I have been moving about lately through different parts of our country, sitting down to dinner in many homes, and I have everywhere found the family eating bread made of Indian meal, rye, barley, or oatmeal. When I have asked, “Are you especially fond of this sort of food?” I have pretty generally received the answer, “Why, no! We all like wheat bread better. But we are not eating it now, for other nations need it.”

That is altruism, one of the most fundamental, familiar, and mysterious of all the virtues. This course of lectures will be devoted to elucidating it. To a recognition of it the Western mind has risen slowly. The Greeks attached little importance to it; for though philanthropy, regard for man as man, is a Greek word, it is not a Greek idea. Plato does not include it among his four virtues nor anywhere lay stress on its practice. In Aristotle’s Ethics, it is true, there are magnificent chapters on friendship, and friendship plays a great part in the teaching of the Epicureans and Stoics. But all alike speak of attachment to another person chiefly as a means of strength for oneself. The thought of whole-hearted giving without correspondent personal gain would have puzzled a Greek.

When we turn to the other branch of our civilization and examine what we have derived from the Hebrews, we find a nearer approach to modern ideas. Commonly enough the Hebrews speak of mercy and grace, and pair these off against justice and truth. Apparently when these terms are applied to God’s dealings with us, the second pair indicates his exact return for what we have done for him; but the first pair points to something over and above, a surplusage of generosity, lying outside the field of equal pay. God is conceived as altruistic and we are summoned to imitate him in this. Jesus develops the thought to such a degree that love becomes the centre of his teaching. We are told that without it all other excellence is worthless. We must love as God loves, letting our sun shine on the evil and on the good. Indeed, we must love even our enemies.

While modern nations have allowed such precepts to stand as counsels of perfection and have been ready to see in occasional acts an embodiment of them, parallel with them they have always recognized a contrary and more powerful tendency, namely, the disposition to seek one’s own. This they have believed to be essential for carrying on the daily affairs of life. At the same time altruistic conduct has ever been thought “superior,” “higher”; egoistic, as containing nothing to call forth admiration.

When men, however, began to think seriously about ethics it became impossible to allow two such springs of action to remain in permanent discord. Attempts were made to bring them into harmony by showing that the one is only a disguised form of the other. Hobbes, for example (1588–1679), the first in his great book, Leviathan, to stir the English mind to ethical reflection, maintains that altruism is strictly impossible. Each of us seeks self-preservation and acts through a passion for power. This necessarily brings us into conflict with our neighbors and makes of society a strife of each with all. Such universal war is soon seen to bring damage to every one and social compacts arise, compromises, under which I concede to others the right of acting in certain ways on condition of their allowing my action in certain others. While this involves large sacrifice of one’s own desires for the sake of other people, it is endured because it pays, pays egoistically. We gain by it the largest scope for action our crowded world permits. But there is nothing disinterested about it. Genuine altruism is nowhere operative. A man cannot escape from himself and feel another’s pleasure as his own. As well might I profess to feel your toothache more keenly than my own as to declare myself more interested in your welfare than in that of myself. Fundamentally, each of us must be egoistic; but we can be successfully so only by taking others into the account.

This attempt of Hobbes to resolve altruism into a larger form of egoism naturally shocked England, and a century was spent by the English moralists in trying to prove that the benevolent feelings are equally original with the self-seeking. Cumberland, Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, Butler, eagerly demonstrated benevolence to be a constant and independent factor of human life; but when they attempted to show the relation in which this stands to its seeming opposite, they became vague. Apparently there are two rival forces within us. Now one acts, now the other.

A few of the attempts that have been made to effect a junction of the two, and to show how we cross from our egoistic to altruistic desires, deserve notice. Hartley (1705–1757) proposed an ingenious one. The two passions become fused through association. We are all familiar with the man who begins to accumulate money in order to supply his daily wants and then by degrees withdraws his attention from those wants and fixes it upon money itself. What was originally a means becomes an end. In just this way Hartley thought our egoistic desires become transformed. To reach satisfaction they usually require assistance from other people. Conscious at first of our dependence on others for aid, we become by degrees interested in others for their own sake, and finally seek to aid them rather than have them aid us. Our self-regarding powers and our extra-regarding powers are thus by association blurred into one. An important school of ethical writers, among whom the two Mills are the most notable, have held this view.

An interesting variation was adopted by Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832). It might be called the quantitative view. The one thing desired by us all is happiness. We seek to produce as much of it as possible, paying little attention to the one on whom it falls. Of course our primary desire looks toward ourselves. But in seeking to increase that bulk of happiness from which we draw, egoism largely disappears in the search after the greatest happiness of the greatest number. This formula must always be convenient and valuable in a democratic state.

One of the most curious of these methods of extracting altruistic gold from a baser metal is that of Bishop Paley (1743–1805). According to him we have none of us an interest in our fellows’ happiness and should never of ourselves seek it. But we read in our Bibles the command to love our neighbor and are told that we shall fall into eternal misery if we do not. With his customary audacious clearness Paley states the matter thus: “The greatest virtue is doing good to mankind, in obedience to the will of God, and for the sake of everlasting happiness.” That is, the one thing of importance is altruistic endeavor. But this is so alien to our disposition that it can be brought about only through divine interposition, making it a condition of our own permanent enjoyment.

A subtler doctrine, and one much closer to the facts of human nature, is that of Adam Smith (1723–1790). He has observed how large a part sympathy plays in our ordinary affairs. If I am near a person when he is moved by any feeling, that feeling tends to jump across and to become mine also. Such identification of myself and him gives pleasure to us both. We all have experienced how sympathy heightens enjoyment and diminishes distress. In sympathy two sets of feelings become so nearly identified that the result can be called neither egoistic nor altruistic. Now I do not propose in these lectures to combat or defend any of these theories. No one of them seems to me to be without weight, all deserve consideration, and something like the operation of each I trace in people around me. The one with which I am in largest agreement is the last, where Adam Smith would identify the two moral aims. But all the theories are vitiated by a false start, which in these lectures I wish to avoid.

Each of them looks upon man in his original estate as a self-centred being, a distinct ego. By degrees this single person discovers other persons about him and learns that he must have relations with them. The relations may be altruistic or egoistic, but they are subsequent and supplemental. In himself he is separate and detached. Now, I hold that this conception is altogether erroneous. There is no such solitary person. One person is no person. The smallest known unit of personality is three, father, mother, child. None of us came into the world in separateness, nor have separately remained here. Relations have encompassed us from birth. Through them we are what we are, social beings, members of a whole. While it is true that the ties of parentage loosen as the child matures, these drop away only because others, now more formative, take him in charge. Before we have a separate consciousness we know ourselves as members of a family, of a state, of the community of human kind. We never stand alone.

Not that it is an error to say “I.” This, properly, is our commonest word and commonest thought. Only with reference to it does anything else have value. However interlocked the total frame of things may be, at certain centres where relations converge there are unique spots of consciousness capable of estimating reality and of sending forth modifying influences. Such a centre of consciousness, unlike all else, we rightly call a person, a self or ego; and because of its importance we often fix attention on it, withdrawing notice for the moment from the relations which encompass it. Such an abstraction, if clearly understood, is entirely legitimate. I shall frequently make use of it under the title of the separate or abstract self. But it should be borne in mind that it is an abstraction and that the real person is what I shall call the conjunct or social self, made up of that centre of consciousness and the relations in which it stands. While these two are usefully distinguishable, they are not separable. When I try to detach myself from my surroundings I know I am attempting an impossibility. How much would there be left of me were there no one but this central ego, none with whom I might communicate, no language prepared for communication or thought, no common affections, interests, or undertakings? Evidently we are from the start social beings. If with the early moralists we make the opposite assumption, our subsequent interest in our fellow men will never quite clear itself of artificiality and mistake.

Yet while the separate self and the conjunct self lodge in the same being, the degree and kind of attention accorded to the latter marks the stage of moral maturity at which man or nation has arrived. In certain undeveloped forms of social life the conjunctive elements are but slightly emphasized, while the separate self bulks large. With the advance of morality the opposite principle obtains. Wider and more subtle relationships are seen to make our lives our own. Many as are these social varieties, I have thought they might advantageously be examined under three headings, to which I give the rather unintelligible names of Manners, Gifts, and Mutuality. While recognizing that every phase of human life is altruistic in some degree, I hold that there are higher grades which give to the principle a prominence and scope which the lower lack. My general subject, then, might be entitled The Forms and Stages of the Conjunct Self. I begin where the conjunctive principle appears in its narrowest range and advance into the broader altruism only as I am logically compelled to do so. Endeavoring to see how small a section of human conduct need be affected by altruism, I am ultimately forced to make it as extensive as life itself.

Maintaining, however, as I do, that the two contrasted elements always are and should be mutually serviceable, I naturally have nothing to say in condemnation of self-seeking. On the contrary, I hold it to be praiseworthy. Rightly does Aristotle assert that the good man is always a lover of himself. But of which self is Aristotle thinking, the conjunct or the separate? Much of the mystery surrounding the notion of altruism is due to confusion on this point. For example, when a man is charged with selfishness it is usually because he is thought to have obtained some advantage. But why should he not? He is blamable only when he detaches the thought of his own advantage from advantage to others. My good must not be had at another’s expense. When a plate of apples is passed and I pick out the best one, the wrong is not in my obtaining a good apple but in my depriving somebody else of one. That is selfishness. Whenever my gain is not inconsistent with his or, as is usually the case, actually contributes to it, the larger the gain made by me the better.