HIGHEST ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF CONSCIOUSNESS
§ 23. EVILS OF KNOWLEDGE
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.
QUESTIONS
223. What property is common to works of art of every kind?
224. How does religion contribute to the growth of art?
225. How is play related to art?
226. What are the three factors in art on which our feelings
depend?
227. Which of the three factors is predominant in music?
228. What is the advantage of imitation over reality?
229. What are the three aspects of the artistic problem of
imitation?
230. What training does the mind receive from the enjoyment of
handicraft and architecture?
231. What kind of esthetic enjoyment has developed most recently?
232. How does nature assist man in the highest development of his
esthetic ability?
§ 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.
QUESTIONS
233. Why is acting by free will superior to willing under
compulsion?
234. What philosopher is mentioned in the text as the chief
opponent to the doctrine that morality is a growth dependent on
circumstances?
235. How and by whom were moral rules first discovered?
236. How are moral rules propagated? What is the consequence of
this mode of propagation?
237. What two reasons are stated for the fact that society does not
inform its members of the real purpose of the moral rules?
238. Why is moral sentiment valued more highly than correct acts?
239. How is the relation between morality and religion established?
240. What is the influence of monotheism on the growth of morality?
CONCLUSION
What a strange being is man according to popular understanding! He
possesses senses intended to inform him of the world, but incapable of
doing this since they deceive him. In addition he has judgment and
reason which help him to discover the deceptions of his senses and to
gain a true knowledge of the world by the aid of principles whose origin
is foreign to this world. His thoughts consist of ideas which succeed
each other in accordance with definite laws. Nevertheless, he sits
within himself, the _homunculus_ in the _homo_, and with perfect
contempt for those laws directs the ideas, weakens this, strengthens
that, keeps one and expels the other, unites them and separates them
with despotic arbitrariness. His chief desire is furtherance of his
well-being. Nevertheless, he strives to aid others, to be fair and just,
to mortify the flesh. He unceasingly strives to make himself the lord of
the world. Still he has a constant craving for being the subject of an
omnipotent power; and to satisfy this craving God has given him the
belief in Divinity. But God, from whom everything springs, has given him
also a punishable inclination toward heresies and confused him by the
contradictions of a hundred different revelations, each one claiming its
own genuineness. Man’s whole being appears mixed up. No second step is
possible without reversing the first. No definite purpose can be made
out in all this.
Yet man becomes comprehensible as soon as we apply scientific methods to
the study of his nature. He has indeed numerous faculties, seeing and
hearing, imagination and feeling, reproduction and concentration. These,
however, do not oppose each other, but stand side by side, supplementing
each other, as everything on earth consists of parts which supplement
each other. The fundamental laws of human life are the same as those
which we find in the higher animals. But man’s ability to elaborate
momentary sense impressions is immensely increased: there is no limit to
the associative and selective combination of the elementary impressions.
Thus man establishes his power over all other animals and the inanimate
world, realizing the general purposes common to all organisms by
incomparably higher and richer constructions. But these, however we
esteem them, are derived from the same fundamental forces of nature,
only differing in measure and in their proportions. Mind is not like an
unclean pot in which noble seeds are planted, so that the plants
growing from them do not fit the vessel containing them and unending
discord must result. Mind is a unitary organism which, unfolding its
capacities, adjusts itself more and more perfectly to the circumstances
of chance or of its own creation. As the same atmosphere brings forth
out of wind and water and warmth now fertile rains, now destructive hail
storms, beautiful clouds above, dangerous fog below, so the same mind by
the same natural laws brings forth error and truth, desireful pleasure
and desireless joy, selfishness and morality.
INDEX
Abstraction, 126, 133, 140, 151.
Adaptation, 74.
Affection, 162.
Afferent, 35, 38.
After-image, 74.
Anemia, 27.
Animals, 27, 37, 65, 75, 128, 151, 197.
Apes, 27.
Apperception, 119.
Arborization, 33.
Architecture, 202.
Aristotle, 3, 10, 17.
Art, 14, 24, 196.
Association, 10, 11, 12, 14, 93, 144, 164.
Attention, 11, 12, 87, 115, 121, 125, 144, 151.
Audition, 74, 76.
Auditory, 62, 98.
Automatic, 101.
Axiom, 152.
Beats, 64.
Beethoven, 14.
Belief, 152, 156, 158.
Bessel, 20.
Biology, 16.
Bismarck, 180.
Blind born, 67.
Boycott, 136.
Brain, 21, 22, 23, 27, 28.
Brewster, 17.
Broca, 21.
Buffon, 11.
Bulb, 38.
Cæsar, 136.
Catholic church, 205.
Causality, 5, 7, 8, 9, 177.
Center, 35, 36, 37, 107, 111.
Cerebellum, 38, 39.
Cerebrum, 38, 41.
Christ, 209.
Cicero, 159.
Coherent thought, 142.
Collateral, 32.
Color, 58.
Color-blind, 60, 76.
Color mixture, 61.
Conduct, 162, 176.
Conscience, 206.
Consciousness, 41.
Conservation of energy, 45.
Copernican system, 161.
Cortex, 38, 40, 41.
Corti, 76.
Crime, 97.
Cutaneous, 52, 73.
Davy, 121.
Definition, 141.
Dendrite, 31.
Desire, 109.
Determinism, 181.
Difference tone, 64.
Discrimination, 100.
Distance, 116.
Dream, 142, 156.
Drugs, 27.
Duration, 68.
Education, 24, 97.
Efferent, 35, 38.
Emotion, 168.
Enlightenment, 11.
Esthetics, 14, 185, 197, 202.
Evolution, 5, 16.
Experiment, 17.
Expression, 105, 169.
Faculties, 10, 11, 13, 22, 124, 151.
Falstaff, 123.
Fatalism, 179.
Fatigue, 102.
Fechner, 18, 19.
Feeling, 81, 162.
Fibril, 32.
Fichte, 15.
France, 10.
Frederick William, 1, 5.
Freedom, 7, 8, 9, 176, 208.
Fritsch, 21.
Future life, 192, 195.
Galileo, 10.
Gall, 29.
Ganglion cell, 30, 32, 38, 80.
Generalization, 126, 128, 134.
Goethe, 14, 62.
Gray matter, 33, 39.
Greece, 192.
Greenwich, 20.
Hallucination, 79.
Handicraft, 202.
Harmony, 68.
Helmholtz, 17, 76.
Heraclitus, 3.
Herbart, 12, 13, 14, 18, 19.
Herod, 137.
Hitzig, 21.
Hobbes, 8, 9, 10, 17.
Hume, 10.
Hypnosis, 179.
Hysteria, 29.
Ideation, 123.
Illusion, 120.
Imagery, 98, 128.
Imagination, 78, 115, 124, 151.
Imitation, 130, 132, 199.
Indeterminism, 181.
Insane, 143.
Instinct, 85, 91, 101, 107, 109, 110, 130, 171, 173, 180, 197.
Intelligence, 27, 148.
Interest, 89.
James, 170.
Japan, 205.
Jewish prophets, 193.
Judgment, 142.
Kant, 13, 15, 205.
Kinesthetic, 51, 52, 67, 86, 91, 98, 108, 117, 129, 131, 145, 174.
Kinnebrook, 20.
Knowledge, 152, 157, 184, 189.
Labyrinth, 54.
Lange, 170.
Language, 3, 24, 109, 128, 144, 147, 151, 155.
Latent idea, 81.
Laughing, 105.
Law, 24.
Leibniz, 8.
Linnæus, 11.
Literature, 139.
Localization of function, 41, 42, 44.
Lotze, 19.
Machine, 15.
Maskelyne, 20.
Mathematics, 13.
Medulla, 38.
Melody, 68.
Memory, 92, 123, 144, 149, 150.
Metaphor, 137.
Metonymy, 137.
Middle Ages, 7.
Mind, 47.
Money, 165.
Monotheism, 193, 209.
Mood, 169.
Morality, 193, 204.
Mosaic law, 209.
Motor point, 34.
Movement, 105, 108.
Müller, Johannes, 17.
Münchhausen, 207.
Music, 199.
Napoleon, 159.
Natural science, 6, 8, 9, 16.
Neo-Platonic philosophy, 194.
Nerve anatomy, 38.
Nerve center, 35, 36, 37, 107, 111.
Nervous architecture, 34.
Nervous process, 33.
Nervous system, 27, 28, 36.
Neuron, 30, 81.
Newton, 10.
Noise, 62.
Odor, 57.
Organic sensation, 56, 170, 174.
Otolith, 54, 55, 65.
Pain, 53.
Painting, 200.
Passion, 172.
Pathology, 22, 117, 143, 174.
Perception, 105, 114, 119.
Personal equation, 20.
Perspective, 116.
Philonic philosophy, 194.
Philosophy, 18, 19, 23, 24.
Phrenology, 29, 42.
Physiology, 16, 17, 19, 21, 22.
Plato, 10, 193, 209.
Play, 106, 197.
Pleasantness, 82, 106.
Poetry, 200.
Practice, 99, 126.
Prayer, 191, 192, 193.
Predestination, 179.
Priesthood, 191, 195.
Priestley, 182.
Property, 186.
Psychiatry, 23, 24, 28, 143.
Psychophysics, 19, 23, 24, 28, 143.
Ptolemaic system, 161.
Pythagoras, 158.
Quantitative, 13, 17.
Range of perceptibility, 70.
Reality, 153.
Reason, 142.
Reflex, 86, 107, 110, 170.
Reflex arch, 36, 38, 107.
Religion, 14, 24, 189, 197, 207, 209.
Reproduction, 93, 125.
Responsibility, 180.
Retina, 73, 75.
Rousseau, 15, 183.
St. Luke, 137.
Schelling, 18.
Schopenhauer, 15.
Science and religion, 194.
Sculpture, 200.
Seat of the soul, 29, 41.
Self, 145, 166.
Semicircular canals, 54, 55, 65.
Sensation, 50, 65.
Sensationalism, 10.
Sensitiveness, 69, 73.
Sensory point, 34.
Set of the mind, 94, 123.
Slang, 138.
Social classes, 186.
Space, 65.
Spatial, 67.
Speech, 109, 130, 139.
Spinal cord, 38.
Spinoza, 8, 160.
Stimulus, 69.
Strümpell, 174.
Succession, 68.
Superstition, 161.
Switzerland, 202.
Taste, 57.
Temperament, 172.
Temporal, 68.
Tetens, 11.
Theology, 194.
Thought, 108.
Threshold, 100.
Time, 65.
Tone, 62.
Trinity, 194.
Truth, 152.
Types of imagery, 98.
Unity in variety, 68, 164.
Unpleasantness, 53, 82, 106.
Vision, 74, 75.
Visual, 58, 73, 98.
Voluntarism, 15.
Voluntary, 109, 171.
Weber, E. H., 17, 18.
Weber’s law, 18, 71.
White matter, 33.
Will, 87, 91.
Willing, 85, 173.
World, 145, 167.
Wundt, 23.
Zeno, 209.
Zoroaster, 193.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
first conciousness accompanies=> first consciousness accompanies {pg 86}
A sub-script is treated like this in the text: s_{1}