. And the more responsive mind is to 
such social confluences, the more jealously we must guard the 
social situations, with their soul, since they largely make the indi- 
vidual soul. Enthusiasm and abandon, such as youth alone is 
capable of, mean the most complete making-over, moral or immoral, 
refined or gross, of the unstable individual center. We can see the 
brutality of the arena, the association with Lincoln, the image of 
the Christ in every feature of the exposed soul. And the individual 
if he knows himself must say, I am no longer I, my past mind, but 
the social mind to which I abandoned myself, which I helped to 
create, but which has more truly created me. 

It must not be forgotten that our classifying these social minds 
as religious, political, etc., is merely a matter of abstract genera. 
Each social situation has its own unique mind, which persists 
with its individual traits, and interpenetrates into the further 
flow of Ufe. Here, too, we must get over our abstractness and come 
back to first things. And here again we must select and guard, 
not the genus merely, but the soul of the individual occasion with 
its creative and persistent life. There is not religion, but religious 

' Principles of Psychology, I, 293. 


situations, each with its soul, as unique in its origin as it is lasting, 
once it is brought into existence. Into whatever new contexts 
the abstract individuals may enter, they carry the atmosphere with 
them, more or less, of the social minds thus originated. These 
cumulate, more or less effectively, as part of the individual and social 
structure and so condition our reactions in the future social situa- 
tions into which we may enter. The actions of individuals will be 
restrained or set free by virtue of this coexistence and interpene- 
tration of social unities of which they are a part. Thus the dra- 
matic religious situation, like a pervasive melody, still holds them, 
perhaps in their workaday business, perhaps in their play, so as to 
modify and control their conduct. The conduct of the individual 
must be written largely as the result of the conflict, interaction, 
and subordination of these social minds, which interpenetrate 
in his life. Self-conscious personality itself seems little more than 
the making explicit, and volitionally effective, this clashing and 
subordination of social values, good or bad. The ancients felt 
a spirit for each situation in nature, a continuous presence with 
which they must deal, friendly or unfriendly. We must at least 
learn to find this creative presence in our social situation and learn 
to control its value and thereby control our own individual value. 

Since social continuities intersect individual centers in an in- 
definite number of planes; since, moreover, once created, they tend 
to persist and interpenetrate in a cumulative life, we can see that 
social minds are vastly more numerous than personal minds. The 
same person, so-called, belongs in an indefinite number of unities, 
more or less distinct, more or less persistent, but never quite dis- 

How many social unities an individual comes to recognize in 
his loyalty or his aversion depends upon his instinctive qualifica- 
tions, on the one hand, and the range of social stimuli, on the 
other hand. The former are largely constant in the race. It is the 
latter which vary. But if they vary, they are also to some extent 
under our control. We are reminded of a friend of Lincoln who 
sent his secretary to Lincoln just to stay there for a time and 
who said on the man's return, "I can see it, you have been with 


The number, extent, and range of social minds cannot be esti- 
mated merely from the unities which we actually do acknowledge 
or are loyal to at any one time. We must estimate such realities, 
as we estimate the reahties of the physical world, from the extent 
and kind of situations which we can and must acknowledge in the 
course of our individual and racial development. The abstract 
individual, when unmindful of this living relation within different 
social minds, becomes himself a specialized social abstraction, as is 
so often the case in our modern division of labor. 

If the social continuities intersect individuals in various planes, 
within which the individual must discover his meaning, it is also 
true that a personal will may come to dominate the whole current 
of a social history. The great personalities of history stamp upon 
their social period their creative faith. Whole eras rightly bear 
the name of some great genius who thus focuses and in a measure 
directs the stream of history which runs through him and carries 
him onward. And so we speak of a Copernican era, a Napoleonic 
era, a Darwinian era, etc. 

In the evolution of social minds, as in the case of individual, 
nature seems to strive, in the midst of the fluctuations, to develop 
and preserve certain distinct types — types of race mind, of national 
mind, of family minds, of religious minds, etc. The Hebrew mind 
is a distinct entity from the Greek mind, as shown in the genius 
of its creativeness. But the Hebrew mind itself is a unification of 
similar tribal types. The various Protestant denominations are 
merging into a more general type with a fusion of differences as 
contrasted with the distinct CathoHc type of Christianity. This 
tendency to fix clear and distinct types of ideals goes on until some 
fresh social contact starts anew this process of give and take, or 
some genius with strong will creates a new mutation, which in 
turn must run the gauntlet of survival. Periods of mutation, 
moreover, and periods of simpHcation seem to follow each other 
in a certain rhythm in history. The growing uniformity of the 
Middle Ages is followed by the creative richness of the Renaissance 
and the Reformation. 

While we are likely to look upon social minds as merely transi- 
tive, as vanishing with the situation from which the individuals 


emerge, they obey the same laws of cumulative interpenetration as 
particular minds. The former may have the greater permanency; 
and in the midst of the vicissitudes and the coming and going of 
abstract individuals, they may continue their living reality — not 
merely the outward form — from generation to generation in the 
nation, the family, the community, the church, etc. Here, too, 
there is a survival struggle for dominance. Neither in individual 
nor in social history is the conservation of values indiscriminate and 
absolute. In the successive overlapping, as well as in simultaneous 
fusion, there is emphasis and oblivescence ; some factors count 
for more. Some motif dominates the melody of each historic 
stream. Thus perished a large part of Greek civilization because 
the interest had shifted. This motif may persist generation after 
generation, guiding or prejudicing the current of life. Nor is the 
social mind, once it exists, dependent upon the individual factors 
involved in its creation. While individual minds are necessary 
conditions at the birth, yet the social mind is something more than 
the abstract individuals. It has a unique reality of its own. 
This may. continue to exist independently of individual bearers, 
carried on physically by the manuscript, marble, tools, etc., but 
imbedded and swept on all the while in the evolutionary process 
of the universe. We may as finite histories connect with it after 
a long interval of time. Yet when we come upon it, or are enveloped 
by it, we must recognize its uniqueness, its reality, as it enters into 
living relation with ourselves, even as our experiences before going 
to sleep connect with our waking life. It may again sway our 
conduct, as the Greek mind did the Renaissance, even though it 
has been as buried as the civilization of the Hittites. Thus social 
divisions of mind may be functionally reunified as are sometimes 
divided individual minds. 

Again social minds awaken and come to a recognition of their 
own meaning in the stresses and strains of experience as do indi- 
vidual minds. Dormant patriotism bursts into passionate loyalty, 
the feeling of family love and honor into its devoted sacrifice. 
Over vast stretches of time the social consciousness awakes and 
discovers its own fundamental direction in the stream of historic 
change and cries: Be Hebrew, be Greek, be British. 


This has tremendous practical significance. The spirit of the 
nation or the institution — its identity and evolution — is not a mere 
fiction. It is the living creative process in which individual minds 
are bathed and without which they are abstractions. This psychic 
unity may be more real and permanent than biological heredity. 
It constitutes an important survival condition of the latter. It 
furnishes the real basis for the communion of the saints, for the 
sacramental relation of the present with the past by means of which 
the present becomes more than flesh of its flesh — it becomes soul 
of its soul in living vital continuity, as it contributes to the growth 
of this social mind and incarnates its meaning. 

It is not uncommon for a social mind which has reached its 
maturity under its own historic conditions to be grafted by imita- 
tion upon a new people. Thus the religious mind of the ancient 
Hebrews has been grafted upon the Teutons, until their own 
primitive religion seems foreign to them. It must, however, be 
noticed that the mind thus grafted, while it has continuity with the 
past, comes to have a new consciousness, becomes a new social mind; 
the fruit has a new flavor, however faithful in many ways to the 
original type. 

It has been laid down by Tarde as a law that collective imita- 
tion proceeds from within outward. That means that ideas and 
sentiments are imitated before outward forms. The reverse of this 
would seem to be the law, at any rate on the conventional level of 
imitation. The African chieftain has imitated the dress coat 
without any conception of European ideas. The Goths imitated 
the external forms of politics and reUgion, long before they could 
enter into the spirit of the ideas of the civilization which they 
supplanted. The immigrant imitates our clothes and manners, 
before he understands our language. The Japanese have imitated 
the militarism and commercialism of the Occident, but the religious, 
artistic, and ethical ideals of the West have had comparatively little 
influence upon them. On the conventional level, whether in the 
case of individuals or groups, we imitate what has prestige. It is 
different on the rational level. Here social minds, like individuals, 
imitate discriminate^, with reference to intrinsic values instead 
of external associations. It is in this analytical way that Japan is 


imitating Western science and hygiene, whatever their national 
prejudices in general may be. The conventional, non-reflective 
type, however, still largely dominates even civilized nations. 
Hence the craze for fashions and dreadnoughts. 

Social minds have their own consciousness of famiUarity as have 
individual minds. In fact the category of identity is primarily a 
social category and only secondarily a category of individual 
consciousness. We recognize our common memories. We feel a 
coziness in each other's presence as contrasted with the novelty 
of the first meeting. In the midst of the differences we recognize 
the sameness; and welcome or reject this past in accordance with 
its own value and its setting within intervening experiences. The 
mere fact of having a common country or even the use of a common 
language may give us an intense sense of familiarity when we 
meet in a strange environment. 

We have particularly a strong sense of ease and security when we 
move within the traditions of the past, when we recognize the old 
landmarks within the journey of our social thinking. The strength 
of this tone of familiarity is especially strong on its negative side. 
The new discoveries, suggestions, and hypotheses upset society. 
They call forth bitter attacks. They jeopardize the individual's 
position and social standing, if no longer his life. The vehemence 
of the resentment is in proportion to the momentousness of the 
issues involved. It is strongest where the religious sentiment is 
brought into play, which may be by very remote and external 
associations, as in the case of the Copernican and Darwinian 
upheavals. Hence the wise innovator strives to relate the new 
to the old, to put conventional humanity at ease by making them 
recognize the identity in the growth— the fulfilment of the law 
and the prophets. And so in a time of political unrest, the would- 
be reformers fall back upon the Lincolnian ideals. 

Social minds, too, fuse, even as individual minds, and in accord- 
ance with the same laws. Here, also, there is the inhibition of 
certain factors by the dominance of certain other factors. Here, 
too, the intensity of affirmation on the part of one factor gives 
character to the new and larger social unity. Here, also, the 
volume of the suggestion in a certain direction tends to sweep 


away inhibitions. It is hard for a small group to retain its indi- 
vidual characteristics within a large one, unless it can maintain 
an artificial isolation. This may be an isolation from communica- 
tion as in moimtainous regions or a psychological isolation as in the 
case of persecution. 

It has long been recognized that social minds may overlap in a 
hierarchy of greater and greater comprehensiveness. Just as the 
family includes abstract individuals, so families are included within 
communities, communities within states, and states may figure 
in larger schemes of industrial, educational, and military co- 
operation. For Hegel the history of humanity is a unity inclusive 
of states; and this history again is but the temporal staging of the 
eternal life of the absolute. For Fechner the earth soul is a more 
comprehensive soul than the various souls which are part of our 
sphere and in turn this exists within gallaxies of souls until we reach 
the inclusive soul of the universe. 

Two points must be kept in mind in such generalizations of 
social minds. In the first place, we must be careful to follow the 
lead of experience. If social mind means the conscious abandon 
of minds to a common direction, we cannot even now speak of 
hiraianity as one social unity, even though possible in the future. 
When we come to nature, as for instance our earth, our definition of 
social mind seems still less applicable. We fall here into vague 
impersonal abstractions. Analogies of any definite kind fail us. 
In so far as they are applicable, they seem to point the other way. 
As the movements of the earth are mathematically simple and 
stereotyped, they correspond at best to the habitual and automatic 
in our experience. A large part of the earth does not give evidence 
of mentaHty at all, and there is no reason, therefore, to suppose that 
the earth as a whole or any gallaxies of cosmic masses have minds 
corresponding to them. 

In the second place, we must remember that passing from 
a smaller to a more comprehensive unity is not a merely quantitative 
affair. It is not a case of the mere shifting of attention or perspec- 
tive, so as to bring within attention larger and larger fields which 
existentially are one continuum of statically related facts. The 
''compounding" of minds is creative, not merely a case of more 


extensive awareness. Each social situation, like each chemical 
compound, must be understood as such and empirically. So with 
each recompounding of social unities. They mean new social 
minds with new properties. This does not mean that they are 
private. They can be understood and predicted in their creative 
interactions, but they must be understood a posteriori. Each 
social mind is a unique result of fusing impulses, not a mere intel- 
lectual map which can be passed over in smaller or larger relations 
at will. In his theory of the recompounding of consciousness, 
William James, following Fechner, seems to hold that smaller fields 
can be taken over into larger in a purely neutral way, it making no 
difference to the inner nature of the smaller configurations that they 
are thus taken over and pooled in the larger mind. While he relied 
on the subconscious and mystical for this taking-over, instead of 
relying on logical implication as has that speculative idealism which 
he combated to the end, yet he seems to agree with the latter doc- 
trine that the case of the separation of the smaller from the larger 
field amounts, on the part of the smaller, merely to the shifting 
of the threshold of attention, while on the part of the larger it means 
a taking-over and coexistence of the smaller within its comprehen- 
sive perspective of relationships. Both of these conditions — the 
receding of the threshold and the taking-over — he believes to be 
illustrated pre-eminently by religious experience of which mysticism 
is for him the most characteristic type. In a small way, it is illus- 
trated by our ordinary taking-over of smaller fields, as when for 
example the dog's experience in our library is taken over into our 
significant relationships. 

This view of mind assumes that mind consists of intellectual 
constellations of content which can be taken over again and again 
and whose fringes only carry us into further external relations such 
as the widening fields of memory. It neglects the deeper side of 
mind, that of volitional energy. While we may state mind, as 
we have seen, in terms of fusion, it must be in terms of creative 
volitional fusion, not merely in terms of sensations and ideas. 
This does not mean that experience is made up of absolute private 
circles of consciousness, as James himself at one time seemed to 
hold, but it means that mental situations like all energetic situa- 


tions must be understood empirically and that prediction is pos- 
sible only as we learn a posteriori to abstract certain constant and 
controlHng factors in recurring similar situations. A social mind 
is not a mere taking-over of the abstract individual contents a, b, 
c, etc. , as blocks with a new external context. It means a new voli- 
tional' unity which must be understood as such. And if there is a 
more comprehensive social mind, such as the divine mind, here too, 
as indeed is known in our religious consciousness, we have not 
merely a neutral recompounding of our finite minds in a larger 
constellation, such as our external mathematical perspectives have 
made us famihar with; but we have a unique creative synthesis 
which must be appreciated as such and cannot be stated as merely 
an extension of our workaday unities. Whether it is sincere prayer, 
or solemn moral tightening, or mystical elation, the man of this 
world knows it not except in an external way. It cannot be 
translated into content of eye and ear nor into the narrow cate- 
gories of the worldly heart, though it is perfectly understandable by 
those who have entered into the divine communion themselves. 
You might as well try to resolve love into pressure, motor and 
vascular sensations to the man who has not experienced it, as try 
to recompound the worldly man into the reUgious consciousness. 
In either case, what is recompounded is but the superficial intel- 
lectual aspect of the situation, not its deeper volitional and emo- 
tional value. The creative view of situations, with its impHed 
empiricism as regards knowledge, must be maintained throughout 
the hierarchy of mind. The larger mind may intersect the indi- 
vidual centers at a different level from that of the less extensive 
social minds. The dominant direction or interest may be different. 
While within the national mind the smaller group-minds, such as 
families and neighborhoods, must overlap in a certain respect, 
there may be temporary conflicts. War sacrifices the famOy. 
Sectional interests are sometimes brought into jeopardy by the 
national will. In any case a compound of compounds does not in 
the case of society, any more than in chemistry, need to mean a 
summing-up of the characteristics of the smaller units. 

The unity of the Absolute, if it exists, is s,o intimate and solvent 
that all other minds, individual and social, are merged into its 


one field, be that logical or aesthetic. The Absolute tolerates no 
unities but its own. The others are fragments at best of what 
a fuller insight reveals as one and unique. It gives rise to only one 
immense fusion. Our failure to know this completely, we are told, 
is merely a limitation of our attention. The field is eternally 
complete. In our practical life, however, we must recognize a 
number of individual fusions in which we must empirically share 
in various degrees and in various bonds in order to live life reason- 
ably and efficiently. 

Inclusion within a social unity, finally, does not mean that every- 
thing pertaining to the factors within the group is shared. As in 
the fusion of contexts within the particular mind only the relevant 
aspects enter into the fusion, so in the fusion of individuals. The 
common level of intersection, in any one case, necessarily leaves out 
much which may be precipitated in other situations. And in the 
larger groups, like a nation, within which many smaller groups, such 
as families, neighborhoods, etc., overlap, many opinions and char- 
acteristics remain imique to the smaller groups. It is not only the 
extent which is different, the basis of fusion is different. But 
some overlapping there must be. Some common characteristics, 
however thin, some common traditions and sentiments, some com- 
mon symbols must exist. The group mind also, like the particular 
person, must, in order to rise to self-consciousness have a name, by 
means of which it can set itself over against its non-ego — other 
group minds or it may be refractory persons. 


The moral question, as we have already intimated, is a different 
one from the question of the psychological fusion of individuals 
into new unities. We must estimate the larger persons, as we 
estimate the smaller, in terms of the ideal requirements which we 
bring to their dominating purposes. The mere fact of social unities 
being larger does not necessarily make them ethical. More com- 
prehensive class unities, such as labor or capital or military 
co-operation, may be stimulated by a negative rather than by 
positive loyalty — by the pressure of common danger rather than by 
the articulate consciousness . of the common good. So far from 


loyalty itself being a criterion of value, the ethical problem is 
generally an evaluation of loyalties. Social unities, in order to be 
ethical, must have for us the consciousness of being ultimately 
worth while, of being a clear and distinct resolving of claims. 

In the past there have been two opposite attitudes as regards 
the morality of the social group. Some have held that the crowd 
is always immoral. For them only individuals in their abstract 
and reflective capacity can be regarded as the subjects of moral 
judgments. This view confuses the crowd with the mob. The 
mob is always immoral, because it means the dominance of the 
lower primitive instincts and the inhibition of the later instincts and 
intellectual processes. But the group may be deliberative and 
self-conscious. It may pursue articulate ideals. Even when the 
unity is instinctive and emotional it may be the confluence and 
reinforcement of the ideal tendencies of human nature rather than 
of the primitive. The social mind may mean an enthusiastic 
loyalty to a great cause. It may mean self-forge tfulness for family 
welfare or patriotic sacrifice for country. It may mean a deeper 
and richer sacramental communion with God than the individual 
is capable of in his abstract capacity. The worth of the social 
unity must be determined by the worth of its cause and its relation 
to other causes, not by any specific type of consciousness. It 
may be better than the individual in his separate capacity. In the 
end, moreover, all ethical value is social, is bound up with social re- 
lations. There is no goodness in the abstract. Individual morality 
is potential — what we have a right to expect in social relations. 

It has been held, on the other hand, that loyalty to the social and 
institutional, in ever-widening circles, constitutes morality. The 
supreme command according to Royce is: Be loyal. Royce, like 
Hegel, takes for granted that the more concrete unity always 
brings out the more ideal element in human nature. In the con- 
flict of loyalties, therefore, the more comprehensive loyalty must 
be maintained. In terms of Hegel's optimism, this meant the 
adoption of the Prussian state of his day and the Hegelian type 
of absolute idealism. 

There is, of course, a great deal of truth in the attitude that the 
social is the moral — the concrete personal supplementation within 


the group. Often at least the abstract human relations are synony- 
mous with the immoral. At any rate the converse, we have seen, 
viz., that the moral must in the long run be the social, must always 
hold. There can be no private moraUty. But social minds like 
individual have various degrees of ethical worth. Some of them 
are non-moral, some of them are immoral. If the social were always 
the moral, the problem of boys' gangs, of questionable clubs, of 
lynching mobs, of political Tammanies, would not be so serious 
as it is now. Some social minds, like some individual minds, need 
to be stamped out. Social loyalty may be mistaken. Sometimes 
the individual is wiser than society. Organized society stoned 
the ancient prophets, gave Socrates the hemlock, crucified Jesus, 
and burned Bruno. Yet these indicated the direction of history. 
The social must not, at any rate, be taken as static and isolated. 
It must be taken in its historic movement. The moral life consists 
not merely in loyalty to that which exists. It does not signify 
merely the conservation of past value. It includes also criticism 
and desire for improvement — the striving to create new types of 
values— higher unities whether of higher quality or of greater 
extensity. Individualization and generalization both have their 
place in social progress. 

Beside the commandment to be loyal, we must, therefore, add 
another commandment: Be creative. Loyalty must not be blind. 
It must be accompanied by selection and criticism, a passion for 
improvement, a striving to make real your individual insight. 
And with the reaction, the insight grows. We seem to recollect 
the supra-individual life which lies about and envelops us, from 
the dreamy infancy of the race, through its age-long struggle for 
meaning and freedom. This commandment looks toward the future 
as the other looks toward the past. It lays stress upon the contri- 
bution made by the individual will. It urges each of us: Help 
in the measure you can, whether great or small, to make clear and 
distinct the human relations of the changing world, of which you are 
a part. Do your part to produce greater harmony of claims in 
the midst of our human complexity. If we are intersection points 
in enveloping and overlapping social minds, we are at any rate not 
mathematical points, but dynamic points— centers of initiative. 


We can give and take. We help create the atmosphere, the 
Weltgeist, which for better or worse reacts in turn upon us. It is 
our common impulse forward, our common faith in the future, our 
common willingness to risk, which creates the tension that selects 
and inspires our type of leaders, whether demagogues or statesmen, 
charlatans or prophets. It is our common sentiment, which 
elevates or corrupts. Without our common faith the prophet can 
do nothing. The Sophist and poHtical grafter are but symptoms 
of a diseased or unorganized social mind. 

If the law of loyalty makes us sharers in the great, warm living 
stream of humanity, past and present, the law of creativeness makes 
us a part of the eternal direction of the universe— prophetic of the 
kingdom of heaven. Furthermore, it is only through this indi- 
vidual endeavor, this travail and sacrifice to make ourselves 
creatively a part of the human stream, that we can gain true insight 
into the social heritage, the drift of history, and thus make our 
loyalty rational and significant, instead of being a mere blind 
imitation— an intolerant conservatism which builds the tombs of 
the prophets, but crucifies those that are sent. 

Social minds, like individual minds, may become immortal, 
not only as impersonal influences in the stream of history but as 
individual souls, when they embody permanent and universal 
purposes; when they express, clearly and distinctly, essential 
human types. Thus the Greek mind, the Hebrew mind, the Roman 
mind, the mediaeval mind remain as living vitalizing unities in 
spite of the vicissitudes and changes of temporal events. In their 
spirituaKzed bodies of language, tradition, art, science, institu- 
tions, and rehgious symbols, they continue to live an individual life. 
And in the enveloping historic process, with its growth and unifica- 
tion, they continue to contribute their vital energy long after the 
temporal individuals, who once were their bearers, have passed 
from the scene. Social minds, as individuals, are subject to the 
law of survival. They persist by no external fiat, but by their 
capacity for leading and for furnishing permanent objects of 
appreciation. Whether they shall live forever in the changing 
cosmic weather depends upon whether they are unique embodiments 
of an eternally significant idea, the incarnation of a divine insight. 



Author of Sociological Study of the Bible 

The development of American public opinion with reference to 
the "social problem" during the last twenty years has been so 
remarkable that an attempt to diagnose its present condition from 
the standpoint of psychological sociology may be in order. It is 
hardly too much to say that the American mind is now undergoing 
a revolution comparable to that which marked the rise of Protes- 
tantism at the opening of modern history. The new spiritual order 
of things may not have entirely "arrived"; but its outlines are in 
sight; and the services of a prophet are hardly necessary to indi- 
cate the direction in which society is tending. 

At the outset, we hazard the proposition that American society 
has even now ceased to produce moral and social leaders whose chief 
emphasis falls upon the "individuar^ in the campaign against sin. 
What we mean is, that the moral censor of twenty years ago cannot 
command his former hearing: he is unable to get into the spot- 
light. There are even yet, of course, plenty of the older type who 
speak from obscure platforms; but the nation has at least moved 
this far from its ancient moorings : it will admit no new leader to the 
franchise of national confidence who undertakes to point a moral by 
using the shortcomings of any individual as the whole text or 
pretext of his argument! 

If specifications are wanted before we proceed, they can be 
readily supplied by running over the outstanding aspects of Ameri- 
can life for the last two decennia. Twenty years ago, we were a 
nation of rank individuahsts; and if we have not wholly graduated 
from the swaddling clothes of that philosophy, we are at least ready 
for a change of garments. In politics, not long ago, the popular 
cry was " The Trusts!" by which we really meant certain individuals 


who were supposed to have the power to fashion the world at their 
own pleasure. It was this state of mind which made possible the 
meteoric rise of Mr. Bryan to fame. Mr. Roosevelt, at the same 
time, was vigorously at work in another quarter of the political 
horizon, denouncing the "boss" as the root of all evil. But today 
both of these gentlemen have outgrown their earher standpoints; 
and if neither of them has yet matured a coherent program, they 
have at least "progressed." In politics now, the cry is for "social 
justice," and investigation of the fundamental monopolies which 
underlie business. 

On the industrial side of life, the ruling tendency among the 
foremost men twenty years ago was to assume that financial success 
is due solely to the element of individual initiative. The factory 
owner, the railroad president, and the banker were fond of telling 
how they began as poor boys and worked their way up the ladder. 
The prevaiKng impression was that any poor boy with "push" 
could become rich. But today this is decidedly a thing of the past. 
And while it may be true that the business man has not yet had time 
to study economics and sociology, his consciousness of the industrial 
situation is modified; and he is learning to take up a different 
standpoint. "The rich man," says Frederick Harrison, "is simply 
the man who has managed to put himself at the end of a long chain, 
or into the center of an intricate convolution, and whom society and 
law suffer to retain the joint product conditionally." This truth is 
gradually forcing its way into the mind of the business world. 
Bellamy states it even more clearly: "All that man produces today 
more than did his cave-dwelling ancestors, he produces by virtue of 
the accumulated achievements, inventions, and improvements of 
the intervening generations, together with the social and industrial 
machinery which is their legacy Nine hundred and ninety- 
nine parts out of the thousand of every man's produce are the result 
of his social inheritance and environment." 

From the point of view of religion, the change is equally startling. 
Twenty years ago the prevailing gospel was a kind of propaganda 
for the redemption of the world by spiritual arithmetic through the 
simple addition of "saved souls" to the communion of the saints. 
Society was viewed as a mere crowd composed of "individuals." 


To save society, you merely had to rescue the constituent units. 
This theory found expression in the popular hymn : 

Throw out the life-line across the dark wave; 

There is a brother whom someone should save. 

Its foremost representative was, perhaps, Dwight L. Moody, the 
famous evangelist. This admirable and worthy lay preacher was 
approaching the close of a remarkable career. He had put stress 
upon the old-fashioned "simple gospel," and was innocent of all 
compromise with sociology. In his later evangelistic tours, it 
began to be apparent that the public was not giving its old response 
to the gospel appeal. Mr. Moody himself was forced to note that 
his audiences were not simply ''people," but certain kinds of people. 
Speaking on one occasion in New York City where the "Labor 
Temple" now stands, he was unable to draw a large audience from 
the local population; but going uptown he attracted plenty of 
auditors from the middle and well-to-do classes. Moody was big 
enough not to be embittered by such experiences; but they made 
him thoughtful. One sign of his outreach toward new things v/as 
his invitation to the higher critic George Adam Smith (then of the 
Free Church College, Glasgow) to speak to the Moody School at 
Northfield. He said to this scholar: "Explain to me briefly what 
the higher criticism is"; and after listening for awhile he asked: 
"What's the use of telUng the people there are two Isaiahs, when 
most of them don't even know there was one?" 

Two eras confronted each other in the persons of these men. 
Mr. Moody was perplexed by the new bibHcal scholarship, and 
saddened by the alienation of the working classes from the church 
and reUgion. In the meanwhile, the advance of higher criticism 
was rapid and steady. At the present time, the leading theological 
seminaries of most Protestant denominations in America and Europe 
have been reorganized around a new view of the Bible and of re- 
ligion. The younger ministers and the more progressive clergy 
are profoundly influenced by the reconstruction of theological 
thought. The religious process today is distracting, because, along 
with the rise of higher criticism, there has come a shifting of 
emphasis from personal salvation to the "social gospel." The 
development of thought, instead of being simple, is a very complex 


matter. There is acute spiritual distress at present, because the 
nature of the process going on around us is not clearly in evidence. 
To many minds, it seems as if all the old landmarks have been swept 
away. The constructive aspects of the newer scholarship are not 
yet in full sight; but every day brings us nearer to a positive issue. 
The advocates of old-school theology, of course, take a merely 
personal view of the situation: Our troubles, they think, are caused 
by certain scholars who have led this generation astray. But no 
man can cause a great historic movement, such as that going on 
around us in religion. What we may do is to guide and control 
the inevitable. The older theology looked upon the Bible and its 
religion as having been projected into human history like a meteor 
from the sky. The newer theology contemplates the Hebrew- 
Christian rehgion as the outcome of a process in which conscience 
and morality are the central factors. "Clouds and darkness are 
round about Him; but righteousness and justice are the foundation 
of Hi's throne." It would be inaccurate to say that theological 
scholars are unanimously conscious of the sociological meaning of 
higher criticism in the technical sense. Yet they are becoming 
more aware of it every day, as criticism takes its place in the wider 
perspective of general culture. 

The assimilation of politics, economics, and religion with the 
"social problem" has been so gradual that we are scarcely conscious 
of the change in the American attitude toward "reform" in general. 
It needs to be recalled that when the American public of twenty or 
twenty-five years ago was in a reform frame of mind, it was not 
consciously thinking in terms of poHtics, economics, or religion. 
Reform was treated as a kind of undertaking that had no organic 
relation to conventional modes of human activity. The reformer's 
vocation was looked upon as an enterprise which could proceed 
independently, while existing pohtical, industrial, and rehgious 
institutions remained standing without essential alteration. But 
the change which has taken place here is just as remarkable as that 
which is registered by other phases of American life. Reform has 
passed out of the individuahstic into the collective stage. It is no 
longer viewed as an isolated matter, but is blended with all aspects 
of social life. 


To go back twenty years, then, and approach the world of today 
along the lines of politics, business, religion, and reform is like taking 
different routes which converge toward a common center. We are 
no longer a nation of rank individualists; and this fact is the under- 
lying condition of all that we do and think, whether we clearly 
realize it or not. Characteristic of the present social awakening is 
the experience of Lincoln Steffens with the problem of municipal 
corruption. Mr. Steffens began his investigation of city politics on 
the basis of individualism: certain "bosses" needed to be exposed 
and deposed, and then politics would be all right. The remedy for 
misgovernment was the election of "good, clean men." This was 
very simple and easy. But as the investigation went on, certain 
underground connections were discovered between bosses and 
"business." Then it became apparent that the interest of business 
men in poHtics was not to be explained merely on the theory of 
"individual sin": it was due to economic pressure which the un- 
initiated layman could not comprehend without actual experience 
of the facts. Political "corruption," therefore, began to take on the 
character of a signpost pointing to maladjustments of the social 
system as a whole. Then it became clear that the church was timid 
about handling the problem in vigorous fashion. Finally, the truth 
was forced into view that the moral sense of the entire community is 
not such a direct and infallible guide as we have taken for granted. 
Mr. Steffens' conclusion was that if he went much farther on the 
trail of political corruption, he would catch himself and all the rest 
of us. In brief, he had learned, through patient investigation, that 
what we glibly call social problems are merely the various phases, or 
aspects, of one fundamental problem which simply cannot be cut up 
into sections and solved piecemeal. 

The present social awakening provides a training school for that 
"New England conscience" with which America started. It is the 
ethical discipline of us all. By "New England conscience" we 
refer, of course, not to a provincialism, but to a state of mind. In 
Great Britain, we should have to call it the "Nonconformist 
conscience." The moral headquarters of America were at one time 
situated in its northeastern section; but the Puritan sense of right- 
eousness is now pretty well diffused over the country. The 
American citizen of German, or Italian, or, if you please, of African, 


descent may talk with a straight face about "our heritage from our 
Pilgrim forefathers." We make bold to affirm that the New- 
England conscience is not dead nor even sleeping; but that it 
stands at the basis of the national character, and is now struggling 
to adjust itself to the moral demands of today. The forefathers of 
our national life had strong ideas about justice, duty, morality, and 
right dealing between man and man. And we have no less ethical 
fervor than they in seeking for the "rightness" of the social prob- 
lem as it unrolls before us. A striking illustration of the new 
national spirit, which gathers into itself all that we have been say- 
ing about the general situation, is the famous "tainted money" 
controversy, which flared quickly up a few years ago, and then 
promptly subsided. That excitement could no more be repeated 
today than the Civil War could be fought over again. Yet, if the 
Reverend Washington Gladden was right in his position, we ought 
to be having a continuous ethical side show in America, with 
"tainted money" as the leading bill of attraction. 

It will be recalled that after certain officials in the Congrega- 
tional churches had solicited and received from Mr. Rockefeller a 
contribution to their missionary board, certain ministers objected 
strenuously. The leading figure in the campaign of protest has 
reviewed the controversy in a volume of Recollections under the sug- 
gestive rubric "Partnership with Plunderers." Everybody might 
be wilHng to agree with him that the "tainted money" discussion 
"revealed a widespread need of elementary instruction in the first 
principles of ethics" (p. 403) ; but we might not be unanimous about 
the line along which that instruction ought to proceed. The pro- 
testing party took the ground that the money in question was not 
earned; that it came to the donor's hand through plunder, and not 
through any service that he had rendered to the community; and 
that the acceptance of this money by the Congregational authori- 
ties brought them into partnership with iniquity. These persons 
argued the case upon the assumption that the fortunes of the very 
wealthy are due to individual sin; and that if certain rich men 
would only stop sinning, a large part of the evil and corruption which 
exist in our politics and business would be cured straightway.^ If 

' Washington Gladden, Recollections (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1909), chap, 
xxvi, pp. 398-409. 


the fundamental assumption were true, the task of the moral 
teacher today would be far simpler than in fact it is; and if the 
problem of "great wealth" could really be treated by such methods, 
our industrial and civic ills would be far less perplexing than they 
are. Dr. Gladden bears witness that he received hundreds of 
approving letters from all parts of the country, and that he had the 
emphatic support of the great audience which heard his argument 
at the meeting of the Mission Board in Seattle. This is no doubt 
true. But ethical questions are not to be decided by counting 
heads. The less fortunate are always in a majority, and are always 
jealous of those who possess a greater abundance; and this jealousy 
exists irrespective of the manner in which the more fortunate 
acquire their wealth. The applause of the multitude cannot 
always be identified with the verdict of absolute morality. The 
feehngs of the people are not, of course, to be treated disrespectfully, 
for it is probably true that when all the facts in a given case are 
before the great democratic jury, vox populi is as near as we can 
come to vox Dei. But there is the rub : the New England conscience 
has not yet digested the facts of the social problem.' 

America is now struggHng to adjust itself to the fact that the 
problem of "wealth" raises the whole subject of the system in which 
wealth is made. What we are facing is not a mere question of 
"rebates," or "combination in restraint of trade," or "plunder," or 
"trusts." The discussion which is now going on brings into debate 
the categories of property in capital and land which lie at the 
foundation of all business. The problem of the Steel Trust, for 
instance, is not to be settled by saying that its income is "tainted"; 
that Mr. Morgan, Mr. Carnegie, and their partners ought not to 
combine and raise prices; and that if they will not voluntarily cease 
these practices, they should be coerced by law. Let us grant, for 
the sake of the argument, that every dollar which the Steel 
Company gets for its product stands for only seventy-five cents in 

' Part of the field indicated by this paper has been traversed in greater detail by 
Professor Edward A. Ross, of the University of Wisconsin, in his book Sin and Society. 
"Now, as ever," he writes, "the judgments the average man passes upon the conduct 
of his fellow are casual, inconsistent, and thoughtless" (p. 25). And further: "In 
today's warfare on sin, the reactions of the public are about as serviceable as gongs and 
stink-pots in a modern battle" (p. viii). 


real service-value, and twenty-five cents in "exploitation," or 
"plunder." And let us extend the supposition to all the great 
industrial concerns, in order to make the argument general. Now, 
it is exactly this problem which the Sherman anti-trust law under- 
takes to meet and fails to solve. The Sherman statute is based 
upon the so-called "abhorrence of EngHsh law for monopoly." 
Anglo-Saxon jurisprudence is supposed to detest monopoly in the 
same mysterious way that Nature "abhors" a vacuum. This 
principle sounds very democratic and brave wljen proclaimed as a 
generality. But when examined in the light of history, it stands out 
in its real significance. 

The truth is that the tainted-money philosopher does not voice 
a full-rounded morality. In his fight against "big" business, he 
represents the aggrieved moral sense of little business. It is the 
small shippers and manufacturers and storekeepers that he seeks to 
protect. His complaint against big business men as the chief of 
sinners overlooks a fundamental fact which plays havoc with his 
argument. If we are to admit, with him, that every dollar of big 
business income stands for an element of exploitation, then he, in 
turn, must go farther, and admit that the institutions of private 
proprietorship in capital and in land, upon which the entire structure 
of industry is founded, involve elements of exploitation. To this 
claim he will not fail to reply : "But how do our existing institutions 
of property in capital and in land spell exploitation ? These insti- 
tutions are legal. Everybody recognizes the rightfulness of private 
property in the machinery of wealth production and in the soil. 
What have these things to do with the problem of plunder?" Let 
us look at this question. 

It is obvious that human labor did not create the earth, and 
that the value of land arises from either its fertility, its mineral 
deposits, or the presence of population. When the proprietor of a 
given piece of land receives rent for the use of his land, he gets 
money for which he does not give a return out of his own labor. 
There is no escaping this conclusion. It stands at the heart of all 
speculation in real estate. The market price of a given piece of land 
is the estimated amount of money on which the rent of that land 
will pay interest over and above taxes. The "unearned incre- 


ment," about which we hear so much, is the increase in rental value 
of land which follows upon the growth of population. Land is 
purchased at a certain price, and then held for a rise. The phe- 
nomenon of land value exists not only in connection with land which 
can be measured and sold by the square foot; it exists wherever a 
franchise is granted to lay rails, or pipe lines, or to string telegraph, 
telephone, or electric wires over specified strips of land. Private 
property in land carries with it an element of exploitation which 
affects all business that has anything to do with land either in the 
form of real estate or in that of quasi-public franchises. And this 
is only part of the story. 

All business, both big and little, is conducted by the use of 
tools, machinery, buildings, etc., which are technically known as 
''capital." There is, of course, a broad sense in which land or any 
form of wealth can be viewed as "capital." But from the stand- 
point of abstract analysis, there is a difference between land, which 
is not created by human labor, and things produced by labor for use 
in the operations of industry. It is in this sense that we employ the 
term " capital ' ' in the present connection. Now, unless the tainted- 
money moralist sets up the claim that the existing proprietors of 
capital created that form of property out of their own labor, or got 
it in exchange for wealth created by their own labor, then he will be 
compelled to admit that private capitalism also involves an element 
of exploitation. The capitalists who own railroads, manufacturing 
plants, buildings, steamships, etc.. cannot by any possibihty have 
produced these things by their own personal labor. We, therefore, 
have to note two things: (i) Private ownership of capital is in itself 
exploitation. (2) Not only so; but capitalism considered as a 
process, in which the capitalist enters the field of business life with 
all the advantages conferred by ownership, in competition with a 
vast army of persons who have no capital and have only their labor 
to sell— this phase of capitalism brings with it a continuous 
exploitation by way of interest and profit. 

These aspects of the property institutions which underlie and 
condition all business, big and little, are ignored by conventional 
morality because they are so familiar and universal. The tainted- 
money philosopher thinks in terms of categories which he assumes 


will stand without criticism, when, as a matter of fact, the very 
terms of his own thought need inspection. The trust magnate 
in all lines of industry has gone ahead with the game and worsted 
the small competitor by means of property institutions which, 
whatever their absolute moral character, have been until recently 
viewed as "right" and "legitimate" by everybody. But the 
change from individualistic to socialized thinking makes the tainted- 
money philosopher more and more a lonely figure. No longer 
may we condemn particular individuals as the causes of great 
public problems. We must all be ready now to acknowledge our 
community of responsibility for the social tangle. 

Our new sociological insight, however, has not yet extended far 
enough to dispose of the superstition that the uninstructed con- 
science is fully equipped unto all good works. The judgment of the 
conventional "good" citizen may be unwittingly as evil as that of 
the worst criminal. An example from the experience of our New 
England forefathers illustrates this. The Puritan immigration to 
Massachusetts in the seventeenth century brought into close 
contact two sharply contrasted social orders in a way which was not 
realized by any of the people then living in the world. On the one 
hand were the Indians, in the clan stage of evolution, with common 
property in the soil, and having no more idea of the complexities of 
individual private ownership of real estate than a South Sea Islander 
has of an electric dynamo. Over against the Indian, the God- 
fearing Puritan loomed up suddenly. The white man brought with 
him not only an objective material outfit wholly strange to the 
native, but an equally alien system of property-concepts based on 
the foundation of Roman and English jurisprudence. And the 
white man was as ignorant of the Indian as the native was of the 
white man. When the Puritans made treaties with the Indians, 
and undertook to purchase land in fee simple, the transaction was 
looked at, necessarily, from two different standpoints. To the 
Puritan, it was an ordinary matter of real estate business, such as 
took place in the home country. To the Indian, it seemed as if the 
foreigner were giving him a few trinkets, bits of cloth, etc., in 
exchange for the right to live in the land as a neighbor. From the 
Indian's point of view, Massachusetts was as much his country as 


before. The Puritan, on the other hand, felt that he had acquired 
rights of proprietorship just as sacred as those of the native. Con- 
sequently, as the eastern shore filled up, and the English moved 
inland, war became inevitable. There was no possibility of 
harmonizing the divergent views of the two races. They simply 
did not and could not understand each other. So the Indian tried 
to exterminate the foreigner, and failed; and the Puritan wiped the 
native race from the map of New England. 

Posterity has hit off the ethical paradox by saying that v*^hen the 
Puritans reached this country, they first fell on their knees, and then 
fell on the aborigines. Mr. Palfrey, the learned historian of New 
England, has been very careful to point out, in vindication of his 
ancestors, that they scrupulously "paid" the Indians for all territory 
which they occupied; yet, at the same time. Palfrey admits (with- 
out being conscious of the problem involved) that personal owner- 
ship of land was a conception which had not yet risen upon the mind 
of the Indian.^ Thus, we see that not only were the Puritans them- 
selves unable to perceive the situation in its true colors, but that a 
learned historian, more than two centuries later, was also oblivious 
to it. While Palfrey's history was being published (1858 et foil.), 
the New England conscience was again going astray, this time on 
the slavery question. The Webster party was on one side; the 
Sumner party was on the other; and not until the Civil War did 
New England succeed in adjusting itself to the moral demands of 
the situation. 

We recall these facts in order to show that the present age is not 
the only time of moral perplexity and struggle in American history. 
The past, indeed, was no golden age, as some would fondly believe. 
It was marked by epochs of transition the same in principle as that 
in w^hich we now find ourselves. Our ancestors were no more per- 
fect than we are. There has been no moral decadence from an age 
of pristine impeccability. While we have big problems to solve, the 
conscience of the people is more fully awake than ever before. We 
are moving into a new period in which the question is not whether 
America is to be controlled by radicalism or by conservatism, but: 
Shall radicalism be controlled by sanity or by insanity ? 

' Palfrey, History of New England (Boston, 1858), I, 36, 37, 38; cf. Ill, 138; IV, 
364. 419. 


In spite of the progress registered by the last twenty years, it 
has to be confessed that the change thus far is one of general atmos- 
phere rather than of intelligent conviction about concrete aspects of 
the case. Twenty years ago, we were all dead set against the 
so-called "criminal poor," as a matter of course. Today, we are in 
peril of being equally dead set against the so-called "criminal rich." 
We have no more right to assume that the present hue and cry after 
the "man higher up" is a sign of progress in moral perception than 
a slave-hunter would have to assume that there is any essential 
difference between putting bloodhounds on the track of quadroons 
and putting them on the scent of full-blooded Negroes. We are in 
danger of trying to persuade ourselves that the substitution of one 
kind of quarry for another constitutes a radical transformation in 
the nature of the hunt. At the moment this paper is being written, 
the president of the New York, New Haven & Hartford Railroad is 
in legal toils under charge of obstructing the free course of business; 
and the president of the National Cash Register Company is re- 
ported to be facing a prison sentence for a similar cause. If any 
considerable portion of the American public thinks that the passage 
of laws like the Sherman anti-trust act, and the prosecution and 
imprisonment of corporation heads under this legislation, will meet 
the difficulties now before us, that section of our people is destined 
to have a rude awakening. If the people, through the agency of 
their government, begin to clap millionaires into jail for playing the 
game of business on the basis of property institutions which the 
people themselves do not question, then we shall present the spectacle 
of a nation which not only stultifies itself morally, but which also 
impeaches its own intelligence. 

When the United States Supreme Court rendered the Dred Scott 
decision, the court was technically right: it was bound to interpret 
the law within the terms of existing statutes. Nevertheless, the 
decision marked the breakdown of an imposing social organ; and 
the crisis was resolved only by the violence of a great civil war 
which incidentally abolished the type of property in question. A 
similar breakdown is indicated by current decisions in the cases of 
the Standard Oil Company and other corporations coming within 
the purview of the Sherman law. The real trouble, of course, is not 


in the Supreme Court, but in the attitude of mind which forces the 
passage of such legislation as the Sherman law. So far as the actual 
results go, the entire anti-trust campaign in the United States down 
to the present hour has no more relevance than the amputation of 
pimples as a cure for the blood disease that makes the pimples. It 
is mere fussy tinkering with superficialities; and the sooner people 
find this out, the better for all of us. Popular prejudice of the 
moment finds a caterer in Hearst's, which continues to print Mr. 
Archbold's private correspondence with the righteous air of pro- 
ducing burglars' tools in police court (how obtained is not stated). 
While fully conscious that he is doing business in a popular market, 
Mr. Hearst would no doubt be entirely obtuse to the suggestion that 
his reading of the Standard Oil mind is connected not remotely with 
his failure to qualify in the statesman class. 

If the evident intention of the government to press the trust 
issue farther is based on the policy of stinging the national con- 
science into an exploration of the social system as a whole by frankly 
showing up the limitations of its anti-trust and anti-protection 
remedies, then the Wilson administration is likely to cover itself with 
a glory which has attached to no administration since the time of 
Lincoln. On the other hand, if the intention of the government is 
based only on the policy of revising the tariff and pressing the 
Sherman law to the limit, then the Wilson administration lacks the 
necessary qualities of political leadership, and it will presently find 
itself confronted by a tremendous demand for goods which, in the 
nature of the case, it cannot deliver. The force of conscience in 
human society is like that of steam in the locomotive, which is 
guided by the logic of the engine's mechanism and by the intelligence 
of the engineer. Conscience, like steam, is a good servant, but a 
bad master. American society today has reached the turning of the 
ways. It has plenty of the propelling force of conscience; and it 
has also accumulated a new and unused stock of social insight. The 
immediate future will depend upon the intelligence with which our 
leaders teach us to apply our insight to our conscience. Uncon- 
querable optimism should be the faith, as it is the duty, of every 
patriotic man and woman. We should all do our part to see that 
the new social thought and policy of America shall be sane. 


The men who are best qualified by their debt to Professor 
Ward, and by their consciousness of it, to form a just estimate of 
his works, shrink from the responsibility of attempting immediately 
a formal appreciation of his meaning for sociology. While it is 
too early for the estimate, at once critical and comprehensive, 
which those to whom Dr Ward has been preceptor and mentor, hope 
to put on record after due deliberation, the following tributes will 
sufficiently mark the place which he has occupied in the esteem of 
his colleagues, among whom his primacy was always uncontested. 

Professor Ward's connection with Brown University came about 
in a perfectly natural manner. The department of Social Sciences 
was deeply interested in his sociological theories and when his 
Pure Sociology first came from the press, seized the opportunity of 
using it as a textbook for an undergraduate class. The members 
of it survived but still speak in bated breath of their experience 
in completing the book in thirty lectures. Interest in Pure Sociology 
resulted in a simplified edition of it in 1905, The Text Book of Soci- 
ology. When, a little later. Dr. Ward in conversation expressed a 
desire to resign from governmental service in order to devote 
several years to literary work, a suggestion from the department to 
President Faunce met with his hearty sanction, so that in the fall of 
1906 a new professor of sociology at Brown modestly introduced 
himself to his classes. 

Throughout his seven years of service Professor Ward conducted 
three elective classes of upper classmen and graduates, easily win- 
ning their esteem and stimulating the zeal of those students eager 
for a broad outlook over the sociological field. In the perform- 
ance of his duties he was faithful in the extreme, and impressed all 
by his keen intellectuality and his enormous capacity for work. 
As his avocations he studied the geology and botany of Rhode 
Island, often taking long walks of ten to fifteen miles in length. 
Outside of the preparation of his lectures, the material of which he 



planned at some time to put into book form, his chief Hterary task 
was the preparation of the manuscript for his unique collection of 
twelve volumes now on the eve of publication. This great task 
occupied him for the better part of four years and was finally com- 
pleted, even to the index, less than a year ago. 

He was so absorbed in his labors that his life was necessarily a 
secluded one In social intercourse, however, he was always genial 
and kindly, and constantly showed a deep interest in the intellec- 
tual developments of the time and the newer discoveries in the 
several departments of science. Owing to the illness of his wife, 
he spent his last four years in a college dormitory, and thereby 
became more closely identified with the life of the campus. This 
experience he thoroughly enjoyed and he became in consequence 
deeply attached to the university. 

The news of his unexpected death broupht great sorrow both 
to city and college For three days the university flag was at 
half-mast, and at the time of his funeral the college bell was tolled 
and classes were suspended The Providence Bulletin of April 
19, in speaking editorially of him said: 


In the seven years of his connection with the faculty of Brown University, 
Dr. Lester Frank Ward, who died in Washington yesterday, became a familiar 
figure in Providence. Of a rather unusual personal presence, he was frequently 
seen on the streets of the city, though most of those who noted him in his after- 
noon walks were unaware that he was one of the most distinguished scholars 
of his day and generation. 

Dr. Ward was a close student, a keen observer, a prolific and perspicuous 
writer. He received many honors abroad as well as in this country, among 
them election to the presidency of the International Institute of Sociology, 
a body to which only a very few Americans have ever been chosen. Withal 
he was a man of great modesty and kindliness, and endeared himself to his 
students by his ability to reach their point of view and his willingness to do all 
in his power to assist them. 

Brown University has been honored by his seven years association with 
its teaching force, and is measurably poorer by reason of his passing. 

On June 3 the faculty of the university placed on their records 
the following minute in his honor : 

The members of the faculty of Brown University, desirous of expressing 
their deep sorrow at the loss of their esteemed colleague, Professor Lester Frank 


Ward, hereby place on record their appreciation of his sterling character and 
scholarly attainment. Coming to us near the close of a long life of severe 
mental exertion, he brought with him the mature results of his studies and 
undiminished ardor in their pursuit. His labors in botany, geology, and pale- 
ontology had been crowned with success, and his pioneer work in sociology had 
given him a world-wide reputation. He was a profound student, and an 
original investigator in the most abstruse problems with which the human 
mind can grapple. For seven years the faculty and students found in him a 
genial associate, an inspiring teacher and a sincere and unflinching seeker after 

From the very start Professor Ward attracted the attention and 
devotion of his students. At the end of his first year a loving-cup 
was presented to him by his classes; an undergraduate philosophical 
society made him a member; the Liber, an annual undergraduate 
publication, was dedicated to him in 191 2; and at the announce- 
ment of his death the students voluntarily contributed a large sum 
for flowers to be placed on his grave. The feeling his classes held 
for him is well shown in the following contribution from Charles 
Carroll, a candidate for the Master's degree: 

"Every genius is a child; every child a genius." These were almost the 
closing words in Dr. Ward's last lecture at Brown University. In a sense they 
describe the man himself — a genius with the simplicity of a child — that glorious 
simplicity which the Saviour of the world had in mind when he said: "Unless 
ye shall become as little children." But in Dr. Ward it was the simplicity 
which comes from great knowledge, from the possession of truth; that mental 
calmness which must arise from a complete philosophy of life. Such are his 
works. In the classroom Dr. Ward impressed the student as a final authority; 
he seemed to know everything, from the beginning until the final destruction of 
the world. Logic flowed in his words like the gentle current of a country brook 
in midsummer. There was no turbulence, no strain, never a hiatus. Thought 
fitted into thought, each succeeding step resting upon the previous in perfect 
filiation, building always upward and onward. Every lecture was a recapitula- 
tion of evolution; not that tremendous striving of nature, with its waste and 
failures, its trials and errors, its barbarous natural selection; but the superior 
artificial selection which charms the reasoning mind of man. From the solem- 
nity of great thoughts, from the simple statement of universal truths, funda- 
mental yet transcendental in their importance, the class was called back by 
occasional bursts of genuine humor. The gentle Doctor was himself trans- 
formed, his face lighted up, his eyes sparkled — one might at such moments 
imagine what sort of man Dr. Ward had been in his earlier years^for he was 
old when he first came to Brown University. Old but not decadent, aged but 


still active; his mental vision as clear as in his prime. Only the body of Dr. 
Ward had yielded to time, his mind was still fresh and an inspiration to his 

students. ^ ^ 

James Q. Dealey 

Brown University 

Dr Ward was the author of hundreds of contributions to botany, 
paleontology, geology, anthropology, psychology, and sociology. 
The bibliography of his writings would make a fair-sized pamphlet. 
The total numer of his distinct publications amounts nearly to 
six hundred, in this respect showing his kinship with great European 
scholars Uke Virchow or Metchnikoff. During the last thirty 
years this prodigious worker has printed probably not less than six 
or eight thousand pages of book matter, all of it substantial in 
character and appearing with the imprimatur of the leading 
publishers. Probably no other American of our time matches Dr. 
Ward in scientific and philosophic productiveness. 

Although he made original studies in many fields, increasingly 
his interest centered in sociology. He was not of those who amass 
knowledge for its own sake. He regarded all the sciences worth 
prosecuting because they may be made contributory to man's 
progress. With him social problems took precedence over all other 
problems. He came upon the field of sociology at the time when 
Herbert Spencer was at the height of his prestige and influence. 
His great two- volume book Dynamic Sociology, published in 1883, 
challenged the laissez-faire do-nothing conclusions of Spencerian 
sociology upon grounds as deep and philosophic as Spencer himself 
sought. Conceding that nearly all the social progress hitherto 
attained has come about as an incident to the efforts of individuals 
in the pursuit of their ends, he stoutly maintained that the tune 
would certainly come when organized society would consciously 
and intelligently adopt measures to accelerate its progress. Hither- 
to, government has been conceived as a mere policeman to keep the 
peace and to protect private rights. But we are on the threshold 
of time when government will become the instrument of a social 
intelligence for the promotion of the general welfare, and will 
undertake to hasten progress in a great variety of ways. 

*'We are in the stone age of politics," was one of Dr. Ward's 


memorable sayings. He meant that mankind has not even yet 
conceived what might be done by intelligent concerted effort 
to improve its condition. He hailed every step in government 
support of research, and in the promotion of higher education as 
heralding the new day of progress by collective effort. 

Dr. Ward lived to see his philosophy triumph in the minds of 
leaders of thought and opinion. Today there is nothing left of 
the Spencerian theory of the state which thirty years ago dominated 
the political thought of the intellectuals, with the exception of 
a handful of socialists and a few men trained in the economic semin- 
aries of the German universities. Few reahze that Ward's daring 
arraignment of the supposedly perfect methods of Nature and his 
justification of the ways of mind in his Psychic Factors of Civiliza- 
tion, published in 1893, furnishes the philosophy that lies at the 
base of the recent great extension of functions by contemporary 

While many policies that are called "socialistic" find their 
justification in Ward's philosophy of progress, he was no Marxist. 
He was quite as profound and original as Marx, and offered a more 
satisfying sociology. He declined to recognize changes in the 
technique of production as a prime motor of progress, nor was he 
willing to stress class struggle as Marx did. While attaching 
great importance to economic factors in history, he was no historical 
materialist. To him, not the better distribution of wealth but 
the better distribution of knowledge is a first essential to social 
betterment. He insisted that unless the masses be lifted to a 
much higher plane of inteUigence, human exploitation cast out in 
one form will creep back under another form. No policies aiming 
at a better distribution of wealth will avail in the long run so long 
as great differences in intelligence exist at the different social levels. 
On the other hand, provided only that social classes become 
approximately equal in inteUigence, means will be found for putting 
an end to all forms of exploitation as they show themselves. Ward's 
Applied Sociology, published in 1905, is, therefore, the most elab- 
orate and fundamental argument ever made for universal public 
education as the preparation for solving the social problem and 
the basis for a continuous social progress. 


Since the death of Tarda. Dr. Ward has been generally recog- 
nized as the foremost living social philosopher. He served as 
first president of the American Sociological Society, and was presi- 
dent a few years ago of the Institut International de Sociologie. 
His books were translated into many languages, and he kept up a 
correspondence with social thinkers in various parts of the world. 
Some years ago, a Russian translation of his Dynamic Sociology 
was about to be brought out, but the entire edition was destroyed 
by the Russian censor, apparently under the impression that the 
word "dynamic" had something to do with "dynamite." At the 
time of his death. Dr. Ward had completed and was working on 
the proofs of a ten- volume edition of his lesser works and record of 
his intellectual life, announced under the title Glimpses of the 
Cosmos. When one considers the vast range of his intellectual 
interests, the number and variety of his original contributions to 
science, and his great power of generalization, one feels that if 
Aristotle had chanced to be born in Illinois about the middle of 
the nineteenth century, his career would have resembled that of 
Lester F. Ward more than that of any other American of our time. 

In association with Dr. Ward there was an uplift like knowing 
mountain or sea. Like Spencer he was a man who early conceived 
a disinterested life purpose and carried it through to a triumphant 
conclusion. His will was adamantine, and he allowed nothing to 
divert him from the path toward his goal. For thirty-five years 
he labored like a Hercules at his self-imposed task of proving the 
practicabihty of "telic" social progress. In early life he was 
severe and caustic with the champions of traditional ideas, but as 
the opposition began to give way and he found himself followed by 
a growing host of disciples, he mellowed and became very gentle 
with the honest holders of ancient beUefs. With sentimentalists 
he was patient, but he never mixed with them, for he reaHzed that 
what is lacking is not the will to social progress but the way. 

In spirit he was Spartan and he never sacrificed a stroke in 
order to win either money or popular applause. He was profoundly 
imbued with the true scientific man's reverence for truth, and faith 
in its beneficence. He would take no end of pains in order to 
verify a statement or to get a detail exactly right. His generaliza- 


tions rested upon a vast knowledge of facts and nothing could 
induce him to use facts in a partisan way. He was indeed a wor- 
shiper of truth, and as such held himself to a high and exacting 
standard beside which the standards of the ordinary custodian of 
religion and morals seem low and loose. 

Edward Alsworth Ross 

University of Wisconsin 

It is difficult to write objectively of a man whom one has known 
through the best years of life when every thought of him calls up 
memories that one cherishes. Dr. Ward was one of those great 
personaHties in whom neither intellectual power nor erudition ever 
overshadowed the comrade and friend — the elemental human 
nature of such as love their fellowmen. In his seventy-first year 
the spirit of youth and the joy of Hving were still in him. 

His fame will grow as the years pass. In his lifetime his reputa- 
tion suffered in a measure because unfortunately he was most 
widely known as the protagonist of views that many of his con- 
temporaries regarded as paradoxical and questionable. The 
biologists are not likely to accept his contentions about woman's 
place in the scheme of evolution, and the economists show no dis- 
position to shape their theories of utihty and value to his con- 
ceptions. His real work was not in fields of controversy. 

His productiveness was remarkable, even when allowance is 
made for his splendid strength, and the fulness of years allotted to 
him. In paleobotany his achievement would have been a worthy 
life record for a scientific specialist devoted to that one subject. 
Yet that, no more than controversy, was Dr. Ward's real work. To 
sociology he gave his devotion and the best powers of his superbly 
equipped mind. Not counting articles, lectures, and summaries, his 
constructive writings in sociology fill five large, rich volumes. 

Throughout them all runs one dominating and organizing 
thought. Human society, as we who live now know it, is not the 
passive product of unconscious forces. It lies within the domain of 
cosmic law, but so does the mind of man; and this mind of man has 
knowingly, artfully, adapted and readapted its social environment, 


and with reflective intelligence has begun to shape it into an in- 
strument wherewith to fulfil man's will. With forecasting wisdom 
man will perfect it, until it shall be at once adequate and adapt- 
able to all its uses. This he will do not by creative impulse evolv- 
ing in a void, but by constructive intelligence shaping the 
substantial stuff of verified scientific knowledge. Wherefore, 
scientific knowledge must be made the possession of mankind. 
Education must not merely train the mind. It must also equip 
and store, with knowledge. 

This great thought Dr. Ward apprehended, expressed, explained, 
illuminated, drove home to the mind of all who read his pages, as 
no other writer, ancient or modern, has ever done. It is his endur- 
ing and cogent contribution to sociology. 

Franklin H. Giddings 

Columbia University 

The most obvious of Ward's contributions to sociological con- 
struction work was undoubtedly his share in fixing the terminology 
of the new science. He will always stand out among the great 
figures of the Grunderaera as a pioneer in the work of mapping out 
and naming the sections of the sociological field. For with a 
subject-matter so compHcated as that of sociology the student must 
first be a discoverer and explorer before he can successfully handle 
terminological concepts. It is true that not all the terms suggested 
by Ward have been accepted as final, and the captious critic may 
easily instance certain rather mechanical terms of Greek origin 
which are not likely to become current, but there remains a store of 
those which, being real contributions to scientific clarity and pre- 
cision, will permanently enrich sociological literature. Some of 
these he invented, others he imported from the technical sciences 
and naturahzed in sociology, still others he took from common 
usage and gave a quite special significance. Examples are telesis, 
sociocracy, synergy, meliorism, achievement, improvement, oppor- 

But the need for a distinctive terminology was subordinate in 
Ward's mind to a conviction that sociology must vindicate its claim 


as a genuine science. To do this it must have its own special 
equipment. While still a student of the natural sciences he saw 
that sociology must first of all be scientific. Dynamic Sociology 
was written in what we are now accustomed to consider the pre- 
historic period of American sociology, and in that book he declared 
that "if the domain of social phenomena is as completely one of 
law as that of physical phenomena, then we may logically expect 
the same measure of success, in proportion as their laws are known, 
which marks the progress of human supremacy in the material 
world." Rejecting the once-current pedantic contention of the 
philosophy-of-history school that the test of true science is its 
power to predict, he held that the only legitunate demand on a 
science is that it be a systematic study of the laws of phenomena, 
a study not of mere facts but of uniform causation deducible from 
recurrent facts. It was in this matter of the proper placing of 
sociology among the sciences that Ward's own equipment in 
general science, always the envy of his fellow-sociologists, was of 
peculiar value. 

Each student of sociology is hkely to find in a comprehensive 
system like Ward's some one feature to which he assigns paramount 
importance, and the fact that there is diversity of opinion as to 
what is of most value is an evidence of the richness and range of the 
system. To me the thing which bulks largest is his consistent 
and masterful working-out of the nature and method of collective 
telesis. Now I suppose that no one would class Ward's philosophy 
as utilitarian in the ordinary sense, but purposeful it certainly is. 
No man ever more rigidly insisted on scientific methods, but none 
was ever less a believer in science for its own sake. Readers are 
never allowed to forget that "the purpose of sociology is to accele- 
rate social evolution." While he never entered the field of social 
politics with a specific program. Ward's ambition was to work out 
a system of philosophy worthy of use as the groundwork of practical 
social action. It is a significant fact that he made his Applied 
Sociology the capstone of his system, and of that work he could 
accurately say that "the central thought is that of a true science 
of society, capable, in the measure that it approaches completeness, 
of being turned to the profit of mankind. If there is one respect in 


which it differs more than in others from rival systems of phi- 
losophy, it is in its practical character of never losing sight of the 
end or purpose nor of the possibihties of conscious effort. It pro- 
claims the efhcacy of effort provided it is guided by intelligence." 
It follows therefore that, if the conscious improvement of society 
by society is the supreme end, human achievement appHed to social 
improvement is the subject-matter of sociology. If this definition 
of Ward's be found too narrow it at least has the merit of accen- 
tuating that element which is of most consequence in the range 
of interests with which the science is concerned. 

This is true primarily because the characteristic attitude toward 
social progress has been one of blundering helplessness, and the 
predominant note of social philosophy one of pessimism, a pessimism 
based either on the doctrine of despair, as in certain introspective 
philosophies Hke Schopenhauer's, or on scientific determinism which 
assumes man's helplessness in the face of cosmic evolution. The 
laissez-faire attitude is not an accident, nor is it confined to economic 
theory. Ward's doctrine of meliorism is not new, but his virile 
exposition of the possibiHty and promise of improvement through 
effort is one of the most wholesome notes that has been injected 
into recent thought. True mehorism is ''humanitarianism minus 
all sentiment." Life is to be emancipated and Hberalized by knowl- 
edge turned to practical uses. Happiness — or rather that state of 
good for which there is no better word in English — is the most 
natural thing in the world, because it is the result of adaptations 
developed in the struggle for life. Aceticism, Hke pessimism, is 
a survival from the pain-economy stage of evolution when man was 
hampered or helpless. Ward has undoubtedly assigned too large 
a place to the part played by individual genius in the achievement 
of new truth and its social appropriation, for, as he himself has 
sometimes shown, man, who first conquered nature, has now himself 
been conquered by society. But out of this very overemphasis 
on the individual he has wrought the best part of his doctrine of 
augmenting the working capital of society by enlarging and general- 
izing opportunity. It is not necessary to accept Ward's theory 
of the uniform distribution of abiUty among classes and races in 
order to give proper value to his doctrine of opportunity, and I for 


one am not ready to accept it. Nor is it necessary to believe, as 
he seems to imply, that a doubling of the means of education, for 
instance, would mean a doubling of the output of ability, for the 
amount of talent that remains latent in modern civilized societies, 
while undoubtedly large, is hardly to be reckoned in such dimen- 
sions as Ward imagined. But with all deductions a practical equali- 
tarian social philosophy like his is an essential need for the present 
democracy which assumes to call itself efficient. 

Although among the earhest and foremost champions of a 
psychological as distinguished from a biological interpretation of 
society. Ward's catholicity of view saved him from the excesses 
of rigid dogmatism which characterize some of the recent work in 
this line. His insistence on the predominance of the psychic factors 
is the outgrowth of a large and sane scholarship httle concerned 
with the vagaries of social psychology as such. It is because mind 
is the directive agent that the psychic element is of primary impor- 
tance. Even in his theory of social forces his attention is always 
directed toward social improvement as the end. 

Ward's social philosophy grew naturally out of his career as a 
scientist and was the fruitage of wide studies in science, philosophy, 
and literature to which his early life was devoted. Like practically 
all other sociologists of the older generation, he thus came into the 
field of his greatest work after a preparation in other more special- 
ized disciplines. Whether or not this kind of preparation be one 
which will always prove necessary for sociologists, and there is good 
ground for believing that it is, it remains true that it gave to his 
thinking a maturity and range which it could not otherwise have 
had. It enabled him, relatively late in life, to develop a particularly 
vital and organic system of social philosophy which has equal value 
as an instrument of education and as a manual of fundamental 
principles of social action. 

Ulysses G. Weatherly 

Indiana University 

The passing of Lester F. Ward removes from the scene of action 
the last of the great sociological giants of the nineteenth century. 
Professor Ward will always rank with the other two great founders 


of our science — Comte and Spencer. In some ways his work for 
sociology was second only to that of Auguste Comte. If there were 
errors in both his premises and generalizations, as I beHeve there 
were, this fact in no wise detracts from the epoch-making character 
of his work, nor does it give him any lesser place than we have 
indicated. Like all great men, Professor Ward was great in spite of 
his errors. 

The distinctive significance of Ward's work was, as Professor 
Small has said, to get for the psychic factor in human society due 
recognition, and adequate formulation. Spencer's sociology, 
based as it was upon a mechanistic theory of evolution, tended to 
minimize the psychic factor, even to lead to its ignoring altogether. 
Now, Ward was distinctly a Spencerian in both his cosmology and 
biology. It was all the more significant, therefore, that a scientific 
man of the same school of thought as Spencer should protest against 
the implications of the Spencerian sociology. Inconsistently or 
not. Ward undertook to show that the psychic factor is the domi- 
nant one in human society ; that it is the factor which must receive 
chief attention from sociologists; and that, through it, human prog- 
ress may even be artificially controlled. Thus Ward became one 
of the founders of modern psychological sociology. He found no 
difficulty in recognizing at their full value all the psychic or sub- 
jective elements in the social hfe. In his later work, even religion 
itself was recognized as "the force of social gravitation which holds 
the social world in its orbit," while, from first to last, education was 
in Ward's mind the chief instrument through which social progress 
was to be effected. Thus Ward found a place in his sociology for 
all the higher spiritual values of civilization; and incidentally by 
doing this he did much to relieve the materiahstic monism, upon 
which he based his sociology, of the charge that it is entirely nega- 
tive in its attitude toward these higher spiritual values. Whether 
Ward was consistent in all this or not, we must leave the future 
development of science to decide. One can only admire, however, 
his inconsistency, if such it was, for it transformed sociolog>^ from a 
negative to a positive, from an abstract to an appHed, science. 

Once more the tendency has become manifest to exclude from 
recognition in pure science the psychic factor. As the readers 


of this Journal know, the very latest tendency in science is to rule 
out of consideration all psychic or subjective elements and make 
sociology purely a physical science, that is, a social physiology. 
The trend of the very latest school in sociology, in other words, is 
to rest everytliing upon the assumption of a pure mechanistic 
monism. This, the representatives of this school say, is necessary, 
because it is the method of science. Science, they say, can deal 
only with mechanical causation. It can know nothing of psychic 
causation, if there be such a thing. Will it require another Lester 
F. Ward to shatter this fallacy and recall sociologists to common- 
sense? If the new school is followed, to any extent, somebody 
will certainly be needed again to "breathe the breath of life" 
into sociology, as Ward did in his Dynamic Sociology, when he 
shattered the Spencerian social philosophy. 

Charles A. Ellwood 

University of Missouri 

{From a letter not written for publication] 
". . . . I should deem it a great honor and a duty to spend 
any amount of time in helping the pubHc to value rightly the place 
which Ward holds in modern thought. I admire his fine character 
and I value very highly his twenty-five years' contributions to 
sociological thought. I believe that his brave spirit, his splendid 
moral courage, and his profound wisdom are destined to have an 
ever-deepening influence on social progress. I am wondering 
whether the symposium which you are now planning might not in 
the near future be followed by a careful and elaborate study of 
Ward and his work? The first part of such a study might well 
be some account of his life and characteristics, gathered from his 
papers and the reminiscences of his friends " 

George Elliott Howard 

University of Nebraska 

Although I had met Mr. Ward frequently at association meetings 
it was not my good fortune to have a close personal acquaintance 
with him ; therefore my knowledge of his Ufe, character, and scholarly 


ability is derived chiefly through his published works. However, 
I remember very well the first time I met him. It was in the 
"Historical Seminary" room of the Johns Hopkins University 
about 1888 or 1889. Some of us had been reading Dynamic 
Sociology under the direction of Dr. Herbert B. Adams, and Dr. 
Ward lectured before the " Seminary " on certain phases of the work. 
After his lecture we were permitted to ask questions. This method 
brought us into more vital relations with the subject and the author. 
I was much impressed with Dr. Ward's clearness of vision, sound- 
ness of doctrine, and the persistency with which he held to his course 
of argument. 

I regarded him then as a great man and an epoch-making phi- 
losopher, far in advance of current thought. Since then I have come 
to regard him as the greatest sociologist of modern times, which 
of course means of any time. He is conspicuous as a leader among 
numerous able sociologists. Not that one can accept all that he 
says without criticism, for, indeed, one cannot read Ward without 
questioning many of his points of view and some of his conclusions. 
Mr. Ward as a special student in paleobotany was inclined to 
approach the subjects of sociology from the standpoint of his 
specialized science, and by his severely scientific method oriented 
the social subject, apparently forgetting for the time being its 
relationship to other subjects and creating apparent contradictions 
and semblances of disagreement. Frequently his narrow view 
of psychology, history and economics led him into attitudes of 
thought which were open to criticism. 

In order fully to appreciate his masterly position one must 
rise to a higher generalization and contemplate his whole system. 
While he has had many able contemporaries who have written well 
and scientifically on various phases of sociology, he is the only one 
who has boldly attempted to make a system of sociology. The 
apparent antagonism of contemporary writers to Ward's sociology 
has arisen because they have written from the standpoint of social 
sciences while he has approached all social subjects from the 
standpoint of biological and physical science. As a follower of 
Ward's writings I have found that his attempt to bridge over the 
gap between organic and human evolution, and to relate biological 


and psychological development with sociological, was the greatest 
service performed to me personally, and I doubt not that this was 
his greatest achievement. From these relationships he passes on 
to rational selection and the control of society in its own interests. 
Comte gave sociology a place in the hierarchy of sciences. Spencer 
systematized ethnological and anthropological data. Schaffle 
outHned a system of social structure, and de Greef combined the 
social structure with social activities, but Ward developed the plan 
on which society was evolved, discussed the principles on which it 
was founded, and operated and presented a program by which it 
could be improved. One cannot help regret that his Pure Sociology 
and his Applied Sociology could not have been followed by a work 
on social technology to complete the system. His recent writings 
on eugenics and practical social problems would seem to indicate 
that had he lived, a third volume would have been necessary to 
complete his system. 

Mr. Ward has been criticized for undue emphasis laid upon social 
forces in both dynamic and pure sociology. Yet the great lines 
of his argument are in the main correct. One of his characteristics 
was to emphasize causation, and his social forces are social causes. 
They were the causes which created society and held it intact and 
hence were more truly socializing forces than true social forces. 
The latter arise out of society, and are the results of social activity 
rather than the causes, for real social forces arise from group activ- 
ity. Nevertheless his concept is a valuable one from which all soci- 
ologists have profited. Differ as we may from some of his points of 
view, object as we may to some of his conclusions, the facts remain 
that he was the first great sociologist, that his work is epoch-making 
for social science, and that his system is monumental. Sociology, 
in its synthetic processes, and in its methods will change, but for 
years to come all writers must recognize the great lines of his system. 

Frank W. Blackmar 

University of Kansas 

If it is possible for me to add anything to what has been said 
or implied in the foregoing tributes, it will be by way of personalities 
which will be pardonable as ancient history. 


I cannot precisely date my discovery of Dynamic Sociology, 
but its meaning for me was crucial, and I was aware at once that it 
had leveled barriers to an advanced stage in my mental growth. 
I had been occupying a chair of history and economics for a number 
of years. So far as I had developed a "method," it was under 
heavy bonds to speculation, rather than intelligently objective. 
I had given an undue proportion of attention to the philosophers of 
history, but both they and the historians proper had lost their grip 
on my credulity. Two things kept recurring in my thoughts, 
first, that there must be some sort of correlation between human 
occurrences, and second, that the clues to that correlation must be 
found by checking up cause and effect between human occurrences 
themselves, not in some a priori. I had read both of Comte's major 
works, but had been more impressed by their absurdities in detail 
than by the saving remnant of wisdom. They had increased my 
wistfulness for a credible clue to the explanation of human experi- 
ence, but they had not appealed to me as affording anything very 
plausible to supply the want. I had read everything that Spencer 
had published, but the elements in his method that afterward 
seemed to me most useful failed to find me at first. The sight of 
the title Dynamic Sociology instantly acted as a reagent to crystal- 
lize elements that had been incoherent in my mind, and to separate 
the product from foreign substances. The moment I began to 
turn the leaves of the book, I was aware of feeling as the alchemists 
might have felt two or three centuries earlier if they had stumbled 
upon the "philosophers' stone." At the same time the book never 
seemed to me a solution, but rather a wonderfully expressive sym- 
bolic guide to the path in which solutions might be found. The 
epithet " materiahstic " stood then for the most inexorable taboo 
in my ritual. After finishing the first reading, I wrote to the author : 
"I was well along in the book before I found reason to question my 
classification of you as a materialist. If that is what you call 
yourself, I must admit that materialism ceased to seem to me a 
very terrible foe of the spirit, when I found you ending the book 
with an exhortation." 

Dynamic Sociology did not seem to me to push the frontier of 
the ontological problem any further back toward ultimates than 


hundreds of philosophers had reached. It did make me feel more 
secure in accepting the working necessity of dealing with orders of 
phenomena in accordance with their last discoverable traits even 
if this procedure leaves us with practical duality. It enabled me 
to think of so-called physical and psychical phenomena as equally 
real, as equally instrumental in their place, as functioning in orders 
of experience which are somehow related whether we are able to 
formulate the relationships or not. It placed psychical causation 
on a plane of plausibility as convincing as the presuppositions of 
physical causation, without resorting to anything extra-phenomenal 
in support of the one more than of the other. It located social 
causation within human beings, instead of outside, above, beneath, 
or beyond them. It punctured the bubble of metaphysical phi- 
losophy of human experience, and exposed the literal problems 
of human relationships under the aspect of psychology as the ulti- 
mate analysis. As I said, this did not solve the problems, but it 
proposed them as real, whereas they had previously been formulated 
as more or less mythical or mystical. 

I have often said, and it remains my estimate, that, everything 
considered, I would rather have written Dynamic Sociology than 
any other book that has ever appeared in America. Not surely 
because it has gained more applause of men than many others. 
I found in 1888 that Professor Ely was the only member of the 
Johns Hopkins faculty who seemed to know anything about the 
book. In 1893 Dr. Ward told me that barely five hundred copies 
had been sold. It was, however, at least a generation ahead of the 
sociological thinking of Great Britain and it saved American sociolo- 
gists the long wandering in the wilderness of misconstrued evolu- 
tionism from which English sociology is at this late day working 
out the rudiments of its salvation. 

I must confess that I have never been able to learn from Dr. 
Ward's later works anything of first-rate importance which I did 
not find in Dynamic Sociology. Unless I misunderstood his own 
estimate, my reaction was strictly in accordance with his own 
view of his writings. He thought he had said in substance in his 
first book everything which his later writings contained, but that 
the greater elaboration was necessary in order to make his message 


carry. I think he would have indorsed my opinion that the later 
books were justified pedagogically, but that they exhibited a 
scientific anti-climax. 

It would be impossible for me to express the sense of security 
which I felt in my earlier venturings into sociology, because of 
Dr. Ward's previous explorations. I might compare it with the 
confidence of a dispatch boat convoyed by a battleship. 

After it became less venturesome to be a sociologist, Dr. Ward's 
friendship, on both the personal and the professional planes, was 
always an inspiration and a benediction. 

Albion W. Small 

University of Chicago 


Olivet College, Michigan 

Because the inhabitants of the country are scattered, and 
society is impossible in connection with daily work, the social 
center or common meeting-ground seems to be more needed in the 
country than it is in the city. It is doubtful if the social and rec- 
reational life and business co-operation can be organized without it. 

The social center movement has taken a powerful hold on the 
imagination of the country during the last few years, but thus far 
not so strong a hold on the country as on the city. Still there is 
something being done in nearly every county in the northern part 
of this country at present. The Social Center Association of 
America was organized at the University of Wisconsin in the fall 
of iQii with Professor Edward J. Ward as secretary and Josiah 
Strong as president. Professor Ward is organizing social centers 
about the state of Wisconsin from the extension department of 
the university, and five other states have already undertaken a 
similar work. There is keen interest in nearly all parts of the 
country, and the states of Wisconsin and Minnesota have recently 
passed laws requiring school boards to open the school buildings 
to the pubHc whenever the public may desire it. In the last 
presidential campaign, the three candidates each indorsed the 
idea of this wider use of school buildings, and in Chicago, Rochester, 
and several other cities the schools were used for campaign speeches 
and in some for polUng-places as well. One of the most able 
addresses that was given at the formation of the association was 
made by Governor Wilson, so it would look as though the move- 
ment should receive all due official encouragement during the 
years that are upon us. It has the indorsement of the National 
Education Association and of all prominent educators everywhere. 
The spread of the idea has been so quiet, and the recent develop- 
ments have been so little reported, that it is almost impossible to 



tell how general it has become at the present time, but it is safe 
to say that a beginning has been made in nearly every city and 
county of the country. This beginning is often very feeble and 
inadequate, but it is a seed out of which may well grow a great 
movement. While it is possible to do the work best perhaps around 
the church wherever an adequate church which has the support 
of the whole community can be found, there are few adequate 
churches with resident ministers in the country, and it is well- 
nigh impossible to have this development around the church with- 
out this condition. The church that is to be a real social center 
must owe its allegiance to the whole community, not to any sect; 
it must become in fact a community church. At present we have 
very few such churches, and nine- tenths of the work that is being 
done is probably at the public schools. 


The social center like most new movements is developing 
along different lines in different localities. It lacks suitable 
equipment everywhere, and nowhere has a real community center 
yet appeared. In some places the activities are largely educa- 
tional, with public lectures, classes in domestic economy, manual 
training, and gymnastics; in others it is largely recreational, with 
singing, dramatics, games, and dancing; while in yet others it is 
becoming the civic forum for the meeting of various clubs and the 
discussion of pubHc questions. New York took the lead in the 
beginning in developing the social center of the first two types. 
Rochester has been largely responsible for developing the social 
center of the civic type. This was similar to what parents' asso- 
ciations and school improvement associations had been doing in 
many places, but the movement took a new start with a new spirit 
of social equality at Rochester, and to Professor Forbes, the presi- 
dent of the school board, and to Professor Ward, the superintendent 
of the Social Centers, are due great credit, both for the develop- 
ments at Rochester and elsewhere. The Rochester type of a 
social center comes the nearest to creating a real community 
center of any of the social centers thus far attempted, and it has 
also within itself the machinery that is necessary to reform politics 


and improve the community, which the other forms of social 
centers have not. Under the New York ideals the social centers 
are carried on by the Board of Education. Under the Rochester 
ideal the social center becomes an expression of the people them- 


As the social center is in most cases using the public schools 
and is often a real extension of the work of the schools to the 
community, it might seem that this is a work that belongs naturally 
to the school board, and so it is if the school board finds itself in 
the position to do it. The educational phases of the social center, 
the classes, the lectures, the school exhibitions, and the library 
work, should naturally be under the school authorities, and it is 
well for them to take the initiative in these matters whenever 
possible; but so far as possible the social and civic interests of 
the center should be democratic and managed by the people 
themselves. School boards often will not have the authority to 
initiate this work unless a special ordinance is passed conferring 
this right upon them, and they will seldom have the money in 
the beginning that will be necessary. Hence, however properly 
this work might belong to the school board, in very many cases 
at least the first steps will have to be taken by some outside parties. 


It is highly important that the people should feel from the 
beginning that the social center belongs to them, as this will make 
it more popular and secure in its financial support. It is better 
to have the work initiated by the people of the community than 
to have it started by the school board or any less general agency. 
It is not at all difficult to begin the movement in this way. A 
public meeting should be called and someone should be invited 
to give a talk on the social center idea. After that there should 
be discussion, and a social center association or civic league should 
be formed with a temporary constitution and officers to hold over 
until a later meeting when permanent officers can be elected and 
a permanent constitution can be adopted. It is best as a rule to 
have some small dues. It is through organizations such as this 


that most of the great social progress of the last two decades has 
been effected. In union, organization, there is strength. Twenty- 
five people who are in earnest and will work together can carry 
almost any movement against the indifference of twenty-five 
thousand. If there are half a dozen people who are interested 
enought to call such a meeting, and there are a few more who are 
interested enough to attend, this is an effective and admirable way 
to make a beginning. It is wise to have the discussion somewhat 
arranged for beforehand, to have a provisional constitution ready, 
and to have looked over the field carefully for the provisional 
oflScers, who are likely to be the permanent officers. The writer 
recently organized such a social center movement in a Michigan 
town of some seven hundred inhabitants. A public meeting was 
called with a popular lecture, and a civic league was formed with 
about forty members, who signed the slips that evening. The 
league maintains a class for civic discussions, which meets at noon 
on Sundays, a Sunday evening lecture course with civic lectures 
from the state university, the agricultural college, the various 
state departments, and several local sources. It has a social even- 
ing once in two weeks. It has been organized only about three 
months, but it has already secured dental and medical inspection 
for the school children, a better set of films for the moving-picture 
show, a closer co-operation between the grange and the town, an 
organization of the Camp Fire Girls, and it has started a movement 
for domestic economy and agriculture in the local high school. 

However, the country is noted for its conservatism and lack 
of initiative in social affairs, and if all communities had to wait for 
the movement to start up in their midst, there are some that would 
have to wait a long time. 


In the cities, a large part of the social centers are operated by 
the various playground associations. The most expensive social 
center buildings that have ever been constructed are the field- 
houses in the Chicago playgrounds. The centers at Rochester 
were a part of the movement for general recreation and were under 
the superintendent of playgrounds and social centers. In New 


York, also, the evening recreation centers are under the same 
superintendent as the school playgrounds. In most cities the 
social center work is winter work of the playgrounds. This enables 
them to hire their directors by the year, and to maintain a contin- 
uous pohcy. However, there are no playground associations in 
the country and it looks as though the social center would have 
to start the organized play, instead of the recreation movement 
organizing the social centers. 

A parents' association 
Wherever there is already a parents' association or a home and 
school league in the neighborhood, this offers one of the best means 
of getting started, as the league may take up the social center 
work as one of its regular activities. They may be able to get the 
school board to make an appropriation for the sake of starting 
the movement, and they should always attempt to do this, even 
though it seems certain that the request will not be granted, as 
it helps to familiarize the board with the idea. If they are not 
able to secure an appropriation, it is best to raise a small amount 
by private subscription, and start the movement in a small way. 
Most people have great reluctance in asking others to contribute 
money to pubHc purposes, but it is not nearly so difficult to raise 
money as most people imagine. About all that is needed is the 
expectation of receiving what you ask for. There is a new spirit 
of giving in this country at the present time, and there are many 
people who are genuinely glad to give to a worthy cause. 


In nine of the southern states, the Southern Education Board 
is paying an organizer of school improvement associations. This 
work was begun in Maine some thirty years ago and was later 
taken up by the state of North Carolina. Professor Claxton, now 
commissioner of education, became interested in it, and through 
him it became one of the policies of the Southern Board to put 
such an organizer into the office of each southern state superin- 
tendent of schools. This organizer goes about the state usually 
with a lantern and meets groups of parents who are called together 
by the county superintendent. She shows pictures of what other 


schools are doing, and suggests that they form a school improve- 
ment association which will work for the welfare of the school and 
neighborhood. These associations have been very effective in 
improving conditions at the schools, and incidentally have organized 
the neighborhood to work for a public purpose. In Mississippi 
they usually meet once a month on Saturdays. The people bring 
a picnic lunch and spend the day or at least a half-day. The work 
of the children is exhibited and the deficiencies in the school equip- 
ment become evident. In the afternoon athletic contests are a 
feature. The Southern Board has done many good things that 
might well be adopted by the North, and such an organizer might 
well be an assistant to every state superintendent in the country 
and be paid from public funds. Superintendent Cook of Arkansas 
says that for every dollar that has gone into the salary of this person 
in his state there has come back to the state four hundred dollars 
in improved buildings and grounds alone. It is impossible to tell 
how much has come back in the way of a quickened social life and 
civic spirit. An investment that yields 40,000 per cent profit is 
worth trying. I believe this organizer of school improvements 
is an excellent agency for the initiation of this movement when 
outside assistance is necessary. Of course the social center will 
come in time without any systematic promotion from any body, 
for the consciousness of the need is already upon us; but it ought 
not to be necessary to wait for this idea to percolate down to each 
isolated board of education throughout the country; and those 
who take up new movements without expert assistance are likely 
to do the work badly and wastefully in the beginning. The social 
center is essential to the welfare of country life and it redounds 
to the welfare of the school directly in bringing the parents and the 
teachers together. As the social centers are organized in most 
cases in connection with the public schools, and are practically 
an extension of public-school work, their promotion belongs 
naturally under the state superintendent of public instruction. 


Six state universities have already employed social center 
organizers. There is great interest in this subject in a number 


of states, and the rather general extension of this idea seems likely. 
State universities are coming to conceive of their function in terms 
of service such as was scarcely dreamed of a decade ago. The 
University of Wisconsin has led in this new conception of the uni- 
versity, as the home of a body of specialists who would each 
endeavor, not merely to serve the student body, but to carry 
their message to the whole state. It has been rewarded by a 
phenominal growth in numbers, in the loyalty of the citizens, and 
in large appropriations. It is a noble conception of the purpose 
and aim of a university, and one illustration of where it has not 
been merely the home of "abandoned ideals." There are advan- 
tages in such organizing of this work, because these men can give 
courses at the university at the same time. Still there can be 
little doubt that the university is here usurping the function of 
the superintendent of public instruction. Practically, however, 
it may be quite possible for the universty to get the money for 
such an expert, and it may not be at all possible for the state super- 
intendent to secure such an assistant. The important thing is 
to have the work done. 


In about half of the states, the agricultural college is one of 
the professional schools of the state university. Where the schools 
are separate it may be that the starting of the rural social center 
falls more naturally to the lot of the agricultural college than to 
that of the -university. Certainly the teaching of agriculture and 
domestic economy, and institutes for farmers and farm women 
are likely to be among its largest functions. Nearly all the rural 
life conferences that have been held in connection with the agri- 
cultural colleges have declared for the development of the social 
center in connection with the rural schools. Wherever the agri- 
cultural college has on its staff a man in rural sociology who can 
give some of his time to this work, it is certainly as appropriate 
for the agricultural college as for the state university to do it. 


There are some cases where the students and professors have 
gone out from the normal schools to organize social centers in 


rural schools in the territory immediately adjacent to them. 
This is a piece of school missionary work such as we should naturally 
expect from the normal schools, and we may hope for a great 
extension along this line in the future. A number of normals are 
planning work of this character for the coming year. 

It is evident from what has been said thus far that there is 
no lack of agencies through which social centers may be organized. 
If all of these agencies get busy together, they ought to be able to 
do the work up in a short time. From whatever source the social 
center is organized it should be mainly self-directed after it is once 


The classes, lectures, and the library will in general have to be 
paid for by the educational authorities, and should be managed by 
them. The social and civic activities should be an expression of 
the life of the people and managed by them so far as possible. 

There will have to be some person in general charge of the 
center, and this person should if possible be the principal of the 
consolidated school, if the school is the social center; or better the 
director of recreation for the township, if such a position can be 
created. This serves again to emphasize the point of view of 
Commissioner Claxton that the rural teacher should be a fixture 
in the rural community, and that he should be furnished a house 
with a small farm in the immediate neighborhood of the school 
in the same way that a preacher is furnished a parsonage. No 
social center will run itself, and there must be one or more persons 
who are always there and who are responsible for the discipline, 
the readiness of everything that is to be used, and the general 
program. If the principal does this work, he will have to be paid 
for it, as will also the teachers of classes, the lecturers, and the 
janitor. The social center will also increase the heating bill and 
the lighting bill, and naturally a primary question in regard to 
the social center is: How are these expenses to be met? 


Like all new movements, the social center usually has to be 
begun by private initiative. This nearly always means three 


things: that the simplest and least expensive activities must be 
chosen; that the workers must contribute their time or serve for 
very small compensation, and that there must be some means for 
raising money. There are four ways of financing the social center: 
it may be largely by membership dues in the social center associa- 
tion; it may be supported by the entertainments which it gives 
or that are given outside; it may be supported by the contribu- 
tions of public-spirited people; or it may be supported from 
public funds. Probably all of these means should be used at times. 
It is a good thing to have a small membership fee in the social 
center association in any case, so that it may not be entirely 
dependent on public funds. It is more blessed to give than to 
receive and giving increases the interest. There are now about 
fifty cities where the social centers are supported in whole or in 
part from public funds. For the most part, I beHeve the rural 
centers have been operated without any funds. The school has 
contributed the building, and the performers have contributed 
the talent. However, the sort of a social center which will really 
meet the need of a rural community cannot be so maintained; 
it must have a regular appropriation from the school or some other 
pubhc funds, or a considerable budget must be raised from private 
sources. As a public enterprise the social center which becomes 
the real community center of a township has unusual advantages. 
Its constituency are the voters of the township and they can have 
anything they are wilhng to pay for unless the law forbids. 


So far as the social center is carried on under the school authori- 
ties, there are two possibihties : the school district may be taken 
as the unit, or the township may be taken as the unit. It is quite 
impossible for the single school district in most places to support 
the variety of activities that are needed at a social center. It 
cannot maintain a library that is worth while, pubHc lectures, a 
gymnasiimi, classes in domestic science and agriculture, the mov- 
ing picture, and many other things that are needed to make the 
social center really attractive. The social center can be main- 
tained at the one-room school, but its activities will naturally be 


very much restricted, both by the lack of equipment and by the 
lack of numbers. It would appear that the consohdated school 
is still more necessary to the adults than it is to the children, and 
that the social needs of the community are the very strongest 
reasons that we have at present for the consolidation, though the 
other reasons, arising from effectiveness in school work and economy 
of school administration, are entirely sufficient. Consolidation is 
already the accepted educational policy, and we may expect the 
very rapid development in this direction that is now going on in 
the most progressive states soon to reach the whole country. A 
village graded or high school will serve; but the consolidated 
school for the township, with a township park and athletic ground 
around it, is the ideal social center for a rural community. 


The consolidated school should have both an auditorium and a 
gymnasium or hall, but if it can have only one, it should always 
take the g>Tanasium, because the gymnasium can be equipped as 
an auditorium whenever it is desired, and it can be used for dances, 
banquets, voting, and public meetings as well. It might well be 
the regular meeting-place of the grange, the women's club, or any 
other similar organizations. It would be well if there could be 
a small room for the care of the babies at the time of entertain- 
ments, and one or more social rooms or parlors for small neighbor- 
hood meetings, gossip, etc. As this room might serve as the 
teachers' room as well, it would mean no considerable extra expense. 
As the gymnasium would be also the town hall and polling-place 
and the grange hall, it might be a positive economy for a country 
neighborhood. Certainly the number of changes that are needed 
to adapt the ordinary consolidated school for a social center are 
not many or serious. 


Tamalpais Center, a few miles out of San Francisco, was built by 
Mrs. A. E. Kent, the mother of Congressman Kent of CaHfornia, 
as a contribution to this recreation problem for the country and 
country village. The ground given consists of twenty-nine acres 
of level land at the foot of Mount Tamalpais. It is a beautiful 


location and there is a fine club building and a competent director. 
There is a playground for the children with a lady play-ground 
director, several baseball diamonds, and football fields, and space 
for athletic events. A speeding-track for horse races is around 
the edge. The fieldhouse is used for dances, social gatherings, 
literary and debating clubs, and public lectures. The popularity 
of this center has increased ever since it was started and it is 
expected that the community will soon assume the expense of its 

There have been a number of other centers constructed in the 
country on a somewhat less ambitious scale than the center at 
Tamalpais. It is another phase of the Chicago question whether 
we shall use the schools for social centers or construct special centers 
in the parks. On the whole, the argument seems to rest with the 
schools, as the school center costs very little above the regular 
school cost and has a far larger attendance. As the social center 
is one of the chief reasons for the consolidated school, it would be 
rather a pity to divide the argument by building a separate social 
center in most sections, though it is fine to have such an experi- 
ment, and to see how it will work out; for history sometimes 
confounds our fondest theories. All gratitude is due Mrs. Kent 
for the demonstration. 

It is not necessary that the social center activities should always 
be carried on in the same building. If there is a social center or 
civic organization that can stand behind the movement, the 
meetings may be held in such places as are available, now in a 
village high school, now in a church, again in the grange hall or 
the opera house. There are certain kinds of activities that cannot 
of course be carried on through such a migratory center, but 
there are a large number that can, and, if the movement were begun 
in this way, it would soon develop better facilities. 


Wherever it is necessary to carry on the social center at a 
one-room school, it will be an advantage if movable desks can be 
provided, so that the room can be seated for adults as well as 
children or cleared altogether for entertainments. If a new build- 


ing is to be erected, it would be well for those who have the matter 
in charge to investigate the model for a country school which has 
been built by President Kirk of the State Normal at Kirksville, 
Mo., for the practice work of his rural teachers. This has been 
described in many articles, and President Kirk can furnish a 
detailed account of it on application. Two of the features of this 
school building that fit it especially to be a social center are that 
the seats are not fastened to the floor but are on little platforms, 
so that they can be moved to one side, and the room can be seated 
with folding chairs for adults, or the floor space can be used for 
dancing or games. A stereoptican fits into its own cabinet in the 
back of the room. A gasoline engine in the basement pumps 
water for the toilets and shower baths and generates the electricity 
to hght the school building and the lantern. The engine is operated 
by one of the older boys. In the attic of the school is a large 
cooking-range, which is used for lessons in domestic science by 
the older girls, and which might be used equally well for after- 
noon teas by the club women. 



University of Florida 

The second annual session of the Southern Sociological Congress 
was held in Atlanta, April 25-29. This year the congress continued 
the policy begun last year, of confining the energies of the organization 
to a practical program. During the entire session of four days — seven 
sections meeting simultaneously part of the time — not a single paper in 
the field of theoretical sociology, strictly speaking, was read. All 
discussion was along practical lines, dealing with present issues in the 
South and looking toward the remedy of existing ills. This tendency 
to eschew the merely general and to eliminate fine-spun theories is 
characteristic of the bent of mind of the leaders of the New South. The 
assumption here in the South seems to be that our greatest need is 
action, since already we have accumulated much more information 
than we have yet found methods of putting into practice. The southern 
conception of the scope and meaning of sociology is radically different from 
that of the East. This fact was well illustrated by the comment of an 
eastern-trained man now teaching in one of the border-line universities. 
He said: "I am surprised that they call this organization a 'sociological' 
congress; so far I have seen nothing that is sociological in the usual 
sense." He did not realize that sociology is practical, or nothing, in 
the South. 

In keeping with the practical character of the papers and the discus- 
sion, the program was planned in such a way as to make its results as 
far reaching as possible. There were two types of meetings. The 
sectional conferences were devoted to the more technical papers and were 
attended largely by specialists in the fields of organized charities, courts 
and prisons, public health, child welfare, travelers' aid, the church 
and social service, and race questions. The attendance at these divisional 
meetings, in spite of the fact that they were held simultaneously, in 
some cases reached as high as four hundred. Once daily, and twice 
on the final day of the congress, was held a general session which was 
largely attended by the public and before which the least specialized 
addresses were delivered. A good attendance was had at all of these 



meetings, that of the Sunday afternoon drawing an audience of approxi- 
mately three thousand persons. In a large sense these were the most 
important sessions of the congress, since they carried its message to the 
people and especially to the workers of the church, who embrace a fund 
of social energy as yet but inadequately utilized. That the message 
was responded to was abundantly attested by the careful attention and 
often generous applause which were accorded the speakers. 

The chief significance of the congress centered in the conferences on 
race problems. Leading representatives of both races were present in 
considerable numbers from all parts of the South. At all sessions of 
the congress both races sat on the same floor and both took part freely 
in the general discussions, when the meetings were open to extemporane- 
ous expression of opinion. However, only whites had been asked to 
read formal papers at this conference, a fact of which the colored members 
of the audience at the first session appeared to be conscious. But as 
the discussion developed, the attitudes expressed by the whites appeared 
so fair, their confessions of white discrimination against the Negro in 
the south were so frank and so full, and the promise of a new attitude 
toward the Negro was so earnest that practically all isolated traces of 
bitterness vanished and the Negros joined in the discussion of the papers 
with the heartiest expressions of approval — although with a note of 
surprise in the background. The Negroes, however, were not alone in 
their feeling of surprise. For the degree of harmony on questions at 
issue and the resulting good feeling which were increasingly manifested 
at the conferences were in the nature of a revelation and a cause for grati- 
fication to all present. So strong was this feeling that it spread to the 
general meetings even, and, when in the closing moments of the last 
general session, minute talks were allowed from the floor, most of these 
were devoted to the race problem, Negroes and whites alternating in 
expressions of satisfaction at the direction affairs had taken and at the 
promise of a better understanding between the races. The sentiments 
of all present were best expressed, perhaps, by a young Negro of Atlanta, 
who declared that the white man and the Negro of the Old South under- 
stood each other in the order which was then dominant, and that the 
young white man and the young Negro of the present were beginning 
to understand each other and to reach a basis of co-operation. It is not 
too much to say that the conference on race problems of the Congress was 
of historic significance, since there for the first time the southern white 
man and the Negro met on an equal plane, intellectually, for the discus- 
sion of their common problems. But we should not forget that it will 


require time for the ideas here expressed by leaders of southern white 
thought to percolate to the masses. 

A close second in the degree of interest manifested were the con- 
ferences on the church and social service. The great awakening of the 
church in the South to its mission in this world was made particularly 
apparent both in the very hopeful and frank addresses by southern 
ministers and teachers, and in a series of thirty-five resolutions adopted 
by this section of the congress, declaring in particular for social and civic 
education in the elementary schools; for social surveys and systematic 
social reclamation work by the churches; for a wider use of church 
buildings and for a stimulation of community discussion under the 
co-operative leadership of the churches; for a closer study and a more 
effective amelioration of the living and recreational conditions of the 
working classes, in particular of working women; for a deeper interest 
by the church in public health; and for making the country church 
a center for general educational and cultural influences. One of the 
most conspicuous successes of the Southern Sociological Congress, so 
far, is its success in enlisting the religious forces of the South in hearty 
and intelligent co-operation with its work. 


The Child Thai Toileth Not. By Thomas Robinson Dawley. 
New York : The Gracia Publishing Co. Pp. 490. 

This book is not entitled to scientific recognition within the field of 
labor problems. It is an unjustifiable attack upon recent child labor 
legislation, and upon the National Child Labor Committee. It is 
written by one severely biased because of unpleasant personal relations 
at Washington, and voices the ideas of the vested cotton interests of the 
South. Its chief purpose seems to be to create public opinion in favor of 
child labor for cotton mills, and to thwart governmental action which 
may result in further prohibition of child labor. The argument is 
illogical and weak. Conclusions are reached without proof and from 
premises which either assume the conclusions desired or are not directly 
pertinent to them. 

Mr. Dawley would have us believe that child labor is beneficial and 
necessary, and that it should be encouraged because cotton mills pay 
taxes to pave streets and build schoolhouses; because they establish 
certain forms of welfare work; and because of their general redemptive 
and socializing influence. He would have us remember that the children 
in the mills say that they like their work ; that there are kindergartens, 
sewing clubs, etc., under the auspices of the mill; that the superin- 
tendents are on such friendly terms with some of the young people that 
they give them rides in their autos; and that the management, because it 
cannot bear to see the people idle, gives them work even when the market 
is dull and the product has to be put in storage waiting better times. 

Too much emphasis is thus placed upon a variety of data which are 
not deserving of a very prominent place in a fair consideration of the 
child-labor problem of the South, and almost nothing is said about other 
data which are vastly more important, namely, data which result from a 
really careful study of exact labor conditions in the light of our best 
standards. The book is conspicuous for what it omits. 

The greatest value of this volume lies outside the field of labor. It 
is interesting and readable because of its narrative and descriptive style, 
and its close touch with human life. It is also a valuable contribution of 
detailed information upon the social life of the mountaineers. 

Roy William Foley 
University of Chicago 



Report on the Condition of Woman and Child Wage-Earners in the 

United States. In 19 volumes. 6ist Cong., 2d Sess., Senate 

Doc. 645. Prepared under the direction of Charles P. 

Neill, Commissioner of Labor. Vol. IX. History of Women 

in Industry in the United States. Washington, 1910. Pp. 276. 

This volume contains an introduction and summary and chapters on 

the ''Textiles, the Clothing and Sewing Trades," '' Domestic and Personal 

Service," "Food and Kindred Products," "Other Manufacturing 

Industries," "Trade and Transportation," and twenty-four tables of 

statistics for the above occupational groups. So-called wage-earning 

women alone are considered. Professional work, women in independent 

business and in agriculture are considered only incidentally, and unre- 

munerated home work of women is entirely neglected. It is the opinion 

of the writer that the common custom of designating this latter work 

unremunerative and separating it on that score from other wage-earning 

occupations is inaccurate and undesirable, for although the standard of 

payment for such work has been indefinite and the payment itself not a 

money wage, yet the food, shelter, and clothing which these women thus 

obtain must be recognized as wages. 

The report brings out the fact that most of the transfer of women 
from home work to work outside the home has taken place since the 
beginning of the nineteenth century, although women have always 
worked for wages. Even now, only about one-fifth of the women sixteen 
years of age and over are breadwinners outside the home, yet there is 
scarcely an industry which does not employ women. 

The causes of the entrance of women into industry are: machinery, 
division of labor, strike-breaking, scarcity of labor, the Civil War, and 
the influence of industrial depressions. Women are still more largely 
employed in their traditional occupations than in the newer ones, yet 
women's industrial sphere has expanded somewhat. 

Contrary to the socialist contention, the evidence here collected 
shows that women's wage labor as well as other kinds of labor under the 
domestic system has often been carried on under worse conditions than 
their wage labor under the factory system, especially in the matter of 
hours and sanitary conditions. Women's wages have, it seems, always 
been low and unequal to men's wages, and women, too, have suffered 
from unemployment especially in the sewing trades. It is probable that 
in the long run women have not displaced men, but have lowered the 
standard of men's wages. 


The history of women in industry shows that women have never been 
thoroughly trained for their work and have found it difficult to acquire 
proficiency. Consequently, they have "come to be to an alarming 
extent the cheap laborers of the employment market, the unskilled and 
underpaid drudges of the industrial world" — a general conclusion which 
was also reached by Miss Butler in Women and the Trades in the Pitts- 
burgh Survey. 

As is explained in the introduction, a somewhat disproportionate 
amount of space in this volume is given to the early work of women, 
information concerning which is only recently available from rare early 
sources. If any criticism is to be made of so able a report, it is, perhaps, 
that the transition from the early and middle period of women's work to 
the actual present situation is not always clearly stated and this is a 
distinct desideratum. 

It is to be noted as a matter of general interest that the newspapers 
of the middle of the century, in contrast to ours, seem to have been 
surprisingly active in the investigation and publication of trade and labor 
conditions. Much of the material of this report is drawn from them. 
Other sources of the report are the Federal Census and other government 
publications, state labor and statistical bureau reports, old books, 
pamphlets, and newspapers. In addition, representative industrial 
establishments were visited and persons familiar with the industries were 

Frances Fenton Bernard 

Gainesville, Fla. 

Report on the Condition of Woman and Child Wage-Earners in the 

United States. In 19 volumes. 6ist Cong., 2d Sess., Senate 

Doc. 645. Prepared under the direction of Charles P. Neill, 

Commissioner of Labor. Vol. X. History of Women in Trade 

Unions. Washington, 191 1. Pp. 236. 

This volume is in two parts; the first deals with the period from 1S75, 

the beginning of organization of women into trade unions, through the 

activity of the Knights of Labor, the second, with the later history from 

the organization of the American Federation of Labor through 1909. A 

supplementary statement gives developments of 1909-n, 

The following conclusions are reached in the first part: Women's 
unions, until the last generation, have been ephemeral in character, 
organized often temporarily in times of strikes. They have been, to a 


greater degree than men's unions, led from outside the ranks of wage- 
earners. The organizer of women has, in addition to the obstacles 
familiar to the organizer of men, women's short trade life to contend 
with. Women in trade unions have resisted unfavorable conditions, 
have at times won a shorter work-day, have maintained or raised wages, 
and improved conditions of work. Prior to the formation of the Ameri- 
can Federation of Labor, success in securing permanent improvement 
has come not so much through the strike as through a stand for protective 
legislation. As will be seen, this attitude toward protective legislation 
was not found by the writer of the second part of this volume to exist in 
the later years until very recently. 

The second part of this volume is based upon an investigation of over 
200 typical local trade unions in 1908-9, schedules secured from 262 
others, and returns from local unions reported by the state labor bureaus 
of Massachusetts, Missouri, and New York. At the time of the inves- 
tigation it seems that trade-union members formed but a small proportion 
of working- women ; nevertheless, the proportionate amount of unionism 
among women is not far behind that of men. 

An interesting discussion of the obstacles to the organization of 
women emphasizes two in particular — the temporary character of 
women's trade life and the strong opposition of employers to trade unions 
among women. The mixed union has been more effective than the 
woman's union in gaining advantages speedily, but this is due to the fact 
that women in joining it have joined old, strongly established organiza- 
tions; in these, however, they lose the training in trade unionism which 
membership in women's locals gives them. 

It is probable that women's unions have, in this last period, accom- 
plished some increase in wages, some reduction in hours and gains in con- 
ditions of work, although their acquiescence in unfavorable conditions 
has limited their accomplishment. "Practically nothing in the way of 
securing improved legislation" has been accomplished by the women's 
unions themselves; indeed little united stand for it has been made by 
them until very recently under the influence of the Women's Trade 
Union League. The interest of women in unionism is "not yet by any 
means general and keen," but it seems to be growing. 

The Supplementary Statement adds that since 1909 there has been a 
marked growth in the number of women's unions and a still larger growth 
in membership. 

Frances Fenton Bernard 

Gainesville, Fla. 


Report on the Condition of Woman and Child Wage-Earners in the 
United States. In 19 volumes. 6ist Cong., 2d Sess., Senate 
Doc. 645. Prepared under the direction of Charles P. Neill, 
Commissioner of Labor. Vol. XII. Employment of Women in 
Laundries. Washington, 191 1. Pp. 121. 

The results of a study of the working conditions of women and girls 
employed in laundries in Chicago, New York, Brooklyn, Philadelphia, 
and Rockford, 111., are here presented. These cities contain about 2,500 
American laundries and 2,000 Chinese laundries, the latter largely hand 
laundries, and about one-sixth of the former, motor. The special sub- 
jects of study were general conditions of the workrooms, hours of labor, 
and the effect of the employment on women employees. The latter 
study, including case reports of 539 women, forms the greater part of 
the report. 

In Chicago the motor laundry, in the other cities the hand laundry, 
prevails, but much of the washing of clothes which is ostensibly done by 
hand in New York and Brooklyn is really done by motor laundries and 
only ironed by hand often in unsanitary homes. 

Weekly hours of work in laundries are not long as compared with 
other industries, but the daily hours are often unduly extended even to 
14. Rates of pay per week ranged from $5.50 to $12.00 according to 
the type of work performed and the character of the laundry. 

The injurious occupations within laundries in which women engage 
are in the washrooms, where chemicals are used in bleaching, the starch- 
ing, ironing, and shaking processes. Hand ironing, however, is declining 
among women because of its heaviness. The sorting and marking of 
soiled clothes, commonly considered dangerous to health, was not found 
to be so in this study. Tuberculosis among laundry workers was also 
found to be rare. A special investigation of this disease is needed, 

Conditions in laundries can be much improved by bringing the hand 
laundries and some of the motor laundries into line with the best existing 
types of motor laundries, which have proper ventilation and light, 
bathing faciUties, restrooms, and other conditions making for health and 
efficiency. At present, a lack of standardization in these matters 

As one reads the detailed descriptions of the processes in which 
women in laundries are engaged, it is apparent that much unnecessary 
labor of a socially unproductive kind in addition to the real cleansing 


process is demanded by laundry patrons. Simplification in dress and the 

growth of the custom of not ironing bed linen and underclothes and of 

wearing more frequently materials requiring neither starch nor ironing 

are desirable from the standpoint of the employees in the laundry 


Frances Fenton Bernard 
Gainesville, Fla. 

Report on the Condition of Woman and Child Wage-Earners in the 
United States. In 19 volumes. 6ist Cong., 2d Sess., Senate 
Doc. 645. Prepared under the direction of Charles P. Neill, 
Commissioner of Labor. Vol. XV. Relation Between Occupa- 
tion and Criminality of Women. Washington, 191 1. Pp. 119. 
The common belief that an increase of criminality among women has 
accompanied the widening of their industrial sphere is found in this study 
not to be supported by the evidence. The investigation was based upon 
the records of penal institutions and probation records in five states, and 
3,229 women in all were studied in six states. Serious diflEiculties in 
gathering definite information from the state concerning its prisoners 
were encountered, but every possible channel for verifying and checking 
information was utilized. 

Statistics of the offenders studied shows the highest percentage of 
criminality, 80 per cent, in the group designated in the Census domestic 
and personal service, and especially among servants and waitresses in 
that group, the traditional occupations of women. An examination of 
the earliest occupations of these offenders further emphasizes the high 
percentage of crime in this group. Moreover, while the number and 
proportion of wage-earning women is increasing, and increasing especially 
in the newer industrial pursuits, criminality among women seems to be 
decreasing if the falling-off in the female prison population can be taken 
as evidence in that direction. 

The real relation between occupation and criminality among women 
seems to be not directly causal but to lie in the demand a given pursuit 
makes for intelligence and character in its workers. (It is a criticism of 
women employers and of all who engage employees for domestic and 
personal service that this work has been so little standardized and 
elevated as to demand low-grade employees.) 

Immorality among women, of which a separate study is here made, 
seems to be due chiefly to the influence of early training or lack of training 
and to defective mentality. Low wages and poverty were found not to be 


direct causes of immorality, but to have some indirect influence. In 
short, general social conditions are to be assigned as chief causes of the 
downfall of the more intelligent class of wrongdoers. Exception might 
be taken to the use of the term "inherited attitude" and "inherited taste 
for liquor," which are used as partial causes in certain cases. 

This volume contains some exceedingly interesting material, reports 
of special cases, and discussions and is characterized by carefulness of 
statement and method and unwillingness to draw general conclusions 
from slight evidence. 

Frances Fenton Bernard 

Gainesville, Fla. 

Report on the Condition of Woman and Child Wage-Earners in the 
United States. In 19 volumes. 6ist Cong., 2d Sess., Senate 
Doc. 645. Prepared under the direction of Charles P. Neill, 
Commissioner of Labor. Vol. XVI. Family Budgets of 
Cotton-Mill Workers. Washington, 191 1. Pp. 255. 

"The precise character and purpose" of the study of the family 
budgets among cotton-mill workers in Fall River and the South was to 
determine inductively from the customs prevailing in the communities 
selected what is a fair standard of living and what is the minimum 
standard upon which families in those communities are maintaining 
physical efficiency. 

The main study was confined to 14 families in Fall River and 21 
families in the South, and in addition the incomes of 75 families in the 
South in relation to fair and minimum standards were studied. The 
value of the study, therefore, limited as it was, lies in the claim of repre- 
sentativeness for the families chosen by the investigators, and in the 
presentation of numerous and concrete details of their prevailing modes 
of living, such as daily menus and expenditures for clothing of different 
members of the families. 

The minimum standard of living for a normal family of five was found 
to be in the South $408 . 26. This standard, however, assumes conditions 
which are practically non-existent. The fair standard, that is, one pro- 
viding for more than physical efficiency, for the same type of family was 
$600. 74. But few of the heads of the cotton-mill families earn so much, 
and even where several members of the family earn wages, they are 
irregular and fluctuating. 

In Fall River the minimum standard was found to be $484.41, the 
fair standard, $690.95. Here the investigation could not be so detailed 


as in the case of the South because the absence of company stores made 
it impossible to gather such definite information as to daily expenditures. 
But interesting comparisons of housing conditions and menus in the South 
and in Fall River are made, and estimates of expenditures are given. 

Frances Fenton Bernard 

Gainesville, Fla. 

The Ethics of the Old Testament. By Hinckley G. Mitchell, 
Professor of Hebrew and Old Testament Exegesis in Tufts 
College. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Pp. 
The student of sociology has long needed a work of this kind, whether 
the need has been of the " long-felt " variety or not. Professor Mitchell 
takes the Old Testament as a source-book full of material of different 
ages, according to the analysis of historical criticism, and puts this 
material on view in the order of its antiquity, with special reference to the 
moral standards of successive periods. By thus exhibiting Hebrew codes 
of conduct in chronological rank, the author supplies a treatise on social 
evolution from the standpoint of the ethical interest. His book, however, 
is not a history; and hence its full value will not be apparent to one who 
has had no introduction to the modern way of interpreting the Bible. 
For this reason, the book should be used along with such works as Henry 
Preserved Smith's Old Testament History and Kent's History of the Hebrew 
People. Equipped with these, and with a good modern translation of the 
Hebrew text, the sociological student will have the tools which will enable 
him to go a long way toward handling, in terms of his own discipline, one 
of the most fascinating problems in human history. Sociologists have 
long recognized the importance of religion as one of the great moving 
forces of civilization; and within this field they are bound to be more and 
more impressed by the need of coming to terms with the Bible in particu- 
lar as representing the special form of religion which functions at the basis 
of modern society. In this new adjustment of scholarly interests. Pro- 
fessor Mitchell's book will be of unique value. 

Louis Wallis 
Chicago, III. 

The Evolution of the Country Community. By Warren H. Wilson. 
Chicago: Pilgrim Press, 1912. 
The Preface is written by Professor F. H. Giddings, who says of the 
book: *'It would not be possible, I think, to present these two aspects of 


the problem of the country parish with more of first hand knowledge, or 
with more of the wisdom that is born of sympathy and reverence for all 
that is good in both the past and the present than the reader will find in 
Dr. Wilson's pages. I welcome and commend this book as a fine 
product of studies and labors at once scientific and practical." The two 
aspects mentioned are scientific surveys of conditions and practical efforts 
to improve them. The author treats subjects of fundamental impor- 
tance: the various types of farms, economic and technical problems of 
rural occupations, co-operation, schools, morality, recreation, and 
common worship. This volume should appear in any select list of books 

on rural problems. 

C. R. Henderson 
University or Chicago 

Modern Philanthropy, A Study of Efficient Appealing afid Giving. 
By William H. Allen. New York: Dodd, Mead & Co., 191 2. 
The author of this book follows up his Efficient Democracy with a 
study of 6,000 appeals to Mrs. E. H. Harriman, and a vigorous, nervous, 
irritating, caustic examination of the present condition of the public 
mind on the subject of philanthropy. One may quarrel with his style, 
may question the soundness of some of his generalizations, may raise 
question marks opposite some of his bold assertions, but no well-informed 
person can doubt the need of his criticism. He is profoundly right in 
regarding the work of government as the normal method of achieving the 
general ends of society, and in declaring that private philanthropy must 
always regard itself as supplementing the organizations of the collective 
will. He is entirely right in insisting with vigor and trenchant force that 
every city should have an impartial and capable budget committee, not 
merely to describe and criticize existing agencies, but to discover oppor- 
tunities. Those who are trying to do useful social work will heartily 
sympathize with the contention that their lives should not be wasted in 
raising money; that business experience should be devoted to that task. 
The prospect of establishing a national clearing-house for the collection 
of information for givers and applicants is good enough to be hopeful. 
Business men, philanthropists, social workers, clergymen, associations of 
commerce, leaders of women's clubs, will find this book one of the most 
stimulating, thought-provoking discussions yet published. It is a small 
matter whether we agree with the author at every point; the first duty 
is to weigh his argument for more accurate account of stock and complete 

survey of social needs. 

t^ C. R. Henderson 



How to Help. A Manual of Practical Charity. By Mary Conyng- 
TON. New York: Macmillan, 1913. 

This is a reprint of a very useful book published first in 1909 and 
already familiar to students of relief. 

TT ^ C. R. Henderson 

University of Chicago 

Co-operation in New England: Urban and Rural. By James Ford, 
Ph.D. New York: Survey Associates, Inc. Pp. xxi+237.' 
$1 . 50 postpaid. 
Co-operation is supposed to flourish best in old countries and where 
the economic necessity for it is greatest. Certainly it has not been a 
conspicuous success in New England. In spite of the fact that this sec- 
tion has had two perceptible waves of enthusiasm for co-operation, 
starting in 1845 and 1874 respectively, only seven of the nearly one 
thousand retail societies founded as a consequence have survived. 
Though the author's returns probably are not complete— he used the 
questionnaire method— he was able to find only sixty co-operative retail 
establishments at the time of his investigation (191 1). Co-operative pro- 
duction, in the nature of manufacture, scarcely exists in New England. 
However, rural co-operative production, marketing, and purchasing (of 
supplies) societies are having a steady growth, due to the ever-widening 
abyss between the independent producer's returns and the prices paid by 
the ultimate consumer. In New England, as in other parts of the 
country, co-operative creameries appear to lead in rural co-operation. 
In this section they total 125. 

The chief sociological significance of this concise study is to be found 
in the account of the causes of failure and the suggestions for future 
methods. The more fundamental causes of faOure are lack of sufficient 
capital, discrimination in selling on the part of the non-co-operative 
wholesale establishments, the difficulty of getting good managers at 
small salaries, petty jealousies, lack of loyalty, the giving of credit, short- 
sighted submission to the machinations of competitors who offer' better 
terms temporarily, favoritism in employing help and the difficulty of dis- 
missing it when found to be inefficient, competition from large-scale, 
well-organized non-co-operative concerns, the exceptional mobility of our 
population, the prevalence of opportunity in this country which makes 
close saving relatively unnecessary, and in many cases the heterogeneity 
of the population due to immigration. By way of cure the author says: 


"These evils can be entirely remedied only by a careful determination of 
sound co-operative methods, by the training of co-operative managers, 
and by the unceasing education of all co-operators in the essential spirit 
and ideals of the movement. Federation of societies is essential to large 
business and moral success." The author's interest is not alone in the 
economic success of co-operation, but he believes that it should be the 
means to "the creation of a constructive environment for the complete 
life of the citizen — for his leisure as well as his working hours." The 
study applies only to New England, but its conclusions will be found of 
value to other sections of the country. 

L. L. Bernard 

University of Florida 

Experiments in Industrial Organization. With a preface by W. J. 
Ashley. By Edward Cadbury. New York: Longmans, 
Green & Co , 191 2. Pp. xxi+296. $1.60. 

This book, by the son of one of the founders of Bourneville, a model 
factory suburb near Birmingham, England, describes the provisions made 
by this firm for the welfare of its employees. It consists of nine chapters 
with an appendix and a table on Bourneville Women's Savings and 
Pension Fund. In the nine chapters the author endeavors to indicate 
the methods by which the employees are selected, the plans for the edu- 
cation of the employees, the discipline, provisions for health and safety, 
methods of remimeration, organization of the employees, recreative and 
social institutions, industrial commissions, and conclusions as to the value 
of this work. He points out how the employees are very carefully 
selected, none being employed who have not reached the seventh "stand- 
ard" in the English school system. Selection is also made on the basis 
of the character and physical eflSciency of the applicant. In this way a 
careful selection of the employees is made. 

The Cadbury Firm of cocoa, chocolate, and candy manufacturers 
have, in the course of their fifty years' experience, devised classes for the 
education of their employees. All children under the age of eighteen 
years are compelled to attend educational classes. Certain courses are 
marked out, four years in length, which must be followed by these 
employees. In this connection it may be observed that the courses have 
definite reference to the particular work which the student is doing, in the 
case both of boys and of girls. A system of monetary rewards is devised 
to add an incentive to school work and the remission of certain fees for 
the educational work is customary in order to incite to better work. 


The physical training is also looked after for both the boys and the 
girls, the time for much of this being taken out of the regular working 
hours. In addition to these for the younger employees, there are mis- 
cellaneous classes for the men and women adults. Gardening classes for 
boys and girls are also provided. The apprenticeship system is in force 
in this factory in connection with certain classes for particular trades 
used in the factory such as card box-making, confectionary, and office 

In the matter of discipline the firm has abolished the old-fashioned 
system of fines and deductions, and depends entirely upon warning, 
suspension, and in cases where insubordination is due to a run-down or 
nervous condition, to sending the offender to the firm's convalescent home 
for a number of weeks until the health is restored. The whole system is 
based upon the idea of reforming the disobedient employee and fitting 
him into the system at the works. Instead of fining for spoiled work, 
dependence is placed entirely upon a record-system and upon paying 
only for the good work that is done. Under this system, from 161 cases 
of bad work in 1899, the number decreased to 15 in 1910. Cases of bad 
conduct have decreased from 700 in 1899 to 48 in 1910. One of the 
means by which the health and good nature of the employees are secured, 
especially among the girls in the candy factory, is to have the forewoman 
of each group of girls lead them in singing every half-hour or so. 

The firm provides doctors, nurses, convalescent home, an ambulance, 
and all the modern appliances for looking after the physical welfare and 
health of the employees. 

The remuneration in this company is based upon the piece-work 
system. This system is subject to the abuse of having the fastest worker 
set the pace and grading all the others accordingly as to their wages. If 
one may trust the writer of this book, this firm does not practice that 
method. The standard here is not speed but the best method of doing 
the work. That is, it has been found that speed often leads to poor 
work, whereas the main thing to be sought is the character of the work 
done. The firm fixes an adequate minimum wage, taking into account 
the age of the worker, based upon so many pence per hour. The actual 
rate fixed is based upon the earnings of the best workers. The firm has 
devised a system by which the average number of hours' work is forty- 
eight per week. The firm provides a gift before the annual summer 
holidays, which consist of ten days at the end of July, so that the 
employees may get away to the seaside or the country without the loss 
of a week's wages. The firm also extends the holidays in the case of 


those who have worked for the firm one year or longer, on the basis of 
three working-days for one year's continuous service, six for three years, 
seven for five years, and one day for every additional five years' service 
with full pay. A pension scheme is also in force, inaugurated for the men 
in 1906, and for the women in 191 1. All girl and women employees of 
fifteen years of age and over are eligible. There is also a benefit scheme 
for sick employees which was superseded by the National Insurance Act 
which went into effect January 15, 19 13. However, the firm continues to 
pay sick benefits to all boys and girls under sixteen years of age, since 
they do not receive benefits under the Insurance Act. 

The employees are organized and take part in the organization and 
conduct of the firm. For example, there is a Men's Works Committee, 
inaugurated in 1905, an Educational Committee, a Suggestion Com- 
mittee, besides subcommittees dealing with works holidays, accidents, 
allotment gardens, and sick benefit. In addition there are various 
committees, like the Summer Party Committee, the Girls' Works Com- 
mittee, which look after the welfare of the employees and the recreation 
of the employees of the works. 

In these ways the firm has the advantage of suggestions by the 
employees as to the buildings and other matters which affect the welfare 
of the employees. The firm provides recreation grounds and buildings. 
Swmming-tanks, baths, gymnasiums, etc., are also provided for the 
physical welfare of the employees. In order to enlist the brains of the 
workers in bettering the organization, a plan is carried out whereby 
suggestions by the employees are paid for at a certain rate. The workers 
in the firm are organized into athletic clubs, social clubs, camera clubs, 
musical societies, a social service league, a holiday excursion league. 
Libraries are provided, a work people's exposition is held by the 
employees, and available land owned by the firm not immediately 
required for the purposes of the business is alloted to the employees for 

To further relieve the monotony of employment, the firm proxddes 
for putting the women at more diversified work as they grow in years 
and experience. Insistence upon the quality of the work rather than 
upon the amount of work done also tends to break the monotony. 
Hygienic and clean surroundings are provided, dining-rooms for the 
employees are furnished, and during the noon meal the pipe organ pro- 
vided for the works is played. Regularity of employment is provided for 
by careful organization in order to reduce over-time and short-time work 
to a minimum. Men and women and boys and girls are kept separate in 


the works as far as possible. Thrift is promoted by the provision of a 
savings fund originated in 1897, on which the depositor receives 5 per 
cent interest on his savings each year up to £20. At the end of the year 
the firm transfers this to the post-office savings bank. The Social Service 
League, organized among the workers, makes the factory a sort of social 
center for the community. The author concludes that while this factory 
is not organized definitely for welfare work, as is the case of many 
factories in America, what the firm does is really more effective welfare 
work than is accomplished in most cases where a special welfare depart- 
ment is organized. On the whole, his conclusion is that this factory is a 
model with respect to its relationship to the employees, inasmuch as 
before the factory acts required it, many provisions that were later 
enacted into law were provided for the welfare of the women and children. 
Trade unions are not organized within the works, *' because," says the 
author, " the provisions of the firm for the welfare of the employees are 
such as make the organization of the workers for their own protection 
absolutely unnecessary." 

The writer treates only incidentally the Bourneville Village Trust, 
which has grown out of the brains of the owners of this factory and 
which creates a model village about the factory buildings. One could 
wish that he had devoted more space to this topic. However, his sub- 
ject did not permit it and we can be very grateful for the insight which 
his book gives us into the provisions which an enlightened interest has 
created in the organization of one great industrial plant. Whether these 
provisions could be introduced into other lines of business or into even 
this line of business by a firm just getting established is a question on 
which the book throws no light. It is a record of an experiment which 
can be-regarded with interest by all those who are concerned in better 
relationships between employer and employee, and a more humane 
consideration of the welfare of employees. 

University of Wisconsin 


The Church and Society. (''American Social Progress" Series.) 

By R. Fulton Cutting, LL.D. New York: Macmillan, 

1912. Pp iii-ix+223. $1.00 net. 

The contents of this interesting volume comprise the six Kennedy 

Lectures for 1912 delivered at the New York School of Philanthropy. 

These lectures, as stated in the Preface by the author, "are the expansion 

of an inquiry into the co-operation of organized Christianity with the 


civil authority and the influence of such co-operation upon civilization 
and the church" (p. iii). Like the books of Professors Peabody, 
Rouschenbusch, Shailer Mathews, Simon N. Potter, and others, it places 
emphasis upon the church's opportunity for social service in building up 
a Christian civilization by helping to formulate policies of government to 
correct the maladjustment of the changing social order. This can be 
done by the church through co-operation with government in its conduct 
of the public schools, the police, public health bureaus, child welfare 
societies, and legislation, and in molding public opinion. 

The author is thoroughly sympathetic, and yet frankly critical of the 
church as a whole for its lack of efficiency in its social program. 

The volume has added value by including over forty pages of 
"Instances and Comments" from the correspondence collected by the 
author in his inquiry. It will serve as a valuable contribution to the 
literature that is now awakening the churches to their responsibility for 
conditions of living in this world. 

Edwin L. Earp 

Drew Theological Seminary 

Immigration and Labor. The Economic Aspect of European Immi- 
gration to the United States. By Isaac A. Hourwich, Ph.D. 
New York and London: Putnam, 1912. Pp. xvii+544. 
In his book on Immigratioji and Labor Dr. Hourwich has replied to 
the Immigration Commission and attempted to prove that free and 
unrestricted immigration has been and is wise for the United States. 
Partisan in its attitude, the book may be considered as a valuable anti- 
dote for partisan advocacy of restriction. It is well that we have such 
a compulsion to renewed and more careful analysis of this great national 

It may fairly be said that Dr. Hourwick has demonstrated that 
popular opinion and charity publications more than fifty years ago were 
as fearful and contemptuous of the Germans and the Irish as their des- 
cendants today are of the Slavs, Italians, and Jews. And since these 
latter races start from no lower depths, it is reasonable to hope and ex- 
pect for them a rise to equal heights. But after we grant an equal 
capacity to the new immigrant, we still have certain questions to settle, 
such as the wisdom of the volume of immigration sixty years ago, and, 
more importantly, the comparative standards of immigrant and native 


then and now, and the different conditions into which the immigrant 
now comes. What was wise then might not be wise today. 

The chief contention of the book, however, is that the coming of 
the European laborer has not been disadvantageous to the native wage- 
earner. Dr. Hourwich's argument is a clever, however unconscious, 
combination of clear reasoning and sophistical dialectics. If the reader 
is not careful he will find himself believing that decrease of unemploy- 
ment accompanied by heavy immigration in prosperous years means 
that immigration does not contribute to unemployment, that rela- 
tively higher wages in cities (where immigrants abound) than in rural 
districts (which are largely native) prove that immigration does not 
retard wages, and that because "scarcity of labor has not forced the 
farmer to pay scarcity wages, but has merely retarded the growth of 
farming," therefore a restriction of immigrations would similarly retard 
manufacturing and mining. 

Not less specious is the claim that because there are substantially as 
many native laborers in leading industries today as there were a genera- 
tion ago, therefore there has been no supplanting of native by foreign 
labor. An expanding industry would normally mean a proportionately 
expanded body of native workers. The argument to the effect that there 
is an irreducible proportion of labor doomed to unemployment and that 
therefore the restriction of immigration would not reduce the proportion 
of unemployment is scarcely less inconclusive. If he would make his 
comparisons on pauperism within the age groups chiefly filled by immi- 
grants he would abandon his contention that immigration does not 
contribute an undue proportion of dependency, and if he would carry his 
quotation from Miss Claghorn to its logical conclusion he would realize 
that the recent races have not been in this country long enough to 
contribute their proportion of pauperism. 

The book as a whole, however, is a plea for national prosperity based 
upon a rapidly expanding or dynamic industry. His fundamental 
weakness, if weakness it be, lies in his assumption that an inexhaustible 
labor supply is the chief factor that makes possible a dynamic industrial 
order. He argues that the coming of the immigrant provides for our 
phenomenal growth in the volume of industry, that it adds proportion- 
ately nothing to the volume of unemployment, supplants no native 
labor, does not adversely affect wages, creates official and skilled posi- 
tions in definite proportion to the growth of unskilled workers, pushes 
the natives, the aristocracy of labor, forward and upward to these higher 
positions, and multiplies the wealth which gradually forces wages up. 


We need an analysis of the forces which make industry dynamic. 
Mere expansion does not measure up to the concept of dynamic develop- 
ment. We are looking for such a continuous reorganization or readjust- 
ment of industry as shall give an ever-increasing productivity and an 
ever-higher degree of welfare to the industrial producers. Dr. Hourwich 
seems to think our prosperity has been conditioned by the mobility of 
migrant labor, but on the whole does not seem to get beyond the philo- 
sophy on p. 4 that "in the long run immigration adjusts itself to the 
demand for labor." This phrase suggests that migration is effect rather 
than cause, and it also suggests the constant tendency toward equilibrium 
upon the customary bases. An indefinitely expansive labor supply 
tends to a uniform relation of supply and demand in the labor market 
and therefore tends to a uniform rather than to an advancing rate of 
wages. Dr. Hourwich has not convinced all of us that the volume of 
immigration is always adjusted to the point where the maximum prosper- 
ity and development of the United States is assured. We still need some 
interpretation of the dynamic forces in the industrial world which shall 
tell us to what extent and in what volume immigrant labor is a national 

In conclusion it should be recognized that we can have the most 
complete confidence in the capacity of the newer immigrant races and 
that we can most earnestly desire the highest welfare both of the United 
States and of all the races of the world, and still believe most heartily in 
some restriction of immigration. 

Fayette Avery McKenzie 

Ohio State University 

Historical Sociology. A textbook of politics. By Frank Granger, 

Professor in University College, Nottingham. London: 

Methnew & Co. Ltd.; New York: imported by E. P. Button 

& Co. Pp.241. $1.35 net. 

This is an attempt to base a textbook in poHtics upon the Scienza 

Nuova of Vico. The keynote is given in the following sentences: "We 

observe, says Vico, that all nations, both savage and civilized, have 

these three human customs: that they all have some religion, all contract 

solemn matrimony, all bury their dead. Therefore we have taken these 

three eternal and universal customs for the three principles of this 


The result, as might have been expected, is thin and unsubstantial. 

Victor E. Helleberg 
University of Kansas 


The Immigrant Invasion. By Frank Julian Warne, Ph.D. New 
York: Dodd, Mead & Co., 1913. Pp. 336. $2.50. 

This book by Dr. Warne, special expert on foreign-bom population, 
United States Census, 1910, presents a study of the problem of immigra- 
tion from the statistical standpoint. At the same time, it is evidently 
written for the public at large and betrays a conscious attempt at liter- 
ary effect. To the student of immigration, however, the carefully 
worked-out statistical charts and the employment of the criterion of the 
number of foreign bom in this country for the purpose of comparing the 
new with the old immigration will prove helpful. Among the suggestive 
discussions in the book are the following : the interrelation of the volume 
of immigration with periods of industrial depression, both as cause and 
effect; and the influence of the activity of steamship companies in 
augmenting immigration. The conclusion of Dr. Warne is that unless 
effective restriction measures are enacted by Congress the immigration 
from Russia, Austria-Hungary, Italy, and the Balkan peninsula will 
continue indefinitely, and that to preserve the American standard of 
living, the immigrant invasion must be regulated by adequate restric- 
tion. Two of the best chapters in the book, "The South and Immi- 
gration" and "Standards of Living," are condensed and revised from 
two previous books by the same writer. 

Ernest W. Burgess 

Toledo Untversity 

The Sociological Value of Christianity. By Georges Chatterton- 
HiLL. London: Adam & Charles Black, 191 2. js. 6d. net. 
This volume represents religion as "suprarational," imposed on the 
individual and his reason from without, and resting solely on authority. 
It is "a social creation, created by society with a view to safeguarding 
its own interests as against the individual" (p. 40). The individual in 
primitive society comes only gradually to a consciousness of himself 
as an individual "and not merely as a member of a social aggregate." 
The development of this consciousness together with the exercise of 
reflective and critical powers results in individualism, which, for the 
author, is synonymous with egoism. The same process results, on the 
other hand, in a weakening of social control. Collective representations, 
customs, taboos, and the various other regulations become inadequate 
to preserve the integrity of society against the disintegrating forces of 
the ever-strengthening egoism. In sheer self-defense the "social mind" 


(something sui generis, an independent reality) creates moral and religi- 
ous beliefs and laws whose essential nature and purpose it is to repress 
the natural impulses of individuals and to subject these to the interests 
of society. Since social regulations as such have lost their power, the 
social mind can accomplish its purposes only by sharply sundering religion 
from the realm of the merely social and projecting it into a transcendent 
realm, the domain of the Absolute. To this " the human reason cannot 
penetrate" (p. 37). Only by thus taking away "from the individual 
all possibility of discussion" (p. 37), can religion maintain itself against 
dread "rationalism," or the criticism of reason, and only thus, therefore, 
can the safety and perpetuity of society and of social control be assured. 

So far, then, from growing up out of the needs and life-experiences 
of individuals, as is often maintained, religion brings but repression, 
suffering, and the sword to individuals. Christianity itself "never 
stops to consider individual interests" (p. 174); "the Christian ideal 
offers to the individual nothing in this life but suffering" (p. 202). The 
keener psychological insight of Christianity above that of other religions 
is apparent in its recognition that the only motives of the indixadual are 
egoistic and that it is to these therefore that religion must make its 
appeal if it would be obeyed and maintained. Hence, in return for the 
sacrifices and sufferings which it entails on the individual in this life, 
Christianity holds out the hope of eternal rewards in a life beyond. 
"Egotism is combated by an appeal to egotism; and this is, in truth, 
the only way in which egotism can be combated in the rationalized indi- 
vidual" (p. 161). 

A further corollary of Dr. Chatterton-Hill's argument is that the 
hierarchy and theology of the Catholic church alone are justifiable from 
a sociological point of view. The emphasis laid by Protestantism on 
reason and on conscience frees the individual to do as he pleases and the 
resulting egoism "leads directly to self-destruction and to social dis- 
integration" (p. 223). Besides suppressing efficacious moral control 
over the individual. Protestantism reduces his duties to a minimum. 
For example, "Protestantism attaches no importance whatsoever to 
chastity; it permits its ministers to marry; it contents itself with con- 
deming adultery, but apparently attaches little importance, if any, to 
the sexual intercourse of unmarried persons" (p. 147). Moreover, the 
fact that Protestant churches remain shut throughout the week is evi- 
dence that "Protestants are not supposed to have any religious wants 
during the week; if they have, it is considered improper and they must 
restrain them" (p. 227). In a similar manner the author defends the 


hierarchical form of the Catholic church against all who preach equality 
and democracy. Those who champion these latter doctrines are either 
weaklings or persons who seek to gain some personal advantage. In his 
tirades against "the humanitarianism of the Beecher-Stowe type, that 
delights in hypocritical effusions over good-for-nothing niggers," the 
author reminds one forcibly of Nietzsche. Of course, this writer also 
comes in for his share of criticism, however, although it should be added 
that the points urged in this connection are much more defensible than 
many other parts of the volume. 

Too much space has been taken up in exposition to permit of extended 
criticism. We would suggest, however, that one may have an appre- 
ciation of the historical significance and importance of mediaeval thought 
without attaching much value to present-day discussions that rest on 
its presuppositions and fail to reckon with recent psychology or the point 
of view of almost the whole of modern philosophy. The Chatterton- 
Hill's volume, moreover, is not sufficiently empirical in spirit or in method 
to warrant the attention of the sociologist. 

Edward L. Schaub 
State University of Iowa 

Race Suicide. By M. S. Iseman, M.D. New York: The Cosmo- 
politan Press. Pp. 216. 
This is a book by a writer who has familiarized himself with a con- 
siderable portion of the literature of the population question, statistical 
and otherwise, and yet does not show sure ability to distinguish between 
fact and surmise. The larger portion of the book is taken up with a 
discussion of the extent of abortion in dififerent countries and in different 
sections of the United States. Undoubtedly a medical man will have 
somewhat more insight into certain conditions leading to race suicide 
than will the layman, but Dr. Iseman's view of the facts is far from con- 
vincing, and his interpretation of the results and ethical bearing of race 
suicide in the aggregate is uncertain. Until he reaches his final chapter 
on "The Remedy," he seems to take the conventional position that any 
interference with the birth-rate is necessarily uneconomic, immoral, and 
dangerous to the future ascendency of any nation that permits it. This 
is especially noteworthy in his discussion of the declining birth-rate in 
France. The author could have written a scientific book, apparently, 
but he has marred this one with moral and rhetorical homilies, possibly 
desirable in their place but out of place here. In his final chapter he 
shows much sanity. "While it is unquestionably woman's mission" 


he says, "to bring children into the world, it is debatable whether under 
all circumstances it is her duty to do so. Obligation to self is just as 
necessary in woman as in man, and where the bearing of offspring is 
detrimental to her interests abortion will continue to be her refuge where 

other methods of avoidance have failed At no time should 

woman be sacrificed to sex, and for twenty-five years — the average 
period of her fertility — be condemned to carry a child either in her arms 
or in futurity." It is refreshing to find a writer, and especially a medical 
man, approaching this whole subject, even belatedly in his last chapter, 
with a recognition of the individuality and personality of woman as 
part of the problem. To regard women chiefly as means to an end, " the 
race," is an attitude taken by most popular writers, and not a few sup- 
posedly scientific ones, and it is an attitude of which we should begin to 
grow weary. 

A. B. Wolfe 
Oberlin College 

The Milk Question. The Northwestern University N. W. Harris 
Lectures for 191 2. By M. J. Rosenau. Boston and New 
York: Houghton, Miffin Co., 191 2. Pp. xiv4-3io. $2.00. 
This book is a notable one for several reasons. In the first place, 
the author, a man of high scientific standing, as shown by the fact that 
he has been director of the Hygiene Laboratory of the Public Health 
and Marine Hospital Service at Washington, D.C, and is now professor 
of preventive medicine and hygiene at Harvard Medical School, is able 
to treat a subject which has many technical phases in a manner per- 
fectly intelligible and interesting to the layman. In the second place, 
although the author is an expert and an enthusiast on the sanitary 
aspects of the subject, he is quite able to see that it has economic, social, 
and commercial implications which must not be overlooked. In the 
third place, Dr. Rosenau's attitude is in refreshing contrast to much 
that is written today in a pseudo-hygienic spirit about the "milk peril." 
He says, for example, with reference to certain typical cartoons: "Such 
pictures probably do more harm than good, for they give an exaggerated 
notion of the danger in milk. This one gives the impression that every 
portion of milk is a portion of poison. Such overstatements are unfor- 
tunate, for common experience teaches that this cannot be true" 
(opposite p. 5). Or: "Such illustrations have the unhappy effect of 
deterring people from using milk at all" (opposite p. 9). Or: "News- 
paper campaigns sometimes confuse, often react, and thus may actually 


impede rather than help the final solution. Real progress in this case 
can only be achieved through patient, well-considered, and persistent 
effort that will gradually give us what we want; namely, clean, fresh 
and safe milk." 

The various chapters treat of general considerations, milk as a food, 
dirty milk, diseases caused by infected milk, clean milk, pasteurization, 
infant mortality, and the commercial aspect which deals with farmer, 
retailer, and consumer. An excellent list of references is given, although 
it is to be regretted that no mention is made of the recent admirable 
contributions to the subject made by Professor E. O. Jordan of the 
University of Chicago. A few criticisms might be made but they 
would seem like quibbles in the light of the general excellence of the 

The conclusions of Dr. Rosenau may well be quoted, viz. : 


To keep milk clean we need inspection. To render milk safe, we need 

Inspection goes to the root of the problem. Through an eflScient system 
of inspection, the milk supply should be cleaner, better, fresher, and safer. 
Inspection, however, has limitations. These limitations may be guarded 
against by pasteurization. 

A milk supply, therefore, that is both supervised and pasteurized is the 
only satisfactory solution of the problem. 

Marion Talbot 

University of Chicago 

Heredity and Eugenics. A Course of Lectures Summarizing Recent 
Advances in Knowledge in Variation, Heredity, and Evolu- 
tion and Its Relation to Plant, Animal, and Human Improve- 
ment and Welfare. By William Ernest Castle, John 
Merle Coulter, Charles Benedict Davenport, Edward 
Murray East, and William Lawrence Tower. Chicago: 
The University of Chicago Press, 191 2. Pp. vii4-3i5. 

This volume presents a series of nine lectures on evolution and 
heredity which were delivered at the University of Chicago during the 
summer of 191 1. The lectures were intended to inform those who are not 
specialists in biology, and they are for the most part reasonably popular 
expositions of their topics. 


Professor Coulter, in the introductory lecture, "Recent Develop- 
ments in Heredity and Evolution," sketches the history of the concep- 
tions of evolution and heredity, and thus presents the background for 
the more special lectures which follow. His treatment of the explana- 
tions of evolution, of biometry, and of heredity are brief and to the point. 

In the second of his two lectures, Professor Coulter discusses "The 
Physical Basis of Heredity and Evolution from the Cytological Stand- 
point." After certain introductory remarks concerning the phenomena 
of heredity, he describes admirably the several methods of reproduction 
in plants, concluding with the statement : 

The whole history of sexual reproduction among plants indicates that its 
primary significance is not reproduction, for probably many more individuals 
are produced by vegetative multiplication and by spores than by the sex act , 
This would mean that the sexual method is chiefly concerned with other 
results, which are secured in connection with reproduction. These results 
seem to be the continual securing of new combinations, and new combinations 
certainly make for evolutionary progress [p. 35]. 

This idea is doubtless new to many persons who are keenly interested 
in the phenomena of heredity. 

In two lectures. Professor Castle deals with "The Method of Evo- 
lution " and "Heredity and Sex." Under the first title, he contrasts the 
Darwinian view of species production with the more recent Mendelian 
view. After presenting certain of the essential facts of Mendelism, he 
proceeds to show that it is possible by selection to produce new types of 

His attitude toward the two schools of evolutionists, which he chooses 
to contrast, is well indicated by the following statements: 

Now I am inclined to think that Darwin was on the whole nearer the truth 
than the mutationists. They have perceived a half-truth and perceived it 
more clearly than did Darwin, but in scrutinizing this they have lost sight of 
the larger picture which he saw. Darwin saw that new races arise in two ways, 
and I shall attempt to show that he was right [p. 40]. 

In concluding the chapter. Professor Castle writes significantly thus: 
From the evidence in hand we conclude that Darwin was right in assigning 
great importance to selection in evolution; that progress results not merely 
from sorting out particular combinations of large and striking unit-characters, 
but also from the selection of slight differences in the potentiality of gametes 
representing the same unit-character combinations. 

Accordingly we conclude that the unit-characters are not unchangeable. 
They can be modified, and these modifications come about in more than a 
single way. Occasionally a unit-character is lost altogether or profoundly 


modified at a single step. This is mutation. But more frequent and more 
important, probably, are slight, scarcely noticeable modifications of unit- 
characters that afford a basis for a slow alteration of the race by selection. 
Mutation, then, is true, but it is a half-truth; selection is the other and equally 
important half of the truth of evolution, as Darwin saw it and as we see it 
[p. 61]. 

The discussion of heredity and sex is limited to remarks on the 
history of our knowledge of sex determination and to an admirable 
presentation of the results of recent experimental studies of this subject. 

The discussion is summarized thus in the concluding paragraphs of 
the lecture: 

If, as has been suggested, the determination of sex in general depends 
upon the inheritance of a Mendelian factor differentiating the sexes, it is highly 
improbable that the breeder will ever be able to control sex. Male and female 
zygotes should forever continue to be produced in approximate equality, and 
consistent inequality of male and female births could result only from greater 
mortality on the part of one sort of zygote than of the other. Only in partheno- 
genesis can man at will control sex, and until he can produce artificial partheno- 
genesis in the higher animals, he can scarcely hope to control sex in such animals. 

Negative as are the results of our study of sex control, they are perhaps not 
wholly without practical value. It is something to know our limitations. We 
may thus save time from useless attempts at controlling what is uncontrollable 
and devote it to more profitable employments [p. 79]. 

The lectures of Professor East are devoted to "Inheritance in the 
Higher Plants" and "The Application of Biological Principles to Plant 
Breeding." He describes at some length the Mendelian behavior of 
organisms, and in concluding his first lecture he briefly discusses Johann- 
sen's "genotype conception of heredity." His attitude toward this 
conception is thus expressed: 

One may question the stability of unit-characters as does Castle, but I 
cannot see how this affects the truth of the genotype conception as a help 

toward an idea of the process of heredity. Stability is a relative thing 

The important point as the foundation of the modern view of heredity I give 
in Johannsen's own words: "Personal qualities are the reactions of the gametes 
joining to form a zygote; but the nature of the gametes is not determined by the 
personal qualities of the parents or ancestors in question [p. 112]. 

In his lecture on applications, Professor East ably discusses the 
importance of hybridization in plant breeding, basing his arguments 
chiefly upon results obtained with maize and tobacco. 

A single lecture given by Professor Tower appears in the volume as 
an extended discussion of "Recent Advances and the Present State of 


Knowledge concerning the Modification of the Germinal Constitution 
of Organisms by Experimental Processes." This single lecture, in its 
printed form, occupies 125 pages, and it is the only chapter of the book 
whose appearance is likely to repel the layman. In spite, however, of 
its technical appearance and its somewhat detailed presentation of 
experimental facts, it is an eminently readable and valuable contribution. 
Professor Tower has with admirable system and skill discussed the 
several important aspects of modification of the germinal cells by extra- 
germinal conditions. The problem, as he states it, 
is to produce " somatic variations " in a soma at such a time, or in such a fashion, 
that the germ cells will not be afifected by the action of the incident forces used, 
and then by breeding discover if the change appears in the progeny arising 
from the unstimulated germs. Evidence of somatic influence upon germinal 
material may also be obtained by transplanting germ glands, especially ovaries, 
into different somas, as has been done by several experimenters [p. 146]. 

Under the heading of "The Direct Modification of the Germ Plasm," 
DeVries' observations on Oenothera are described with numerous and 
excellent illustrations. But the lecturer illustrates most of his points 
from his own extended study of the potato beetle. 

To the student of heredity. Professor Tower's lecture is sure to be the 
most stimulating of this group, for it suggests innumerable problems and 
opens up new vistas of research. 

The concluding lectures of the volume are those of Professor Daven- 
port on "The Inheritance of Physical and Mental Traits of Man and 
Their Application to Eugenics" and "The Geography of Man in Rela- 
tion to Eugenics." Like the other lecturers, with the possible exception 
of Professor Tower, Professor Davenport has made no attempt to offer 
new materials in these lectures. His is a popular exposition of the facts 
of heredity in man with strong emphasis upon their social bearings. 

In the first lecture, he presents, with conciseness, and convincingness, 
evidence of the transmissibility of a variety of physical and mental 
characters in man. The list includes such characters as presenile 
cataract, diabetes, albinism, deaf-mutism, feeble-mindedness, artistic 
ability, and color-blindness. 

In the second lecture, are presented many interesting facts concern- 
ing the relation of geographical distribution and physiographic barriers 
to heredity and eugenics. Thus it is shown that rivers and mountain 
ranges may have much to do with the development of desirable or unde- 
sirable characteristics in a community. Isolation is singled out as an 
important condition of race deterioration. 


But a still more interesting portion of this lecture, which seems to 
the reviewer of extreme eugenic value, deals with "The Influence of the 
Single Germ Plasm on the Race." Under this title, are described the 
family of Elizabeth Tuttle, certain of the first families of Virginia and 
of the Kentucky aristocracy, and finally, by way of contrast, the Jukes 
family, and the Ishmaelites. 

All who are socially minded will sympathize with Professor Daven- 
port and find deep significance in his exclamation: "Ah, that, in the 
hordes pressing at the gate at Ellis Island, we could distinguish the John 
Prestons from the Ben Ishmaels of the future!" (p. 308), 

This, the final lecture of the volume, is concluded by a concise history 

of the eugenics movement in America. 

Robert M. Yerkes 
Hasvasd University 

Early Man in South America. By Ales Hrdlicka (in collaboration 
with W. H. Holmes, Bailey Willis, Fred Eugene Wright, 
and Clarence N. Fenner) . Bulletin 52. Bureau of American 
Ethnology. Washington: Government Printing office, 191 2. 
8vo, pp. xv+405. 
For a long time past, a claim for man's great antiquity in South 
America has been made. The earlier evidence presented came from 
Brazil, the later from Argentina. That from Brazil, though presented 
on fair authority, has always been shaky and insecure; that from Argen- 
tina, on account of its mass, its diversity, its geographical range, its 
presentation by a man with reputation as a palaeontologist, has gained 
considerable consideration and has been accepted by some European 
authorities of weight. The man to whom we chiefly owe the Argentinan 
claim is Fiorentino Ameghino. He has proposed a classification of 
geological formations running back from modern time to the Upper 
Eocene, from which, at various levels, he has secured industrial vestiges, 
human remains, and the remains of man's precursors. As the result 
of finds already made, he has developed a scheme of human evolution 
which has been widely quoted. He claims that remains have been 
discovered, not only of several species of man besides Homo sapiens, but 
also of at least two genera of man's precursors. He has introduced the 
names Homo Caputindinatus, Homo sinemento, Homo pampaeus 
{ = Prothomo), Diproihomo platensis, Tetraprothomo argentinus for his 
new forms. By the term Prothomo, he means a form one step removed 


from Homo; by Diprothomo, a form two steps back; by Teiraprothomo, 
one four steps back. These he claims to know. Triprothomo of course 
comes in between Diprothomo and Tetraprothomo, but has not yet been 
found. The theoretical importance of the occurrence of such a series of 
human and pre-human forms within a single area, a thing unparalleled 
elsewhere, could not be overemphasized. Such a wealth of forms in 
Argentina would speak loudly in favor of the South American continent 
as the original home of the Hominidae. This was clearly appreciated 
by Ameghino who, in recently announcing a sixth "hominien," says: 
"These six species of hominiens, cantoned in the same country, prove 
with all the eloquence of facts without appeal, that here exists the centre 
of origin, diversification, and dispersion of the human genus." 

It is necessary then that these discoveries and claims receive critical 
examination. In 1910, Ales Hrdhcka visited Argentina and had the 
opportunity to study for himself the formations from which these remains 
were taken, the remains themselves, and the various industrial vestiges, 
which, found and described by Ameghino and others, had been considered 
ancient. Dr. Hrdlicka was fortunate in having with him a competent 
geologist, Mr. Bailey Willis, who has had especial experience in the study 
of such loose, unconsolidated, easily shifted, aeolian, lacustrine, and 
fluviatile deposits as are here in question. Hrdlicka and Willis together 
visited the very sites from which the famous finds were taken, handled 
and studied the remains themselves, collected industrial vestiges for 
themselves in situ, reached their own conclusions. These are of the 
highest importance and significance. Let us look at them in detail. The 
industrial vestiges from Argentinan deposits are (a) baked earth or tierra 
cocida, (b) scoriae, (c) used or worked stones, (d) used or worked bones. 
Our authors decide that the tierra cocida and the scoriae are due to purely 
natural causes, not to fires artificially produced by man. The used or 
worked stones and bones are found in situations which suggest no great 
antiquity and comparison of them with objects of relatively recent 
Indian fabrication shows identity with them; there are, indeed, some 
local differences in these finds, but these suggest at most mere tribal 
differences between the makers; nothing was found to indicate a marked 
difference in culture, or a serious antiquity. Examination of the local- 
ities, where the famous remains were found leaves strong doubt of the 
great age of any of Ameghino 's species of Homo. The specimens them- 
selves, when critically examined, do not warrant the establishment of 
new species for any of them. All are plainly Homo — Homo sapiens — 
and Homo sapiens of a clearly marked South American Indian t>pe. 


One can but be convinced of this the moment that careful measurements 
are made of the specimens and an exact and rigid comparison established 
between them and modern Indian remains. As to the precursors — 
Diprothomo and Tetraprothomo — the case is startling. The piece upon 
which the genus Diprothomo is founded is a skull fragment. Ameghino 
apparently placed it for study upon any flat supporting surface; from it 
he made a full description of a "precursor" far lower than any human 
type now known, lower than Pithecanthropus itself. Hrdlicka says 
that when he really saw and handled the specimen his "first impres- 
sion amounted to incredulity as to its being the relic in question." 
It is no precursor; when properly oriented and carefully compared with 
human skulls, it is plainly human. Not only so but it is a fragment of 
the skull of "a well developed and physically modern-like human indi- 
vidual." It presents some peculiarities but they are of secondary 
importance and do not even warrant the separation of the skull from 
probable reference to an American Indian. As to Tetraprothomo, this 
precursorial genus of Ameghino is based upon two bones found at 
Monte Hermoso — an atlas and a femur. If the two bones come from 
a single individual it would indeed be different from Homo sapiens. 
The atlas presents some actually striking features. Hrdlicka carefully 
compares it with a series of Indian atlases. He decides that it is 
human, modern, from a short and probably thickset man. Were similar 
atlases found in number, they might perhaps suggest a distinct human 
variety; the simple specimen does not warrant even such an assum- 
ption. The femur, referred by Ameghino to Tetraprothomo, proves to 
be that of a carnivore, probably a cat form, and has no "hominien" 

As is seen, Hrdlicka's book is one of destructive criticism. It is 
always an unpleasant task to tear down what another has reared in good 
faith; it is seldom done in entire kindness and courtesy. Hrdlicka shows 
both qualities but he has done his work thoroughly. It is possible 
that from our brief notice one might think our author stands alone in his 
work of criticism, or that he has neglected the bibliography of his subject. 
Far from it; he is by no means the only opponent of Ameghino's views 
and in his discussion he makes a full presentation of the literature of 
the subject as he takes up point after point. But Hrdlicka is actually 
the only worker, who has taken up all the evidence in detail, subjected 
it to exhaustive critical treatment, and reached definite conclusions. 

Frederick Starr 
University of Chicago 


The first number of The Quarterly Journal oj the Society of American 
Indians lies before us and is a document of exceptional significance. 
The society is a national organization, active membership in which is 
restricted to American Indians. "It proposes to bring together all 
progressive Indians and friends of Indian progress for the purpose of 
promoting the highest interests of the race and individual." It aims 
to develop the highest and best in Indian character in such a way as to 
enable the race to hold its own and to make its contribution to our 
American life and civilization. The movement — for it is a movement — 
took form in 191 1, at the Ohio State University, when on invitation of 
Professor F. A. McKenzie, its first annual conference was held. The 
second conference was held last year at the same place. It was a notable 
gathering, in which educated and progressive members of the red race 
met with white friends to consult upon plans and methods of advance- 
ment. The objects of the Society are: 

First: To promote and co-operate with all efforts looking to the 
advancement of the Indian in enlightenment which leave him free as a 
man to develop according to the natural laws of social evolution. 

Second: To provide through our open conferences the means of a 
free discussion on all subjects bearing on the welfare of the race. 

Third: To present in a just light the true history of the race, to 
preserve its records and emulate its distinguishing virtues. 

Fourth: To promote citizenship and to obtain the rights thereof. 
Fifth: To establish a legal department to investigate Indian prob- 
lems and to suggest and to obtain remedies. 

Sixth: To exercise the right to oppose any movement that may be 
detrimental to the race. 

Seventh: To direct its energies exclusively to general principles and 
universal interests and not allow itself to be used for any personal or 
private interest. 

Three classes of members are recognized — active, adult persons of 
Indian blood; junior active, Indians below twenty-one years of age; 
associate, persons not Indian but friends of the Indian-American. The 
society will maintain a Quarterly Journal which will cost $1 .00 per year 
to members, $1 . 50 to outsiders. It is to be under the editorial manage- 
ment of Mr. Arthur C. Parker, a Seneca Indian, who is well known for 
his archaeological and historical investigations. The first number is a 
handsomely printed pamphlet of almost one hundred pages, containing 
a number of the addresses given last fall at the conference, summary 
of the conference proceedings, notes and comments, etc. Carefully 


prepared articles are here printed, written by Indians of seven different 
tribes, and the reader can but be impressed by their serious, thoughtful 
and earnest character. The society has established head-quarters at 
Washington, D.C. (Barrister Building), where Mr. Parker has his 
offices, both as editor of the journal and secretary-treasurer of the society. 
Among the various matters now occupying the society's attention is the 
observance of a holiday to be known as American Indian Day. It is 
suggested that October 12 (Discovery Day) would be an appropriate 
date and the society urges its celebration "by schools, colleges, historical 
and fraternal organizations, and by the body of citizens generally." On 
such a holiday the true character and status of the Indian, past and 
present, might be fittingly presented to the American people. This 
society and its Quarterly Journal deserve much more than a half-hearted 
encouragement. It needs a large, active, and interested, body of asso- 
ciate members. 

Frederick Starr 


American Bad Boys in the Making. By A. H. Stewart, M.D. 
New York: The Bookery, 13 East 38th Street. Pp. 241. 

The author of this book, which consists chiefly of articles and 
addresses written and delivered from time to time, was assistant warden 
at the Kentucky penitentiary for three years. He states as the purpose 
of the book a desire " to awaken parents to a realization of the appalling 
record made by our boys in the criminal annals of the country." He 
contends that the influence of heredity is exaggerated, and that it is a 
mistake to regard crime as amenable only to repression and intimidation. 

A personal inspection of more than half of the 119 county jails in 
Kentucky led him to regard most of these jails as "loathesome disease 
and crime breeding dens maintained at public expense," in which old 
and young offenders are herded together in the most dangerous pro- 
miscuity. In the state prison conditions were scarcely better. 

Nor does the author confine himself to a criticism of conditions in 
Kentucky, as the following extracts indicate: "Many of our so-called 
reformatories are reformatories in name only." " Incompentency and 
cruelty still exist in many institutions supposed to be conducted accord- 
ing to the most modern reformatory methods." "I visited the prisons 
and reformatories in sixteen of our states and in many instances I found 
that the severest punishment was regularly inflicted on small boys in 
state institutions." "The monotonous, red tape and cold mechanical 


process so prevalent in many industrial schools and eleemosynary 
institutions may produce human machines, but certainly not well- 
rounded citizens. The disproportionate number of delinquents found 
among those reared in orphans' homes show that children are not adapted 
to any wholesale plan of bringing up." 

The chapters on the influence of age on conduct and on the relation 
of sex to conduct contain nothing that is new in the literature of these 
topics. The same may be said of the chapter on the relation of mind 
and body to character. All three subjects, however, are treated in an 
interesting popular style. The sections relating to the influence of 
heredity compared with that of environment constitute an eloquent, 
though not always convincing, plea for a larger recognition of the power 
of environment to overcome even the most noxious hereditary influences. 

The sections relating to the relaxation of home discipline and to 
schools fix a large degree of responsibility upon the modern home and 
the modern school for the poor adaptation of the younger generation 
to the real needs of present society. It is pointed out that physical 
culture should occupy a more prominent place in education, from the 
kindergarten to the college; that play is of the greatest hygienic and 
social value; that our lack of respect for law and order is a serious menace 
to democratic institutions; and that the prevention of crime is wiser than 

The book as a whole constitutes a popular exposition, based upon 
familiar sources of information and upon some of the author's own 
experiences, of the newer preventive and reformative criminology, with 
particular reference to that juvenile delinquency for which our present 

social order or disorder is so largely responsible. 

C. W. A. Veditz 
Washington, D.C. 

History of the Supreme Court of the United States. By Gustavus 
Myers. Chicago: Charles H. Kerr & Co., 1912. 

This is a valuable book notwithstanding the dogmatic viewpoint 
and the plain purpose of the author to condemn the federal Supreme 
Court as simply a tool of the interests. 

One good thing is the pointing out to historians and others of the 
many selfish and partisan acts of a tribunal that has seldom been 
described in other language than that of fulsome praise and adoration. 
The country needs to know about the frailties of judges who have 
hitherto been vaunted or beyond the pale of ordinary human experience. 


From the beginning there has been a tendency on the part of historians 
and of laymen, especially the wealthy, to make the Supreme Court a 
sort of divinity which cannot err and which shall not be criticized. The 
nationalists have done this because the court in its early career always 
decided against the states; while the land speculators, the builders of 
interstate railways, and the heads of great corporations have done the 
same thing because federal courts were thought to be a safer resort than 
those of the states. 

The method of Mr. Myers' work is to study first the recommenda- 
tions of each judge when he was appointed to office, then to study the 
reports of special committees of Congress investigating matters that 
afterward came before the court for settlement, and finally to follow 
up the history of the great suits that have been determined by the court. 
In this report the book is a decided addition to our historical literatures. 
If one wants to know the antecendents of the men who have composed 
the Supreme Court Myers will prove a ready help. To know judge 
Marshall's connection with land speculators, even if harmless in so far 
as he was personally involved, helps one to understand the case of 
Hunter vs,. Martin's lessees. To have the documents in hand which show 
Story's bids toward banks and the privilege-seeking classes is an aid to 
the understanding of many a decision. And when one comes to the rail- 
road era it is still better to know the history of each judge when he was 
appointed to office, to know his clients and his connections with corpora- 
tions or director or other official. 

All this Myers gives, and he names the places, dates, and volumes 
of the many documents in which his evidence is to be located. Every 
page bears its footnote as citation and one is convinced that there are 
vast storehouses of historical material in Washington or in the archives of 
the states which have never been explored by those who have written 
the history of the country or the biographies of the justices. 

The result of Myers' work, however, is whole condemnation of the 
court. It is and has always been an engine of class aggrandizement, 
a powerful aristocratic organization, composed in the main of unaristo- 
cratic men, working ceaselessly to undermine whatever of democracy 
there was originally in this country. Such complete and overwhelming 
condemnation is unhistorical and it tends to vitiate the valuable parts 
of the book. No good author seeks to prove too much — it is sometimes 
said that a good historian seeks to prove nothing, but simply presents 
the evidence of what has happened in brief and digested form. Certainly 
this book fails when measured by such a standard. Inferences are drawn 


conclusions set down which are unjust sometimes to the characters 
under consideration. 

Aside from this the work is of great value. Its bold presentations 
and analysis of evidence seldom used, its short histories of the judges, 
of the party aflSliations and business connections are all of utmost impor- 
tance to him who wants to know the truth and where to find it in case 
of need. What the reviewer warns the reader or the librarian against 
is the conclusions oft times drawn, the inferences and interpretations. 
The Supreme Court still lacks a history in the full sense; Myers suggests 
and emphasizes the need of some broad, full work covering the whole 


William E. Dodd 

Univeksity of Chicago 

Bulletin de VOffice de la protection de Venfance. Bruxelles, 1913- 
The royal commission on patronage enters upon the administration 

of the new Belgian juvenile court law with the publication of an organ 

which is to appear quarterly. The first numbers give the law and various 

documents and addresses in explanation. 

C. R. Henderson 
University of Chicago 

Social Welfare in New Zealand. The Result of Twenty Years of 
Progressive Social Legislation and Its Significance for the United 
States and Other Countries. By Hugh H. Lusk. New York: 
Sturgis & Walton Co., 1913. $1 . 50. 
This, book, written by a former member of the New Zealand parlia- 
ment, presents a quite enthusiastic account and sympathetic interpre- 
tation of the social legislation in New Zealand during the past twenty 
years. Successive chapters describe with some detail the progress of this 
young commonwealth of scarce a million people toward state socialism 
by means of significant beginnings in land nationalization, the achieve- 
ment of a forty-four-hour week for workmen, compulsory arbitration of 
industrial disputes, old-age pensions, universal suffrage, state ownership 
of public utilities, such as railroads, telegraph, telephones, and coal- 
mines, state insurance, and postal savings banks. The writer evidently 
regards New Zealand as an experiment station for the world in social 
legislation, and makes the pertinent suggestion that United States with 
its numerous self-governing states offers an inviting field for further 
experimentation in state socialism of the New Zealand type. 

Ernest W. Burgess 
Toledo University 


The Economic Uiilization of History and Other Economic Studies. 
By Henry W. Farnum. New Haven: Yale University Press, 
1913. Pp. viii+220. $1.25 net. 

This little volume contains, in revised form, several addresses which 
have been given by Professor Farnum in recent years. The presidential 
address given at the annual meeting of the American Economic Associa- 
tion in 191 1 occupies the first three chapters and supplies the title for the 
book. Other chapters contain the presidential addresses given before 
the American Association for Labor Legislation in 1908, 1909, and 1910; 
and before the Connecticut Conference of Charities and Correction in 
191 1. One article from the Yale Review is included also. 

The central thought of the titular address is that history should be 
utilized as the laboratory of the economist, where the records of the past 
may be studied with a view to discovering the operation of economic 
forces. In the remainder of the book this thesis is illustrated, though not 
directly applied, in the brief but interesting chapters on labor legislation, 
business organization, and charity. In each of these fields, as well as in 
many others, there is need of more complete knowledge of, and sympathy 
with, social facts and forces. Mere knowledge, without sympathy, tends 
to indifference; while an excess of sympathy without adequate knowledge 
breeds sensationalism. The great problem of the constructive worker is 
to steer a middle course between indifference on the one hand and sen- 
sationalism on the other to the attainment of practical results by scientific 
methods. Professor Farnum's emphasis of this problem is timely, and 
the only regret is that he has confined himself to so brief a treatment of 

a theme at once so promising and so suggestive. 

H, L. LuTZ 
Oberlin College 



Les conditions biologiques de la timidite. — In social contacts we expose our- 
selves to the possibility of a depreciative judgment, and consequently to a partial 
destruction of ourselves. Physical danger is definitely limited in time and space, 
but an unfavorable opinion may last indefinitely and be communicated to others. 
Intimidation is essentially a powerlessness to assert oneself in the presence of another 
and to win his respect. It is a consciousness of threatened annihilation of a part of 
the self, and consciousness of inability to control the situation. Severe or repeated 
experiences of intimidation may give rise to a permanent phobia of social contacts. 
This is what we mean by timidity.— L. Dupuis, Rcvuc philosophique, August, 191 2. 

S. A. Q. 

The Origin of Totemism. — Convinced of the futility of the search for the specific 
character of first origins, we simply assume that there was a simple beginning. The 
many features of a totemic complex certainly did not appear all at once, but one by 
one, or possibly in small groups. It may be that they all made their first appearance 
in the same clan, or it may be that they had a varied origin. At all events they spread 
by waves of diffusion from clan to clan until they fused into the complex known as 
totemism. This is the pattern theory of the origin of totemism. — A. A. Goldenweiser, 
American Anthropologist. October-December, 1912. S. A. Q. 

Magical Factors in the First Development of Human Labor. — Labor in the 
sense of a continuous, purposive, and organized activity is not much engaged in by 
primitive peoples. But when it does occur, it is impregnated with magical elements 
for the control of the weather, movements of the stars, reproduction of plants and 
animals, sickness, death, etc. Dancing and music are the magical instruments par 
excellence, and hence among the earliest forms of labor.— Felix Krueger, American 
Journal of Psychology, April, 1913. S. A. Q. 

Report of Experiments at the State Reformatory at Bedford, New York.— 

In 1 9 10 six weeks were spent in psychological tests upon certain of the inmates to 
find out whether it would be possible to frame a practical set of tests which would, 
upon application to a given girl, determine whether she represented the grade of 
normality necessary to receive benefit from the educational work of this institution, 
or to be safely set free after her term was over. Thirty- five girls were tested in reaction- 
time, memory, attention, and direct and indirect suggestibility. The results \vere 
sufficiently successful to bring about the installation of a resident psychologist.— 
Eleanor Rowland, Psychological Clinic, May, 1913. S. A. Q. 

Political and Economic Interpretations of Jurisprudence.— There are two pre- 
vailing types of interpretations of the law. The one is historical, idealistic, and politi- 
cal. The other is mechanical and economic. The political interpretation fails when 
put to the test of application to the facts of Anglo-American law, and the economic 
interpretation fails even more when applied to the traditional element of legal systems. 
Each interpretation is too narrow for the legal science of today.— Roscoe Pond, 
American Political Science Review (Supplement), February, 1913. V. W. B. 

Ethischer Individualismus und soziale Reform in England. — Laissez /aire in 
English industry has persisted, re-enforced by the individualistic ethical standards 
of the Calvinists and other dissenters. But in recent years there has been a tendency 
to organize industry on a more social basis and subject it to state regulation. The 
laws and reforms in regard to the land question, the labor question, poor relief, working- 
men's insurance, and monopolies, the social conception of the educational problem, 



and the attitude of the churches toward social reforms are evidences of progress from 
an individualistic to a social standard. There is, however, a strong counter-movement 
in favor of laissez faire and individualism that is being led by many conservative news- 
papers and business people. — Herman Levy, Schmoller's Jahrbuch, Heft i, 1Q13. 

V. W. B. 

The Revival of the Village. — Country village life and occupations develop a 
human type whose existence is of importance to the nation and of value for stocking 
the large cities. The revival of the village, therefore, should be considered as a matter 
of national importance. For the revival of the village, attempts should be made (1) to 
deal, through acts of Parliament, with land and housing conditions; (2) to revive 
village handicrafts; (3) to revive old songs and dances and to stimulate interest in 
social life; (4) to induce villagers to co-operate for common purposes, such as credit, 
buying and selling, joint holding of land to be severally cultivated, and the building 
and ownership of cottages. — Sybella Branford, Sociological Review, January, 1913. 

V. \V. B. 

Le chomage et I'assistance aux chSmeurs dans I'Inde Britannique. — There is in 
India no unemployment in the occidental sense of the word, but there is much suffering 
due to the failures in agriculture, and consequent to that the depressions in dependent 
industries, such as weaving. In order to save life and to enable the people to resume 
the ordinary pursuits, various public measures have been taken to mitigate distress 
and to prevent such famines. In addition to the extension of the water supply through 
irrigation works, the improvements in methods of agriculture and trade, and the provi- 
sion of cheap capital by co-operative credit societies of the Raiffeisen type, there has 
been a system of insurance against famines. This famine relief began in 1878, when it 
was made a regular part of the public charges. — C. R. Henderson, Bulletin trimestriel 
de Vassocialion internationale pour la luUe contre le chomage, Janvier-Mars, 1913. 

E. H. S. 

The Contest against Criminality. Investigation and Probation Work in 
Sweden. — There has been in Sweden no public provision for prisoners released under 
suspended sentences, though there have been voluntary probation officers since 1902 
for juveniles, and since 1906 for adults who have been finally released. In 1910 the 
Protection Society (Skyddsvarnet) was formed, with the purpose of investigation of 
the cases for suspended sentence and the supervision of those liberated under such 
sentence. The municipality of Stockholm and the state have granted subventions to 
this society. But the officers serve gratuitously, and, since there is no law on this 
subject, supervision must be accepted voluntarily by those under suspended sentence. 
— Harold Salomon, Reprint from Journal of the Protection Society (Skyddsvarnet) ^ 
April, 1913. E- H. S. 

Industrial Insurance and Child Welfare. — Industrial insurance may benefit 
children directly, or indirectly — through benefits conferred on the parents. The 
latter are probably the more important. Maternity insurance produces largest results. 
Good laws exist in England and Germany. Halle grants lactation premiums to 
mothers who nurse their own babies. Invalidity insurance brings large social and 
economic benefits. A few of the more important direct benefits are: (i) encourage- 
ment of prophylactic measures against the ailments of children, notably the Central 
Association for Public Welfare in Hanover and a network of "schools for mothers" 
in England; (2) special benefits for tuberculous children; (3) provision of special 
institutions other than sanatoria for children; (4) pensions for children; (5) medical 
inspection of school children; (6) supplementary voluntary insurance. — R. Murray 
Leslie, Journal of State Medicine, April, 1913. R. F. C. 

The Negro: His Relation to Public Health in the South. — The Negros have a 
material and vitiating effect on the progress of any community in public health matters. 
They are a menace as a source and disseminator of infection. Their average mortality, 
in Jacksonville, 1 908-11, was 23.2 per thousand against 15.2 for whites; birth- 
rate 16.79 for Negroes, 17.85 for whites, or, adding still-births 21.91 for Negroes, 
19.26 for whites. An important factor is the practice of midwifery. In 1910-11, 


51.7 per cent of all births were attended by Negroe midwives. They belong, usually, 
to the most ignorant type of Negroes. To require the most simple evidence of vmder- 
standing of their calling would at once disbar them all from practice. Negroes are 
most inadequately supplied with efficient medical attention. Preventable diseases 
cause 42.5 per cent of Negro deaths as against 32.1 per cent of white deaths. A 
colored health improvement association and the employment of a well-trained colored 
nurse for district work under the supervision of the health department have worked 
well in Jacksonville. This work needs to be extended. — C. E. Terry, American Joiirnal 
of Public Health, April, 1913. R. F. C. 

The Sanitary Supervision of Prostitution at Bremen. — Suppression of prostitu- 
tion is impossible. The only hope is to reduce the damage connected with prostitution. 
Efforts should include improved conditions of livelihood and dwellings, instruction of 
the population on sexual life and the dangers of sexual diseases, perfection of medical 
education and experience, and control and sanitary treatment. The Bremen system 
of internments has been most successful. One small street was placed exclusively at 
the disposal of the police for housing the prostitutes. The houses are carefully regu- 
lated, and the street guarded. Periodical medical examinations are required. Girls 
are admitted only of their own free will and on application; examination must show 
them to be perfectly healthy and strong. The proportion of sexually diseased or 
suspicious cases is very much less than among secret prostitutes and the frequency 
is being greatly reduced. All women suspected of secret prostitution are arrested 
and examined by the police. If found guilty they are sent to the medical health 
officer for examination and punished after having, in case of infectious condition, been 
treated at the hospital compulsorily until cured. — Kreisarzt Dr. Weidanz, Journal of 
State Medicine, April, 1913. R. F. C. 

Saving the Backward School Child. — Nervous and mental diseases due to eye- 
strain ^re rapidly increasing with a frightful growth in the general morbidity rates. 
A bulletin of the United States Bureau of Education says that 25 per cent or about 
500,000 of the school children in this country have defective vision, and 75 per cent 
need attention for physical defects which are prejudicial to health and which are 
partially or completely remediable. Experiments by Dr. W. M. Richards, in New 
York City, in examination and treatment were highly successful in their results. 
Principles and practice of refraction are not adequately and correctly taught in medical 
colleges. — George M. Gould, M.D., Journal American Medical Association, April 5, 
1913. R. F. C. 

Room Overcrowding and the Lodger Evil. — No serious attempt has been made 
in America to cope with this problem. We are without accurate information as to 
the extent, causes, and effects of the evil, which is especially manifest among certain 
groups of immigrants. The desire rapidly to acquire money and racial solidarity 
are large factors. The real evil in America lies in the practice of taking lodgers and 
boarders and in the lack of proper housing accommodations for the newly arrived 
single immigrant. The evil effects are physical, moral, civic, social, industrial, and 
economic. Boston and New York are the only cities that have made serious efforts to 
solve the problem, and their methods have been ineffective. The general public 
and the minor courts must be educated with regard to the evil. The landlord, not the 
tenant, should be held primarily responsible for the taking of lodgers and boarders 
into an apartment without written consent of health officials. — Lawrence Veiller, 
American Journal of Public Health, January, 1913. R. F. C. 

The Principle of the Minimum "Wage. — The policy of the minimum wage includes 
three different policies aiming at different ends and susceptible of defense and attack 
along different lines: (i) The subsistence minimum. This rests upon the doctrine that 
in every community there is a certain minimum standard of well-being below which 
the life of no member ought to be allowed to fall. A minimum wage, however, carries 
no pledge of continuous employment and it is inadequate unless the rate varies with 
the size and character of the family. The enforcement of a minimum rate in respect 
to workers whose efficiency was not before high enough to be worth that rate will 



act, in the main, to throw these workers out of employment. (2) The inter-personal 
equality minimum. This is advocated as a means of promoting equality among 
efficiency wages paid to different people at the same time. The conclusion in regard 
to the effect of enforced equalization of efficiency wage-rates in cases where existing 
inequalities correspond to inequalities of marginal net products is that, where methods 
of engaging people are of a casual, unsystematic type, equalization is likely to prove 
socially injurious; but that where these methods are of the concentrated type it is 
certain to prove socially beneficial. (3) The inter-temporal equality minimum. This 
is advocated as a means to promote equality among the efficiency wages paid to the same 
people at different times. This doctrine that economic welfare is in general fostered 
by anything that renders individual income more stable is a valid one. As a means 
to secure this stability there must be a minimum time- wage along side the piece- wage 
to be paid to those workmen to whom the piece-wage scheme would at any time award 
less than the defined sum. — A. C. Pigou, Nineteenth Century, March, 1913. J. H. K. 

Some Dangers in the Present Movement for Industrial Education. — A scheme 
of industrial education proposed for adoption by the next legislature of the state of 
Illinois has several fundamentally bad features associated with it. The scheme 
proposes a separate state commission of vocational education, thus dividing and dupli- 
cating the whole administrative educational machinery. The scheme also tends to 
paralyze modem movements for the vitalizing of the academic education through the 
introduction of manual training, industrial, and social activities. The proposed 
segregation will work disastrously for the true interests of the pupils who attend the 
so-called vocational schools. It could not give the pupils a knowledge of industry 
in relation to "science, art, and society," but would aim at increased efficiency in 
certain lines. This enthusiasm for vocational guidance should rather exhibit itself, 
first, by encouraging the children to stay in school and fit themselves for work where 
there are genuine openings ahead; second, by guiding public opinion to modify the 
school work so that it shall have more real coimection with social opportunity; third, 
by providing supplementary agencies so that children when they do leave school to 
go out to work shall continue under educational supervision. — John Dewey, Child 
Labor Bulletin, February, 1913. J. H. K. 

Unit Accoimting in Social Work. — Social workers are today concerned with a 
close-range study of facts which will lead the way to effective local social administra- 
tion. It is more and more clearly understood that the local neighborhood is the true 
imit of constructive social effort. There is strong demand for ordered information 
as to this subsection of society. It is very desirable that the national and state census 
should give local and detailed statistics and tabulations for the small areas. The local 
registration of all marriages, births, diseases, and deaths should provide specific 
exposition in terms of social geography and classification by age, sex, and nationality. 
All moral statistics should contain details as to precise local environments even to 
specification of individual houses. One of the first results of such an analytical method 
in applied statistics would be to make a better proportioned and adjusted service 
in the city departments. Such information is indispensable to charity societies, social 
service commissions, municipal administrators, and state legislators. Such knowledge 
would also bring about a much more effective form of co-operation between these 
different local neighborhoods and between the districts of a city. — Robert A. Woods, 
American Statistical Association, March, 19 13. J. H. K. 

Recent Changes in the Composition of the Population of the United States. — 

This article deals only with recent changes in regard to sex, age, and marital conditions 
as shown by the census of 1910. The proportion of males in continental United States 
is shown to be greater by over a million than that recorded at any previous census. 
The number of states to show an excess of females is diminishing. This seems due to 
the unprecedented immigration of the past decade together with the extremely large 
proportion of males in the immigration. The states with the smallest proportion of 
males show an increase in the proportion since 1900, but the states with the largest 
proportion of males have in many cases shown a decrease in this proportion. There 
has been a decrease since 1900 in the proportion of the population in the early-age 


groups and an increase in the upper-age groups, the foreign-born whites being the only 
exception. The proportion of married is higher in the age periods of early middle life 
and lower in the advanced ages. This would indicate a tendency to earlier marriages, 
although the proportion single in advanced ages is greater than in 1890 or in 1900. — 
William B. Bailey, American Statistical Association, March, 1913. J. H. K. 

Wandlungen iind Entwicklungstendenzen in der deutschen Auswandenmg.^ 

The traditional definition of emigration as the surrender of one's entire economic 
existence in his native country with a view to permanent settlement in another is no 
longer adequate to characterize present-day German emigration. This is becoming 
part of a world-wide phenomenon of the migratory movement of labor between coun- 
tries, following the fluctuations of economic opportunity. The change demands a 
corresponding modification of the conception of emigration and an adaptation of 
statistics to the new conditions. This may be accomplished either by distinguishing 
between temporary and permanent emigrants, or by supplementing the existing 
emigration statistics by re-migration statistics. The latter procedure is recommended. 
— Dr. W. Moenckmeier, Jahrbiicher JUr Nationalokonoviie utid Slatislik, March, 1913. 

P. W. 

Ztir historischen Analyse des Patriotismus. — The rise of patriotism is a rela- 
tively recent phenomenon. Ecclesiastical loyalties and conflicts retarded the forma- 
tion of a national consciousness in western Europe until the end of the seventeenth 
century and later. The sense of linguistic and cultural unity emerges gradually, and 
patriotism attaches to ethnic nationality and to civil liberty. In modem states 
patriotism is colored politically where several nationalities are comprised in one 
state, ethnically where state and nationality coincide. The industrial revolution and 
the consequent creation of an international proletariat for a time impeded the growth 
of patriotism by substituting class for country; but the other result of capitalistic 
industry — imperialism — is a species of patriotism. The form which patriotism takes 
varies with the particular environment of a people, and the evolutions the concept 
has undergone in the course of centuries prove that it is not an ethical postulate but 
a historic necessity of every period, which it is every thinking man's duty to analyze 
for himself. — Robert Michels, Archiv fiir Sozial-Wissenschaft und Sozial-PoHlik, 
January-March, 1913. P. W. 

Uber die idioplasmatischen Ursachen der physiologischen und pathologischen 
Sexualcharaktere des Menschen. — For the scientific biologist the question no longer 
is: How are acquired characteristics transmitted? but: How are hereditary char- 
acteristics acquired? And the answer is: By means of non-teleological factors opera- 
tive in the environment. The concept of the pathological is a relative one, implying 
life in the margin of the zone of adaptation. Adaptation is itself relative to a given 
enviroement. From the standpoint of eugenics there can be no objection to inbreed- 
ing. The interest of the race lies not in obscuring pathological tendencies but in their 
elimination. A thoroughgoing racial hygiene is realized neither by crossing with sound 
stock nor by sterilization and prohibition of marriage, but solely by positive selection 
of healthy idioplasmic stocks, i.e., by aiding these through social legislation in collect- 
ing and increasing until they displace the pathological ones. — Dr. Fritz Lenz, Archiv 
iir Rassen- und Gesellschaftsbiologie, September-October, 1912. P. W. 

Crime et altruisme. — It seems a paradox to associate two words as diverse in 
meaning as crime and altruism, but if we adopt a point of view strictly utilitarian the 
anomaly disappears. Affection and sympathy are motives which dominate many of 
the crimes against property. Some of the most celebrated assassins have been char- 
acterized by a passionate love of family and delicate sentiments of refinement. Religi- 
ous fanatics have believed they were doing God's will when they slaughtered those of 
alien faiths. Many times loved ones have been slaughtered by their nearest of kin, 
who truly believed that by the act they were pleasing their Deity. Altruistic impulses 
move those who take human lives in order that their victims may be spared earthly 
pain. Mothers have slain their children to shield them from a burden of disgrace 
which would be inevitable should they live. And instances are by no means lacking 


of persons being dispatched by sympathetic friends because they were burdened with 
great physical or mental distress. The numerous illustrations of cases such as the 
foregoing show emphatically the dominating force of fixed ideas — ideas which may in 
themselves be altruistic, but which may be easily pushed to a conclusion most criminal. 
— Ch. Vallon et G. Genil-Perrin, Archiv d' anthropologic criminelle, February 15, 1913. 

E. E. E. 

Riddles of the Ten'a Indians. — During the six months preceding the winter 
solstice the Ten'a Indians of Alaska spend their evenings in story- telling; during the 
other six months the stories are displaced by riddles, in the belief that the days will be 
lengthened by this means. These riddles have been handed down through many 
generations and are a part of their folk-lore; consequently the answers are frequently 
no more than mere memory work. For these riddles they possess a language apart 
from that ordinarily used in daily life. Unless one guesses the exact answer that is in 
the propounder's mind, he is adjudged incorrect, even though his answer may fairly 
fulfil the conditions of the riddle. A hint at the proper answer is sometimes conveyed 
in the question itself. — Father Julius Jette, Anthropos, January-February, 1913. 

E. E. E. 

The Trade Union Attitude toward Prison Labor. — The trade unionist insists 
that the convict's labor should not be performed for the private profit of a contractor; 
but if profit is to be secured, it should go to those dependent on him and to the state. 
The so-called trades taught in penal institutions do not educate the prisoner and train 
him to work as a mechanic after his release. Convict labor should be employed in 
public highway construction, or in providing agricultural products for eleemosynary 
institutions, in which there will be a minimum of competition with free labor. — John P. 
Frey, Annals of American Academy, March, 1913. R. E. S. 

The Theory of the Siiffrage. — There are five distinct theories of the suffrage which 
have been used to explain or justify various electoral systems: (i) the primitive tribal 
theory that voting is a necessary attribute of membership in the state and that suffrage 
is an adjunct and function of citizenship; (2) the feudal theory that the suffrage is a 
vested privilege usually attached to the possession of land; (3) the theory of the early 
constitutional regime that voting is an abstract right founded in natural law, a con- 
sequence of the social compact, and an incident of popular sovereignty; C4) the modem 
scientific theory that voting is a public office, a function of government; and (5) the 
ethical theory that voting is an important and essential means for the development of 
the individual character. — W. J. Shephard, Annals of American Academy, February, 
1913. R. E. S. 

A Measure of the Manner of Living. — There should be a measure of the manner 
of living in order to determine the adequacy of household furnishings to the end of 
carrying on the fundamental living processes in accordance with a certain arbitrary 
standard of decency and propriety. Such a standard could be formed by giving 
weights to various articles of furniture in the kitchen, dining-room, bedroom and parlor. 
— C. A. Perry, American Statistical Association, March, 1913. R. E. S. 

Is Insanity on the Increase? — Within the last thirty years there has been a steady 
increase of registered insanity in England and Wales. The causes of this increase are : 
(i) the diminution of unregistered insanity and the increase of asylum accommodations; 
(2) the collective responsibility which has replaced family responsibility; (3) the 
steady diminution of discharge of patients as recovered. Consequently the increase 
of registered insanity does not prove that insanity is on the increase. Unsuitable 
mating and environmental conditions tend to revive a latent neuropathic tendency 
of the stock, or to develop the first forms of nervous degeneracy. Social conditions 
play an important part in producing insanity. — F. W. Mott, Sociological Review, 
January, 1913. R. E. S. 

Berufswahl und Berufsschicksal des modemen Industriearbeiters. — The se- 
lection of workers in modem industry is made according to age, environment in youth, 


qualification, an3 working power. This selection is essentially the same for all indus- 
tries studied, but is modified by the size and form of the business. Discussion of the 
effects upon the laborer of the work, forms of payment, division of labor, and rest- 
periods are to be continued in a later number. — Marie Bernays, Archiv fiir Sozial- 
wissenschajt und Sozialpolitik, July, 191 2. S. A. Q. 

Konsiunvereinbewegung tind Volkswirtschaft. — The recent fiscal policy of 
Hamburg in imposing a tax upon consumers' co-operative societies is not only contrary 
to sound economic and legal principles, but is also a political mistake. The advantages 
of co-operative enterprises are many: (i) living expenses are reduced and (2) com- 
modities of better quality and unadulterated are produced; (3) such societies have 
moral and cultural significance; (4) they promote the conunon welfare of their members 
by providing insurance and other benefit schemes; (5) they foster diligence, saving 
and business experience. The savings which enable the society to return dividends 
to its members are obtained by cash trading and sales, by elimination of the retail 
dealer's profit, etc. Of all taxes that on "sales" is conceded to be the most unjust 
and oppressive. The effect of taxing co-operative societies will be to reduce the divi- 
dends of the poorest class, since this class especially avails itself of these societies, and 
it will increase the burden of taxation of this class in proportion to the other classes. 
The tendency of this act will be to change the form of organization to evade paying 
taxes, or to increase the number of retail merchants. How will the interest of the 
middle class dealer then be protected? — W. Kriiger, Annalen des deutschen Reichs, 
No. 6, 191 2. Y. S. 

Ein Seminar fiir Soziologie, Politik iind Ethik an der Universitat Jassy. — A 

seminar has been formed in the University of Jassy in sociology, political science, and 
ethics under the conviction that these social sciences constitute a single science, and 
with a new thesis in regard to the general nature of seminar work. The general 
portion of the work of the seminar is on the subject of scientific law in the social sciences. 
The particular work of the individual student consists in the preparation of a mono- 
graph on a particular village, in which the student makes a critical study of all the 
social activities of the village. This trains the student for scientific work in all the 
social sciences. — Demetrius Gusti, Vierteljahrschrift fur wissenschaftliche Philosophie 
und Soziologie, Heft II, 1912. E. H. S. 

A Psychological Definition of Religion. — An accurate definition must be broad 
enough to include every conceivable form of religion and sufficiently narrow and speci- 
fic to exclude everything not properly religious. With these requirements in mind the 
following definition is offered: "Religion is the endeavor to secure the conservation 
of socially recognized values through specific actions that are believed to evoke some 
agency different from the ordinary ego of the individual, or from other merely human 
beings, and that imply a feeling of dependence upon this agency." — William K. Wright, 
American Journal of Theology, July, 191 2. G. T. J. 

Economic Theory of a Legal Minimum Wage. — Sixteen years' actual experi- 
ence of the legal minimum wage in Victoria, have brought ruin neither to the employer 
nor to the operative. Where a common minimum rate has been fixed: (i) competition 
for employment has not been abolished; (2) industrial and moral efficiency of the opera- 
tive and the productivity of industry have increased; (3) invention and adaption of 
new processes of industry have been stimulated, causing a consequent tendency for it 
to be carried on under more advantageous conditions and so to increase the nation's 
productivity; (4) the community becomes insured against the evils of industrial 
parasitism; (5) rather than an increase in the amount of maintenance of abnormal 
individuals by the community, there has been a positive increase in demand for 
labor. A joint board of operatives and employers of the whole trade to fix minimum 
standard is recommended. — Sidney Webb, Journal of Political Economy, December, 
1912. R- E- S. 

Agriculture and a Minimum Wage. — The a priori right of the state to fix a 
minimum wage for agricultural laborers is based on their helplessness considered from 
the point of view of organization. There are three possibilities in regard to the 


problem of deterioration: (i) improved efficiency resulting from an increase of wages; 
(2) an increase in wages followed by no improvement in efficiency; (3) improvement in 
the skill and energy of farmers. Small holdings would obviate the difficulty of 
unemployment. — Reginald Lennard, Economic Review, October, 191 2. R. E. S. 

Sjmdicalism and Socialism. — Syndicalism and socialism are derived from the 
same situation — the universal discontent of workingmen. This discontent is due to 
economic injustice, education, and the sympathy of the church. The ultimate goals 
of syndicalism and socialism are different, though their genesis is the same. Syndical- 
ism would make the operative in each group politically and economically supreme, and 
would eliminate the employer, for labor has been kept from its fair reward. But this 
attitude of syndicalism cannot be justified, for the organization of labor and legislation 
have effected an approximate equilibrium of economic forces. The remedy for their 
attitude lies in an investigation of the facts, and the cultivation of sympathy based on 
knowledge. — J. A. R. Marriott, Nineteenth Century, November, 1912. R. E. S. 

Socialism in California Municipalities. — The California Socialist party in local 
politics stands for "immediate demands." The local campaigns have not been strug- 
gles between Socialism and Capitalism, but have been general discussions of SociaUst 
doctrines, and the issues have been those which stood for a reform program, for an 
extension of city activities and powers, for public ownership, and for clean government. 
ITie Socialist vote has almost trebled itself since 1908. This increase has been due 
to popular dissatisfaction with current political and administrational conditions, the 
socialist periodicals, and the McNamara trial. Party victories and the actual work 
being done by successful candidates can be noticed by reviewing the situation at 
Berkeley, Los Angeles, San Bernardino, Santa Cruz, Daly, etc. The ability and per- 
sonality of the SociaUst candidates have been powerful factors in the local success of 
the party. — Ira B. Cross, National Municipal Review, October, 191 2. R. E. S. 

L'assistance par le travail. — Dr. fidouard Courmouls-Houles has published a 
large work entitled L'assistance par le travail, in which he favors a plan by which the 
state shall come to the aid of its workmen, especially when they are thrown out of 
employment or are laboring for an inadequate wage. The theories of the book are 
impractical and chimerical, for the introduction of machinery is a benefit rather than 
a detriment to the laborer, and indiscriminate charity serves no lasting purpose in 
solving the problem of pauperism, but often encourages a class of professional loafers 
and vagabonds. Dr. Courmouls-Houlfis is more of a solidarist than a coUectivist 
and the solidarists are not to be counted on to help solve the problem of the 
unemployed. — Georges de Nouvion, Journal des Sconomistes, August 15, 191 2. 

E. E. E. 

Sozialreform vmd offentliche Meintmg in England. — ^In the general strikes of 
191 2 the laborers have demanded (a) recognition of the union, (b) exclusive union labor, 
and (c) a minimum wage. The settlement of the controversy was submitted to arbi- 
tration in parliament and a bill was passed which established: (a) a joint district 
wage board, composed of miners and mine-owners in equal numbers, the duty of which 
should be to draw up a graduated minimum- wage scale, and general district instructions 
for the regularity of work, and its efficiency, and for the provision for old-age and 
emergency insurance ; (J) a standard of private rights, namely, the laborer may demand 
payment of the minimum wage, the employer is not obhged to hire anyone willing to 
work for the minimum wage, and both employers and laborers are allowed to fight for 
other wage laws by strikes or shut-outs. The reform movements of recent years 
indicate that the conservatives fight against the general principle of recognizing laborers ; 
the laborer as a party fails to hold to any fundamental principle; the general public con- 
cedes that the strike is a necessary weapon for reform, but prefers arbitration as more 
efficient; socialism, liberalism, and syndicahsm are especially important. — Mary Agnes 
Hamilton, Zeitschrift fiir Volkswirtschaft, Sozialpolitik und Verwaltung, IV. Heft, 1912. 

V. W. B. 

Massnahmen ztu* Verhiitung von Betriebsimfallen, Gewerbekrankheiten und 
Volkskrankheiten. — Great emphasis should be placed on measures for the prevention 



of accidents and occupational diseases — increase and improvement of preventive 
regulations, development of the technique of protecting labor, disseminating knowledge 
of protective acts by means of books, journals, conferences, expositions, museums, etc. 
Expert supervision is indispensable. Attention must be given to the construction 
and method of employment of industrial apparatus. Penalties should be imposed for 
selling machinery which does not comply with the safety requirements. The 
co-operation of the workmen is highly desirable. Merely publishing or posting the 
regulations is not sufficient. Workmen must be aroused to active interest by means 
of workmen's committees, frequent conferences, traveling exhibitions, etc. Regula- 
tions should be scientifically and systematically prepared. — Dr. Konrad Hartmann, 
Bulletin des assurances soclales, 191 2, Supplement. R. F. C. 

Grundsatze des Heilverfahrens in der Sozialversichening, insbesondere auch 
bei Betriebsimfallen Gewerbekrankheiten und Volkskrankheiten. — Medical treat- 
ment and preventive measures are the principal tasks of social insurance, the payment 
of indemnities is only of secondary importance. The object, in medical treatment, 
should be the complete restoration of the earning power. Patients, physicians, and 
insurance societies must co-operate. The treatment must be prompt and energetic, 
each case individualized, speciaUsts employed when needed, special hospitals and 
sanatoria provided, contagious disease cases isolated, dispensaries established. There 
should also be established institutions for the general improvement of the public 
health — workmen's homes, workmen's gardens, rest stations, etc. — Dr. Klein, Bulletin 
des assurances sociales, 191 2, Supplement. R. F. C. 



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After the publication of Sumner's Folkways, in 1907, the editors of 
the then Yale Review were anxious to secure a good review of that book. 
I was commissioned to consult Sumner on the matter. He never paid 
much attention to reviews, but he said he would not mind knowing 
what somebody like Lippert thought of the Folkways. I then wrote to 
Lippert, stating the case and explaining the high regard which Sumner 
had felt and had instilled in us all here at Yale for the Kulturgeschichte. 
I received a very kindly letter from Lippert, in which he expressed great 
interest in the book we wished to refer to him, and promised to write a 
brief article on it if his advanced age and invaUdism permitted. This 
review was never written, for, as I have since learned from Lippert's 
daughter, sufferings grew on him apace and he died after an operation 
to relieve bladder troubles, on November 12, 1909. 

After the death of his wife, referred to in the autobiographical sketch, 
and of the husband of his daughter, Lippert went to live with this daugh- 
ter, so that she knew much of his mental activities during his later years. 
She reports that he was deeply interested in Sumner's book, but that, 
aside from his illness, he was impeded from carrying out his purpose of 
writing by the slowness with which he read English. 

I have received within the last week a letter from a man whom 
Lippert seems to have aided in his extremities, inclosing two encouraging 

' This translation from Deutsche Arbeit, Jahrgang 1905-6, is published at the 
suggestion of Professor A. G. Keller. At the request of the editors Professor Keller 
contributed the introductory note. 



notes from Lippert, and warmly appreciative of the essentially helpful 
and kindly nature of the dead author. It has been a great gratification 
to me to find that a scientist, for whose intellect I cherished so high a 
regard, was also worthy of high esteem as a simple, helpful man. 

A. G. Keller 

I was born in the old cloth-manufacturing town of Braunau in 
Bohemia April 12. 1839. At that time the town was governed by 
the Benedictine foundation of the same name. My father, Vinzenz 
Lippert. had migrated as a clothmaker from Freiwaldau in Silesia, 
and then became an apprentice as a member of the household of 
the clothmaker, John Mendel. The presence in the same house- 
hold of Josepha Schon, who afterward became my mother, accounts 
for this arrangement. The Schon family came from old settlers in 
Hermsdorf in the Braunau countryside. As was so often the case, 
the linen trade lured the family into the town. The cholera scourge 
which broke out at the beginning of the thirties of the nineteenth 
century bereft my mother of parents and older brothers and sisters. 
The orphan had found a home in the family of the clothmaker. 

My father took over from IMendel — with debts, of course— the 
shop, and after the death of the daughter Agnes also the house. 
211 Niedergasse. To this daughter long unmarried, later Frau 
Janauschek, I owe a large part of my education. My mother's 
feeble health, and my father's submersion in his work often com- 
pelled them to intrust me to the care of this "aunt." She well 
represented a culture of the well-to-do class of the time which 
furnished me more stimulus than could have been afforded by the 
narrow conditions of my own home, particularly in view of the 
depression then beginning in the cloth industry. Before I was old 
enough to enter school, her father, Hving in comfortable retirement, 
had not only been glad to keep me occupied in his little garden 
which was a model of cultivation, but he had taken me into the 
shops of all sorts of artisans and had taken delight in my zeal for 
knowledge. The daughter, who was not without literary culture, 
continued the work in other directions. 

It was not at all unwelcome to her that my father decided me 
to be too weak for his trade, and I owe it to her influence that in 


my twelfth year I was sent to the Benedictine Gymnasium, which 
at that time consisted of four classes. After the custom of the time 
the secret thought in my parents' minds in adopting this course 
was of the clerical caUing, which to them meant at the same time 
membership of the ruHng class. ''There is nothing better," said 
my by no means bigoted father, "when you open your eyes in the 
morning a twenty piece is already lying on the table! " Deep piety 
drew my mother in the same direction. From that time the family 
of the notary, Eppinger, in which I was welcomed as the comrade 
of the boys, exercised various beneficial influences upon me, and 
I was very impressionable. 

While I was in the third grade my father died. The complete 
collapse of cloth-making in Braunau and the expenses of the long 
sickness had almost exhausted the family resources, and my mother 
also wasted away after several painful years. A Saxon scholarship 
yielding eighty gulden enabled me to pursue my studies and 
caused me to enter the higher Gymnasium at Prague. Under great 
deprivations — my physical appearance and my meager costume 
did not make me a preferred creditor of student benefactions — I 
attended the university, hearing first law under Brinz and Schulte, 
then philosophy, history, and the German language under Volk- 
mann, Hofler, and Kelle, with paternal advice about tributary 
subjects from Tomek, who was a not infrequent visitor in Braunau. 
Volkmann's "Tuesday" brought me into relations of friendship 
with Dr. Dressier, PhiHpp Knoll, Leo Nagel, Pickert, Wiechowsky, 
and Ludwig Schlesinger. In another direction and mostly in con- 
nection with a younger element, I formed friendships by means of 
the newly organized union "Teutonia," to which I belonged as a 
senior for some semesters, and by means of the newly awakened 
fraternity life in general. From such sources sprang my early 
friendly relations with Gustav Laube, the lawyer Alfred Gold- 
schmid, and others. Together with Wiechowsky, Schlesinger, and 
Hallwich I became a founder of the Verein jilt Geschichte der 
Deutschen in Bohmen, which brought me into connection with 
J. V. Grohmann, Jos. Bayer, and Banhans. Under the auspices of 
this youthful organization, and supplied with a traveUng stipend 
of twenty gulden, in the same year in which I was preparing for 


the state examination for appointment as Gymnasium teacher, I 
undertook a survey of the city archives of Trautenau. In this work 
I was at all events not assisted by the chief magistrate of the town. 
Dr. Porak. The outcome of this voluntary enterprise, guided by 
no competent adviser, was the schoolboyish work now forgotten, 
Geschichtc von Trautenau. Other apprentice works brought me 
into relations of friendship with D. Kuh, the benevolent encour- 
ager of ambitious students. 

My "economic situation" in 1863 was such that it was out of 
the question for me to proceed to a university degree. I success- 
fully passed the test for fitness as a Gymnasium teacher, and Pro- 
fessor Hofler so warmly recommended me to the city council of 
Leitmeritz that in the same year I was appointed to a position in 
its newly established Oberrealschule. The finances of the town were 
in a condition very much like my own, and the salary promised was 
only six hundred florins, with an additional one hundred florins as 
soon as the town should win a suit then in court over a bridge 
claim. The town was prudent enough to lose the case. 

Nevertheless I had to forego the customary recourse to tutoring 
for increase of my income. I was impelled to devote all my leisure 
time to examination of the city archives, the treasures of which 
were at that time in the most miserable state of preservation 
imaginable. On the other hand I was favored with more gracious 
treatment by the city council than had been my previous lot in 
Trautenau. As outcome of my studies there appeared in 1871 my 
Geschichtc der Stadt Leitmeritz ."^ Whatever estimate be passed upon 
the results of these studies, with which I must now group those to 
which I was stimulated during my preparatory period by the old 
town record of Braunau, for me they had the one great value that 
they taught me to penetrate through the historical phrase to the 
literal ground of facts. I ceased to "learn" history from the top 
downward, and I began, within narrow limits to be sure, to con- 
struct it from the bottom. This also corresponded with a talent 
which from childhood I thought I discovered in myself. With 
retentive memory, and with still more active observing powers, I 

' In der III. Abtcilung der " Beitrdge zur Geschichte Bohmcns, herausgegcben von 
dem Vereine fur die Geschichte der Deutschen in Bohmen." 


was from the outset beaten in the routine of learning lessons by less 
talented pupils. While I was carrying on my studies in Leitmeritz, 
there was before my mind as ultimate purpose a vision of a Ge- 
schichte des Burger turns in Bohmen, but the course of my life and 
especially the bread-and-butter problem, which always had a certain 
share in shaping the former factor, deflected me from that goal. 

In the early spring of 1865 I entered into matrimony with Mal- 
wine Fridrich, with whom I had become acquainted in Braunau. 
She was the daughter of a Vienna merchant who had carried on a 
linen business in Abtsdorf, which had been caught and wrecked in 
the swirl of the war year 1859. Whatever was thereby lost to the 
new household was amply ofifset by my brave wife during nearly 
forty years of faithful and conscientious fulfilment of her marriage 

In addition to the studies named, and to instruction of classes 
always overfilled with ninety to one hundred pupils, I was occupied 
not only with minor contributions to the Mitteilungen of the 
Geschichtsverein, but also with the political and especially the 
pohtico-pedagogical questions that were at the time eagerly press- 
ing for solution. 

I undertook to dehver the address at the first Wanderversamm- 
lung of the historical society mentioned. The meeting was held 
by invitation at Leitmeritz, and in company with Dr. J. V. Groh- 
mann and Dr. Heinrich Stradal, later Biirgermeister of Leitmeritz. 
I organized there the first ''poUtical union." Then, with the essay 
on the new pubHc-school law I opened the long-drawn-out series of 
discourses of the "German Union for Dissemination of Knowledge 
Useful to the Public." For a long time my pen was in the service 
of that movement. 

At that time the German representatives in the town organiza- 
tion of Budweis, which was at that time already somewhat affected 
by a national reaction, were planning an ambitious reform of the 
seriously demoralized pubhc-school system. The scheme took as 
its basis the new pubHc-school law, and was developed in the spirit 
of its progressive principles, the apphcation of which had been very 
fragmentary and grudging. As director of a new public school of 
twenty-two classes for boys and girls, I attempted, under the 


stimulus of the popular movement, the work of reorganization 
which amounted to a re-creation of the Budweis school system. I 
concentrated all my energies upon this task, at the same time I 
devoted every free hour to supplementary instruction of the teach- 
ing force which gave me its full confidence, and to collection, with 
as little outlay as possible, of material for observation instruction. 
Incidentally I learned the preparation of specimens and modeling. 
In a few years I had completed the reconstruction to my own satis- 
faction, and as I believe to that of the authorities. At least I 
could not infer the contrary from my appointment as second vice- 
chairman of the Priifungskommission fiir Volks- iind Biirgerschtden, 
At all events it may be mentioned that, in the most influential of 
the school boards of the time, the influence of Father Maresch. who 
was opposed to the spirit of the new public-school law, was elimi- 
nated so far as the Volksschule was concerned, and against his wish 
he was assigned to inspection of the RealscJmle. 

When I reconsider my attitude at that time from the standpoint 
of my subsequent experience, I discover the one mistake that, filled 
with the spirit of the law, I believed that in all those cases which 
were not placed beyond the range of doubt by subsequent ordi- 
nance, this "spirit" was necessarily decisive. Perhaps I occasion- 
ally fell under the second error that I identified my own spirit with 
the spirit of the law. On one occasion an employee of the mayor's 
office, where I often had business — I remember neither the name 
nor the rank of the man — warned me to this effect: "You are on 
the wrong track. The best way in a public office is to do only just 
enough to keep from being fired. Anything more than that is all 
to the bad." "This," he added, "is an ancient rule of the Capu- 
cines." I had not previously been aware of it. 

A single example may be permitted. Even the Germans in 
Budweis at that time usually had their children learn the Tschechisch 
first. German was supposed to be learned in school. The conse- 
quence was that 90 per cent of the children of school age entered 
school without knowledge of the language in which instruction was 
given. In accordance with the law pupils who had never been in 
school at all and others who had been in the Piaristenschule, which 
had to be self-supporting, were put together. 



On account of the existing law, which permitted no variation of 
materia] for instruction, no progress could be made with such a 
heterogeneous mass. No help could be counted on from the 
higher authorities, and the primer of Heinrich which was afterward 
approved by no means met the demand. In my innocence, regard- 
less of the aforesaid Capucine rule, I felt myself bound to introduce 
the method of Kehr, and along with it the Kehr primer. It started 
with an observed object and its name as "normal word." It 
offered the sole possibility of building up the instruction quite with- 
out presuppositions, and therewith to complete the pupils, lacking 
linguistic knowledge. I initiated the younger teachers into this 
method. They adopted it gladly, and in an astonishingly short 
time we accomplished with the most unpromising material results 
which were recognized with admiration by the school inspector, the 
local pastor. The national inspector did not interfere with this 
reform plan, but was incHned to encourage it. Nevertheless it was 
a questionable departure from the prescribed track. I was less 
successful in gaining similar treatment by the authorities for my 
publicly expressed opinion about the relation of the "religious 
exercises" to the new school. The obvious reason was to be found 
in the fact that the mim'ster of instruction, von Stemayer, was of a 
different opinion. If I had no right as a subordinate in the school 
system to make use of the press to strengthen my case, I felt that 
I had the right as a member of the lower house of the Landtag. 

It was necessary to mention these things because my subsequent 
persecution by the national inspector. Father Maresch, could not 
have had its motive in what I did later in his inspection district, 
strictly in accordance with the old scheme. It was prompted by 
what occurred before, in a position which he could not control. 

After completing the establishment of the "new school," as I 
had imagined the spirit of the law to indicate, I found occasion in 
1872 to return to teaching in the intermediate school. In recog- 
nition of what I had done the town representatives of Budweis 
nominated me as director of their Oberrealschule and the Landes- 
schulrat promptly confirmed me in this position. My acquaintance 
with men in the upper circles was not at the time of a sort to sug- 
gest the idea that I might be in danger because of previous services. 


It was also a betrayal of insufficient knowledge of men that I 
accepted as sufficient the verbal promise of the Stadlrat to give me 
credit as a matter of course for my period of service in the Volks- 
und Biirgerschule. How little also I understood the Austrian 
judges of the time is indicated by the fact that when presently the 
quinquennial advance in my salary was paid, on the basis of this 
reckoning, and with written authorization, I regarded the trans- 
action as sufficient proof of the arrangement once for all. 

Another candidate for the position of Director was Dr. M. Koch. 
As professor in the same institution, as a son of the city, as a relative 
by birth and marriage with the most well-to-do famihes, he was 
the more humiliated by my preferment because he had been 
unsuccessful in competing for the position which I previously held. 
Surely the decision against him in the two cases made no friends 
for me in certain circles. Such friends might presently have been 
of especial use to me, since my poUtical activity, which I did not 
feel bound to suspend, brought me into collision with many elements 
in my own camp — ^to say nothing of the national and clerical oppo- 
sition—and at that time the wholly inexperienced population could 
not distinguish political from personal enmity. 

In 1 87 1 I was member for Elbogen of the Bohemian Landtag 
during a very short session. I declined re-election in consideration 
of my new position in the Realschule, although urged to stand again 
by the group Pickert- Alfred Knoll. All the more necessary seemed 
to me my activity in the town which was even then more threatened 
than was reaUzed. The German middle class had no points of sup- 
port whatever. The most frequent resort was to the "Ressource," 
the spirit of which was relied upon to equahze taxation, but this was 
a feeble reHance, since its provisions were particularly adjusted to 
the changing elements of the civil service and the officer class. 
No fundamental change was possible here; yet I tried to find out 
whether a reform were not feasible in the way of giving to the 
statute a somewhat broader basis upon which the German element 
in the population could build some shelter. In the Budweis of that 
time these petty matters were regarded as very important. Biirger- 
meister Claudi felt decent disgust for all such eft'orts. The clan 
of the unsuccessful Dr. Koch, with the rich soap-maker and city 


councillor, Lampel, at the head, manifested a similar reaction, and 
regard for his popularity drew to their side the worthy old Steg- 
mann. Perhaps similar considerations moved J. U. Dr. WendeHn 
Rziha, the leading spirit of the governing class at the time, to put 
his organizing talent at the service of my opponents. 

These were also the very people with whom national inspector 
Father Maresch — pulled by what strings I do not know — merged 
his interests, at the time of his first inspection of the Oberrealschule 
under my direction. It was not an easy task to show that there 
had been a falling-off in efficiency. Eleven pupils took the exami- 
nation under his supervision, and all passed, six with distinction. 
Nevertheless he asserted a falling-off in a complaint served on me 
later. How and by whom details were collected in all parts of the 
town to support charges against me I do not know. At all events 
such a collection was made with such success that Father Maresch 
thought he had sufficient material for a disciplinary complaint to 
the national Schulrai. 

The chief object of attack was my unecclesiastical temper. But 
on this very point the crown witness who had been counted on 
failed — viz., Anstaltskatechet and later Stadtdechant Father Marek. 
My "temper" he said was well known, but it had never led me to 
hinder him in discharge of the duties of his office. The nature of 
the other charges may be gathered from the blackest of all the 
faults alleged. It was said that in the drawing-room there was a 
picture of the Kaiser in his youthful appearance of 1849. The 
teacher of penmanship had felt called to try his unskilled hand on 
an attempt to bring the picture down to date by painting a beard. 
In removing the picture during the cleaning of the building between 
semesters, and in a way which could scarcely have been observed 
except by the would-be artist, I was charged with having insulted 
not only the latter but the original of the picture. This constituted 
merely the point of crystallization for all the more trivial charges. 
In the disciplinary court, the Landesschulrat of the time. Father 
Maresch sat as complainant, witness, and referee. There was no 
verbal hearing, no examination of witnesses. In spite of that, a 
majority could not be gained for an administrable judgment. The 
verdict was rather entirely indefinite, to the efTect that under the 


existing local conditions my efforts could not be expected to be 
fruitful of results. Therewith nobody was satisfied. On my ap- 
peal the ministry suspended even this noncommittal judgment. 
Another tack had to be taken, and Father Maresch found it in all 
secrecy and quiet in a way in which the whole community might, 
so to speak, be bribed and satisfied. 

Happy at the fortunate outcome of the affair, I started in the 
vacation of the year 1874, in company with my friend Dr. Holzamer, 
on a recreation and study trip through central Germany. In 
Nuremberg I found in my mail a cUpping from a home paper which 
contained an account of the cancellation of my position as Director. 
Without any publicity my seat had been pulled from under me. 
The Realschulc in Budweis had been nationalized, and all its posi- 
tions were filled with new people. The school board — this time 
the referee undisturbed — ignored all my rights to legal protection, 
and the court appealed to declared itself without jurisdiction, on 
the ground of an ancient court decree, and referred me to the 
political authorities. Thereupon when I confined my demand to 
the promised pension, the court found that the unrecorded account 
of my service years was not necessarily to be taken for granted 
from the transaction above recited. Although the claim was as 
clear as the sun, I did not have the means to pursue it farther — 
nor the confidence. Thus the negative judgment acquired legal 
force. In spite of contrary decisions elsewhere, I have to this day 
an unsatisfied claim of 36,000 kreutzer upon the town treasury of 

It seems to me that a sort of conscientious scruple expressed 
itself in the legend which arose in Budweis that I was a victim 
of the " Tschechisch-klerikalen Reaktion.''' As it was commonly 
understood the content of this legend was incorrect. To be sure 
my activity in the Volksschule, as well as my attempt to influence 
politically the inert German mass, was disagreeable to the reaction- 
ary Tschechs, and I often had to put up with demonstrations of the 
fact, but I never suffered hostihties on account of my activity in 
the Realschule. On the contrary it received every recognition from 
the progressive Tschechs. The enmity was, however, not personal, 
and it did not manifest itself as persecution in the sense implied. 


The like was true of my relations with the clerical circles. Although 
my aims were opposed to theirs, and in spite of many an afifront 
from the subordinate catechists, the leading clergy never made 
themselves my personal opponents. Both their nationahsm and as 
I believe the integrity of their purposes restrained them from sharing 
in the unchivalrous program of Father Maresch. 

I must also refer to my colleagues of the time, in order not to 
leave them under groundless suspicion. Father Maresch under- 
stood how to spread fear and trembUng among the teachers by the 
persistence of his unhmited domination in school matters, about 
which no one seemed to be disturbed. With two or three excep- 
tions, however, my colleagues at the time were on my side with a 
freedom from fear which could be sustained only by sincere con- 
viction. Several of them were in various ways discipHned, although 
later reappointed in the Staatsrealschule. Their offense was that 
they presented me with a loving cup at my departure. The cate- 
chist, Father Maresch, was transferred into other relations, and 
this was regarded as a sort of discipline which the city afterward 
removed by his promotion to Dechant. 

I was now without position and practically without means. I 
had no relatives to lean upon in finding a way to support my wife 
and three children. My courage did not fail, however, and neither 
sorrow nor trouble took away my heart. It had no room for 
cowardice nor disgust, on the contrary I began to have a joyous 
sense of freedom. The years of being under watch, for purposes 
which I could imagine, the spying and the gossip, with the dehght 
of success the traces of which I had to encounter step by step up to 
the triumph of the crime of the picture, the hundred petty annoy- 
ances up to the triumphant final blow — all this had so nearly stifled 
me that, from the moment of my enlightenment at the Nuremberg 
post-office about the relentlessness of my enemy, the sacrifice of my 
position did not seem too great a price to pay for freedom from 
the filthy atmosphere. In consciousness of youthful strength I 
regarded the world as by no means closed against me. On the 
contrary, one part of my interests had long tempted me to leave 
the parochial conditions of Budweis, shut off at the time from the 
whole German world, and my companion, so faithful in all the 


circumstances of life, was prepared without reserve to share all my 

In the youthful German Empire there was glowing in 1874 in all 
ranks a lofty enthusiasm for progressive endeavor. Moved by 
such ideas Dr. Leibling, in association with choice men — Schulze- 
Delitzsch. Miguel, Gneist, Virchow, Lowe-Calve, Fritz Kalle, and 
others — had founded a "Society for the Extension of Popular Cul- 
ture." Its membership and branch organizations extended 
throughout Germany. Its purpose was similar to that of the 
society which Dr. Holzamer founded, and which I developed into 
life — the ''German Union for Dissemination of Knowledge Useful 
to the Public."^ It aimed to surpass the older society both in 
extension and in activity. Through the mediation of the friend 
named I found here the field I had desired for unhampered activity 
in the fight for pure humanity. I accordingly moved to Dresden, 
and from this point as base of operations I entered the service of 
the society mentioned, as traveling teacher. My work was not 
easy. My self-imposed ideals made severe demands upon my 
strength of mind and bodily endurance. The winter was unusually 
prolonged. My first trip took me into Niederlausitz, where in 
Guben Dr. Hamdorf was the first German in the Empire to extend 
to me a friendly hand. The second circuit was in Upper Saxony, 
and there was deep snow on the ground until late in March. While 
on the trips I not only continued preparation of my lectures, for 
which the circumstances had not left me enough time, but I carried 
on work also for the other union; and whenever I had a day in 
comfortable quarters near a warm stove, I counted myself among 
the luckiest of men. Then the fate of our countryman, Paul 
Stransky, would come vividly before my mind. My studies in the 
archives of Leitmeritz had given me many details about the sub- 
ject. When I compared my persecutions with his I congratu- 
lated myself on the progress since his time. 

At that time the eyes of all hearers betrayed confidence in a 
better future, to be based on improved morals and intelligence. I 
saw much genuine thirst for knowledge. I was delighted with that 
moral elevation and striving for the ideal which so distinguishes the 
German people in their own land from all others, and which exhibits 

' See p. 149. 


in the entire German education of school and home something 
imponderable and indefinable which cannot be reproduced by all the 
imitative devices of other countries. My new vocation thus gave 
me much high satisfaction. Moreover, my journeyings tended to 
satisfy my own thirst for knowledge. Including the later years, 
in which I was not all the time on the road, I visited almost every 
part of Germany, and the way in which land and people presented 
themselves to me gave me deeper insight as a rule than any other 
type of traveler could gain. My heart had always longed for this 
sort of knowledge. Many educational colleagues in the German 
Empire, some of them with eminent names, showed me the most 
cordial attention, and with some of them I formed intimate and 
permanent friendships. 

During the following vacation period I had the pleasure of 
meeting in Dresden several of my former colleagues, who professed 
their faith without fear of the widely extended system of denuncia- 
tion. Among the co-operators with the society for useful knowledge 
Professor Dr. Huppert visited me and Dr. Holzamer joined me in 
a tour of the Harz region. 

As a result of the hardships of the campaign of 1866, Dr. Leibling 
was severely disabled, and the injuries proved fatal in the autumn 
of 1875. It was necessary for me to move to Berlin to take pro- 
visional charge of his work. Then I became his successor as general 
secretary of the society, and my family followed me to Berlin. 
There followed the ten best but most laborious years of my life. 
Although I had occasion to visit all parts of the Empire, I was not 
entirely separated from my family, and the new field of labor, with 
ample assistance, afforded me besides opportunity to devote m\' 
leisure to use of rich Hterary and museum material for purposes to 
which I was impelled by my strongest impulses. To be sure, in 
order to reconcile these interests with the duties of my position I 
had to employ every moment which I could wring from day or 
night, and to forego everything which the capital offered except 
these resources. In those ten years I saw the inside of only two 
BerHn theaters, and only once each. On the other hand the 
progress of my knowledge, and a vacation trip once a year to m\- 
old home satisfied all my desires for pleasure. 


Since I was not a citizen of the German Empire I could not take 
an active part in politics, but my occupation brought me into some- 
what close relations with some of the most important parHamentary 
leaders of the N ational-liheralen and of the Fortsckrittspartei. 
Besides those already named I should mention Dr. Hammacher, 
Franz Duncker, Rickert, Parisius, A. Traeger, SeyfTardt-Krefeld, 
the two Eberties and Zelle who later became Oberbiirgermeister . 

I count myself fortunate in having been able to continue my 
favorite studies and at the same time to make them of service 
in my occupation. In Budweis. in addition to lectures for the 
Gemeinniitziger Verein and the editorship of the V olkskalender which 
was an organ of the same purpose, I had begun to develop the plan 
of a series of popular textbooks. The idea was to make the books 
a graded course which would enable studious laymen to proceed 
from more familiar to less familiar subjects, or at least to choose 
reading matter which would enrich their knowledge and sharpen 
their insight. To me and a circle of friends it was a settled convic- 
tion that the degree of profitable use of newly acquired poHtical 
freedom as well as of effective struggle for the protection of our 
national group would depend on the degree of general knowledge 
and of all around exercise of the power of generalization. These 
unpretentious little books were to scatter a few seeds for this sort 
of harvest. Accordingly the Verein published Des Landmanns 
Gdste and Pjianzen der Heimat. Then I added detached books on 
geography, geology, and astronomy, with the intention of con- 
tinuing with general and cultural history. The work itself gradu- 
ally turned me. however, from the original program, and set new 
aims. As continued intercourse with educational unions of all 
sorts constantly intensified the demand for attention to cultural 
and social history, I was forced to immerse myself deeper and deeper 
in study of those subjects. The path to them led through eth- 
nography in the widest sense of the term, for the study of which, 
moreover, the magnificent collections and other incitements of 
Berlin afforded the most natural stimuh. From this standpoint I 
found myself forced back into renewal of the unfinished fight of my 
youth between belief and doubt as an incident of further studies in 
the history of religion and in folklore, the results of which began to 


appear in a series of books dating from 1881. The discoveries 
which I thought I had made seemed to me to have been set forth 
implicitly in such manner, in the little book Der SeelenciiU in 
seinefti Verhdltnisse zur althehraischen Religion, that for the pur- 
poses of seekers after truth no further explanation would be neces- 
sary. Only after I had found myself fundamentally deceived in 
this did I take up the task of showing the influence of the same 
principle in all religions and all religious developments. Unfor- 
tunately I found it necessary to yield to the pubHshers' desire that 
I should not emphasize in the title this purpose and correlation of 
the books. This necessarily caused some confusion and unfavor- 
able judgments. Still, I could credit my work with leading toward 
somewhat general abandonment of the false clew which the system 
of so-called "comparative mythology" had followed, and thus to 
emancipation of research from a narrowing monopoly. 

Although I by no means neglected the duties of my occupation 
for the sake of these labors, I was aware that the employment of 
my leisure could no longer contribute in the same degree as before 
to the purpose for which I was employed. On the contrary it was 
bound to become more and more detached. Anyone who has been 
wholly devoted to his own work will understand that the duality 
of duties began often to oppress me. Although I had learned from 
childhood to pay heed to the gravity of the bread-and-butter prob- 
lem, yet I could never consent to be guided by it alone, nor to be 
subjected to it. If in the circumstances of the time I had been 
willing to do that, I should have left Die Religion der Kulturvolker, 
etc., to take care of themselves, and along with my official duties I 
should have been able to enjoy many pleasures suitable to my so- 
cial standing. I could not make that choice, however, and yet the 
signs of the times — no one else could see the symptoms as plainly — 
seemed to be forcing me toward a decision that could not be long 
deferred. Although there was no causal connection between the 
fact and my affairs, the death of our first president, Dr. Schulze- 
Delitzsch, seemed to me to be a warning that my choice should be 
made. The spiritual movement in the German population was at 
that time visibly slackened, and I was convinced that, in sharp 
contrast with my own desires and inclinations, the activity of our 


Verein must thenceforth require, instead of calmly persistent 
instruction, more and more exclusively agitation. I therefore had 
to ask myself seriously whether my age and my talents would qual- 
' ify me in such a degree for that sort of work that it would pay to 
sacrifice for it the research that was next to my heart. Who can 
correctly appraise his own work! That my deeper inclination was 
urging choice of research was to me as plain as day, and that at 
least in his own opinion and in that of our new president, Heinrich 
Rickert. my colleague, the youngest of the brothers Wyslicenus, pos- 
sessed the desired qualifications in a degree which I did not credit to 
myself, I was willing to grant; and it quieted my scruples. Under 
the circumstances I regarded resignation of my position as a sacri- 
fice which I was bound to make to that institution which had saved 
me from the most embarrassing situation and had lifted me to a 
fairer Hfe. I hoped at all events that I could help myself for the 

I accordingly purchased from my savings a piece of forest land 
{Bauernwald) in the central mountain region of Bohemia near 
Leitmeritz, the beautiful home of my choice. On it I built a snug 
house into which I moved in May, 1885. I had in my pocket a 
publishing contract which assured me labor and bread for at least 
a few years. My nearest friends — so I may call Dr. Hammacher, 
who afterward sought me out in Kundratiz and Stadtrat Rostel- 
Landsberg — found the plan venturesome, but still more reasonable 
than the scheme of emigration to Brazil, previously proposed by 
A. von Eye, the custodian of the Germanic Museum. Today I 
must laugh at it as childish that, at the time, I took the failure of 
my SeelencuU seriously enough to make flight from the musty old 
continent seem the proper reply. My wife was ready to follow me 
confidently into exile. She did not know the motive of my dis- 
affection. She knew better my glowing aft'ection for the tropical 
world which I was never to see. As a counterweight to this renun- 
ciation the flight into the Bohemian forests, in spite of the economic 
considerations which Rickert did not tire of keeping before my 
attention, was a harmless affair. From childhood I had been accus- 
tomed to the most straitened rural conditions. Life in the great 
city always seemed to me a burden. My provincial frugal habits 


could not order our expenditures so as to lighten the burden. The 
Mark also failed to afford me compensation for the pains I felt at 
deprivation of the enjoyment of nature — at least until my fellow 
countryman, Dr. Schiff, Berlin representative of the Neue Jreie 
Presse, had begun to introduce me in some measure to the more 
hidden charms of the flora of the region. I was able, nevertheless, 
to accept the not yet petrified Thiergarten in place of the melan- 
choly beauty of the Bohemian forest and the deep charm of my 
native land; but the kindly allurement of our central mountains 
in which I had rejoiced in the springtime of my fife would not 
withdraw from my dreams. My wife was well aware of the diffi- 
culties of carrying on the household with uncertain sources of 
income; but for that very reason she also with practical logic was 
urgent for a decision: "Now only are we equipped for such a 
venture — in a few years that will seem a burden to you which now 
seems merely a pleasure!" 

Into the third year I enjoyed undisturbed the idyllic life of the 
forest abode, and I wrote from studies largely completed in Berlin 
my larger Kulturgeschichte. Minor works of a similar sort had 
already appeared in Wissen der Gegenwart.^ 

After the completion of this work old friendship disturbed me 
in my soHtude. Friend PhiHpp Knoll could not bear to see, in the 
midst of the swelling waves of the German-Bohemian struggle, 
such — in his opinion — valuable energy unemployed. A temporary 
illness gave force to his urgency, and his arrangements enabled me 
to remove to Prague, while retaining my country house as a summer 
home. My literary activity was now to be in the service of politics, 
which had been its original employment, and of journalism. On my 
side a sort of "first love" helped to overcome the initial aversion 
to this plan. I had begun my teaching career with an investiga- 
tion of Bohemian local conditions, and I now felt a drawing as to the 
completion of something already begun toward Bohemian history, 
in which, to be sure, social history had meanwhile become the chief 

'The Kulturgeschichte der Menschheit in ihrem organischcn Aufbau was like my 
works on the history of rcHgion in departing from the beaten tracks in choice and 
emphasis of essential material. It was later translated by Dr. Frischmann into 
Hebrew (Warsau-Verlagsinstitut Achiassaf), and is now in course of translation into 
Magyar for a library of social science. 


concern. There had always been charm of mystery to me about 
trying dark unbroken ways. Here I should have to deal further 
with obstacles thrown into my path. This helped me to resolve 
at least temporarily to plant my traveling staff at Prague, where 
alone I could find all the necessary resources. 

But I was far from finding here the repose I desired. Scarcely 
had I so far arranged my new program of duties that I could arrange 
work for my surplus time than one obstacle after another blocked 
my way. In the year 1889 my devoted friend Reichsrats- und 
Landtagsabgeordneter, Dr. Rickert, died, and even at his funeral I 
was urged by the legislators present to take his place. I resisted 
honestly, and the party leaders in Prague supported me. It was, 
however, of no avail. The circumstances forced us to yield. 

The period which I spent thereupon in the rural electoral 
district, Tetschen-Rumburg, and still more in Vienna, turned me 
completely from my intended study, and the political duties once 
undertaken placed new hindrances daily in the way of return to 
such labors. At the same time I was able in another way in ParHa- 
ment to return to a first love, since the Liechtenstein proposal for 
modification of the public-school law enabled me, not without suc- 
cess and recognition, to enter the lists against the renewed alliance 
between clericalism and German philistinism. 

When the Vienna compromise {Ausgleichsheschliisse) of 1890 had 
again enabled the German representatives to share in the activities 
of the Bohemian parliament and in the administration of the 
country, circumstances were again changed for me. With Dr. L. 
Schlesinger I was chosen as a member of the national committee, 
and as such had sufficient reason for resigning my membership in 
the Reichsrat in order to confine my activity to Prague. Now at 
last I was able to continue my studies of the history of old Bohemia. 
These were again interrupted by long and serious illness in 1894. 
I never fully recovered from the effects of this attack, at least not 
to the extent that I was ever again in possession of my full working 

During the period just referred to I had published partly in the 
Miiteilungen of the historical society, partly in Bohemia, a number 
of detail studies on critical questions of Bohemian history and 


legend. In the following period occurred my gladly undertaken 
collaboration with the Gesellschaft zur Fdrderung deutscher Wissen- 
schaft, Kunsl und Literatur founded by my friend Knoll. As mem- 
ber and as second president I served the society as long as I remained 
in Prague. With the support of this society I was at last in 1896 
able to see in print the first volume of my Sozialgeschichte Bohmens 
in vorhusitischer Zeit. Before the second volume appeared in 1898 
many difficulties with the publisher, G. Freytag, had to be over- 
come, and even then it had to appear abbreviated and mangled, 
because the pubHsher insisted on such limitation. No one of my 
books could have made me rich, but no one of them caused me so 
much annoyance and dissatisfaction as this in connection with the 
publisher. At that time I resolved never to undertake a book for 
a local pubhsher, and with the exception of one or two minor con- 
tributions in book form to Bohemian architecture, I carried out my 
resolve. I contributed minor socio-historical papers to the Mit- 
teilungen of the historical society, to F. Wolf's Sozialwissenschafl- 
licher Zeitschrift, and to Deutsche Arbeit, published by the society 
named at the beginning of this paragraph. 

In another connection annoyance and dissatisfaction were also 
the final outcome of irritating and nerve-racking activity and 
devotion. At the same time I cannot deny that my share in the 
national administration afforded me many an insight valuable to 
a culture historian. Among the subjects particularly assigned to 
me, I was especially interested in the technical problems of water- 
works. I was a member of the commission for the channeling of 
the Moldaw and the Elbe. I was interested in like degree, however, 
in the solution of several urgent social problems. My report resulted 
in the law which provided for district conservation stations eventu- 
ally to be distributed evenly over the country, and with national 

This enterprise was not sufficient to earn the thanks of my 
German countrymen. Here also the national interest crosses the 
social, and without legal determination the one must always suffer 
from the other. 

All the experiences which I gathered in my most diversified 
political activities tended to confirm my conviction that the first 


and indispensable precondition of the material and spiritual pros- 
perity of two national stocks, located in the same country under 
such circumstances as those which existed in Bohemia, must be a 
fixed legal norm for their status, and their freedom of movement. 
How strict or liberal should be the terms of this law is a matter of 
secondary importance. Whenever we Germans have neglected an 
opportunity to secure such a norm we have committed a poHtical 
blunder injurious to both parties. It is no longer practical politics 
to demand the subordination of one of the national groups to the 
other. To abandon the field to enthusiasts for such a policy is at 
the least sinful neghgence. Among the minority such elements may 
get credit for their zeal. If their impulse seizes the majority the 
political craft will run aground. 

That this was the state of things in the German party, however. 
I had only too much occasion to learn when the frequent illnesses 
of Schlesinger forced me to preside at the meetings of the club. 
That the Reichenberg Volkspartei split with us was not in itself 
a misfortune. Its action set the example, however, for further 
secessions, which with conscious purpose took their stand upon the 
unattainable because this program most surely promised the 
eternity of their existence. But not even by this policy did they 
become a common danger. To reach that pass another trifle is 
necessary: that electorate and Volk shall credit that which this 
program — as the catechism phrases it— "gives them to beheve." 
And the fact that this actually came about was the entire hopeless- 
ness of the time. This very transition, this injecting of the politi- 
cally impossible into politics, became the active ferment, and first 
of all in the German club itself. With every question of importance 
the greater number were at once ready for a jump. Popular favor 
so easily gained, and the certainty of securing popular support by 
mere revolt from the club program were the death of reasonable 
politics. To give more of my energy and time to politics seemed 
to me the more intolerable since my spirit of independence revolts 
at nothing more than the reproach of Klehertum. I well know that 
historically and essentially our national stock is a labor folk, and 
sometime there will be a return to kind. It does not pay to wait 
for such developments when one has reached my age. 


Such was the state of mind and the calculation on the basis of 
which in the autumn of 1898 I decided to withdraw from political 
activity in the Landtag and in the national administration. I now 
at last possessed for the first time in my hfe that which in hours of 
overweariness I had so often coveted — unlimited leisure for literary 
and similar enjoyment. I had no longer the courage and inexperi- 
ence of youth to risk my economic hfe on the basis of hterary work. 
I preferred to begin a new section of life by investing my small 
savings in the foundry belonging to my son-in-law in Aussig. I 
became a silent partner in the iirm "Ig. Lumpe's Neffe," and I 
passed my time according to the season of the year between Aussig 
and Kundratitz. 

Only once more did the "merchant" fall under temptation to 
leave this quiet haven. The commission appointed to nominate a 
successor to my former parliamentary friend, Hofrat Beer, as pro- 
fessor in the Technische Hochschule at Vienna, had the idea of pro- 
posing my name. A lustrum earlier such a nomination, with the 
involved recognition of my scientific endeavors, would have meant 
the realization of my most extravagant dreams. Now my own 
decision had to destroy the satisfaction in the germ. Apart from 
the fact that my age was no longer promising, the health of my wife, 
whom I prized above all else, might have been endangered by the 
migration and the other changes connected with it. I owed much 
more to her than to my ambition. But even with this sacrifice I 
was able to prolong her hfe only a few years. On the seventeenth 
of December, 1904, I was left alone. 


University of Michigan 

Historians have often argued among themselves and at times 
have taken the people into their confidence with regard to the 
great battles of history, and so well have they done what they 
have undertaken, describing and comparing the battle-scenes, 
fighting over again the great struggles, and explaining the causes 
and the epoch-making results of Marathon, Philippi, Hastings, 
Waterloo, Gettysburg, and the rest, that a layman like myself in 
such historical studies as theirs must not trespass on their territory. 
For me to trespass there would be to add only one more battle- 
scene to the long list and, while the outcome could hardly be called 
epoch-making, there can be no doubt at all either as to which side 
would lose or as to the serious fatalities attending defeat. But 
in human history there are battle-fields and battle-fields and at 
no serious risk of encroaching on any expert's preserves I have 
chosen from history five battles that I know to be great, indeed 
that I am almost ready to declare the very greatest, and that I 
think I can show to be in the fullest sense epoch-making. The 
scenes of these battles I would visit in this essay. 

Before setting out, since the journey is hardly an ordinary one, 
being very like a journey in wonderland or at least being in a 
world the geography of which no geographers known to me have 
ever mapped or described, I must try to show, at least in a general 
way, in what sort of a world the various battles of this essay have 
been fought to their finish. Probably the one word *' civilization" 
will reveal, as in a flash, the world whose battle-fields I would visit; 
contrary to what many may now infer, however, the world of 
civilization, although having its peculiar ideal character, is not to 
be thought of as separate from the world of the geographers; only 
as bigger, being made so by having spiritual as well as physical 
values. The spiritual values, not alone, but added to the physical 



values or shot through them, really do turn the geographers' world 
into a wonderland, as will quickly appear. 

Thus the five great battles, whose scenes I would visit and 
describe, are these: The Clash of Arms and Armor, The Offense 
and Defense of Striking Dress and Pointed Manners, The Rational 
Game of Standard Methods and Instruments, The Great Hazard 
of Subjective Attitudes and Natural Processes, and The Final 
Winning of Soul and Body. Here surely is wonderland, although 
hardly that of Grimm, Andersen, or Carroll. Moreover, here is 
after all only the world of ordinary geography and ordinary history 
seen under what is not the ordinary light; and the light and the 
shade of the ideal or spiritual values, under wliich those battles 
are seen and without which they would prove quite meaningless, 
are so different, so subtle and elusive, that I must at once explain 
their nature as clearly as I can. 

Whatever metaphysicians and theologians and psychologists 
may have to say of what men call the spiritual, I need here only 
say that man, for example, is spiritual, not through aloofness from 
what is physical, but through his having an inner hfe, a life to self, 
in his various relations to the physical world, and, if I am to make 
quite clear how much this means, I must ask the closest attention 
to the following, and, first, to a very commonplace matter indeed. 
Everybody who can lay claim to only the rudiments of education 
is able to read to himself, but have you ever reflected at all care- 
fully on what it is to read a printed page to oneself ? Of course, 
when reading to oneself, one no longer expresses what once one 
did express, the sound- values of the symbols on the page, and, more 
than this, one does not write out the symbols, or other correspond- 
ing symbols, although there are always present certain writing- 
values. Then, besides being a wonderful system of sound-values 
and of writing-values, which are not expressed, every page one 
ever reads to oneself is a system of other values that touch the 
feehngs and the will of the reader far more deeply. The words 
all have values that I must call inwardly personal as well as out- 
wardly pertinent, for they suggest, if they mean anything at all. 
things, relations, feelings, motions, acts, all of which at some time 
have been immediate in and of the life of the reader. "In" 


''round," ''toward," "effort," ''buzz," "between," "attention," 
"candy," "comprehension," "up," "fall," "run," "ice cream." 
"ugly," and all the rest of the dictionary, if you wish— only I 
shall not try to complete the list — ^are words with the stimulus of 
such values. "The ship moved restlessly across the wild and toss- 
ing sea" is a sentence that would keep any ordinarily self-contained 
and self -controlled reader extremely lively and alert, if he acted up 
to only half of tlie values for feelings, relations, and activities which 
the words possess. What a busy scene, too, the reading-room of 
a library would be — how annoying to the hushed but never seden- 
tary official husher — ^should the readers suddenly carry out all of 
the rich full life that the open volumes before them have held so 
long between their covers or — still more annoying — if the whole 
library under touch of some magic wand should suddenly come 

Reading to oneself is not the only commonplace fact of life 
that I would here call to mind and in bringing to mind make 
appear remarkable. Suppose, remembering the methods of that 
distinguished schoolmaster, Squeers, having read a certain word 
in the library, the word "walk," for example, you proceed to express 
the action it suggests openly and go — this will be quite enough for 
my purpose— half a dozen blocks down some street. You pass 
possible missiles, a dog or two or three, climbable trees, a group of 
scurrying squirrels, threatening vehicles, a grocer's wagon, a playful 
child, pleasant lawns, unlocked if not open doors, attractive and 
unattractive men and women; but you pass them. It begins to 
rain perhaps and yet you keep on, putting up your umbrella; or 
it is beautifully clear and fresh and yet, although by sky and air 
impulses have been stirred within you that would interrupt your 
going I know not to what results, you keep on. You walk, then, 
and you walk all six of those blocks and how much more than walk- 
ing you are really doing at every moment, although so splendidly 
to yourself. Did you and the rest of us belong to the monkey- 
people, as once we did, if not in outward form, at least in ways, 
our streets would be quite as confusing as that library relieved of 
its concentrated centuries of restraint. A single word, I would 
have you remember, from the library was what took you out into 


that street which might have kept you- -and the local police— so 

What, now, is language? A medium for the expression of 
thought, as the old grammars used to say— correctly enough, of 
course— but I much prefer to call it one of civiHzation's mediums 
of exchange. There can be no exchange without thought. Also 
there can be no exchange without some restraint or life to self. 
And thought, exchange, and restraint, while not all the factors of 
civilization, are certainly very important factors in any moment 
of its development. Another factor, somebody says, is the dis- 
tinction between end and means, but that, I take it, is just what 
restraint implies, what thought serves, or what exchange depends 
on. But next, language being one of civilization's mediums of 
exchange, what is that street with all those mentioned details and 
many unmentioned details through which you walked ? Or, quite 
generally, what is that whole complex system we call environment ? 
It certainly is a system; else not even you could walk through 
streets or do any other things smaller or greater. Science has 
often told us in so many words that environment is a more or less 
systematic aggregation of the natural conditions of hfe, but, not 
to deny any truth to such an account of it, science not always but 
too often has treated the conditions of life as if they were quite 
external to life. I venture to say, however, that no environment 
of external conditions, or, for that matter, even of external results, 
ever environed any living creature. Environment is really a system 
of natural conditions; as environment it is only another medium 
of exchange that is quite indispensable in the use of the former 
medium already remarked and that all progressive life, not merely 
all human civiHzation, depends upon. May I use a figure ? Man's 
environment being, through its manifold details as actually and 
manifestly presented, a complex of all the possible things, feelings, 
relations, and acts of human life, is only the set staging and scenery 
for the free and self-contained hfe of language. Only, by language 
we need now to be general enough or philosophical enough to 
understand any of man's free mediums of expression and exchange, 
even such instruments of civilization as weapons, dress, manners, 
tools, natural processes, freely moving human bodies. Thus 


civilization seems to have depended upon both a set medium, or 
staging, like environment, and a freed medium, Hke language. 
But I would propose a still better, because more accurate and even 
less physical, account of environment than that — in more senses 
than one so well supported by Shakespeare— of a theatrical stage. 
Man^s so-called natural environment is only his reading to self, or his 
life at large to self, vicariously maintained. What could the words 
mean or the manners or the tools or the weapons, if there were no 
such vicarious maintenance of the life, control and mastery of which 
they so plainly show ? Man is really civilized, his civilization has 
substance, just because what in his life to self he does not do openly 
himself or what, when leaving a library, he does under the excellent 
control of an orderly and becoming walk down the street, is always 
still going on really and manifestly. Being civilized, he is himself 
no longer, literally or figuratively, just stone or clod, but there are, 
surrounding him, countless clods and stones, literally or figuratively 
possible missiles for his use. Again, he is outwardly no animal, 
but his animal nature, spiritually within him or marvelously con- 
centrated in the language he uses, is always out in his environment 
materially and objectively disporting itself thus vicariously to his 
manifest upholding and uplifting; to his glory, then, if not also 
even to the glory of God. I am less theologian than historian, but 
man's environment looks to me very much like his greatest spiritual 
friend — so far as anything that seems so outside of him can be that. 
And, really, is his environment in any but a possibly physical or 
spacial sense, resulting from an abstraction, to be thought of as 
outside ? His spiritual life is his life within, his life to himself, as 
he reads and sometimes walks, and this were not possible without the 
vicarious service, I almost said the vicarious sacrifice, of his very real 
environment. So, if now and then man has reverently personified 
and deified that environment, who can wonder ?^ 

' The idea of man's environment, or even of the material environment generally, 
here suggested, is hardly a new one, except possibly in the way in which I have chosen 
to express it. Aristotle, if no one even earlier than he, "began it." Leibnitz took it 
up, at least as I have come to understand Leibnitz, and between the lines it can l^e 
detected even in Mill's definition of "'matter" as "the permanent possibility of sensa- 
tion." Bergson seems to have it in mind in his Mailer and Memory and, without being 
unmindful of the humor of my joining such superior company, I venture to quote a 


I have been trying to explain what the spiritual values are and 
here in simple sum is the result. Man is spiritual in having the 
wealth, which we have seen, of life to himself, while the world in 
which he fights all his battles, as is now to be added, is spiritual, 
not of course as just an external world — such an abstraction makes 
it material — ^but as the world that vicariously maintains all the 
elements and all the possibiHties of man's controlled life. Naturally 
as an important conclusion from this, whatever unity and order 
the vicarious life, the environment, may at any time manifest, 
say to jurisprudence, art, science, philosophy, or religion, can be 
only a reflection of man's acquired freedom, that is, of the power 
of control and organization to which he has attained. And such 
unity and order, referable either to the outer life or to the inner, 
must always be the intent or meaning of the language which man 
is using. I had almost forgotten the language. In all its forms, 
higher or lower, in words, gestures, manners, tools, weapons, in all 
these the language is most essential, the freed medium being quite 
as important as the set medium. Language has at once the separa- 
tion from the environment which action to self requires, or it is in 
other words, portable, and at the same time it has the environmental 
character of itself being something that may be lived to self — as 
when one thinks without even writing or speaking. Language is, 
again, both a part of the life of those using it and a part of the 
environment; or, in scriptural phrase, it is the word made flesh. 

Now we are ready, I think, to visit the first of the five great 
battle-fields, and I mean first, not merely in the order of my essay, 
but in the order of civilization. If anyone thinks that I have 
given too much attention to the things that make life and language 
and environment spiritual, I can only say in self-defense that very 

statement of my own, published several years ago {Dynamic Idealism, 189SJ: "The 
whole outer world, as we have it now about us, in all its wonderful nature and with 
aU its lawfulness, has .... risen as a monument in the wake of the progress of man, 
or, let us say, in order to be quite broad and inclusive, in the wake of intelligent life 
as a whole; and even as languages and monuments .... are but man o\er again, 
so the outer world in those most general characteristics, to which the psychologist 
looks, is man too. What seems not-self is only the obverse of self" (p. 2^). And 
again: "Control brings activity to self and consciousness of a not-self" (p. 184). 
See also "The Stages of Knowledge," Psychological Review, March. 1897, especially 
pp. 171 f. 


recently I knew of even an expert historian who led his hearers 
through many dry contemporary sermons before regaling them with 
a great political revolution. But, to come to the first battle, a 
story from the nursery will serve me well. Once upon a time a very 
small boy was struck — so he seemed to view the event — by the 
bureau, near which he had been playing with his blocks, and at 
once in anger, his own body, nay, even his own head the weapon, 
he struck back violently. Curtain. Some time later, suffering 
a similar blow, he hesitated and then, seizing a near-by block, he 
struck back by throwing that, so to speak, instead of his own head; 
and those who saw him knew that, however small the way, his 
civilization had begun. He had also learned to eat pins and other 
indigestibles to hhnself, but, apart from that, he had come to strike 
''to himself" or — the other side of the acquirement — to let some- 
thing else take the action and particularly the reaction of the blow 
dealt. He had, then, entered the life at once of spiritual activity 
within and vicarious activity without and, in the large way of speak- 
ing for which I have claimed license, he had done this by use of 
language, his block being the freed medium of his expression. Also 
what he had done is what, but in large writing, always characterizes 
the first battle, the clash of arms and armor, in which men appear 
as using, not now against bureaus or other objects or forces of 
nature, but against each other, the rude rough methods of that 
sinall boy. In such "use behold the factors of civilization, of life 
in the world of spiritual as well as physical values: the restraint 
or life to self, the language or free medium of expression and 
exchange, and, at least equally important, the vicarious environ- 
ment. Indeed so obviously are these factors there that further 
account of them seems unnecessary. 

Still, of the clash of arms and armor two things remain to be 
said, both very important and both involving a principle that will 
prove appHcable to all five of the battles, not merely to this one. 
Thus, in the first place, reversion to what, after the nursery tale. I 
will s>Tnbohcally call head-bumping, is always possible and more 
or less likely — remember that even the staid and sedentary reader 
in the Hbrary finally reverted to his one-time habit of walking out 
in the open; but secondly, when men meet men on common ground 


and in common ways, when any action of a conscious being meets an 
equivalent- reaction of a like being, an advance is certain to be made 
sooner or later in spirituality and civilization. The advance ma}- 
be delayed by reversions, men going back to a warfare in which 
there is not even the crude mediation of armor and weapons; but 
men meeting and striking men constitute a different situation from 
that of men meeting and striking anything that is not human, that. 
Hke a bureau, is, as we say, quite "inanimate," and the difference 
is such, as I beUeve, that the meeting between men on whatever 
common terms must always lead in the end to new terms of fighting. 
It is almost too commonplace to say that when men meet men, 
especially if they fight, they learn self-control, but the important 
fact therein is, I imagine, not too commonly observed, namely, that 
a newly acquired self-control always brings new depths to the inner 
life, new qualities to the outer, vicarious environment, and new 
form and meaning to the mediating language. Thus, meeting in 
clash of arms and armor, men finally learn self-control and come in 
due time to appear on a new battle-field, that of the offense and 
defense of striking dress and pointed manners. 

By the dress of this second battle very evidently I must mean 
more than anything worn for mere protection, whether against men 
or nature, and I mean also more than just the dress of persons. 
I mean all the more or less artful adornments, and all the more or 
less sensitively artistic interpretations of life that clothe persons 
and their nearer surroundings, their homes, their streets, their 
public squares and buildings; and as for manners, pointed manners, 
these are related to dress very much as weapons to armor, com- 
prising, as I would have them here, all the graces of personal 
behavior, as sensitive as they are designing, and all the designing 
v/ays of subtle and sensitive diplomacy or all the artful rituals of 
institutions with which men are known to meet each other. Can 
anything be more interesting in history than this change from 
prompt and open war to the delays and often to the so-called peace- 
ful settlements of cunning diplomacy, from armor and weapons 
to dress and manners ? True, the change made, resort to the past 
and its arbitrament of open war is still all too easy and all too 
likely at least for some time, since striking dress and pointed 


manners always imply a good deal of very human sensitiveness and 
self-consciousness and so, anger readily arising, may be removed 
for armor and arms, but even then civilization has gained. There 
is more control in a concealed weapon than in an exposed one, just 
as sensuously perceptible harmony or beauty in environment means 
more of man's life maintained vicariously than only force or might 
in the environment, mass colHding there with mass, can mean. 
Thus felt or recognized might means only that man himself can 
exert might mediately, but perceived beauty means that man's 
inner life has reached the same harmony and poise, however tense 
and unstable, which the beauty reveals, and man's dress and 
manners are merely the language expressing this. 

How subtle and sensitive and unstable the offensive and defen- 
sive life of dress and manners is, I hardly need to show; nor do I 
need to say that the blows it deals, although drawing no blood, 
unless forsooth the concealed stiletto is brought into play, may be 
harder to bear as well as more widely serious in their results than 
those of more primitive and more direct warfare. But, injuries 
and losses for the moment forgotten, how about the final victory ? 
Again, when on this second field, as on the first, evenly matched 
men come finally to meet, with their like ways, their common offense 
and defense, they are bound to produce a more controlled type of 
battle, involving deeper inner life and wider or more comprehensive 
environment. The life to self is made calmly rational, calculating, 
and at least outwardly quite insensitive; the environment turns 
prosaically lawful and mechanical; and the free medium of expres- 
sion comprises, besides prosaic language in a literal sense, also the 
prosaic medium of standard methods and instruments. Only so 
can the conduct of life be as outwardly impersonal as the new 
control requires. 

To me nothing is more suggestive or illuminating than this 
change that apparently is always incident to the battle of well- 
equipped but especially of equally matched men, and I must add 
to what I have said of it. Of course, victory must always be to 
the best man and, unless my vision greatly deceive me, the best 
man, the opponents being evenly matched, must always win by 
devising, not just a new kind of fighting, but, as was said, a kind 


involving more self-control; that is, involving — for what else does 
self-control mean ? — free and conscious use of the existing con- 
ditions and relations or what was above referred to as distinction 
between end and means, instead of just ordinary, however powerful, 
compliance with the conditions. In short, in such a meeting there 
is always induced a battle of kinds in addition to the battle of 
magnitudes, or say of different values instead of like and balanced 
forces, and the best kind or value always wins and winning raises 
the plane of future struggles. May I recur to the first battle? 
Emphatically there is a certain grandeur in the physical encounters 
of men. The ordeals of might, the collisions of splendid armies, 
hke the battling tension of great forces and masses in nature, 
appeal deeply to all men, but, as I have to believe, for the new kind 
of life that such struggles are always, however vaguely, potential 
with. Men who fight with death-bringing weapons are bold as well 
as strong men, but the man who can control his fighting-with- 
deadly-weapons is still stronger. Men, again, who have such 
control and whose weapons are accordingly concealed and who fight 
outwardly with graces and manners are also strong men, but the 
best man among them is he who is so self-contained and personally 
insensitive that he can make grace and manner quite impersonally 
and conventionally a means to an end. Diplomacy has settled 
more differences, that is, has won more battles, than war; but 
calm reason, dress and manners becoming conventionalized, is a 
more artful and more powerful adversary than the most cunning 

When man reaches his third battle, the game of calm reason, 
the rational game of standard methods and instruments, which 
on the abstractly intellectual side is the game of science, on the 
openly practical side, that of commerce and industry, reversion 
to the arbitrament of arms is rafe. Not so rare, reversion to diplo- 
macy. Especially may uncivilized, or when not uncivilized at least 
very alien peoples, disturb the natural order, but characteristically 
the time is one, no longer of armor and weapons always openly 
worn, as in the first battle, nor of these still worn, although con- 
cealed behind striking costume and manner, as in the second, but 
of the sheathed sword or the standing army and of conventions for 


dress and manners. Man shows himself at once rationally prepared 
for war and rationally disinclined to it, having identified himself 
with a Hfe whose control and mediation and environment are such 
as to require an inner activity that is superior to any signs of 
emotion and a medium of self-expression that, in the form of exact 
instruments of measurement, matter-of-fact methods in thought 
and conduct or business, and standard tools and machinery of 
industry, is quite detached from him personally. How non-human, 
for example, and impersonal, chronometers, thermometers, metric 
systems, printing-presses, steam-shovels, and the like, not to men- 
tion also a very prosaic literature, all are. And as for his environ- 
ment, this, vicariously expressing man's control and accurately 
named or represented by the methods and instruments and litera- 
ture just mentioned, is "physical" or mechanical, the very incarna- 
tion of reason and natural law. Where are the might}^ powers that 
once moved and clashed ? Where those sensuous, storm-set 
harmonies, those startling metaphors of human hope and passion, 
that once reflected and inspired the pointed manners and the two- 
edged arts? Here and there such things of times gone by, so 
gloried in by men, may reappear, but for the most part reason 
has chained the powers and cooled the hope and passion, supplant- 
ing both might and harmony with staid and passionless law. 

The new inner life, the life to self, and the new vicarious life of 
environment during this third battle are, I suspect, in spite of all 
I have said, not yet clearly seen and appreciated, vision being now 
more difficult than in the former cases of arms and manners May 
I, then, force vision or rather swimming, by going out into even 
deeper waters ? Sometimes one's language needs to be even cryptic 
in order to insure understanding. The standard method or instru- 
ment! What magic it possesses! Do but think, for a moment, 
of the great versatility, of the unlimited variety of relations and 
appHcations, which it brings to the life of every user and try to get 
some conception of the rich, intense, inner life that must accrue 
through it; and then, for another moment, think of the environ- 
ment that, answering to that versatility and so unlimited in extent, 
comprises in a manifest setting all of the possible applications! 
Think of the numberless acts to self and the numberless processes 


in environment that a standard measure — for I suggest that in this 
one word all standards may be summed up — mediates and renders 
exchangeable. Who does not know how, having a standard 
length, foot or yard or mile, he can lay it ofif always once more 
or how for an instrument there is always one more use? The 
realm's standard coin is not richer in subjective opportunity or in 
variety of objective exchangeable commodities. With this knowl- 
edge, then, it is possible to appreciate man's inner Ufe, and to see 
how broad and how wide and how various in its manifestations of 
possible activities is the world through which a man with a standard 
measure for his acts is free to walk. Although the now mechanical 
environment lacks — except of course in moments of relapse or rever- 
sion — the former sensuous values that led men to all sorts of 
sensuous contacts, direct, as in war, or indirect, as in time of artful 
diplomacy, it is more than ever, more freely and more openly than 
ever, only the sum total of the possible activities and relations that 
man has under control and so, even as not before, is vicariously 
human. It is such a mistake to argue from a mechanical environ- 
ment to fate or necessity imposed on human life. 

I spoke of the sword being sheathed, of the armies being only 
standing armies. Armed neutrality is the natural limit in the 
rational game of standard methods and instruments and it shows 
again the meeting of evenly matched men or evenly balanced 
powers. The preparation and the disinclination tell the story. 
So a third time kinds as well as magnitudes, values as well as forces 
are pitted against each other and the question comes : Who now is 
the best man ? Who will break the neutrahty, not by reversion, 
but by advance? Remembering the general word, "measure," 
that was suggested, I answer again that the best man must be 
he who can show himself superior to the measurable or commen- 
surable conditions by really using them instead of just complying 
with them, and so by attaining something not measurable — the new 
kind or value always being that. This answer, as I suspect, is very 
nearly unintelligible and yet does it mean more or less than that 
genius must always overcome talent ? In general, talent, however 
brilliant, only comphes; genius really uses. Genius leads civiliza- 
tion: from arms to manners; from manners to measures; from 
measures — to what? 


To what is superior to measures or the measurable. So I have 
already given answer. But let me explain with another question, 
albeit a difficult one. Precisely in what sense is the inner versatility 
or the outer application, which a standard measure always signifies, 
unlimited ? According as one answers this difficult question one 
makes the use of a measure consist in mere perpetual routine, the 
continual aggregation or multiplication of the measurable without 
limit, or in productive, creative action, that is, attainment to 
something different and new because not just formally or negatively 
immeasurable but really so, being flatly incommensurable. Thus, 
for talent, versatihty and application are really without limit; for 
genius, which has the self-control and consequent insight of real 
use, they are only formally without hmit. Genius has the faculty 
of bringing to an end the endless routine of talent and so of breaking 
the armed neutrality or the "deadlock" to which the battles of 
routine and talent always come. So much science, for example, 
is only multiplication. So much commerce and industry is only 
prosaic accumulation. The whole rational game of standard meas- 
ures is, or at least ends by being, only that — witness, for large 
illustration, our boasted modern industrialism. But every battle 
has its genius, since every situation, balance and neutrality being 
reached, brings the real opportunity of still deeper inner life and 
still wider outer life. So, this third time, the plane of battle changes 
and the rational game of standard measures gives place to a new 
freedom, the bold hazard or adventure of subjective attitudes and 
natural processes or — ^let me say, as if speaking directly to scien- 
tists — observation, experiment, and action at large that depend 
mechanically on certain standards and supposed uniformity in 
nature give place to all three with the primary dependence trans- 
ferred to open-mindedness and informal natural life. 

The life of the fourth battle has a quahty that I may not 
succeed in making my readers feel as distinctly as I could wish. 
That of the third battle is related to it in its intellectual character 
as exact science to speculative philosophy, in its practical Hfe as 
conservative commercialism that never leaves terra firma to a 
commerce and an industry that show a spirit of adventure and 
uncalculating open-handedness or as mechanical accumulation and 


manufacture of all sorts, including even the making of friends as 
well as of fortunes and commodities, to a life of heartiness, dis- 
covery, creation. Images will come into one's mind, and this 
fourth battle looks very like a battle in the air, its combatants 
entering the fray in flying-machines — so different from the earth- 
bound standards of the third battle. Such imagery, however, is 
fleeting, if not whoUy futile; unless it be that a lecturer, whom I 
heard a year or two ago, was right when he suggested virtually, 
not just in these words, that the flying of birds nowadays giving 
the name to perhaps the freest instrument of the time, only 
expressed vicariously the separation from earth that comes to 
man through subjective attitudes and nature's free, informal 
processes. But do you even half realize the seK-control, the inner 
life, and at the same time the personal freedom of a subjective 
attitude; of such attitudes, I suggest, as equanimity, adaptabihty, 
moderation, a big hospitable will that can sanction any event, even 
sudden death, as its own free act ? Such attitudes show the lesson 
of standard measures and instruments to have been well learned. 
They show the spirit of those standards set free from the mere 
letter, man discovering with his new action to self that their restraint 
is for his use, not he for it and its uniformity; a discovery, it is my 
belief, that would be quite impossible without the series of battles 
and victories through which we have seen him come. And free, 
formless processes are the medium, the proper medium, of such 
attitudes. Those subjective attitudes are hopelessly inexpressible 
through arms or dress and manners or rational methods and instru- 
ments; only nature's own Hfe, immoderate and immeasurable as 
the attitudes themselves, can really serve. What it is to use 
nature instead of some more articulate medium of expression is 
doubtless hard to see, but imagine a man without a country, yet 
with all the memories of country, and you will begin to understand. 
Those memories, cherishing the customs and the government, the 
church and the home, the place and the occupation, to whose 
measures he once conformed, make him see with a far vision and, 
as he wanders, bid him find in nature the free Hfe of his vision. 
Thus for one who, so deeply self -con trolled as to be free from the 
formal bonds of the past, can, so to speak, make informal nature 


the language of his life, there is an abstraction from the world, a 
sublimation of thought and life, that is not easily exaggerated. 
Of course, although in very different degrees, instruments and 
manners and even weapons — all showing both some self-control 
and some breadth and objectivity of view — produce abstraction 
and sublimation of hfe. but as a free medium of expression natural 
processes involve more abstraction, more aloofness of thought and 
act, more subUmation, than any of those other media. 

I can explain exactly what I mean in two words. First, the 
attitudes, often finding outlet in written or spoken language, show 
man's consciousness busy with making worlds of its own, the 
imagination reaching visions of wonderful construction. Old 
measures of all sorts are reverted to, but are used as loose analogies, 
not as hard-and-fast rules. True, in dress and manners, in all 
the fine arts, there is a dependence on loose analogies, so different 
from literal conformities; the designed harmony being for both 
cases, for dress and art and for speculative vision, between human 
life as institutionally set or conventionalized, and nature as that 
which lies outside of the institutes or conventions; but the earlier 
use of analogy, the humanly artistic use, is quite different from the 
later philosophical use. For the former the analogies are drawn 
with primary assertion of man's visible ways and conceits, the 
intention being to make nature seem at least loosely to conform, 
but for the latter the tables are turned completely— suggesting the 
change from the geocentric to the heliocentric astronomy — and 
analogies are drawn with the primary assertion of the wide, free 
life of nature. Thus nature's free processes are the true vicarious 
life of philosophy, and, realizing this, one can understand the 
sublimation of philosophy. The free nature, primarily asserted, 
is envisaged in such imagery, boldly if not even licentiously traced, 
as traditional means and measures can supply. The man of 
subjective attitudes may still have to use the spoken or written 
language of the man of standards, but his meaning or vision is not 
just commonly natural and "objective." And so, for my second 
word, if natural processes are thus the proper medium, then man, 
his life so mediated, that is, so taken care of, so far as all positive 
overt action goes, has a consenting or sanctioning will rather than a 


directly and openly active one. He even says in so many words: 
*'I will that nature's processes do the work." Everybody works, 
you see, but the philosopher; the philosopher only rules; the 
philosopher's will, though outwardly so idle, is in reality accom- 
plishing everything. Of course everything; for he has no very 
ordinary tool, working as he does with nature, I cannot quite say — 
not being enough of a poet — in his hand, but in his will. Nor have 
I yet said just what I set out to say in this second word. It is just 
such a will as the philosopher's, so accordant with his inner sub- 
jective attitudes in general, that insures new life, for his will 
courageously bids nature proceed with her own reconstructions at 
whatever losses. Nature is never measurable. Creation, manifest 
expression of the immeasurable, is her work always; and this means 
that the philosophical spirit — let me speak again as if to scien- 
tists — in a laboratory must always bring originality; not mere 
extension of human knowledge in the sense of multiplied applica- 
tions of old theories, but a new sort of knowledge involving change 
in quality rather than just in quantity. In practical life, in life 
with the busy world of affairs for its laboratory, the philosophical 
spirit induces invention, reform, unconstitutionalism, sometimes 
revolution, and always and everywhere — for no words tell the story 
better — invasion of what is foreign. A philosophy that does not 
bid the foreigner come, to the end that Hfe may be freed from its 
confining commensurability and routine and so become openly 
creative, is certainly no true philosophy. The attitudes so sub- 
limated in their vision, and the will, so consenting to the work of a 
free nature, show this, and we can see now, I think, more clearly 
than ever, how subHmated or abstract philosophy, the ruling spirit 
or atmosphere of the fourth battle, is; abstract in its life, so deeply 
within; abstract in its vision, so like a mirage; abstract in its 
mediation, a foreign life, the free unformed processes of nature, 
expressing its meaning. But reflect at least for a moment, and 
longer if you must, on creative Hfe, invention, revolution, invasion, 
being the outcome of self-6ontrol. Small wonder that the moralists 
find in self-control, life to self, the foundation of all the heroic 

Do I seem to forget that this is a journey over battle-fields, 


spending my time with outlying scenery instead of bringing to 
mind the great historic struggles ? Let me come back to my sub- 
ject by mentioning some of the dangers and losses. Nothing 
suggests battles more vividly than these, and so far only the most 
casual reference has been made to them. In the clash of arms and 
armor, very clearly the direct dangers and losses are mainly bodily. 
Wounds and death are the proper cost and I have no need of asking 
you in imagination to cross the field after the fight and so to reaUze 
that a battle has been fought. On the second field, too, the 
casualties are openly personal, but — -unless reversion take place — 
not so directly by bodily injury. The injuries, which, as was 
suggested, may be much harder to bear and more widely and 
deeply serious in their results than wounds and even death, are to 
the rising sensibility and self-consciousness. In a qualified sense, 
I suppose, such injuries are still bodily — witness blushmg and the 
flush of anger and the shrug of shoulder and stamp of foot, not to 
say the pressing impulse to draw a weapon^but commonly we 
think of them as spiritually personal, not bodily. How injured 
sensibilities may lead along many disastrous ways other than 
those of possible sudden bodily harm, I hardly need to show, for 
many diseases of body and mind and character are commonly 
known to spring from them. So, to go on, in the third battle, the 
game of standard methods, again apart from what reversion or the 
recognized possibiKty of reversion may bring, such as the cost and 
burden of a standing army, the direct and characteristic losses are 
only formal or are, at least outwardly, impersonal; being external 
to open personal interest and feehng; being, not of hfe and limb 
nor yet of personal address and influence, but of what is only 
mediate to life, of property and material opportunity and visible 
occupation. Yet these new casualties, although so detached from 
the outer person, are deeply felt and their results may be appalling. 
Compare, for a very simple example — thinking, however, at least 
twice before you decide on my meaning — a whole family's loss of 
all its worldly resources, of home and fortune and social position, 
with its loss by death of just one of its members. But to pass on, 
with inception of the fourth battle, the adventure of subjective 
attitudes and natural processes, the direct casualties very mani- 


festly are such as affect character. In the earlier battles, as was 
indeed intimated, character is also in jeopardy; diseases of charac- 
ter may arise from seriously wounded sensibilities and also from the 
dejection following lost property or lost material opportunity of 
any sort; but in the fourth battle character at its best is become 
quite mature and superior to material dependence; it is also at the 
same time freed from the traditional restraints; so that it is more 
openly on trial and the successes or disasters of life are more 
openly those of character. The magnificent self-control, then, with 
all its wealth of inner life and vision, which we have seen, may break 
down with many in society and dissipation of their lives becomes 
the cost of the acquired freedom. The danger of such loss is, more- 
over, probably much enhanced by the fact that this fourth battle, 
as well as the fifth, which is still to be considered, must always be 
fought by the individual. The other battles allow what, in the 
language of football, I will call bodily mass-play. In dress or 
weapons or instruments men are seen to be still wearing a uniform 
and to have common visible modes of expression; such visible 
modes of expression are the signs of social classes, but for subjective 
attitudes and natural processes there is obviously no manifest 
uniform possible. For all that anyone can see, then, each man 
fights for himself to victory or defeat and, although in victory the 
success is proportionately more worthy and more exhilirating, in 
defeat the failure is more distressing. A battle-field strewn with 
fallen personal characters is more horrible than the scenes of 
Waterloo or Gettysburg, although as to this, reminding myself of 
the pathos and the romance that have so long attached to the 
fallen in the open battles of common war, I cannot help wondering 
if fallen characters should not also have requiems said for them and 
flags placed at their graves. At least in the matter of battles 
human pathos and romance seem to me to have been altogether 
too military. 

Of the losses that come from all the so-called diseases of civiliza- 
tion, diseases of mind as well as of body, if the two can ever properly 
be separated, I make only the briefest mention. Armies have their 
camp-followers; dress and manners and the fine arts are often 
defeated by the disasters of temperament; standard measures, 


however indirectly, can be fearfully and even fatally brutal; a 
man without such measures, a man without a country, can be 
destructive instead of creative, a Hcentious being instead of the 
"best man"; and nature seems to have so ordered things that 
diseases of all sorts have to appear with special mahgnance in all 
these instances. Mass-play, too, in general seems to invite diseases, 
although the isolated individual is also often an easy victim. But, 
to say no more of diseases of civiHzation, with regard to mass-play 
I must here modify something that I have said. For the fourth 
and fifth battles there can indeed be no bodily mass-plays; men 
are no longer in any visible way grouped together; and so may not 
battle in any formally organized social movement; but, while this 
new freedom has involved their release from any uniformity, it 
has not, after all, left individuals wholly isolated. There still 
remains the vital rather than formal organization of a common 
spirit among them, however free this spirit be, and in a very genuine 
sense they may be said really to have become more social than ever, 
since, leaving the long companionship and loyalty of their organized 
uniformity and routine, they have entered into the still richer and 
worthier fellowship of a free open unity, always so much bigger 
and deeper than uniformity, and creative life, so much more vital 
than routine. Real creation, as everyone knows, belongs to free 
persons living in the universe. 

The fifth battle-scene, except for a few allusions already made, 
remains to be visited. What can I say as we approach it? Of 
course the higher quaUty of its struggle, which I have called the 
winning of soul and body or— more fully— the final birth or Hbera- 
tion of the soul and the spiritual realization of the body, must be 
relative to some as yet unnoticed weakness belonging to the battle 
of subjective attitudes and natural processes, and the only con- 
ceivable weakness must be some still lurking impulsiveness, some 
final lack of self-control, in human nature. Does any such weakness 
appear? Most certainly and very plainly. The attitudes them- 
selves are conscious and assertive; they lend themselves to the 
human construction and conceit of great visions; they still let 
formal traditions, although, it is true, only as loose analogies, 
control man's thinking and so also man's living; they compromise 


their boasted freedom and abstraction by actually willing that an 
outer nature have its way; and so, if self-control be the test of 
civiUzation if it truly be the mark of the best, the winning man, 
then a better man than any who have fought yet is to be seen by 
us. Personally he is not a creature of attitudes, however subjective 
and heroic, but a creature of soul or of self-control par excellence; 
and, as for the medium through which he expresses himself, or 
names his world, this is his own natural, and for all that anyone 
can see, unprotected body. Yet how to make what I mean clear, 
I do not know. Perhaps there is no way. Yet soul is something 
won or earned or realized with the growing skill of reading to self, 
of living to self, the critical moments of which have been shown in 
the succession of battles, and, when perfect self-control is reached, 
the free human body, the natural body, but at the same time the 
body inspired with the fulness of meaning and the strength of 
victory that its history has imparted, is— this is how I would put 
it— the soul incarnate. Again, when a man has such control, 
such power of life to self, as not to need even to assume attitudes 
or construct ideal worlds or assertively let nature and her foreign 
hfe have their way, then is he free from nature by being free through 
his natural self and he can therefore safely, that is, without betrayal 
of himself, let his own body run its own, which is as truly also his 
own, natural course. His soul is full born. His body is spiritually 
perfected, the creature at once of nature and of his will. He has, 
then, realized to himself all of the brute force which showed in his 
Hfe when in savagery he first clashed with nature and other men. 
From that past a soul as the meaning of his free body is his splendid 

The free body, like all language, Hke every medium of expression, 
besides meaning a soul, also means an environment. This environ- 
ment holds— but vicariously, that is, in the form of elemental pas- 
sions and forces, often grandly riotous and at once destructive and 
creative — the full, free, formless Hfe of the man who, now living 
it all to himself, with open heart and with a will as free as no longer 
impulsive, follows confidently along its various ways. The whole 
city and the freedom of it are his. Whatever it may seem to you 
or to me, to him is his environment one of brutal, clashing forces ? 


Has it perhaps, the doubtful harmony, the striking, even awesome, 
beauty of that which mingles possible pain with pleasure, possible 
danger with safety, possible death with life? Is it altogether 
orderly and prosaic, its primal forces chained and its one-time 
beauty spoiled by law ? Or is it, finally, even more perfectly a 
unit, being not mechanically dead but creatively aHve with law, 
a place for the romance of philosophy and the life of such as freely 
will that nature have her way? Not one of these; yet the goal 
to which these all have led; for, like the soul, whose life it holds 
and serves, it, too, is spiritual. And so, as I had occasion to say 
above, if history has sometimes suggested that by their battles 
men have won gods as well as souls, we can feel no surprise. 

But all is not yet said that needs to be said here. With the 
full load of meaning gathered in the progress of this essay, let me 
once more recall that the self-controlled reader, as if selecting one 
word from all that he was so quietly reading to himseK, finally left 
the library and walked down the street. The freedom of that 
street was his and in Hke manner, but with far greater wealth of 
meaning, the freedom of all the paths of the whole world is the 
natural opportunity, if not always the earned right, of every human 
soul; self-control, acquired in such steps and with such growing 
vision and growing skill — the vision and skill of arms and manners 
and instruments and nature's processes — as I have now described, 
being the duty that answers to the right. What self-control means, 
however, is often misunderstood, when not purposely misinter- 
preted, and an essay, Hke this, having historical form, may very 
easily only aid misunderstanding or misinterpretation. Thus the 
history here presented has been toward a limit, the free soul and the 
natural body, these being presented — for what indeed they truly 
are — as the acme of what makes Hfe spiritual. But this is no case 
for either the cloistered asceticism or the decadent naturahsm that 
by some strange humor of events have often, if not always, come 
together. Such things are extreme reversions, not real spiritual 
freedom. They are losses, not victories. The free soul is no thing 
to confine in a library, much less in a monk's cell, and the natural 
body is not a thing to run wild and loose. Let me ask a simple 
question. Had the reader remained there forever reading to 


himself, would he have had real freedom of his reading? Surely- 
only his walk, direct and unwavering, proved his freedom, and in like 
manner the true freedom of soul is complete only with ability to 
live in the world of all the battles and there use, not impulsively, 
but — can I put it better? — with spiritual reserve, weapons and 
dress, standard measures, and nature's processes. With spiritual 
reserve? This can mean only the wisdom of real adaptation; 
the insight and the readiness of will for all possible situations that 
the world may offer; decision as to what from one's long past, 
miHtarism or philosophy, any present demand upon life really 
justifies. Emphatically, then, this history of battles, like all true 
history, is not just its last stage, a merely formal limit; it is a 
cumulative whole; and it shows, I think, beyond peradventure, 
that spiritual freedom must consist in ready adaptations, in the 
simple freedom of openly, not just to oneself, doing the right thing 
at the right place and time. Had I the brush or pen of an artist, 
I should conclude with a sketch of the spiritual hfe and I should 
hope to have my picture recognizable. In himian society, always 
alive with every battle, the spiritual life should show a sympathetic 
co-operation of all men, some seeing and feehng deeply and living 
freely however ''impractically," some, whether in laboratory or 
in factory, mechanically skilful with methods and instruments, 
some as artists or as their cultured supporters interpreting life as 
graceful and pleasing to the senses, some still wearing armor and 
carrying arms, and all moving upward; and in an individual it 
should show at least some ability and readiness, upon call, to enter 
into any one of all the battles. Of course, to speak with special 
regard to the use of arms, the history of the battles has plainly 
taught that in the spiritual life, the life of the free soul and the 
natural body, taking up arms should be man's last resort, and yet 
that even of this it may sometime be true that nothing can be more 
spiritual than the return, whatever one's reserve, to the home in 
which one was born. 


University of Michigan 

The general function of values, whether pecuniary or other, is 
to direct the energies of men and of the social wholes in which men 
co-operate. In this paper I mean to inquire what part pecuniary 
values have in this function, how far they serve, or ought to serve, 
as the motive force of social organization and progress, what they 
can and cannot do. The discussion, I may add, is based on the 
view maintained in a previous paper,' that the activities of the 
pecuniary market, taken as a whole, constitute a social institution 
of much the same general character as other great institutions, such 
as the church or the state. 

It seems clear that the distinctive function of money valuation is 
to generalize or assimilate values through a common measure. In 
this way it gives them reach and flexibility, so that many sorts of 
value are enabled to work freely together throughout the social 
system, instead of being confined to a small province. And since 
values represent the powers of society, the result is that these 
powers are organized in a large way and enabled to co-operate in a 
vital whole. Any market value that I, for instance, may control 
ceases to be merely local in its application and becomes a generalized 
force that I can apply anywhere. If I can earn a thousand dollars 
teaching bacteriology, I can take the money and go to Europe, 
exchanging my recondite knowledge for the services, say, of guides 
in the Alps, who never heard of bacteriology. Other values are 
similarly generalized and the result is a mobility that enables many 
sorts of value, reduced to a common measure, to be applied any- 
where and anyhow that the holder may think desirable. 

We have, then, to do with a value institution or process, far 
transcending in reach any special sort of value, and participating 
in the most diverse phases of our Hfe. Its function resembles that 
of language, and its ideal may be said to be to do for value what 

' See this Journal, XVIII, 543 ff. 



language does for thought — furnish a universal medium of com- 
municative growth. And just as language and the social organiza- 
tion based upon it are extended in their scope by the modern devices 
of cheap printing, mails, telegraphy, telephones, and the like, so 
the function of pecimiary valuation is extended by uniform money 
and by devices for credit and transfer, until the natural obstacles 
of distance, lack of knowledge, and lack of homogeneity are largely 

This mobilization of values through the pecuniary measure tends 
to make the latter an expression of the total life of society, so far 
as the values that stand for this life have actually become mobilized 
or translated into pecuniary terms. Although this translation is in 
fact only partial and, as I have tried to show, institutional, still the 
wide scope of pecuniary value, along with its precision, gives it a 
certam title to its popular acceptance as Value in a sense that no 
other kind of value can claim. 

This also gives it that place as a regulator of social activity which 
economists have always claimed for it. Pecuniary value provides 
a motive to serve the pecuniary organism that penetrates every- 
where, acts automatically, and adjusts itself delicately to the con- 
ditions of demand and supply. If more oranges are wanted in 
New York, a higher price is offered for them in California and Sicily; 
if more dentists are needed, the rewards of the profession increase 
and young men are attracted into it. Thus there is everywhere an 
inducement to supply those goods and services which the buying 
power in society thinks it wants, and this inducement largely guides 
production. At each point of deficient supply a sort of suction is 
set up to draw available persons and materials to that point and 
set them to work. 

Thus our life, in one of its main aspects, is organized through this 
central value institution or market, very much as in other aspects 
it is organized through language, the state, the church, the family, 
and so on. 

We come now to the question of limitations, and it will be well 
to consider first the view that the sphere of pecuniary value, how- 
ever wide, is yet distinctly circumscribed and confined to a special 


and, on the whole, inferior province of life. According to this view 
only the coarser and more material values can be measured in 
money, while the finer sorts, as of beauty, friendship, righteousness, 
and so on, are in their nature private and untranslatable, and so 
out of the reach of any generalizing process. 

It seems doubtful whether we can admit that there is any such 
clear circumscription of the pecuniary field. All values are inter- 
related, and it may reasonably be held that none can stand apart 
and be wholly incommensurable with the others. The idea of a 
common measure which, for certain purposes at least, may be 
applied to all values is by no means absurd. The argument that 
such a measure is possible may be stated somewhat as follows. 

Since the function of values is to guide conduct, they are in their 
nature comparable. Conduct is a matter of the total or synthetic 
behavior of a living whole in view of a situation: it implies the inte- 
gration of all the motives bearing on the situation. Accordingly 
when a crisis in conduct arises the values relating to it, no matter 
how incommensurable they may seem, are in some way brought 
to a common measure, weighed against one another, in order to 
determine which way the scale inclines. This commensuration is 
psychical, not numerical, and we are far from understanding its 
exact nature, but imless each pertinent kind of value has a part 
in it of some sort it would seem that the mind is not acting as a 
vital whole. If there were absolute values that cannot be impaired 
or in any way influenced by the opposing action of other values, 
they must apparently exist in separate compartments and not in 
organic relation to the rest of the mind. It does not follow that 
what we regard as a high motive, such as the sense of honor, must 
necessarily be overcome by a sufficient accumulation of lower 
motives, such as sensuous desires, but we may be prepared to find 
that if the two are opposed the latter will, in one way or another, 
modify the conduct required by the former, and this I beheve is 
usually the fact. Thus suppose a lower value, in the shape of temp- 
tation, is warring against a higher in the shape of an ideal. Even 
if we concede nothing to the former, even if we react far away 
from it, none the less it has entered into our life and helped to 
mold it — as sensuality, for example, helps to mold the ascetic. 


And this weighing of one kind of value against another will 
take place largely in terms of money, which exists for the very 
purpose of facilitating such transactions. Thus honor is one of 
those values which many would place outside the pecuniary sphere, 
and yet honor may call for the saving of money to pay a debt, while 
sensuahty would spend it for a hearty dinner. In this case, then, 
we buy our honor with money, or we sell it, through money, for 
something lower. In much the same way are the larger choices 
of society, as, for example, between power devoted to education 
and power devoted to warships, expressed in pecuniary terms. 
In general we do, in fact, individually and collectively, weigh such 
things as friendship, righteousness, and beauty against other 
matters, and in terms of money. Beauty is on the market, how- 
ever undervalued, in the form, for example, of music, art, litera- 
ture, flowers, and dwelUng-sites. A friendly personality has a 
market value in salesmen, doctors, writers, and teachers; indeed in 
all occupations where ability to influence persons is important— 
and there are few in which it is not. I notice that if there is any- 
thing attractive about a man he soon learns to collect pay for it. 
And not less is it true that the need for righteousness finds expres- 
sion in a willingness to pay a (reasonable) price for it in the market 
place. Convincing preachers and competent social workers com- 
mand salaries, and great sums go to beneficent institutions. 

The truth is that the values we think of as absolute are only, if 
I may use the expression, relatively absolute. That is, they so 
far transcend the values of everyday traffic that we think of them 
as belonging to a wholly different order, but experience shows that 
they do not. Life itself is not an absolute value, since we constantly 
see it sacrificed to other ends; chastity is sold daily by people not 
radically different in nature from the rest of us, and as for honor 
it would be hard to imagine a kind which might not, in conceivable 
situations, be renounced for some other and perhaps higher aim. 
The idea of the baseness of weighing the higher sort of values in 
the same scale with money rests on the assumption that the money 
is to be used to purchase values of a lower sort; but if it is the indis- 
pensable means to still higher values we shall justify the transaction. 
Such exchanges are constantly taking place: only those who are pro- 


tected by pecuniary affluence can imagine otherwise. The health 
of mothers is sacrificed for money to support their children and the 
social opportunities of sisters given up to send brothers to college. 
In the well-to-do classes at least the life of possible children is often 
renounced on grounds of expense. 

There are, no doubt, individuals who have set their hearts on 
particular things for which they will sacrifice without considera- 
tion almost anything else. These may be high things, like love, 
justice, and honor; they are often ignoble things, like avarice or 
selfish ambition. And, in a similar way, nations or institutions 
sometimes cherish values which are almost absolute, like those of 
national independence, or the authority of the Pope. But in 
general we may say that practically all values may become pecuni- 
ary in some such sense as this. If A be any individual or social 
organism and X and Y be among its most cherished objects, then 
situations may occur where, through the medium of money, some 
sacrifice of X will be made for the sake of F. 

I conclude, then, that it is impossible to mark off sharply the 
pecuniary sphere from that of other kinds of value. It is always 
possible that the highest as well as the lowest things may be brought 
within its scope. 

And yet we all feel that the pecuniary sphere has limitations. 
The character of these may be understood, I think, by recurring to 
the idea that the market is a special institution in much the same 
sense that the church is or the state. It has a somewhat distinct 
system of its own in society at large much as it has in the mind 
of each individual. Our buyings and sellings and savings, our 
pecuniary schemes and standards, make in some degree a special 
tract of thought that often seems unconnected with other tracts. 
Yet we constantly have to bring the ideas of this tract into relation 
with those outside it; and likewise in society the pecuniary insti- 
tution is in constant interaction with other institutions, this inter- 
action frequently taking the form of a translation of values. In 
general the social process is an organic whole somewhat clearly 
differentiated into special systems, of which the pecuniary is one. 

There are many histories that fall mainly within this system and 


must be studied chiefly from the pecuniary point of view, not for- 
getting, however, that no social history is really understood until 
it is seen in its place as a phase of the general process. The histories 
I mean are those that have always been regarded as the peculiar 
business of the economist: the course of wheat from the grain field 
to the breakfast table, of iron from the mine to the watch-spring, 
of the social organizations created for purposes of manufacture, 
trade, banking, finance, and so on. There are other histories, 
like those of books, educational institutions, religious faith, scientific 
research, and the like, which must be understood chiefly from other 
points of view, although they are never outside the reach of pecuni- 
ary relations. 

To say, then, that almost any kind of value may at times be 
measured in pecuniary terms is by no means to say that the latter 
are a universal and adequate expression of human nature and of 
society. On the contrary, pecuniary value is, in the main, a special- 
ized type of value, generated within a specialized channel of the 
social process, and having decided limitations corresponding to this 
fact. I shall try to indicate a little more closely what some of these 
limitations are. 

Let us notice, in the first place, that the pecuniary values of 
today derive from the whole past of the pecuniary system, so that 
all the wrongs that may have worked themselves into that system 
are implicit in them. If a materialized ruling class is in the saddle, 
this fact will be expressed in the large incomes of this class and their 
control not only of the mechanism of the market but, through 
prestige, of the demand which underlies its values. If drink, child 
labor, prostitution, and corrupt politics are part of the institution, 
they will be demanded upon the market as urgently as anything 
else. Evidently it would be fatuous to assume that the market 
process expresses the good of society. The demand on which it 
is based is a turbid current coming down from the past and 
bearing with it, for better or worse, the outcome of history. 
All the evils of commerciaHsm are present in it, and are trans- 
mitted through demand to production and distribution. To accept 
this stream as pure and to reform only the mechanism of distribu- 
tion would be as if a city should draw its drinking-water from a 


polluted river and expect to escape typhoid by using clean pipes. 
We have reason, both in theory and in observation, to expect that 
our pecuniary tradition, and the values which express it, will need 
reform quite as much as anything else. 

Indeed we cannot expect, do what we may to reform it, that the 
market can ever become an adequate expression of ideal values. 
It is an institution, and institutional values, in their nature, are 
conservative, representing the achieved and established powers of 
society rather than those which are young and look to the future. 
The slow crystallization of historical tendencies in institutions is 
likely at the best to lag behind our ideals and cannot be expected to 
set the pace of progress. 

Suppose, however, we assume for the time being that demand 
does represent the good of society, and inquire next how far the 
market process may be trusted to realize this good through the 
pecuniary motive. 

It seems clear that this motive can serve as an effective guide 
only in the case of deliberate production, for the sake of gain, and 
with ownership in the product. The production must be deliberate 
in order that any rational motive may control it, and the pecuniary 
motive will not control it unless it is for the sake of gain and pro- 
tected by ownership. These limitations exclude such vast provinces 
of life that we may well wonder at the extent of our trust in the 
market process. 

They shut out the whole matter of the production and develop- 
ment of men, of human and social life; that is, they indicate that 
however important the pecuniary process may be in this field it 
can never be trusted to control it, not even the economic side of it. 
This is a sphere in which the market must be dominated by other 
kinds of organization. 

If we take the two underlying factors, heredity and environment, 
as these mold the life of men, we see that we cannot look to the 
market to regulate the hereditary factor as regards either the total 
number of children to be born, or the stocks from which they are 
to be drawn. I know that there are men who still imagine that 
"natural selection," working through economic competition, oper- 


ates effectively in this field, but I doubt whether anyone knows facts 
upon which such a view can reasonably be based. In what regards 
population and eugenics it is more and more apparent that rational 
control and selection, working largely outside the market process, 
are indispensable. 

The same may be said of the whole action of environment in 
forming persons after birth, including the family, the community, 
the school, the state, the church, and the unorganized working of 
suggestion and example. None of these formative agencies is of 
a nature to be guided adequately by pec\miary demand. The 
latter, even if its requirements be high, offers no guaranty that men 
will be produced in accordance with these requirements, since it 
does not control the course of production. 

Let us observe, however, that even in this field the market may 
afford essential guidance to other agencies of control. If, for 
example, certain kinds of work do not yield a living wage, this may 
be because the supply of this kind of work is in excess, and the state 
or some other organization may proceed on this hint to adjust sup- 
ply to demand by vocational training and guidance. Or the method 
of reform may be to put restrictions upon demand, as in the case 
of the minimum wage. Although the market process is inadequate 
alone, it will usually have some share in any plan of betterment. 

Personal and social development must, in general, be sought 
through rational organization having a far wider scope than the 
market, though co-operating with that in every helpful way, and 
including, perhaps, radical reforms in the pecuniary system itself. 
It would be hard to formulate a principle more fallacious and harm- 
ful than the doctrine that the latter is an adequate regulator of 
human life, or that its own processes are superior to regulation. We 
are beginning to see that the prevalence of such ideas has given us 
over to an unhuman commerciahsm. 

What I have been saying of persons and personal development 
applies also to natural resources and public improvements, to arts, 
sciences, and the finer human values in general. These last have 
a pecuniary aspect, of more or less importance, but a money demand 
alone cannot beget or control them. Love, beauty, and righteous- 
ness may come on the market under certain conditions, but they 


are not, in the full sense, market commodities. Our faith in 
money is exemplified in these days by the offer of money prizes 
for poetry, invention, the promotion of peace, and for heroic deeds. 
I would not deprecate such offers, whose aim is excellent and some- 
times attains the mark. They are creditable to their authors and 
diffuse a good spirit even though the method is too naive to be very 
effectual. If money is greatly to increase products of this kind it 
must be applied, fundamentally and with all possible wisdom, to the 
conditions that mold character. 

These higher goods do not really come within the economic 
sphere. They touch it only incidentally, their genesis and inter- 
action belonging mainly to a different kind of process, one in which 
ownership and material exchange play a secondary part. The 
distinctively economic commodities and values are those whose 
whole course of production is one in which the factors are subject 
to legal ownership and controlled by a money-seeking intelligence, 
so that the process is essentially pecuniary. Thus we may say that 
ordinary typewriting is economic, because it is a simple, standard 
service which is supplied in any quantity according to demand. 
The work of a newspaper reporter is not quite so clearly economic, 
because not so definitely standardized and affording more room 
for intangible merits which pay cannot insure. And when we 
come to magazine literature of the better sort we are in a field where 
the process is for the most part non-pecuniary, depending, that is, 
on an interplay of minds outside the market, the latter coming in 
only to set its very questionable appraisal on the product. As to 
literature in general, art, science, and rehgion, no one at all conver- 
sant with the history of these things will claim that important 
work in them has any close relation to pecuniary inducement. 
The question whether the great man was rich and honored, like 
Rubens, or worked in poverty and neglect, like Rembrandt in his 
later years, is of only incidental interest in tracing the history of 
such achievement. The ideals and disciplines which give birth 
to it are generated in non-pecuniary tracts of thought and inter- 
course, and unless genius actually starves, as it sometimes does, it 
fulfils its aim without much regard to pay. I need hardly add 


that good judges have always held that a moderate poverty was 
a condition favorable to intellectual and spiritual achievement. 

I would assign a very large and growing sphere to pecuniary 
valuation, but we cannot be too clear in affirming that even at its 
best and largest it can never be an adequate basis for general social 
organization. It is an institution, like another, having important 
functions but requiring, like all institutions, to be brought imder 
rational control by the aid of a comprehensive sociology, ethics, 
and politics. It has no charter of autonomy, no right to exemption 
from social control. 

Thus even if market values were the best possible of their kind, 
we could not commit the social system to their charge, and still 
less can we do so when the value institution, owing to rapid and one- 
sided growth, is in a somewhat confused and demoralized condition. 
Bearing with it not only the general inheritance of human imper- 
fection but also the special sins of a narrow and somewhat inhuman 
commercialism, it by no means reflects life in that broad way in 
which a market, with all its limitations, might reflect it. The 
higher values remain for the most part untranslated, even though 
translatable, and the material and technical aspects of the process 
have acquired an undue ascendency. In general this institution, 
like others that might be named, is in such a condition that its 
estimates are no trustworthy expression of the public mind. 

Having in mind these general limitations upon the sphere of 
pecuniary value, let us consider it more particularly as a motive 
to stimulate and guide the work of the individual. For this pur- 
pose we may distinguish it broadly from the need of self-expression, 
using the latter comprehensively to include all other influences 
that urge one to productive work. Among these would be emula- 
tion and ambition, the need of activity for its own sake, the love 
of workmanship and creation, the impulse to assert one's individual- 
ity, and the desire to serve the social whole. Such motives enter 
intimately into one's self-consciousness and may, for our present 
purpose, be included under the need of self-expression. 

It is true that the pecuniary motive may also be, indirectly, a 


motive of self-expression; that is, for example, a girl may work 
hard for ten dollars with which to buy a pretty hat. It makes a 
great difference, however, whether or not the work is directly self- 
expressive, whether the worker feels that what he does is joyous 
and rewarding in itself, so that it would be worth doing whethei 
he were paid for it or not. The artist, the poet, the skilled crafts- 
man in wood and iron, the born teacher or lawyer, all have this 
feeling, and it is desirable that it should become as common as 
possible. I admit that the line is not a sharp one, but on the whole 
the pecimiary motive may be said to be an extrinsic one, as com- 
pared with the more intrinsic character of those others which I 
have called motives of self-expression. 

When I say that self-expression is a regulator of productive 
activity I mean that, like the pecuniary motive, though in a differ- 
ent way, it is the expression of an organic whole, and not necessarily 
a less authoritative expression. What a man feels to be self- 
expressive springs in part from the instincts of human nature, and 
in part from the form given to those instincts by the social life in 
which his mind develops. Both of these influences spring from the 
organic life of the human race. The man of genius who opens new 
ways in poetry and art, the social reformer who spends his life in 
conflict with inhuman conditions, the individual anywhere or of 
any sort who tries to realize the needs of his higher being, represents 
the common life of man in a way that may have a stronger claim 
than the requirements of pecuniary demand. As a motive it is 
quite as universal as the latter, and there is no one of us who has 
not the capacity to feel it. 

As regards the individual himself, self-expression is simply the 
deepest need of his nature. It is required for self-respect and in- 
tegrity of character, and there can be no question more fundamental 
than that of so ordering life that the mass of men may have a chance 
to find self-expression in their principal activity. 

These two motives are related much as are our old friends con- 
formity and individuahty; we have to do in fact with a phase of the 
same antithesis. Pecuniary valuation, like conformity, furnishes 
a somewhat mechanical and external rule: it represents the social 
organization in its more explicit and established phases, and espe- 


dally, of course, the pecuniary institution, which has a life some- 
what distinct from that of other phases of the estabUshment. It 
is based on those powers in society which are readily translated 
into pecuniary terms, on wealth, position, established industrial 
and business methods, and so on. Self-expression springs from the 
deeper and more obscure currents of life, from subconscious, 
unmechanized forces which are potent without our understanding 
why. It represents humanity more immediately and its values 
are, or may be, more vital and significant than those of the market; 
we may look to them for art, for science, for religion, for moral 
improvement, for all the fresher impulses to social progress. The 
onward things of life usually come from men whose imperious self- 
expression disregards the pecuniary market. In humbler tasks 
self-expression is required to give the individual an immediate and 
lively interest in his work; it is the motive of art and joy, the 
spring of all vital achievement. 

It is quite possible that these motives should work harmoniously 
together; indeed they do so in no small proportion of cases. A man 
who works because he wants money comes, under favorable condi- 
tions, to take pleasure and pride in what he does. Or he takes up a 
certain sort of work because he likes it, and finds that his zeal helps 
him to pecuniary success. I suppose that there are few of us with 
whom the desire of self-expression would alone be sufficient to incite 
regular production. Most of us need a spur to do even that which 
we enjoy doing, or at any rate to do it systematically. We are 
compelled to do something and many of us are fortunate enough to 
find something that is self -expressive. 

The market, it would seem, should put a gentle pressure upon 
men to produce in certain directions, spurring the lazy and turning 
the undecided into available lines of work. Those who have 
a clear inner call should resist this pressure, as they always have 
done, and always must if we are to have progress. This conflict 
between the pecuniary system and the bias of the individual, though 
in some sort inevitable, should not be harsh or destructive. The 
system should be as tolerant and hospitable as its institutional 
nature permits. Values, like public opinion to which they are so 
closely related, should be constantly awakened, enlightened. 


enlarged, and made to embrace new sorts of personal merit. There 
is nothing of more public value than the higher sort of self-expression 
and this should be elicited and rewarded in every practicable way. 
It is possible to have institutions which are not only tolerant but 
which, in a measure, anticipate and welcome useful kinds of non- 

The lack of self-expression in work which is so widespread at 
present seems to have two sources — the character of the work con- 
sidered in itself, and the surrounding conditions affecting the spirit 
in which it is done. 

Under the first we may reckon the repellent and even destructive 
character of many tasks, especially when continued for long hours. 
Regarding this the question is how the pecuniary demand which 
imposes such tasks may be prevented or its operation controlled. 
Under the second comes the lack of that sense of freedom, outlook, 
and service, which might easily render work self-expressive when it 
would otherwise be repellent. 

Pecuniary valuation, represented by the offer of wages, will 
never produce good work nor a contented people until it is allied 
with such conditions that a man feels that his task is in some sense 
his, and can put himself heartily into it. This means some sort 
of industrial democracy — control of working conditions by the 
state or by unions, co-operation, socialism — something that shall 
give the individual a human share in the industrial whole of which 
he is a member. 

Closely related to this is the sense of worthy service. No 
man can feel that his work is self-expressive unless he beUeves that 
it is good work and can see that it serves mankind. If the product 
is trivial or base he can hardly respect himself, and the demand for 
such things, as Ruskin used to say, is a demand for slavery. Or if 
the employer for whom a man works and who is the immediate 
beneficiary of his labors is believed to be self-seeking beyond what 
is held legitimate, and not working honorably for the general 
good, the effect will be much the same. The worst sufferers from 
such employers are the men who work for them, whether their wages 
be high or low. 

It is noteworthy, and suggestive as regards improvement, that 


the prevalence of a spirit of art tends to reconcile self-expression 
with the claims of the market by making the former an object of 
pecuniary demand. An intelligent demand for art is a demand for 
self-expression by the workman in his work; and in so far as this 
becomes dififused it will, at least as regards decorative products, 
drive out the dead, unhuman kind of work that now prevails and 
bring in something that has an individual and joyous spirit in it. 
It hardly seems possible, however, that most work can ever be art 
work, and self-expression for the majority must probably be looked 
for in a free and self-respecting attitude toward their work — 
involving a more democratic control than we have at present — also 
in moderate hours, security of tenure, and the consciousness of 
social service. 

As regards the general relation in our time between market 
value and self-expression, the fact seems to be something as follows : 
Our industrial system has undergone an enormous expansion and 
an almost total change of character. In the course of this, human 
nature has been dragged along, as it were, by the hair of the head. 
It has been led or driven into kinds of work and conditions of work 
that are repugnant to it, especially repugnant in view of the growth 
of intelligence and of democracy in other spheres of life. The 
agent in this has been the pecuniary motive backed by the absence 
of alternatives. This pecuniary motive has reflected a system of 
values determined under the ascendency, direct and indirect, of 
the commercial class naturally dominant in a time of this kind. I 
will not say that as a result of this state of things the condition of 
the handworkers is worse than in a former epoch; in some respects 
it seems worse, in many it is clearly better; but certainly it is far 
from what it should be in view of the enormous growth of human 

In the economic philosophy which has prevailed along with this 
expansion, the pecuniary motive has been accepted as the legitimate 
principle of industrial organization to the neglect of self-expression. 
The human self, however, is not to be treated thus with impunity; 
it is asserting itself in a somewhat general discontent and in many 
specific forms of organized endeavor. The commercialism that 
accepts as satisfactory present values and the method of establish- 


ing them is clearly on the decline and we have begun to work for a 
more self-expressive order. 

Notwithstanding the insujB&ciencies of pecuniary valuation, the 
character of modem life seems to call for an extension of its scope : 
it would appear to be true, in a certain sense, that the principle 
that everything has its price should be rather enlarged than re- 
stricted. The ever-vaster and more interdependent system in 
which we live requires for its organization a corresponding value 
mechanism, just as it requires a mechanism of transportation and 
communication. And this means not only that the value medium 
should be uniform, adaptable, and stable, but also that the widest 
possible range of values should be convertible into it. The wider 
the range the more fully does the market come to express and 
energize the aims of society. It is a potent agent, and the more 
good work we can get it to take hold of the better. Its limitations, 
then, by no means justify us in assuming that it has nothing to do 
wdth ideals or morals. On the contrary, the method of progress. 
in every sphere is to transfuse the higher values into the working 
institutions and keep the latter on the rise. Just as the law exists 
to formulate and enforce certain phases of righteousness, and is 
continually undergoing criticism and revision based on moral 
judgments, so ought every institution, and especially the pecuniary 
system, to have constant renewal from above. It should be ever 
in process of moral regeneration, and the method that separates 
it from the ethical sphere, while justifiable perhaps for certain 
technical inquiries, becomes harmful when given a wider scope. As 
regards responsibility to moral requirements there is no fundamental 
difference between pecimiary valuation and the state, the church, 
education, or any other institution. We cannot expect to make our 
money values ideal, any more than our laws, our sermons, or our 
academic lectures, but we can make them better, and this is done 
by bringing higher values upon the market. 

To put it otherwise, the fact that pecuniary values fail to express 
the higher Ufe of society creates a moral problem which may be met 
in either of two ways. One is to depredate money valuation alto- 
gether and attempt to destroy its prestige. The other is to concede 


to it a very large place in life, even larger, perhaps, than it occupies 
at present, and to endeavor to regenerate it by the translation into 
it of the higher values. The former way is analogous with that 
somewhat obsolete form of religion which gave up this world to the 
devil and centered all effort on keeping out of it in preparation for 
a wholly different world to be gained after death. The world and 
the flesh, which could not really be escaped, were left to a neglected 
and riotous growth. 

In like manner, perceiving that pecuniary values give in many 
respects a debasing reflection of life, we are tempted to rule them 
out of the ethical field and consign them to an inferior province. 
The price of a thing, we say, is a material matter which has nothing 
to do with its higher values, and never can have. This, however, 
is bad philosophy, in economics as in rehgion. The pecuniary 
values are members of the same general system as the moral and 
aesthetic values, and it is part of their function to put the latter 
upon the market. To separate them is to cripple both, and to 
cripple life itself by cutting off the healthy interchange among its 
members. Our line of progress lies, in part at least, not over com- 
mercialism but through it ; the dollar is to be reformed rather than 
suppressed. Our system of production and exchange is a very 
great achievement, not more on the mechanical side than in the 
social possibilities latent in it. Our next task seems to be to fulfil 
these possibilities, to enlarge and humanize the system by bringing 
it under the guidance of a comprehensive social and ethical policy. 


Hull House, Chicago 

The economic and political views of a large percentage of 
Italian working-men are a function of their attitude and relation 
to the church. A practicing Catholic is in most cases under the 
absolute control of his priest, not only in his spiritual, but also in 
his economic and social life. From the Alps down to the Ionian 
Sea we see a gradual lowering of the standards of education and of 
civilization. The priests, most of whom come from peasant 
families or from the lower walks of society, rarely leave their 
native province, of which they are a typical product. In the 
north the clergy has built up a powerful, quite wonderful Catholic 
organization, especially in the provinces of Lombardy and Venice. 
The south, with the exception of Sicily, though very much in need 
of assistance, is almost entirely neglected. One cannot but regret 
the separatistic CathoHc movement in the interest of the workers, 
for it weakens their action for improving the conditions of life and 
labor. Though everybody can see that undemocratic differences 
exist between the higher dignitaries of the church and the masses 
of the lower clergy, the church is not willing to recognize it, and 
does not tolerate in the organizations of the working people the 
spirit of class antagonism. The Catholic organizations will in 
this article be referred to only incidentally. 

The aims of the non-Catholic movement are to organize the 
radical, mostly socialist, proletarian workers along political and 
economic lines. 

A few words must be devoted to socialism. While Italy was 
under foreign or reactionary governments, socialism could not be 
discussed openly. Between 1864 and 1870 Bakounin and Garibaldi 
preached it, and the first Italian branch of the international 
working-men's association was formed in Naples in 1867. Uni- 
fication brought greater political freedom, the development of 



capitalistic industries, and a general desire to raise the low level of 
wages and of the standard of living. Some mutual aid societies 
assumed after 1870 the name of trades union or socialist club. 
The socialist party of Italy was united until the Congress of 
Reggio Emilia in 191 2. Since then it has consisted of a progressive 
and a stand-pat wing, the latter with a Marxian and partly syn- 
dicalistic program. Though the number of inscribed members of 
the party never was over 42,000, it received, in 1904, 21 per cent of 
the total vote, in spite of the fact that most proletarians were 
disfranchised on account of illiteracy. The progressive wing co- 
operates with every agency which helps the working people, above 
all with the federation of labor. The agitation of the socialists has 
imdoubtedly stimulated the further organization of the working 
class in trades unions, mutual, and co-operative societies. Under 
Pope Leo XIII, who favored a Christian socialist movement, 
liberal Catholics could, without fear of church punishment, join 
quite advanced societies. The present Pope disapproves of it and 
condemns an organization whose members do not absolutely sub- 
mit to clerical supervision. For this reason, it seems, has the 
Catholic movement lost ground, while the neutral and socialist 
move has made good progress. 

Many members of trades unions, mutual aid, and co-operative 
societies, as private citizens, take an active part in the struggle 
for political power and equal rights in the ranks of the socialist 
party, while the different societies themselves generally assume an 
absolutely neutral attitude. 


In 191 1 640,000 workers were organized in neutral or socialist 
trades unions; 108,000 workers were organized in Cathohc trades 
unions; 112,000 workers were organized in syndicalistic organiza- 

The Italian trades unions, at first called leghe di resistenza, 
are now mostly referred to as leghe di miglioramento, improvement 
societies, or leghe di mestiere, trades unions. The old name indi- 
cated the fighting spirit of the founders, while the new names 
show clearly that the movement has undergone an evolution. 


Radical socialism, displeased wdth the German more opportunistic 
spirit which it held responsible for the politically almost neutral 
and very conciliatory attitude of the leghe, formed syndicates 
after the French model. The latter are in favor of a determined 
class struggle and opposed to parliamentary action, to any co- 
operation or agreements with the employers or the government 
for the benefit of the working class. The general strike, boycott, 
and sabotage are their weapons. The Unione sindicale italiana 
is their central organization. Their agitation is responsible for a 
second unfortunate split in the battle line of labor. Many railroad 
and other governmental employees and agricultural laborers belong 
to these revolutionary organizations. 

The strongest trades unions are those of the masons and iron 
workers, of which i6 and 21 per cent are organized. Both are 
well-paid skilled workers; the latter are concentrated in a few 
localities, which facilitates the work of propaganda. The local 
unions of the same trade are federated in provincial and finally 
in a national organization. The Federazione generale italiana, 
federation of labor, established in 1906, is the central organization 
of all the unions of industrial and agricultural workers. According 
to the membership the local unions pay a yearly quota in the 
treasury of the higher organizations. Men and women have equal 
rights in all these organizations. The low standard of education 
makes a really democratic government of the unions impossible. 
Therefore the power of taking action on important questions is 
taken out of the hands of the general council of the union; it is 
intrusted to the secretary of the camera di lavoro, chamber of labor, 
or to the secretary of the general federation of labor. The direction 
of conferences with employers, for instances, about questions of 
the labor contract is confided to these officers. The general council 
decides issues of purely local interest, but when a strike is voted, 
further action is suspended. The minutes of the meeting, in which 
the vote was taken, must be sent at once to the two secretaries. 
If they believe the strike is inopportune and disapprove of it, the 
local union may appeal to a referendum of the federation of their 
union, whose vote is decisive. The local loses by such action 
generally the moral and financial support of the federation and 


of the camera. The trades unions seek to improve the conditions 
of life, labor, and education of their members. They lately have 
begun to insure them against invalidity and unemployment. 
Whenever possible, collective bargaining with the employers is 
favored. The unions in the Emilia have succeeded in raising wages 
about 25 per cent in five years. 

While petty jealousy and lack of funds handicap the extension 
of trades unionism in the cities, the same causes and in addition 
the low standard of popular education and the hostility of the 
priests must be reckoned with in the rural districts. There is, 
however, a considerable rural union movement, and the tillers of 
the soil are energetically freeing themselves from a state of servi- 
tude. Dififerent classes are represented in the rural unions. 

In 191 2 there were 262,000 day laborers, or hraccianti; 105,000 
tenants, or mezzadri; 14,000 small proprietors, or contadini; 32,000 

The small proprietors are economically in a more favorable 
position than the tenants and the rural proletariat, the common 
day-laborers. The Congress of Tenants adopted a resolution in 
Bologna in January, 1913, which declared that their interests were 
identical with those of the day-laborers, especially in regard to 
agricultural contracts, mutual aid and co-operative societies. The 
hraccianti live from hand to mouth, and are permanently moving 
about in search of work. Hence they have no love for the land, 
economic conditions preventing them from ever owning some of 
it. They are easily attracted by radical ideas and become syn- 
dicalists. By collective bargaining and by social legislation some 
of the worst abuses have been eliminated, especially in the malaria- 
infected rice fields. Only 45 per cent of the rural unions are affili- 
ated with a camera di lavoro, while only 12 per cent of the trades 
unions, all Catholic organizations, have not joined a camera. The 
syndicalists have unfortunately established syndicalistic camere di 
lavoro. All affiliated societies share in the expenses of the local 
camera by paying a regular tax according to their membership 
and by paying rent for the premises they occupy. 

Most of the camere belong to the federation of labor, while the 
syndicalistic camere have joined the Unione sindicale. The camera 


is the center of activity of organized labor in a district. The 
affiliated societies have usually their headquarters there, which 
greatly faciHtates a general exchange of ideas between the different 
officers and leaders, and hence guarantees, in spite of much petty 
jealousy, more or less concerted action. Ninty-eight camere 
existed in 1910, and as they perform much valuable social service 
in the community under the form of labor exchanges and free legal 
aid bureaus, they often receive substantial subsidies from the 
municipality. A camera is governed by a council, representing 
the affiHated societies, and is therefore often unmanageably large. 
Men and women members of the societies elect this council, which 
in turn appoints an executive committee of fifteen and holds a 
competitive examination for the place of the secretary. The latter 
must be a well-educated, conciHatory, and able man, on whom rests 
a great responsibility. The executive committee allows generally 
the secretary to carry on the routine work; important questions 
are submitted to the general council which meets once a month. 
The secretary must keep constantly in touch with other camere 
and with the federation of labor. He spends usually much time 
in straightening out difficulties and dissensions between members 
and their organization, and between different organizations. His 
efforts to introduce a uniform system of bookkeeping are frequently 
checked by the unwillingness of many affiliated organizations to 
let an outsider interfere in their internal affairs. 

It might be interesting to report the activities of the camera 
of Turin. About twenty-six years ago the organized proletariat, 
socialists, trades unions, co-operative and mutual aid societies 
built a substantial house as a headquarters for their organizations, 
it is now too small for its purposes, though the Torinese co-operative 
alliance has moved into a house of its own, and every available 
space from the cellar to the garret is used. A very fair co-operative 
restaurant and a roomy auditorium serve the social needs of the 
members and their famihes. I watched there during a hot summer 
night about fifteen hundred people, all of whom had paid 7 cents 
for admission, Hstening to an address by the famous former priest 
and leader of the Christian socialist movement, Don Murri. A 
circulating library, a reading-room, a legal aid and a technical 


bureau, and an employment office render excellent services. The 
latter had in 1909, 2,800 offers of work and placed 1,990 of its mem- 
bers in permanent positions. The stronger unions maintain still 
their own labor exchanges. Injured members get free medical 
assistance and are referred at once to a competent lawyer. Classes 
are carried on in order to increase the number of class-conscious 
voters by decreasing the number of ilHterates. A people's uni-. 
versity was started with the co-operation of the Umanitaria of 
Milan, but it failed owing to the mdifference of the members. The 
lack of funds prevents the chamber from taking decisive part and 
action along economic lines, which causes a good deal of dissatis- 
faction among the members. Though the latter are mostly social- 
ists, they do not Hke to play pohtics at the camera, and defeated 
consequently a sociaKst ticket for the election of the general council 
a few years ago. The secretary is a convinced Marxian, but that 
was his private opinion, and he was absolutely impartial in the 
execution of his duties. He was rather discontented with liis 
position and small salary of $480, and scornfully pointed out the 
secretary of the Milanese camera, who had just accepted the 
secretaryship or the place as business agent of the co-operative 
society of railroad porters at a salary of $800. The secretaries 
seem to change about a good deal, because their salary is so low. 
Through their varied activities they acquire a wonderful knov/ledge 
of the labor movem^ent, and are often called to more important and 
also better-paying positions. Vergnanini, the former secretary 
of the camera of Reggio EmiHa, for years an exile on account of his 
poKtical ideas, is now the general secretary of the National League 
of Co-operative Societies and the Federation of Mutual Aid Socie- 
ties. Reggio is a small city with comparatively little industry, 
but is, owing to Vergnanmi's activity, thoroughly organized. All 
the artisans and craftsmen have their co-operative societies and 
their trades unions; the women had such of dressmakers, milliners, 
and of straw workers. In 1909, 467 different societies were affili- 
ated with the camera, among which 105 co-operative stores. 85 
co-operative societies of producers, no trades and 108 rural unions. 
As a man in Reggio generally belongs to a number of societies, it 
would be misleading to quote the membership. 


Verona is the headquarters for a camera di lavoro of employees 
of the state and of different communities in the province; 210 
teachers, 200 county physicians and 50 veterinary surgeons, 200 
municipal and 150 county employees, 100 employees of the post, 
80 of the war office, 150 railroad employees, and 60 others have 
joined it. The camera protects most energetically the interest 
of its members. 


The Italian proletariat has undoubtedly profited by its organiza- 
tion in trades unions, but greater has been its gain by the successful 
imitation of the English co-operative store and the German co- 
operative banking. Co-operation is the association of men and 
women who, by uniting their resources for the common benefit, 
procure for themselves as consumers the necessities of hfe cheaper 
and in better quaUty. As producers they become their own 
employers, as a co-operative bank they provide for their members 
cheap credit, dispensing with usurers and public pawnshops. 
Co-operation is the best and most efficient weapon in the struggle 
of the working people to emancipate themselves from the exploita- 
tion of the capitalistic producer and the middleman. For a long 
time the Marxian socialists fought this movement as bitterly as 
they had fought trades unionism. The wives of the laborers were 
the first to recognize the advantages offered by the co-operative 
store, and their husbands followed the lead. Thus Italian socialists 
had already answered the question in the affirmative, when the 
International Socialist Congress of Kopenhagen decided in 19 10 
that co-operation was not incompatible with the doctrine. The 
incomplete Italian statistics for 191 1 mention about 4,200 co- 
operative societies with a capital of $30,000,000. The Italian 
government has very wisely encouraged this movement by granting 
postal, fiscal, and other facilities to co-operative societies with a 
small working capital. The law of 191 1 grants very extensive 
privileges to three different kinds of those associations: (i) Co- 
operative societies of production, produzione, or of skilled laborers, 
and of labor, lavoro, or unskilled laborers; (2) co-operative societies 
for agricultural purposes; (3) mixed co-operative societies, combin- 
ing agricultural and other workers. 


Only bona fide working-men are allowed to join the societies 
of production and of labor, if they are to profit by the law, while 
peasants, tenants, and day-laborers are entitled to membership 
in the other organizations. The law is therefore not appUcable to 
Catholic societies as long as they admit as honorary members 
priests and professional people. No member shall hold more than 
$1,000 worth of shares. The par value of a share shall not exceed 
$20. The shares are not transferable, until they have been 
paid up entirely. The general meeting has to authorize the transac- 
tion. One man has one vote regardless of the number of shares 
he owns. 

If an organization of the three above-mentioned types has at 
least seven members, it can ask for official incorporation in the 
provincial register. In 1910, 468 societies with a capital of $750,000 
were incorporated. They had secured in the same year govern- 
mental and other public contracts at a value of $6,000,000, at a 
net profit of $160,000. A provincial commission must ascertain 
whether the society conforms with the law. Once incorporated 
the society must submit to governmental supervision and inspec- 
tion, and adopt a uniform system of bookkeeping and accounting. 
Several incorporated societies can form a consorzio, which may 
also be incorporated. The government and public bodies favor co- 
operative societies whenever they need either finished products, 
food-stuffs, or labor of various kinds for the public administration. 
The most interesting example of a governmental contract is the 
following: The public authorities of the province of Reggio EmiHa 
allotted to a consorzio a contract for building a short railroad 
between Reggio and Ciano, and the running of it for seventy 
years. There was $88,000 subscribed by the consorzio whose mem- 
bers practically comprised the whole working population of Reggio 
and its surroundings. The banking department of the Umanitaria 
of Milan furnished the necessary funds to pay for machinery, raw 
material, and other costs of installation. Individual co-operative 
societies of skilled and unskilled laborers constructed depots, train 
sheds, bridges, laid the tracks, did in fact all the work connected 
with railroad construction. The work was a great success, and in 
1909 trains were running between different sections of the line, 


which was under the absolute control of the co-operative consorzio. 
Co-operatives all over Italy were proud of the achievements of 
their friends of Reggio. A co-operative consortium of Bologna 
secured in March, 1913, a contract for railroad work on the direct 
line, between Bologna and Elorenz. The private contractors 
protested energetically against this favoritism toward co-operative 
societies. To facilitate the bidding for work, the authorities can 
divide the contracts into those for supplying material, finished 
products, and labor, in order to give different co-operative societies 
an opportunity to compete. If, as in the above-cited case, a 
contract is awarded to a consortium, it divides the work among its 
constituent societies. Cessation of the work or subletting to 
outsiders is a violation of the law. When, however, unforeseen 
circumstances arise, outside help can be hired. Such workers 
must be paid fair wages and they share in the profits of the enter- 
prise. Incorporated co-operative societies are not obhged to give 
bonds for the faithful execution of the work, which is always 
required from private contractors. Instead 10 per cent is deducted 
from the weekly pay-roll for work accomplished or material fur- 
nished during the preceding week, until the necessary guaranty 
fund has been collected. 

The authorities negotiate directly with co-operative societies 
wherever the amount of the contract is less than $1,500; bids for 
more important work must be publicly invited. The competition 
may, however, be hmited to co-operative societies, at the discretion 
of the authorities. Governmental officials compute the maximum 
and the minimum amount to be allowed for the work. The bids 
are opened in pubHc session and the best offer is accepted. 

Co-operative societies violating the rules are suspended, and for 
more serious offenses striken from the register, which frequently 
entails serious financial loss. Only after a lapse of two years can 
such a society ask for reinstatement. The by-laws of the society 
must contain rules about the admission and withdrawal of members, 
about the division of the profits and the value of individual shares. 

The officers must be members of the co-operative societies. 
In twenty years 3,400 contracts to the amount of $16,000,000 
have been awarded to co-operative societies by pubUc bodies. 


Many societies of production and of labor were at first not willing 
to submit to governmental supervision; the advantages are, 
however, so great that they have changed their pohcy. In a 
recent report of the general commissioner on the budget the 
following is said about co-operative societies: 

In face of litigation in which the state administration finds itself too 
frequently involved, we can only express preference for contracts with co- 
operative societies. It is a recognized fact that co-operative societies contract- 
ing for public work have not harassed the administration with law suits in which 
private contractors seem to revel (or have done so very exceptionally and in 
very small if not insignificant numbers). This must necessarily give rise to 
serious consideration both with the object in view of studying the means of 
gradually increasing the number of contracts with co-operative societies, and 
with the object of strengthening the position of the state in its dealings with 
private contractors. 

The co-operative societies of production and of work get their 
working capital, by their members, whose number is not limited, 
subscribing to shares at a value of from $5 to $10. The working 
capital is increased by part of the profits of the society. The 
credit of the societies is generally good. The Hability of the 
members is unHmited. They must be paid fair wages; at the 
end of the financial year it is estimated how much work each 
individual has done for the society, and he receives his share of 
the profits, or must assume his responsibihty if there are any 
losses. It is usual to divide the profits in the following way: 
45 per cent to the members; 40 per cent to increase the reserve 
fund; 5 per cent to increase the capital; 10 per cent for insurance. 

Skilled workers are naturally more in need of capital for the 
purchase of raw material, which they transform into finished 
products for machinery and tools, and, above all, for the building 
or renting of workshops. Hence they are generally obliged to 
borrow from mutual societies or co-operative banks until they have 
accumulated a sufficient working capital. Those societies are 
especially successful which have a large part of the process of 
production in their hands. The brickmakers of Reggio Emilia, 
for instance, secured a contract from a former manufacturer for 
the delivery of bricks. The digging of clay, the molding and baking, 
and transporting the finished product to the place where it was 


needed were all done by the co-operative. The contractor had 
only to ascertain whether the bricks came up to the stipulations 
of the contract. The co-operative society at Altare in Liguria, 
formed by glass- workers in 1865, is the prototype of co-operative 
societies of skilled workers. 

Italy has about 30 co-operative societies of high-sea fishermen. 
Sardinia's fishermen have even organized consorzii for the following 
purposes: The consortium sells collectively the catch and maintains 
a store in which the members can buy everything they need for 
plying their trade. Modern methods of catching and transporting 
fish are adopted. The members bind themselves to observe the 
Italian fishing laws and to secure better governmental protection. 
Most co-operative societies own boats. Where this is not the case 
they see to it that the profits are divided in a fair way between the 
owners, the captains, and the crew. All the members are insured 
against invahdity, and belong to the same mutual societies. 

About twenty years ago 84 typographical workers in Milan 
subscribed $200 to start a co-operative printing plant, which is at 
present one of the best-equipped shops in the capital of Lombardy. 
A close union is formed with the co-operative society of book- 
binders. The Umanitaria of Milan erected a number of well- 
built shops for co-operatives of skilled workers, like painters, car- 
penters, glass- workers, and others. The men choose of course 
their own managers. The city of Milan is governed by a progres- 
sive majority. It gave the contract for renovating the old Sforza 
stronghold and for the construction of a new power plant to the 
consortium of co-operatives of the building trade, which successfully 
finished the work. At present the same consortium is building a 
number of really beautiful and at the same time hygienic and 
inexpensive houses for the working population. The tailors' 
co-operative secured a municipal contract for furnishing uniforms 
to the city employees, while the work of white-washing the build- 
ings belonging to the wealthy Milanese orphan asylum was awarded 
to the painters' co-operative society. 

The splendidly organized longshoremen of Genoa, who occupy 
a position intermediate between skilled and unskilled laborers, 
are not in need of large funds, hence they divide their profits by 


using 10 per cent for insurance and 10 for the reserve fund, while 
80 per cent is paid to the members. 

The co-operative societies of the building trade, the wood- and 
metal-workers, expressmen and freight handlers showed the best 
results, while the pebble, cement, and paving work showed neither 
loss nor profit. 

Co-operative societies of unskilled laborers have a membership 
of 33,000 men and women, willing to do any kmd of rough work, 
such as farming, ditch-digging, stone-quarrying, irrigation and 
railroad work, and the like. These hraccianti have no permanent 
home, and they move from province to province according to the 
season and the fluctuations of the labor market. The first society 
of this kind was started in the province of Ravenna, an old repub- 
Ucan and anticlerical stronghold, in 1884. There the day-laborers 
averaged 120 working-days a year and their wages were extremely 
low. They were forced to hire out for work in other provinces, 
but it was exceedingly difficult for individuals to know where they 
were needed. Three hundred subscribed to a $5 share of a co- 
operative society and their secretary looked out for work and made 
contracts with public or private agencies. The first year the net 
profit was $1,880. This society has now over 3,000 members and 
a capital of $40,000. It undertakes by preference improvement 
of arid and swamp land, work on mountain torrents and reforestry, 
construction of dykes, and similar work. In 1884 the Italian 
government contracted with it for the improvement and sanitation 
of the swamps around the old port of Rome, Ostia. In 1892, 
5 families of hraccianti settled on 125 acres of improved land, while 
at present more than 40 families cultivate as tenants of the govern- 
ment over 600 acres. Truck-gardening and raising of cattle for 
the near market of Rome is their specialty. Another flourishing 
colony of hraccianti lives on over 600 acres of land in the province 
of Ravenna not far from the famous Pineta, which has been 
improved by the society. Italy has 6,500,000 acres of arid and 
3,000,000 acres of swamp land. If the necessary money could be 
found for the reclamation of this vast and at present absolutely 
unproductive territory, her sons would find it unnecessary to leave 
home in order to get work. 


Though the work performed by co-operative societies of 
unskilled laborers is generally simple, detailed estimates must be 
made before a contract is signed in order to avoid the acceptance 
of work at ruinous prices. This is not necessary in the case of a 
governmental contract, as the officials themselves estimate the 
minimum cost of the work. Moreover, the work always needs 
careful supervision by experts. Co-operative societies of skilled 
workers are in still greater need of such assistance. In different 
parts of the country technical bureaus, cormected mostly with a 
camera di lavoro, assume the work of computing the costs and 
supervising the work. The revision of the business administration 
of the co-operative societies rests also in their hands. It is cus- 
tomary to have small units work under a responsible gang boss. 
To furnish good substantial work is in the interest of every member, 
as his individual profits depend upon his own and everybody else's 
co-operation and esprit de corps. 

The government encourages the direct sale of agricultural 
products by co-operative societies and has a sum of money for 
prices at agricultural shows. Those co-operatives receive premiums 
which excel in good management and results. The agricultural co- 
operative movement is partly capitalistic and partly proletarian. 
Most of the fire, hail, and death of cattle insurance companies, the 
co-operative breeding of stock, dairies, wine and olive presses are 
of this kind, and therefore find no place here. The CathoHc rural 
co-operative movement is very flourishing in the north and in Sicily. 

Agricultural co-operative societies seek to re-establish the 
equilibrium between the agricultural producer and the consumer 
by directly furnishing agricultural products to him, instead of 
selling through a middleman. Very early the societies were forced 
into establishing co-operative mills and bakeries, to which the 
members would bring their corn or flour. The next step was to 
have collective olive and wine presses, sausage and cheese factories, 
to prepare agricultural products for the market. Many agricultural 
societies supply governmental institutions with food-stuffs, or 
have contracts with co-operative stores in near-by towns for the 
furnishing of wine, oil, sausages, and cheese, in return for which 
they secure loans at reasonable rates. 


Owing to the ignorance of business methods and to their isola- 
tion, the inhabitants of rural districts fall an easy prey to the 
merchants in the towns, from whom they must often order goods 
by mail. The goods supphed are frequently of very inferior quality 
and sold at exorbitant prices. The needs of a farming community 
are simple and of no great variety— certain kinds of implements 
and tools, household supplies, fertilizer, and seed. Co-operative 
purchasing societies buy all these at wholesale prices either on their 
own account or on order of a member. Buying directly from the 
producer, examination in laboratories to ascertain whether the 
goods come up to the stipulations, and shipment in bulk at greatly 
reduced rates guarantee to the consumers a considerable saving. 
The purchasing societies maintain magazines in the different 
communities, which, according to local needs, are opened once a 
week or oftener. As they pay no salary to the manager, their 
running expenses are reduced to a minimum. The products of 
their own members, including cocoons of the silkworm, are stored 
in warehouses until the market becomes favorable. 

As the demand for artificial fertilizer is increasing, not a few 
manure factories are run by co-operative consorzii. 

In 1892 the different consorzii agrarii formed a federation, 
which greatly strengthened the neutral agrarian movement. The 
federation acts as a wholesale purchasing agency, having a trade 
of $2,000,000 in 1906. The affiUated societies are not obliged to 
purchase exclusively through it. 

Larger rural stores must of course have hired employees. The 
model way for dividing the profits in this case is: 30 per cent to 
the reserve fund; 60 per cent to the members according to their 
purchases; 10 per cent to the employees. The shareholders are 
entitled to 4 per cent interest on the shares. The general assembly 
decides how much of the profits, if any, shall be used for improving 
social conditions. 

^ A great handicap to intensive husbandry in Italy is the owner- 
ship of land by absentee landlords. They either use their estates 
for extensive farming, in which few agricultural laborers are 
needed, or they hand the administration over to a middleman, 
a gabelotto. The latter pays the owner a stipulated sum as rent,' 


and is obliged to make his profits from subletting the land at 
exorbitant prices to tenants. The contracts are generally of 
short duration, usually for 5 years. As the tenants are not sure 
that at the end of the term their lease will be renewed, the land 
is naturally worked for all it is worth, and is thus constantly 
impoverished. Rotation of crops, which would counteract this 
defect to a great extent, is practically unknown. 

Day-laborers and tenants, in an effort to free themselves from 
these unbearable conditions, have formed co-operative societies 
for the collective renting of land, affittanze collettive. By acquiring 
shares and by borrowing from interested outsiders they get the 
necessary capital for competing successfully with the gaheloUo. 
As a co-operative society they lease the land from private owners, 
the state, the municipalities, or charitable institutions for a long 
period. The owner is sure of the rent, as the members are liable 
collectively, and, moreover, are backed by financially strong 
organizations. Machinery, implements, live stock, and mules and 
oxen are owned in common. An expert manages the whole enter- 
prise, and the members and their families work according to his 
orders. They receive fair wages. The profits are divided in the 
following way: 20 per cent to the members; 20 per cent for insur- 
ance; 40 per cent to increase the working capital; 20 per cent to 
the reserve fund. In Sicily and four northern provinces over 
110,000 acres are held in common lease by co-operative societies 
with 26,000 members at an annual rent of $400,000. Different 
institutions of credit have allowed over $900,000 to these societies. 

If it is not possible to employ all the members on the farm, 
they either work in shifts or the unemployed must hire out for 
work. At harvest time it is necessary to hire outsiders. The 
government encourages the collective farming by sending out 
traveling teachers and lecturers, who preach modern agricultural 
methods, especially rotation of crops, use of better seed, and the 
scientific use of fertilizer. On market days and during the festas 
the teachers are always in evidence and are much consulted. All 
over Italy we find experimental farms where the new methods are 
shown to the peasants, who see what the local soil can produce under 
careful and scientific management. 


The Catholics have developed another forai of collective renting. 
A co-operative society is also here the leaser of the land, but the 
estate is divided into individual farms, for which a family pays 
rent. The profits of the lot belong to the family. An expert 
directs the work also here. The sowing and ploughing are generally 
done by the management. A few neutral societies have likewise 
adopted this plan, to which the socialists are strenuously opposed. 

Co-operative stores or societies of distribution or of consumers 
flourish in the cities of the northern Italy. The ofiicial statistics 
of 1910 show about 1,600 such societies with a capital of $4,400,000. 

The co-operative store would have solved the problem of the 
high cost of living, if the unfortunate regionalism of the Italian 
had not succeeded in estabHshing often a number of these societies 
in one place. In Milan we find, for instance, 46 different co-opera- 
tive stores; the yearly turnover of 7 of them amounts to $3,800,000. 
while the 39 others have an annual trade of not more than $200,000. 
A movement was started last February to combine the three 
strongest organizations in the hope that all others would finally 
be obliged to fall in line. Unfortunately it was not successful. 

The Catholics have their own societies, which are strongly 

The modern industrial development has attracted to the Italian 
cities great masses of people with simple wants, which can be 
easily satisfied by co-operative societies. After the English and 
Scotch example a wholesale co-operative society has been formed, 
but so far few of the co-operative societies of consumers have joined 
this national league. A co-operative society of consumers needs 
capital for the renting of stores, paying of salaries, and purchasing 
of goods; it saves immensely by not having to advertise in the 
papers and by not needing magnificent shop displays. Sales at 
current prices at cash encourage thrift among the purchasers, 
who save at the end of the year often substantial amounts without 
any effort. The hostility of local shopkeepers is not violent in 
this case. They are even wilHng to furnish certain commodities 
to members of the co-operative societies at great discounts. As 
the co-operative societies pay cash for the goods, they get a large 
discount off. Some societies sell only to members, at cost, in which 


case they enjoy fiscal advantages as, for instance, exemption of 
the onerous local taxes on food-stuffs. Where the general public 
is served it benefits at the end of the year in the profits. The 
rule is, however, that non-members get only half of what regular 
members receive. Frequently their portion is kept back, until 
it is high enough to pay for one share of the co-operative society 

The stores have been forced to take up the production of staple 
goods in their own shops, unless they have an arrangement with an 
agricultural co-operative society or one of production for furnish- 
ing certain products. This is an excellent thing, for shop con- 
ditions, hours of work, and wages are satisfactory in these shops; 
members of the Consumers League would approve of them. Mac- 
caroni, bread, pastry, shoes and clothes, wine and olive oil are 
manufactured in this way. Sometimes co-operatives of shoemakers 
and tailors are under contract obliged to furnish their products to 
the store or to members directly. 

Turin's centralized Co-operative Alliance maintains 20 branches 
ail over the city and the suburbs. Besides producing many 
commodities, it maintains a clinic for its members, a dispensary 
for nursing mothers, allows free medical and obstetrical aid, has 
a chemical and pharmaceutical laboratory, runs several pharmacies, 
and maintains a sanatorium at the seashore. A circulating library, 
evening classes, and entertainments serve the other needs of the 
members. Experts in bookkeeping and accounting travel around 
in the province to inspect the business administration of co-opera- 
tive societies. When the latter ask for a loan, they must bring a 
certified statement of these experts as to the financial status of the 

Milan's co-operative union maintains a wine depot at Varese 
and a restaurant in Berlin. A central store and 26 branches in 
Milan, a bakery, a coal depot, a hotel, three co-operative restaurants, 
and a weekly paper are owned by the society. It had, in 191 1, 
14,000 members with a capital of $1,125,000. Its reserve fund 
amounted to $500,000. Its $5 share is quoted at $6 . 60. 

The working classes, massed in insalubrious quarters of the 
cities, live in wretched dwellings and flats, for which they pay an 


exorbitant rent. To improve these conditions co-operative build- 
ing societies have been formed, which, with the help of the munici- 
palities, local savings banks, and mutual aid societies, place at the 
disposition of the working people sanitary and decent houses at 
reasonable rent. In many cases it becomes possible for the tenants 
to buy the house on yearly instalments. The resources of the 
co-operative societies hardly enable them to undertake this improve- 
ment work. They are therefore obliged to depend for their working 
capital to a very large extent upon the co-operation of outsiders. 
The actual building and finishing are mostly in the hands of co- 
operative societies of masons, painters, and carpenters. In a 
group of such houses we find generally co-operative restaurants, 
whose large halls serve for meetings of the tenants, barber-shops, 
tailors, and shoemakers, all working on a co-operative basis. 
The first Montessori kindergarten I ever saw was in the center of a 
beautiful group of co-operative houses in Milan, built by the 

The backbone of the co-operative movement is the co-operative 
bank, which furnishes cheap credit to its own members, and at the 
same time assists every other co-operative movement in need of 
money. The usurers who infested the country, especially the rural 
district of the Campagna and of Sicily, have been driven out of 
business wherever a strong co-operative bankmg movement has 
appeared. The former prime minister, Luigi Luzzatti, is the best 
friend of the co-operative banking movement. He adapted the 
German system of Schulze-Delitzsch to Italian conditions and 
opened the first co-operative bank, Banca Popolare, in Lodi in 
Lombardy forty years ago. Shopkeepers, artisans, and laborers 
acquire shares for which they pay in 10 monthly instalments, they 
deposit their savings in the banks, and find plenty of credit if they 
need it. The advantage of the system is that different social 
groups are represented in the membership of the banks, whose 
credit needs do not come at the same time. The liabiHty of the 
members is limited. A large board of directors, elected by the 
general assembly of all the members, controls, without receiving 
any compensation, the work of the different committees and of the 
paid clerks. An auditing committee assists them in their work. 


The popular banks discount bills and acceptances of the rural banks, 
thus providing for the credit needs of the latter. In 1909, 825 
such banks existed with a membership of 500,000 and a capital of 
$50,000,000. Preference is always given to the small borrower. 
Mortgages, securities, bonds, and products are put up as collateral; 
loans on honor are not infrequent. The hanca popolare of Bologna 
loaned in thirty-five years $66,000 on honor, of which only $2,000 
were lost. The co-operative bank of Padua loaned during two 
cholera years $8,000 and lost $280. A shoemaker secures, for 
instance, a loan on honor to buy leather, a laundress to buy irons, 
women to buy sewing-machines. For a long time the mutual aid 
societies had done this work, until co-operative banking was started. 
The popular banks have had since 1876 a central organization in 
Rome, which serves as a clearing-house. The affiliated banks 
invest their surplus funds through it, and in case of need secure 
loans through the same agency. 

For the credit needs of the rural districts Raiffeisen's system 
was adopted by the Catholics and by the neutral organizations. 
WoUemborg established the first cassa rurale in Loreggia in 1883. 
A number of small consumers of capital constitute with their 
resources the rural co-operative bank. The banks receive deposits 
from everybody, for which interest is paid. They loan to members 
only. The capital which they borrow from outside is secure 
because the rural co-operative banks have only a limited field of 
action; their members know each other very well, credit is given 
exclusively in case of need, and the money must be used by the 
borrower for the purpose for which he received it. The moral 
standing of the borrower and his security are considered before the 
credit committee grants a loan. The banks have accepted unHmited 
liability. Farmers, tenants, and day-laborers get credit at rates 
varying between 4 per cent all over northern Italy and 8 per cent 
in Sicily. The profits are used to increase the capital and the 
reserve fund of the bank, only a small percentage going to share- 
holders. In case of dissolution the reserve fund must be used for 
some work of social betterment. Loans for agricultural purposes 
are made for ten years, but the bank's risk committee has the right 
of calling a loan, when a man neglects his duties, and begins, for 


instance, to drink and gamble. Loans are paid back in monthly 
instalments including interest. The cassa rurale is an independent 
co-operative society, while the cassa agraria is generally the agent of 
a larger co-operative credit institution of the province. 

The Catholics have about 1,300 banks of their own, the neutral 
movement counts over 500, but they are absolutely unable to 
satisfy the rural needs of credit. 

The national organization of rural banks spends a good deal of 
money to extend the movement; the government helps it along by 
placing funds at the disposition of the banks. Most important is 
the assistance rendered to the movement by the Umanitaria of 
Milan. Moise Prosper Loria's object was to raise the efficiency 
of the working people by this wonderful creation. It has extensive 
funds to start and to help along different co-operative enterprises, 
above all co-operative banks all over Italy, but especially in the 
northern provinces. It has established a banking department 
in Milan and branches in Turin, Florence, Reggio EmiUa, and Genoa 
which serve as clearing-houses for the financial transactions of most 
co-operative societies of northern Italy. Over $100,000 of the 
capital of $300,000 were contributed by trades unions, co-operative 
and mutual aid societies, whose deposits amounted in 191 1 to over 
$260,000. In the same year over $2,500,000 had been loaned by 
the banking department of the Umanitaria to 137 1 co-operative 
societies of production and of labor; 48 co-operative societies of 
consumers; 122 co-operative societies of credit; 11 co-operative 
societies of agriculture; 23 co-operative societies of building. 
In 191 2, $6,000,000 were loaned, while loans of more than $4,000,000 
had to be refused. Only $2,000 had been lost in two years, of 
$50,000 loaned on honor. The Umanitaria maintains at Milan 
a practical school of civics and of accounting, in which labor leaders 
and officials of co-operative societies receive a much-needed training 
for their work. The instruction aims to introduce a uniform system 
of accounting and bookkeeping, which faciUtates revision. It is 
of the utmost importance to have trained men in charge of the 
financial and business administration of co-operative societies. 
With an often unbeHevable optimism new co-operative societies 
are established all over Italy whose financial resources are extremely 


limited, and whose managers have no business ability. An early- 
failure is the result. Hence the general desire of the friends of 
co-operation to put the societies under closer supervision. 

A legal aid bureau helps out in all cases needing the services 
of a la^vyer, a technical bureau looks out for eventual contracts 
and their specifications in the interest of co-operative societies 
of production and of labor. It makes estimates and supervises 
the technical execution of the work. 

In the Italian parliament exists a group of deputies, belonging 
to different parties, who co-operate in all questions pertaining 
to labor and social legislation in favor of the working people. 
Quite recently they forced a substantial change in a law which 
intended to prevent co-operative societies from running pharmacies. 
The law now not only allows them to continue in this business, but 
allows explicitly co-operative societies to compete whenever a 
new pharmacy shall be opened. 


The third form of organization of the ItaUan working population 
is the mutual aid society. These societies are really intimately 
coimected with the co-operative movement and in many instances 
have begun with starting co-operative undertakings like stores and 
banks, and are still doing it. As it was said above, they were the 
only organizations tolerated before unity was secured because they 
had ostensibly only humanitarian purposes. The policy of strict 
political neutrality has not been abandoned inspite of great pressure 
to do so. As individuals the members are free to express any 
opinion and to join any political party. Italy has lately introduced 
obligatory accident and maternity insurance, and plans at present 
to make use of her recently acquired insurance monopoly by pro- 
viding for cases of sickness and old age. But so far this and 
insurance against unemployment and death has had to be secured 
with the help of mutual aid societies. Many mutual societies have 
also been formed by members of the middle and the higher classes. 
Mutual aid societies of working people have a great variety of 
aims. All of them insure the members in case of sickness, more 
than half give pensions to invalids and widows, 12 per cent give 


assistance during unemployment, though a proper insurance against 
unemployment is possible only where all the members work at one 
trade, i.e., by trades unions. In case of an accident the working- 
man receives also a pension from the invalidity insurance. As 
frequently the two subsidies are more than what he earns, he is 
not too eager to get well. A proposition will therefore be sub- 
mitted to the next congress of the mutuals to aboHsh altogether sick 
money in case of an accident. Loans are conceded to members 
by about 25 per cent, more than 14 per cent have established labor 
exchanges and started co-operative societies of production and of 
labor, 10 per cent maintain free night schools and provide in other 
ways for the instruction of the members. About the percentage 
of mutual aid societies which help their members in acquiring tools 
and utensils and those which have burial benefits, no recent statistics 
were available. 

The Cathohcs have many mutual aid societies and sodalities, 
which worship in common and provide a decent burial for their 
members. A fairly typical example of the many activities of a 
mutual aid society presents the one at Voghera. 

Minors of school age can join a school mutual, through which 
medical assistance is provided in case of sickness. When they are 
twelve years of age and leave school, they join as junior members 
the regular mutual society. By paying 15 cents a month they have 
a right to 16 cents a day for 90 days in case of sickness, of 8 cents 
for the following 45 days. They become regular members at 16. 
By paying 25 cents a month, they get in case of sickness for the 
same periods 32 and 16 cents. Parts of the profits of the communal 
savings bank are turned into the general fund of the mutual. 
Widows, orphans, and those unable to work receive a small pension. 
The society owns a well-constructed house which contains club- 
rooms, a library, a school for designing and apphed art, and a night 
school for illiterates, and a school of citizenship. These latter 
activities were recently transferred to a communal building, and 
the local camera di lavoro has now established its headquarters in 
these rooms. The mutual has estabUshed a co-operative building 
section for the construction of decent houses for the working 
people. The mutual workmen's association contributed $12,000 


at 4 per cent interest; the savings bank of Voghera contributed 
$20,000 at 3I per cent interest; the city donated the land at a 
value of $4,000. A very small mutual exists at Sinalunga near 
Sienna with 352 members, who pay 3 to 5 cents in weekly dues. 
In case of sickness 18 cents are allowed for 180 days, 9 cents for the 
following 180, $16 a year receives a member, unable to work. The 
society has a capital of $8,000, and a large building which is partly 
occupied by the public school. 

Italy has a specialty of mutuals in her mutuals for mothers. 
Members who have contributed for 10 months receive in case of 
confinement a subsidy, which is increased in case they nurse the 
baby more than three months. 

As quite a number of the mutuals are not in good financial con- 
ditions, an announcement by the minister of agriculture, industry, 
and commerce that the government intended to subsidize the 
mutuals of the working people was received with great enthusiasm. 
The largest mutual society is the Mutual Pension Bank of Turin 
with 412,000 members and a capital of over $9,000,000. The 
accumulated funds of the mutuals are invested in governmental 
or municipal securities and bonds, in savings banks, and in shares 
of co-operative societies of the locality. In this case the savings 
bank frequently does not ask the society to pay interest on the 
shares held by it. In this way the money of the working people 
is used to assist them in their efiforts of improving the condition 
of life and labor. 

In 1900 a federation of mutual aid societies was formed in 
Rome, which meets every three years in a congress. Every 
affihated society is there represented by three delegates. The 
congress elects the board of delegates with one representative for 
every 20 societies. This board meets twice a year. It elects an 
executive committee of 8, which meets every two months, to carry 
out the poHcy outlined by the congress. Its principal function is 
to stimulate legislation in favor of mutual aid societies and of 
labor. The general secretary is appointed on an understanding 
with the national league of co-operative societies. By tliis personal 
union of the secretary both organizations show clearly that they 
want to work harmoniously together. This is possible because the 


interests of both societies never conflict, but are identical. To form 
the Italian triple alliance of labor it was therefore only necessary 
that the general federation of labor should join the union of the two 
other societies. This happened recently and the new alliance is 
the most important factor in the struggle of the lower classes to 
improve their conditions.' In January, 1913, representatives of 
the three organizations met to discuss the situation of the Italian 
proletariat and to adopt a common platform as a basis of action 
which should bring greater solidarity and better organization of the 
masses. The leaders were quite outspoken in their criticism of 
the present lack of unity and of co-operation between the different 
organizations of the people. The representatives decided on start- 
ing a vigorous campaign of education and of propaganda in all 
three fields, resistance against capitaUstic exploitation by trades 
unions, organization of co-operative societies to free the workers 
from commercial and industrial oppression, mutual aid societies 
to insure themselves against the consequences of physical disability 
and unemployment. It was agreed to fight energetically the dis- 
senting and separatistic organizations of Catholics and syndicalists. 
The co-operation of the friendly group of deputies was requested 
in the following matters: obligatory accident insurance for agri- 
cultural workers; the official incorporation of mutual societies; 
the introduction of a revised system of probiviri, industrial courts, 
in agricultural districts; interior colonization on a large scale by 
settling on improved land proletarian f amiUes as collective tenants ; 
better representation of the working people in the superior council 
of labor; establishment of a bank of labor to guarantee necessary 
credit to co-operation societies of production and of labor.^ This 

■ The triple alliance made a wonderful and impressive demonstration in Bologna 
on May 25. Capitalistic contractors had urged in the public press and petitioned the 
government to stop giving contracts to the organized laborers. For response the 
united forces of labor, over 1,000 different organizations, met and showed the condi- 
tions under which private contractors had severed public contracts, and how many 
times the government had been exploited and deceived. The latest great building 
scandal in Rome and several others of less importance furnished ample material to 
the defenders of the co-operative movements. 

' By royal decree issued May 28, 1913, the new national institute of credit in 
Rome was created with a capital of $1,300,000. Its purpose is to subsidize all 
co-operative societies, which submit to governmental inspection. 


is a very extensive program for the next years, but nothing radical 
or revolutionary. It must be hoped in the interest of Italy that her 
representatives in Rome will embody these or similar provisions 
in the laws of the country. The Italian proletariat is at present 
divided by different socialist doctrines. Progressive legislation 
will help the opportunistic wing of the party and its able leaders 
in their struggle for existence. Moreover, the ItaHan government 
is totally in the dark about the outcome of the next general election. 
It extended the franchise to all males, whether they can read and 
write, or not. It is in absolute need of the progressive socialists 
in the face of a probable large return of reactionary deputies. The 
sociaUsts in Italy of the progressive type can well afiford to vote 
for a government which has shown its absolute wilUngness to 
legislate in order to improve social conditions. 


Iowa City, Iowa 

In 1 910 there were enrolled in the different colleges of the 
country about 75,000 women. The influence of these women upon 
the physical, mental, and moral welfare of our future citizens is 
almost incalculable, for it is so far reaching. Incalculable as it is, 
there should be some way of measuring to some degree the influence 
of this college education upon these women and the influence of 
these women upon the race. Otherwise, as a race we can make no 
definite progress but simply advance or retrograde in a haphazard 

An exact scientist when he wants information makes use of his 
microscope and his laboratory. When a sociologist, whose field 
is found in man's relation to man in a state of society, wishes 
definite information he must gather his facts from individuals in 
the great laboratory of the world. Subjective facts must be 
obtained at the volition of the individual and too often the indi- 
vidual "won't tell." 

In no field has it been more difficult for the sociologist to obtain 
complete material for conclusions than in that of the home, which 
is the institution most fundamental to society. Objective material 
can be obtained, but of the real inner life of the home and the action 
and reaction of individuals there, in accordance with their heredity, 
environment, and education, much remains to be discovered before 
external conditions can be improved. 

Much of the objective material which comes to the notice of the 
sociologist is not favorable to the continuance of the home under 
present-day conditions. For instance, statistics tell us that one- 
fourth of all deaths are of children under five years of age who are 
entirely dependent for their welfare upon the intelligent or unintelli- 
gent ministrations of the home. This high death-rate of itself 
shows something wrong with home conditions or the preparation 



of home-makers. The 75,000 college-bred women who represent 
the most intelligent women in training today, together with the 
alumnae of these colleges, can contribute much to sociological 
investigations for improving home conditions if they will honestly 
give subjective facts from their own experience, if only on this one 
topic of how much their pubUc-school and college education has 
really helped or hindered them in their home life. Until some such 
accurate information is obtained, our colleges for women -will go 
on much as they are doing, giving culture studies alone or almost 
everything else than anything pertaining directly to the real business 
of home-making and of raising men and women to be sound physi- 
cally, mentally, and morally. 

My parents provided for me a college education. I make this 
statement not from any feeling of pride but simply for the purpose 
of showing that I received what at the time was supposed to be a 
liberal education for a girl. I am glad to tell for the benefit of the 
home life of others just what that education has meant to me and 
to suggest from the facts in my own experience, strengthened by 
those gathered from observation and the testimony of others, 
something of woman's handicap in developing efficiency in the 

During my college days I was well trained in four languages, 
their literatures, and some related connecting historical facts. I 
was indifferently trained in the small amount of science I was com- 
pelled to take and not taught at all concerning the fundamental 
facts of human relationship. My college being a coeducational one. 
I did not suffer for men's society nor social life. These combined 
opportunities of my college days furnished the foundations of my 
assets when later I was launched into my profession in life — that 
of home-maker. 

It is customary for a father to ask of a young man who comes 
to claim his daughter: ''What are your business quahfications ? 
Are you capable of supporting a home?" With equal justice the 
mother of the prospective bridegroom might ask the bride-to-be: 
"What are your quahfications for the business of home-maker? 
Are you capable of maintaining a home efficiently and of raising 
children who shall be physically, mentally, and morally sound?" 


However, my future mother-in-law did not ask these same questions 
in just this way, and so I passed — into matrimony. 

I have been trying to make a success of it with the resources at 
hand and I am free to confess, after an effort extending over several 
years, that I realize that the successful home-maker needs to be a 
much more capable and balanced individual than I in my school and 
college days ever imagined. A day of the average home-maker 
in the middle walks of life, where she is often mistress and maid, 
child's nurse and invalid nurse, companion and friend, calls for a 
wit and wisdom and efficiency on her part which can be developed, 
not by domestic science studies alone nor by culture studies alone, 
but by a suitable combination of them all. 

From my college education, insufficient as it was, I brought to 
my business in life some help, to be sure. A person cannot live in 
the presence of the master-minds of the different nations without 
receiving some uplift in so doing. But though I cannot see that the 
study of language and literature has made me more capable of 
deaHng with the practical problems of life, it has made life much 
more interesting to me and has made me, no doubt, more sympa- 
thetic and appreciative of the best things in the world. 

My training in history has increased my enjoyment in reading 
and has helped me of course with a background of general intelli- 
gence without bearing directly on the real duties of life today. 

Some of the most efficient training for life M^hich I did receive 
came from our professor of Enghsh literature, who, not content with 
developing our appreciation of the beauties of an author's work, 
used continually to call upon us without warning to give in a few 
words the thought of a paragraph or page. As a preparation for 
class we were frequently called upon to outline essays and books 
paragraph by paragraph, and then, discarding everything unneces- 
sary, to construct an outUne of the work. Macaulay or DeQuincey 
or Carlyle might have been startled to have been confronted by 
some of these skeletons of theirs if they had seen them, but we 
students in this way developed an ability in getting to the heart of 
the story which I, for one, know has stood me in good stead in every 
decision in later Ufe. To this extent my college education has 
helped me to think my way quickly through a situation. 


The science I studied had Uttle reference to anything in my pro- 
fession in life. No doubt it would all have been very valuable to 
me if I had been going to continue scientific work for some other 
purpose. But of my professional life as a woman or that of any 
of the other girls in the class, the professors were not taking cog- 
nizance in those days. 

We were then in that stage of education when we were engaged in 
proving that a girl can master the same lessons as a boy if she will, 
rather than in that stage which is now in sight when we choose to 
take for granted that a girl is bright enough to learn the same 
lessons as a boy but that she needs for her life's work something 
different from what the boy needs. 

A good practical course in domestic chemistry or physics or 
bacteriology or physiology or domestic entomology, I am sure, 
would have done my family and myself more good than all the 
knowledge and experience I derived from cutting up clams and 
earthworms. I think we girls would also have been the gainers in 
mental uplift and culture from such courses if they had been offered 
in our time. 

The social hfe which came to me in a coeducational institution 
was productive of good up to the point where it became a waste of 
time and strength. I learned to appreciate men for what they 
really were without illusion, and this insight is helping me to train 
my boys more carefully to cultivate the traits of character of 
permanent value. One of our foreign diplomats recently, in speak- 
ing in private conversation, said: "You know in my college days 
I was not much of a believer in coeducation, but since I have lived 
so long in foreign countries I have come to the conclusion that 
coeducation in America with the constant mingling of boys and 
girls in a natural and inspiring environment is responsible for the 
much better moral conditions here than abroad." 

Out from my four years' college training, then, I brought to my 
profession of home-making an appreciation of literature and history, 
some ability in sifting out the kernel of a subject, some discrimina- 
tion in recognizing a character for what it is worth, and some social 
instincts— not a very big legacy to bring to the task of raising a 
family to physical, mental, and moral efficiency on limited income 
and limited strength. 


What have I needed to cultivate to make me fitted for my pro- 
fession? First, I needed to cultivate an attitude of mind to make 
me conscious that no work is drudgery which leads to a worthy end, 
excepting that we make ourselves think that it is drudgery. This 
state of mind I have cultivated, not so much with the aid of my 
college training as with the help of my reHgious training. 

I will lift up my eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. 
In quietness and confidence is your strength. 
Your labor is not in vain in the Lord. 
Be ye steadfast, unmovable. 
I have fought a good fight. 

He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much. 
The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her so that he shall have no 
need of spoil. 

She openeth her mouth with wisdom and in her tongue is the law of kind- 

She looketh well to the ways of her household and eateth not the bread of 

Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also and he praiseth 

Next after this attitude of mind was developed I needed to 
increase my efficiency. I must be cook and nurse and business 
manager in the home. In addition I must give all I could to the 
outside world in the way of sympathetic co-operation. I must 
learn to do well all I could with the least possible expenditure of 
energy. Hence I must read, study, and work just as I had done in 
college, but along new Hnes, and I set to work, step by step. To be 
sure, my college training helped me to grasp subjects more quickly 
than I otherwise should have done, but a course in my senior year 
in college by some practical as well as theoretical person upon the 
application of college studies and science to home life would have 
saved much friction and many mistakes. 

I had had no careful training in the subjects, in the fields, in 
which society expects me as a woman to be supreme. I had had no 
opportunity for a careful study of chemistry and physics, bacteri- 
ology and physiology as applied to disinfection and disease, sanitary 
construction, the disposal of wastes, and the many other problems 
of human welfare which must be solved through the homes. To be 
sure, these principles were taught somewhere in our university but 



nowhere were they correlated to make a systematic course adapted 
to a large proportion of the students — that is, to the girls who were 
to have in closest charge the physical, mental, and moral welfare 
of the race. 

Most men are only indirectly interested in these problems, and 
if women cannot, or will not, solve them, in many cases they will 
be unsuccessfully met. 

When in the early days of my married life I spoiled an expensive 
aluminum roasting-pan by trying to clean it with lye, I wished for 
some scientific information of more practical bearing than the knowl- 
edge of the circulation of an earthworm. I felt the same need when 
little John was brought in senseless from a fall from the barn. 
Some way nothing from Homer or Virgil seemed quite suitable 
in the extremity. Again and again in treating the cuts of childhood 
and adult life I have wished for an intelligent course in emergency 
nursing, and surely such a course in my college days could not have 
detracted much from the influence of culture studies. 

I have felt in diverse difficulties the need of more of a study of 
science with special application to home-making. For example, 
one morning when the cream in the neighborhood turned ropy, 
the neighbors came running to me because they thought that I, 
being a college girl, ought to be able to explain the difficulty and 
tell them if the milk would injure their children. I was obliged to 
own to myself in confusion that the abiUty to quote Dante freely 
had in no way fortified me for such predicaments of practical Hfe. 

But there are other deficiencies in the training of us college girls 
which I have been trying to overcome besides the practical ones 
relating to food, clothing, and shelter. Food is always essential to 
vitality, and clothing and shelter generally so. After a while, how- 
ever, some mothers find that they can provide for these needs not 
only well but somewhat automatically. Then if we take account 
of stock we may find that there is danger of our laying too much 
stress upon the physical needs of humanity. Our children need 
food for their minds as well as for their bodies, and we begin to 
wish that our college training had given us, in addition to an appreci- 
ation of Uterature, an appreciation of music and art also, and had 
had more to tell us girls of human nature itself, of the interrelations 
of man and man, of society and society, of state and state. 


Some women are blessed with husbands who can point the way 
along these paths of learning, and occasionally a woman is pioneer 
enough to blaze a trail for herself. The successful college for 
women cannot depend upon the husbands to educate the girls, 
because so few husbands have the time or talent and many girls 
have no husbands. 

A woman's first responsibihty to her family, as society is today 
organized, is food, but beyond that she is responsible for their 
mental and spiritual development, and as an aid in meeting this 
responsibility she has a right to expect much help from her college. 

For colleges where women are students, to undertake something 
in the way of science and art apphed to home-making is not servi- 
tude nor retrogression. It will be the giving to the girls who go out 
into Hfe to be leaders reserve information which in their wide 
activities as women they are bound to require. 

And so a woman's need today is the recognition in the planning 
of her college course of the fact that, no matter whether or not she 
is to be the breadwinner, nevertheless in some capacity, either as 
wife or sister or daughter, in the majority of cases the welfare of a 
home, sometime, somewhere, is to be dependent upon her. She is 
the connecting link between the civilization of the past and the 
progress of the future. 

The need seems clear and the path of remedy plain. The diffi- 
culty for the next few years will be to find teachers of college and 
university grade with high ideals and broad culture, with wide 
training and successful experience in home life, who because of 
these quaHfications are thus capable of removing from woman this 
handicap in her efl&ciency, by giving her suitable education for her 
work in the world. 



College of the City of New York 

There has been a good deal of discussion recently in regard to 
the introductory courses in the social sciences. For example, the 
introductory course in sociology has been discussed at recent meet- 
ings of the American Sociological Society, and certain groups of 
economists have been discussing the introductory course in econom- 
ics. Considerable difference of opinion has manifested itself in 
these discussions. For example, among the sociologists there have 
been those who have denied entirely the utility of an introductory 
course, while among those who favor such a course there has been 
much difference of opinion as to its nature. The question may 
legitimately be raised whether it is possible or advisable to standard- 
ize the introductory course so that it will be taught in about the 
same way everywhere. It goes without saying that each teacher 
has a pedagogical method which is somewhat individual, and he 
must therefore teach in his own way. This is particularly true in 
advanced work, where there should be the greatest latitude for 
individual peculiarities of method. In these advanced courses the 
teacher should be dealing with the special problems in which he is 

Despite the objections referred to above, the force of which I 
recognize to a certain extent, I wish to propose a course which would 
serve as an introduction, not merely to one of the social sciences, but 
to all of them. For while in the discussions mentioned above the 
introductory courses to several of the social sciences have been dis- 
cussed, a general introductory course to social science has barely 
been mentioned. And yet such a general course would, I believe, 
be of great value and could take the place in part of the introductory 
courses in the different social sciences, 



Social science deals with some of the latest products of organic 
evolution, namely, social phenomena. The evolution which pre- 
cedes these social phenomena is the same for all these phenomena, 
so that there are a great many facts with regard to this evolution 
which are the same for all the social sciences, just as there are a great 
many facts with regard to social phenomena which are the same 
for all the social sciences. For this reason it would hardly be 
possible for the introductory courses to the social sciences to be 
entirely different. On the contrary, if they are truly introductory 
in the sense that they furnish this evolutionary background, they 
would have to be very nearly if not quite alike. It is therefore 
to a certain extent a waste of time to be offering an introductory 
course in each of the social sciences when one course can perform 
this function in large part if not entirely for all. Furthermore, 
such a course would impress upon the student very emphatically 
the fundamental unity of all social science. In all probability there 
are many students who, though they may take courses in several 
of the social sciences, never realize this fundamental unity. 

It would appear, therefore, that there are a sufficient number of 
facts that are generally accepted which should be in any intro- 
ductory course in a social science to make it possible to devise a 
general introductory course to social science. We have already 
recognized that each teacher has his own pedagogical method, and 
it has been admitted that it is well, up to a certain point, for him to 
follow his own method. In any case he is bound to do so to a cer- 
tain extent, since individual pecuHarities can never be entirely 
suppressed in teaching. In the advanced courses it is probably best 
to make no attempt whatever to standardize pedagogical method, 
for the teacher will thus be left entirely free to make his own con- 
tribution, and the students should be sufficiently oriented in the 
subject to be able to profit by it regardless of the method of presen- 
tation. But in the introductory course it seems reasonable that 
the data used should be much the same for all, and that certain 
psychological and pedagogical principles should be observed which 
will make it easier for the student to become oriented in a new 

Let us consider briefly the nature of the introductory courses 


to the social sciences as they are now taught, before describing a 
general introductory course to social science. As has already been 
noticed, there is a good deal of difference of opinion among teachers 
of sociology as to how the introductory course in that subject should 
be taught. Many of them have been led by practical considerations 
into giving courses which deal largely with immediate social prob- 
lems. Such courses are supposed to have the advantage of having 
practical value and of being concrete and therefore easy for the 
students to understand. A much smaller number of teachers have 
been giving courses which consist largely of the discussion of 
methodological questions and of highly abstract theories as to the 
nature of society. But it seems to me that those teachers have 
been most successful who have been giving courses which have set 
their students upon the highroad leading to an understanding of 
the nature of society. That is to say, these courses have furnished 
the students the necessary data as to the simpler social elements 
and the fundamental forces at work in society. These courses 
should contain only a very small modicum of methodology and may 
be quite as concrete as the so-called practical courses. Furthermore, 
they may have quite as great a practical value in the long run as 
the so-called practical courses for reasons which will be stated later. 

The introductory course to economics has been usually too 
theoretical and abstract in its character. It would take too long 
to explain why this has been the case, but it is evident that this 
course should become more historical and concrete in its char- 
acter. On the other hand, the introductory course to political 
science has frequently been very concrete and practical in its nature. 
Many teachers of this subject have chosen to make this course a 
study of local political institutions without endeavoring to make it 
a fundamental course in the origin, evolution, and nature of political 

History may or may not be a social science. This is a question 
we need not discuss here. At any rate, it is obviously in a some- 
what different status from the other social sciences, since it is 
devoted primarily to recording events, while the other social sci- 
ences are devoted to the description and analysis of social phe- 
nomena. For this reason a general introductory course to social 


science could not hope to replace the introductory course in history, 
whatever that course may be. For example, if this course is modern 
European history it is obvious that such a general introductory 
course would in nowise replace it. But a general introductory 
course to social science might nevertheless furnish very excellent 
general preparation for the study of history in a way which will be 
indicated later. 

The general purpose of all these introductory courses, it seems 
to me, should be to direct the student toward an understanding 
of the nature of society so far as that is possible. The scien- 
tific reasons for this are obvious enough. But there are also excel- 
lent practical reasons. It is usually true that courses which are 
limited to the study of local conditions and immediate problems 
have more immediate practical results. But, on the other hand, 
it is probably quite as true that the more fundamental courses have, 
in the long run, greater practical value. This knowledge as to the 
nature of society, which gradually spreads by filtering down from 
those who attain it in university courses, must have a great deal 
of effect in placing legislation and other methods of changing social 
conditions and institutions upon a broader and wiser basis. 

Let us now turn to a consideration of what should be the nature 
of such a general introductory course to social science. It seems 
to me, in the first place, that it should furnish an evolutionary 
approach to social science. Many students, probably most of 
them, lack an evolutionary background when they begin the study 
of social science. There is much loss of time because of this igno- 
rance. They find it difficult to understand existing social phenom- 
ena because they are incapable of comprehending how they came 
into existence. Furthermore, without such an evolutionary back- 
ground it is hardly possible for them to arrive at a dynamic con- 
ception of society. The question, therefore, is how to devise an 
introductory course which will furnish this evolutionary background. 
A course in biology might serve this purpose. But, in the first 
place, it is frequently impossible to require such a course before the 
study of social science is begun. Furthermore, biology is in any 
case not sufficiently close to social science to furnish the specific 
evolutionary background which is needed. I believe that this 


background is furnished by anthropology, and that the evolutionary 
approach to social science should be through anthropology. This 
is because in anthropology the theory of evolution is applied directly 
to man. Thus the student, through the study of anthropology, 
becomes keenly aware of the fact that man has evolved like other 
animals and that the culture which characterizes him is also the 
product of evolution. 

This general introductory course in anthropology should be 
two or three hours in length for half a year, preferably three hours. 
It should be sufficiently simple to be within the comprehension of 
the average Freshman, since most students should take it as Fresh- 
men in order to be able to go on with the study of the social sciences 
during the rest of their course. The first part of this introductory 
course should be devoted to a very simple presentation of the facts 
as to the physical origin and evolution of man. Some emphasis 
should be laid on the biological and psychological aspects of this 
evolution. It is unfortunately true that anthropologists have 
usually ignored these aspects in the main. Their treatment of 
man's physical evolution has been almost entirely morphological 
in its character. They have thus missed the dynamic element 
which the broader biological treatment involves. There should 
also be in this part of the course a brief treatment of man's psychic 
characteristics on their biological side, which involves dealing with 
the neural basis for these characteristics, etc. The second part of 
this course should be devoted to a similarly brief and simple descrip- 
tion of the origin and early evolution of the principal social usages, 
customs, beliefs, institutions, etc. It should give the student some 
idea of how human society came into being, and what it has been 
like in the past. 

It will probably at once be said that such a course deals with 
matters too remote from the experience of the student to make it 
comprehensible to him. But if taught in the right way, it may 
be made very concrete, and therefore quite comprehensible, even 
to a Freshman. For example, in deahng with the physical evolu- 
tion of man, pictures and casts of the skulls of prehistoric man and 
living or stuffed representatives of the lower primates can be used 
to represent the different stages in the evolution of man. When 


dealing with social origins, primitive tools and other implements, 
pictures and models of archaeological remains, graphic descriptions 
of primitive peoples, etc., can be used to make the data studied 
real and concrete to the student. In other words, an anthropo- 
logical and ethnographic museum can serve as a laboratory for 
such a course. Furthermore, the use of certain pedagogical 
methods can aid greatly in making this course comprehensible to 
the student. When stated in simple language, the primary factors 
in social evolution can be made very clear to the student. The 
need for food and other necessaries leading to the invention of tools 
the origin of the division of labor, etc., the necessity for reproduc- 
tion and the care of the young leading to the family and to a certain 
extent to the higher forais of social organization, the need for social 
control leading to the origin of moral ideas, law, government, etc. — 
all these can be made quite comprehensible to the student. At 
nearly every point in the study comparisons and contrasts with 
present-day conditions can be made, thus making these phenomena 
all the more real to the student. 

What, then, would be the utiHty of this course for the study 
of the social sciences? For sociology it would furnish some idea 
of the beginnings of association, of early social organization, etc., 
in other words, of the origin and early evolution of human society 
and of primitive culture. As a matter of fact, many of these 
details are now furnished by some teachers of sociology in their 
introductory courses, so that the course we have described would 
to a large extent take the place of these courses. For economics 
this course would furnish some idea of the beginning of the use of 
tools, the origin of the division of labor, of exchange, of money, 
etc., in other words, of the industrial life in general. It is pitiable 
to see students floundering around in the effort to grasp the nature 
of our present complex economic organization when perplexed and 
confused with the textbooks and methods used. This difficulty 
for the student might be obviated in large part if not entirely if the 
evolutionary method which has been described were used. For 
political science this course would furnish some idea of the origin 
of law, government, etc., in other words, of social control in general. 
For history this course would furnish a prehistoric background and 


a scientific basis which ought to have a very beneficial effect on the 
teaching of history. I am inclined to think that many students never 
succeed in orienting historic time in time in general. That is to 
say, historic time somehow or other begins in the air without any- 
thing definite to precede it. It may be true that there is nothing 
definitely historic to precede it, but there are things which are quite 
as real nevertheless. That is to say, there are the prehistoric human 
remains which give us some idea of what man was Uke previous 
to historic time; there are the remains of man's implements, art, 
dwelUngs, etc., which give us some idea of his culture before the 
beginning of history. 

If, then, this course should have such utility for the social sci- 
ences, it would certainly result in a considerable saving of time in 
the study of these subjects. Whether or not special introductory 
courses should be dispensed with if this general introductory 
course were given it would be impossible to state now. But even 
if the special introductory courses were still given, so much more 
rapid progress would be made in them and in the more advanced 
courses which succeed them that the time given to the general 
introductory course would be more than made up. 

Such a general introductory course would also have some utility 
as a preparation for the study of certain other subjects which are 
not usually regarded as social sciences, such as ethics, psychology, 
philosophy, comparative religion, comparative jurisprudence, etc. 
Some of these subjects, such as ethics, certainly are in large part 
if not entirely social sciences, but whether this is so or not, the 
course we have described would in one way or another be a prepara- 
tion for the study of each one of them. 

As has already been suggested earlier in this paper, such a course 
would also have utiHty in giving currency to the theory of evolution. 
I need not stop to describe the intellectual awakening which has 
come in human society at large as a result of the spread of this 
theory during the last half-century. The teaching of the theory 
may have the same stimulating and clarifying effect upon the 
thought of the individual student, so that no student should leave 
a university without becoming acquainted with this theory. And 
yet it is probably true that a good many university students never 


become acquainted with this theory. It is, of course, taught in the 
biological and other scientific courses. It is taught in some of the 
courses in social science. But it would come to the student in the 
most vivid and significant form as applied to man in such a course 
as I have described. 

Let us now consider the objections to such a course, some of 
which have aheady been mentioned. It will be said that such a 
course would not be in touch with present-day life and would there- 
fore be too difficult for the student, and would have no practical 
value for him because it could have no practical application. I 
have already suggested how the course could be made real for the 
student, even though dealing with phenomena somewhat remote 
from the present. As to its practical value, I believe that this 
knowledge may have some practical application in the practice of 
medicine, law, education, etc. But even if it had no immediate 
practical utility, this course would be justified in the long run, even 
on practical grounds, as furnishing a sound scientific basis for the 
further study of social science. 

Probably no one who is at all acquainted with anthropology 
would question that there is plenty of material for such a course. 
But some might contend that the great uncertainty and difference 
of opinion with respect to many anthropological questions make 
anthropology an unsuitable subject for such an introductory course. 
I have no desire to minimize this uncertainty with respect to many 
anthropological questions, and it goes without saying that things 
should not be taught to students in a dogmatic fashion which 
cannot be known with certainty. However, I am inclined to think 
that enough is known with certainty to furnish a basis for the 
course, while the study of the undecided questions may be very 
suggestive and stimulating to the thought of the student. 

Certain very practical and real objections which may be made 
to this course are the lack of suitable textbooks, and the lack of 
teachers who are prepared to teach such a course. However, 
these are not insurmountable difficulties, and both the textbooks 
and the trained teachers will be forthcoming all the more quickly 
if the need for such a course is realized. 

The last objection I shall refer to is that it is unfortunate to 


attempt to standardize courses too much. It has already been 
indicated earlier in this paper that I do not believe in too much 
standardization. It is evident that there must always be much 
latitude in the use of methods by dififerent taechers. But it seems 
to me that we might arrive at a consensus of opinion as to the 
general field to be covered by such an introductory course. 

I need hardly say that the suggestion which has been made in 
this article with respect to such a course is tentative in its nature. 
It is apparent that this course must be tried out very fully before 
we can be entirely certain that it is needed and can know just what 
form it should take. 

Before closing this article, I should hke to say a word as to the 
conception of the fimction of social science which should be held 
by teachers of social science. It seems to me that the great function 
of social science is to develop social self-consciousness and social 
self-knowledge in society. This can be accomphshed only in the 
first place, by acquiring as much information as possible about the 
nature of society, and, in the second place, by diffusing this knowl- 
edge as widely as possible. Thus only can a broad and stable foun- 
dation be laid for making society that which we should like to 
have it. 


Das religiose Leben in Amerika. Von Wilhelm Muller. Jena: 
Eugen Diederichs, 1911. Pp.266. 

From the day of Mathew Arnold until now the number of "impres- 
sions" concerning American life and American traits has been on the 
increase. School Director Muller gives us a series of impressions con- 
cerning the religious life of our national group similar to Henry Bargy's 
Monograph, La religion dans la societe aux Etats Unis. There is this 
difference between these two essays. Bargy explains the functioning of 
American religious life as synonymous with ethical life, while to Muller 
ethical conduct seems to be a fruit of religious disposition. The little 
book does not aim to be either a history of religion in America or a 
scientific critique, but merely a subjective reaction on religious impres- 
sions in general, and their portrayal as they appear to the observer of 
German extraction. 

In the first part of the treatise the author gives a rapid survey of 
religious life in New England under the headings "The Puritan (the 
Pilgrims, the Puritan theocracy, the end of the theocracy)," "Alienation 
between Church and Life, under the influence of Jonathan Edwards," 
"The Reaction Led by Benjamin Franklin," " Unitarianism as an Ethical 
Force," "Transcendentalism," and "Emerson." In the three chapters 
"From the religious life of the Middle States," the Quakers, Methodism, 
and Roman Catholicism are rapidly surveyed, while the chapter on 
"From the Religious Life of the Southern States" surveys the Protestant 
Episcopal church, and the rise of the followers of Alexander Campbell. 

In the second part Doctor Miiller traces the influence of the German 
immigrants of the late forties in a negative way. He afl&rms that in 
America, Judaism is working out its destiny as an ethical force. Of the 
new religious sects Mormanism, Spiritualism, New Thought, Dowieism, 
the Walt Whitman Cult, and the Comradeships of Mills seem to him 
especially worthy of mention. He is under the impression that the 
Society for Ethical Culture has about run its course of usefulness. A 
very sympathetic treatment is given to the work of the laity in America, 
under which chapter the author treats the Young Men's Christian 
Association, the Salvation Army, and the Societies of Christian Endeavor. 



The reaction of this typical German schoolman on the matter of 
revivals may be of interest: "The German mind is offended by loud 
demonstrations, such as the painful sighs and groans of the penitents and 
the thundering hallelujah shouts of the converted. The relation of a 
man to his God is, moreover, such a personal, inner, and sacred thing, 
that an exhibition of it before others appears to him as a profanation, 
especially if he reminds himself of the saying of Jesus that the kingdom of 
heaven is within you. The difference of race must be borne in mind here. 
The Anglo-Saxon shows colder blood under ordinary circumstances, even 
when he is in danger, than does the German, but under extraordinary 
stimulation there appear in his case often violent emotional outbreaks, 
sometimes volcanic power It is utterly reprehensible, if indi- 
vidual revivalists abase their calling to the stratum of remunerative 
business Scientific research may have transformed our ideas con- 
cerning the world, society, and the interpretation of the Bible, but the 
needs of the human heart have remained the same. And in the new 
world these needs are religious in the case of thousands and thousands. 
Let modern positivism relegate religion into the rummage chamber of 
outlived world views, these multitudes yet believe that it has saving 
power. And if anyone brings it to them with the power of compelling 
conviction, he becomes to them a welcome herald of inner liberty." 

The chapter on faith healing leads the author to the statement that 
the religious power or significance of the Emmanuel movement will 
function positively only in so far as the heali:ng will lead the healed to a 
higher plane of ethical living. After a highly sympathetic survey of the 
question of the church and labor, Director Miiller makes the dictum of 
the late Carroll D. Wright his own, in which that lamented author states 
that the solution of the great economic problems must be worked out 
along the line of scientific investigation, but can be worked out only by a 
practical application of religious principles. In his chapter on "Church 
Life in America" the author analyzes keenly the competitive sectarian 
scheme, and gives it as his conviction that the Inter-Church Federation 
will solve the problem. 

The hope of the American world is summed up in the chapter on 
"Religious Liberalism" in this fashion: "Surveying the mountain peaks 
of historical development in America, .... the religious liberal 
.... connects the fulfilment of his expectations with the appearance of 
a far-seeing thinker who enters the arena of life in the possession of the 
wisdom of the past, with clear understanding of the needs of the present, 
and with a warm heart for their longings In this strife he would 


have to be the creative spirit, who would find new forms of expression for 
the religious feeling and thinking of these seekers after truth, who are 
illumined by the dawn of the morrow of the future, and these forms of 
expression would have to be comprehensible, significant, and command- 
ing reverence to the wise and the foolish alike." 

The concluding chapter is devoted to a prophecy as to the religion of 
the future; "The coming rehgion will need less a theological system, a 
definite ritual or an ecclesiastical organization, than it will need a life in 
the veneration of God, in striving after inner truth and purity, in enthu- 
siasm for everything good, in strife against everything bad, and in 
unceasing endeavor to work sacrificially and unceasingly toward the self- 
realization of the individual in society." 

Withal, Director Miiller is giving us a picture of ourselves, a nation 
in the making, in which he sees through German optics, darkly, the truth, 
that some of us have been seeing more or less clearly for some time, that 
the religion which will function in contemporaneous Ufe is not a religion 
of Shibboleths, nor a religion of provincial sectarianism, nor an assevera- 
tion of distinction of policy in things ecclesiastic, but a religion of spirit, 
revealing itself to spirit, and issuing in righteousness, until the nations of 
the world shall come to see that righteousness exalteth a nation, and that 
that nation is blessed whose God is Jehovah. 

Hugo P. J. Selinger 

University of Puget Sound 

Women in the Bookbinding Trade. By Mary Van Kleek. New 
York: Survey Associates, Inc., 1913. Pp. xx-f27o. $1.50. 
This book is the first published of the peculiarly timely investigations 
of the newly organized Committee on Women's Work of the Russell Sage 
Foundation. As pointed out in the introduction by its chairman. Pro- 
fessor Henry W. Seager, the number of women in industry is rapidly 
increasing, the conditions under which they work threaten social deteri- 
oration, and our courts are now fully committed to the policy of recog- 
nizing them as a class in need of special protection. Social workers who 
have followed the recent efforts of our state legislators to give expression 
to an increased public sensitiveness about the treatment of women 
workers would be glad to have the lawmakers learn a lesson from the plans 
of this committee. Hasty efforts to enact laws based on no more accurate 
information than that collected in sensational and haphazard investiga- 
tions of untrained legislators are likely to result in a serious setback to 


our American social-politics movement. This series of exhaustive and 
painstaking examinations of typical trades employing women will furnish 
a sound basis for regulations in eastern cities, and supply models for the 
studies needed in the Middle West and on the Pacific coast for the 
guidance of the generous impulses of the lawmakers of these newer 

We are left in no doubt as to the findings of this investigation, as the 
concluding chapter gives a clear summary of the changes necessary to 
establish wholesome standards (pp. 230-31). The most serious evils of 
the trade are overtime and irregularity of employment. The reports of 
overtime show twelve-hour days in 23 per cent of the cases; in 25 per 
cent the overtime day was longer than twelve hours, and instances were 
found where girls had worked continuously for 18 to 22 hours. The need 
of strictly enforced legal regulations of the hours of labor and periods of 
night rest is obvious. The introduction of more "scientific manage- 
ment" and the training of learners in a variety of the highly specialized 
processes of the trade would do much to overcome the suffering due to 
the fluctuations in employment. Other recommendations calling for 
improved sanitation, the use of safety devices, protection from fire, 
exclusion of young children, and avoidance of overspecialization touch 
evils generally recognized as common in our American industries. 

Miss Van Kleek argues that these recommendations are entirely 
practicable because each of them has been enforced in one or more of the 
binderies of New York. She divides the responsibility of attaining good 
standards between the public, the employers, and the workers in the 
trade. The public should remedy its lax enforcement of existing laws, 
provide remedies for the serious extension of night work revealed by the 
investigation, and do more effective and intelligent educational work 
through the public schools. As more than half of the bindery workers of 
New York are employed by less than 10 per cent of the binderies, a few 
employers have power to set standards for the trade. It is suggested 
that more personal oversight of foremen and superintendents by the 
owners of the business might help to eliminate much of the overtime and 
unemployment due to a bad distribution of work and the defective 
training of learners, and might also result in a realization of the necessity 
of a more generous scale of wages. Should this group of large employers 
establish standards demanded by an enlightened public opinion, the 
workers might be charged with the task of developing their trade-union 
control so as to insure the maintenance of the improved standards 
throughout the business. This latter agency was found to be doing the 


most effective work for establishing conditions in the trade shown to be 
socially desirable. In concluding her study of collective bargaining in 
the bindery trades, Miss Van Kleek declares (p. 193): "In regulations 
regarding the training of the learners, in the shortening of the normal 
hours below the limit which the state has been able to establish by 
legislation, in the gradual enforcement of a minimum wage scale, and in 
the protection of the individual women against unjust and unfair treat- 
ment, it has accomplished results more important than any yet secured 

for this trade through legislation." 

LuciLE Eaves 

Untversity of Nebraska 

Le sentiment religieux base logique de la morale? Par le Comte 
Perovsky-Petrovo-Solovovo. Paris: Marcel Riviere et 
Cie, 1913. Pp. 172. 3 fr. 
The author protests that he is neither a metaphysician nor a savant. 
Contrary to the expectation aroused by the title, the work is not a 
systematic study of the religious sentiment in relation to moral values. 
It is rather an assembling of what may be said against the inconsistencies, 
absurdities, and non-moral tenets and practices of religions, ancient and 
modern, with the exception of deism. The definition of religion is believ- 
ing absolutely in the truth of particular religious doctrines and the 
working-over into practice of those phases of the doctrines which can be 
applied (p. 10). Then follows an attack after the manner of Tom Paine. 
The fruits of dogma are clannishness, hatred, intolerance, and hypocrisy. 
Belief in fixed transcendental truths means pious frauds, persecution of 
scientists, and blindness to secular satisfactions. Immorality is imputed 
to the deity and abject submission and fatalism fostered by rehgion. 
The Bible is full of contradictions: cult and authority restrict the free 
play of natural social forces, etc. The author thinks that while there 
may be some justification in modern times for pious lies to keep the 
credulous multitude in order, for the cultivated man and gradually for 
everyone the morality of prudence and social consequence will suffice. 
Logically and practically morality stands on its own feet and derives 
nothing from the religious sentiment. The true standard is the 
maximum of personal and general utility. The concluding pages (pp. 
156-65) rehearse in crude form the argument of J. S. Mill without that 
writer's qualification of the utilitarian doctrine. 

Many of the writer's charges are historically accurate. They are 
nevertheless more appropriate to an earlier stage in the controversy and 


the deductions which are drawn are dubious. The relativity of dogma, 
concept of God, and moral practice to social milieu is a truism: without 
proof, however, it does not follow that all forms of religious attitudes are 
superfluous survivals. The historical standpoint is not grasped by this 
critic, whose views perhaps have been too much colored by Russian 
ecclesiaticism. His insistence upon the supremacy of the test of common 
welfare is admirable. Still what is needed now is an appraisal of the 
religious attitude from the standpoint of mental development and social 
function. The essay does not utilize recent literature dealing with 
psychological and sociological aspects of religion. It does not notice the 
results of a half-century of criticism of the doctrine of pleasure, and it 
does not realize that the positive theses of utilitarianism have entered 
into constructive sociological thinking on religion and ethics. 

E. L. Talbert 
University of Chicago 

The New Morality, An Interpretation of Present Economic Forces and 
Tendencies. By Edward Isaacson. New York: Moffat, 
Yard & Co., 1913. Pp. xvi-f-203. 

"The New Morality" is a Utopian scheme for limiting population to 
the numbers which can make the best use of the world's natural resources 
when the limit of food supply is reached. The suggestion is that two 
classes be established — to one of which already, the author states, prac- 
tically all human beings belong — a fecund class specializing in the 
reproduction of the race and rearing of children under the best conditions 
for such a task, and a surplus class, free to marry but not to reproduce. 
The former should live in agricultural communities and produce the food 
supply; the latter should live in cities and perform all of the rest of the 
necessary work of society. The corollaries of this proposed system 
discussed by the author are: the elimination of the proletariat, the 
establishment of world-peace and understanding, the self-sufficiency of 
each nation in the matter of its food supply, the extinction of much of the 
present competition in commerce between nations and of much labor 
expended on transportation. 

The book is extremely theoretical in character. In the chapter 
entitled "Practical Working Out of the Theory," practical obstacles are 
dismissed as "mere matters of detail." A number of unverified generali- 
zations are used, such as that in the largest cities the number of unmarried 
adults or the childless marriages is greater than the number of marriages 



with children except in the slums, and again, that it is accepted by many 
authorities that alcohol has a distinct food value and aids in the digestion 
of other foods, hence, moderate users of it secure better returns in work 
than those who do not use it. 

The author's general standpoint, that of advocating scientific social 
control of fundamental social problems, such as the relation of population 
to food supply and the rearing of children is to be strongly commended, 
but his suggestions for carrying out this control lack tangibility and 

Frances Fenton Bernard 

Gainesville, Fla. 

Los elementos de la sociologia. Por Enrique Martinez Paz. 

Cordoba, Argentina: Beltran y Rossi, 191 1. i vol. Pp. 

Senor Paz, Professor of Sociology in the University of Cordoba 
(R.A.), has produced in beautiful print and clear exposition a timely 
volume. The nature and substance of sociology, its relation to other 
sciences, a sketch of its growth, and analysis of Comte, Spencer, Tarde, 
and other masters are presented, closing with a chapter on "Method," 
for the purpose of ''substituting demonstrated truth in place of the tra- 
ditional error which otherwise will remain mixed with every system." 
This volume will strengthen the fraternal relations between Professor Paz 
and the University which he represents and the other universities of 
the world. 

A. J. Steelman 
Seattle, Wash. 

A Philosophy of Social Progress. By E. J. Urwick. London: 
Methuen & Co., 191 2. Pp. i-xii-l-300. 6s. 
This thoughtful little volume of three hundred pages is written not as 
a contribution to the science of sociology, for the author frankly doubts 
the possibiUty of a science of social life, but "to introduce students and 
general readers to a point of view which will increase their interest in the 
study of social life, and perhaps, too, their understanding of the issues in 
all progress and reform" (Preface, v). "I do not believe that there is or 
can be any science of social life; nor do I believe that sociology is or can 
be a science What passes for sociology is a collection of generali- 
zations of very varying value" (Preface, vii). But Mr. Urwick adds, 


"There may, however, be a philosophy of social life — or rather of social 
change; but this will be transcendental, of course, and will always be 
very closely analogous to a religious faith." 

After this candid avowal, approximately the first two-thirds of the 
book are devoted to an analysis of the factors of society in the spirit of 
those who call the result of their analysis sociology. But Mr. Urwick 
wants us to consider the results of his study a philosophy of social 
progress. In this analytical portion of his book, he considers society in 
successive chapters as subject: (i) to the forces and laws of the physical 
world; (2) as subject to forces and laws of organic mind; (3) as subject 
to the laws of mind; and (4) society considered as an ethical structure, a 
unity dependent on purpose. 

After this analysis, in which the usual course of the sociologist is 
followed, comes the remaining third of the book, consisting of three 
practical essays: (i) the implications of citizenship and the rights and 
duties of the citizen — here the Greek spirit and the Christian combine 
to urge the privilege and obligation of social service; (2) the spiritual 
element in social progress and the nature of the true individual — here we 
have a blend of transcendental philosophy and applied religion; and (3) 
the real purpose of the social process and the tests of the reformer's aims 
and methods. A concluding chapter states the final criteria of social 

The reading of this book may be commended to students of sociology 
because of the breadth of \'iew which it inspires; and it may be com- 
mended to the practical social worker on account of the splendid poise of 
which it is possessed and the hopeful outlook which it conveys. 

Isaac A. Loos 

State University of Iowa 

Socialism and Democracy in Europe. By Samuel P. Orth, Ph.D. 
New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1913. Pp. ivH-352. $1.50. 
This book in nine brief chapters gives us the reason for socialism and 
the history of the development of socialism in the nineteenth century 
with a view to showing its political aspects, and in particular to showing 
its ultimate merging, if not its final disappearance, in the greater modem 
movement for democracy. It is sympathetic without being partisan, 
and withal admirable for its perspective. While socialism as a recon- 
structive process is declared to be hopelessly at sea, and as a method 
divided within itself, it is recognized as a criticism of the existing order 


to be unanimous in its sentiment, and above all its Utopian rainbow is 
declared to have inspired the energy which has organized the largest 
body of human beings that the world has known, a body that for zeal and 
homogeneity finds its only rival in the Christian church. 

Very nearly half of the book is devoted to the history of the Socialist 
party in each of four countries, France, Belgium, Germany, and England. 

All these chapters are written with primary emphasis upon pohtical 
developments, the limitations of the suffrage, the voting strength, and 
the legislative representation of the party. But with all this there is a 
rather surprising amount of detail concerning theory and personality in 
each country. The communistic efforts in Belgium, syndicalism in 
France, democratic opportunism in Germany, and labor-unionism and 
liberalism in England do not fail to find clear expression in themselves 
and in relation to the socialistic movement. And in sixty-five pages of 
appendix, as well as scattered through the body of the text, there is a 
valuable collection of programs and platforms adopted in these several 

To us in the United States it is interesting to notice how radically the 
theories and the policies of the Socialist party have changed and are 
changing on the continent. The fact that conservatism and moderation 
come with numbers and power is perhaps nowhere else better illustrated. 
To hold the people, a political party must express the opinions and the 
will of the people. Party success as well as popular demand will force 
this result. It is not strange, therefore, that after the setback in Ger- 
many in 1907 "a number of the leading Socialists began to attack the 
dogmas of the party program as illusions and pitfalls." "Today one 

hears very little of Marx and a great deal of legislation The 

truth is, Marx is a tradition, democracy is an issue." In Germany, for 
example, we are assured that the Socialist party has abandoned its policy 
of mere criticism and has become active in constructive legislation, has 
abandoned or modified its traditional theories, has made "human 
cultural activities" an important object of the party, and in considerable 
degree is looking to the professional and intellectual classes for leadership 
and support. Socialism is thus abandoning its two great illusions, the 
beliefs in class struggle and in the necessity for violent revolution. 
"Everywhere violence is giving way to political methods. In Germany 
the bourgeois are more frightened over the legal than over the illegal acts 
of the Socialists." 

Dr. Orth recognizes that socialism has accomplished three notable 
things: it has spread democracy, forced the labor question upon the law- 


makers, and has stimulated a constant increase in the functions of the 
state. We are led to feel, however, that he himself looks to democracy 
to guide its own destinies in the future, and that he believes that when all 
the people through the instrumentality of the state shall conserve the 
interests of all the people, the function of the Socialist party will have 
ceased to be. Conservation through democracy, the theory of Profes- 
sors Ely of Wisconsin, and Brentano of Munich, is in process of justifica- 
tion in the history of socialism and democracy in Europe. 

Fayette Avery McKenzie 
Ohio State Untversity 

Social Wrongs and State Responsibilities. By William Jandus. 
Cleveland: Horace Carr, 1 913. Pp.149. $i-50- 
A sheaf of random essays, this book attacks the present economic 
machinery of society. Under the existing system of capitalistic credit 
society is constantly in debt to itself; there is persistent insolvency of 
values which is prevented from throwing society into bankruptcy only 
because the exploited producing classes pay interest on this manu- 
factured credit to the credit promoters — the capitalists. Hence, the 
abolition of interest which is a means to exploitation is desirable. While 
there is much truth in the author's characterization of the methods of 
capitalistic control of credit, he does not adequately set forth the social 
function of credit, nor does he explicitly outline a substitute for capital- 
istic control. The implication is that the state shall in some way take on 
this responsibility. The author's accusation that economics is at present 
the servant of capitalism and is therefore not a science is doubtless in 
some quarters true in the first instance, though it is perhaps not so well 
established that science cannot be invoked in the cause of partisanship. 

L. L. Bernard 

University of Missouri 

Essais de synthese scientifique. Par Eugenio Rignano. Paris: 
Librairie Felix Alcan, 108 Boulevard Saint Germain. Pp. 

Students of biological and sociological science, who are familiar with 
the author's pre\aous work on "The Inheritance of Acquired Charac- 
ters," and who have been charmed by his clearness of views and his 
logical analysis, even if they have not been convinced by his theories, 
will welcome this volume as an added impetus to further investigations. 


It is refreshing in these days of the specialist, when so much emphasis 
is being placed upon the technique of investigation, to find a vigorous 
defense of the synthetic philosopher. Progress in knowledge is furthered 
as much through the efforts of the theorist who forms his hypotheses on 
the basis of wide generalizations from concrete data as by the specific 
and intensive work of the experimentalist investigator. 

The specialist has certain points of advantage because he works 
within a small and limited area and upon a specific and definite problem. 
By the application of technical skill he arrives at a degree of certainty 
never acquired by the theorist, but he is limited by the narrow confines 
of his specialty. Upon him must depend, however, the task of furnishing 
the data for the theorist whose function is that of the creative genius; 
to foresee new analogies, to establish new generalizations, to discover 
new horizons, to conceive new hypotheses. In his work of constructing 
these new syntheses, the theorist never possesses completely the integral 
and intimate representations of phenomena which constitute the objects 
of research of the experimentalist, and which he knows only by the 
mediation of the information so provided; nevertheless, it is the theorist 
who furnishes the motive and not infrequently indicates the direction 
of further valuable investigations and experiments as a means of testing 
the hypotheses proposed. "The theorist is, on the whole, in his general 
theses less exclusivist, less unilateral and more objective than the special- 
ist experimentor." These two methods of approach to knowledge are 
by no means antagonistic, but in the fullest sense are supplementary. 
It is gratifying, especially to the sociologist, to find the author reaffirm- 
ing, almost with Comptian and Spencerian eloquence, the value of both 
methods in the field of sociological research. He says: "The degree of 
masterful and capital importance to which, even more than in the physi- 
cal sciences, may and should attend the work of the theorist in the 
biological and social sciences, results from the fact that in these sciences 
the mass of particular facts to be synthesized present themselves so 
much more confused and complicated, and that the subdivisions in so 
many of the particular disciplines which are more or less autonomous are 
affirmed to be more or less numerous and specialized. All the more 
need, therefore, is felt for the co-ordination and synthesis of the facts 
in these sciences." 

The body of the work consists in a collection of essays previously 
published in Scientia during the period 1907-11, and presented as 
illustrating the value of the synthetic method. The topics are: "The 
Synthetic Value of Transformism," "The Biologic Memory in Activity," 


"Concerning the Origin and the Mnemonic Nature of the Affective 
Tendencies," "What Is Conscience?" "ReHgious Phenomena," "His- 
toric MateriaUsm," and "Socialism." 

In this great variety of material the author has pursued substantially 
the same course, that of examining the principal theories in an endeavor 
to present, as far as possible in one synthesis, all the essential features 
and to do it "with all the objective serenity of which we are capable." 

Whatever may be the degree of divergence of opinion from the con- 
clusions reached, the method is one of great value and one which will 
commend itself to all serious students. 

University of Pennsylvania 

The Science of Human Behavior. By Maurice Parmelee. New 
York: Macmillan, 1913. Pp. 424. 

Using the term "behavior" as meaning the objective and external 
physiological movements and activities of living beings, Mr. Parmelee 
has undertaken to present the bases for behavior that are to be discovered 
in anatomical, physiological, and psychic facts. The work is primarily 
critical instead of constructive, although in several places the author has 
advanced independent definitions and viewpoints. The reviewer is not 
qualified to pass judgment on the strictly biological and neurological 
discussion but has viewed it entirely from the sociologist's standpoint. 

After the introductory chapter the physico-chemical character of 
organic matter is discussed. This is followed by "a brief survey of 
organic evolution showing how the structural forms and physiological 
processes which condition behavior have evolved and what forces are at 
work in the animal world such as heredity, variation, selection, etc." 
The next two chapters deal with the behavior of animals without a 
nervous system and the evolution of the behavior of higher animals. 
Then follows an account of the evolution of the nervous system, the 
nature of instinct, and a discussion of the human instincts. This is 
followed by a discussion of consciousness and intelligence, and the book 
closes with an account of the social phenomena of animals and early man. 

The book abounds in quotations and comments on the works of 
various writers on biology and animal behavior. The greater part of the 
first half of the book is based on the works of Jennings, Loeb, and 
Sherrington, and is mainly a condensation of the contributions of these 
authors. The attempt is made to cover such a wide field of biological 


and neurological research that the author is forced in nearly every chapter 
to complain of the limitations of space. The principal contribution 
made by the author is his definition of instinct (p. 226) which he regards 
as "an inherited combination of reflexes which have been integrated by 
the central nervous system so as to cause an external activity of the 
organism which usually characterizes a whole species and is usually 

In the part that deals with social phenomena (less than one-fourth of 
the book) the greater amount of attention is given to the activities of 
insect societies and vertebrates below man. 

The work is an excellent review and condensation of the literature of 
biology, neurology, and recent psychology which bears on the nature and 
evolution of the behavior of living beings. The title, however, is some- 
what misleading unless the intention expressed in the preface is carried 
out. The author there expresses his purpose of presenting a series of 
works dealing with the evolution of human culture. And this volume 
may be regarded as the basis for such a series. MoreoA^er, the subtitle, 
"Biological and Psychological Foundations," gives some such an implica- 
tion. This volume, however, can hardly claim in itself to constitute a 
science of human behavior, since it deals almost exclusively (except in the 
chapters on human instincts, consciousness, and intelligence — about a 
fourth of the book) with lower animal life. That it does furnish a good 
biological and neurological introduction to the study of human behavior 
is beyond question. And its merit lies in its careful condensation and 
criticism of the literature that has been accumulating in recent years in 
these fields. 

The two points of view that predominate throughout the book are : 
(i) The evolutionary series is continuous, and, while at different points 
in the development the change has become great enough to call for differ- 
ent terms to describe the processes, nevertheless all the higher forms of 
psychic manifestations are but a part in a gradually developing but 
unitary scheme. Lines of demarkation between different animal types in 
the evolutionary series, including that between man and his nearest 
relatives, are more or less arbitrary. (2) Behavior is caused by the 
operation of external forces and the evolution of behavior and the struc- 
ture on which it depends are the result of the operation of these external 
influences. This leads to a mechanical and objective conception of all 
behavior, including the psychic. In various places the author carries 
this viewpoint very near if not completely over to an assumption of 
materialistic monism. With these two points of view goes the frequent 


emphasis on the fact that scientifically we have no basis for postulating 
any teleogical element in the evolutionary process. While there is 
nothing new in these three points, the emphasis and support they receive 
are valuable in establishing a point of view for beginning the study of 
human activities. 

Cecil C. North 
De Pauw University 

La culture morale aux divers degres de V enseignment public. Par 

Arthur Bauer, Professor Honoraire de Philosophie, Membra 

de la Societe de Sociologie de Paris. Ouvrage couronne par 

Finstitut, avec extraits du rapport de M. Gabriel Compayre. 

Paris: M. Giard et E. Briere, libraires-editeurs. 1913. Pp. 


The question of the hour in France, according to M. Bauer, has been 

formulated by the Academy of Moral and Political Science as "What 

place should ethics hold in the different stages of public instruction?" 

implying "in order that French democracy, with reason and liberty, may 

not die." To this question the author presents an answer which he 

hopes to have adopted by the schools of the nation. It is thus avowedly 

a study for practical ends of the actual conditions in France, not at all 

a system of moral education for general application. Its three sections 

consider in turn primary, secondary and higher education, with special 

chapters on boys' and girls' schools and with forewords and conclusions 

on general educational problems, such as the needs of the modern state, 

the effect of feminism, etc. It is not a handbook for teachers of ethics, 

but rather an exposition of general principles and methods illustrated by 

special cases. 

Fundamental to any system of moral training, M. Bauer points out, 
are true conceptions of its object, of the nature of a democracy, and of 
the men and women who are to form it. Equality and liberty must be 
developed and to this end the people must have virtue and a sense of 
duty, they must be obedient to law and exercise trained wills. Educa- 
tion aims to develop such qualities and to fit the scholars for their func- 
tions in life. 

The school has the last word in matters of conduct and discipline 
rather than the home, since the former has the large, social point of \iew, 
while the latter is too often narrow of vision and swayed by personal 
feeling. Upon the school rest the broad duty of developing the citizen. 


The author draws a vivid picture of the spoiled child who seems to 
dominate the French family. In the maternal school it finds the first 
corrective of family indulgence and first experiences through firm though 
mild discipline the duty of obedience, respect for others, and self-control. 
From the entrance into the primary school at the age of seven boys 
and girls are placed in separate schools, not merely to avoid the excita- 
tion of sex instincts, but also because their functions in life are to be 
different. It is a little difficult for an American mind to understand why 
the fact that a boy is to be a miner or a brick-layer or a woodchopper and 
a girl is to be a milkmaid or a factory-worker or a cook should necessitate 
a difference in their moral and intellectual training, but the author 
regards his principle as axiomatic. The method of training is, however, 
the same for both, the discipline of the classroom in promptness, silence, 
and order, and of mental culture in exactness of observation, comparison, 
and judgment, and dogmatic instruction by the teacher. The influence 
of play upon boys, especially of football, is recognized to some extent. 

The objects of country and city schools for girls are distinguished. 
The country school should try to teach the peasant girls to love country 
life and realize the vital social necessity of their labors. The author 
draws such an idyllic picture of the wide horizons of the country, the 
kindly, close-knit social life, the varied tasks, etc., that we almost doubt 
his first-hand knowledge of the conditions, though undoubtedly his view 
would be a desirable one for the girls to acquire. 

In the town he regards the working girl as beset with temptations 
on every side through the displays of luxuries, the passion for amusement, 
the lack of group control in the strange crowd, the vice in factories, etc. 
The school should be a refuge from this teaching moral lessons by its 
cleanliness, order, and beauty as well as by the formal instruction from 
a manual "exactly fitted to feminine psychology" and given with great 

In the secondary schools, while the method of formal teaching is 
still dogmatic rather than dialectic, there is more place for reflection. 
The boys in the classical schools are the elite, those destined to be leaders, 
and they are to be trained accordingly, recognizing that "social supe- 
riority is only justified by services rendered to society." The good 
citizen has noble sentiments, a lively sense of social duty and energy of 
will. In his training, clothes, manners and speech are significant. The 
indirect teaching through different studies is of value, the stories and 
examples from the classics being especially helpful because of their 
serenity and freedom from the conflicting prejudices of the present. 


Formal teaching is given from a manual of ethics, and rewards and 
prizes furnish a stimulus to good action. 

The elite girls in secondary schools may possibly in time, thanks to 
the recent reforms in education, be intellectually emancipated and freed 
from tutelage, but now they are in much danger of yielding to luxury, 
idleness, and excessive sensibility. Since celibacy is an exceptional con- 
dition, education can ignore it and fit the girl for the normal marriage, 
"to be a companion of the cultivated, honorable man." The study of 
hygiene, sewing, and domestic science, with attention to clothes and 
manners, is valuable in moral training, but the author deprecates '"tear- 
ing away the veil of Isis" by teaching sex hygiene. The suggestions and 
examples of teachers, lessons from a textbook of ethics, and the discipline 
of school work are the other methods employed. 

The colleges and universities offer numerous courses on various 
ethical subjects, but M. Bauer criticizes them for leaving the professors 
entirely free to choose their own subjects and for the too frequent use 
of the historical method of presentation which gives an idea of the flux 
of things and often dwells too much in the past. What the students 
need is a dogmatic presentation of truths approved by the social con- 
science, not doubts and questions. The author proposes a course in 
social ethics, the social good and social duties, for all, with special courses 
for the students in law, medicine, art, pedagogy, etc. 

Undoubtedly the book will be a stimulating one to French educators 
and provocative of thought. 

Hannah B. Clark Powell 

The Hill Folk: Report on a Rural Community of Hereditary Defect- 
ives. By Florence H. Danielson and Charles B. Daven- 
port. Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island: Eugenics Record 
Ofl&ce, Memoir No. i, August, 191 2. 4to, pp. v+56, with 
three folded charts and four text figures. 
This memoir is the first in a series to be published by the Eugenics 
Record Office. The form of the series is quarto in order that ample 
space may be available for charts. As has been indicated by Doctor 
Davenport in the preface to the memoir, the study reported is of interest 
primarily to sociologists, since it deals in a general way with the inherit- 
ance of human traits and with certain of the conditions under which 
undesirable social groups may develop and persist. 


The observational work reported in the memoir was done by Miss 
Danielson who, in 1910, became field-worker for the Monson State 
Hospital, Palmer, Mass. One of the hospital cases investigated led the 
worker to a community characterized by the high frequency of feeble- 
mindedness, alcoholism, and immorality. A study of this community 
yielded an abundance of interesting facts concerning two families, the 
history of which "shows how much crime, misery, and expense may 
result from the union of two defective individuals — how a large number 
of the present court frequenters, paupers, and town nuisances are 
connected by a significant network of relationship." 

The report "includes a discussion of the undesirable traits in the 
light of the Mendelian analysis. It presents some observations concern- 
ing the relation of heredity and environment, based on their effects 
upon the children. While it is not an exhaustive study of all the rami- 
fications of even these two families and their consorts, it may be sufficient 
to throw some light on the vexed question of the prevention of feeble- 
minded, degenerate individuals, as a humane and economical state 
policy" (p. i). 

The method of the investigation was not such as to furnish highly 
accurate as well as extensive information concerning the individuals in 
the pedigree. Consequently, the analysis of the results for the purpose 
of solving problems of human heredity is not highly profitable. Miss 
Danielson gathered this information by personal visits, interviews 
with the individuals, their relatives, physicians, town officials, neighbors, 
and from court and town records. She undoubtedly made excellent 
use of these various sources of information, but it is, of course, to be 
recognized that the direct measurement by reliable methods of the 
physical and mental traits of the persons described is much to be desired. 

The memoir presents, in the form of charts, the histories for five 
generations of two famiHes which originated from Neil Rasp, a shiftless 
basket-maker, and an Englishman known in the memoir as Nuke. 

The results of the analysis of the data concerning these two families 
are admirably summarized in the following paragraph : 

The analysis of the data, then, gives statistical support to the conclusion 
abundantly justified from numerous other considerations, that feeble-minded- 
ness is no elementary trait, but is a legal or sociological, rather than a biological 
term. Feeble-mindedness is due to the absence, now of one set of traits, now 
of quite a different set. Only when both parents lack one or more of the 
same traits do the children all lack the traits. So, if the traits lacking in both 
parents are socially important the children all lack socially important traits, 


i.e., are feeble-minded. If, on the other hand, the two parents lack different 
socially significant traits, so that each parent brings into the combination the 
traits that the other lacks, all of the children may be without serious lack and 
all pass for "normal" [p. ii]. 

It is evident from the investigation that the unfavorable condition 
of the community is due largely to the matings of defectives with 
defectives, for it is perfectly clear from this study of 737 individuals 
that even when a mentally defective person migrates he is likely to 
marry in another community a person of similar mental grade. 

Of obvious importance from the economical and sociological points 
of view is the financial burden on the town by reason of the "Hill Folk." 
Carefully analyzed statistics indicate that during the last decades the 
financial aid given to this community by the town has increased 400 
per cent, and, as the authors point out, "the large percentage of the 
crimes which were against sex indicate that the influence which such 
persons exert in a community is of far more importance than the 10,700 
odd dollars spent in punishing the criminals after the influence has been 
established" (p. 17). 

A comparison of the "Hill Folk" with the Jukes family yields 
numerous interesting conclusions. The numbers of individuals included 
in the reports are similar for both communities, but whereas the Jukes 
family presents with astounding frequency criminal tendencies among 
the men and prostitution among the women, the "Hill Folk" present 
a picture of shiftlessness and low-grade mentality associated wdth sex 
immorality and a tendency to minor criminal offenses. 

The authors' study of the school children of the community is of 
prime significance, since it gives us a glimpse into the future of the "Hill 
Folk." Of 75 individuals in the school children group, the school records 
of 7 were not obtained. Of the remainder 38 were below grade and 30 
were up to grade. In a table, the characteristics of the parents and a 
brief characterization of each of the 68 individuals are presented. It is 
evident that "before adolescence half of the children from the Hill 
families show evidences of their mental handicap. The detrimental 
influence which such children may exert upon the schools which they 
attend is an important matter for consideration" (p. 19). 

Even more interesting in several respects than the results of the 
study of the school children among the "Hill Folk" is the discussion 
of heredity and environment which the authors present. For naturally 
the community furnishes an experiment on the influence of environment, 
since many of the children are early taken from their homes and placed 


in better environments. "A comparative study of the varying results 
of good and poor environment upon individuals from the same germ- 
plasm increases the evidence of the power of individual potentialities" 
(p. 25). This conclusion is based upon a careful study of the develop- 
ment of thirty state wards concerning whom the authors venture the 
following statements: 

Of the thirty state wards who have been away from home long enough to 
be affected, fourteen, approximately half, are at present, or probably will be, 
good, average citizens. Of these, seven carry an almost intangible burden of 
unfortunate heredity which may always be a retarding factor [p. 26]. 

These cases, then, prove that persons belonging to these strains who have 
been brought up under good influences may turn out well or iU, and that even 
when placed early under good conditions the result may be highly unsatis- 
factory. On the other hand, of members of the same fraternity who remained 
at home under the same poor environment, some turned out relatively well. 
It is not to be denied that the latter would have done better if their cidture 
had been superior, nor that the "easily influenced" workman would have taken 
a wrong path if surrounded only by bad influences instead of good. But, on 
the other hand, it is clear that the capacity of these people for good or evil is 
born with them and bred in the bone and environment acts as a more or less 
effective screen or lure, as the case may be [p. 31]. 

We quote, in conclusion, the entire summary of the memoir, since 
every point made is of great social importance: 

1. The analysis of the method of inheritance of feeble-mindedness shows 
that it cannot be considered a unit character. It is evidently a complex of 
quantitatively and qualitatively varying factors most of which are negative, 
and are inherited as though due to the absence of unit characters. 

2. The value of out-marriage, or exogamy, as a means of attenuating 
defective strains is diminished by the action of social barriers and the natural 
preference of individuals, which induce marriages among like grades of men- 
tality, in a foreign as well as a native locality. 

3. The amount of town aid, which this one group of defective families 
requires decennially, has increased 400 per cent in the last thirty years. In 
the same length of time its criminal bill has been $10,763 . 43 for sixteen persons; 
and the bill for its thirty children who were supported by the state during the 
last twenty-three years is $45,888.57. During the past skty years this 
community has, it is estimated, cost the state and the people half a million 

4. Half of the present number of school children from these families who 
are living at home show evidence of mental deficiency. 

5. One-half of the state wards from the community in question have 
reacted favorably in an improved environment and give promise of becoming 


more or less useful citizens; the other half consists of institutional cases and 
those which have not reacted to the better environment, but are likely to 
become troublesome and dangerous citizens. 

6. The comparative cost of segregating one feeble-minded couple and that 
of maintaining their offspring shows, in the instance at hand, that the latter 
policy has been three times more expensive [pp. 33, 34]. 

Robert M. Yerkes 
Harvard University 

A Sunny Life. The Biography of Samuel June Barrows. By 

Isabel C. Barrows. Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1913. 

The poetic title should not divert attention from the substantial 

contributions to the history of social reforms in this country. Dr. 

Barrows was an embodiment of those motives which our best men 

honor; and his careful preparation for his duties is an example to the 

student. The record of his achievements is remarkable and inspiring; 

he was a pioneer in a field where much hard work remains to be done. 

Honor to his memory. 

C. R. Henderson 
University of Chicago 

List of Industrial Poisons. Bulletin of the Bureau of Labor, No. 
100, May, 191 2. 

Owing to ignorance of the subject in this country and the neglect 
which goes with interested blindness, it has long been imagined and 
often asserted that American workingmen are somehow magically 
immune to the harmful effects of those chemical substances which 
enfeeble or kill European workmen. Among the many useful pubhca- 
tions of the Bureau of Labor not one touches life more closely than this 
"Ust of industrial poisons" prepared by Drs. Sommerfeld and Fischer 
for the International Labor Office. The work has been done by experts 
and passed through the most critical ordeal of examination by a large 
number of competent specialists. 

The inquiries of the Illinois State Commission on Occupational 
Diseases (191 1) not only led to important protective legislation in Illi- 
nois and other states, but served to stimulate other investigations. 
Congress after long discussion removed a disgrace from our flag by taxing 
out of existence the manufacture of white phosphorous matches which 
among operatives and consumers has been so injurious and fatal. 


The list here noticed gives a designation of the poisonous substance 
used in the arts and trades, the branches of industry in which poisoning 
is known to occur, the mode of entrance into the body, the symptoms of 
poisoning, and special measures of relief until a physician can be called. 
Physicians will find in this small pamphlet valuable material, while manu- 
facturers and "welfare workers" should make themselves familiar with 
the dangers herein revealed. No more vital subject of study can be 

University of Chicago 

C. R. Henderson 

The Insanity of Passion and Crime. By L. Forbes Winslow, 
M.B., LL.D., Cantab,, D.C.L. Oxon. London: John Ouseley. 
n.d. Pp. 352. 

It is the tragedy of life's abnormal phenomena which the gifted 
physician portrays with very great power and literary skill: the passions, 
incipient insanity, irresponsibility, mental obscurity, criminal abnormal- 
ity, early mental collapse, feminine loss of balance, heredity. The illus- 
trations are drawn from a long course of observation and reading, and 
the warnings against excess and neglect have the weight of professional 
authority. And yet many readers will think they have reason to com- 
plain that they are asked to follow ipse dixit; for many assertions not 
on the bare afl&rmation of the author. No doubt this authority is hif^h, 
but most of us desire an indication of sources, of original collections of 
facts, and independent means of forming a judgment which are usually 
wanting in this treatise. 

The treatment of statistics (on p. 206) raises serious doubts about 
the author's method of interpreting figures. He tells us that in England 
and Wales in 1859 there was one lunatic in every 536 of the population; 
in 1909 there was one lunatic in every 278 of the population. The infer- 
ence is that at this rate of increase in 2209 there will be one in four of 
the population who will be insane. Truly we live in a "mad world" — if 
figures do not lie. The premises, however, may be restated with advan- 
tage: in 1859 there was one lunatic recorded in every 536 of the popula- 
tion, a very different basis for calculations about the future. The fact 
is since 1859 the sick of brain have been more carefully sought out, 
recorded, and brought into institutions, and so appear in statistics. The 
tendency may be discouraging, but not so hopeless as some think. 

The illustrations from life are drawn from a long e.xperience in a 


professional career and from wide reading; every page bristles with 

suggestion, and the practical warnings are too authoritative to be 


C. R. Henderson 


Christian Unity at Work. The Federal Council of the Churclies of 
Christ in America, 191 2. Edited by Charles S. Macfarland, 
Secretary, 1913. Pp. 291. 
The Secretary of the Federal Council of Churches has brought 
together in a volume the speeches, reports, and discussions of the con- 
ference held in Chicago in 191 2. It is the best available presentation of 
the aims and opinions of this powerful organization. The conclusions 
reached and the methods recommended are necessarily stated in very 
general terms and have only moderate interest for specialists. The 
ground covered is too wide for contributions of knowledge to any particu- 
lar topic of the program; but the vista opened in the discussion of inter- 
nationalism, race improvement, diplomacy, temperance, preser\'ation of 
the home, and religious education is hopeful and inspiring. 

C. R. Henderson 
University of Chicago 

Penal Philosophy. By Gabriel Tarde; translated by Rapelje 
Howell. Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 191 2. 

Tarde requires no introduction or recommendation among students 
of sociology, but this publication of a translation of his great work on 
crime, under the auspices of the American Institute of Criminal Law and 
Criminology, offers a good occasion to call attention to some of the 
important discussions contributed by this book. 

The philosophical controversy on "determinism" versus "free will" 
is clearly stated, but left where it was before. Tarde insists that his 
deterministic theory of responsibility is sound; that we can discover 
a strictly causal series in conduct while we hold the criminal respon- 
sible for his deed; but he also clings to the common-sense legal view of 
the criminal as a man to be blamed and detested. For the criminal is 
not a savage, not a sick man, not insane, not an epileptic, but just a 
criminal. The classifications of Lombroso are rejected; there is no 
"criminal type"; we discover the guilty by his record of conduct, not 
by his physiognomy and by craniometry. The most reliable distinction 


among offenders is sociological rather than physiological; and all law- 
breakers are classified as urban or rural, with sub-groups of the violent 
and thieves. 

One of the most profound suggestions in the whole book is the 
declaration that while science, art, religion, all tend to diminish crime, 
commercialism and material success tend to increase it. "There is one 
sentiment which, in becoming generaHzed, should it be developed in the 
mind without a sufficient counterweight, agrees with one of the principles 
dear to delinquents. This is what we might call the mercantile senti- 
ment, the worship of gold and immediate enjoyment to the exclusion of 

everything else Industry increases the number of products, but 

where is the collective work which it engenders?" Under our present 
system this great judge declares business is "to make war on one's 
neighbor." In an age which is agnostic about all except the value of 
wealth this note of warning is not likely to be much heeded; but it will 
be heard when the "noise and shouting dies." 

If Tarde, the lawyer, were heeded, some of our law students would 
study criminals by serving as assistants or teachers in prisons. Study 
of criminal law would then be something nearer life than looking at 
dried specimens in the leaves of penal codes. 

The argument about capital punishment is a fine and subtle example 

of walking on a tight rope; the weight of argument on the whole seems 

to be contrary to the conclusion which apparently is to retain the death 

penalty, but on impossible conditions. 

C. R. Henderson 
University of Chicago 

Industrial Warfare. The Aims and Claims of Capital and Labour. 
By Charles Watney and James A. Little. London: John 
Murray, 1912. Pp. x+353. 6^ net. 

A very useful compendium on labor legislation and conditions in 
Great Britain during the past few years. Very sketchy in places and 
sometimes not clear, it nevertheless in twenty-five chapters and fifteen 
appendices gives the essential facts regarding the "Issues and Per- 
sonaHties" of nearly every phase of the labor movement. Eleven chap- 
ters are devoted to special industries or classes of workers, as "Cotton 
and Weaving Trades," "General Labourers," "Women Workers," and 
others to "Labour Organization," "Syndicalism," "Minimum Wage," 
"Remedies," "Profit Sharing." The book is purely descriptive and 
matter-of-fact throughout, a detached position being successfully main- 


tained by the authors. Even in the chapter on "Suggested Remedies" 
they do not have a special panacea but report faithfully the respective 
standpoints of employers, workers, and public. 

Except for hints here and there one must therefore look to the 
"Introduction" for views attributable to the authors. The chief cause 
of labor unrest is there said to be "the progress of education," "the 
development of thought and the advancement in the popular ideals of 
happiness and comfort" among the laboring classes. There has resulted 
a widespread feeling that labor does not receive its due proportion of the 
product of industry. This unrest has come to stay but will assume 
various forms according to local conditions and the attitude of employers. 
Though the authors definitely state that "the fight between Capital and 
Labour" (p. 12, note) is not "class war" (p. 9), they nevertheless very 
clearly imply that it is just that — a fact also made plain by the title and 
much of the subject-matter. It would seem that their opinion that 
labor "will be content Avith fairer treatment" is also too optimistic. On 
the contrary human experience universally shows that the demands for 
larger opportunities and a higher standard of living, like the demands 
for wealth and liberty, grow with every morsel fed them, except for 
moments of temporary quiescence; the fundamental demands of labor 
are in essence the demand for democracy in industry, which like the 
demand for democracy in politics can stop only at full realization of 
equality. By way of solution of the labor problem the authors place 
most confidence in collective bargaining and profit-sharing (p. 10), but 
without finding them a cure-all (p. 255). 

There is a certain naivete in the statement (pp. 6-7) of the relation 
of gold to prices; and the opinion (p. 7) that "a general increase in the 
price of commodities rarely affects the very poor" seems preposterous. 

This brief sketch of the demands of capital and labor in Great 
Britain and the attempts by legislative and industrial reforms to meet 
them, or as the Preface describes it, this "resume in encyclopaedic form" 
explaining "the exact significance and the probabilities of the growing 
unrest," should prove valuable reading for all those interested in the 
industrial situation. It contains lessons from the experiences of a great 
nation for extremists of every sort. With its index and topical page 
headings it is a ready reference storehouse of information for the student 
wishing to acquaint himself with the labor situation in the oldest 
industrial nation. 

F. H. Hankins 

Clakk College 


The Charity Visitor: A Practical Handbook for Beginners. By 
Amelia Sears. Introduction by Charles Richmond Hen- 
derson. Chicago: The Chicago School of Physics and Phi- 
lanthropy, 1913. 8vo. Pp. 72. Paper covers. 
Training for the new profession of social work has been rendered 
difficult by the lack of textbooks adapted to the use of classes in the 
schools of philanthropy. This Httle book will therefore meet a need long 
felt by all interested in the training of social workers. It describes in 
simple terms the practice prevailing in the district offices of the United 
Charities of Chicago, a practice gradually formulated by the superin- 
tendent of the Bureau of Charities, Mr. Ernest P. Bicknell, now execu- 
tive secretary of the National Red Cross Society, and by the general 
district superintendent of the United Charities. This practice accords, 
of course, in the main with the accepted practice in well-ordered charity 
organization societies, so that the material presented has far more than 
local interest. The topics discussed include among others: "The 
Initial Visit"— The Visitor's Mental Attitude, The Family Individual- 
ized; ''Record-making"— with a detailed examination of the Record 
Card; ''Methods of Verification"; "Types of Dependency"; "Sources of 
Co-operation"— Relatives, Employers, Unions, etc. 

These topics while briefly presented are yet discussed with sufficient 
fulness to prepare the student and the new visitor for the delicate and 
difficult questions of human need and family decline that are found in 
the case of every applicant for aid. The book should, therefore, be of 
great interest, not only to the professional student but to all who are 
concerned with the discovery of the kind and the volume of want and 
suffering facing the modern city. It will undoubtedly find a welcome on 
the part of college students of social problems and of those individuals 
who desire as volunteer visitors to be of service to the poor. As Pro- 
fessor Henderson well says in his sympathetic and discriminating 

Long experience in charity makes us all impatient to see the day when 
charitable relief, with all its humiliations, and harrowing uncertainties, will be 
no longer needed, when a fairer distribution of income, a complete system of 
social hygiene, education and insurance will reduce dependence to a vanishing 
point; and the hope of promoting that purpose is the chief inspiration of con- 
temporary charity. We know that these tragic case records and the statistics 
which are gathered from them must quicken the public conscience and lead to 
nobler methods. Meantime, in spite of cheap and ill-advised jeers at means 
of relief, which are confessedly only mitigation and not final cure, we cannot 


refuse to help diminish distress so far as possible. Talk of Utopias in some future 
state, here or hereafter, comes with poor grace from those who totally neglect 
the miserable victims of personal fault and of social misrule. It is not fair to 
say that all charity is mere opium taken to relieve the remorse of willing 
exploiters. As Miss Sears well says, the direct use of these pathetic histories is 
to improve our methods of immediate relief, but our ultimate and larger pur- 
pose is "to accumulate data concerning povertj'-, disease, social exploitation, 
and industrial abuse — data that may prove effective in securing an investigation 
and amelioration of the conditions, social, industrial, and economic, that 
produce dependency." 

SoPHONiSBA P. Breckinridge 
University of Chicago 

A Psychological Study of Religion. By James H. Leuba. New 
York: Macmillan, 191 2. Pp. xiv+371. 

A wide range of topics is discussed. Chapters i-ix contain the 
writer's psychology of feeling, intellection, and volition; criticize numer- 
ous definitions of religion; repeat his well-known distinction between the 
mechanical, the magical, and the "anthropopathic" types of behavior; 
and detail the varieties of magic and the essential qualifications of a god. 
In chaps, x-xiii there is a brief treatment of religion in its relation to 
morality, mythology, and metaphysics, followed by extended criticism of 
recent utterances of apologists for religion. The aim is to show that 
when theologians fall back on "inner experience" and satisfying states of 
mind as proof of the validity of religion they cannot logically claim that 
such experiences are exempt from the interpretation of the psychologist. 
Admitting the psychologist's way of approach, theology will become 
fruitfully empirical and shake off the incubus of an old-fashioned meta- 
physics. TKe concluding pages deal with oriental religions, "psycho- 
therapic cults," such as New Thought and Christian Science, the Religion 
of Humanity, and the Ethical Culture movement; finally, the bases of a 
religion of the future are prophesied. 

Among the contentions advanced are the following: religion is a tj^ie 
of behax-ior, an appeal to a kind of power believed in, an agency psychic, 
superhuman, and (usually) personal; originating in impulses and needs 
of human nature, primitive religion had biological value in the struggle 
for existence; out of mechanical behavior (dependence upon quantitative, 
causal relations) science has developed; magic, eliminating mechanism 
and causality, is opposed to science in spirit and method as caprice is 
opposed to systematic control; moral values are superior to religious 
values; a tenable religion should not run counter to "well-established 


scientific or philosophical conclusions," should stress ethical imperatives 
and general happiness, and should listen to Bergson's intuition of God — 
"unceasing life, action, freedom." 

Anyone who writes on religion and magic today may not legitimately 
confine himself to the researches of Tylor, Fraser, Jevons, and others who 
have not sufficiently realized the implications of the collective back- 
groimd of primitive groups. Professor Leuba freely takes exception to 
the conclusions of the English anthropologists, yet he follows their leading 
to the extent of ignoring the work of Durkheim, Levy-Bruhl, Hubert, 
and Mauss. Whatever exaggerations may be found in the categories of 
the French social anthropologists, they have demonstrated that the 
ordinary psychology of the textbook falls short in method and interpre- 
tation if it is invoked to explain the genesis of magic and religion. A 
suggestive example of what may be done when an investigation is based 
upon specific group contexts is the study of Greek magic, religion, and 
philosophy made by F. M. Cornford, who derived his standpoint from 
Professor Durkheim and his colleagues^ 

It is worthy of note that Dr. Leuba sees fit to include a somewhat full 
analysis of the social philosophy of Comte. Positivism is reproached 
because of its inadequate view of Nature and its defective philosophical 
assumptions. However, the reUgion of the future described in chap, xiii 
is a revised version of the Religion of Humanity. Dr. Leuba urges that 
"Humanity idealized and conceived as a manifestation of Creative 
Energ>' possesses surpassing qualifications for a source of religious 

inspiration The sense of weakness and imperfection, the need of 

comfort and encouragement, the desire for the final triumph of good are 
sentiments which might readily enough be collectively expressed in 
declarations addressed to the religious brotherhood, or even perhaps to 
the Ideal Society. And I see no sufiicient reason why a religion of 
Humanity should not incorporate in a modified form elements of the 
therapeutic cults which have been found effective in the healing of mind 
and body. 

"A religion in agreement with the accepted body of scientific knowl- 
edge, and centered about Humanity conceived as the manifestation of a 
Force tending to the creation of an ideal society, would occupy in the 
social hfe the place that a religion should normally hold, even the place 
that the Christian religion lost when its cardinal beUefs ceased to be in 
harmony with secular beliefs" (pp. 335~33^)- 

E. L. Talbert 

University of Chicago 


The Psychology of Revolution. By Gustave le Bon. Translated 
by Bernard Miall. New York: Putnam, 1913. Price, $2 . 50. 

Pp- 337- 
In this study, Le Bon has endeavored to unravel some of the tangled 
skeins of history with the aid of modern psychology. He shows that we 
have arrived at a more profound understanding of the principles of this 
science, and he makes practical application of them in his interpretation 
of events. The discoveries in this science which the author puts forth as 
applicable to history are as follows: a knowledge of ancestral influence, 
the laws which rule the actions of a crowd, data relating to the disaggre- 
gation of personality, mental contagion, the unconscious formation of 
beliefs, and the distinction between the various forms of logic, rational, 
affective, collective, and mystic. 

Revolutions are classified and the relation of government to social 
interaction analyzed. All violent social disturbances are shown to have 
a logical basis which may rest wholly or partly upon psychological 
premises. There is a wide range of difference between a scientific, a 
poUtical, and a religious revolution. The scientific revolution hardly 
makes a ripple upon the surface of society; it is merely an evolutionary 
process. The causes leading up to a political revolution may be summed 
up in the one word discontent. Intolerance is back of the force that 
sweeps society into religious controversy, with its attendant excess and 
crime. In political and religious revolutions, rational logic is swept aside 
and is replaced by affective, collective, and rnystic logic. 

The keynote of the analysis is found in the different forms of men- 
tality prevalent during revolution. These are classified as the mystic, 
the Jacobin, the revolutiona;^, and the criminal. The classification is 
evidently made with special reference to the French revolution. Man as 
a collective unit under leadership without legal restraint or substantial 
moral and religious moorings is a different creature from man as a segre- 
gated unit under centralized authority. It is this dual nature of 
personality which admits of the excesses and crimes against civilization 
committed by a revolutionary body under the influence and leadership of 
an abnormal mind. Such a character would be restrained in times of 
order by a fear of the law; but in times of revolution, there is no such 

The origins of the French revolution are found mainly in the weakness 
of the government. Le Bon does not subscribe to the fatalistic theory, 
nor yet to the theory that the philosophers exerted a powerful influence. 


He holds rather that those who inaugurated the revolution did not 
perceive clearly what they wanted; popular political ideals had been 
shattered, and the French people consequently passed through a period 
of demoralization and anarchy seeking new ideals. 

Le Bon thinks that there was a logical basis for many acts of the 
French revolution which heretofore have been passed over as inexplicable. 
Such bases depend for establishment upon the acceptance of Le Bon's 
system of reasoning. 

In the discussion of the conflict between ancestral influences and 
revolutionary principles, it is contended that the main issues of the 
French revolution were early accomplished. The ancestral influences 
then dictated the return to law and order, which was not accomplished 
by reason of the fact that the revolutionary principles were still burning 
issues with the leaders and the mercenary class of the revolutionists. 
Their preservation depended upon a continuation of the revolutionary 

Le Bon concludes that the heritage of the French revolution may be 
summed up in the words: Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. In the 
present-day movements toward social equality, he sees the fruitage of 
the seeds that were planted at so great a sacrifice and cost. 

Isaac A. Loos 

State University of Iowa 

Les pHncipes sociologiques du droit public. Par Raoul de la 
Grasserie. V. Paris: Giard et E. Briere, 191 1. Prix, 
broche, 10 francs; relie, 11 francs. Pp. 1-430. 

This book is an attempt to interpret public law in the light of social 
conditions and social history. It is divided into three parts. 

The first part, the sociology of constitutional law, considers first at 
length and by means of historical analysis the sociology of the constitu- 
tional law of the state. This might very well be called a sociological 
interpretation of the history of the forms or machiner}^ of government. 
It differs little from what a contemporary historian of constitutional law 
would write even if he did not call his work sociological. Since Lavigny, 
public law is interpreted by historical conditions. The first part con- 
cludes with a very brief section on eccentric and concentric units of the 
state, namely, colonies, provinces, and communes. 

Part II, public administrative law, is similar in treatment to Part I 


and almost of equal length. Part III is grouped under two divisions: 
one relating to the international public law between autonomous states, 
and the other to that between dependent or interdependent states. Part 
IV discusses the sociology of the limits and the relations between indi- 
vidual rights and public law. 

Isaac A. Loos 
State University of Iowa 

La theorie de Vhomme et dc la civilisation. Par Erasme de 
Majewski. Paris: Librairie H. Le Soudier, 191 1. Prix, 8 
francs. Pp. vii-xvi+351. 

This book is similar in spirit and method to the same author's La 
science de civilisation, published three years earlier. The book is at once 
biological and sociological, or perhaps we should say blends the biological 
and sociological analysis of life by means of the psychological analysis. 
The author lays great stress on the phenomena of language m an account 
of the development of Vhomo sapiens. 

The psychisme of man is not the result of the psychisme of animal; 

the former is interphysiological (whatever this may mean), instead of 

physiological. Language and ideas constitute the form and substance of 

society. The social form is as real as the cell or the plant, but it is not 

so obvious ! The interphysical content in a material substratum is the 

form of the social reality. 

Isaac A. Loos 
State University of Iowa 



Le syndicalisme feminin dans les industries textile en Angleterre. — It is in the 
textile industries that the earliest female labor organizations appeared. These were at 
first separate from those of the men, but later united with them. It is m these mdus- 
tries also that women receive the highest wages. The question arises as to whether the 
superior condition of women here can be attributed to organization. Investigation 
shows that the growth of organization among women workers has been slow, and even 
in those industries where women out-number the men, the number belonging to unions 
is nevertheless smaller. Where women do belong to the union they show httle interest 
in its activities, and even in organizations where women are in the majority, the 
executive work is chiefly done by the men. It must be concluded that the gains which 
have come to women have come chiefly through the activities of the men, rather than 
through their own efforts. Though there is still a great discrepancy in the cotton 
industry, as elsewhere, between the wages of women employees and those of men, yet 
the women here, where organization is strongest, receive a higher average weekly wage 
than in any other branch of the textile industry. This result may be fairly attributable 
to organized activity on the part of the men.— Mile. A. Tougard de Boismilon, Le 
musec socialc, memoires et documents, May, 1913. B. H. S. 

Sur I'influence de I'image et de la publicite sur les criminels. — Criminals may 
be divided into three grades: the lowest and the highest of these, the instinctive, and 
the "cultured" criminal, respectively, are not influenced by the suggestion and 
examples furnished in newspaper accounts of crime. Upon the middle class, however, 
this influence is very marked. This class is largely composed of youths, and is recruited 
for the most part from children who have grown up in an environment of crime, where 
criminal exploits are held up for admiration. Newspaper publicity serves to emphasize 
this attitude, and, by furnishing examples for imitation, tends to multiply criminal 
acts. It might be thought that the publication of the penalties along with the account 
of the crime would have a deterrent effect, but this does not seem to be the case.— Dr. 
Gilbert Ballet, Revue penUentiare et de le droit penal, April, 1913. B. H. S. 

L'assicurazione obbligatoria nei lavori Agricoli.— Though compulsory insurance 
against industrial accidents was provided for in Italy by the laws of 1898 and of 1904, 
these did not apply to the agricultural workers. There is no reason why the latter 
should be excluded from the benefits of this law. The agricultural workers bear the 
same relation to the employer and run the same risk of injury as do the laborers in 
workshops and factories. Some would make a distinction between classes of agricul- 
tural laborers, the tenants or farmers on shares, and the day laborers, claiming that 
onlv the latter need the protection of compulsory insurance. Both, however, belong 
to the general class of hired laborers, and should be included in the law. The principle 
of employers' liability for all accidents not due to negligence of the employer can be 
derived from the essential nature of the contract. If is to be assumed that when an 
employer enters into a contract to hire labor, he is responsible for the safety of the 
laborer, just as when he enters into a contract to hire machinery he makes himself liable 
for the'return of the same uninjured. This interpretation, only, is in harmony with 
judicial and ethical principles, and if the principle of employers' liabihty were recog- 
nized on this basis, the extension of compulsory insurance to the protection of all 
classes of workers, as a logical outcome of employers' liability, could not be denied.— 
Romeo Vuoli, Rivisita internazionale di scienzc socialc e discipline ausiUare, May, 1913- 



Le droit dans I'economie sociale. — By right (droit) is meant natural right. This 
concept is denied by many, but the proof of the existence of natural right is found in the 
inabiUty to prove the contrary. Individual liberty contains in germ all the rights of 
man. The limitations which may be put upon liberty are (a) those arising from its 
own nature, i.e., because each man has a right to his own Uberty he must not encroach 
upon that of another; (b) those required for the maintenance of social order, for the 
individual cannot live apart from organized society and the maintenance of social order 
is necessary to his existence. Every extension of authority which is not justified by its 
necessity impairs natural right and can have only bad effects. An example of an 
encroachment of the state upon individual right is found in the law requiring compul- 
sory contributions for old-age pensions. The exact limits of authority are difficult to 
fix, but a good government should stop short of, rather than go beyond, them. For all 
social polity should be directed toward one object: to develop the human individuality, 
and the human individuality can be developed only in liberty and through liberty. — 
Edmond Villey, Revue d'cconomie politique, May-June, 1913. B. H. S. 

L'H6pital de Montpezat-de-Qercy pendant le XVIIe et le XVIIIe siecle.— This 

hospital, which was established in 1360, has preserved its records since the beginning of 
the seventeenth century. These show that though the philosophy of benevolence had 
not been developed, there were many forms of public assistance given as a municipal 
service in Quercy. — R. Latouche, Annales du midi, January, 1913. E. H. S. 

L'antropologia criminale ed i suoi detrattori. — Criminal anthropology has a 
rational and natural basis and finds support in the new science of psycho-physics. The 
fact that many honest people have what might be described as criminal somatic char- 
acteristics is no criticism of criminal anthropology, as the latter does not go by these 
alone, but takes them together with various organic and cranial anomalies. A crime 
is the eflect of three factors: individual, social, and physical. Education and the lack 
of opportunity for the expression of the criminal tendencies are significant; and 
finally, criminal anthropology, like all social sciences, has only a relative and approxi- 
mate value which, however, does not divest it of the character of a science. — Francesco 
di Luca, Archivio di antropologia criminale, April, 1913. M. S. H. 

Le realisme chez les artistes anciens. — One may note in the work of sculptors 
and painters of different epochs and countries various styles of representing the human 
body peculiar to the period and place. So distinct are these that often we may locate 
works of art as to time and nationality by them. The ancient artists in their unaffected 
recognition of the anatomic differences of sex in their representations of the human form 
reached an aesthetic conception far higher than that attained by modem artists who 
are restrained from their best work by sex consciousness. — Gaston Gaillaird, Bulletin 
de la Society d'anthropologie, Nos. 5-6, 191 2. E. E. E. 

Culture morale et feminisme. — The social unit is not, as some social extremists 
hold, the individual, but the couple. Men and women are different, it is true, but they 
are not on that account either hostile or independent. They complement each other, 
and social accomplishment requires their co-operation. In modern society woman 
may appear in four roles: as a celibate, as a slave to her husband, as an advocate of 
freedom of marital contract, or as an equal partner to a natural and voluntary matri- 
monial union. Looking toward the last as the normal and desirable state, the young 
women of the nation m.ust be trained— physically, mentally, morally.— A. Bauer, 
Revue internationale de sociologie, May, 1913. E. E. L. 

Etude sur la famille instable en Champagne.— In making an investigation of the 
causes of the unstable family in France the Champagne district was chosen as typical. 
Among the peasantry the custom persists of equal partition of the paternal estate 
among the children at marriage. The result is a region of finely parceled out farms, 
usually too small to furnish their proprietors more than the barest livmg. Smce it is 
difficult satisfactorily thus to establish many children in life, this custom tends to 
restrict the birth rate, and correspondingly the expansion of the race. This, combined 
with the poverty of the soil of the section, is the primary cause of the instability of the 


family. The economic life is rigorous, with few real comforts. Family ties arc not 
strong, and many households are disorganized by the departure of the children to find 
work in the cities. In the urban population signs of family disorganization are most 
notable, perhaps, among the textile workers, the dockers, and the wine workers, due 
largely to conditions of poverty, illness, drunkenness, and sloth. — P. Descamps, La 
science sociak, Ma.y, 1913. E. E. E. 

Akkulturation unter den Magyaren in Amerika. — The immigrants to America 
undergo few changes e.xcept in the superficial forms of culture as the result of contact 
with American life. Their racial traits, habits of Ufe, customs, and religious convic- 
tions do not change. In fact they use every means available to retain their "inner 
culture"; they subscribe for a native newspaper, and locate in national groups. They 
adopt in a superficial way the American fashions and other external features of Ameri- 
can culture, which are forced on them by the so-called necessarj' demands of American 
life. But this process of assimilation is superficial and not real. The real content of 
foreign culture does not change upon the American soil. Their craving for American 
freedom becomes a falsified fact; among the American immigrants freedom has no 
value or appreciation, when the mind and judgment rejects it.— G. von Hoffman, 
ZeitschriftfUr Social-diisscnschajt, May-June, 1913. H. H. B. 

Die Nationaiitat in ihrer sociologischen Bedeutung. — The general social instinct, 
the sexual instinct, and the paternal instinct are the three bonds that hold a tribe or 
group together, and unite humanity into one large group. But these three forces are 
represented by many sub-forces and institutions in the development of civilization. 
The solidarity of humanity is essentially based on the fact that our whole system of 
culture finds its roots in the culture of earlier people. Thus both objectively and sub- 
jectively nationality in its sociological significance is becoming the oneness of human- 
ity.— Paul Barth, Vierteljahrschrift filr Philosophic and Soziologie, Vol. XXXVII 
Heft I. H. H. B. 

The Sources of Rural Credit and the Extent of Rural Indebtedness. — The chief 
sources of rural credit before about 1895 were mortgage companies and loan agents of 
life insurance societies. Many mortgage companies that made loans in restricted 
territories where they knew the people and that did not guarantee the mortgages still 
do a good business for themselves and their clients. Census investigations (1890- 
1910) show the growth of the tenant system and of the mortgaging of farms operated 
by owners. The average value of such mortgaged farms was $3,444 with an incum- 
brance of $1,224 in 1890; the corresponding items in 1910 were $6,289 and $2,658. 
That is, the average value of such farm property has increased faster than the amount 
of the mortgages . The total agricultural debt of American farmers in 1 9 1 2 is estimated 
at about $5,000,000,000. Real estate mortgages constitute 55 . 9 per cent of this sum; 
chattel mortgages about 14 per cent; cotton crop liens 7.8 per cent; Hens on other 
crops about 9 per cent; unsecured debts to local merchants alaout 5 per cent; besides 
a small percentage of miscellaneous debts. About three-fourths of the total mortgages 
on farm real estate has been incurred in purchasing the property. — George K. Holmes, 
Monthly Bulletin of Economic and Social Intelligence, International Institute of Agri- 
culture, April, 1913. R. H. L. 

Heredity and Responsibility. — Our personalities are not absolutely determined in 
the original germ cells; yet they have arisen from these cells and have been conditioned 
by them. That is, our actual personalities are not predetermined in the germ-cells, 
but our possible personaHties are. Anything which could possibly appear in the course 
of development is potential in heredity and under given conditions of environment is 
predetermined. The factors determining human behavior include, therefore, heredi- 
tary constitution, present stimulus, past experiences of the organism, and the habits of 
response to given stimuli which have been formed. Is then the individual responsible 
for his behavior? By "responsibility" is meant ability of the individual to respond 
to rational, social, and ethical stimuli, and to inhibit response to their opposites. It 
involves the corresponding expectation of others that the individual will so respond. 
Since the stimuli increase in variety and complexity directly as the social organization 


develops, it follows that human responsibihty is a variable. For the character of the 
stimuli varies, and the capacities of different individuals to respond to rational, social, 
and ethical stimuli vary. Individual responsibility varies, then, with the number and 
kind of stimuli, inheritance, training, habits, and physiological states. As a corollary 
to this conclusion, note the converse social responsibihty to provide as favorable an 
environment as possible for all in the community. For hereditary possibilities become 
actualities only as result of use, training, and habit. Ehmination of reproduction by 
the unfit, or negative eugenics, will be serviceable in extending the inherited poten- 
tialities of posterity. Since great crises usually discover great men, it is apparent that 
the prime problem of education is to provide a stimulating environment and to develop 
the powers of self-discovery and of self-control. — Edwin G. Conklin, Science, January 
lo, 1913. R- H. L. 

French and American Ideals. — Material gain is the world-wide industrial ideal, 
but this is becoming modified by the humane interest. France and America differ in 
the means used to attain this end; the former depends rather on the clear thinking of 
the individual concerning the moral questions involved, the latter appeals to legisla- 
tion. The American pohtical ideal of individualism has been influenced by French 
thought and by the British moral tradition of authority. Personal restraint plus a 
social laissez faire; and personal laissez faire plus social regulation are the means 
depended on in France and America respectively to enforce obedience to moral ideals. 
Such pohcies for control of adult behavipr necessitate opposite treatments of the young, 
i.e., freedom for American youth, espionage for the French. This difference in methods 
between the two countries is due, at least in part, to the greater vitahty of the religious 
sanction, cast in theological terms, in America. We derive our aesthetic traditions 
from the British, and so we lack the creative imagination and delicate sensibility of the 
French. The ideal of self-control allows the French, on the other hand, the freedom 
of thought and imagination, so essential to artistic achievement. These differences 
seem due to differences in social inheritance. But in both countries there are signs of 
convergence in national ideals and methods. In America greater freedom from social 
compulsion is beginning to appear; and in France there is growing up a new apprecia- 
tion of the social obhgations of the individual and of the need for a more effective social 
control. The economic and the moral continue to make their strongest appeal to the 
American; and the intellectual and the beautiful, as revealer of spiritual values, to the 
French. Both peoples will profit largely through extensive and sympathetic contacts 
with each other. — J. Mark Baldwin, Sociological Review, April, 1913. R. H. L. 

What Is Social Psychology? — It is helpful to determine first what social psychology 
is not. Thus it does not concern itself with a super-individual, collective mind; for 
such a mind does not exist, apart from the minds of the individuals that compose the 
community. The so-called collective mind and the individual mind are both organized 
systems of mental or purposive forces; but the former lacks the integrity, the isolation 
and the unity of action that are essential to the very conception of mind. Again, 
although the action of an individual when alone differs from what it would be if he 
were a member of a crowd or organized group, the difference is caused by the changed 
environmental conditions to which the individual mind must respond. So far as unity 
in group action takes place, it is due to the existence in the component individual 
minds of common or type elements. But even this unity is modified by the difference 
in individual reactions to group ideals and practices. Social psychology differs 
essentially from sociolog>^ Each has to do with the forms of likeness, of interde- 
pendence and of difference among individuals, and with the complex social structures 
that result from the endless and complex combinations of men's purposes and interests. 
When we study the nature of these structures as created by and fulfilling the needs and 
purposes of men, we are psychological sociologists; when we study these structures for 
the revelation they may give of the nature of mind itself, we are social psychologists. — 
R. M. Maclver, Sociological Review, April, 1913. R- H. L. 

How Is Wealth to Be Valued? — Scientific valuation must always be inadequate, 
particularly in psychology and sociology; for it is limited to quantitative analysis. 
And difference in quaUty cannot be resolved into a quantitative variation from a norm. 



And yet we find the attempt in present-day economics, ethics, and poUtical science to 
reduce all valuation to a quantitative problem. The true relation between q^fhtative 
and quantitative elements in the valuation process is illustrated by the work of the 
artist He uses paints and colors in certain quantities and proportions and draws 
certain lines, always with a view to a quaUtative end-the umty of the whole composi- 
tion This qualitative end as determining quantities and proportions of ingredients 
appears in every valuation process, from a painting to a pudding. This stands out 
clearly in expending money income. For in doing this, the individual, the statesman 
the community do not pause to weigh the comparative worth of a certain number of 
pounds sterling expended for tobacco or good or bad books or for battleships or 
education. Quantitative measurement ignores both the unity fo the whole which is 
quaUtative, and the qualitativeness of the parts. Hence it cannot predict the future 
m human history with any certainty. For quahtative mutations occur, such as a 
biological sport or a psychological variant; and such mutations have incalculable 
effects upon human conduct. The process of averaging to eliminate variations from 
the mean is a false procedure for we have no right to assume that qualitative differ- 
ences do cancel one another. The foregoing considerations lead to the conclusion 
that quantities are used to assist in realizing the unified ideal, but that they neither 
direct nor dominate the valuation process.— John A. Hobson, Htbbert Journal Apnl, 

K.. xl. Li. 


A statistician's Idea of Progress.— Since progress is a subjective term implying 
change toward an end, it cannot be measured directly by statistics. If we assume 
however, that adaptation is the end, and that there are certain Aaractenstics corre- 
lated with this incommensurable end, the use of the statistical method may yield 
suggestive results. The result of such procedure indicates for the Umted States a 
rapid increase of population and probable increase in length of hfe, an increase in racial 
uniformity, and perhaps in uniformity of other sorts connected with immigration and 
at the sanie time a decrease in uniformity of economic status and income and a probable 
decrease in the stabiUty and social serviceabiUty of family hfe. Some of these ten- 
dencies seem to point toward progress, others toward retrogression. As there is no 
way of reducing these opposite tendencies to a statistical common denominator we 
cannot get a conclusive answer by this method. It would appear however, that the 
SSn problems of progress in the United States henceforth will differ fundamentally 
from those of the past. We can no longer justify political democracy and umversal 
education on the assumption of equal endowment among men. But these can be 
justified on the ground that they are selective influences operating to secure for society 
the leadership of a larger number of the competent. Agam, the economic problem 
now confronting us concerns production less and distribution more; and our political 
problem essentially is that of harmonizing our political tradition with the changes 
wrought by industrialism.— Walter F. Willcox, International Journal of Etlncs^Apnl, 


The Chinese Drama, Yesterday and Today.— The Chinese drama, originating 
indirectly in the immortal legend of "The Herdsman and the Spinning Damsel now 
played on every stage in China, found its direct origin in "TJe Gu,id of the Young 
Fois of the Pear Garden," a College of Dramatic Art founded by Emperor Huan 
Tsung (7^s A.D.) in honor of his marriage to Princess Yang Kueifei. It has since 
become one of the most interesting features in the Chinese social life, as well as pre- 
eminently their one form of national amusement-even more intimate and sacred than 
X ancient Greek drama to the Greeks. The Drama of lestcrday in harmony with 
the former retrospective habits of the Chinese, dealt entirely with the history and cus- 
toms o7 the past; and the stage was the only medium of knowledge^ It was very 
imperfect and devoid of scenery. Although the historical drama was the real favorite 
S the Chinese, the modern drama, the Drama of Today is much more common 
because of the lighter expense of its management. The latter is based upon incidents 
Sf hiiman life pictured in a witty and humorous way; in the. very modern drama 
topical questions afford the playwrights most of their material for Plays. It is 
however? making slow progress as to personnel, for although salaries are paid ranging 
from $30 to $6,000 annually, an actor is considered to be of such a low and despicable 


caste as to become practically an outcast from society, and women are prohibited from 
playing on the stage, their parts being taken by men and boys. Yet in the matter of 
buildings and plays wonderful progress has been made. In Shanghai, three large 
modern theaters, seating from 2,000 to 2,250 persons, have been erected, and one of the 
same tx'^pc is in project for Hong Kong. A strongly modern type of play is being used, 
and fairly well acted. The possibilities are that the drama will, in the near future, 
become an effective weapon in the hands of the reform party. — A. Corbett Smith, 
Fortnightly Review, June, 1913. B. D. Bh. 

Has Arbitration Failed in New Zealand? — The plan of compulsory arbitration is 
thought by some to be dead, by others to be merely dormant. Begun with the inten- 
tion of suppressing strikes and of encouraging industrial unionism, it comparatively 
failed: (i) in that the employers came to be content with it only after long and difTicult 
pressure; and (2) it evoked discontent on the part of the workers owing to a complexity 
of causes: (a) they mistook their object as increase of wages, (b) they were ignorant of 
economic principles involved, and (c) sociaUsm gave them the illusion that "indus- 
trialism is war." On the other hand the Arbitration Act may be considered a success, 
(i) with reference to employers, because they now favor it on account of its resulting 
enormous increase in the value of products, land, machinery, wages, etc.; (2) with 
reference to the employed, because there has been a period of comparative peace, few 
strikes, and an increase of wages without loss of time. This practical success can be 
made permanent when the spiritual tone of society is raised by moral culture and 
uphfted ideals of citizenship. — E. Tregear, Progress, January, 1913. B. D. Bh. 

The Association Method in Criminal Procedure. — The association method in a 
complex criminal procedure does not possess practical value as a means of case analysis. 
This does not, however, mean that the whole series of investigations should be regarded 
as a complete failure. The chief difficulties of the method are: (i) it involves the error 
of auto-suggestion on the part of the experimenter; (2) of the three principal complex- 
sjonptoms that have been estabHshed, that one which is of a qualitative nature can be 
used only with great care, in such things as assonances, mutilated reactions, failures to 
react, translations into foreign speech, phrase reactions, repetition of the stimulus 
word, misreading or mishearing; (3) in cases of chronic alcohohsm complex sensitivity 
is often so reduced that it cannot be determined by the use of this method; (4) the 
scarcity of psychiatrically trained psychologists, to whom alone the prosecution of 
investigations should be left. However, there should first be a more complete investi- 
gation of theoretical questions by experiments on criminals; every large prison should 
be provided with a psychological laboratory. — Paul Menzerath, Journal of Criminal 
Law and Criminology, May, 1913. B. D. Bh. 

A Study of One Hundred Juvenile-Adult Offenders in the Cook County Jail, 
Chicago. — The Juvenile Protective Association of Chicago found that in 1911, 1328 
boys and 61 girls under the age of twenty -one were confined in the county jail. Inten- 
sive study of 100 of these cases, chosen at random, showed that 91 Uved in bad 
neighborhoods, 37 were born and reared in bad homes, 37 kept very bad company, 15 
were addicted to drinking, 11 were totally subnormal; most of them were found to be 
somewhat below the average in intelligence, and most of them had no education. In 
connection with some other statistics, it appears that the Greeks, the Polish and the 
colored juvenile-adults are the most criminal. There is a close relation between a 
certain kind of occupation and criminality; only 3 per cent of the jail boys had a trade; 
most of them entered industrial Ufe young, picked up odd jobs, and did not acquire 
skill. — A. P. Drucker, Journal of Criminal Law and Criminology, May, 1913. 

B. D. Bh. 

La restriction voluntaire de la natalite, et la defense nationale. — The grim evi- 
dence of statistics show France to be sHpping backward in the matter of population. 
The great cause of this is revealed in the voluntary restriction of the number of births. 
This is a serious matter, for without a numerous juvenile population constantly 
growing up to replenish army and navy, France cannot hope to maintain her place 
among nations which have no problem of a declining birth rate. The matter of over- 



coming this national peril is a personal one — not merely to be preached to others, but 
to be taken seriously and individually to heart by every true patriot. — Paul Bureau, 
La science sociale, May, 1913. E. E. E. 

An Account of an Inquiry into the Extent of Economic Moral Failure among 
Certain Types of Regular Workers. — Casual work is often associated with weakness of 
character and, yet, to what extent is regular work free from the same weakness ? A 
first approximation of statistical measurement of the extent of moral failure of regular 
workers has been made by determining the proportion of certain types of workers who 
are dismissed in the course of a year for moral failings of different kinds, according to 
the evidence furnished by employers. This shows large absolute numbers of dismissals 
for moral failures, and an excess of such failures by males, when contrasted with 
females. — David Cardag Jones, Journal of the Royal Statistieal Society, April, 1913. 

B. D. Bh. 

Education for Motherhood. — The suggestion has been made that children 
should be reared in institutions rather than in families, since the well-to-do and the 
wage-earning mothers are failing to care for their children. The advocates of this 
institutional training of children fail to see ^i) that no institution can compete with 
the mother in affection and care in development of the child's individuality; (2) the 
bom educators and specialists are very rare; (3) even these speciahsts are absorbed by 
their own sympathies and antipathies, conflicts, and rivalries; (4) that psychological 
development of the emotions and sentiments indicates that the child should learn to 
love a few people in the home. The family colony with common kitchen and other 
equipment is also inadequate, and fails to give seclusion and the opportunity for intro- 
spection. But this parasitical family woman is disappearing, and it is not necessary 
to make a choice of such suggestions. — Ellen Key, Atlantic Monthly, July, 19 13. 

B. D. Bh. 



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Wyatt, S. The Quantitative Investiga- 
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Race Devel. 4:34-57, July 'i3- 




VOLUME XIX NOVEMBER 19 13 number 3 


University of Missouri 

It ought to be possible in this twentieth century for the scien- 
tific man to beUeve in religion in the same way in which he beHeves 
in education: not half-heartedly and quizzically, but positively 
and constructively. Just as there are many metaphysical ques- 
tions which can be raised concerning education, which admittedly 
cannot yet be given final answers, but which, nevertheless, the 
scientific man does not concern himself about but goes on with 
the work of education as if they were settled, so, too, there are 
metaphysical questions concerning rehgion to which as yet no one 
would pretend that fijial answers could be given, but which need 
not hinder the most scientific-minded man from taking a practical 
and constructive interest in religious activities. Our faith in 
education, for example, as being able to shape, more or less, the 
destiny of the individual and of society implies that this is not a 
rigid universe, held in the iron grasp of bhnd forces acting even 
in the most distant past. Education, in other words, impHes 
not only a modifiable human nature and human society, but also 
that such modifications can be intelligently planned and executed; 
in short, that consciousness in the highest form of which we know, 
the human reason, can and does control, to some extent, human 
life. Now no one thinks that it is necessary to demonstrate this 
metaphysical view before one can have a practical faith in the 




individual and social efficacy of education. Indeed, it is highly- 
probable that some of the most enthusiastic advocates of educa- 
tion at present might question the metaphysical implications 
involved in our faith in education as a controlling and reconstruc- 
tive agency in human Hfe, if such impKcations were pointed out 
to them. Nevertheless, when it came to deciding on any practical 
educational matter, they would not let metaphysical doubts, 
if they were thoroughly sane, interfere with their practical atti- 
tude toward educational policies. They would continue, in other 
words, to act as though they believed that human life was plastic 
and modifiable through human intelligence and reason. 

Now the case should not be different with rehgion, and it 
probably would not be were it not for the fact that, while our 
educational activities contain only implications of a metaphysical 
nature, our religious activities seemingly depend directly upon 
certain metaphysical beliefs, such as the beliefs in God, in the 
soul, and in personal responsibility. Education, in other words, 
proceeds upon hypotheses which seemingly do not transcend the 
world of common experience, whereas religion, some assert, pro- 
ceeds upon such hypotheses. When we examine the matter 
carefully, however, from a strictly logical standpoint it is seen 
that there is really no difference between reUgion and education 
as practical activities of our human social life, and that there is 
as little ground for rejecting the one as the other, because we can- 
not demonstrate the objective vaUdity of its presuppositions. 
In other words, the scientific man has exactly the same grounds 
for a practical faith in the individual and social efficacy of religion 
as of education. As long as no question is raised as to the objective 
vahdity of the concepts of religion, the scientific man, as a scientific 
man, is entitled to beHeve in rehgion in the same sense in which he 
believes in education; and that, as has already been said, not half- 
heartedly, but even enthusiastically. This is, of course, not say- 
ing that the scientific man should be expected to stultify himself 
by disbelieving in the metaphysical concepts of religion while 
at the same time he believes in the practical social power and 
efficacy of religion. All that is here implied is rather the simple, 
well-known scientific doctrine that ultimate questions need never 


be raised in passing scientific judgment upon any phenomenon. 
From the point of view of philosophy the question of the objective 
vaUdity of the metaphysical postulates and presuppositions of 
rehgion may, of course, be important, but not from the standpoint 
of positive science; for science, from its very methods, could 
undertake no such inquiry. The question of the objective vaUdity 
of religious concepts, in other words, need not necessarily be raised 
in order to pass judgment upon religion as a factor in individual 
and social life, nor to reach a practical faith in reUgion as a social 
agency.^ The practical educationist rarely raises any question 
concerning the objective validity of the concepts with which he 
deals; so too, the practical rehgionist. Why then should the 
scientific man, as soon as he approaches the matter of rehgion, in 
so many instances, immediately insist on turning philosopher and 
raising questions as to the objective validity of the concepts of 
religion, and so befogging the whole issue as to the practical utiUty 
of rehgion in individual and social Hfe ? 

The only answer to this question, unless we assume that the 
scientific mind has some peculiar vice in its nature, must be that 
the concepts of reUgion have puzzled the scientific man much more 
than the concepts of education. He is, in other words, more 
troubled to give any practical or positive scientific content to 
those concepts; and as they are phenomena of a sort which usually 
he has no methods of investigating, he is tempted to reject them 
altogether, and to ascribe to them only a negative significance. 
But the progress of modern science has made it possible to investi- 
gate even these phenomena of rehgious concepts by scientific 
methods, and to give them a positive scientific content. The 
negative attitude of scientific men toward rehgion, in other words, 
such as was common in the eighteenth century, is no longer justi- 
fiable today. That attitude might have been excusable in the 
eighteenth century, both because of lack of knowledge and lack 

' The form of argument of those who take a negative attitude toward religion 
is usually somewhat as follows: Religion is superstition, because there is no proof of 
the objective vaUdity of its concepts; but superstition is harmful to society; therefore, 
religion is harmful to society. These persons do not seem to realize that almost exactly 
the same form of argument could be used against moraUty, law, education, or any other 
regulative institution of society. 


of scientijSc methods for the investigation of the phenomena in 
question. But today we can no longer say that either the knowl- 
edge or the methods for understanding religion practically and 
socially are lacking. Such students of religion as Starbuck,^ 
Coe,* Pratt,3 Marshall,^ Ward,s Patten,^ King,' and Ames,^ to 
mention only a few among many, have laid bare for us the practical 
meaning and functioning in human Hfe of religious beliefs and 
practices. It is not the purpose of this paper to add anything 
to what the above writers have said, but rather to recapitulate 
and summarize some of their ideas from a sociological point of 
view, in order to show the bearing of religion upon the social life 
of the present and its place in social evolution. Nor is it the 
purpose of this paper to discuss the intricacies of rehgious psychol- 
ogy, or the much-debated problems of rehgious origins, but rather 
to indicate as clearly as possible, with our present knowledge, the 
practical and psychological connections between reUgion and 
man's social Hfe. To do this we must, however, get a clear con- 
ception of what reUgion is in its essence psychologically and 

What, then, is reUgion? We must, of course, distinguish 
between reHgion and reUgions. Like everything else in human 
Ufe, reHgion has evolved, that is, changed with the changing con- 
ditions of man's cultural evolution. The various forms through 
which reHgion has passed by no means always give a clear indica- 
tion of the nature of reHgion in itself. Just as education has 
passed through many forms, representing the many different 
stages and types of cultural evolution, so, Hkewise, has reHgion. 
Just as education has taken many forms which, from our present 
point of view, we would unhesitatingly condemn, so, too, has 
reHgion. ReHgion can be a power for evil, as well as for good, in 
man's Hfe. Our only contention is that it is always a powerful 

' The Psychology of Religion. 

' The Spiritual Life. s Pure Sociology. 

i Psychology of Religious Belief. ' The Social Basis of Religion. 

* Instinct and Reason. ' The Development of Religion. 

' The Psychology of Religious Experience. Among the very recent works touching 
upon the connections of religion and social life are Leuba's Psychological Study of 
Religion and Miss Harrison's Themis: A Study of the Social Origins of Greek Religion. 


factor, and one which, like education, can scarcely be dispensed 
with in the more complex stages of social evolution, even though 
it may be made to serve the evil, as well as the good, in human life. 
None of the forms of reHgion which we find in human history is 
essential to religion as such, and undoubtedly religion has not yet 
attained its complete development any more than education has 
yet reached its complete development. However, just as there 
are certain fundamentals in education which are possibly settled, 
or in a process of settlement, so also there are certain fundamentals 
in religion which men may agree upon, for all practical purposes, 
as settled or in the process of settlement. Our enthusiasm for 
the evolutionary point of view should not, of course, prevent us 
from seeing that there are certain truths in science, reUgion, edu- 
cation, and government, which we may accept as fundamentals 
upon which to build. 

Neither must one confuse religion with theology and mythology. 
Theologies and mythologies are products of religion in interaction 
with man's reason and imagination, but they are not themselves 
reUgion. Theological creeds may possibly be an essential part 
of reHgion in certain stages of its evolution, but reHgions have 
often existed without any well-defined theological creeds. Theol- 
ogies, as intellectual attempts at the interpretation of religion, 
appear and disappear; but religion remains. It would be a gross 
error, therefore, to confuse the social effects of reHgion with the 
social effects of theological creeds. 

How shall we, then, define reHgion in its essence, as distinct 
from its specific historic forms on the one hand, and from theology 
and mythology on the other? Tylor's celebrated definition of 
reUgion, in its lowest terms, as "beHef in spiritual beings" points the 
way to a true conception of reHgion. We must remember, how- 
ever, that man has always counted himself a spiritual being. 
Religion, therefore, not only includes man's beHef in spiritual 
life outside of himself, but also man's beUef in his own spiritual 
Ufe; it impHes not only an attitude on man's part toward external 
objects, but also an attitude toward himself. PracticaUy, there- 
fore, reHgion is belief in the reality of spiritual life. It is essentiaUy 
an emotional, a valuing, attitude toward the universe; it is the 


attitude which projects mind, spirit, Hfe into all things. ReHgion 
is, therefore, a mental attitude which finds the essential values 
of human personality and society in the universe as a whole, or, 
as in the lower rehgions, in material objects. It would be a mis- 
take, however, to suppose from this description that religion is 
simply animistic philosophy. This is a view which is often upheld 
by scientific men who take a negative attitude toward religion. 
Thus, according to Guyau,^ reHgion is simply crude, popular 
philosophy, "simply a mythical and sociomorphic theory of the 
universe," which will pass away with the growth of science. Comte 
is also frequently represented as implying a similar view in his 
celebrated law of the three states of man's intellectual conceptions; 
namely, the law that in the first or primitive state man was theologi- 
cal in his conceptions; in the second or transitional state, meta- 
physical, while in the third or final state he will be wholly scientific. 
But Comte was at considerable pains in his later life himself to 
refute this interpretation of his philosophy. Comte's view was 
that, while man would more and more give up his primitive, anthro- 
pomorphic way of viewing things, he would not thereby become 
less religious, only his religion would become of a more scientific, 
and so of a more purely subjective, character. 

Even if we define reUgion in terms of beHef, it is evident that 
it is much more than a philosophy, a way of looking at things. 
It is rather an attitude of the will and of the emotions. It is 
primarily a valuing attitude. Perhaps emotion is the most vivid 
conscious element in distinctly religious states of mind, and 
Haeckel's characterization of reUgion as "cosmic emotion" is not 
without psychological value. At any rate, reUgion in all its forms 
involves an emotional attitude toward the universe, especially 
toward the unknown powers or agencies which are beHeved to be 
behind its phenomena. Practically, therefore, religion is a desire 
to come into right relations with these unknown powers or agencies." 
Hence the "sense of dependence" in reUgion, which many thinkers 
since Schleiermacher have thought to be its principal element. 
The object of nearly all rcUgious practices, whether savage or 

• In his Non-Religion of the Future. 

* Cf. Howerth, Work and Life, chap, xii, especially p. 264. 


civilized, is help, either personal or social; or, as Ward says, 
''The primary purpose of religion was at the beginning and has 
always remained salvation," that is, safety in both a social and 
personal sense. Hence the element in religion of opposition to 
evils which are believed to be removable in some spiritual way. 
Religious feehng is, therefore, most profoundly experienced in 
situations in which the need of help is felt, and in which it is beHeved 
that such help can come only from some superhuman source. 
Thus rehgious emotion is, usually and normally, profoundly 
experienced in the presence of death; but it may arise in any 
situation whatsoever when we look at Hfe or things from the 
spiritual standpoint, that is, believing in the reality of spiritual 
things. Thus in the modern world rehgious emotion is frequently 
experienced most profoundly in some form of humanitarian work. 
If this brief psychological description of rehgion is at all correct, 
then it is evident that rehgion springs from the whole nature of 
man. The sunplest description of rehgion .impHes man's self- 
consciousness, his consciousness of himself as a conscious or 
spiritual being, over against the rest of the universe, with its 
unknown powers and agencies. Undoubtedly, the fact that man 
is the only rehgious animal is, therefore, to be connected with his 
self-consciousness and his powers of abstract thought and of reason- 
ing. It is impossible to conceive of man developing these higher 
intellectual powers without developing rehgion at the same time. 
But rehgion is equally rooted in man's insdncts and emotions as 
much as in his inteUectual hfe. The practical trend of all rehgion 
toward social and self-preservation, toward personal and group 
safety, is sufficient evidence of this, though ah the other char- 
acteristics of rehgion which we have just mentioned point in the 
same direction. Given, then, the intellectual, emotional, and 
instinctive nature of man, rehgion inevitably arises as soon as 
man tries to take a valuing attitude toward his universe, no matter 
how smaU and mean that universe may be. 

If rehgion from the psychological standpoint is primarily a 
set of values, how is it that these values come to function socially ? 
The reply is that rehgious values are built up socially; they are 
products, not of one individual mind, but of the collective mental 


life of a group. They are built up, in other words, through mental 
interaction, become a part of the common store of ideas of a group, 
and are transmitted by tradition from generation to generation. 
Almost any religious concept will illustrate this. Let us take, for 
example, the concept of god. When we examine the concept of 
god we find that invariably it is built up from social experiences. 
In its earliest stages of development the idea of the divinity 
represents crudely some particular personal trait or character 
which is valued. At a later date the idea stands for an ideal of 
personal character which has been peculiarly appreciated by the 
group, such as that of the character of an ancestor or a king. 
But the god is always thought of as a socius, as a member of the 
group. The values found in the god-concept, in other words, are 
always those which have been derived from social experiences of 
one sort or another. As Professor Ames says, "The growth and 
objectification of the god goes hand in hand with the social experi- 
ence and achievements of the nation." This is well illustrated 
by the reUgious history of the Hebrew people. Their concept 
of Yahweh gradually expanded from that of a tribal national god 
of patriarchal and king-like character, who was lord of the tribal 
hosts, to that of a universal deity, father of all the nations of the 
earth, possessing not only the attributes of patriarch, but also 
those of a social redeemer and savior. Nearly all of these values, 
which came to be attached to the god-concept among the Hebrews, 
were directly derived, it may be added, from the social experience 
involved in the Hebrew family life. The concept of god thus in 
time comes to represent the ideal of personal character, while 
the concept of "the will of god" stands for all the values connected 
with the social order to which the group attaches importance. It 
may be here suggested that the reason why the Greeks failed to 
develop a high concept of god, while the Hebrews did, was because 
Greek social and national Hfe never presented the unity and 
harmony which the social life of the Hebrews did at its best, 
though, of course, we must not forget the part played by the 
so-called genius of the two peoples, the genius of the Greeks being 
primarily artistic, while the genius of the Hebrews was primarily 
social and moral. 


Any religious concept other than that of the deity will 
represent equally well the fact that such concepts are primarily 
and psychologically projections of social values. Thus the con- 
cept of the immortahty of the soul, which we find more or less 
developed in all rehgions, is unquestionably social in its content. 
The idea that death does not end all, but that personaHty lives 
on, permits at once an indefinite extension of all social and moral 
values. The justice, or even the revenge, which could not be 
reaUzed in the present world will be achieved in the existence 
beyond the grave. Self-seeking, pessimism, despair, and all other 
enemies of the social order are thus put to flight, while disinterested 
service, faith, and hope are encouraged because they will receive 
their reward in the Hfe beyond. The pictures of heaven, or of 
the abode of the righteous, which we find among both barbarous 
and civiHzed peoples, are nearly always pictures of ideal societies, 
the social ideal, of course, expanding with the growth of the social 
life of the people. 

Again, the concepts of personal responsibility and of individual 
freedom in working out one's own destiny, which we so generally 
find associated with reHgion, are clearly social values. Social 
groups could scarcely exist without the inculcation to some extent 
of the doctrines of personal freedom and responsibility. So we 
might go on with a whole Hst of rehgious concepts, and we should 
find no difficulty in showing that psychologically they are socially 
derived; that they are projections of social values; and that their 
main function is social. As Professor Ames says, in effect, religion 
is identified with the most intimate and vital phases of social con- 
sciousness, that is, the consciousness of groups of the continuity 
and soHdarity of their Hfe. "The ideal values of each age," he 
says, "and of each type of social development tend to reach an 
intensity, a volume, and a symbolic expression which are rehgious." 
He concludes, therefore, that "reUgion is participation in the ideal 
values of the social consciousness," a conclusion which our argu- 
ment has already foreshadowed.^ 

' Psychology of Religious Experience, p. 356. This narrower, sociological defi- 
nition is, of course, not in conflict with the broader definition earUer given of religion 
as "belief in the reality of spiritual life," since such belief is the basis upon which 


Now, man everywhere, and civilized man in particular, seeks 
to control his conduct by a series of conscious values. Some of 
these values are, of course, peculiarly individualistic, or hedonistic, 
as we say, that is, they are based upon individual feelings of pleasure 
or pain. Other values, however, are more objective and social. 
They come to the individual through tradition or are impressed 
upon the individual through various forms of social pressure. 
Moral and reUgious values are particularly of the latter type; 
they are elaborated, in other words, not so much through individual 
feeUng experiences, as through experiences as to social or group 
safety and ideals. They come, therefore, as already has been said, 
to the individual very largely from the group, either through hand- 
ing down from the past, or through the pressure of the consensus of 
opinion and sentiment in the group. It is almost unnecessary to 
argue for the close connection, psychologically and sociologically, 
of religion and morality. Theoretically, to be sure, they are 
separable. MoraHty has its beginnings in custom, and still further 
back, perhaps, in instinct, while reUgion had its beginnings in self- 
consciousness, in man's consciousness of himself as a spiritual 
being. The moral standards of low civilizations, therefore, may 
not be greatly in advance of the actual social Hfe, but through 
intellectual development and especially through the stimulus of 
religious ideas, moral ideals of a higher sort gradually develop. 
These ideals, as we have already said, tend to reach in turn an 
intensity and symbolic expression which are essentially reUgious. 
On the other hand, there cannot be reverence or worship of a divinity 
without impHcations of obligation; but, as we have already seen, 
the idea of the divinity itself has been developed essentially through 
social experience. Hence religious obligations easily become 
social obHgations. Thus, even in the lowest forms of animism and 

all faith in ideal values rests. The broader definition looks at religion from the stand- 
point of the universal (human) subject, the narrower regards religion as functioning 
in the social life. A definition of rehgion suggested by Professor Giddings, "faith in 
the possibilities of life," is essentially identical also with the broader definition, since 
practically the "faith" is in the efficacy and triumph of the spiritual elements in hfe. 
Such psychological definitions have the merit of bringing out clearly the fact that 
religion is much more than a mere cultural or "social" product; that it is rooted in 
the whole biological and psychological nature of man. 


fetishism, we frequently find already quite fully developed implica- 
tions of social obligation. From the very method of their psychic 
and social development, therefore, religious beliefs become early 
entangled with moral standards and ideals. Moreover, from a 
social standpoint, there is need for moral ideals of a sanction which 
is universal, and that sanction can be found only in the belief in the 
reality and universahty of spiritual values. Such a belief is, how- 
ever, essentially religious. The interdependence of morality and 
religion, from both the psychological and sociological standpoints, 
is, therefore, scarcely to be doubted. 

Now, the great social significance of religion is, of course, to 
be found in the support which religion has given in all stages of 
human culture to custom, moral standards, and moral ideals. For 
the masses of every civiHzation moral ideals have gotten their 
chief sanction, their vital hold, from religion. While we are not 
warranted in affirming that morality of a high type cannot exist 
in individuals without reHgious beliefs of some sort, for that would 
leave out the influence of inborn tendencies and of habit upon 
human nature, yet we can say that practically morality has never 
subsisted in human society without religious sanctions. Let us 
examine, however, this matter a Httle more closely, and when we 
understand exactly the functions of religion in human society, we 
shall see more clearly the close connection between the two. 

There is first of all the conservative influence of religion upon 
the social life. In all ages and among all peoples reHgion has been 
a powerful instrument of social control, because it adds a super- 
natural sanction to conduct. It would be a great mistake to sup- 
pose that primitive institutions, to any extent, had their origin 
in religious behefs or sentiments, as their origin is undoubtedly to 
be found mainly in the human instincts and in the necessities of 
the conditions of fife; but everywhere in primitive society, after 
institutions of a certain type have been estabUshed, we find that 
reUgion comes in to sanction them and to give them through its 
sanction great stabiHty. Religious values commonly attach them- 
selves in such early society to habits of action which have been 
found to be safe and to conduce to individual and group welfare. 
They reinforce the habits and so also the institutions founded upon 


them. Thus, practically all institutions of later savagery, barbar- 
ism, and lower civilization are surrounded and imbedded, as it 
were, in religious sanctions. So religion becomes the great means 
of social control in these societies, sometimes consciously used as 
such by a priest class, more often, however, a means of control 
which is exercised by the group as a whole quite unconsciously. 
Here comes in, however, the great danger in reHgion, that it may 
become an impediment to progress and an instrument of class 
oppression. For when a religious sanction becomes attached to an 
institution, it often becomes very difficult to secure changes in the 
institution even when conditions demand them. Thus human 
sacrifice, polygamy, slavery, and practically all other institutions 
which we now detest have at one time or other received the sanc- 
tion of reHgion, and when so sanctioned (as, e.g., polygamy) they 
are doubly difiicult to uproot. The only conclusion that we can 
reach is that rehgious values or sanctions may attach themselves 
to any existing institutions, and by so doing they render them much 
more stable, and so also the whole social order. 

This conservative function of reHgion in the social Hfe has 
been perceived by practically all sociologists, but the theory of 
religion advocated by the late Professor Lester F. Ward states it 
most clearly." According to Ward, "religion is the substitute 
among rational beings for instinct among irrational beings"; just 
as instinct works for a static condition of Hfe, so reHgion works for 
a stationary condition of society. This is due to the fact that 
reHgion itself is a sort of vague sense of race or social safety, Ward 
thinks. In rational or reflective beings, he says, there is an antago- 
nism between f eeHng and function. FeeHng tends in rational beings 
to variations in conduct which are not in accord with race or group 
safety. Hence, reHgion has evolved, according to Ward, as a 
purely natural, half -instinctive device to restrict the demands of 
f eeHng, which would hurry the race, if not the individual, to destruc- 
tion. ''Without the religious check," Ward says, " the human race 
would have been borne to destruction by the extravagant vagaries 
of unbridled reason." Thus Ward conceives of both f eeHng and 

'See his article on "The Essential Nature of Religion" in The Internationa 
Journal of Ethics, VIII, 169-92. 


reason as essentially individualistic, needing the restraint of some 
ultra-rational force such as religion. This is, also, essentially the 
theory which was advocated by Benjamin Kidd in his Social 
Evolution. Ward concludes that religion may be called " the social 
instinct"; that its mission in society is to conserve existing institu- 
tions; and that its highest word is, "thou shalt not." 

Such a view of rehgion is, of course, partial and one-sided, but 
it is remarkable in that it came from a scientist whose presuppo- 
sitions are those of materialistic monism. Ward's description of 
rehgion, however, appKes with greater accuracy to the lower types 
of religion than to the higher types. There can be no question, 
however, but that the conservative tendencies of all rehgion are 
strong, and that progressive and idealistic reUgions are extremely 
rare in human history, taking it as a whole. However, rehgion 
is not of necessity merely conservative in its influence in human 
society. Whether it is conservative or not altogether depends upon 
the type of moral ideals which it sanctions. In higher rehgions, 
at any rate, we can plainly enough see the inherent tendency to 
favor social progress. The very fact that these rehgions have for 
the most part gotten their ideals from the family hfe, such as, for 
example, the ideal of brotherhood, makes them intimately con- 
nected with all forms of social ideahsm; for social and moral ideals 
come from the intimate, personal forms of association. Moreover, 
the connection between rehgion and social idealism is seen in the 
individual especially clearly at the period of adolescence, which is 
usually not only a period of natural ideahsm, but also of strong 
rehgious emotions. The concepts of rehgion, such as those of God, 
the immortahty of the soul, and personal responsibihty, which are 
themselves social ideals, as we have seen, become, when sufficiently 
worked out, the psychological basis in the normal human individual 
for social ideahsm, simply because they project and universahze 
social values. Rehgion thus becomes not only a reaction against 
social degeneration, as Patten says, but a support for Utopian social 
ideals, Utopian, that is, in the sense that they have never yet been 
even approximately reahzed in human society. Rehgion is always 
participation in the ideal values of the social hfe. If these ideal 
values are conservative, then of course rehgion itself becomes 


conservative and even a stumbling-block to all progress. On the 
other hand, if the ideal values of a community are progressive, then 
its religion, too, will be progressive and may even become the very 
highest instrument of progress. 

The significance of religion in cultural and social evolution must 

now be manifest, and the reason why the history of a certain type 

of culture is frequently the history of a particular religion becomes 

evident. Cultural evolution is possible only through the continuity 

of ideas and of social values in human society. Civilization, in 

other words, is made possible by handing down from age to age 

certain ideas and certain social values. Now it is reUgion which 

has hitherto given particular value to the social ideas and social 

ideals which are handed down. Not only that, but through its 

pecuUar sanctions religion has made it possible easily to enforce 

the claims of these ideas and social values upon the individual. It 

has been, in other words, one of the chief instruments by which 

the individual has been gotten to conform his habits to the group, 

and to control his conduct in accordance with social demands. 

The question remains, however, whether human society cannot 

dispense with religious means of social control in the future, as 

many philosophers have thought. But it is evident that as human 

society becomes more complex the need of social control over the 

individual's habits, conduct, and ideals becomes greater instead 

of less. The more complex civilizations, in other words, have 

greater need, on the whole, of the control which religious ideals 

afford over the conduct of individuals than the less complex. The 

matter is not, however, one wholly of the mere complexity of civiU- 

zation, because the civilizations which we call higher emphasize 

more the value of purely spiritual elements, that is. the value of 

things which can have no selfish or material import to the individual, 

but whose import is entirely in the realm of ideal social values. 

Now, as we have already said, religion is the participation in the 

ideal values of the social consciousness. It is the fullest activity, 

in other words, of the spiritual life in man. The supreme role of 

reUgion, therefore, in the higher stages of human culture, is to 

enforce the claim to dominance in the life of man of the ideal social 

values. That is, it exalts the life in which the individual merges 


his personal interests, desires, and aspirations with his group, or, as 
in the highest religion, with humanity as a whole. For this reason, 
so far as we can now see, the death of religion would mean the death 
of civilization, or, at least, of all the higher forms of civilization. 

But if religion is participation in, and universalization of, the 
ideal values of the social consciousness, is there any danger that it 
will ever be destroyed ? The reply is that there is danger from two 
sources. First there is danger from the animal impulses of human 
nature. Civilization is at best a very fragile affair, simply because 
it rests upon certain ideal social values. There is a strong, insistent 
tendency in man, whenever these ideal values lose their grip, to 
return to the animal level of existence; that is, there is a strong 
tendency in human nature to be satisfied with sensual pleasures, 
with mere material things which can be enjoyed. Materiahstic 
standards of life and happiness are therefore inimical to religion 
in all its higher phases, as has usually been seen by rehgious leaders. 
The other great danger to religion is negative philosophy, a way 
of looking at things, in other words, which denies the reality of the 
spiritual element in human life. Materialistic or mechanistic 
monism, with its negation of the spiritual element in Hfe, must be 
considered hostile to religion, even though not all of its advocates 
so regard it. Mechanistic monism is hostile to rehgion because it 
denies either the existence or the efficacy of a spiritual or teleological 
element in the universe, and even the practical efficacy of conscious 
values in the individual Hfe. On the other hand, science cannot 
rightly be regarded as hostile to religion. It is only when science, 
by its teachings, tends to support either practical, materialistic 
standards of life or a negative philosophy that it may become 
hostile to religion. There may be, of course, and often has been, 
an antagonism between science and systems of theology, but this, 
as was said at the beginning, must not be thought to imply any 
necessary antagonism between religion and science. Science 
becomes antagonistic to religion only in proportion as it tends to 
transform itself into mechanistic monism, and to set up the nega- 
tions of such materialism as a guide to practical life. To be sure, 
science has of recent years showed some tendency, in the hands 
of some of its adherents, to transform itself into a universal 


materialistic or mechanistic philosophy; but it may be safely said 
that in proportion as science does this it loses its truly scientific 
character. The so-called antagonism between religion and science 
must therefore be resolved into the antagonism of certain scientific 
men to religion. It cannot be regarded as in any sense an inherent or 
necessary antagonism. On the other hand, the attitude of science 
toward religion must necessarily be one of constructive criticism. 
Just as the attitude of science toward systems of education is neces- 
sarily one of criticism for the sake of reconstructing and perfect- 
ing education, so should be the attitude of science toward religion. 
It is the business of science to criticize religion as an instrument 
of the social life, but not to attack its metaphysical postulates and 
presuppositions. This critical attitude of science toward religion 
is often misinterpreted as antagonism; but it is time that religion 
seeks and welcomes, in my opinion, the friendly criticisms of science. 
For between humanitarian science and humanitarian religion there 
can and will be no real antagonism. 

What then shall we say of non-religious persons? If religion 
is participation in the ideal values of the social consciousness, why 
is it there are so many non-religious persons in present society? 
Of course we do not expect mentally deficient persons, born 
criminals, or even "the sporting type" to be truly religious. 
Neither do we expect those who are satisfied with purely material- 
istic and sensuous values to be strongly religiously inclined. But 
we find, besides these, highly intellectual people, specialists along 
certain scientific lines, as well as sometimes social and philanthropic 
workers, who declare that they have no religion. In many cases, 
of course, these people are simply confused regarding terms. They 
may mean that they do not accept any conventional theology, or 
else they may mean that they have given up their traditional 
religion, and have not yet successfully evolved in their own con- 
sciousness anything which they think worthy of the name of religion 
to take its place. In some cases, however, these non-religious 
persons are truly non-religious, because they have come to take, 
not only in theory, but also in practice, a negative attitude toward 
the spiritual element in fife. They do not participate, in other 
words, in the ideal values of the consciousness of their social group. 


because they have narrowed their own point of view and their own 
activities until that is impossible. We must, therefore, agree 
with Professor Ames,^ that truly ''non-religious persons are those 
who fail to enter vitally into a world of social activities and feelings. 
They are lacking in the sense of ideal values which constitutes the 
social conscience." 

If religion is of such importance in the social life, if it is such a 
power for good or evil, then the question, what sort of religion can 
society afford to encourage, becomes one of vital interest. Just 
as there have been systems of education which have blocked all 
social progress, perpetuated abuses of power, and degraded and 
enslaved the masses, so there have been systems of religion which 
have done the same thing. If rehgion has not always worked to the 
highest social advantage in the past, so in the future it may possibly 
work to social disadvantage unless properly guided and controlled 
m Its development. What religion does depends altogether upon 
the ideals which it champions. Modern society, therefore, needs 
a religion adapted to the requirements of modern Hfe. Now, the 
great need, in my opinion, of modern civilization is a humanitarian 
ethics which will teach the individual to find his self development 
and his happiness in the unselfish service of others, and which will 
forbid any individual, class, nation, or even race from regarding 
Itself as an end in itself apart from the rest of humanity. Only 
such an ethics can solve the social problem, or, for that matter, any 
of the problems which threaten our civiHzation with disintegration 
But such an ethics, in order to be vital, must become a part of our 
rehgion. A humanitarian rehgion, for the reasons which we have 
already pointed out, is a necessary foundation and complement 
of a humanitarian ethics. Therefore the only religion which modern 
society can afford to encourage is a religion of humanity, a religion 
which will put the service of man above all other ends and values. 
Such a completely socialized religion placing the service of human- 
ity above the service of any class, nation, or race may seem to some 
yet far m the future; and in a sense, this, of course, is true. Never- 
theless, it must be added that Christianity thus far is the only 
rehgion, among the widespread rehgions of the earth, which has 
' Psychology of Religious Experience, p. 369. 


shown any tendency to become a true religion of humanity in the 
sense in which we have just used that phrase; and I would further 
add, as my own personal opinion, that Christianity rightly under- 
stood is, in its fundamental principles, essentially a religion of 
humanity. There can be no question, at any rate, but that its 
fundamental ethical doctrines are identical with the humanitarian 
ethics which we have just described. 

A word in conclusion as to the social functions of the church. 
The church, as the institution organized to embody concretely 
the religious life in society, should, of course, be co-ordinate in 
importance with religion itself, for if religion is to be a vital influence 
in society, it must find concrete embodiment in some institution. 
But all human institutions, after they have reached a certain 
development, have an insidious tendency to forget the purposes 
for which they were organized, and to set themselves up as ends in 
and of themselves. Historically, of course, the Christian church 
has often done this. But in proportion as it has done so it has 
abdicated its true function. The church exists to serve the great 
interests of rehgion in society; that is, it exists to serve those ideal 
values for which religion stands. Therefore, the social function of 
the church is to conserve and propagate religious and moral ideals 
in society. Its great business is to enforce the demands of the 
spiritual life. In this work, of course, it may at times take up 
other activities than the teaching and propagation of moral ideals. 
It may undertake, for example, to head reform movements at 
times, to aid in the encouragement and development of philan- 
thropy, or even to minister to men's economic and physical needs. 
But all of these activities are but side-issues to its great business 
of the conservation and development of moral and social ideals. 
I would say, therefore, that the primary function of the church 
is to be "an ethical culture society," if that phrase had not acquired 
such a narrow meaning in the minds of some that it might be 
misunderstood. At any rate, there can be no doubt that the 
church's main function is to stand for the claims of the spiritual 
hfe; and that as yet it is the only institution which has seriously 
charged itself with the conservation and propagation of moral and 
social ideals. Even though it has done its work at times very 


imperfectly and faultily for the reasons already mentioned, it is 
evident that it still has a field of social usefulness in some respects 
greater and more important than that of any other human institu- 
tion. The social reconstruction of the future must wait largely on 
the teaching and activities of the church; no other institution as 
yet, as has already been said, definitely undertakes to propagate 
moral and social ideals; and civilization depends not only for its 
further advance, but for its very existence, upon the propagation 
among the masses of ideal social values. Until, therefore, we have 
a church that is effective socially, law and government, science and 
education will not do much to give us a social life that is harmonious 
and truly progressive, or a human life that is moral and truly 


Chicago, Illinois 

In Great Britain some time ago a series of very grave and indus- 
trially disastrous strikes led not only to very radical — revolution- 
ary, many Tories called it — legislation in the interest of organized 
labor, but to a national searching of hearts, and to inquiries into the 
nature and probable effects of the upheaval that was manifestly 
taking place. One popular London newspaper opened its columns 
to a discussion of ''What the Worker Wants" from every point of 
view. Employers, land owners, economists, labor leaders, eminent 
lawyers, and trained social workers contributed to the symposium, 
which was subsequently published in pamphlet form. We shall see 
presently that the suggestions made, or the conclusions reached, in 
that exceptionally interesting discussion are of great value and 

In the United States, in addition to the familiar kinds of strikes 
and lockouts, which cause much loss, suffering, and bad blood, we 
have witnessed new types of strikes — strikes in which systematic 
destruction of property, with grave risk to life, was a conspicuous 
feature. The McNamara trial and confessions, the recent 
Indianapolis "dynamite conspiracy" trial, the "SyndicaUst" way of 
conducting strikes, the bold propaganda of class war and sabotage 
have put new vitality and poignancy into the discussion of the labor 
question, A number of eminent and ea!rnest educators, sociologists, 
and philanthropists urged upon the President and Congress the 
creation of a representative industrial commission for the purpose of 
investigating the causes of such startling phenomena as the dyna- 
mite outrages by and for labor, the insistence upon the closed shop, 
the use of syndicalism, etc. The commission was created and Presi- 
dent Taft appointed its nine members. The disappointment which 
was widely and justly expressed with the personnel of the commis- 
sion, and the delay caused thereby, need not concern us here; the 



important thing is the general recognition of the gravity of the 
situation and the desirabiHty of a disinterested and profound study 
of the whole labor problem. 

Yet, without the aid of commissions or formal inquiries, official 
or private, the thoughtful observer and student should be able to 
give a tolerably satisfactory statement of the demands and aims of 
labor. The material is abundant — annual reports of national , state, 
and local unions, speeches, pamphlets, editorials, and articles in the 
labor press. It can no longer be affirmed that labor is inarticulate; 
it speaks, it acts, and it has its philosophers, historians, and econo- 
mists. Whether "what labor wants " is something that society can 
grant, that other classes can approve and sympathize with and 
help labor to obtain, is a different question, a question for social 

Let us make a modest attempt to formulate labor's demands and 
expectations, and even a more modest attempt to indicate the judg- 
ment of catholic scientists and progressive sociologists on the 
demands and expectations. 

And, first, what is labor ? There are today three grand divisions 
in the labor army. There are the ''old-fashioned" or moderate 
trade unionists; there are the socialistic elements, in or out of these 
unions, and, finally, there are the syndicalists, the advocates of 
"industrial" forms of organizations. 

The modern unionist has not modified his views materially in 
twenty-five years. He is no revolutionist; he does not dream of 
overthrowing the whole social order. He has no quarrel with the 
wage system, private property in the means of production, the profit 
principle. He merely demands "a. fair day's pay for a fair day's 
work." He constantly strives to secure higher wages, to shorten his 
work-day, to improve the conditions under which he works. True, 
his standards change. As Mr. Samuel Gompers frankly states, 
union labor will never "have enough." It will always be demanding 
more pay, shorter hours, and safer and healthier conditions of work. 
It will be demanding these things because society and industry, 
invention and discovery will never cease to advance, to raise the 
standards of Kving. Union labor crosses no bridges until it reaches 
them; it plumes itself on its reasonableness and practicality. It 



deals with immediate problems and has no dogmas or Utopian goals. 
In demanding the right to strike, to boycott, to bargain collectively, 
to exclude non-union labor, its leaders are prompted by no political 
or moral formula. These things are means to an end, and labor 
denies that either the means or the end would endanger the legiti- 
mate interests of other elements of society. In discussing either 
trade-union leaders are entirely willing to abide by the rule of 
reason; and this is why the average trade union seldom, if ever, 
rejects a fair proposal of arbitration. It beUeves that broad- 
minded employers themselves, after friendly discussion, would 
cheerfully accede to the demands of labor. It relies strongly on the 
human factor; it is convinced that "the enemy" is not capital, 
or the employing class, but prejudice, ignorance, distrust, lack of 
sympathy and comprehension. 

Now what has social science to say to such unionism ? Little 
that is not wholly favorable. Science, like plain hard sense, believes 
in the virtue of "reasoning together," of adjusting differences by 
conciliation and arbitration. It believes in union, organization, 
and system. The sort of science which, some fifty years ago, con- 
demned trade union in principle, and saw neither necessity nor 
advantage in collective bargaining, was not scientific. A certain 
school of economics dogmatized arrogantly and mistook assump- 
tions for facts. It talked of wage funds that could not be increased 
by unionism; it talked of fundamental harmonies; it talked of 
free markets and absolute mobiUty of labor and capital. It was 
severely logical and beautifully simple. The only trouble is that 
the facts did not warrant its theories. There is no wage fund ; there 
are no absolutely free markets; there is no equality of opportunity; 
there is no absolute mobiUty of labor. Today pohtical economy 
is more modest and recognizes its Hmitations and its dependence 
on social science. And social science, again like hard sense, 
finds that moderate and reasonable trade unionism, while sound 
as far as it goes, does not go far enough, does not face ultimate 
problems, does not take sufficient account of inevitable tendencies. 
Science must go deeper and farther, since more and more workmen 
go deeper and farther. After all, whatever the moderate union 
leaders may say, strikes and lockouts are not always peaceful, and 


even when peaceful their cost represents so much waste. Industrial 
warfare and the fear of such warfare are bad for labor as well as for 
capital. Arbitration is better than tests of endurance, but arbitra- 
tion does not remove friction. It settles nothing permanently, 
while society realizes more and more the need of security and sta- 
bility. So does capital, and so does the philosophical trade unionist 
when he thinks of the future. 

The attempt to dip into the future leads more and more work- 
men to embrace socialism. This is why the poHcy of modern 
sociahsm with reference to union labor is one of "pacific penetra- 
tion," of aid and S3anpathy plus active propaganda. What the 
socialistic workman wants, we know. He is for government 
ownership and operation of industry. He is opposed to the wage 
system, to private control of the means of production. He sees no 
peace, no economy, no efficiency, no advance, except in a solution 
based on the estabHshment of industrial democracy. He is for 
independent political action of labor on a socialistic or semi- 
socialistic platform. We find larger and larger doses of sociahsm in 
trade-union programs. 

This is natural enough, but only the rash and enthusiastic 
sociaUst will predict the conversion of a majority of working-men 
and working-women to his creed. The candid and level-headed 
sociahst recognizes, first, that sociahsm has been evolving, under- 
going a serious transformation, making concessions to the spirit of 
individuaUsm, on the one hand, and to the spirit of reahsm, on the 
other; and he recognizes, secondly, that, in spite of these conces- 
sions and revisions, a revolt against sociahsm, as well as against the 
method of pohtical action, or parhamentary reform, is spreading 
among the very elements that were once counted on to carry 
socialism to victory. A study of so symptomatic a book as The 
Great State by H. G. Wells and others will convmce any intelHgent 
reader that socialism is gradually surrendering much of what was 
regarded as vital by the writers and leaders of the period of Marx, 
Engels, and Hyndman. Certainly social science has not been 
induced to put its seal on sociahsm. The objections to sociahsm — 
economic, social, psychological, moral — have not been met, and 
there is nothing in the trend of current discussion to indicate that 


they ever will be, or can be, met. It hardly needs saying that the 
adoption by states and nations of measures that have been called 
socialistic by friends or opponents signifies nothing in this connec- 
tion. It is puerile to say that, because we have established postal 
savings banks and a parcel post, because we have municipal trad- 
ing up to a certain point, or are contemplating without alarm 
government ownership and operation of railroads and telegraphs, 
society is bound to go all the way to complete sociaHsm. If history 
teaches anything, it teaches that programs are never carried out in 
life as they are worked out on paper. 

Nor is it merely a matter of inference and prediction. Already 
we observe an anti-socialist movement where it was least expected. 
The reference is to so-called syndicalism in the world of the prole- 
tariat. Syndicalism is as much a revolt against socialism as it is a 
repudiation of conservative trade unionism. What the syndicalist 
wants is decidedly not what the socialist wants. The syndicalist 
ideal is not state ownership and control of industry, but ownership 
and control by the workers themselves. The syndicalist is opposed 
to government by majorities of which middle-class voters, intel- 
lectuals, and professional men constitute a part. He has no room 
for "outsiders." The workers in any industry are to take over the 
industry and run it for their own benefit. And they are to do this 
without elections, ballots, or poHtical action. The syndicalists are 
for what they call '^direct action." By direct action they mean 
strikes, constant warfare, agitation, and organization against 
capitalists and employers as a class. Some of them look forward to 
a great general strike, to total paralysis of capitalistic industry, and 
to a sort of catastrophic expropriation of the masters. Others 
admit that the general strike is a myth, their idea being that effec- 
tive organization of labor, especially of unskilled labor, will render 
the great strike unnecessary. Much in syndicalism is crude, 
foolish, and even suicidal. The advocacy of sabotage (destruction of 
machinery, crippling of distribution and exchange, harrying of 
employers, etc.) will not long remain a feature of its programs. 
Opposition to conciliation, arbitration, the making and keeping of 
contracts with employers, is also bound to yield to the teaching of 
experience, pleasant or unpleasant. There is, fundamentally, no 


necessary connection between the principles and ideals of syndical- 
ism and such accidental, temporary excrescences as sabotage or the 
propaganda of hatred and chronic warfare. The quintessence of 
syndicalism, in short, need not be a criminal or pathological phe- 
nomenon. It is, in reality, reducible to three things — the substitu- 
tion of industrial unionism for trade unionism; the avoidance of 
pohtical action; and the repudiation of state sociaUsm. We can 
easily imagine the intelhgent syndicalist saying to a moderate trade 
unionist: *'I have far more in common with you than with the 
socialist. You do not depend on the ballot; you do not seek to 
form a political labor party. But your form of organization is 
ineffective; you cannot even strike successfully ; and you live from 
hand to mouth." 

Now it is merely stating a fact to say that syndicalism is no more 
entitled to claim scientific approval than state socialism is. The 
aggressive tone and confident pretensions of the syndicaHst philoso- 
phers, who speak in the name of science, history, and metaphysics, 
no more impose on the sober-minded student than did the equally 
arrogant claims of the socialists of the last haK of the nineteenth 

But social science has something to say in the premises. It 
finds a soul of good in things confused, erroneous, evil. It notes 
what the trade unionist wants, what the sociaHst wants, what the 
syndicalist wants — or what these think they want — and finds that 
the differences between them can be reconciled. Nay, it notes 
tendencies and beliefs among employers, as well as tentative con- 
clusions among disinterested observers, that point to the same recon- 
ciliation, the same adumbration of a synthesis and a solution. 

Let me state the indicated solution at once, and then offer 
significant proof, drawn from various quarters, of its soundness. 

As all roads once led to Rome, so today, in social and economic 
thinking, all arguments lead to one conclusion, namely — that society 
is moving toward co-operative industry and gradually displacing the 
capitalistic or wage system with its inevitable division of employers and 
employed into hostile camps. For evidence we may first turn to the 
symposium on " What Labor Wants " mentioned at the beginning of 
this paper. That symposium is, indeed, a document of rare value. 


The contributions thereto number exactly forty-eight, and of these 
the leading ones — the best informed, the most judicious and practi- 
cal — declare for co-operation or profit-sharing, in one form or 
another, as the only possible solution of the labor problem. 

Let me quote a few opinions. 

A. H. Gilkies, Headmaster of Dulwich College: "If the directors 
of labor cannot themselves see the way to deal with those whom they 
employ so as to avoid successful strikes, then proper arbiters should 
be created whose verdict should be final. I fancy that, to be fair, 
they would have to move in the direction of assignment to workers 
of some share in the profits of every business concern." 

The Rev. Lord William Gascoyne-Cecil : "Nothing allays the 
bitterness of the poor so much as the knowledge that rich people 
really care for their welfare ; and any mechanism which can procure 
the meeting of rich and poor nearly always produces very good 

results I think five things will remove the bitterness: 

rising wages, contact between classes, co-partnership, truthful poli- 
ticians, and a reasonable poor law." 

Lord Hugh Cecil, M.P. (son of the late Marquis of Salisbury) : 
"Almost everyone agrees that a partnership would be desirable. 

The doubt is whether its general adoption is possible It is 

very earnestly to be hoped that employees will endeavor to try the 
experiment wherever they think they can. By judiciously tried 
experiments we should learn very much and from the knowledge so 
acquired we might see our way to a more widespread extension of 
the remedy. And we must in frankness recognize that the existing 
system of self-interested competition is not one which can be abso- 
lutely justified Copartnership is not only an economic 

improvement, it is a moral advance. It is one step toward intro- 
ducing a larger element of mutual trust and regard into the business 
of gaining wealth." 

Philip Snowden, M.P.: " Until land and industrial capital are 
socially owned and industry is democratically controlled, there will 
be labor unrest." 

The Duchess of Hamilton: "Had every workman a personal 
interest in the success of the whole business for which he is working, 
as in the old guild organization, the question of work being done 
would not arise." 


Theodore Cook Taylor, M.P., woolen manufacturer and founder 
of a scheme of profit-sharing: "Some knowledge and twenty years' 
practical experience convince me that, of all expedients being dis- 
cussed, none has so few drawbacks and so many advantages as a sys- 
tem of profit-sharing and labor co-partnership Why should 

morals and economics be placed in antithesis ? The robbery of one 
class by another is always bad economics. The moralizing of 
industry tends not to general poverty, but to general wealth." 

Seebohm Rowntree, employer and authority on social questions: 
"The capitaUst should entirely shake off the idea that wage-earners 
are inferior beings, and should learn to regard them as valued and 
necessary partners in wealth production, partners with whose 
accredited representatives they may honorably discuss the propo- 
sitions in which the wealth jointly produced should be divided." 

Earl Grey, former governor-general of Canada: "If you wish to 
maintain the old friendly relations between employer and employed, 
you should establish your business on lines which will automati- 
cally create a feeling of loyalty on the part of all concerned to 
the industry with which they are connected. How is that to be 
done ? By copartnership. Ideal copartnership is a system under 
which worker and consumer share with capitaKsts in the profits of 

Dr. Arthur Shadwell : " Copartnership is the most rational of all 
the proposals, the most in harmony with reality, and the least dis- 
turbing. It has more often failed than succeeded in practice, as yet, 
but when it succeeds, its success is thorough. It certainly has a 
future, and it might be encouraged by loans to workmen; but it is 
not applicable to everything. A constructive and successful syndi- 
calism would be a form of copartnership." 

These quotations constitute a striking array of testimony. The 
idea of co-operation and profit-sharing is clearly in the air. Men in 
all classes and conditions are turning to it as affording a practical as 
well as scientific solution of the bitter and burning problem. I may 
mention the late Goldwin Smith, Dr. Eliot, President-Emeritus of 
Harvard, and Dr. Albion W. Small, the editor of this Journal, as 
influential champions of co-operation, profit-sharing, and industrial 
democracy. It may be added that the sociahst contributors to the 


symposium, whom I have not quoted, may properly be called as 
witnesses for the same side. They may not agree that copartner- 
ship is the final solution, but they would certainly accept it as a 
stride toward their goal. Mr. H. G. Wells, for example, while ad- 
vocating a great national plan of some sort, which, we may infer, 
would embody a considerable part of the socialistic program, 
admits that, for the present, a cure would be found in commercial 
partnership between employer and employed. The socialist who 
should obstinately refuse to encourage co-operation and systematic 
profit-sharing would write himself down a fanatic and bigot. The 
experience and thought of the last two decades have thoroughly 
discredited the "all or nothing" school or the school that beHeves 
that "the worse things are, the better for the proletariat." At a 
recent congress of German Social Democrats resolutions were 
passed favoring co-operation and urging support and recognition 
of it. A generation ago this would have been deemed treason and 
detestable heresy. 

If we have the right to count socialists as conscious or uncon- 
scious champions of co-operation and profit-sharing, it follows that 
the syndicalists may Hkewise be summoned to serve the same con- 
servative-progressive cause. As Dr. Shadwell recognizes, with 
other unprejudiced thinkers, "A constructive and successful 
syndicaHsm would be a form of copartnership." And is it not, after 
all, the central idea of industrial democracy without bureaucracy or 
outside interference that attracts the intelligent syndicalist ? Is it 
not certain that time must convince him that neither class warfare, 
nor violent expropriation of present owners, nor a great strike, nor 
opposition to poHtical action in every form can be regarded as a vital 
part of his ultimate creed ? Would he reject the aid of the state, or 
of the bourgeois and intellectual elements, toward realizing his ideal 
if he were satisfied of the sincerity of the proffer ? Would he insist 
on catastrophic transformation at any cost, even if evolutionary 
transition were demonstrated to be more natural and more favorable 
to labor itself ? Such questions answer themselves. 

It is interesting to note that the conclusion indicated above is 
also the conclusion of Professor and Abbe Dimnet, of the College 
Stanislas, of Paris, in a singularly impartial article on "Syndicalism 


and Its Philosophy" which appeared in the Atlantic for January. 
M. Dimnet is a good Catholic, and to him ideahsm is life and think- 
ing means Catholicism, but while emphasizing the need of ideahsm 
he admits that in co-operative industry and commerce are to be 
found "the most effective means of social and material improve- 
ment." He says: "Nothing can break the impulse which the syn- 
dicalist movement has now taken, and nobody with a sense of 
fairness can be sorry for it. There will be more and more syndicates 
and it is inevitable that their development should in time largely 
modify the economic and— to a certain extent— the present poHtical 

The modification of the economic (and of necessity also the 
political) conditions will not, one need hardly say, be the work of 
syndicalism alone. Trade unionism, sociaHsm, individuahstic oppo- 
sition to state or bureaucratic despotism will severally contribute 
to the same general result. The forces will act and react on one 
another, as well as on the existing highly unstable order of things. 
We are justified, it would seem, in thinking that all the streams of 
tendency converge toward a co-operative system. 

Reference has been made to the vain effort of socialism and syn- 
dicaUsm to usurp the authority of social and moral science. Have 
scientific economics and scientific sociology been taken unawares by 
the recent "discovery" of co-operation as a remedy for industrial 
unrest ? By no means. Fifty years ago John Stuart Mill, a broad- 
minded and far-sighted economist, attributed strikes and agitation 
to "the inequaHties of the industrial world due to the subjection of 
labor to monopoly and the enormous share which the possessors of 
the instruments of production are able to take from the produce." 
Mill was a fervent advocate of co-operation; he was even accused of 
leaning unduly toward a moderate form of sociaHsm. What 
attracted him, the champion of Hberty, in socialistic schemes was 
the element of democracy and equity embodied in co-operative 

Nay, we have a better authority than the semi-individualistic 
Mill. Herbert Spencer, the miHtant individualist, the bitter foe 
of the socialistic or half-sociahstic state, advocated and foresaw the 
spread of industrial and commercial co-operation. His chapter on 


"Co-operation" in his Principles of Sociology is one of the most 
progressive ever penned by him. In co-operation, he writes, "the 
transition from the compulsory co-operations of mihtancy to the 
voluntary co-operation of industrialism is completed." A wage- 
worker is not entirely free; he is cowed by fear of discharge, by the 
superintendent or foreman; he feels that he is under someone and 
working for another's benefit. Under co-operation the workman's 
activities are as voluntary as they can be, given man's physical needs 
and subordination to nature. Under co-operation the workman is 
his own employer, and no doubtful profit is taken out of his earnings. 
Spencer, after quoting reports of various co-operative enterprises, 
closes his chapter as follows : " Such few co-operative bodies .... 
might be the germs of a spreading organization. Admission into 
them would be the goal of working-class ambition. They would 
tend continually to absorb the superior, leaving outside the inferior 
to work as wage-earners; and the first would slowly grow at the 
expense of the last. Obviously, too, the growth would become 
increasingly rapid since the master-and-workman type of industrial 
organization could not withstand competition with this co-operative 
type so much more productive and costing so much less in super- 

Other sociologists and economists might be quoted to show that 
scientific thinkers years ago anticipated the growth of the co- 
operative idea. The "few" survivals of the time when Spencer 
wrote have in truth had many imitators. Wisdom in some cases, 
necessity in others; the initiative of capital here, of labor there, to 
say nothing of the eloquent example of distributive co-operation in 
England — all such influences have aided in the steady advance of 
co-operative production or profit-sharing. Failures are still not 
uncommon; workmen and even labor leaders are still suspicious of 
most forms of profit-sharing, and especially of the most natural and 
modern form of it— investment of labor's savings in the stocks and 
bonds of the corporations which employ it. Too many workmen 
still think of their freedom, dignity, and manhood in terms of 
strikes, boycotts, and anti-injunction acts. When a large employer 
or corporation suggests a scheme of profit-sharing, a scheme of stock- 
purchase by the employees on easy terms, some of the men scent 


danger and say or think that the whole purpose of the scheme is to 
weaken unionism, to discourage strikes, to divide labor. It is not 
probable that one employer in twenty proposes profit-sharing from 
motives of pure altruism; but to the thoughtful observer and stu- 
dent of history this is neither strange nor discreditable. Enlight- 
ened self-interest will do admirably in many spheres, provided the 
enlightenment is as pronounced as the self-interest. 

The truth is, the problem of labor unrest, of strikes that are 
almost "revolutionary" in their effects, that paralyze industry, 
commerce, or transportation, is more vividly presented as a problem 
to employers than it is, as yet, to employees. The latter are still 
struggling to defend their "rights;" any suggestion of compulsory 
or semi-compulsory arbitration angers and alarms them. Not long 
have they enjoyed the freedom of organization and collective 
bargaining. Even today here and there a fossiUzed court renders a 
decision prohibiting a sympathetic strike or a union-shop contract. 
Labor is still militant, distrustful, aggressive. Employers and cor- 
porate chiefs, on the other hand, realizing more and more that legal 
restrictions are a broken reed to lean on, and that labor organiza- 
tions must be reckoned with more and more, are earnestly turning 
their attention to preventives and remedies. This means that the 
classes or professions in closest contact with capitalists and 
employees are also prompted to inquire into the situation. For a 
time we may, therefore, expect more vigorous advocacy of co- 
operation from the classes named than from labor and its accredited 
spokesmen, and, for a time again, these proposals will continue to 
excite suspicion or adverse criticism. But in the end, interest, if 
not sweet reasonableness, must open labor's eyes to the intrinsic 
advantages of co-operation. 

Moreover, the "third party," the great public, is beginning to 
take a hand in industrial controversies. For many years the inter- 
ests of the pubUc not only suffered total neglect from the direct 
parties, the employers and the unions, but were tacitly surrendered 
by the public itself. That is to say, the public scarcely even com- 
plained of the waste and the hardships to which strikes and lockouts 
subjected it. It supposed itself to be without power in the prem- 
ises. It did not see what it could do, and it even assumed that to 


do anything — beyond pleading for conciliation and arbitration — 
was to undermine the foundations of our modern civilization. Was 
not the right to strike, like the right to lock out workmen at will, a 
corollary from the general principles of free contract, free industry, 
and private property? Was not the sole duty of the public to 
stand aside and let capital and labor fight out their battles ? This 
attitude is rapidly changing. The pubhc is beginning to challenge 
the principles that underlie free strikes and free lockouts. It is 
beginning to raise its voice in favor of compulsory or semi- 
compulsory arbitration laws. It supports minimum-wage proposals, 
as was shown in England during the crisis caused by the general 
miners' strike. If, it reasons, industrial peace is better for all, why 
should not society impose peace ? Why should it not veto strikes 
in the whole field of public utilities ? Why, in granting franchises 
to railroads, telegraph and telephone companies, etc., should it not 
make arbitration of disputes over wages, hours, conditions of work, 
recognition of unions, a condition of the grant ? 

Yet it is doubtful whether in English-speaking countries mere 
compulsion in the form of arbitration laws and minimum-wage 
statutes will meet the requirements of the situation. The spokes- 
men of the public — economists, moralists, social workers, soci- 
ologists — will increasingly find that the line of least resistance is the 
line of profit-sharing and co-operation, of forms and methods of 
industrial organization that remove the necessity for warfare, for 
trials of endurance and strength. Organized labor will listen with 
more sympathy and open-mindedness to suggestions from neutral 
quarters than to suggestions possibly inspired by bias and class 

Nor is this all. Another important, if indirect, factor remains to 
be mentioned. The gospel of what is popularly known as the 
peopleization of corporations is not consciously connected with the 
efforts to solve the labor problem. But it cannot be doubted that 
the moralization and socialization of corporations — the enforcement 
of publicity as to corporate finance, the prevention of stock inflation 
and dishonest manifestation of corporate securities, the suppression 
of injurious trusts — will, among other large effects, destroy the 
gravest obstacle to profit-sharing and copartnership. Not long ago 


an individualistic economist and a friendly critic of trade-union 
policies, in arguing against strikes on the score of their futility and 
cost to labor, asked what the situation would be today if, for the last 
two or three decades, the powerful unions, instead of accumulating 
vast funds for offense and defense, instead of financing stubborn 
contests, had systematically invested the funds in the securities of 
the great industrial corporations. The ideal of the more intelli- 
gent syndicalists, he pointed out, would be much nearer realization 
than it is. Labor would by this time have acquired ownership 
and control of a good many industries, would have secured repre- 
sentation on many corporate directorships, and would have exten- 
sively democratized industry. It is plain, however, that even if 
the purpose and plan in question had been conceived by the unions, 
the mysteries of corporate finance, the pubHc agitation against cor- 
porate abuses, the inadequacy or positive viciousness of the laws 
governing corporate organizations, the helplessness of minority 
stockholders— all these things would have deterred the unions from 
investing their funds in corporate securities. The peopleizing of 
corporations and the protection of investments by eliminating need- 
less risk would enable labor leaders and individual workmen to 
entertain with growing favor the idea of copartnership by means of 
stock-ownership. The corporations that really wish to live in peace 
and seciuity, to cultivate relations of amity with labor, would find 
fewer difficulties to overcome, and their good faith in offering stock 
to employees would be far less open to challenge and misrepre- 

This is not the place, however, to consider why particular forms 
of profit-sharing have not prospered or succeeded in gaining the 
favor of intelligent workmen. Nor is it the place to study the 
various possible or prevalent forms of profit-sharing. There are 
ofl&cial and private reports on the subject which show what to avoid 
in profit-sharing schemes and how to insure a reasonable degree of 
material and moral success. It may be noted in passing that, 
according to the latest report issued by the British Board of Trade, 
profit-sharing has received something of a stimulus in the last few 
years. Of the 133 firms that share profits after one fashion or 
another, 46 are less than four years old and 6 were started in 191 2. 


It also appears from this document that, while many profit-sharing 
schemes have had to be abandoned in Great Britain, "the experience 
of the firms which have tried profit-sharing" for a reasonable time 
"is that it produces excellent results in developing a higher degree 
of efficiency and brings about more harmonious relations between 
employer and employed." If excellent results can be produced in 
spite of deep skepticism and distrust on the part of the majority of 
workmen, and in spite of a hostile tone in the average labor organ, 
what may we not expect from profit-sharing and co-operation when 
heartily supported by strong unions and advocated with conscious 
reference to an economic and social ideal ? 

In the long run, "what labor wants" is not essentially different 
from what labor ought to want, from what employers and society 
ought to want, in the Hght of industrial evolution and soberly drawn 
inferences from contemporary experience. The past was what it 
had to be, but the great industrial revolution brought evils as well as 
benefits in its train, and another industrial revolution is impending 
—nay, is taking place before our eyes. It is idle to ask of human 
inteUigence and character more than they are capable of yielding; 
but there are such things as prevision, as scientific guidance, as the 
possibihty of facilitating inevitable change. In investigating, in 
criticizing, in resisting dangerous tendencies, we should endeavor to 
separate the accidental and ephemeral from the vital and endurable. 
To see the industrial problem steadily and see it whole is to arrive 
at conclusions that are as scientific as they are optimistic. 



Bryn Mawr College 

There was a time when only philosophers and theologians 
attempted to define and explain religion. Today ethnologists, 
sociologists, and psychologists are taking a very active part in this 
work. A most remarkable recent essay deaHng with the concep- 
tion of religion is that of Emile Durkheim/ the distinguished editor 
of the Annee sociologique. Religion is presented in this essay as a 
social phenomenon fundamentally independent of the belief in 
gods and so closely allied to magic that no adequate means is pro- 
vided for differentiating them. There is much to admire in this 
incontestably original and valuable paper. Yet I am forced to 
dissent from it on several points of considerable significance. 

In the first part of the present paper I shall set forth, as far 
as possible in his own words, Durkheim's conception of religion. I 
shall then offer some critical remarks, which will lead me to take 
up the conception of magic developed by Hubert and Mauss, a con- 
ception with which Durkheim appears in agreement. A few final 
pages will be devoted to the consideration of the share of psychol- 
ogy in the study of the origin and of the function of rehgion. 


Cult, writes our author, might be defined in a general way as 
the totality of the practices dealing with sacred things. But this 
affirmation can have meaning only in so far as the significance of 

' Emile Durkheim, De la definition des phenomenes religieux, Ann6e sociologique, 
II (1897-98), 1-28; see also, Emile Durkheim, "Examen critique des systemes 
classiques sur la pens^e religieuse, Rev. Philos., XLVII (1909), 1-28, 142-162. 

The most important work following in the lead of Durkheim, published in the 
United States, is Irving King, The Developtnent of Religion. ^Macmillan, 1910. 



the word "sacred" is known. A conception of the origin and 
\ nature of the sacred is thus at the center of the theory of Durkheim. 
What sense must be attached to that term ? Our author observes 
first that the distinction in sacred and profane is very often inde- 
pendent of the idea of God. There are religions from which the 
idea of God is absent (Buddhism, Jainism), and there are sacred 
objects which are not gods. "In a clan whose totem is the wolf, 
every wolf is equally venerated, those of today as well as those of 
yesterday and those to be born tomorrow. The same honors are 
given to all of them indiscriminately. We have here, therefore, 
neither a god nor many gods, but a large category of sacred things. 
In order that one may apply the term god, it would be necessary 
for the principle common to all these particular beings to be 
separated and hypostatized under some definite form; it could then 
become the center of a cult." Certain impersonal objects, such as 
the flag, or the nation, also assume the character of sacredness. A 
god is simply "a power to produce certain effects, more or less 
definite, but always referred to a particular and definite being. 
When this power, instead of being incarnated in an individual 
being, remains diffuse in an indeterminate number of things, we 
have simply sacred, in opposition to profane objects, but no god." 
It appears thus, according to our author, "that the notion of 
divinity, far from being fundamental in religious Hfe, is in reahty 
merely a secondary episode. It is the product of a special process 
by virtue of which one or several religious characteristics are con- 
centrated and become concrete in a more or less individual form." 
The idea of divinity could not, therefore, have been the one which 
served originally in the making of a distinction between things 
profane and sacred. 

In religion, then, the notion of the sacred and not that of divinity 
is, according to Durkheim, the fundamental one. But whence 
this idea of the sacred ? The sacred is a specific quality belonging 
to the traditional, to that which the individual finds already 
made, to myths, to dogmas, transmitted by society. The sacred 
and the profane are respectively synonymous with the social and 
the individual. Sacred objects separate themselves from the 
others by the special manner in which we come to know them. 


They are not our own work; they are given to us by the community 
to which we belong. ''Things which reach our minds by route so 
different cannot appear to us under the same aspects." The 
sacred differentiates itself from the profane, not by a difference of 
degree but of kind. This derivation of the sacred from the tradi- (i 
tional, in contradistinction to the individual, we find again and \ 
substantiaUy unchanged in the article pubUshed ten years later in 
the Revue philosophique. 

From this social-traditional origin of the sacred (therefore, in 
Durkheim's opinion, of religion also) proceeds this other essential \ 
trait: the beliefs or "the representations of the religious order 
stand opposed to the others in the same way as obligatory opinions 
stand opposed to free opinions"; religious behefs are imperative, 
"the more they are religious, the more they are obligatory." But 
works are not less essential than faith; one cannot separate cult 
from beHef; they are merely "two different aspects of the same ' 

Thus we reach the foUowing definition: "The phenomena called 
religious consist in obhgatory beliefs connected with definite prac- 
tices, which refer to objects given in these beUefs." Religion "is 
a more or less weU-organized and systematized group of phenomena 
of that order."' 

Turning now to a critical examination of the main elements of 
this conception of religion, let us begin with the notion of the sacred 
and the origin assigned to it by Durkheim. An analysis of the 
quahties entering into the composition of the experience called 
sacredness wHl help us to understand under what condition it may 
arise. We shall see that, far from being the only source of sacred- 
ness, the traditional cannot even be considered, in any true sense, V 
one of its sources. 

Respect and veneration bear some relation to sacredness, but 
no emotion is so close to it as awe. There is always an element of 
awe in the experience of the sacred, and awe involves fear held 
in check by admiration. But, although fear is a necessary ingre- 
dient of sacredness, it is not necessarily a prominent one. It is 

;The above quotations are from pp. 13-23 of De la d&fimtioti des phcnomcnes 


neutralized by curiosity which the mysteriousness of the sacred 
object arouses, and by knowledge of ways and means by which 
to enter into relation with the sacred power. The essential differ- 
ence between the merely awful and the sacred consists in the exist- 
ence of unavoidable connections between us and the sacred. It 
is not sufficient, as with a merely awful object, to turn away from 
the sacred in order to be done with it. The sacred object has a 
hold upon us, we stand in dynamic relation with it, and this rela- 
tion is not one of equal to equal, but of superior to inferior; i.e., 
we feel dependent upon it. Awfulness (a complex of fear and 
admiration) and the belief that the great and portentous power 
reaches down to us and that we may by appropriate actions control 
it within certain limits seem to me the essential characteristics of 
sacred objects. 

I have not mentioned the tender feeling, for it seems that sacred 
objects do not necessarily awaken the tender feeling. I shall even 
venture the affirmation that the presence in an object of qualities 
generative of the tender emotion is antagonistic to sacredness — 
an object of love cannot be at the same moment a sacred object. 
Whenever the Christian God is thought of as love, he cannot 
awaken the emotion of sacredness, although he remains an object 
of veneration. The God of the Christian arouses the emotion of 
sacredness only when, his love for man not being present to con- 
sciousness, his surpassing greatness, holiness, and his lordship over 
us are realized together with the possibility of entering into accept- 
able relations with him. 

If, at times, so-called sacred objects are treated in ways showing 
that they do not possess one or the other of these component 
qualities; if, for instance, the fetish is abused, beaten, thrown away, 
I answer that at that moment he has ceased to be sacred to the 
one who misuses him. We must guard against ascribing to the 
affective reaction they awaken the stability belonging to the names 
of the gods, to their abode, and to any conceptual representation 
of them. The physical object called a fetish remains the same, 
but the feeling with which it is considered at various moments need 
not remain constant. When he is being reviled, the fetish is no 


longer either an object of magic or of religion. Strictly speaking, 
a being is a god to a particular person at those moments only when 
he stands to that person in the particular relation constituting the 
rehgious life; outside of those moments he is no more than a poten- 
tial god. 

Now the traditional does not possess in itself, necessarily, the // 
quality of sacredness. I do not contest the fact that much of the 
traditional is sacred, but I afl&rm as equally true that parts of the 
traditional are merely customary and insignificant, that the atti- 
tude of the conformer toward these parts is one of indifferent 
automatism. More than that, the traditional is at times rejected 
as worthless, or even as obstructive. It is therefore not exact 
to say that "every tradition inspires a very specific respect." The 
traditions of another nation, or, in the same nation, of another 
social stratum, often inspire contempt. It is true that in these 
cases it is not our own tradition, we do not accept it; yet we may, 
and usually do, realize it is a tradition. Tradition as such is not, 
therefore, sacred. 

The full force of this argument appears when it is considered 
that a movement for social reform necessarily begins with the 
recognition in individual minds of the inferior value, or the worth- 
lessness, of a tradition. An attempt at social reform in any particu- 
lar direction is a demonstration of the unsacred nature of some 
tradition to those who would do away with it. When the new order 
of things has become law, that is, when it has received social sanc- 
tion, it possesses the quality of sacredness. 

Traditions are sacred when they come to us as the expression 
of powers superior to us and connected with us, when there are 
ways of "putting oneself right" with these powers, and when failure 
to conform to these ways entails danger. Whenever any of these 
elements ceases to belong to a tradition, the tradition itself ceases 
to be sacred, though it may still be fearful or admirable; any 
object — -whether tradition or not — possessing these qualifications 
is sacred. The conditions under which a great unseen being will 
be sacred, however the thought of him may have arisen, are those 
just stated. 




Durkheim and his collaborators, Hubert and Mauss, acknowl- 
edge the presence of two forms of behavior in primitive tribes, since 
they endeavor to use discriminatingly the two terms "magic" and 
"rehgion." It appears to me, and this I shall now try to make evi- 
dent, that their analysis of the actions designated by these two 
names has not been sufficiently complete to uncover that which 
constitutes an unequivocal means of differentiation. When 
Durkheim tells us that there are religions from which the idea of 
God is absent, and that in all religions there are rites the efficacy 
of which is independent of any divine power, because the rite acts 
by itself, mechanically, he uses the term reHgion in a different 
sense from the one in which most people, among whom I am 
included, use that term. And when he instances original Buddhism 
as a reHgion without a god, he again uses " religion " in a sense which 
is not commonly accepted. Tiele, for instance, says that "primi- 
tive Buddhism ignored religion. It was only when, in opposition 
to its first principles, it had made its founder its god, and had thus 
really become a reHgion, that the way was opened for its general 

A rite acting automatically is never, in the sense which I give 
to the word religion, a religious rite. It would, of course, be 
irrelevant to show with Hubert and Mauss,^ in order to convince 
me of error, that sacrifice in the Vedic religion exercises "a direct 
influence upon celestial phenomena; it is all-powerful in its own 
rights and without any divine intervention." If it be so, these 
sacrifices belong, according to my principle of classification, not 
to religion but to magic. 

To what facts shall the name religion be given, or what are the 
characteristics by which reHgion shall be separated from magic? 
If one were to inquire into the common usage, I think that it 
would be found that, on the whole, they caU "magic," or "super- 
stition"— in any case, not "religion" — the rites which act directly 
or are automatically effective; whereas they would caU religion 
the rites in which ideas, feelings, and voHtions are supposed to be 

» Outlines of the History of Religion, p. 137. 

» "Essai sur la nature et la function du Sacrifice," Annee sociologique, II, 14. 


awakened in personal agents, by means that are not mechanical 
or automatic, but which may be called anthropopathic, that is to 
say, invocations, offerings, prayers, and the like. 

But even if such were not the current use of these terms, the 
following reason would lead me to believe that it should be the 
technical sense ascribed to them. When facts are to be classified, 
those bearing the more fundamental likenesses should be put 
together. It appears to me that the difference introduced into 
conscious experience by the passage from the use of a mechanical, 
coercitive force to the use of an anthropopathic influence (offer- 
ings, prayers, penances, etc.) is more fundamental than any other 
difference existing between the facts to be classified. The results 
expected and secured may be the same whether one proceeds magic- 
ally or religiously; but the actions, even though they should be 
externally identical (supposing this to be possible) , are of a different 
psychological nature. In one case, one compels by mechani- 
cal means; in the other, one assumes a "personal" relation and 
attempts by anthropopathic means to reach one's end. The 
psychological attitude involved in each could hardly differ more 

We are told by Durkheim that "the notion of divinity, far from 
being fundamental, is in reality merely a secondary episode." 
Our present problem, the differentiation of religion from other 
activities, does not involve the discovery of that which is funda- 
mental in religion, but of that which is differential. I grant that, 
when compared, for instance, with the needs and the desires prompt- 
ing to religious action, the god-ideas are secondary facts. But needs 
and desires are fundamental to each and every kind of human 
activity. With regard to the differentiation of magic from rehgion, 
the idea of a personal Great Being who can be dealt with anthro- 
popathically is indeed fundamental. 

It is to be observed that, although in my view belief in a per- 
sonal being is necessary to religion, it is not in itself sufficient to 
mark off religion from magic, for a god may be acted upon mechanic- 
ally, coercitively, i.e., magically. It is the manner of acting upon 
the god which separates these two kinds of behavior. 

If one accepts the principle of differentiation offered in these 


pages, one may no longer say with Hubert and Mauss "the reli- 
gious rites often constrain; and the god, in most ancient religions, 
was not at all able to escape from the compelling power of a rite 
properly performed."^ Such a rite is, by our definition, a magical 
rite, even though it acts upon a personal being. 

Magic and religion are found very frequently side by side, in 
the same ceremonies or groups of ceremonies. When, for instance, 
the hero, Wainamoinen of Finland, wishes to know what has become 
of the sun and the moon that have been stolen from the heavens, he 
seeks the knowledge by a prayer to Ukko the Creator [religion] , yet 
he accompanies his prayer by mysterious and potent acts: first he 
cuts three chips from the alder, and lays them in magic order, touch- 
ing and turning them with his fingers [magic] ; and only then does he 
address the supreme God, who is also called "the great Magician."^ 
But, however closely interwoven, magic and religion always bear 
the clear differentiating marks we have singled out. 

If one rejects the principle I offer for the separation of magic 
from religion, where can one find another acceptable one ? Sacred- 
ness would not do, for all are agreed that it belongs to both. In 
the article of Durkheim, from which I have quoted, one does not 
find definite information on the use of these terms. But his learned 
collaborators, Hubert and Mauss, have made that question the 
topic of a long essay to which we shall now turn.'* 

In reading Hubert and Mauss, one is surprised to find that their 
effort at defining magic and religion results only n the discovery 
of shifting differences of degree and not of kind. Instead of separat- 
ing magic and religion, they have really connected them. If 
the facts were such as to make a sharp differentiation impossible, 
one would have to acquiesce; but I have tried to show that the 
phenomena covered by the terms "magic" and "religion" can be 
separated on the basis of an absolute difference. 

' Op. cit., p. i6. 

» From George M. Stratton, The Psychology of the Religious Life, p. 136. I have 
given other instances of this close combination in my book, A Psyclwlogical Study of 
Religion; Its Origin, Function, and Future. Macmillan, 1912. 

^ "Esquisse d'une thdorie generale de la magie," Annee sociologique, VII (1902-3), 
1-146. These authors accept in substance, I believe, Durkheim's view regarding 
the methods of sociology; and he is, as far as I know, in accord with them regarding 
their opinion on magic. 


They define magic as "any rite which does not belong to an 
organized cult, which is private, secret, mysterious, and tends 
toward the prohibited rite." If this definition was intended to be 
strictly construed; if, whenever a rite belonged to an organized 
cult, was social and public, we had an instance of rehgion and not 
of magic, the definition would be satisfactory. But the words 
upon which it turns are, according to our authors, to be taken only 
in a relative sense; we are really to understand that the better 
organized, the more social (the less individual), the more public 
(the less secret) the rite, the more religious it is. That such is the 
meaning of our authors appears plainly in their discussion. One 
reads, for instance, regarding the individual character of magic: 
"Magical rites, and magic in its entirety, are first of all facts of 
tradition. Acts which are not repeated are not magical. Acts 
in the efficacy of which the whole of a group does not believe 
are not magical. The form of magical rites is eminently trans- 
missible and is sanctioned by pubHc opinion. It follows from this 
that acts that are strictly individual, as for instance, the particular 
superstitious practices of players, cannot be called magical." We 
are told in this passage that magical rites are not strictly individual, 
but that they are performed by, or for, a group; whereas in the 
definition we were informed that magic was a private affair. 
Among magical practices which have clearly a non-individualistic, 
non-private, and beneficial character, the rain-making ceremonies 
stand foremost. It seems then that they should be called religious. 
Yet our authors speak of them as "quasi-religious," which means, 
I take it, that they are really magical. Why should they be called 
so does not appear; unless it be simply because "the rain-maker 
is a person who generally plays the role of evil sorcerer." Male- 
ficent rites are said to be always magical, but we are also told that 
there are^ religious rites "which are equally evil; such are, for 
instance, imprecations against the enemy of the city, against the 
violator of a sepulchre or of an oath, and all the death-ceremonies 
which sanction ritual interdictions."^ 

The attempt to differentiate magic from religion on the ground 
of social value, of public character, of beneficence, of fuller organi- 
zation of the ceremonials, fails because all that can be claimed, 

^Op.cit., pp. 14, 17, 


even according to our authors, is that religion possesses these 
qualities more generally and to a higher degree than magic. In 
order to obtain a differentia, one must look, as I have done in the 
preceding section, to the different psychological natures of the rela- 
tions established between the performer and the object upon which 
he endeavors to act. 

The relative differences noticed by our authors, that, for 
instance, rehgion is turned to account for social ends more widely 
than is magic, are a consequence of the fundamental differences in 
origin and in nature that I have indicated. Since early gods are 
regarded as tribal ancestors, creators, or nature beings, they are 
intimately related, not with isolated individuals, hut with the social 
group as a whole. The natural tendency would therefore be for 
the tribe as a whole to maintain relations with these beings. On 
the other hand, no obvious reason exists for a non-personal, 
magical Power to be considered as belonging to, or as acting for, 
the entire community. It is at the service of any individual who 
chances to get hold of it. 

This same fundamental difference explains why, when the 
separation between the offices of magician and of priest has taken 
place, the magician is more loosely connected with the tribe than 
is the priest. 

The frequently evil character of magic is also readily explained. 
The blood-relationship involved between gods and the tribe, in 
the conception of ancestral and creator gods, necessarily implies a 
general attitude of benevolence toward the tribe. The gods are, 
therefore, in theory at least, inaccessible to the enemy of the com- 
mon weal. The worship, by a community, of personal powers 
recognized as evil would lead speedily to the destruction of the 
community, for it would result in a systematic strengthening of 
antisocial forces. Thus it comes to pass that magic is much used 
for the gratification of individual and of evil purposes. 


Durkheim's conception of the nature of religion and of sociology 
leads him to the opinion that the origin and development of religion 
are exclusively a concern of sociology. 



It is thus a corollary of our definition that the origin of religion is not to be 
found in individual feelings or emotions but in states of the dme collective, and 
that it varies as do these states. Did religion arise out of the constitution of 

the individual, it would not appear to him in a coercitive aspect It is 

consequently not in human nature in general that one must seek for the deter- 
mining cause of religious phenomena; it is in the nature of the society to which 
they belong, and if they have varied in the course of history it is because the 
social organism itself has changed.' 

In the writings from which I quote, Durkheim does not once 
mention social psychology. But he opposes throughout "individual 
psychology" to ''sociology." He writes, for instance, "even 
though individual psychology had no longer any secrets for us, 
it could not give us the solution of any of those problems [the 
problems of sociology], since they refer to facts of an order outside 
the range of individual psychology." I would not dissent from 
this statement, provided "sociology" means, or includes, the psy- 
chology of groups of individuals, in so far as they afifect the social 
body and are affected by its presence. But if this and other 
similar passages should mean that sociology is not concerned with 
the interpretation of social action in terms of consciousness, that it 
can dispense with the introspective method, i.e., that sociology is 
not a psychological science, but limits itself to the observation of 
the external activities of man, then the astonishment and the oppo- 
sition which the methodological writings of Durkheim have inspired 
are, it seems to me, legitimate. " Sociology" may, however, be used 
by him as a brief synonym for "social psychology," or at least as 
including this branch of psychology; if so, his position becomes, to 
me, unobjectionable. Unfortunately, even after the explanations 
provided in the preface to the second edition of Les regies de la 
methode sociologique, there remains ample cause for perplexity. 

I wish to make it perfectly clear at the outset that I agree with 
those who hold that every ceremony, whatever its kind, is a social 
fact. A ceremony necessarily has reference to other selves. It 
involves a relation between an individual and the group to which 
he belongs. Hence the question I am about to consider is not 
whether rehgious rites are independent of the social life, but 
whether, or how far, they can be fully understood when observed 

' Annie sociologique, II, 24. 



from the outside, as overt actions, without the assistance of a 
psychological interpretation of the states of consciousness which 
they express. Ceremonies are the outcome of more or less clear 
processes taking place in individuals, under the influence of other 
conscious agents, feeling, thinking, and acting as a unit. The 
so-called "social" forces before which the believer bows are known 
to him as ideas, feelings, impulses, desires. Therefore I shall 
maintain that the full understanding of religion, as of social life 
in general, demands not only the observation of the external out- 
come of the collective life of conscious beings, but also its inter- 
pretation in terms of consciousness. 

Although the present discussion is conducted with immediate 
reference to religious behavior, it has a much broader scope. It 
applies to the respective shares of psychology and of sociology in 
the study of social phenomena. 

Durkheim's argument may be briefly formulated thus: Societies, 
as the rest of the world, are governed by laws proceeding neces- 
sarily from the nature of these societies and expressing it. These 
laws are different from the laws of individual psychology because 
individual life differs from social life; the social constitution is not 
the same as the individual constitution. He writes, for instance, 
of the social reprobation of certain kinds of behavior and of the 
punishment of crime: "If it [society] condemns certain modes of 
conduct, it is because they shock fundamental feehngs of the 
group; and these feelings arise from the physical temperament and 
from the mental organization of the group. Thus, even though 
individual psychology had no longer any secret for us, it could not 
give us the solution of any of those problems since they refer to 
facts of an order ignored by individual psychology." Of what use 
could introspection be, since the greater part of the social institu- 
tions is transmitted ready-made? How could we in questioning 
ourselves find the causes from which they arose ? Moreover, we do 
not always know the real reasons for our actions, neither do we 
know all of the reasons. And, for the rest, each individual plays 
but an infinitesimal role in the formation of the group life.' 

Whether the difference between individual and social facts, 

' Preface to 2d ed. of Les rigles. 


between individual consciousness and the so-called "social con- 
sciousness," is overstated by him or not, Durkheim is unfortunate 
when he attempts to support his contention by drawing an analogy 
between the relation of chemistry to biology, and the relation of 
individual psychology to sociology. "It is not the non-living 
particles of the cell [atoms of carbon, nitrogen, etc.] which feed 
themselves; reproduce themselves, which, in a word, live; it is the 
cell itself, and only the cell." "The hardness of bronze is not in 
the copper, nor in the tin, nor in the lead entering into its forma- 
tion. These metals are soft or flexible. Its hardness belongs to 
their mixture." Similarly of the fluidity of water and of its alimen- 
tary properties. "Thus the separation which we establish later on 
between psychology proper, or the science of the mental individual, 
and sociology is seen to be justified by a new argument."^ 

If the relation between the individual and society were truly 
in every respect the same as that between atoms and their chemical 
compounds, Durkheim's contention for a sociology independent 
of individual psychology would be valid. But this is one of the 
instances in which the facts compared, similar in certain respects, 
are illegitimately dealt with as if they were similar in other respects. 
Hence the conclusion drawn from the comparison includes more 
than is warranted by the likenesses between the facts. It is true 
that neither copper, nor tin, nor lead is as hard and inflexible as 
the bronze formed by their combination, and the fluidity is a prop- 
erty belonging to neither one nor the other of the component 
elements of water. But these facts show merely that elements of 
a certain nature form compounds possessing properties of a certain 
kind, not belonging to the separate elements. Before one is justi- 
fied in drawing the parallel which Durkheim draws, there remains 
to be shown that human elements are similar to chemical elements 
with regard to the point at issue. Durkheim assumes that they 
are. As a matter of fact, the presence of consciousness introduces 
into the relation of individuals to society an essential element not 
to be found in the relation of physical elements to their compounds. 
This difference appears to me wholly to invalidate Durkheim's 



In the preface to the second edition of Les regies, we find what 
may be regarded as a concession to psychology, a concession which 
in my estimation is still far from sufficient, but which lays the 
foundation for a future agreement concerning the share of psychol- 
ogy in the investigation of sociological facts. Durkheim begins 
by reaffirming the heterogeneity of individual and social facts. 
"The states of the collective consciousness are of another nature 
than the states of individual consciousness; they are representa- 
tions of another kind. The mentality of groups is not that of 
individuals. It has its own laws. The two sciences are therefore 
as definitely distinct as two sciences can well be, whatever relations 
may in other respects exist between them." This said, he makes 
the admission that social phenomena are psychological. ''One 
may ask oneself if individual representations and collective repre- 
sentations do not resemble each other in that they are both repre- 
sentations; and if, in consequence of this resemblance, certain 
abstract laws might not be common to both spheres." "One 
comes thus to conceive the possibility of a psychology altogether 
formal, belonging in common to individual psychology and to 
sociology." But whether this is more than a possibility, he is not 
ready to say. The imperfect state of our knowledge seems to him 
to make a categorical answer impossible; we do not know "the 
laws according to which collective representations [ideas] associate 
or repel each other." 

Before concluding I wish to turn to particular facts in an attempt 
to indicate, more concretely than I have done so far, the necessity 
under which the student of social life is to make use both of the 
objective and of the introspective (psychological) method. I shall 
find it convenient to choose my instances in the field of the origin 
of rehgion. 

I may be permitted a preluninary remark concerning the one- 
sided conceptions which have so far prevailed regarding the origin 
of religion. Some authors have written as if, when they had 
accounted for the origin of the god-ideas, they had explained the 
origin of religion. Others have thought that their work was 
finished when they had discovered the emotion or emotions char- 


acteristic of the earliest religions. Still others have been content 
to bring to light the original religious practices. But religion is 
neither idea, nor emotion, nor "practice; it includes all of these, 
for it is a form of life, a type of conscious behavior. The task of 
the student of origins is to determine the beginnings of religion 
with regard to these several constituent elements. 

The presence of religion implies that of needs and desires: 
need for food, desire for power, for self-respect, etc. But there are 
no need and no desire religious per se. A need enters into the reli- 
gious life when it becomes the instigator of the mode of behavior 
called religion, i.e., when the gratification of the need is thought 
to be dependent upon a power of a psychic and, usually, personal 

I. Religions are commonly separated into ethical and non- 
ethical religions. This classification indicates the great importance 
of the appearance of ethical needs in religious life; they transform 
religious institutions. Would it not be preposterous, in an investi- 
gation of this transformation, to refrain from turning to the intro- 
spective data which founders and reformers of ethical religions 
have left us, and from interpreting in the light of our own conscious- 
ness of ethical relations their autobiographies, letters, didactic 
writings, etc. ? Are not these writings a unique source of informa- 
tion as to how these individuals apprehended social life, and why 
they rejected certain of its beliefs and practices, while they struggled 
and even died in order to introduce others ? 

Is there, for instance, nothing of importance to be learned in a 
study of Luther's private life, of his temperament, of his aesthetic 
and ethical sensibility, by the sociologists desirous of understand- 
ing the causes of the transformation of religious institutions in 
which he was the chief individual instrument ? The day is indeed 
past for believing that an individual, however mighty, can cast 
society in any mold shaped by his fancy. We know now that the 
men who have left their impress upon society have been privileged 
to do so because they were the instruments of communal forces. 
But the brilliancy of this discovery should not blind us to the share 
belonging to the individual in the social work. Why is it that 
Luther and not some other one of the millions of his fellow- 


countrymen became the Reformer ? Is it merely because he alone 
was placed in just those external circumstances which would make 
of a man the reformer that he was ? The external influences which 
acted upon Luther were, without doubt, indispensable, but must 
not Luther himself be considered an original center of energy? 
Do not Luther's internal struggles with certain passions, his con- 
sciousness of sin, and the final triumph of faith under peculiar 
circumstances, throw a light upon the Lutheran doctrine of justi- 
fication by faith which cannot be shed by a merely external study 
of the behavior of the reformer and of the doctrines he set forth ? 

Expressed in more general terms, my contention is merely that 
individuals do more than reflect social life ; they modify it, for they 
are centers of creative energy. Identical circumstances acting 
at the same moment upon two persons will not produce identical 
effects, for men are not identical. Why men differ is another 
problem. Their differences are to be accounted for in part by the 
different circumstances, physical and psychical, in which they have 
grown. I say "in part," because it cannot be assumed that men 
are born identical, and because, different at the start, they grow 
still more different, though living in the same milieu. 

When an economist tells us that a study of economic conditions 
covers whatever need be known in order to understand and predict 
the number of suicides, he forgets that there are other factors 
affecting man's life besides poverty. Are there not men who delight 
in want and privation, who voluntarily seek poverty and starve 
their bodies, not to destroy but only to rule it? What definite 
and exact relation would there be between suicide and poverty 
in a community possessed by the ascetic's ideal to which I allude ? 
And is it not well known that ideas are contagious, particularly 
in certain persons and in certain circumstances, and that there are 
epidemics of suicide, the partial cause of which is to be found in 
individual suggestibility ? 

2. Whether one holds (as I do), or not, that the proper use of 
the word "religion" involves belief in unseen, hyperhuman powers, 
usually personal, the genesis and development of the god-ideas 
constitute one of the important problems of the origin of rehgion. 

Primitive gods are probably in many instances ancestors 



deified. But how and why have ancestors been deified ? What are 
the needs which prompt to deification and what are the mental 
operations involved in the process? These questions require , 
psychological answers. It is but a beginning of a solution to say ^' 
for mstance, that the gods of any particular tribe are water-gods' 
because the tribe's life is dependent to an unusual degree upon the 
ocean. Fish are altogether dependent upon water, yet they have 
no gods. 

In questioning civilized persons, one discovers that certain of 
them live in a world peopled by invisible beings and others are 
entirely free from that beUef. This difference appears not infre- 
quently between persons brought up together in the same family 
One member of the family has rejected gods, angels, and demons; 
another has mcorporated them in his social group. There are 
individual psychological affinities and immunities. The sociologist 
who would go to the bottom of the question of belief and creed 
not only must perforce inquire into the external influences to which 
these diverging persons are equally submitted, but he must turn 
psychologist and examine the individual causes of the observed 

God-ideas may arise in several ways in addition to the direct 
deification of great chiefs: in naive attempts to explain certain 
tacts of common observation (dreams, trances, swoons, etc) in 
the personification of striking phenomena (thunder, vegetation 
etc.), m answer to the problem of creation. 

How shall one get in any particular instance to the origin of a 
god-idea? One cannot question those who first brought it out 
they have gone forever. And if one questions the existing savage' 
one finds usuaUy that he cannot give a satisfactory account of 
Ins behef and behavior. Nevertheless, much has been learned from 
the savage's own account of himself. The psychologist may sup- 
plement the knowledge thus secured by an examination of the 
child s mind. And he may, further, by self-introspection secure 
much that may serve in the interpretation of the behavior of 
primitive man. Durkheim's remark that we do not always know 
the true reasons, nor all the reasons, for our actions is evidently 
true. But it is Just as true surely that we usually know some of 


them and that a study of actions considered objectively does not, 
more exactly or fully, reveal all the motives of behavior. By 
getting introspective descriptions from many persons of the causes 
of the same actions, one has as good a chance, it would seem, of 
making a full and exact discovery of causes as by an external 
method. In any case, I do not know why one should neglect either 
of these methods when searching for the genesis of the god-ideas. 

3. One may hint here at the influence of hallucinations and of 
''revelations" upon the formation of religions. The content of 
the alleged revelations is, in part, provided by the social forms and 
ideals, and in part by that which is peculiar to the seer. 

In the higher religions, mysticism is a potent factor of develop- 
ment. In the consciousness of mystical souls, in the peculiarity 
and intensity of their likes and dislikes, rehgious forms and ideals 
are elaborated, not, of course, in absolute independence of the ideals 
and forms of the Hfe about them, but often in deadly antagonism 
to the dominating ones. An adequate understanding of certain 
phases of the development of religion cannot be had without an 
investigation of the inner life of the great mystics. 

4. Another set of problems with which the sociologist must 
deal in collaboration with the psychologist treats of the effects of 
religious institutions upon society. The tonic value of behef in 
benevolent gods; the use made of them for securing physical 
goods, or subjective qualities with which gods have been endowed 
by the very persons desiring these qualities; the peace, the assur- 
ance, the joy that are the most common fruits of the ethical 
reUgions; the sense of divine presence; the transformations, at 
times marvelous, happening in many persons under the influence 
of religious convictions — these and other similar problems demand 
descriptions and explanations which cannot be provided altogether 
either by the psychologist or by the sociologist working independ- 
ently; they are problems of social and individual psychology. 

The place of the introspective psychological method in the 
study of social Hfe is implied in the following, to me self-evident, 

I. The consciousness and, therefore, the actions of individuals 
are deeply and variously modified by the presence of the other 


conscious beings forming the group. An individual in a crowd 
does not behave as he would if he were alone in the same circum- 
stances, for he is moved to action both directly by external events, 
and by those events as they are reacted to by the members of the 

2. Nevertheless, all needs, all desires, feeUngs, ideas, and actions, 
whether they be called individual or social, appear exclusively in 
conscious individuals. 

The term "social consciousness" may be intended to mean 
the consciousness, in an individual, of the group to which he belongs, 
for example, of its authoritative demands upon him. In that sense 
the expression has a definite significance and is legitimately used. 
If "social consciousness" is given another meaning, that new 
meaning should be clearly defined and carefully adhered to. The 
danger of juggHng with that expression, defining it in one sense and 
using it in another, is very great. When "social consciousness" 
is not used in the sense in which individuals are said to be conscious 
of a desire, of an emotion, of a purpose, what does it mean ? There 
is no "social consciousness" in any sense other than that of "con- 
sciousness of the group in the individuals composing it"; there is no 
ante collective, no sentiment collectif, but only collections of souls, 
and sentiments common to all the members of the group. 

3. Life in society is the outcome of the reactions of conscious 
individuals to their common physical surroundings, and to the 
other individuals composing the group, both when considered as 
independent units, and when considered as groups. A full under- 
standing of social facts requires, therefore, (a) a knowledge of the 
physical environment; (b) a knowledge of the nature of the 
reacting individuals; (c) a knowledge of the psychical environment, 
i.e., of the needs, desires, habits, ideas, and feelings common to the 
members of the group. 

4. Since social facts "all consist in ways of thinking and act- 
ing," the ultimate explanation will have to be given in psychologi- 
cal terms, i.e., sociology is a psychological science of which the 
observation of social institutions is merely the starting-point.^ 

' The discussions which have arisen on the appearance of Les regies de la methode 
sociologique suffer, I fear, in several instances from the lack of a clear differentiation 
between individual psychology and a psychology of group of conscious individuals as 


Whatever the conclusions upon which psychologists and soci- 
ologists may ultimately find themselves in agreement, I am sure 
the debt owed to Durkheim and his school for the vigor with which 
they have pushed, in the study of religion, the heretofore neglected 
objective method, and for the valuable fruits the method has 
already produced, will remain a heavy one. 

they are affected by and as they affect the group to which they belong, i.e., social 
psychology. Regarding this point, I must limit myself to vety brief statements. 
Individual psychology includes the topics usually dealt with in the psychological 
manuals of the kind now called "structural" psychology. It deals with the attributes 
of sensations, the threshold of stimuli, the discrimination sensibility, the relation of 
sensation to the pleasant and the unpleasant, with the connections of sensations, with 
the laws of recall, with the psychological and physiological condition of attention, etc., 
all this without reference to the particular influence exercised upon mental life by the 
existence of other conscious beings. The recent movement, in evidence chiefly in the 
United States, called functional psychology, has an inherent tendency to pass into the 
field of social psychology. Social psychology is primarily concerned with the modi- 
fications wrought in individuals by the consciousness of the group to which they belong, 
and with the common behavior prompted by the consciousness of the group. 

The separation of that which is called individual from that which deserves the 
name "social" in psychology is not in everj^ instance easy. But one may affirm in 
general that since each of these branches of psychology deals with facts of conscious- 
ness, they will have certain fundamental laws in common. What these laws are will 
appear as our knowledge grows. A complete agreement between individual psy- 
chologists and sociologists should not be, however, hoped for until both have carried 
their work far enough to make evident the kind of contribution which may be expected 
of them. 


Lafayette College 

The term *' the color line " has come to be a comprehensive desig- 
nation for all the varied means made use of by the white group to 
effect the racial segregation of the Negro. As we shall see, its ulti- 
mate explanation is to be found in those forces making for racial 
antipathy, the most fundamental of which perhaps is the refusal of 
social sanction to intermarriage. The term is particularly obnox- 
ious to many Negro leaders and for reasons which can be easily 
understood. In their criticisms, however, they seem to ignore the 
deep-lying racial factors involved and inveigh against it as a flagrant 
violation of the principles of American democracy as defined in our 
federal constitution. It is viewed as essentially southern in origin 
and spirit, the aftermath of slavery, and all manifestations of it in 
the North are explained as infusions of southern prejudices. A 
typical illustration is the general tendency of the Negro press to 
see in the recent introduction into the legislatures of the northern 
states of bills against the intermarriage of whites and blacks an 
indication of southern influence (see the editorial "The Race Mar- 
riage Question" in the Negro paper, the 'New York Age, February 
26, 1913; also the editorial for February 27, "Shall the South Rule 
the Nation?"). In view of existing differences of opinion it is 
perhaps well to raise the question as to just what is involved in the 
color line. The problem is not sectional or national but racial in 

Wherever the white of English stock has been brought into 
contact with masses of Negroes and however the geographic, 
economic, or political conditions have differed, we find two great 
outstanding facts in which they all agree, namely, the stubborn 
opposition of the white to race fusion and the strenuous insistence 
upon the supremacy of his group ideals. Extraneous public 

343 . 


sentiment and the demands of a theoretical democracy have never 
been able to swerve the local white group from settling all inter- 
racial questions upon this basis. The attitude of the whites of 
the southern states finds a parallel in the bearing of the English 
toward backward races of the colonies, and particularly in the 
relations of whites and blacks in South Africa. 

Where racial contact without fusion occurs, there are, accord- 
ing to Bryce, three possibilities.' In the case of tropical or semi- 
tropical countries the white often rules a people as a military 
dependency or under a paternalistic government. This is the 
situation in Java under the Dutch, and in Jamaica under the 
paternalistic regime of the English, where, perhaps, the relations 
of Negro and white are the most amicable to be found anywhere. 
Again, it sometimes happens that a people of different stock enters 
territory already occupied by the white in search of employment, 
instances of which are the Chinese immigrations to the Pacific Coast 
and to Australia. The race friction to which this gives rise can be 
controlled by legislation. A third possibility is where whites and 
blacks find themselves forced by circumstances over which they 
have no immediate control to live side by side in large numbers 
and ostensibly under democratic institutions. This is the situa- 
tion in the southern states and in South Africa. It is fraught 
with the greatest complications and hence is a fruitful cause of 
race antagonism. 

The race relations in Jamaica have often been contrasted with 
those in this country, and made the basis of criticisms of the 
American treatment of the Negro. It must be observed, however, 
that in Jamaica there are a number of reasons why race antagom'sm 
has always been at a minimum, reasons which vitiate entirely the 
parallel Professor Royce and others have drawn between the 
Negro in the South and in Jamaica, and upon which he bases his 
kindly though somewhat condescending advice to his ''Southern 
brethren."' Jamaica is far more of a black man's country than the 
South has ever been; there are over 700,000 Negroes upon the 

' Relations of the Advanced and Backward Races, the Romanes Lecture for 1902, 
pp. 28 ff. 

' Royce, Race Questions, p. 15. 


island and something over 15,000 whites, but "these whites pre- 
dominate in the governing and employing class, and as merchants 
or planters lead and direct the industrial life of the island.'" In 
other words, there has never been a time since the English first 
set foot upon the island when they have not been complete and 
undisputed masters of its destiny, barring perhaps the tragic episode 
of the Gordon riots of 1865 which only convinced them of the folly 
of trying any other policy. The "orderly, law-abiding, and con- 
tented" character of the Jamaican Negro which Professor Royce 
found so charming is the outcome of the benevolent paternalism of 
the English regime, the fundamental idea of which is the complete 
subordination of the Negro to the will of the white. The Negro, who 
has never known any other conditions, accepts this as part of the 
eternal order of things with the result that the status of the ruling 
white and that of the masses of the peasant Negro laborers are 
entirely separated and occasion for friction is reduced to a minimum. 
The sections of the South where there is the least friction between 
the races are found on the plantations of the "black belt," where 
as in Jamaica the Negroes outnumber the whites, and where, the 
war amendments and the "Bill of Rights" to the contrary notwith- 
standing, a paternalistic regime is in force similar in many ways to 
that in Jamaica. 

Again, any parallel between Jamaican conditions and the status 
of the Negro in this country must recognize a difference of the 
very greatest importance between the two countries, namely, 
that from the emancipation of the Negro to the present in the 
United States he has had dinned into his ears the democratic doc- 
trine of his inherent equality with the white, and hence his inalien- 
able right as a class to all the privileges and emoluments of the 
community on an equal footing with the white. Whatever may 
be said of the theoretical justice of such a doctrine, the fact remains 
that never in the history of the contact of the white and the black 
races has such an ideal been realized; least of all has England, 
the champion of freedom, ever made it the basis of practical 
relations with backward races. Nothing would doubtless be more 
agreeable to the southerner with his nine millions of Negroes than 

' Olivier, White Capital and Coloured Labour, p. 34. 


the establishment in the South of a paternalistic government similar 
to that in Jamaica. But this would involve the utter repudiation 
of the spirit if not the letter of the Reconstruction legislation in 
behalf of the Negro and a surrender of the transcendental concep- 
tion of human rights which it implies and which is today the 
rallying-point for the Negro contenders for complete equality and 
their white supporters. It may be seriously doubted whether 
Professor Royce is prepared to surrender the orthodox conception 
of democracy as it is embodied in our political symbols. Finally, 
the period in the relations of the two races when "English adminis- 
tration" and "English reticence"' could have been cultivated 
successfully belongs in all probability to an irrevocable past. It 
was possible at the close of the war to have instituted a paternalistic 
relation between freeman and white which in time might have 
developed at the South conditions parallel to those we see in Jamaica 
and with the same happy relations between the races. The differ- 
ent southern states did in fact make an attempt to outline some 
such regime in their "black codes"; but the Reconstruction period 
and the years that have intervened have built up totally different 
relations between the races, and have instilled into the black 
political and social ambitions which it is idle to expect that he can 
be easily induced to forego. 

Out of this period of utterly unnecessary race friction was born 
the "color line" which is such a rock of offense to the ambitious 
Negro. It cannot be said that it was due to "the traditional 
place which he (the Negro) has occupied in the social scheme," 
namely, slavery.* Slavery of a far worse type than that of the 
South existed in Jamaica, and yet there is no "color line" in this 
island, but only "that natural antipathy which regulates the 
relations of all widely separated peoples, the sentinel which keeps 
watch and ward over the purity of highly developed races. "^ As 
we have seen, nowhere in history has the white lived in contact 
with a backward race except on the unconditional acknowledgment 
of the supremacy of the white group. In every other case except 

' Royce, op. cit., p. 22. * K. Miller, Race Adjustment, p. 115. 

J Livingstone, "The West Indian and American Negro," North American Review, 
1907, CLXXXV, 646. 


the South the white has Justified his supremacy by definite laws 
and a political order as is shown in the case of the British West 
Indies and South Africa. Under the pressure of the passion and 
prejudice of the Reconstruction period, however, the whites were 
to a large extent eliminated politically by a provision of the Four- 
teenth Amendment, in reality the first actual drawing of the "color 
line" in the South,^ and a political regime was initiated on the 
basis of Negro rule. The constitutional amendments were designed 
to perpetuate this clothing of the Negro with the highest political 
power and they remained, of course, after the white regained 
home rule. 

The white group which had never yet admitted a backward or 
inferior race to share in the shaping of its political and social ideals 
found itself facing a situation of peculiar difficulty. The weaker 
group, which as a whole had little or no comprehension of the real 
issue at stake, was used as a catspaw by unscrupulous leaders who 
were supported in their policy by the highest law of the land, the 
public sentiment of the North, and the military arm of the nation. 
Under normal conditions the whites would undoubtedly have 
followed the precedent set by the English in Jamaica and determined 
by law the status of the weaker group and assured the dominance 
of the white, and hence a stable social order under which the Negro 
could have worked out his social salvation under the tutelage of the 
white. This was impossible, so they fell back upon the more subtle 
and powerful force of public sentiment and usage from which all law 
gets its meaning and sanction. The law guaranteed to the black civil 
and poUtical rights and social privileges on an equality with the 
white, but in a thousand subtle ways that really invalidated the 
spirit without breaking the letter of the statutes the whites found 
means for keeping the Negro in a subordinate social and political 
position and completely subservient to the will of the dominant 
group. The ''color line" is the result of this effort of the ruling 
group to make the black constantly aware of his subordinate 
status and actually to restrict him to it in the absence of legal 
means for so doing. The real motive here was not so much to 
humiliate the black or to perpetuate the social habits of slavery; 

' Murphy, The Basis of Ascendency, p. 7. 


the determining factor was the practical necessity of finding and 
maintaining a modus vivendi between a race with long training in the 
exercise of democratic liberties and another utterly without training 
and forced by disabilities of its own to occupy indefinitely a sub- 
ordinate place in the social order. The problem was exactly that 
faced by the Enghsh in South Africa, namely, "the construction of 
a government which, while democratic as regards one of the races, 
cannot safely be made democratic as regards the other."' After 
the long and costly experiment of military coercion in Reconstruc- 
tion, entailing many acts of lawlessness and an outrageous defiance 
of the forms and principles of a free democracy, besides engendering 
much heart-burning between the two races, the masses of the 
nation have slowly come around to the common-sense view never 
once deserted by the Englishman in his relations to the Negro in 
Jamaica and South Africa, namely, that the dominance of the 
white group is the prerequisite of anything like satisfactory rela- 
tions between the two races. Once more the white race has 
vindicated its traditions of supremacy, but the experience was a 
costly one for the South, the Negro, and the nation. 

The democratic institutions by which it was attempted through 
outside coercion to hold together on a parity two widely divergent 
racial groups were originally created on the supposition of the 
ability of all members of the community to enter into a sympa- 
thetic understanding of them, and thus to cherish that community 
of interests necessary to their preservation. The laws thus recog- 
nized no other basis of social co-operation than that of the most 
comprehensive democracy, and when this proved inadequate to 
the situation the groups concerned were thrown back upon irrational 
group instincts in which case the stronger always prevails and that 
by the use of means that are too often anti-social. Democracy thus 
became through the logic of events practically a carte blanche for a 
return to more primitive social conditions. This was most unfor- 
tunate for both groups. It educated the higher group into anti- 
social and extra-legal ways of executing the social will, and gave 
rise to a feeling of disrespect for democratic institutions. It begot 
in the weaker group a sense of wrong without educating it into a 

' Bryce, Impressions of South Africa, p. 360. 


higher regard for social values. The Negro's sufferings became the 
fruitful source of outside sympathy and even of much uncritical 
sentimentality which led to an exaggerated feeling of injustice 
in the Negro himself without in any way creating in him a sane 
and healthful sense of his own weaknesses and a regard for his 
social obligations. 

The psychological effect of the Sturm und Drang period of the 
Reconstruction upon the whites in the South can hardly be over- 
estimated. It intensified racial differences and interests in a way 
most injurious to both groups but especially to the Negro. The 
whites of the South came out of it with the feeling of racial solidarity 
as the supreme and determining factor of their thought and life. 
They have consequently presented for over half a century the most 
compact and doggedly determined section of the citizenship of the 
nation in their devotion to group ideals. This can only be under- 
stood when we remember that during their struggle against Negro 
domination: "They were pilloried in public print, 'investigated/ 
time after time, almost as a holiday task, and 'reported on' by 
committees of hostile congresses. They were cartooned by the pen 
of Nast, their every fault was hunted out and magnified and set on a 
hill, for all the world to gaze at as typical of a 'barbarous people.' 
Their misfortunes were paraded as the well earned fruit of treason."' 
It took ten years of misrule and bitter humihation to create the 
"solid South," but the work was done so thoroughly that it will in 
all probability persist for years to come. It is a familiar fact 
that social habits, especially when they become tinged with strong 
emotion, are the last to change. Claverhouse and the English 
dragoons are gone but the Scotchman still feels an antipathy for 
the Church of England. The fires of Smithfield and the Spanish 
Armada are matters of history only, but the dishke of Catholicism 
still lingers among the masses of the English people. It was most 
unfortunate for the Negro whose interests were so intimately 
connected with those of the white that during this period of crystal- 
lization of group feeling he was not only excluded but was identified 
from the very start with the outside forces making for the coercion 
of the white. 

'Stone, Studies in the American Race Problem, p. 265. 


The difficulties attending the social integration of the Negro 
at the South are largely the heritage of this period of conflict 
and alienation. Because of the extra-legal methods the white has 
been forced to fall back upon to maintain his group supremacy, 
both races live in an atmosphere of ill-defined and intangible 
rights and privileges having little or no basis in existing laws. 
Consequently the black is irritated by the feeling that the rights 
he really enjoys are far short of those which seem to be guaranteed 
to him by democratic institutions and he is tempted, therefore, 
on occasion to assert these technical rights in defiance of the senti- 
ment of the dominant group. The result is very often the ''bump- 
tious" Negro, a phenomenon entirely lacking in Jamaica because 
there the conditions are lacking that produce him. The white, 
having no other sanction for his attitude toward a weaker race 
than a vague public sentiment, is prone to be arbitrary, intolerant, 
and at times lawless. Since the sanctions of his conduct lie in the 
sentiments of the local community rather than in the nation at 
large, he is abnormally sensitive to outside criticism and has the 
uncomfortable feeling of a lack of poise, of unstable social equi- 
librium, because his life is one of constant protest and seemingly 
unwarranted self-assertion. All this the Englishman has wisely 
avoided by giving legal and institutional sanction to the dominance 
of the white group while judiciously encouraging those blacks who 
show capacity for positions of responsibility and power by admitting 
them to a limited share in social and political emoluments. "The 
social organization [of Jamaica] is therefore like a pyramid. The 
whites constitute the apex, the coloured class compose the middle 
courses, and the masses of the Negroes make up the broad base."^ 

Again, the race problems of South Africa throw much light upon 
the question of race friction and social integration in this country. 
We have suffered from a lack of perspective and judicial fairness 
in previous discussions of our race difficulties because we failed to 
compare the situations here with similar situations in other parts 
of the world where whites and blacks are thrown together in large 
numbers. The striking parallel between the behavior of the whites 
in the South and in South Africa in their dealings with the Negro 
' Livingstone, Black Jamaica, p. 237. 


suggests that this race friction which on its face seems so irrational 
and unchristian may have its roots deep in human nature and may 
be, therefore, the inevitable accompaniment of contact between 
divergent race groups. We find there the same apparently childish 
insistence upon the acknowledgment of his superiority by the 
white in every relation with the black. Bryce relates the case of a 
prosperous Kafir for whom a white agreed to work on condition 
that his Negro employer address him as "boss"; the economic 
relation made little difference so long as the social relation of 
superior and inferior was recognized.^ This seemingly foolish 
stipulation would be perfectly intelligible to the southern white 
with whom similar conditions exist. The fundamental law of the 
Transvaal, like the unwritten law of the South, declares that "the 
people will suffer no equality of the whites and blacks, either in 
state or church." All over South Africa the evidence of a black 
against a white is seldom received, and only in Cape Colony does 
he serve on a jury. The relations between the races are described 
in language which might be applied directly to southern conditions: 
"Even the few educated natives are too well aware of the gulf 
that separates their own people from the European to resent, except 
in specially aggravated cases, the attitude of the latter. Each 
race goes its own way and lives its own life."^ The dining of Dr. 
Booker T. Washington with President Roosevelt on October 16, 
1 901, which aroused such feeling in the South and was the text 
for much criticism of that section by the northern press, finds a 
curious parallel in the entertainment of the Negro prince Khama, 
*'a Christian and a man of high personal character," by the Duke of 
Westminster in London, 1895, the news of which "excited disgust 
and annoyance among the whites of South Africa."^ 

The striking similarity in the attitude of the whites of English 
stock all over the world when brought into contact with large 
numbers of the Negro race suggests that we have to do ultimately 
with a natural contrariety and incompatibihty of race tempera- 
ments which prevent social assimilation and, therefore, complete 
social solidarity. This would lead us also to expect race friction 
' Bryce, Impressions of South Africa, p. 367. 
' Bryce, op. cit., p. 375. 3 Bryce, op. ciL, p. 368. 


to be most in evidence where the pressure from group contacts is the 
strongest. An unprejudiced examination of the race relations in 
this country will amply support this assertion. It is a fact the 
traveler may observe for himself that as he approaches the ''black 
belt" from any section of the country the drawing of the "color 
line" becomes more and more unequivocal. The Negro enjoys 
many privileges in Massachusetts, where he constitutes but i . i per 
cent of the population and where consequently he is not present 
in numbers strong enough to make his group traits felt, and where 
nevertheless he has never enjoyed complete social assimilation. 
He enjoys fewer privileges in South Carolina or Mississippi, where 
he forms 58 per cent of the population, and where consequently 
his race traits and group habits are a tremendous factor in the 
social economy to be reckoned with at every turn. 

With the increasing migration of Negroes from the South to 
northern cities the pressure from group contacts is inevitable, so 
that even in Boston, the home of Sumner, Phillips, and Garrison, 
the "color line" is distinctly in evidence. Negroes are discrimi- 
nated against at restaurants, soda water stands, hotels, and even 
churches, while there is a strong opposition to renting flats to 
Negroes in aristocratic sections — a fact that may be paralleled in 
all the large cities and one that throws a curious side-light upon 
the "color line" in the North. This discrimination has been 
especially galling to the old aristocratic Negro families of cities 
such as Boston, who trace their lineage back to Revolutionary days 
and earlier and who, partly through sentiment and partly because 
they were a vanishing element of the population (census statistics 
seem to indicate that the Negro would die out in the Far North 
but for the new blood from the South),' had been admitted to 
privileges enjoyed by few of their race anywhere else in the world. 
By virtue of superior culture and business associations they belong 
to the white group and they "cling passionately to the fuller life,"^ 
refusing to submit to the social ostracism that restricts them to 
the life of their own racial group. But in vain, for the racial 
differentiations which were always latent are now brought home 

' Hoffman, Race Traits and Tendencies of the American Negro, pp. 35 ff . 

' Baker, Following the Color Line, p. 219, also 188 ff. 


to the social mind with growing emphasis due to increasing numbers. 
There is a growing tendency in all large cities to confine the Negro 
to certain sections, the natural result of the refusal of social assimila- 

Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, has given us some of 
the most violent exhibitions of race antipathy and the history of 
the race relations in this city will show that race feehng is intimately 
connected with the pressure from group contacts. At the time 
when Pennsylvanians were nobly supporting the anti-slavery tra- 
ditions of Penn and John Woolman even to the extent of threatened 
political complications with the slave states to the south because 
of the Fugitive Slave laws, the city of Philadelphia was the scene 
in 1834, 1835, 1838, 1848, and 1849 of race riots against the 
Negro of a peculiarly violent and brutal nature.^ These earlier 
outbreaks were directly associated with the increasing number of 
Negroes in the state and particularly in the city; there were 
more Negroes in Pennsylvania in i860 than in any other non- 
slave-holding state. 

According to the testimony of the Negroes themselves, however, 
they enjoy more privileges in Philadelphia than in Baltimore and 
Washington with their still larger Negro populations. The race 
relations in Washington are particularly instructive in this con- 
nection, for they are unique in this country and in the world. There 
are in the first place something Hke 100,000 blacks in the capital 
city, while the whites number approximately 250,000. In no 
other city of the world do the two races live together in such large 
numbers. The Negroes are perhaps the most cultured and pro- 
gressive to be found anywhere among the race today. In no other 
section of the country is there as much of the tolerant and even 
indulgent attitude toward the Negro as the ward of the nation; 
the spirit of Sumner is still in evidence, not only on the front of 
public-school buildings, but also in the free intermingling of the 

' For Philadelphia, see DuBois, The Philadelphia Negro; for Chicago, "Chicago 
Housing Conditions, VI: The Problem of the Negro," by Comstock, in the American 
Journal of Sociology, September, 1912, pp. 241 ff.; for New York, Ovington Half a 
Man, pp. ^i^Q. ° ' J 

'Turner, The Negro in Pennsylvania, pp. 160 ff.; see DuBois, The Philadelphia 
J\egro, pp. 322 ff., for race prejudice as it exists today in Philadelphia. 


races in the street cars and at public gatherings. The political 
situation is the best imaginable for the amicable relations of the 
races, for since the disastrous breakdown of representative govern- 
ment and the substitution of commission government in 1878, owing 
to the corrupt and irresponsible Negro vote,' practically all source 
of friction between the races along group lines has disappeared. 
But the "color line" is unmistakably present. It is in evidence 
at the restaurants, the theaters, the drinking founts of drug stores, 
the hotels, in school, and in church. The two races live and move 
and have their being in widely divergent spheres. Aside from the 
legalization of the "color line," the segregation of the two racial 
groups is hardly more complete in Richmond or Atlanta. In 
the great dailies of Washington, for example, one finds little or no 
reference to the thought and life, the clubs, churches, or social 
functions of the 100,000 colored citizens of the city. So far as any 
apparent sympathetic interest of the white is concerned, they might 
as well be living in Haiti or Timbuctu. There is not the least 
doubt that were the conditions such as those prevailing in other 
cities, particularly in politics, there would be much more race 
friction. As it is there is an external attitude of kindly tolerance 
and indifference on the part of the white, with a deep and uimiis- 
takable undercurrent of racial antipathy. 

When men realize the essential similarity of the forces at work, 
wherever race friction between the white and black occurs, whether 
in the South or in South Africa, in Boston or Atlanta, it is to be 
hoped that much of the sectionalism and ignorance which have 
hitherto characterized the study of the race question will disappear. 
When we recognize that human nature is essentially the same in 
Philadelphia or in Charleston, in New Orleans or in Cape Town, and 
that where groups of whites and blacks are brought together in 
these widely separated parts of the globe they will in all probability 
behave in much the same way under similar circumstances, we 
have at last laid the basis not only for the comprehension of this 
infinitely complex question of race relations, but also for genuine 
sympathy and mutual understanding between brother-men placed 
in widely divergent racial environments. 

' Ingle, The Negro in the District of Columbia, pp. 64 fiE. 


An inevitable result of this racial antipathy found wherever 
whites of English-speaking stock and blacks are thrown together 
is the emergence within the social order of two distinct racial 
groups with very little in common apart from the most general 
participation in political and social institutions. This division 
of society into two groups is inevitable so long as there exists 
an unwritten law refusing social sanction to intermarriage 
between blacks and whites, and there is no possible way in 
which democratic or any other social or political institutions 
can prevent such a division. The group division will of course be 
less consciously felt by society at large where either the whites or 
blacks are very much in the majority. This explains the seemingly 
paradoxical situation that race friction is least in evidence in the 
Far North, where the Negro is a very small percentage of the popu- 
lation, and also in the heart of the "black belt" where the whites 
form a correspondingly small percentage. 

This dichotomy of the social organism presents a very interest- 
ing situation for the student of the social mind. The social self 
is born and grows to maturity in the midst of a social heritage 
which is composed of the group habits and group ideals which 
have been slowly accumulated through generations of homogeneous 
group life. The perfection and the authoritativeness of the social 
heritage depends upon a long and unbroken group life. The self- 
poise of homogeneous and highly civilized peoples and their ability 
to produce men of high moral and cultural attainment is due to 
this feeling of the undisputed supremacy of group ideals among all 
classes of men. When an ideal or a custom fails to find the support 
of the group as a whole it speedily loses its authoritativeness and 
its educative power. For the same reason ideals or customs which 
are of fundamental importance for the welfare of the group as a 
whole receive the undisputed support of all members and those 
inclined to ignore or defy them are speedily eliminated. 

The situation of the southern white where the social order 
is equally divided between two separate racial groups with habits of 
life and thought differing fundamentally from each other is a critical 
one. The social conscience owes its authoritativeness and even 
its very existence and with it the existence of the social sanctions 


that guarantee a permanent civilization to a feeling of unity and 
social solidarity among all the members of the social order. But 
where there are two separate and autonomous groups this is 
impossible and the logical result of such a situation would be the 
disintegration of the social order entirely if the forces here at work 
were allowed free play. A permanent social order is possible only 
where one or other of the two sets of social values represented by 
the two groups secures and maintains an undisputed supremacy, or 
where there is a fusion of the two groups through intermarriage, 
which alone makes it possible for all the members of the social 
order alike to attain that similarity of selfhood necessary to com- 
plete social solidarity and a common loyalty to common group 
ideals. Of nothing is it so true as of the sanctions of human 
conduct that "a house divided against itself shall not stand." 

This brings us very close to the heart of the race question as 
we find it in the South and wherever the white lives among masses 
of the blacks, and herein lies the justification of "white supremacy." 
When we eliminate the exhibitions of brutal race hatred which 
are usually taken by superficial and prejudiced critics as typical of 
the entire situation the alternatives before the guardians of white 
civilization are either the admission of the Negro through inter- 
marriage to complete social solidarity which would eliminate 
entirely the dualism of the social mind in the most natural and 
complete fashion or the setting aside of the Negro in a group to 
himself and the insistence upon his recognition of the supremacy 
of the white group. This makes a modus vivendi possible. It 
seems hard that the Negro should be required to attain selfhood as 
best he can outside the higher cultural possibilities of the white 
group and subordinated to that group, and yet what other alterna- 
tive would the social philosopher offer us? He certainly would 
not ask of the white group the supreme sacrifice of its ethnic purity 
which is the bearer of its social heritage and, therefore, the ultimate 
guarantee of the continuity and integrity of its peculiar type of 

We are now prepared to understand why the full and complete 
social integration of the Negro is impossible. Such social integra- 
tion as does exist must be based upon mutual concessions and 


compromises. The conditions of the greatest harmony will be, 
as already suggested, where the weaker group accepts uncondition- 
ally the will of the stronger group. Conditions of friction will 
inevitably occur where the weaker group refuses to accept these 
conditions. "The most fruitful conditions of race friction may be 
expected where there is a constant insistence upon a theoretical 
equality of the weaker group which the stronger denies."^ Starting 
with racial antipathy as a fixed and irreducible element in the prob- 
lem, it is undoubtedly true that the farther we get from slavery 
and the nearer an approximation of the theoretical claims of 
democracy the more difficult social integration appears. It has 
indeed been asserted that slavery is the only condition under which 
a weaker race of widely different traits can enjoy intimate social 
relations with a stronger without friction-^- It is doubtless true that 
in spite of fifty years of freedom, the Negro, especially in the South, 
enjoys as a race fewer points of contact with the white and is less 
an integral part of the social order than he was in the days of 

' Stone, Studies in the American Race Question, p. 223. 

' Shaler, "Race Prejudice," Atlantic Monthly, i886, p. 516. 


Dartmouth College 

It has been pointed out by a number of writers that the well- 
known difference between the birth-rate of the well-to-do classes 
and that of the more rapidly multiplying laboring classes is fraught 
with serious consequences. It is asserted that the upward move- 
ment of the able from class to class, and from the country to the 
city, segregates the brains and the energy, the ambitions and the 
capacity of the nation in a section of the population which is dying 
out by the process of class suicide. Society is thus represented as 
selecting for extinction its most capable breeds and becoming in 
consequence an aggregate of increasingly mediocre individuals. 
One might well suppose from such considerations that the case of 
modern society is hopeless. 

There is the possibility, however, that the machinery of selection 
does not work with quite the ruthless thoroughness imputed to it. 
There are a number of considerations which cast doubt upon this 
assumption, (i) The abiHty or capacity which leads to success is 
far from being simple, uniform, or commensurable. It may almost 
be defined as any variation which proves to be favorable in a given 
environment. There is probably no variation which would not 
prove of advantage in some environment. It is because successful 
people are so indefinitely different among themselves— are so many 
kinds of variants, in other words— that it is perhaps doubtful 
whether if they mated exclusively among themselves their offspring 
would be distinguished particularly from the offspring of the rest of 
the population. (2) Much ability, many of the valuable variations 
are the result not of inheritance but of development and specializa- 
tion of effort only. The attention of one individual for some reason 
is drawn off from all other subjects and directed to one task exclu- 
sively; that individual succeeds; even ill-health by limiting the 



number of personal interests sometimes accomplishes this end; a 
second individual lavishing attention upon several objects attends 
with conspicuous success to none. Here is apparently a difference 
in ability, but hardly a difference likely to be repeated in the follow- 
ing generation. Until exact psychic measurements are further per- 
fected, it is hazardous to estimate the importance of the two sets of 
causes, hereditary on the one hand, and on the other those connected 
with economy and concentration of attention. (3) Ability receives 
its reward only when it is presented with the opportunities of a 
fairly favorable environment, its peculiarly indispensable sort of 
environment. Naval commanders are not likely to be developed in 
the Transvaal, nor literary men and artists in the soft coal fields of 
western Pennsylvania. For ten men who succeed as investigators, 
inventors, or diplomatists, there may be and probably are in some 
communities fifty more who would succeed better under the same 

In these failures of well-endowed individuals and in the artificial 
successes of poorly endowed favorites, there may be a crumb of con- 
solation for the social biologist who might rejoice that a few brands 
escape the burning in which success consumes itself, but to the social 
economist the waste of social materials involved appears to be a 
most serious loss in itself. 

Professor Lester F. Ward, in his Applied Sociology, has stated 
and elaborated this point of view most cogently. Following the 
way which he has blazed, it should not be difficult to point out 
certain limitations upon the social selections under discussion. 

In the present discussion I shall confine myself to education 
understood in a broad sense as an agency in the selection of personal 
ability, for, of all the agencies by which individuals may be qualified 
to play a distinctive r61e in society and one in accordance with their 
inherited capabilities, education is undoubtedly the greatest. 

The imperfect results which our educational system achieves are 
the result mainly of the undue abbreviation of the period of training 
for most individuals and of the omission of elements of training of 
real significance for the purpose of adjusting individuals to social 
tasks. The crucial question is whether all of those individuals are 
getting into the running who are capable of putting up the best race. 


whether those mdividuals are bemg inducted into the traditions of 
science and of industry who are most likely to render those fields 
the service of large capacities. 

The most striking fact which meets the eye from the pages of 
educational statistics is the abbreviation of the period of instruction 
for so large a part of the school population. Only a fraction of 
those who enter the elementary schools are turned over to the 
higher schools. The number of those who continue their education 
does not exhaust the talented part of the population. The handicap 
imposed by leaving school early consists not merely in being 
deprived of a vantage-ground from which an appropriate vocational 
choice may be made but also in the fact that such youth are almost 
certain to drift into inconsequential and totally uneducative tasks 
such as our society reserves as a heritage for the working boy. 
Every industry has its "boys' work" and in extremely few cases 
does such work afford a stimulus to ambitious eflfort or to personal 

In the Report of the Commissioner of Education for 1909, the 
enrolment of pupils in the elementary and high schools of 1,024 
cities and villages of over 4,000 population is given by years. The 
aggregate enrohnent of boys and girls in these cities exceeds 4,000,- 
000, so it appears that the returns are sufficiently complete to give 
them a high degree of significance. 

The enrolment of boys is largest in the second grade, and drops 
gradually until about the fifth grade, where the enrolment is 80 per 
cent of what it was in the second. In the sixth, however, it has 
dropped to about 66 per cent, in the seventh to slightly more than 
50 per cent, and in the eighth to less than 40 per cent of the enrol- 
ment in the second grade. The four years of high school show in 
terms of the same standard, respectively, one-fourth, one-sixth, 
one-tenth, one-fourteenth. In other words, making no correction 
for the somewhat smaller number of boys in the population at the 
high-school age, only one m 14 of those enrolled in the second grade 
reaches the fourth year of high school. 

In the analysis of population according to age found in the census 
of 1900, the number of boys in the United States of age seven was 
904,428, which may be represented by 100 per cent, and may stand 


roughly for those of about first- or second-grade age. (The varia- 
tion in the total population from one year to the next is not great 
enough to affect the purpose for which the figures are used.) It 
will be found that the number of boys of age fourteen constitute 
nearly 87 per cent of those of age seven; boys of age sixteen con- 
stitute 83.6 per cent of the number at age seven. It may be 
assumed that the age distribution for the United States (between 
the ages seven and sixteen) would not be found seriously erroneous 
for the 1,024 cities and villages reporting school enrolment. 

With this assumption we find that between the second and 
eighth grades the enrolment falls from 100 to 38.6 per cent, while 
between the seventh and sixteenth years the number of boys in the 
population decreases only from 100 to 83.6 per cent. It may, 
therefore, be inferred that in these thousand cities and villages less 
than half the boys who live to a sufficient age are found enrolled in 
the eighth grade. More than half of them drop out in some 
earlier grade. 

This leads to a point which has received fairly general recogni- 
tion, that many times the youth who persists to the end of the 
grammar-school course or even through the high school finds himself 
even then in possession of no specific knowledge, skill, discernment, 
or qualification adequate to the selection or the accomplishment 
of the tasks to which he must presently address himself. A whole 
series of educational reforms are competing at the present time 
upon the basis of this general criticism. I shall refer briefly to 
but one of them — vocational counsel as a part of the education of 
the boy. 

At this point I wish simply to enforce the conviction that the 
educational net fails by far of catching and holding all whom it is 
desirable, for the sake of the social good, to drag to the surface. 

The explanation of the facts already noted lies mainly outside of 
the schoolroom. Ward has pointed out that among the really 
important factors conditioning individual success is "a social 
position such as is capable of producing a sense of self-respect, 
dignity, and reserve power which alone can inspire confidence in 
one's worth and in one's right to enter the lists for the great prizes 
of life." He quotes approvingly Professor Cooley's remark that "a 


man can hardly fix his ambition upon a literary career when he is 
perfectly unaware, as millions are, that such a thing as a literary 
career exists." Nothing is more likely to prevent the selection and 
elevation of able characters than that a considerable section of the 
population should for one reason or another regard themselves as 
"counted out" of the running for positions of honor and responsi- 
bility. While this is a mental attitude less common in a democracy 
than in monarchical and definitely stratified societies, yet it is liable 
to be fostered increasingly among us in proportion as our population 
is gathered in industrial centers where the family as a whole, not 
its male head, becomes the unit of economic support, and children 
in consequence are early sent to work. Whatever the fluidity of 
American society forty or sixty or eighty years ago, industrial 
America in the twentieth century is not assured, by any mechanism 
of selection now in operation, of the automatic detection and utiliza- 
tion of the abilities with which its citizens may be endowed. 

It must not be forgotten that ambition is a relative, not an 
absolute matter and that the horizon of the average youth is limited 
by the radius of the "vocational imagination" possessed by 
members of his family and social group. The cue to the explanation 
of success lies in part in the self-classification of individuals. We 
try to live up to what we suppose we are, just as the imaginary 
kings and queens who are sometimes met with give themselves the 
airs appropriate to their station. It is not only a question of what 
individuals are able to do, but also of what they are ''put up" to do 
by the stimulation and suggestion of their social environment. If 
one were once accustomed to it, it might not prove so much more 
difficult to think with the prince in terms of provinces, or with the 
astronomer in terms of solar systems, than it is to wrestle with the 
exigencies of the cobbler's bench or with the daily problems of the 
locksmith or the tinker. 

With a view to throwing a little light if possible upon the influ- 
ences which shape the ambitions and plans of boys, at about the 
age when one-half of them have brought their formal education to a 
close, a simple statistical inquiry was undertaken at the end of 19 10, 
made possible by the courteous co-operation of the public-school 
authorities of the city of St. Paul. Boys in the seventh and eighth 


grades of eighteen of the larger public schools, 1,076 boys in all, 
wrote answers to the following questions: "Do you expect to go to 
high school?" "What is your father's exact occupation?" "What 
occupation or work do you think you would like best to work at all 
your life ?" "Why do you think you would like this occupation ?" 
In the replies to these questions there is material for a rough sort 
of reconstruction in statistical terms of a part of the social environ- 
ment surrounding these thousand boys. To understand a state of 
mind is as important as to understand a purely objective state of 
facts. While the results are in terms of expectations and prefer- 
ences and will change materially in many cases during the next few 
years, it is believed that they throw light upon the working of the 
mind of the boy early in the period when vocational and career- 
making choices begin to be made. The replies of these boys reflect 
such factors as family ambition, degree of economic independence of 
parents, intelligence of parents, and, in general, varying outlooks 
upon the possibilities which life affords. 

In spite of the difficulties in the way of a satisfactory classifica- 
tion of occupations, it has seemed feasible to classify the boys 
according to the occupational groups to which the father belongs. 
For this purpose eight classes have been made use of: the first group 
is the professional and includes such occupations as lawyer, phy- 
sician, architect, musician, civil engineer, etc. This group numbers 
54 cases. The second group is the mercantile, and is composed of 
proprietors of businesses, superintendents, traveling salesmen, 
managers, and all the better-paid commercial, industrial, and 
official positions of a non-manual character. It is a large group 
(358 cases) and membership in it implies bearing a certain business 
or administrative responsibility as well as what some imagine to be 
a kind of clean-handed respectability. The third and fourth groups 
are small (63 and 66 respectively) and consist of those following 
subordinate clerical and petty mercantile occupations, respectively. 
The type of the former is the clerk in an office and of the latter the 
clerk in a store. Both groups are non-manual. The fifth group 
consists of the skilled manual workers. This group again is a large 
one, numbering 298 cases, and the type is the man following a 
skilled trade such as the carpenter, plumber, machinist, etc. The 


sixth group numbers 1 1 1 and includes the unskilled or slightly skilled 
manual occupations, such as laborers, teamsters, street-sweepers, 
waiters, porters, etc. The seventh group, which is almost negligible, 
is made up of 14 cases where the father follows some agricultural 
occupation. The eighth group consists of all cases not assignable 
to one of the first seven, and is therefore of no special significance. 

Without going into further details, I may state briefly the 
character of the answers to the question, "Do you expect to go to 
high school ?" Of the boys from the professional class 94 per cent 
replied in the aflGirmative; of the mercantile class 86 per cent; of the 
clerical 74 per cent; of the petty mercantile 67 per cent; of the 
artisan class 61 per cent; of the laborer class 54 per cent. 

We may therefore conclude that for boys who reach the seventh 
and eighth grades (taking no account of those who fall out in the 
earlier years) the probability of entrance upon a secondary-school 
education is proportional to membership in the leading occupational 
groups roughly in the ratio of 94, 86, 74, 67, 61, 54, respectively, as 
we pass from the non-manual to the manual occupations. 

Inasmuch as it is exceedingly improbable that boys of superior 
ability predominate in the non-manual classes in the proportion 
indicated, it is evident that here is one source of the leakage of 
ability, one way in which society does not get a chance to subject 
all of its sons to such further sifting and grading as is involved in the 
revelationsof aptitude and potencymade during a high-school course. 

The answers to the questions relating to the occupations which 
the boy thinks he would like to pursue for life together with his 
reasons are interesting. In all, 990 boys expressed preference for 
some sort of work. Of these, in chose each their father's identical 
occupation, or about 11 per cent. Professional occupations were 
chosen by 59 per cent of the boys whose fathers were professional 
men. Of the mercantile class 35 per cent chose professional occupa- 
tions. Of the clerical and petty mercantile classes 30 and 26 per 
cent chose professional occupations respectively. Of the artisan 
class 21 per cent and of the laborer class 16 per cent chose such 
occupations. Mercantile employments were chosen most largely 
by those whose fathers were so engaged. Skilled manual occupa- 
tions were preferred by 9 per cent of the sons of professional men, 


15 per cent of the sons of merchants, 18 per cent of the sons of 
petty merchants, 21 per cent of the sons of clerical employees, and 
Z^ per cent of the sons of skilled artisans. 


Sons' Preference 
























Petty mercantile . 






























3 8 














100 ICX) 




While the cases in which the fathers are professional men are but 

5 per cent of the whole number of cases, the cases where sons wished 
to be professional men are 28 per cent, or 5^ times as many. Fathers 
who were in the mercantile class constitute 2,Z per cent, sons choos- 
ing mercantile occupations constitute 14 per cent, or less than half 
as many; clerical positions were filled by fathers in 6 per cent of the 
cases but chosen by 14 per cent of the boys. Fathers in the artisan 
class were 28 per cent, the boys choosing to be artisans 24 per cent. 
Fathers in unskilled manual occupations were 10 per cent of the 
whole, boys choosing such were i per cent. Fathers in agricultural 
pursuits were i per cent, sons choosing agricultural pursuits were 

6 per cent. 

There is evident in these figures a considerable tendency to 
choose occupations in the same general order of vocation as that in 
which the father is employed; thus three-fifths of the sons of 
professional men wish to be professional men, one-fourth of the sons 
of merchants wish to be merchants, two-fifths of the sons of artisans 
wish to be artisans. A still more pronounced tendency, however, is 


to choose occupations of a more remunerative or intellectual and 
less manual sort than those followed by the father. Thus 35 per 
cent of the boys from the mercantile class want to be professional 
men; 37 per cent of the boys from the petty mercantile class wish 
to be merchants or professional men; 49 per cent of the boys from 
the clerical class want to enter the professional or mercantile classes 
and 46 per cent of the sons of artisans wish to follow non-manual or 
clean-handed occupations, while 76 per cent of the sons of unskilled 
laborers wish to be artisans or to follow the non-manual occupations. 
These figures illustrate very clearly the relativity of vocational 
ambitions. These statements of preference are conditioned by the 
vocational viewpoint established by the occupation of the father. 
When we turn to specific occupations preferred by the 990 boys, 
the results indicate that the adventurous, the out-of-doors, the 
mechanical or electrical, and the supposedly profitable professions 
and crafts, the clean-handed office positions, and the occupations 
involving travel are strong favorites. The list of occupations pre- 
ferred by ten or more boys is as follows: 


Civil, electrical, mechanical, and mining engineer 139 

Office clerk, bookkeeper, and stenographer 113 

Machinist and mechanic 77 

Lawyer 69 

Agricultural pursuits 59 

Engineer (locomotive principally) 56 

Merchant and business man 55 

Electrician 42 

Architect and draughtsman 36 

Traveling salesman 34 

Carpenter and cabinet-maker 30 

Physician 27 

Artistic or musical pursuit 21 

Store clerk 19 

Plumber and steamfitter 17 

Printer i3 

Surveyor 12 

Banking '. 12 

Real estate 11 

Druggist 10 

Scattering 138 

Total reporting preference 99° 


This is the way in which the vocational horizon impresses the 
average St. Paul boy in the seventh and eighth grades. That the 
emphasis is as far as possible from that placed by the actual demand 
for workers is not at all surprising when the fact is considered that 
these boys have probably never received a half-hour's formal 
instruction in their lives with regard to vocational matters, and 
particularly with reference to the preparation and qualifications 
requisite for the various tasks to which they vaguely aspire. 

We teach our youth about the characteristics of geographical 
regions, the properties of numbers, and the peculiarities of language. 
As they go on with their studies we teach them the characteristics 
of chemical elements and compounds, the physical properties of 
bodies, the texture and mechanism of organic structures, both 
vegetable and animal, and their young minds unfold in the presence 
of a world richer and more complicated than they had ever dreamed. 
But about the qualities of men demanded by the world's work, about 
the r61e played by tact, by ability to meet men, by differing traits 
and tendencies of mind, as related to individual success in specific 
present-day tasks, we teach little. That the demands of one pro- 
fession or craft are radically different from those of another, that 
the application of individual endowment to its appropriate task is a 
tremendously difficult thing, they learn only in the wasteful school 
of experience. 

If we turn from aspirations to the actual "choice," so called, of 
occupations by American youth, we find still less of the rational 
and more of the accidental. As Mr. Everett W. Lord of the 
National Child Labor Committee {Proceedings, 1910, pp. 80-81) 
has put it: "Boys find themselves in their vocations as the result of 
custom, heredity, propinquity, or accident far oftener than through 
deliberate and conscious choice." Geographical and industrial 
conditions, for example, cut out the work of whole communities of 
people from birth, almost without option on their part, as Dr. Peter 
Roberts has shown so clearly of the anthracite coal communities. 

A year or so ago Mr. Lord sent out "several hundred letters to 
people engaged in various occupations, asking them to answer 

certain questions Among the answers to the question, 

'Why did you choose your present occupation?' .... were such 


as, 'Because that was what the other boys were doing,' 'Because I 
happened to get a job at that trade,' 'Because that was the prin- 
cipal line of work near my home'" {ihid., p. 79). 

After a time quite a number of people who have entered occupa- 
tions haphazard stumble out of work to which they are ill-adapted, 
and somehow stumble into other work for which they are better 
fitted. Multitudes of other individuals, I am forced to believe, 
succeed just well enough at some ill-chosen task to be held to it until 
readjustment has become difficult or impossible. 

The man who is fortunate enough to hit it in selecting or being 
put into a vocation succeeds if he has good abilities. The other man 
of equal or greater abilities, just as industrious, self-controlled, or 
sagacious, who does not strike that happy confluence of circum- 
stances which makes his efforts bear conspicuous fruit, plods along, 
tasting most of the pleasures of life in the pursuit of activities out- 
side of his trade or business — activities or interests, whether 
domestic, religious, fraternal, or recreational, which engage as great 
capacities as the successful man devotes to the conspicuous and 
interesting problems of his daily work. 

After this somewhat extended although imperfect statement of 
one phase of the problem of dormant ability, it is unnecessary to do 
more than point out the very great significance of the movement 
started by the late Professor Frank Parsons of Boston and by 
educators in several sections of the country looking toward the pro- 
vision of scientific vocational advice for young people as a part of 
their formal preparation for life. 

In conclusion, the following paragraphs may serve to summarize 
the points which have been emphasized: 

1. Society is suffering less from the race suicide of the capable, 
than from the non-utilization of the capacities of the well endowed. 

2. One-half of our male population is not carried far enough by 
our educational system even to see, much less understand, the 
vocational opportunities afforded by modern life. 

3. Of those boys who reach the last years of the elementary school 
very unequal selection is made, due to the poverty, lack of foresight 
and outlook entailed by a narrow and difficult social environment. 


4. In their preference for occupations boys are guided by whim 
contagious admiration, and ambition divorced from sound reason,' 
oftener than by a perceived compatibility between personal traits 
and the requirements of tasks. 

5. In the actual selection of occupations not even whunsical 
preferences are allowed to guide in very many cases, but rather the 
first remunerative opening in the local industrial mechanism 
determmes the career of the boy quite irrespective of taste or 

_ 6. From these causes there results an indefinitely great waste of 
abilities which remain in some cases undiscovered and in others 

7. While equality of opportunity cannot be provided by any 
mere change in educational methods, yet as a step in the direction 
of difiPusing the opportunity of intelligent vocational outlook, every 
boy before leaving the elementary school should be given an 
accurate idea of the nature of the principal kinds of human work 
the qualities demanded by them, the preparation required the 
rewards offered, the advantages and the opportunities for usefulness 
which they afford. He should, moreover, be taught the rudiments 
of self-appraisal from the vocational point of view and should have 
the benefit of counsel with a professional vocational counselor who 
IS thoroughly informed with regard to the industrial opportunities 
of the community and the means of entrance thereupon. 
^ 8. And last: Better vocational adjustments will link the real 
interests and energies of the spirit with productive tasks instead of 
allowmg them to be turned to merely recreational activities which 
m the cramped monotony of industrial communities so often verge 
upon the unsocial and the criminal. Thus new energy legitimately 
released wHl increase the material conditions of happmess, and 
make men better neighbors and members of society as well. 


Madison, Wis. 

It is usually assumed that the tone of a community, whether 
vigorous or apathetic, is determined by the prevailing traits of its 
individual members. Without disputing the importance of indi- 
vidual traits, the writer beHeves there are also general factors which 
condition the dominant tone of a community in respect to energy 
and inertia. The available productive energy of a society is not 
always equal to the sum of the physical vigor and mental acumen 
of all the individuals. Productive energy, like controlHng beliefs, 
is largely dependent upon the social atmosphere by which it is 

Says Cooley: 

The physical law of the persistence of energy in uniform quantity is a most 
illusive one to apply to human life. There is always a great deal more mental 
energy than is utilized, and the amount that is really productive depends chiefly 
on the urgency of suggestion. Indeed the higher activities of the human mind 
are, in general, more like a series of somewhat fortuitous explosions than like 

the work of a uniform force In the absence of suggestion the mind 

easily spends itself in minor activities; and there is no reason why this should 
not be true of a whole people and continue for centuries. Then again a spark 
may set it on fire and produce in a few years pregnant changes in the structure 
of society.' 

If "suggestion" in the above quotation be extended in its 
meaning to include anything that stimulates interest and instils 
hope in an individual or a people, his statement will be in accord 
with the most recent and advanced theories of the psychology of 
interest, effort, and energy, and will be very helpful in interpreting 
the vigor and energy of certain peoples as against the lethargy and 
inertia of other peoples of equal capacity. 

There is a theory,^' held by recent French and Enghsh psychol- 
ogists and apparently verified by observations and analysis, that 

' Social Organization, p. 328. 

' Claparede, Experimental Pedagogy. 



the energy by which our activities are performed may be drawn 
from either of two distinct sources. First there is the central 
reservoir or reserve store of human energy, available only for work 
that has an intrinsic interest and which draws the attention, not 
necessarily away from the work, but through and past its processes, 
and fixes it upon the purposes, or anticipated results, or upon 
certain pleasurable accompaniments which are previsaged at its 
inception. Then there is the local production of energy within 
the nerve centers of the organ acting. With children the distinc- 
tion between play and work is determined very largely by the 
source of the energy by which the activity is sustained. With 
adults the distinction is between interesting, fascinating work on 
the one hand and tedium and drudgery on the other. The former 
requires very little conscious efifort and produces few toxins of 
fatigue. The latter requires constant conscious efifort and produces 
many toxins of fatigue. The following table from Claparede 
represents this theory in graphic or schematic form: 

Character of Work 

1. Easy and interesting. 

2. Difficult and interest 

3. Easy and tedious or 

4. Difficult and uninter- 


Of the Work 




Of the Re- 
flexes of 





Expenditure op Energy 

From the 


From Local 

Toxins op 

Very few 
Very many 

From the foregoing it will appear that the problem of account- 
ing for the lethargy and inertia of some peoples as against the 
energy of others, or of the same peoples at dififerent times, consists 
in determining the conditions which make unavailable their 
reserve of energy. Of such conditions we shall here briefly consider 

Communism in property and industry causes societies to move in 
locks tep fashion, thus making all to conform in their stride to that of 
the most feeble and lethargic. — It is self-evident that any set of con- 
ditions which places a check or curb on self-expression, innovation, 


and initiative, and which causes men to move in herds and to act 
in unison or in accordance with a prescribed standard will have a 
tendency to eliminate all rivalry, and will stifle interest by sub- 
stituting, as the motive to action, the impelling force of necessity 
for the lure of hope and the suggestion of a personal interest. Kline 
and France in a study of "The Psychology of Ownership"^ show 
that the principal cause of the ''mental dulness, physical laziness, 
and lethargy of primitive races" is due to communism in property 
and in all their enterprises and undertakings more than to any 
other cause; and they quote numerous authorities to show that 
one of the most potent and essential factors in race development 
is a recognition of the right of the individual in the possession of 
something which he may call his own and upon which he may 
exercise his personal desires. Communism can demand no more 
than that each one come up with the average; and it is a fact of 
common experience that any attempt to conform to an average 
immediately lowers that average, since it is so much easier for the 
superior to slacken his pace or to lower his standard than for the 
inferior to increase or raise his. Thus does the average, by its 
own weight, tend to sink to constantly lowering levels. 

Hypertrophy of institutionalism compels the individual to con- 
form in his activities and manner of life to the mode or method of the 
group. — It differs from communism in that the latter lays stress 
upon the question, "How much?" The former simply asks 
"How?" Cooley, discussing the conflict between personality and 
institutionalism, says: "The timeworn question of conservatism 
as against change has evidently much in common with that of 
personaUty as against institutionaHsm. Innovation is bound up 
with the assertion of fresh personality as against mechanism. 
Wherever there is vigor and constructive power in the individual 
there is Ukely to be discontent with the estabhshment."' Again: 
"An institution is made up of persons but not of whole persons; 
each one enters into it with a specialized part of himself. Consider, 
for instance, the legal part of a lawyer, the ecclesiastical part of a 
church member, or the business part of a merchant. In antithesis 

' Pedagogical Seminary, VI, 429 ff. 
'O/*. Ci/., p. 327. 


to the institution, therefore, the person represents the wholeness 
and humanness of life; he is a corrector of partiality and a trans- 
lator and distributor of special development. "^ 

This contributing by each individual of a part of himself to an 
institution is somewhat analogous to subscribing capital to a 
corporation. The part subscribed passes from individual to group 
control. Now if this subscription or investment represents a 
dominating part, a voting majority, of the individual's interests, 
then his activities, instead of being the result of choice, assume the 
character of tasks imposed from without. His successes and 
failures, indeed his very joys and sorrows, are merely dividends 
or assessments of the institution, over which he can at most only 
rejoice or grieve but which he cannot control. And when an 
institution numbers as its members all or even a large majority 
of the social group we have institutionalism "gone to seed." 
Under such circumstances even the "individual of vigor and con- 
structive power," unless he be of that "sterner stuff" of which 
heroes and reformers are made, and is able to break the spell of 
orthodoxy and "regularity," will find if he tries to assert his person- 
aHty that he is only the more heavily weighted by the institution 
which he serves. He will find himself as one of a number of per- 
sons who together are carrying a heavy load, such as a large beam 
or piece of timber. If the group walks bent and stooped he must do 
likewise; and the tendency will be for all to bend lower and lower 
as they proceed. 

We are able, in a measure, to realize the great weight of the 
mediaeval church, as an institution, and its withering influence 
upon personality when we consider that the spell of its prestige 
was able to compel "the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, the 
successor of the Caesars and of Charlemagne," to stand clad in 
sackcloth and barefoot for four successive days in the dead of 
winter in the courtyard of the castle of the Roman pontiff waiting 
permission to kneel at his feet and beg forgiveness. It was the 
same menacing weight that compelled the Emperor Frederick 
Barbarossa of the "Haughty House of Hohenstaufen," when "over- 
come by emotion, awe, and reverence," and "in the presence of a 

' Cooley, Social Organitation, p. 319. 


vast throng, to throw himself at the feet of the pope and humbly 
seek a reconciliation." 

A too great preponderance of old men in places of authority and 
leadership is likely to be coincident with conservatism and compro- 
mise. — "Innovation is iconoclasm and sacrilege, and enthusiasm 
is only a milder form of insanity." Restraint and a calm self- 
control are the prime virtues. "Save your energies," is likely to 
be the advice of the aged to active energetic youth. But energy 
like the wine at the marriage feast is energy only when it is drawn 
out; and, like the manna of the Israelites, to be useful it must be 

That periods of stagnation or depression in a country's history 
are likely to be contemporaneous with the domination of afTairs 
by superannuates, while periods that are pregnant with change and 
reform are marked by the presence and influence of youth in the 
councils of state, is strikingly shown in an investigation made by 
B. E. Gowin at the University of Wisconsin in 1909 on the " Correla- 
tion between Reformative Epochs and the Leadership of Young 
Men." In this a comparison is made between the average ages of 
the leaders in ten of the world's greatest modern reform movements 
with the ages of the leaders in times of quiet and conservatism. 
In the Protestant Reformation the average age of the leaders at 
the time of their greatest activity was thirty-eight years. In the 
Puritan Revolution of 1640 it was forty years. In the American 
Revolution the age of the leaders averaged thirty-eight years. 
At the beginning of the French Revolution the average of the 
eleven men who became leaders was but thirty-four years. Other 
periods and the age of leaders are: 

Antislavery movement in America 41 

Regeneration of Prussia, 1808-15 46 

Modernizing of Japan 38 

Awakening of China 38 

Revolution in Russia 44 

Revolt in Turkey 32 

In contrast to the above he shows that the average age of leaders 
in these same countries in times noted for their conservatism was 
from twenty to thirty-three years greater. 


It is not true that a man who in his youth is active and energetic 
will always counsel the same spirit in others when he grows old. 
Clay and Webster were wilhng that the nation should fight for its 
interests in 1812, but in 1849 ^^^ i^S^ they counseled expediency 
and compromise. How much of the political apathy and economic 
instability which culminated in the panic of 1892 and 1893 may be 
due to the fact that for the twenty-five years preceding we had 
been giving out as rewards all positions of authority and leader- 
ship to the men who had been discovered in the strenuous years 
from 1 86 1 to 1865? Says Professor Ross: ''A nation is easiest to 
thrash about a generation after a successful war." 

A child will scarcely keep up with its parent if it must step 
each time in his footstep, but if allowed to run at its own stride 
will usually beat him to the goal. The same principle holds true 
in business and in government. It is too wasteful a process to 
require that youth spend all its years of vigor and enthusiasm in 
acquiring the stride and mastering the methods of its elders. 
"It was," as Ross says, "a red-letter day for progress when the 
lad became his own master the moment he could wield a warrior's 

Undue reverence for past achievements is likely to render society 
irresponsive to present opportunities and responsibilities. — It is said 
that the Emperor Trajan was once remonstrated with by some of 
the Roman senators for employing the resources of the empire in 
the conquest of peoples so remote from Rome. He was told that 
all the nation's resources were needed to hold in subjection the 
provinces that had already been conquered. The emperor replied 
that it was for the sake of holding what they had that the new 
conquests had been undertaken; *'for," said he, "if Rome's 
legions ever conclude that their work is done and that there are 
no more lands to conquer, they will be unable to maintain their 
rule where it is now firmly established." Alexander the Great 
wept because there were no more worlds for him to conquer, but 
his successors, so impressed with the magnificence of his achieve- 
ments and the grandeur of their own inheritance, were unable to 
hold even a part of what had been given them. 

Says Bagehot: "A large part, a very large part of the world 


seems to be ready to advance to something good — to have prepared 
all the means to advance to something good — and then to have 
stopped and not advanced. Inda, China, Japan, almost every 
sort of oriental civilization, though differing in nearly all other 
things, are alike in this, they look as if they had paused when there 
was no reason for pausing — when a mere observer from without 
would say they were not likely to pause."' This arrest of develop- 
ment, this nation-wide lethargy, is not due to a sudden epidemic 
of hookworm. Rather, it seems to me, is it due to the fact that 
these peoples, like Lot's wife, committed the fatal error of looking 
backward. Then being so filled with wonder and admiration at 
the achievements of their ancestors, they undertook as their chief 
aun in life to preserve these ancient glories from the shocks of 
change. But ancient glories, like old vases, are pretty fragile things 
and require gentle handHng; and a progressive, energetic people 
is like a healthy growing boy; it is not easy for either to walk lightly 
or bear a burden gently. Hence rather than take chances with 
their precious heritage on an untried way they pitched camp and 
set themselves as a permanent guard over their treasures where 
they first found that they possessed them. 

Physical, social, and economic isolation removes men from the 
influence of the stimulus oj standards or goals of achievement. — The 
effects of physical isolation upon progress have been commented 
upon extensively by students of history and sociology. It has 
been the peoples who have lived off the thoroughfares of migration 
and commerce, and have thus been deprived of the stimulus which 
comes from contact with other peoples, who have furnished the 
data for constructing a science of social embryology. There are 
in Asia and even in eastern Europe sections whose populations are 
as different from the peoples who surround them as the child is 
different from the adult. 

A traveler in some of the hardly accessible sections of the 
Appalachian region of this country will find Colonial customs and 
standards preserved with scarcely a modification, certainly with 
no improvement. F. A. Sanborn in his description of a "Rural 
New England Community" says: 

' Quoted by Ross, Social Psychology, 209. 


In the center of this room [a village storeroom] is a big stove around which 
almost every evening throughout the year are gathered the more sociable 
men of the community. Some are seated on a low bench placed near the 
stove for their convenience-a bench so whittled by a generation of pocket 
knives as to have lost all resemblance to its original form; others sit on counters 
or on barrels, and there are always a few restless spirits who lean against 
whatever is convenient for that purpose with their hands in their pockets 
Nobody ever starves in our village, although some of the folk who live on byways 
and in places which are less accessible are poor, ill nourished, and Ul clothed 
We do not care much for learning of any sort. Our letters-which we put off 
writing till about six months after they are due-do not excel in grammar or 
m penmanship. And it is really astonishing to ourselves how little we care 
for what goes on in the outside world. There is very little ambition of any 
sort among us, and the modern principle that everybody ought to work every 
day and throughout the whole of every day finds no acceptance whatever in 
our New England corner. There is no man who feels that he cannot afford 
to take off a day for visiting, for partridge shooting, or simply for resting 
whenever he wants to.' 

The inertia of communities and societies, where the caste system 
obtains, furnishes the best example of the deadening effect of social 
isolation. "Among the Hindoos," says Cooley, "a child is brought 
up from mfancy in subjection to ceremonies and rites which stamp 
upon him the impression of a fixed and immemorial system. They 
control the most minute details of life and leave little room for 
choice." Returning missionaries from India, especially those who 
have had to do with mission schools, ascribe the indifference and 
apathy of the Hindoos toward social and economic improvement 
to the social isolation imposed by the caste system, an isolation as 
complete and effective as if the different classes were different 
species of animal life, physically unable to amalgamate. Every- 
one realizes that he is born to his status and that no amount of 
personal effort can improve it nor lack of effort lower it. 

The greatest value to society of leaders in social reform and 
economic enterprises who have risen from the lower ranks is that 
their example appears as a rift in the cloud of isolation through 
which others of less penetrating vision may see a star of hope 
The greatest service that leaders like Booker T. Washington and 
others are performing for the Negroes does not consist so much 

' Atlanlic Monthly, LXXXIII, 89 ff. 


n the industrial and economic training which they are giving, 
however great that may be, but rather in stimulating interest and 
discovering for them energies and capabilities of which they were 

One of the arguments advanced by the people of the South 
against the abolition of slavery was that the only way the fruits 
of the Negroes' labors could be made to support them was to hold 
them to work at unskilled labor principally upon the plantations 
under the constant vigilance of the taskmaster. It was argued that 
to free the Negroes would be to make of them pauper wards of the 
state or private charity. But with freedom and the prospect of 
receiving a personal remuneration for their work it has been found 
that free labor is more economical than slave labor. Instead of 
their not being able to maintain themselves, they have in the 
fifty years since their emancipation accumulated property repre- 
senting almost three times the value which they themselves repre- 
sented as slaves, and still have left sufficient energy to secure at 
least a modicum of education for three-fourths of their number. 
And the reason was not that the Negroes were sullen and rebellious, 
refusing to exert themselves as slaves, nor that they did not fear 
the taskmaster's lash; it was because there was no motive in their 
work but dread, no interest to tap the reserve of energy, and no 
anticipation to counteract the reflexes of defense. All effort was 
at the expense of the local production of energy. 

The practice that is being adopted by certain corporations 
employing large numbers of men, of instituting profit-sharing 
devices and special rewards to their employees is not a form of 
charity nor a distribution of "conscience money," but a coolly 
calculated investment. The prospect of a share in the profits of 
the institution, or a reward for special merit gives an interest to 
the work which otherwise would be lacking, no matter how con- 
scientious the workmen. 

Forms of industry in which emphasis and attention must be 
directed to processes rather than purposes are more taxing and require 
a greater strain of conscious efort than those in which the individual 
is working toward a definite end, and in which the motive is interest 


in the outcome.'— When we apply this principle to the study of 
modern industrial systems we can perhaps appreciate a little more 
fully the great draft which they make upon human energy. Before 
the dominance of the machine in modern industry, each workman 
in nearly all trades fashioned some article in its entirety. His 
interest was sustained by an idea associated with the finished 
product. Luther said: "It is only slaves that die of overwork. 
Labor is neither cruel nor ungrateful. It restores the strength 
we give a hundred fold, and, unlike financial operations, the 
revenue is what brings in the capital"— the conditions being, 
however, that ''the worker put soul and self into his work." But 
how is it possible for a worker to bring a personal interest and 
enthusiasm to his work when his sole task is to perform a single 
operation over and over from morning till night upon bits of 
material that pass as monotonously as the telegraph poles pass the 
windows of a moving passenger coach ? 

In the shoemaking industry, for example, as many as one 
hundred men have a part in making a single shoe; each knowing 
little and caring less about the work of the man whose task imme- 
diately precedes or foUows his own. A man takes his place like a 
piece of machinery with nothing to do (as employers are wont to 
say) but to see that his part of the machine runs regularly, to puU 
a lever here or throw a clutch there. The importance of the fact 
is overlooked that he must maintain an unblinking sentinel over 
aU the reflexes of defense and that at the expense of energy pro- 
duced in organs already poisoned with the toxins of fatigue. 

And the case is all the more serious when these workers are 
growing children. It is a biological principle that any organ or 
faculty regularly prevented from functioning will atrophy. These 
child workers, denied the opportunity for spontaneous self-directed 
activity, shut away from everything that can touch their interests 
or provoke their enthusiasm, with no opportunity for developing 
a reserve of energy— is it not the normal thing to expect that they 
should develop into either listless, calloused dullards or unstrung 
neurasthenics ? 

' See Woodworth, The Cause of a Voluntary Movement; also ClaparSde, op. cit. 


An Introduction to the Social Sciences. A Textbook Outline. 
By Emory Stephen Bogardus, Ph.D. Los Angeles: Uni- 
versity of Southern California, 1913. Pp. 206. 

This outline is a notable contribution to the pedagogy of the social 
sciences. It deserves careful consideration by every American teacher 
in any department of social science. It is getting to be notorious that 
we do not know very much about the psychology of social science 
instruction. The men who are most sure that they know how and 
when and where different aspects of human experience should be pre- 
sented to students are most certain to be challenged by other men who 
may or may not have an alternative program, but they are not convinced 
that anyone's else program has found the way to do the most cumu- 
lative and comprehensive work. In particular, the most enterprising 
teachers are unable to convince one another as to a best way to begin 
college instruction in social science. 

The first merit of Dr. Bogardus' attempt is that it is not provincial. 
It is not an introduction to one of our artificially limited departments 
of social science, but to the whole field of human activities which the 
different departments of social science survey from their respective points 
of view. 

Because of, or in spite of, their previous school experience. Freshmen 
have a certain assortment of information and ideas about matters that 
fall within the scope of the several social sciences. In all probability 
the logic of the social sciences as it appeals to the maturest scholars 
is not to be regarded as a sufficient and final guide to the psychology of 
immature students in their contacts with social science. The pedagogi- 
cal problems which we have hardly begun to solve in this connection 
are questions of relation between mental reactions at comparatively 
early stages of development, and the objective relationships which it is 
the task of the social sciences to interpret. Otherwise expressed, we 
have yet to find out what steps in exploration of human experience may 
be taken to best purpose at different stages of student maturity. 

Dr. Bogardus' hypothesis, as represented by this syllabus, is that 
the best start may be made with college students, not by introducing 
them first to the special interests of one or another department of social 



science, but by enabling them to make a general survey of the develop- 
ment of human activities. Such a survey is of course fundamentally 
historical in its perspective, and certain historians would say that it is 
nothing more nor less than history. No one need quarrel about that. 
At all events it is history which brings into focus all the sorts of things 
from which all the departments of social science want to make abstrac- 
tions, and which they want to examine more in detail when their turn 
comes. The argument behind Dr. Bogardus' proposal is that syn- 
thetic views after their kind have their place all along the way of the 
knowledge process, in alternation with attention to particulars, and 
that it is good psychology to ofifer one of these general outlooks at the 
outset of the college grade of instruction in the social sciences. 

Experience will be the teacher that in the long run will be con- 
vincing in this matter. It is gratifying that Dr. Bogardus has not only 
published his hypothesis, but is testing it under favorable circum- 
stances with college classes. If he is right, the students who take his 
initial survey will presently do more satisfactory work in the more 
special departments of social science than they could have done without 
this preliminary orientation. 

College teachers who are interested in the pedagogy of the social 
sciences ought to take the occasion presented by Dr. Bogardus' enter- 
prise to help thresh out the proposition which he is testing. It is to be 
hoped that many other instructors will experiment with class use of his 
syllabus. It is not a course that interests sociologists alone. In fact 
it is an adaptation of the program represented by Schmoller's Grundriss. 
It might have been the work of a historian, economist, or political 
scientist; and it might be offered by one of these. If the principle on 
which it is based is sound, it is fundamental to all parts of social science, 
not to a particular department. Readers of this Journal are partic- 
ularly urged to write Dr. Bogardus any criticisms or suggestions which 
examination of the syllabus may suggest. 

The one caution which I feel like expressing at present concerns the 
"Suggested Topics for Investigation" at the close of chapters. They 
are, as a rule, over the heads or beyond the reach of the grade of students 
for whom the course is primarily intended. For example, I open at 
random to p. 61. On this and the following page are fourteen topics. 
They range from (i) "History of Playgrounds in Your City" to (11) 
"Overwork in the United States," (12) " Koch and His Value to Society," 
(13) "History of Medical Science," and (14) "The United States Public 
Health Service." My observation leads me to put a high estimate on 


the utility of work assigned to college students on subjects typified by 
the first named. On the other hand there is great danger that writing 
essays on ambitious subjects like the last four will abort the process of 
discovering the difference between knowledge and opinion, and of 
making progress in finding out what is involved in exact investigation 

Albion W. Small 
University of Chicago 

Soziale Pathologie. Versuch einer Lehre von den sozialen Bezie- 
hungen der menchlichen Krankheiten als Grundlage der 
sozialen Medezin und der soziale Hygiene. Von Dr. Med. 
Alfred Grotjahn. Berlin: Verlag von August Hirschwald, 
1912. Pp. viii+691. 
In this book human diseases are discussed with respect to their social 
relationships and importance. The discussion of the different diseases 
or groups of diseases centers about the following points: The frequency 
of the disease; the most important manifestation of the disease from the 
social vie^\'point as distinguished from that which considers the indi- 
vidual especially; the part played by social factors in the causation of the 
disease; the influence of the disease on the social conditions and activ- 
ities; the social effects of medical treatment of the disease; and the 
influence of social measures and conditions on the spread and the mani- 
festations of the diseases. 

The special discussion includes practically all human diseases, notably 
the infectious and the sexual diseases, the diseases of women with special 
reference to childbearing, diseases of children, nervous and mental 
diseases, and diseases of special organs. Then follows a general discus- 
sion of the relative social importance of individual disease groups, of the 
interrelationships of conditions and diseases, of general methods of 
prevention, of the problems of degeneration and eugenics. 

The book deals especially with conditions in Germany, being based 
largely on German observations and statistics; but the facts are rep- 
resentative and their lessons have wide application. Exception may be 
taken to the nature of the recommendations for the prevention of sexual 
diseases, but the book in general is sound, reliable, and has a distinct 

L. Hektoen 


The Contributions of Demography to Eugenics. By Dr. Corrado 
GiNi. London: Chas. Knight & Co., 1913. Pp. 99. 

This brief statistical study by the professor of statistics at the 
University of Cagliari aims to bring together the significant figures 
which throw light upon the principles of literal "good breeding." The 
data, while scanty in regard to a few topics, are drawn from a wide range 
of sources, and appear to be painstakingly used. 

The first problem considered relates to the effect of the month of 
birth upon the offspring. In European countries the maximum of 
births occurs from January to March, and in Italy it is during these 
months that the percentage of still births rises to a maximum and the 
mortality of infants is greatest; this is attributed to the inadequate 
protection of the people against the inclemency of the winter season. 
Not only is immediate mortality high for those born in winter, but 
vitality in after life, as shown by statistics of survival to various ages, 
appears to be diminished. In higher latitudes the summer months 
exert a similarly unfavorable influence, as is well known. 

The next problem treated at length is the effect upon the offspring 
of the age of the parents. The author concludes (p. 74): "All data 
examined as to the characters of the children according to the age of 
the parents — their weight and length, their longevity, their inteUigence 
and temper — agree in showing that the younger the mother at delivery 
the better are found to be the characters of the offspring." On another 
page (p. 87) he writes: "It is to be hoped that the knowledge of the 
improvement in the vitality of the offspring to be derived from the early 

age of the bride may spread To have shown and proved these 

advantages .... represents, according to our point of view, the chief 
result of this article." 

The author's views on the significance of the difference of birth 
rate between the higher and lower classes are refreshingly optimistic and 
afford a pleasant contrast to the cocksure pessimism of some eugenists: 
" .... it does not necessarily follow from what we know of heredity 
that the children of the higher classes — if they were subjected from birth, 
or better, even from conception, to the same life 'regime' to which the 
children of the lower classes are subjected — would succeed better than 
these" (p. 83). He even ventures the opinion that possibly "Arti- 
ficially to stimulate reproduction in the higher classes and check that 
of the lower ones would be equivalent to trying to improve society 
by increasing the duration of the life of the old and preventing new 
generations from ta.king their places" (p. 84). Degenerate individuals, 


of course, of whatever social class, should be restrained from reproduction 

by the exercise of social control. 

Erville B. Woods 
Dartmouth College 

The Larger Aspects of Socialism. By William English Walling. 
New York: Macmillan. Pp. xxi+403. 

This work completes the study of Socialism begun by Walling in his 
Socialism As It Is. The former volume treated the economic and politi- 
cal features of the movement, while the latter deals with its cultural 
bearings. The Socialist attitude toward science, history, morality, 
religion, education, and the relations of the sexes is presented chiefly 
through quotations from authors whom Walling considers most advanced 
in their views upon these subjects. By no means all of these writers 
are Socialists, but in Walling's opinion they are pragmatists — at least 
regarding the subject in question — and for Walling pragmatism is only 
another name for Socialism. The pragmatism of Professor John 
Dewey, according to Walling, is twentieth-century Socialism. 

In one sense the work contains little that is new, being composed 
largely of quotations from other authors; at the same time, it is probably 
the most original work yet produced by an American Socialist, for it 
does not follow the beaten paths of European writers. It is also refresh- 
ing in its freedom from the formulas and stock phrases of most Socialist 

In accordance with his pragmatic viewpoint. Walling looks forward, 
rather than backward. He believes that man will rapidly increase his 
power to control his physical environment and social relations, and that 
consequently social progress will be rapid in the future. His criticism 
of the science, "evolutionism," biology, and history which dwell too 
much on the distant past and too little with the present and future is 
keen, if at times somewhat overdone. These chapters constitute the 
strongest part of the work and undoubtedly will go far to give Socialists, 
as well as other readers, a more pragmatic point of view. 

On the other hand, the chapters dealing with the position of the 
individual in the "new society," and the Socialist view of morality, are 
extremely disappointing. It is hard to understand how a pragmatist 
should seriously concern himself with the ethics of a society not yet in 
existence, the form of which can only be conjectured at the present time. 
We should expect a pragmatist to study the Socialist movement as it is 
and is becoming, in order to discover the morality that is actually being 


developed by the life and activity of the working class. In view of the 
Utopian method employed by Walling in this part of his work, it is not 
surprising that he selects Stirner and Nietzsche to express the Socialist 
ideals concerning the individual and morality. The ideals of these 
writers are far more characteristic of the declining petty bourgeoisie 
aspiring to more "freedom for the individual" than of the advancing 
proletariat which is becoming ever more conscious of its power through 
class solidarity, co-operation, and mass action. The psychology of 
the working class is not so much an "I" as a "We" psychology, and 
Walling seems to have missed entirely this fundamental characteristic. 
The ethics of Socialism will not be formulated by a Stirner or a Nietzsche, 
but by one who has come to feel the full significance of co-operation and 

In emphasizing the prime importance of a revolution in our educa- 
tional system, Walling unquestionably sees more deeply than most 
Socialists. While the majority of his comrades are centering their 
thought on securing control of the means of production and distribu- 
tion, he rightly declares that it is of even greater importance for the 
masses that there should be true equality of opportunity in the right 
sort of educational advantages for the children of all the people. Most 
educators as well as Socialists will agree with Walling that it would be a 
boon to the human race if the ideals of Dewey and Montessori were put 
into general practice. Here as elsewhere, however, Walling dwells too 
exclusively on the importance of developing "individuality," for while 
it is desirable that the individuality of all should be developed, it will 
also be necessary to create a strong sense of duty in the citizens of a 
society dependent largely upon co-operation and mass action for its 

It is probable that Waliing's treatment of religion as nearly represents 
the Socialist view as that of any other writer, but a large number of 
Socialists, particularly the Christian Socialists, will take exception to his 
position, that fundamentally Socialism, like science, is irreconcilable 
with religion. While it was hardly to be expected in a brief work of this 
kind, a much broader and deeper study of Religion in its social bearings 
is much to be desired in Socialist literature. 

On the subject of the relations of the sexes, as- on that of religion, 
there is much difference of opinion among Socialists. The majority 
will agree with Walling in giving great weight to the views of Key, 
Schreiner, and Oilman; but it is likely that both Socialists and non- 
Socialists will feel somewhat "up in^the air" after reading the chapter 


on this subject. The reason for this impression is probably to be found 
chiefly in the fact that Walling deals far more with opinions regarding 
what the relations of the sexes ought to be than with facts showing what 
they really are and are becoming. It would be especially helpful if a 
more careful study were made of the effects of present-day industrial 
and social development upon the sex relations among the members of 
the working class who are the ones who will unquestionably shape the 
morality of the Socialist society. Of course it is to be recognized that the 
working class of tomorrow will be considerably different from the work- 
ing class of today ; nevertheless it is by following the actual development 
of this class in all its relations that we get the best idea of what its life 
is likely to be in the future. 

Throughout this volume as in his previous work, Socialism As It Is, 
Walling makes a great deal of the dangers of state Socialism. He 
constantly contrasts true Socialism with state Socialism and Collectivism. 
While it is probable that even the capitalists will favor the increase of 
state activities along certain lines in the near future, it is not likely that 
the majority of Socialists will share Walling's fears regarding this devel- 
opment. It is certain, moreover, that the majority of Socialists are 
Collectivists; so Walling is entirely wrong in setting Socialism over 
against Collectivism. For the work of a pragmatist this book is pecul- 
iarly unpragmatic in many of its aspects; one of the most striking of 
these is Walling's conception of a Socialist society which is to begin 
some time in the distant future, after we shall have passed through a 
period of state Socialism. A far more pragmatic and scientific view of 
present tendencies would be to hold that the Socialist society is already 
developing in our midst and that with the growing power of the Socialist 
movement these Socialist tendencies will be constantly strengthened 
until society will be organized predominantly on a Socialist basis rather 

than on the present capitalistic basis. 

John C. Kennedy 

Sociology. (Russian text.) By Maxime Kovalevsky. St. Peters- 
burg, Russia: M. M. Stasulevitch, 1910. Two vols. Pp.600. 
Matthew Arnold in his criticism of Leo Tolstoy says {Essays on 
Criticism, second series, p. 254) : "The Russian novel has now the vogue, 
and deserves to have it. If fresh literary productions maintain this 
vogue and enhance it, we shall all be learning Russian." There would 
be an equally good reason to learn Russian for the sake of its scientific 


literature, not excluding sociology. Many sociologists of western 
Europe and America do not even suspect that, besides Novicow, De 
Roberty, Kovalevsky, and others who write in either French, German, 
or English, in Russia there has flourished for the last half-century a 
sociological literature which is unique and should be known by sociologists 
at large. 

The work we are to review bears the rather too broad title of Soci- 
ology. Vol. I, Part I, is devoted to the methodological aspect of soci- 
ology, with special emphasis on the relation of sociology to the concrete 
social sciences. Part II contains a historical sketch of the development 
of sociology and is intended by the author to be an introduction to a 
larger volume. Contemporary Sociologists (Russian text, St. Petersburg: 
L. F. Ponteleyeff, 1905), which is similar to Dr. Paul Earth's work in 
Vol. I of his Die Philosophic der Geschichte als Soziologie, and Faustus 
Squillace's La classification des doctrines sociologiques. Vol. II is entitled 
"Genetic Sociology" or "The Doctrine of the Starting-Points (Literally 
Moments) in the Development of the Family, the Tribe, of Property, 
Political Sovereignty, and Psychical Activity." The author also 
suggests that it could as well be called an " Embryology and Paleontology 
of Society." The purpose of his book is "to lead the Russian readers 
into the sphere of questions which interest the sociologists of the West, 
and acquaint them at the same time with some decisions which sociology 
gives regarding the origin of the principal social institutions." 

In the methodological part of the work various conceptions of 
"what is sociology" are discussed. The author accepts Professor 
EUwood's definition that "sociology is the science of the organization 
and evolution of society." This definition, however, he thinks, is but 
a more exact statement of what Comte called the science of the order 
and progress of human societies. 

In the chapters devoted to the relation of sociology and the con- 
crete social sciences the author goes into an interesting discussion of 
various topics and criticism of authors disagreeing with his point of 
view, but so detailed as to eclipse the real issue at stake. For example, 
in the chapter on "Sociology and Law" he rightly insists, and gives 
good reasons for it, that sociology should supply the jurist with some 
guiding principles for determining the various stages in the evolution 
of law and in this manner emancipate jurisprudence from its traditional 
metaphysical premises. Here he also debates the question whether 
or not the development of social organization is following some general 
law, and concludes, after a detailed comparative survey, that the gradual 


transition from the clan and tribe organization to civic society has been, 
in all probability, by way of feudalism. In the chapter on " Sociology 
and Ethnography" there is a bit of interesting information worth taking 
the space to mention here. In discussing the claim that totemism is a 
universal stage among savage peoples, the author assures us that, so 
far as the observations of himself and those of his pupils go, there is no 
trace of totemism among the barbarian tribes of the Caucasus, and a 
thorough search among the rich Russian ethnographic literature reveals 
none among the peoples of the Russian Empire — a land area equal to 
one-sixth of the globe. 

To come back to the relation of sociology and the concrete social 
sciences, we may sum up in the author's words: "The concrete social 
sciences, though furnishing sociology with materials for its synthesis, 
must at the same time base their empirical generalizations upon those 
general laws of coexistence and development which sociology, as the 
science of the order and progress of human society, is called upon to 
estabUsh." As to sociology itself, he warns against the monistic bias 
which many sociologists possess. He rejects any one "all-determining 
social force," be it economic or psychological, and recommends the his- 
torical comparative synthesizing method as best adapted for sociological 

The second volume, as already mentioned, the author calls " Genetic 
Sociology." He finds this branch of sociology of special interest to the 
Russians because of the extraordinarily rich ethnographic material 
possessed by them, which in spite of generations of research is by no 
means fully treated. He divides his material into the ethnographic — 
with special attention to the survivals of the matronymic family, of 
exogamy, of animism, etc. — and the historical-legendary, containing a 
large mass of folklore. Employing the historical comparative method, 
he is careful not to overestimate anything and to draw his conclusions 
from premises which admit of being checked up by comparison. Thus 
he hopes to be able to point out how all aspects of the social life are 
psychically related to one another and how they interact, resulting in 
various social institutions. His argument that it is impossible to 
establish a criterion of primitiveness from ethnography, since it does 
not put us face to face with the primitive conditions of mankind, leads 
him to a hypothesis of primitive man, which is formed by way of succes- 
sive conclusions not only from ethnography but also from animal life. 
This leads to an analysis of the social and family life of animals, which 
then is considered as the starting-point of the human family and the 


human horde or herd. In these chapters the much-debated topics of 
the matronymic family and sexual taboos are thoroughly discussed. 
The author favors the view which ascribes priority to the matronymic 
order. He also thinks that the most primitive sex taboo was limited 
to the mother, as can be also observed among anthropoid apes. The 
tribe has not grown out of the family, it is rather a human herd which 
grew through the integrating influences of taboo, of exogamy, and of the 
elimination of the blood vengeance within the group. Exogamy has 
originated as a means of stopping the bloody feuds and quarrels for the 
possession of women and thus protecting the tribe against annihilation. 
Gradually with the transition into an agricultural state of life and the 
increase of property, which he thinks had its beginning in the fear of 
contagious magic, the regulative functions of the group differentiated 
into simple forms of government, which in its turn hastens the decay 
of the tribal forms of organization. Agriculture and private property 
make slavery possible and profitable. The latter institution encourages 
raids and conquests which coerce the weaker tribes to confederate or 
be absorbed by their enemies. War and conquest give opportunity 
for leadership. The successful leader gradually rises over his tribesmen 
in wealth and power and is able to dictate to and subordinate them. 
This situation prepares the way for feudalism. Along with these 
developments of property and government, and from its psychical 
aspect intrinsically related, goes on the development of religion. Accord- 
ing to our author it has its roots in an animistic conception of nature, 
in fear of departed ancestors, in dreams, etc. Fetishism, totemism, 
animal and plant cults, and finally the worship of the cosmic forces of 
nature are the earlier forms of expression in religion. This is briefly 
the gist of the " Genetic Sociology." 

Although the foregoing argument is more or less familiar, it is richly 
illustrated by old and new ethnographic material, some of which has 
been gathered by the author himself in his expeditions among the bar- 
barian tribes of the Russian Empire. His interpretation of exogamy 
is original and finds support in a later independent research by W. M. 
Strong, described in an article on "The Origin of Exogamy," Socio- 
logical Review, V, No. 4. His view on the origin of religion is a little 
out of date, being based on the animistic hypothesis of Tylor. This, 
however, does not diminish the value of his illustrative material, which 
would lend itself as well to the recent interpretations of Miss Jane 
Harrison (in Themis), and Emile Durkheim (in Les formes eUmentaires 
de la vie religieuse). The main defect of Kovalevsky's work is its lack 


of terseness and clearness in arrangement of the great bulk of valuable 
subject-matter. Had he supplemented his volumes by an outline and 
index of the contents he would have added much to their practical 
usefulness. Aside from these minor defects we have in Kovalevsky's 
work a real and valuable contribution to sociology. 

Julius F. Hecker