Such a higher stage of altruism is that which I have called Gifts. When we give, we set ourselves in a low place and some one else in a high, so intentionally putting altruism into the matter of our action and not merely into its form. A definition of giving would therefore run as follows: the diminution by ourselves of some of our possessions, pleasures, or opportunities for growth, so that another person may possess more.

Every gift, to be a real gift, must cost the giver something. When I have just received an unexpectedly large payment and am feeling particularly well off, I might easily take pleasure in handing a half-dollar to a beggar. But that is an amusement, not a gift. I have experienced no loss. For both money and beggar I cared little, but the momentary sense of munificence was agreeable. The act was one of pride rather than generosity. On the other hand, I give a friend a book I love, one that has deeply influenced my life and I hope may influence his. He has no means of obtaining a copy elsewhere. I shall miss it, no doubt. But remembering how long I have had it, and he not at all, I resolve to impoverish myself for his enrichment. The moment I hand it to him he becomes the rich man and I the poor. All ownership on my part ceases. I have cut myself off from something valuable in order to bring about a certain superiority in him. That is the essence of a gift. To make my friend large I make myself small.

It may be said, however, that such damage to the giver is unnecessary. Completer giving would be that where the receiver makes up to me my loss. But would not my act under such conditions cease to be a gift? It would become an exchange, a trade, a bargain. Whether a wise trade or a foolish, there was calculation directed to keeping me as well off at the close of the transaction as at the beginning. On that account no one will call it a gift. Or if, again, I expect positively to profit by what I offered my friend, finding my bookshelves crowded and resolved to lead a simpler life, my act once more will lack the quality of a gift. Wisely I rid myself of some superfluous possessions, but I did so quite as much for my own advantage as for that of my friend. It is true that often in whole-hearted giving we find ourselves in the end richer than before. But that was not contemplated. What we sought was impoverishment for another’s gain, and it is that purpose which constitutes a gift.

As regards what is given, a few words may be well. All gifts are not of the same grade. In thinking of them we generally have in mind parting with a piece of property. But this is the slenderest of gifts. Accordingly in my definition, side by side with possessions, I named a superior sort of gift, pleasures. To detach a pleasure from myself for another’s sake, and to succeed in the difficult business of transferring it from my enjoyment to his, is surely a larger gift than parting with a piece of property. Indeed, even in giving an article, I felt the pleasure involved in it to be the important matter. Having been pleased with it myself I trusted it would bring my friend pleasure too. The article was a mere means, a subordinate part of the affair. Could I convey as much pleasure without it, the gift would gain in delicacy. Suppose then on a beautiful afternoon, when I have been bending over my work all the morning, I am offered a ride in the country. A friend is standing beside me, and to him I turn. “You take this seat. I do not care to go. You need it more than I.” And knowing full well the refreshment that will be had, I persuade him to take my place. Here is a gift of a higher order than a mere piece of property. Its substance is taken more directly out of myself.

But there are gifts higher still, for we may give sections of ourselves more important than pleasure. I may allow myself to stagnate in order that my friend may grow. In filling out his nature, let him not merely use me; let his use me up. Here altruism reaches its highest point in self-sacrifice. Yet instances of it are common. In almost every home in the land something like this is going on. In many households parents are saying: “That boy shall have the opportunities which we always longed for but could not attain. He shall go to college. A little pinching on our part will make it possible.” And so the boy goes joyously forth into an invigorating world, provided by the narrowing life of those at home. Such gifts are incomparable. They are gifts of life-blood.

Or do I distort this consummate altruism by calling it sacrifice? At least this should be added, that true sacrifice never knows itself to be sacrifice. Joyously the parents send their boy forth and joyously accept their own narrow routine. They do so feeling that he to whom they are giving their life is inseparable from themselves. They have learned to merge their abstract isolated self in him and to conceive themselves as living the larger conjunct life with him in his new opportunities. How exquisitely astonished are the men in the parable when called on to receive reward for their generous gifts! “Lord, when saw we thee an hungered and fed thee, or thirsty and gave thee drink? When saw we thee sick or in prison and came unto thee?” They thought they had only been following their own desires.

Here, then, giving seems to supersede itself, the giver receiving quite as much as he bestows. And some such paradox is unavoidable so long as the thought of self remains properly ambiguous. Our early English moralists saw no ambiguity in it. They understood by self the abstract, unrelated individual. They were consequently so puzzled by benevolence as often to deny it altogether. In our age of social consciousness the puzzle has largely disappeared. We see giving to be as natural as getting, and hardly to be distinguished from it. But it will be well before advancing to criticise the higher forms of altruism to fix firmly in mind some classic statement of the two conceptions and once for all to see how absurd each looks from the point of view of the other. When our Lord hung upon the cross the jeering soldiers cried: “He saved others; himself he cannot save!” No, he could not; and his inability seemed to them ridiculous, while it was in reality his glory. His true self he was saving, himself and all mankind, the only self he valued.

Giving has always impressed mankind as singularly noble. Indeed, in the judgment of many it outclasses all other excellence and is the only human action to call forth reverence. So nearly does generosity become identified with goodness that if I should ask a man whether John Smith was good to him yesterday I should be understood to ask if he gave unselfish attention to that man’s affairs. Goodness in this sense, the disposition to give, will in the popular mind cover a multitude of sins. In how many stories have past ages taken pleasure where the robber hero, crafty, merciless, and generous, bestows upon the poor plunder taken from the rich. The man ready to give, whatever else his quality, seemed to our ancestors always to deserve admiration.

We have become suspicious. There is a disposition to-day to question this wholesale praise of giving and to suggest that it is not free from danger. Instead of promoting public welfare, generosity may sometimes impoverish the community. It may lead people to depend on others, instead of standing on their own feet. And what a general weakening follows! The two classes into which society always tends to fall become more sharply contrasted—the rich, amusing themselves from time to time with officious charity, and the poor through accepting it steadily growing more helpless and cringing. Our fathers, less studious of society than we, did not perceive these dangers, but only the evils of selfishness. They accordingly eulogized giving, whatever and wherever it was. If a man asks for your outer garment, give him your inner one also. Give without calculating results.

Against all this a reaction has set in. It is now insisted that giving should no more be freed from rational control than any other impulse. It is too important a matter to be left to caprice and pursued merely to give the giver ease. It should be scientifically treated. The circumstances should be studied under which gifts may be permitted and under which withheld. We should be clear about the proper grounds for giving. Simply because somebody takes pleasure in giving he must not be allowed that pleasure where it becomes detrimental to the community at large.

Such are the questionings of our time. In studying this high form of altruism I cannot pass them by. I may fairly be asked to indicate when it will be safe to open the hand freely and when we had better keep it somewhat closed. As I try to classify the conditions of giving, I notice that two are grounded in the nature of the receiver and two in the nature of the giver; and in that order I will take them up.

Obviously, the first condition to be considered is the receiver’s assured need. When we see need and have the means to check it we naturally spring forward and give with reference to that particular need. If a man needs food, I do not offer him a theatre ticket; though if I found him worn with business and needing recreation such a gift would be appropriate. This adaptation is the important matter in all true giving. “Find out men’s wants and wills, and meet them there,” says an old poet. To give anything that happens to come into my mind is selfish and shows me unwilling to take trouble for another’s sake; that is, I am shown to lack the very spirit of a giver. The same considerations fix the magnitude of the gift. A small amount given for a large need is often useless and exasperating; a large amount for a small need, wasteful and corrupting. Wise giving demands an obedient mind attentive to another’s requirements and not head-strong in insistence on one’s own way. If there is any worth in giving, to keep that giving clear of waste and make it as effective as possible becomes an urgent duty.

I have already distinguished three varieties of gift: articles of my own possession, pleasures which might be mine diverted to another, and a means of growth imparted to another at my own cost. These form successively higher stages of giving, the greatest gift of all being, in my judgment, the gift of growth. Curiously enough, Kant denounces this as immoral. Man, he urges, is a person, the only being, so far as we know, who is capable of self-development. To attempt to take away this power and substitute another’s developing agency is an intrusion. A man’s growth is the business of no one but himself. If another person can scatter a pleasure or two in his path, it is a worthy altruistic act. But for any one but himself to undertake his construction is presumptuous and, indeed, impossible. In building a house we use plastic material, which has no will. But a person is essentially active, self-directed, and beyond the reach of agencies other than his own. When we teachers offer to make our pupils wiser, we promise what we cannot perform. Ourselves we can make wiser. To our pupils we can only offer material for their use. We may tell them that by devoting themselves to study they will reach capacious lives. But such lives we have no power to bestow. If our suggestions are rejected, we are helpless. Such is Kant’s extreme theory. But has he gone far enough? Have I any more ability to impart a pleasure? I certainly cannot pick up a pleasure and put it into another person, regardless of how it will be received. There must be co-operation. The receiver may turn it into either pleasure or pain. Kant’s objection applies with nearly equal force against the giving of pleasures. In both cases we merely provide material, subject to acceptance or rejection, material which has proved useful in many previous cases. I give my friend a ticket to the theatre, bidding him enjoy himself and get the refreshment he needs. But I cannot be sure what he will get. He may be bored and wish he had stayed at home. There are great uncertainties in gifts, for their receivers are indeed persons, the least calculable of all beings. A piece of property I can convey to a person with some certainty that he has received it. But whether it will mean for him what it meant for me I cannot tell. In all the best affairs of life there is risk.

If the risks in offering opportunities of growth are somewhat greater than in the case of other forms of gift, the need is greater too, and the results, if accomplished, more considerable. Arrangements for gifts of this highest sort are often properly made on a vast scale. They include churches, colleges, schools, lecture-foundations, museums. These are all public agencies for promoting growth. The private means are surer, family life. Yet here how often parents will offer gifts of an inferior sort, things or pleasures, careless whether they meet the needs of growth. The truest benefactor is he who is willing to disappoint or pain us if by so doing he can open doors for ampler powers. Our greatest need is for enlargement. Whoever contributes to that is our most beneficent giver.

But human need is only one of the two claims to gifts grounded in the nature of the receiver. We should likewise pay attention to numbers. If I have a loaf of bread to give away, and all about me hungry persons stand, I do wrong in handing half of it to one of them for a hearty meal and putting off the others, equally needy, with a small slice. At the beginning I should have studied numbers and kept a fair distribution in mind. In these days when every mail brings us three or four demands for subscriptions to excellent causes, which we would gladly aid, the question of distribution becomes perplexing. We wish to make our gifts go as far as possible. If we are hardy and dutiful, we plan according to need and number; if weak and compliant, we meet each soliciting letter with a formal subscription, just enough to be counted, and feel ourselves discharged from a difficult problem.

In my own experience it has been helpful to readjust slightly the conception of number and to consider rather the scope of a gift. Many years ago a wealthy man in the West, who had worked his way through Harvard University, said to me that he knew there were many men at Harvard of decided worth but unable to get the full benefit of the place through lack of funds. He asked if he might leave a sum of money with me for their benefit. I was not to disclose his name, was to expend the money as if it were my own, selecting the recipients quietly through personal acquaintance and giving account to nobody. I gladly assented and anticipated easy and delightful work in distributing bounty where need was abundant. But I soon discovered that giving money away was about as difficult as earning it. I was to make investments, with returns in human power and character—called on therefore to exercise no less pains and sagacity than if the investment were for my own benefit. I believe now that much of the money I at first gave away had been better thrown into the sea. It did little good to the one who received it, and still less to the public. I was too tender-hearted and fixed my mind too exclusively on the hardships of some particular student. Pity is dangerous stuff for a charity administrator. Gradually I learned that my true object of consideration should not be the individual student but the community. Through the student I was to give to the public. And would that student be a good transmitter? That became my constant question. In studying how my gifts might get the widest scope, I gradually formulated the maxim to help only the strong and let the feeble sink. A merciless maxim it appears at first, and always requiring subtlety in application. But what right have I, in investing property for the public good, to ignore questions of return? A powerful lawyer, doctor, business man, poet, minister, or public-spirited citizen brings blessing to a multitude, and I am allowed to share in the shaping of that blessing. Shall I withdraw funds from such a cause and invest them in stock of slender security and low interest, where they can at best only ease the discomfort of an individual? That would be to overlook the scope of my gift. I used to tell my boys that the aid was not intended for their relief, but for the relief of society to which they must carry forth heightened powers. And this, I think, should be the method in all charitable outlay if we would give to limited means the broadest range of influence.

These, then, need and numbers or scope, are the conditions of giving so far as the receiver is concerned. By studying them we learn how to proportion our gifts. Two more remain, equally important, grounded in the nature of the giver. They are his ability and his knowledge; but the former, like number, will oblige us to examine it from a twofold point of view.

That we are to give only according to our ability seems almost too obvious to state; yet it is something we must never lose sight of. In making this gift shall I have enough left for that? That is our constant question. In answering it I see that ability is only another name for an already accumulated wealth. If our ability to give is to be large, we must in past time, before the demand arose, have accumulated stock, in which accumulation we are likely to receive small approval from anybody. Spending is showy and interesting. It has a liberal air which all commend. While engaged in it we shall not lack those who will cheer us on. But saving is repulsive and suspicious, seldom calling out praise; yet it is an absolute essential of subsequent giving. The wealth accumulated may be of many kinds—money, learning, sound judgment—but it must be gathered in the dark, before the demand for its use becomes clear. How humiliating, when need arises and the disposition to aid is upon us, to look into our treasury and find it empty! A perplexed soul turns to us for wise counsel and we are obliged to tell him, if we are honest, that we have never trained ourselves in careful thought and should only mislead him by random suggestions. Preparation beforehand for the numberless occasions of giving is the perpetual business of the generous mind. So, at least, thought Jesus. “For their sakes I sanctify myself.”

Other persons, I said, are little likely to assist us here and are perhaps justly suspicious. Accumulation is likely enough to be prompted by selfishness. When a man withdraws from his fellows every day to his study or store, and isolated there with his own interests regards little besides inflowing wealth, he certainly looks self-centred, may actually be so, and should by no means complain if misunderstood. Being misunderstood is, after all, not unhealthy. Without exposing ourselves to that risk few of us can reach our full power of altruistic service. We need to train ourselves for kindness in the long run, with some carelessness as regards the conflicting short.

I have been pointing out how largely our ability to give depends on an already accumulated wealth. But into ability enters one thing more, tact. Without a good supply of this, giving irritates and misses its mark. But tact is a word of evil omen and has such synonyms as slyness, adroitness. I am supposed to adjust myself to the peculiarities of somebody in order securely to gain what he would be little disposed to give. I have studied the windings of his mind and know just the side on which to approach him. I set myself in the very best light, play on his weaknesses, and skilfully obtain much which in his unmanaged moods he would never think of granting. Well, tact is often exercised in this self-seeking fashion. But that is because it is a great power, egoistic or altruistic. It may be employed with either aim. A good giver needs it no less than a selfish schemer. How many would-be givers do we know who come blundering up with gifts and drop them upon us in a way which utterly shocks and makes us unwilling to receive them. Others have taken some trouble to be kind, have acquainted themselves with our circumstances, have been able to outflank our delicacies and hesitations, and so to make their gift received with the least sense of intrusion or obligation. What an exquisite fine art giving may be, and how it increases altruistic power! But it is acquired with effort and will be effective only after it has become instinctive. As in the case of wealth, the gaining of it must not be postponed to the time when it is needed. That will bring merely awkwardness and disappointment. It must be accumulated beforehand. One desiring altruistic skill should be training himself perpetually: as he walks the street, as he meets an acquaintance, as he enters a shop, as he sits at table. Every situation affords opportunity for swiftly sympathetic adjustment, for removing self-absorption and substituting for it that generous imagination without which no gift is acceptable. A well-equipped giver, putting himself imaginatively in the other man’s place, perceives at once how his gift may be most easily received.

But besides ability, with its two branches of wealth and tact, there is a final condition grounded in the giver, that of knowledge. Of course, we cannot give properly unless we understand the case, and the larger our understanding the greater is our obligation to aid. These simple truths illuminate some moral perplexities. I read a while ago of a famine in China. Crops had failed and there was wide-spread suffering. Tragic tales were reported. In the next column of the paper was an account of airplane construction. I found both columns interesting. The same day a man I knew broke his leg. An awful affair! I hurried to his bedside and could think of nothing else than how I might help. Then it occurred to me how disproportioned were my sympathies. Thousands of squalid deaths on the other side of the globe made a spectacular newspaper item. A broken leg next door engrossed me and called out all my resources. We have all had the experience and, on first reflection, have called ourselves selfish brutes. But I believe that is an error. Helpful sympathy waits on knowledge and proportions itself by this rather than by objective need. The sufferings of China are known to us only abstractly and in outline, and only in outline can our sympathies be accorded. But a case which comes under our immediate inspection, disclosing all its significant details, is a different matter and lays upon us a claim of giving which the other rightly does not. Nearness counts. Knowledge heightens obligation. I would not defend absorption in our narrow circle. I have just been urging the constant enlargement of sympathetic knowledge. But we should never ignore the fact that the unknown is not as the known and that only in proportion as we know can we advantageously help.

Through overlooking these necessary limitations of human sympathy the Stoics were led to denounce patriotism. We should honor man as man. Why, then, regard an American sufferer more than a Chinese? Because he is my countryman. But that rests philanthropy on selfishness and makes the needy person’s relation to me of more consequence than his suffering. The notion of patriotism which masquerades as a virtue should be denounced as a vice. All will recognize in such an argument a valuable protest against narrowness. But few will accept the principle on which it rests. All men are not alike. Relation to me does constitute a special moral claim. Shall I treat my mother as I would any other old lady, as the apple woman at the corner? I say no; and the ground of different treatment I do not find in selfishness but in superior knowledge. I have known my mother ever since I was born. In early years she studied my needs and now she is my special charge. I comprehend what she requires in heart, mind, and person as I can comprehend those of no other woman. It is at least uneconomical to lay aside all this equipment for service and give her only the care a stranger might receive from me. The family tie means something. The tie of country means something. I know the habits of thought, the half-conscious turns of feeling, of my own people. In understanding a person of another nation I go about so far, and then run up against a brick wall, beyond which all is blind. This measure of possible understanding is the measure of duty. Knowledge forms one of the two conditions of giving grounded in the nature of the giver.

Such are the conditions which the modern mind would set upon giving. Our fathers paid little attention to them. Giving was in their eyes the crowning virtue and they were unwilling to shut it within bounds. Wherever need appeared they urged one another to meet it with charity, pretty indifferent to considerations of knowledge, ability, or social result. The altruistic purpose was so admirable that it seemed to require no scrutiny in application. But we are not content to leave anything uncriticised and have endeavored to rationalize even giving. Not altogether with success, however. On examining closely the conditions I have assembled, certain inner conflicts will be noticed. Take, for example, the case of need; when another’s need is greatest my ability is least. Ability does not accompany need, increasing with its increase, but tends either to remain stationary or to fall behind as need grows. A somewhat similar conflict is unavoidable between knowledge and numbers. I have shown that as numbers grow large they become empty ciphers. The mind cannot grasp their human and detailed significance. Regrettable as this fact is, we had better recognize it as inevitable, accepting as our particular charge those instances of need which lie sufficiently near for careful inspection and leaving the more vast and distant to be cared for by special experts, supplied with our means but not our ignorance. Much of our best charity must be exercised by deputy.

The fact that gifts cannot be entirely rationalized suggests a doubt whether they can form more than a subordinate instrument for expressing altruism. By what means can their defects be remedied? To answering such questions the next chapter will be devoted.