Hermann Ebbinghaus

Into the remotest distances, spatial and temporal, mind penetrates through the accumulation and theoretical elaboration of experiences. Knowledge may be obtained of the names and the deeds of Assyrian kings, of the shape of the oceans and the continents thousands and hundreds of thousands of years ago, of eclipses of the sun and the moon, of the appearance of the starry sky for any number of years hence. Knowledge means power. Insight into the relations of things enables the mind to adapt itself more perfectly to them. Science and industrial development are the results of this advancement of mental activity.

Nevertheless, it is not exclusively happiness that is thus gained. So complicated is mind that what contributes to its welfare and removes obstacles to its well-being, at the same time creates new sources of unhappiness, which call for new means, new methods, of relief. “La prÉvoyance, la prÉvoyance,” complains Rousseau, “voilÀ la vÉritable source de toutes nos misÈres.” We must make allowance for the exaggeration necessary to make the desired impression; but even then there is much truth in Rousseau’s words. Not all evils spring from prescience, but a good many do. Three classes of unintended and unpleasant effects of knowledge anticipating future events may be described.

As our knowledge expands we become more and more impressed with the narrow limits placed on this expansion, with our insuperable impotence in so many respects. To a child, who knows little and accomplishes little, his inability, his helplessness, does not give much concern. It is the prevalent, one may even say normal, condition of his life, and therefore scarcely gives rise to unpleasant feelings. But the experienced adult, in the full consciousness of his knowledge, of the advantage which this gives to him, strives to know everything, to extend his power over everything. And he is constrained to learn that he will never come near this end. His prescience, the source of so much pleasant feeling, becomes thus a source of immense unpleasantness. Highly important relations of things remain in almost total darkness. Not even the next day’s weather can be foretold, not the issue of the imminent battle, not the bent of the woman he woos. How numerous are the things against which he is almost powerless: human enemies, wild beasts, storm, earthquake, fire, flood, famine, a host of diseases, and last of all the inevitable death. He foresees all the terrors, aware of their power over him. This must fill his life with anxiety and bitterness. “He whose eye is so keen that he sees the dead in their graves, no longer sees the flowers blooming.”

Other evils have their sources, not directly in the mind’s foreseeing, but in the limitations of foreseeing activity. The most fundamental aims of human activity are self-preservation and the preservation of the species. But our feelings indicate that a third class of activities are essential for the completeness of human life, although their contribution to self-preservation and to preservation of the race seems to be limited. The aim of these activities perhaps is only a training of our powers of attention, of unifying in consciousness a number of impressions which indirectly might benefit the two aims first mentioned. Even primitive man devotes a considerable part of his activity to the production of these effects—esthetic impressions from colors, from tones, from symmetry, from rhythm. He ties feathers into his hair, dyes his clothes, and constructs his implements in symmetrical design without being forced by their use to do this. He works rhythmically, either himself or with others; he dances, thus uniting successive movements into regularly repeated groups. But those activities which serve the purpose of self-preservation and race-preservation directly, often occupy his mental energies so exclusively that no time is left for the exercise of these esthetic tendencies. Their suppression then results in deeply felt unpleasantness.

The activities of preservation are a source of evil in still another way. Whatever pleasure they may give, they do not give a lasting peace. As soon as one goal is reached, it appears as a mere stepping stone to a further one. Why does the merchant earn money? In order to earn more money! The fisherman’s wife in the fairy tale, who had been beggarly poor all her life, did not enjoy the comfortable cottage given to her for more than eight days. Then it appeared small and homely to her, and she desired a castle. This obtained, it took only a day to have her wish to be king. And immediately after the satisfaction of this desire, she asked to be made emperor. It is true, not every one is always thus rent by his cravings: the fairy tale places the sober husband at the side of the greedy woman. But a ceaseless, insatiable longing seems to be, in varying intensities, a normal element of human nature. When the attainment of a further end appears clearly impossible, a quiet enjoyment of one’s possessions may be the natural consequence; but even then there is no lasting peace, for the tormenting experience of tedium takes the place of unsatisfied longing.

A third class of evils take their origin from the effects of foreseeing activity, not only on the acting person, but chiefly on the other members of society. The natural endowment of different individuals for the struggle of preservation differs greatly and results in corresponding differences of achievement. In small communities, for instance in the family, the favorable results obtained by one are shared by all. But as larger social groups are formed, this becomes impossible. The results of the individual’s labor remain with him or at least within a smaller circle. This is the origin of property. Certain members of the social group not only procure more, but through the possession of desirable things become able to hire others to work for them. This enables them to increase still more the rate of accumulation of wealth. Thus a chasm is opened between masters and servants. However, his nature compels man to seek the companionship of other men, and this tends to bridge over the chasm. But between one community and another community a similar chasm remains. To steal from the members of another community, to rob them by force, to make war upon them and carry off the plunder, is the same as to rob an apple tree of its fruit or to kill a sheep. Property thus obtained naturally passes into the hands of the masters, increasing their own and their offspring’s powers. The final result is the existence of enormous contrasts: blessedness of a few and wretchedness of the multitude. The total balance is bad: there is more evil in the world than good.

Of course, those who have secured their masterships will say: Why should it be otherwise? Why should a low level of development of human life in all be preferable to a vastly higher development of a few and a still lower one of all the rest? And those youths who are not yet masters, but feel confident of being destined to become masters, readily applaud. There are, however, at least two objections to this view. First, we must remember that all human thought and feeling is determined by the laws of association. The masters cannot help seeing the wretched condition of the slaves, and must thus suffer themselves, although much less. This interferes with the enjoyment of their privileged condition. But the diminution of their happiness on this account may amount to little if they avoid the sight of poverty whenever possible; and that part of it which they cannot avoid seeing, they get accustomed to.

The following objection is more serious. The slaves are not likely to adopt the view of their masters that the contrast of their positions is the natural and just outcome of their respective endowment with bodily and mental abilities. They easily notice that this is only partly true. Especially the rewarding of sons for the merits of their fathers or grandfathers does not find favor with them. Their practical belief—supported by the strongest desires and nourished by the comparison of their own condition with that of the masters—keeps before their minds ideas of improving their lot, even of becoming masters themselves. The authoritative belief in the excellence of the present status, in spite of generations having become accustomed to this status, loses thus much of its force. The slave class is restless and little to be relied on; therefore it must be bridled. The chasm between the classes becomes an abyss. CoÖperation between all the members of society, though instinctively wished for and so necessary, is made impossible. A whole nation is torn up; its resistance toward attack from outside is diminished. The strongest people is one whose motto is: all for one, each for all; sooner or later it will overthrow the other. If this does not happen, the internal stress is likely at some time to become too great: the slaves rise and sweep the masters away. In either case the existing society is destroyed.

Notwithstanding the happiness which our foreseeing activity gives us, it carries with it three classes of evils: resulting from the limits of our knowledge, from the limits to which our activity is subject, from the contrast and enmity between social classes. Are there any ways for our mind to overcome these evils? There are some, not absolutely exterminating them, but at least restraining them, keeping them within bounds.

QUESTIONS

210. What are the three evils originating from the evolution of the foreseeing mind?

211. What are the two subdivisions of the limitation to which our active tendencies are subject?

212. Why does the third class of these evils not exist in small communities?

213. What are the two objections to the theory which regards the division of society into masters and slaves as entirely satisfactory? Which of these objections is the stronger one?

§ 24. Religion

Aid against the evils resulting from the limits of knowledge is sought by the human mind in religion. When fire threatens our property, we think of water; when the enemy presses upon us in battle, we think of our comrade. By analogy, when we are under the pressure of uncertainty, in the terror of a great danger, we think of some person or some power that might aid us. We have seen previously that primitive man regards everything as animated and every event as caused by motives like his own. He regards himself as a double being made up of a heavy body and an exceedingly light, shadow-like thing, a soul. In his dreams he recognizes clearly the independence of the two: the soul leaves the body, flies to known and unknown regions, and experiences there the strangest things. Likewise in death. To-day a certain person talks, moves about, does good or harm; to-morrow the same person lies stiff. It is true that one cannot see the cause of this change, but the simplest explanation is obviously that something, the bearer of his powers, has escaped from the body and now rests invisibly elsewhere. Furthermore, are there not those who feel that they are possessed of a demon who compels them to roll about on the ground in convulsions or to attack other people?

Accordingly, man populates everything between heaven and earth, animals and plants, rocks and logs, lakes and streams, the phenomena of the weather, and the constellations, with demons, ghosts, departed souls, specters. These beings are thought of as possessing human-like powers, many of them, however, far mightier than man, handling all those things of which nature consists in a manner similar to man’s handling of his own property. Some have asserted that man animates the world because of an irrepressible desire for theoretical explanation. But this is scarcely true. Primitive man has no such longing for theories. He does it simply for the sake of his practical interests: in order to make use of the things of nature, he must first comprehend them; and what manner of comprehending them would be preferable to humanizing them? If the things are like men of his acquaintance, he knows how to obtain their favor, their aid. His belief in these demons is a practical belief like the belief of a mother in the future of her son. These demons must exist, for he would have to give up the struggle for life, perplexed, helpless, if they did not exist—if the world were a mass of incomprehensible objects.

Naturally he distinguishes two kinds of demons, as he distinguishes two kinds of men, good and bad. Those who are malicious and hostile bring all the distress of diseases and terrible events, from which he cannot defend himself by his own power. The best one can hope to obtain from these demons is that they stop exerting their evil influence. Man lives in constant fear of them. The demons of the other kind are friendly and helpful. They assist man in his defense against the fiends and in his fight with other men; and they permit him to participate in their knowledge of the future. They are reliable. One is grateful to them and loves them. In the most primitive stage of mankind fear prevails, and therefore also the belief in harmful ghosts and demons. On a higher level of culture, advancing insight into the causal relations of natural events brings about more self-reliance, more hope, and consequently also a growing belief in benevolent demons. Both fear and love, however, remain characteristic of the attitude of man toward his gods.

In order to obtain the good will of the gods, man naturally treats them as he would treat his neighbors. He must earnestly pray to them, flatter them, perhaps also threaten them, promise gifts in exchange for their aid, vow continued faith and obedience, especially make them presents in advance. Prayer, vows, and sacrifice are the means of approaching them. Soon another thought becomes prevalent. In cases where the influence of demons seems particularly conspicuous, in mental diseases, certain persons show themselves much more skilful than the majority in establishing relations with them and thus curing these diseases. One naturally employs these persons in one’s relations to the gods. The medicine man becomes a priest. And he soon establishes himself firmly in this position by inventing mysterious ceremonies with which he alone is familiar, and by acquiring the ability to read and interpret sacred books. His authority, however, rests on his doing what the people expect from their gods: he must possess prophecy and witchcraft. Even the apostles prove their legitimacy by prophesying and performing miraculous cures.

Fear and misery are the parents of religion; and, although it is propagated in the main through authority, it would long ago have become extinct, if it were not born anew out of them all the time. In times of need and oppression religion grows strong. The churches are full, pilgrimages are common, in wars or epidemics. In battle, in disease, aboard a sinking ship, many a one learns to pray. Some fear or some need is always present. Even the highest wisdom and power can only repress, never exterminate these. Therefore they have always brought forth religion and will always do so, provided one does not clumsily attempt to change human nature.

Prayer and sacrifice are not invariably followed by success. But aid requested from human beings also is often refused, so that explanations for the lack of success are not wanting. Perhaps the prayer was not fervent enough, the sacrifice not offered in the correct manner or at the right place. Or the supplicant has offended the god; it is only to be expected that he is thus punished for the offense. Or the god, knowing his most secret failings, wishes to test his faith, his piety, in case all worldly goods and even health are lost. The gods are all-wise: who could understand them and their actions completely? Now and then, when the pious continue to suffer and the godless to prosper, religion is exposed to a serious danger. But religious faith has found the solution of this problem, not everywhere on earth, but here and there; and out of a secret doctrine of certain sects of ancient Greece this solution has become a gospel spread all over the earth: even that hope which remains unsatisfied at the time of death will find its realization. Man’s soul is eternal, is only temporarily united with the body, and when separated from it will continue to live forever. The pious must prepare himself for the future life by turning away from bodily pleasure toward God, by suffering. The godless, who has failed to prepare himself, finds eternal punishment waiting for him.

Under primitive cultural conditions, when everybody has to do every kind of labor for himself, the same rÉgime is applied to the gods. They do not differ much in their abilities, although one can do this, the other that, somewhat better. They are an unorganized crowd like mankind, fighting each other and forming alliances for this purpose. When human societies become established, the gods become differentiated. There are masters and servants, various professions. Complications arising from such occurrences as subjection of one nation to another and a consequent assimilation of their religions, change but little the trend of this development. Of greater influence are the growth of morality and the advance of scientific knowledge.

When man establishes a moral ideal for himself, he applies it to his gods. His gods become moral examples. They no longer require bloody sacrifices, but a clean heart and good deeds. And since there is only one morality, and morality is the chief attribute of Deity, there can be only one God. All those great religious teachers who contributed to the moral development of religion, the Jewish prophets, Zoroaster, Plato, accepted monotheism.

When scientific knowledge advances, when more and more of the phenomena of nature are found to obey simple laws, daring philosophers assert and convince others that all natural phenomena obey such laws, that nothing in nature depends on the whims of human-like wills. Religion, then, seems to be deprived of its foundations. If God does not arbitrarily interfere with the laws of nature, how can any aid come from him? However, the need of religion remains, and religion adapts itself to the new views of the world. The highest form of religion is the outcome of this development. Prayer, then, has a purely mental value for him who prays. It gives him hope, confidence, courage, and thus he succeeds in accomplishing that of which he seemed incapable without aid. The witchcraft of the priest is reduced to a purely mental influence. In the sacrament he brings about a sanctification of the mind. God, far from being lost from the world, is regarded as the world itself, the source from which every phenomenon of nature springs. And again religion can give man what he longs for, protection from the overpowering unknown, peace for the restless heart.

But life is like a hydra: as fast as one head is hewn off, two others grow. Man overcomes the depression caused by his feeling of impotence by the help of religion, and immediately has two other troubles besetting him.

(1) It is natural that of all the creations of mind religion possesses the strongest inertia. God is unchangeable. But knowledge is changeable: our ways of thinking of the world differ greatly from those of a thousand, five hundred, or a hundred years ago. Much knowledge has become attached to religion. Shall it remain unchanged on that account? The resulting disharmony has been felt at all times, in varying degrees of intensity. The representatives of science cannot help contradicting the faith of their ancestors; and the priests profess that they alone possess true knowledge, that the knowledge of the scientists is merely a mass of hypotheses. Bitter was the struggle about the geocentric system, and no less bitter more recently was the opposition to the theory of evolution. During the later centuries of antiquity scientists tried to comprehend the influence of the sun on plant life by conceiving its power as emanating and yet constantly remaining in its former strength at the point of its origin. The early Christian theologists were very modern in their scientific theories. Could they compare God with anything else better than with the heavenly body on which all earthly life depends? So they developed the conception of emanations flowing from God without diminishing his former powers, that is, the Christian doctrine of the Trinity. Other religions of the time accepted similar emanation doctrines: the Philonic philosophy recognized a twofoldness, the Neo-Platonic a fourfoldness of God. To-day every schoolboy is taught that the sun cannot produce any effect on earth without losing so much of its energy. The ancient theory of emanations has long ceased to have any scientific significance. But the formula exists, and is still thought by many to be the basal concept of the Christian religion, so that the dissension is endless.

(2) Religion is a weapon in the struggle for preservation for him who possesses it; but it soon becomes a weapon also for the others. It is a weapon for the priest, who uses it as the physician uses his knowledge to make a living. There would be little trouble on this account. But religion is, naturally and unfortunately, a mighty weapon in the hands of the masters defending their positions against the slaves. Religion gives peace, quiescence, to the human heart. Religion perhaps teaches that the splendor of wealth is insignificant, worthless; that the poor are better off in the future, eternal life, than those who are now rich. Religion perhaps even teaches that those who do not believe this will be severely punished in the next life. This is not the original meaning of the doctrine—that the wretched should remain wretched; it was meant merely to comfort them in their distress. But the doctrine obviously permits this application, and so the masters have always eagerly adopted religion as one of their safest supports, far superior to brutal force, since it does not incite revolutionary reaction. “Throne and altar” is a motto of kings. When the servants recognize this effect of religion, they naturally tend to free themselves of it, and tremendous conflicts result for human life.

Will mind succeed in overcoming these difficulties by a new form of adaptation? We cannot tell how, since thus far it has not succeeded.

QUESTIONS

214. What does not, and what does, cause man to populate the whole world with demons and specters?

215. What is the chief division applied by man to the hosts of demons? Do the contents of these divisions tend to change gradually?

216. How does priesthood originate?

217. Is it probable that religion will ever cease to exist?

218. What are the consequences of the fact that prayer and sacrifice are not always successful?

219. How does the growth of morality influence religion?

220. Is science inimical to all religion or to special forms of religion?

221. What are the three illustrations given in the text for the difficulties arising from the attachment of science to religion?

222. What is illustrated in the text by the quotation “throne and altar”?

§ 25. Art

The second class of the evils which we mentioned as resulting from our foreseeing activities consists in an insufficient occupation of the active tendencies of the mind. The remedy is found in art, in the enjoyment of works of art.

A work of art may cause a pleasant feeling by inciting any of a large number of mental activities. Beyond giving pleasure it has no purpose. Choice articles of food, new clothes, a profession yielding a good income, give us pleasure through their odor, their look, through the standing they give us in good society. But they please us also, and indeed chiefly, through their purposes: we need them for our existence. Because of their purposes they do not give us pure pleasure: they make us want better food, better clothes, a better position. A work of art, on the other hand, may in some way further our life; but he who enjoys it is not aware of such a furtherance. He sees no purpose in it. He experiences a bliss of heaven, not pleasures of the world. The purpose of art consists in its own unity; it does not draw us away from where we are. It gives us rest while it keeps us active. The pleasure resulting from this kind of activity is called esthetic pleasure.

Many are the origins of art. Religion is doubtless one of them. Primitive man conceived of some of the most important of his demons as having their seats in certain species of animals. The possession of these animals gives witchcraft. But it is difficult to carry them about, and killing them is of course out of the question. Primitive reasoning then accepted an image, a picture, as having about the same effectiveness. So man came to carve such pictures on his weapons to make them stronger, to carry them hung around his neck to protect him, to make idols of his gods which he could visibly reward or punish. The pleasure of seeing these images then gave them a value separate from their religious applications. Yet pictures of the virgin and of saints still continue to be used for the earlier purpose. When thus beginning to be separated from religion, art became again attached to it; for man, enjoying pictures, offered them as presents to his gods, so that they, too, might enjoy them. The subject of representation was naturally the gods themselves, the most sublime subject known to man.

Another origin of art is play. We said that play is that mass of instincts, common to man and animals, which brings about an exercise of the capacities necessary for preservation at a time when no special purposes demand such exercise. In this absence of a special purpose consists the ultimate relation of play and art. But play is not identical with art, because it is still too serious a matter. The boy who plays robber and police is not like an actor playing the rÔle of a robber. He really is the robber so far as the advantages, the freedom, and the power of a robber are concerned; and he enjoys these advantages, while the actor does not even think of them. The actor, even while playing the rÔle of a king, desires to play the king, not to be the king. Play, that is, the instinctive activity of play, is intermediate between art and life, a gateway to the former.

There are still further sources of art. After having been successful in his struggle, when he has some leisure, man observes that many things which he uses as weapons, as tools, for food, and so on, are capable of giving him pleasure quite aside from their practical significance. He therefore obtains these things for their own sake. He collects brilliantly colored feathers, glittering stones and pearls. The instinctive reactions upon pleasant experiences are discovered to be pleasant themselves. They are voluntarily repeated. Thus dance and song originate. In a similar manner, from the descriptions of ordinary life, tales takes their origin. Symmetry and rhythm are discovered and become of the greatest importance for the various arts. In spite of the manifoldness of its origin and its application, we may speak of art in the singular, because all the different arts have this in common, that they give joy without serving any conscious purpose.

In every art three factors may be distinguished on which the feeling aroused in us depends: the subject-matter or content, the form, and the personal significance. If the work of art is a picture, it may represent a battle or a landscape; if a poem, the wanderings of Ulysses or the story of the Erlking; if music, a waltz or a funeral march. This subject-matter is given a particular form or structure. The twelve disciples of the Last Supper may be placed in a simple row or arranged in groups of various kinds. A church may be built in Roman or Gothic style. Meter and rhyme differ in various poems. Music may be harmonized in many different ways. All this refers to the form of art. The third factor, the personal significance, may be illustrated by the different moods which speak to us from pictures of the same subject-matter and similar form, also by the technique chosen by the painter. The picture may appear to me as an assembly of Jewish fishermen or as an historical act in which the disciples of the Lord and he himself take part.

Much could be said about all this in detail. Some important insight into the relation of the different factors can be obtained from a discussion of the first one, the subject-matter. How does the artist succeed in giving us, through his subject-matter, pleasure independent of and free from any consciousness of purpose? Two ways are open to him. The first appears most clearly in music. It consists in using contents which play no part in the world of needs. Musical tones, sung or produced by instruments, do not contribute to the preservation of man; and therefore they do not incite our desire. However, when properly combined, they are capable of arousing the most varied and intense feelings, moods, emotions. They are thus especially adapted to serve as material, as contents, of a work of art.

The second way open to the artist consists in imitation. It prevails in painting and sculpture, and one may say also in poetry. The contents of these arts, that is, the subjects described, are indeed things which arouse our desires. But the desire is cut short through imitation. Not the real things, but only descriptions of them, are furnished us. Their affective value is not diminished thereby. It is true, the feelings depending on the consciousness of purpose are lost; but the rest of the feelings attain thus a purity and intensity all the greater. We scarcely enjoy meeting a robber on the highway; on the stage or in a novel we enjoy it the more. The real rug gives me feelings of a mixed kind when I think of its price and its durability; the painted rug gives me only pleasure. Since imitation is so conspicuous in the three arts of painting, sculpture, and poetry, it has been mistaken to be the aim of our artistic activity, whereas it is only a means to an end, to the production of pleasure free from desire. To understand this still more clearly, we must give attention to three aspects of the problem of imitation.

First, imitation must be as true to nature as possible. Feelings are to be aroused. These feelings are originally attached to the real things. It is clear, then, that they will be aroused the more readily, the more similar the work of art is made to reality. A disagreement with nature causes not merely a weakening of the pleasant feeling, but an unpleasant feeling, a protest against the artist’s intentionally disforming nature or against his incapacity.

Secondly, imitation must never become a perfect duplicate of the real thing, to be mistaken for it. There must be no deception of him who enjoys the work of art, for deception would result in unpleasant feelings. Therefore we separate a picture from its surroundings by a frame, place a statue on a pedestal, let a drama be played on a stage.

Thirdly, devotion to imitation must not lead the artist to neglect the other properties of the work which make it significant for our life of feeling. A work of art is always a compromise. Nature gives us not only what is significant, but also what is insignificant or even disgusting. The subject-matter must therefore be worked over; that which is of positive value must be emphasized, even exaggerated. Nature usually presents a confusing multitude of details. Mind, for its enjoyment, needs a unitary structure made up of a multitude of details. The artist therefore must, whenever this is necessary, reconstruct nature in order to insure unity of perception. Imitation must often be adapted to special circumstances. A lion among allegorical figures as a symbol of might cannot be represented as an exact imitation of the lion of the desert. The real lion is a dangerous beast, a big cat. The symbolical lion must agree with a certain traditional style. Nature is replete with the insignificant, the individual, the momentary; mind longs for the significant, the general, the eternal. The highest art is found where the artist has been able to reach a maximum of the total effect of all the simultaneous factors.

Religion would be more easily understood, were it not for the many forms under which the single need is satisfied according to circumstances. Art, too, would be more easily understood, if the factors contributing toward the same end were less numerous. Each of them is regarded by some as the essential or exclusive basis of art. It is not difficult to explain this. The people at large naturally take most interest in the subject-matter, perhaps also in the technical ability of the artist. The musician, knowing that form is the main factor in his art, is apt to generalize and to regard form everywhere as the essential element. The painter or sculptor—observing how other artists give artistic values to the most varied subjects, perhaps feeling himself able to raise any subject, however selected, into the realm of art—may be inclined to think of art as an institution for the employment of the creative energy of those whose talents tend in this direction. Each one gives attention to that aspect of the whole problem which especially concerns him. He overlooks its other aspects.

Not every species of art permits an equal development of all the different factors of art in general. For example, in handicraft and in architecture the work as a material thing serves a practical purpose; as a work of art it serves esthetic enjoyment. The form is here largely determined by its practical applicability. Its purpose must not be hidden, but appear as clearly as possible. Mind must here force itself to disregard the purpose and to enjoy the work independent of its practical interests.

When mind has thus been trained to look for esthetic values, even where the practical side of the thing is paramount, it becomes able to enjoy esthetically even that which in no way directly suggests an esthetic attitude of the spectator. Man learns to enjoy the beauty of nature as something independent of his practical needs. This ability has grown very slowly. As late as the end of the eighteenth century one reads in a book on Switzerland in a description of the Engelberg valley the following words: “What do you see? Nothing but horrid mountains; no gardens, no orchards, no wheat fields pleasing to the eye.”

One thing assisting in this esthetic liberation of the mind is the many-sidedness of nature in comparison with the practical interests of man. Every one can find in nature something remote enough from his everyday interests to become an object of esthetic enjoyment. We enjoy reading about a war in the far East, not only because we recall that we have no money invested there and nothing else to risk, but chiefly because the feelings aroused by the reports from the theater of war can develop without interference. They could not, if the battle took place in a neighboring village. For the same reason we enjoy travel esthetically, not when we are compelled to travel, but when we choose it for our recreation. Standing in the market place of a foreign city, I see the people talk, gesticulate, bargain, as they do in my own town. And yet it is different. There are no relations to my own domestic affairs. Their talking does not concern me. I do not even understand their language. Thus I am able to enjoy the sight esthetically. It is true that nature rarely fulfills all those conditions which the artist fulfills in a work of art by his artistic reconstruction of the piece of nature represented by him. But this loss of esthetic effectiveness is compensated by the inexhaustible variety, the never ceasing movement, the immense power and magnitude of nature.

Thus mind turns against its own beginning. But not in order to make war upon itself, but to overcome evils of former adaptations by a new and higher kind of adaptation.

§ 26. Morality

What remedy does mind discover for the third class of evils, those resulting from its own activity for other members of society, and those resulting from the restlessness, the protestation of the latter? The remedy is essentially a social phenomenon, and can be discussed here only very briefly with respect to the individual mind.

Mind learns to appreciate and to train itself for activities contributing directly to the welfare of society as a whole by actually working for the good of others rather than for its own good. When the social group increases in size, the more experienced and provident members recognize, not by logical reasoning but as the immediate result of experience, that brutally egotistic acts give rise to quarrel and distrust, weaken the ties which hold together the members, and make the group the prey of its enemies. Altruistic acts, on the other hand, are found to strengthen the group. These influential members then endeavor to further the latter and to suppress the former kind of actions. There are two possible ways of bringing this about.

First, compulsion. Acts destructive to society are punished. He who commits them thus suffers a disadvantage much greater than the immediate advantage, and the consciousness of this probability of suffering inhibits the act. The total concept of activities or inactivities enforced by punishment is the law. But the law is not far-reaching enough. A society of wholly wicked beings cannot be held together by law. Faith and loyalty cannot be enforced.

Willing may consist in a consciousness of the immediate act or in a consciousness of the remotest purpose to the realization of which this act contributes. If in consequence of threatened punishment I will the required act, but not its ultimate purpose, I can frustrate the latter in a hundred different ways. To punishment, therefore, must be added a second means of furthering the welfare of society, through actions of free will. The performance of acts of this kind is called morality.

The special form of morality anywhere at any time depends obviously on many circumstances. It is conceivable that in a tribe sparingly endowed with natural resources and pressed by enemies, morality may demand the killing of the aged and of female children. On a higher level of culture such actions must be immoral, because they do not harmonize with other moral commandments, or because, when food is plentiful, an increase in numbers is highly desirable. The Catholic church regards divorce as immoral, but in Japan public opinion regards the enforced continuation of the matrimonial tie as immoral. It is obvious that morality is a growth. But it grows very slowly, remaining nearly constant for long stretches of time; and so we often meet moral commandments which no longer fit the people upon whom they are imposed.

Kant has more strongly than any one else taken the opposite view. Morality, according to him, is something definite, eternal, absolute, not dependent on circumstances—categorical, as he calls it, not hypothetical. How can this doctrine be reconciled with what we have said above?

We mentioned that actions benefiting the total social group are not the result of reflection, of reasoning, but the immediate result of experience on the part of the most provident and most influential members of the group. Errors and superstitions naturally play their part in the formation of the first moral rules. But subsequent experience gradually improves them, so that they soon become of real benefit to the whole society. How are these rules then transmitted to following generations? By impressing them upon the child. Young children can be given commandments; but explanations of their purpose would in most cases be useless. They are therefore given categorically, as imperatives supported by the authority of parents, elders, priests. Under these circumstances, of course, it is not to be expected that the children will later recall any purpose when they become conscious of these rules. The rules appear in their consciousness as something unconditional, absolute—in their totality as conscience.

One may here raise this question: Why does not society, after its children have grown into men and women, inform them of the purpose of these rules? This information is not given partly because society as a whole is not clearly conscious of the purpose, partly because it is better to leave to these rules their absolute character. The commander of an army does not explain the purpose of an order sent to an inferior officer. This has its disadvantages in so far as the latter, knowing the purpose, might improve details of the order which the commanding officer, from his distant position, could not properly adjust to the actual conditions. But on the whole it is preferable to require strict adherence to the order and not to permit reflection before its execution, for reflection might easily give room to thoughts of self-preservation. Similarly, society demands absolute obedience because thus, on the whole, the moral rules are more strictly carried out, with greater benefit to society. Nevertheless, the rules have their justification only in their purpose, the welfare of society. And conflicts between the literal commandment and this purpose are by no means rare. The white lie, for example, has given much trouble to moral theorists. To the unbiased moral consciousness it is in innumerable cases the proper act. What commander of an army could be tolerated who would refuse to deceive the enemy? How could we meet children, the sick, the insane, if we had made up our minds never to tell a lie?

Understanding the value of the (apparent) absolutism of the moral rules, we also understand why moral sentiment is so highly estimated as compared with a mere number of correct acts. Moral sentiment is the only reliable source of correct action. If we judge a person exclusively or mainly by his success in correct activity, we are likely to discourage his attempting a difficult task. In order to give the greatest possible encouragement, we tell him that it is his free will to do good that determines our estimation of his social value, no matter whether he succeeds or not. However, the question whether a man’s will is to be called good or bad, can be answered only by pointing out a social purpose, the furtherance of the welfare of the whole. Without this the will to do good, the feeling of duty, is like the rope by means of which MÜnchhausen descended from the moon.

The absolutism of morality explains the close relation of morality to religion. Religion, morality, and sometimes political law, are under God’s protection; the laws of reasoning and of artistic creation are not. The latter are also gifts of God, but left unprotected. Error and bad taste are no sins. Religion, if without direct protection by threatened punishment, would be found by each individual; but each would find a different one, and since only one religion is supposed to be the true one, uniformity has to be enforced by threats. Morality still more needs protection by threatened punishment coming from God, since individual desires differ greatly, and would never give rise directly to uniform moral rules. These rules are the product of the experience of generations, and always meet with more or less resistance from the individual. Human authority is frequently not strong enough to overcome this resistance. So God’s protection is needed—and found very easily. What can a father reply to his ever questioning child: Why must I give away a part of what I like to keep myself, or tell what I shall be punished for? He gives the same answer which he gives to the question who made the horses and the whole world: “God made these rules.” Perhaps it would be best if the child were always told that God did not impose these rules upon man as something foreign to his nature, simply because God capriciously chose to do so; but that he gave man these rules because they are needed for the highest development of human life. Only a will which acts morally because this significance of morality is understood can be said to be truly free.

We have frequently spoken of communities, of groups of human beings. Now, man belongs to many communities at the same time: family, town, state, nation, friends, the profession, the denomination, and so on, up to mankind as a whole; which one is meant? They are all meant, but so that in case one obligation excludes another, the one toward the narrower circle of associates takes precedence. We do not approve of women devoting to charity what they owe to their children. But where the narrower circle leaves us free from obligation, the wider circle claims us as its subjects. One of these circles, the widest of all, is mankind; but morality did not begin with recognizing this. Only those are permitted to enjoy the benefits of one’s morality who are clearly felt to belong to the same community. The expansion of political, linguistic, religious communities enormously increases the number of individuals toward whom each one feels moral obligations.

But this expansion alone would not have broken down the barrier between one and all the rest of mankind. This barrier has been removed by the acceptance of monotheism. Other factors may have contributed toward this result. The categorical character of the moral rules, their independence of conditions, must have favored their universal application to any human being. The development of the idea that all human beings are essentially alike, and of the idea of the unity of the world, must have greatly strengthened the universality of the moral rules. The development of the moral ideal, as we saw, tended to unify the conception of God. But this conception of a single God, monotheism, then gave a new impulse to the universal application of the moral rules. When each people has its own god, his commandments are valid only to his own people. But when it is recognized that only one God exists, his commandments can hardly be confined to the territory of one people. Plato and Zeno, accepting this consequence, teaching that human beings are like the members of one flock, introduced a doctrine new to the Greeks. Christ, reciting the Mosaic law, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy,” adds to it: “But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you,” and thus takes the decisive step. But mankind is still far from having accepted this doctrine completely. To plunder private property on the high seas in time of war is no longer regarded as meritorious, but scarcely begins to cast shame on him who makes himself guilty of it, as plundering on land does.