Having asked concerning any person, "What are his purposes?"
whether of power or fellowship, whether permanent or transitory,
whether adjustable or not, we next ask, "How does he seek their
fulfillment?"
"He who wills the end wills the means" is an old saying, but men
who will the same end may will different means. There have been
those who used assassination to bring about reform, and there are
plenty who use philanthropy to hasten their egoistic aims. The
nihilist who throws a bomb to bring about an altruistic state is
own cousin to the ward heeler who gives coal to his poor
constituents so that his grafting rule may continue.
1. There are those who use the direct route of force to reach
their goal of desire and purpose. They attempt to make no nice
adjustments of their wishes to the wishes of others; the
obstacle, whether human or otherwise must get out of their way or
be forcibly removed or destroyed. "A straight line is the
shortest distance between two points," and there is only one
absolute law,--"the good old rule, the simple plan that they may
take who have the power and they may keep who can." The
individuals who react this way to obstacles are choleric,
passionate, egoistic and in the last analysis somewhat brutal.
This is especially true if they seek force at first, for with
nearly all of us extreme provocation or desperation brings
direct-action measures.
Conspicuously those accustomed to arbitrary power use this
method. They have grown accustomed to believing that their will
or wish is a cause, able to remove obstacles of all kinds. When
at all opposed the angry reaction is extreme, and they tend to
violence at once. The old-fashioned home was modeled in tyranny,
and the force reaction of the father and husband to his children
and wife was sanctioned by law and custom. The attitude of the
employer to employee, universally in the past and still
prominent, was that of the master, able in ancient times to use
physical punishment and in our day to cut off a man's livelihood
if he showed any rebellion. In a larger social way War is crude
brute force, and those who delude themselves that the God of
victory is a righteous God have read history with a befoozled
mind. Force, though the world rests on it, is a terrible weapon
and engenders brutality in him who uses it and rebellion, hate
and humiliation in him upon whom it is used. It is an insult to
the dignity and worth of the human being. It must be used for
disciplining purposes only,--on children, on the criminal, and
then more to restrain than to punish. It cannot disappear from
the world, but it should be minimized. Only the sentimentalized
believe it can disappear entirely, only the brutal rejoice in its
use. Force is a crude way of asserting and obtaining superiority;
the gentle hate to use it, for it arouses their sympathy for
their opponent. Whoever preaches force as the first weapon in any
struggle is either deluded as to its value or an enemy of
mankind.
As a non-inhibited response, force and brutality appear in the
mentally sick. General paresis, cerebral arterio-selerosis,
alcoholic psychoses present classical examples of the impatient
brutal reaction, often in men hitherto patient and gentle.
2. Strategy or cunning appears as a second great method of
obtaining the fulfillment of one's purposes. We all use strategy
in the face of superior or equal power, just as we tend to use
force confronted by inferiority. There is of course a legitimate
use of cunning, but there is also an anti-social trend to it,
quite evident in those who by nature or training are schemers.
The strategist in love, war or business simulates what he does
not feel, is not frank or sincere in his statements and believes
firmly that the end justifies the means. He uses the indirect
force of the lie, the slander, insinuation --he has no aversion
to flattery and bribery--he uses spies and false witnesses. He is
a specialist in the unexpected and seeks to lull suspicion and
disarms watchfulness, waiting for the moment to strike. Sometimes
he weaves so tangled a web that he falls into it himself, and one
of the stock situations in humor, the novel and the stage is
where the cunning schemer falls into the pit he has dug for
others. In his highest aspect he is the diplomat; in his lowest
he is the sneak. People who are weak or cowardly tend to the use
of these methods, but also there is a group of the strong who
hate direct force and rather like the subtler weapons.
The strategist tends to be quite cynical, and his effect on his
fellow men is to increase cynicism and pessimism. They who have
suffered through the schemer grow to suspect their fellows under
any guise. They become suspicious and hard, determined never to
trust any one again. Indeed, practical wisdom to a large extent
is the wisdom of strategy and is full of mottoes and proverbs
inculcating non-generous ideals. When people have been "fooled"
or misled, the most valuable of the social cementing qualities,
faith in one's fellows, is weakened. Despite the disintegrating
effect of unscrupulous shrewdness, it is common enough to hear
men say of a successful votary of the art, "Well, I give him
credit. He is a very clever fellow, and he has brought home the
bacon." Success is so highly prized and admired that the means of
obtaining it becomes secondary in the eyes of the majority.
3. The role of speech in the relationships of human beings is of
course too great to be over-estimated. Speech becomes the prime
weapon in swaying and molding the opinions and acts of others. It
is the medium of the threat of force and the stratagem of
cunning, but also it enters human life as the medium of
persuasion and conviction. The speech ability, the capacity to
use words in attaining purpose, shows as striking variations as
any other capacity.
Though a function of intelligence, the power to speak (and write)
convincingly and easily, is not at all related to other phases of
intelligence. Though it can be cultivated, good verbalism is an
innate ability, and a most valuable one. The power to speak
clearly so as to express what is on one's own mind is uncommon,
as any one can testify who has watched people struggling to
express themselves. "You know" is a very frequent phrase in the
conversation of the average man, and he means that, "My words are
inadequate, but you know what I mean." The delight in the good
writer or speaker is that he relieves other people's
dissatisfaction in their own inadequate expression by saying what
they yearn to say for themselves, thus giving them a vicarious
achievement.
But the power of clear expression is not at all the power of
persuasion, although it may be a part of it. One may clearly
express himself and antagonize others. The persuader seeks to
discover the obstacles to agreement with him in the minds of
others and to remove or nullify them. He may seek to do this by a
clear exposition of his wishes and desires, by showing how these
will benefit the others (or at least not harm them), by meeting
logically or otherwise the objections and demonstrating their
futility. This he will attempt, if he is wise and practical, only
in a limited group or among those who are keen-minded and open to
reason. Even with them he will have to kindle and maintain their
interest, and he must arouse a favorable emotional state.
This latter is the principal goal in persuasion. Every good
speaker or writer who seeks to reach the mass of people needs the
effect of the great feelings--of patriotism, sympathy and
humor--needs flattery, gross or subtle, makes people laugh or
smile or feel kindly disposed to him before he attempts to get
their cooperation. He must place himself on their level, be
regarded as one of them; fellowship and the cooperative
tendencies must be awakened before logic will have value.
The persuader cuts his cloth to suit his case. He is a
psychologist of the intuitive type. He may thunder and scold if
he finds in his audience, whether numbering one or a million, a
tendency to yield to authority, and he then poses as that
authority, handing out his dicta in an awe-inspiring fashion. He
will awaken the latent trend to ridicule and scoffing by pointing
out inconsistency in others, or he may awaken admiration for his
fairness and justice by lauding his opponent, taking care not to
overdo it.
Persuasion is often a part of scheming, rarely is it used by the
forceful, except in the authoritative way or to arouse anger
against the opponent. It is the weapon of those who believe in
democracy, for all exposition has persuasion as its motive. A
statement must not only be true to others,--to the mass.
Therefore persuasion as applied to the great mass of people is
rarely closely knit or a fine exposition of truth and historical
evolution; that one must leave for the highbrow book or treatise.
It is passionate and pleading; it thunders and storms; it has wit
and humor; it deals with symbols and analogies, it plays on the
words of truth, justice, ideals, patriotism. It may be honest and
truthful, but it cannot be really accurate or of high
intellectual value.
And the persuasion that seeks private ends from private audiences
"sizes" up its audience as a preliminary. The capacity to
understand others and to sway them, to impress them according to
their make-up, is a trait of great importance for success or
failure. It needs cultivation, but often it depends on a native
sociability, a friendliness and genuine interest, on a "good
nature" that is what it literally purports to be,--good nature.
Though many of the persuasive kind are insincere and selfish, I
believe that on the whole the taciturn and gruff are less
interested in their fellows than the talkative and cordial.
The persuasive person has a touch of the fighting spirit in the
trait called aggressiveness. He is rarely shy or retiring. To do
well, he must be prepared for rebuffs, and he is possessed of a
species of courage and resistance against refusal and
humiliation. In the highest form the persuader is a teacher and
propagandist, changing the policy of peoples; in the commonest
form he is a salesman, seeking to sell a commodity; in the lowest
he is the faker, trying to hoodwink the credulous.
4. The strong, the crafty, the talkers each seek fulfillment of
purpose from an equal or higher level than their fellows. But
power and fulfillment may be reached at from a lower level, from
the beggar's position, from the place of weakness. There are some
whose existence depends upon the response given to their
supplications, who throw themselves directly on the charity and
tender-heartedness of society. Inefficient, incapable of separate
existence, this parasitic class is known to every social service
group, to every rich or powerful man who helps at least in part
to maintain them. I do not mean those who are physically or
intellectually unable to cope with the world; these are merely
unfortunate. I mean those whose energy and confidence is so low,
or whose lack of pride is such that they are willing to ask for
help continually rather than make their own way.
There is, however, a very interesting type of person who uses
weakness as a weapon to gain a purpose, not support. The tears of
many women have long been recognized as potent in that warfare
that goes on between the sexes; the melting of opposition to the
whim or wish when this manifestation of weakness is used is an
old story. The emotional display renders the man uncomfortable,
it disturbs him, he fears to increase it lest the opponent become
sick, his conscience reproaches him, and he yields rather than
"make a fuss." Tears can be replaced by symptoms of a hysteric
nature. I do not mean that these symptoms are caused by the
effort to win, but they become useful and are made habitual. Nor
is this found only in woman; after an accident there are men in
plenty whose symptoms play a role in securing compensation for
themselves, not necessarily as malingerers. It is in human nature
to desire the sympathy of others, and in some cases this sympathy
is sought because through sympathy some other good will be
forthcoming,--a new dress, a lump sum of money, or merely
securing one's own way. Very noticeably do children tend to
injure themselves if crossed; anger tends to turn on itself, and
the effect on the other party is soon realized, and often
utilized. A child may strike its head against the floor without
any other motive than that arising from hopeless anger, but if
this brings the parents to their knees,[1] the association is
made and the experience becomes part of the working technique of
the child.
[1] This turning of anger upon itself is a factor in
self-destruction. It is seen, so the naturalists say, in the
snake and the asp, and it is common in human relations.
5. There is in man an urge to activity independent of reward save
in the satisfaction that comes from that activity. This current
is organized into work, and the goal becomes achievement. The
most powerful factor in discharging the energies of man is the
desire for achievement. Wealth, superiority, power, philanthropy,
renown, safety and pleasure enormously reinforce this purpose,
but behind the GOOD work of the world is the passion to create,
to make something, to mold the resisting forces of nature into
usefulness and beauty. Handicraftsman, artist, farmer, miner,
housewife, writer,--all labor contradicts the legend that work
is a curse. To gain by work, to obtain desires through labor, is
a method of attainment that is a natural ideal of man.
This makes opportune a discussion of the work-traits. Since ours
is an industrial society, in which the work of a member is his
means of obtaining not only respect, but a living, these traits
are largely those by which he is judged and by which he judges
himself.
Since work for some is their life and for others their means of
obtaining a living, it is obvious that the work-traits may be
all the traits of the individual, or only a few of them. Certain
traits are especially important, and to these we must limit
ourselves.
The energy of the individual. Some are so constituted that they
can constantly discharge their energy at a high rate. These are
the dynamics, the hyperkinetic, the Rooseveltian--strenuous--the
busy people, always able to do more. The modern American life
holds this type as an ideal, though it is quite questionable
whether these rather over-busy people do not lose in reflective
and creative ability. The rushing stream turns the wheels of the
mills, but it is too strenuous for stately ships. This type
however achieves things, is seen often in the fine executive and
usually needs no urging.
There is another fine type not so well adapted to our
civilization, which is easily exhausted, but can accomplish very
much in a short time; in other words discharges energy
intermittently at a high rate. Charles Darwin was of this
kind--intermittently hyperkinetic --obliged to rest after an
hour's labor, but by understanding this, WILLING to rest.
Unfortunately, unless one is a genius or rich, industry does not
make allowances for this type. Industry is organized on
steadiness of energy discharge,--eight hours every day, six days
a week.
The commonest type is the "average" person who is capable of
moderately intense but constant activity. This is the steady man
and woman; it is upon this steadiness that the whole
factory--shop system--is based. That this steadiness deadens,
injures vivacity and makes for restlessness, is another matter.
A distinctly pathological type is found in some feebleminded and
some high mentalities. This unfortunate discharges energy at a
low rate is slow in action and often intermittent as well as
hypokinetic. The loafer and the tramp are of this type. Around
the water front of the seaports one can find the finest specimens
who do odd jobs for as much as will pay for lodging and food and
drink. Perhaps the order of the desired rewards should be
reversed. Every village furnishes individuals of this group,
either unable or unwilling to work consecutively or with energy.
Often purposeless day-dreamers or else bereft of normal human
mentality, these are the chronically unemployed of our social-
industrial system.
It must be remembered that to work steadily every day and in the
same place is not an innate circumstance of man's life. For the
untold centuries before he developed into an agriculturist and a
handicraftsman, he sought his food and his protection in the
simplest way and with little steady labor. Whether as hunter or
fisher or nomad herdsman, he lived in the open air, slept in
caves or in rudely constructed shelters and knew nothing of those
purposes that keep men working from morning till night. It's a
long way from primitive man and his occupations, with their
variety and their relaxations, to the factory hand, shut up in a
shop all day and doing just one thing year in and year out, to
the housewife with her multitudinous, never-ending tasks within
four walls, to the merchant engrossed with profit and loss,
weighing, measuring, buying, selling and worrying without
cessation. The burden of steadiness in labor is new to the race,
and it is only habit, necessity and social valuation that keeps
most men to their wheel.
We would, I think, be oversentimental in our treatment of this
subject if we omitted two hugely important factors in work
character. Two powerful motives operate,--the necessity of
working and work as an escape from ourselves.
Not much need be said of the pressure of necessity. "To eat one
must work." This sentence condenses the threat behind most of the
workers of the world. They cannot stop if they would--for few are
those, even in prosperous communities, who have three months of
idleness in their savings. The feeling of insecurity this fact
brings makes a nightmare out of the lives of the many, for to the
poor worker the charity organization is part of the penalty to be
paid for sickness or unemployment. To my mind there are few
things more pathetic than a good man out of a job, and few things
for which our present society can be so heartily damned. Few even
of the middle class can rest; their way of living leaves them
little reserve, and so they plug along, with necessity as the
spur to their industry.
To escape ourselves! Put any person of adult age, or younger, in
a room with nothing to do but think, and you reduce him to abject
misery and restlessness. Most of our reading, entertainment, has
this object, and if necessity did not spur men on to work
steadily, the tedium of their own thoughts would. To reflect is
pleasant only to a few, and the need of a task is the need of the
average human being. Perhaps once upon a time in some idyllic
age, some fabled age of innocence, time passed pleasantly without
work. To-day, work is the prime way of killing time, adding
therefore to its functions of organizing activity, achievement
and social value of recreation.
Yet contradictory as it seems, though many of us love work for
its own sake, most of us do not love our own work. That is
because few of us choose our work; it is thrust upon us. Happy is
he who has chosen and chosen wisely!
Industry, energy, steadiness are parts of the work-equipment;
enthusiasm, eagerness, the love of work, in short, is another
part. Love of work is not a unitary character; it is a resultant
of many forces and motives. Springing from the love of activity,
it receives its direction from ambition and is reinforced by
success and achievement. Few can continue to love a work at which
they fail, for self-love is injured and that paralyzes the
activity. Here and there is some one who can love his work, even
though he is half-starved as a result,--a poet, a novelist, an
inventor, a scientist, but these dream and hope for better
things. But the bulk of the half-starved labor of the world,
half-starved literally as well as symbolically, has no light of
hope ahead of it and cannot love the work that does not offer a
reward. It is easy for those who reap pleasure and reward from
their labors to sing of the joy of work; business man,
professional man, artist, handicraftsman, farmer,--these may find
in the thing they do the satisfaction of the creative desires and
the reward of seeing their product; but the factory is a
Frankenstein delivering huge masses of products but eating up the
producers. The more specialized it becomes the less each man
creates of the unit, machine or ornament; the less he feels of
achievement. Go into a cotton mill and watch the machines and
their less than human attendants at their over-specialized tasks.
Then ask how such workers can take any joy in work? Let us say
they are paid barely enough to live upon. What food does the
desire for achievement receive? What feeds the love of the
concrete finished product of which a man can proudly say, "I did
it!" The restlessness of this thwarted desire is back of much of
that social restlessness that puzzles, annoys and angers the
better-to-do of the world. As the factory system develops, as
"efficiency" removes more and more of the interest in the task,
social unrest will correspondingly increase. One of the great
problems of society is this:
How are we to maintain or increase production and still maintain
the love of work? To solve this problem will take more than the
efficiency expert who works in the interest of production alone;
it will take the type of expert who seeks to increase human
happiness.
Native industry, the love of work are variables of importance. No
matter what social condition we evolve, there will be some who
will be "slackers," who will regard work as secondary to
pleasure, who will take no joy or pride in the finished product,
who will feel no loyalty to their organization; and vice versa,
there will be those working under the most adverse conditions who
will identify themselves, their wishes and purposes with "the
job" and the product. Nowhere are the qualities of persistent
effort and interest of such importance as in industry, and
nowhere so well rewarded.
In the habits of efficiency we have a group of mechanically
performed actions and stereotyped reactions essential for work.
Except in certain high kinds of work, which depend upon
originality and initiative, method, neatness and exactness are
essential. "Time is money" in most of the business of the world;
in fact time is the great value, since in it life operates. The
unmethodical and untidy waste time as well as offend the esthetic
tastes, as well as directly lose material and information. The
habits in this sense are the tools of industry, though exactness
may be defined as more than a tool, since it is also part of the
final result. He whose work-conscience permits him to be inexact,
permits himself to do less than his best and in that respect
cheats and steals.
The work-conscience is as variably developed as any other type of
conscience. There are those who are rogues in all else but not in
their work. They will not turn out a bad piece of work for they
have identified the best in them with their work. Contrariwise,
there are others who are punctilious in all other phases of
morality who are slackers of an easy standard in their work
efforts. This is as truly a double standard of morals as anything
in the sex sphere,--and as disastrous.
There is on every second wall in America the motto typical of our
country, "Do it now!" To it could be added a much better one, "Do
it well!" The energy of work and its promptness are only valuable
when controlled by an ideal of service and thoroughness. A great
part of the morals of the world is neglected; part of the
responsibility is not felt, in that a code of work is yet to be
enunciated in an authoritative way. I would have it shown
graphically that all inefficiency is a social damage with a
boomerang effect on the inefficient and careless, and in the
earliest school, teaching the need of thoroughness would be
emphasized. Our schools are tending in the other direction; the
curriculum has become so extensive that superficiality is
encouraged, the thorough are penalized, and "to get away with it"
is the motto of most children as a result.
In an ideal community every man and woman will be evaluated as to
intelligence and skill, and a place found accordingly. Since we
live a few centuries too soon to see that community, since jobs
are given out on a sort of catch-as-catch-can plan, it would be
merely a counsel of perfection to urge some such method.
Nevertheless ambitious parents, whose means or whose
self-sacrifice enable them to plan careers for their children,
should take into solemn account, not their own ambitions, but the
ability of the child. A man is apt to see in his son his second
self and to plan for him as for a self that was somehow to
succeed where he failed. But every tub in the ocean of human life
must navigate on its own bottom, and a father's wishes will not
make a poet into a banker or a fool into a philosopher. Nothing
is so disastrous to character as to be misplaced in work, and
there is as much social inefficiency in the high-grade man in the
low-grade place as when the low-grade man occupies a high-grade
place. We have no means of discovering originality, imagination
or special ability in our present-day psychological tests, and we
cannot measure intensity of purpose, courage and the quality of
interest. Yet watching a child through its childhood and its
adolescence ought to tell us whether it is brilliant or stupid,
whether it is hand-minded or word-minded, whether it is brave,
loyal, honest, a leader or a follower, etc. Moreover, the child's
inclinations should play a part in the plans made. A man who
develops a strong will where his desires lead the way will hang
back and be a slacker where dissatisfaction is aroused.
To that employer of labor who seeks more than dividends from his
"hands," who has in mind that he is merely an agent of the
community, and is not obsessed with the idea that he is "boss," I
make bold to make the following suggestions:
Any plan of efficiency must be based on sympathy and human
feeling. To avoid unnecessary fatigue is imperative, not only
because it increases production, but because it increases
happiness. Fatigue may have its origin in little matters,--in a
bad bench, in a poor work table, or an inferior tool. Chronic
fatigue[1] alters character; the drudge and slave are not really
human, and if your workers become drudges, to that degree have
you lapsed from your stewardship. Men react to fatigue in
different ways: one is merely tired, weak and sleepy --a "dope,"
to use ordinary characterization--but another becomes a dangerous
rebel, ready to take fire at any time.
[1] The Gilbreths have written an excellent little book on this
subject. Doctor Charles E. Myers' recent publication, "Mind and
Work," is less explicit, but worth reading.
More important than physical fatigue (or at least as important)
is the fatigue of monotony. If your shop is organized on a highly
mechanical basis, then the worker must be allowed to interrupt
his labors now and then, must have time for a chat, or to change
his position or even to lie down or walk. Monotony disintegrates
mind and body--disintegrates character and personality--brings
about a fierce desire for excitement; and the well-known fact
that factory towns are very immoral is no accident, but the
direct result of monotony and opportunity. It's bad enough that
men and women have to become parts of the machine and thus
lowered in dignity, worth and achievement; it is adding cruelty
to this to whitewash windows, prohibit any conversation and count
every movement. Before you may expect loyalty you must deserve
it, and the record of the owners of industry warrants no great
loyalty on the part of their employees. Annoying restrictions are
more than injuries; they are insults to the self-feeling of the
worker and are never forgotten or forgiven.
That a nation is built on the work of its people--their
steadiness, energy, originality and intelligence, is trite. That
anything is really gained by huge imports and exports when people
live in slums and have their creative work impulses thwarted is
not my idea of value. Factories are necessary to a large
production and a large population, but the idea of quantity seems
somehow to have exercised a baleful magic on the minds of men.
England became "great" through its mills, and its working people
were starved and stunted, body and soul. Of what avail are our
Lawrences and Haverhills when we learn that in the draft
examinations the mill towns showed far more physical defects,
tuberculosis and poor nutrition than the non-factory towns?
Work is the joy of life, because through it we fulfill purposes
of achievement and usefulness. Society must have an organization
to fit the man to his task and his task to the man; it must
organize its rewards on an ethical basis and must find the way to
eliminate unnecessary fatigue and monotony. The machine which
increases production decreases the joy of work; we cannot help
that, therefore society must at least add other rewards to the
labor that is robbed of its finest recompense.
A counsel of perfection! The sad part is that books galore are
written about the ways of changing, but meanwhile the law of
competition and "progress" adds machines to the world, still
further enslaving men and women. We cannot do without
machines,--nor can we do without free men and women. The fact is
that competition is a spur to production and to industrial
malpractice, since the generous employer must adopt the tactics
of his competitors whether in a Southern mill town or in Japan.
I must confess to a feeling of disgust when I read preachments on
the joys of work, on consecrating one's self to one's task. I can
do that, because I do about what I please and when I please, and
so do you, Mister Preacher, and so do the exceptional and the
able and the fortunate here and there and everywhere. But this is
mathematically and socially impossible for the great majority,
and unless a plan of life fits that majority it is best to call
the plan what it is,--an aristocratic creed, meant for the more
able and the more fortunate.