INTRODUCTION TO THE SCIENCE OF SOCIOLOGY

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESSCHICAGO, ILLINOIS

THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANYNEW YORK

THE CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESSLONDON

THE MARUZEN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHATOKYO, OSAKA, KYOTO, FUKUOKA, SENDAI

THE MISSION BOOK COMPANYSHANGHAI

INTRODUCTION TO THE SCIENCE OF SOCIOLOGY

_By_

ROBERT E. PARK AND ERNEST W. BURGESS

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESSCHICAGO, ILLINOIS

COPYRIGHT 1921 BYTHE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO

All rights Reserved

Published September 1921

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected. Footnotes have beenmoved to the end of the chapters. Italicized letters, such as (_a_), have been changed to unitalicized (a) for easier reading. 

PREFACE

The materials upon which this book is based have been collected from awide range of sources and represent the observation and reflection ofmen who have seen life from very different points of view. This wasnecessary in order to bring into the perspective of a single volume thewhole wide range of social organization and human life which is thesubject-matter of a science of society. 

At the same time an effort has been made to bring this material withinthe limits of a very definite series of sociological conceptions whichsuggest, at any rate, where they do not clearly exhibit, the fundamentalrelations of the parts to one another and to the concepts and contentsof the volume as a whole. 

The _Introduction to the Science of Sociology_ is not conceived as amere collection of materials, however, but as a systematic treatise. Onthe other hand, the excerpts which make up the body of the book are notto be regarded as mere illustrations. In the context in which theyappear, and with the headings which indicate their place in the volume, they should enable the student to formulate for himself the principlesinvolved. An experience of some years, during which this book has beenin preparation, has demonstrated the value to the teacher of a body ofmaterials that are interesting in themselves and that appeal to theexperience of the student. If students are invited to take an activepart in the task of interpretation of the text, if they are encouragedto use the references in order to extend their knowledge of thesubject-matter and to check and supplement classroom discussion by theirpersonal observation, their whole attitude becomes active rather thanpassive. Students gain in this way a sense of dealing at first hand witha subject-matter that is alive and with a science that is in the making. Under these conditions sociology becomes a common enterprise in whichall members of the class participate; to which, by their observation andinvestigation, they can and should make contributions. 

The first thing that students in sociology need to learn is to observeand record their own observations; to read, and then to select andrecord the materials which are the fruits of their readings; toorganize and use, in short, their own experience. The whole organizationof this volume may be taken as an illustration of a method, at oncetentative and experimental, for the collection, classification, andinterpretation of materials, and should be used by students from thevery outset in all their reading and study. 

Social questions have been endlessly discussed, and it is important thatthey should be. What the student needs to learn, however, is how to getfacts rather than formulate opinions. The most important facts thatsociologists have to deal with are opinions (attitudes and sentiments), but until students learn to deal with opinions as the biologists dealwith organisms, that is, to dissect them--reduce them to their componentelements, describe them, and define the situation (environment) to whichthey are a response--we must not expect very great progress insociological science. 

It will be noticed that every single chapter, except the first, fallsnaturally into four parts; (1) the introduction, (2) the materials, (3)investigations and problems, and (4) bibliography. The first two partsof each chapter are intended to raise questions rather than to answerthem. The last two, on the other hand, should outline or suggestproblems for further study. The bibliographies have been selected mainlyto exhibit the recognized points of view with regard to the questionsraised, and to suggest the practical problems that grow out of, and arerelated to, the subject of the chapter as a whole. 

The bibliographies, which accompany the chapters, it needs to be said, are intended to be representative rather than authoritative or complete. An attempt has been made to bring together literature that would exhibitthe range, the divergence, the distinctive character of the writings andpoints of view upon a single topic. The results are naturally subject tocriticism and revision. 

A word should be said in regard to chapter i. It seemed necessary andimportant, in view of the general vagueness and uncertainty in regard tothe place of sociology among the sciences and its relation to the othersocial sciences, particularly to history, to state somewhere, clearlyand definitely, what, from the point of view of this volume, sociologyis. This resulted finally in the imposition of a rather formidable essayupon what is in other respects, we trust, a relatively concrete andintelligible book. Under these circumstances we suggest that, unless thereader is specially interested in the matter, he begin with the chapteron "Human Nature, " and read the first chapter last. 

The editors desire to express their indebtedness to Dr. W. I. Thomas forthe point of view and the scheme of organization of materials which havebeen largely adopted in this book. [1] They are also under obligations totheir colleagues, Professor Albion W. Small, Professor Ellsworth Faris, and Professor Leon C. Marshall, for constant stimulus, encouragement, and assistance. They wish to acknowledge the co-operation and thecourtesy of their publishers, all the more appreciated because of thedifficult technical task involved in the preparation of this volume. Inpreparing copy for publication and in reading proof, invaluable servicewas rendered by Miss Roberta Burgess. 

Finally the editors are bound to express their indebtedness to thewriters and publishers who have granted their permission to use thematerials from which this volume has been put together. Without the useof these materials it would not have been possible to exhibit the manyand varied types of observation and reflection which have contributed topresent-day knowledge of social life. In order to give this volume asystematic character it has been necessary to tear these excerpts fromtheir contexts and to put them, sometimes, into strange categories. Indoing this it will no doubt have happened that some false impressionshave been created. This was perhaps inevitable and to be expected. Onthe other hand these brief excerpts offered here will serve, it ishoped, as an introduction to the works from which they have been taken, and, together with the bibliographies which accompany them, will servefurther to direct and stimulate the reading and research of students. The co-operation of the following publishers, organizations andjournals, in giving, by special arrangement, permission to useselections from copyright material, was therefore distinctly appreciatedby the editors:

D. Appleton & Co. ; G. Bell & Sons; J. F. Bergmann; Columbia UniversityPress; George H. Doran Co. ; Duncker und Humblot; Duffield & Co. ;Encyclopedia Americana Corporation; M. Giard et Cie; Ginn & Co. ;Harcourt, Brace & Co. ; Paul B. Hoeber; Houghton Mifflin Co. ; Henry Holt& Co. ; B. W. Huebsch; P. S. King & Son; T. W. Laurie, Ltd. ; Longmans, Green & Co. ; John W. Luce & Co. ; The Macmillan Co. ; A. C. McClurg & Co. ;Methuen & Co. ; John Murray; Martinus Nijhoff; Open Court Publishing Co. ;Oxford University Press; G. P. Putnam's Sons; Rütten und Loening;Charles Scribner's Sons; Frederick A. Stokes & Co. ; W. Thacker & Co. ;University of Chicago Press; University Tutorial Press, Ltd. ;Wagnerische Univ. Buchhandlung; Walter Scott Publishing Co. ; Williams &Norgate; Yale University Press; American Association for InternationalConciliation; American Economic Association; American SociologicalSociety; Carnegie Institution of Washington; _American Journal ofPsychology_; _American Journal of Sociology_; _Cornhill Magazine_;_International Journal of Ethics_; _Journal of Abnormal Psychology_;_Journal of Delinquency_; _Nature_; _Pedagogical Seminary_; _PopularScience Monthly_; _Religious Education_; _Scientific Monthly_;_Sociological Review_; _World's Work_; _Yale Review_. 

CHICAGOJune 18, 1921

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. SOCIOLOGY AND THE SOCIAL SCIENCES PAGEI. Sociology and "Scientific" History 1

II. Historical and Sociological Facts 6

III. Human Nature and Law 12

IV. History, Natural History, and Sociology 16

V. The Social Organism: Humanity or Leviathan? 24

VI. Social Control and Schools of Thought 27

VII. Social Control and the Collective Mind 36

VIII. Sociology and Social Research 43

 _Representative Works in Systematic Sociology and Methods of Sociological Research_ 57 _Topics for Written Themes_ 60 _Questions for Discussion_ 60

CHAPTER II. HUMAN NATURE

I. Introduction 1. Human Interest in Human Nature 64 2. Definition of Human Nature 65 3. Classification of the Materials 68

II. Materials

 A. The Original Nature of Man 1. Original Nature Defined. _Edward L. Thorndike_ 73 2. Inventory of Original Tendencies. _Edward L. Thorndike_ 75 3. Man Not Born Human. _Robert E. Park_ 76 4. The Natural Man. _Milicent W. Shinn_ 82 5. Sex Differences. _Albert Moll_ 85 6. Racial Differences. _C. S. Myers_ 89 7. Individual Differences. _Edward L. Thorndike_ 92

 B. Human Nature and Social Life 1. Human Nature and Its Remaking. _W. E. Hocking_ 95 2. Human Nature, Folkways, and the Mores. _William G. Sumner_ 97 3. Habit and Custom, the Individual and the General Will. _Ferdinand Tönnies_ 100 4. The Law, Conscience, and the General Will. _Viscount Haldane_ 102

 C. Personality and the Social Self 1. The Organism as Personality. _Th. Ribot_ 108 2. Personality as a Complex. _Morton Prince_ 110 3. The Self as the Individual's Conception of His Rôle. _Alfred Binet_ 113 4. The Natural Person versus the Social and Conventional Self. _L. G. Winston_ 117 5. The Divided Self and Moral Consciousness. _William James_ 119 6. Personality of Individuals and of Peoples. _W. V. Bechterew_ 123

 D. Biological and Social Heredity 1. Nature and Nurture. _J. Arthur Thomson_ 126 2. Inheritance of Original Nature. _C. B. Davenport_ 128 3. Inheritance of Acquired Nature: Tradition. _Albert G. Keller_ 134 4. Temperament, Tradition, and Nationality. _Robert E. Park_ 135

III. Investigations and Problems

 1. Conceptions of Human Nature Implicit in Religious and Political Doctrines 139 2. Literature and the Science of Human Nature 141 3. Research in the Field of Original Nature 143 4. The Investigation of Human Personality 143 5. The Measurement of Individual Differences 145

 _Selected Bibliography_ 147 _Topics for Written Themes_ 154 _Questions for Discussion_ 155

CHAPTER III. SOCIETY AND THE GROUP

I. Introduction 1. Society, the Community, and the Group 159 2. Classification of the Materials 162

II. Materials

 A. Society and Symbiosis 1. Definition of Society. _Alfred Espinas_ 165 2. Symbiosis (literally "living together"). _William M. Wheeler_ 167 3. The Taming and the Domestication of Animals. _P. Chalmers Mitchell_ 170

 B. Plant Communities and Animal Societies 1. Plant Communities. _Eugenius Warming_ 173 2. Ant Society. _William E. Wheeler_ 180

 C. Human Society 1. Social Life. _John Dewey_ 182 2. Behavior and Conduct. _Robert E. Park_ 185 3. Instinct and Character. _L. T. Hobhouse_ 190 4. Collective Representation and Intellectual Life. _Émile Durkheim_ 193

 D. The Social Group 1. Definition of the Group. _Albion W. Small_ 196 2. The Unity of the Social Group. _Robert E. Park_ 198 3. Types of Social Groups. _S. Sighele_ 200 4. _Esprit de Corps_, Morale, and Collective Representations of Social Groups. _William E. Hocking_ 205

III. Investigations and Problems 1. The Scientific Study of Societies 210 2. Surveys of Communities 211 3. The Group as a Unit of Investigation 212 4. The Study of the Family 213

 _Selected Bibliography_ 217 _Topics for Written Themes_ 223 _Questions for Discussion_ 224

CHAPTER IV. ISOLATION

I. Introduction 1. Geological and Biological Conceptions of Isolation 226 2. Isolation and Segregation 228 3. Classification of the Materials 230

II. Materials

 A. Isolation and Personal Individuality 1. Society and Solitude. _Francis Bacon_ 233 2. Society in Solitude. _Jean Jacques Rousseau_ 234 3. Prayer as a Form of Isolation. _George Albert Coe_. 235 4. Isolation, Originality, and Erudition. _T. Sharper Knowlson_ 237

 B. Isolation and Retardation 1. Feral Men. _Maurice H. Small_ 239 2. From Solitude to Society. _Helen Keller_ 243 3. Mental Effects of Solitude. _W. H. Hudson_ 245 4. Isolation and the Rural Mind. _C. J. Galpin_ 247 5. The Subtler Effects of Isolation. _W. I. Thomas_. 249

 C. Isolation and Segregation 1. Segregation as a Process. _Robert E. Park_ 252 2. Isolation as a Result of Segregation. _L. W. Crafts and E. A. Doll_ 254

 D. Isolation and National Individuality 1. Historical Races as Products of Isolation. _N. S. Shaler_ 257 2. Geographical Isolation and Maritime Contact. _George Grote_ 260 3. Isolation as an Explanation of National Differences. _William Z. Ripley_ 264 4. Natural versus Vicinal Location in National Development. _Ellen C. Semple_ 268

III. Investigations and Problems 1. Isolation in Anthropogeography and Biology 269 2. Isolation and Social Groups 270 3. Isolation and Personality 271

 _Bibliography: Materials for the Study of Isolation_ 273 _Topics for Written Themes_ 277 _Questions for Discussion_ 278

CHAPTER V. SOCIAL CONTACTS

I. Introduction 1. Preliminary Notions of Social Contact 280 2. The Sociological Concept of Contact 281 3. Classification of the Materials 282

II. Materials

 A. Physical Contact and Social Contact 1. The Frontiers of Social Contact. _Albion W. Small_ 288 2. The Land and the People. _Ellen C. Semple_ 289 3. Touch and Social Contact. _Ernest Crawley_ 291

 B. Social Contact in Relation to Solidarity and to Mobility 1. The In-Group and the Out-Group. _W. G. Sumner_. 293 2. Sympathetic Contacts versus Categoric Contacts. _N. S. Shaler_ 294 3. Historical Continuity and Civilization. _Friedrich Ratzel_ 298 4. Mobility and the Movement of Peoples. _Ellen C. Semple_ 301

 C. Primary and Secondary Contacts 1. Village Life in America (from _the Diary of a Young Girl_). _Caroline C. Richards_ 305 2. Secondary Contacts and City Life. _Robert E. Park_. 311 3. Publicity as a Form of Secondary Contact. _Robert E. Park_ 315 4. From Sentimental to Rational Attitudes. _Werner Sombart_ 317 5. The Sociological Significance of the "Stranger. " _Georg Simmel_ 322

III. Investigations and Problems 1. Physical Contacts 327 2. Touch and the Primary Contacts of Intimacy 329 3. Primary Contacts of Acquaintanceship 330 4. Secondary Contacts 331

 _Bibliography: Materials for the Study of Social Contacts_ 332 _Topics for Written Themes_ 336 _Questions for Discussion_ 336

CHAPTER VI. SOCIAL INTERACTION

I. Introduction 1. The Concept of Interaction 339 2. Classification of the Materials 341

II. Materials

 A. Society as Interaction 1. The Mechanistic Interpretation of Society. _Ludwig Gumplowicz_ 346 2. Social Interaction as the Definition of the Group in Time and Space. _Georg Simmel_ 348

 B. The Natural Forms of Communication 1. Sociology of the Senses: Visual Interaction. _Georg Simmel_ 356 2. The Expression of the Emotions. _Charles Darwin_ 361 3. Blushing. _Charles Darwin_ 365 4. Laughing. _L. Dugas_ 370

 C. Language and the Communication of Ideas 1. Intercommunication in the Lower Animals. _C. Lloyd Morgan_ 375 2. The Concept as the Medium of Human Communication. _F. Max Müller_ 379 3. Writing as a Form of Communication. _Charles H. Judd_ 381 4. The Extension of Communication by Human Invention. _Carl Bücher_ 385

 D. Imitation 1. Definition of Imitation. _Charles H. Judd_ 390 2. Attention, Interest, and Imitation. _G. F. Stout_ 391 3. The Three Levels of Sympathy. _Th. Ribot_ 394 4. Rational Sympathy. _Adam Smith_ 397 5. Art, Imitation, and Appreciation. _Yrjö Hirn_ 401

 E. Suggestion 1. A Sociological Definition of Suggestion. _W. V. Bechterew_ 408 2. The Subtler Forms of Suggestion. _Albert Moll_ 412 3. Social Suggestion and Mass or "Corporate" Action. _W. V. Bechterew_ 415

III. Investigations and Problems 1. The Process of Interaction 420 2. Communication 421 3. Imitation 423 4. Suggestion 424

 _Selected Bibliography_ 425 _Topics for Written Themes_ 431 _Questions for Discussion_ 431

CHAPTER VII. SOCIAL FORCES

I. Introduction 1. Sources of the Notion of Social Forces 435 2. History of the Concept of Social Forces 436 3. Classification of the Materials 437

II. Materials

 A. Trends, Tendencies, and Public Opinion 1. Social Forces in American History. _A. M. Simons_ 443 2. Social Tendencies as Social Forces. _Richard T. Ely_ 444 3. Public Opinion and Legislation in England. _A. V. Dicey_ 445

 B. Interests, Sentiments, and Attitudes 1. Social Forces and Interaction. _Albion W. Small_ 451 2. Interests. _Albion W. Small_ 454 3. Social Pressures. _Arthur F. Bentley_ 458 4. Idea-Forces. _Alfred Fouillée_ 461 5. Sentiments. _William McDougall_ 464 6. Social Attitudes. _Robert E. Park_ 467

 C. The Four Wishes: A Classification of Social Forces 1. The Wish, the Social Atom. _Edwin B. Holt_ 478 2. The Freudian Wish. _John B. Watson_ 482 3. The Person and His Wishes. _W. I. Thomas_ 488

III. Investigations and Problems 1. Popular Notions of Social Forces 491 2. Social Forces and History 493 3. Interests, Sentiments, and Attitudes as Social Forces 494 4. Wishes and Social Forces 497

 _Selected Bibliography_ 498 _Topics for Written Themes_ 501 _Questions for Discussion_ 502

CHAPTER VIII. COMPETITION

I. Introduction 1. Popular Conceptions of Competition 505 2. Competition a Process of Interaction 507 3. Classification of the Materials 511

II. Materials

 A. The Struggle for Existence 1. Different Forms of the Struggle for Existence. _J. Arthur Thomson_ 513 2. Competition and Natural Selection. _Charles Darwin_ 515 3. Competition, Specialization, and Organization. _Charles Darwin_ 519 4. Man: An Adaptive Mechanism. _George W. Crile_ 522

 B. Competition and Segregation 1. Plant Migration, Competition, and Segregation. _F. E. Clements_ 526 2. Migration and Segregation. _Carl Bücher_ 529 3. Demographic Segregation and Social Selection. _William Z. Ripley_ 534 4. Inter-racial Competition and Race Suicide. _Francis A. Walker_ 539

 C. Economic Competition 1. Changing Forms of Economic Competition. _John B. Clark_ 544 2. Competition and the Natural Harmony of Individual Interests. _Adam Smith_ 550 3. Competition and Freedom. _Frédéric Bastiat_ 551 4. Money and Freedom. _Georg Simmel_ 552

III. Investigations and Problems 1. Biological Competition 553 2. Economic Competition 554 3. Competition and Human Ecology 558 4. Competition and the "Inner Enemies": the Defectives, the Dependents, and the Delinquents 559

 _Selected Bibliography_ 562 _Topics for Written Themes_ 562 _Questions for Discussion_ 563

CHAPTER IX. CONFLICT

I. Introduction 1. The Concept of Conflict 574 2. Classification of the Materials 576

II. Materials

 A. Conflict as Conscious Competition 1. The Natural History of Conflict. _W. I. Thomas_ 579 2. Conflict as a Type of Social Interaction. _Georg Simmel_ 582 3. Types of Conflict Situations. _Georg Simmel_ 586

 B. War, Instincts, and Ideals 1. War and Human Nature. _William A. White_ 594 2. War as a Form of Relaxation. _G. T. W. Patrick_ 598 3. The Fighting Animal and the Great Society. _Henry Rutgers Marshall_ 600

 C. Rivalry, Cultural Conflicts, and Social Organization

 1. Animal Rivalry. _William H. Hudson_ 604 2. The Rivalry of Social Groups. _George E. Vincent_ 605 3. Cultural Conflicts and the Organization of Sects. _Franklin H. Giddings_ 610

 D. Racial Conflicts 1. Social Contacts and Race Conflict. _Robert E. Park_ 616 2. Conflict and Race Consciousness. _Robert E. Park_ 623 3. Conflict and Accommodation. _Alfred H. Stone_ 631

III. Investigations and Problems 1. The Psychology and Sociology of Conflict, Conscious Competition, and Rivalry 638 2. Types of Conflict 639 3. The Literature of War 641 4. Race Conflict 642 5. Conflict Groups 643

 _Selected Bibliography_ 645 _Topics for Written Themes_ 660 _Questions for Discussion_ 661

CHAPTER X. ACCOMMODATION

I. Introduction 1. Adaptation and Accommodation 663 2. Classification of the Materials 666

II. Materials

 A. Forms of Accommodation 1. Acclimatization. _Daniel G. Brinton_ 671 2. Slavery Defined. _H. J. Nieboer_ 674 3. Excerpts from the Journal of a West India Slave Owner. _Matthew G. Lewis_ 677 4. The Origin of Caste in India. _John C. Nesfield_ 681 5. Caste and the Sentiments of Caste Reflected in Popular Speech. _Herbert Risley_ 684

 B. Subordination and Superordination 1. The Psychology of Subordination and Superordination. _Hugo Münsterberg_ 688 2. Social Attitudes in Subordination: Memories of an Old Servant. _An Old Servant_ 692 3. The Reciprocal Character of Subordination and Superordination. _Georg Simmel_ 695 4. Three Types of Subordination and Superordination. _Georg Simmel_ 697

 C. Conflict and Accommodation 1. War and Peace as Types of Conflict and Accommodation. _Georg Simmel_ 703 2. Compromise and Accommodation. _Georg Simmel_ 706

 D. Competition, Status, and Social Solidarity 1. Personal Competition, Social Selection, and Status. _Charles H. Cooley_ 708 2. Personal Competition and the Evolution of Individual Types. _Robert E. Park_ 712 3. Division of Labor and Social Solidarity. _Émile Durkheim_ 714

III. Investigations and Problems 1. Forms of Accommodation 718 2. Subordination and Superordination 721 3. Accommodation Groups 721 4. Social Organization 723

 _Selected Bibliography_ 725 _Topics for Written Themes_ 732 _Questions for Discussion_ 732

CHAPTER XI. ASSIMILATION

I. Introduction 1. Popular Conceptions of Assimilation 734 2. The Sociology of Assimilation 735 3. Classification of the Materials 737

II. Materials

 A. Biological Aspects of Assimilation 1. Assimilation and Amalgamation. _Sarah E. Simons_ 740 2. The Instinctive Basis of Assimilation. _W. Trotter_ 742

 B. The Conflict and Fusion of Cultures 1. The Analysis of Blended Cultures. _W. H. R. Rivers_ 746 2. The Extension of Roman Culture in Gaul. _John H. Cornyn_ 751 3. The Competition of the Cultural Languages. _E. H. Babbitt_ 754 4. The Assimilation of Races. _Robert E. Park_ 756

 C. Americanization as a Problem in Assimilation 1. Americanization as Assimilation 762 2. Language as a Means and a Product of Participation 763 3. Assimilation and the Mediation of Individual Differences 766

III. Investigations and Problems 1. Assimilation and Amalgamation 769 2. The Conflict and Fusion of Cultures 771 3. Immigration and Americanization 772

 _Selected Bibliography_ 775 _Topics for Written Themes_ 783 _Questions for Discussion_ 783

CHAPTER XII. SOCIAL CONTROL

I. Introduction 1. Social Control Defined 785 2. Classification of the Materials 787

II. Materials

 A. Elementary Forms of Social Control 1. Control in the Crowd and the Public. _Lieut. J. S. Smith_ 800 2. Ceremonial Control. _Herbert Spencer_ 805 3. Prestige. _Lewis Leopold_ 807 4. Prestige and Status in South East Africa. _Maurice S. Evans_ 811 5. Taboo. _W. Robertson Smith_ 812

 B. Public Opinion 1. The Myth. _Georges Sorel_ 816 2. The Growth of a Legend. _Fernand van Langenhove_ 819 3. Ritual, Myth, and Dogma. _W. Robertson Smith_ 822 4. The Nature of Public Opinion. _A. Lawrence Lowell_ 826 5. Public Opinion and the Mores. _Robert E. Park_ 829 6. News and Social Control. _Walter Lippmann_ 834 7. The Psychology of Propaganda. _Raymond Dodge_ 837

 C. Institutions 1. Institutions and the Mores. _W. G. Sumner_ 841 2. Common Law and Statute Law. _Frederic J. Stimson_ 843 3. Religion and Social Control. _Charles A. Ellwood_ 846

III. Investigations and Problems 1. Social Control and Human Nature 848 2. Elementary Forms of Social Control 849 3. Public Opinion and Social Control 850 4. Legal Institutions and Law 851

 _Selected Bibliography_ 854 _Topics for Written Themes_ 862 _Questions for Discussion_ 862

CHAPTER XIII. COLLECTIVE BEHAVIOR

I. Introduction 1. Collective Behavior Defined 865 2. Social Unrest and Collective Behavior 866 3. The Crowd and the Public 867 4. Crowds and Sects 870 5. Sects and Institutions 872 6. Classification of the Materials 874

II. Materials A. Social Contagion 1. An Incident in a Lancashire Cotton Mill 878 2. The Dancing Mania of the Middle Ages. _J. F. C. Hecker_ 879

 B. The Crowd 1. The "Animal" Crowd 881 a) The Flock. _Mary Austin_ 881 b) The Herd. _W. H. Hudson_ 883 c) The Pack. _Ernest Thompson Seton_ 886 2. The Psychological Crowd. _Gustave Le Bon_ 887 3. The Crowd Defined. _Robert E. Park_ 893

 C. Types of Mass Movements 1. Crowd Excitements and Mass Movements: The Klondike Rush. _T. C. Down_ 895 2. Mass Movements and the Mores: The Woman's Crusade. _Annie Wittenmyer_ 898 3. Mass Movements and Revolution a) The French Revolution. _Gustave Le Bon_ 905 b) Bolshevism. _John Spargo_ 909 4. Mass Movements and Institutions: Methodism. _William E. H. Lecky_ 915

III. Investigations and Problems 1. Social Unrest 924 2. Psychic Epidemics 926 3. Mass Movements 927 4. Revivals, Religious and Linguistic 929 5. Fashion, Reform, and Revolution 933

 _Selected Bibliography_ 934 _Topics for Written Themes_ 951 _Questions for Discussion_ 951

CHAPTER XIV. PROGRESS

I. Introduction 1. Popular Conceptions of Progress 953 2. The Problem of Progress 956 3. History of the Concept of Progress 958 4. Classification of the Materials 962

II. Materials

 A. The Concept of Progress 1. The Earliest Conception of Progress. _F. S. Marvin_ 965 2. Progress and Organization. _Herbert Spencer_ 966 3. The Stages of Progress. _Auguste Comte_ 968 4. Progress and the Historical Process. _Leonard T. Hobhouse_ 969

 B. Progress and Science 1. Progress and Happiness. _Lester F. Ward_ 973 2. Progress and Prevision. _John Dewey_ 975 3. Progress and the Limits of Scientific Prevision. _Arthur J. Balfour_ 977 4. Eugenics as a Science of Progress. _Francis Galton_ 979

 C. Progress and Human Nature 1. The Nature of Man. _George Santayana_ 983 2. Progress and the Mores. _W. G. Sumner_ 983 3. War and Progress. _James Bryce_ 984 4. Progress and the Cosmic Urge a) The _Élan Vitale. Henri Bergson_ 989 b) The _Dunkler Drang. Arthur Schopenhauer_ 994

III. Investigations and Problems 1. Progress and Social Research 1000 2. Indices of Progress 1002

 _Selected Bibliography_ 1004 _Topics for Written Themes_ 1010 _Questions for Discussion_ 1010

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See _Source Book for Social Origins_. Ethnological materials, psychological standpoint, classified and annotated bibliographies forthe interpretation of savage society (Chicago, 1909). 

CHAPTER I

SOCIOLOGY AND THE SOCIAL SCIENCES[2]

I. SOCIOLOGY AND "SCIENTIFIC" HISTORY

Sociology first gained recognition as an independent science with thepublication, between 1830 and 1842, of Auguste Comte's _Cours dephilosophie positive_. Comte did not, to be sure, create sociology. Hedid give it a name, a program, and a place among the sciences. 

Comte's program for the new science proposed an extension to politicsand to history of the positive methods of the natural sciences. Itspractical aim was to establish government on the secure foundation of anexact science and give to the predictions of history something of theprecision of mathematical formulae. 

 We have to contemplate social phenomena as susceptible of prevision, like all other classes, within the limits of exactness compatible with their higher complexity. Comprehending the three characteristics of political science which we have been examining, prevision of social phenomena supposes, first, that we have abandoned the region of metaphysical idealities, to assume the ground of observed realities by a systematic subordination of imagination to observation; secondly, that political conceptions have ceased to be absolute, and have become relative to the variable state of civilization, so that theories, following the natural course of facts, may admit of our foreseeing them; and, thirdly, that permanent political action is limited by determinate laws, since, if social events were always exposed to disturbance by the accidental intervention of the legislator, human or divine, no scientific prevision of them would be possible. Thus, we may concentrate the conditions of the spirit of positive social philosophy on this one great attribute of scientific prevision. [3]

Comte proposed, in short, to make government a technical science andpolitics a profession. He looked forward to a time when legislation, based on a scientific study of human nature, would assume the characterof natural law. The earlier and more elementary sciences, particularlyphysics and chemistry, had given man control over external nature; thelast science, sociology, was to give man control over himself. 

 Men were long in learning that Man's power of modifying phenomena can result only from his knowledge of their natural laws; and in the infancy of each science, they believed themselves able to exert an unbounded influence over the phenomena of that science.... Social phenomena are, of course, from their extreme complexity, the last to be freed from this pretension: but it is therefore only the more necessary to remember that the pretension existed with regard to all the rest, in their earliest stage, and to anticipate therefore that social science will, in its turn, be emancipated from the delusion.... It [the existing social science] represents the social action of Man to be indefinite and arbitrary, as was once thought in regard to biological, chemical, physical, and even astronomical phenomena, in the earlier stages of their respective sciences.... The human race finds itself delivered over, without logical protection, to the ill-regulated experimentation of the various political schools, each one of which strives to set up, for all future time, its own immutable type of government. We have seen what are the chaotic results of such a strife; and we shall find that there is no chance of order and agreement but in subjecting social phenomena, like all others, to invariable natural laws, which shall, as a whole, prescribe for each period, with entire certainty, the limits and character of political action: in other words, introducing into the study of social phenomena the same positive spirit which has regenerated every other branch of human speculation. [4]

In the present anarchy of political opinion and parties, changes in theexisting social order inevitably assume, he urged, the character, at thebest, of a mere groping empiricism; at the worst, of a social convulsionlike that of the French Revolution. Under the direction of a positive, in place of a speculative or, as Comte would have said, metaphysicalscience of society, progress must assume the character of an orderlymarch. 

It was to be expected, with the extension of exact methods ofinvestigation to other fields of knowledge, that the study of man and ofsociety would become, or seek to become, scientific in the sense inwhich that word is used in the natural sciences. It is interesting, inthis connection, that Comte's first name for sociology was _socialphysics_. It was not until he had reached the fourth volume of his_Positive Philosophy_ that the word sociological is used for the firsttime. 

Comte, if he was foremost, was not first in the search for a positivescience of society, which would give man that control over men that hehad over external nature. Montesquieu, in his _The Spirit of Laws_, first published in 1747, had distinguished in the organization ofsociety, between form, "the particular structure, " and the forces, "thehuman passions which set it in motion. " In his preface to this firstepoch-making essay in what Freeman calls "comparative politics, "Montesquieu suggests that the uniformities, which he discovered beneaththe wide variety of positive law, were contributions not merely to ascience of law, but to a science of mankind. 

 I have first of all considered mankind; and the result of my thoughts has been, that amidst such an infinite diversity of laws and manners, they are not solely conducted by the caprice of fancy. [5]

Hume, likewise, put politics among the natural sciences. [6] Condorcetwanted to make history positive. [7] But there were, in the periodbetween 1815 and 1840 in France, conditions which made the need of a newscience of politics peculiarly urgent. The Revolution had failed and thepolitical philosophy, which had directed and justified it, was bankrupt. France, between 1789 and 1815, had adopted, tried, and rejected no lessthan ten different constitutions. But during this period, as Saint-Simonnoted, society, and the human beings who compose society, had notchanged. It was evident that government was not, in any such sense asthe philosophers had assumed, a mere artefact and legislativeconstruction. Civilization, as Saint-Simon conceived it, was a part ofnature. Social change was part of the whole cosmic process. He proposed, therefore, to make politics a science as positive as physics. Thesubject-matter of political science, as he conceived it, was not somuch political forms as social conditions. History had been literature. It was destined to become a science. [8]

Comte called himself Saint-Simon's pupil. It is perhaps more correct tosay Saint-Simon formulated the problem for which Comte, in his _PositivePhilosophy_, sought a solution. It was Comte's notion that with thearrival of sociology the distinction which had so long existed, andstill exists, between philosophy, in which men define their wishes, andnatural science, in which they describe the existing order of nature, would disappear. In that case ideals would be defined in terms ofreality, and the tragic difference between what men want and what ispossible would be effaced. Comte's error was to mistake a theory ofprogress for progress itself. It is certainly true that as men learnwhat is, they will adjust their ideals to what is possible. Butknowledge grows slowly. 

Man's knowledge of mankind has increased greatly since 1842. Sociology, "the positive science of humanity, " has moved steadily forward in thedirection that Comte's program indicated, but it has not yet replacedhistory. Historians are still looking for methods of investigation whichwill make history "scientific. "

 No one who has watched the course of history during the last generation can have felt doubt of its tendency. Those of us who read Buckle's first volume when it appeared in 1857, and almost immediately afterwards, in 1859, read the _Origin of Species_ and felt the violent impulse which Darwin gave to the study of natural laws, never doubted that historians would follow until they had exhausted every possible hypothesis to create a science of history. Year after year passed, and little progress has been made. Perhaps the mass of students are more skeptical now than they were thirty years ago of the possibility that such a science can be created. Yet almost every successful historian has been busy with it, adding here a new analysis, a new generalization there; a clear and definite connection where before the rupture of idea was absolute; and, above all, extending the field of study until it shall include all races, all countries, and all times. Like other branches of science, history is now encumbered and hampered by its own mass, but its tendency is always the same, and cannot be other than what it is. That the effort to make history a science may fail is possible, and perhaps probable; but that it should cease, unless for reasons that would cause all science to cease, is not within the range of experience. Historians will not, and even if they would they can not, abandon the attempt. Science itself would admit its own failure if it admitted that man, the most important of all its subjects, could not be brought within its range. [9]

Since Comte gave the new science of humanity a name and a point of view, the area of historical investigation has vastly widened and a number ofnew social sciences have come into existence--ethnology, archaeology, folklore, the comparative studies of cultural materials, i. E. , language, mythology, religion, and law, and in connection with and closely relatedwith these, folk-psychology, social psychology, and the psychology ofcrowds, which latter is, perhaps, the forerunner of a wider and moreelaborate political psychology. The historians have been very muchconcerned with these new bodies of materials and with the new points ofview which they have introduced into the study of man and of society. Under the influences of these sciences, history itself, as James HarveyRobinson has pointed out, has had a history. But with the innovationswhich the new history has introduced or attempted to introduce, it doesnot appear that there have been any fundamental changes in method orideology in the science itself. 

 Fifty years have elapsed since Buckle's book appeared, and I know of no historian who would venture to maintain that we had made any considerable advance toward the goal he set for himself. A systematic prosecution of the various branches of social science, especially political economy, sociology, anthropology, and psychology, is succeeding in explaining many things; but history must always remain, from the standpoint of the astronomer, physicist, or chemist, a highly inexact and fragmentary body of knowledge.... History can no doubt be pursued in a strictly scientific spirit, but the data we possess in regard to the past of mankind are not of a nature to lend themselves to organization into an exact science, although, as we shall see, they may yield truths of vital importance. [10]

History has not become, as Comte believed it must, an exact science, andsociology has not taken its place in the social sciences. It isimportant, however, for understanding the mutations which have takenplace in sociology since Comte to remember that it had its origin in aneffort to make history exact. This, with, to be sure, considerablemodifications, is still, as we shall see, an ambition of the science. 

II. HISTORICAL AND SOCIOLOGICAL FACTS

Sociology, as Comte conceived it, was not, as it has been characterized, "a highly important point of view, " but a fundamental science, i. E. , amethod of investigation and "a body of discoveries about mankind. "[11]In the hierarchy of the sciences, sociology, the last in time, was firstin importance. The order was as follows: mathematics, astronomy, physics, chemistry, biology including psychology, sociology. This orderrepresented a progression from the more elementary to the more complex. It was because history and politics were concerned with the most complexof natural phenomena that they were the last to achieve what Comtecalled the positive character. They did this in sociology. 

Many attempts have been made before and since Comte to find asatisfactory classification of the sciences. The order and relation ofthe sciences is still, in fact, one of the cardinal problems ofphilosophy. In recent years the notion has gained recognition that thedifference between history and the natural sciences is not one ofdegree, but of kind; not of subject-matter merely, but of method. Thisdifference in method is, however, fundamental. It is a difference notmerely in the interpretation but in the _logical character_ of facts. 

Every historical fact, it is pointed out, is concerned with a uniqueevent. History never repeats itself. If nothing else, the merecircumstance that every event has a _date_ and _location_ would givehistorical facts an individuality that facts of the abstract sciences donot possess. Because historical facts always are located and dated, andcannot therefore be repeated, they are not subject to experiment andverification. On the other hand, a fact not subject to verification isnot a fact for natural science. History, as distinguished from naturalhistory, deals with individuals, i. E. , individual events, persons, institutions. Natural science is concerned, not with individuals, butwith classes, types, species. All the assertions that are valid fornatural science concern classes. An illustration will make thisdistinction clear. 

Sometime in October, 1838, Charles Darwin happened to pick up and readMalthus' book on _Population_. The facts of "the struggle forexistence, " so strikingly presented in that now celebrated volume, suggested an explanation of a problem which had long interested andpuzzled him, namely, the origin of species. 

This is a statement of a historical fact, and the point is that it isnot subject to empirical verification. It cannot be stated, in otherwords, in the form of a hypothesis, which further observation of othermen of the same type will either verify or discredit. 

On the other hand, in his _Descent of Man_, Darwin, discussing the rôleof sexual selection in evolution of the species, makes this observation:"Naturalists are much divided with respect to the object of the singingof birds. Few more careful observers ever lived than Montagu, and hemaintained that the 'males of songbirds and of many others do not ingeneral search for the female, but, on the contrary, their business inspring is to perch on some conspicuous spot, breathing out their fulland amorous notes, which, by instinct, the female knows and repairs tothe spot to choose her mate. '"

This is a typical statement of a fact of natural history. It is not, however, the rather vague generality of the statement that makes itscientific. It is its representative character, the character whichmakes it possible of verification by further observation which makes ita scientific fact. 

It is from facts of this kind, collected, compared, and classified, irrespective of time or place, that the more general conclusions aredrawn, upon which Darwin based his theory of the "descent of man. " Thistheory, as Darwin conceived it, was not an _interpretation_ of the factsbut an _explanation_. 

The relation between history and sociology, as well as the manner inwhich the more abstract social sciences have risen out of the moreconcrete, may be illustrated by a comparison between history andgeography. Geography as a science is concerned with the visible world, the earth, its location in space, the distribution of the land masses, and of the plants, animals, and peoples upon its surface. The order, atleast the fundamental order, which it seeks and finds among the objectsit investigates is _spatial_. As soon as the geographer begins tocompare and classify the plants, the animals, and the peoples withwhich he comes in contact, geography passes over into the specialsciences, i. E. , botany, zoölogy, and anthropology. 

History, on the other hand, is concerned with a world of events. Noteverything that happened, to be sure, is history, but every event thatever was or ever will be significant is history. 

Geography attempts to reproduce for us the visible world as it exists inspace; history, on the contrary, seeks to re-create for us in thepresent the significance of the past. As soon as historians seek to takeevents out of their historical setting, that is to say, out of theirtime and space relations, in order to compare them and classify them; assoon as historians begin to emphasize the typical and representativerather than the unique character of events, history ceases to be historyand becomes sociology. 

The differences here indicated between history and sociology are basedupon a more fundamental distinction between the historical and thenatural sciences first clearly defined by Windelband, the historian ofphilosophy, in an address to the faculty of the University of Strassburgin 1894. 

 The distinction between natural science and history begins at the point where we seek to convert facts into knowledge. Here again we observe that the one (natural science) seeks to formulate laws, the other (history) to portray events. In the one case thought proceeds from the description of particulars to the general relations. In the other case it clings to a genial depiction of the individual object or event. For the natural scientist the object of investigation which cannot be repeated never has, as such, scientific value. It serves his purpose only so far as it may be regarded as a type or as a special instance of a class from which the type may be deduced. The natural scientist considers the single case only so far as he can see in it the features which serve to throw light upon a general law. For the historian the problem is to revive and call up into the present, in all its particularity, an event in the past. His aim is to do for an actual event precisely what the artist seeks to do for the object of his imagination. It is just here that we discern the kinship between history and art, between the historian and the writer of literature. It is for this reason that natural science emphasized the abstract; the historian, on the other hand, is interested mainly in the concrete. 

 The fact that natural science emphasizes the abstract and history the concrete will become clearer if we compare the results of the researches of the two sciences. However finespun the conceptions may be which the historical critic uses in working over his materials, the final goal of such study is always to create out of the mass of events a vivid portrait of the past. And what history offers us is pictures of men and of human life, with all the wealth of their individuality, reproduced in all their characteristic vivacity. Thus do the peoples and languages of the past, their forms and beliefs, their struggles for power and freedom, speak to us through the mouth of history. 

 How different it is with the world which the natural sciences have created for us! However concrete the materials with which they started, the goal of these sciences is theories, eventually mathematical formulations of laws of change. Treating the individual, sensuous, changing objects as mere unsubstantial appearances (phenomena), scientific investigation becomes a search for the universal laws which rule the timeless changes of events. Out of this colorful world of the senses, science creates a system of abstract concepts, in which the true nature of things is conceived to exist--a world of colorless and soundless atoms, despoiled of all their earthly sensuous qualities. Such is the triumph of thought over perception. Indifferent to change, science casts her anchor in the eternal and unchangeable. Not the change as such but the unchanging form of change is what she seeks. 

 This raises the question: What is the more valuable for the purposes of knowledge in general, a knowledge of law or a knowledge of events? As far as that is concerned, both scientific procedures may be equally justified. The knowledge of the universal laws has everywhere a practical value in so far as they make possible man's purposeful intervention in the natural processes. That is quite as true of the movements of the inner as of the outer world. In the latter case knowledge of nature's laws has made it possible to create those tools through which the control of mankind over external nature is steadily being extended. 

 Not less for the purposes of the common life are we dependent upon the results of historical knowledge. Man is, to change the ancient form of the expression, the animal who has a history. His cultural life rests on the transmission from generation to generation of a constantly increasing body of historical memories. Whoever proposes to take an active part in this cultural process must have an understanding of history. Wherever the thread is once broken--as history itself proves--it must be painfully gathered up and knitted again into the historical fabric. 

 It is, to be sure, true that it is an economy for human understanding to be able to reduce to a formula or a general concept the common characteristics of individuals. But the more man seeks to reduce facts to concepts and laws, the more he is obliged to sacrifice and neglect the individual. Men have, to be sure, sought, in characteristic modern fashion, "to make of history a natural science. " This was the case with the so-called philosophy of history of positivism. What has been the net result of the laws of history which it has given us? A few trivial generalities which justify themselves only by the most careful consideration of their numerous exceptions. 

 On the other hand it is certain that all interest and values of life are concerned with what is unique in men and events. Consider how quickly our appreciation is deadened as some object is multiplied or is regarded as one case in a thousand. "She is not the first" is one of the cruel passages in _Faust_. It is in the individuality and the uniqueness of an object that all our sense of value has its roots. It is upon this fact that Spinoza's doctrine of the conquest of the passions by knowledge rests, since for him knowledge is the submergence of the individual in the universal, the "once for all" into the eternal. 

 The fact that all our livelier appreciations rest upon the unique character of the object is illustrated above all in our relations to persons. Is it not an unendurable thought, that a loved object, an adored person, should have existed at some other time in just the form in which it now exists for us? Is it not horrible and unthinkable that one of us, with just this same individuality should actually have existed in a second edition?

 What is true of the individual man is quite as true of the whole historical process: it has value only when it is unique. This is the principle which the Christian doctrine successfully maintained, as over against Hellenism in the Patristic philosophy. The middle point of their conception of the world was the fall and the salvation of mankind as a unique event. That was the first and great perception of the inalienable metaphysical right of the historian to preserve for the memory of mankind, in all their uniqueness and individuality, the actual events of life. [12]

Like every other species of animal, man has a natural history. Anthropology is the science of man considered as one of the animalspecies, _Homo sapiens_. History and sociology, on the other hand, areconcerned with man as a person, as a "political animal, " participatingwith his fellows in a common fund of social traditions and culturalideals. Freeman, the English historian, said that history was "pastpolitics" and politics "present history. " Freeman uses the wordpolitics in the large and liberal sense in which it was first used byAristotle. In that broad sense of the word, the political process, bywhich men are controlled and states governed, and the cultural process, by which man has been domesticated and human nature formed, are not, aswe ordinarily assume, different, but identical, procedures. 

All this suggests the intimate relations which exist between history, politics, and sociology. The important thing, however, is not theidentities but the distinctions. For, however much the variousdisciplines may, in practice, overlap, it is necessary for the sake ofclear thinking to have their limits defined. As far as sociology andhistory are concerned the differences may be summed up in a word. Bothhistory and sociology are concerned with the life of man as man. History, however, seeks to reproduce and interpret concrete events asthey actually occurred in time and space. Sociology, on the other hand, seeks to arrive at natural laws and generalizations in regard to humannature and society, irrespective of time and of place. 

In other words, history seeks to find out what actually happened and howit all came about. Sociology, on the other hand, seeks to explain, onthe basis of a study of other instances, the nature of the processinvolved. 

By nature we mean just that aspect and character of things in regard towhich it is possible to make general statements and formulate laws. Ifwe say, in explanation of the peculiar behavior of some individual, thatit is natural or that it is after all "simply human nature, " we aresimply saying that this behavior is what we have learned to expect ofthis individual or of human beings in general. It is, in other words, alaw. 

Natural law, as the term is used here, is any statement which describesthe behavior of a class of objects or the character of a class of acts. For example, the classic illustration of the so-called "universalproposition" familiar to students of formal logic, "all men are mortal, "is an assertion in regard to a class of objects we call men. This is, ofcourse, simply a more formal way of saying that "men die. " Such generalstatements and "laws" get meaning only when they are applied toparticular cases, or, to speak again in the terms of formal logic, whenthey find a place in a syllogism, thus: "Men are mortal. This is aman. " But such syllogisms may always be stated in the form of ahypothesis. If this is a man, he is mortal. If a is b, a is alsoc. This statement, "Human nature is a product of social contact, " is ageneral assertion familiar to students of sociology. This law or, morecorrectly, hypothesis, applied to an individual case explains theso-called feral man. Wild men, in the proper sense of the word, are notthe so-called savages, but the men who have never been domesticated, ofwhich an individual example is now and then discovered. 

To state a law in the form of a hypothesis serves to emphasize the factthat laws--what we have called natural laws at any rate--are subject toverification and restatement. Under the circumstances the exceptionalinstance, which compels a restatement of the hypothesis, is moreimportant for the purposes of science than other instances which merelyconfirm it. 

Any science which operates with hypotheses and seeks to state facts insuch a way that they can be compared and verified by further observationand experiment is, so far as method is concerned, a natural science. 

III. HUMAN NATURE AND LAW

One thing that makes the conception of natural history and natural lawimportant to the student of sociology is that in the field of the socialsciences the distinction between natural and moral law has from thefirst been confused. Comte and the social philosophers in France afterthe Revolution set out with the deliberate purpose of supersedinglegislative enactments by laws of human nature, laws which were to bepositive and "scientific. " As a matter of fact, sociology, in becomingpositive, so far from effacing, has rather emphasized the distinctionsthat Comte sought to abolish. Natural law may be distinguished from allother forms of law by the fact that it aims at nothing more than adescription of the behavior of certain types or classes of objects. Adescription of the way in which a class, i. E. , men, plants, animals, orphysical objects, may be expected under ordinary circumstances tobehave, tells us what we may in a general way expect of any individualmember of that class. If natural science seeks to predict, it is able todo so simply because it operates with concepts or class names instead, as is the case with history, with concrete facts and, to use a logicalphrase, "existential propositions. "

 That the chief end of science is descriptive formulation has probably been clear to keen analytic minds since the time of Galileo, especially to the great discoverers in astronomy, mechanics, and dynamics. But as a definitely stated conception, corrective of misunderstandings, the view of science as essentially descriptive began to make itself felt about the beginning of the last quarter of the nineteenth century, and may be associated with the names of Kirchhoff and Mach. It was in 1876 that Kirchhoff defined the task of mechanics as that of "describing completely and in the simplest manner the motions which take place in nature. " Widening this a little, we may say that the aim of science is to describe natural phenomena and occurrences as exactly as possible, as simply as possible, as completely as possible, as consistently as possible, and always in terms which are communicable and verifiable. This is a very different rôle from that of solving the riddles of the universe, and it is well expressed in what Newton said in regard to the law of gravitation: "So far I have accounted for the phenomena presented to us by the heavens and the sea by means of the force of gravity, but I have as yet assigned no cause to this gravity.... I have not been able to deduce from phenomena the _raison d'être_ of the properties of gravity and I have not set up hypotheses. " (Newton, _Philosophiae naturalis principia Mathematica_, 1687. )

 "We must confess, " said Prof. J. H. Poynting (1900, p. 616), "that physical laws have greatly fallen off in dignity. No long time ago they were quite commonly described as the Fixed Laws of Nature, and were supposed sufficient in themselves to govern the universe. Now we can only assign to them the humble rank of mere descriptions, often erroneous, of similarities which we believe we have observed.... A law of nature explains nothing, it has no governing power, it is but a descriptive formula which the careless have sometimes personified. " It used to be said that "the laws of Nature are the thoughts of God"; now we say that they are the investigator's formulae summing up regularities of recurrence. [13]

If natural law aims at prediction it tells us what we can do. Morallaws, on the other hand, tell us, not what we can, but what we ought todo. The civil or municipal law, finally, tells us not what we can, norwhat we ought, but what we must do. It is very evident that these threetypes of law may be very intimately related. We do not know what weought to do until we know what we can do; and we certainly shouldconsider what men can do before we pass laws prescribing what they mustdo. There is, moreover, no likelihood that these distinctions will everbe completely abolished. As long as the words "can, " "ought, " and "must"continue to have any meaning for us the distinctions that they representwill persist in science as well as in common sense. 

The immense prestige which the methods of the natural sciences havegained, particularly in their application to the phenomena of thephysical universe, has undoubtedly led scientific men to overestimatethe importance of mere conceptual and abstract knowledge. It has ledthem to assume that history also must eventually become "scientific" inthe sense of the natural sciences. In the meantime the vast collectionsof historical facts which the industry of historical students hasaccumulated are regarded, sometimes even by historians themselves, as asort of raw material, the value of which can only be realized after ithas been worked over into some sort of historical generalization whichhas the general character of scientific and ultimately, mathematicalformula. 

"History, " says Karl Pearson, "can never become science, can never beanything but a catalogue of facts rehearsed in a more or less pleasinglanguage until these facts are seen to fall into sequences which can bebriefly resumed in scientific formulae. "[14] And Henry Adams, in aletter to the American Historical Association already referred to, confesses that history has thus far been a fruitless quest for "thesecret which would transform these odds and ends of philosophy into oneself-evident, harmonious, and complete system. "

 You may be sure that four out of five serious students of history who are living today have, in the course of their work, felt that they stood on the brink of a great generalization that would reduce all history under a law as clear as the laws which govern the material world. As the great writers of our time have touched one by one the separate fragments of admitted law by which society betrays its character as a subject for science, not one of them can have failed to feel an instant's hope that he might find the secret which would transform these odds and ends of philosophy into one self-evident, harmonious, and complete system. He has seemed to have it, as the Spanish say, in his inkstand. Scores of times he must have dropped his pen to think how one short step, one sudden inspiration, would show all human knowledge; how, in these thickset forests of history, one corner turned, one faint trail struck, would bring him on the highroad of science. Every professor who has tried to teach the doubtful facts which we now call history must have felt that sooner or later he or another would put order in the chaos and bring light into darkness. Not so much genius or favor was needed as patience and good luck. The law was certainly there, and as certainly was in places actually visible, to be touched and handled, as though it were a law of chemistry or physics. No teacher with a spark of imagination or with an idea of scientific method can have helped dreaming of the immortality that would be achieved by the man who should successfully apply Darwin's method to the facts of human history. [15]

The truth is, however, that the concrete facts, in which history andgeography have sought to preserve the visible, tangible, and, generallyspeaking, the experiential aspects of human life and the visibleuniverse, have a value irrespective of any generalization or idealconstructions which may be inferred from or built up out of them. Justas none of the investigations or generalizations of individualpsychology are ever likely to take the place of biography andautobiography, so none of the conceptions of an abstract sociology, noscientific descriptions of the social and cultural processes, and nolaws of progress are likely, in the near future at any rate, tosupersede the more concrete facts of history in which are preservedthose records of those unique and never fully comprehended aspects oflife which we call _events_. 

It has been the dream of philosophers that theoretical and abstractscience could and some day perhaps would succeed in putting intoformulae and into general terms all that was significant in the concretefacts of life. It has been the tragic mistake of the so-calledintellectuals, who have gained their knowledge from textbooks ratherthan from observation and research, to assume that science had alreadyrealized its dream. But there is no indication that science has begun toexhaust the sources or significance of concrete experience. The infinitevariety of external nature and the inexhaustible wealth of personalexperience have thus far defied, and no doubt will continue to defy, theindustry of scientific classification, while, on the other hand, thediscoveries of science are constantly making accessible to us new andlarger areas of experience. 

What has been said simply serves to emphasize the instrumental characterof the abstract sciences. History and geography, all of the concretesciences, can and do measurably enlarge our experience of life. Theirvery purpose is to arouse new interests and create new sympathies; togive mankind, in short, an environment so vast and varied as will callout and activate all his instincts and capacities. 

The more abstract sciences, just to the extent that they are abstractand exact, like mathematics and logic, are merely methods and tools forconverting experience into knowledge and applying the knowledge sogained to practical uses. 

IV. HISTORY, NATURAL HISTORY, AND SOCIOLOGY

Although it is possible to draw clear distinctions in theory between thepurpose and methods of history and sociology, in practice the two formsof knowledge pass over into one another by almost imperceptiblegradations. 

The sociological point of view makes its appearance in historicalinvestigation as soon as the historian turns from the study of "periods"to the study of institutions. The history of institutions, that is tosay, the family, the church, economic institutions, politicalinstitutions, etc. , leads inevitably to comparison, classification, theformation of class names or concepts, and eventually to the formulationof law. In the process, history becomes natural history, and naturalhistory passes over into natural science. In short, history becomessociology. 

Westermarck's _History of Human Marriage_ is one of the earliestattempts to write the natural history of a social institution. It isbased upon a comparison and classification of marriage customs of widelyscattered peoples, living under varied physical and social conditions. What one gets from a survey of this kind is not so much history as astudy of human behavior. The history of marriage, as of any otherinstitution, is, in other words, not so much an account of what certainindividuals or groups of individuals did at certain times and certainplaces, as it is a description of the responses of a few fundamentalhuman instincts to a variety of social situations. Westermarck callsthis kind of history sociology. [16]

 It is in the firm conviction that the history of human civilization should be made an object of as scientific a treatment as the history of organic nature that I write this book. Like the phenomena of physical and psychical life those of social life should be classified into certain groups and each group investigated with regard to its origin and development. Only when treated in this way can history lay claim to the rank and honour of a science in the highest sense of the term, as forming an important part of Sociology, the youngest of the principal branches of learning. 

 Descriptive historiography has no higher object than that of offering materials to this science. [17]

Westermarck refers to the facts which he has collected in his history ofmarriage as phenomena. For the explanation of these phenomena, however, he looks to the more abstract sciences. 

 The causes on which social phenomena are dependent fall within the domain of different sciences--Biology, Psychology, or Sociology. The reader will find that I put particular stress upon the psychological causes, which have often been deplorably overlooked, or only imperfectly touched upon. And more especially do I believe that the mere instincts have played a very important part in the origin of social institutions and rules. [18]

Westermarck derived most of his materials for the study of marriage fromethnological materials. Ethnologists, students of folklore (German_Völkerkunde_), and archaeology are less certain than the historians ofinstitutions whether their investigations are historical orsociological. 

Jane Harrison, although she disclaims the title of sociologist, basesher conception of the origin of Greek religion on a sociological theory, the theory namely that "among primitive peoples religion reflectscollective feeling and collective thinking. " Dionysius, the god of theGreek mysteries, is according to her interpretation a product of thegroup consciousness. 

 The mystery-god arises out of those instincts, emotions, desires which attend and express life; but these emotions, desires, instincts, in so far as they are religious, are at the outset rather of a group than of individual consciousness.... It is a necessary and most important corollary to this doctrine, that the form taken by the divinity reflects the social structure of the group to which the divinity belongs. Dionysius is the Son of his Mother because he issues from a matrilinear group. [19]

This whole study is, in fact, merely an application of Durkheim'sconception of "collective representations. "

Robert H. Lowie, in his recent volume, _Primitive Society_, refers to"ethnologists and other historians, " but at the same time asks: "Whatkind of an historian shall the ethnologist be?"

He answers the question by saying that, "If there are laws of socialevolution, he [the ethnologist] must assuredly discover them, " but atany rate, and first of all, "his duty is to ascertain the coursecivilization has _actually_ followed.... To strive for the ideals ofanother branch of knowledge may be positively pernicious, for it caneasily lead to that factitious simplification which meansfalsification. "

In other words, ethnology, like history, seeks to tell what actuallyhappened. It is bound to avoid abstraction, "over-simplification, " andformulae, and these are the ideals of another kind of scientificprocedure. As a matter of fact, however, ethnology, even when it hasattempted nothing more than a description of the existing cultures ofprimitive peoples, their present distribution and the order of theirsuccession, has not freed itself wholly from the influence of abstractconsiderations. Theoretical problems inevitably arise for the solutionof which it is necessary to go to psychology and sociology. One of thequestions that has arisen in the study, particularly the comparativestudy, of cultures is: how far any existing cultural trait is borrowedand how far it is to be regarded as of independent origin. 

 In the historical reconstruction of culture the phenomena of distribution play, indeed, an extraordinary part. If a trait occurs everywhere, it might veritably be the product of some universally operative social law. If it is found in a restricted number of cases, it may still have evolved through some such instrumentality acting under specific conditions that would then remain to be determined by analysis of the cultures in which the feature is embedded.... Finally, the sharers of a cultural trait may be of distinct lineage but through contact and borrowing have come to hold in common a portion of their cultures.... 

 Since, as a matter of fact, cultural resemblances abound between peoples of diverse stock, their interpretation commonly narrows to a choice between two alternatives. Either they are due to like causes, whether these can be determined or not; or they are the result of borrowing. A predilection for one or the other explanation has lain at the bottom of much ethnological discussion in the past; and at present influential schools both in England and in continental Europe clamorously insist that all cultural parallels are due to diffusion from a single center. It is inevitable to envisage this moot-problem at the start, since uncompromising championship of either alternative has far-reaching practical consequences. For if every parallel is due to borrowing, then sociological laws, which can be inferred only from independently developing likenesses, are barred. Then the history of religion or social life or technology consists exclusively in a statement of the place of origin of beliefs, customs and implements, and a recital of their travels to different parts of the globe. On the other hand, if borrowing covers only part of the observed parallels, an explanation from like causes becomes at least the ideal goal in an investigation of the remainder. [20]

An illustration will exhibit the manner in which problems originallyhistorical become psychological and sociological. Tyler in his _EarlyHistory of Mankind_ has pointed out that the bellows used by the negroblacksmiths of continental Africa are of a quite different type fromthose used by natives of Madagascar. The bellows used by the Madagascarblacksmiths, on the other hand, are exactly like those in use by theMalays of Sumatra and in other parts of the Malay Archipelago. Thisindication that the natives of Madagascar are of Malay origin is inaccordance with other anthropological and ethnological data in regard tothese peoples, which prove the fact, now well established, that they arenot of African origin. 

Similarly Boas' study of the Raven cycle of American Indian mythologyindicated that these stories originated in the northern part of BritishColumbia and traveled southward along the coast. One of the evidencesof the direction of this progress is the gradual diminution ofcomplexity in the stories as they traveled into regions farther removedfrom the point of origin. 

All this, in so far as it seeks to determine the point of origin, direction, speed, and character of changes that take place in culturalmaterials in the process of diffusion, is clearly history and ethnology. 

Other questions, however, force themselves inevitably upon the attentionof the inquiring student. Why is it that certain cultural materials aremore widely and more rapidly diffused than others? Under what conditionsdoes this diffusion take place and why does it take place at all?Finally, what is the ultimate source of customs, beliefs, languages, religious practices, and all the varied technical devices which composethe cultures of different peoples? What are the circumstances and whatare the processes by which cultural traits are independently created?Under what conditions do cultural fusions take place and what is thenature of this process?

These are all fundamentally problems of human nature, and as humannature itself is now regarded as a product of social intercourse, theyare problems of sociology. 

The cultural processes by which languages, myth, and religion have comeinto existence among primitive peoples have given rise in Germany to aspecial science. Folk-psychology (_Völkerpsychologie_) had its origin inan attempt to answer in psychological terms the problems to which acomparative study of cultural materials has given rise. 

 From two different directions ideas of folk-psychology have found their way into modern science. First of all there was a demand from the different social sciences [_Geisteswissenschaften_] for a psychological explanation of the phenomena of social life and history, so far as they were products of social [_geistiger_] interaction. In the second place, psychology itself required, in order to escape the uncertainties and ambiguities of pure introspection, a body of objective materials. 

 Among the social sciences the need for psychological interpretation first manifested itself in the studies of language and mythology. Both of these had already found outside the circle of the philological studies independent fields of investigation. As soon as they assumed the character of comparative sciences it was inevitable that they should be driven to recognize that in addition to the historical conditions, which everywhere determines the concrete form of these phenomena, there had been certain fundamental psychical forces at work in the development of language and myth. [21]

The aim of folk-psychology has been, on the whole, to explain thegenesis and development of certain cultural forms, i. E. , language, myth, and religion. The whole matter may, however, be regarded from a quitedifferent point of view. Gabriel Tarde, for example, has sought toexplain, not the genesis, but the transmission and diffusion of thesesame cultural forms. For Tarde, communication (transmission of culturalforms and traits) is the one central and significant fact of sociallife. "Social" is just what can be transmitted by imitation. Socialgroups are merely the centers from which new ideas and inventions aretransmitted. Imitation is the social process. 

 There is not a word that you say, which is not the reproduction, now unconscious, but formerly conscious and voluntary, of verbal articulations reaching back to the most distant past, with some special accent due to your immediate surroundings. There is not a religious rite that you fulfil, such as praying, kissing the icon, or making the sign of the cross, which does not reproduce certain traditional gestures and expressions, established through imitation of your ancestors. There is not a military or civil requirement that you obey, nor an act that you perform in your business, which has not been taught you, and which you have not copied from some living model. There is not a stroke of the brush that you make, if you are a painter, nor a verse that you write, if you are a poet, which does not conform to the customs or the prosody of your school, and even your very originality itself is made up of accumulated commonplaces, and aspires to become commonplace in its turn. 

 Thus, the unvarying characteristic of every social fact whatsoever is that it is imitative. And this characteristic belongs exclusively to social facts. [22]

Tarde's theory of transmission by imitation may be regarded, in somesense, as complementary, if not supplementary, to Wundt's theory oforigins, since he puts the emphasis on the fact of transmission ratherthan upon genesis. In a paper, "Tendencies in Comparative Philology, "read at the Congress of Arts and Sciences at the St. Louis Exposition in1904, Professor Hanns Oertel, of Yale University, refers to Tarde'stheory of imitation as an alternative explanation to that offered byWundt for "the striking uniformity of sound changes" which students oflanguage have discovered in the course of their investigation ofphonetic changes in widely different forms of speech. 

 It seems hard to maintain that the change in a syntactical construction or in the meaning of a word owes its universality to a simultaneous and independent primary change in all the members of a speech-community. By adopting the theory of imitative spread, all linguistic changes may be viewed as one homogeneous whole. In the second place, the latter view seems to bring linguistic changes into line with the other social changes, such as modifications in institutions, beliefs, and customs. For is it not an essential characteristic of a social group that its members are not co-operative in the sense that each member actively participates in the production of every single element which goes to make up either language, or belief, or customs? Distinguishing thus between _primary_ and _secondary_ changes and between the _origin_ of a change and its _spread_, it behooves us to examine carefully into the causes which make the members of a social unit, either consciously or unconsciously, willing to accept the innovation. What is it that determines acceptance or rejection of a particular change? What limits one change to a small area, while it extends the area of another? Before a final decision can be reached in favor of the second theory of imitative spread it will be necessary to follow out in minute detail the mechanism of this process in a number of concrete instances; in other words to fill out the picture of which Tarde (_Les lois de l'imitation_) sketched the bare outlines. If his assumptions prove true, then we should have here a uniformity resting upon other causes than the physical uniformity that appears in the objects with which the natural sciences deal. It would enable us to establish a second group of uniform phenomena which is psycho-physical in its character and rests upon the basis of social suggestion. The uniformities in speech, belief, and institutions would belong to this second group. [23]

What is true of the comparative study of languages is true in everyother field in which a comparative study of cultural materials has beenmade. As soon as these materials are studied from the point of view oftheir similarities rather than from the point of view of theirhistorical connections, problems arise which can only be explained bythe more abstract sciences of psychology or sociology. Freeman beginshis lectures on _Comparative Politics_ with the statement that "thecomparative method of study has been the greatest intellectualachievement of our time. It has carried light and order into wholebranches of human knowledge which before were shrouded in darkness andconfusion. It has brought a line of argument which reaches moralcertainty into a region which before was given over to randomguess-work. Into matters which are for the most part incapable ofstrictly external proof it has brought a form of strictly internal proofwhich is more convincing, more unerring. "

Wherever the historian supplements _external_ by _internal_ proof, he isin a way to substitute a sociological explanation for historicalinterpretation. It is the very essence of the sociological method to becomparative. When, therefore, Freeman uses, in speaking of comparativepolitics, the following language he is speaking in sociological ratherthan historical terms:

 For the purposes then of the study of Comparative Politics, a political constitution is a specimen to be studied, classified, and labelled, as a building or an animal is studied, classified, and labelled by those to whom buildings or animals are objects of study. We have to note the likenesses, striking and unexpected as those likenesses often are, between the political constitutions of remote times and places; and we have, as far as we can, to classify our specimens according to the probable causes of those likenesses. [24]

Historically sociology has had its origin in history. It owes itsexistence as a science to the attempt to apply exact methods to theexplanation of historical facts. In the attempt to achieve this, however, it has become something quite different from history. It hasbecome like psychology with which it is most intimately related, anatural and relatively abstract science, and auxiliary to the study ofhistory, but not a substitute for it. The whole matter may be summed upin this general statement: history interprets, natural science explains. It is upon the interpretation of the facts of experience that weformulate our creeds and found our faiths. Our explanations ofphenomena, on the other hand, are the basis for technique and practicaldevices for controlling nature and human nature, man and the physicalworld. 

V. THE SOCIAL ORGANISM: HUMANITY OR LEVIATHAN?

After Comte the first great name in the history of sociology is Spencer. It is evident in comparing the writings of these two men that, incrossing the English Channel, sociology has suffered a sea change. Inspite of certain similarities in their points of view there are profoundand interesting differences. These differences exhibit themselves in thedifferent ways in which they use the term "social organism. "

Comte calls society a "collective organism" and insists, as Spencerdoes, upon the difference between an organism like a family, which ismade up of independent individuals, and an organism like a plant or ananimal, which is a physiological unit in which the different organs areneither free nor conscious. But Spencer, if he points out thedifferences between the social and the biological organisms, isinterested in the analogy. Comte, on the other hand, while he recognizesthe analogy, feels it important to emphasize the distinctions. 

Society for Comte is not, as Lévy-Bruhl puts it, "a polyp. " It has noteven the characteristics of an animal colony in which the individualsare physically bound together, though physiologically independent. Onthe contrary, "this 'immense organism' is especially distinguished fromother beings in that it is made up of separable elements of which eachone can feel its own co-operation, can will it, or even withhold it, solong as it remains a direct one. "[25]

On the other hand, Comte, although he characterized the social_consensus_ and solidarity as "collective, " nevertheless thought of therelations existing between human beings in society--in the family, forexample, which he regards as the unit and model of all socialrelations--as closer and more intimate than those which exist betweenthe organs of a plant or an animal. The individual, as Comte expressedit, is an abstraction. Man exists as man only by participation in thelife of humanity, and "although the individual elements of societyappear to be more separable than those of a living being, the social_consensus_ is still closer than the vital. "[26]

Thus the individual man was, in spite of his freedom and independence, in a very real sense "an organ of the Great Being" and the great beingwas humanity. Under the title of humanity Comte included not merely allliving human beings, i. E. , the human race, but he included all that bodyof tradition, knowledge, custom, cultural ideas and ideals, which makeup the social inheritance of the race, an inheritance into which each ofus is born, to which we contribute, and which we inevitably hand onthrough the processes of education and tradition to succeedinggenerations. This is what Comte meant by the social organism. 

If Comte thought of the social organism, the great being, somewhatmystically as itself an individual and a person, Herbert Spencer, on theother hand, thought of it realistically as a great animal, a leviathan, as Hobbes called it, and a very low-order leviathan at that. [27]

Spencer's manner of looking at the social organism may be illustrated inwhat he says about growth in "social aggregates. "

 When we say that growth is common to social aggregates and organic aggregates, we do not thus entirely exclude community with inorganic aggregates. Some of these, as crystals, grow in a visible manner; and all of them on the hypothesis of evolution, have arisen by integration at some time or other. Nevertheless, compared with things we call inanimate, living bodies and societies so conspicuously exhibit augmentation of mass, that we may fairly regard this as characterizing them both. Many organisms grow throughout their lives; and the rest grow throughout considerable parts of their lives. Social growth usually continues either up to times when the societies divide, or up to times when they are overwhelmed. 

 Here, then, is the first trait by which societies ally themselves with the organic world and substantially distinguish themselves from the inorganic world. [28]

In this same way, comparing the characteristic general features of"social" and "living bodies, " noting likeness and differences, particularly with reference to complexity of structure, differentiationof function, division of labor, etc. , Spencer gives a perfectlynaturalistic account of the characteristic identities and differencesbetween societies and animals, between sociological and biologicalorganizations. It is in respect to the division of labor that theanalogy between societies and animals goes farthest and is mostsignificant. 

 This division of labour, first dwelt upon by political economists as a social phenomenon, and thereupon recognized by biologists as a phenomenon of living bodies, which they called the "physiological division of labour, " is that which in the society, as in the animal, makes it a living whole. Scarcely can I emphasize enough the truth that in respect of this fundamental trait, a social organism and an individual organism are entirely alike. [29]

The "social aggregate, " although it is "discrete" instead of"concrete"--that is to say, composed of spatially separated units--isnevertheless, because of the mutual dependence of these units upon oneanother as exhibited in the division of labor, to be regarded as aliving whole. It is "a living whole" in much the same way that the plantand animal communities, of which the ecologists are now writing sointerestingly, are a living whole; not because of any intrinsicrelations between the individuals who compose them, but because eachindividual member of the community, finds in the community as a whole, asuitable milieu, an environment adapted to his needs and one to which heis able to adapt himself. 

Of such a society as this it may indeed be said, that it "exists for thebenefit of its members, not its members for the benefit of society. Ithas ever to be remembered that great as may be the efforts made for theprosperity of the body politic, yet the claims of the body politic arenothing in themselves, and become something only in so far as theyembody the claims of its component individuals. "[30]

In other words, the social organism, as Spencer sees it, exists not foritself but for the benefit of the separate organs of which it iscomposed, whereas, in the case of biological organism the situation isreversed. There the parts manifestly exist for the whole and not thewhole for the parts. 

Spencer explains this paradoxical conclusion by the reflection that insocial organisms sentience is not localized as it is in biologicalorganisms. This is, in fact, the cardinal difference between the two. There is no _social sensorium_. 

 In the one (the individual), consciousness is concentrated in a small part of the aggregate. In the other (society), it is diffused throughout the aggregate: all the units possess the capacities for happiness and misery, if not in equal degrees, still in degrees that approximate. As then, there is no social sensorium, the welfare of the aggregate, considered apart from that of the units, is not an end to be sought. The society exists for the benefit of its members; not its members for the benefit of the society. [31]

The point is that society, _as distinct from the individuals_ whocompose it, has no apparatus for feeling pain or pleasure. There are no_social_ sensations. Perceptions and mental imagery are individual andnot social phenomena. Society lives, so to speak, only in its separateorgans or members, and each of these organs has its own brain and organof control which gives it, among other things, the power of independentlocomotion. This is what is meant when society is described as acollectivity. 

VI. SOCIAL CONTROL AND SCHOOLS OF THOUGHT

The fundamental problem which Spencer's paradox raises is that of socialcontrol. How does a mere collection of individuals succeed in acting ina corporate and consistent way? How in the case of specific types ofsocial group, for example an animal herd, a boys' gang, or a politicalparty, does the group control its individual members; the whole dominatethe parts? What are the specific _sociological_ differences betweenplant and animal communities and human society? What kind of differencesare _sociological differences_, and what do we mean in general by theexpression "sociological" anyway?

Since Spencer's essay on the social organism was published in 1860, [32]this problem and these questions, in one form or another, have largelyabsorbed the theoretical interest of students of society. The attemptsto answer them may be said to have created the existing schools intowhich sociologists are divided. 

A certain school of writers, among them Paul Lilienfeld, AugusteSchäffle, and René Worms, have sought to maintain, to extend, or modifythe biological analogy first advanced by Spencer. In doing so they havesucceeded sometimes in restating the problem but have not solved it. René Worms has been particularly ingenious in discovering identities andcarrying out the parallelism between the social and the biologicalorganizations. As a result he has reached the conclusion that, asbetween a social and a biological organism, there is no difference ofkind but only one of degree. Spencer, who could not find a "socialsensorium, " said that society was conscious only in the individuals whocomposed it. Worms, on the other hand, declares that we must assume theexistence of a social consciousness, even without a sensorium, becausewe see everywhere the evidence of its existence. 

 Force manifests itself by its effects. If there are certain phenomena that we can only make intelligible, provided we regard them as the products of collective social consciousness, then we are bound to assume the existence of such a consciousness. There are many illustrations ... The attitude for example, of a crowd in the presence of a crime. Here the sentiment of indignation is unanimous. A murderer, if taken in the act, will get summary justice from the ordinary crowd. That method of rendering justice, "lynch law, " is deplorable, but it illustrates the intensity of the sentiment which, at the moment, takes possession of the social consciousness. 

 Thus, always in the presence of great and common danger the collective consciousness of society is awakened; for example France of the Valois after the Treaty of Troyes, or modern France before the invasion of 1791 and before the German invasion in 1870; or Germany, herself, after the victories of Napoleon I. This sentiment of national unity, born of resistance to the stranger, goes so far that a large proportion of the members of society do not hesitate to give their lives for the safety and glory of the state, at such a moment the individual comprehends that he is only a small part of a large whole and that he belongs to the collectivity of which he is a member. The proof that he is entirely penetrated by the social consciousness is the fact that in order to maintain its existence he is willing to sacrifice his own. [33]

There is no question that the facts of crowd excitement, of class, caste, race, and national consciousness, do show the way in which theindividual members of a group are, or seem to be, dominated, at certainmoments and under certain circumstances, by the group as a whole. Wormsgives to this fact, and the phenomena which accompany it, the title"collective consciousness. " This gives the problem a name, to be sure, but not a solution. What the purpose of sociology requires is adescription and an explanation. Under what conditions, precisely, doesthis phenomenon of collective consciousness arise? What are themechanisms--physical, physiological, and social--by which the groupimposes its control, or what seems to be control, upon the individualmembers of the group?

This question had arisen and been answered by political philosophers, interms of political philosophy, long before sociology attempted to givean objective account of the matter. Two classic phrases, Aristotle's"Man is a political animal" and Hobbes's "War of each against all, "_omnes bellum omnium_, measure the range and divergence of the schoolsupon this topic. 

According to Hobbes, the existing moral and political order--that is tosay the organization of control--is in any community a mere artefact, acontrol resting on consent, supported by a prudent calculation ofconsequences, and enforced by an external power. Aristotle, on the otherhand, taught that man was made for life in society just as the bee ismade for life in the hive. The relations between the sexes, as well asthose between mother and child, are manifestly predetermined in thephysiological organization of the individual man and woman. Furthermore, man is, by his instincts and his inherited dispositions, predestined toa social existence beyond the intimate family circle. Society must beconceived, therefore, as a part of nature, like a beaver's dam or thenests of birds. 

As a matter of fact, man and society present themselves in a doubleaspect. They are at the same time products of nature and of humanartifice. Just as a stone hammer in the hand of a savage may be regardedas an artificial extension of the natural man, so tools, machinery, technical and administrative devices, including the formal organizationof government and the informal "political machine, " may be regarded asmore or less artificial extensions of the natural social group. 

So far as this is true, the conflict between Hobbes and Aristotle is notabsolute. Society is a product both of nature and of design, of instinctand of reason. If, in its formal aspect, society is therefore anartefact, it is one which connects up with and has its roots in natureand in human nature. 

This does not explain social control but simplifies the problem ofcorporate action. It makes clear, at any rate, that as members ofsociety, men act as they do elsewhere from motives they do not fullycomprehend, in order to fulfil aims of which they are but dimly or notat all conscious. Men are activated, in short, not merely by interests, in which they are conscious of the end they seek, but also by instinctsand sentiments, the source and meaning of which they do not clearlycomprehend. Men work for wages, but they will die to preserve theirstatus in society, or commit murder to resent an insult. When men actthus instinctively, or under the influence of the mores, they areusually quite unconscious of the sources of the impulses that animatethem or of the ends which are realized through their acts. Under theinfluence of the mores men act typically, and so representatively, notas individuals but as members of a group. 

The simplest type of social group in which we may observe "socialcontrol" is in a herd or a flock. The behavior of a herd of cattle is, to be sure, not so uniform nor so simple a matter as it seems to thecasual observer, but it may be very properly taken as an illustration ofthe sort of follow-the-leader uniformity that is more or lesscharacteristic of all social groups. We call the disposition to live inthe herd and to move in masses, gregariousness, and this gregariousnessis ordinarily regarded as an instinct and undoubtedly is pretty largelydetermined in the original nature of gregarious animals. 

There is a school of thought which seeks in the so-called gregariousinstincts an explanation of all that is characteristically social in thebehavior of human beings. 

 The cardinal quality of the herd is homogeneity. It is clear that the great advantage of the social habit is to enable large numbers to act as one, whereby in the case of the hunting gregarious animal strength in pursuit and attack is at once increased to beyond that of the creatures preyed upon, and in protective socialism the sensitiveness of the new unit to alarms is greatly in excess of that of the individual member of the flock. 

 To secure these advantages of homogeneity, it is evident that the members of the herd must possess sensitiveness to the behaviour of their fellows. The individual isolated will be of no meaning, the individual as a part of the herd will be capable of transmitting the most potent impulses. Each member of the flock tending to follow its neighbour and in turn to be followed, each is in some sense capable of leadership; but no lead will be followed that departs widely from normal behaviour. A lead will be followed only from its resemblance to the normal. If the leader go so far ahead as definitely to cease to be in the herd, he will necessarily be ignored. 

 The original in conduct, that is to say, resistiveness to the voice of the herd, will be suppressed by natural selection; the wolf which does not follow the impulses of the herd will be starved; the sheep which does not respond to the flock will be eaten. 

 Again, not only will the individual be responsive to impulses coming from the herd, but he will treat the herd as his normal environment. The impulse to be in and always to remain with the herd will have the strongest instinctive weight. Anything which tends to separate him from his fellows, as soon as it becomes perceptible as such, will be strongly resisted. [34]

According to sociologists of this school, public opinion, conscience, and authority in the state rest upon the natural disposition of theanimal in the herd to conform to "the decrees of the herd. "

 Conscience, then, and the feelings of guilt and of duty are the peculiar possessions of the gregarious animal. A dog and a cat caught in the commission of an offence will both recognize that punishment is coming; but the dog, moreover, knows that he has done _wrong_, and he will come to be punished, unwillingly it is true, and as if dragged along by some power outside him, while the cat's sole impulse is to escape. The rational recognition of the sequence of act and punishment is equally clear to the gregarious and to the solitary animal, but it is the former only who understands that he has committed a _crime_, who has, in fact, the _sense of sin_. [35]

The concepts upon which this explanation of society rests is_homogeneity_. If animals or human beings act under all circumstances inthe same way, they will act or seem to act, as if they had a commonpurpose. If everybody follows the crowd, if everyone wears the sameclothes, utters the same trite remarks, rallies to the same battlescries and is everywhere dominated, even in his most characteristicallyindividual behavior, by an instinctive and passionate desire to conformto an external model and to the wishes of the herd, then we have anexplanation of everything characteristic of society--except thevariants, the nonconformists, the idealists, and the rebels. The herdinstinct may be an explanation of conformity but it does not explainvariation. Variation is an important fact in society as it is in naturegenerally. 

Homogeneity and like-mindedness are, as explanations of the socialbehavior of men and animals, very closely related concepts. In "likeresponse to like stimulus, " we may discern the beginning of "concertedaction" and this, it is urged, is the fundamental social fact. This isthe "like-mindedness" theory of society which has been given widepopularity in the United States through the writings of ProfessorFranklin Henry Giddings. He describes it as a "developed form of theinstinct theory, dating back to Aristotle's aphorism that man is apolitical animal. "

 Any given stimulus may happen to be felt by more than one organism, at the same or at different times. Two or more organisms may respond to the same given stimulus simultaneously or at different times. They may respond to the same given stimulus in like or in unlike ways; in the same or in different degrees; with like or with unlike promptitude; with equal or with unequal persistence. I have attempted to show that in like response to the same given stimulus we have the beginning, the absolute origin, of all concerted activity--the inception of every conceivable form of co-operation; while in unlike response, and in unequal response, we have the beginning of all those processes of individuation, of differentiation, of competition, which in their endlessly varied relations to combination, to co-operation, bring about the infinite complexity of organized social life. [36]

Closely related, logically if not historically, to Giddings' conceptionof "like-mindedness" is Gabriel Tarde's conception of "imitation. " Iffor Giddings "like response to like stimulus" is the fundamental socialfact, for Tarde "imitation" is the process through which alone societyexists. Society, said Tarde, exists in imitation. As a matter of fact, Tarde's doctrine may be regarded as a corollary to Giddings'. Imitationis the process by which that like-mindedness, by which Giddings explainscorporate action, is effected. Men are not born like-minded, they aremade so by imitation. 

 This minute inter-agreement of minds and wills, which forms the basis of the social life, even in troublous times--this presence of so many common ideas, ends, and means, in the minds and wills of all members of the same society at any given moment--is not due, I maintain, to organic heredity, which insures the birth of men quite similar to one another, nor to mere identity of geographical environment, which offers very similar resources to talents that are nearly equal; it is rather the effect of that suggestion-imitation process which, starting from one primitive creature possessed of a single idea or act, passed this copy on to one of its neighbors, then to another, and so on. Organic needs and spiritual tendencies exist in us only as potentialities which are realizable under the most diverse forms, in spite of their primitive similarity; and, among all these possible realizations, the indications furnished by some first initiator who is imitated determine which one is actually chosen. [37]

In contrast with these schools, which interpret action in terms of theherd and the flock--i. E. , men act together because they act alike--isthe theory of Émile Durkheim who insists that the social group has realcorporate existence and that, in human societies at least, men acttogether not because they have like purposes but a _common purpose_. This common purpose imposes itself upon the individual members of asociety at the same time as an ideal, a wish and an obligation. Conscience, the sense of obligation which members of a group feel onlywhen there is conflict between the wishes of the individual and the willof the group, is a manifestation, _in_ the individual consciousness, ofthe collective mind and the group will. The mere fact that in a panic ora stampede, human beings will sometimes, like the Gadarene swine, rushdown a steep place into the sea, is a very positive indication oflike-mindedness but not an evidence of a common purpose. The differencebetween an animal herd and a human crowd is that the crowd, what Le Boncalls the "organized crowd, " the crowd "in being" to use a nauticalterm, is dominated by an impulse to achieve a purpose that is common toevery member of the group. Men in a state of panic, on the other hand, although equally under the influence of the mass excitement, act notcorporately but individually, each individual wildly seeking to save hisown skin. Men in a state of panic have like purposes but no commonpurpose. If the "organized crowd, " "the psychological crowd, " is asociety "in being, " the panic and the stampede is a society "indissolution. "

Durkheim does not use these illustrations nor does he express himself inthese terms. The conception of the "organized" or "psychological" crowdis not his, but Le Bon's. The fact is that Durkheim does not think of asociety as a mere sum of particulars. Neither does he think of thesentiments nor the opinions which dominate the social group as privateand subjective. When individuals come together _under certaincircumstances_, the opinions and sentiments which they held asindividuals are modified and changed under the influence of the newcontacts. Out of the fermentation which association breeds, a newsomething (_autre chose_) is produced, an opinion and sentiment, inother words, that is not the sum of, and not like, the sentiments andopinions of the individuals from which it is derived. This new sentimentand opinion is public, and social, and the evidence of this is the factthat it imposes itself upon the individuals concerned as something moreor less external to them. They feel it either as an inspiration, a senseof personal release and expansion, or as an obligation, a pressure andan inhibition. The characteristic social phenomenon is just this controlby the group as a whole of the individuals that compose it. This fact ofcontrol, then, is the fundamental social fact. 

 Now society also gives the sensation of a perpetual dependence. Since it has a nature which is peculiar to itself and different from our individual nature, it pursues ends which are likewise special to it; but, as it cannot attain them except through our intermediacy; it imperiously demands our aid. It requires that, forgetful of our own interests, we make ourselves its servitors, and it submits us to every sort of inconvenience, privation, and sacrifice, without which social life would be impossible. It is because of this that at every instant we are obliged to submit ourselves to rules of conduct and of thought which we have neither made nor desired, and which are sometimes even contrary to our most fundamental inclinations and instincts. 

 Even if society were unable to maintain these concessions and sacrifices from us except by a material constraint, it might awaken in us only the idea of a physical force to which we must give way of necessity, instead of that of a moral power such as religions adore. But as a matter of fact, the empire which it holds over consciences is due much less to the physical supremacy of which it has the privilege than to the moral authority with which it is invested. If we yield to its orders, it is not merely because it is strong enough to triumph over our resistance; it is primarily because it is the object of a venerable respect. 

 Now the ways of action to which society is strongly enough attached to impose them upon its members, are, by that very fact, marked with a distinctive sign provocative of respect. Since they are elaborated in common, the vigour with which they have been thought of by each particular mind is retained in all the other minds, and reciprocally. The representations which express them within each of us have an intensity which no purely private states of consciousness could ever attain; for they have the strength of the innumerable individual representations which have served to form each of them. It is society who speaks through the mouths of those who affirm them in our presence; it is society whom we hear in hearing them; and the voice of all has an accent which that of one alone could never have. The very violence with which society reacts, by way of blame or material suppression, against every attempted dissidence, contributes to strengthening its empire by manifesting the common conviction through this burst of ardour. In a word, when something is the object of such a state of opinion, the representation which each individual has of it gains a power of action from its origins and the conditions in which it was born, which even those feel who do not submit themselves to it. It tends to repel the representations which contradict it, and it keeps them at a distance; on the other hand it commands those acts which will realize it, and it does so, not by a material coercion or by the perspective of something of this sort, but by the simple radiation of the mental energy which it contains. [38]

But the same social forces, which are found organized in public opinion, in religious symbols, in social convention, in fashion, and inscience--for "if a people did not have faith in science all thescientific demonstrations in the world would be without any influencewhatsoever over their minds"--are constantly re-creating the old order, making new heroes, overthrowing old gods, creating new myths, andimposing new ideals. And this is the nature of the cultural process ofwhich sociology is a description and an explanation. 

VII. SOCIAL CONTROL AND THE COLLECTIVE MIND

Durkheim is sometimes referred to, in comparison with other contemporarysociologists, as a realist. This is a reference to the controversy ofthe medieval philosophers in regard to the nature of concepts. Those whothought a concept a mere class-name applied to a group of objectsbecause of some common characteristics were called nominalists. Thosewho thought the concept was _real_, and not the name of a merecollection of individuals, were realists. In this sense Tarde andGiddings and all those writers who think of society as a collection ofactually or potentially _like-minded_ persons would be nominalists, while other writers like Simmel, Ratzenhofer, and Small, who think ofsociety in terms of interaction and social process may be calledrealists. They are realist, at any rate, in so far as they think of themembers of a society as bound together in a system of mutual influenceswhich has sufficient character to be described as a process. 

Naturally this process cannot be conceived of in terms of space orphysical proximity alone. Social contacts and social forces are of asubtler sort but not less real than physical. We know, for example, thatvocations are largely determined by personal competition; that thesolidarity of what Sumner calls the "in" or "we" group is largelydetermined by its conflict with the "out" or "other" groups. We know, also, that the status and social position of any individual inside anysocial group is determined by his relation to all other members of thatgroup and eventually of all other groups. These are illustrations ofwhat is meant concretely by social interaction and social process and itis considerations of this kind which seem to justify certain writers inthinking of individual persons as "parts" and of society as a "whole" insome other sense than that in which a dust heap is a whole of which theindividual particles are parts. 

 Society not only continues to exist _by_ transmission, _by_ communication, but it may fairly be said to exist _in_ transmission, _in_ communication. There is more than a verbal tie between the words common, community, and communication. [39]

Communication, if not identical with, is at least a form of, what hasbeen referred to here as social interaction. But communication as Deweyhas defined the term, is something more and different than what Tardecalls "inter-stimulation. " Communication is a process by which we"transmit" an experience from an individual to another but it is also aprocess by which these same individuals get a common experience. 

 Try the experiment of communicating, with fullness and accuracy, some experience to another, especially if it be somewhat complicated, and you will find your own attitude toward your experience changing; otherwise you resort to expletives and ejaculations. Except in dealing with commonplaces and catch phrases one has to assimilate, imaginatively, something of another's experience in order to tell him intelligently of one's own experience. All communication is like art. [40]

Not only does communication involve the creation, out of experiencesthat are individual and private, of an experience that is common andpublic but such a common experience becomes the basis for a common andpublic existence in which every individual, to greater or less extent, participates and is himself a part. Furthermore, as a part of thiscommon life, there grows up a body of custom, convention, tradition, ceremonial, language, social ritual, public opinion, in short all thatSumner includes under the term "mores" and all that ethnologists includeunder the term "culture. "

The thing that characterizes Durkheim and his followers is theirinsistence upon the fact that all cultural materials, and expressions, including language, science, religion, public opinion, and law, sincethey are the products of social intercourse and social interaction, arebound to have an objective, public, and social character such as noproduct of an individual mind either has or can have. Durkheim speaks ofthese mental products, individual and social, as representations. Thecharacteristic product of the individual mind is the percept, or, asDurkheim describes it, the "individual representation. " The percept is, and remains, a private and an individual matter. No one can reproduce, or communicate to another, subjective impressions or the mental imageryin the concrete form in which they come to the individual himself. Myneighbor may be able to read my "thoughts" and understand the motivesthat impel me to action better than I understand myself, but he cannotreproduce the images, with just the fringes of sense and feeling withwhich they come to my mind. 

The characteristic product of a group of individuals, in their effortsto communicate is, on the other hand, something objective andunderstood, that is, a gesture, a sign, a symbol, a word, or a conceptin which an experience or purpose that was private becomes public. Thisgesture, sign, symbol, concept, or representation in which a commonobject is not merely indicated, but in a sense created, Durkheim calls a"collective representation. "

Dewey's description of what takes place in communication may be taken asa description of the process by which these collective representationscome into existence. "To formulate an experience, " as Dewey says, "requires getting outside of it, seeing it as another would see it, considering what points of contact it has with the life of another sothat it may be gotten into such form that he can appreciate itsmeaning. " The result of such a conscious effort to communicate anexperience is to transform it. The experience, after it has beencommunicated, is not the same for either party to the communication. Topublish or to give publicity to an event is to make of that eventsomething other than it was before publication. Furthermore, the eventas published is still something different from the event as reflected inthe minds of the individuals to whom the publication is addressed. 

It will be evident upon reflection that public opinion is not theopinion of all, nor even of a majority of the persons who compose apublic. As a matter of fact, what we ordinarily mean by public opinionis never the opinion of anyone in particular. It is composite opinion, representing a general tendency of the public as a whole. On the otherhand, we recognize that public opinion exists, even when we do not knowof any individual person, among those who compose the public, whoseprivate and personal opinion exactly coincides with that of the publicof which he or she is a part. 

Nevertheless, the private and personal opinion of an individual whoparticipates in making public opinion is influenced by the opinions ofthose around him, and by public opinion. In this sense every opinion ispublic opinion. 

Public opinion, in respect to the manner in which it is formed and themanner in which it exists--that is to say relatively independent of theindividuals who co-operate to form it--has the characteristics ofcollective representation in general. Collective representations areobjective, in just the sense that public opinion is objective, and theyimpose themselves upon the individual as public opinion does, asrelatively but not wholly external forces--stabilizing, standardizing, conventionalizing, as well as stimulating, extending, and generalizingindividual representations, percepts. 

 The collective representations are exterior to the individual consciousness because they are not derived from the individuals taken in isolation but from their convergence and union (concours).... Doubtless, in the elaboration of the common result, each (individual) bears his due share; but the private sentiments do not become social except by combining under the action of the forces _sui generis_ which association develops. As a result of these combinations, and of the mutual alterations which result therefrom, they (the private sentiments) become something else (_autre chose_). A chemical synthesis results, which concentrates, unifies, the elements synthetized, and by that very process transforms them.... The resultant derived therefrom extends then beyond (_deborde_) the individual mind as the whole is greater than the part. To know really what it is, one must take the aggregate in its totality. It is this that thinks, that feels, that wills, although it may not be able to will, feel, or act save by the intermediation of individual consciousnesses. [41]

This, then, after nearly a century of criticism, is what remains ofComte's conception of the social organism. If society is, as therealists insist, anything more than a collection of like-mindedindividuals, it is so because of the existence (1) of a social processand (2) of a body of tradition and opinion--the products of thisprocess--which has a relatively objective character and imposes itselfupon the individual as a form of control, social control. This processand its product are the social consciousness. The social consciousness, in its double aspect as process and product, is the social organism. Thecontroversy between the realists and the nominalists reduces itselfapparently to this question of the objectivity of social tradition andof public opinion. For the present we may let it rest there. 

Meanwhile the conceptions of the social consciousness and the socialmind have been adopted by writers on social topics who are not at allconcerned with their philosophical implications or legitimacy. We arejust now seeing the first manifestations of two new types of sociologywhich call themselves, the one rural and the other urban sociology. Writers belonging to these two schools are making studies of what theycall the "rural" and the "urban" minds. In using these terms they arenot always quite certain whether the mind of which they are thinking isa collective mind, in Durkheim's realistic sense of the word, or whetherit is the mind of the typical inhabitant of a rural or an urbancommunity, an instance of "like-mindedness, " in the sense of Giddingsand the nominalists. 

A similar usage of the word "mind, " "the American mind, " for example, iscommon in describing characteristic differences in the attitudes ofdifferent nations and their "nationals. "

 The origin of the phrase, "the American mind, " was political. Shortly after the middle of the eighteenth century, there began to be a distinctly American way of regarding the debatable question of British Imperial control. During the period of the Stamp Act agitation our colonial-bred politicians and statesmen made the discovery that there was a mode of thinking and feeling which was native--or had by that time become a second nature--to all the colonists. Jefferson, for example, employs those resonant and useful words "the American mind" to indicate that throughout the American colonies an essential unity of opinion had been developed as regards the chief political question of the day. [42]

Here again, it is not quite clear, whether the American mind is a namefor a characteristic uniformity in the minds of individual Americans;whether the phrase refers rather to an "essential unity of opinion, " orwhether, finally, it is intended to cover both the uniformity and theunity characteristic of American opinion. 

Students of labor problems and of the so-called class struggle, on theother hand, use the term "psychology" in much the same way that thestudents of rural and urban sociology use the term "mind. " They speak ofthe "psychology" of the laboring class, the "psychology" of thecapitalistic class, in cases where psychology seems to referindifferently either to the social attitudes of the members of a class, or to attitude and morale of the class as a whole. 

The terms "class-conscious" and "class-consciousness, " "national" and"racial" consciousness are now familiar terms to students althoughthey seem to have been used, first of all, by the so-called"intelligentsia", who have been the leaders in the various types of massmovement to which these terms apply. "Consciousness, " in the sense inwhich it is here used, has a similar, though somewhat different, connotation than the word "mind" when applied to a group. It is a namenot merely for the attitudes characteristic of certain races or classes, but for these attitudes when they are in the focus of attention of thegroup, in the "fore-consciousness" to use a Freudian term. In this sense"conscious" suggests not merely the submergence of the individual andthe consequent solidarity of the group, but it signifies a mentalmobilization and preparedness of the individual and of the group forcollective or corporate action. To be class-conscious is to be preparedto act in the sense of that class. 

There is implicit in this rather ambiguous popular usage of the terms"social mind" and "social consciousness" a recognition of the dualaspect of society and of social groups. Society may be regarded at thesame time from an individualistic and a collectivistic point of view. Looking at it from the point of view of the individual, we regard associal just that character of the individual which has been imparted to, and impressed upon, him as a result of his participation in the life ofthe group. Social psychology, from Baldwin's first studies of thedevelopment of personality in the child to Ellwood's studies of thesociety in its "psychological aspects" has been mainly concerned withthe investigation of the effects upon the individual of his contactswith other individuals. [43]

On the other hand, we have had, in the description of the crowd and thepublic by Le Bon, Tarde, Sighele, and their successors, the beginningsof a study of collective behavior and "corporate action. " In these twopoints of view we seem to have again the contrast and the opposition, already referred to, between the nominalistic and realistic conceptionsof society. Nominalism represented by social psychology emphasizes, orseems to emphasize, the independence of the individual. Realism, represented by collective psychology, emphasizes the control of thegroup over the individual, of the whole over the part. 

While it is true that society has this double aspect, the individual andthe collective, it is the assumption of this volume that the touchstoneof society, the thing that distinguishes a mere collection ofindividuals from a society is not like-mindedness, but corporate action. We may apply the term social to any group of individuals which iscapable of consistent action, that is to say, action, consciously orunconsciously, directed to a common end. This existence of a common endis perhaps all that can be legitimately included in the conception"organic" as applied to society. 

From this point of view social control is the central fact and thecentral problem of society. Just as psychology may be regarded as anaccount of the manner in which the individual organism, as a whole, exercises control over its parts or rather of the manner in which theparts co-operate together to carry on the corporate existence of thewhole, so sociology, speaking strictly, is a point of view and a methodfor investigating the processes by which individuals are inducted intoand induced to co-operate in some sort of permanent corporate existencewhich we call society. 

To put this emphasis on corporate action is not to overlook the factthat through this corporate action the individual member of society islargely formed, not to say created. It recognized, however, that ifcorporate action tends to make of the individual an instrument, as wellas an organic part, of the social group, it does not do this by makinghim "like" merely; it may do so by making him "different. " The divisionof labor, in making possible an ever larger and wider co-operation amongmen, has indirectly multiplied individual diversities. Whatlike-mindedness must eventually mean, if it is to mean anything, is theexistence of so much of a consensus among the individuals of a group aswill permit the group to act. This, then, is what is meant here bysociety, the social organism and the social group. 

Sociology, so far as it can be regarded as a fundamental science and notmere congeries of social-welfare programs and practices, may bedescribed as the science of collective behavior. With this definition itis possible to indicate in a general and schematic way its relation tothe other social sciences. 

Historically, sociology has had its origin in history. History has beenand is the great mother science of all the social sciences. Of historyit may be said nothing human is foreign to it. Anthropology, ethnology, folklore, and archaeology have grown up largely, if not wholly, tocomplete the task which history began and answer the questions whichhistorical investigation first raised. In history and the sciencesassociated with it, i. E. , ethnology, folklore, and archaeology, we havethe concrete records of that human nature and experience which sociologyhas sought to explain. In the same sense that history is the concrete, sociology is the abstract, science of human experience and human nature. 

[Illustration: FIG. 1]

On the other hand, the technical (applied) social sciences, that is, politics, education, social service, and economics--so far as economicsmay be regarded as the science of business--are related to sociology ina different way. They are, to a greater or lesser extent, applicationsof principles which it is the business of sociology and of psychology todeal with explicitly. In so far as this is true, sociology may beregarded as fundamental to the other social sciences. 

VIII. SOCIOLOGY AND SOCIAL RESEARCH

Among the schools which, since Comte and Spencer, have dividedsociological thinking between them the realists have, on the whole, maintained the tradition of Comte; the nominalists, on the other hand, have preserved the style and manner, if not the substance, of Spencer'sthought. Later writers, however, realist as well as nominalist, havedirected their attention less to society than to societies, i. E. , socialgroups; they have been less interested in social progress than insocial process; more concerned with social problems than with socialphilosophy. 

This change marks the transformation of sociology from a philosophy ofhistory to a science of society. The steps in this transition areperiods in the history of the science, that is:

1. The period of Comte and Spencer; sociology, conceived in the grandstyle, is a philosophy of history, a "science" of progress (evolution). 

2. The period of the "schools"; sociological thought, dispersed amongthe various schools, is absorbed in an effort to define its point ofview and to describe the kinds of facts that sociology must look for toanswer the questions that sociology asks. 

3. The period of investigation and research, the period into whichsociology is just now entering. 

Sociological research is at present (1921) in about the situation inwhich psychology was before the introduction of laboratory methods, inwhich medicine was before Pasteur and the germ theory of disease. Agreat deal of social information has been collected merely for thepurpose of determining what to do in a given case. Facts have not beencollected to check social theories. Social problems have been defined interms of common sense, and facts have been collected, for the most part, to support this or that doctrine, not to test it. In very few instanceshave investigations been made, disinterestedly, to determine thevalidity of a hypothesis. 

Charles Booth's studies of poverty in London, which extended overeighteen years and were finally embodied in seventeen volumes, is anexample of such a disinterested investigation. It is an attempt to putto the test of fact the popular conception of the relation between wagesand welfare. He says:

 My object has been to attempt to show the numerical relation which poverty, misery, and depravity bear to regular earnings and comparative comfort, and to describe the general conditions under which each class lives. 

 If the facts thus stated are of use in helping social reformers to find remedies for the evils which exist, or do anything to prevent the adoption of false remedies, my purpose is answered. It was not my intention to bring forward any suggestions of my own, and if I have ventured here and there, and especially in the concluding chapters, to go beyond my programme, it has been with much hesitation. 

 With regard to the disadvantages under which the poor labour, and the evils of poverty, there is a great sense of helplessness: the wage earners are helpless to regulate their work and cannot obtain a fair equivalent for the labour they are willing to give; the manufacturer or dealer can only work within the limits of competition; the rich are helpless to relieve want without stimulating its sources. To relieve this helplessness a better stating of the problems involved is the first step.... In this direction must be sought the utility of my attempt to analyze the population of a part of London. [44]

This vast study did, indeed, throw great light, not only upon poverty inLondon, but upon human nature in general. On the other hand, it raisedmore questions than it settled and, if it demonstrated anything, it wasthe necessity, as Booth suggests, for a restatement of the problem. 

Sociology seems now, however, in a way to become, in some fashion orother, an experimental science. It will become so as soon as it canstate existing problems in such a way that the results in one case willdemonstrate what can and should be done in another. Experiments aregoing on in every field of social life, in industry, in politics, and inreligion. In all these fields men are guided by some implicit orexplicit theory of the situation, but this theory is not often stated inthe form of a hypothesis and subjected to a test of the negativeinstances. We have, if it is permitted to make a distinction betweenthem, investigation rather than research. 

What, then, in the sense in which the expression is here used, is socialresearch? A classification of problems will be a sort of first aid inthe search for an answer. 

1. _Classification of social problems. _--Every society and every socialgroup, _capable of consistent action_, may be regarded as anorganization of the wishes of its members. This means that society restson, and embodies, the appetites and natural desires of the individualman; but it implies, also, that wishes, in becoming _organized_, arenecessarily disciplined and controlled in the interest of the group as awhole. 

Every such society or social group, even the most ephemeral, willordinarily have (a) some relatively formal method of defining its aimand formulating its policies, making them explicit, and (b) somemachinery, functionary, or other arrangement for realizing its aim andcarrying its policies into effect. Even in the family there isgovernment, and this involves something that corresponds to legislation, adjudication, and administration. 

Social groups, however, maintain their organizations, agencies, and allformal methods of behavior on a basis and in a setting of instinct, ofhabit, and of tradition which we call human nature. Every social grouphas, or tends to have, its own culture, what Sumner calls "folkways, "and this culture, imposing its patterns upon the natural man, gives himthat particular individuality which characterizes the members of groups. Not races merely but nationalities and classes have marks, manners, andpatterns of life by which we infallibly recognize and classify them. 

Social problems may be conveniently classified with reference to thesethree aspects of group life, that is to say, problems of (a)organization and administration, (b) policy and polity (legislation), and (c) human nature (culture). 

a) Administrative problems are mainly practical and technical. Mostproblems of government, of business and social welfare, are technical. The investigations, i. E. , social surveys, made in different parts of thecountry by the Bureau of Municipal Research of New York City, arestudies of local administration made primarily for the purpose ofimproving the efficiency of an existing administrative machine and itspersonnel rather than of changing the policy or purpose of theadministration itself. 

b) Problems of policy, in the sense in which that term is used here, are political and legislative. Most social investigations in recentyears have been made in the interest of some legislative program or forthe purpose of creating a more intelligent public opinion in regard tocertain local problems. The social surveys conducted by the SageFoundation, as distinguished from those carried out by the New YorkBureau of Municipal Research, have been concerned with problems ofpolicy, i. E. , with changing the character and policy of socialinstitutions rather than improving their efficiency. This distinctionbetween administration and policy is not always clear, but it is alwaysimportant. Attempts at reform usually begin with an effort to correctadministrative abuses, but eventually it turns out that reforms must godeeper and change the character of the institutions themselves. 

c) Problems of human nature are naturally fundamental to all othersocial problems. Human nature, as we have begun to conceive it in recentyears, is largely a product of social intercourse; it is, therefore, quite as much as society itself, a subject for sociologicalinvestigation. Until recent years, what we are now calling the humanfactor has been notoriously neglected in most social experiments. Wehave been seeking to reform human nature while at the same time werefused to reckon with it. It has been assumed that we could bring aboutsocial changes by merely formulating our wishes, that is, by "arousing"public opinion and formulating legislation. This is the "democratic"method of effecting reforms. The older "autocratic" method merelydecreed social changes upon the authority of the monarch or the rulingclass. What reconciled men to it was that, like Christian Science, itfrequently worked. 

 The oldest but most persistent form of social technique is that of "ordering-and-forbidding"--that is, meeting a crisis by an arbitrary act of will decreeing the disappearance of the undesirable or the appearance of the desirable phenomena, and the using arbitrary physical action to enforce the decree. This method corresponds exactly to the magical phase of natural technique. In both, the essential means of bringing a determined effect is more or less consciously thought to reside in the act of will itself by which the effect is decreed as desirable and of which the action is merely an indispensable vehicle or instrument; in both, the process by which the cause (act of will and physical action) is supposed to bring its effect to realization remains out of reach of investigation; in both, finally, if the result is not attained, some new act of will with new material accessories is introduced, instead of trying to find and remove the perturbing causes. A good instance of this in the social field is the typical legislative procedure of today. [45]

2. _Types of social group. _--The varied interests, fields ofinvestigation, and practical programs which find at present a placewithin the limits of the sociological discipline are united in havingone common object of reference, namely, _the concept of the socialgroup_. All social problems turn out finally to be problems of grouplife, although each group and each type of group has its owndistinctive problems. Illustrations may be gathered from the mostwidely separated fields to emphasize the truth of this assertion. [46]

Religious conversion may be interpreted from one point of view as achange from one social group to another. To use the language ofreligious sentiment, the convert "comes out of a life of sin and entersinto a life of grace. " To be sure, this change involves profounddisturbances of the personality, but permanence of the change in theindividual is assured by the breaking up of the old and theestablishment of new associations. So the process by which the immigrantmakes the transition from the old country to the new involves profoundchanges in thought and habit. In his case the change is likely to takeplace slowly, but it is not less radical on that account. 

The following paragraph from a recent social survey illustrates, from aquite different point of view, the manner in which the group is involvedin changes in community life. 

 In short, the greatest problem for the next few years in Stillwater is the development of a _community consciousness_. We must stop thinking in terms of city of Stillwater, and country outside of Stillwater, and think in terms of _Stillwater Community_. We must stop thinking in terms of small groups and think in terms of the entire community, no matter whether it is industry, health, education, recreation or religion. Anything which is good will benefit the entire community. Any weakness will be harmful to all. Community co-operation in all lines indicated in this report will make this, indeed, the Queen of the St. Croix. [47]

In this case the solution of the community problem was the creation of"community consciousness. " In the case of the professional criminal thecharacter of the problem is determined, if we accept the description ofa writer in the _Atlantic Monthly_, by the existence among professionalcriminals of a primary group consciousness:

 The professional criminal is peculiar in the sense that he lives a very intense emotional life. He is isolated in the community. He is in it, but not of it. His social life--for all men are social--is narrow; but just because it is narrow, it is extremely tense. He lives a life of warfare and has the psychology of the warrior. He is at war with the whole community. Except his very few friends in crime he trusts no one and fears everyone. Suspicion, fear, hatred, danger, desperation and passion are present in a more tense form in his life than in that of the average individual. He is restless, ill-humored, easily roused and suspicious. He lives on the brink of a deep precipice. This helps to explain his passionate hatred, his brutality, his fear, and gives poignant significance to the adage that dead men tell no tales. He holds on to his few friends with a strength and passion rare among people who live a more normal existence. His friends stand between him and discovery. They are his hold upon life, his basis of security. 

 Loyalty to one's group is the basic law in the underworld. Disloyalty is treason and punishable by death; for disloyalty may mean the destruction of one's friends; it may mean the hurling of the criminal over the precipice on which his whole life is built. 

 To the community the criminal is aggressive. To the criminal his life is one of defense primarily. The greater part of his energy, of his hopes, and of his successes, centres around escapes, around successful flight, around proper covering-up of his tracks, and around having good, loyal, and trustworthy friends to participate in his activities, who will tell no tales and keep the rest of the community outside. The criminal is thus, from his own point of view--and I am speaking of professional criminals--living a life of defensive warfare with the community; and the odds are heavy against him. He therefore builds up a defensive psychology against it--a psychology of boldness, bravado, and self-justification. The good criminal--which means the successful one, he who has most successfully carried through a series of depradations against the enemy, the common enemy, the public--is a hero. He is recognized as such, toasted and feasted, trusted and obeyed. But always by a little group. They live in a world of their own, a life of their own, with ideals, habits, outlook, beliefs, and associations which are peculiarly fitted to maintain the morale of the group. Loyalty, fearlessness, generosity, willingness to sacrifice one's self, perseverance in the face of prosecution, hatred of the common enemy--these are the elements that maintain the morale, but all of them are pointed against the community as a whole. [48]

The manner in which the principle of the primary group was applied atSing Sing in dealing with the criminal within the prison walls is astill more interesting illustration of the fact that social problems aregroup problems. [49]

Assuming, then, that every social group may be presumed to have its own(a) administrative, (b) legislative, and (c) human-natureproblems, these problems may be still further classified with referenceto the type of social group. Most social groups fall naturally into oneor the other of the following classes:

a) The family. 

b) Language (racial) groups. 

c) Local and territorial communities: (i) neighborhoods, (ii) ruralcommunities, (iii) urban communities. 

d) Conflict groups: (i) nationalities, (ii) parties, (iii) sects, (iv)labor organizations, (v) gangs, etc. 

e) Accommodation groups: (i) classes, (ii) castes, (iii) vocational, (iv) denominational groups. 

The foregoing classification is not quite adequate nor wholly logical. The first three classes are more closely related to one another thanthey are to the last two, i. E. , the so-called "accommodation" and"conflict" groups. The distinction is far-reaching, but its generalcharacter is indicated by the fact that the family, language, and localgroups are, or were originally, what are known as primary groups, thatis, groups organized on intimate, face-to-face relations. The conflictand accommodation groups represent divisions which may, to be sure, havearisen within the primary group, but which have usually arisenhistorically by the imposition of one primary group upon another. 

 Every state in history was or is a _state of classes_, a polity of superior and inferior social groups, based upon distinctions either of rank or of property. This phenomenon must, then, be called the "State. "[50]

It is the existence at any rate of conflict and accommodation within thelimits of a larger group which distinguishes it from groups based onprimary relations, and gives it eventually the character described as"secondary. "

When a language group becomes militant and self-conscious, it assumesthe character of a nationality. It is perhaps true, also, that thefamily which is large enough and independent enough to beself-conscious, by that fact assumes the character of a clan. Importantin this connection is the fact that a group in becoming group-consciouschanges its character. External conflict has invariably reactedpowerfully upon the internal organization of social groups. 

Group self-consciousness seems to be a common characteristic of conflictand accommodation groups and distinguishes them from the more elementaryforms of society represented by the family and the local community. 

3. _Organization and structure of social groups. _--Having a generalscheme for the classification of social groups, it is in order todiscover methods of analysis that are applicable to the study of alltypes of groups, from the family to the sect. Such a scheme of analysisshould reveal not only the organization and structure of typical groups, but it should indicate the relation of this organization and structureto those social problems that are actual and generally recognized. Thesort of facts which are now generally recognized as important in thestudy, not merely of society, but the problems of society are:

a) Statistics: numbers, local distribution, mobility, incidence ofbirths, deaths, disease, and crime. 

b) Institutions: local distribution, classification (i. E. , (i)industrial, (ii) religious, (iii) political, (iv) educational, (v)welfare and mutual aid), communal organization. 

c) Heritages: the customs and traditions transmitted by the group, particularly in relation to religion, recreation and leisure time, andsocial control (politics). 

d) Organization of public opinion: parties, sects, cliques, and thepress. 

4. _Social process and social progress. _--Social process is the name forall changes which can be regarded as changes in the life of the group. Agroup may be said to have a life when it has a history. Among socialprocesses we may distinguish (a) the historical, (b) the cultural, (c) the political, and (d) the economic. 

a) We describe as historical the processes by which the fund of socialtradition, which is the heritage of every permanent social group, isaccumulated and transmitted from one generation to another. 

History plays the rôle in the group of memory in the individual. Withouthistory social groups would, no doubt, rise and decline, but they wouldneither grow old nor make progress. 

Immigrants, crossing the ocean, leave behind them much of their localtraditions. The result is that they lose, particularly in the secondgeneration, that control which the family and group tradition formerlyexercised over them; but they are, for that very reason, all the moreopen to the influence of the traditions and customs of their adoptedcountry. 

b) If it is the function of the historical process to accumulate andconserve the common fund of social experience, it is the function of thecultural process to shape and define the social forms and the socialpatterns which each preceding generation imposes upon its successors. 

 The individual living in society has to fit into a pre-existing social world, to take part in the hedonistic, economic, political, religious, moral, aesthetic, intellectual activities of the group. For these activities the group has objective _systems_, more or less complex sets of schemes, organized either by traditional association or with a conscious regard to the greatest possible efficiency of the result, but with only a secondary, or even with no interest in the particular desires, abilities and experiences of the individuals who have to perform these activities. 

 There is no pre-existing harmony whatever between the individual and the social factors of personal evolution, and the fundamental tendencies of the individual are always in some disaccordance with the fundamental tendencies of social control. Personal evolution is always a struggle between the individual and society--a struggle for self-expression on the part of the individual, for his subjection on the part of society--and it is in the total course of this struggle that the personality--not as a static "essence" but as a dynamic, continually evolving set of activities--manifests and constructs itself. [51]

c) In general, standards of behavior that are in the mores are not thesubject of discussion, except so far as discussion is necessary todetermine whether this or that act falls under one or the other of theaccepted social sanctions. The political as distinguished from thecultural process is concerned with just those matters in regard to whichthere is division and difference. Politics is concerned with issues. 

The Negro, particularly in the southern states, is a constant theme ofpopular discussion. Every time a Negro finds himself in a new situation, or one in which the white population is unaccustomed to see him, thething provokes comment in both races. On the other hand, when asoutherner asks the question: "Would you want your daughter to marry aNegro?" it is time for discussion to cease. Any questions of relationsbetween the races can always be immediately disposed of as soon as it isseen to come, directly or indirectly, under the intolerable formula. Political questions are matters of compromise and expediency. Miscegenation, on the other hand, is contrary to the mores. As such therule against it is absolute. 

The political process, by which a society or social group formulates itswishes and enforces them, goes on within the limits of the mores and iscarried on by public discussion, legislation, and the adjudication ofthe courts. 

d) The economic process, so far as it can be distinguished from theproduction and distribution of goods, is the process by which prices aremade and an exchange of values is effected. Most values, i. E. , mypresent social status, my hopes of the future, and memory of the past, are personal and not values that can be exchanged. The economic processis concerned with values that can be treated as commodities. 

All these processes may, and do, arise within most but not every societyor social group. Commerce presupposes the freedom of the individual topursue his own profit, and commerce can take place only to the extentand degree that this freedom is permitted. Freedom of commerce is, however, limited on the one hand by the mores and on the other by formallaw, so that the economic process takes place ordinarily withinlimitations that are defined by the cultural and the politicalprocesses. It is only where there is neither a cultural nor a politicalorder that commerce is absolutely free. 

The areas of (1) the cultural, (2) the political, (3) the economicprocesses and their relations to one another may be represented byconcentric circles. 

In this representation the area of widest cultural influences iscoterminous with the area of commerce, because commerce in its widestextension is invariably carried on under some restraints of custom andcustomary law. Otherwise it is not commerce at all, but somethingpredacious outside the law. But if the area of the economic process isalmost invariably coterminous with the widest areas of culturalinfluence, it does not extend to the smaller social groups. As a ruletrade does not invade the family. Family interests are always personaleven when they are carried on under the forms of commerce. Primitivesociety, within the limits of the village, is usually communistic. Allvalues are personal, and the relations of individuals to one another, economic or otherwise, are preordained by custom and law. 

The impersonal values, values for exchange, seem to be in any givensociety or social group in inverse relation to the personal values. 

The attempt to describe in this large way the historical, cultural, political, and economic processes, is justified in so far as it enablesus to recognize that the aspects of social life, which are thesubject-matter of the special social sciences, i. E. , history, politicalscience, and economics, are involved in specific forms of change thatcan be viewed abstractly, formulated, compared, and related. The attemptto view them in their interrelations is at the same time an effort todistinguish and to see them as parts of one whole. 

[Illustration: FIG. 2

a = area of most extended cultural influences and of commerce; b =area of formal political control; c = area of purely personalrelationships, communism. ]

In contrast with the types of social change referred to there are otherchanges which are unilateral and progressive; changes which aredescribed popularly as "movements, " mass movements. These are changeswhich eventuate in new social organizations and institutions. 

All more marked forms of social change are associated with certainsocial manifestations that we call social unrest. Social unrest issues, under ordinary conditions, as an incident of new social contacts, and isan indication of a more lively tempo in the process of communication andinteraction. 

All social changes are preceded by a certain degree of social andindividual disorganization. This will be followed ordinarily undernormal conditions by a movement of reorganization. All progress impliesa certain amount of disorganization. In studying social changes, therefore, that, if not progressive, are at least unilateral, we areinterested in:

(1) Disorganization: accelerated mobility, unrest, disease, and crime asmanifestations and measures of social disorganization. 

(2) Social movements (reorganization) include: (a) crowd movements(i. E. , mobs, strikes, etc. ); (b) cultural revivals, religious andlinguistic; (c) fashion (changes in dress, convention, and socialritual); (d) reform (changes in social policy and administration);(e) revolutions (changes in institutions and the mores). 

5. _The individual and the person. _--The person is an individual who hasstatus. We come into the world as individuals. We acquire status, andbecome persons. Status means position in society. The individualinevitably has some status in every social group of which he is amember. In a given group the status of every member is determined by hisrelation to every other member of that group. Every smaller group, likewise, has a status in some larger group of which it is a part andthis is determined by its relation to all the other members of thelarger group. 

The individual's self-consciousness--his conception of his rôle insociety, his "self, " in short--while not identical with his personalityis an essential element in it. The individual's conception of himself, however, is based on his status in the social group or groups of whichhe is a member. The individual whose conception of himself does notconform to his status is an isolated individual. The completely isolatedindividual, whose conception of himself is in no sense an adequatereflection of his status, is probably insane. 

It follows from what is said that an individual may have many "selves"according to the groups to which he belongs and the extent to which eachof these groups is isolated from the others. It is true, also, that theindividual is influenced in differing degrees and in a specific manner, by the different types of group of which he is a member. This indicatesthe manner in which the personality of the individual may be studiedsociologically. 

Every individual comes into the world in possession of certaincharacteristic and relatively fixed behavior patterns which we callinstincts. This is his racial inheritance which he shares with allmembers of the species. He comes into the world, also, endowed withcertain undefined capacities for learning other forms of behavior, capacities which vary greatly in different individuals. These individualdifferences and the instincts are what is called original nature. [52]

Sociology is interested in "original nature" in so far as it suppliesthe raw materials out of which individual personalities and the socialorder are created. Both society and the persons who compose society arethe products of social processes working in and through the materialswhich each new generation of men contributes to it. 

Charles Cooley, who was the first to make the important distinctionbetween primary and secondary groups, has pointed out that the intimate, face-to-face associations of primary groups, i. E. , the family, theneighborhood, and the village community, are fundamental in forming thesocial nature and ideals of the individual. [53]

There is, however, an area of life in which the associations are moreintimate than those of the primary group as that group is ordinarilyconceived. Such are the relations between mother and child, particularlyin the period of infancy, and the relations between men and women underthe influence of the sexual instinct. These are the associations inwhich the most lasting affections and the most violent antipathies areformed. We may describe it as the area of touch relationships. 

Finally, there is the area of secondary contacts, in which relationshipsare relatively impersonal, formal, and conventional. It is in thisregion of social life that the individual gains, at the same time, apersonal freedom and an opportunity for distinction that is denied himin the primary group. 

As a matter of fact, many, if not most, of our present social problemshave their source and origin in the transition of great masses of thepopulation--the immigrants, for example--out of a society based onprimary group relationships into the looser, freer, and less controlledexistence of life in great cities. 

 The "moral unrest" so deeply penetrating all western societies, the growing vagueness and indecision of personalities, the almost complete disappearance of the "strong and steady character" of old times, in short, the rapid and general increase of Bohemianism and Bolshevism in all societies, is an effect of the fact that not only the early primary group controlling all interests of its members on the general social basis, not only the occupational group of the mediaeval type controlling most of the interests of its members on a professional basis, but even the special modern group dividing with many others the task of organizing permanently the attitudes of each of its members, is more and more losing ground. The pace of social evolution has become so rapid that special groups are ceasing to be permanent and stable enough to organize and maintain organized complexes of attitudes of their members which correspond to their common pursuits. In other words, society is gradually losing all its old machinery for the determination and stabilization of individual characters. [54]

Every social group tends to create, from the individuals that composeit, its own type of character, and the characters thus formed becomecomponent parts of the social structure in which they are incorporated. All the problems of social life are thus problems of the individual; andall problems of the individual are at the same time problems of thegroup. This point of view is already recognized in preventive medicine, and to some extent in psychiatry. It is not yet adequately recognized inthe technique of social case work. 

Further advance in the application of social principles to socialpractice awaits a more thoroughgoing study of the problems, systematicsocial research, and an experimental social science. 

REPRESENTATIVE WORKS IN SYSTEMATIC SOCIOLOGY AND METHODS OF SOCIOLOGICALRESEARCH

I. THE SCIENCE OF PROGRESS

(1) Comte, Auguste. _Cours de philosophie positive_, 5th ed. 6 vols. Paris, 1892. 

(2) ----. _Positive Philosophy. _ Translated by Harriet Martineau, 3d ed. London, 1893. 

(3) Spencer, Herbert. _Principles of Sociology. _ 3d ed. 3 vols. NewYork, 1906. 

(4) Schaeffle, Albert. _Bau und Leben des socialen Körpers. _ 2d ed. , 2vols. Tuebingen, 1896. 

(5) Lilienfeld, Paul von. _Gedanken über die Socialwissenschaft derZukunft. _ 5 vols. Mitau, 1873-81. 

(6) Ward, Lester F. _Dynamic Sociology. _ 2 vols. New York, 1883. 

(7) De Greef, Guillaume. _Introduction à la sociologie. _ 3 vols. Paris, 1886. 

(8) Worms, René. _Organisme et société. _ Paris, 1896. 

II. THE SCHOOLS

A. _Realists_

(1) Ratzenhofer, Gustav. _Die sociologische Erkenntnis. _ Leipzig, 1898. 

(2) Small, Albion W. _General Sociology. _ Chicago, 1905. 

(3) Durkheim, Émile. _De la Division du travail social. _ Paris, 1893. 

(4) Simmel, Georg. _Soziologie. _ Untersuchungen über die Formen derVergesellschaftung. Leipzig, 1908. 

(5) Cooley, Charles Horton. _Social Organization. _ A study of the largermind. New York, 1909. 

(6) Ellwood, Charles A. _Sociology and Its Psychological Aspects. _ NewYork and London, 1912. 

B. _Nominalists_

(1) Tarde, Gabriel. _Les Lois de l'imitation. _ Paris, 1895. 

(2) Giddings, Franklin H. _The Principles of Sociology. _ New York, 1896. 

(3) Ross, Edward Alsworth. _The Principles of Sociology. _ New York, 1920. 

C. _Collective Behavior_

(1) Le Bon, Gustave. _The Crowd. _ A study of the popular mind. New York, 1903. 

(2) Sighele, Scipio. _Psychologie des sectes. _ Paris, 1898. 

(3) Tarde, Gabriel. _L'Opinion et la foule. _ Paris, 1901. 

(4) McDougall, William. _The Group Mind. _ Cambridge, 1920. 

(5) Vincent, George E. _The Social Mind and Education. _ New York, 1897. 

III. METHODS OF SOCIOLOGICAL INVESTIGATION

A. _Critical Observation on Methods of Research_

(1) Small, Albion W. _The Meaning of Social Science. _ Chicago, 1910. 

(2) Durkheim, Émile. _Les Règles de la méthode sociologique. _ Paris, 1904. 

(3) Thomas, W. I. , and Znaniecki, F. _The Polish Peasant in Europe andAmerica. _ "Methodological Note, " I, 1-86. 5 vols. Boston, 1918-20. 

B. _Studies of Communities_

(1) Booth, Charles. _Labour and Life of the People: London. _ 2 vols. London, 1891. 

(2) ----. _Life and Labour of the People in London. _ 9 vols. London, 1892-97. 8 additional vols. London, 1902. 

(3) _The Pittsburgh Survey. _ Edited by Paul U. Kellogg. 6 vols. RussellSage Foundation. New York, 1909-14. 

(4) _The Springfield Survey. _ Edited by Shelby M. Harrison. 3 vols. Russell Sage Foundation. New York, 1918-20. 

(5) _Americanization Studies of the Carnegie Corporation of New York. _Edited by Allen T. Burns. 10 vols. New York, 1920-21. 

(6) Chapin, F. Stuart. _Field Work and Social Research. _ New York, 1920. 

C. _Studies of the Individual_

(1) Healy, William. _The Individual Delinquent. _ Boston, 1915. 

(2) Thomas, W. I. , and Znaniecki, F. _The Polish Peasant in Europe andAmerica. _ "Life Record of an Immigrant, " Vol. III. Boston, 1919. 

(3) Richmond, Mary. _Social Diagnosis. _ Russell Sage Foundation. NewYork, 1917. 

IV. PERIODICALS

(1) _American Journal of Sociology. _ Chicago, University of ChicagoPress, 1896-. 

(2) _American Sociological Society, Papers and Proceedings. _ Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1907-. 

(3) _Annales de l'institut international de sociologie. _ Paris, M. Giardet Cie. , 1895. 

(4) _L'Année sociologique. _ Paris, F. Alcan, 1898-1912. 

(5) _The Indian Journal of Sociology. _ Baroda, India, The College, 1920-. 

(6) _Kölner Vierteljahrshefte für Sozialwissenschaften. _ Leipzig andMünchen, Duncker und Humblot, 1921-. 

(7) _Rivista italiana di sociologia. _ Roma, Fratelli Bocca, 1897-. 

(8) _Revue del'institut de sociologie. _ Bruxelles, l'Institut deSociologie, 1920-. [Successor to _Bulletin del'institut de sociologieSolvay_. Bruxelles, 1910-14. ]

(9) _Revue internationale de sociologie. _ Paris, M. Giard et Cie. , 1893-. 

(10) _The Sociological Review. _ Manchester, Sherratt and Hughes, 1908-. [Preceded by Sociological Papers, Sociological Society, London, 1905-7. ]

(11) _Schmollers Jahrbuch für Gesetzgebung, Verwaltung undVolkswirtschaft im deutschen Reiche. _ Leipzig, Duncker und Humblot, 1877-. 

(12) _Zeitschrift für Sozialwissenschaft. _ Berlin, G. Reimer, 1898-. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. Comte's Conception of Humanity

2. Herbert Spencer on the Social Organism

3. The Social Process as Defined by Small

4. Imitation and Like-mindedness as Fundamental Social Facts

5. Social Control as a Sociological Problem

6. Group Consciousness and the Group Mind

7. Investigation and Research as Illustrated by the Pittsburgh Surveyand the Carnegie Americanization Studies

8. The Concept of the Group in Sociology

9. The Person, Personality, and Status

10. Sociology in Its Relation to Economics and to Politics

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. What do you understand was Comte's purpose in demanding for sociologya place among the sciences?

2. Are social phenomena susceptible to scientific prevision? Comparewith physical phenomena. 

3. What is Comte's order of the sciences? What is your explanation forthe late appearance of sociology in the series?

4. What do you understand by the term "positive" when applied to thesocial sciences?

5. Can sociology become positive without becoming experimental?

6. "Natural science emphasizes the abstract, the historian is interestedin the concrete. " Discuss. 

7. How do you distinguish between the historical method and the methodof natural science in dealing with the following phenomena: (a)electricity, (b) plants, (c) cattle, (d) cities?

8. Distinguish between history, natural history, and natural science. 

9. Is Westermarck's _Origin and Development of the Moral Ideas_ history, natural history, or sociology? Why?

10. "History is past politics, politics is present history. " Do youagree? Elaborate your position. 

11. What is the value of history to the person?

12. Classify the following formulas of behavior under either (a)natural law (social law in the scientific sense), and (b) moral law(customary sanction, ethical principles), (c) civil law: "birds of afeather flock together"; "thou shalt not kill"; an ordinance againstspeeding; "honesty is the best policy"; monogamy; imitation tends tospread in geometric ratio; "women first"; the Golden Rule; "walk in thetrodden paths"; the federal child-labor statute. 

13. Give an illustration of a sociological hypothesis. 

14. Of the following statements of fact, which are historical and whichsociological?

Auguste Comte suffered from myopia. 

"Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. "

"Science works not at all for nationality or its spirit. It makesentirely for cosmopolitanism. "

15. How would you verify each of the foregoing statements? Distinguishbetween the sociological and historical methods of verification. 

16. Is the use of the comparative method that of history or that ofnatural science?

17. "The social organism: humanity or Leviathan?" What is your reactionto this alternative? Why?

18. What was the difference in the conception of the social organismheld by Comte and that held by Spencer?

19. "How does a mere collection of individuals succeed in acting in acorporate and consistent way?" What was the answer to this questiongiven by Hobbes, Aristotle, Worms?

20. "Man and society are at the same time products of nature and ofhuman artifice. " Explain. 

21. What are the values and limitations of the following explanations ofthe control of the group over the behavior of its members: (a)homogeneity, (b) like-mindedness, (c) imitation, (d) commonpurpose?

22. What bearing have the facts of a panic or a stampede upon thetheories of like-mindedness, imitation, and common purpose asexplanations of group behavior?

23. "The characteristic social phenomenon is just this control by thegroup as a whole of the individuals which compose it. This fact ofcontrol is the fundamental social fact. " Give an illustration of thecontrol of the group over its members. 

24. What is the difference between group mind and group consciousness asindicated in current usage in the phrases "urban mind, " "rural mind, ""public mind, " "race consciousness, " "national consciousness, " "classconsciousness"?

25. What do you understand by "a group in being"? Compare with thenautical expression "a fleet in being. " Is "a fleet in being" a socialorganism? Has it a "social mind" and "social consciousness" in the sensethat we speak of "race consciousness", for example, or "groupconsciousness"?

26. In what sense is public opinion objective? Analyze a selected casewhere the opinion of the group as a whole is different from the opinionof its members as individuals. 

27. For what reason was the fact of "social control" interpreted interms of "the collective mind"?

28. Which is the social reality (a) that society is a collection oflike-minded persons, or (b) that society is a process and a product ofinteraction? What is the bearing upon this point of the quotation fromDewey: "Society may fairly be said to exist in transmission"?

29. What three steps were taken in the transformation of sociology froma philosophy of history to a science of society?

30. What value do you perceive in a classification of social problems?

31. Classify the following studies under (a) administrative problemsor (b) problems of policy or (c) problems of human nature: a surveyto determine the feasibility of health insurance to meet the problem ofsickness; an investigation of the police force; a study of attitudestoward war; a survey of the contacts of racial groups; an investigationfor the purpose of improving the technique of workers in a socialagency; a study of the experiments in self-government among prisoners inpenal institutions. 

32. Is the description of great cities as "social laboratories" metaphoror fact?

33. What do you understand by the statement: Sociology will become anexperimental science as soon as it can state its problems in such a waythat the results in one instance show what can be done in another?

34. What would be the effect upon political life if sociology were ableto predict with some precision the effects of political action, forexample, the effect of prohibition?

35. Would you favor turning over the government to control of experts assoon as sociology became a positive science? Explain. 

36. How far may the politician who makes a profession of controllingelections be regarded as a practicing sociologist?

37. What is the distinction between sociology as an art and as ascience?

38. Distinguish between research and investigation as the terms are usedin the text. 

39. What illustrations in American society occur to you of the (a)autocratic and (b) democratic methods of social change?

40. "All social problems turn out finally to be problems of group life. "Are there any exceptions?

41. Select twelve groups at random and enter under the heads in theclassification of social groups. What groups are difficult to classify?

42. Study the organization and structure of one of the foregoing groupsin terms of (a) statistical facts about it; (b) its institutionalaspect; (c) its heritages; and (d) its collective opinion. 

43. "All progress implies a certain amount of disorganization. " Explain. 

44. What do you understand to be the differences between the varioussocial processes: (a) historical, (b) cultural, (c) economic, (d) political?

45. What is the significance of the relative diameters of the areas ofthe cultural, political, and economic processes?

46. "The person is an individual who has status. " Does an animal havestatus?

47. "In a given group the status of every member is determined by hisrelation to every other member of that group. " Give an illustration. 

48. Why are the problems of the person, problems of the group as well?

49. What does the organization of the bibliography and the sequence ofthe volumes referred to suggest in regard to the development ofsociological science?

50. How far does it seem to you that the emphasis upon process ratherthan progress accounts for the changes which have taken place in thesociological theory and point of view?

FOOTNOTES:

[2] From Robert E. Park, "Sociology and the Social Sciences, " _AmericanJournal of Sociology_, XXVI (1920-21), 401-24; XXVII (1921-22), 1-21;169-83. 

[3] Harriet Martineau, _The Positive Philosophy of Auguste Comte_, freely translated and condensed (London, 1893), II, 61. 

[4] Harriet Martineau, _op. Cit. _, II, 59-61. 

[5] Montesquieu, Baron M. De Secondat, _The Spirit of Laws_, translatedby Thomas Nugent (Cincinnati, 1873), I, xxxi. 

[6] David Hume, _Inquiry Concerning Human Understanding_, Part II, sec. 7. 

[7] Condorcet, _Esquisse d'un tableau historique des progrès de l'esprithumain_ (1795), 292. See Paul Barth, _Die Philosophie der Geschichte alsSociologie_ (Leipzig, 1897), Part I, pp. 21-23. 

[8] _Oeuvres de Saint-Simon et d'Enfantin_ (Paris, 1865-78), XVII, 228. Paul Barth, _op. Cit. _, Part I, p. 23. 

[9] Henry Adams, _The Degradation of the Democratic Dogma_ (New York, 1919), p. 126. 

[10] James Harvey Robinson, _The New History, Essays Illustrating theModern Historical Outlook_ (New York, 1912), pp. 54-55. 

[11] James Harvey Robinson, _op. Cit. _, p. 83. 

[12] Wilhelm Windelband, _Geschichte und Naturwissenschaft, Rede zumAntritt des Rectorats der Kaiser-Wilhelms Universität Strassburg_(Strassburg, 1900). The logical principle outlined by Windelband hasbeen further elaborated by Heinrich Rickert in _Die Grenzen dernaturwissenschaftlichen Begriffsbildung, eine logische Einleitung in diehistorischen Wissenschaften_ (Tübingen u. Leipzig, 1902). See alsoGeorg Simmel, _Die Probleme der Geschichtsphilosophie, eineerkenntnistheoretische Studie_ (2d ed. , Leipzig, 1915). 

[13] J. Arthur Thomson, _The System of Animate Nature_ (New York, 1920), pp. 8-9. See also Karl Pearson, _The Grammar of Science_ (2d ed. ;London, 1900), chap. Iii, "The Scientific Law. "

[14] Karl Pearson, _op. Cit. _, p. 359. 

[15] Henry Adams, _op. Cit. _, p. 127. 

[16] Professor Robertson Smith (_Nature_, XLIV, 270), criticizingWestermarck's _History of Human Marriage_, complains that the author hasconfused history with natural history. "The history of an institution, "he writes, "which is controlled by public opinion and regulated by lawis not natural history. The true history of marriage begins where thenatural history of pairing ends.... To treat these topics (polyandry, kinship through the female only, infanticide, exogamy) as essentially apart of the natural history of pairing involves a tacit assumption thatthe laws of society are at bottom mere formulated instincts, and thisassumption really underlies all our author's theories. His fundamentalposition compels him, if he will be consistent with himself, to holdthat every institution connected with marriage that has universalvalidity, or forms an integral part of the main line of development, isrooted in instinct, and that institutions which are not based oninstinct are necessarily exceptional and unimportant for scientifichistory. "

[17] Edward Westermarck, _The History of Human Marriage_ (London, 1901), p. 1. 

[18] _Ibid. _, p. 5. 

[19] Jane Ellen Harrison, _Themis_, _A Study of the Social Origins ofGreek Religion_ (Cambridge, 1912), p. Ix. 

[20] Robert H. Lowie, _Primitive Society_ (New York, 1920), pp. 7-8. 

[21] Wilhelm Wundt, _Völkerpsychologie, eine Untersuchung derEntwicklungsgesetze von Sprache, Mythus und Sitte_. Erster Band, _DieSprache_, Erster Theil (Leipzig, 1900), p. 13. The name folk-psychologywas first used by Lazarus and Steinthal, _Zeitschrift fürVölkerpsychologie und Sprachwissenschaft_, I, 1860. Wundt'sfolk-psychology is a continuation of the tradition of these earlierwriters. 

[22] G. Tarde, _Social Laws, An Outline of Sociology_, translated fromthe French by Howard C. Warren (New York, 1899), pp. 40-41. 

[23] Hanns Oertel, "Some Present Problems and Tendencies in ComparativePhilology, " _Congress of Arts and Science, Universal Exposition, St. Louis, 1904_ (Boston, 1906), III, 59. 

[24] Edward A. Freeman, _Comparative Politics_ (London, 1873), p. 23. 

[25] L. Lévy-Bruhl, _The Philosophy of Auguste Comte_, authorizedtranslation; an Introduction by Frederic Harrison (New York, 1903), p. 337. 

[26] _Ibid. _, p. 234. 

[27] Hobbes's statement is as follows: "For by art is created that great_Leviathan_ called a _Commonwealth_, or _State_, in Latin _Civitas_, which is but an artificial man; though of greater stature and strengththan the natural, for whose protection and defence it was intended; andin which the _sovereignty_ is an artificial _soul_, as giving life andmotion to the whole body; the _magistrates_, and other _officers_ ofjudicature, artificial _joints_; _reward_ and _punishment_, by whichfastened to the seat of the sovereignty every joint and member is movedto perform his duty, are the _nerves_, that do the same in the bodynatural. " Spencer criticizes this conception of Hobbes as representingsociety as a "factitious" and artificial rather than a "natural"product. Herbert Spencer, _The Principles of Sociology_ (London, 1893), I, 437, 579-80. See also chap. Iii, "Social Growth, " pp. 453-58. 

[28] Herbert Spencer, _op. Cit. _, I, 437. 

[29] _Ibid. _, p. 440. 

[30] _Ibid. _, p. 450. 

[31] _Ibid. _, pp. 449-50. 

[32] _Westminster Review_, January, 1860. 

[33] René Worms, _Organisme et Société_, "Bibliothèque SociologiqueInternationale" (Paris, 1896), pp. 210-13. 

[34] W. Trotter, _Instincts of the Herd in Peace and War_ (New York, 1916), pp. 29-30. 

[35] _Ibid. _, pp. 40-41. 

[36] Franklin Henry Giddings, _The Concepts and Methods of Sociology_, Congress of Arts and Science, Universal Exposition (St. Louis, 1904), pp. 789-90. 

[37] G. Tarde, _op. Cit. _, pp. 38-39. 

[38] Émile Durkheim, _Elementary Forms of Religious Life_ (New York, 1915), pp. 206-8. 

[39] John Dewey, _Democracy and Education_ (New York, 1916), p. 5. 

[40] _Ibid. _, pp. 6-7. 

[41] Émile Durkheim, "Représentations individuelles et représentationscollectives, " _Revue métaphysique_, VI (1898), 295. Quoted andtranslated by Charles Elmer Gehlke, "Émile Durkheim's Contributions toSociological Theory, " _Studies in History, Economics, and Public Law_, LXIII, 29-30. 

[42] Bliss Perry, _The American Mind_ (Boston, 1912), p. 47. 

[43] James Mark Baldwin, _Mental Development in the Child and the Race_(New York and London, 1895); Charles A. Ellwood, _Sociology in ItsPsychological Aspects_ (New York and London, 1912). 

[44] _Labour and Life of the People_ (London, 1889), I, pp. 6-7. 

[45] Thomas and Znaniecki, _The Polish Peasant in Europe and America_(Boston, 1918), I, 3. 

[46] Walter B. Bodenhafer, "The Comparative Rôle of the Group Concept inWard's Dynamic Sociology and Contemporary American Sociology, " _AmericanJournal of Sociology_, XXVI (1920-21), 273-314; 425-74; 588-600; 716-43. 

[47] _Stillwater, the Queen of the St. Croix_, a report of a socialsurvey, published by The Community Service of Stillwater, Minnesota, 1920, p. 71. 

[48] Frank Tannenbaum, "Prison Democracy, " _Atlantic Monthly_, October, 1920, pp. 438-39. (Psychology of the criminal group. )

[49] _Ibid. _, pp. 443-46. 

[50] Franz Oppenheimer, _The State_ (Indianapolis, 1914), p. 5. 

[51] Thomas and Znaniecki, _op. Cit. _, III, 34-36. 

[52] Original nature in its relation to social welfare and humanprogress has been made the subject-matter of a special science, eugenics. For a criticism of the claims of eugenics as a social sciencesee Leonard T. Hobhouse, _Social Evolution and Political Theory_(Columbia University Press, 1917). 

[53] Charles H. Cooley, _Social Organization_, p. 28. 

[54] Thomas and Znaniecki, _op. Cit. _, III, 63-64. 

CHAPTER II

HUMAN NATURE

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Human Interest in Human Nature

The human interest in human nature is proverbial. It is an originaltendency of man to be attentive to the behavior of other human beings. Experience heightens this interest because of the dependence of theindividual upon other persons, not only for physical existence, but forsocial life. 

The literature of every people is to a large extent but thecrystallization of this persistent interest. Old saws and proverbs ofevery people transmit from generation to generation shrewdgeneralizations upon human behavior. In joke and in epigram, incaricature and in burlesque, in farce and in comedy, men of all racesand times have enjoyed with keen relish the humor of the contrastbetween the conventional and the natural motives in behavior. In Greekmythology, individual traits of human nature are abstracted, idealized, and personified into gods. The heroes of Norse sagas and Teutoniclegends are the gigantic symbols of primary emotions and sentiments. Historical characters live in the social memory not alone because theyare identified with political, religious, or national movements but alsobecause they have come to typify human relationships. The loyalty ofDamon and Pythias, the grief of Rachel weeping for her children, thecynical cruelty of the egocentric Nero, the perfidy of Benedict Arnold, the comprehending sympathy of Abraham Lincoln, are proverbial, and assuch have become part of the common language of all the peoples whoparticipate in our occidental culture. 

Poetry, drama, and the plastic arts are interesting and significant onlyso far as they reveal in new and ever changing circumstances theunchanging characteristics of a fundamental human nature. Illustrationsof this naïve and unreflecting interest in the study of mankind arefamiliar enough in the experience and observation of any of us. Intellectual interest in, and the scientific observation of, humantraits and human behavior have their origin in this natural interest andunreflective observation by man of his fellows. History, ethnology, folklore, all the comparative studies of single cultural traits, i. E. , of language, of religion, and of law, are but the more systematicpursuit of this universal interest of mankind in man. 

2. Definition of Human Nature

The natural history of the expression "human nature" is interesting. Usage has given it various shades of meaning. In defining the term moreprecisely there is a tendency either unwarrantedly to narrow or undulyto extend and overemphasize some one or another of the different sensesof the term. A survey of these varied uses reveals the common andfundamental meaning of the phrase. 

The use which common sense makes of the term human nature issignificant. It is used in varied contexts with the most divergentimplications but always by way of explanation of behavior that ischaracteristically human. The phrase is sometimes employed with cynicaldeprecation as, "Oh, that's human nature. " Or as often, perhaps, as anexpression of approbation, "He's so human. "

The weight of evidence as expressed in popular sayings is distinctly indepreciation of man's nature. 

 It's human natur', p'raps, --if so, Oh, isn't human natur' low, are two lines from Gilbert's musical comedy "Babette's Love. " "To err ishuman, to forgive divine" reminds us of a familiar contrast. "Humannature is like a bad clock; it might go right now and then, or be madeto strike the hour, but its inward frame is to go wrong, " is a similethat emphasizes the popular notion that man's behavior tends to theperverse. An English divine settles the question with the statement, "Human nature is a rogue and a scoundrel, or why would it perpetuallystand in need of laws and religion?"

Even those who see good in the natural man admit his native tendency toerr. Sir Thomas Browne asserts that "human nature knows naturally whatis good but naturally pursues what is evil. " The Earl of Clarendon givesthe equivocal explanation that "if we did not take great pains tocorrupt our nature, our nature would never corrupt us. " Addison, fromthe detached position of an observer and critic of manners and men, concludes that "as man is a creature made up of different extremes, hehas something in him very great and very mean. "

The most commonly recognized distinction between man and the loweranimals lies in his possession of reason. Yet familiar sayings tend toexclude the intellectual from the human attributes. Lord Bacon shrewdlyremarks that "there is in human nature, generally, more of the fool thanof the wise. " The phrase "he is a child of nature" means that behaviorin social relations is impulsive, simple, and direct rather thanreflective, sophisticated, or consistent. Wordsworth depicts this humantype in his poem "She Was a Phantom of Delight":

 A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. 

The inconsistency between the rational professions and the impulsivebehavior of men is a matter of common observation. "That's not thelogic, reason, or philosophy of it, but it's the human nature of it. " Itis now generally recognized that the older English conception of the"economic man" and the "rational man, " motivated by enlightenedself-interest, was far removed from the "natural man" impelled byimpulse, prejudice, and sentiment, in short, by human nature. Popularcriticism has been frequently directed against the reformer in politics, the efficiency expert in industry, the formalist in religion and moralson the ground that they overlook or neglect the so-called "human factor"in the situation. Sir Arthur Helps says:

 No doubt hard work is a great police-agent; if everybody were worked from morning till night, and then carefully locked up, the register of crimes might be greatly diminished. But what would become of human nature? Where would be the room for growth in such a system of things? It is through sorrow and mirth, plenty and need, a variety of passions, circumstances, and temptations, even through sin and misery, that men's natures are developed. 

Certain sayings already quoted imply that the nature of man is a fact tobe reckoned with in controlling his behavior. "There are limits to humannature" which cannot lightly be overstepped. "Human nature, " accordingto Periander, "is hard to overcome. " Yet we also recognize with Swiftthat "it is the talent of human nature to run from one extreme toanother. " Finally, nothing is more trite and familiar than the statementthat "human nature is the same all over the world. " This fundamentallikeness of human nature, despite artificial and superficial culturaldifferences, has found a classic expression in Kipling's line: "TheColonel's Lady an' Judy O'Grady are sisters under their skins!"

Human nature, then, as distinct from the formal wishes of the individualand the conventional order of society, is an aspect of human life thatmust be reckoned with. Common sense has long recognized this, but untilrecently no systematic attempt has been made to _isolate_, describe, andexplain the distinctively human factors in the life either of theindividual or of society. 

Of all that has been written on this subject the most adequate statementis that of Cooley. He has worked out with unusual penetration andpeculiar insight an interpretation of human nature as a product of grouplife. 

 By human nature we may understand those sentiments and impulses that are human in being superior to those of lower animals, and also in the sense that they belong to mankind at large, and not to any particular race or time. It means, particularly, sympathy and the innumerable sentiments into which sympathy enters, such as love, resentment, ambition, vanity, hero-worship, and the feeling of social right and wrong. 

 Human nature in this sense is justly regarded as a comparatively permanent element in society. Always and everywhere men seek honor and dread ridicule, defer to public opinion, cherish their goods and their children, and admire courage, generosity, and success. It is always safe to assume that people are and have been human. 

 Human nature is not something existing separately in the individual, but a _group nature or primary phase of society_, a relatively simple and general condition of the social mind. It is something more, on the one hand, than the mere instinct that is born in us--though that enters into it--and something less, on the other, than the more elaborate development of ideas and sentiments that makes up institutions. It is the nature which is developed and expressed in those simple, face-to-face groups that are somewhat alike in all societies; groups of the family, the playground, and the neighborhood. In the essential similarity of these is to be found the basis, in experience, for similar ideas and sentiments in the human mind. In these, everywhere, human nature comes into existence. Man does not have it at birth; he cannot acquire it except through fellowship, and it decays in isolation. [55]

3. Classification of the Materials

With the tacit acceptance by biologists, psychologists, and sociologistsof human behavior as a natural phenomenon, materials upon human naturehave rapidly accumulated. The wealth and variety of these materials areall the greater because of the diversity of the points of view fromwhich workers in this field have attacked the problem. The value of theresults of these investigations is enhanced when they are broughttogether, classified, and compared. 

The materials fall naturally into two divisions: (a) "The OriginalNature of Man" and (b) "Human Nature and Social Life. " This divisionis based upon a distinction between traits that are inborn andcharacters socially acquired; a distinction found necessary by studentsin this field. Selections under the third heading, "Personality and theSocial Self" indicate the manner in which the individual develops underthe social influences, from the raw material of "instinct" into thesocial product "the person. " Materials in the fourth division, "Biological and Social Inheritance, " contrast the method of thetransmission of original tendencies through the germ plasm with thecommunication of the social heritage through education. 

a) _The original nature of man. _--No one has stated more clearly thanThorndike that human nature is a product of two factors, (a)tendencies to response rooted in original nature and (b) theaccumulated effects of the stimuli of the external and socialenvironment. At birth man is a bundle of random tendencies to respond. Through experience, and by means of the mechanisms of habit andcharacter, control is secured over instinctive reactions. In otherwords, the original nature of man is, as Comte said, an abstraction. Itexists only in the psychic vacuum of antenatal life, or perhaps only inthe potentiality of the germ plasm. The fact of observation is that thestructure of the response is irrevocably changed in the process ofreaction to the stimulus. The _Biography of a Baby_ gives a concretepicture of the development of the plastic infant in the environment ofthe social group. 

The three papers on differences between sexes, races, and individualsserve as an introduction into the problem of differentiating the aspectsof behavior which are in _original nature_ from those that are_acquired_ through social experience. Are the apparent differencesbetween men and women, white and colored, John and James, those whicharise from differences in the germ plasm or from differences ineducation and in cultural contacts? The selections must not be taken asgiving the final word upon the subject. At best they represent merelythe conclusions reached by three investigators. Attempts to arrive atpositive differences in favor either of original nature or of educationare frequently made in the interest of preconceived opinion. Theproblem, as far as science is concerned, is to discover what limitationsoriginal nature places upon response to social copies, and the ways inwhich the inborn potentialities find expression or repression indiffering types of social environment. 

b) _Human nature and social life. _--Original nature is represented inhuman responses in so far as they are determined by the _innatestructure of the individual organism_. The materials assembled underthis head treat of inborn reactions as influenced, modified, andreconstructed by the _structure of the social organization_. 

The actual reorganization of human nature takes place in response to thefolkways and mores, the traditions and conventions, of the group. Sopotentially fitted for social life is the natural man, however, somanifold are the expressions that the plastic original tendencies maytake, that instinct is replaced by habit, precedent, personal taboo, andgood form. This remade structure of human nature, this objective mind, as Hegel called it, is fixed and transmitted in the folkways and mores, social ritual, i. E. , _Sittlichkeit_, to use the German word, andconvention. 

c) _Personality and the social self. _--The selections upon"Personality and the Social Self" bring together and compare thedifferent definitions of the term. These definitions fall under threeheads:

(1) _The organism as personality:_ This is a biological statement, satisfactory as a definition only as preparatory to further analysis. 

(2) _Personality as a complex:_ Personality defined in terms of theunity of mental life is a conception that has grown up in the recent"individual psychology, " so called. Personality includes, in this case, not only the memories of the individual and his stream ofconsciousness, but also the characteristic organization of mentalcomplexes and trends which may be thought of as a supercomplex. Thephenomena of double and multiple personalities occur when this unitybecomes disorganized. Disorganization in releasing groups of complexesfrom control may even permit the formation of independent organizations. Morton Prince's book _The Dissociation of a Personality_ is a classiccase study of multiple personality. The selections upon "The NaturalPerson versus the Social and Conventional Person" and "The Divided Selfand the Moral Consciousness" indicate the more usual and less extremeconflicts of opposing sentiments and interests within the organizationof personality. 

(3) _Personality as the rôle of the individual in the group:_ The wordpersonality is derived from the Latin _persona_, a mask used by actors. The etymology of the term suggests that its meaning is to be found inthe rôle of the individual in the social group. By usage, personalitycarries the implication of the social expression of behavior. Personality may then be defined as the sum and organization of thosetraits which determine the rôle of the individual in the group. Thefollowing is a classification of the characteristics of the person whichaffect his social status and efficiency:

 (a) physical traits, as physique, physiognomy, etc. ; (b) temperament; (c) character; (d) social expression, as by facial expression, gesture, manner, speech, writing, etc. ; (e) prestige, as by birth, past success, status, etc. ; (f) the individual's conception of his rôle. 

The significance of these traits consists in the way in which they enterinto the rôle of the individual in his social milieu. Chief among thesemay be considered the individual's conception of the part which he playsamong his fellows. Cooley's discriminating description of "thelooking-glass self" offers a picture of the process by which the personconceives himself in terms of the attitudes of others toward him. 

 The reflected or looking-glass self seems to have three principal elements: the imagination of our appearance to the other person; the imagination of his judgment of that appearance; and some sort of self-feeling, such as pride or mortification. The comparison with a looking-glass self hardly suggests the second element, the imagined judgment, which is quite essential. The thing that moves us to pride or shame is not the mere mechanical reflection of ourselves, but an imputed sentiment, the imagined effect of this reflection upon another's mind. This is evident from the fact that the character and weight of that other, in whose mind we see ourselves, makes all the difference with our feeling. [56]

Veblen has made a subtle analysis of the way in which conduct iscontrolled by the individual's conception of his social rôle in hisanalysis of "invidious comparison" and "conspicuous expenditure. "[57]

d) _Biological and social inheritance. _--The distinction betweenbiological and social inheritance is sharply made by the notedbiologist, J. Arthur Thomson, in the selection entitled "Nature andNurture. " The so-called "acquired characters" or modifications oforiginal nature through experience, he points out, are transmitted notthrough the germ plasm but through communication. 

Thorndike's "Inventory of Original Tendencies" offers a detailedclassification of the traits transmitted biologically. Since thereexists no corresponding specific analysis of acquired traits, thefollowing brief inventory of types of social heritages is offered. 

 TYPES OF SOCIAL HERITAGES

 (a) means of communication, as language, gesture, etc. ; (b) social attitudes, habits, wishes, etc. ; (c) character; (d) social patterns, as folkways, mores, conventions, ideals, etc. ; (e) technique; (f) culture (as distinguished from technique, formal organization, and machinery); (g) social organization (primary group life, institutions, sects, secondary groups, etc. ). 

On the basis of the work of Mendel, biologists have made marked progressin determining the inheritance of specific traits of original nature. The selection from a foremost American student of heredity and eugenics, C. B. Davenport, entitled "Inheritance of Original Nature" indicates theprecision and accuracy with which the prediction of the inheritance ofindividual innate traits is made. 

The mechanism of the transmission of social heritages, while more opento observation than biological inheritance, has not been subjected to asintensive study. The transmission of the social heritage takes place bycommunication, as Keller points out, through the medium of the varioussenses. The various types of the social heritages are transmitted in twoways: (a) by tradition, as from generation to generation, and (b) byacculturation, as from group to group. 

In the communication of the social heritages, either by tradition or byacculturation, two aspects of the process may be distinguished: (a)Because of temperament, interest, and run of attention of the members ofthe group, the heritage, whether a word, an act of skill, or a socialattitude, may be selected, appropriated, and incorporated into itsculture. This is communication by _imitation_. (b) On the other hand, the heritage may be imposed upon the members of the group throughauthority and routine, by tabu and repression. This is communication by_inculcation_. In any concrete situation the transmission of a socialheritage may combine varying elements of both processes. Education, asthe etymology of the term suggests, denotes culture of originaltendencies; yet the routine of a school system is frequently organizedabout formal discipline rather than around interest, aptitude, andattention. 

Historically, the scientific interest in the question of biological andsocial inheritance has concerned itself with the rather sterile problemof the weight to be attached on the one hand to physical heredity and onthe other to social heritage. The selection, "Temperament, Tradition, and Nationality" suggests that a more important inquiry is to determinehow the behavior patterns and the culture of a racial group or a socialclass are determined by the interaction of original nature and thesocial tradition. According to this conception, racial temperament is anactive selective agency, determining interest and the direction ofattention. The group heritages on the other hand represent a detachedexternal social environment, a complex of stimuli, effective only in sofar as they call forth responses. The culture of a group is the sumtotal and organization of the social heritages which have acquired asocial meaning because of racial temperament and of the historical lifeof the group. 

II. MATERIALS

A. THE ORIGINAL NATURE OF MAN

1. Original Nature Defined[58]

A man's nature and the changes that take place in it may be described interms of the responses--of thought, feeling, action, and attitude--whichhe makes, and of the bonds by which these are connected with thesituations which life offers. Any fact of intellect, character, or skillmeans a tendency to respond in a certain way to a certainsituation--involves a _situation_ or state of affairs influencing theman, a _response_ or state of affairs in the man, and a _connection_ orbond whereby the latter is the result of the former. 

Any man possesses at the very start of his life--that is, at the momentwhen the ovum and spermatozoön which are to produce him haveunited--numerous well-defined tendencies to future behavior. Between thesituations which he will meet and the responses which he will make tothem, pre-formed bonds exist. It is already determined by theconstitution of these two germs that under certain circumstances he willsee and hear and feel and act in certain ways. His intellect and morals, as well as his bodily organs and movements, are in part the consequenceof the nature of the embryo in the first moment of its life. What a manis and does throughout life is a result of whatever constitution he hasat the start and of the forces that act upon it before and after birth. I shall use the term "original nature" for the former and "environment"for the latter. His original nature is thus a name for the nature of thecombined germ-cells from which he springs, and his environment is a namefor the rest of the universe, so far as it may, directly or indirectly, influence him. 

Three terms, reflexes, instincts, and inborn capacities, divide the workof naming these unlearned tendencies. When the tendency concerns a verydefinite and uniform response to a very simple sensory situation, andwhen the connection between the situation and the response is very hardto modify and is also very strong so that it is almost inevitable, theconnection or response to which it leads is called a reflex. Thus theknee-jerk is a very definite and uniform response to the simplesense-stimulus of sudden hard pressure against a certain spot. 

When the response is more indefinite, the situation more complex, andthe connection more modifiable, instinct becomes the customary term. Thus one's misery at being scorned is too indefinite a response to toocomplex a situation and is too easily modifiable to be called a reflex. When the tendency is to an extremely indefinite response or set ofresponses to a very complex situation, as when the connection's finaldegree of strength is commonly due to very large contributions fromtraining, it has seemed more appropriate to replace reflex and instinctby some term like capacity, or tendency, or potentiality. Thus anoriginal tendency to respond to the circumstances of school education byachievement in learning the arts and sciences is called the capacity forscholarship. 

There is, of course, no gap between reflexes and instincts, or betweeninstincts and the still less easily describable original tendencies. Thefact is that original tendencies range with respect to the nature of theresponses from such as are single, simple, definite, uniform within theindividual and only slightly variable amongst individuals, to responsesthat are highly compound, complex, vague, and variable within oneindividual's life and amongst individuals. 

A typical reflex, or instinct, or capacity, as a whole, includes theability to be sensitive to a certain situation, the ability to make acertain response, and the existence of a bond or connection whereby thatresponse is made to that situation. For instance, the young chick issensitive to the absence of other members of his species, is able topeep, and is so organized that the absence of other members of thespecies makes him peep. But the tendency to be sensitive to a certainsituation may exist without the existence of a connection therewith ofany further exclusive response, and the tendency to make a certainresponse may exist without the existence of a connection limiting thatresponse exclusively to any single situation. The three-year-old childis by inborn nature markedly sensitive to the presence and acts of otherhuman beings, but the exact nature of his response varies. The originaltendency to cry is very strong, but there is no one situation to whichit is exclusively bound. Original nature seems to decide that theindividual will respond somehow to certain situations more often than itdecides just what he will do, and to decide that he will make certainresponses more often than it decides just when he will make them. So, for convenience in thinking about man's unlearned equipment, thisappearance of _multiple response_ to one same situation and _multiplecausation_ of one same response may be taken roughly as the fact. 

2. Inventory of Original Tendencies[59]

I. _Sensory capacities_

II. _Original attentiveness_

III. _Gross bodily control_

IV. _Food getting and habitation_ A. Food getting 1. Eating. 2. Reaching, grasping, putting into the mouth. 3. Acquisition and possession. 4. Hunting (a) a small escaping object, (b) a small or moderate-sized object not of offensive mien, moving away from or past him. 5. Possible specialized tendencies. 6. Collecting and hoarding. 7. Avoidance and repulsion. 8. Rivalry and co-operation B. Habitation 1. Responses to confinement. 2. Migration and domesticity

V. _Fear, fighting, and anger_ A. Fear 1. Unpleasant expectation and dread. 2. Anxiety and worry. 3. Dislike and avoidance. 4. Shock. 5. Flight, paralysis, etc. B. Fighting 1. Escape from restraint. 2. Overcoming a moving obstacle. 3. Counter-attack. 4. Irrational response to pain. 5. Combat in rivalry. 6. Resentment of presence of other males in courtship. 7. Angry behavior at persistent thwarting. C. Anger

VI. _Responses to the behavior of other human beings_ A. Motherly behavior B. Filial behavior C. Responses to presence, approval, and scorn of men 1. Gregariousness. 2. Attention to human beings. 3. Attention-getting. 4. Responses to approval and scorn. 5. Responses by approval and scorn D. Mastering and submissive behavior 1. Display. 2. Shyness. 3. Self-conscious behavior E. Other social instincts 1. Sex behavior. 2. Secretiveness. 3. Rivalry. 4. Co-operation. 5. Suggestibility and opposition. 6. Envious and jealous behavior. 7. Greed. 8. Ownership. 9. Kindliness. 10. Teasing, tormenting, and bullying F. Imitation 1. General imitativeness. 2. Imitation of particular forms of behavior

VII. _Original satisfiers and annoyers_

VIII. _Minor bodily movements and cerebral connections_ A. Vocalization B. Visual exploration C. Manipulation D. Other possible specializations 1. Constructiveness. 2. Cleanliness. 3. Adornment and art E. Curiosity and mental control 1. Curiosity. 2. The instinct of multiform mental activity. 3. The instinct of multiform physical activity. 4. The instinct of workmanship and the desire for excellence F. Play

IX. _The emotions and their expression_

X. _Consciousness, learning, and remembering_

3. Man Not Born Human[60]

Man is not born human. It is only slowly and laboriously, in fruitfulcontact, co-operation, and conflict with his fellows, that he attainsthe distinctive qualities of human nature. In the course of his prenatallife he has already passed roughly through, or, as the biologists say, "recapitulated, " the whole history of his animal ancestors. He bringswith him at birth a multitude of instincts and tendencies, many of whichpersist during life and many of which are only what G. Stanley Hallcalls "vestigial traces" of his brute ancestry, as is shown by the factthat they are no longer useful and soon disappear. 

 These non-volitional movements of earliest infancy and of later childhood (such as licking things, clicking with the tongue, grinding the teeth, biting the nails, shrugging corrugations, pulling buttons, or twisting garments, strings, etc. , twirling pencils, etc. ) are relics of past forms of utilities now essentially obsolete. Ancient modes of locomotion, prehension, balancing, defense, attack, sensuality, etc. , are all rehearsed, some quite fully and some only by the faintest mimetic suggestion, flitting spasmodic tensions, gestures, or facial expressions. 

Human nature may therefore be regarded on the whole as a superstructurefounded on instincts, dispositions, and tendencies, inherited from along line of human and animal ancestors. It consists mainly in a higherorganization of forces, a more subtle distillation of potencies latentin what Thorndike calls "the original nature of man. "

 The original nature of man is roughly what is common to all men minus all adaptations to tools, houses, clothes, furniture, words, beliefs, religions, laws, science, the arts, and to whatever in other men's behavior is due to adaptations to them. From human nature as we find it, take away, first, all that is in the European but not in the Chinaman, all that is in the Fiji Islander but not in the Esquimaux, all that is local or temporary. Then take away also the effects of all products of human art. What is left of human intellect and character is largely original--not wholly, for all those elements of knowledge which we call ideas and judgments must be subtracted from his responses. Man originally possesses only capacities which, after a given amount of education, will produce ideas and judgments. 

Such, in general, is the nature of human beings before that nature hasbeen modified by experience and formed by the education and thediscipline of contact and intercourse with their fellows. 

Several writers, among them William James, have attempted to make arough inventory of the special instinctive tendencies with which humanbeings are equipped at birth. First of all there are the simplerreflexes such as "crying, sneezing, snoring, coughing, sighing, sobbing, gagging, vomiting, hiccuping, starting, moving the limb inresponse to its being tickled, touched or blown upon, spreading the toesin response to its being touched, tickled, or stroked on the sole of thefoot, extending and raising the arms at any sudden sensory stimulus, orthe quick pulsation of the eyelid. "

Then there are the more complex original tendencies such as sucking, chewing, sitting up, and gurgling. Among the more general unlearnedresponses of children are fear, anger, pugnacity, envy, jealousy, curiosity, constructiveness, love of festivities, ceremonies andordeals, sociability and shyness, secretiveness, etc. Thorndike, whoquotes this list at length, has sought to give definiteness to itsdescriptions by clearly defining and distinguishing the character of thesituation to which the behavior cited is a response. For example, to thesituation, "strange man or animal, to solitude, black things, darkplaces, holes and corners, a human corpse, " the native and unlearnedresponse is fear. The original response of man to being alone is anexperience of discomfort, to perceiving a crowd, "a tendency to jointhem and do what they are doing and an unwillingness to leave off and gohome. " It is part of man's original nature when he is in love to concealhis love affairs, and so forth. 

It is evident from this list that what is meant by original nature isnot confined to the behavior which manifests itself at birth, butincludes man's spontaneous and unlearned responses to situations as theyarise in the experience of the individual. 

The widespread interest in the study of children has inspired in recentyears a considerable literature bearing upon the original and inheritedtendencies of human nature. The difficulty of distinguishing betweenwhat is original and what is acquired among the forms of behaviorreported upon, and the further difficulty of obtaining accuratedescriptions of the situations to which the behavior described was aresponse, has made much of this literature of doubtful value forscientific purposes. These studies have, nevertheless, contributed to aradical change in our conceptions of human nature. They have shown thatthe distinction between the mind of man and that of the lower animals isnot so wide nor so profound as was once supposed. They have emphasizedthe fact that human nature rests on animal nature, and the transitionfrom one to the other, in spite of the contrast in their separateachievements, has been made by imperceptible gradations. In the sameway they have revealed, beneath differences in culture and individualachievement, the outlines of a pervasive and relatively unchanging humannature in which all races and individuals have a common share. 

The study of human nature begins with description, but it goes on fromthat point to explanation. If the descriptions which we have thus farhad of human nature are imperfect and lacking in precision, it isequally true that the explanations thus far invented have, on the whole, been inadequate. One reason for this has been the difficulty of thetask. The mechanisms which control human behavior are, as might beexpected, tremendously complicated, and the problem of analyzing theminto their elementary forms and reducing their varied manifestations toprecise and lucid formulas is both intricate and perplexing. 

The foundation for the explanation of human nature has been laid, however, by the studies of behavior in animals and the comparative studyof the physiology of the nervous system. Progress has been made, on theone hand, by seeking for the precise psycho-chemical process involved inthe nervous reactions, and on the other, by reducing all higher mentalprocesses to elementary forms represented by the tropisms and reflexactions. 

In this, science has made a considerable advance upon common sense inits interpretations of human behavior, but has introduced no newprinciple; it has simply made its statements more detailed and exact. For example, common sense has observed that "the burnt child shuns thefire, " that "the moth seeks the flame. " These are both statements oftruths of undoubted generality. In order to give them the validity ofscientific truth, however, we need to know what there is in the natureof the processes involved that makes it inevitable that the child shouldshun the fire and the moth should seek the flame. It is not sufficientto say that the action in one case is instinctive and in the otherintelligent, unless we are able to give precise and definite meanings tothose terms; unless, in short, we are able to point out the precisemechanisms through which these reactions are carried out. The followingillustration from Loeb's volume on the comparative physiology of thebrain will illustrate the distinction between the common sense and themore precise scientific explanation of the behavior in man and the loweranimals. 

 It is a well-known fact that if an ant be removed from a nest and afterward put back it will not be attacked, while almost invariably an ant belonging to another nest will be attacked. It has been customary to use the words memory, enmity, friendship, in describing this fact. Now Bethe made the following experiment: an ant was placed in the liquids (blood and lymph) squeezed out from the bodies of nest companions and was then put back into its nest; it was not attacked. It was then put in the juice taken from the inmates of a "hostile" nest and was at once attacked and killed. Bethe was able to prove by special experiments that these reactions of ants are not learned by experience, but are inherited. The "knowing" of "friend and foe" among ants is thus reduced to different reactions, depending upon the nature of the chemical stimulus and in no way depending upon memory. 

Here, again, there is no essential difference between the common senseand the scientific explanation of the behavior of the ant except so faras the scientific explanation is more accurate, defining the precisemechanisms by which the recognition of "friend and foe" is effected, andthe limitations to which it is subject. 

Another result of the study of the comparative behavior of man and thelower animals has been to convince students that there is no fundamentaldifference between what was formerly called intelligent and instinctivebehavior; that they may rather be reduced, as has been said, to theelementary form of reaction represented by the simple reflex in animalsand the tropism in plants. Thus Loeb says:

 A prominent psychologist has maintained that reflexes are to be considered as the mechanical effects of acts of volition of past generations. The ganglion-cell seems the only place where such mechanical effects could be stored up. It has therefore been considered the most essential element of the reflex mechanism, the nerve-fibers being regarded, and probably correctly, merely as conductors. 

 Both the authors who emphasize the purposefulness of the reflex act, and those who see in it only a physical process, have invariably looked upon the ganglion-cell as the principal bearer of the structures for the complex co-ordinated movements in reflex action. 

 I should have been as little inclined as any other physiologist to doubt the correctness of this conception had not the establishment of the identity of the reactions of animals and plants to light proved the untenability of this view and at the same time offered a different conception of reflexes. The flight of the moth into the flame is a typical reflex process. The light stimulates the peripheral sense organs, the stimulus passes to the central nervous system, and from there to the muscles of the wings, and the moth is caused to fly into the flame. This reflex process agrees in every point with the heliotropic effects of light on plant organs. Since plants possess no nerves, this identity of animal with plant heliotropism can offer but one inference--these heliotropic effects must depend upon conditions which are common to both animals and plants. 

On the other hand, Watson, in his _Introduction to ComparativePsychology_, defines the reflex as "a unit of analysis of instinct, " andthis means that instinctive actions in man and in animals may beregarded as combinations of simple reflex actions, that is to say of"fairly definite and generally predictable but unlearned responses oflower and higher organisms to stimuli. " Many of these reflex responsesare not fixed, as they were formerly supposed to be, but "highlyunstable and indefinite. " This fact makes possible the formation ofhabits, by combination and fixation of these inherited responses. 

These views in the radical form in which they are expressed by Loeb andWatson have naturally enough been the subject of considerablecontroversy, both on scientific and sentimental grounds. They seem toreduce human behavior to a system of chemical and physical reactions, and rob life of all its spiritual values. On the other hand, it must beremembered that human beings, like other forms of nature, have thismechanical aspect and it is precisely the business of natural science todiscover and lay them bare. It is only thus that we are able to gaincontrol over ourselves and of others. It is a matter of commonexperience that we do form habits and that education and social controlare largely dependent upon our ability to establish habits in ourselvesand in others. Habit is, in fact, a characteristic example of just whatis meant by "mechanism, " in the sense in which it is here used. It isthrough the fixation of habit that we gain that control over our"original nature, " which lifts us above the brutes and gives humannature its distinctive character as human. Character is nothing morethan the sum and co-ordination of those mechanisms which we call habitand which are formed on the basis of the inherited and instinctivetendencies and dispositions which we share in so large a measure withthe lower animals. 

4. The Natural Man[61]

"Its first act is a cry, not of wrath, as Kant said, nor a shout of joy, as Schwartz thought, but a snuffling, and then a long, thin, tearlessá-á, with the timbre of a Scotch bagpipe, purely automatic, but ofdiscomfort. With this monotonous and dismal cry, with its red, shriveled, parboiled skin (for the child commonly loses weight the firstfew days), squinting, cross-eyed, pot-bellied, and bow-legged, it is notstrange that, if the mother has not followed Froebel's exhortations andcome to love her child before birth, there is a brief intervaloccasionally dangerous to the child before the maternal instinct isfully aroused. "

The most curious of all the monkey traits shown by the new-born baby isthe one investigated by Dr. Louis Robinson. It was suggested by _TheLuck of Roaring Camp_. The question was raised in conversation whether alimp and molluscous baby, unable so much as to hold up its head on itshelpless little neck, could do anything so positive as to "rastle with"Kentuck's finger; and the more knowing persons present insisted that ayoung baby does, as a matter of fact, have a good firm hand-clasp. Itoccurred to Dr. Robinson that if this was true it was a beautifulDarwinian point, for clinging and swinging by the arms would naturallyhave been a specialty with our ancestors if they ever lived amonkey-like life in the trees. The baby that could cling best to itsmother as she used hands, feet, and tail to flee in the best time overthe trees, or to get at the more inaccessible fruits and eggs in time ofscarcity, would be the baby that lived to bequeath his traits to hisdescendants; so that to this day our housed and cradled human babieswould keep in their clinging powers a reminiscence of our wild treetopdays. 

There is another class of movements, often confused with thereflex--that is, instinctive movements. Real grasping (as distinguishedfrom reflex grasping), biting, standing, walking, are examples of thisclass. They are race movements, the habits of the species to which theanimal belongs, and every normal member of the species is bound to cometo them; yet they are not so fixed in the bodily mechanism as the reflexmovements. 

The one instinct the human baby always brings into the world alreadydeveloped is half a mere reflex act--that of sucking. It is started as areflex would be, by the touch of some object--pencil, finger, or nipple, it may be--between the lips; but it does not act like a reflex afterthat. It continues and ceases without reference to this externalstimulus, and a little later often begins without it, or fails to beginwhen the stimulus is given. If it has originally a reflex character, that character fades out and leaves it a pure instinct. 

My little niece evidently felt a difference between light and darknessfrom the first hour, for she stopped crying when her face was exposed togentle light. Two or three report also a turning of the head toward thelight within the first week. The nurse, who was intelligent and exact, thought she saw this in the case of my niece. I did not, but I sawinstead a constant turning of the eyes toward a person coming nearher--that is, toward a large dark mass that interrupted the light. Noother sign of vision appeared in the little one during the firstfortnight. The eyes were directed to nothing, fixed on nothing. They didnot wink if one made a pass at them. There was no change of focus fornear or distant seeing. 

The baby showed no sign of hearing anything until the third day, whenshe started violently at the sound of tearing paper, some eight feetfrom her. After that, occasional harsh or sudden sounds--oftener therustling of paper than anything else--could make her start or cry. It iswell established by the careful tests of several physiologists thatbabies are deaf for a period lasting from several hours to several daysafter birth. 

Taste and smell were senses that the baby gave no sign of owning tillmuch later. The satisfaction of hunger was quite enough to account forthe contentment she showed in nursing; and when she was not hungry shewould suck the most tasteless object as cheerfully as any other. 

Our baby showed from the first that she was aware when she was touched. She stopped crying when she was cuddled or patted. She showed comfort inthe bath, which may have been in part due to freedom from the contact ofclothes, and to liking for the soft touches of the water. She respondedwith sucking motions to the first touch of the nipple on her lips. 

Our baby showed temperament--luckily of the easy-going and cheerfulkind--from her first day, though we could hardly see this except bylooking backward. On the twenty-fifth day, toward evening, when the babywas lying on her grandmother's knee by the fire, in a condition of highwell-being and content, gazing at her grandmother's face with anexpression of attention, I came and sat down close by, leaning over thebaby, so that my face must have come within the indirect range of hervision. At that she turned her eyes to my face and gazed at it with thesame appearance of attention, and even of some effort, shown by theslight tension of brows and lips, then turned her eyes back to hergrandmother's face, and again to mine, and so several times. The lasttime she seemed to catch sight of my shoulder, on which a high lightstruck from the lamp, and not only moved her eyes but threw her head farback to see it better, and gazed for some time with a new expression onher face--"a sort of dim and rudimentary eagerness, " says my note. Sheno longer stared, but really looked. 

The baby's increased interest in seeing centered especially on the facesabout her, at which she gazed with rapt interest. Even during the periodof mere staring, faces had oftenest held her eyes, probably because theywere oftener brought within the range of her clearest seeing than otherlight surfaces. The large, light, moving patch of the human face (asPreyer has pointed out) coming and going in the field of vision, andoftener chancing to hover at the point of clearest seeing than any otherobject, embellished with a play of high lights on cheeks, teeth, andeyes, is calculated to excite the highest degree of attention a baby iscapable of at a month old. So from the very first--before the baby hasyet really seen his mother--her face and that of his other nearestfriends become the most active agents in his development and the mostinteresting things in his experience. 

Our baby was at this time in a way aware of the difference betweencompanionship and solitude. In the latter days of the first month shewould lie contentedly in the room with people near by, but would fret ifleft alone. But by the end of the month she was apt to fret when she waslaid down on a chair or lounge, and to become content only when takeninto the lap. This was not yet distinct memory and desire, but it showedthat associations of pleasure had been formed with the lap, and thatshe felt a vague discomfort in the absence of these. 

Nature has provided an educational appliance almost ideally adapted tothe child's sense condition, in the mother's face, hovering close abovehim, smiling, laughing, nodding, with all manner of delightful changesin the high lights; in the thousand little meaningless caressing sounds, the singing, talking, calling, that proceed from it; the patting, cuddling, lifting, and all the ministrations that the baby feels whilegazing at it, and associates with it, till finally they group togetherand round out into the idea of his mother as a whole. 

Our baby's mother rather resented the idea of being to her baby only acollection of detached phenomena, instead of a mamma; but the more youthink of it, the more flattering it is to be thus, as it were, dissolvedinto your elements and incorporated item by item into the veryfoundations of your baby's mental life. Herein is hinted much of thephilosophy of personality; and Professor Baldwin has written a solidbook, mainly to show from the development of babies and little childrenthat all other people are part of each of us, and each of us is part ofall other people, and so there is really no separate personality, but weare all one spirit, if we did but know it. 

5. Sex Differences[62]

As children become physically differentiated in respect of sex, so alsodoes a mental differentiation ensue. Differences are observed in thematter of occupation, of games, of movements, and numerous otherdetails. Since man is to play the active part in life, boys rejoiceespecially in rough outdoor games. Girls, on the other hand, prefer suchgames as correspond to their future occupations. Hence their inclinationto mother smaller children, and to play with dolls. Watch how a littlegirl takes care of her doll, washes it, dresses and undresses it. Whenonly six or seven years of age she is often an excellent nurse. Her needto occupy herself in such activities is often so great that she pretendsthat her doll is ill. 

In all kinds of ways, we see the little girl occupying herself in theactivities and inclinations of her future existence. She practices housework; she has a little kitchen, in which she cooks for herself and herdoll. She is fond of needlework. The care of her own person, and moreespecially its adornment, is not forgotten. I remember seeing a girl ofthree who kept on interrupting her elders' conversation by crying out, "New clothes!" and would not keep quiet until these latter had been dulyadmired. The love of self-adornment is almost peculiar to femalechildren; boys, on the other hand, prefer rough outdoor games, in whichtheir muscles are actively employed, robber-games, soldier-games, andthe like. And whereas, in early childhood, both sexes are fond of verynoisy games, the fondness for these disappears earlier in girls than inboys. 

Differences between the sexes have been established also by means ofexperimental psychology, based upon the examination of a very largenumber of instances. Berthold Hartmann has studied the childish circleof thought, by means of a series of experiments. Schoolboys to thenumber of 660 and schoolgirls to the number of 652, at ages between fiveand three-fourths and six and three-fourths years, were subjected toexamination. It was very remarkable to see how, in respect to certainideas, such as those of the triangle, cube, and circle, the girlsgreatly excelled the boys; whereas in respect of animals, minerals, andsocial ideas, the boys were better informed than the girls. Characteristic of the differences between the sexes, according toMeumann, from whom I take these details and some of those that follow, is the fact that the idea of "marriage" was known to only 70 boys ascompared to 227 girls; whilst the idea of "infant baptism" was known to180 boys as compared to 220 girls. The idea of "pleasure" was also muchbetter understood by girls than by boys. Examination of the memory hasalso established the existence of differences between the sexes inchildhood. In boys the memory for objects appears to be at first thebest developed; to this succeeds the memory for words with a visualcontent; in the case of girls, the reverse of this was observed. Inrespect of numerous details, however, the authorities conflict. Verystriking is the fact, one upon which a very large number ofinvestigators are agreed, that girls have a superior knowledge ofcolors. 

There are additional psychological data relating to the differencesbetween the sexes in childhood. I may recall Stern's investigationsconcerning the psychology of evidence, which showed that girls were muchmore inaccurate than boys. 

It has been widely assumed that these psychical differences between thesexes result from education, and are not inborn. Others, however, assumethat the psychical characteristics by which the sexes are differentiatedresult solely from individual differences in education. Stern believesthat in the case of one differential character, at least, he can provethat for many centuries there has been no difference between the sexesin the matter of education; this character is the capacity for drawing. Kerschensteiner has studied the development of this gift, and considersthat his results have established beyond dispute that girls are greatlyinferior in this respect to boys of like age. Stern points out thatthere can be no question here of cultivation leading to a sexualdifferentiation of faculty, since there is no attempt at a general andsystematic teaching of draughtsmanship to the members of one sex to theexclusion of members of the other. 

I believe that we are justified in asserting that at the present timethe sexual differentiation manifested in respect of quite a number ofpsychical qualities is the result of direct inheritance. It would bequite wrong to assume that all these differences arise in eachindividual in consequence of education. It does, indeed, appear to me tobe true that inherited tendencies may be increased or diminished byindividual education; and further, that when the inherited tendency isnot a very powerful one, it may in this way even be suppressed. 

We must not forget the frequent intimate association between structureand function. Rough outdoor games and wrestling thus correspond to thephysical constitution of the boy. So, also, it is by no means improbablethat the little girl, whose pelvis and hips have already begun toindicate by their development their adaption for the supreme functionsof the sexually mature woman, should experience obscurely a certainimpulsion toward her predestined maternal occupation, and that herinclinations and amusements should in this way be determined. Many, indeed, and above all the extreme advocates of women's rights, prefer tomaintain that such sexually differentiated inclinations result solelyfrom differences in individual education: if the boy has no enduringtaste for dolls and cooking, this is because his mother and others havetold him, perhaps with mockery, that such amusements are unsuited to aboy; whilst in a similar way the girl is dissuaded from the roughsports of boyhood. Such an assumption is the expression of that generalpsychological and educational tendency, which ascribes to the activityof the will an overwhelmingly powerful influence upon the development ofthe organs subserving the intellect, and secondarily also upon that ofthe other organs of the body. We cannot dispute the fact that in such away the activity of the will may, within certain limits, be effective, especially in cases in which the inherited tendency thus counteracted iscomparatively weak; but only within certain limits. Thus we canunderstand how it is that in some cases, by means of education, a childis impressed with characteristics normally foreign to its sex; qualitiesand tendencies are thus developed which ordinarily appear only in achild of the opposite sex. But even though we must admit that theactivity of the individual may operate in this way, none the less we arecompelled to assume that certain tendencies are inborn. The failure ofinnumerable attempts to counteract such inborn tendencies by means ofeducation throws a strong light upon the limitations of the activity ofthe individual will; and the same must be said of a large number ofother experiences. 

Criminological experiences appear also to confirm the notion of aninherited sexual differentiation, in children as well as in adults. According to various statistics, embracing not only the period ofchildhood, but including as well the period of youth, we learn thatgirls constitute one-fifth only of the total number of youthfulcriminals. A number of different explanations have been offered toaccount for this disproportion. Thus, for instance, attention has beendrawn to the fact that a girl's physical weakness renders her incapableof attempting violent assaults upon the person, and this would sufficeto explain why it is that girls so rarely commit such crimes. In thecase of offenses for which bodily strength is less requisite, such asfraud, theft, etc. , the number of youthful female offenders isproportionately larger, although here also they are less numerous thanmales of corresponding age charged with the like offenses. It has beenasserted that in the law courts girls find more sympathy than boys, andthat for this reason the former receive milder sentences than thelatter; hence it results that in appearance merely the criminality ofgirls is less than that of boys. Others, again, refer the differences inrespect of criminality between the youthful members of the two sexes tothe influences of education and general environment. Morrison, however, maintains that all these influences combined are yet insufficient toaccount for the great disproportion between the sexes, and insists thatthere exists in youth as well as in adult life a specific sexualdifferentiation, based, for the most part, upon biological differencesof a mental and physical character. 

Such a marked differentiation as there is between the adult man and theadult woman certainly does not exist in childhood. Similarly in respectof many other qualities, alike bodily and mental, in respect of manyinclinations and numerous activities, we find that in childhood sexualdifferentiation is less marked than it is in adult life. None the less, a number of sexual differences can be shown to exist even in childhood;and as regards many other differences, though they are not yet apparent, we are nevertheless compelled to assume that they already existpotentially in the organs of the child. 

6. Racial Differences[63]

The results of the Cambridge expedition to the Torres Straits have shownthat in acuteness of vision, hearing, smell, etc. , these peoples are notnoticeably different from our own. We conclude that the remarkable talesadduced to the contrary by various travelers are to be explained, not bythe acuteness of sensation, but by the acuteness of interpretation ofprimitive peoples. Take the savage into the streets of a busy city andsee what a number of sights and sounds he will neglect because of theirmeaninglessness to him. Take the sailor whose powers of discerning aship on the horizon appear to the landsman so extraordinary, and set himto detect micro-organisms in the field of a microscope. Is it thensurprising that primitive man should be able to draw inferences which tothe stranger appear marvelous, from the merest specks in the fardistance or from the faintest sounds, odors, or tracks in the jungle?Such behavior serves only to attest the extraordinary powers ofobservation in primitive man with respect to things which are of use andhence of interest to him. The same powers are shown in the vast numberof words he will coin to denote the same object, say a certain tree atdifferent stages of its growth. 

We concluded, then, that no fundamental difference in powers of sensoryacuity, nor, indeed, in sensory discrimination, exists between primitiveand civilized communities. Further, there is no proof of any differencein memory between them, save, perhaps, in a greater tendency forprimitive folk to use and to excel in mere mechanical learning, inpreference to rational learning. But this surely is also thecharacteristic of the European peasant. He will never commit things tomemory by thinking of their meaning, if he can learn them by rote. 

In temperament we meet with just the same variations in primitive as incivilized communities. In every primitive society is to be found theflighty, the staid, the energetic, the indolent, the cheerful, themorose, the even-, the hot-tempered, the unthinking, the philosophicalindividual. At the same time, the average differences between differentprimitive peoples are as striking as those between the average Germanand the average Italian. 

It is a common but manifest error to suppose that primitive man isdistinguished from the civilized peasant in that he is freer and thathis conduct is less under control. On the contrary, the savage isprobably far more hidebound than we are by social regulations. His lifeis one round of adherence to the demands of custom. For instance, he maybe compelled even to hand over his own children at their birth toothers; he may be prohibited from speaking to certain of his relatives;his choice of a wife may be very strictly limited by traditional laws;at every turn there are ceremonies to be performed and presents to bemade by him so that misfortune may be safely averted. As to the controlwhich primitive folk exercise over their conduct, this varies enormouslyamong different peoples; but if desired, I could bring many instances ofself-control before you which would put to shame the members even of ourmost civilized communities. 

Now since in all these various mental characters no appreciabledifference exists between primitive and advanced communities, thequestion arises, what is the most important difference between them? Ishall be told, in the capacity for logical and abstract thought. But byhow much logical and abstract thought is the European peasant superiorto his primitive brother? Study our country folklore, study the actualpractices in regard to healing and religion which prevail in everyEuropean peasant community today, and what essential differences arediscoverable? Of course, it will be urged that these practices arecontinued unthinkingly, that they are merely vestiges of a period whenonce they were believed and were full of meaning. But this, I amconvinced, is far from being generally true, and it also certainlyapplies to many of the ceremonies and customs of primitive peoples. 

It will be said that although the European peasant may not in the mainthink more logically and abstractly, he has, nevertheless, thepotentiality for such thought, should only the conditions for itsmanifestations--education and the like--ever be given. From such as hehave been produced the geniuses of Europe--the long line of artists andinventors who have risen from the lowest ranks. 

I will consider this objection later. At present it is sufficient for mypurpose to have secured the admission that the peasants of Europe do notas a whole use their mental powers in a much more logical or abstractmanner than do primitive people. I maintain that such superiority asthey have is due to differences (1) of environment and (2) ofvariability. 

We must remember that the European peasant grows up in a (more or less)civilized environment; he learns a (more or less) well-developed andwritten language, which serves as an easier instrument and a strongerinducement for abstract thought; he is born into a (more or less)advanced religion. All these advantages and the advantage of a morecomplex education the European peasant owes to his superiors in abilityand civilization. Rob the peasant of these opportunities, plunge himinto the social environment of present primitive man, and whatdifference in thinking power will be left between them?

The answer to this question brings me to the second point of differencewhich I have mentioned--the difference in variability. I have alreadyalluded to the divergencies in temperament to be found among the membersof every primitive community. But well marked as are these and otherindividual differences, I suspect that they are less prominent amongprimitive than among more advanced peoples. This difference invariability, if really existent, is probably the outcome of morefrequent racial admixture and more complex social environment incivilized communities. In another sense, the variability of the savageis indicated by the comparative data afforded by certain psychologicalinvestigations. A civilized community may not differ much from aprimitive one in the mean or average of a given character, but theextreme deviations which it shows from that mean will be more numerousand more pronounced. This kind of variability has probably anothersource. The members of a primitive community behave toward the appliedtest in the simplest manner, by the use of a mental process which wewill call A, whereas those of a more advanced civilization employ othermental processes, in addition to A, say B, C, D, or E, each individualusing them in different degrees for the performance of one and the sametest. Finally, there is in all likelihood a third kind of variability, whose origin is ultimately environmental, which is manifested byextremes of nervous instability. Probably the exceptionally defectiveand the exceptional genius are more common among civilized than amongprimitive peoples. 

Similar features undoubtedly meet us in the study of sexual differences. The average results of various tests of mental ability applied to menand women are not, on the whole, very different for the two sexes, butthe men always show considerably greater individual variation than thewomen. And here, at all events, the relation between the frequency ofmental deficiency and genius in the two sexes is unquestionable. Ourasylums contain a considerably greater number of males than of females, as a compensation for which genius is decidedly less frequent in femalesthan in males. 

7. Individual Differences[64]

The life of a man is a double series--a series of effects produced inhim by the rest of the world, and a series of effects produced in thatworld by him. A man's make-up or nature equals his tendencies to beinfluenced in certain ways by the world and to react in certain ways toit. 

If we could thus adequately describe each of a million human beings--if, for each one, we could prophesy just what the response would be to everypossible situation of life--the million men would be found to differwidely. Probably no two out of the million would be so alike in mentalnature as to be indistinguishable by one who knew their entire natures. Each has an individuality which marks him off from other men. We maystudy a human being in respect to his common humanity, or in respect tohis individuality. In other words, we may study the features ofintellect and character which are common to all men, to man as aspecies; or we may study the differences in intellect and characterwhich distinguish individual men. 

Individuals are commonly considered as differing in respect to suchtraits either quantitatively or qualitatively, either in degree or inkind. A quantitative difference exists when the individuals havedifferent amounts of the same trait. Thus, "John is more attentive tohis teacher than James is"; "Mary loves dolls less than Lucy does"; "Ahad greater devotion to his country than B had"; are reports ofquantitative differences, of differences in the amount of what isassumed to be the same kind of thing. A qualitative difference existswhen some quality or trait possessed by one individual is lacking in theother. Thus, "Tom knows German, Dick does not"; "A is artistic, B isscientific"; "C is a man of thought, D is a man of action"; are reportsof the fact that Tom has some positive amount or degree of the trait"knowledge of German" while Dick has none of it; that A has somepositive amount of ability and interest in art while B has zero; whereasB has a positive amount of ability in science, of which A has none; andso on. 

A qualitative difference in intellect or character is thus really aquantitative difference wherein one term is zero, or a compound of twoor more quantitative differences. All intelligible differences areultimately quantitative. The difference between any two individuals, ifdescribable at all, is described by comparing the amounts which Apossesses of various traits with the amounts which B possesses of thesame traits. In intellect and character, differences of kind between oneindividual and another turn out to be definable, if defined at all, ascompound differences of degree. 

If we could list all the traits, each representing some onecharacteristic of human nature, and measure the amount of each of thempossessed by a man, we could represent his nature--read hischaracter--in a great equation. John Smith would equal so many units ofthis, plus so many units of that, and so on. Such a mental inventorywould express his individuality conceivably in its entirety and withgreat exactitude. No such list has been made for any man, much less havethe exact amounts of each trait possessed by him been measured. But incertain of the traits, many individuals have been measured; and certainindividuals have been measured, each in a large number of traits. 

It is useless to recount the traits in which men have been found todiffer. For there is no trait in which they do not differ. Of course, ifthe scale by which individuals are measured is very coarsely divided, their differences may be hidden. If, for example, ability to learn ismeasured on a scale with only two divisions, (1) "ability to learn lessthan the average kitten can" and (2) "ability to learn more than theaverage kitten can, " all men may be put in class two, just as if theirheights were measured on a scale of one yard, two yards, or three yards, nearly all men would alike be called two yards high. But whenever thescale of measurement is made fine enough, differences at once appear. Their existence is indubitable to any impartial observer. The earlypsychologists neglected or failed to see them precisely because theearly psychology was partial. It believed in a typical or pattern mind, after the manner of which all minds were created, and from whom theydiffered only by rare accidents. It studied "the mind, " and neglectedindividual minds. It studied "the will" of "man, " neglecting theinterests, impulses, and habits of actual men. 

The differences exist at birth and commonly increase with progresstoward maturity. Individuality is already clearly manifest in childrenof school age. The same situation evokes widely differing responses; thesame task is done at differing speeds and with different degrees ofsuccess; the same treatment produces differing results. There can belittle doubt that of a thousand ten-year-olds taken at random, some willbe four times as energetic, industrious, quick, courageous, or honest asothers, or will possess four times as much refinement, knowledge ofarithmetic, power of self-control, sympathy, or the like. It has beenfound that among children of the same age and, in essential respects, ofthe same home training and school advantages, some do in the same timesix times as much, or do the same amount with only one-tenth as manyerrors. 

B. HUMAN NATURE AND SOCIAL LIFE

1. Human Nature and Its Remaking[65]

Human beings as we find them are artificial products; and for better orfor worse they must always be such. Nature has made us: social actionand our own efforts must continually remake us. Any attempt to rejectart for "nature" can only result in an artificial naturalness which isfar less genuine and less pleasing than the natural work of art. 

Further, as self-consciousness varies, the amount or degree of thisremaking activity will vary. Among the extremely few respects in whichhuman history shows unquestionable growth we must include the degree andrange of self-consciousness. The gradual development of psychology as ascience and the persistent advance of the subjective or introspectiveelement in literature and in all fine art are tokens of this change. Andas a further indication and result, the art of human reshaping has takendefinite character, has left its incidental beginnings far behind, hasbecome an institution, a group of institutions. 

Wherever a language exists, as a magazine of established meanings, therewill be found a repertoire of epithets of praise and blame, at onceresults and implements of this social process. The simple existence ofsuch a vocabulary acts as a persistent force; but the effect of currentideals is redoubled when a coherent agency, such as public religion, assumes protection of the most searching social maxims and lends to themthe weight of all time, all space, all wonder, and all fear. For manycenturies religion held within itself the ripening self-knowledge andself-discipline of the human mind. Now, beside this original agency wehave its offshoots, politics, education, legislation, the penal art. Andthe philosophical sciences, including psychology and ethics, are theespecial servants of these arts. 

As to structure, human nature is undoubtedly the most plastic part ofthe living world, the most adaptable, the most educable. Of all animals, it is man in whom heredity counts for least, and conscious buildingforces for most. Consider that his infancy is longest, his instinctsleast fixed, his brain most unfinished at birth, his powers ofhabit-making and habit-changing most marked, his susceptibility tosocial impressions keenest; and it becomes clear that in every waynature, as a prescriptive power, has provided in him for her owndisplacement. His major instincts and passions first appear on thescene, not as controlling forces, but as elements of _play_, in aprolonged life of play. Other creatures nature could largely finish: thehuman creature must finish himself. 

And as to history, it cannot be said that the results of man's attemptsat self-modeling appear to belie the liberty thus promised in hisconstitution. If he has retired his natural integument in favor of adevice called clothing, capable of expressing endless nuances, not aloneof status and wealth, but of temper and taste as well--conservatism orventuresomeness, solemnity, gaiety, profusion, color, dignity, carelessness or whim, he has not failed to fashion his inner self intoequally various modes of character and custom. That is a hazardousrefutation of socialism which consists in pointing out that its successwould require a change in human nature. Under the spell of particularideas monastic communities have flourished, in comparison with whosedemands upon human nature the change required by socialism--so far as itcalls for purer altruism and not pure economic folly--is trivial. To anyone who asserts as a dogma that "human nature never changes, " it is fairto reply, "It is human nature to change itself. "

When one reflects to what extent racial and national traits are mannersof the mind, fixed by social rather than by physical heredity, while thebodily characters themselves may be due in no small measure to sexualchoices at first experimental, then imitative, then habitual, one is notdisposed to think lightly of the human capacity for self-modification. But it is still possible to be skeptical as to the depth and permanenceof any changes which are genuinely voluntary. There are few maxims ofconduct, and few laws so contrary to nature that they could not be putinto momentary effect by individuals or by communities. Plato's Republichas never been fairly tried; but fragments of this and other Utopiashave been common enough in history. No one presumes to limit what mencan _attempt_; one only inquires what the silent forces are whichdetermine what can _last_. 

What, to be explicit, is the possible future of measures dealing withdivorce, with war, with political corruption, with prostitution, withsuperstition? Enthusiastic idealism is too precious an energy to bewasted if we can spare it false efforts by recognizing those permanentingredients of our being indicated by the words pugnacity, greed, sex, fear. Machiavelli was not inclined to make little of what an unhamperedruler could do with his subjects; yet he saw in such passions as these afixed limit to the power of the Prince. "It makes him hated above allthings to be rapacious, and to be violator of the property and women ofhis subjects, from both of which he must abstain. " And if Machiavelli'sdespotism meets its master in the undercurrents of human instinct, governments of less determined stripe, whether of states or of persons, would hardly do well to treat these ultimate data with less respect. 

2. Human Nature, Folkways, and the Mores[66]

It is generally taken for granted that men inherited some guidinginstincts from their beast ancestry, and it may be true, although it hasnever been proved. If there were such inheritances, they controlled andaided the first efforts to satisfy needs. Analogy makes it easy toassume that the ways of beasts had produced channels of habit andpredisposition along which dexterities and other psycho-physicalactivities would run easily. Experiments with new born animals show thatin the absence of any experience of the relation of means to ends, efforts to satisfy needs are clumsy and blundering. The method is thatof trial and failure, which produces repeated pain, loss, anddisappointments. Nevertheless, it is the method of rude experiment andselection. The earliest efforts of men were of this kind. Need was theimpelling force. Pleasure and pain, on the one side and the other, werethe rude constraints which defined the line on which efforts mustproceed. The ability to distinguish between pleasure and pain is theonly psychical power which is to be assumed. Thus ways of doing thingswere selected which were expedient. They answered the purpose betterthan other ways, or with less toil and pain. Along the course on whichefforts were compelled to go, habit, routine, and skill were developed. The struggle to maintain existence was carried on, not individually, butin groups. Each profited by the other's experience; hence there wasconcurrence toward that which proved to be most expedient. 

All at last adopted the same way for the same purpose; hence the waysturned into customs and became mass phenomena. Instincts were developedin connection with them. In this way folkways arise. The young learnthem by tradition, imitation, and authority. The folkways, at a time, provide for all the needs of life then and there. They are uniform, universal in the group, imperative, and invariable. 

The operation by which folkways are produced consists in the frequentrepetition of petty acts, often by great numbers acting in concert or, at least, acting in the same way when face to face with the same need. The immediate motive is interest. It produces habit in the individualand custom in the group. It is, therefore, in the highest degreeoriginal and primitive. Out of the unconscious experiment which everyrepetition of the ways includes, there issues pleasure or pain, andthen, so far as the men are capable of reflection, convictions that theways are conducive to social welfare. When this conviction as to therelation to welfare is added to the folkways, they are converted intomores, and, by virtue of the philosophical and ethical element added tothem, they win utility and importance and become the source of thescience and the art of living. 

It is of the first importance to notice that, from the first acts bywhich men try to satisfy needs, each act stands by itself, and looks nofurther than immediate satisfaction. From recurrent needs arise habitsfor the individual and customs for the group, but these results areconsequences which were never conscious and never foreseen or intended. They are not noticed until they have long existed, and it is stilllonger before they are appreciated. Another long time must pass, and ahigher stage of mental development must be reached, before they can beused as a basis from which to deduce rules for meeting, in the future, problems whose pressure can be foreseen. The folkways, therefore, arenot creations of human purpose and wit. They are like products ofnatural forces which men unconsciously set in operation, or they arelike the instinctive ways of animals, which are developed out ofexperience, which reach a final form of maximum adaptation to aninterest, which are handed down by tradition and admit of no exceptionor variation, yet change to meet new conditions, still within the samelimited methods, and without rational reflection or purpose. From thisit results that all the life of human beings, in all ages and stages ofculture, is primarily controlled by a vast mass of folkways handed downfrom the earliest existence of the race, having the nature of the waysof other animals, only the topmost layers of which are subject to changeand control, and have been somewhat modified by human philosophy, ethics, and religion, or by other acts of intelligent reflection. We aretold of savages that "it is difficult to exhaust the customs and smallceremonial usages of a savage people. Custom regulates the whole of aman's actions--his bathing, washing, cutting his hair, eating, drinking, and fasting. From his cradle to his grave he is the slave of ancientusage. In his life there is nothing free, nothing original, nothingspontaneous, no progress toward a higher and better life, and no attemptto improve his condition, mentally, morally, or spiritually. " All menact in this way, with only a little wider margin of voluntary variation. 

The folkways are, therefore: (1) subject to a strain of improvementtoward better adaptation of means to ends, as long as the adaptation isso imperfect that pain is produced. They are also (2) subject to astrain of consistency with each other, because they all answer theirseveral purposes with less friction and antagonism when they co-operateand support each other. The forms of industry, the forms of the family, the notions of property, the constructions of rights, and the types ofreligion show the strain of consistency with each other through thewhole history of civilization. The two great cultural divisions of thehuman race are the oriental and occidental. Each is consistentthroughout; each has its own philosophy and spirit; they are separatedfrom top to bottom by different mores, different standpoints, differentways, and different notions of what societal arrangements areadvantageous. In their contrast they keep before our minds the possiblerange of divergence in the solution of the great problems of human life, and in the views of earthly existence by which life-policy may becontrolled. If two planets were joined in one, their inhabitants couldnot differ more widely as to what things are best worth seeking, or whatways are most expedient for well-living. 

Custom is the product of concurrent action through time. We find itexistent and in control at the extreme reach of our investigations. Whence does it begin, and how does it come to be? How can it giveguidance "at the outset"? All mass actions seem to begin because themass wants to act together. The less they know what it is right andbest to do, the more open they are to suggestion from an incident innature, or from a chance act of one, or from the current doctrines ofghost fear. A concurrent drift begins which is subject to latercorrection. That being so, it is evident that instinctive action, underthe guidance of traditional folkways, is an operation of the firstimportance in all societal matters. Since the custom never can beantecedent to all action, what we should desire most is to see it ariseout of the first actions, but, inasmuch as that is impossible, thecourse of the action after it is started is our field of study. Theorigin of primitive customs is always lost in mystery, because when theaction begins the men are never conscious of historical action or of thehistorical importance of what they are doing. When they become consciousof the historical importance of their acts, the origin is already farbehind. 

3. Habit and Custom, the Individual and the General Will[67]

The term _Sitte_ (mores) is a synonym of habit and of usage, ofconvention and tradition, but also of fashion, propriety, practise, andthe like. Those words which characterize the habitual are usuallyregarded as having essentially unequivocal meanings. The truth is thatlanguage, careless of the more fundamental distinctions, confuses widelydifferent connotations. For example, I find that custom--to return tothis most common expression--has a threefold significance, namely:

1. _The meaning of a simple objective matter of fact. _--In this sense wespeak of the man with the habit of early rising, or of walking at aparticular time, or of taking an afternoon nap. By this we mean merelythat he is accustomed to do so, he does it regularly, it is a part ofhis manner of life. It is easily understood how this meaning passes overinto the next:

2. _The meaning of a rule, of a norm which the man sets up forhimself. _--For example, we say he has made this or that a custom, and ina like meaning, he has made it a rule, or even a law; and we mean thatthis habit works like a law or a precept. By it a person governs himselfand regards habit as an imperative command, a structure of subjectivekind, that, however, has objective form and recognition. The preceptwill be formulated, the original will be copied. A rule may be presentedas enjoined, insisted upon, imposed as a command which brings up thethird meaning of habit:

3. _An expression for a thing willed, or a will. _--This third meaning, which is generally given the least consideration, is the mostsignificant. If, in truth, habit is the will of man, then this alone canbe his real will. In this sense the proverb is significant that habit iscalled a second nature, and that man is a creature of habit. Habit is, in fact, a psychic disposition, which drives and urges to a specificact, and this is the will in its most outstanding form, as decision, oras "fixed" purpose. 

Imperceptibly, the habitual passes over into the instinctive and theimpulsive. What we are accustomed to do, that we do "automatically. "Likewise we automatically make gestures, movements of welcome andaversion which we have never learned but which we do "naturally. " Theyhave their springs of action in the instinct of self-preservation and inthe feelings connected with it. But what we are accustomed to do, wemust first have learned and practiced. It is just that practice, thefrequent repetition, that brings about the performance of the act "ofitself, " like a reflex, rapidly and easily. The rope dancer is able towalk the rope, because he is accustomed to it. Habit and practice arealso the reasons not only why a man can perform something but also whyhe performs it with relatively less effort and attention. Habit is thebasis not only for our knowing something but also for our actually doingit. Habit operates as a kind of stimulus, and, as may be said, asnecessity. The "power of habit" has often been described and oftencondemned. 

As a rule, opinions (mental attitudes) are dependent upon habit, bywhich they are conditioned and circumscribed. Yet, of course, opinionscan also detach themselves from habit, and rise above it, and this isdone successfully when they become general opinions, principles, convictions. As such they gain strength which may even break down andovercome habit. Faith, taken in the conventional religious sense ofassurance of things hoped for, is a primitive form of will. While ingeneral habit and opinion on the whole agree, there is nevertheless intheir relations the seeds of conflict and struggle. Thought continuallytends to become the dominating element of the mind, and man therebybecomes the more human. 

The same meaning that the will, in the usual individual sense, has forindividual man, the social will has for any community or society, whether there be a mere loose relationship, or a formal union andpermanent association. And what is this meaning? I have pointed this outin my discussion of habit, and present here the more general statement:The social will is the general volition which serves for the governmentand regulation of individual wills. Every general volition can beconceived as corresponding to a "thou shalt, " and in so far as anindividual or an association of individuals directs this "thou shalt" toitself, we recognize the autonomy and freedom of this individual or ofthis association. The necessary consequence of this is that theindividual against all opposing inclinations and opinions, theassociation against opposing individuals, wherever their oppositionmanifests itself, attempt, at least, to carry through their will so thatthey work as a constraint and exert pressure. And this is essentiallyindependent of the means which are used to that end. These pressuresextend, at least in the social sense, from measures of persuasion, whichappeal to a sense of honor and of shame, to actual coercion andpunishment which may take the form of physical compulsion. _Sitte_develops into the most unbending, overpowering force. 

4. The Law, Conscience, and the General Will[68]

In the English language we have no name for it (_Sittlichkeit_), andthis is unfortunate, for the lack of a distinctive name has occasionedconfusion both of thought and of expression. _Sittlichkeit_ is thesystem of habitual or customary conduct, ethical rather than legal, which embraces all those obligations of the citizen which it is "badform" or "not the thing" to disregard. Indeed, regard for theseobligations is frequently enjoined merely by the social penalty of being"cut" or looked on askance. And yet the system is so generally acceptedand is held in so high regard, that no one can venture to disregard itwithout in some way suffering at the hands of his neighbors for sodoing. If a man maltreats his wife and children, or habitually jostleshis fellow-citizens in the street, or does things flagrantly selfish orin bad taste, he is pretty sure to find himself in a minority and theworse off in the end. But not only does it not pay to do these things, but the decent man does not wish to do them. A feeling analogous to whatarises from the dictates of his more private and individual consciencerestrains him. He finds himself so restrained in the ordinary affairs ofdaily life. But he is guided in his conduct by no mere inward feeling, as in the case of conscience. Conscience and, for that matter, law, overlap parts of the sphere of social obligation about which I amspeaking. A rule of conduct may, indeed, appear in more than one sphere, and may consequently have a twofold sanction. But the guide to which thecitizen mostly looks is just the standard recognized by the community, acommunity made up mainly of those fellow-citizens whose good opinion herespects and desires to have. He has everywhere round him anobject-lesson in the conduct of decent people toward each other andtoward the community to which they belong. Without such conduct and therestraints which it imposes there could be no tolerable social life, andreal freedom from interference would not be enjoyed. It is theinstinctive sense of what to do and what not to do in daily life andbehavior that is the source of liberty and ease. And it is thisinstinctive sense of obligation that is the chief foundation of society. Its reality takes objective shape and displays itself in family life andin our other civic and social institutions. It is not limited to any oneform, and it is capable of manifesting itself in new forms and ofdeveloping and changing old forms. Indeed, the civic community is morethan a political fabric. It includes all the social institutions in andby which the individual life is influenced--such as are the family, theschool, the church, the legislature, and the executive. None of thesecan subsist in isolation from the rest; together they and otherinstitutions of the kind form a single organic whole, the whole which isknown as the nation. The spirit and habit of life which this organicentirety inspires and compels are what, for my present purpose, I meanby _Sittlichkeit_. 

_Sitte_ is the German for custom, and _Sittlichkeit_ implies custom anda habit of mind and action. It also implies a little more. Fichtedefines it in words which are worth quoting, and which I will put intoEnglish:

 What, to begin with, does _Sitte_ signify, and in what sense do we use the word? It means for us, and means in every accurate reference we make of it, those principles of conduct which regulate people in their relations to each other, and which have become matter of habit and second nature at the stage of culture reached, and of which, therefore, we are not explicitly conscious. Principles, we call them, because we do not refer to the sort of conduct that is casual or is determined on casual grounds, but to the hidden and uniform ground of action which we assume to be present in the man whose action is not deflected and from which we can pretty certainly predict what he will do. Principles, we say, which have become a second nature and of which we are not explicitly conscious. We thus exclude all impulses and motives based on free individual choice, the inward aspect of _Sittlichkeit_, that is to say, morality, and also the outward side, or law, alike. For what a man has first to reflect over and then freely to resolve is not for him a habit in conduct; and in so far as habit in conduct is associated with a particular age, it is regarded as the unconscious instrument of the Time Spirit. 

The system of ethical habit in a community is of a dominating character, for the decision and influence of the whole community is embodied inthat social habit. Because such conduct is systematic and covers thewhole of the field of society, the individual will is closely related byit to the will and the spirit of the community. And out of this relationarises the power of adequately controlling the conduct of theindividual. If this power fails or becomes weak, the communitydegenerates and may fall to pieces. Different nations excel in their_Sittlichkeit_ in different fashions. The spirit of the community andits ideals may vary greatly. There may be a low level of _Sittlichkeit_;and we have the spectacle of nations which have even degenerated in thisrespect. It may possibly conflict with law and morality, as in the caseof the duel. But when its level is high in a nation we admire thesystem, for we see it not only guiding a people and binding themtogether for national effort, but affording the greatest freedom ofthought and action for those who in daily life habitually act in harmonywith the General Will. 

Thus we have in the case of a community, be it the city or be it thestate, an illustration of a sanction which is sufficient to compelobservance of a rule without any question of the application of force. This kind of sanction may be of a highly compelling quality, and itoften extends so far as to make the individual prefer the good of thecommunity to his own. The development of many of our socialinstitutions, of our hospitals, of our universities, and of otherestablishments of the kind, shows the extent to which it reaches and ispowerful. But it has yet higher forms in which it approaches very nearlyto the level of the obligation of conscience, although it is distinctfrom that form of obligation. I will try to make clear what I mean byillustrations. A man may be impelled to action of a high order by hissense of unity with the society to which he belongs, action of which, from the civic standpoint, all approve. What he does in such a case isnatural to him, and is done without thought of reward or punishment; butit has reference to standards of conduct set up by society and acceptedjust because society has set them up. There is a poem by the late SirAlfred Lyall which exemplifies the high level that may be reached insuch conduct. The poem is called _Theology in Extremis_, and itdescribes the feelings of an Englishman who had been taken prisoner byMahometan rebels in the Indian Mutiny. He is face to face with a crueldeath. They offer him his life if he will repeat something from theKoran. If he complies, no one is likely ever to hear of it, and he willbe free to return to England and to the woman he loves. Moreover, andhere is the real point, he is not a believer in Christianity, so that itis no question of denying his Savior. What ought he to do? Deliveranceis easy, and the relief and advantage would be unspeakably great. But hedoes not really hesitate, and every shadow of doubt disappears when hehears his fellow-prisoner, a half-caste, pattering eagerly the wordsdemanded. 

I will take another example, this time from the literature of ancientGreece. In one of the shortest but not least impressive of his_Dialogues_, the "Crito, " Plato tells us of the character of Socrates, not as a philosopher, but as a good citizen. He has been unjustlycondemned by the Athenians as an enemy to the good of the state. Critocomes to him in prison to persuade him to escape. He urges on him manyarguments, his duty to his children included. But Socrates refuses. Hechooses to follow, not what anyone in the crowd might do, but theexample which the ideal citizen should set. It would be a breach of hisduty to fly from the judgment duly passed in the Athens to which hebelongs, even though he thinks the decree should have been different. For it is the decree of the established justice of his city state. Hewill not "play truant. " He hears the words, "Listen, Socrates, to us whohave brought you up"; and in reply he refuses to go away, in thesefinal sentences: "This is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in myears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is murmuring in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say will be vain. "

Why do men of this stamp act so, it may be when leading the battle line, it may be at critical moments of quite other kinds? It is, I think, because they are more than mere individuals. Individual they are, butcompletely real, even as individual, only in their relation to organicand social wholes in which they are members, such as the family, thecity, the state. There is in every truly organized community a CommonWill which is willed by those who compose that community, and who in sowilling are more than isolated men and women. It is not, indeed, asunrelated atoms that they have lived. They have grown, from thereceptive days of childhood up to maturity, in an atmosphere of exampleand general custom, and their lives have widened out from one littleworld to other and higher worlds, so that, through occupying successivestations in life, they more and more come to make their own the life ofthe social whole in which they move and have their being. They cannotmark off or define their own individualities without reference to theindividualities of others. And so they unconsciously find themselves asin truth pulse-beats of the whole system, and themselves the wholesystem. It is real in them and they in it. They are real only becausethey are social. The notion that the individual is the highest form ofreality, and that the relationship of individuals is one of merecontract, the notion of Hobbes and of Bentham and of Austin, turns outto be quite inadequate. Even of an everyday contract, that of marriage, it has been well said that it is a contract to pass out of the sphere ofcontract, and that it is possible only because the contracting partiesare already beyond and above that sphere. As a modern writer, F. H. Bradley of Oxford, to whose investigations in these regions we owe much, has finely said: "The moral organism is not a mere animal organism. Inthe latter the member is not aware of itself as such, while in theformer it knows itself, and therefore knows the whole in itself. Thenarrow external function of the man is not the whole man. He has a lifewhich we cannot see with our eyes, and there is no duty so mean that itis not the realization of this, and knowable as such. What counts isnot the visible outer work so much as the spirit in which it is done. The breadth of my life is not measured by the multitude of my pursuits, nor the space I take up amongst other men; but by the fulness of thewhole life which I know as mine. It is true that less now depends oneach of us as this or that man; it is not true that our individuality istherefore lessened; that therefore we have less in us. "

There is, according to this view, a General Will with which the will ofthe good citizen is in accord. He feels that he would despise himselfwere his private will not in harmony with it. The notion of the realityof such a will is no new one. It is as old as the Greeks, for whom themoral order and the city state were closely related; and we find it inmodern books in which we do not look for it. Jean Jacques Rousseau isprobably best known to the world by the famous words in which he beginsthe first chapter of the _Social Contract_: "Man is born free, andeverywhere he is in chains. Those who think themselves to be the mastersof others cease not to be greater slaves than the people they govern. "He goes on in the next paragraph to tell us that if he were only toconsider force and the effects of it, he would say that if a nation wasconstrained to obey and did obey, it did well, but that whenever itcould throw off its yoke and did throw it off, it acted better. Hiswords, written in 1762, became a text for the pioneers of the FrenchRevolution. But they would have done well to read further into the book. As Rousseau goes on, we find a different conception. He passes fromconsidering the fiction of a social contract to a discussion of thepower over the individual of the General Will, by virtue of which apeople becomes a people. This General Will, the _Volonté Générale_, hedistinguishes from the Volonté de Tous, which is a mere numerical sum ofindividual wills. These particular wills do not rise above themselves. The General Will, on the other hand, represents what is greater than theindividual volition of those who compose the society of which it is thewill. On occasions, this higher will is more apparent than at othertimes. But it may, if there is social slackness, be difficult todistinguish from a mere aggregate of voices, from the will of a mob. What is interesting is that Rousseau, so often associated with doctrineof quite another kind, should finally recognize the bond of a GeneralWill as what really holds the community together. For him, as for thosewho have had a yet clearer grasp of the principle, in willing theGeneral Will we not only realize our true selves but we may rise aboveour ordinary habit of mind. We may reach heights which we could notreach, or which at all events most of us could not reach, in isolation. There are few observers who have not been impressed with the wonderfulunity and concentration of purpose which an entire nation maydisplay--above all, in a period of crisis. We see it in time of war, when a nation is fighting for its life or for a great cause. We havemarvelled at the illustrations with which history abounds of the GeneralWill rising to heights of which but few of the individual citizens inwhom it is embodied have ever before been conscious even in theirdreams. 

By leadership a common ideal can be made to penetrate the soul of apeople and to take complete possession of it. The ideal may be veryhigh, or it may be of so ordinary a kind that we are not conscious of itwithout the effort of reflection. But when it is there it influences andguides daily conduct. Such idealism passes beyond the sphere of law, which provides only what is necessary for mutual protection and libertyof just action. It falls short, on the other hand, in quality of thedictates of what Kant called the Categorical Imperative that rules theprivate and individual conscience, but that alone, an Imperative whichtherefore gives insufficient guidance for ordinary and daily sociallife. Yet the ideal of which I speak is not the less binding; and it isrecognized as so binding that the conduct of all good men conforms toit. 

C. PERSONALITY AND THE SOCIAL SELF

1. The Organism as Personality[69]

The organism and the brain, as its highest representation, constitutethe real personality, containing in itself all that we have been, andthe possibility of all that we shall be. The complete individualcharacter is inscribed there with all its active and passive aptitudes, sympathies, and antipathies; its genius, talents, or stupidity; itsvirtues, vices, torpor, or activity. Of all these, what emerges andactually reaches consciousness is only a small item compared with whatremains buried below, albeit still active. Conscious personality isalways but a feeble portion of physical personality. 

The unity of the ego, consequently, is not that of the one-entity ofspiritualists which is dispersed into multiple phenomena, but theco-ordination of a certain number of incessantly renascent states, having for their support the vague sense of our bodies. This unity doesnot pass from above to below, but from below to above; the unity of theego is not an initial, but a terminal point. 

Does there really exist a perfect unity? Evidently not in the strict, mathematical sense. In a relative sense it is met with, rarely andincidentally. In a clever marksman in the act of taking aim, or in askilled surgeon performing a difficult operation all is found toconverge, both physically and mentally. Still, let us take note of theresult: in these conditions the awareness of real personalitydisappears; the conscious individual is reduced to an idea; whence itwould follow that perfect unity of consciousness and the awareness ofpersonality exclude each other. By a different course we again reach thesame conclusion; the ego is a co-ordination. It oscillates between twoextreme points at which it ceases to exist: viz. , perfect unity andabsolute inco-ordination. All the intermediate degrees are met with, infact, and without any line of demarcation between the healthy and themorbid; the one encroaches upon the other. 

Even in the normal state the co-ordination is often sufficiently looseto allow several series to coexist separately. We can walk or performmanual work with a vague and intermittent consciousness of themovements, at the same time singing, musing; but if the activity ofthought increases, the singing will cease. With many people it is a kindof substitute for intellectual activity, an intermediate state betweenthinking and not-thinking. 

The unity of the ego, in a psychological sense, is, therefore, thecohesion, during a given time, of a certain number of clear states ofconsciousness, accompanied by others less clear, and by a multitude ofphysiological states which, without being accompanied by consciousnesslike the others, yet operate as much as, and even more than, the former. Unity, in fact, means co-ordination. The conclusion to be drawn from theabove remarks is namely this, that the consensus of consciousness beingsubordinate to the consensus of the organism, the problem of the unityof the ego is, in its ultimate form, a biological problem. To biologypertains the task of explaining, if it can, the genesis of organisms andthe solidarity of their component parts. Psychological interpretationcan only follow in its wake. 

2. Personality as a Complex[70]

Ideas, after being experienced in consciousness, become dormant(conserved as physiological dispositions) and may or may not afterwardbe reawakened in consciousness as memories. Many such ideas, underconditions with some of which we are all familiar, tend to form part ofour voluntary or involuntary memories and many do not. But when such isthe case, the memories do not ordinarily include the whole of a givenmental experience, but only excerpts or abstracts of it. Hence onereason for the fallibility of human memory and consequent testimony. 

Now under special conditions, the ideas making up an experience at anygiven moment tend to become organized into a system or complex, so thatwhen we later think of the experience or recall any of the ideasbelonging to it, the complex as a whole is revived. This is one of theprinciples underlying the mechanism of memory. Thus it happens thatmemory may, to a large extent, be made up of complexes. These complexesmay be very loosely organized in that the elementary ideas are weaklybound together, in which case, when we try to recall the originalexperience, only a part of it is recalled. Or a complex may be verystrongly organized, owing to the conditions under which it is formed, and then a large part of the experience can be recalled. In this case, any idea associated with some element in the complex may, by the law ofassociation, revive the whole original complex. If, for instance, wehave gone through a railroad accident involving exciting incidents, lossof life, etc. , the words "railroad, " "accident, " "death, " or a suddencrashing sound, or the sight of blood, or even riding in a railroadtrain may recall the experience from beginning to end, or at least theprominent features in it, i. E. , so much as was organized. The memory ofthe greater part of this experience is well organized, while the earlierevents and those succeeding the accident may have passed out of allpossibility of voluntary recall. 

To take an instance commonplace enough but which happens to have justcome within my observation: A fireman was injured severely by beingthrown from a hose wagon rushing to a fire against a telegraph pole withwhich the wagon collided. He narrowly escaped death. Although threeyears have passed he still cannot ride on a wagon to a fire without thememory of the whole accident rising in his mind. When he does so heagain lives through the accident, including the thoughts just previousto the actual collision when, realizing his situation, he was overcomewith terror, and he again manifests all the organic physical expressionsof fear, viz. : perspiration, tremor, and muscular weakness. Here is awell-organized and fairly limited complex. 

Among the loosely organized complexes in many individuals, and possiblyin all of us, there are certain dispositions toward views of life whichrepresent natural inclinations, desires, and modes of activity which, for one reason or another, we tend to suppress or are unable to givefull play to. Many individuals, for example, are compelled by theexactions of their duties and responsibilities to lead serious lives, todevote themselves to pursuits which demand all their energies andthought and which, therefore, do not permit of indulgence in the lighterenjoyments of life, and yet there may be a natural inclination topartake of the pleasures which innately appeal to all mankind and whichmany pursue. The longing for these recurs from time to time. The minddwells on them, the imagination is excited and weaves a fabric ofpictures, thoughts, and emotions which thus become associated into acomplex. There may be a rebellion and "kicking against the pricks" andthereby a liberation of the emotional force that impresses a strongerorganization on the whole process. The recurrence of such a complex isone form of what we call a "mood, " which has a distinctly emotional toneof its own. The revival of this feeling tone tends to revive theassociated ideas and vice versa. Such a feeling-idea complex is oftenspoken of as "a side to one's character, " to which a person may fromtime to time give play. Or the converse of this may hold, and a personwho devotes his life to the lighter enjoyments may have aspirations andlongings for more serious pursuits, and in this respect the imaginationmay similarly build up a complex which may express itself in a mood. Thus a person is often said to have "many sides to his character, " andexhibits certain alternations of personality which may be regarded asnormal prototypes of those which occur as abnormal states. 

Most of what has been said about the formation of complexes is astatement of commonplace facts, and I would not repeat it here were itnot that, in certain abnormal conditions, disposition, subject, andother complexes, though loosely organized, often play an important part. This is not the place to enter into an explanation of dissociatedpersonality, but in such conditions we sometimes find that dispositioncomplexes, for instance, come to the surface and displace or substitutethemselves for the other complexes which make up a personality. Acomplex which is only a mood or a "side of the character" of a normalindividual may, in conditions of dissociation, become the main, perhapssole, complex and chief characteristic of the new personality. In MissBeauchamp, for instance, the personality known as BI was made up almostentirely of the religious and ethical ideas which formed one side of theoriginal self. In the personality known as Sally we had for the mostpart the complex which represented the enjoyment of youthful pleasuresand sports, the freedom from conventionalities and artificial restraintsgenerally imposed by duties and responsibilities. In BIV the complexrepresented the ambitions and activities of practical life. In MissBeauchamp as a whole, normal, without disintegration, it was easy torecognize all three dispositions as "sides of her character, " thougheach was kept ordinarily within proper bounds by the correctinginfluence of the others. It was only necessary to put her in anenvironment which encouraged one or the other side, to associate herwith people who strongly suggested one or the other of her owncharacteristics, whether religious, social, pleasure loving, orintellectual, to see the characteristics of BI, Sally, or BIV stand outin relief as the predominant personality. Then we had the alternatingplay of these different sides of her character. 

In fact, the total of our complexes, which, regarded as a whole and inview of their reaction to the environment, their behavior under thevarious conditions of social life, their aptitudes, feeling-tones, "habits, " and faculties, we term character and personality, are in largepart predetermined by the mental experiences of the past and thevestiges of memory which have been left as residual from theseexperiences. We are the offspring of our past. 

The great mass of our ideas involve associations of the origin of whichwe are unaware because the memories of the original experience havebecome split and a large portion thus has become forgotten even if everfully appreciated. We all have our prejudices, our likes and dislikes, our tastes and aversions; it would tax our ingenuity to give asufficient psychological account of their origin. They were born longago in educational, social, personal, and other experiences, the detailsof which we have this many a year forgotten. It is the residua of theseexperiences that have persisted and become associated into complexeswhich are retained as traits of our personality. 

3. The Self as the Individual's Conception of His Rôle[71]

Suggestion may have its end and aim in the creation of a newpersonality. The experimenter then chooses the sort of personality hewishes to induce and obliges the subject to realize it. Experiments ofthis kind succeeding in a great many somnambulists, and usuallyproducing very curious results, have long been known and have beenrepeated, one might say, almost to satiety within the last few years. 

When we are awake and in full possession of all our faculties we canimagine sensations different from those which we ordinarily experience. For example, when I am sitting quietly at my table engaged in writingthis book, I can conceive the sensations that a soldier, a woman, anartist, or an Englishman would experience in such and such a situation. But, however fantastic the conceptions may be that we form, we do notcease to be conscious withal of our own personal existence. Imaginationhas taken flight fairly in space, but the memory of ourselves alwaysremains behind. Each of us knows that he is himself and not another, that he did this yesterday, that he has just written a letter, that hemust write another such letter tomorrow, that he was out of Paris for aweek, etc. It is this memory of passed facts--a memory always present tothe mind--that constitutes the consciousness of our normal personality. 

It is entirely different in the case of the two women, A---- and B----, that M. Richet studied. 

 Put to sleep and subjected to certain influences, A---- and B---- forget their identity; their age, their clothing, their sex, their social position, their nationality, the place and the time of their life--all this has entirely disappeared. Only a single idea remains--a single consciousness--it is the consciousness of the idea and of the new being that dawns upon their imagination. 

 They have lost the idea of their late existence. They live, talk, and think exactly like the type that is suggested to them. With what tremendous intensity of life these types are realized, only those who have been present at these experiments can know. Description can only give a weak and imperfect idea of it. 

 Instead of imagining a character simply, they realize it, objectify it. It is not like a hallucination, of which one witnesses the images unfolding before him, as a spectator would. He is rather like an actor who is seized with passion, imagines that the drama he plays is a reality, not a fiction, and that he has been transformed, body and soul, into the personality that he sets himself to play. 

 In order to have this transformation of personality work it is sufficient to pronounce a word with some authority. I say to A----, "You are an old woman, " she considers herself changed into an old woman, and her countenance, her bearing, her feelings, become those of an old woman. I say to B----, "You are a little girl, " and she immediately assumes the language, games, and tastes of a little girl. 

 Although the account of these scenes is quite dull and colorless compared with the sight of the astonishing and sudden transformations themselves, I shall attempt, nevertheless, to describe some of them. I quote some of M----'s _objectivations_:

 _As a peasant. _--She rubs her eyes and stretches herself. "What time is it? Four o'clock in the morning!" She walks as if she were dragging sabots. "Now, then, I must get up. Let us go to the stable. Come up, red one! come up, get about!" She seems to be milking a cow. "Let me alone, Gros-Jean, let me alone, I tell you. When I am through my work. You know well enough that I have not finished my work. Oh! yes, yes, later. "

 _As an actress. _--Her face took a smiling aspect instead of the dull and listless manner which she had just had. "You see my skirt? Well, my manager makes me wear it so long. These managers are too tiresome. As for me, the shorter the skirt the better I like it. There is always too much of it. A simple fig leaf! Mon Dieu, that is enough! You agree with me, don't you, my dear, that it is not necessary to have more than a fig leaf? Look then at this great dowdy Lucie--where are her legs, eh?"

 _As a priest. _--She imagines that she is the Archbishop of Paris. Her face becomes very grave. Her voice is mildly sweet and drawling, which forms a great contrast with the harsh, blunt tone she had as a general. (Aside. ) "But I must accomplish my charge. " She leans her head on her hand and reflects. (Aloud. ) "Ah! it is you, Monsieur Grand Vicar; what is your business with me? I do not wish to be disturbed. Yes, today is the first of January, and I must go to the cathedral. This throng of people is very respectful, don't you think so, monsieur? There is a great deal of religion in the people, whatever one does. Ah! a child! let him come to me to be blessed. There, my child. " She holds out to him her imaginary bishop's ring to kiss. During this whole scene she is making gestures of benediction with her right hand on all sides. "Now I have a duty to perform. I must go and pay my respects to the president of the Republic. Ah! Mr. President, I come to offer you my allegiance. It is the wish of the church that you may have many years of life. She knows that she has nothing to fear, notwithstanding cruel attacks, while such an honorable man is at the head of the Republic. " She is silent and seems to listen attentively. (Aside. ) "Yes, fair promises. Now let us pray!" She kneels down. 

 _As a religious sister. _--She immediately kneels down and begins to say her prayers, making a great many signs of the cross; then she arises. "Now to the hospital. There is a wounded man in this ward. Well, my friend, you are a little better this morning, aren't you? Now, then, let me take off your bandage. " She gestures as if she were unrolling a bandage. "I shall do it very gently; doesn't that relieve you? There! my poor friend, be as courageous before pain as you were before the enemy. "

 I might cite other objectivations from A----'s case, in the character of old woman, little girl, young man, gay woman, etc. But the examples given seem sufficient to give some idea of the entire transformation of the personality into this or that imaginary type. It is not a simple dream, it is a _living dream_. 

 The complete transformation of feelings is not the least curious phenomenon of these objectivations. A---- is timid, but she becomes very daring when she thinks herself a bold person. B---- is silent, she becomes talkative when she represents a talkative person. The disposition is thus completely changed. Old tastes disappear and give place to the new tastes that the new character represented is supposed to have. 

In a more recent paper, prepared with the co-operation of M. Ferrari andM. Hericourt, M. Richet has added a curious detail to the precedingexperiments. He has shown that the subject on whom a change ofpersonality is imposed not only adapts his speech, gestures, andattitudes to the new personality, but that even his handwriting ismodified and brought into relation with the new ideas that absorb hisconsciousness. This modification of handwriting is an especiallyinteresting discovery, since handwriting, according to current theories, is nothing more than a sort of imitation. I cite some examples borrowedfrom these authors. 

It is suggested in succession to a young student that he is a sly andcrafty peasant, then a miser, and finally a very old man. While thesubject's features and behavior generally are modified and brought intoharmony with the idea of the personality suggested, we may observe alsothat his handwriting undergoes similar modifications which are not lessmarked. It has a special character peculiar to each of the new states ofpersonality. In short, the graphic movements change like the gesturesgenerally. 

In a note on the handwriting of hysterical patients, I have shown thatunder the influence of suggested emotions, or under the influence ofsensorial stimulations, the handwriting of a hysterical patient may bemodified. It gets larger, for example, in cases of dynamogenicexcitation. 

The characteristic of the suggestion that we have just studied is thatit does not bear exclusively on perception or movement--that is to say, on a limited psychic element; but there are comprehensive suggestions. They impose a topic on the subject that he is obliged to develop withall the resources of his intellect and imagination, and if theobservations be carefully examined, it will also be seen that in thesesuggestions the faculties of perception are affected and perverted bythe same standard as that of ideation. Thus the subject, under theinfluence of his assumed personality, ceases to perceive the externalworld as it exists. He has hallucinations in connection with his newpsychological personality. When a bishop, he thinks he is in Notre Dame, and sees a host of the faithful. When a general, he thinks he issurrounded by troops, etc. Things that harmonize with the suggestion areconjured up. This systematic development of states of consciousnessbelongs to all kinds of suggestions, but is perhaps nowhere else somarked as in these transformations of personality. 

On the other hand, everything that is inconsistent with the suggestiongets inhibited and leaves the subject's consciousness. As has been said, alterations of personality imply phenomena of amnesia. In order that thesubject may assume the fictitious personality he must begin byforgetting his true personality. The infinite number of memories thatrepresent his past experience and constitute the basis of his normal egoare for the time being effaced, because these memories are inconsistentwith the ideal of the suggestion. 

4. The Natural Person versus the Social and Conventional Self[72]

Somewhat after the order of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I seem to possesstwo distinct personalities, being both at the same time but presentingno such striking contrast as the Jekyll-Hyde combination. They are aboutequally virtuous. Their main difference seems to be one of age, onebeing a decade or so in advance of the other. 

At times they work harmoniously together and again at cross-purposes. Ido not seem to have developed equally. Part of me sits humbly at thefeet of the other part of me and receives advice and instruction. Partof me feels constrained to confess to the other part of me when it hasdone wrong and meekly receives rebuke. Part of me tries to shock theother part of me and to force the more dignified part to misbehave andgiggle and do things not considered correct in polite society. 

My younger part delights to tease the older, to doubt her motives, tointerrupt her meditations. It wants to play, while my older self is moreseriously inclined. My younger self is only twelve years old. This is myreal self. To my own mind I am still a little girl with short dressesand a bunch of curls. For some reason my idea of self has never advancedbeyond this point. The long dress and the hair piled high will neverseem natural. Sometimes I enjoy this duality and again I do not. Sometimes the two parts mingle delightfully together, again they wrangleatrociously, while I (there seems to be a third part of me) sit off andwatch the outcome. 

The older part gets tired before the younger. The younger, still freshand in a good humor, undertakes to furnish amusement for the older. Ihave often thrown myself on the bed wearied and exhausted and been madeto shake with laughter at the capers of the younger part of me. They arecapers indeed. On these occasions she will carry on conversations withfriends--real friends--fairly bristling with witticisms, and althoughtaking both parts herself, the parry and thrust is delightful. 

Sometimes, however, the younger part of me seems to get up all awry. Shewill carry on quarrels--heated quarrels--from morning to night, takingboth sides herself, with persons whom I (the combination) dearly love, and against whom I have no grievance whatever. These are a greatdistress to my older self. 

On other days she seems to take the greatest delight in torturing mewith imaginary horrors. She cuts my throat, pulls my eyes out of theirsockets, removes tumors, and amputates limbs until I wonder that thereis anything left of me. She does it all without administeringanæsthetics and seems to enjoy my horror and disgust. 

Again, some little jingle or tune will take her fancy and she willrepeat it to herself until I am almost driven to madness. Sometimes itis only a word, but it seems to have a fascination for her and she rollsit as a sweet morsel under her tongue until sleep puts an end to it. 

Again, if I (the combination) fall ill, one part of me, I have neverdiscovered which, invariably hints that I am not ill at all but merelypretending. So much so that it has become with me a recognized symptomof incipient illness. 

Moreover, the younger and older are never on the same side of anyquestion. One leans to wisdom, the other to fun. I am a house dividedagainst itself. The younger longs to dance, to go to the theater and toplay cards, all of which the older disapproves. The younger mocks theolder, calls her a hypocrite and the like until the older well-nighbelieves it herself and almost yields to her pleadings. The olderlistens sedately to the sermon, while the younger plans her Easter suitor makes fun of the preacher. 

The older declares she will never marry, while the younger scouts theidea of being an old maid. But even if she could gain the consent of theolder, it were but little better, they differ so as to their ideals. 

In society the difference is more marked. I seem to be a combinationchaperone and protégée. The older appears at ease, the younger shy andawkward--she has never made her début. If one addresses a remark to hershe is thrown into utter confusion until the older rushes to the rescue. My sympathy is with the younger, however, for even to this day I, thecombination, can scarce resist the temptation to say nothing when thereis nothing to say. 

There is something tragic to me in this Siamese-twins arrangement of twoso uncongenial. I am at one and the same time pupil and teacher, offender and judge, performer and critic, chaperone and protégée, aprim, precise, old maid and a rollicking schoolgirl, a tomboy and aprude, a saint and sinner. What can result from such a combination? Thatwe get on tolerably is a wonder. Some days, however, we get on admirablytogether, part of me paying compliments to the other part of me--wholedays being given to this--until each of us has such a good opinion ofherself and the other that we feel on equal terms and are at ourhappiest. 

But how dreadful are the days when we turn against each other! There arenot words enough to express the contempt which we feel for ourselves. Weseem to set each other in the corner and the combination as a whole isutterly miserable. 

I can but wonder and enjoy and wait to see what Myself and I will makeof Me. 

5. The Divided Self and Moral Consciousness[73]

Two ways of looking at life are characteristic respectively of what wecall the healthy-minded, who need to be born only once, and of the sicksouls, who must be twice-born in order to be happy. The result is twodifferent conceptions of the universe of our experience. In the religionof the once-born the world is a sort of rectilineal or one-storiedaffair, whose accounts are kept in one denomination, whose parts havejust the values which naturally they appear to have, and of which asimple algebraic sum of pluses and minuses will give the total worth. Happiness and religious peace consist in living on the plus side of theaccount. In the religion of the twice-born, on the other hand, the worldis a double-storied mystery. Peace cannot be reached by the simpleaddition of pluses and elimination of minuses from life. Natural good isnot simply insufficient in amount and transient; there lurks a falsityin its very being. Cancelled as it all is by death, if not by earlierenemies, it gives no final balance, and can never be the thing intendedfor our lasting worship. It keeps us from our real good, rather; andrenunciation and despair of it are our first step in the direction ofthe truth. There are two lives, the natural and the spiritual, and wemust lose the one before we can participate in the other. 

In their extreme forms, of pure naturalism and pure salvationism, thetwo types are violently contrasted; though here, as in most othercurrent classifications, the radical extremes are somewhat idealabstractions, and the concrete human beings whom we oftenest meet areintermediate varieties and mixtures. Practically, however, you allrecognize the difference: you understand, for example, the disdain ofthe Methodist convert for the mere sky-blue healthy-minded moralist; andyou likewise enter into the aversion of the latter to what seems to himthe diseased subjectivism of the Methodist, dying to live, as he callsit, and making of paradox and the inversion of natural appearances theessence of God's truth. 

The psychological basis of the twice-born character seems to be acertain discordancy or heterogeneity in the native temperament of thesubject, an incompletely unified moral and intellectual constitution. 

"Homo duplex, homo duplex!" writes Alphonse Daudet. "The first time thatI perceived that I was two was at the death of my brother Henri, when myfather cried out so dramatically, 'He is dead, he is dead!' While myfirst self wept, my second self thought, 'How truly given was that cry, how fine it would be at the theater. ' I was then fourteen years old. This horrible duality has often given me matter for reflection. Oh, thisterrible second me, always seated whilst the other is on foot, acting, living, suffering, bestirring itself. This second me that I have neverbeen able to intoxicate, to make shed tears, or put to sleep. And how itsees into things, and how it mocks!"

Some persons are born with an inner constitution which is harmonious andwell balanced from the outset. Their impulses are consistent with oneanother, their will follows without trouble the guidance of theirintellect, their passions are not excessive, and their lives are littlehaunted by regrets. Others are oppositely constituted; and are so indegrees which may vary from something so slight as to result in a merelyodd or whimsical inconsistency, to a discordancy of which theconsequences may be inconvenient in the extreme. Of the more innocentkinds of heterogeneity I find a good example in Mrs. Annie Besant'sautobiography. 

 I have ever been the queerest mixture of weakness and strength, and have paid heavily for the weakness. As a child I used to suffer tortures of shyness, and if my shoe-lace was untied would feel shamefacedly that every eye was fixed on the unlucky string; as a girl I would shrink away from strangers and think myself unwanted and unliked, so that I was full of eager gratitude to anyone who noticed me kindly; as the young mistress of a house I was afraid of my servants, and would let careless work pass rather than bear the pain of reproving the ill-doer; when I have been lecturing and debating with no lack of spirit on the platform, I have preferred to go without what I wanted at the hotel rather than to ring and make the waiter fetch it. Combative on the platform in defense of any cause I cared for, I shrink from quarrel or disapproval in the house, and am a coward at heart in private while a good fighter in public. How often have I passed unhappy quarters of an hour screwing up my courage to find fault with some subordinate whom my duty compelled me to reprove, and how often have I jeered at myself for a fraud as the doughty platform combatant, when shrinking from blaming some lad or lass for doing their work badly. An unkind look or word has availed to make me shrink myself as a snail into its shell, while, on the platform, opposition makes me speak my best. 

This amount of inconsistency will only count as amiable weakness; but astronger degree of heterogeneity may make havoc of the subject's life. There are persons whose existence is little more than a series ofzigzags, as now one tendency and now another gets the upper hand. Theirspirit wars with their flesh, they wish for incompatibles, waywardimpulses interrupt their most deliberate plans, and their lives are onelong drama of repentance and of effort to repair misdemeanors andmistakes. 

Whatever the cause of heterogeneous personality may be, we find theextreme examples of it in the psychopathic temperament. All writersabout that temperament make the inner heterogeneity prominent in theirdescriptions. Frequently, indeed, it is only this trait that leads us toascribe that temperament to a man at all. A _dégénéré supérieur_ issimply a man of sensibility in many directions, who finds moredifficulty than is common in keeping his spiritual house in order andrunning his furrow straight, because his feelings and impulses are tookeen and too discrepant mutually. In the haunting and insistent ideas, in the irrational impulses, the morbid scruples, dreads, and inhibitionswhich beset the psychopathic temperament when it is thoroughlypronounced, we have exquisite examples of heterogeneous personality. Bunyan had an obsession of the words, "Sell Christ for this, sell himfor that, sell him, sell him!" which would run through his mind ahundred times together, until one day out of breath with retorting, "Iwill not, I will not, " he impulsively said, "Let him go if he will, " andthis loss of the battle kept him in despair for over a year. The livesof the saints are full of such blasphemous obsessions, ascribedinvariably to the direct agency of Satan. 

St. Augustine's case is a classic example of discordant personality. Youall remember his half-pagan, half-Christian bringing up at Carthage, hisemigration to Rome and Milan, his adoption of Manicheism and subsequentskepticism, and his restless search for truth and purity of life; andfinally how, distracted by the struggle between the two souls in hisbreast, and ashamed of his own weakness of will when so many others whomhe knew and knew of had thrown off the shackles of sensuality anddedicated themselves to chastity and the higher life, he heard a voicein the garden say, "Sume, lege" (take and read), and opening the Bibleat random, saw the text, "not in chambering and wantonness, " etc. , whichseemed directly sent to his address, and laid the inner storm to restforever. Augustine's psychological genius has given an account of thetrouble of having a divided self which has never been surpassed. 

 The new will which I began to have was not yet strong enough to overcome that other will, strengthened by long indulgence. So these two wills, one old, one new, one carnal, the other spiritual, contended with each other and disturbed my soul. I understood by my own experience what I had read, "Flesh lusteth against spirit, and spirit against flesh. " It was myself indeed in both the wills, yet more myself in that which I approved in myself than in that which I disapproved in myself. Yet it was through myself that habit had obtained so fierce a mastery over me, because I had willingly come whither I willed not. Still bound to earth, I refused, O God, to fight on thy side, as much afraid to be freed from all bonds as I ought to have feared being trammeled by them. 

 Thus the thoughts by which I meditated upon thee were like the efforts of one who would awake, but being overpowered with sleepiness is soon asleep again. Often does a man when heavy sleepiness is on his limbs defer to shake it off, and though not approving it, encourage it; even so I was sure it was better to surrender to thy love than to yield to my own lusts, yet, though the former course convinced me, the latter pleased and held me bound. There was naught in me to answer thy call, "Awake, thou sleeper, " but only drawling, drowsy words, "Presently; yes, presently; wait a little while. " But the "presently" had no "present, " and the "little while" grew long. For I was afraid thou wouldst hear me too soon, and heal me at once of my disease of lust, which I wished to satiate rather than to see extinguished. With what lashes of words did I not scourge my own soul. Yet it shrank back; it refused, though it had no excuse to offer. I said within myself: "Come, let it be done now, " and as I said it, I was on the point of the resolve. I all but did it, yet I did not do it. And I made another effort, and almost succeeded, yet I did not reach it, and did not grasp it, hesitating to die to death, and live to life; and the evil to which I was so wonted held me more than the better life I had not tried. 

There could be no more perfect description of the divided will, when thehigher wishes lack just that last acuteness, that touch of explosiveintensity, of dynamogenic quality (to use the slang of thepsychologists), that enables them to burst their shell, and makeirruption efficaciously into life and quell the lower tendenciesforever. 

6. Personality of Individuals and of Peoples[74]

In my opinion personality is not merely a unifying and directingprinciple which controls thought and action, but one which, at the sametime, defines the relation of individuals to their fellows. The conceptof personality includes, in addition to inner unity and co-ordination ofthe impulses, a definite attitude directed toward the outer world whichis determined by the manner in which the individual organizes hisexternal stimulations. 

In this definition the objective aspect of personality is emphasized asover against the subjective. We should not in psychological matters besatisfied with subjective definitions. The mental life is not only a sumof subjective experiences but manifests itself invariably also in adefinite series of objective expressions. These objective expressionsare the contributions which the personality makes to its external socialenvironment. More than that, only these objective expressions ofpersonality are accessible to external observation and they alone haveobjective value. 

According to Ribot, the real personality is an organism which isrepresented at its highest in the brain. The brain embraces all our pastand the possibilities of our future. The individual character with allits active and passive peculiarities, with all its antipathies, genius, talents, stupidities, virtues, and vices, its inertia and its energy ispredetermined in the brain. 

Personality, from the objective point of view, is the psychic individualwith all his original characters, an individual in free association withhis social _milieu_. Neither innate mental ability, nor creative energy, nor what we call will, in and of themselves, constitutes personality. Nothing less than the totality of psychical manifestations, all theseincluding idiosyncrasies which distinguish one man from another anddetermine his positive individuality, may be said to characterize, fromthe objective point of view, the human personality. 

The intellectual horizon of persons on different cultural levels varies, but no one, for that reason (because of intellectual inferiority), losesthe right to recognition as a person, provided that he maintains, overagainst his environment, his integrity as an individual and remains aself-determining person. It is the loss of this self-determinedindividuality alone that renders man completely impersonal. Whenindividual spontaneity is feebly manifested, we speak of an ill-definedor a "passive" personality. Personality is, in short, from the objectivepoint of view, a self-determining individual with a unique nature and adefinite status in the social world around him. 

If now, on the basis of the preceding definition, we seek to define thesignificance of personality in social and public life, it appears thatpersonality is the basis upon which all social institutions, movements, and conditions, in short all the phenomena of social life, rest. Thepeople of our time are no more, as in the Golden Age, inarticulatemasses. They are a totality of more or less active personalitiesconnected by common interests, in part by racial origin, and by acertain similarity of fundamental psychic traits. A people is a kind ofcollective personality possessing particular ethnic and psychologicalcharacteristics, animated by common political aspirations and politicaltraditions. The progress of peoples, their civilization, and theirculture naturally are determined by the advancement of the personalitieswhich compose them. Since the emancipation of mankind from a conditionof subjection, the life of peoples and of societies has rested upon theactive participation of each member of society in the common welfarewhich represents the aim of all. The personality, considered as apsychic self-determining individual, asserts itself the moreenergetically in the general march of historical events, the farther apeople is removed from the condition of subjection in which the rightsof personality are denied. 

In every field of activity, the more advanced personality "blazes a newtrail. " The passive personality, born in subjection, is disposed merelyto imitate and to repeat. The sheer existence of modern states dependsless on the crude physical force and its personified agencies, than onthe moral cohesion of the personalities who constitute the nation. 

Since the beginning of time, it is only the moral values that haveendured. Force can support the state only temporarily. When a nationdisregards the moral forces and seeks its salvation in the rude clash ofarms, it bears within itself the seeds of its own destruction. No armyin the world is strong enough to maintain a state, the moral basis ofwhich is shaken, for the strength of the army rests upon its morale. 

The importance of personality in the historic life of peoples ismanifest in periods when social conditions accelerate the movement ofsocial life. Personality, like every other force, reaches its maximumwhen it encounters resistance, in conflict and in rivalry--when itfights--hence its great value in friendly rivalry of nations in industryand culture, and especially in periods of natural calamities or ofenemies from without. Since the fruits of individual developmentcontribute to the common fund of social values, it is clear thatsocieties and peoples which, other things being equal, possess the mostadvanced and active personalities contribute most to the enrichment ofcivilization. It does not seem necessary to demonstrate that the pacificcompetition of nations and their success depends on the development ofthe personalities which compose them. A nation weak in the developmentof individualities, of social units which compose it, could not defenditself against the exploitation of nations composed of personalitieswith a superior development. 

D. BIOLOGICAL AND SOCIAL HEREDITY

1. Nature and Nurture[75]

We have seen that the scientific position in regard to thetransmissibility of modifications should be one of active scepticism, that there seems to be no convincing evidence in support of theaffirmative position, and that there is strong presumption in favor ofthe negative. 

A modification is a definite change in the individual body, due to somechange in "nurture. " There is no secure evidence that any suchindividual gain or loss can be transmitted as such, or in anyrepresentative degree. How does this affect our estimate of the value of"nurture"? How should the sceptical or negative answer, which we believeto be the scientific one, affect our practice in regard to education, physical culture, amelioration of function, improvement of environment, and so on? Let us give a practical point to what we have already said. 

a) Every inheritance requires an appropriate nurture if it is torealize itself in development. Nurture supplies the liberating stimulinecessary for the full expression of the inheritance. A man's characteras well as his physique is a function of "nature" and of "nurture. " Inthe language of the old parable of the talents, what is given must betraded with. A boy may be truly enough a chip of the old block, but howfar he shows himself such depends on "nurture. " The conditions ofnurture determine whether the expression of the inheritance is to befull or partial. It need hardly be said that the strength of an(inherited) individuality may be such that it expresses itself almost inthe face of inappropriate nurture. History abounds in instances. AsGoethe said, "Man is always achieving the impossible. " Corot was the sonof a successful milliner and prosperous tradesman, and he was thirtybefore he left the draper's shop to study nature. 

b) Although modifications do not seem to be transmitted as such, or inany representative degree, there is no doubt that they or theirsecondary results may in some cases affect the offspring. This isespecially the case in typical mammals, where there is before birth aprolonged (placental) connection between the mother and the unbornyoung. In such cases the offspring is for a time almost part of thematernal body, and liable to be affected by modifications thereof, e. G. , by good or bad nutritive conditions. In other cases, also, it may bethat deeply saturating parental modifications, such as the results ofalcoholic and other poisoning, affect the germ cells, and thus theoffspring. A disease may saturate the body with toxins and wasteproducts, and these may provoke prejudicial germinal variations. 

c) Though modifications due to changed "nurture" do not seem to betransmissible, they may be re-impressed on each generation. Thus"nurture" becomes not less, but more, important in our eyes. 

"Is my grandfather's environment not my heredity?" asks an Americanauthor quaintly and pathetically. Well, if not, let us secure forourselves and for our children those factors in the "grandfather'senvironment" that made for progressive evolution, and eschew those thattended elsewhere. 

Are modifications due to changed nurture not, as such, entailed onoffspring? Perhaps it is just as well, for we are novices at nurturingeven yet! Moreover, the non-transmissibility cuts both ways: ifindividual modificational gains are not handed on, neither are thelosses. 

Is the "nature"--the germinal constitution, to wit--all that passes fromgeneration to generation, the capital sum without the results ofindividual usury; then we are freed, at least, from undue pessimism atthe thought of the many harmful functions and environments thatdisfigure our civilization. Many detrimental acquired characters are tobe seen all around us, but if they are not transmissible, they need notlast. 

In the development of "character, " much depends upon early nurture, education, and surrounding influences generally, but how the individualreacts to these must largely depend on his inheritance. Truly theindividual himself makes his own character, but he does so by hishabitual adjustment of his (hereditarily determined) constitution tosurrounding influences. Nurture supplies the stimulus for the expressionof the moral inheritance, and how far the inheritance can express itselfis limited by the nurture-stimuli available just as surely as the resultof nurture is conditioned by the hereditarily determined nature on whichit operates. It may be urged that character, being a product of habitualmodes of feeling, thinking, and acting, cannot be spoken of as_inherited_, but bodily character is also a product dependent upon vitalexperience. It seems to us as idle to deny that some children are "borngood" or "born bad, " as it is to deny that some children are born strongand others weak, some energetic and others "tired" or "old. " It may bedifficult to tell how far the apparently hereditary goodness or badnessof disposition is due to the nutritive influences of the mother, bothbefore and after birth, and we must leave it to the reader's experienceand observation to decide whether we are right or wrong in our opinionthat quite apart from maternal nutritive influence there is a genuineinheritance of kindly disposition, strong sympathy, good humor, and goodwill. The further difficulty that the really organic character may behalf-concealed by nurture-effects, or inhibited by the external heritageof custom and tradition, seems less serious, for the selfishness of anacquired altruism is as familiar as honor among thieves. 

It is entirely useless to boggle over the difficulty that we are unableto conceive how dispositions for good or ill lie implicit within theprotoplasmic unit in which the individual life begins. The fact isundoubted that the initiatives of moral character are in some degreetransmissible, though from the nature of the case the influences ofeducation, example, environment, and the like are here more potent thanin regard to structural features. We cannot make a silk purse out of asow's ear, though the plasticity of character under nurture is a factwhich gives us all hope. Explain it we cannot, but the transmission ofthe raw material of character is a fact, and we must still say with SirThomas Browne: "Bless not thyself that thou wert born in Athens; but, among thy multiplied acknowledgments, lift up one hand to heaven thatthou wert born of honest parents, that modesty, humility, and veracity_lay in the same egg_, and came into the world with thee. "

2. Inheritance of Original Nature[76]

The principles of heredity (may be recapitulated as follows):

First of all, we find useful the principle of the unit-character. According to this principle, characters are, for the most part, inherited independently of each other, and each trait is inherited as aunit or may be broken up into characters that are so inherited. 

Next, it must be recognized that characters, as such, are not inherited. Strictly, my son has not my nose, because I still have it; what wastransmitted was something that determined the shape of his nose, andthat is called in brief a "determiner. " So the second principle is thatunit-characters are inherited through determiners in the germ cells. 

And finally, it is recognized that there really is no inheritance fromparent to child, but that parent and child resemble each other becausethey are derived from the same germ plasm, they are chips from the sameold block; and the son is the half-brother to his father, by anothermother. 

These three principles are the three corner stones of heredity as weknow it today, the principles of the independent unit-characters eachderived from a determiner in the germ plasm. 

How far are the known facts of heredity in man in accord with theseprinciples? No doubt all human traits are inherited in accordance withthese principles; but knowledge proceeds slowly in this field. 

As a first illustration I may take the case of human eye color. The irisis made up of a trestle-work of fibers, in which are suspended particlesthat give the blue color. In addition, in many eyes much brown pigmentis formed which may be small in amount and gathered around the pupil orso extensive as to suffuse the entire iris and make it all brown. It isseen, then, that the brown iris is formed by something additional to theblue. And brown iris may be spoken of as a _positive_ character, depending on a determiner for brown pigment; and blue as a _negative_character, depending on the absence of the determiner for brown. 

Now when both parents have brown eyes and come from an ancestry withbrown eyes, it is probable that all of their germ cells contain thedeterminer for brown iris pigmentation. So when these germ cells, bothcarrying the determiner, unite, all of the progeny will receive thedeterminer from both sides of the house; consequently the determinersare double in their bodies and the resulting iris pigmentation may besaid to be _duplex_. When a character is duplex in an individual, thatmeans that when the germ cells ripen in the body of that individualeach contains a determiner. So that individual is capable, so far as heis concerned, of transmitting his trait in undiminished intensity. 

If a parent has pure blue eyes, that is evidence that in neither of theunited germ cells from which he arose was there a determiner for irispigmentation; consequently in respect to brown iris pigmentation such aperson may be said to be _nulliplex_. If, now, such a person marry anindividual duplex in eye color, in whom all of the germ cells containthe determiner, each child will receive the determiner for irispigmentation from one side of the house only. This determiner will, ofcourse, induce pigmentation, but the pigmentation is simplex, beinginduced by one determiner only. Consequently, the pigmentation is apt tobe weak. When a person whose pigment determiners have come from one sideof the house forms germ cells, half will have and half will lack thedeterminer. If such a person marry a consort all of whose germ cellscontain the determiner for iris pigmentation, all of the children will, of course, receive the iris pigmentation, but in half it will be duplexand in the other half it will be simplex. If the two parents both besimplex, so that, in each, half of the germ cells possess and half lackthe determiner in the union of germ cells, there are four events thatare equally apt to occur: (1) an egg _with_ the determiner unites with asperm _with_ the determiner; (2) an egg _with_ the determiner uniteswith a sperm _without_ the determiner; (3) an egg _without_ thedeterminer unites with a sperm _with_ the determiner; (4) an egg_without_ the determiner unites with a sperm _without_ the determiner. Thus the character is duplex in one case, simplex in two cases, andnulliplex in one case; that is, one in four will have no brown pigment, or will be blue eyed. If one parent be simplex, so that the germ cellsare equally with and without the determiner, while the other benulliplex, then half of the children will be simplex and half nulliplexin eye pigment. Finally, if both parents be nulliplex in eyepigmentation (that is, blue eyed), then none of their germ cells willhave the determiner, and all children will be nulliplex, or blue eyed. The inheritance of eye color serves as a paradigm of the method ofinheritance of any unit-character. 

Let us now consider some of the physical traits of man that follow thesame law as brown eye color, traits that are clearly positive, and dueto a definite determiner in the germ plasm. 

Hair color is due either to a golden-brown pigment that looks black inmasses, or else to a red pigment. The lighter tints differ from thedarker by the absence of some pigment granules. If neither parent hasthe capacity of producing a large quantity of pigment granules in thehair, the children cannot have that capacity, that is, two flaxen-hairedparents have only flaxen-haired children. But a dark-haired parent maybe either simplex or duplex; and so two such parents _may_ producechildren with light hair; but not more than one out of four. In general, the hair color of the children tends not to be darker than that of thedarker parent. Skin pigment follows a similar rule. It is really one ofthe surprises of modern studies that skin pigment should be found tofollow the ordinary law of heredity; it was commonly thought to blend. The inheritance of skin color is not dependent on race; two blonds neverhave brunette offspring, but brunettes may have blondes. The extremecase is that of albinos with no pigment in skin, hair, and iris. Twoalbinos have only albino children, but albinos may come from twopigmented parents. 

Similarly, straight-haired parents lack curliness, and two such haveonly straight-haired children. Also two tall parents have only tallchildren. _Shortness_ is the trait: tallness is a negative character. Also when both parents lack stoutness (are slender), all children tendto lack it. 

We may now consider briefly the inheritance of certain pathological orabnormal states, to see in how far the foregoing principles hold forthem also. Sometimes the abnormal condition is positive, due to a newtrait; but sometimes, on the contrary, the normal condition is thepositive one and the trait is due to a defect. 

Deaf-mutism is due to a defect; but the nature of the defect isdifferent in different cases. Deaf-mutism is so varied that frequentlytwo unrelated deaf mutes may have hearing children. But if the deaf-muteparents are cousins, the chances that the deafness is due to the _same_unit defect are increased and all of the children will probably be deaf. 

From the studies of Dr. Goddard and others, it appears that when bothparents are feeble-minded all of the children will be so likewise; thisconclusion has been tested again and again. But if _one_ of the parentsbe normal and of normal ancestry, all of the children may be normal;whereas, if the normal person have defective germ cells, half of hisprogeny by a feeble-minded woman will be defective. 

Many criminals, especially those who offend against the person, arefeeble-minded, as is shown by the way they occur in fraternities withfeeble-mindedness, or have feeble-minded parents. The test of the mentalcondition of relatives is one that may well be applied by judges indeciding upon the responsibility of an aggressor. 

Not only the condition of imperfect mental development, but also that ofinability to withstand stress upon the nervous system, may be inherited. From the studies of Dr. Rosanoff and his collaborators, it appears thatif both parents be subject to manic depressive insanity or to dementiaprecox, all children will be neuropathic also; that if one parent beaffected and come from a weak strain, half of the children are liable togo insane; and that nervous breakdowns of these types never occur ifboth parents be of sound stock. 

Finally, a study of families with special abilities reveals a method ofinheritance quite like that of nervous defect. If both parents be colorartists or have a high grade of vocal ability or are littérateurs ofhigh grade, then all of their children tend to be of high grade also. Ifone parent has high ability, while the other has low ability but hasancestry with high ability, part of the children will have high abilityand part low. It seems like an extraordinary conclusion that highability is inherited as though due to the absence of a determiner in thesame way as feeble-mindedness and insanity are inherited. We arereminded of the poet: "Great wits to madness sure are near allied. "Evidence for the relationship is given by pedigrees of men of geniusthat often show the combination of ability and insanity. May it not bethat just that lack of control that permits "flights of the imagination"is related to the flightiness characteristic of those with mentalweakness or defect?

These studies of inheritance of mental defect inevitably raise thequestion how to eliminate the mentally defective. This is a matter ofgreat importance because, on the one hand, it is now coming to berecognized that mental defect is at the bottom of most of our socialproblems. Extreme alcoholism is usually a consequence of a mentalmake-up in which self-control of the appetite for liquor is lacking. Pauperism is a consequence of mental defects that make the pauperincapable of holding his own in the world's competition. Sex immoralityin either sex is commonly due to a certain inability to appreciateconsequences, to visualize the inevitableness of cause and effect, combined sometimes with a sex-hyperesthesia and lack of self-control. Criminality in its worst forms is similarly due to a lack ofappreciation of or receptivity to moral ideas. 

If we seek to know what is the origin of these defects, we must admitthat it is very ancient. They are probably derived from our ape-likeancestors, in which they were _normal_ traits. There occurs in man astrain that has not yet acquired those traits of inhibition thatcharacterized the more highly developed civilized persons. The evidencefor this is that, as far back as we go, we still trace back the blackthread of defective heredity. 

We have now to answer the question as to the eugenical application ofthe laws of inheritance of defects. First, it may be pointed out thattraits due to the absence of a determiner are characterized by theirusual sparseness in the pedigree, especially when the parents arenormal; by the fact that they frequently appear where cousin marriagesabound, because cousins tend to carry the same defects in their germplasm, though normal themselves; by the fact that two affected parentshave exclusively normal children, while two normal parents who belong tothe same strain, or who both belong to strains containing the samedefect, have some (about 25 per cent) defective children. But adefective married to a pure normal will have no defective offspring. 

The clear eugenical rule is then this: Let abnormals marry normalswithout trace of the defect, and let their normal offspring marry inturn into strong strains; thus the defect may never appear again. Normals from the defective strain may marry normals of normal ancestry, but must particularly avoid consanguineous marriages. 

The sociological conclusion is: Prevent the feeble-minded, drunkards, paupers, sex-offenders, and criminalistic from marrying their like orcousins or any person belonging to a neuropathic strain. Practically itmight be well to segregate such persons during the reproductive periodfor one generation. Then the crop of defectives will be reduced topractically nothing. 

3. Inheritance of Acquired Nature: Tradition[77]

The factor in societal evolution corresponding to heredity in organicevolution is tradition; and the agency of transmission is the nervoussystem by way of its various "senses" rather than the germ-plasm. Theorgans of transmission are the eye, ear, tongue, etc. , and not those ofsex. The term tradition, like variation and selection, is taken in thebroad sense. Variation in nature causes the offspring to differ from theparents and from one another; variation in the folkways causes those ofone period (or place) to differ from their predecessors and to someextent among themselves. It is the vital fact at the bottom of change. Heredity in nature causes the offspring to resemble or repeat thepresent type; tradition in societal evolution causes the mores of oneperiod to repeat those of the preceding period. Each is a stringentconservator. Variation means diversity; heredity and tradition mean thepreservation of type. If there were no force of heredity or tradition, there could be no system or classification of natural or of societalforms; the creation hypothesis would be the only tenable one, for therecould be no basis for a theory of descent. If there were no variation, all of nature and all human institutions would show a monotony as of thedesert sand. Heredity and tradition allow respectively of theaccumulation of organic or societal variations through repeatedselection, extending over generations, in this or that direction. Inshort, what one can say of the general effects of heredity in theorganic realm he can say of tradition in the field of the folkways. Thatthe transmission is in the one case by way of the sex organs and thegerm-plasm, and in the other through the action of the vocal cords, theauditory nerves, etc. , would seem to be of small moment in comparisonwith the essential identity in the functions discharged. 

Tradition is, in a sense and if such a comparison were profitable, moreconservative than heredity. There is in the content of tradition aninvariability which could not exist if it were a dual composite, as isthe constitution of the germ-plasm. Here we must recall certainessential qualities of the mores which we have hitherto viewed fromanother angle. Tradition always looks to the folkways as constitutingthe matter to be transmitted. But the folkways, after the concurrencein their practice has been established, come to include a judgment thatthey conduce to societal and, indeed, individual welfare. This is wherethey come to be properly called mores. They become the prosperity-policyof the group, and the young are reared up under their sway, looking tothe older as the repositories of precedent and convention. But presentlythe older die, and in conformity with the ideas of the time, they becomebeings of a higher power toward whom the living owe duty, and whose willthey do not wish to cross. The sanction of ghost-fear is thus extendedto the mores, which, as the prosperity-policy of the group, have alreadytaken on a stereotyped character. They thus become in an even higherdegree "uniform, universal in a group, imperative, invariable. As timegoes on, they become more and more arbitrary, positive, and imperative. If asked why they act in a certain way in certain cases, primitivepeople always answer that it is because they and their ancestors alwayshave done so. " Thus the transmission of the mores comes to be a processembodying the greatest conservatism and the least likelihood of change. This situation represents an adaption of society to life-conditions; itwould seem that because of the rapidity of succession of variationsthere is need of an intensely conserving force (like ethnocentrism orreligion) to preserve a certain balance and poise in the evolutionarymovement. 

Transmission of the mores takes place through the agency of imitation orof inculcation; through one or the other according as the initiative istaken by the receiving or the giving party respectively. Inculcationincludes education in its broadest sense; but since that term implies ingeneral usage a certain, let us say protective, attitude taken by theeducator (as toward the young), the broader and more colorlessdesignation is chosen. Acculturation is the process by which one groupor people learns from another, whether the culture or civilization begotten by imitation or by inculcation. As there must be contact, acculturation is sometimes ascribed to "contagion. "

4. Temperament, Tradition, and Nationality[78]

The temperament of the Negro, as I conceive it, consists in a fewelementary but distinctive characteristics, determined by physicalorganizations and transmitted biologically. These characteristicsmanifest themselves in a genial, sunny, and social disposition, in aninterest and attachment to external, physical things rather than tosubjective states and objects of introspection, in a disposition forexpression rather than enterprise and action. 

The changes which have taken place in the manifestations of thistemperament have been actuated by an inherent and natural impulse, characteristic of all living beings, to persist and maintain itself in achanged environment. Such changes have occurred as are likely to takeplace in any organism in its struggle to live and to use its environmentto further and complete its own existence. 

The result has been that this racial temperament has selected out of themass of cultural materials to which it had access, such technical, mechanical, and intellectual devices as met its needs at a particularperiod of its existence. It has clothed and enriched itself with suchnew customs, habits, and cultural forms as it was able, or permitted touse. It has put into these relatively external things, moreover, suchconcrete meanings as its changing experience and its unchanging racialindividuality demanded. Everywhere and always it has been interestedrather in expression than in action; interested in life itself ratherthan in its reconstruction or reformation. The Negro is, by naturaldisposition, neither an intellectual nor an idealist, like the Jew; nora brooding introspective, like the East Indian; nor a pioneer andfrontiersman, like the Anglo-Saxon. He is primarily an artist, lovinglife for its own sake. His _metier_ is expression rather than action. Heis, so to speak, the lady among the races. 

In reviewing the fortunes of the Negro's temperament as it is manifestedin the external events of the Negro's life in America, our analysissuggests that this racial character of the Negro has exhibited itselfeverywhere in something like the rôle of the _wish_ in the Freudiananalysis of dream-life. The external cultural forms which he found here, like the memories of the individual, have furnished the materials inwhich the racial wish, i. E. , the Negro temperament, has clothed itself. The inner meaning, the sentiment, the emphasis, the emotional color, which these forms assumed as the result of their transference from thewhite man to the Negro, these have been the Negro's own. They haverepresented his temperament--his temperament modified, however, by hisexperience and the tradition which he has accumulated in this country. The temperament is African, but the tradition is American. 

If it is true that the Jew just because of his intellectuality is anatural-born idealist, internationalist, doctrinaire, and revolutionist, while the Negro, because of his natural attachment to known familiarobjects, places, and persons, is pre-adapted to conservatism and tolocal and personal loyalties--if these things are true, we shalleventually have to take account of them practically. It is certain thatthe Negro has uniformly shown a disposition to loyalty during slavery tohis master and during freedom to the South and the country as a whole. He has maintained this attitude of loyalty, too, under very discouragingcircumstances. I once heard Kelly Miller, the most philosophical of theleaders and teachers of his race, say in a public speech that one of thegreatest hardships the Negro suffered in this country was due to thefact that he was not permitted to be patriotic. 

Of course all these alleged racial characteristics have a positive aswell as a negative significance. Every race, like every individual, hasthe vices of its virtues. The question remains still to what extentso-called racial characteristics are actually racial, i. E. , biological, and to what extent they are the effect of environmental conditions. Thethesis of this paper, to state it again, is: (1) that fundamentaltemperamental qualities, which are the basis of interest and attention, act as selective agencies and as such determine what elements in thecultural environment each race will select; in what region it will seekand find its vocation in the larger social organization; (2) that, onthe other hand, technique, science, machinery, tools, habits, discipline, and all the intellectual and mechanical devices with whichthe civilized man lives and works remain relatively external to theinner core of significant attitudes and values which constitute what wemay call the will of the group. This racial will is, to be sure, largelysocial, that is, modified by social experience, but it rests ultimatelyupon a complex of inherited characteristics, which are racial. 

The individual man is the bearer of a double inheritance. As a member ofa race, he transmits by interbreeding a biological inheritance. As amember of society or a social group, on the other hand, he transmits bycommunication a social inheritance. The particular complex ofinheritable characters which characterizes the individuals of a racialgroup constitutes the racial temperament. The particular group ofhabits, accommodations, sentiments, attitudes, and ideals transmitted bycommunication and education constitutes a social tradition. Between thistemperament and this tradition there is, as has been generallyrecognized, a very intimate relationship. My assumption is thattemperament is the basis of the interests; that as such it determines inthe long run the general run of attention, and this, eventually, determines the selection in the case of an individual of his vocation, in the case of the racial group of its culture. That is to say, temperament determines what things the individual and the group will beinterested in; what elements of the general culture, to which they haveaccess, they will assimilate; what, to state it pedagogically, they willlearn. 

It will be evident at once that where individuals of the same race andhence the same temperament are associated, the temperamental interestswill tend to reinforce one another, and the attention of members of thegroup will be more completely focused upon the specific objects andvalues that correspond to the racial temperament. In this way racialqualities become the basis for nationalities, a nationalistic groupbeing merely a cultural and, eventually, a political society founded onthe basis of racial inheritances. 

On the other hand, when racial segregation is broken up and members of aracial group are dispersed, the opposite effect will take place. Thisexplains the phenomena which have frequently been the subject of commentand observation, that the racial characteristics manifest themselves inan extraordinary way in large homogeneous gatherings. The contrastbetween a mass meeting of one race and a similar meeting of another isparticularly striking. Under such circumstances characteristic racialand temperamental differences appear that would otherwise pass entirelyunnoticed. 

When the physical unity of a group is perpetuated by the succession ofparents and children, the racial temperament, including fundamentalattitudes and values which rest in it, is preserved intact. When, however, society grows and is perpetuated by immigration and adaptation, there ensues, as a result of miscegenation, a breaking up of the complexof the biologically inherited qualities which constitute the temperamentof the race. This again initiates changes in the mores, traditions, andeventually in the institutions of the community. The changes whichproceed from modification in the racial temperament will, however, modify but slightly the external forms of the social traditions, butthey will be likely to change profoundly their content and meaning. Ofcourse other factors, individual competition, the formation of classes, and especially the increase of communication, all co-operate tocomplicate the whole situation and to modify the effects which would beproduced by racial factors working in isolation. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. Conceptions of Human Nature Implicit in Religious and PoliticalDoctrines

Although the systematic study of it is recent, there has always been acertain amount of observation and a great deal of assumption in regardto human nature. The earliest systematic treatises in jurisprudence, history, theology, and politics necessarily proceeded from certain moreor less naïve assumptions in regard to the nature of man. In theextension of Roman law over subject peoples the distinction was madebetween _jus gentium_ and _jus naturae_, i. E. , the laws peculiar to aparticular nation as contrasted with customs and laws common to allnations and derived from the nature of mankind. Macauley writes of the"principles of human nature" from which it is possible to deduce atheory of government. Theologians, in devising a logical system ofthought concerning the ways of God to man, proceeded on the basis ofcertain notions of human nature. The doctrines of original sin, theinnate depravity of man, the war of the natural man and the spiritualman had a setting in the dogmas of the fall of man, redemption throughfaith, and the probationary character of life on earth. In strikingcontrast with the pessimistic attitude of theologians toward humannature, social revolutionists like Rousseau have condemned socialinstitutions as inherently vicious and optimistically placed relianceupon human nature as innately good. 

In all these treatises the assumptions about human nature are eitherpreconceptions or rationalizations from experience incidental to thelegal, moral, religious, or political system of thought. There is inthese treatises consequently little or no analysis or detaileddescription of the traits attributed to men. Certainly, there is noevidence of an effort to arrive at an understanding of human behaviorfrom an objective study of its nature. 

Historic assumptions in regard to human nature, no matter how fantasticor unscientific, have exerted, nevertheless, a far-reaching influenceupon group action. Periods of social revolution are ushered in bytheorists who perceive only the evil in institutions and the good inhuman nature. On the other hand, the "guardians of society, " distrustfulof the impulses of human nature, place their reliance upon conventionsand upon existing forms of social organization. Communistic societieshave been organized upon certain ideas of human nature and have survivedas long as these beliefs which inspired them controlled the behavior ofmembers of the group. 

Philosophers from the time of Socrates have invariably sought to justifytheir moral and political theories upon a conception, if not adefinition, of the nature of man. Aristotle, in his _Politics_ andHobbes in his _Leviathan_, to refer to two classics, offer widelydivergent interpretations of human nature. Aristotle emphasized man'saltruistic traits, Hobbes stressed his egoistic disposition. Theseopposite conceptions of human behavior are explicit and in each casepresented with a display of evidence. Yet students soon realize thatneither philosopher, in fashioning his conception, is entirely withoutanimus or ulterior motive. When these definitions are considered in thecontext in which they occur, they seem less an outgrowth of an analysisof human nature, than formulas devised in the interest of a politicaltheory. Aristotle was describing the ideal state; Hobbes was interestedin the security of an existing social order. 

Still, the contribution made by social and political philosophers hasbeen real. Their descriptions of human behavior, if inadequate andunscientific, at least recognized that an understanding of human naturewas a precondition to social reorganization. The fact that philosophicalconceptions and ideal constructions are themselves social forces and assuch frequently represent vested interests, has been an obstacle tosocial as well as physical science. 

Comte's notion that every scientific discipline must pass through atheological and metaphysical stage before it assumed the character of apositive science seems to be true as far as sociology is concerned. Machiavelli shocked the moral sense of his time, if not the moralists ofall time, when he proposed to accept human nature as it is as a basisfor political science. Herbert Spencer insisted upon the futility ofexpecting "golden conduct from leaden instincts. " To the utopian socialreformers of his day he pointed out a series of welfare measures inEngland in which the outcome was the direct opposite of the resultsdesired. 

This negative criticism of preconceived notions and speculations abouthuman nature prepared the way for disinterested observation andcomparison. Certain modern tendencies and movements gave an impetus tothe detached study of human behavior. The ethnologists collectedobjective descriptions of the behavior of primitive people. Inpsychology interest developed in the study of the child and in thecomparative study of human and animal behavior. The psychiatrist, indealing with certain types of abnormal behavior like hysteria andmultiple personality, was forced to study human behavior objectively. All this has prepared the way for a science of human nature and ofsociety based upon objective and disinterested observation. 

2. Literature and the Science of Human Nature

The poets were the first to recognize that "the proper study of mankindis man" as they were also the first to interpret it objectively. Thedescription and appreciation of human nature and personality by the poetand artist preceded systematic and reflective analysis by thepsychologist and the sociologist. In recent years, moreover, there hasbeen a very conscious effort to make literature, as well as history, "scientific. " Georg Brandes in his _Main Currents in Nineteenth CenturyLiterature_ set himself the task to "trace first and foremost theconnection between literature and life. " Taine's _History of EnglishLiterature_ attempts to delineate British temperament and character asmirrored in literary masterpieces. 

The novel which emphasizes "_milieu_" and "character, " as contrastedwith the novel which emphasizes "action" and "plot, " is a literarydevice for the analysis of human nature and society. Émile Zola in anessay _The Experimental Novel_ has presented with characteristicaudacity the case for works of fiction as instruments for the scientificdissection and explanation of human behavior. 

 The novelist is equally an observer and an experimentalist. The observer in him gives the facts as he has observed them, suggests the points of departure, displays the solid earth on which his characters are to tread and the phenomena develop. Then the experimentalist appears and introduces an experiment, that is to say, sets his characters going in a certain story so as to show that the succession of facts will be such as the requirements of the determinism of the phenomena under examination call for. The novelist starts out in search of a truth. I will take as an example the character of the "Baron Hulot, " in _Cousine Bette_, by Balzac. The general fact observed by Balzac is the ravages that the amorous temperament of a man makes in his home, in his family, and in society. As soon as he has chosen his subject he starts from known facts, then he makes his experiment and exposes Hulot to a series of trials, placing him among certain surroundings in order to exhibit how the complicated machinery of his passions works. It is then evident that there is not only observation there, but that there is also experiment, as Balzac does not remain satisfied with photographing the facts collected by him, but interferes in a direct way to place his characters in certain conditions, and of these he remains the master. The problem is to know what such a passion, acting in such surroundings and under such circumstances, would produce from the point of view of an individual and of society; and an experimental novel, _Cousine Bette_, for example, is simply the report of the experiment that the novelist conducts before the eyes of the public. In fact, the whole operation consists of taking facts in nature, then in studying the mechanism of these facts, acting upon them, by the modification of circumstances and surroundings, without deviating from the laws of nature. Finally, you possess knowledge of the man, scientific knowledge of him, in both his individual and social relations. [79]

After all that may be said for the experimental novel, however, itsprimary aim, like that of history, is appreciation and understanding, not generalization and abstract formulas. Insight and sympathy, themystical sense of human solidarity, expressed in the saying "tocomprehend all is to forgive all, " this fiction has to give. And theseare materials which the sociologist cannot neglect. As yet there is noautobiography or biography of an egocentric personality so convincing asGeorge Meredith's _The Egoist_. The miser is a social type; but thereare no case studies as sympathetic and discerning as George Eliot's_Silas Marner_. Nowhere in social science has the technique of casestudy developed farther than in criminology; yet Dostoévsky'sdelineation of the self-analysis of the murderer in _Crime andPunishment_ dwarfs all comparison outside of similar studies infiction. The function of the so-called psychological or sociologicalnovel stops, however, with its presentation of the individual incidentor case; it is satisfied by the test of its appeal to the experience ofthe reader. The scientific study of human nature proceeds a stepfarther; it seeks generalizations. From the case studies of history andof literature it abstracts the laws and principles of human behavior. 

3. Research in the Field of Original Nature

Valuable materials for the study of human nature have been accumulatedin archaeology, ethnology, and folklore. William G. Sumner, in his book_Folkways_, worked through the ethnological data and made it availablefor sociological use. By classification and comparison of the customs ofprimitive peoples he showed that cultural differences were based onvariations in folkways and mores in adaptation to the environment, rather than upon fundamental differences in human nature. 

The interests of research have resulted in a division of labor betweenthe fields of original and acquired nature in man. The examination oforiginal tendencies has been quite properly connected with the study ofinheritance. For the history of research in this field, the student isreferred to treatises upon genetics and evolution and to the works ofLamarck, Darwin, DeVries, Weismann, and Mendel. Recent discoveries inregard to the mechanism of biological inheritance have led to theorganization of a new applied science, "eugenics. " The new scienceproposes a social program for the improvement of the racial traits basedupon the investigations of breeding and physical inheritance. Researchin eugenics has been fostered by the Galton Laboratory in England, andby the Eugenics Record Office at Cold Spring Harbor in the UnitedStates. Interest has centered in the study of the inheritance offeeble-mindedness. Studies of feeble-minded families and groups, as _TheKallikak Family_ by Goddard, _The Jukes_ by Dugdale, and _The Tribe ofIshmael_ by M'Culloch, have shown how mental defect enters as a factorinto industrial inefficiency, poverty, prostitution, and crime. 

4. The Investigation of Human Personality

The trend of research in human nature has been toward the study ofpersonality. Scientific inquiry into the problems of personality wasstimulated by the observation of abnormal behavior such as hysteria, loss of memory, etc. , where the cause was not organic and, therefore, presumably psychic. A school of French psychiatrists and psychologistsrepresented by Charcot, Janet, and Ribot have made signal contributionsto an understanding of the maladies of personality. Investigation inthis field, invaluable for an understanding of the person, has been madein the study of dual and multiple personality. The work of Freud, Jung, Adler, and others in psychoanalysis has thrown light upon the rôle ofmental conflict, repression, and the wishes in the growth ofpersonality. 

In sociology, personality is studied, not only from the subjectivestandpoint of its organization, but even more in its objective aspectsand with reference to the rôle of the person in the group. One of theearliest classifications of "kinds of conduct" has been ascribed bytradition to a disciple of Aristotle, Theophrastus, who styled himself"a student of human nature. " _The Characters of Theophrastus_ iscomposed of sketches--humorous and acute, if superficial--of types suchas "the flatterer, " "the boor, " "the coward, " "the garrulous man. " Theyare as true to modern life as to the age of Alexander. Chief among themodern imitators of Theophrastus is La Bruyère, who published in 1688_Les caractères, ou les moeurs de ce siècle_, a series of essays onthe manners of his time, illustrated by portraits of his contemporaries. 

Autobiography and biography provide source material for the study bothof the subjective life and of the social rôle of the person. Three greatautobiographies which have inspired the writing of personal narrativesare themselves representative of the different types: Caesar's_Commentaries_, with his detached impersonal description of his greatexploits; the _Confessions of St. Augustine_, with his intimateself-analysis and intense self-reproach, and the less well-known _DeVita Propria Liber_ by Cardan. This latter is a serious attempt atscientific self-examination. Recently, attention has been directed tothe accumulation of autobiographical and biographical materials whichare interpreted from the point of view of psychiatry and psychoanalysis. The study _Der Fall Otto Weininger_ by Dr. Ferdinand Probst is arepresentative monograph of this type. The outstanding example of thismethod and its use for sociological interpretation is "Life Record of anImmigrant" contained in the third volume of Thomas and Znaniecki, _ThePolish Peasant_. In connection with the _Recreation Survey_ of theCleveland Foundation and the _Americanization Studies of the CarnegieCorporation_, the life-history has been developed as part of thetechnique of investigation. 

5. The Measurement of Individual Differences

With the growing sense of the importance of individual differences inhuman nature, attempts at their measurement have been essayed. Tests forphysical and mental traits have now reached a stage of accuracy andprecision. The study of temperamental and social characteristics isstill in the preliminary stage. 

The field of the measurement of physical traits is dignified by the name"anthropometry. " In the nineteenth century high hopes were widely heldof the significance of measurements of the cranium and of physiognomyfor an understanding of the mental and moral nature of the person. Thelead into phrenology sponsored by Gall and Spurzheim proved to be ablind trail. The so-called "scientific school of criminology" founded byCesare Lombroso upon the identification of the criminal type by certainabnormalities of physiognomy and physique was undermined by thecontrolled study made by Charles Goring. At the present time theconsensus of expert opinion is that only for a small group may grossabnormalities of physical development be associated with abnormal mentaland emotional reactions. 

In 1905-11 Binet and Simon devised a series of tests for determining themental age of French school children. The purpose of the mentalmeasurements was to gauge innate mental capacity. Therefore the testsexcluded material which had to do with special social experience. Withtheir introduction into the United States certain revisions andmodifications, such as the Goddard Revision, the Terman Revision, theYerkes-Bridges Point Scale, were made in the interests ofstandardization. The application of mental measurements to differentraces and social classes raised the question of the extent to whichindividual groups varied because of differences in social experience. While it is not possible absolutely to separate original tendencies fromtheir expression in experience, it is practicable to devise tests whichwill take account of divergent social environments. 

The study of volitional traits and of temperament is still in itsinfancy. Many recent attempts at classification of temperaments restupon as impressionistic a basis as the popular fourfold division intosanguine, melancholic, choleric, and phlegmatic. Two of the efforts todefine temperamental differences rest, however, upon first-hand study ofcases. Dr. June E. Downey has devised a series of tests based uponhandwriting material for measuring will traits. In her pamphlet _TheWill Profile_ she presents an analysis of twelve volitional traits:revision, perseverance, co-ordination of impulses, care for detail, motor inhibition, resistance, assurance, motor impulsion, speed ofdecision, flexibility, freedom from inertia, and speed of movement. Froma study of several hundred cases she defined certain will patterns whichapparently characterize types of individuals. In her experience she hasfound the rating of the subject by the will test to have a distinctvalue in supplementing the test for mentality. 

Kraepelin, on the basis of his examination of abnormal mental states, offers a classification of types of psychopathic personalities. Hedistinguishes six groups: the excitable, the unstable, the psychopathictrend, the eccentric, the anti-social, and the contentious. Inpsychoanalysis a simpler twofold division is frequently made between the_introverts_, or the "introspective" and the _extroverts_, or the"objective" types of individual. 

The study of social types is as yet an unworked field. Literature andlife surround us with increasing specializations in personalities, butattempts at classification are still in the impressionistic stage. Thedivision suggested by Thomas into the Philistine, Bohemian, and Creativetypes, while suggestive, is obviously too simple for an adequatedescription of the rich and complex variety of personalities. 

This survey indicates the present status of attempts to define andmeasure differences in original and human nature. A knowledge ofindividual differences is important in every field of social control. Itis significant that these tests have been devised to meet problems ofpolicies and of administration in medicine, in industry, in education, and in penal and reformatory institutions. Job analysis, personneladministration, ungraded rooms, classes for exceptional children, vocational guidance, indicate fields made possible by the development oftests for measuring individual differences. 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. ORIGINAL NATURE

A. _Racial Inheritance_

(1) Thomson, J. Arthur. _Heredity. _ London and New York, 1908. 

(2) Washburn, Margaret F. _The Animal Mind. _ New York, 1908. 

(3) Morgan, C. Lloyd. _Habit and Instinct. _ London and New York, 1896. 

(4) ----. _Instinct and Experience. _ New York, 1912. 

(5) Loeb, Jacques. _Comparative Physiology of the Brain and ComparativePsychology. _ New York, 1900. 

(6) ----. _Forced Movements. _ Philadelphia and London, 1918. 

(7) Jennings, H. S. _Behavior of the Lower Organisms. _ New York, 1906. 

(8) Watson, John. _Behavior: an Introduction to Comparative Psychology. _New York, 1914. 

(9) Thorndike, E. L. _The Original Nature of Man. _ Vol. I of"Educational Psychology. " New York, 1913. 

(10) Paton, Stewart. _Human Behavior. _ In relation to the study ofeducational, social, and ethical problems. New York, 1921. 

(11) Faris, Ellsworth. "Are Instincts Data or Hypotheses?" _AmericanJournal of Sociology_, XXVII (Sept. , 1921. )

B. _Heredity and Eugenics_

1. Systematic Treatises:

(1) Castle, W. E. , Coulter, J. M. , Davenport, C. B. , East, E. M. , andTower, W. L. _Heredity and Eugenics. _ Chicago, 1912. 

(2) Davenport, C. B. _Heredity in Relation to Eugenics. _ New York, 1911. 

(3) Goddard, Henry H. _Feeble-mindedness. _ New York, 1914. 

2. Inherited Inferiority of Families and Communities:

(1) Dugdale, Richard L. _The Jukes. _ New York, 1877. 

(2) M'Culloch, O. C. _The Tribe of Ishmael. _ A study in socialdegradation. National Conference of Charities and Correction, 1888, 154-59; 1889, 265; 1890, 435-37. 

(3) Goddard, Henry H. _The Kallikak Family. _ New York, 1912. 

(4) Winship, A. E. _Jukes-Edwards. _ A study in education and heredity. Harrisburg, Pa. , 1900. 

(5) Estabrook, A. H. , and Davenport, C. B. _The Nam Family. _ A study incacogenics. Cold Spring Harbor, N. Y. , 1912. 

(6) Danielson, F. H. , and Davenport, C. B. _The Hill Folk. _ Report on arural community of hereditary defectives. Cold Spring Harbor, N. Y. , 1912. 

(7) Kite, Elizabeth S. "The Pineys, " _Survey_, XXXI (October 4, 1913), 7-13. 38-40. 

(8) Gesell, A. L. "The Village of a Thousand Souls, " _AmericanMagazine_, LXXVI (October, 1913), 11-13. 

(9) Kostir, Mary S. _The Family of Sam Sixty. _ Columbus, 1916. 

(10) Finlayson, Anna W. _The Dack Family. _ A study on hereditary lack ofemotional control. Cold Spring Harbor, N. Y. , 1916. 

II. HUMAN NATURE

A. _Human Traits_

(1) Cooley, Charles H. _Human Nature and the Social Order. _ New York, 1902. 

(2) Shaler, N. S. _The Individual. _ New York, 1900. 

(3) Hocking, W. E. _Human Nature and Its Remaking. _ New Haven, 1918. 

(4) Edman, Irwin. _Human Traits and Their Social Significance. _ Boston, 1919. 

(5) Wallas, Graham. _Human Nature in Politics. _ London, 1908. 

(6) Lippmann, Walter. _A Preface to Politics. _ [A criticism of presentpolitics from the point of view of human-nature studies. ] New York andLondon, 1913. 

(7) James, William. _The Varieties of Religious Experience. _ A study inhuman nature. London and New York, 1902. 

(8) Ellis, Havelock. _Studies in the Psychology of Sex. _ 6 vols. Philadelphia, 1900-1905. 

(9) Thomas, W. I. _Source Book for Social Origins. _ Chicago, 1909. [Contains extensive bibliographies. ]

B. _The Mores_

1. Comparative Studies of Cultural Traits:

(1) Tylor, E. B. _Primitive Culture. _ Researches into the development ofmythology, philosophy, religion, language, art, and custom. 4th ed. 2vols. London, 1903. 

(2) Sumner, W. G. _Folkways. _ A study of the sociological importance ofusages, manners, customs, mores, and morals. Boston, 1906. 

(3) Westermarck, E. A. _The Origin and Development of the Moral Ideas. _London and New York, 1908. 

(4) Ratzel, F. _History of Mankind. _ Translated by A. J. Butler. Londonand New York, 1898. 

(5) Vierkandt, A. _Naturvölker und Kulturvölker. _ Leipzig, 1896. 

(6) Lippert, Julius. _Kulturgeschichte der Menschheit in ihremorganischem Aufbau. _ Stuttgart, 1886-87. 

(7) Frazer, J. G. _The Golden Bough. _ A study in magic and religion. 3ded. , 12 vols. (Volume XII is a bibliography of the preceding volumes. )London and New York, 1907-15. 

(8) Dewey, John, and Tufts, James H. _Ethics. _ New York, 1908. 

2. Studies of Traits of Individual Peoples:

(1) Fouillée, A. _Psychologie du peuple français. _ Paris, 1898. 

(2) Rhys, J. , and Brynmor-Jones, D. _The Welsh People. _ London, 1900. 

(3) Fishberg, M. _The Jews. _ A study of race and environment. London andNew York, 1911. 

(4) Strausz, A. _Die Bulgaren. _ Ethnographische Studien. Leipzig, 1898. 

(5) Stern, B. _Geschichtete der öffentlichen Sittlichkeit in Russland. _Kultur, Aberglaube, Sitten, und Gebraüche. Zwei Bände. Berlin, 1907-8. 

(6) Krauss, F. S. _Sitte und Brauch der Südslaven. _ Wien, 1885. 

(7) Kidd, D. _The Essential Kafir. _ London, 1904. 

(8) Spencer, B. , and Gillen, F. J. _The Native Tribes of CentralAustralia. _ London and New York, 1899. 

C. _Human Nature and Industry_

(1) Taylor, F. W. _The Principles of Scientific Management. _ New York, 1911. 

(2) Tead, O. , and Metcalf, H. C. _Personnel Administration; ItsPrinciples and Practice. _ New York, 1920. 

(3) Tead, O. _Instincts in Industry. _ A study of working-classpsychology. Boston, 1918. 

(4) Parker, C. H. _The Casual Laborer and Other Essays. _ New York, 1920. 

(5) Marot, Helen. _Creative Impulse in Industry; A Proposition forEducators. _ New York, 1918. 

(6) Williams, Whiting. _What's on the Worker's Mind. _ New York, 1920. 

(7) Hollingworth, H. L. _Vocational Psychology; Its Problems andMethods. _ New York, 1916. 

III. PERSONALITY

A. _The Genesis of Personality_

(1) Baldwin, J. M. _Mental Development in the Child and the Race:Methods and Processes. _ 3d rev. Ed. New York and London, 1906. 

(2) Baldwin, J. M. _Social and Ethical Interpretations in MentalDevelopments. _ Chap ii, "The Social Person, " pp. 66-98. 3d ed. , rev. Andenl. New York and London, 1902. 

(3) Sully, J. _Studies of Childhood. _ rev. Ed. New York, 1903. 

(4) King, I. _The Psychology of Child Development. _ Chicago, 1903. 

(5) Thorndike, E. L. _Notes on Child Study. _ New York, 1903. 

(6) Hall, G. S. _Adolescence. _ Its psychology and its relations tophysiology, anthropology, sociology, sex, crime, religion, andeducation. 2 vols.. New York, 1904. 

(7) Shinn, Milicent W. _Notes on the Development of a Child. _ Universityof California Studies. Nos. 1-4. 1893-99. 

(8) Kirkpatrick, E. A. _The Individual in the Making. _ Boston and NewYork, 1911. 

B. _Psychology and Sociology of the Person_

(1) James, William. _The Principles of Psychology. _ Chap, x, "Consciousness of Self, " I, 291-401. New York, 1890. 

(2) Bekhterev, V. M. (Bechterew, W. V. ) _Die Persönlichkeit und dieBedingungen ihrer Entwicklung und Gesundheit. _ "Grenzfragen des Nervenund Seelenlebens, " No. 45. Wiesbaden, 1906. 

(3) Binet, A. _Alterations of Personality. _ Translated by H. G. Baldwin. New York, 1896. 

(4) Ribot, T. A. _Diseases of Personality. _ Authorized translation, 2drev. Ed. Chicago, 1895. 

(5) Adler, A. _The Neurotic Constitution. _ New York, 1917. 

(6) Prince, M. _The Dissociation of a Personality. _ A biographical studyin abnormal psychology. 2d ed. New York, 1913. 

(7) ----. _The Unconscious. _ The fundamentals of human personality, normal and abnormal. New York, 1914. 

(8) Coblenz, Felix. _Ueber das betende Ich in den Psalmen. _ Ein Beitragzur Erklaerung des Psalters. Frankfort, 1897. 

(9) Royce, J. _Studies of Good and Evil. _ A series of essays uponproblems of philosophy and life. Chap, viii, "Some Observations on theAnomalies of Self-consciousness, " pp. 169-97. A paper read before theMedico-Psychological Association of Boston, March 21, 1894. New York, 1898. 

(10) Stern, B. _Werden and Wesen der Persönlichkeit. _ Biologische undhistorische Untersuchungen über menschliche Individualität. Wien undLeipzig, 1913. 

(11) Shand, A. F. _The Foundations of Character. _ Being a study of thetendencies of the emotions and sentiments. London, 1914. 

C. _Materials for the Study of the Person_

(1) Theophrastus. _The Characters of Theophrastus. _ Translated from theGreek by R. C. Jebb. London, 1870. 

(2) La Bruyère, Jean de. _Les caractères, ou les moeurs de ce siècle. _Paris, 1916. _The "Characters" of Jean de La Bruyère. _ Translated fromthe French by Henri Van Laun. London, 1885. 

(3) Augustinus, Aurelius. _The Confessions of St. Augustine. _ Translatedfrom the Latin by E. B. Pusly. London, 1907. 

(4) Wesley, John. _The Journal of the Rev. John Wesley. _ New York andLondon, 1907. 

(5) Amiel, H. _Journal intime. _ Translated by Mrs. Ward. London and NewYork, 1885. 

(6) Cellini, Benvenuto. _Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini. _ Translated fromthe Italian by J. A. Symonds. New York, 1898. 

(7) Woolman, John. _Journal of the Life, Gospel Labors, and ChristianExperiences of That Faithful Minister of Jesus Christ, John Woolman. _Dublin, 1794. 

(8) Tolstoy, Count Leon. _My Confession. _ Translated from the Russian. Paris and New York, 1887. _My Religion. _ Translated from the French. NewYork, 1885. 

(9) Riley, I. W. _The Founder of Mormonism. _ A psychological study ofJoseph Smith, Jr. New York, 1902. 

(10) Wilde, Oscar. _De Profundis. _ New York and London, 1905. 

(11) Keller, Helen. _The Story of My Life. _ New York, 1903. 

(12) Simmel, Georg. _Goethe. _ Leipzig, 1913. 

(13) Thomas, W. I. , and Znaniecki, F. _The Polish Peasant in Europe andAmerica. _ "Life-Record of an Immigrant, " III, 89-400. Boston, 1919. 

(14) Probst, Ferdinand. _Der Fall Otto Weininger. _ "Grenzfragen desNerven- und Seelenlebens, " No. 31. Wiesbaden, 1904. 

(15) Anthony, Katherine. _Margaret Fuller. _ A psychological biography. New York, 1920. 

(16) Willard, Josiah Flynt. _My Life. _ New York, 1908. 

(17) ----. _Tramping with Tramps. _ New York, 1899. 

(18) Cummings, B. F. _The Journal of a Disappointed Man_, by Barbellion, W. N. P. [_pseud. _] Introduction by H. G. Wells. New York, 1919. 

(19) Audoux, Marguerite. _Marie Claire. _ Introduction by OctaveMirabeau. Translated from the French by J. N. Raphael. London and NewYork, 1911. 

(20) Clemens, Samuel L. _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_, by Mark Twain[_pseud. _]. New York, 1903. 

(21) Hapgood, Hutchins. _The Autobiography of a Thief. _ New York, 1903. 

(22) Johnson, James W. _The Autobiography of an ex-Colored Man. _Published anonymously. Boston, 1912. 

(23) Washington, Booker T. _Up from Slavery. _ An autobiography. NewYork, 1901. 

(24) Du Bois, W. E. B. _The Souls of Black Folk. _ Chicago, 1903. 

(25) Beers, C. W. _A Mind That Found Itself. _ An autobiography. 4th rev. Ed. New York, 1917. 

IV. INDIVIDUAL DIFFERENCES

A. _The Nature of Individual Differences_

(1) Thorndike, E. L. _Individuality. _ Boston, 1911. 

(2) ----. "Individual Differences and Their Causes, " _EducationalPsychology_, III, 141-388. New York, 1913-14. 

(3) Stern, W. _Ueber Psychologie der individuellen Differenzen. _Leipzig, 1900. 

(4) Hollingworth, Leta S. _The Psychology of Subnormal Children. _ Chap. I. "Individual Differences. " New York, 1920. 

B. _Mental Differences_

(1) Goddard, H. H. _Feeble-mindedness. _ Its causes and consequences. NewYork, 1914. 

(2) Tredgold, A. F. _Mental Deficiency. _ 2d ed. New York, 1916. 

(3) Bronner, Augusta F. _The Psychology of Special Abilities andDisabilities. _ Boston, 1917. 

(4) Healy, William. _Case Studies of Mentally and Morally AbnormalTypes. _ Cambridge, Mass. , 1912. 

C. _Temperamental Differences_

1. Systematic Treatises:

(1) Fouillée, A. _Tempérament et caractère selon les individus, lessexes et les races. _ Paris, 1895. 

(2) Hirt, Eduard. _Die Temperamente, ihr Wesen, ihre Bedeutung, für dasseelische Erleben und ihre besonderen Gestaltungen. _ "Grenzfragen desNerven- und Seelenlebens, " No. 40. Wiesbaden, 1905. 

(3) Hoch, A. , and Amsden, G. S. "A Guide to the Descriptive Study ofPersonality, " _Review of Neurology and Psychiatry_, (1913), pp. 577-87. 

(4) Kraepelin, E. _Psychiatrie. _ Ein Lehrbuch für Studierende und Ärzte. Vol. IV, chap. Xvi, pp. 1973-2116. 8th ed. 4 vols. Leipzig, 1909-15. 

(5) Loewenfeld, L. _Ueber die geniale Geistesthätigkeit mit besondererBerücksichtigung des Genie's für bildende Kunst. _ "Grenzfragen desNerven- und Seelenlebens, " No. 21. Wiesbaden, 1903. 

2. Temperamental Types:

(1) Lombroso, C. _The Man of Genius. _ Translated from the Italian. London and New York, 1891. 

(2) ----. _L'uomo delinquente in rapporto all'antropologia, allagiurisprudenza ed alle discipline carcerarie. _ 3 vols. 5th ed. Torino, 1896-97. 

(3) Goring, Charles. _The English Convict. _ A statistical study. London, 1913. 

(4) Wilmanns, Karl. _Psychopathologie des Landstreichers. _ Leipzig, 1906. 

(5) Downey, June E. "The Will Profile. " A tentative scale formeasurement of the volitional pattern. _University of Wyoming Bulletin_, Laramie, 1919. 

(6) Pagnier, A. _Le vagabond. _ Paris, 1910. 

(7) Kowalewski, A. _Studien zur Psychologie der Pessimismus. _"Grenzfragen des Nerven- und Seelenlebens, " No. 24. Wiesbaden, 1904. 

D. _Sex Differences_

(1) Ellis, H. H. _Man and Woman. _ A study of human secondary sexualcharacters. 5th rev. Ed. London and New York, 1914. 

(2) Geddes, P. , and Thomson, J. A. _The Evolution of Sex. _ London, 1889. 

(3) Thompson, Helen B. _The Mental Traits of Sex. _ An experimentalinvestigation of the normal mind in men and women. Chicago, 1903. 

(4) Montague, Helen, and Hollingworth, Leta S. "The ComparativeVariability of the Sexes at Birth, " _American Journal of Sociology_, XX(1914-15), 335-70. 

(5) Thomas, W. I. _Sex and Society. _ Chicago, 1907. 

(6) Weidensall, C. J. _The Mentality of the Criminal Woman. _ Acomparative study of the criminal woman, the working girl, and theefficient working woman, in a series of mental and physical tests. Baltimore, 1916. 

(7) Hollingworth, Leta S. "Variability as Related to Sex Differences inAchievement, " _American Journal of Sociology_, XIX (1913-14), 510-30. [Bibliography. ]

E. _Racial Differences_

(1) Boas, F. _The Mind of Primitive Man. _ New York, 1911. 

(2) _Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Straits. _ 5 vols. Cambridge, 1901-08. 

(3) Le Bon, G. _The Psychology of Peoples. _ Its influence on theirevolution. New York and London, 1898. [Translation. ]

(4) Reuter, E. B. _The Mulatto in the United States. _ Boston, 1918. 

(5) Bruner, F. G. "Hearing of Primitive Peoples, " _Archives ofPsychology_, No. 11. New York, 1908. 

(6) Woodworth, R. S. "Racial Differences in Mental Traits, " _Science_, new series, XXI (1910), 171-86. 

(7) Morse, Josiah. "A Comparison of White and Colored Children Measuredby the Binet-Simon Scale of Intelligence, " _Popular Science Monthly_, LXXXIVC (1914), 75-79. 

(8) Ferguson, G. O. , Jr. "The Psychology of the Negro, an ExperimentalStudy, " _Archives of Psychology_, No. 36. New York, 1916. [Bibliography. ]

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. Cooley's Conception of Human Nature

2. Human Nature and the Instincts

3. Human Nature and the Mores

4. Studies in the Evolution of the Mores; Prohibition, Birth Control, the Social Status of Children

5. Labor Management as a Problem in Human Nature

6. Human Nature in Politics

7. Personality and the Self

8. Personality as a Sociological Concept

9. Temperament, Milieu, and Social Types; the Politician, Labor Leader, Minister, Actor, Lawyer, Taxi Driver, Chorus Girl, etc. 

10. Bohemian, Philistine, and Genius

11. The Beggar, Vagabond, and Hobo

12. Literature as Source Material for the Study of Character

13. Outstanding Personalities in a Selected Community

14. Autobiography as Source Material for the Study of Human Nature

15. Individual and Racial Differences Compared

16. The Man of Genius as a Biological and a Sociological Product

17. The Jukes and Kindred Studies of Inferior Groups

18. History of the Binet-Simon Tests

19. Mental Measurements and Vocational Guidance

20. Psychiatry and Juvenile Delinquency

21. Recent Studies of the Adolescent Girl

22. Mental Inferiority and Crime

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. Is human nature that which is fundamental and alike in allindividuals or is it those qualities which we recognize and appreciateas human when we meet them in individuals?

2. What is the relation between original nature and the environment?

3. What is the basis for the distinction made by Thorndike betweenreflexes, instincts, and inborn capacities?

4. Read carefully Thorndike's _Inventory of Original Tendencies_. Whatillustrations of the different original traits occur to you?

5. What do you understand by Park's statement that man is not bornhuman?

6. "Human nature is a superstructure. " What value has this metaphor?What are its limitations? Suggest a metaphor which more adequatelyillustrates the relation of original nature to acquired nature. 

7. In what sense can it be said that habit is a means of controllingoriginal nature?

8. What, according to Park, is the relation of character to instinct andhabit? Do you agree with him?

9. What do you understand by the statement that "original nature isblind?"

10. What relation has an ideal to (a) instinct and (b) group life?

11. In what sense may we speak of the infant as the "natural man"?

12. To what extent are racial differences (a) those of originalnature, (b) those acquired from experience?

13. What evidence is there for the position that sex differences inmental traits are acquired rather than inborn?

14. How do you distinguish between mentality and temperament?

15. How do you account for the great differences in achievement betweenthe sexes?

16. What evidence is there of temperamental differences between thesexes? between races?

17. In the future will women equal men in achievement?

18. What, in your judgment, is the range of individual differences? Isit less or greater than that of racial and sex differences?

19. What do you understand is the distinction between racial inheritanceas represented by the instincts, and innate individual differences? Doyou think that both should be regarded as part of original nature?

20. What is the effect of education and the division of labor (a) uponinstincts and (b) upon individual differences?

21. Are individual differences or likenesses more important for society?

22. What do you understand to be the significance of individualdifferences (a) for social life; (b) for education; (c) forindustry?

23. What do you understand by the remaking of human nature? What is theimportance of this principle for politics, industry, and socialprogress?

24. Explain the proverbs: "Habit is ten times nature, " "Habit is secondnature. "

25. What is Cooley's definition of human nature? Do you agree ordisagree with him? Elaborate your position. 

26. To what extent does human nature differ with race and geographicenvironment?

27. How would you reinterpret Aristotle's and Hobbes's conception ofhuman nature in the light of this definition?

28. What illustrations of the difference between folkways and moreswould you suggest?

29. Classify the following forms of behavior under (a) folkways or(b) mores: tipping the hat, saluting an officer, monogamy, attendingchurch, Sabbath observance, prohibition, immersion as a form of baptism, the afternoon tea of the Englishman, the double standard of morals, theTen Commandments, the Golden Rule, the Constitution of the UnitedStates. 

30. What do you understand to be the relation of the mores to humannature?

31. In what way is (a) habit related to will? (b) custom related tothe general will?

32. How do you distinguish the general will (a) from law, (b) fromcustom?

33. Does any one of the following terms embody your conception of whatis expressed by _Sittlichkeit_: good form, decency, self-respect, propriety, good breeding, convention?

34. Describe and analyze several concrete social situations where_Sittlichkeit_ rather than conscience or law controlled the behavior ofthe person or of the group. 

35. What do you understand by convention? What is the relation ofconvention to instinct? Is convention a part of human nature to the sameextent as loyalty, honor, etc. ?

36. What is meant by the saying that mores, ritual, and convention arein the words of Hegel "objective mind"?

37. "The organism, and the brain as its highest representative, constitute the real personality. " What characteristics of personalityare stressed in this definition?

38. Is there any significance to the fact that personality is derivedfrom the Latin word _persona_ (mask worn by actors)?

39. Is the conventional self a product of habit, or of _Sittlichkeit_, or of law, or of conscience?

40. What is the importance of other people to the development ofself-consciousness?

41. Under what conditions does self-consciousness arise?

42. What do you understand by personality as a complex? As a total ofmental complexes?

43. What is the relation of memory to personality as illustrated in thecase of dual personality and of moods?

44. What do you understand Cooley to mean by the looking-glass self?

45. What illustration would you suggest to indicate that an individual'ssense of his personality depends upon his status in the group?

46. "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. "Is personality adequately defined in terms of a person's conception ofhis rôle?

47. What is the sociological significance of the saying, "If you wouldhave a virtue, feign it"?

48. What, according to Bechterew, is the relation of personality to thesocial _milieu_?

49. What do you understand by the personality of peoples? What is therelation of the personality of peoples and the personalities ofindividuals who constitute the peoples?

50. What do you understand by the difference between nature and nurture?

51. What are acquired characters? How are they transmitted?

52. What do you understand by the Mendelian principles of inheritance:(a) the hypothesis of unit characters; (b) the law of dominance; and(c) the law of segregation?

53. What illustrations of the differences between instinct and traditionwould you suggest?

54. What is the difference between the blue eye as a defect inpigmentation, and of feeble-mindedness as a defective characteristic?

55. Should it be the policy of society to eliminate all members below acertain mental level either by segregation or by more drastic measures?

56. What principles of treatment of practical value to parents andteachers would you draw from the fact that feeble inhibition of temperis a trait transmitted by biological inheritance?

57. Why is an understanding of the principles of biological inheritanceof importance to sociology?

58. In what two ways, according to Keller, are acquired characterstransmitted by tradition?

59. Make a list of the different types of things derived by the person(a) from his biological inheritance, and (b) from his socialheritage. 

60. What traits, temperament, mentality, manner, or character, aredistinctive of members of your family? Which of these have beeninherited, which acquired?

61. What problems in society are due to defects in man's originalnature?

62. What problems are the result of defects in folkways and mores?

63. In what way do racial temperament and tradition determine nationalcharacteristics? To what extent is the religious behavior of the negrodetermined (a) by temperament, (b) by imitation of white culture?How do you explain Scotch economy, Irish participation in politics, theintellectuality of the Jew, etc. ?

FOOTNOTES:

[55] Charles H. Cooley, _Social Organization_, pp. 28-30. 

[56] Charles H. Cooley, _Human Nature and the Social Order_, pp. 152-53. 

[57] _The Theory of the Leisure Class_ (New York, 1899). 

[58] From Edward L. Thorndike, _The Original Nature of Man_, pp. 1-7. (Teachers College, Columbia University, 1913. Author's copyright. )

[59] Compiled from Edward L. Thorndike, _The Original Nature of Man_, pp. 43-194. (Teachers College, Columbia University, 1913. Author'scopyright. )

[60] From Robert E. Park, _Principles of Human Behavior_, pp. 9-16. (TheZalaz Corporation, 1915. )

[61] Adapted from Milicent W. Shinn, _The Biography of a Baby_, pp. 20-77. (Houghton Mifflin Co. , 1900. Author's copyright. )

[62] From Albert Moll, _Sexual Life of the Child_, pp. 38-49. Translatedfrom the German by Dr. Eden Paul. (Published by The Macmillan Co. , 1902. Reprinted by permission. )

[63] From C. S. Myers, "On the Permanence of Racial Differences, " in_Papers on Inter-racial Problems_, edited by G. Spiller, pp. 74-76. (P. S. King & Son, 1911. )

[64] From Edward L. Thorndike, _Individuality_, pp. 1-8. (By permissionof and special arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Co. , 1911. )

[65] From W. E. Hocking, _Human Nature and Its Remaking_, pp. 2-12. (Yale University Press, 1918. )

[66] From William G. Sumner, _Folkways_, pp. 2-8. (Ginn & Co. , 1906. )

[67] Translated and adapted from Ferdinand Tönnies, _Die Sitte_, pp. 7-14. (Literarische Anstalt, Rütten und Loening, 1909. )

[68] From Viscount Haldane, "Higher Nationality, " in _InternationalConciliation_, November, 1913, No. 72, pp. 4-12. 

[69] From Th. Ribot, _The Diseases of Personality_, pp. 156-57. Translated from the French. (The Open Court Publishing Co. , 1891. )

[70] From Morton Prince, "The Unconscious, " in the _Journal of AbnormalPsychology_, III (1908-9), 277-96, 426. 

[71] From Alfred Binet, _Alterations of Personality_, pp. 248-57. (D. Appleton & Co. , 1896. )

[72] From L. G. Winston, "Myself and I, " in the _American Journal ofPsychology_, XIX (1908), 562-63. 

[73] From William James, _The Varieties of Religious Experience_, pp. 166-73. (Longmans, Green & Co. , 1902. )

[74] Translated from V. M. Bekhterev (W. V. Bechterew), _DiePersönlichkeit und die Bedingungen ihrer Entwicklung und Gesundheit_, pp. 3-5. (J. F. Bergmann, 1906. )

[75] From J. Arthur Thomson, _Heredity_, pp. 244-49. (G. P. Putnam'sSons, 1908. )

[76] Adapted from C. B. Davenport, "The Method of Evolution, " in Castle, Coulter, Davenport, East, and Tower, _Heredity and Eugenics_, pp. 269-87. (The University of Chicago Press, 1912. )

[77] From Albert G. Keller, _Societal Evolution_, pp. 212-15. (Publishedby The Macmillan Co. , 1915. Reprinted by permission. )

[78] From Robert E. Park, "Education in Its Relation to the Conflict andFusion of Cultures, " in the _Publications of the American SociologicalSociety_, XIII (1918), 58-63. 

[79] Émile Zola, _The Experimental Novel_ (New York, 1893), pp. 8-9. Translated from the French by Belle M. Sherman. 

CHAPTER III

SOCIETY AND THE GROUP

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Society, the Community, and the Group

Human nature and the person are products of society. This is the sum andsubstance of the readings in the preceding chapter. But what, then, issociety--this web in which the lives of individuals are so inextricablyinterwoven, and which seems at the same time so external and in a sensealien to them? From the point of view of common sense, "society" issometimes conceived as the sum total of social institutions. The family, the church, industry, the state, all taken together, constitute society. In this use of the word, society is identified with social structure, something more or less external to individuals. 

In accordance with another customary use of the term, "society" denotesa collection of persons. This is a vaguer notion but it at leastidentifies society with individuals instead of setting it apart fromthem. But this definition is manifestly superficial. Society is not acollection of persons in the sense that a brick pile is a collection ofbricks. However we may conceive the relation of the parts of society tothe whole, society is not a mere physical aggregation and not a meremathematical or statistical unit. 

Various explanations that strike deeper than surface observation havebeen proposed as solutions for this cardinal problem of the social oneand the social many; of the relation of society to the individual. Society has been described as a tool, an instrument, as it were, anextension of the individual organism. The argument runs something likethis: The human hand, though indeed a part of the physical organism, maybe regarded as an instrument of the body as a whole. If, as by accidentit be lost, it is conceivable that a mechanical hand might besubstituted for it, which, though not a part of the body, would functionfor all practical purposes as a hand of flesh and blood. A hoe may beregarded as a highly specialized hand, so also logically, if lessfiguratively, a plow. So the hand of another person if it does yourbidding may be regarded as your instrument, your hand. Language iswitness to the fact that employers speak of "the hands" which they"work. " Social institutions may likewise be thought of as tools ofindividuals for accomplishing their purposes. Logically, therefore, society, either as a sum of institutions or as a collection of persons, may be conceived of as a sum total of instrumentalities, extensions ofthe functions of the human organism which enable individuals to carry onlife-activities. From this standpoint society is an immense co-operativeconcern of mutual services. 

This latter is an aspect of society which economists have sought toisolate and study. From this point of view the relations of individualsare conceived as purely external to one another, like that of the plantsin a plant community. Co-operation, so far as it exists, is competitiveand "free. "

In contrast with the view of society which regards social institutionsand the community itself as the mere instruments and tools of theindividuals who compose it, is that which conceives society as restingupon biological adaptations, that is to say upon instincts, gregariousness, for example, imitation, or like-mindedness. The classicexamples of societies based on instinct are the social insects, thewell-known bee and the celebrated ant. In human society the family, withits characteristic differences and interdependences of the sexes and theage groups, husband and wife, children and parents, most nearly realizesthis description of society. In so far as the organization of society ispredetermined by inherited or constitutional differences, as is the casepre-eminently in the so-called animal societies, competition ceases andthe relations of its component individuals become, so to speak, internal, and a permanent part of the structure of the group. 

The social organization of human beings, on the other hand, the varioustypes of social groups, and the changes which take place in them atdifferent times under varying circumstances, are determined not merelyby instincts and by competition but by custom, tradition, publicopinion, and contract. In animal societies as herds, flocks, and packs, collective behavior seems obviously to be explained in terms of instinctand emotion. In the case of man, however, instincts are changed intohabits; emotions, into sentiments. Furthermore, all these forms ofbehavior tend to become conventionalized and thus become relativelyindependent of individuals and of instincts. The behavior of the personis thus eventually controlled by the formal standards which, implicit inthe mores, are explicit in the laws. Society now may be defined as thesocial heritage of _habit and sentiment_, _folkways and mores_, _technique and culture_, all of which are incident or necessary tocollective human behavior. 

Human society, then, unlike animal society is mainly a social heritage, created in and transmitted by communication. The continuity and life ofa society depend upon its success in transmitting from one generation tothe next its folkways, mores, technique, and ideals. From the standpointof collective behavior these cultural traits may all be reduced to theone term "consensus. " Society viewed abstractly is an organization ofindividuals; considered concretely it is a complex of organized habits, sentiments, and social attitudes--in short, consensus. 

The terms society, community, and social group are now used by studentswith a certain difference of emphasis but with very little difference inmeaning. Society is the more abstract and inclusive term, and society ismade up of social groups, each possessing its own specific type oforganization but having at the same time all the general characteristicsof society in the abstract. Community is the term which is applied tosocieties and social groups where they are considered from the point ofview of the geographical distribution of the individuals andinstitutions of which they are composed. It follows that every communityis a society, but not every society is a community. An individual maybelong to many social groups but he will not ordinarily belong to morethan one community, except in so far as a smaller community of which heis a member is included in a larger of which he is also a member. However, an individual is not, at least from a sociological point ofview, a member of a community because he lives in it but rather because, and to the extent that, he participates in the common life of thecommunity. 

The term social group has come into use with the attempts of students toclassify societies. Societies may be classified with reference to therôle which they play in the organization and life of larger socialgroups or societies. The internal organization of any given socialgroup will be determined by its external relation to other groups in thesociety of which it is a part as well as by the relations of individualswithin the group to one another. A boys' gang, a girls' clique, acollege class, or a neighborhood conforms to this definition quite asmuch as a labor union, a business enterprise, a political party, or anation. One advantage of the term "group" lies in the fact that it maybe applied to the smallest as well as to the largest forms of humanassociation. 

2. Classification of the Materials

Society, in the most inclusive sense of that term, the Great Society, asGraham Wallas described it, turns out upon analysis to be aconstellation of other smaller societies, that is to say races, peoples, parties, factions, cliques, clubs, etc. The community, theworld-community, on the other hand, which is merely the Great Societyviewed from the standpoint of the territorial distribution of itsmembers, presents a different series of social groupings and the GreatSociety in this aspect exhibits a totally different pattern. From thepoint of view of the territorial distribution of the individuals thatconstitute it, the world-community is composed of nations, colonies, spheres of influence, cities, towns, local communities, neighborhoods, and families. 

These represent in a rough way the subject-matter of sociologicalscience. Their organization, interrelation, constituent elements, andthe characteristic changes (social processes) which take place in themare the phenomena of sociological science. 

Human beings as we meet them are mobile entities, variously distributedthrough geographical space. What is the nature of the connection betweenindividuals which permits them at the same time to preserve theirdistances and act corporately and consentiently--with a common purpose, in short? These distances which separate individuals are not merelyspatial, they are psychical. Society exists where these distances havebeen _relatively_ overcome. Society exists, in short, not merely wherethere are people but where there is communication. 

The materials in this chapter are intended to show (1) the fundamentalcharacter of the relations which have been established betweenindividuals through communication; (2) the gradual evolution of theserelations in animal and human societies. On the basis of the principlethus established it is possible to work out a rational classification ofsocial groups. 

Espinas defines society in terms of corporate action. Wherever separateindividuals act together as a unit, where they co-operate as though theywere parts of the same organism, there he finds society. Society fromthis standpoint is not confined to members of one species, but may becomposed of different members of species where there is permanent jointactivity. In the study of symbiosis among animals, it is significant tonote the presence of structural adaptations in one or both species. Inthe taming and domestication of animals by man the effects of symbiosisare manifest. Domestication, by the selection in breeding of traitsdesired by man, changes the original nature of the animal. Taming isachieved by control of habits in transferring to man the filial andgregarious responses of the young naturally given to its parents andmembers of its kind. Man may be thought of as domesticated throughnatural social selection. Eugenics is a conscious program of furtherdomestication by the elimination of defective physical and mental racialtraits and by the improvement of the racial stock through the socialselection of superior traits. Taming has always been a function of humansociety, but it is dignified by such denominations as "education, ""social control, " "punishment, " and "reformation. "

The plant community offers the simplest and least qualified example ofthe community. Plant life, in fact, offers an illustration of a_community_ which is _not a society_. It is not a society because it isan organization of individuals whose relations, if not wholly external, are, at any rate, "unsocial" in so far as there is no consensus. Theplant community is interesting, moreover, because it exhibits in thebarest abstraction, the character of _competitive co-operation_, theaspect of social life which constitutes part of the specialsubject-matter of economic science. 

This struggle for existence, in some form or other, is in fact essentialto the existence of society. Competition, segregation, and accommodationserve to maintain the social distances, to fix the status, and preservethe independence of the individual in the social relation. A society inwhich all distances, physical as well as psychical, had been abolished, in which there was neither taboo, prejudice, nor reserve of any sort; asociety in which the intimacies were absolute, would be a society inwhich there were neither persons nor freedom. The processes ofcompetition, segregation, and accommodation brought out in thedescription of the plant community are quite comparable with the sameprocesses in animal and human communities. A village, town, city, ornation may be studied from the standpoint of the adaptation, strugglefor existence, and survival of its individual members in the environmentcreated by the community as a whole. 

Society, as Dewey points out, if based on instinct is an effect ofcommunication. _Consensus_ even more than _co-operation_ or _corporateaction_ is the distinctive mark of human society. Dewey, however, seemsto restrict the use of consensus to group decisions in which all themembers consciously and rationally participate. Tradition and sentimentare, however, forms of consensus quite as much as constitutions, rules, and elections. 

Le Bon's classification of social groups into heterogeneous andhomogeneous crowds, while interesting and suggestive, is clearlyinadequate. Many groups familiar to all of us, as the family, theplay-group, the neighborhood, the public, find no place in hissystem. [80]

Concrete descriptions of group behavior indicate three elements in theconsensus of the members of the group. The first is the characteristicstate of group feeling called _esprit de corps_. The enthusiasm of thetwo sides in a football contest, the ecstasy of religious ceremonial, the fellowship of members of a fraternity, the brotherhood of a monasticband are all different manifestations of group spirit. 

The second element in consensus has become familiar through the term"morale. " Morale may be defined as the collective will. Like the will ofthe individual it represents an organization of behavior tendencies. Thediscipline of the individual, his subordination to the group, lies inhis participation and reglementation in social activities. 

The third element of consensus which makes for unified behavior of themembers of the group has been analyzed by Durkheim under the term"collective representations. " Collective representations are theconcepts which embody the objectives of group activity. 

The totem of primitive man, the flag of a nation, a religious creed, thenumber system, and Darwin's theory of the descent of man--all these arecollective representations. Every society and every social group has, ortends to have, its own symbols and its own language. The language andother symbolic devices by which a society carries on its collectiveexistence are collective representations. Animals do not possess them. 

II. MATERIALS

A. SOCIETY AND SYMBIOSIS

1. Definition of Society[81]

The idea of society is that of a permanent co-operation in whichseparate living beings undertake to accomplish an identical act. Thesebeings may find themselves brought by their conditions to a point wheretheir co-operation forces them to group themselves in space in somedefinite form, but it is by no means necessary that they should be injuxtaposition for them to act together and thus to form a society. Acustomary reciprocation of services among more or less independentindividualities is the characteristic feature of the social life, afeature that contact or remoteness does not essentially modify, nor theapparent disorder nor the regular disposition of the parties in space. 

Two beings may then form what is to the eyes a single mass, and maylive, not only in contact with each other, but even in a state of mutualpenetration without constituting a society. It is enough in such a casethat one looks at them as entirely distinct, that their activities tendto opposite or merely different ends. If their functions, instead ofco-operating, diverge; if the good of one is the evil of the other, whatever the intimacy of their contact may be, no social bond unitesthem. 

But the nature of the functions and the form of the organs areinseparable. If two beings are endowed with functions that necessarilycombine, they are also endowed with organs, if not similar, at leastcorresponding. And these beings with like or corresponding organs areeither of the same species or of very nearly the same species. 

However, circumstances may be met where two beings with quite differentorgans and belonging even to widely remote species may be accidentallyand at a single point useful to each other. A habitual relation may beestablished between their activities, but only on this one point, and inthe time limits in which the usefulness exists. Such a case gives theoccasion, if not for a society, at least for an association; that is tosay, a union less necessary, less strict, less durable, may find itsorigin in such a meeting. In other words, beside the normal societiesformed of elements specifically alike, which cannot exist without eachother, there will be room for more accidental groupings, formed ofelements more or less specifically unlike, which convenience unites andnot necessity. We will commence with a study of the latter. 

To society the most alien relations of two living beings which can beproduced are those of the predator and his prey. In general, thepredator is bulkier than his prey, since he overcomes him and devourshim. Yet smaller ones sometimes attack larger creatures, consuming them, however, by instalments, and letting them live that they themselves maylive on them as long as possible. In such a case they are forced toremain for a longer or a shorter time attached to the body of theirvictim, carried about by it wherever the vicissitudes of its life leadthem. Such animals have received the name of parasites. Parasitism formsthe line inside of which our subject begins; for if one can imagine thatthe parasite, instead of feeding on the animal from whom he draws hissubsistence, is content to live on the remains of the other's meals, onewill find himself in the presence, not yet of an actual society, but ofhalf the conditions of a society; that is to say, a relation between twobeings such that, all antagonism ceasing, one of the two is useful tothe other. Such is commensalism. However, this association does not yetoffer the essential element of all society, co-operation. There isco-operation when the commensal is not less useful to his host than thelatter is to the commensal himself, when the two are concerned in livingin a reciprocal relation and in developing their double activity incorresponding ways toward a single and an identical goal. One has givento this mode of activity the name of mutualism. Domestication is onlyone form of it. Parasitism, commensalism, mutualism, exist with animalsamong the different species. 

2. Symbiosis (literally "living together")[82]

In gaining their wide and intimate acquaintance with the vegetable worldthe ants have also become acquainted with a large number of insects thatobtain their nutriment directly from plants, either by sucking up theirjuices or by feeding on their foliage. To the former group belong thephytophthorous Homoptera, the plant lice, scale insects, or mealy bugs, tree-hoppers, lantern flies, and jumping plant lice; to the latterbelong the caterpillars of the lycaenid butterflies, the "blues, " or"azures, " as they are popularly called. All of these creatures excreteliquids which are eagerly sought by the ants and constitute the whole, or, at any rate, an important part of the food of certain species. Inreturn the Homoptera and caterpillars receive certain services from theants, so that the relations thus established between these widelydifferent insects may be regarded as a kind of symbiosis. Theserelations are most apparent in the case of the aphids, and these insectshave been more often and more closely studied in Europe and America. 

The consociation of the ants with the aphids is greatly facilitated bythe gregarious and rather sedentary habits of the latter, especially intheir younger, wingless stages, for the ants are thus enabled to obtaina large amount of food without losing time and energy in ranging farafield from their nests. Then, too, the ants may establish their nestsin the immediate vicinity of the aphid droves or actually keep them intheir nests or in "sheds" carefully constructed for the purpose. 

Some ants obtain the honey-dew merely by licking the surface of theleaves and stems on which it has fallen, but many species have learnedto stroke the aphids and induce them to void the liquid gradually sothat it can be imbibed directly. A drove of plant lice, especially whenit is stationed on young and succulent leaves or twigs, may produceenough honey-dew to feed a whole colony of ants for a considerableperiod. 

As the relations between ants and the various Homoptera have beenregarded as mutualistic, it may be well to marshal the facts which seemto warrant this interpretation. The term "mutualism" as applied to thesecases means, of course, that the aphids, coccids, and membracids are ofservice to the ants and in turn profit by the companionship of thesemore active and aggressive insects. Among the modifications in structureand behavior which may be regarded as indicating on the part of aphidsunmistakable evidence of adaptation to living with ants, the followingmay be cited:

1. The aphids do not attempt to escape from the ants or to defendthemselves with their siphons, but accept the presence of theseattendants as a matter of course. 

2. The aphids respond to the solicitations of the ants by extruding thedroplets of honey-dew gradually and not by throwing them off to adistance with a sudden jerk, as they do in the absence of ants. 

3. Many species of Aphididae that live habitually with ants havedeveloped a perianal circlet of stiff hairs which support the drop ofhoney-dew till it can be imbibed by the ants. This circlet is lacking inaphids that are rarely or never visited by ants. 

4. Certain observations go to show that aphids, when visited by ants, extract more of the plant juices than when unattended. 

The adaptations on the part of the ants are, with a single doubtfulexception, all modifications in behavior and not in structure. 

1. Ants do not seize and kill aphids as they do when they encounterother sedentary defenseless insects. 

2. The ants stroke the aphids in a particular manner in order to makethem excrete the honey-dew, and know exactly where to expect theevacuated liquid. 

3. The ants protect the aphids. Several observers have seen the antsdriving away predatory insects. 

4. Many aphidicolous ants, when disturbed, at once seize and carry theircharges in their mandibles to a place of safety, showing very plainlytheir sense of ownership and interest in these helpless creatures. 

5. This is also exhibited by all ants that harbor root-aphids androot-coccids in their nests. Not only are these insects kept inconfinement by the ants, but they are placed by them on the roots. Inorder to do this the ants remove the earth from the surfaces of theroots and construct galleries and chambers around them so that theHomoptera may have easy access to their food and even move about atwill. 

6. Many ants construct, often at some distance from their nests, littleclosed pavilions or sheds of earth, carton, or silk, as a protection fortheir cattle and for themselves. The singular habit may be merely a morerecent development from the older and more general habit of excavatingtunnels and chambers about roots and subterranean stems. 

7. The solicitude of the ants not only envelops the adult aphids andcoccids, but extends also to their eggs and young. Numerous observershave observed ants in the autumn collecting and storing aphid eggs inthe chambers of their nests, caring for them through the winter and inthe spring placing the recently hatched plant lice on the stems androots of the plants. 

In the foregoing I have discussed the ethological relations of ants to avariety of other organisms. This, however, did not include an account ofsome of the most interesting symbiotic relations, namely, those of theants to other species of their own taxonomic group and to termites. Thisliving together of colonies of different species may be properlydesignated as social symbiosis, to distinguish it from the simplesymbiosis that obtains between individual organisms of different speciesand the intermediate form of symbiosis exhibited by individual organismsthat live in ant or termite colonies. 

The researches of the past forty years have brought to light aremarkable array of instances of social symbiosis, varying so much inintimacy and complexity that it is possible to construct a seriesranging from mere simultaneous occupancy of a very narrow ethologicalstation, or mere contiguity of domicile, to an actual fusion, involvingthe vital dependence or parasitism of a colony of one species on that ofanother. Such a series is, of course, purely conceptual and does notrepresent the actual course of development in nature, where, as in theanimal and vegetable kingdoms in general, development has not followed asimple linear course, but has branched out repeatedly and terminated inthe varied types at the present time. 

It is convenient to follow the European writers, von Hagens, Forel, Wasmann, and others, in grouping all the cases of social symbiosis undertwo heads, the compound nests and the mixed colonies. Different speciesof ants or of ants and termites are said to form compound nests whentheir galleries are merely contiguous or actually interpenetrate andopen into one another, although the colonies which inhabit them bringup their respective offspring in different apartments. In mixedcolonies, on the other hand, which, in a state of nature, can be formedonly by species of ants of close taxonomic affinities, the insects livetogether in a single nest and bring up their young in common. Althougheach of these categories comprises a number of dissimilar types ofsocial symbiosis, and although it is possible, under certaincircumstances, as will be shown in the sequel, to convert a compoundnest into a mixed colony, the distinction is nevertheless fundamental. It must be admitted, however, that both types depend in last analysis onthe dependent, adoption-seeking instincts of the queen ant and on theremarkable plasticity which enables allied species and genera to live invery close proximity to one another. By a strange paradox thesepeculiarities have been produced in the struggle for existence, althoughthis struggle is severer among different species of ants than betweenants and other organisms. As Forel says: "The greatest enemies of antsare other ants, just as the greatest enemies of men are other men. "

3. The Taming and the Domestication of Animals[83]

Primitive man was a hunter almost before he had the intelligence to useweapons, and from the earliest times he must have learned somethingabout the habits of the wild animals he pursued for food or forpleasure, or from which he had to escape. It was probably as a hunterthat he first came to adopt young animals which he found in the woods orthe plains, and made the surprising discovery that these were willing toremain under his protection and were pleasing and useful. He passedgradually from being a hunter to becoming a keeper of flocks and herds. From these early days to the present time, the human race has taken aninterest in the lower animals, and yet extremely few have been reallydomesticated. The living world would seem to offer an almost unlimitedrange of creatures which might be turned to our profit and asdomesticated animals minister to our comfort or convenience. And yet itseems as if there were some obstacle rooted in the nature of animals orin the powers of man, for the date of the adoption by man of the fewdomesticated species lies in remote, prehistoric antiquity. The surfaceof the earth has been explored, the physiology of breeding and feedinghas been studied, our knowledge of the animal kingdom has been vastlyincreased, and yet there is hardly a beast bred in the farm-yard todaywith which the men who made stone weapons were not acquainted and whichthey had not tamed. Most of the domestic animals of Europe, America, andAsia came originally from Central Asia, and have spread thence in chargeof their masters, the primitive hunters who captured them. 

No monkeys have been domesticated. Of the carnivores only the cat andthe dog are truly domesticated. Of the ungulates there are horses andasses, pigs, cattle, sheep, goats, and reindeer. Among rodents there arerabbits and guinea-pigs, and possibly some of the fancy breeds of ratsand mice should be included. Among birds there are pigeons, fowls, peacocks, and guinea-fowl, and aquatic birds such as swans, geese, andducks, whilst the only really domesticated passerine bird is the canary. Goldfish are domesticated, and the invertebrate bees and silk-moths mustnot be forgotten. It is not very easy to draw a line betweendomesticated animals and animals that are often bred in partial orcomplete captivity. Such antelopes as elands, fallow-deer, roe-deer, andthe ostriches of ostrich farms are on the border-line of beingdomesticated. 

It is also difficult to be quite certain as to what is meant by a tameanimal. Cockroaches usually scuttle away when they are disturbed andseem to have learnt that human beings have a just grievance againstthem. But many people have no horror of them. A pretty girl, clean anddainty in her ways, and devoted to all kinds of animals, used to likesitting in a kitchen that was infested with these repulsive creatures, and told me that when she was alone they would run over her dress andwere not in the least startled when she took them up. I have heard of abutterfly which used to come and sip sugar from the hand of a lady; andthose who have kept spiders and ants declare that these intelligentcreatures learn to distinguish their friends. So also fish, like thegreat carp in the garden of the palace of Fontainebleau, and many fishesin aquaria and private ponds, learn to come to be fed. I do not think, however, that these ought to be called tame animals. Most of the wildanimals in menageries very quickly learn to distinguish one person fromanother, to obey the call of their keeper and to come to be fed, although certainly they would be dangerous even to the keeper if hewere to enter their cages. To my mind, tameness is something more thanmerely coming to be fed, and, in fact, many tame animals are least tamewhen they are feeding. Young carnivores, for instance, which can behandled freely and are affectionate, very seldom can be touched whilstthey are feeding. The real quality of tameness is that the tame animalis not merely tolerant of the presence of man, not merely has learned toassociate him with food, but takes some kind of pleasure in humancompany and shows some kind of affection. 

On the other hand, we must not take our idea of tameness merely from thedomesticated animals. These have been bred for many generations, andthose that were most wild and that showed any resistance to man werekilled or allowed to escape. Dogs are always taken as the supremeexample of tameness, and sentimentalists have almost exhausted theresources of language in praising them. Like most people, I am very fondof dogs, but it is an affection without respect. Dogs breed freely incaptivity, and in the enormous period of time that has elapsed since thefirst hunters adopted wild puppies there has been a constant selectionby man, and every dog that showed any independence of spirit has beenkilled off. Man has tried to produce a purely subservient creature, andhas succeeded in his task. No doubt a dog is faithful and affectionate, but he would be shot or drowned or ordered to be destroyed by the localmagistrate if he were otherwise. A small vestige of the original spirithas been left in him, merely from the ambition of his owners to possessan animal that will not bite them, but will bite anyone else. And eventhis watch-dog trait is mechanical, for the guardian of the house willworry the harmless, necessary postman, and welcome the bold burglar withfawning delight. The dog is a slave, and the crowning evidence of hisdocility, that he will fawn on the person who has beaten him, is theresult of his character having been bred out of him. The dog is anengaging companion, an animated toy more diverting than the cleverestpiece of clockwork, but it is only our colossal vanity that makes ustake credit for the affection and faithfulness of our own particularanimal. The poor beast cannot help it; all else has been bred out of himgenerations ago. 

When wild animals become tame, they are really extending or transferringto human beings the confidence and affection they naturally give theirmothers, and this view will be found to explain more facts abouttameness than any other. Every creature that would naturally enjoymaternal, or it would be better to say parental, care, as the fathersometimes shares in or takes upon himself the duty of guarding theyoung, is ready to transfer its devotion to other animals or to humanbeings, if the way be made easy for it, and if it be treated without toogreat violation of its natural instincts. The capacity to be tamed isgreatest in those animals that remain longest with their parents andthat are most intimately associated with them. The capacity to learn newhabits is greatest in those animals which naturally learn most fromtheir parents, and in which the period of youth is not merely a periodof growing, a period of the awakening of instincts, but a time in whicha real education takes place. These capacities of being tamed and oflearning new habits are greater in the higher mammals than in the lowermammals, in mammals than in birds, and in birds than in reptiles. Theyare very much greater in very young animals, where dependence on theparents is greatest, than in older animals, and they gradually fade awayas the animal grows up, and are least of all in fully grown andindependent creatures of high intelligence. 

Young animals born in captivity are no more easy to tame than thosewhich have been taken from the mother in her native haunts. If theyremain with the mother, they very often grow up even shyer and moreintolerant of man than the mothers themselves. There is no inheriteddocility or tameness, and a general survey of the facts fully bears outmy belief that the process of taming is almost entirely a transferenceto human beings of the confidence and affection that a young animalwould naturally give its mother. The process of domestication isdifferent, and requires breeding a race of animals in captivity for manygenerations and gradually weeding out those in which youthful tamenessis replaced by the wild instinct of adult life, and so creating a strainwith new and abnormal instincts. 

B. PLANT COMMUNITIES AND ANIMAL SOCIETIES

1. Plant Communities[84]

Certain species group themselves into natural associations, that is tosay, into communities which we meet with more or less frequently andwhich exhibit the same combination of growth-forms and the same facies. As examples in northern Europe may be cited a meadow with its grassesand perennial herbs, or a beech forest with its beech trees and all thespecies usually accompanying these. Species that form a community musteither practice the same economy, making approximately the same demandson its environment (as regards nourishment, light, moisture, and soforth), or one species present must be dependent for its existence uponanother species, sometimes to such an extent that the latter provides itwith what is necessary or even best suited to it (Oxalis Acetosella andsaprophytes which profit from the shade of the beech and from its humussoil); a kind of symbiosis seems to prevail between such species. Infact, one often finds, as in beech forests, that the plants growingunder the shade and protection of other species, and belonging to themost diverse families, assume growth-forms that are very similar to oneanother, but essentially different from those of the forest trees, which, in their turn, often agree with one another. 

The ecological analysis of a plant-community leads to the recognition ofthe growth-forms composing it as its ultimate units. From what has justbeen said in regard to growth-forms it follows that species of verydiverse physiognomy can very easily occur together in the same naturalcommunity. But beyond this, as already indicated, species differingwidely, not only in physiognomy but also in their whole economy, may beassociated. We may therefore expect to find both great variety of formand complexity of interrelations among the species composing a naturalcommunity; as an example we may cite the richest of all types ofcommunities--the tropical rain-forest. It may also be noted that thephysiognomy of a community is not necessarily the same at all times ofthe year, the distinction sometimes being caused by a rotation ofspecies. 

The different communities, it need hardly be stated, are scarcely eversharply marked off from one another. Just as soil, moisture, and otherexternal conditions are connected by the most gradual transitions, solikewise are the plant-communities, especially in cultivated lands. Inaddition, the same species often occur in several widely differentcommunities; for example, Linnaea borealis grows not only in coniferousforests, but also in birch woods, and even high above the tree limit onthe mountains of Norway and on the fell-fields of Greenland. It appearsthat different combinations of external factors can replace one anotherand bring into existence approximately the same community, or at leastcan satisfy equally well one and the same species, and that, forinstance, a moist climate often completely replaces the forest shade ofdry climates. 

The term "community" implies a diversity but at the same time a certainorganized uniformity in the units. The units are the many individualplants that occur in every community, whether this be a beech forest, ameadow, or a heath. Uniformity is established when certain atmospheric, terrestrial, and other factors are co-operative, and appears eitherbecause a certain defined economy makes its impress on the community asa whole, or because a number of different growth-forms are combined toform a single aggregate which has a definite and constant guise. 

The analysis of a plant-community usually reveals one or more of thekinds of symbiosis as illustrated by parasites, saprophytes, epiphytes, and the like. There is scarce a forest or a bushland where examples ofthese forms of symbiosis are lacking; if, for instance, we investigatethe tropical rain-forest we are certain to find in it all conceivablekinds of symbiosis. But the majority of individuals of a plant-communityare linked by bonds other than those mentioned--bonds that are bestdescribed as _commensal_. The term _commensalism_ is due to Van Beneden, who wrote, "Le commensal est simplement un compagnon de table"; but weemploy it in a somewhat different sense to denote the relationshipsubsisting between species which share with one another the supply offood-material contained in soil and air, and thus feed at the sametable. 

More detailed analysis of the plant-community reveals very considerabledistinctions among commensals. Some relationships are considered in thesucceeding paragraphs. 

_Like commensals. _--When a plant-community consists solely ofindividuals belonging to one species--for example, solely of beech, ling, or Aira flexuosa--then we have the purest example of likecommensals. These all make the same demands as regards nutriment, soil, light, and other like conditions; as each species requires a certainamount of space and as there is scarcely ever sufficient nutriment forall the offspring, a struggle for food arises among the plants so soonas the space is occupied by the definite numbers of individuals which, according to the species, can develop thereon. The individuals lodged inunfavorable places and the weaklings are vanquished and exterminated. This competitive struggle takes place in all plant-communities, withperhaps the sole exceptions of sub-glacial communities and in deserts. In these _open communities_ the soil is very often or always so open andso irregularly clothed that there is space for many more individualsthan are actually present; the cause for this is obviously to be soughtin the climatically unfavorable conditions of life, which either preventplants from producing seed and other propagative bodies in sufficientnumbers to clothe the ground or prevent the development of seedlings. Onsuch soil one can scarcely speak of a competitive struggle forexistence; in this case a struggle takes place between the plant andinanimate nature, but to little or no extent between plant and plant. 

That a congregation of individuals belonging to one species into onecommunity may be profitable to the species is evident; it may obviouslyin several ways aid in maintaining the existence of the species, forinstance, by facilitating abundant and certain fertilization (especiallyin anemophilous plants) and maturation of seeds; in addition, the socialmode of existence may confer other less-known advantages. But, on theother hand, it brings with it greater danger of serious damage anddevastation wrought by parasites. 

The bonds that hold like individuals to a like habitat are, as alreadyindicated, identical demands as regards existence, and these demands aresatisfied in their precise habitat to such an extent that the speciescan maintain itself here against rivals. Natural unmixed associations offorest trees are the result of struggles with other species. But thereare differences as regards the ease with which a community can arise andestablish itself. Some species are more social than others, that is tosay, better fitted to form communities. The causes for this arebiological, in that some species, like Phragmites, Scirpus lacustris, Psamma (Ammophila) arenaria, Tussilago, Farfara, and Asperula odorata, multiply very readily by means of stolons; or others, such as Cirsiumarvense, and Sonchus arvensis, produce buds from their roots; or yetothers produce numerous seeds which are easily dispersed and may remainfor a long time capable of germinating, as is the case with Calluna, Picea excelsa, and Pinus; or still other species, such as beech andspruce, have the power of enduring shade or even suppressing otherspecies by the shade they cast. A number of species, such as Pterisaquilina, Acorus Calamus, Lemna minor, and Hypnum Schreberi, which aresocial, and likewise very widely distributed, multiply nearlyexclusively by vegetative means, rarely or never producing fruit. On thecontrary, certain species, for example, many orchids and Umbelliferae, nearly always grow singly. 

In the case of many species certain geological conditions have favoredtheir grouping together into pure communities. The forests of northernEurope are composed of few species, and are not mixed in the same senseas are those in the tropics, or even those in Austria and other southernparts of Europe: the cause for this may be that the soil is geologicallyvery recent, inasmuch as the time that has elapsed since the glacialepoch swept it clear has been too short to permit the immigration ofmany competitive species. 

_Unlike commensals. _--The case of a community consisting of individualsbelonging to one species is, strictly speaking, scarcely ever met with;but the dominant individuals of a community may belong to a singlespecies, as in the case of a beech forest, spruce forest, or lingheath--and only thus far does the case proceed. In general, many speciesgrow side by side, and many different growth-forms and types ofsymbiosis, in the extended sense, are found collected in a community. For even when one species occupies an area as completely as the natureof the soil will permit, other species can find room and can growbetween its individuals; in fact, if the soil is to be completelycovered the vegetation must necessarily always be heterogeneous. Thegreatest aggregate of existence arises where the greatest diversityprevails. The kind of communal life resulting will depend upon thenature of the demands made by the species in regard to conditions oflife. As in human communities, so in this case, the _struggle betweenthe like_ is the _most severe_, that is, between the species making moreor less the same demands and wanting the same dishes from the commontable. In a tropical mixed forest there are hundreds of species of treesgrowing together in such profuse variety that the eye can scarce see atone time two individuals of the same species, yet all of themundoubtedly represent tolerable uniformity in the demands they make asregards conditions of life, and in so far they are alike. And among thema severe competition for food must be taking place. In those cases inwhich certain species readily grow in each other's company--and cases ofthis kind are familiar to florists--when, for instance, Isoetes, LobeliaDortmanna, and Litorella lacustris occur together--the common demandsmade as regards external conditions obviously form the bond that unitesthem. Between such species a competitive struggle must take place. Whichof the species shall be represented by the greatest number ofindividuals certainly often depends upon casual conditions, a slightchange in one direction or the other doubtless often playing a decisiverôle; but apart from this it appears that morphological and biologicalfeatures, for example, development at a different season, may change thenature of the competition. 

Yet there are in every plant-community numerous species which _differwidely_ in the demands they make for light, heat, nutriment, and so on. Between such species there is less competition, the greater thedisparity in their wants; the case is quite conceivable in which the_one species should require exactly what the other would avoid_; the twospecies would then be complementary to one another in their occupationand utilization of the same soil. 

There are also obvious cases in which different species are of serviceto each other. The carpet of moss in a pine forest, for example, protects the soil from desiccation and is thus useful to the pine; yet, on the other hand, it profits from the shade cast by the latter. 

As a rule, limited numbers of definite species are the most potent, and, like absolute monarchs, can hold sway over the whole area; while otherspecies, though possibly present in far greater numbers than these, aresubordinate or even dependent on them. This is the case wheresubordinate species only flourish in the shade or among the fallenfragments of dominant species. Such is obviously the relationshipbetween trees and many plants growing on the ground of high forest, suchas mosses, fungi, and other saprophytes, ferns, Oxalis Acetosella, andtheir associates. In this case, then, there is a commensalism in whichindividuals feed at the same table but on different fare. An additionalfactor steps in when species do not absorb their nutriment at the sameseason of the year. Many spring plants--for instance, Galanthus nivalis, Corydalis solida, and C. Cava--have withered before the summer plantscommence properly to develop. Certain species of animals are likewiseconfined to certain plant-communities. But one and the same tall plantmay, in different places or soils, have different species of lowlyplants as companions; the companion plants of high beech forests depend, for instance, upon climate and upon the nature of the forest soil; Pinusnigra, according to von Beck, can maintain under it in the differentparts of Europe a Pontic, a central European, or a Baltic vegetation. 

There are certain points of resemblance between communities of plantsand those of human beings or animals; one of these is the competitionfor food which takes place between similar individuals and causes theweaker to be more or less suppressed. But far greater are thedistinctions. The plant-community is the lowest form; it is merely acongregation of units, among which there is no co-operation for thecommon weal, but rather a ceaseless struggle of all against all. Only ina loose sense can we speak of certain individuals protecting others, asfor example, when the outermost and most exposed individuals of scrubserve to shelter from the wind others, which consequently become tallerand finer; for they do not afford protection from any special motive, such as is met with in some animal communities, nor are they in any wayspecially adapted to act as guardians against a common foe. In theplant-community egoism reigns supreme. The plant-community has no higherunits or personages in the sense employed in connection with humancommunities, which have their own organizations and their membersco-operating, as prescribed by law, for the common good. Inplant-communities there is, it is true, often (or always) a certainnatural dependence or reciprocal influence of many species upon oneanother; they give rise to definite organized units of a higher order;but there is no thorough or organized division of labor such as is metwith in human and animal communities, where certain individuals orgroups of individuals work as organs, in the wide sense of the term, forthe benefit of the whole community. 

Woodhead has suggested the term _complementary association_ to denote acommunity of species that live together in harmony, because theirrhizomes occupy different depths in the soil; for example, he describedan "association" in which Holcus mollis is the "surface plant, " Pterisaquilina has deeper-seated rhizomes, and Scilla festalis buries itsbulbs at the greatest depth. The photophilous parts of these plants are"seasonably complementary. " The opposite extreme is provided by_competitive associations_, composed of species that are battling witheach other. 

2. Ant Society[85]

There is certainly a striking parallelism between the development ofhuman and ant societies. Some anthropologists, like Topinard, distinguish in the development of human societies six different types orstages, designated as the hunting, pastoral, agricultural, commercial, industrial, and intellectual. The ants show stages corresponding to thefirst three of these, as Lubbock has remarked. 

 Some species, such as _Formica fusca_, live principally on the produce of the chase; for though they feed partially on the honey-dew of aphids, they have not domesticated these insects. These ants probably retain the habits once common to all ants. They resemble the lower races of men, who subsist mainly by hunting. Like them they frequent woods and wilds, live in comparatively small communities, as the instincts of collective action are but little developed among them. They hunt singly, and their battles are single combats, like those of Homeric heroes. Such species as _Lasius flavus_ represent a distinctly higher type of social life; they show more skill in architecture, may literally be said to have domesticated certain species of aphids, and may be compared to the pastoral stage of human progress--to the races which live on the products of their flocks and herds. Their communities are more numerous; they act much more in concert; their battles are not mere single combats, but they know how to act in combination. I am disposed to hazard the conjecture that they will gradually exterminate the mere hunting species, just as savages disappear before more advanced races. Lastly, the agricultural nations may be compared with the harvesting ants. 

Granting the resemblances above mentioned between ant and humansocieties, there are nevertheless three far-reaching differences betweeninsect and human organization and development to be constantly borne inmind:

a) Ant societies are societies of females. The males really take nopart in the colonial activities, and in most species are present in thenest only for the brief period requisite to secure the impregnation ofthe young queens. The males take no part in building, provisioning, orguarding the nest or in feeding the workers or the brood. They are inevery sense the _sexus sequior_. Hence the ants resemble certainmythical human societies like the Amazons, but unlike these, all theiractivities center in the multiplication and care of the cominggenerations. 

b) In human society, apart from the functions depending on sexualdimorphism, and barring individual differences and deficiencies whichcan be partially or wholly suppressed, equalized, or augmented by anelaborate system of education, all individuals have the same naturalendowment. Each normal individual retains its various physiological andpsychological needs and powers intact, not necessarily sacrificing anyof them for the good of the community. In ants, however, the femaleindividuals, of which the society properly consists, are not all alikebut often very different, both in their structure (polymorphism) and intheir activities (physiological division of labor). Each member is_visibly_ predestined to certain social activities to the exclusion ofothers, not as a man through the education of some endowment common toall the members of the society, but through the exigencies of structure, fixed at the time of hatching, i. E. , the moment the individual enters onits life as an active member of the community. 

c) Owing to this pre-established structure and the specializedfunctions which it implies, ants are able to live in a condition ofanarchistic socialism, each individual instinctively fulfilling thedemands of social life without "guide, overseer, or ruler, " as Solomoncorrectly observed, but not without the imitation and suggestioninvolved in an appreciation of the activities of its fellows. 

An ant society, therefore, may be regarded as little more than anexpanded family, the members of which co-operate for the purpose ofstill further expanding the family and detaching portions of itself tofound other families of the same kind. There is thus a striking analogy, which has not escaped the philosophical biologist, between the antcolony and the cell colony which constitutes the body of a Metazoananimal; and many of the laws that control the cellular origin, development, growth, reproduction, and decay of the individual Metazoan, are seen to hold good also of the ant society regarded as an individualof a higher order. As in the case of the individual animal, no furtherpurpose of the colony can be detected than that of maintaining itselfin the face of a constantly changing environment till it is able toreproduce other colonies of a like constitution. The queen-mother of theant colony displays the generalized potentialities of all theindividuals, just as the Metazoan egg contains _in potentia_ all theother cells of the body. And, continuing the analogy, we may say thatsince the different castes of the ant colony are morphologicallyspecialized for the performance of different functions, they are trulycomparable with the differentiated tissues of the Metazoan body. 

C. HUMAN SOCIETY

1. Social Life[86]

The most notable distinction between living and inanimate beings is thatthe former maintain themselves by renewal. A stone when struck resists. If its resistance is greater than the force of the blow struck, itremains outwardly unchanged. Otherwise, it is shattered into smallerbits. Never does the stone attempt to react in such a way that it maymaintain itself against the blow, much less so as to render the blow acontributing factor to its own continued action. While the living thingmay easily be crushed by superior force, it none the less tries to turnthe energies which act upon it into means of its own further existence. If it cannot do so, it does not just split into smaller pieces (at leastin the higher forms of life), but loses its identity as a living thing. 

As long as it endures, it struggles to use surrounding energies in itsown behalf. It uses light, air, moisture, and the material of soil. Tosay that it uses them is to say that it turns them into means of its ownconservation. As long as it is growing, the energy it expends in thusturning the environment to account is more than compensated for by thereturn it gets: it grows. Understanding the word "control" in thissense, it may be said that a living being is one that subjugates andcontrols for its own continued activity the energies that wouldotherwise use it up. Life is a self-renewing process through action uponthe environment. Continuity of life means continual readaptation of theenvironment to the needs of living organisms. 

We have been speaking of life in its lowest terms--as a physical thing. But we use the word "life" to denote the whole range of experience, individual and racial. When we see a book called the _Life of Lincoln_we do not expect to find within its covers a treatise on physiology. Welook for an account of social antecedents; a description of earlysurroundings, of the conditions and occupation of the family; of thechief episodes in the development of character; of signal struggles andachievements; of the individual's hopes, tastes, joys, and sufferings. In precisely similar fashion we speak of the life of a savage tribe, ofthe Athenian people, of the American nation. "Life" covers customs, institutions, beliefs, victories and defeats, recreations andoccupations. 

We employ the word "experience" in the same pregnant sense. And to it, as well as to life in the bare physiological sense, the principle ofcontinuity through renewal applies. With the renewal of physicalexistence goes, in the case of human beings, the re-creation of beliefs, ideals, hopes, happiness, misery, and practices. The continuity of anyexperience, through renewing of the social group, is a literal fact. Education, in its broadest sense, is the means of this social continuityof life. Every one of the constituent elements of a social group, in amodern city as in a savage tribe, is born immature, helpless, withoutlanguage, beliefs, ideas, or social standards. Each individual, eachunit who is the carrier of the life-experience of his group, in timepasses away. Yet the life of the group goes on. 

Society exists through a process of transmission, quite as much asbiological life. This transmission occurs by means of communication ofhabits of doing, thinking, and feeling from the older to the younger. Without this communication of ideals, hopes, expectations, standards, opinions from those members of society who are passing out of the grouplife to those who are coming into it, social life could not survive. 

Society not only continues to exist _by_ transmission, _by_communication, but it may fairly be said to exist _in_ transmission, _in_ communication. There is more than a verbal tie between the wordscommon, community, and communication. Men live in a community in virtueof the things which they have in common; and communication is the way inwhich they come to possess things in common. What they must have incommon in order to form a community or society are aims, beliefs, aspirations, knowledge--a common understanding--like-mindedness, as thesociologists say. Such things cannot be passed physically from one toanother, like bricks; they cannot be shared as persons would share a pieby dividing it into physical pieces. The communication which insuresparticipation in a common understanding is one which secures similaremotional and intellectual dispositions--like ways of responding toexpectations and requirements. 

Persons do not become a society by living in physical proximity any morethan a man ceases to be socially influenced by being so many feet ormiles removed from others. A book or a letter may institute a moreintimate association between human beings separated thousands of milesfrom each other than exists between dwellers under the same roof. Individuals do not even compose a social group because they all work fora common end. The parts of a machine work with a maximum ofco-operativeness for a common result, but they do not form a community. If, however, they were all cognizant of the common end and allinterested in it so that they regulated their specific activity in viewof it, then they would form a community. But this would involvecommunication. Each would have to know what the other was about andwould have to have some way of keeping the other informed as to his ownpurpose and progress. Consensus demands communications. 

We are thus compelled to recognize that within even the most socialgroup there are many relations which are not as yet social. A largenumber of human relationships in any social group are still upon themachine-like plane. Individuals use one another so as to get desiredresults, without reference to the emotional and intellectual dispositionand consent of those used. Such uses express physical superiority, orsuperiority of position, skill, technical ability, and command of tools, mechanical or fiscal. So far as the relations of parent and child, teacher and pupil, employer and employee, governor and governed, remainupon this level, they form no true social group, no matter how closelytheir respective activities touch one another. Giving and taking oforders modifies action and results, but does not of itself effect asharing of purposes, a communication of interests. 

Not only is social life identical with communication, but allcommunication (and hence all genuine social life) is educative. To be arecipient of a communication is to have an enlarged and changedexperience. One shares in what another has thought and felt, and in sofar, meagerly or amply, has his own attitude modified. Nor is the onewho communicates left unaffected. Try the experiment of communicating, with fulness and accuracy, some experience to another, especially if itbe somewhat complicated, and you will find your own attitude toward yourexperience changing; otherwise you resort to expletives andejaculations. The experience has to be formulated in order to becommunicated. To formulate requires getting outside of it, seeing it asanother would see it, considering what points of contact it has with thelife of another so that it may be got into such form that he canappreciate its meaning. Except in dealing with commonplaces and catchphrases one has to assimilate, imaginatively, something of another'sexperience in order to tell him intelligently of one's own experience. All communication is like art. It may fairly be said, therefore, thatany social arrangement that remains vitally social, or vitally shared, is educative to those who participate in it. Only when it becomes castin a mold and runs in a routine way does it lose its educative power. 

In final account, then, not only does social life demand teaching andlearning for its own permanence, but the very process of living togethereducates. It enlarges and enlightens experience; it stimulates andenriches imagination; it creates responsibility for accuracy andvividness of statement and thought. A man really living alone (alonementally as well as physically) would have little or no occasion toreflect upon his past experience to extract its net meaning. Theinequality of achievement between the mature and the immature not onlynecessitates teaching the young, but the necessity of this teachinggives an immense stimulus to reducing experience to that order and formwhich will render it most easily communicable and hence most usable. 

2. Behavior and Conduct[87]

The word "behavior" is commonly used in an interesting variety of ways. We speak of the behavior of ships at sea, of soldiers in battle, and oflittle boys in Sunday school. 

"The geologist, " as Lloyd Morgan remarks, "tells us that a glacierbehaves in many respects like a river, and discusses how the crust ofthe earth behaves under the stresses to which it is subjected. Weatherwise people comment on the behavior of the mercury in thebarometer as a storm approaches. When Mary, the nurse maid, returns withthe little Miss Smiths from Master Brown's birthday party, she isnarrowly questioned as to their behavior. "

In short, the word is familiar both to science and to common sense, andis applied with equal propriety to the actions of physical objects andto the manners of men. The abstract sciences, quite as much as theconcrete and descriptive, are equally concerned with behavior. "Thechemist and the physicist often speak of the behavior of the atoms andthe molecules, or of that of gas under changing conditions oftemperature and pressure. " The fact is that every science is everywhereseeking to describe and explain the movements, changes, and reactions, that is to say the behavior, of some portion of the world about us. Indeed, wherever we consciously set ourselves to observe and reflectupon the changes going on about us, it is always behavior that we areinterested in. Science is simply a little more persistent in itscuriosity and a little nicer and more exact in its observation thancommon sense. And this disposition to observe, to take a disinterestedview of things, is, by the way, one of the characteristics of humannature which distinguishes it from the nature of all other animals. 

Since every science has to do with some form of behavior, the firstquestion that arises is this: What do we mean by behavior in humanbeings as distinguished from that in other animals? What is theredistinctive about the actions of human beings that marks them off anddistinguishes them from the actions of animals and plants with whichhuman beings have so much in common?

The problem is the more difficult because, in some one or other of itsaspects, human behavior involves processes which are characteristic ofalmost every form of nature. We sometimes speak, for example, of thehuman machine. Indeed, from one point of view human beings may beregarded as psycho-physical mechanisms for carrying on the vitalprocesses of nutrition, reproduction, and movement. The human body is, in fact, an immensely complicated machine, whose operations involve anenormous number of chemical and physical reactions, all of which may beregarded as forms of human behavior. 

Human beings are, however, not wholly or merely machines; they areliving organisms and as such share with the plants and the lower animalscertain forms of behavior which it has not thus far, at any rate, beenpossible to reduce to the exact and lucid formulas of either chemistryor physics. 

Human beings are, however, not merely organisms: they are the home andthe habitat of minuter organisms. The human body is, in a certain sense, an organization--a sort of social organization--of the minute and simpleorganisms of which it is composed, namely, the cells, each of which hasits own characteristic mode of behavior. In fact, the life of humanbeings, just as the life of all other creatures above the simpleunicellular organisms, may be said to consist of the corporate life ofthe smaller organisms of which it is composed. In human beings, as insome great city, the division of labor among the minuter organisms hasbeen carried further, the interdependence of the individual parts ismore complete, and the corporate life of the whole more complex. 

It is not strange, therefore, that Lloyd Morgan begins his studies ofanimal behavior by a description of the behavior of the cells andThorndike in his volume, _The Original Nature of Man_, is led to theconclusion that the original tendencies of man have their basis in theneurones, or nerve cells, and in the changes which these cells and theirancestors have undergone, as a result of the necessity of carrying oncommon and corporate existences as integral parts of the human organism. All acquired characteristics of men, everything that they learn, is dueto mutual stimulations and associations of the neurones, just associologists are now disposed to explain civilization and progress asphenomena due to the interaction and association of human beings, ratherthan to any fundamental changes in human nature itself. In other words, the difference between a savage and a civilized man is not due to anyfundamental differences in their brain cells but to the connections andmutual stimulations which are established by experience and educationbetween those cells. In the savage those possibilities are not absentbut latent. In the same way the difference between the civilization ofCentral Africa and that of Western Europe is due, not to the differencein native abilities of the individuals and the peoples who have createdthem, but rather to the form which the association and interactionbetween those individuals and groups of individuals has taken. Wesometimes attribute the difference in culture which we meet among racesto the climate and physical conditions generally, but, in the long run, the difference is determined by the way in which climate and physicalcondition determine the contacts and communications of individuals. 

So, too, in the corporate life of the individual man it is theassociation of the nerve cells, their lines of connection andcommunication, that is responsible for the most of the differencesbetween the ignorant and the educated, the savage and civilized man. Theneurone, however, is a little unicellular animal, like the amoeba or theparamecium. Its life consists of: (1) eating, (2) excreting wasteproducts, (3) growing, (4) being sensitive, and (5) movement, and, asThorndike expresses it: "The safest provisional hypothesis about theaction of the neurones singly is that they retain the modes of behaviorcommon to unicellular animals, so far as consistent with the specialconditions of their life as an element of man's nervous system. "

In the widest sense of the term, behavior may be said to include all thechemical and physical changes that go on inside the organism, as well asevery response to stimulus either from within or from without theorganism. In recent studies of animal behavior, however, the word hasacquired a special and technical meaning in which it is appliedexclusively to those actions that have been, or may be, modified byconscious experience. What the animal does in its efforts to find foodis behavior, but the processes of digestion are relegated to anotherfield of observation, namely, physiology. 

In all the forms of behavior thus far referred to, human and animalnature are not fundamentally distinguished. There are, however, ways ofacting that are peculiar to human nature, forms of behavior that mandoes not share with the lower animals. One thing which seems todistinguish man from the brute is self-consciousness. One of theconsequences of intercourse, as it exists among human beings, is thatthey are led to reflect upon their own impulses and motives for action, to set up standards by which they seek to govern themselves. The clockis such a standard. We all know from experience that time moves moreslowly on dull days, when there is nothing doing, than in moments ofexcitement. On the other hand, when life is active and stirring, timeflies. The clock standardizes our subjective tempos and we controlourselves by the clock. An animal never looks at the clock and this istypical of the different ways in which human beings and animals behave. 

Human beings, so far as we have yet been able to learn, are the onlycreatures who habitually pass judgment upon their own actions, or whothink of them as right or wrong. When these thoughts about our actionsor the actions of others get themselves formulated and expressed theyreact back upon and control us. That is one reason we hang mottoes onthe wall. That is why one sees on the desk of a busy man the legend "Doit now!" The brutes do not know these devices. They do not need themperhaps. They have no aim in life. They do not work. 

What distinguishes the action of men from animals may best be expressedin the word "conduct. " Conduct as it is ordinarily used is applied toactions which may be regarded as right or wrong, moral or immoral. Assuch it is hardly a descriptive term since there does not seem to be anydistinctive mark about the actions which men have at different times andplaces called moral or immoral. I have used it here to distinguish thesort of behavior which may be regarded as distinctively and exclusivelyhuman, namely, that which is self-conscious and personal. In this senseblushing may be regarded as a form of conduct, quite as much as themanufacture of tools, trade and barter, conversation or prayer. 

No doubt all these activities have their beginnings in, and are foundedupon, forms of behavior of which we may find the rudiments in the loweranimals. But there is in all distinctively human activities aconventional, one might almost say a contractual, element which isabsent in action of other animals. Human actions are more often than notcontrolled by a sense or understanding of what they look like or appearto be to others. This sense and understanding gets itself embodied insome custom or ceremonial observance. In this form it is transmittedfrom generation to generation, becomes an object of sentimental respect, gets itself embodied in definite formulas, is an object not only ofrespect and reverence but of reflection and speculation as well. As suchit constitutes the mores, or moral customs, of a group and is no longerto be regarded as an individual possession. 

3. Instinct and Character[88]

In no part of the world, and at no period of time, do we find thebehavior of men left to unchartered freedom. Everywhere human life is ina measure organized and directed by customs, laws, beliefs, ideals, which shape its ends and guide its activities. As this guidance of lifeby rule is universal in human society, so upon the whole it is peculiarto humanity. There is no reason to think that any animal except man canenunciate or apply general rules of conduct. Nevertheless, there is notwanting something that we can call an organization of life in the animalworld. How much of intelligence underlies the social life of the higheranimals is indeed extremely hard to determine. In the aid which theyoften render to one another, in their combined hunting, in their play, in the use of warning cries, and the employment of "sentinels, " which isso frequent among birds and mammals, it would appear at first sight thata considerable measure of _mutual understanding_ is implied, that wefind at least an analogue to human custom, to the assignment offunctions, the division of labor, which mutual reliance renderspossible. How far the analogy may be pressed, and whether terms like"custom" and "mutual understanding, " drawn from human experience, arerightly applicable to animal societies, are questions on which we shalltouch presently. Let us observe first that as we descend the animalscale the sphere of _intelligent activity_ is gradually narrowed down, and yet behavior is still regulated. The lowest organisms have theirdefinite methods of action under given conditions. The amoeba shrinksinto itself at a touch, withdraws the pseudopodium that is roughlyhandled, or makes its way round the small object which will serve it asfood. Given the conditions, it acts in the way best suited to avoiddanger or to secure nourishment. We are a long way from the intelligentregulation of conduct by a general principle, but we still find actionadapted to the requirements of organic life. 

When we come to human society we find the basis for a socialorganization of life already laid in the animal nature of man. Likeothers of the higher animals, man is a gregarious beast. His interestslie in his relations to his fellows, in his love for wife and children, in his companionship, possibly in his rivalry and striving with hisfellow-men. His loves and hates, his joys and sorrows, his pride, hiswrath, his gentleness, his boldness, his timidity--all these permanentqualities, which run through humanity and vary only in degree, belong tohis inherited structure. Broadly speaking, they are of the nature ofinstincts, but instincts which have become highly plastic in their modeof operation and which need the stimulus of experience to call themforth and give them definite shape. 

The mechanical methods of reaction which are so prominent low down inthe animal scale fill quite a minor place in human life. The ordinaryoperations of the body, indeed, go upon their way mechanically enough. In walking or in running, in saving ourselves from a fall, in coughing, sneezing, or swallowing, we react as mechanically as do the loweranimals; but in the distinctly human modes of behavior, the place takenby the inherited structure is very different. Hunger and thirst no doubtare of the nature of instincts, but the methods of satisfying hunger andthirst are acquired by experience or by teaching. Love and the wholefamily life have an instinctive basis, that is to say, they rest upontendencies inherited with the brain and nerve structure; but everythingthat has to do with the satisfaction of these impulses is determined bythe experience of the individual, the laws and customs of the society inwhich he lives, the woman whom he meets, the accidents of theirintercourse, and so forth. Instinct, already plastic and modifiable inthe higher animals, becomes in man a basis of character which determineshow he will take his experience, but without experience is a mere blankform upon which nothing is yet written. 

For example, it is an ingrained tendency of average human nature to bemoved by the opinion of our neighbors. This is a powerful motive inconduct, but the kind of conduct to which it will incite clearly dependson the kind of thing that our neighbors approve. In some parts of theworld ambition for renown will prompt a man to lie in wait for a womanor child in order to add a fresh skull to his collection. In other partshe may be urged by similar motives to pursue a science or paint apicture. In all these cases the same hereditary or instinctive elementis at work, that quality of character which makes a man respondsensitively to the feelings which others manifest toward him. But thekind of conduct which this sensitiveness may dictate depends wholly onthe social environment in which the man finds himself. Similarly it is, as the ordinary phrase quite justly puts it, "in human nature" to standup for one's rights. A man will strive, that is, to secure that which hehas counted on as his due. But as to what he counts upon, as to theactual treatment which he expects under given circumstances, his viewsare determined by the "custom of the country, " by what he sees othersinsisting on and obtaining, by what has been promised him, and so forth. Even such an emotion as sexual jealousy, which seems deeply rooted inthe animal nature, is largely limited in its exercise and determined inthe form it takes by custom. A hospitable savage, who will lend his wifeto a guest, would kill her for acting in the same way on her own motion. In the one case he exercises his rights of proprietorship; in the other, she transgresses them. It is the maintenance of a claim which jealousyconcerns itself with, and the standard determining the claim is thecustom of the country. 

In human society, then, the conditions regulating conduct are from thefirst greatly modified. Instinct, becoming vague and more general, hasevolved into "character, " while the intelligence finds itself confrontedwith customs to which it has to accommodate conduct. But how does customarise? Let us first consider what custom is. It is not merely a habit ofaction; but it implies also a judgment upon action, and a judgmentstated in general and impersonal terms. It would seem to imply abystander or third party. If A hits B, B probably hits back. It is his"habit" so to do. But if C, looking on, pronounces that it was or wasnot a fair blow, he will probably appeal to the "custom" of thecountry--the traditional rules of fighting, for instance--as the groundof his judgment. That is, he will lay down a rule which is general inthe sense that it would apply to other individuals under similarconditions, and by it he will, as an impartial third person, appraisethe conduct of the contending parties. The formation of such rules, resting as it does on the power of framing and applying generalconceptions, is the prime differentia of human morality from animalbehavior. The fact that they arise and are handed on from generation togeneration makes social tradition at once the dominating factor in theregulation of human conduct. Without such rules we can scarcely conceivesociety to exist, since it is only through the general conformity tocustom that men can understand each other, that each can know how theother will act under given circumstances, and without this amount ofunderstanding the reciprocity, which is the vital principle of society, disappears. 

4. Collective Representation and Intellectual Life[89]

Logical thought is made up of concepts. Seeking how society can haveplayed a rôle in the genesis of logical thought thus reduces itself toseeking how it can have taken a part in the formation of concepts. 

The concept is opposed to sensual representations of everyorder--sensations, perceptions, or images--by the following properties. 

Sensual representations are in a perpetual flux; they come after eachother like the waves of a river, and even during the time that they lastthey do not remain the same thing. Each of them is an integral part ofthe precise instant when it takes place. We are never sure of againfinding a perception such as we experienced it the first time; for ifthe thing perceived has not changed, it is we who are no longer thesame. On the contrary, the concept is, as it were, outside of time andchange; it is in the depths below all this agitation; it might be saidthat it is in a different portion of the mind, which is serener andcalmer. It does not move of itself, by an internal and spontaneousevolution, but, on the contrary, it resists change. It is a manner ofthinking that, at every moment of time, is fixed and crystallized. In sofar as it is what it ought to be, it is immutable. If it changes, it isnot because it is its nature to do so, but because we have discoveredsome imperfection in it; it is because it had to be rectified. Thesystem of concepts with which we think in everyday life is thatexpressed by the vocabulary of our mother-tongue; for every wordtranslates a concept. Now language is something fixed; it changes butvery slowly, and consequently it is the same with the conceptual systemwhich it expresses. The scholar finds himself in the same situation inregard to the special terminology employed by the science to which hehas consecrated himself, and hence in regard to the special scheme ofconcepts to which this terminology corresponds. It is true that he canmake innovations, but these are always a sort of violence done to theestablished ways of thinking. 

And at the same time that it is relatively immutable, the concept isuniversal, or at least capable of becoming so. A concept is not myconcept; I hold it in common with other men, or, in any case, cancommunicate it to them. It is impossible for me to make a sensation passfrom my consciousness into that of another; it holds closely to myorganism and personality and cannot be detached from them. All that Ican do is to invite others to place themselves before the same object asmyself and to leave themselves to its action. On the other hand, conversation and all intellectual communication between men is anexchange of concepts. The concept is an essentially impersonalrepresentation; it is through it that human intelligences communicate. 

The nature of the concept, thus defined, bespeaks its origin. If it iscommon to all, it is the work of the community. Since it bears the markof no particular mind, it is clear that it was elaborated by a uniqueintelligence, where all others meet each other, and after a fashion, come to nourish themselves. If it has more stability than sensations orimages, it is because the collective representations are more stablethan the individual ones; for while an individual is conscious even ofthe slight changes which take place in his environment, only events of agreater gravity can succeed in affecting the mental status of a society. Every time that we are in the presence of a _type_ of thought or actionwhich is imposed uniformly upon particular wills or intelligences, thispressure exercised over the individual betrays the intervention of thegroup. Also, as we have already said, the concepts with which weordinarily think are those of our vocabulary. Now it is unquestionablethat language, and consequently the system of concepts which ittranslates, is the product of collective elaboration. What it expressesis the manner in which society as a whole represents the facts ofexperience. The ideas which correspond to the diverse elements oflanguage are thus collective representations. 

Even their contents bear witness to the same fact. In fact, there arescarcely any words among those which we usually employ whose meaningdoes not pass, to a greater or less extent, the limits of our personalexperience. Very frequently a term expresses things which we have neverperceived or experiences which we have never had or of which we havenever been the witnesses. Even when we know some of the objects whichit concerns, it is only as particular examples that they serve toillustrate the idea which they would never have been able to form bythemselves. Thus there is a great deal of knowledge condensed in theword which I never collected, and which is not individual; it evensurpasses me to such an extent that I cannot even completely appropriateall its results. Which of us knows all the words of the language hespeaks and the entire signification of each?

This remark enables us to determine the sense in which we mean to saythat concepts are collective representations. If they belong to a wholesocial group, it is not because they represent the average of thecorresponding individual representations; for in that case they would bepoorer than the latter in intellectual content, while, as a matter offact, they contain much that surpasses the knowledge of the averageindividual. They are not abstractions which have a reality only inparticular consciousnesses, but they are as concrete representations asan individual could form of his own personal environment; theycorrespond to the way in which this very special being, society, considers the things of its own proper experience. If, as a matter offact, the concepts are nearly always general ideas, and if they expresscategories and classes rather than particular objects, it is because theunique and variable characteristics of things interest society butrarely; because of its very extent, it can scarcely be affected by morethan their general and permanent qualities. Therefore it is to thisaspect of affairs that it gives its attention: it is a part of itsnature to see things in large and under the aspect which they ordinarilyhave. But this generality is not necessary for them, and, in any case, even when these representations have the generic character which theyordinarily have, they are the work of society and are enriched by itsexperience. 

The collective consciousness is the highest form of the psychic life, since it is the consciousness of the consciousnesses. Being placedoutside of and above individual and local contingencies, it sees thingsonly in their permanent and essential aspects, which it crystallizesinto communicable ideas. At the same time that it sees from above, itsees farther; at every moment of time, it embraces all known reality;that is why it alone can furnish the mind with the molds which areapplicable to the totality of things and which make it possible tothink of them. It does not create these molds artificially; it findsthem within itself; it does nothing but become conscious of them. Theytranslate the ways of being which are found in all the stages of realitybut which appear in their full clarity only at the summit, because theextreme complexity of the psychic life which passes there necessitates agreater development of consciousness. Collective representations alsocontain subjective elements, and these must be progressively rooted outif we are to approach reality more closely. But howsoever crude thesemay have been at the beginning, the fact remains that with them the germof a new mentality was given, to which the individual could never haveraised himself by his own efforts; by them the way was opened to astable, impersonal and organized thought which then had nothing to doexcept to develop its nature. 

D. THE SOCIAL GROUP

1. Definition of the Group[90]

The term "group" serves as a convenient sociological designation for anynumber of people, larger or smaller, between whom such relations arediscovered that they must be thought of together. The "group" is themost general and colorless term used in sociology for combinations ofpersons. A family, a mob, a picnic party, a trade union, a cityprecinct, a corporation, a state, a nation, the civilized or theuncivilized population of the world, may be treated as a group. Thus a"group" for sociology is a number of persons whose relations to eachother are sufficiently impressive to demand attention. The term ismerely a commonplace tool. It contains no mystery. It is only a handlewith which to grasp the innumerable varieties of arrangements into whichpeople are drawn by their variations of interest. The universalcondition of association may be expressed in the same commonplace way:people always live in groups, and the same persons are likely to bemembers of many groups. 

Individuals nowhere live in utter isolation. There is no such thing as asocial vacuum. The few Robinson Crusoes are not exceptions to the rule. If they are, they are like the Irishman's horse. The moment they beginto get adjusted to the exceptional condition, they die. Actual personsalways live and move and have their being in groups. These groups aremore or less complex, more or less continuous, more or less rigid incharacter. The destinies of human beings are always bound up with thefate of the groups of which they are members. While the individuals arethe real existences, and the groups are only relationships ofindividuals, yet to all intents and purposes the groups which peopleform are just as distinct and efficient molders of the lives ofindividuals as though they were entities that had existence entirelyindependent of the individuals. 

The college fraternity or the college class, for instance, would be onlya name, and presently not even that, if each of its members shouldwithdraw. It is the members themselves, and not something outside ofthemselves. Yet to A, B, or C the fraternity or the class might as wellbe a river or a mountain by the side of which he stands, and which he ishelpless to remove. He may modify it somewhat. He is surely modified byit somewhat; and the same is true of all the other groups in which A, B, or C belong. To a very considerable extent the question, Why does A, B, or C do so and so? is equivalent to the question, What are thepeculiarities of the group to which A, B, or C belongs? It would neveroccur to A, B, or C to skulk from shadow to shadow of a night, withpaint-pot and brush in hand, and to smear Arabic numerals of bill-postersize on sidewalk or buildings, if "class spirit" did not add stimulus toindividual bent. Neither A, B, nor C would go out of his way to flatterand cajole a Freshman, if membership in a fraternity did not make astudent something different from an individual. These are merelyfamiliar cases which follow a universal law. 

In effect, the groups to which we belong might be as separate andindependent of us as the streets and buildings of a city are from thepopulation. If the inhabitants should migrate in a body, the streets andbuildings would remain. This is not true of human groups, but theirreaction upon the persons who compose them is no less real and evident. We are in large part what our social set, our church, our politicalparty, our business and professional circles are. This has always beenthe case from the beginning of the world, and will always be the case. To understand what society is, either in its larger or its smallerparts, and why it is so, and how far it is possible to make itdifferent, we must invariably explain groups on the one hand, no lessthan individuals on the other. There is a striking illustration inChicago at present (summer, 1905). Within a short time a certain man hasmade a complete change in his group-relations. He was one of the mostinfluential trade-union leaders in the city. He has now become theexecutive officer of an association of employers. In the elements thatare not determined by his group-relationships he is the same man that hewas before. Those are precisely the elements, however, that may becanceled out of the social problem. All the elements in his personalequation that give him a distinct meaning in the life of the city aregiven to him by his membership in the one group or the other. Tillyesterday he gave all his strength to organizing labor against capital. Now he gives all his strength to the service of capital against labor. 

Whatever social problem we confront, whatever persons come into ourfield of view, the first questions involved will always be: To whatgroups do these persons belong? What are the interests of these groups?What sort of means do the groups use to promote their interests? Howstrong are these groups, as compared with groups that have conflictinginterests? These questions go to one tap root of all socialinterpretation, whether in the case of historical events far in thepast, or of the most practical problems of our own neighborhood. 

2. The Unity of the Social Group[91]

It has long been a cardinal problem in sociology to determine just howto conceive in objective terms so very real and palpable a thing as thecontinuity and persistence of social groups. Looked at as a physicalobject society appears to be made up of mobile and independent units. The problem is to understand the nature of the bonds that bind theseindependent units together and how these connections are maintained andtransmitted. 

Conceived of in its lowest terms the unity of the social group may becompared to that of the plant communities. In these communities, therelation between the individual species which compose it seems at firstwholly fortuitous and external. Co-operation and community, so far as itexists, consists merely in the fact that within a given geographicalarea, certain species come together merely because each happens toprovide by its presence an environment in which the life of the other iseasier, more secure, than if they lived in isolation. It seems to be afact, however, that this communal life of the associated plants fulfils, as in other forms of life, a typical series of changes which correspondto growth, decay and death. The plant community comes into existence, matures, grows old, and eventually dies. In doing this, however, itprovides by its own death an environment in which another form ofcommunity finds its natural habitat. Each community thus precedes andprepares the way for its successor. Under such circumstances thesuccession of the individual communities itself assumes the character ofa life-process. 

In the case of the animal and human societies we have all theseconditions and forces and something more. The individuals associated inan animal community not only provide, each for the other, a physicalenvironment in which all may live, but the members of the community areorganically pre-adapted to one another in ways which are notcharacteristic of the members of a plant community. As a consequence, the relations between the members of the animal community assume a muchmore organic character. It is, in fact, a characteristic of animalsociety that the members of a social group are organically adapted toone another and therefore the organization of animal society is almostwholly transmitted by physical inheritance. 

In the case of human societies we discover not merely organicallyinherited adaptation, which characterizes animal societies, but, inaddition, a great body of habits and accommodations which aretransmitted in the form of social inheritance. Something thatcorresponds to social tradition exists, to be sure, in animal societies. Animals learn by imitation from one another, and there is evidence thatthis social tradition varies with changes in environment. In man, however, association is based on something more than habits or instinct. In human society, largely as a result of language, there exists aconscious community of purpose. We have not merely folkways, which by anextension of that term might be attributed to animals, but we have moresand formal standards of conduct. 

In a recent notable volume on education, John Dewey has formulated adefinition of the educational process which he identifies with theprocess by which the social tradition of human society is transmitted. Education, he says in effect, is a self-renewing process, a process inwhich and through which the social organism lives. 

 With the renewal of physical existence goes, in the case of human beings, the re-creation of beliefs, ideals, hopes, happiness, misery and practices. The continuity of experience, through renewal of the social group, is a literal fact. Education, in its broadest sense, is the means of this social continuity of life. 

Under ordinary circumstances the transmission of the social tradition isfrom the parents to the children. Children are born into the society andtake over its customs, habits, and standards of life simply, naturally, and without conflict. But it will at once occur to anyone that thephysical life of society is not always continued and maintained in thisnatural way, i. E. , by the succession of parents and children. Newsocieties are formed by conquest and by the imposition of one peopleupon another. In such cases there arises a conflict of cultures, and asa result the process of fusion takes place slowly and is frequently notcomplete. New societies are frequently formed by colonization, in whichcase new cultures are grafted on to older ones. The work of missionarysocieties is essentially one of colonization in this sense. Finally wehave societies growing up, as in the United States, by immigration. These immigrants, coming as they do from all parts of the world, bringwith them fragments of divergent cultures. Here again the process ofassimilation is slow, often painful, not always complete. 

3. Types of Social Groups[92]

Between the two extreme poles--the crowd and the state (nation)--betweenthese extreme links of the chain of human association, what are theother intermediate groups, and what are their distinctivecharacteristics?

Gustave Le Bon thus classifies the different types of crowds(aggregations):

 A. Heterogeneous crowds 1. Anonymous (street crowds, for example) 2. Not anonymous (parliamentary assemblies, for example)

 B. Homogeneous crowds 1. Sects (political, religious, etc. ) 2. Castes (military, sacerdotal, etc. ) 3. Classes (bourgeois, working-men, etc. )

This classification is open to criticism. First of all, it is inaccurateto give the name of crowd indiscriminately to every human group. Literally (from the etymological standpoint) this objection seems to meunanswerable. Tarde more exactly distinguishes between crowds, associations, and corporations. 

But we retain the generic term of "crowd" because it indicates the firststage of the social group which is the source of all the others, andbecause with these successive distinctions it does not lend itself toequivocal meaning. 

In the second place, it is difficult to understand why Le Bon terms thesect a _homogeneous_ crowd, while he classifies parliamentary assembliesamong the _heterogeneous_ crowds. The members of a sect are usually farmore different from one another in birth, education, profession, socialstatus, than are generally the members of a political assembly. 

Turning from this criticism to note without analyzing heterogeneouscrowds, let us then proceed to determine the principal characteristicsof the three large types of homogeneous crowds, the classes, the castes, the sects. 

The heterogeneous crowd is composed of _tout le monde_, of people likeyou, like me, like the first passer-by. _Chance_ unites theseindividuals physically, the _occasion_ unites them psychologically; theydo not know each other, and after the moment when they find themselvestogether, they may never see each other again. To use a metaphor, it isa psychological meteor, of the most unforeseen, ephemeral, andtransitory kind. 

On this accidental and fortuitous foundation are formed here and thereother crowds, always heterogeneous, but with a certain character ofstability or, at least, of periodicity. The audience at a theater, themembers of a club, of a literary or social gathering, constitute also acrowd but a different crowd from that of the street. The members ofthese groups know each other a little; they have, if not a common aim, at least a common custom. They are nevertheless "anonymous crowds, " asLe Bon calls them, because they do not have within themselves thenucleus of organization. 

Proceeding further, we find crowds still heterogeneous, but not soanonymous--juries, for example, and assemblies. These small crowdsexperience a new sentiment, unknown to anonymous crowds, that ofresponsibility which may at times give to their actions a differentorientation. Then the parliamentary crowds are to be distinguished fromthe others because, as Tarde observes with his habitual penetration, they are double crowds: they represent a majority in conflict with oneor more minorities, which safeguards them in most cases from unanimity, the most menacing danger which faces crowds. 

We come now to homogeneous crowds, of which the first type is the sect. Here are found again individuals differing in birth, in education, inprofession, in social status, but united and, indeed, voluntarilycemented by an extremely strong bond, a common faith and ideal. Faith, religious, scientific, or political, rapidly creates a communion ofsentiments capable of giving to those who possess it a high degree ofhomogeneity and power. History records the deeds of the barbarians underthe influence of Christianity, and the Arabs transformed into a sect byMahomet. Because of their sectarian organization, a prediction may bemade of what the future holds in store for the socialists. 

The sect is a crowd, picked out and permanent; the crowd is a transitorysect which has not chosen its members. The sect is a chronic kind ofcrowd; the crowd is an acute kind of sect. The crowd is composed of amultitude of grains of sand without cohesion; the sect is a block ofmarble which resists every effort. When a sentiment or an idea, havingin itself a reason for existence, slips into the crowd, its members sooncrystallize and form a sect. The sect is then the first crystallizationof every doctrine. From the confused and amorphous state in which itmanifests itself to the crowd, every idea is predestined to defineitself in the more specific form of the sect, to become later a party, aschool, or a church--scientific, political, or religious. 

Any faith, whether it be Islamism, Buddhism, Christianity, patriotism, socialism, anarchy, cannot but pass through this sectarian phase. It isthe first step, the point where the human group in leaving the twilightzone of the anonymous and mobile crowd raises itself to a definition andto an integration which then may lead up to the highest and mostperfect human group, the nation. 

If the sect is composed of individuals united by a common idea and aim, in spite of diversity of birth, education, and social status, the casteunites, on the contrary, those who could have--and who havesometimes--diverse ideas and aspirations, but who are brought togetherthrough identity of profession. The sect corresponds to the community offaith, the caste to the community of professional ideas. The sect is a_spontaneous_ association; the caste is, in many ways, a _forced_association. After having chosen a profession--let it be priest, soldier, magistrate--a man belongs necessarily to a caste. A person, onthe contrary, does not necessarily belong to a sect. And when onebelongs to a caste--be he the most independent man in the world--he ismore or less under the influence of that which is called _esprit decorps_. 

The caste represents the highest degree of organization to which thehomogeneous crowd is susceptible. It is composed of individuals who bytheir tastes, their education, birth, and social status, resemble eachother in the fundamental types of conduct and mores. There are evencertain castes, the military and sacerdotal, for example, in which themembers at last so resemble one another in appearance and bearing thatno disguise can conceal the nature of their profession. 

The caste offers to its members ideas already molded, rules of conductalready approved; it relieves them, in short, of the fatigue of thinkingwith their own brains. When the caste to which an individual belongs isknown, all that is necessary is to press a button of his mentalmechanism to release a series of opinions and of phrases already madewhich are identical in every individual of the same caste. 

This harmonious collectivity, powerful and eminently conservative, isthe most salient analogy which the nations of the Occident present tothat of India. In India the caste is determined by birth, and it isdistinguished by a characteristic trait: the persons of one caste canlive with, eat with, and marry only individuals of the same caste. 

In Europe it is not only birth, but circumstances and education whichdetermine the entrance of an individual into a caste; to marry, tofrequent, to invite to the same table only people of the same caste, exists practically in Europe as in India. In Europe the above-mentionedprescriptions are founded on convention, but they are none the lessobserved. We all live in a confined circle, where we find our friends, our guests, our sons- and daughters-in-law. 

Misalliances are assuredly possible in Europe; they are impossible inIndia. But if there religion prohibits them, with us public opinion andconvention render them very rare. And at bottom the analogy is complete. 

The class is superior to the caste in extent. If the psychological bondof the sect is community of faith, and that of the caste community ofprofession, the psychological bond of the class is community ofinterests. 

Less precise in its limits, more diffuse and less compact than the casteor the sect, the class represents today the veritable crowd in a dynamicstate, which can in a moment's time descend from that place and becomestatically a crowd. And it is from the sociological standpoint the mostterrible kind of crowd; it is that which today has taken a bellicoseattitude, and which by its attitude and precepts prepares the brutalblows of mobs. 

We speak of the "conflict of the classes, " and from the theoreticalpoint of view and in the normal and peaceful life that signifies only acontest of ideas by legal means. Always depending upon the occasion, theaudacity of one or many men, the character of the situation, theconflict of the classes is transformed into something more material andmore violent--into revolt or into revolution. 

Finally we arrive at the state (nation). Tocqueville said that theclasses which compose society form so many distinct nations. They arethe greatest collectivities before coming to the nation, the state. 

This is the most perfect type of organization of the crowd, and thefinal and supreme type, if there is not another collectivity superior innumber and extension, the collectivity formed by race. 

The bond which unites all the citizens of a state is language andnationality. Above the state there are only the crowds determined byrace, which comprise many states. And these are, like the states andlike the classes, human aggregates which in a moment could betransformed into violent crowds. But then, and justly, because theirevolution and their organization are more developed, their mobs arecalled armies, and their violences are called wars, and they have theseal of legitimacy unknown in other crowds. In this order of ideas warcould be defined as the supreme form of collective crimes. 

4. _Esprit de Corps_, Morale, and Collective Representations of SocialGroups[93]

War is no doubt the least human of human relationships. It can beginonly when persuasion ends, when arguments fitted to move minds arereplaced by the blasting-powder fitted to move rocks and hills. It meansthat one at least of the national wills concerned has deliberately setaside its human quality--as only a human will can do--and has made ofitself just such a material obstruction or menace. Hence war seems, andis often called, a contest of brute forces. Certainly it is theextremest physical effort men make, every resource of vast populationsbent to increase the sum of power at the front, where the two lineswrithe like wrestlers laboring for the final fall. 

Yet it is seldom physical force that decides a long war. For war summonsskill against skill, head against head, staying-power againststaying-power, as well as numbers and machines against machines andnumbers. When an engine "exerts itself" it spends more power, eats morefuel, but uses no nerve; when a man exerts himself, he must bend hiswill to it. The extremer the physical effort, the greater the strain onthe inner or moral powers. Hence the paradox of war: just because itcalls for the maximum material performance, it calls out a maximum ofmoral resource. As long as guns and bayonets have men behind them, thequality of the men, the quality of their minds and wills, must becounted with the power of the weapons. 

And as long as men fight in nations and armies, that subtle but mightyinfluence that passes from man to man, the temper and spirit of thegroup, must be counted with the quality of the individual citizen andsoldier. But how much does this intangible, psychological factor count?Napoleon in his day reckoned it high: "In war, the moral is to thephysical as three to one. "

For war, completely seen, is no mere collision of physical forces; it isa collision of will against will. It is, after all, the mind and will ofa nation--a thing intangible and invisible--that assembles the materialsof war, the fighting forces, the ordnance, the whole physical array. Itis this invisible thing that wages the war; it is this same invisiblething that on one side or the other must admit the finish and so end it. As things are now, it is the element of "morale" that controls theoutcome. 

I say, as things are now; for it is certainly not true as a rule ofhistory that will-power is enough to win a war, even when supported byhigh fighting spirit, brains, and a good conscience: Belgium had allthis, and yet was bound to fall before Germany had she stood alone. Herspirit worked miracles at Liége, delayed by ten days the marchingprogram of the German armies, and thereby saved--perhaps Paris, perhapsEurope. But the day was saved because the issue raised in Serbia and inBelgium drew to their side material support until their forces couldcompare with the physical advantages of the enemy. Morale wins, not byitself, but by turning scales; it has a value like the power of aminority or of a mobile reserve. It adds to one side or the other thelast ounce of force which is to its opponent the last straw that breaksits back. 

Perhaps the simplest way of explaining the meaning of morale is to saythat what "condition" is to the athlete's body, morale is to the mind. Morale is condition; good morale is good condition of the inner man: itis the state of will in which you can get most from the machinery, deliver blows with the greatest effect, take blows with the leastdepression, and hold out for the longest time. It is both fighting-powerand staying-power and strength to resist the mental infections whichfear, discouragement, and fatigue bring with them, such as eagerness forany kind of peace if only it gives momentary relief, or the irritabilitythat sees large the defects in one's own side until they seem moreimportant than the need of defeating the enemy. And it is the perpetualability to come back. 

From this it follows that good morale is not the same as good spirits orenthusiasm. It is anything but the cheerful optimism of early morning, or the tendency to be jubilant at every victory. It has nothing incommon with the emotionalism dwelt on by psychologists of the "crowd. "It is hardly to be discovered in the early stages of war. Its mostsearching test is found in the question, How does war-weariness affectyou?

No one going from America to Europe in the last year could fail tonotice the wide difference between the mind of nations long at war andthat of a nation just entering. Over there, "crowd psychology" had spentitself. There was little flag-waving; the common purveyors of music werenot everywhere playing (or allowed to play) the national airs. If insome Parisian cinema the Marseillaise was given, nobody stood or sang. The reports of atrocities roused little visible anger or even talk--theywere taken for granted. In short, the simpler emotions had been wornout, or rather had resolved themselves into clear connections betweenknowledge and action. The people had found the mental gait that can beheld indefinitely. Even a great advance finds them on their guardagainst too much joy. As the news from the second victory of the Marnebegins to come in, we find this despatch: "Paris refrains fromexultation. "

And in the trenches the same is true in even greater degree. All thebravado and illusion of war are gone, also all the nervous revulsion;and in their places a grimly reliable resource of energy held ininstant, almost mechanical, readiness to do what is necessary. Thehazards which it is useless to speculate about, the miseries, delays, tediums, casualties, have lost their exclamatory value and have falleninto the sullen routine of the day's work. Here it is that morale beginsto show in its more vital dimensions. Here the substantial differencesbetween man and man, and between side and side, begin to appear as theycan never appear in training camp. 

Fitness and readiness to act, the positive element in morale, is amatter not of good and bad alone, but of degree. Persistence, courage, energy, initiative, may vary from zero upward without limit. Perhaps themost important dividing line--one that has already shown itself atvarious critical points--is that between the willingness to defend andthe willingness to attack, between the defensive and the aggressivementality. It is the difference between docility and enterprise, betweena faith at second hand dependent on neighbor or leader, and a faith atfirst hand capable of assuming for itself the position of leadership. 

But readiness to wait, the negative element in morale, is as importantas readiness to act, and oftentimes it is a harder virtue. Patience, especially under conditions of ignorance of what may be brewing, is atorment for active and critical minds such as this people is made of. Yet impetuosity, exceeding of orders, unwillingness to retreat when thegeneral situation demands it, are signs not of good morale but thereverse. They are signs that one's heart cannot be kept up except by theflattering stimulus of always going forward--a state of mind that maycause a commanding officer serious embarrassment, even to makingimpossible decisive strokes of strategy. 

In fact, the better the morale, the more profound its mystery from theutilitarian angle of judgment. There is something miraculous in thepower of a bald and unhesitating announcement of reverse to steel thetemper of men attuned to making sacrifices and to meeting emergencies. No one can touch the deepest moral resources of an army or nation whodoes not know the fairly regal exaltation with which it is possible formen to face an issue--_if they believe in it_. There are times when menseem to have an appetite for suffering, when, to judge from their owndemeanor, the best bait fortune could offer them is the chance to facedeath or to bear an inhuman load. This state of mind does not exist ofitself; it is morale at its best, and it appears only when the occasionstrikes a nerve which arouses the super-earthly vistas of humanconsciousness or subconsciousness. But it commonly appears at thesummons of a leader who himself welcomes the challenge of the task hesets before his followers. It is the magic of King Alfred in his appealto his chiefs to do battle with the Danes, when all that he could holdout to them was the prospect of his own vision, This--that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher. 

Morale, for all the greater purposes of war, is a state of faith; andits logic will be the superb and elusive logic of human faith. It is forthis reason that morale, while not identical with the righteousness ofthe cause, can never reach its height unless the aim of the war can beheld intact in the undissembled moral sense of the people. This is oneof the provisions in the deeper order of things for the slowpredominance of the better brands of justice. 

There are still officers in army and navy--not as many as formerly--whobelieve exclusively in the morale that works its way into every body ofrecruits through discipline and the sway of _esprit de corps_. "Theyknow that they're here to can the Kaiser, and that's all they need toknow, " said one such officer to me very recently. "After a man has beenhere two months, the worst punishment you can give him is to tell him hecan't go to France right away. The soldier is a man of action; and theless thinking he does, the better. " There is an amount of practicalwisdom in this; for the human mind has a large capacity for adoptingbeliefs that fit the trend of its habits and feelings, and this trend ispowerfully molded by the unanimous direction of an army's purpose. Thereis an all but irresistible orthodoxy within a body committed to a war. And the current (pragmatic) psychology referred to, making theintelligence a mere instrument of the will, would seem to sanction themaxim, "First decide, and then think accordingly. "

But there are two remarks to be made about this view; first, that in theactual creation of morale within an army corps much thinking isincluded, and nothing is accomplished without the consent of suchthoughts as a man already has. Training does wonders in making morale, when nothing in the mind opposes it. Second, that the morale which issufficient for purposes of training is not necessarily sufficient forthe strains of the field. 

The intrinsic weakness of "affective morale, " as psychologists call it, is that it puts both sides on the same mental and moral footing: iteither justifies our opponents as well as ourselves, or it makes bothsides the creatures of irrational emotion. 

Crowds are capable of doing reasonless things upon impulse and ofadopting creeds without reflection. But an army is not a crowd; stillless is a nation a crowd. A mob or crowd is an unorganized group ofpeople governed by less than the average individual intelligence of itsmembers. Armies and nations are groups of people so organized that theyare controlled by an intelligence higher than the average. The instinctsthat lend, and must lend, their immense motive-power to the greatpurposes of war are the servants, not the masters, of thatintelligence. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. The Scientific Study of Societies

Interest in the study of "society as it is" has had its source in twodifferent motives. Travelers' tales have always fascinated mankind. Theethnologists began their investigations by criticising and systematizingthe novel and interesting observations of travelers in regard tocustoms, cultures, and behavior of people of different races andnationalities. Their later more systematic investigations were, on thewhole, inspired by intellectual curiosity divorced from any overwhelmingdesire to change the manner of life and social organizations of thesocieties studied. 

The second motive for the systematic observation of actual society camefrom persons who wanted social reforms but who were forced to realizethe futility of Utopian projects. The science of sociology as conceivedby Auguste Comte was to substitute fact for doctrines about society. Buthis attempt to interpret social evolution resulted in a philosophy ofhistory, not a natural science of society. 

Herbert Spencer appreciated the fact that the new science of sociologyrequired an extensive body of materials as a basis for itsgeneralizations. Through the work of assistants he set himself themonumental task of compiling historical and cultural materials not onlyupon primitive and barbarous peoples but also upon the Hebrews, thePhoenicians, the French and the English. These data were classified andpublished in eight large volumes under the title _DescriptiveSociology_. 

The study of human societies was too great to be satisfactorilycompassed by the work of one man. Besides that, Spencer, like mostEnglish sociologists, was more interested in the progress ofcivilization than in its processes. Spencer's _Sociology_ is still aphilosophy of history rather than a science of society. The philosophyof history took for its unit of investigation and interpretation theevolution of human society as a whole. The present trend in sociology istoward the study of _societies_ rather than _society_. Sociologicalresearch has been directed less to a study of the stages of evolutionthan to the diagnosis and control of social problems. 

Modern sociology's chief inheritance from Comte and Spencer was aproblem in logic: What is a society?

Manifestly if the relations between individuals in society are notmerely formal, and if society is something more than the sum of itsparts, then these relations must be defined in terms of interaction, that is to say, in terms of process. What then is _the social process_;what are the social processes? How are social processes to bedistinguished from physical, chemical, or biological processes? What is, in general, the nature of the relations that need to be established inorder to make of individuals in society, members of society? Thesequestions are fundamental since they define the point of view ofsociology and describe the sort of facts with which the science seeks todeal. Upon these questions the schools have divided and up to thepresent time there is no very general consensus among sociologists inregard to them. The introductory chapter to this volume is at once areview of the points of view and an attempt to find answers. In theliterature to which reference is made at the close of chapter iii thelogical questions involved are discussed in a more thoroughgoing waythan has been possible to do in this volume. 

Fortunately science does not wait to define its points of view nor solveits theoretical problems before undertaking to analyze and collect thefacts. The contrary is nearer the truth. Science collects facts andanswers the theoretical questions afterward. In fact, it is just itssuccess in analyzing and collecting facts which throw light upon humanproblems that in the end justifies the theories of science. 

2. Surveys of Communities

The historian and the philosopher introduced the sociologist to thestudy of society. But it was the reformer, the social worker, and thebusiness man who compelled him to study the community. 

The study of the community is still in its beginnings. Nevertheless, there is already a rapidly growing literature on this topic. Ethnologists have presented us with vivid and detailed pictures ofprimitive communities as in McGee's _The Seri Indians_, Jenk's _TheBontoc Igorot_, Rivers' _The Todas_. Studies of the village communitiesof India, of Russia, and of early England have thrown new light upon theterritorial factor in the organization of societies. 

More recently the impact of social problems has led to the intensivestudy of modern communities. The monumental work of Charles Booth, _Life and Labour of the People in London_, is a comprehensivedescription of conditions of social life in terms of the community. Inthe United States, interest in community study is chiefly represented bythe social-survey movement which received impetus from the PittsburghSurvey of 1907. For sociological research of greater promise than thesurvey are the several monographs which seek to make a social analysisof the community, as Williams, _An American Town_, or Galpin, _TheSocial Anatomy of an Agricultural Community_. With due recognition ofthese auspicious beginnings, it must be confessed that there is novolume upon human communities comparable with several works upon plantand animal communities. 

3. The Group as a Unit of Investigation

The study of societies is concerned primarily with types of socialorganization and with attitudes and cultural elements embodied in them. The survey of communities deals essentially with social situations andthe problems connected with them. 

The study of social groups was a natural outgrowth of the study of theindividual. In order to understand the person it is necessary toconsider the group. Attention first turned to social institutions, thento conflict groups, and finally to crowds and crowd influences. 

Social institutions were naturally the first groups to be studied withsome degree of detachment. The work of ethnologists stimulated aninterest in social origins. Evolution, though at first a purelybiological conception, provoked inquiry into the historical developmentof social structure. Differences in institutions in contemporarysocieties led to comparative study. Critics of institutions, bothiconoclasts without and reformers within, forced a consideration oftheir more fundamental aspects. 

The first written accounts of conflict groups were quite naturally ofthe propagandist type both by their defenders and by their opponents. Histories of nationalities, for example, originated in the patrioticmotive of national glorification. With the acceptance of objectivestandards of historical criticism the ground was prepared for thesociological study of nationalities as conflict groups. A school ofEuropean sociologists represented by Gumplowicz, Ratzenhofer, andNovicow stressed conflict as the characteristic behavior of socialgroups. Beginnings, as indicated in the bibliography, have been made ofthe study of various conflict groups as gangs, labor unions, parties, and sects. 

The interest in the mechanism of the control of the individual by thegroup has been focused upon the study of the crowd. Tarde and Le Bon inFrance, Sighele in Italy, and Ross in the United States were thepioneers in the description and interpretation of the behavior of mobsand crowds. The crowd phenomena of the Great War have stimulated theproduction of several books upon crowds and crowd influences which are, in the main, but superficial and popular elaborations of theinterpretations of Tarde and Le Bon. Concrete material upon groupbehavior has rapidly accumulated, but little or no progress has beenmade in its sociological explanation. 

At present there are many signs of an increasing interest in the studyof group behavior. Contemporary literature is featuring realisticdescriptions. Sinclair Lewis in _Main Street_ describes concretely theroutine of town life with its outward monotony and its inner zest. Newspapers and magazines are making surveys of the buying habits oftheir readers as a basis for advertising. The federal department ofagriculture in co-operation with schools of agriculture is makingintensive studies of rural communities. Social workers are consciousthat a more fundamental understanding of social groups is a necessarybasis for case work and community organization. Surveys of institutionsand communities are now being made under many auspices and from variedpoints of view. All this is having a fruitful reaction upon thesociological theory. 

4. The Study of the Family

The family is the earliest, the most elementary, and the most permanentof social groups. It has been more completely studied, in all itsvarious aspects, than other forms of human association. Methods ofinvestigation of family life are typical of methods that may be employedin the description of other forms of society. For that reason moreattention is given here to studies of family life than it is possible ordesirable to give to other and more transient types of social groups. 

The descriptions of travelers, of ethnologists and of historians madethe first contributions to our knowledge of marriage, ceremonials, andfamily organization among primitive and historical peoples. Earlystudents of these data devised theories of stages in the evolution ofthe family. An anthology might be made of the conceptions that studentshave formulated of the original form of the family, for example, thetheory of the matriarchate by Bachofen, of group marriage growing out ofearlier promiscuous relations by Morgan, of the polygynous family byDarwin, of pair marriage by Westermarck. An example of the ingenious, but discarded method of arranging all types of families observed in aseries representing stages of the evolution is to be found in Morgan's_Ancient Society_. A survey of families among primitive peoples byHobhouse, Ginsberg, and Wheeler makes the point that even family life ismost varied upon the lower levels of culture, and that the historicaldevelopment of the family with any people must be studied in relation tothe physical and social environment. 

The evolutionary theory of the family has, however, furnished a somewhatdetached point of view for the criticism of the modern family. Socialreformers have used the evolutionary theory as a formula to justifyattacks upon the family as an institution and to support the most variedproposals for its reconstruction. Books like Ellen Key's _Love andMarriage_ and Meisel-Hess, _The Sexual Crisis_ are not scientificstudies of the family but rather social political philippics directedagainst marriage and the family. 

The interest stimulated by ethnological observation, historical study, and propagandist essays has, however, turned the attention of certainstudents to serious study of the family and its problems. Howard's_History of Matrimonial Institutions_ is a scholarly and comprehensivetreatise upon the evolution of the legal status of the family. Annualstatistics of marriage and divorce are now compiled and published by allthe important countries except the United States government. In theUnited States, however, three studies of marriages and divorces havebeen made; one in 1887-88, by the Department of Labor, covering thetwenty years from 1867-86 inclusive; another in 1906-7, by the Bureau ofthe Census, for the twenty years 1887-1906; and the last, also by theBureau of the Census, for the year 1916. 

The changes in family life resulting from the transition from homeindustry to the factory system have created new social problems. Problems of woman and child labor, unemployment, and poverty are aproduct of the machine industry. Attempts to relieve the distress underconditions of city life resulted in the formation of charityorganization societies and other philanthropic institutions, and inattempts to control the behavior of the individuals and familiesassisted. The increasing body of experience gained by social agencieshas gradually been incorporated in the technique of the workers. MaryRichmond in _Social Diagnosis_ has analyzed and standardized theprocedure of the social case worker. 

Less direct but more fundamental studies of family life have been madeby other investigators. Le Play, a French social economist, who livedwith the families which he observed, introduced the method of themonographic study of the economic organization of family life. ErnstEngel, from his study of the expenditure of Saxon working-classfamilies, formulated so-called "laws" of the relation between familyincome and family outlay. Recent studies of family incomes and budgetsby Chapin, Ogburn, and others have thrown additional light upon therelationship between wages and the standard of living. Interest in theeconomics of the family is manifested by an increasing number of studiesin dietetics, household administration and domestic science. 

Westermarck in his _History of Human Marriage_ attempted to write asociology of the family. Particularly interesting is his attempt tocompare the animal family with that of man. The effect of this was toemphasize instinctive and biological aspects of the family rather thanits institutional character. The basis for a psychology of family lifewas first laid in the _Studies in the Psychology of Sex_ by HavelockEllis. The case studies of individuals by psychoanalysts often lead intofamily complexes and illuminate the structure of family attitudes andwishes. 

The sociological study of the family as a natural and a cultural groupis only now in its beginnings. An excellent theoretical study of thefamily as a unity of interacting members is presented in Bosanquet, _TheFamily_. The family as defined in the mores has been described andinterpreted, as for example, by Thomas in his analysis of theorganization of the large peasant family group in the first two volumesof the _Polish Peasant_. Materials upon the family in the United Stateshave been brought together by Calhoun in his _Social History of theAmerican Family_. 

While the family is listed by Cooley among primary groups, the notion isgaining ground that it is primary in a unique sense which sets it apartfrom all other social groups. The biological interdependence andco-operation of the members of the family, intimacies of closest andmost enduring contacts have no parallel among other human groups. Theinterplay of the attractions, tensions, and accommodations ofpersonalities in the intimate bonds of family life have up to thepresent found no concrete description or adequate analysis insociological inquiry. 

The best case studies of family life at present are in fiction, not inthe case records of social agencies, nor yet in sociological literature. Arnold Bennett's trilogy, _Clayhanger_, _Hilda Lessways_, and _TheseTwain_, suggests a pattern not unworthy of consideration by socialworkers and sociologists. _The Pastor's Wife_, by the author of_Elizabeth and Her German Garden_, is a delightful contrast of Englishand German mores in their effect upon the intimate relations of familylife. 

In the absence of case studies of the family as a natural and culturalgroup the following tentative outline for sociological study is offered:

 1. _Location and extent in time and space. _--Genealogical tree as retained in the family memory; geographical distribution and movement of members of small family group and of large family group; stability or mobility of family; its rural or urban location. 

 2. _Family traditions and ceremonials. _--Family romance; family skeleton; family ritual, as demonstration of affection, family events, etc. 

 3. _Family economics. _--Family communism; division of labor between members of the family; effect of occupation of its members. 

 4. _Family organization and control. _--Conflicts and accommodation; superordination and subordination; typical forms of control--patriarchy, matriarchy, consensus, etc. ; family _esprit de corps_, family morale, family objectives; status in community. 

 5. _Family behavior. _--Family life from the standpoint of the four wishes (security, response, recognition, and new experience); family crises; the family and the community; familism versus individualism; family life and the development of personality. 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. THE DEFINITION OF SOCIETY

(1) Kistiakowski, Dr. Th. _Gesellschaft und Einselwesen; einemethodologische Studie. _ Berlin, 1899. [A review and criticism of theprincipal conceptions of society with reference to their value for anatural science of society. ]

(2) Barth, Paul. _Die Philosophie der Geschichte als Sociologie. _Leipzig, 1897. [A comparison of the different schools and an attempt tointerpret them as essays in the philosophy of history. ]

(3) Espinas, Alfred. _Des sociétés animales. _ Paris, 1877. [A definitionof society based upon a comparative study of animal associations, communities, and societies. ]

(4) Spencer, Herbert. "The Social Organism, " _Essays, Scientific, Political and Speculative_. I, 265-307. New York, 1892. [First publishedin _The Westminster Review_ for January, 1860. ]

(5) Lazarus, M. , and Steinthal, H. "Einleitende Gedanken zurVölkerpsychologie als Einladung zu einer Zeitschrift fürVölkerpsychologie und Sprachwissenschaft, " _Zeitschrift fürVölkerpsychologie und Sprachwissenschaft_, I (1860), 1-73. [This is themost important early attempt to interpret social phenomena from a socialpsychological point of view. See p. 35 for definition of _Volk_ "thepeople. "]

(6) Knapp, G. Friedrich. "Quételet als Theoretiker, " _Jahrbücher fürNationalökonomie und Statistik_, XVIII (1872), 89-124. 

(7) Lazarus, M. _Das Leben der Seele in Monographien über seineErscheinungen und Gesetze. _ Berlin, 1876. 

(8) Durkheim, Émile. "Représentations individuelles et représentationscollectives, " _Revue de métaphysique et de morale_, VI (1898), 273-302. 

(9) Simmel, Georg. _Über sociale Differenzierung. _ Sociologische undpsychologische Untersuchungen. Leipzig, 1890. 

[See also in Bibliography, chap. I, volumes listed under SystematicTreatises. ]

II. PLANT COMMUNITIES AND ANIMAL SOCIETIES

(1) Clements, Frederic E. _Plant Succession. _ An analysis of thedevelopment of vegetation. Carnegie Institution of Washington, 1916. 

(2) Wheeler, W. M. "The Ant-Colony as an Organism, " _Journal ofMorphology_, XXII (1911), 307-25. 

(3) Parmelee, Maurice. _The Science of Human Behavior. _ Biological andPsychological Foundations. New York, 1913. [Bibliography. ]

(4) Massart, J. , and Vandervelde, É. _Parasitism, Organic and Social. _2d ed. Translated by W. Macdonald. Revised by J. Arthur Thomson. London, 1907. 

(5) Warming, Eug. _Oecology of Plants. _ An introduction to the study ofplant communities. Oxford, 1909. [Bibliography. ]

(6) Adams, Charles C. _Guide to the Study of Animal Ecology. _ New York, 1913. [Bibliography. ]

(7) Waxweiler, E. "Esquisse d'une sociologie, " _Travaux de l'Institut deSociologie (Solvay), Notes et mémoires_, Fasc. 2. Bruxelles, 1906. 

(8) Reinheimer, H. _Symbiosis. _ A socio-physiological study ofevolution. London, 1920. 

III. THE CLASSIFICATION OF SOCIAL GROUPS

A. _Types of Social Group_

1. Non-territorial Groups:

(1) Le Bon, Gustave. _The Crowd. _ A study of the popular mind. London, 1897. 

(2) Sighele, S. _Psychologie des sectes. _ Paris, 1898. 

(3) Tarde, G. _L'opinion et la foule. _ Paris, 1901. 

(4) Fahlbeck, Pontus. _Klasserna och Samhallet. _ Stockholm, 1920. (Bookreview in _American Journal of Sociology_, XXVI [1920-21], 633-34. )

(5) Nesfield, John C. _Brief View of the Caste System of theNorth-western Provinces and Oudh_. Allahabad, 1885. 

2. Territorial Groups:

(1) Simmel, Georg. "Die Grossstädte und das Geistesleben, " _DieGrossstadt_, Vorträge und Aufsätze zur Städteausstellung, von K. Bücher, F. Ratzel, G. V. Mayr, H. Waentig, G. Simmel, Th. Peterman, und D. Schäfer. Dresden, 1903. 

(2) Galpin, C. J. _The Social Anatomy of an Agricultural Community. _Madison, Wis. , 1915. (Agricultural experiment station of the Universityof Wisconsin. Research Bulletin 34. ) [See also _Rural Life_, New York, 1918. ]

(3) Aronovici, Carol. _The Social Survey. _ Philadelphia, 1916. 

(4) McKenzie, R. D. _The Neighborhood. _ A study of local life inColumbus, Ohio. Chicago, 1921 [in press]. 

(5) Park, Robert E. "The City. Suggestions for the Investigation ofHuman Behavior in the City Environment, " _American Journal ofSociology_, XX (1914-15), 577-612. 

(6) Sims, Newell L. _The Rural Community, Ancient and Modern. _ New York, 1920. 

B. _Studies of Individual Communities:_

(1) Maine, Sir Henry. _Village-Communities in the East and West. _London, 1871. 

(2) Baden-Powell, H. _The Indian Village Community. _ Examined withreference to the physical, ethnographic, and historical conditions ofthe provinces. London, 1896. 

(3) Seebohm, Frederic. _The English Village Community. _ Examined in itsrelations to the manorial and tribal systems and to the common or openfield system of husbandry. An essay in economic history. London, 1883. 

(4) McGee, W. J. "The Seri Indians, " _Bureau of American Ethnology 17thAnnual Report 1895-96. _ Washington, 1898. 

(5) Rivers, W. H. R. _The Todas. _ London and New York, 1906. 

(6) Jenks, Albert. _The Bontoc Igorot. _ Manila, 1905. 

(7) Stow, John. _A Survey of London. _ Reprinted from the text of 1603with introduction and notes by C. L. Kingsford. Oxford, 1908. 

(8) Booth, Charles. _Life and Labour of the People in London_, 9 vols. London and New York, 1892-97. 8 additional volumes, 1902. 

(9) Kellogg, P. U. , ed. _The Pittsburgh Survey. _ Findings in 6 vols. Russell Sage Foundation, New York, 1909-14. 

(10) Woods, Robert. _The City Wilderness. _ A settlement study, south endof Boston. Boston, 1898. ----. _Americans in Process. _ A settlementstudy, north and west ends of Boston. Boston, 1902. 

(11) Kenngott, G. F. _The Record of a City. _ A social survey of Lowell, Massachusetts. New York, 1912. 

(12) Harrison, Shelby M. , ed. _The Springfield Survey. _ A study ofsocial conditions in an American city. Findings in 3 vols. Russell SageFoundation. New York, 1918. 

(13) Roberts, Peter. _Anthracite Coal Communities. _ A study of thedemography, the social, educational, and moral life of the anthraciteregions. New York and London, 1904. 

(14) Williams, J. M. _An American Town. _ A sociological study. New York, 1906. 

(15) Wilson, Warren H. _Quaker Hill. _ A sociological study. New York, 1907. 

(16) Taylor, Graham R. _Satellite Cities. _ A study of industrialsuburbs. New York and London, 1915. 

(17) Lewis, Sinclair. _Main Street. _ New York, 1920. 

(18) Kobrin, Leon. _A Lithuanian Village. _ Translated from the Yiddishby Isaac Goldberg. New York, 1920. 

IV. THE STUDY OF THE FAMILY

A. _The Primitive Family_

1. The Natural History of Marriage:

(1) Bachofen, J. J. _Das Mutterrecht. _ Eine Untersuchung über dieGynaikokratie der alten Welt nach ihrer religiösen und rechtlichenNatur. Stuttgart, 1861. 

(2) Westermarck, E. _The History of Human Marriage. _ London, 1891. 

(3) McLennan, J. F. _Primitive Marriage. _ An inquiry into the origin ofthe form of capture in marriage ceremonies. Edinburgh, 1865. 

(4) Tylor, E. B. "The Matriarchal Family System, " _Nineteenth Century_, XL (1896), 81-96. 

(5) Dargun, L. Von. _Mutterrecht und Vaterrecht. _ Leipzig, 1892. 

(6) Maine, Sir Henry. _Dissertations on Early Law and Custom. _ Chap. Vii. London, 1883. 

(7) Letourneau, C. _The Evolution of Marriage and of the Family. _(Trans. ) New York, 1891. 

(8) Kovalevsky, M. _Tableau des origines et de l'évolution de la familleet de la propriété. _ Stockholm, 1890. 

(9) Lowie, Robert H. _Primitive Society. _ New York, 1920. 

(10) Starcke, C. N. _The Primitive Family in Its Origin andDevelopment. _ New York, 1889. 

(11) Hobhouse, L. T. , Wheeler, G. C. , and Ginsberg, M. _The MaterialCulture and Social Institutions of the Simpler Peoples. _ London, 1915. 

(12) Parsons, Elsie Clews. _The Family. _ An ethnographical andhistorical outline. New York and London, 1906. 

2. Studies of Family Life in Different Cultural Areas:

(1) Spencer, B. , and Gillen, F. J. _The Native Tribes of CentralAustralia. _ Chap. Iii, "Certain Ceremonies Concerned with Marriage, " pp. 92-111. London and New York, 1899. 

(2) Rivers, W. H. R. _Kinship and Social Organization. _ "Studies inEconomics and Political Science, " No. 36. In the series of monographs bywriters connected with the London School of Economics and PoliticalScience. London, 1914. 

(3) Rivers, W. H. R. "Kinship, " _Cambridge Anthropological Expedition toTorres Straits, Report. _ V, 129-47, VI, 92-125. 

(4) Kovalevsky, M. "La famille matriarcale au Caucase, "_L'Anthropologie_, IV (1893), 259-78. 

(5) Thomas, N. W. _Kinship Organizations and Group Marriage inAustralia. _ Cambridge, 1906. 

(6) Malinowski, Bronislaw. _The Family among the Australian Aborigines. _A sociological study. London, 1913. 

B. _Materials for the Study of Familial Attitudes and Sentiments_

(1) Frazer, J. G. _Totemism and Exogamy. _ A treatise on certain earlyforms of superstition and society. London, 1910. 

(2) Durkheim, É. "La prohibition de l'inceste et ses origines, " _L'annéesociologique. _ I (1896-97), 1-70. 

(3) Ploss, H. _Das Weib in der Natur- und Völkerkunde. _ Leipzig, 1902. 

(4) Lasch, R. "Der Selbstmord aus erotischen Motiven bei den primitivenVölkern, " _Zeitschrift für Sozialwissenschaft_, II (1899), 578-85. 

(5) Jacobowski, L. "Das Weib in der Poesie der Hottentotten, " _Globus_, LXX (1896), 173-76. 

(6) Stoll, O. _Das Geschlechtsleben in der Völkerpsychologie. _ Leipzig, 1908. 

(7) Crawley, A. E. "Sexual Taboo: A Study in the Relations of theSexes, " _The Journal of the Anthropological Institute_, XXIV (1894-95), 116-25; 219-35; 430-46. 

(8) Simmel, G. "Zur Psychologie der Frauen, " _Zeitschrift fürVölkerpsychologie und Sprachwissenschaft_, XX, 6-46. 

(9) Finck, Henry T. _Romantic Love and Personal Beauty. _ Theirdevelopment, causal relations, historic and national peculiarities. London and New York, 1887. 

(10) ----. _Primitive Love and Love Stories_. New York, 1899. 

(11) Kline, L. W. "The Migratory Impulse versus Love of Home, " _AmericanJournal of Psychology_, X (1898-99), 1-81. 

(12) Key, Ellen. _Love and Marriage. _ Translated from the Swedish by A. G. Chater; with a critical and biographical introduction by HavelockEllis. New York and London, 1912. 

(13) Meisel-Hess, Grete. _The Sexual Crisis. _ A critique of our sexlife. Translated from the German by E. And C. Paul. New York, 1917. 

(14) Bloch, Iwan. _The Sexual Life of Our Time in Its Relation to ModernCivilization. _ Translated from the 6th German ed. By M. Eden Paul. Chap. Viii, "The Individualization of Love, " pp. 159-76. London, 1908. 

C. _Economics of the Family_

(1) Grosse, Ernst. _Die Formen der Familie und die Formen derWirtschaft. _ Freiburg, 1896. 

(2) Le Play, P. G. Frédéric. _Les ouvriers européens. _ Études sur lestravaux, la vie domestique, et la condition morale des populationsouvrières de l'Europe. Précédées d'un exposé de la méthoded'observation. Paris, 1855. [Comprises a series of 36 monographs on thebudgets of typical families selected from the most diverse industries. ]

(3) Le Play, P. G. Frédéric. _L'organisation de la famille. _ Selon levrai modèle signalé par l'histoire de toutes les races et de tous lestemps. Paris, 1871. 

(4) Engel, Ernst. _Die Lebenskosten belgischer Arbeiter-Familien früherund jetzt. _ Ermittelt aus Familien-Haushaltrechnungen und vergleichendzusammengestellt. Dresden, 1895. 

(5) Chapin, Robert C. _The Standard of Living among Workingmen'sFamilies in New York City. _ Russell Sage Foundation. New York, 1909. 

(6) Talbot, Marion, and Breckinridge, Sophonisba P. _The ModernHousehold. _ Rev. Ed. Boston, 1919. [Bibliography at the end of eachchapter. ]

(7) Nesbitt, Florence. _Household Management. _ Preface by Mary E. Richmond. Russell Sage Foundation. New York, 1918. 

D. _The Sociology of the Family_

1. Studies in Family Organization:

(1) Bosanquet, Helen. _The Family. _ London and New York, 1906. 

(2) Durkheim, É. "Introduction à la sociologie de la famille. " _Annalesde la faculté des lettres de Bordeaux_ (1888), 257-81. 

(3) ----. "La famille conjugale, " _Revue philosophique_, XLI (1921), 1-14. 

(4) Howard, G. E. _A History of Matrimonial Institutions Chiefly inEngland and the United States. _ With an introductory analysis of theliterature and theories of primitive marriage and the family. 3 vols. Chicago, 1904. 

(5) Thwing, Charles F. And Carrie F. B. _The Family. _ A historical andsocial study. Boston, 1887. 

(6) Goodsell, Willystine. _A History of the Family as a Social andEducational Institution. _ New York, 1915. 

(7) Dealey, J. Q. _The Family in Its Sociological Aspects. _ Boston, 1912. 

(8) Calhoun, Arthur W. _A Social History of the American Family fromColonial Times to the Present. _ 3 vols. Cleveland, 1917-19. [Bibliography. ]

(9) Thomas, W. I. , and Znaniecki, F. _The Polish Peasant in Europe andAmerica. _ "Primary-Group Organization, " I, 87-524, II. Boston, 1918. [Astudy based on correspondence between members of the family in Americaand Poland. ]

(10) Du Bois, W. E. B. _The Negro American Family. _ Atlanta, 1908. [Bibliography. ]

(11) Williams, James M. "Outline of a Theory of Social Motives, "_American Journal of Sociology_, XV (1909-10), 741-80. [Theory ofmotives based upon observation of rural and urban families. ]

2. Materials for the Study of Family Disorganization:

(1) Willcox, Walter F. _The Divorce Problem. _ A study in statistics. ("Columbia University Studies in History, Economics and Public Law, "Vol. I. New York, 1891. )

(2) Lichtenberger, J. P. _Divorce. _ A study in social causation. NewYork, 1909. 

(3) United States Bureau of the Census. _Marriage and Divorce_, 1867-1906. 2 vols. Washington, 1908-09. [Results of two federalinvestigations. ]

(4) ----. _Marriage and Divorce 1916. _ Washington, 1919. 

(5) Eubank, Earle E. _A Study in Family Desertion. _ Department of PublicWelfare. Chicago, 1916. [Bibliography. ]

(6) Breckinridge, Sophonisba P. , and Abbott, Edith. _The DelinquentChild and the Home. _ A study of the delinquent wards of the JuvenileCourt of Chicago. Russell Sage Foundation. New York, 1912. 

(7) Colcord, Joanna. _Broken Homes. _ A study of family desertion and itssocial treatment. Russell Sage Foundation. New York, 1919. 

(8) Kammerer, Percy G. _The Unmarried Mother. _ A study of five hundredcases. Boston, 1918. 

(9) Ellis, Havelock. _The Task of Social Hygiene. _ Boston, 1912. 

(10) Myerson, Abraham. "Psychiatric Family Studies, " _American Journalof Insanity_, LXXIV (April, 1918), 497-555. 

(11) Morrow, Prince A. _Social Diseases and Marriage. _ Socialprophylaxis. New York, 1904. 

(12) Periodicals on Social Hygiene:

_Zeitschrift für Sexualwissenschaft_, Bd. 1, April, 1914-, Bonn [1915-]. 

_Social Hygiene_, Vol. I, December, 1914-, New York [1915-]. 

_Die Neuere Generation_, Bd. I, 1908-Berlin [1908-]. Preceded by_Mutterschutz_, Vols. I-III. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. Society and the Individual: The Cardinal Problem of Sociology. 

2. Historic Conceptions of Society: Aristotle, Hobbes, Rousseau, etc. 

3. Plant Communities. 

4. Animal Societies: The Ant Colony, the Bee Hive. 

5. Animal Communities, or Studies in Animal Ecology. 

6. Human Communities, Human Ecology, and Economics. 

7. The Natural Areas of the City. 

8. Studies in Group Consciousness: National, Sectional, State, Civic. 

9. Co-operation versus Consensus. 

10. Taming as a Form of Social Control. 

11. Domestication among Plants, Animals, and Man. 

12. Group Unity and the Different Forms of Consensus: _Esprit de corps_, Morale, Collective Representations. 

13. The Social Nature of Concepts. 

14. Conduct and Behavior. 

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. What, in your opinion, are the essential elements in Espinas'definition of society?

2. In what sense does society differ from association?

3. According to Espinas' definition, which of the following socialrelations would constitute society: robber and robbed; beggar andalmsgiver; charity organization and recipients of relief; master andslave; employer and employee?

4. What illustrations of symbiosis in human society occur to you?

5. Are changes resulting from human symbiosis changes (a) ofstructure, or (b) of function?

6. What are the likenesses and the differences between social symbiosisin human and in ant society?

7. What is the difference between taming and domestication?

8. What is the relation of domestication to society?

9. Is man a _tamed_ or a _domesticated_ animal?

10. What are the likenesses between a plant and a human community? Whatare the differences?

11. What is the fundamental difference between a plant community and anant society?

12. What are the differences between human and animal societies?

13. Does the ant have customs? ceremonies?

14. Do you think that there is anything akin to public sentiment in antsociety?

15. What is the relation of education to social heredity?

16. In what way do you differentiate between the characteristic behaviorof machines and human beings?

17. "Society not only continues to exist _by_ transmission, _by_communication, but it may fairly be said to exist _in_ transmission, _in_ communication. " Interpret. 

18. How does Dewey's definition of society differ from that of Espinas?Which do you prefer? Why?

19. Is consensus synonymous with co-operation?

20. Under what conditions would Dewey characterize the following socialrelations as society: master and slave; employer and employee; parentand child; teacher and student?

21. In what sense does the communication of an experience to anotherperson change the experience itself?

22. In what sense are concepts _social_ in contrast with sensationswhich are _individual_? Would it be possible to have concepts outside ofgroup life?

23. How does Park distinguish between behavior and conduct?

24. In what ways is human society in its origin and continuity based onconduct?

25. To what extent does "the animal nature of man" (Hobhouse) provide abasis for the social organization of life?

26. What, according to Hobhouse, are the _differentia_ of human moralityfrom animal behavior?

27. What do you understand by a collective representation?

28. How do you distinguish between the terms society, social community, and group? Can you name a society that could not be considered as acommunity? Can you name a community that is not a society?

29. In what, fundamentally, does the unity of the group consist?

30. What groups are omitted in Le Bon's classification of social groups?Make a list of all the groups, formal and informal, of which you are amember. Arrange these groups under the classification given in theGeneral Introduction (p. 50). Compare this classification with that madeby Le Bon. 

31. How do you distinguish between _esprit de corps_, morale, andcollective representation as forms of consensus?

32. Classify under _esprit de corps_, morale, or collectiverepresentation the following aspects of group behavior: rooting at afootball game; army discipline; the flag; college spirit; the so-called"war psychosis"; the fourteen points of President Wilson; "the Englishnever know when they are beaten"; slogans; "Paris refrains fromexultation"; crowd enthusiasm; the Golden Rule; "where there's a willthere's a way"; Grant's determination, "I'll fight it out this way if ittakes all summer"; ideals. 

33. "The human mind has a large capacity for adopting beliefs that fitthe trends of its habits and feelings. " Give concrete illustrationsoutside of army life. 

34. What is the importance of the study of the family as a socialgroup?

FOOTNOTES:

[80] See _supra_, chap. I, pp. 50-51. 

[81] Translated from Alfred Espinas, _Des sociétés animales_ (1878), pp. 157-60. 

[82] Adapted from William M. Wheeler, _Ants, Their Structure, Development, Behavior_, pp. 339-424. (Columbia University Press, 1910. )

[83] Adapted from P. Chalmers Mitchell, _The Childhood of Animals_, pp. 204-21. (Frederick A. Stokes & Co. , 1912. )

[84] Adapted from Eugenius Warming, _Oecology of Plants_, pp. 12-13, 91-95. (Oxford University Press, 1909. )

[85] Adapted from William E. Wheeler, _Ants, Their Structure, Development, and Behavior_, pp. 5-7. (Columbia University Press, 1910. )

[86] From John Dewey, _Democracy and Education_, pp. 1-7. (Published byThe Macmillan Co. , 1916. Reprinted by permission. )

[87] From Robert E. Park, _Principles of Human Behavior_, pp. 1-9. (TheZalaz Corporation, 1915. )

[88] Adapted from L. T. Hobhouse, _Morals in Evolution_, pp. 1-2, 10-12. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1915. )

[89] Adapted from Émile Durkheim, _Elementary Forms of Religious Life_, pp. 432-37. (Allen & Unwin, 1915. )

[90] From Albion W. Small, _General Sociology_, pp. 495-97. (TheUniversity of Chicago Press, 1905. )

[91] From R. E. Park, "Education in Its Relation to the Conflict andFusion of Cultures, " in the _Publications of the American SociologicalSociety_, VIII (1918), 38-40. 

[92] Translated from S. Sighele, _Psychologie des Sectes_, pp. 42-51. (M. Giard et Cie. , 1898. )

[93] Adapted from William E. Hocking, _Morale and Its Enemies_, pp. 3-37. (Yale University Press, 1918. )

CHAPTER IV

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Geological and Biological Conceptions of Isolation

Relations of persons with persons, and of groups with groups, may beeither those of isolation or those of contact. The emphasis in thischapter is placed upon _isolation_, in the next chapter upon _contact_in a comparison of their effects upon personal conduct and groupbehavior. 

Absolute isolation of the person from the members of his group isunthinkable. Even biologically, two individuals of the higher animalspecies are the precondition to a new individual existence. In man, postnatal care by the parent for five or six years is necessary even forthe physiological survival of the offspring. Not only biologically butsociologically complete isolation is a contradiction in terms. Sociologists following Aristotle have agreed with him that human naturedevelops within and decays outside of social relations. Isolation, then, in the social as well as the biological sense is _relative_, not_absolute_. 

The term "isolation" was first employed in anthropogeography, the studyof the relation of man to his physical environment. To natural barriers, as mountains, oceans, and deserts, was attributed an influence upon thelocation of races and the movements of peoples and the kind and thedegree of cultural contact. The nature and the extent of separation ofpersons and groups was considered by geographers as a reflex of thephysical environment. 

In biology, isolation as a factor in the evolution and the life of thespecies, is studied from the standpoint of the animal group more thanfrom that of the environment. Consequently, the separation of speciesfrom each other is regarded as the outcome not only of a sheer physicalimpossibility of contact, but even more of other factors as differencesin physical structure, in habits of life, and in the instincts of theanimal groups. J. Arthur Thomson in his work on "Heredity" presents thefollowing compact and illuminating statement of isolation as a factor ininheritance. 

 The only other directive evolution-factor that biologists are at all agreed about, besides selection, is isolation--a general term for all the varied ways in which the radius of possible intercrossing is narrowed. As expounded by Wagner, Weismann, Romanes, Gulick, and others, isolation takes many forms--spatial, structural, habitudinal, and psychical--and it has various results. 

 It tends to the segregation of species into subspecies, it makes it easier for new variations to establish themselves, it promotes prepotency, or what the breeders call "transmitting power, " it fixes characters. One of the most successful breeds of cattle (Polled Angus) seems to have had its source in one farmsteading; its early history is one of close inbreeding, its prepotency is remarkable, its success from our point of view has been great. It is difficult to get secure data as to the results of isolation in nature, but Gulick's recent volume on the subject abounds in concrete illustrations, and we seem warranted in believing that conditions of isolation have been and are of frequent occurrence. 

 Reibmayr has collected from human history a wealth of illustrations of various forms of isolation, and there seems much to be said for his thesis that the establishment of a successful race or stock requires the alternation of periods of inbreeding (endogamy) in which characters are fixed, and periods of outbreeding (exogamy) in which, by the introduction of fresh blood, new variations are promoted. Perhaps the Jews may serve to illustrate the influence of isolation in promoting stability of type and prepotency; perhaps the Americans may serve to illustrate the variability which a mixture of different stocks tends to bring about. In historical inquiry into the difficult problem of the origin of distinct races, it seems legitimate to think of periods of "mutation"--of discontinuous sporting--which led to numerous offshoots from the main stock, of the migration of these variants into new environments where in relative isolation they became prepotent and stable. [94]

The biological use of the term "isolation" introduces a new emphasis. Separation may be spatial, but its effects are increasingly structuraland functional. Indeed, spatial isolation was a factor in the origin ofspecies because of specialized organic adaptation to varied geographicconditions. In other words, the structure of the species, its habits oflife, and its original and acquired responses, tend to isolate it fromother species. 

Man as an animal species in his historical development has attemptedwith fair success to destroy the barriers separating him from otheranimals. Through domestication and taming he has changed the originalnature and habits of life of many animals. The dog, the companion ofman, is the summit of human achievement in association with animals. Nevertheless, the barriers that separate the dog and his master areinsurmountable. Even if "a candidate for humanity, " the dog is foreverdebarred from any share in human tradition and culture. 

2. Isolation and Segregation

In geography, isolation denotes separation in space. In sociology, theessential characteristic of isolation is found in exclusion fromcommunication. 

Geographical forms of isolation are sociologically significant in so faras they prevent communication. The isolation of the mountain whites inthe southern states, even if based on spatial separation, consisted inthe absence of contacts and competition, participation in theprogressive currents of civilization. 

Biological differences, whether physical or mental, between thedifferent races are sociologically important to the extent to which theyaffect communication. Of themselves, differences in skin color betweenraces would not prevent intercommunication of ideas. But the physicalmarks of racial differences have invariably become the symbols of racialsolidarity and racial exclusiveness. The problems of humanity arealtogether different from what they would have been were all races ofone complexion as they are of one blood. 

Certain physical and mental defects and differences in and of themselvestend to separate the individual from his group. The deaf-mute and theblind are deprived of normal avenues to communication. "My deafness, "wrote Beethoven, "forces me to live in exile. " The physicallyhandicapped are frequently unable to participate in certain humanactivities on equal terms with their fellows. Minor physical defects andmarked physical variations from the normal tend to become the basis ofsocial discrimination. 

Mental differences frequently offer still greater obstacles to socialcontacts. The idiot and the imbecile are obviously debarred from normalcommunication with their intelligent associates. The "dunce" wasisolated by village ridicule and contempt long before the term "moron"was coined, or the feeble-minded segregated in institutions andcolonies. The individual with the highest native endowments, the genius, and the talented enjoy or suffer from a more subtle type of isolationfrom their fellows, that is, the isolation of eminence. "The reason ofisolation, " says Thoreau, a lover of solitude, "is not that we love tobe alone, but that we love to soar; and when we soar, the company growsthinner and thinner until there is none left. "

So far, isolation as a tool of social analysis has been treated as aneffect of geographical separation or of structural differentiationresulting in limitation of communication. Social distances arefrequently based on other subtler forms of isolation. 

The study of cultural differences between groups has revealed barriersquite as real and as effective as those of physical space and structure. Variations in language, folkways, mores, conventions, and idealsseparate individuals and peoples from each other as widely as oceans anddeserts. Communication between England and Australia is far closer andfreer than between Germany and France. 

Conflict groups, like sects and parties, and accommodation groups likecastes and classes depend for survival upon isolation. Free intercourseof opposing parties is always a menace to their morale. Fraternizationbetween soldiers of contending armies, or between ministers of rivaldenominations is fraught with peril to the fighting efficiency of theorganizations they represent. The solidarity of the group, like theintegrity of the individual, implies a measure at least of isolationfrom other groups and persons as a necessary condition of its existence. 

The life-history of any group when analyzed is found to incorporatewithin it elements of isolation as well as of social contact. Membershipin a group makes for increasing contacts within the circle ofparticipants, but decreasing contacts with persons without. Isolation isfor this reason a factor in the preservation of individuality and unity. The _esprit de corps_ and morale of the group is in large partmaintained by the fixation of attention upon certain collectiverepresentations to the exclusion of others. The memories and sentimentsof the members have their source in common experiences of the past fromwhich non-members are isolated. This natural tendency toward exclusiveexperiences is often reinforced by conscious emphasis upon secrecy. Primitive and modern secret societies, sororities, and fraternities havebeen organized around the principle of isolation. Secrecy in a society, like reserve in an individual, protects it from a disintegratingpublicity. The family has its "skeleton in the closet, " social groupsavoid the public "washing of dirty linen"; the community banishes fromconsciousness, if it can, its slums, and parades its parks andboulevards. Every individual who has any personality at all maintainssome region of privacy. 

A morphological survey of group formation in any society discloses thefact that there are lateral as well as vertical divisions in the socialstructure. Groups are arranged in strata of relative superiority andinferiority. In a stratified society the separation into castes is rigidand quite unalterable. In a free society competition tends to destroyclasses and castes. New devices come into use to keep aspiring andinsurgent individuals and groups at the proper social level. If"familiarity breeds contempt" respect may be secured by reserve. In thearmy the prestige of the officer is largely a matter of "distance. " The"divinity that doth hedge the king" is due in large part to the hedge ofceremonial separating him from his subjects. Condescension and pity, while they denote external contact, involve an assumption of spiritualeminence not to be found in consensus and sympathy. As protectionagainst the penetration of the inner precincts of personality and thegroup individuality, there are the defenses of suspicion and aversion, of reticence and reserve, designed to insure the proper social distance. 

3. Classification of the Materials

The materials in the present chapter are intended to illustrate the factthat individuality of the person and of the group is both an effect ofand a cause of isolation. 

The first selections under the heading "Isolation and PersonalIndividuality" bring out the point that the function of isolation inpersonal development lies not so much in sheer physical separation fromother persons as in freedom from the control of external socialcontacts. Thus Rousseau constructs an ideal society in the solitude ofhis forest retreat. The lonely child enjoys the companionship of hisimaginary comrade. George Eliot aspires to join the choir invisible. Themystic seeks communion with divinity. 

This form of isolation within the realm of social contacts is known asprivacy. Indeed privacy may be defined as withdrawal from the group, with, at the same time, ready access to it. It is in solitude that thecreative mind organizes the materials appropriated from the group inorder to make novel and fruitful innovations. Privacy affordsopportunity for the individual to reflect, to anticipate, to recast, andto originate. Practical recognition of the human demand for privacy hasbeen realized in the study of the minister, the office of the businessman, and the den of the boy. Monasteries and universities areinstitutions providing leisure and withdrawal from the world as thebasis for personal development and preparation for life's work. Othervalues of privacy are related to the growth of self-consciousness, self-respect, and personal ideals of conduct. 

Many forms of isolation, unlike privacy, prevent access to stimulatingsocial contact. Selections under the heading "Isolation and Retardation"indicate conditions responsible for the arrest of mental and personalgrowth. 

The cases of feral men, in the absence of contradictory evidence, seemadequate in support of Aristotle's point that social contacts areindispensable for human development. The story by Helen Keller, thetalented and celebrated blind deaf-mute, of her emergence from theimprisonment of sense deprivation into the free life of communication isa most significant sociological document. With all of us the change fromthe animal-like isolation of the child at birth to personalparticipation in the fullest human life is gradual. In Helen Keller'scase the transformation of months was telescoped into minutes. The"miracle" of communication when sociologically analyzed seems to consistin the transition from the experience of _sensations_ and _senseperceptions_ which man shares in common with animals to the developmentof _ideas_ and _self-consciousness_ which are the unique attributes ofhuman beings. 

The remaining selections upon isolation and retardation illustrate thedifferent types of situations in which isolation makes for retardationand retardation in turn emphasizes the isolation. The reversion of aman of scientific training in the solitudes of Patagonia to the animallevel of mentality suggests that the low intelligence of the savage, thepeasant, and the backward races is probably due more to the absence ofstimulating contacts than to original mental inferiority. So theindividuality and conservatism of the farmer, his failure to keep pacewith the inhabitant of the town and city, Galpin assigns to deficiencyin social contacts. Then, too, the subtler forms of handicap in personaldevelopment and achievement result from social types of isolation, asrace prejudice, the sheltered life of woman, exclusiveness of socialclasses, and make for increased isolation. 

Up to this point, isolation has been treated statically as a cause. Under the heading, "Isolation and Segregation" it is conceived as aneffect, an effect of competition, and the consequent selection andsegregation. 

The first effect of the introduction of competition in any society is tobreak up all types of isolation and provincialism based upon lack ofcommunication and contact. But as competition continues, natural andsocial selection comes into play. Successful types emerge in the processof competitive struggle while variant individuals who fail to maintainthe pace or conform to standard withdraw or are ejected from the group. Exiled variants from several groups under auspicious circumstances mayin turn form a community where the process of selection will be directlyopposite to that in their native groups. In the new community theprocess of selection naturally accentuates and perfects the traitsoriginally responsible for exclusion. The outcome of segregation is thecreation of specialized social types with the maximum of isolation. Thecircle of isolation is then complete. 

This circular effect of the processes of competition, selection, andsegregation, from isolation to isolation, may be found everywhere inmodern western society. Individual variants with criminalistictendencies exiled from villages and towns through the process ofselection form a segregated group in city areas popularly called"breeding places of crime. " The tribe of Pineys, Tin Town, The Villageof a Thousand Souls, are communities made up by adverse selection offeeble-minded individuals, outcasts of the competitive struggle ofintelligent, "high-minded" communities. The result is the formation of acriminal type and of a feeble-minded caste. These slums and outcastgroups are in turn isolated from full and free communication with theprogressive outside world. 

National individuality in the past, as indicated in the selections upon"Isolation and National Individuality, " has been in large degree theresult of a cultural process based upon isolation. The historicalnations of Europe, biologically hybrid, are united by common language, folkways, and mores. This unity of mother tongue and culture is theproduct of historical and cultural processes circumscribed, as Shalerpoints out, by separated geographical areas. 

A closer examination of the cultural process in the life of progressivehistorical peoples reveals the interplay of isolation and socialcontacts. Grote gives a penetrating analysis of Grecian achievement interms of the individuality based on small isolated land areas and thecontacts resulting from maritime communication. The world-hegemony ofEnglish-speaking peoples today rests not only upon naval supremacy andmaterial resources but even more upon the combination of individualdevelopment in diversified areas with large freedom in internationalcontacts. 

II. MATERIALS

A. ISOLATION AND PERSONAL INDIVIDUALITY

1. Society and Solitude[95]

It had been hard for him that spake it to have put more truth anduntruth together in few words than in that speech: "Whosoever isdelighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god. " For it is mosttrue that a natural and secret hatred and aversation towards society inany man hath somewhat of the savage beast; but it is most untrue that itshould have any character at all of the divine nature except it proceed, not out of a pleasure in solitude, but out of a love and desire tosequester a man's self for a higher conversation, such as is found tohave been falsely and feignedly in some of the heathen, as Epimenidesthe Candian, Numa the Roman, Empedocles the Sicilian, and Apollonius ofTyana; and truly and really in divers of the ancient hermits and HolyFathers of the Church. But little do men perceive what solitude is, andhow far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces are but agallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is nolove. The Latin adage meeteth with it a little: _Magna civitas magnasolitudo_ ("A great town is a great solitude"), because in a great townfriends are scattered, so that there is not that fellowship, for themost part, which is in less neighborhoods. But we may go further, andaffirm most truly that it is a mere and miserable solitude to want truefriends, without which the world is but a wilderness; and, even in thissense also of solitude, whosoever in the frame of his nature andaffections is unfit for friendship, he taketh it of the beast and notfrom humanity. 

2. Society in Solitude[96]

What period do you think, sir, I recall most frequently and mostwillingly in my dreams? Not the pleasures of my youth: they were toorare, too much mingled with bitterness, and are now too distant. Irecall the period of my seclusion, of my solitary walks, of the fleetingbut delicious days that I have passed entirely by myself, with my goodand simple housekeeper, with my beloved dog, my old cat, with the birdsof the field, the hinds of the forest, with all nature, and herinconceivable Author. 

But what, then, did I enjoy when I was alone? Myself; the entireuniverse; all that is; all that can be; all that is beautiful in theworld of sense; all that is imaginable in the world of intellect. Igathered around me all that could delight my heart; my desires were thelimit of my pleasures. No, never have the voluptuous known suchenjoyments; and I have derived a hundred times more happiness from mychimeras than they from their realities. 

The wild spot of the forest [selected by Rousseau for his solitary walksand meditations] could not long remain a desert to my imagination. Isoon peopled it with beings after my own heart, and, dismissing opinion, prejudice, and all factitious passions, I brought to these sanctuariesof nature men worthy of inhabiting them. I formed with these a charmingsociety, of which I did not feel myself unworthy. I made a golden ageaccording to my fancy, and, filling up these bright days with all thescenes of my life that had left the tenderest recollections, and withall that my heart still longed for, I affected myself to tears over thetrue pleasures of humanity--pleasure so delicious, so pure, and yet sofar from men! Oh, if in these moments any ideas of Paris, of the age, and of my little author vanity, disturbed my reveries, with whatcontempt I drove them instantly away, to give myself up entirely to theexquisite sentiments with which my soul was filled. Yet, in the midst ofall this, I confess the nothingness of my chimeras would sometimesappear, and sadden me in a moment. 

3. Prayer as a Form of Isolation[97]

He who prays begins his prayer with some idea of God, generally one thathe has received from instruction or from current traditions. He commonlyretires to a quiet place, or to a place having mental associations ofreligious cast, in order to "shut out the world. " This beginning ofconcentration is followed by closing the eyes, which excludes a mass ofirrelevant impressions. The body bows, kneels, or assumes some otherposture that requires little muscular tension and that may favorextensive relaxation. Memory now provides the language of prayer or ofhallowed scripture, or makes vivid some earlier experiences of one'sown. The worshiper represents to himself his needs, or the interests(some of them happy ones) that seem most important, and he brings theminto relation to God by thinking how God regards them. Thepresupposition of the whole procedure is that God's way of looking atthe matters in question is the true and important one. Around God, then, the interests of the individual are now freshly organized. Certain onesthat looked large before the prayer began, now look small because oftheir relation to the organizing idea upon which attention has focused. On the other hand, interests that express this organizing idea gainemotional quality by this release from competing, inhibitingconsiderations. To say that the will now becomes organized toward unityand that it acquires fresh power thereby is simply to name anotheraspect of the one movement. This movement is ideational, emotional, andvolitional concentration, all in one, achieved by fixation of attentionupon the idea of God. 

Persons who have been troubled with insomnia, or wakefulness ordisturbing dreams, have been enabled to secure sound sleep by merelyrelaxing the muscles and repeating mechanically, without effort atanything more, some formula descriptive of what is desired. The mainpoint is that attention should fix upon the appropriate organizing idea. When this happens in a revival meeting one may find one's selfunexpectedly converted. When it happens in prayer one may be surprisedto find one's whole mood changed from discouragement to courage, fromliking something to hating it (as in the case of alcoholic drinks, ortobacco), or from loneliness to the feeling of companionship with God. 

This analysis of the structure of prayer has already touched upon someof its functions. It is a way of getting one's self together, ofmobilizing and concentrating one's dispersed capacities, of begettingthe confidence that tends toward victory over difficulties. It producesin a distracted mind the repose that is power. It freshens a minddeadened by routine. It reveals new truth, because the mind is made moreelastic and more capable of sustained attention. Thus does it removemountains in the individual, and, through him, in the world beyond. 

The values of prayer in sickness, distress, and doubt are by no meansmeasurable by the degree to which the primary causes thereof are made todisappear. There is a real conquest of trouble, even while troubleremains. It is sometimes a great source of strength, also, merely torealize that one is fully understood. The value of having some friend orhelper from whom I reserve no secrets has been rendered more impressivethan ever by the Freud-Jung methods of relieving mental disordersthrough (in part) a sort of mental house-cleaning, or bringing into theopen the patient's hidden distresses and even his most intimate andreticent desires. Into the psychology of the healings that are broughtabout by this psychoanalysis we need not go, except to note that oneconstant factor appears to be the turning of a private possession into asocial possession, and particularly the consciousness that anotherunderstands. I surmise that we shall not be far from the truth here ifwe hold that, as normal experience has the _ego-alter_ form, so thecontinuing possession of one's self in one's developing experiencerequires development of this relation. We may, perhaps, go as far as tobelieve that the bottling up of any experience as merely private ismorbid. But, however this may be, there are plenty of occasions when theroad to poise, freedom, and joy is that of social sharing. Hence theprayer of confession, not only because it helps us to see ourselves aswe are, but also because it shares our secrets with another, has greatvalue for organizing the self. In this way we get relief from themisjudgments of others, also, and from the mystery that we are toourselves, for we lay our case, as it were, before a judge who does noterr. Thus prayer has value in that it develops the essentially socialform of personal self-realization. 

To complete this functional view of prayer we must not fail to securethe evolutionary perspective. If we glance at the remote beginnings, andthen at the hither end, of the evolution of prayer we discover that animmense change has taken place. It is a correlate of the transformedcharacter of the gods, and of the parallel disciplining of men'svaluations. In the words of Fosdick, prayer may be considered asdominant desire. But it is also a way of securing domination overdesire. It is indeed self-assertion; sometimes it is the making of one'ssupreme claim, as when life reaches its most tragic crisis; yet it is, even in the same act, submission to an over-self. Here, then, is ourgreater problem as to the function of prayer. It starts as the assertionof any desire; it ends as _the organization of one's own desires into asystem of desires recognized as superior and then made one's own_. 

4. Isolation, Originality, and Erudition[98]

The question as to how far the world's leaders in thought and actionwere great readers is not quite an easy one to answer, partly becausethe sources of information are sometimes scanty, and partly becausebooks themselves have been few in number. If we could prove that sincethe days of Caxton the world's total of original thought declined inproportion to the increase of published works, we should stand on firmground, and might give orders for a holocaust such as that whichHawthorne once imagined. But no such proof is either possible orprobable. We can only be impressed by the fact that the finestintellectual epoch of history was marked by a comparative absence of themanuscripts which were books to the Greeks, and if a further analysis ofthe lives of men of light and leading in all ages should show thattheir devotion to the books of the period was slight, it will onlyaccentuate the suspicion that even today we are still minus the rightperspective between the printed volume and the thinking mind. 

Buddha, Christ, St. Paul, Mohammed--these are names of men who changedthe course of history. But do they suggest vast scholarship, or aprofound acquaintance with books in any sense whatever? They were greatoriginators, even though they built on other men's foundations, buttheir originality was not inspired by libraries. Can we imagine Mohammedporing over ancient manuscripts in order to obtain the requiredknowledge and impetus for his new religion? With Buddha was it not 1 percent papyrus roll and 99 per cent meditation? When St. Paul was struckdown on the way to Damascus, he did not repair to the nearest Jewishseminary to read up prophecy. He says: "I went into Arabia. " The desertsolitude was the only place in which to find a rationale of his newexperience. And was it not in a similar life of solitude thatJesus--Essene-like--came to self-realization? Deane's _Pseudepigrapha:Books that Influenced our Lord and His Apostles_ does not suggest thatthe Messiah obtained his ideas from the literature of the Rabbis, muchless from Greek or other sources; indeed, the New Testament suggeststhat in the earliest years he showed a genius for divine things. 

It will be urged that to restrict this inquiry to great names inreligion would be unfair because such leaders are confessedlyindependent of literature; indeed, they are often the creators of it. True; but that fact alone is suggestive. If great literature can comefrom meditation alone, are we not compelled to ask: "Where shall wisdombe found and where is the place of understanding?" Is enlightenment tobe found only in the printed wisdom of the past? We know it is not, butwe also know it is useless to set one source of truth over againstanother, as if they were enemies. The soul has its place and so has thebook; but need it be said that the soul has done more wonderful thingsthan the book? Language is merely the symbol; the soul is the reality. 

But let us take other names with different associations--e. G. , Plato, Charlemagne, Caesar, Shakespeare, Napoleon, Bismarck. Can it be said ofany one of these that he owed one-third of his distinction to what helearned from manuscripts or books? We do know, indeed, that Bismarckwas a wide reader, but it was on the selective principle as a student ofhistory and affairs. His library grew under the influence of thecontrolling purpose of his life--i. E. , the unification of Germany, sothat there was no vague distribution of energy. Of Shakespeare's readingwe know less, but there is no evidence that he was a collector of booksor that he was a student after the manner of the men of letters of hisday. The best way to estimate him as a reader is to judge him by thereferences in his plays, and these do not show an acquaintance withliterature so extensive as it is intensive. The impression he made onBen Johnson, an all-round scholar, was not one of learning--quiteotherwise. The qualities that impressed the author of _Timber, orDiscoveries upon Men and Matter_, were Shakespeare's "open and freenature, " his "excellent fancy, brave notions, and gentle expressionswherein he flowed with that facility that sometimes it was necessary heshould be stopped. " And, true to himself, Ben Jonson immediately adds:"_Sufflaminandus erat_, as Augustus said of Haterius. " Shakespeare, whenin the company of kindred spirits, showed precisely the kind of talk weshould expect--not Latin and Greek or French and Italian quotations, nota commentary on books past or present, but a stream of conversationmarked by brilliant fancy, startling comparison, unique contrast, andsearching pathos, wherein life, not literature, was the chief subject. 

B. ISOLATION AND RETARDATION

1. Feral Men[99]

What would the results be if children born with a normal organism andgiven food and light sufficient to sustain life were deprived of theusual advantage of human intercourse? What psychic growth would bepossible?

Perhaps no character ever aroused greater interest than Caspar Hauser. More than a thousand articles of varying merit have been writtenconcerning him. In the theaters of England, France, Germany, Hungary, and Austria, plays were founded on his strange story and many able menhave figured in the history of his case. 

According to a letter which he bore when found at Nürnberg one afternoonin 1828, he was born in 1812, left on the doorstep of a Hungarianpeasant's hut, adopted by him, and reared in strict seclusion. 

At the time of his appearance in Nürnberg, he could walk only withdifficulty. He knew no German, understood but little that was said tohim, paid no heed to what went on about him, and was ignorant of socialcustoms. When taken to a stable, he at once fell asleep on a heap ofstraw. In time it was learned that he had been kept in a low dark cellon the ground; that he had never seen the face of the man who broughthim food, that sometimes he went to sleep after the man gave him adrink; that on awakening he found his nails cut and clean clothing onhis body; and that his only playthings had been two wooden horses withred ribbons. 

When first found, he suffered much pain from the light, but he could seewell at night. He could distinguish fruit from leaves on a tree, andread the name on a doorplate where others could see nothing in thedarkness. He had no visual idea of distance and would grasp at remoteobjects as though they were near. He called both men and women _Bua_ andall animals _Rosz_. His memory span for names was marvelous. Drawingupon the pages of Von Kolb and Stanhope, a writer in _The Living Age_says that he burned his hand in the first flame that he saw and that hehad no fear of being struck with swords, but that the noise of a drumthrew him into convulsions. He thought that pictures and statuary werealive, as were plants and trees, bits of paper, and anything thatchanced to be in motion. He delighted in whistles and glitteringobjects, but disliked the odor of paint, fabrics, and most flowers. Hishearing was acute and his touch sensitive at first, but after interestin him had lessened, all his senses showed evidence of rapiddeterioration. He seemed to be wanting in sex instinct and to be unableto understand the meaning of religious ceremonies. Merker, who observedhim secretly during the early days which he spent in jail, declared thathe was "in all respects like a child. " Meyer, of the school at Ansbach, found him "idle, stupid, and vain. " Dr. Osterhausen found a deviationfrom the normal in the shape of his legs, which made walking difficult, but Caspar never wearied of riding on horseback. 

His autopsy revealed a small brain without abnormalities. It simply gaveevidence of a lack of development. 

To speak of children who have made the struggle for life with onlyanimals for nurses and instructors is to recall the rearing of Cyrus ina kennel and the fabulous story of the founding of Rome. Yet Rauber hascollected many cases of wild men and some of them, taken as they arefrom municipal chronicles and guaranteed by trustworthy writers, must beaccepted as authentic. 

a) The Hessian Boy. Was discovered by hunters in 1341, running on allfours with wolves; was captured and turned over to the landgrave. Wasalways restless, could not adapt himself to civilized life, and dieduntamed. The case is recorded in the Hessian chronicles by WilhelmDilich. Rousseau refers to it in his _Discours sur l'origine et lesfondements de Pinégalité parmi les hommes_. 

b) The Irish Boy. Studied and described by Dr. Tulp, curator of thegymnasium at Amsterdam; features animal, body covered with hair; livedwith sheep and bleated like them; stolid, unconscious of self; did notnotice people; fierce, untamable, and indocible; skin thick, sense oftouch blunted so that thorns and stones were unnoticed. Age aboutsixteen. (Rauber. )

c) The Lithuanian Boys. Three are described. The first was found withbears in 1657; face not repulsive nor beastlike; hair thick and white;skin dry and insensitive; voice a growl; great physical strength. He wascarefully instructed and learned to obey his trainer to some degree butalways kept the bear habit; ate vegetable food, raw flesh, and anythingnot containing oils; had a habit of rolling up in secluded places andtaking long naps. The second, said to have been captured in 1669, is notso well described as the third, which Dr. Connor, in the _History ofPoland_, says was found in 1694. This one learned to walk erect withdifficulty, but was always leaping restlessly about; he learned to eatfrom a table, but mastered only a few words, which he spoke in a voiceharsh and inhuman. He showed great sagacity in wood life. 

d) The Girl of Cranenburg. Born in 1700; lost when sixteen months old;skin dark, rough, hard; understood but little that was said to her;spoke little and stammeringly; food--roots, leaves, and milk. (Rauber. )

e) Clemens of Overdyke. This boy was brought to Count von der Ricke'sAsylum after the German struggle with Napoleon. He knew little and saidlittle. After careful training it was gathered that his parents weredead and that a peasant had adopted him and set him to herd pigs. Littlefood was given him, and he learned to suck a cow and eat grass with thepigs. At Overdyke he would get down on his hands and knees and pull upvegetables with his teeth. He was of low intelligence, subject to fitsof passion, and fonder of pigs than of men. [100]

f) Jean de Liége. Lost at five; lived in the woods for sixteen years;food--roots, plants, and wild fruit; sense of smell extraordinarilykeen; could distinguish people by odor as a dog would recognize hismaster; restless in manner, and always trying to escape. (Rauber. )

g) The Savage of Aveyron. After capture, was given into the care ofDr. Itard by Abbé Sicard. Dermal sense duller than in animals; gazewandering; language wanting and ideas few; food--raw potatoes, acorns, and fruit; would eagerly tear open a bird and eat it raw; indolent, secretive; would hide in the garden until hunger drove him to thekitchen; rolled in new snow like an animal; paid no heed to the firingof a gun, but became alert at the cracking of a nut; sometimes grewwildly angry; all his powers were then enlarged; was delighted withhills and woods, and always tried to escape after being taken to them;when angry would gnaw clothing and hurl furniture about; feared to lookfrom a height, and Itard cured him of spasms of rage by holding his headout of a window; met all efforts to teach him with apathy, and learnedbut little of language. [101]

h) The Wolf Children of India. The two cases described by a writer in_Chambers' Journal_ and by Rauber were boys of about ten years. Both ateraw food but refused cooked food; one never spoke, smiled, or laughed;both shunned human beings of both sexes, but would permit a dog to eatwith them; they pined in captivity, and lived but a short time. [102]

i) Peter of Hanover. Found in the woods of Hanover; food--buds, barks, roots, frogs, eggs of birds, and anything else that he could get out ofdoors; had a habit of wandering away in the spring; always went to bedas soon as he had his supper; was unable to walk in shoes at first, andit was long before he would tolerate a covering for his head. AlthoughQueen Caroline furnished him a teacher, he could never learn to speak;he became docile, but remained stoical in manner; he learned to do farmwork willingly unless he was compelled to do it; his sense of hearingand of smell was acute, and before changes in the weather he was sullenand irritable; he lived to be nearly seventy years old. [103]

j) The Savage of Kronstadt. Of middle size, wild-eyed, deep-jawed, andthick-throated; elbows and knees thick; cuticle insensitive; unable tounderstand words or gestures perfectly; generally indifferent; found1784. [104]

k) The Girl of Songi. According to Rauber, this is one of the mostfrequently quoted of feral cases. The girl came out of the forest nearChalons in 1731. She was thought to be nine years old. She carried aclub in her hand, with which she killed a dog that attacked her. Sheclimbed trees easily, and made niches on walls and roofs, over which sheran like a squirrel. She caught fish and ate them raw; a cry served forspeech. She showed an instinct for decorating herself with leaves andflowers. She found it difficult to adapt herself to the customs ofcivilized life and suffered many fits of sickness. In 1747 she was putinto a convent at Chalons. She learned something of the French language, of domestic science, and embroidery. She readily understood what waspointed out to her but always had certain sounds which were notunderstood. She claimed to have first begun to reflect after thebeginning of her education. In her wild life she thought only of her ownneeds. She believed that the earth and the trees produced her, and herearliest memory of shelter was of holes in the ground. [105]

2. From Solitude to Society[106]

The most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which myteacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonderwhen I consider the immeasurable contrast between the two lives which itconnects. It was the third of March, 1887, three months before I wasseven years old. 

The morning after my teacher came she led me into her room and gave me adoll. The little blind children at the Perkins Institution had sent itand Laura Bridgman had dressed it; but I did not know this untilafterward. When I had played with it a little while, Miss Sullivanslowly spelled into my hand the word "d-o-l-l. " I was at once interestedin this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I finally succeeded inmaking the letters correctly I was flushed with childish pleasure andpride. Running downstairs to my mother I held up my hand and made theletters for doll. I did not know that I was spelling a word or even thatwords existed; I was simply making my fingers go in monkey-likeimitation. In the days that followed I learned to spell in thisuncomprehending way a great many words, among them _pin_, _hat_, _cup_and a few verbs like _sit_, _stand_, and _walk_. But my teacher had beenwith me several weeks before I understood that everything has a name. 

One day, while I was playing with my new doll, Miss Sullivan put my bigrag doll into my lap also, spelled "d-o-l-l" and tried to make meunderstand that "d-o-l-l" applied to both. Earlier in the day we had hada tussle over the words "m-u-g" and "w-a-t-e-r. " Miss Sullivan had triedto impress it upon me that "m-u-g" is _mug_ and that "w-a-t-e-r" is_water_, but I persisted in confounding the two. In despair she haddropped the subject for the time, only to renew it at the firstopportunity. I became impatient at her repeated attempts and, seizingthe new doll, I dashed it upon the floor. I was keenly delighted when Ifelt the fragments of the broken doll at my feet. Neither sorrow norregret followed my passionate outburst. I had not loved the doll. In thestill, dark world in which I lived there was no strong sentiment ortenderness. I felt my teacher sweep the fragments to one side of thehearth, and I had a sense of satisfaction that the cause of mydiscomfort was removed. She brought me my hat, and I knew I was goingout into the warm sunshine. This thought, if a wordless sensation may becalled a thought, made me hop and skip with pleasure. 

We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance ofthe honeysuckle with which it was covered. Some one was drawing waterand my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushedover one hand she spelled into the other the word _water_, first slowly, then rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motionsof her fingers. Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of somethingforgotten--a thrill of returning thought; and somehow the mystery oflanguage was revealed to me. I knew then that "w-a-t-e-r" meant thewonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living wordawakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There werebarriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be sweptaway. 

I left the well-house eager to learn. Everything had a name, and eachname gave birth to a new thought. As we returned to the house everyobject which I touched seemed to quiver with life. That was because Isaw everything with the strange, new sight that had come to me. Onentering the door I remembered the doll I had broken. I felt my way tothe hearth and picked up the pieces. I tried vainly to put themtogether. Then my eyes filled with tears; for I realized what I haddone, and for the first time I felt repentance and sorrow. 

I learned a great many new words that day. I do not remember what theyall were; but I do know that _mother_, _father_, _sister_, _teacher_, were among them--words that were to make the world blossom for me, "likeAaron's rod, with flowers. " It would have been difficult to find ahappier child than I was as I lay in my crib at the close of thateventful day and lived over the joys it had brought me, and for thefirst time longed for a new day to come. 

3. Mental Effects of Solitude[107]

I spent the greater part of one winter at a point on the Rio Negro, seventy or eighty miles from the sea. It was my custom to go out everymorning on horseback with my gun, and, followed by one dog, to ride awayfrom the valley; and no sooner would I climb the terrace and plunge intothe gray universal thicket, than I would find myself as completely aloneas if five hundred instead of only five miles separated me from thevalley and river. So wild and solitary and remote seemed that graywaste, stretching away into infinitude, a waste untrodden by man, andwhere the wild animals are so few that they have made no discoverablepath in the wilderness of thorns. 

Not once nor twice nor thrice, but day after day I returned to thissolitude, going to it in the morning as if to attend a festival, andleaving it only when hunger and thirst and the westering sun compelledme. And yet I had no object in going--no motive which could be put intowords; for, although I carried a gun, there was nothing to shoot--theshooting was all left behind in the valley. Sometimes I would pass anentire day without seeing one mammal and perhaps not more than a dozenbirds of any size. The weather at that time was cheerless, generallywith a gray film of cloud spread over the sky, and a bleak wind, oftencold enough to make my bridle hand quite numb. At a slow pace, whichwould have seemed intolerable in other circumstances, I would ride aboutfor hours at a stretch. On arriving at a hill, I would slowly ride toits summit, and stand there to survey the prospect. On every side itstretched away in great undulations, wild and irregular. How gray it allwas! Hardly less so near at hand than on the haze-wrapped horizon, wherethe hills were dim and the outline blurred by distance. Descending frommy outlook, I would take up my aimless wanderings again, and visit otherelevations to gaze on the same landscape from another point; and so onfor hours; and at noon I would dismount and sit or lie on my foldedponcho for an hour or longer. One day, in these rambles, I discovered asmall grove composed of twenty or thirty trees, growing at a convenientdistance apart, that had evidently been resorted to by a herd of deer orother wild animals. This grove was on a hill differing in shape fromother hills in its neighborhood; and after a time I made a point offinding and using it as a resting-place every day at noon. I did not askmyself why I made choice of that one spot, sometimes going miles out ofmy way to sit there, instead of sitting down under any one of themillions of trees and bushes on any other hillside. I thought nothing atall about it, but acted unconsciously. Only afterward it seemed to methat, after having rested there once, each time I wished to rest againthe wish came associated with the image of that particular clump oftrees, with polished stems and clean bed of sand beneath; and in a shorttime I formed a habit of returning, animal-like, to repose at that samespot. 

It was perhaps a mistake to say that I would sit down and rest, since Iwas never tired: and yet, without being tired, that noonday pause, during which I sat for an hour without moving, was strangely grateful. All day there would be no sound, not even the rustle of a leaf. One daywhile _listening_ to the silence, it occurred to my mind to wonder whatthe effect would be if I were to shout aloud. This seemed at the time ahorrible suggestion, which almost made me shudder; but during thosesolitary days it was a rare thing for any thought to cross my mind. Inthe state of mind I was in, thought had become impossible. My state wasone of _suspense_ and _watchfulness_; yet I had no expectation ofmeeting with an adventure, and felt as free from apprehension as I feelnow when sitting in a room in London. The state seemed familiar ratherthan strange, and accompanied by a strong feeling of elation; and I didnot know that something had come between me and my intellect until Ireturned to my former self--to thinking, and the old insipid existence. 

I had undoubtedly _gone back_, and that state of intense watchfulness, or alertness rather, with suspension of the higher intellectualfaculties, represented the mental state of the pure savage. He thinkslittle, reasons little, having a surer guide in his instincts; he is inperfect harmony with nature, and is nearly on a level, mentally, withthe wild animals he preys on, and which in their turn sometimes prey onhim. 

4. Isolation, and the Rural Mind[108]

As an occupation farming has dealt largely, if not exclusively, with thegrowth and care of plant and animal life. Broadly speaking, the farmerhas been engaged in a struggle with nature to produce certain stapletraditional raw foods and human comfort materials in bulk. He has beenexcused, on the whole, from the delicate situations arising from thedemands of an infinite variety of human wishes, whims, and fashions, perhaps because the primary grains, fruits, vegetables, fibers, animals, and animal products, have afforded small opportunity for manipulation tosatisfy the varying forms of human taste and caprice. This exemption ofthe farmer in the greater part of his activity from direct work upon andwith persons and from strenuous attempts to please persons, willdoubtless account very largely, perhaps more largely than mere isolationon the land, for the strong individualism of the country man. 

In striking contrast, the villager and city worker have always beenoccupied in making things or parts of things out of such impressionablematerials as iron, wood, clay, cloth, leather, gold, and the like, tofit, suit, and satisfy a various and increasingly complex set of humandesires; or they have been dealing direct with a kaleidoscopic humanmind, either in regard to things or in regard to troubles and ideals ofthe mind itself. This constant dealing with persons in business willaccount even more than mere congestion of population for the complexorganization of city life. The highly organized social institutions ofthe city, moreover, have reinforced the already keen-edged insight ofthe city man of business, so that he is doubly equipped to win hisstruggles. The city worker knows men, the farmer knows nature. Each hasreward for his deeper knowledge, and each suffers some penalty for hiscircle of ignorance. 

Modern conditions underlying successful farm practice and profit-makingrequire of the farmer a wider and more frequent contact with men than atany time in the past. His materials, too, have become more plastic, subject to rapid change by selection and breeding. 

The social problem of the farmer seems to be how to overcome theinevitable handicap of a social deficiency in the very nature of hisoccupation, so as to extend his acquaintance with men; and secondly, howto erect social institutions on the land adequate to reinforce hisindividual personality so as to enable him to cope with hisperplexities. 

Occasions must be created, plans must be made, to bring people togetherin a wholesale manner so as to facilitate this interchange of communityacquaintance. Especially is it necessary for rural children to know manymore children. The one-room district school has proved its value inmaking the children of the neighborhood acquainted with one another. Oneof the large reasons for the consolidated and centralized school is theincreased size of territorial unit, with more children to know oneanother and mingle together. Intervisiting of district schools--oneschool, teachers and pupils, playing host to a half-dozen other schools, with some regularity, using plays and games, children's readiest meansof getting acquainted--is a successful means of extending acquaintanceunder good auspices. 

If large-scale acquaintance--men with men, women with women, childrenwith children--in a rural community once becomes a fact, the initialstep will have been taken for assuring the rise of appropriate socialinstitutions on the land of that community. 

5. The Subtler Effects of Isolation[109]

The mechanics of modern culture is complicated. The individual hasaccess to materials outside his group, from the world at large. Hisconsciousness is built up not only by word of mouth but by the printedpage. He may live as much in German books as in fireside conversation. Much more mail is handled every day in the New York post-office than wassent out by all the thirteen states in a year at the close of theeighteenth century. But by reason of poverty, geographical isolation, caste feeling, or "pathos, " individuals, communities, and races may beexcluded from some of the stimulations and copies which enter into ahigh grade of mind. The savage, the Negro, the peasant, the slumdwellers, and the white woman are notable sufferers by exclusion. 

 Easy communication of ideas favors differentiation of a rational and functional sort, as distinguished from the random variations fostered by isolation. And it must be remembered that any sort is rational and functional that really commends itself to the human spirit. Even revolt from an ascendant type is easier now than formerly because the rebel can fortify himself with the triumphant records of the non-conformers of the past. 

 The peasant [at the middle of the nineteenth century], limited in a cultural respect to his village life, thinks, feels, and acts solely in the bounds of his native village; his thought never goes beyond his farm and his neighbor; toward the political, economic, or national events taking place outside of his village, be they of his own or of a foreign country, he is completely indifferent, and even if he has learned something of them, this is described by him in a fantastic, mythological way, and only in this adopted form is it added to his cultural condition and transmitted to his descendants. Every peasant farm produced almost exclusively for itself, only to the most limited extent for exchange; every village formed an economic unit, which stood in only a loose economic connection with the outer world. Outwardly complete isolation of the village settlements and their inhabitants from each other and from the rest of the country and other classes of society; inwardly complete homogeneity, one and the same economic, social, and cultural equality of the peasant mass, no possibility of advance for the more gifted and capable individuals, everyone pressed down to a flat level. The peasant of one village holds himself, if not directly hostile, at least as a rule not cordial to the peasants of another village. The nobles living in the same village territory even wanted to force upon the peasants an entirely different origin, in that with the assistance of the Biblical legend they wished to trace him from the accursed Ham (from this the curse and insult _Ty chamie_, "Thou Ham"), but themselves from Japhet, of better repute in the Bible, while they attributed to the Jews, Shem as an ancestor. 

The pathetic effect of isolation on the state of knowledge is recordedin many of the stories of runaway slaves:

 With two more boys, I started for the free states. We did not know where they were, but went to try to find them. We crossed the Potomac and hunted round and round and round. Some one showed us the way to Washington; but we missed it, and wandered all night; then we found ourselves where we set out. 

For our purposes race prejudice may be regarded as a form of isolation. And in the case of the American Negro this situation is aggravated bythe fact that the white man has developed a determination to keep him inisolation--"in his place. " Now, when the isolation is willed and has atthe same time the emotional nature of a tabu, the handicap is very graveindeed. It is a fact that the most intelligent Negroes are usually halfor more than half white, but it is still a subject for investigationwhether this is due to mixed blood or to the fact that they have beenmore successful in violating the tabu. 

 The humblest white employee knows that the better he does his work, the more chance there is for him to rise in the business. The black employee knows that the better he does his work, the longer he may do it; he cannot often hope for promotion. 

 All these careers are at the very outset closed to the Negro on account of his color; what lawyer would give even a minor case to a Negro assistant? Or what university would appoint a promising young Negro as tutor? Thus the white young man starts in life knowing that within some limits and barring accidents, talent and application will tell. The young Negro starts knowing that on all sides his advance is made doubly difficult, if not wholly shut off, by his color. 

 In all walks of life the Negro is liable to meet some objection to his presence or some discourteous treatment. If an invitation is issued to the public for any occasion, the Negro can never know whether he would be welcomed or not; if he goes he is liable to have his feelings hurt and get into unpleasant altercation; if he stays away, he is blamed for indifference. If he meet a lifelong white friend on the street, he is in a dilemma; if he does not greet the friend he is put down as boorish and impolite; if he does greet the friend he is liable to be flatly snubbed. If by chance he is introduced to a white woman or man, he expects to be ignored on the next meeting, and usually is. White friends may call on him, but he is scarcely expected to call on them, save for strictly business matters. If he gain the affections of a white woman and marry her he may invariably expect that slurs will be thrown on her reputation and on his, and that both his and her race will shun their company. When he dies he cannot be buried beside white corpses. 

Kelly Miller, himself a full-blooded black (for which the Negroes haveexpressed their gratitude), refers to the backwardness of the negro inthe following terms:

 To expect the Negroes of Georgia to produce a great general like Napoleon when they are not even allowed to carry arms, or to deride them for not producing scholars like those of the Renaissance when a few years ago they were forbidden the use of letters, verges closely upon the outer rim of absurdity. Do you look for great Negro statesmen in states where black men are not allowed to vote? Above all, for southern white men to berate the Negro for failing to gain the highest rounds of distinction reaches the climax of cruel inconsistency. One is reminded of the barbarous Teutons in _Titus Andronicus_, who, after cutting out the tongue and hacking off the hands of the lovely Lavinia, ghoulishly chided her for not calling for sweet water with which to wash her delicate hands. 

It is not too much to say that no Negro and no mulatto, in America atleast, has ever been fully in the white man's world. But we mustrecognize that their backwardness is not wholly due to prejudice. A racewith an adequate technique can live in the midst of prejudice and evenreceive some stimulation from it. But the Negro has lost many of theoccupations which were particularly his own, and is outclassed inothers--not through prejudice but through the faster pace of hiscompetitors. 

Obviously obstacles which discourage one race may stimulate another. Even the extreme measures in Russia and Roumania against the Jew havenot isolated him. He has resources and traditions and technique of hisown, and we have even been borrowers from him. 

C. ISOLATION AND SEGREGATION

1. Segregation as a Process[110]

Within the limitations prescribed, however, the inevitable processes ofhuman nature proceed to give these regions and these buildings acharacter which it is less easy to control. Under our system ofindividual ownership, for instance, it is not possible to determine inadvance the extent of concentration of population in any given area. Thecity cannot fix land values, and we leave to private enterprise, for themost part, the task of determining the city's limits and the location ofits residential and industrial districts. Personal tastes andconvenience, vocational and economic interests, infallibly tend tosegregate and thus to classify the populations of great cities. In thisway the city acquires an organization which is neither designed norcontrolled. 

Physical geography, natural advantages, and the means of transportationdetermine in advance the general outlines of the urban plan. As the cityincreases in population, the subtler influences of sympathy, rivalry, and economic necessity tend to control the distribution of population. Business and manufacturing seek advantageous locations and draw aroundthem a certain portion of the population. There spring up fashionableresidence quarters from which the poorer classes are excluded because ofthe increased value of the land. Then there grow up slums which areinhabited by great numbers of the poorer classes who are unable todefend themselves from association with the derelict and vicious. In thecourse of time every section and quarter of the city takes on somethingof the character and qualities of its inhabitants. Each separate part ofthe city is inevitably stained with the peculiar sentiments of itspopulation. The effect of this is to convert what was at first a meregeographical expression into a neighborhood, that is to say, a localitywith sentiments, traditions, and a history of its own. Within thisneighborhood the continuity of the historical processes is somehowmaintained. The past imposes itself upon the present and the life ofevery locality moves on with a certain momentum of its own, more or lessindependent of the larger circle of life and interests about it. 

In the city environment the neighborhood tends to lose much of thesignificance which it possessed in simpler and more primitive forms ofsociety. The easy means of communication and of transportation, whichenables individuals to distribute their attention and to live at thesame time in several different worlds, tends to destroy the permanencyand intimacy of the neighborhood. Further than that, where individualsof the same race or of the same vocation live together in segregatedgroups, neighborhood sentiment tends to fuse together with racialantagonisms and class interests. 

In this way physical and sentimental distances reinforce each other, andthe influences of local distribution of the population participate withthe influences of class and race in the evolution of the socialorganization. Every great city has its racial colonies, like theChinatowns of San Francisco and New York, the Little Sicily of Chicago, and various other less pronounced types. In addition to these, mostcities have their segregated vice districts, like that which untilrecently existed in Chicago, and their rendezvous for criminals ofvarious sorts. Every large city has its occupational suburbs like theStockyards in Chicago, and its residence suburbs like Brookline inBoston, each of which has the size and the character of a completeseparate town, village, or city, except that its population is aselected one. Undoubtedly the most remarkable of these cities withincities, of which the most interesting characteristic is that they arecomposed of persons of the same race, or of persons of different racesbut of the same social class, is East London, with a population of2, 000, 000 laborers. 

 The people of the original East London have now overflowed and crossed the Lea, and spread themselves over the marshes and meadows beyond. This population has created new towns which were formerly rural villages, West Ham, with a population of nearly 300, 000; East Ham, with 90, 000; Stratford, with its "daughters, " 150, 000; and other "hamlets" similarly overgrown. Including these new populations we have an aggregate of nearly two millions of people. The population is greater than that of Berlin or Vienna, or St. Petersburg, or Philadelphia. 

 It is a city full of churches and places of worship, yet there are no cathedrals, either Anglican or Roman; it has a sufficient supply of elementary schools, but it has no public or high school, and it has no colleges for the higher education, and no university; the people all read newspapers, yet there is no East London paper except of the smaller and local kind.... In the streets there are never seen any private carriages; there is no fashionable quarter ... One meets no ladies in the principal thoroughfares. People, shops, houses, conveyances--all together are stamped with the unmistakable seal of the working class. 

 Perhaps the strangest thing of all is this: in a city of two millions of people there are no hotels! That means, of course, that there are no visitors. 

In the older cities of Europe, where the processes of segregation havegone farther, neighborhood distinctions are likely to be more markedthan they are in America. East London is a city of a single class, butwithin the limits of that city the population is segregated again andagain by racial and vocational interests. Neighborhood sentiment, deeplyrooted in local tradition and in local custom, exercises a decisiveselective influence upon city population and shows itself ultimately ina marked way in the characteristics of the inhabitants. 

2. Isolation as a Result of Segregation[111]

There is the observed tendency of mental defectives to congregate inlocalized centers, with resulting inbreeding. Feeble-mindedness is asocial level and the members of this level, like those in other levels, are affected by social and biological tendencies, such as thecongregation of like personalities and the natural selection in matingsof persons of similar mental capacities. These are general tendenciesand not subject to invariable laws. The feeble-minded are primarilyquantitatively different from normals in mental and social qualities, and do not constitute a separate species. The borderline types ofhigh-grade feeble-minded and low-grade normals may therefore proveexceptions to the general rule. But such studies as Davenport andDanielson's "Hill Folk, " Davenport and Estabrook's "Nams, " Dugdale's"Jukes, " Kostir's "Sam Sixty, " Goddard's "Kallikaks, " Key's "Vennams"and "Fale-Anwals, " Kite's "Pineys, " and many others emphatically provethat mental defectives show a tendency to drift together, intermarry, and isolate themselves from the rest of the community, just as the richlive in exclusive suburbs. Consequently they preponderate in certainlocalities, counties, and cities. In a large measure this segregation isnot so much an expression of voluntary desire as it is a situationforced upon mental defectives through those natural intellectual andsocial deficiencies which restrict them to environments economically andotherwise less desirable to normal people. This phenomenon is mostconspicuous in rural communities where such migratory movements as themodern city-drift have exercised a certain natural selection, but it isalso plainly evident in the slums and poorer sections of the cities, both large and small, as any field worker will testify. Closely relatedto this factor of isolation are the varying percentages of mentaldefectives found in different states and in different sections of thesame state, city or community. It is therefore likely that thepercentages of mental defectives among different groups of juveniledelinquents will vary according to the particular ward, city, county, orstate, whence the delinquents come. For this reason it is essential toany study of the number of mental defectives in a group of juveniledelinquents coming from a particular locality, that some idea should beavailable as to the probable or approximate number of mental defectivesin that community. If more mental defectives are found among thepopulation in the slum quarter of a city than in the residentialquarter, it is to be expected that there will be more mental defectivesin groups of juvenile delinquents from the slum quarter, because, in thefirst place, they constitute a larger proportion of the population, andbecause, secondly, of their greater proneness to social offenses. Moreover, the prevalence of the feeble-minded in certain localities mayaffect the attitude of the law-enforcing machinery toward the childrenof that community. 

A further result of the innate characteristics and tendencies of thefeeble-minded is to be found in the effect upon them of the biologicallaw of natural selection, resulting from the universal struggle forexistence and the survival of the fittest. We need not discuss here itsprofound influences, economic and otherwise, upon the lives of thementally defective in general, but it will be profitable to reviewbriefly the effect of natural selection upon the juvenile delinquentgroup. 

Any group of delinquents is subject to this selection from the times ofoffenses to final commitment. It undergoes a constant sifting processwhose operation is mainly determined by the natural consequences of thegroup members; a large proportion of the "lucky, " the intelligent, orthe socially favored individuals escape from the group, so that theremaining members of the group are the least fit socially andintellectually. The mentally defective delinquents constitute an undueproportion of this unfit residue, for although they may receive as manyfavors of chance as do their intellectually normal fellow-delinquents, they cannot, like them, by reason of intelligence or social status, escape the consequences of their delinquent acts. Furthermore, thefeeble-minded offender is caught oftener than are his more clever andenergetic companions of normal endowments, and after apprehension he isless likely to receive the benefits of police and court prejudices, orthe advantages of family wealth and social influence. If placed onprobation he is more likely to fail, because of his own weaknesses andhis unfavorable environment. Hence the feeble-minded delinquent is muchmore likely to come before the court and also to be committed to areformatory, jail, or industrial school than is his companion of normalmind. Therefore practically every group of juvenile delinquents whichultimately reaches commitment will have a very different aspect withregard to its proportion of mental defectives from that larger group ofoffenders, apprehended or non-apprehended, of which it was once a part. In fact, it is doubtful if any group of apprehended, detained, orprobationed offenders can be said to be representative, or at least tobe exactly representative, of the true proportion of mental defectivesamong all delinquents. Except where specific types of legal procedurebring about the elimination of the defectives, it seems as if it mustinevitably result that the operation of natural selection willcontinually increase the proportion of mental defectives above thatexisting in the original group. 

This factor of natural selection has not to our knowledge been givenadequate consideration in any published investigation on delinquency. But if our estimate of its effects is at all justified, then mostexaminations of juvenile delinquents, especially in reform andindustrial schools, have disclosed proportions of mental defectivesdistinctly in excess of the original proportion previously existentamong the entire mass of all offenders. The reports of theseexaminations have given rise to quite erroneous impressions concerningthe extent of criminality among the feeble-minded and its relation tothe whole volume of crime, and have consequently led to inaccuratedeductions. The feeble-minded are undoubtedly more prone to commit crimethan are the average normals; but through disregard of the influences ofthis factor of natural selection, as well as of others, both theproportion of crime committed by mental defectives and the trueproportion of mental defectives among delinquents and criminals havevery often been exaggerated. 

D. ISOLATION AND NATIONAL INDIVIDUALITY

1. Historical Races as Products of Isolation[112]

The continent of Europe differs from the other great land-masses in thefact that it is a singular aggregation of peninsulas and islands, originating in separate centers of mountain growth, and of enclosedvalleys walled about from the outer world by elevated summits. Othercontinents are somewhat peninsulated; Asia approaches Europe in thatrespect; North America has a few great dependencies in its largerislands and considerable promontories; but Africa, South America, andAustralia are singularly united lands. 

The highly divided state of Europe has greatly favored the developmentwithin its area of isolated fields, each fitted for the growth of aseparate state, adapted even in this day for local life althoughcommerce in our time binds lands together in a way which it did not ofold. These separated areas were marvelously suited to be the cradles ofpeoples; and if we look over the map of Europe we readily note thegeographic insulations which that remarkably varied land affords. 

Beginning with the eastern Mediterranean, we have the peninsula on whichConstantinople stands--a region only partly protected from assault byits geographic peculiarities; and yet it owes to its partial separationfrom the mainlands on either side a large measure of local historicdevelopment. Next, we have Greece and its associated islands, which--asafe stronghold for centuries--permitted the nurture of the mostmarvelous life the world has ever known. Farther to the west the Italianpeninsula, where during three thousand years the protecting envelope ofthe sea and the walls of Alps and Apennines have enabled a score ofstates to attain a development; where the Roman nation, absorbing, withits singular power of taking in other life, a number of primitivecenters of civilization, grew to power which made it dominant in theancient world. Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica, have each profited by theirisolation, and have bred diverse qualities in man and contributedmotives which have interacted in the earth's history. Again, in Spain wehave a region well fitted to be the cradle of a great people; to itsgeographic position it owed the fact that it became the seat of the mostcultivated Mahometanism the world has ever known. To the Pyrenees, themountain wall of the north, we owe in good part the limitation of thatMussulman invasion and the protection of central Europe from its forwardmovement, until luxury and half-faith had sapped its energies. Goingnorthward, we find in the region of Normandy the place of growth of thatfierce but strong folk, the ancient Scandinavians, who, transplantedthere, held their ground, and grew until they were strong enough toconquer Britain and give it a large share of the quality which belongsto our own state. 

To a trifling geographic accident we owe the isolation of Great Britainfrom the European continent; and all the marvelous history of theEnglish folk, as we all know, hangs upon the existence of that narrowstrip of sea between the Devon coast and the kindred lowlands ofnorthern France. 

East of Britain lie two peninsulas which have been the cradle of veryimportant peoples. That of Sweden and Norway is the result of mountaindevelopment; that of Denmark appears to be in the main the product ofglacial and marine erosion, differing in its non-mountainous origin fromall the other peninsulas and islands of the European border. Thus on theperiphery of Europe we have at least a dozen geographical isolatedareas, sufficiently large and well separated from the rest of the worldto make them the seats of independent social life. The interior of thecountry has several similarly, though less perfectly, detached areas. Ofthese the most important lie fenced within the highlands of the Alps. Inthat extensive system of mountain disturbances we have the geographicalconditions which most favor the development of peculiar divisions ofmen, and which guard such cradled peoples from the destruction which sooften awaits them on the plains. Thus, while the folk of the Europeanlowlands have been overrun by the successive tides of invasion, theirqualities confused, and their succession of social life interrupted, Switzerland has to a great extent, by its mountain walls, protected itspeople from the troubles to which their lowland neighbors have beensubjected. The result is that within an area not twice as large asMassachusetts we find a marvelous diversity of folk, as is shown by thevariety in physical aspect, moral quality, language, and creed in theseveral important valleys and other divisions of that complicatedtopography. 

After a race has been formed and bred to certain qualities within alimited field, after it has come to possess a certain body ofcharacteristics which gives it its particular stamp, the importance ofthe original cradle passes away. There is something very curious in thepermanence of race conditions after they have been fixed for a thousandyears or so in a people. When the assemblage of physical and mentalmotives are combined in a body of country folk, they may endure undercircumstances in which they could not have originated; thus, even in ourdomesticated animals and plants, we find that varieties created underfavorable conditions, obtaining their inheritances in suitableconditions, may then flourish in many conditions of environment in whichthey could not by any chance have originated. The barnyard creatures ofEurope, with their established qualities, may be taken to Australia, andthere retain their nature for many generations; even where the formfalls away from the parent stock, the decline is generally slow and maynot for a great time become apparent. 

This fixity of race characteristics has enabled the several nationalvarieties of men to go forth from their nurseries, carrying thequalities bred in their earlier conditions through centuries of life inother climes. The Gothic blood of Italy and of Spain still keeps much ofits parent strength; the Aryan's of India, though a world apart in itsconditions from those which gave it character in its cradle, is still, in many of its qualities, distinctly akin to that of the home people. Moor, Hun and Turk--all the numerous folk we find in the presentcondition of the world so far from their cradle-lands--are still to agreat extent what their primitive nurture made them. On this rigiditywhich comes to mature races in the lower life as well as in man, dependsthe vigor with which they do their appointed work. 

2. Geographical Isolation and Maritime Contact[113]

Greece, considering its limited total extent, offers but little motive, and still less of convenient means, for internal communication among itsvarious inhabitants. Each village or township occupying its plain withthe inclosing mountains, supplied its own main wants, whilst thetransport of commodities by land was sufficiently difficult todiscourage greatly any regular commerce with neighbors. In so far as theface of the interior country was concerned, it seemed as if nature hadbeen disposed from the beginning to keep the population of Greecesocially and politically disunited by providing so many hedges ofseparation and so many boundaries, generally hard, sometimes impossible, to overleap. One special motive to intercourse, however, arose out ofthis very geographical constitution of the country, and its endlessalternation of mountain and valley. The difference of climate andtemperature between the high and low grounds is very great; the harvestis secured in one place before it is ripe in another, and the cattlefind during the heat of summer shelter and pasture on the hills, at atime when the plains are burnt up. The practice of transferring themfrom the mountains to the plain according to the change of season, whichsubsists still as it did in ancient times, is intimately connected withthe structure of the country, and must from the earliest period havebrought about communication among the otherwise disunited villages. 

Such difficulties, however, in the internal transit by land were to agreat extent counteracted by the large proportion of coast and theaccessibility of the country by sea. The prominences and indentations inthe line of Grecian coast are hardly less remarkable than themultiplicity of elevations and depressions which everywhere mark thesurface. There was no part of Greece proper which could be considered asout of reach of the sea, while most parts of it were convenient and easyof access. As the only communication between them was maritime, so thesea, important even if we look to Greece proper exclusively, was thesole channel for transmitting ideas and improvements, as well as formaintaining sympathies--social, political, religious, andliterary--throughout these outlying members of the Hellenic aggregate. 

The ancient philosophers and legislators were deeply impressed with thecontrast between an inland and a maritime city: in the former, simplicity and uniformity of life, tenacity of ancient habits anddislike of what is new or foreign, great force of exclusive sympathy andnarrow range both of objects and ideas; in the latter, variety andnovelty of sensations, expansive imagination, toleration, and occasionalpreference for extraneous customs, greater activity of the individualand corresponding mutability of the state. This distinction standsprominent in the many comparisons instituted between the Athens ofPericlês and the Athens of the earlier times down to Solon. Both Platoand Aristotle dwell upon it emphatically--and the former especially, whose genius conceived the comprehensive scheme of prescribingbeforehand and insuring in practice the whole course of individualthought and feeling in his imaginary community, treats maritimecommunication, if pushed beyond the narrowest limits, as fatal to thesuccess and permanence of any wise scheme of education. Certain it isthat a great difference of character existed between those Greeks whomingled much in maritime affairs and those who did not. The Arcadian maystand as a type of the pure Grecian landsman, with his rustic andilliterate habits--his diet of sweet chestnuts, barley cakes, and pork(as contrasted with the fish which formed the chief seasoning for thebread of an Athenian)--his superior courage and endurance--his reverencefor Lacedaemonian headship as an old and customary influence--hissterility of intellect and imagination as well as his slackness inenterprise--his unchangeable rudeness of relations with the gods, whichled him to scourge and prick Pan if he came back empty-handed from thechase; while the inhabitant of Phokaea or Miletus exemplifies theGrecian mariner, eager in search of gain--active, skilful, and daring atsea, but inferior in steadfast bravery on land--more excitable inimagination as well as more mutable in character--full of pomp andexpense in religious manifestations toward the Ephesian Artemis or theApollo of Branchidae: with a mind more open to the varieties of Grecianenergy and to the refining influences of Grecian civilization. 

The configuration of the Grecian territory, so like in many respects tothat of Switzerland, produced two effects of great moment upon thecharacter and history of the people. In the first place, it materiallystrengthened their powers of defense: it shut up the country againstthose invasions from the interior which successively subjugated alltheir continental colonies; and it at the same time rendered eachfraction more difficult to be attacked by the rest, so as to exercise acertain conservative influence in assuring the tenure of actualpossessors: for the pass of Thermopylae between Thessaly and Phokis, that of Kithaeron between Boeotia and Attica, or the mountainous rangeof Oneion and Geraneia along the Isthmus of Corinth, were positionswhich an inferior number of brave men could hold against a much greaterforce of assailants. But, in the next place, while it tended to protecteach section of Greeks from being conquered, it also kept thempolitically disunited and perpetuated their separate autonomy. Itfostered that powerful principle of repulsion, which disposed even thesmallest township to constitute itself a political unit apart from therest, and to resist all idea of coalescence with others, either amicableor compulsory. To a modern reader, accustomed to large politicalaggregations, and securities for good government through therepresentative system, it requires a certain mental effort to transporthimself back to a time when even the smallest town clung so tenaciouslyto its right of self-legislation. Nevertheless, such was the generalhabit and feeling of the ancient world, throughout Italy, Sicily, Spain, and Gaul. Among the Hellens it stands out more conspicuously, forseveral reasons--first, because they seem to have pushed themultiplication of autonomous units to an extreme point, seeing that evenislands not larger than Peparethos and Amorgos had two or three separatecity communities; secondly, because they produced, for the first time inthe history of mankind, acute systematic thinkers on matters ofgovernment, amongst all of whom the idea of the autonomous city wasaccepted as the indispensable basis of political speculation; thirdly, because this incurable subdivision proved finally the cause of theirruin, in spite of pronounced intellectual superiority over theirconquerors; and lastly, because incapacity of political coalescence didnot preclude a powerful and extensive sympathy between the inhabitantsof all the separate cities, with a constant tendency to fraternize fornumerous purposes, social, religious, recreative, intellectual, andaesthetical. For these reasons, the indefinite multiplication ofself-governing towns, though in truth a phenomenon common to ancientEurope as contrasted with the large monarchies of Asia, appears moremarked among the ancient Greeks than elsewhere; and there cannot be anydoubt that they owe it, in a considerable degree, to the multitude ofinsulating boundaries which the configuration of their countrypresented. 

Nor is it rash to suppose that the same causes may have tended topromote that unborrowed intellectual development for which they stand soconspicuous. General propositions respecting the working of climate andphysical agencies upon character are indeed treacherous; for ourknowledge of the globe is now sufficient to teach us that heat and cold, mountain and plain, sea and land, moist and dry atmosphere, are allconsistent with the greatest diversities of resident men: moreover, thecontrast between the population of Greece itself, for the sevencenturies preceding the Christian era, and the Greeks of more moderntimes, is alone enough to inculcate reserve in such speculations. Nevertheless we may venture to note certain improving influences, connected with their geographical position, at a time when they had nobooks to study, and no more advanced predecessors to imitate. 

We may remark, first, that their position made them at once mountaineersand mariners, thus supplying them with great variety of objects, sensations, and adventures; next, that each petty community, nestledapart amidst its own rocks, was sufficiently severed from the rest topossess an individual life and attributes of its own, yet not so far asto subtract it from the sympathies of the remainder; so that anobservant Greek, commercing with a great diversity of half-countrymen, whose language he understood, and whose idiosyncrasies he couldappreciate, had access to a larger mass of social and politicalexperience than any other man in so unadvanced an age could personallyobtain. The Phoenician, superior to the Greek on shipboard, traversedwider distances and saw a greater number of strangers, but had not thesame means of intimate communion with a multiplicity of fellows in bloodand language. His relations, confined to purchase and sale, did notcomprise that mutuality of action and reaction which pervaded the crowdat a Grecian festival. The scene which here presented itself was amixture of uniformity and variety highly stimulating to the observantfaculties of a man of genius--who at the same time, if he sought tocommunicate his own impressions, or to act upon this mingled and diverseaudience, was forced to shake off what was peculiar to his own town orcommunity, and to put forth matter in harmony with the feelings of all. It is thus that we may explain, in part, that penetrating apprehensionof human life and character, and that power of touching sympathiescommon to all ages and nations, which surprises us so much in theunlettered authors of the old epic. Such periodical intercommunion ofbrethren habitually isolated from each other was the only means thenopen of procuring for the bard a diversified range of experience and amany-colored audience; and it was to a great degree the result ofgeographical causes. Perhaps among other nations such facilitatingcauses might have been found, yet without producing any resultscomparable to the Iliad and Odyssey. But Homer was neverthelessdependent upon the conditions of his age, and we can at least point outthose peculiarities in early Grecian society without which Homericexcellence would never have existed--the geographical position is one, the language another. 

3. Isolation as an Explanation of National Differences[114]

To decide between race and environment as the efficient cause of anysocial phenomenon is a matter of singular interest at this time. Aschool of sociological writers, dazzled by the recent brilliantdiscoveries in European ethnology, show a decided inclination to sinkthe racial explanation up to the handle in every possible phase ofsocial life in Europe. It must be confessed that there is provocationfor it. So persistent have the physical characteristics of the peopleshown themselves that it is not surprising to find theories of acorresponding inheritance of mental attributes in great favor. 

This racial school of social philosophers derives much of its data fromFrench sources. For this reason, and also because our anthropologicalknowledge of that country is more complete than for any other part ofEurope, we shall confine our attention primarily to France. In theunattractive upland areas of isolation is the Alpine broad-headed racecommon to central Europe. At the north, extending down in a broad beltdiagonally as far as Limoges and along the coast of Brittany, there isintermixture with the blond, long-headed Teutonic race; while along thesouthern coast, penetrating up the Rhone Valley, is found the extensionof the equally long-headed but brunet Mediterranean stock. These ethnicfacts correspond to physical ones; three areas of geographical isolationare distinct centers of distribution of the Alpine race. 

The organization of the family is the surest criterion of the stage ofsocial evolution attained by a people. No other phase of humanassociation is so many-sided, so fundamental, so pregnant for thefuture. For this reason we may properly begin our study by anexamination of a phenomenon which directly concerns the stability of thedomestic institution--viz. , divorce. What are the facts as to itsdistribution in France? Marked variations between different districtsoccur. Paris is at one extreme; Corsica, as always, at the other. Ofsingular interest to us is the parallel which at once appears betweenthis distribution of divorce and that of head form. The areas ofisolation peopled by the Alpine race are characterized by almostcomplete absence of legal severance of domestic relations betweenhusband and wife. 

Do the facts instanced above have any ethnic significance? Do they meanthat the Alpine type, as a race, holds more tenaciously than does theTeuton to its family traditions, resenting thereby the interference ofthe state in its domestic institutions? A foremost statisticalauthority, Jacques Bertillon, has devoted considerable space to provingthat some relation between the two exists. Confronted by the precedingfacts, his explanation is this: that the people of the southerndepartments, inconstant perhaps and fickle, nevertheless are quicklypacified after a passionate outbreak of any kind. Husband and wife mayquarrel, but the estrangement is dissipated before recourse to the lawcan take place. On the other hand, the Norman peasant, Teutonic by race, cold and reserved, nurses his grievances for a long time; they abidewith him, smoldering but persistent. "Words and even blows terminatequarrels quickly in the south; in the north they are settled by thejudge. " From similar comparisons in other European countries, M. Bertillon draws the final conclusion that the Teutonic race betrays asingular preference for this remedy for domestic ills. It becomes forhim an ethnic trait. 

Another social phenomenon has been laid at the door of the Teutonic raceof northern Europe; one which even more than divorce is directly theconcomitant of modern intellectual and economic progress. We refer tosuicide. Morselli devotes a chapter of his interesting treatise uponthis subject to proving that "the purer the German race--that is to say, the stronger the Germanism (e. G. , Teutonism) of a country--the more itreveals in its psychical character an extraordinary propensity toself-destruction. "

Consider for a moment the relative frequency of suicide with referenceto the ethnic composition of France. The parallel between the two isalmost exact in every detail. There are again our three areas of Alpineracial occupation--Savoy, Auvergne, and Brittany--in which suicide fallsannually below seventy-five per million inhabitants. There, again, isthe Rhone Valley and the broad diagonal strip from Paris to Bordeaux, characterized alike by strong infusion of Teutonic traits and relativefrequency of the same social phenomenon. 

Divorce and suicide will serve as examples of the mode of proof adoptedfor tracing a number of other social phenomena to an ethnic origin. ThusLapouge attributes the notorious depopulation of large areas in Franceto the sterility incident upon intermixture between the several racialtypes of which the population is constituted. This he seeks to provefrom the occurrence of a decreasing birth-rate in all the open, fertiledistricts where the Teutonic element has intermingled with the nativepopulation. Because wealth happens to be concentrated in the fertileareas of Teutonic occupation, it is again assumed that this coincidencedemonstrates either a peculiar acquisitive aptitude in this race or elsea superior measure of frugality. 

By this time our suspicions are aroused. The argument is too simple. Itsconclusions are too far-reaching. By this we do not mean to deny thefacts of geographical distribution in the least. It is only the validityof the ethnic explanation which we deny. We can do better for our racesthan even its best friends along such lines of proof. With the data atour disposition there is no end to the racial attributes which we mightsaddle upon our ethnic types. Thus, it would appear that the Alpine typein its sterile areas of isolation was the land-hungry one described byZola in his powerful novels. For, roughly speaking, individualland-holdings are larger in them on the average than among the Teutonicpopulations. Peasant proprietorship is more common also; there are fewertenant farmers. Crime in the two areas assumes a different aspect. Wefind that among populations of Alpine type, in the isolated uplands, offenses against the person predominate in the criminal calendar. In theSeine basin, along the Rhone Valley, wherever the Teuton is in evidence, on the other hand, there is less respect for property; so that offensesagainst the person, such as assault, murder, and rape, give place toembezzlements, burglary, and arson. It might just as well be argued thatthe Teuton shows a predilection for offenses against property; thenative Celt an equal propensity for crimes against the person. 

Appeal to the social geography of other countries, wherein the ethnicbalance of power is differently distributed, may be directed againstalmost any of the phenomena we have instanced in France as seemingly ofracial derivation. In the case either of suicide or divorce, if we turnfrom France to Italy or Germany, we instantly perceive all sorts ofcontradictions. The ethnic type, which is so immune from propensity toself-destruction or domestic disruption in France, becomes in Italy mostprone to either mode of escape from temporary earthly ills. For eachphenomenon culminates in frequency in the northern half of the lattercountry, stronghold of the Alpine race. Nor is there an appreciableinfusion of Teutonism, physically speaking, herein, to account for thechange of heart. Of course, it might be urged that this merely showsthat the Mediterranean race of southern Italy is as much less inclinedto the phenomenon than the Alpine race in these respects, as it in turnlags behind the Teuton. For it must be confessed that even in Italyneither divorce nor suicide is so frequent anywhere as in Teutonicnorthern France. Well, then, turn to Germany. Compare its two halves inthese respects again. The northern half of the empire is most purelyTeutonic by race; the southern is not distinguishable ethnically, as wehave sought to prove, from central France. Bavaria, Baden, andWürtemberg are scarcely more Teutonic by race than Auvergne. Do we finddifferences in suicide, for example, following racial boundaries here?Far from it; for Saxony is its culminating center; and Saxony, as weknow, is really half-Slavic at heart, as is also eastern Prussia. Suicide should be most frequent in Schleswig-Holstein and Hanover, ifracial causes were appreciably operative. The argument, in fact, fallsto pieces of its own weight, as Durkheim has shown. His conclusion isthus stated:

"If the Germans are more addicted to suicide, it is not because of theblood in their veins, but of the civilization in which they have beenraised. "

A summary view of the class of social phenomena seemingly characteristicof the distinct races in France, if we extend our field of vision tocover all Europe, suggests an explanation for the curious coincidencesand parallelisms noted above, which is the exact opposite of the racialone. 

Our theory, then, is this: that most of the social phenomena we havenoted as peculiar to the areas occupied by the Alpine type are thenecessary outcome, not of racial proclivities but rather of thegeographical and social isolation characteristic of the habitat of thisrace. The ethnic type is still pure for the very same reason that socialphenomena are primitive. Wooden ploughs pointed with stone, bloodrevenge, an undiminished birth-rate, and relative purity of physicaltype are all alike derivatives from a common cause, isolation, directlyphysical and coincidently social. We discover, primarily, an influenceof environment where others perceive phenomena of ethnic inheritance. 

4. Natural versus Vicinal Location in National Development[115]

In contradistinction to continental and intercontinental location, anthropogeography recognizes two other narrower meanings of the term. The innate mobility of the human race, due primarily to the eternalfood-quest and increase of numbers, leads a people to spread out over aterritory till they reach the barriers which nature has set up, or meetthe frontiers of other tribes and nations. Their habitat or theirspecific geographic location is thus defined by natural features ofmountain, desert, and sea, or by the neighbors whom they are unable todisplace, or more often by both. 

A people has, therefore, a twofold location, an immediate one, basedupon their actual territory, and a mediate or vicinal one, growing outof its relations to the countries nearest them. The first is a questionof the land under their feet; the other, of the neighbors about them. The first or natural location embodies the complex of local geographicconditions which furnish the basis for their tribal or nationalexistence. This basis may be a peninsula, island, archipelago, anoasis, an arid steppe, a mountain system, or a fertile lowland. Thestronger the vicinal location, the more dependent is the people upon theneighboring states, but the more potent the influence which it can, under certain circumstances, exert upon them. Witness Germany inrelation to Holland, France, Austria, and Poland. The stronger thenatural location, on the other hand, the more independent is the peopleand the more strongly marked is the national character. This isexemplified in the people of mountain lands like Switzerland, Abyssinia, and Nepal; of peninsulas like Korea, Spain, and Scandinavia; and ofislands like England and Japan. Today we stand amazed at that strongprimordial brand of the Japanese character which nothing can blur orerase. 

Clearly defined natural locations, in which barriers of mountains andsea draw the boundaries and guarantee some degree of isolation, tend tohold their people in a calm embrace, to guard them against outsideinterference and infusion of foreign blood, and thus to make themdevelop the national genius in such direction as the local geographicconditions permit. In the unceasing movements which have made up most ofthe historic and prehistoric life of the human race, in their migrationsand counter-migrations, their incursions, retreats, and expansions overthe face of the earth, vast unfenced areas, like the open lowlands ofRussia and the grasslands of Africa, present the picture of a greatthoroughfare swept by pressing throngs. Other regions, more secluded, appear as quiet nooks, made for a temporary halt or a permanent rest. Here some part of the passing human flow is caught as in a vessel andheld till it crystallizes into a nation. These are the conspicuous areasof race characterization. The development of the various ethnic andpolitical offspring of the Roman Empire in the naturally defined areasof Italy, the Iberian Peninsula, and France illustrates the process ofnational differentiation which goes on in such secluded-locations. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. Isolation in Anthropogeography and Biology

A systematic treatise upon isolation as a sociological concept remainsto be written. The idea of isolation as a tool of investigation has beenfashioned with more precision in geography and in biology than insociology. 

Research in human geography has as its object the study of man in hisrelations to the earth. Students of civilization, like Montesquieu andBuckle, sought to explain the culture and behavior of peoples as thedirect result of the physical environment. Friedrich Ratzel with his"thorough training as a naturalist, broad reading, and travel" and aboveall, his comprehensive knowledge of ethnology, recognized the importanceof direct effects, such as cultural isolation. Jean Brunhes, by theselection of small natural units, his so-called "islands, " has madeintensive studies of isolated groups in the oases of the deserts of theSub and of the Mzab, and in the high mountains of the central Andes. 

Biology indicates isolation as one of the factors in the origin of thespecies. Anthropology derives the great races of mankind--the Caucasian, the Ethiopian, the Malay, the Mongolian, and the Indian--fromgeographical separation following an assumed prehistoric dispersion. AGerman scholar, Dr. Georg Gerland, has prepared an atlas which plotsdifferences in physical traits, such as skin color and hair texture, asindicating the geographical distribution of races. 

2. Isolation and Social Groups

Anthropogeographical and biological investigations have proceeded uponthe assumption, implicit or explicit, that the geographic environment, and the physical and mental traits of races and individuals, _determine_individual and collective behavior. What investigations in humangeography and heredity actually demonstrate is that the geographicenvironment and the original nature of man _condition_ the culture andconduct of groups and of persons. The explanations of isolation, so faras it affects social life, which have gained currency in the writings ofanthropologists and geographers, are therefore too simple. Sociologistsare able to take into account forms of isolation not considered by thestudents of the physical environment and of racial inheritance. Studiesof folkways, mores, culture, nationality, the products of a historicalor cultural process, disclose types of social contact which transcendthe barriers of geographical or racial separation, and reveal socialforms of isolation which prevent communication where there is closegeographical contact or common racial bonds. 

The literature upon isolated peoples ranges from investigations ofarrest of cultural development as, for example, the natives ofAustralia, the Mountain Whites of the southern states, or theinhabitants of Pitcairn Island to studies of hermit nations, of castesystems as in India, or of outcast groups such as feeble-minded "tribes"or hamlets, fraternities of criminals, and the underworld ofcommercialized prostitution. Special research in dialects, in folklore, and in provincialism shows how spatial isolation fixes differences inspeech, attitudes, folkways, and mores which, in turn, enforce isolationeven when geographic separation has disappeared. 

The most significant contribution to the study of isolation from thesociological standpoint has undoubtedly been made by Fishberg in a workentitled _The Jews, a Study of Race and Environment_. The author pointsout that the isolation of the Jew has been the result of neitherphysical environment nor of race, but of social barriers. "Judaism hasbeen preserved throughout the long years of Israel's dispersion by twofactors: its separative ritualism, which prevented close and intimatecontact with non-Jews, and the iron laws of the Christian theocracies ofEurope which encouraged and enforced 'isolation. '"[116]

3. Isolation and Personality

Philosophers, mystics, and religious enthusiasts have invariablystressed privacy for meditation, retirement for ecstatic communion withGod, and withdrawal from the contamination of the world. In 1784-86Zimmermann wrote an elaborate essay in which he dilates upon "thequestion whether it is easier to live virtuously in society or insolitude, " considering in Part I "the influence of occasional retirementupon the mind and the heart" and in Part II "the pernicious influence ofa total exclusion from society upon the mind and the heart. "

Actual research upon the effect of isolation upon personal developmenthas more of future promise than of present accomplishment. Theliterature upon cases of feral men is practically all of the anecdotaltype with observations by persons untrained in the modern scientificmethod. One case, however, "the savage of Aveyron" was studiedintensively by Itard, the French philosopher and otologist who cherishedhigh hopes of his mental and social development. After five years spentin a patient and varied but futile attempt at education, he confessedhis bitter disappointment. "Since my pains are lost and effortsfruitless, take yourself back to your forest and primitive tastes; or ifyour new wants make you dependent on society, suffer the penalty ofbeing useless, and go to Bicêtre, there to die in wretchedness. "

Only second in importance to the cases of feral men are theinvestigations which have been made of the results of solitaryconfinement. Morselli, in his well-known work on _Suicide_, presentedstatistics showing that self-destruction was many times as frequentamong convicts under the system of absolute isolation as compared withthat of association during imprisonment. Studies of Auburn prison in NewYork, of Mountjoy in England, and penal institutions on the continentshow the effects of solitary incarceration in the increase of cases ofsuicides, insanity, invalidism, and death. 

Beginnings have been made in child study, psychiatry, and psychoanalysisof the effects of different types of isolation upon personaldevelopment. Some attention has been given to the study of effects uponmentality and personality of physical defects such as deaf-mutism andblindness. Students of the so-called "morally defective child, " that isthe child who appears deficient in emotional and sympathetic responses, suggest as a partial explanation the absence in infancy and earlychildhood of intimate and sympathetic contacts with the mother. Aninvestigation not yet made but of decisive bearing upon this point willbe a comparative study of children brought up in families with thosereared in institutions. 

Psychiatry and psychoanalysis in probing mental life and personalityhave related certain mental and social abnormalities to isolation fromsocial contact. Studies of paranoia and of egocentric personalities haveresulted in the discovery of the only or favorite child complex. Theexclusion of the boy or girl in the one-child family from the give andtake of democratic relations with brothers and sisters results, according to the theory advanced, in a psychopathic personality of theself-centered type. A contributing cause of homosexuality, it is said bypsychoanalysts, is the isolation during childhood from usual associationwith individuals of the same sex. Research in dementia praecox disclosesa symptom and probably a cause of this mental malady to be thewithdrawal of the individual from normal social contacts and thesubstitution of an imaginary for a real world of persons and events. Dementia praecox has been related by one psychoanalyst to the "shut-in"type of personality. 

The literature on the subject of privacy in its relation to personaldevelopment is fragmentary but highly promising for future research. Thestudy of the introspective type of personality suggests thatself-analysis is the counterpart of the inhibition of immediate andimpulsive self-expression in social relations. Materials for anunderstanding of the relation of retirement and privacy to theaesthetic, moral, and creative life of the person may be found in thelives of hermits, inventors, and religious leaders; in the studies ofseclusion, prayer, and meditation; and in research upon taboo, prestige, and attitudes of superiority and inferiority. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY: MATERIALS FOR THE STUDY OF ISOLATION

I. CHARACTERISTIC SENTIMENTS AND ATTITUDES OF THE ISOLATED PERSON

(1) Zimmermann, Johann G. _Solitude. _ Or the effects of occasionalretirement on the mind, the heart, general society. Translated from theGerman. London, 1827. 

(2) Canat, René. _Une forme du mal du siècle. _ Du sentiment de lasolitude morale chez les romantiques et les parnassiens. Paris, 1904. 

(3) Goltz, E. Von der. _Das Gebet in der aeltesten Christenheit. _Leipzig, 1901. 

(4) Strong, Anna L. _A Consideration of Prayer from the Standpoint ofSocial Psychology. _ Chicago, 1908. 

(5) Hoch, A. "On Some of the Mental Mechanisms in Dementia Praecox, "_Journal of Abnormal Psychology_, V (1910), 255-73. [A study of theisolated person. ]

(6) Bohannon, E. W. "Only Child, " _Pedagogical Seminary_, V (1897-98), 475-96. 

(7) Brill, A. A. _Psychanalysis. _ Its theories and practicalapplication. "The Only or Favorite Child in Adult Life, " pp. 253-65. 2drev. Ed. Philadelphia and London, 1914. 

(8) Neter, Eugen. _Das einzige Kind und seine Erziehung. _ Ein ernstesMahnwort an Eltern und Erzieher. München, 1914. 

(9) Whiteley, Opal S. _The Story of Opal. _ Boston, 1920. 

(10) Delbrück, A. _Die pathologische Lüge und die psychisch abnormenSchwindler. _ Stuttgart, 1891. 

(11) Healy, Wm. _Pathological Lying. _ Boston, 1915. 

(12) Dostoévsky, F. _The House of the Dead; or, Prison Life in Siberia. _Translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett. New York, 1915. 

(13) Griffiths, Arthur. _Secrets of the Prison House, or Gaol Studiesand Sketches. _ I, 262-80. London, 1894. 

(14) Kingsley, Charles. _The Hermits. _ London and New York, 1871. 

(15) Baring-Gould, S. _Lives of Saints. _ 16 vols. Rev. Ed. Edinburgh, 1916. [See references in index to hermits. ]

(16) Solenberger, Alice W. _One Thousand Homeless Men. _ A study oforiginal records. Russell Sage Foundation. New York, 1911. 

II. TYPES OF ISOLATION AND TYPES OF SOCIAL GROUPS

(1) Fishberg, Maurice. _The Jews. _ A study of race and environment. London and New York, 1911. 

(2) Gummere, Amelia M. _The Quaker. _ A study in costume. Philadelphia, 1901. 

(3) Webster, Hutton. _Primitive Secret Societies. _ A study in earlypolitics and religion. New York, 1908. 

(4) Heckethorn, C. W. _The Secret Societies of all Ages and Countries. _A comprehensive account of upwards of one hundred and sixty secretorganizations--religious, political, and social--from the most remoteages down to the present time. 2 vols. New ed. , rev. And enl. London, 1897. 

(5) Fosbroke, Thomas D. _British Monachism, or Manners and Customs ofthe Monks and Nuns of England. _ London, 1817. 

(6) Wishart, Alfred W. _A Short History of Monks and Monasteries. _Trenton, N. J. , 1900. [Chap. I, pp. 17-70, gives an account of the monkas a type of human nature. ]

III. GEOGRAPHICAL ISOLATION AND CULTURAL AREAS

(1) Ratzel, Friedrich. _Politische Geographie; oder, Die Geographie derStaaten, des Verkehres und des Krieges. _ 2d. Ed. München, 1903. 

(2) Semple, Ellen. _Influences of Geographic Environment, on the Basisof Ratzel's System of Anthropogeography. _ Chap. Xiii, "Island Peoples, "pp. 409-72. New York, 1911. [Bibliography. ]

(3) Brunhes, Jean. _Human Geography. _ An attempt at a positiveclassification, principles, and examples. 2d ed. Translated from theFrench by T. C. LeCompte. Chicago, 1920. [See especially chaps. Vi, vii, and viii, pp. 415-569. ]

(4) Vallaux, Camille. _La Mer. _ (Géographie Sociale. ) Populationsmaritimes, migrations, pêches, commerce, domination de la mer, Chap. Iii, "Les isles et l'insularité. " Paris, 1908. 

(5) Gerland, Georg. _Atlas der Völkerkunde. _ Gotha, 1892. [Indicates thegeographical distribution of differences in skin color, hair form, clothing, customs, languages, etc. ]

(6) Ripley, William Z. _The Races of Europe. _ A sociological study. NewYork, 1899. 

(7) Campbell, John C. _The Southern Highlander and His Homeland. _ NewYork, Russell Sage Foundation, 1921. [Bibliography. ]

(8) Barrow, Sir John. _A Description of Pitcairn's Island and ItsInhabitants. _ With an authentic account of the mutiny of the ship"Bounty" and of the subsequent fortunes of the mutineers. New York, 1832. 

(9) Routledge, Mrs. Scoresby. _The Mystery of Easter Island. _ The storyof an expedition. Chap. Xx, "Pitcairn Island. " London, 1919. 

(10) Galpin, Charles J. _Rural Life. _ New York, 1918. 

IV. LANGUAGE FRONTIERS AND NATIONALITY

(1) Dominian, Leon. _The Frontiers of Language and Nationality inEurope. _ New York, 1917. [Bibliography, pp. 348-56. ]

(2) Auerbach, Bertrand. _Les Races et les nationalités enAutriche-Hongrie. _ 2d rev. Ed. Paris, 1917. 

(3) Bernhard, L. _Das polnische Gemeinwesen im preussischen Staat. _ DiePolenfrage. Leipzig, 1910. 

(4) Bourgoing, P. De. _Les guerres d'idiome et de nationalité. _Tableaux, esquisses, et souvenirs d'histoire contemporaine. Paris, 1849. 

(5) _Cambridge Modern History_, Vol. XI, "The Growth of Nationalities. "Cambridge, 1909. 

(6) Meillet, A. "Les Langues et les Nationalités, " _Scientia_, Vol. XVIII, (Sept. , 1915), pp. 192-201. 

(7) Pfister, Ch. "La limite de la langue française et de la langueallemande en Alsace-Lorraine, " Considérations historiques. _Bull. Soc. Géogr. De l'Est_, Vol. XII, 1890. 

(8) This, G. "Die deutsch-französische Sprachgrenze in Lothringen, "_Beiträge zur Landes- und Volkskunde von Elsass-Lothringen_, Vol. I, Strassburg, 1887. 

(9)----. "Die deutsch-französische Sprachgrenze in Elsass, " _ibid. _, 1888. 

V. DIALECTS AS A FACTOR IN ISOLATION

(1) Babbitt, Eugene H. "College Words and Phrases, " _Dialect Notes_, II(1900-1904), 3-70. 

(2)----. "The English of the Lower Classes in New York City andVicinity, " _Dialect Notes_, Vol. I, Part ix, 1896. 

(3)----. "The Geography of the Great Languages, " _World's Work_, Feb. 15(1907-8), 9903-7. 

(4) Churchill, William. _Beach-la-mar: the Jargon or Trade Speech of theWestern Pacific. _ Washington, 1911. 

(5) Dana, Richard H. , Jr. _A Dictionary of Sea Terms. _ London, 1841. 

(6) Elliott, A. M. "Speech-Mixture in French Canada: English and French, "_American Journal of Philology_, X (1889), 133. 

(7) Flaten, Nils. "Notes on American-Norwegian with a Vocabulary, "_Dialect Notes_, II (1900-1904), 115-26. 

(8) Harrison, James A. "Negro-English, " _Transactions and ProceedingsAmerican Philological Association_, XVI (1885), Appendix, pp. Xxxi-xxxiii. 

(9) Hempl, George. "Language-Rivalry and Speech-Differentiation in theCase of Race-Mixture, " _Transactions and Proceedings of the AmericanPhilological Association_. XXIX (1898), 31-47. 

(10) Knortz, Karl. _Amerikanische Redensarten und Volksgebräuche. _Leipzig, 1907. 

(11) Letzner, Karl. _Wörterbuch der englischen Volkssprache Australiensund der englischen Mischsprachen. _ Halle, 1891. 

(12) Pettman, Charles. _Africanderisms. _ A glossary of South Africancolloquial words and phrases and of place and other names. London andNew York, 1913. 

(13) Ralph, Julian. "The Language of the Tenement-Folk, " _Harper'sWeekly_, XLI (Jan. 23, 1897), 90. 

(14) Skeat, Walter W. _English Dialects from the Eighth Century to thePresent Day_. Cambridge, 1911. 

(15) Yule, Henry, and Burnell, A. C. _Hobson-Jobson. _ A glossary ofcolloquial Anglo-Indian words and phrases, and of kindred terms, etymological, historical, geographical, and discursive; new ed. By Wm. Crooke, London, 1903. 

VI. PHYSICAL DEFECT AS A FORM OF ISOLATION

(1) Bell, Alexander G. "Memoir upon the Formation of a Deaf Variety ofthe Human Race. " _National Academy of Sciences, Memoirs_, II, 177-262. Washington, D. C. , 1884. 

(2) Fay, Edward A. _Marriages of the Deaf in America. _ An inquiryconcerning the results of marriages of the deaf in America. Washington, D. C. , 1893. 

(3) Desagher, Maurice. "La timidité chez les aveugles, " _Revuephilosophique_, LXXVI (1913), 269-74. 

(4) Best, Harry. _The Deaf. _ Their position in society and the provisionfor their education in the United States. New York, 1914. 

(5) ----. _The Blind. _ Their condition and the work being done for themin the United States. New York, 1919. 

VII. FERAL MEN

(1) Rauber, August. _Homo Sapiens Ferus_; oder, Die Zustände derVerwilderten und ihre Bedeutung für Wissenschaft, Politik, und Schule. Leipzig, 1885. 

(2) Seguin, Edward. _Idiocy and Its Treatment by the PhysiologicalMethod. _ Pp. 14-23. New York, 1866. 

(3) Bonnaterre, J. P. _Notice historique sur le sauvage de l'Aveyron, etsur quelques autres individus qu'on a trouvés dans les forêts àdifférentes époques. _ Paris, 1800. 

(4) Itard, Jean E. M. G. _De l'éducation d'un homme sauvage, et despremiers developpemens physiques et moraux du jeune sauvage del'Aveyron. _ Pp. 45-46. Paris, 1801. 

(5) Feuerbach, Paul J. A. Von. _Caspar Hauser. _ An account of anindividual kept in a dungeon from early childhood, to about the age ofseventeen. Translated from the German by H. G. Linberg. London, 1834. 

(6) Stanhope, Philip Henry [4th Earl]. _Tracts relating to CasparHauser. _ Translated from the original German. London, 1836. 

(7) Lang, Andrew. _Historical Mysteries. _ London, 1904. 

(8) Tredgold, A. F. _Mental Deficiency. _ "Isolation Amentia, " pp. 297-305. 3d rev. Ed. New York, 1920. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. Isolation as a Condition of Originality. 

2. The Relation of Social Contact and of Isolation to HistoricInventions and Discoveries, as the Law of Gravitation, MendelianInheritance, the Electric Light, etc. 

3. Isolated Types: the Hermit, the Mystic, the Prophet, the Stranger, and the Saint. 

4. Isolation, Segregation, and the Physically Defective: as the Blind, the Deaf-Mute, the Physically Handicapped. 

5. Isolated Areas and Cultural Retardation: the Southern Mountaineer, Pitcairn Islanders, the Australian Aborigines. 

6. "Moral" Areas, Isolation, and Segregation: City Slums, ViceDistricts, "Breeding-places of Crime. "

7. The Controlled versus the Natural process of Segregation of theFeeble-minded. 

8. Isolation and Insanity. 

9. Privacy in the Home. 

10. Isolation and Prestige. 

11. Isolation as a Defence against the Invasion of Personality. 

12. Nationalism as a Form of Isolation. 

13. Biological and Social Immunity: or Biological Immunity fromInfection, Personal or Group Immunity against Social Contagion. 

14. The Only Child. 

15. The Pathological Liar Considered from the Point of View ofIsolation. 

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. Is the distinction between isolation and social contact relative orabsolute?

2. What illustrations of the various forms of isolation, spatial, structural, habitudinal, and psychical, occur to you?

3. By what process does isolation cause racial differentiation?

4. What is the relation of endogamy and exogamy (a) to isolation, and(b) to the establishment of a successful stock or race?

5. In what ways do the Jews and the Americans as racial types illustratethe effects of isolation and of contact?

6. What do you understand to be Bacon's definition of solitude?

7. What is the point in the saying "A great town is a great solitude"?

8. What is the sociology of the creation by a solitary person ofimaginary companions?

9. Under what conditions does an individual prefer solitude to society?Give illustrations. 

10. What are the devices used in prayer to secure isolation?

11. "Prayer has value in that it develops the essentially social form ofpersonal self-realization. " Explain. 

12. What are the interrelations of social contact and of privacy in thedevelopment of the ideal self?

13. What do you understand by the relation of erudition to originality?

14. In what ways does isolation (a) promote, (b) impede, originality? What other factors beside isolation are involved inoriginality?

15. What is the value of privacy?

16. What was the value of the monasteries?

17. What conclusions do you derive from the study of the cases of feralmen? Do these cases bear out the theory of Aristotle in regard to theeffect of isolation upon the individual?

18. What is the significance of Helen Keller's account of how she brokethrough the barriers of isolation?

19. What were the mental effects of solitude described by Hudson? How doyou explain the difference between the descriptions of the effect ofsolitude in the accounts given by Rousseau and by Hudson?

20. How does Galpin explain the relation of isolation to the developmentof the "rural mind"?

21. What are the effects of isolation upon the young man or young womanreared in the country?

22. Was Lincoln the product of isolation or of social contact?

23. To what extent are rural problems the result of isolation?

24. What do you understand by Thomas' statement, "The savage, the Negro, the peasant, the slum dwellers, and the white woman are notablesufferers by exclusion"?

25. What other of the subtler forms of isolation occur to you?

26. Is isolation to be regarded as always a disadvantage?

27. What do you understand by segregation as a process?

28. Give illustrations of groups other than those mentioned which havebecome segregated as a result of isolation. 

29. How would you describe the process by which isolation leads to thesegregation of the feeble-minded?

30. Why does a segregated group, like the feeble-minded, become anisolated group?

31. What are other illustrations of isolation resulting fromsegregation?

32. How would you compare Europe with the other continents withreference to number and distribution of isolated areas?

33. What do you understand to be the nature of the influence of thecradle land upon "the historical race"?

34. What illustrations from the Great War would you give of the effects(a) of central location; (b) of peripheral location?

35. How do you explain the contrast between the characteristics of theinhabitants of the Grecian inland and maritime cities?

36. To what extent may (a) the rise of the Greek city state, (b)Grecian intellectual development, and (c) the history of Greece, beinterpreted in terms of geographic isolation?

37. To what extent can you explain the cultural retardation of Africa, as compared with European progress, by isolation?

38. Does race or isolation explain more adequately the followingcultural differences for the several areas of France--divorce, intensityof suicide, distribution of awards, relative frequency of men ofletters?

39. What is the relation of village and city emigration and immigrationto isolation?

40. What is the difference between a natural and a vicinal location?

41. In what ways does isolation affect national development?

42. What is the relation of geographical position in area toliterature?

FOOTNOTES:

[94] J. Arthur Thomson, _Heredity_, pp. 536-37. (G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1908. )

[95] From Francis Bacon, _Essays_, "Of Friendship. "

[96] Adapted from Jean Jacques Rousseau, _Letter to the President deMalesherbes, 1762_. 

[97] Adapted from George Albert Coe, _The Psychology of Religion_, pp. 311-18. (The University of Chicago Press, 1917. )

[98] From T. Sharper Knowlson, _Originality_, pp. 173-75. (T. WernerLaurie, 1918. )

[99] From Maurice H. Small, "On Some Psychical Relations of Society andSolitude, " in the _Pedagogical Seminary_, VII, No. 2 (1900), 32-36. 

[100] _Anthropological Review_, I (London, 1863), 21 ff. 

[101] _All the Year_, XVIII, 302 ff. 

[102] _Chambers' Journal_, LIX, 579 ff. 

[103] _The Penny Magazine_, II, 113. 

[104] Wagner, _Beitragen zur philosophischen Anthropologie_; Rauber, pp. 49-55. 

[105] "Histoire d'une jeune fille sauvage trouvée dans les bois à l'âgede dix ans, " _Magazin der Natur, Kunst, und Wissenschaft_, Leipzig, 1756, pp. 219-72; _Mercure de France_, December, 1731; Rudolphi, _Grundriss der Physiologie_, I, 25; Blumenbach, _Beiträge zurNaturgeschichte_, II, 38. 

[106] Adapted from Helen Keller, _The Story of My Life_, pp. 22-24. (Doubleday, Page & Co. , 1917. )

[107] Adapted from W. H. Hudson, "The Plains of Patagonia, " _UniversalReview_, VII (1890), 551-57. 

[108] Adapted from C. J. Galpin, _Rural Social Centers in Wisconsin_, pp. 1-3. (Wisconsin Experiment Station, Bulletin 234, 1913. )

[109] Adapted from W. I. Thomas, "Race Psychology, " in the _AmericanJournal of Sociology_, XVII (1911-12), 744-47. 

[110] Adapted from Robert E. Park, "The City: Suggestions for theInvestigation of Behavior in the City Environment, " in the _AmericanJournal of Sociology_, XX (1915), 579-83. 

[111] Adapted from L. W. Crafts and E. A. Doll, "The Proportion ofMental Defectives among Juvenile Delinquents, " in the _Journal ofDelinquency_, II (1917), 123-37. 

[112] Adapted from N. S. Shaler, _Nature and Man in America_, pp. 151-66. (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1900. )

[113] Adapted from George Grote, _History of Greece_, II, 149-57. (JohnMurray, 1888. )

[114] From William Z. Ripley, _The Races of Europe_, pp. 515-30. (D. Appleton & Co. , 1899. )

[115] Adapted from Ellen C. Semple, _Influences of GeographicEnvironment_, pp. 132-33. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1911. )

[116] Fishberg, _op. Cit. _, p. 555. 

CHAPTER V

SOCIAL CONTACTS

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Preliminary Notions of Social Contact

The fundamental social process is that of interaction. This interactionis (a) of persons with persons, and (b) of groups with groups. Thesimplest aspect of interaction, or its primary phase, is contact. Contact may be considered as the initial stage of interaction, andpreparatory to the later stages. The phenomena of social contact requireanalysis before proceeding to the more difficult study of the mechanismof social interaction. 

"With whom am I in contact?" Common sense has in stock ready answers tothis question. 

There is, first of all, the immediate circle of contact through thesenses. Touch is the most intimate kind of contact. Face-to-facerelations include, in addition to touch, visual and auditory sensations. Speech and hearing by their very nature establish a bond of contactbetween persons. 

Even in common usage, the expression "social contact" is employed beyondthe limits fixed by the immediate responses of touch, sight, andhearing. Its area has expanded to include connection through all theforms of communication, i. E. , language, letters, and the printed page;connection through the medium of the telephone, telegraph, radio, movingpicture, etc. The evolution of the devices for communication has takenplace in the fields of two senses alone, those of hearing and seeing. Touch remains limited to the field of primary association. But thenewspaper with its elaborate mechanism of communication gives publicityto events in London, Moscow, and Tokio, and the motion picture unreelsto our gaze scenes from distant lands and foreign peoples with all theillusion of reality. 

The frontiers of social contact are farther extended to the widesthorizons, by commerce. The economists, for example, include in theirconception of society the intricate and complex maze of relationscreated by the competition and co-operation of individuals and societieswithin the limits of a world-wide economy. This inclusion of unconsciousas well as conscious reciprocal influences in the concept of socialrelations brings into "contact" the members of a village missionarysociety with the savages of the equatorial regions of Africa; or thepale-faced drug addict, with the dark-skinned Hindu laborers upon theopium fields of Benares; or the man gulping down coffee at the breakfasttable, with the Java planter; the crew of the Pacific freighter and itscargo of spices with the American wholesaler and retailer in foodproducts. In short, everyone is in a real, though concealed and devious, way in contact with every other person in the world. Contacts of thistype, remote from the familiar experiences of everyday life, havereality to the intellectual and the mystic and are appreciated by themasses only when co-operation breaks down, or competition becomesconscious and passes into conflict. 

These three popular meanings of contacts emphasize (1) the intimacy ofsensory responses, (2) the extension of contact through devices ofcommunication based upon sight and hearing, and (3) the solidarity andinterdependence created and maintained by the fabric of social life, woven as it is from the intricate and invisible strands of humaninterests in the process of a world-wide competition and co-operation. 

2. The Sociological Concept of Contact

The use of the term "contact" in sociology is not a departure from, buta development of, its customary significance. In the preceding chapterthe point was made that the distinction between isolation and contact isnot absolute but relative. Members of a society spatially separate, butsocially in contact through sense perception and through communicationof ideas, may be thereby mobilized to collective behavior. Sociologicalinterest in this situation lies in the fact that the various kinds ofsocial contacts between persons and groups determine behavior. Thestudent of problems of American society, for example, realizes thenecessity of understanding the mutual reactions involved in the contactsof the foreign and the native-born, of the white and the negro, and ofemployers and employees. In other words, contact, as the first stage ofsocial interaction, conditions and controls the later stages of theprocess. 

It is convenient, for certain purposes, to conceive of contact in termsof space. The contacts of persons and of groups may then be plotted inunits of _social distance_. This permits graphic representation ofrelations of sequence and of coexistence in terms both of units ofseparation and of contact. This spatial conception may now be applied tothe explanation of the readings in social contacts. 

3. Classification of the Materials

In sociological literature there have grown up certain distinctionsbetween types of social contacts. Physical contacts are distinguishedfrom social contacts; relations within the "in-group" are perceived tobe different from relations with the "out-group"; contacts of historicalcontinuity are compared with contacts of mobility; primary contacts areset off from secondary contacts. How far and with what advantage maythese distinctions be stated in spatial terms?

a) _Land as a basis for social contacts. _--The position of persons andpeoples on the earth gives us a literal picture of the spatialconception of social contact. The cluster of homes in the Italianagricultural community suggests the difference in social life incomparison with the isolated homesteads of rural America. A giganticspot map of the United States upon which every family would be indicatedby a dot would represent schematically certain different conditionsinfluencing group behavior in arid areas, the open country, hamlets, villages, towns, and cities. The movements of persons charted withdetail sufficient to bring out variations in the daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly routine, would undoubtedly reveal interesting identities anddifferences in the intimacy and intensity of social contacts. It wouldbe possible and profitable to classify people with reference to theroutine of their daily lives. 

b) _Touch as the physiological basis of social contact. _--According tothe spatial conception the closest contacts possible are those of touch. The physical proximity involved in tactile sensations is, however, butthe symbol of the intensity of the reactions to contact. Desire andaversion for contacts, as Crawley shows in his selection, arise in themost intimate relations of human life. Love and hate, longing anddisgust, sympathy and hostility increase in intensity with intimacy ofassociation. It is a current sociological fallacy that closeness ofcontact results only in the growth of good will. The fact is, that withincreasing contact either attraction or repulsion may be the outcome, depending upon the situation and upon factors not yet fully analyzed. Peculiar conditions of contact, as its prolonged duration, its frequentrepetition, just as in the case of isolation from normal association, may lead to the inversion of the original impulses and sentiments ofaffection and antipathy. [117]

c) _Contacts with the "in-group" and with the "out-group. "_--Theconception of the we-group in terms of distance is that of a group inwhich the solidarity of units is so complete that the movements andsentiments of all are completely regulated with reference to theirinterests and behavior as a group. This control by the in-group over itsmembers makes for solidity and impenetrability in its relations with theout-group. Sumner in his _Folkways_ indicates how internal sympatheticcontacts and group egotism result in double standards of behavior:good-will and co-operation within the members of the in-group, hostilityand suspicion toward the out-group and its members. The essential pointis perhaps best brought out by Shaler in his distinction betweensympathetic and categoric contacts. He describes the transition fromcontacts of the out-group to those of the in-group, or from remote tointimate relations. From a distance, a person has the characteristics ofhis group, upon close acquaintance he reveals his individuality. 

d) _Historical continuity and mobility. _--Historical continuity, whichmaintains the identity of the present with the past, implies theexistence of a body of tradition which is transmitted from the older tothe younger generations. Through the medium of tradition, including inthat term all the learning, science, literature, and practical arts, notto speak of the great body of oral tradition which is after all a largerpart of life than we imagine, the historical and cultural life ismaintained. This is the meaning of the long period of childhood in manduring which the younger generation is living under the care andprotection of the older. When, for any reason, this contact of theyounger with the older generation is interrupted--as is true in the caseof immigrants--a very definite cultural deterioration frequently ensues. 

Contacts of mobility are those of a changing present, and measure thenumber and variety of the stimulations which the social life andmovements--the discovery of the hour, the book of the moment, thepassing fads and fashions--afford. Contacts of mobility give us noveltyand news. It is through contacts of this sort that change takes place. 

Mobility, accordingly, measures not merely the social contacts that onegains from travel and exploration, but the stimulation and suggestionsthat come to us through the medium of communication, by which sentimentsand ideas are put in social circulation. Through the newspaper, thecommon man of today participates in the social movements of his time. His illiterate forbear of yesterday, on the other hand, lived unmoved bythe current of world-events outside his hamlet. The _tempo_ of modernsocieties may be measured comparatively by the relative perfection ofdevices of communication and the rapidity of the circulation ofsentiments, opinions, and facts. Indeed, the efficiency of any societyor of any group is to be measured not alone in terms of numbers or ofmaterial resources, but also in terms of mobility and access throughcommunication and publicity to the common fund of tradition and culture. 

e) _Primary and secondary contacts. _--Primary contacts are those of"intimate face-to-face association"; secondary contacts are those ofexternality and greater distance. A study of primary associationindicates that this sphere of contact falls into two areas: one ofintimacy and the other of acquaintance. In the diagram which follows, the field of primary contacts has been subdivided so that it includes(x) a circle of greater intimacy, (y) a wider circle ofacquaintanceship. The completed chart would appear as shown on page 285. 

Primary contacts of the greatest intimacy are (a) those represented bythe affections that ordinarily spring up within the family, particularlybetween parents and children, husband and wife; and (b) those offellowship and affection outside the family as between lovers, bosomfriends, and boon companions. These relations are all manifestations ofa craving for response. These personal relationships are the nursery forthe development of human nature and personality. John Watson, whostudied several hundred new-born infants in the psychologicallaboratory, concludes that "the first few years are the all-importantones, for shaping the emotional life of the child. "[118] The primaryvirtues and ideals of which Cooley writes so sympathetically are, forthe most part, projections from family life. Certainly in these mostintimate relations of life in the contacts of the family circle, in theclosest friendships, personality is most severely tried, realizes itsmost characteristic expressions, or is most completely disorganized. 

[Illustration: FIG. 3

A, primary contacts; x, greater intimacy; y, acquaintanceship;B, secondary contacts]

Just as the life of the family represents the contacts of touch andresponse, the neighborhood or the village is the natural area of primarycontacts and the city the social environment of secondary contacts. Inprimary association individuals are in contact with each other atpractically all points of their lives. In the village "everyone knowseverything about everyone else. " Canons of conduct are absolute, socialcontrol is omnipotent, the status of the family and the individual isfixed. In secondary association individuals are in contact with eachother at only one or two points in their lives. In the city, theindividual becomes anonymous; at best he is generally known in only oneor two aspects of his life. Standards of behavior are relative; the oldprimary controls have disappeared; the new secondary instruments ofdiscipline, necessarily formal, are for the most part crude andinefficient; the standing of the family and of the individual isuncertain and subject to abrupt changes upward or downward in the socialscale. 

Simmel has made a brilliant contribution in his analysis of thesociological significance of "the stranger. " "The stranger" in thesociological sense is the individual who unites in his social relationsprimary and secondary contacts. Simmel himself employs the conception ofsocial distance in his statement of the stranger as the combination ofthe near and the far. It is interesting and significant to determine thedifferent types of the union of intimacy and externality in therelations of teacher and student, physician and patient, minister andlayman, lawyer and client, social worker and applicant for relief. 

A complete analysis of the bearing upon personal and cultural life ofchanges from a society based upon contacts of continuity and of primaryrelations to a society of increasing mobility organized around secondarycontacts cannot be given here. Certain of the most obvious contrasts ofthe transition may, however, be stated. Increasing mobility of personsin society almost inevitably leads to change and therefore to loss ofcontinuity. In primary groups, where social life moves slowly, there isa greater sense of continuity than in secondary groups where it movesrapidly. 

There is a further contrast if not conflict between direct and intimatecontacts and contacts based upon communication of ideas. All sense ofvalues, as Windelband has pointed out, [119] rests upon concreteexperience, that is to say upon sense contacts. Society, to the extentthat it is organized about secondary contacts, is based uponabstractions, upon science and technique. Secondary contacts of thistype have only secondary values because they represent means rather thanends. Just as all behavior arises in sense impressions it must alsoterminate in sense impressions to realize its ends and attain itsvalues. The effect of life in a society based on secondary contacts isto build up between the impulse and its end a world of means, to projectvalues into the future, and to direct life toward the realization ofdistant hopes. 

The ultimate effect upon the individual as he becomes accommodated tosecondary society is to find a substitute expression for his primaryresponse in the artificial physical environment of the city. Thedetachment of the person from intimate, direct, and spontaneous contactswith social reality is in large measure responsible for the intricatemaze of problems of urban life. 

The change from concrete and personal to abstract and impersonalrelations in economic and social life began with the IndustrialRevolution. The machine is the symbol of the monotonous routine ofimpersonal, unskilled, large-scale production just as the hand tool isthe token of the interesting activity of personal, skilled, handicraftwork. The so-called "instinct of workmanship" no longer finds expressionin the anonymous standardized production of modern industry. [120]

It is not in industry alone that the natural impulses of the person forresponse, recognition, and self-expression are balked. In social work, politics, religion, art, and sport the individual is represented now byproxies where formerly he participated in person. All the forms ofcommunal activity in which all persons formerly shared have been takenover by professionals. The great mass of men in most of the socialactivities of modern life are no longer actors, but spectators. Theaverage man of the present time has been relegated by the influence ofthe professional politician to the rôle of taxpayer. In social workorganized charity has come between the giver and the needy. 

In these and other manifold ways the artificial conditions of city lifehave deprived the person of most of the natural outlets for theexpression of his interests and his energies. To this fact is to beattributed in large part the restlessness, the thirst for novelty andexcitement so characteristic of modern life. This emotional unrest hasbeen capitalized by the newspapers, commercialized recreations, fashion, and agitation in their appeal to the sensations, the emotions, and theinstincts loosened from the satisfying fixations of primary-group life. The _raison d'être_ of social work, as well as the fundamental problemof all social institutions in city life must be understood in itsrelation to this background. 

II. MATERIALS

A. PHYSICAL CONTACT AND SOCIAL CONTACT

1. The Frontiers of Social Contact[121]

Sociology deals especially with the phenomena of _contact_. Thereactions which result from voluntary or involuntary contact of humanbeings with other human beings are the phenomena peculiarly "social, " asdistinguished from the phenomena that belong properly to biology andpsychology. 

In the first place, we want to indicate, not the essence of the social, but the location, the sphere, the extent, of the social. If we can agreewhere it is, we may then proceed to discover what it is. The social, then, is the term next beyond the individual. Assuming, for the sake ofanalysis, that our optical illusion, "the individual, " is an isolatedand self-sufficient fact, there are many sorts of scientific problemsthat do not need to go beyond this fact to satisfy their particularterms. Whether the individual can ever be abstracted from his conditionsand remain himself is not a question that we need here discuss. At allevents, the individual known to our experience is not isolated. He isconnected in various ways with one or more individuals. The differentways in which individuals are connected with each other are indicated bythe inclusive term "contact. " Starting, then, from the individual, tomeasure him in all his dimensions and to represent him in all hisphases, we find that each person is what he is by virtue of theexistence of other persons, and by virtue of an alternating current ofinfluence between each person and all the other persons previously or atthe same time in existence. The last native of Central Africa aroundwhom we throw the dragnet of civilization, and whom we inoculate with adesire for whiskey, adds an increment to the demand for our distilleryproducts, and affects the internal revenue of the United States, and sothe life-conditions of every member of our population. This is what wemean by "contact. " So long as that African tribe is unknown to theoutside world, and the world to it, so far as the European world isconcerned, the tribe might as well not exist. The moment the tribe comeswithin touch of the rest of the world, the aggregate of the world'scontacts is by so much enlarged; the social world is by so muchextended. In other words, the realm of the social is the realm ofcircuits of reciprocal influence between individuals and the groupswhich individuals compose. The general term "contact" is proposed tostand for this realm, because it is a colorless word that may markboundaries without prejudging contents. Wherever there is physical orspiritual contact between persons, there is inevitably a circuit ofexchange of influence. The realm of the social is the realm constitutedby such exchange. It extends from the producing of the baby by themother, and the simultaneous producing of the mother by the baby, to theproducing of merchant and soldier by the world-powers, and the producingof the world-powers by merchant and soldier. 

The most general and inclusive way in which to designate all thephenomena that sociology proper considers, without importing into theterm premature hypotheses by way of explanation, is to assert that theyare the phenomena of "contact" between persons. 

In accordance with what was said about the division of labor betweenpsychology and sociology, it seems best to leave to the psychologist allthat goes on inside the individual and to say that the work of thesociologist begins with the things that take place between individuals. This principle of division is not one that can be maintained absolutely, any more than we can hold absolutely to any other abstractclassification of real actions. It serves, however, certain rough uses. Our work as students of society begins in earnest when the individualhas become equipped with his individuality. This stage of human growthis both cause and effect of the life of human beings side by side ingreater or lesser numbers. Under those circumstances individuals areproduced; they act as individuals; by their action as individuals theyproduce a certain type of society; that type reacts on the individualsand helps to transform them into different types of individuals, who inturn produce a modified type of society; and so the rhythm goes onforever. Now the medium through which all this occurs is the fact ofcontacts, either physical or spiritual. In either case, contacts arecollisions of interests in the individuals. 

2. The Land and the People[122]

Every clan, tribe, state, or nation includes two ideas, a people and itsland, the first unthinkable without the other. History, sociology, ethnology, touch only the inhabited areas of the earth. These areas gaintheir final significance because of the people who occupy them; theirlocal conditions of climate, soil, natural resources, physical features, and geographic situation are important primarily as factors in thedevelopment of actual or possible inhabitants. A land is fullycomprehended only when studied in the light of its influence upon itspeople, and a people cannot be understood apart from the field of itsactivities. More than this, human activities are fully intelligible onlyin relation to the various geographic conditions which have stimulatedthem in different parts of the world. The principles of the evolution ofnavigation, of agriculture, of trade, as also the theory of population, can never reach their correct and final statement, unless the data forthe conclusions are drawn from every part of the world and each factinterpreted in the light of the local conditions whence it sprang. Therefore anthropology, sociology, and history should be permeated bygeography. 

Most systems of sociology treat man as if he were in some way detachedfrom the earth's surface; they ignore the land basis of society. Theanthropogeographer recognizes the various social forces, economic andpsychologic, which sociologists regard as the cement of societies; buthe has something to add. He sees in the land occupied by a primitivetribe or a highly organized state the underlying material bond holdingsociety together, the ultimate basis of their fundamental socialactivities, which are therefore derivatives from the land. He sees thecommon territory exercising an integrating force--weak in primitivecommunities where the group has established only a few slight andtemporary relations with its soil, so that this low social complexbreaks up readily like its organic counterpart, the low animal organismfound in an amoeba; he sees it growing stronger with every advance incivilization involving more complex relations to the land--with settledhabitations, with increased density of population, with a discriminatingand highly differentiated use of the soil, with the exploitation ofmineral resources, and, finally, with that far-reaching exchange ofcommodities and ideas which means the establishment of variedextra-territorial relations. Finally, the modern society or state hasgrown into every foot of its own soil, exploited its every geographicadvantage, utilized its geographic location to enrich itself byinternational trade, and, when possible, to absorb outlying territoriesby means of colonies. The broader this geographic base, the richer, morevaried, its resources, and the more favorable its climate to theirexploitation, the more numerous and complex are the connections whichthe members of a social group can establish with it, and through it witheach other; or, in other words, the greater may be its ultimatehistorical significance. 

3. Touch and Social Contact[123]

General ideas concerning human relations are the medium through whichsexual taboo works, and these must now be examined. If we compare thefacts of social taboo generally, or of its subdivision, sexual taboo, wefind that the ultimate test of human relations, in both _genus_ and_species_, is _contact_. An investigation of primitive ideas concerningthe relations of man with man, when guided by this clue, will lay barethe principles which underlie the theory and practice of sexual taboo. Arising, as we have seen, from sexual differentiation, and forced intopermanence by difference of occupation and sexual solidarity, thissegregation receives the continuous support of religious conceptions asto human relations. These conceptions center upon contact, and ideas ofcontact are at the root of all conceptions of human relations at anystage of culture; contact is the one universal test, as it is the mostelementary form, of mutual relations. Psychology bears this out, and thepoint is psychological rather than ethnological. 

As I have pointed out before and shall have occasion to do so again, acomparative examination, assisted by psychology, of the emotions andideas of average modern humanity is a most valuable aid to ethnologicalinquiry. In this connection, we find that desire or willingness forphysical contact is an animal emotion, more or less subconscious, whichis characteristic of similarity, harmony, friendship, or love. Throughout the world, the greeting of a friend is expressed by contact, whether it be nose-rubbing, or the kiss, the embrace, or the clasp ofhands; so the ordinary expression of friendship by a boy, that eternalsavage, is contact of arm and shoulder. More interesting still for ourpurpose is the universal expression by contact of the emotion of love. To touch his mistress is the ever-present desire of the lover, and inthis impulse, even if we do not trace it back, as we may without beingfanciful, to polar or sexual attraction inherent in the atoms, the[Greek: philia] of Empedocles, yet we may place the beginning and endingof love. When analyzed, the emotion always comes back to contact. 

Further, mere willingness for contact is found universally when theperson to be touched is healthy, if not clean, or where he is of thesame age or class or caste, and, we may add, for ordinary humanity thesame sex. 

On the other hand, the avoidance of contact, whether consciously orsubconsciously presented, is no less the universal characteristic ofhuman relations where similarity, harmony, friendship, or love isabsent. This appears in the attitude of men to the sick, to strangers, distant acquaintances, enemies, and in cases of difference of age, position, sympathies or aims, and even of sex. Popular language is fullof phrases which illustrate this feeling. 

Again, the pathology of the emotions supplies many curious cases wherethe whole being seems concentrated upon the sense of touch, withabnormal desire or disgust for contact; and in the evolution of theemotions from physiological pleasure and pain, contact plays animportant part in connection with functional satisfaction ordissatisfaction with the environment. 

In the next place, there are the facts, first, that an element ofthought inheres in all sensation, while sensation conditions thought;and secondly, that there is a close connection of all the senses, bothin origin--each of them being a modification of the one primary sense oftouch--and in subsequent development, where the specialized organs arestill co-ordinated through tactile sensation, in the sensitive surfaceof organism. Again, and here we see the genesis of ideas of contact, itis by means of the tactile sensibility of the skin and membranes ofsense-organs, forming a sensitized as well as a protecting surface, thatthe nervous system conveys to the brain information about the externalworld, and this information is in its original aspect the response toimpact. Primitive physics, no less than modern, recognizes that contactis a modified form of a blow. These considerations show that contact notonly plays an important part in the life of the soul but must have had aprofound influence on the development of ideas, and it may now beassumed that ideas of contact have been a universal and originalconstant factor in human relations and that they are so still. Thelatter assumption is to be stressed, because we find that the ideaswhich lie beneath primitive taboo are still a vital part of humannature, though mostly emptied of their religious content; and alsobecause, as I hold, ceremonies and etiquette, such as still obtain, could not possess such vitality as they do unless there were a livingpsychological force behind them, such as we find in elementary ideaswhich come straight from functional processes. 

These ideas of contact are _primitive_ in each sense of the word, atwhatever stage of culture they appear. They seem to go back in originand in character to that highly developed sensibility of all animal andeven organized life, which forms at once a biological monitor and asafeguard for the whole organism in relation to its environment. Fromthis sensibility there arise subjective ideas concerning the safety ordanger of the environment, and in man we may suppose these subjectiveideas as to his environment, and especially as to his fellow-men, to bethe origin of his various expressions of avoidance or desire forcontact. 

Lastly, it is to be observed that avoidance of contact is the mostconspicuous phenomenon attaching to cases of taboo when its dangerouscharacter is prominent. In taboo the connotation of "not to be touched"is the salient point all over the world, even in cases of permanenttaboo such as belongs to Samoan and Maori chiefs, with whom no one daredcome in contact; and so we may infer the same aversion to be potentialin all such relations. 

B. SOCIAL CONTACT IN RELATION TO SOLIDARITY AND TO MOBILITY

1. The In-Group and the Out-Group[124]

The conception of "primitive society" which we ought to form is that ofsmall groups scattered over a territory. The size of the groups isdetermined by the conditions of the struggle for existence. The internalorganization of each group corresponds to its size. A group of groupsmay have some relation to each other (kin, neighborhood, alliance, connubium, and commercium) which draws them together and differentiatesthem from others. Thus a differentiation arises between ourselves, thewe-group, or in-group, and everybody else, or the others-groups, out-groups. The insiders in a we-group are in a relation of peace, order, law, government, and industry, to each other. Their relation toall outsiders, or others-groups, is one of war and plunder, except sofar as agreements have modified it. If a group is exogamic, the women init were born abroad somewhere. Other foreigners who might be found in itare adopted persons, guest-friends, and slaves. 

The relation of comradeship and peace in the we-group and that ofhostility and war toward others-groups are correlative to each other. The exigencies of war with outsiders are what make peace inside, lestinternal discord should weaken the we-group for war. These exigenciesalso make government and law in the in-group, in order to preventquarrels and enforce discipline. Thus war and peace have reacted on eachother and developed each other, one within the group, the other in theintergroup relation. The closer the neighbors, and the stronger theyare, the intenser is the warfare, and then the intenser is the internalorganization and discipline of each. Sentiments are produced tocorrespond. Loyalty to the group, sacrifice for it, hatred and contemptfor outsiders, brotherhood within, warlikeness without--all growtogether, common products of the same situation. 

Ethnocentrism is the technical name for this view of things in whichone's own group is the center of everything and all others are scaledand rated with reference to it. Folkways correspond to it to cover boththe inner and the outer relation. Each group nourishes its own pride andvanity, boasts itself superior, exalts its own divinities, and lookswith contempt on outsiders. Each group thinks its own folkways the onlyright ones, and if it observes that other groups have other folkways, these excite its scorn. Opprobrious epithets are derived from thesedifferences. "Pig-eater, " "cow-eater, " "uncircumcised, " "jabberers, " areepithets of contempt and abomination. 

2. Sympathetic Contacts versus Categoric Contacts[125]

Let us now consider what takes place when two men, mere strangers to oneanother, come together. The motive of classification, which I haveconsidered in another chapter, leads each of them at once to recognizethe approaching object first as living, then as human. The shape anddress carry the categorizing process yet farther, so that they areplaced in groups, as of this or that tribe or social class, and as thesedeterminations are made they arouse the appropriate sympathies orhatreds such as by experience have become associated with the severalcategories. Be it observed that these judgments are spontaneous, instinctive, and unnoticed. They are made so by immemorial education inthe art of contact which man has inherited from the life of theancestral beasts and men; they have most likely been in some measureaffirmed by selection, for these determinations as to the nature of theneighbor were in the lower stages of existence in brute and man ofcritical importance, the creatures lived or died according as theydetermined well or ill, swiftly or slowly. If we observe what takesplace in our own minds at such meetings we will see that the action inits immediateness is like that of the eyelids when the eye isthreatened. As we say, it is done before we know it. 

With this view as to the conditions of human contact, particularly ofwhat occurs when men first meet one another, let us glance at what takesplace in near intercourse. We have seen that at the beginning of anyacquaintance the fellow-being is inevitably dealt with in the categoricway. He is taken as a member of a group, which group is denoted to us bya few convenient signs; as our acquaintance with a particular personadvances, this category tends to become qualified. Its bounds are pushedthis way and that until they break down. It is to be noted in thisprocess that the category fights for itself, or we for it, so that theresult of the battle between the immediate truth and the prejudice isalways doubtful. It is here that knowledge, especially that gained byindividual experience, is most helpful. The uninformed man, who beginsto find, on the nearer view of an Israelite, that the fellow is likehimself, holds by his category in the primitive way. The creature _is_ aJew, therefore the evidence of kinship must not count. He who is betterinformed is, or should be, accustomed to amend his categories. He may, indeed, remember that he is dealing with a neighbor of the race whichgave us not only Christ, but all the accepted prophets who have shapedour own course, and his understanding helps to cast down the barriers ofinstinctive prejudice. 

At the stage of advancing acquaintance where friendship is attained, thecategory begins to disappear from our minds. We may, indeed, measure theadvance in this relation by the extent to which it has been broken down. Looking attentively at our mental situation as regards those whom weknow pretty well, we see that most of them are still, though ratherfaintly, classified into groups. While a few of the nearer stand forthby themselves, all of the nearest to our hearts are absolutelyindividualized, so that our judgments of them are made on the basis ofour own motives and what we of ourselves discern. We may use categoricterms concerning our lovers, spouses, or children, but they have no realmeaning; these persons are to us purely individual, all trace of theinclusive category has disappeared; they are, in the full sense of theword, our neighbors, being so near that when we look upon them we seenothing else, not even ourselves. 

Summing up these considerations concerning human contact, it may be saidthat the world works by a system of individualities rising in scale aswe advance from the inorganic through the organic series until we findthe summit in man. The condition of all these individuals is that ofisolation; each is necessarily parted from all the others in the realm, each receiving influences, and, in turn, sending forth its peculiar tideof influences to those of its own and other kinds. This isolation in thecase of man is singularly great for the reason that he is the onlycreature we know in the realm who is so far endowed with consciousnessthat he can appreciate his position and know the measure of hissolitude. In the case of all individuals the discernible is only a smallpart of what exists. In man the measure of this presentation is, even tohimself, very small, and that which he can readily make evident to hisneighbor is an exceedingly limited part of the real whole. Yet it is onthis slender basis that we must rest our relations with the fellow manif we are to found them upon knowledge. The imperfection of this methodof ascertaining the fellow-man is well shown by the trifling contents ofthe category discriminations we apply to him. While, as has beensuggested, much can be done by those who have gained in knowledge of ourkind by importing understandings into our relations with men, the onlyeffective way to the betterment of those relations is through thesympathies. 

What can be done by knowledge in helping us to a comprehension of thefellow-man is at best merely explanatory of his place in the phenomenalworld; of itself it has only scientific value. The advantage of thesympathetic way of approach is that in this method the neighbor isaccounted for on the supposition that he is ourself in another form, sowe feel for and with him on the instinctive hypothesis that he isessentially ourself. There can be no question that this method oflooking upon other individualities is likely to lead to many errors. Wesee examples of these blunders in all the many grades of thepersonifying process, from the savage's worship of a tree or stone tothe civilized man's conception of a human-like god. We see them also inthe attribution to the lower animals of thoughts and feelings which arenecessarily limited to our own kind, but in the case of man theconception of identity gives a minimum of error and a maximum of truth. It, indeed, gives a truer result than could possibly be attained by anyscientific inquiries that we could make, or could conceive of beingeffectively made, and this for the following reasons. 

When, as in the sympathetic state, we feel that the neighbor of ourspecies is essentially ourself, the tacit assumption is that his needsand feelings are as like our own as our own states of mind at diversetimes are like one another, so that we might exchange motives with himwithout experiencing any great sense of strangeness. What we have inmind is not the measure of instruction or education, not the class orstation or other adventitious circumstances, but the essential traits ofhis being. Now this supposition is entirely valid. All we know ofmankind justifies the statement that, as regards all the qualities andmotives with which the primal sympathies deal, men are remarkably alike. Their loves, hates, fears, and sorrows are alike in their essentials; sothat the postulate of sympathy that the other man is essentially likeone's self is no idle fancy but an established truth. It not onlyembodies the judgment of all men in thought and action but has itswarrant from all the science we can apply to it. 

It is easy to see how by means of sympathy we can at once pass the gulfwhich separates man from man. All the devices of the ages in the way ofdumb or spoken language fail to win across the void, and leave the twobeings apart; but with a step the sympathetic spirit passes the gulf. Inthis strange feature we have the completion of the series of differencesbetween the inorganic and the organic groups of individualities. In thelower or non-living isolations there is no reason why the units shoulddo more than mechanically interact. All their service in the realm canbe best effected by their remaining forever completely apart. But whenwe come to the organic series, the units begin to have need ofunderstanding their neighbors, in order that they may form thosebeginnings of the moral order which we find developing among the memberseven of the lowliest species. Out of this sympathetic accord arises thecommunity, which we see in its simple beginnings in the earlier stagesof life; it grows with the advance in the scale of being, and has itssupreme success in man. Human society, the largest of all organicassociations, requires that its units be knit together in certain commonpurposes and understandings, and the union can only be made effective bythe ways of sympathy--by the instinctive conviction of essentialkinship. 

3. Historical Continuity and Civilization[126]

In matters connected with political and economical institutions wenotice among the natural races very great differences in the sum oftheir civilization. Accordingly we have to look among them, not only forthe beginnings of civilization, but for a very great part of itsevolution, and it is equally certain that these differences are to bereferred less to variations in endowment than to great differences inthe conditions of their development. Exchange has also played its part, and unprejudiced observers have often been more struck in the presenceof facts by agreement than by difference. "It is astonishing, " exclaimsChapman, when considering the customs of the Damaras, "what a similaritythere is in the manners and practices of the human family throughout theworld. Even here, the two different classes of Damaras practice rites incommon with the New Zealanders, such as that of chipping out the frontteeth and cutting off the little finger. " It is less astonishing if, asthe same traveler remarks, their agreement with the Bechuanas goes evenfarther. Now, since the essence of civilization lies first in theamassing of experiences, then in the fixity with which these areretained, and lastly in the capacity to carry them farther or toincrease them, our first question must be, how is it possible to realizethe first fundamental condition of civilization, namely, the amassing astock of culture in the form of handiness, knowledge, power, capital? Ithas long been agreed that the first step thereto is the transition fromcomplete dependence upon what Nature freely offers to a consciousexploitation through man's own labor, especially in agriculture orcattle-breeding, of such of her fruits as are most important to him. This transition opens at one stroke all the most remote possibilities ofNature, but we must always remember at the same time that it is still along way from the first step to the height which has now been attained. 

The intellect of man and also the intellect of whole races shows a widediscrepancy in regard to differences of endowment as well as in regardto the different effects which external circumstances produce upon it. Especially are there variations in the degree of inward coherence andtherewith of the fixity or duration of the stock of intellect. The wantof coherence, the breaking up of this stock, characterizes the lowerstages of civilization no less than its coherence, its inalienability, and its power of growth do the higher. We find in low stages a povertyof tradition which allows these races neither to maintain aconsciousness of their earlier fortunes for any appreciable period norto fortify and increase their stock of intelligence either through theacquisitions of individual prominent minds or through the adoption andfostering of any stimulus. Here, if we are not entirely mistaken, is thebasis of the deepest-seated differences between races. The opposition ofhistoric and non-historic races seems to border closely upon it. 

There is a distinction between the quickly ripening immaturity of thechild and the limited maturity of the adult who has come to a stop inmany respects. What we mean by "natural" races is something much morelike the latter than the former. We call them races deficient incivilization, because internal and external conditions have hinderedthem from attaining to such permanent developments in the domain ofculture as form the mark of the true civilized races and the guarantiesof progress. Yet we should not venture to call any of them cultureless, so long as none of them is devoid of the primitive means by which theascent to higher stages can be made--language, religion, fire, weapons, implements; while the very possession of these means, and many others, such as domestic animals and cultivated plants, testifies to varied andnumerous dealings with those races which are completely civilized. 

The reasons why they do not make use of these gifts are of many kinds. Lower intellectual endowment is often placed in the first rank. That isa convenient but not quite fair explanation. Among the savage races oftoday we find great differences in endowments. We need not dispute thatin the course of development races of even slightly higher endowmentshave got possession of more and more means of culture, and gainedsteadiness and security for their progress, while the less endowedremained behind. But external conditions, in respect to their furtheringor hindering effects, can be more clearly recognized and estimated; andit is juster and more logical to name them first. We can conceive whythe habitations of the savage races are principally to be found on theextreme borders of the inhabited world, in the cold and hot regions, inremote islands, in secluded mountains, in deserts. We understand theirbackward condition in parts of the earth which offer so few facilitiesfor agriculture and cattle-breeding as Australia, the Arctic regions, orthe extreme north and south of America. In the insecurity ofincompletely developed resources we can see the chain which hangsheavily on their feet and confines their movements within a narrowspace. As a consequence their numbers are small, and from this againresults the small total amount of intellectual and physicalaccomplishment, the rarity of eminent men, the absence of the salutarypressure exercised by surrounding masses on the activity and forethoughtof the individual, which operates in the division of society intoclasses, and the promotion of a wholesome division of labor. A partialconsequence of this insecurity of resources is the instability ofnatural races. A nomadic strain runs through them all, rendering easierto them the utter incompleteness of their unstable political andeconomical institutions, even when an indolent agriculture seems to tiethem to the soil. Thus it often comes about that, in spite of abundantlyprovided and well-tended means of culture, their life is desultory, wasteful of power, unfruitful. This life has no inward consistency, nosecure growth; it is not the life in which the germs of civilizationfirst grew up to the grandeur in which we frequently find them at thebeginnings of what we call history. It is full rather of fallings-awayfrom civilization and dim memories from civilized spheres which in manycases must have existed long before the commencement of history as wehave it. 

By the word "civilization" or "culture" we denote usually the sum of allthe acquirements at a given time of the human intelligence. When wespeak of stages, of higher and lower, of semi-civilization, of civilizedand "natural" races, we apply to the various civilizations of the eartha standard which we take from the degree that we have ourselvesattained. Civilization means _our_ civilization. 

The confinement, in space as in time, which isolates huts, villages, races, no less than successive generations, involves the negation ofculture; in its opposite, the intercourse of contemporaries and theinterdependence of ancestors and successors, lies the possibility ofdevelopment. The union of contemporaries secures the retention ofculture, the linking of generations its unfolding. The development ofcivilization is a process of hoarding. The hoards grow of themselves sosoon as a retaining power watches over them. In all domains of humancreation and operation we shall see the basis of all higher developmentin intercourse. Only through co-operation and mutual help, whetherbetween contemporaries, whether from one generation to another, hasmankind succeeded in climbing to the stage of civilization on which itshighest members now stand. On the nature and extent of this intercoursethe growth depends. Thus the numerous small assemblages of equalimportance, formed by the family stocks, in which the individual had nofreedom, were less favorable to it than the larger communities andstates of the modern world, with their encouragement to individualcompetition. 

4. Mobility and the Movement of Peoples[127]

Every country whose history we examine proves the recipient ofsuccessive streams of humanity. Even sea-girt England has receivedvarious intruding peoples, from the Roman occupation to the recentinflux of Russian Jews. In prehistoric times it combined severalelements in its population, as the discovery of the "long barrow" menand "round barrow" men by archaeologists and the identification of asurviving Iberian or Mediterranean strain by ethnologists go to prove. Egypt, Mesopotamia, and India tell the same story, whether in theirrecorded or unrecorded history. Tropical Africa lacks a history; but allthat has been pieced together by ethnologists and anthropologists, in aneffort to reconstruct its past, shows incessant movement--growth, expansion, and short-lived conquest, followed by shrinkage, expulsion, or absorption by another invader. To this constant shifting of races andpeoples the name of historical movement has been given, because itunderlies most of written history and constitutes the major part ofunwritten history, especially that of savage and nomadic tribes. 

Among primitive peoples this movement is simple and monotonous. Itinvolves all members of the tribe, either in pursuit of game orfollowing the herd over the tribal territory, or in migrations seekingmore and better land. Among civilized peoples it assumes various formsand especially is differentiated for different members of the socialgroup. The civilized state develops specialized frontiers--men, armies, explorers, maritime traders, colonists, and missionaries, who keep apart of the people constantly moving and directing external expansion, while the mass of the population converts the force once expended in themigrant food-quest into internal activity. Here we come upon a paradox. The nation as a whole, with the development of sedentary life, increasesits population and therewith its need for external movements; it widensits national area and its circle of contact with other lands, enlargesits geographical horizon, and improves its internal communication over agrowing territory; it evolves a greater mobility within and without, which attaches, however, to certain classes of society, not to theentire social group. This mobility becomes the outward expression of awhole complex of economic wants, intellectual needs, and politicalambitions. It is embodied in the conquests which build up empires, inthe colonization which develops new lands, in the world-wide exchange ofcommodities and ideas which lifts the level of civilization till thismovement of peoples becomes a fundamental fact of history. 

Otis Mason finds that the life of a social group involves a variety ofmovements characterized by different ranges or scopes: (1) The dailyround from bed to bed. (2) The annual round from year to year, like thatof the Tunguse Orochon of Siberia who, in pursuit of various fish andgame, change their residence within their territory from month to month, or the pastoral nomads who move with the seasons from pasture topasture. (3) Less systematic outside movements covering the tribalsphere of influence, such as journeys or voyages to remote hunting orfishing grounds, forays or piratical descents upon neighboring lands, eventuating usually in conquest, expansion into border regions foroccasional occupation, or colonization. (4) Participation in streams ofbarter or commerce. (5) And, at a higher stage, in the great currents ofhuman intercourse, experience, and ideas, which finally compass theworld. In all this series the narrower movement prepares for thebroader, of which it constitutes at once an impulse and a part. 

Civilized man is at once more and less mobile than his primitivebrother. Every advance in civilization multiplies and tightens the bondsuniting him with his soil, makes him a sedentary instead of a migratorybeing. On the other hand, every advance in civilization is attended bythe rapid clearing of the forests, by the construction of bridges andinterlacing roads, the invention of more effective vehicles fortransportation whereby intercourse increases, and the improvement ofnavigation to the same end. Civilized man progressively modifies theland which he occupies, removes or reduces obstacles to intercourse, andthereby approximates it to the open plain. Thus far he facilitatesmovements. But while doing this he also places upon the land a densepopulation, closely attached to the soil, strong to resist incursion, and for economic reasons inhospitable to any marked accession ofpopulation from without. Herein lies the great difference betweenmigration in empty or sparsely inhabited regions, such as predominatedwhen the world was young, and in the densely populated countries of ourera. As the earth grew old and humanity multiplied, peoples themselvesbecame the greatest barriers to any massive migrations, till in certaincountries of Europe and Asia the historical movement has been reduced toa continual pressure, resulting in compression of population here, repression there. Hence, though political boundaries may shift, ethnicboundaries scarcely budge. The greatest wars of modern Europe havehardly left a trace upon the distribution of its peoples. Only in theBalkan Peninsula, as the frontiers of the Turkish Empire have beenforced back from the Danube, the alien Turks have withdrawn to theshrinking territory of the Sultan and especially to Asia Minor. 

Where a population too great to be dislodged occupies the land, conquestresults in the eventual absorption of the victors and their civilizationby the native folk, as happened to the Lombards in Italy, the Vandals inAfrica, and the Normans in England. Where the invaders are markedlysuperior in culture, though numerically weak, conquest results in thegradual permeation of the conquered with the religion, economic methods, language, and customs of the newcomers. The latter process, too, isalways attended by some intermixture of blood, where no race repulsionexists, but this is small in comparison to the diffusion ofcivilization. This was the method by which Greek traders and colonistsHellenized the countries about the eastern Mediterranean and spreadtheir culture far back from the shores which their settlements hadappropriated. In this way Saracen armies, soon after the death ofMohammed, Arabized the whole eastern and southern sides of theMediterranean from Syria to Spain, and Arab merchants set the stamp oftheir language and religion on the coasts of East Africa as far asMozambique. The handful of Spanish adventurers who came upon therelatively dense populations of Mexico and Peru left among them acivilization essentially European, but only a thin strain of Castilianblood. Thus the immigration of small bands of people sufficed toinfluence the culture of that big territory known as Latin America. 

Throughout the life of any people, from its fetal period in some smalllocality to its well-rounded adult era marked by the occupation andorganization of a wide national territory, gradations in area markgradations of development. And this is true, whether we consider thecompass of their commercial exchanges, the scope of their maritimeventures, the extent of their linguistic area, the measure of theirterritorial ambitions, or the range of their intellectual interests andhuman sympathies. From land to ethics, the rule holds good. Peoples inthe lower stages of civilization have contracted spatial ideas, desireand need at a given time only a limited territory, though they maychange that territory often; they think in small linear terms, have asmall horizon, a small circle of contact with others, a small range ofinfluence, only tribal sympathies; they have an exaggerated conceptionof their own size and importance, because their basis of comparison isfatally limited. With a mature, widespread people like the English orFrench, all this is different; they have made the earth their own, sofar as possible. 

Just because of this universal tendency toward the occupation of everlarger areas and the formation of vaster political aggregates, in makinga sociological or political estimate of different peoples, we shouldnever lose sight of the fact that all racial and nationalcharacteristics which operate toward the absorption of more land andimpel to political expansion are of fundamental value. A ship of statemanned by such a crew has its sails set to catch the winds of the world. 

Territorial expansion is always preceded by an extension of the circleof influence which a people exerts through its traders, its deep-seafishermen, its picturesque marauders and more respectable missionaries, and earlier still by a widening of its mere geographical horizon throughfortuitous or systematic exploration. 

C. PRIMARY AND SECONDARY CONTACTS

1. Village Life in America (from the Diary of a Young Girl)[128]

_November 21, 1852. _--I am ten years old today, and I think I will writea journal and tell who I am and what I am doing. I have lived with myGrandfather and Grandmother Beals ever since I was seven years old, andAnna, too, since she was four. Our brothers, James and John, came too, but they are at East Bloomfield at Mr. Stephen Clark's Academy. MissLaura Clark of Naples is their teacher. 

Anna and I go to school at District No. 11. Mr. James C. Cross is ourteacher, and some of the scholars say he is cross by name and cross bynature, but I like him. He gave me a book by the name of _Noble Deeds ofAmerican Women_, for reward of merit, in my reading class. 

_Friday. _--Grandmother says I will have a great deal to answer for, because Anna looks up to me so and tries to do everything that I do andthinks whatever I say is "gospel truth. " The other day the girls atschool were disputing with her about something and she said, "It is so, if it ain't so, for Calline said so. " I shall have to "toe the mark, " asGrandfather says, if she keeps watch of me all the time and walks in myfootsteps. 

_April 1, 1853. _--Before I go to school every morning I read threechapters in the Bible. I read three every day and five on Sunday andthat takes me through the Bible in a year. Those I read this morningwere the first, second, and third chapters of Job. The first was aboutEliphaz reproveth Job; second, benefit of God's correction; third, Jobjustifieth his complaint. I then learned a text to say at school. I wentto school at quarter to nine and recited my text and we had prayers andthen proceeded with the business of the day. Just before school was out, we recited in _Science of Things Familiar_, and in Dictionary, and thenwe had calisthenics. 

_July. _--Hiram Goodrich, who lives at Mr. Myron H. Clark's, and Georgeand Wirt Wheeler ran away on Sunday to seek their fortunes. When theydid not come back everyone was frightened and started out to find them. They set out right after Sunday school, taking their pennies which hadbeen given them for the contribution, and were gone several days. Theywere finally found at Palmyra. When asked why they had run away, onereplied that he thought it was about time they saw something of theworld. We heard that Mr. Clark had a few moments' private conversationwith Hiram in the barn and Mr. Wheeler the same with his boys and we donot think they will go traveling on their own hook again right off. MissUpham lives right across the street from them and she was telling littleMorris Bates that he must fight the good fight of faith and he asked herif that was the fight that Wirt Wheeler fit. She probably had to makeher instructions plainer after that. 

_1854, Sunday. _--Mr. Daggett's text this morning was the twenty-secondchapter of Revelation, sixteenth verse, "I am the root and offspring ofDavid and the bright and morning star. " Mrs. Judge Taylor taught ourSunday-school class today and she said we ought not to read ourSunday-school books on Sunday. I always do. Mine today was entitled, _Cheap Repository Tracts by Hannah More_, and it did not seemunreligious at all. 

_Tuesday. _--Mrs. Judge Taylor sent for me to come over to see her today. I didn't know what she wanted, but when I got there she said she wantedto talk and pray with me on the subject of religion. She took me intoone of the wings. I never had been in there before and was frightened atfirst, but it was nice after I got used to it. After she prayed, sheasked me to, but I couldn't think of anything but "Now I lay me down tosleep, " and I was afraid she would not like that, so I didn't sayanything. When I got home and told Anna, she said, "Caroline, I presumeprobably Mrs. Taylor wants you to be a missionary, but I shan't let yougo. " I told her she needn't worry for I would have to stay at home andlook after her. After school tonight I went out into Abbie Clark'sgarden with her and she taught me how to play "mumble te peg. " It isfun, but rather dangerous. I am afraid Grandmother won't give me a knifeto play with. Abbie Clark has beautiful pansies in her garden and gaveme some roots. 

_Sunday. _--I almost forgot that it was Sunday this morning and talkedand laughed just as I do week days. Grandmother told me to write downthis verse before I went to church so I would remember it: "Keep thyfoot when thou goest to the house of God, and be more ready to hear thanto offer the sacrifice of fools. " I will remember it now, sure. My feetare all right anyway with my new patten leather shoes on, but I shallhave to look out for my head. Mr. Thomas Howell read a sermon today asMr. Daggett is out of town. Grandmother always comes upstairs to get thecandle and tuck us in before she goes to bed herself, and some nights weare sound asleep and do not hear her, but last night we only pretendedto be asleep. She kneeled down by the bed and prayed aloud for us, thatwe might be good children and that she might have strength given herfrom on high to guide us in the straight and narrow path which leads tolife eternal. Those were her very words. After she had gone downstairswe sat up in bed and talked about it and promised each other to be good, and crossed our hearts and "hoped to die, " if we broke our promise. ThenAnna was afraid we would die, but I told her I didn't believe we wouldbe as good as that, so we kissed each other and went to sleep. 

_Sunday. _--Rev. Mr. Tousley preached today to the children and told ushow many steps it took to be bad. I think he said lying was first, thendisobedience to parents, breaking the Sabbath, swearing, stealing, drunkenness. I don't remember just the order they came. It was veryinteresting, for he told lots of stories and we sang a great many times. I should think Eddy Tousley would be an awful good boy with his fatherin the house with him all the while, but probably he has to be away partof the time preaching to other children. 

_December 20, 1855. _--Susan B. Anthony is in town and spoke in BemisHall this afternoon. She made a special request that all the seminarygirls should come to hear her as well as all the women and girls intown. She had a large audience and she talked very plainly about ourrights and how we ought to stand up for them, and said the world wouldnever go right until the women had just as much right to vote and ruleas the men. She asked us all to come up and sign our names who wouldpromise to do all in our power to bring about that glad day when equalrights would be the law of the land. A whole lot of us went up andsigned the paper. When I told Grandmother about it she said she guessedSusan B. Anthony had forgotten that St. Paul said the women should keepsilence. I told her no, she didn't, for she spoke particularly about St. Paul and said if he had lived in these times, instead of eighteenhundred years ago, he would have been as anxious to have the women atthe head of the government as she was. I could not make Grandmotheragree with her at all and she said we might better all of us stayed athome. We went to prayer meeting this evening and a woman got up andtalked. Her name was Mrs. Sands. We hurried home and told Grandmotherand she said she probably meant all right and she hoped we did notlaugh. 

_February 21, 1856. _--We had a very nice time at Fannie Gaylord's partyand a splendid supper. Lucilla Field laughed herself almost to pieceswhen she found on going home that she had worn her leggins all theevening. We had a pleasant walk home but did not stay till it was out. Someone asked me if I danced every set and I told them no, I set everydance. I told Grandmother and she was very much pleased. Some one toldus that Grandfather and Grandmother first met at a ball in the earlysettlement of Canandaigua. I asked her if it was so and she said shenever danced since she became a professing Christian and that was morethan fifty years ago. 

_May, 1856. _--We were invited to Bessie Seymour's party last night andGrandmother said we could go. The girls all told us at school that theywere going to wear low neck and short sleeves. We have caps on thesleeves of our best dresses and we tried to get the sleeves out, so wecould go bare arms, but we couldn't get them out. We had a very nicetime, though, at the party. Some of the Academy boys were there and theyasked us to dance but of course we couldn't do that. We promenadedaround the rooms and went out to supper with them. Eugene Stone and TomEddy asked to go home with us but Grandmother sent our two girls for us, Bridget Flynn and Hannah White, so they couldn't. We were quitedisappointed, but perhaps she won't send for us next time. 

_Thursday, 1857. _--We have four sperm candles in four silvercandlesticks and when we have company we light them. Johnnie Thompson, son of the minister, Rev. M. L. R. P. , has come to the academy to schooland he is very full of fun and got acquainted with all the girls veryquick. He told us this afternoon to have "the other candle lit" for hewas coming down to see us this evening. Will Schley heard him say it andhe said he was coming too. _Later. _--The boys came and we had a verypleasant evening but when the 9 o'clock bell rang we heard Grandfatherwinding up the clock and scraping up the ashes on the hearth to coverthe fire so it would last till morning and we all understood the signaland they bade us good night. "We won't go home till morning" is a songthat will never be sung in this house. 

_September, 1857. _--Grandmother let Anna have six little girls here tosupper to-night: Louisa Field, Hattie Paddock, Helen Coy, MarthaDensmore, Emma Wheeler, and Alice Jewett. We had a splendid supper andthen we played cards. I do not mean regular cards, mercy no! Grandfatherthinks those kinds are contageous or outrageous or something dreadfuland never keeps them in the house. Grandmother said they found a packonce, when the hired man's room was cleaned, and they went into the firepretty quick. The kind we played was just "Dr. Busby, " and another "TheOld Soldier and His Dog. " There are counters with them, and if you don'thave the card called for you have to pay one into the pool. It is realfun. They all said they had a very nice time, indeed, when they badeGrandmother good night, and said: "Mrs. Beals, you must let Carrie andAnna come and see us some time, " and she said she would. I think it isnice to have company. 

_August 30, 1858. _--Some one told us that when Bob and Henry Antes weresmall boys they thought they would like to try, just for once, to seehow it would seem to be bad, so in spite of all of Mr. Tousley's sermonsthey went out behind the barn one day and in a whisper Bob said, "Iswear, " and Henry said, "So do I. " Then they came into the houselooking guilty and quite surprised, I suppose, that they were not struckdead just as Ananias and Sapphira were for lying. 

_February, 1859. _--Mary Wheeler came over and pierced my ears today, soI can wear my new earrings that Uncle Edward sent me. She pinched my earuntil it was numb and then pulled a needle through, threaded with silk. Anna would not stay in the room. She wants hers done but does not dare. It is all the fashion for girls to cut off their hair and friz it. Annaand I have cut off ours and Bessie Seymour got me to cut off her lovelylong hair today. It won't be very comfortable for us to sleep with curlpapers all over our heads, but we must do it now. I wanted my new dresswaist which Miss Rosewarne is making to hook up in front, butGrandmother said I would have to wear it that way all the rest of mylife so I had better be content to hook it in the back a little longer. She said when Aunt Glorianna was married, in 1848, it was the fashionfor grown-up women to have their waists fastened in the back, so thebride had hers made that way but she thought it was a very foolish andinconvenient fashion. It is nice, though, to dress in style and looklike other people. I have a Garibaldi waist and a Zouave jacket and abalmoral skirt. 

_1860, Sunday. _--Frankie Richardson asked me to go with her to teach aclass in the colored Sunday School on Chapel Street this afternoon. Iasked Grandmother if I could go and she said she never noticed that Iwas particularly interested in the colored race and she said she thoughtI only wanted an excuse to get out for a walk Sunday afternoon. However, she said I could go just this once. When we got up as far as theAcademy, Mr. Noah T. Clarke's brother, who is one of the teachers, cameout and Frank said he led the singing at the Sunday school and she saidshe would give me an introduction to him, so he walked up with us andhome again. Grandmother said that when she saw him opening the gate forme, she understood my zeal in missionary work. "The dear little lady, "as we often call her, has always been noted for her keen discernment andwonderful sagacity and loses none of it as she advances in years. Someone asked Anna the other day if her Grandmother retained all herfaculties and Anna said, "Yes, indeed, to an alarming degree. "Grandmother knows that we think she is a perfect angel even if she doesseem rather strict sometimes. Whether we are seven or seventeen we arechildren to her just the same, and the Bible says, "Children obey yourparents in the Lord for this is right. " We are glad that we never willseem old to her. I had the same company home from church in the evening. His home is in Naples. 

_Christmas, 1860. _--I asked Grandmother if Mr. Clarke could take Sundaynight supper with us and she said she was afraid he did not know thecatechism. I asked him Friday night and he said he would learn it onSaturday so that he could answer every third question anyway. So he didand got along very well. I think he deserves a pretty good supper. 

2. Secondary Contacts and City Life[129]

Modern methods of urban transportation and communication--the electricrailway, the automobile, and the telephone--have silently and rapidlychanged in recent years the social and industrial organization of themodern city. They have been the means of concentrating traffic in thebusiness districts; have changed the whole character of retail trade, multiplying the residence suburbs and making the department storepossible. These changes in the industrial organization and in thedistribution of population have been accompanied by correspondingchanges in the habits, sentiments, and character of the urbanpopulation. 

The general nature of these changes is indicated by the fact that thegrowth of cities has been accompanied by the substitution of indirect, "secondary, " for direct, face-to-face, "primary" relations in theassociations of individuals in the community. 

 By primary groups I mean those characterized by intimate face-to-face association and co-operation. They are primary in several senses, but chiefly in that they are fundamental in forming the social nature and ideals of the individual. The result of intimate association, psychologically, is a certain fusion of individualities in a common whole, so that one's very self, for many purposes at least, is the common life and purpose of the group. Perhaps the simplest way of describing this wholeness is by saying that it is a "we"; it involves the sort of sympathy and mutual identification for which "we" is the natural expression. One lives in the feeling of the whole and finds the chief aims of his will in that feeling. 

Touch and sight, physical contact, are the basis for the first and mostelementary human relationships. Mother and child, husband and wife, father and son, master and servant, kinsman and neighbor, minister, physician, and teacher--these are the most intimate and realrelationships of life and in the small community they are practicallyinclusive. 

The interactions which take place among the members of a community soconstituted are immediate and unreflecting. Intercourse is carried onlargely within the region of instinct and feeling. Social controlarises, for the most part spontaneously, in direct response to personalinfluences and public sentiment. It is the result of a personalaccommodation rather than the formulation of a rational and abstractprinciple. 

In a great city, where the population is unstable, where parents andchildren are employed out of the house and often in distant parts of thecity, where thousands of people live side by side for years without somuch as a bowing acquaintance, these intimate relationships of theprimary group are weakened and the moral order which rested upon them isgradually dissolved. 

Under the disintegrating influences of city life most of our traditionalinstitutions, the church, the school, and the family, have been greatlymodified. The school, for example, has taken over some of the functionsof the family. It is around the public school and its solicitude for themoral and physical welfare of the children that something like a newneighborhood and community spirit tends to get itself organized. 

The church, on the other hand, which has lost much of its influencesince the printed page has so largely taken the place of the pulpit inthe interpretation of life, seems at present to be in process ofreadjustment to the new conditions. 

It is probably the breaking down of local attachments and the weakeningof the restraints and inhibitions of the primary group, under theinfluence of the urban environment, which are largely responsible forthe increase of vice and crime in great cities. It would be interestingin this connection to determine by investigation how far the increase incrime keeps pace with the increasing mobility of the population. It isfrom this point of view that we should seek to interpret all thosestatistics which register the disintegration of the moral order, forexample, the statistics of divorce, of truancy, and of crime. 

Great cities have always been the melting-pots of races and of cultures. Out of the vivid and subtle interactions of which they have been thecenters, there have come the newer breeds and the newer social types. The great cities of the United States, for example, have drawn from theisolation of their native villages great masses of the rural populationsof Europe and America. Under the shock of the new contacts the latentenergies of these primitive peoples have been released, and the subtlerprocesses of interaction have brought into existence not merelyvocational but temperamental types. 

Transportation and communication have effected, among many other silentbut far-reaching changes, what I have called the "mobilization of theindividual man. " They have multiplied the opportunities of theindividual man for contact and for association with his fellows, butthey have made these contacts and associations more transitory and lessstable. A very large part of the populations of great cities, includingthose who make their homes in tenements and apartment houses, live muchas people do in some great hotel, meeting but not knowing one another. The effect of this is to substitute fortuitous and casual relationshipfor the more intimate and permanent associations of the smallercommunity. 

Under these circumstances the individual's status is determined to aconsiderable degree by conventional signs--by fashion and "front"--andthe art of life is largely reduced to skating on thin surfaces and ascrupulous study of style and manners. 

Not only transportation and communication, but the segregation of theurban population, tends to facilitate the mobility of the individualman. The processes of segregation establish moral distances which makethe city a mosaic of little worlds which touch but do notinterpenetrate. This makes it possible for individuals to pass quicklyand easily from one moral milieu to another and encourages thefascinating but dangerous experiment of living at the same time inseveral different contiguous, perhaps, but widely separated worlds. Allthis tends to give to city life a superficial and adventitiouscharacter; it tends to complicate social relationships and to producenew and divergent individual types. It introduces, at the same time, anelement of chance and adventure, which adds to the stimulus of citylife and gives it for young and fresh nerves a peculiar attractiveness. The lure of great cities is perhaps a consequence of stimulations whichact directly upon the reflexes. As a type of human behavior it may beexplained, like the attraction of the flame for the moth, as a sort oftropism. 

The attraction of the metropolis is due in part, however, to the factthat in the long run every individual finds somewhere among the variedmanifestations of city life the sort of environment in which he expandsand feels at ease; finds, in short, the moral climate in which hispeculiar nature obtains the stimulations that bring his innate qualitiesto full and free expression. It is, I suspect, motives of this kindwhich have their basis, not in interest nor even in sentiment, but insomething more fundamental and primitive which draw many, if not most, of the young men and young women from the security of their homes in thecountry into the big, booming confusion and excitement of city life. Ina small community it is the normal man, the man without eccentricity orgenius, who seems most likely to succeed. The small community oftentolerates eccentricity. The city, on the contrary, rewards it. Neitherthe criminal, the defective, nor the genius has the same opportunity todevelop his innate disposition in a small town that he invariably findsin a great city. 

Fifty years ago every village had one or two eccentric characters whowere treated ordinarily with a benevolent toleration, but who wereregarded meanwhile as impracticable and queer. These exceptionalindividuals lived an isolated existence, cut off by their veryeccentricities, whether of genius or of defect, from genuinely intimateintercourse with their fellows. If they had the making of criminals, therestraints and inhibitions of the small community rendered themharmless. If they had the stuff of genius in them, they remained sterilefor lack of appreciation or opportunity. Mark Twain's story of _Pudd'nHead Wilson_ is a description of one such obscure and unappreciatedgenius. It is not so true as it was that--

 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen And waste its fragrance on the desert air. 

Gray wrote the "Elegy in a Country Churchyard" before the existence ofthe modern city. 

In the city many of these divergent types now find a milieu in which forgood or for ill their dispositions and talents parturiate and bearfruit. 

3. Publicity as a Form of Secondary Contact[130]

In contrast with the political machine, which has founded its organizedaction on the local, personal, and immediate interests represented bythe different neighborhoods and localities, the good-governmentorganizations, the bureaus of municipal research, and the like havesought to represent the interests of the city as a whole and haveappealed to a sentiment and opinion neither local nor personal. Theseagencies have sought to secure efficiency and good government by theeducation of the voter, that is to say, by investigating and publishingthe facts regarding the government. 

In this way publicity has come to be a recognized form of socialcontrol, and advertising--"social advertising"--has become a professionwith an elaborate technique supported by a body of special knowledge. 

It is one of the characteristic phenomena of city life and of societyfounded on secondary relationships that advertising should have come tooccupy so important a place in its economy. 

In recent years every individual and organization which has had to dealwith the public, that is to say, the public outside the smaller and moreintimate communities of the village and small town, has come to have itspress agent, who is often less an advertising man than a diplomatic manaccredited to the newspapers, and through them to the world at large. Institutions like the Russell Sage Foundation, and to a less extent theGeneral Education Board, have sought to influence public opiniondirectly through the medium of publicity. The Carnegie Report uponMedical Education, the Pittsburgh Survey, the Russell Sage FoundationReport on Comparative Costs of Public-School Education in the SeveralStates, are something more than scientific reports. They are rather ahigh form of journalism, dealing with existing conditions critically, and seeking through the agency of publicity to bring about radicalreforms. The work of the Bureau of Municipal Research in New York hashad a similar practical purpose. To these must be added the workaccomplished by the child-welfare exhibits, by the social surveysundertaken in different parts of the country, and by similar propagandain favor of public health. 

As a source of social control public opinion becomes important insocieties founded on secondary relationships of which great cities are atype. In the city every social group tends to create its own milieu, and, as these conditions become fixed, the mores tend to accommodatethemselves to the conditions thus created. In secondary groups and inthe city, fashion tends to take the place of custom, and public opinionrather than the mores becomes the dominant force in social control. 

In any attempt to understand the nature of public opinion and itsrelation to social control, it is important to investigate, first ofall, the agencies and devices which have come into practical use in theeffort to control, enlighten, and exploit it. 

The first and the most important of these is the press, that is, thedaily newspaper and other forms of current literature, including booksclassed as current. 

After the newspaper, the bureaus of research which are now springing upin all the large cities are the most interesting and the most promisingdevices for using publicity as a means of control. 

The fruits of these investigations do not reach the public directly, butare disseminated through the medium of the press, the pulpit and othersources of popular enlightenment. 

In addition to these, there are the educational campaigns in theinterest of better health conditions, the child-welfare exhibits, andthe numerous "social advertising" devices which are now employed, sometimes upon the initiative of private societies, sometimes upon thatof popular magazines or newspapers, in order to educate the public andenlist the masses of the people in the movement for the improvement ofconditions of community life. 

The newspaper is the great medium of communication within the city, andit is on the basis of the information which it supplies that publicopinion rests. The first function which a newspaper supplies is thatwhich was formerly performed by the village gossip. 

In spite, however, of the industry with which newspapers pursue facts ofpersonal intelligence and human interest, they cannot compete with thevillage gossips as a means of social control. For one thing, thenewspaper maintains some reservations not recognized by gossip, in thematters of personal intelligence. For example, until they run for officeor commit some other overt act that brings them before the publicconspicuously, the private life of individual men or women is a subjectthat is for the newspaper taboo. It is not so with gossip, partlybecause in a small community no individual is so obscure that hisprivate affairs escape observation and discussion; partly because thefield is smaller. In small communities there is a perfectly amazingamount of personal information afloat among the individuals who composethem. 

The absence of this in the city is what, in large part, makes the citywhat it is. 

4. From Sentimental to Rational Attitudes[131]

I can imagine it to be of exceeding great interest to write the historyof mankind from the point of view of the stranger and his influence onthe trend of events. From the earliest dawn of history we may observehow communities developed in special directions, no less in importantthan in insignificant things, because of influences from without. Be itreligion or technical inventions, good form in conduct or fashions indress, political revolutions or stock-exchange machinery, the impetusalways--or, at least, in many cases--came from strangers. It is notsurprising, therefore, that in the history of the intellectual andreligious growth of the bourgeois the stranger should play no smallpart. Throughout the whole of the Middle Ages in Europe, and to a largeextent in the centuries that followed, families left their homes to setup their hearths anew in other lands. The wanderers were in the majorityof cases economic agents with a strongly marked tendency towardcapitalism, and they originated capitalist methods and cultivated them. Accordingly, it will be helpful to trace the interaction of migrationsand the history of the capitalist spirit. 

First, as to the facts themselves. Two sorts of migrations may bedistinguished--those of single individuals and those of groups. In thefirst category must be placed the removal, of their own free will, of afamily, or it may even be of a few families, from one district orcountry to another. Such cases were universal. But we are chieflyconcerned with those instances in which the capitalist spirit manifesteditself, as we must assume it did where the immigrants were acquaintedwith a more complex economic system or were the founders of newindustries. Take as an instance the Lombards and other Italianmerchants, who in the early Middle Ages carried on business in England, France, and elsewhere. Or recall how in the Middle Ages many anindustry, more especially silk weaving, that was established in anydistrict was introduced by foreigners, and very often on a capitalistbasis. "A new phase in the development of the Venetian silk industrybegan with the arrival of traders and silk-workers from Lucca, wherebythe industry reached its zenith. The commercial element came more andmore to the fore; the merchants became the organizers of production, providing the master craftsman with raw materials which he worked up. "So we read in Broglio d'Ajano. We are told a similar tale about the silkindustry in Genoa, which received an enormous impetus when the Beroleriibegan to employ craftsmen from Lucca. In 1341 what was probably thefirst factory for silk manufacture was erected by one Bolognino diBarghesano, of Lucca. Even in Lyons tradition asserts that Italiansintroduced the making of silk, and, when in the sixteenth century theindustry was placed on a capitalist basis, the initiative thereto cameonce more from aliens. It was the same in Switzerland, where the silkindustry was introduced by the Pelligari in 1685. In Austria likewise wehear the same tale. 

Silk-making in these instances is but one example; there were very manyothers. Here one industry was introduced, there another; here it was byFrenchmen or Germans, there by Italians or Dutchmen. And always the newestablishments came at the moment when the industries in question wereabout to become capitalistic in their organization. 

Individual migrations, then, were not without influence on the economicdevelopment of society. But much more powerful was the effect of thewanderings of large groups from one land to another. From the sixteenthcentury onward migrations of this sort may be distinguished under threeheads: (1) Jewish migrations; (2) the migration of persecutedChristians, more especially of Protestants; and (3) the colonizingmovement, particularly the settlement in America. 

We come, then, to the general question, Is it not a fact that the"stranger, " the immigrant, was possessed of a specially developedcapitalist spirit, and this quite apart from his environment, and, to alesser degree, his religion or his nationality? We see it in the oldstates of Europe no less than in the new settlements beyond; in Jews andGentiles alike; in Protestants and Catholics (the French in Louisianawere, by the middle of the nineteenth century, not a whit behind theAnglo-Saxons of the New England states in this respect). The assumptiontherefore forces itself upon us that this particular socialcondition--migration or change of habitat--was responsible for theunfolding of the capitalist spirit. Let us attempt to show how. 

If we are content to find it in a single cause, it would be the breachwith all old ways of life and all old social relationships. Indeed, thepsychology of the stranger in a new land may easily be explained byreference to this one supreme fact. His clan, his country, his people, his state, no matter how deeply he was rooted in them, have now ceasedto be realities for him. His first aim is to make profit. How could itbe otherwise? There is nothing else open to him. In the old country hewas excluded from playing his part in public life; in the colony of hischoice there is no public life to speak of. Neither can he devotehimself to a life of comfortable, slothful ease; the new lands havelittle comfort. Nor is the newcomer moved by sentiment. His environmentmeans nothing to him. At best he regards it as a means to an end--tomake a living. All this must surely be of great consequence for the riseof a mental outlook that cares only for gain; and who will deny thatcolonial activity generates it? "Our rivulets and streams turn millwheels and bring rafts into the valleys, as they do in Scotland. But notone ballad, not a single song, reminds us that on their banks men andwomen live who experience the happiness of love and the pangs ofseparation; that under each roof in the valleys life's joys and sorrowscome and go. " This plaint of an American of the old days expresses mymeaning; it has been noted again and again, particularly by those whovisited America at the beginning of the nineteenth century. The onlyrelationship between the Yankee and his environment is one of practicalusefulness. The soil, as one of them says, is not regarded as "themother of men, the hearth of the gods, the abiding resting-place of thepast generations, but only as a means to get rich. " There is nothing of"the poetry of the place" anywhere to check commercial devastations. Thespire of his village is for the American like any other spire; in hiseyes the newest and most gaudily painted is the most beautiful. Awaterfall for him merely represents so much motive power. "What a mightyvolume of water!" is, as we are assured, the usual cry of an American onseeing Niagara for the first time, and his highest praise of it is thatit surpasses all other waterfalls in the world in its horse-power. 

Nor has the immigrant or colonial settler a sense of the present or thepast. He has only a future. Before long the possession of money becomeshis one aim and ambition, for it is clear to him that by its means alonewill he be able to shape that future. But how can he amass money? Surelyby enterprise. His being where he is proves that he has capacities, thathe can take risks; is it remarkable, then, that sooner or later hisunbridled acquisitiveness will turn him into a restless capitalistundertaker? Here again we have cause and effect. He undervalues thepresent; he overvalues the future. Hence his activities are such as theyare. Is it too much to say that even today American civilization hassomething of the unfinished about it, something that seems as yet to bein the making, something that turns from the present to the future?

Another characteristic of the newcomer everywhere is that there are nobounds to his enterprise. He is not held in check by personalconsiderations; in all his dealings he comes into contact only withstrangers like himself. As we have already had occasion to point out, the first profitable trade was carried on with strangers; your own kithand kin received assistance from you. You lent out money at interestonly to the stranger, as Antonio remarked to Shylock, for from thestranger you could demand more than you lent. 

Nor is the stranger held in check by considerations other than personalones. He has no traditions to respect; he is not bound by the policy ofan old business. He begins with a clean slate; he has no localconnections that bind him to any one spot. Is not every locality in anew country as good as every other? You therefore decide upon the onethat promises most profit. As Poscher says, a man who has risked his alland left his home to cross the ocean in search of his fortune will notbe likely to shrink from a small speculation if this means a change ofabode. A little traveling more or less can make no difference. 

So it comes about that the feverish searching after novelties manifesteditself in the American character quite early. "If to live means constantmovement and the coming and going of thoughts and feelings in quicksuccession, then the people here live a hundred lives. All iscirculation, movement, and vibrating life. If one attempt fails, anotherfollows on its heels, and before every one undertaking has beencompleted, the next has already been entered upon" (Chevalier). Theenterprising impulse leads to speculation; and here again earlyobservers have noticed the national trait. "Everybody speculates and nocommodity escapes from the speculating rage. It is not tulip speculationthis time, but speculations in cottons, real estate, banks, andrailways. "

One characteristic of the stranger's activity, be he a settler in a newor an old land, follows of necessity. I refer to the determination toapply the utmost rational effort in the field of economic and technicalactivity. The stranger must carry through plans with success because ofnecessity or because he cannot withstand the desire to secure hisfuture. On the other hand, he is able to do it more easily than otherfolk because he is not hampered by tradition. This explains clearlyenough why alien immigrants, as we have seen, furthered commercial andindustrial progress wherever they came. Similarly we may thus accountfor the well-known fact that nowhere are technical inventions soplentiful as in America, that railway construction and the making ofmachinery proceed much more rapidly there than anywhere else in theworld. It all comes from the peculiar conditions of the problem, conditions that have been termed colonial--great distances, dear labor, and the will to progress. The state of mind that will have, nay, musthave, progress is that of the stranger, untrammeled by the past andgazing toward the future. 

Yet results such as these are not achieved by strangers merely becausethey happen to be strangers. Place a negro in a new environment; will hebuild railways and invent labor-saving machines? Hardly. There must be acertain fitness; it must be in the blood. In short, other forces besidethat of being merely a stranger in a strange land are bound toco-operate before the total result can be fully accounted for. Theremust be a process of selection, making the best types available, andthe ethical and moral factor, too, counts for much. Nevertheless, themigrations themselves were a very powerful element in the growth ofcapitalism. 

5. The Sociological Significance of the "Stranger"[132]

If wandering, considered as the liberation from every given point inspace, is the conceptual opposite to fixation at such a point, thensurely the sociological form of "the stranger" presents the union ofboth of these specifications. It discloses, indeed, the fact thatrelations to space are only, on the one hand, the condition, and, on theother hand, the symbol, of relations to men. The stranger is not takenhere, therefore, in the sense frequently employed, of the wanderer whocomes today and goes tomorrow, but rather of the man who comes today andstays tomorrow, the potential wanderer, so to speak, who, although hehas gone no further, has not quite got over the freedom of coming andgoing. He is fixed within a certain spatial circle, but his positionwithin it is peculiarly determined by the fact that he does not belongin it from the first, that he brings qualities into it that are not, andcannot be, native to it. 

The union of nearness and remoteness, which every relation between mencomprehends, has here produced a system of relations or a constellationwhich may, in the fewest words, be thus formulated: The distance withinthe relation signifies that the Near is far; the very fact of beingalien, however, that the Far is near. For the state of being a strangeris naturally a quite positive relation, a particular form ofinteraction. The inhabitants of Sirius are not exactly strangers to us, at least not in the sociological sense of the word as we are consideringit. In that sense they do not exist for us at all. They are beyond beingfar and near. The stranger is an element of the group itself, nototherwise than the Poor and the various "inner enemies, " an elementwhose inherent position and membership involve both an exterior and anopposite. The manner, now, in which mutually repulsive and opposingelements here compose a form of a joint and interacting unity may now bebriefly analyzed. 

In the whole history of economics the stranger makes his appearanceeverywhere as the trader, the trader his as the stranger. As long asproduction for one's own needs is the general rule, or products areexchanged within a relatively narrow circle, there is no need of anymiddleman within the group. A trader is only required with thoseproducts which are produced entirely outside of the group. Unless thereare people who wander out into foreign lands to buy these necessities, in which case they are themselves "strange" merchants in this otherregion, the trader must be a stranger. No other has a chance forexistence. 

This position of the stranger is intensified in our consciousness if, instead of leaving the place of his activity, he fixes himself in it. This will be possible for him only if he can live by trade in the rôleof a middleman. Any closed economic group in which the division of theland and of the crafts which satisfy the local demands has been achievedwill still grant an existence to the trader. For trade alone makespossible unlimited combinations, in which intelligence finds ever widerextensions and ever newer accessions, a thing rarely possible in thecase of the primitive producer with his lesser mobility and hisrestriction to a circle of customers which could only very gradually beincreased. Trade can always absorb more men than primary production, andit is therefore the most favorable province for the stranger, whothrusts himself, so to speak, as a supernumerary into a group in whichall the economic positions are already possessed. History offers as theclassic illustration the European Jew. The stranger is by his verynature no landowner--in saying which, land is taken not merely in aphysical sense but also in a metaphorical one of a permanent and asubstantial existence, which is fixed, if not in space, then at least inan ideal position within the social order. The special sociologicalcharacteristics of the stranger may now be presented. 

a) _Mobility. _--In the more intimate relations of man to man, thestranger may disclose all possible attractions and significantcharacters, but just as long as he is regarded as a stranger, he is inso far no landowner. Now restriction to trade, and frequently to purefinance, as if by a sublimation from the former, gives the stranger thespecific character of mobility. With this mobility, when it occurswithin a limited group, there occurs that synthesis of nearness andremoteness which constitutes the formal position of the stranger; forthe merely mobile comes incidentally into contact with every singleelement but is not bound up organically, through the established ties ofkinship, locality, or profession, with any single one. 

b) _Objectivity. _--Another expression for this relation lies in theobjectivity of the stranger. Because he is not rooted in the peculiarattitudes and biased tendencies of the group, he stands apart from allthese with the peculiar attitude of the "objective, " which does notindicate simply a separation and disinterestedness but is a peculiarcomposition of nearness and remoteness, concern and indifference. I callattention to the domineering positions of the stranger to the group, aswhose archtype appeared that practice of Italian cities of calling theirjudges from without, because no native was free from the prejudices offamily interests and factions. 

c) _Confidant. _--With the objectivity of the stranger is connected thephenomenon which indeed belongs chiefly, but not indeed exclusively, tothe mobile man: namely, that often the most surprising disclosures andconfessions, even to the character of the confessional disclosure, arebrought to him, secrets such as one carefully conceals from everyintimate. Objectivity is by no means lack of sympathy, for that issomething quite outside and beyond either subjective or objectiverelations. It is rather a positive and particular manner of sympathy. Sothe objectivity of a theoretical observation certainly does not meanthat the spirit is a _tabula rasa_ on which things inscribe theirqualities, but it means the full activity of a spirit working accordingto its own laws, under conditions in which accidental dislocations andaccentuations have been excluded, the individual and subjectivepeculiarities of which would give quite different pictures of the sameobject. 

d) _Freedom from convention. _--One can define objectivity also asfreedom. The objective man is bound by no sort of proprieties which canprejudice for him his apprehension, his understanding, his judgment ofthe given. This freedom which permits the stranger to experience anddeal with the relation of nearness as though from a bird's-eye view, contains indeed all sorts of dangerous possibilities. From thebeginnings of things, in revolutions of all sorts, the attacked partyhas claimed that there has been incitement from without, through foreignemissaries and agitators. As far as that is concerned, it is simply anexaggeration of the specific rôle of the stranger; he is the freer man, practically and theoretically; he examines the relations with lessprejudice; he submits them to more general, more objective, standards, and is not confined in his action by custom, piety, or precedents. 

e) _Abstract relations. _--Finally, the proportion of nearness andremoteness which gives the stranger the character of objectivity getsanother practical expression in the more abstract nature of the relationto him. This is seen in the fact that one has certain more generalqualities only in common with the stranger, whereas the relation withthose organically allied is based on the similarity of just thosespecific differences by which the members of an intimate group aredistinguished from those who do not share that intimacy. All personalrelations whatsoever are determined according to this scheme, howevervaried the form which they assume. What is decisive is not the fact thatcertain common characteristics exist side by side with individualdifferences which may or may not affect them but rather that theinfluence of this common possession itself upon the personal relation ofthe individuals involved is determined by certain conditions: Does itexist in and for these individuals and for these only? Does it representqualities that are general in the group, to be sure, but peculiar to it?Or is it merely felt by the members of the group as something peculiarto individuals themselves whereas, in fact, it is a common possession ofa group, or a type, or mankind? In the last case an attenuation of theeffect of the common possession enters in, proportional to the size ofthe group. Common characteristics function, it is true, as a basis forunion among the elements, but it does not specifically refer theseelements to each other. A similarity so widely shared might serve as acommon basis of each with every possible other. This too is evidentlyone way in which a relation may at the same moment comprehend bothnearness and remoteness. To the extent to which the similarities becomegeneral, the warmth of the connection which they effect will have anelement of coolness, a feeling in it of the adventitiousness of thisvery connection. The powers which united have lost their specific, centripetal character. 

This constellation (in which similarities are shared by large numbers)acquires, it seems to me, an extraordinary and fundamentalpreponderance--as against the individual and personal elements we havebeen discussing--in defining our relation to the stranger. The strangeris near to us in so far as we feel between him and ourselvessimilarities of nationality or social position, of profession or ofgeneral human nature. He is far from us in so far as these similaritiesreach out over him and us, and only ally us both because in fact theyally a great many. 

In this sense a trait of this strangeness easily comes into even themost intimate relations. Erotic relations show a very decided aversion, in the stage of first passion, to any disposition to think of them ingeneral terms. A love such as this (so the lover feels) has neverexisted before, nor is there anything to be compared with our passionfor the beloved person. An estrangement is wont, whether as cause or asresult it is difficult to decide, to set in at that moment in which thesentiment of uniqueness disappears from the connection. A scepticism ofits value in itself and for us fastens itself to the very thought thatafter all one has only drawn the lot of general humanity, one hasexperienced a thousand times re-enacted adventure, and that, if one hadnot accidentally encountered this precise person, any other one wouldhave acquired the same meaning for us. And something of this cannot failto be present in any relation, be it ever so intimate, because thatwhich is common to the two is perhaps never common only to them butbelongs to a general conception, which includes much else, manypossibilities of similarities. As little actuality as they may have, often as we may forget them, yet here and there they crowd in likeshadows between men, like a mist gliding before every word's meaning, which must actually congeal into solid corporeality in order to becalled rivalry. Perhaps this is in many cases a more general, at leastmore insurmountable, strangeness than that afforded by differences andincomprehensibilities. There is a feeling, indeed, that these areactually not the peculiar property of just that relation but of a moregeneral one that potentially refers to us and to an uncertain number ofothers, and therefore the relation experienced has no inner and finalnecessity. 

On the other hand, there is a sort of strangeness, in which this veryconnection on the basis of a general quality embracing the parties isprecluded. The relation of the Greeks to the Barbarians is a typicalexample; so are all the cases in which the general characteristics whichone takes as peculiarly and merely human are disallowed to the other. But here the expression "the stranger" has no longer any positivemeaning. The relation with him is a non-relation. He is not a member ofthe group itself. As such he is much more to be considered as near andfar at the same moment, seeing that the foundation of the relation isnow laid simply on a general human similarity. Between these twoelements there occurs, however, a peculiar tension, since theconsciousness of having only the absolutely general in common hasexactly the effect of bringing into particular emphasis that which isnot common. In the case of strangers according to country, city, orrace, the individual characteristics of the person are not perceived;but attention is directed to his alien extraction which he has in commonwith all the members of his group. Therefore the strangers areperceived, not indeed as individuals, but chiefly as strangers of acertain type. Their remoteness is no less general than their nearness. 

With all his inorganic adjacency, the stranger is yet an organic memberof the group, whose uniform life is limited by the peculiar dependenceupon this element. Only we do not know how to designate thecharacteristic unity of this position otherwise than by saying that itis put together of certain amounts of nearness and of remoteness, which, characterizing in some measure any sort of relation, determine in acertain proportion and with characteristic mutual tension the specific, formal relation of "the stranger. "

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. Physical Contacts

The literature of the research upon social contacts falls naturallyunder four heads: physical contacts, sensory contacts, primary contacts, and secondary contacts. 

The reaction of the person to contacts with things as contrasted withhis contacts with persons is an interesting chapter in socialpsychology. Observation upon children shows that the individual tends torespond to inanimate objects, particularly if they are unfamiliar, as ifthey were living and social. The study of animism among primitivepeoples indicates that their attitude toward certain animals whom theyregarded as superior social beings is a specialization of this response. A survey of the poetry of all times and races discloses that nature tothe poet as well as to the mystic is personal. Homesickness andnostalgia are an indication of the personal and intimate nature of therelation of man to the physical world. 

It seems to be part of man's original nature to take the world sociallyand personally. It is only as things become familiar and controllablethat he gains the concept of mechanism. It is natural science andmachinery that has made so large a part of the world impersonal for mostof us. 

The scientific study of the actual reaction of persons and groups totheir physical environment is still in the pioneer stage. Theanthropogeographers have made many brilliant suggestions and a fewcareful and critical studies of the direct and indirect effects of thephysical environment not merely upon man's social and politicalorganization but upon his temperament and conduct. Huntington'ssuggestive observations upon the effect of climate upon manners andefficiency have opened a wide field for investigation. [133]

Interest is growing in the psychology and sociology of the responses ofindividuals and groups to the physical conditions of their environment. Communities, large and small in this country, as they become civicconscious, have devised city plans. New York has made an elaboratereport on the zoning of the city into business, industrial, andresidential areas. A host of housing surveys present realistic picturesof actual conditions of physical existence from the standpoint of thehygienic and social effects of low standards of dwelling, overcrowding, the problem of the roomer. Even historic accounts and impressionisticobservations of art and ornament, decoration and dress, indicate therelation of these material trappings to the self-consciousness of theindividual in his social milieu. 

The reservation must be made that studies of zoning, city planning, andhousing have taken account of economic, aesthetic, and hygienic factorsrather than those of contacts. Implicit, however, in certain aspects ofthese studies, certainly present often as an unconscious motive, hasbeen an appreciation of the effects of the urban, artificial physicalenvironment upon the responses and the very nature of plastic humanbeings, creatures more than creators of the modern leviathan, the GreatCity. 

Glimpses into the nature and process of these subtle effects appear onlyinfrequently in formal research. Occasionally such a book as _TheSpirit of Youth and the City Streets_ by Jane Addams throws a flood oflight upon the contrasts between the warmth, the sincerity, and thewholesomeness of primary human responses and the sophistication, thecoldness, and the moral dangers of the secondary organization of urbanlife. 

A sociological study of the effect of the artificial physical and socialenvironment of the city upon the person will take conscious account ofthese social factors. The lack of attachment to home in the city tenantas compared with the sentiments and status of home-ownership in thevillage, the mobility of the urban dweller in his necessary routine ofwork and his restless quest for pleasure, the sophistication, the front, the self-seeking of the individual emancipated from the controls of theprimary group--all these represent problems for research. 

There are occasional references in literature to what may be called theinversion of the natural attitudes of the city child. His attention, hisresponses, even his images become fixed by the stimuli of the citystreets. [134] To those interested in child welfare and human values thisis the supreme tragedy of the city. 

2. Touch and the Primary Contacts of Intimacy

The study of the senses in their relations to personal and socialbehavior had its origins in psychology, in psychoanalysis, in ethnology, and in the study of races and nationalities with reference to theconflict and fusion of cultures. Darwin's theory of the origin of thespecies increased interest in the instincts and it was the study of theinstincts that led psychologists finally to define all forms of behaviorin terms of stimulus and response. A "contact" is simply a stimulationthat has significance for the understanding of group behavior. 

In psychoanalysis, a rapidly growing literature is accessible tosociologists upon the nature and the effects of the intimate contacts ofsex and family life. Indeed, the Freudian concept of the _libido_ may betranslated for sociological purposes into the desire for response. Theintensity of the sentiments of love and hate that cement and disrupt thefamily is indicated in the analyses of the so-called "family romance. "Life histories reveal the natural tendencies toward reciprocal affectionof mother and son or father and daughter, and the mutual antagonism offather and son or mother and daughter. 

In ethnology, attention was early directed to the phenomena of taboowith its injunction against contamination by contacts. The literature ofprimitive communities is replete with the facts of avoidance of contact, as between the sexes, between mother-in-law and son-in-law, with persons"with the evil eye, " etc. Frazer's volume on "Taboo and the Perils ofthe Soul" in his series entitled _The Golden Bough_, and Crawley, in hisbook, _The Mystic Rose_, to mention two outstanding examples, haveassembled, classified, and interpreted many types of taboo. In theliterature of taboo is found also the ritualistic distinction between"the clean" and "the unclean" and the development of reverence and awetoward "the sacred" and "the holy. "

Recent studies of the conflict of races and nationalities, generallyconsidered as exclusively economic or political in nature, bring out thesignificance of disgusts and fears based fundamentally uponcharacteristic racial odors, marked variations in skin color and inphysiognomy as well as upon differences in food habits, personalconduct, folkways, mores, and culture. 

3. Primary Contacts of Acquaintanceship

Two of the best sociological statements of primary contacts are to befound in Professor Cooley's analysis of primary groups in his book_Social Organization_ and in Shaler's exposition of the sympathetic wayof approach in his volume _The Neighbor_. A mass of descriptive materialfor the further study of the primary contacts is available from manysources. Studies of primitive peoples indicate that early socialorganizations were based upon ties of kinship and primary groupcontacts. Village life in all ages and with all races exhibits absolutestandards and stringent primary controls of behavior. The Blue Laws ofConnecticut are little else than primary-group attitudes written intolaw. Common law, the traditional code of legal conduct sanctioned by theexperience of primary groups, may be compared with statute law, which isan abstract prescription for social life in secondary societies. Herealso should be included the consideration of programs and projects forcommunity organization upon the basis of primary contacts, as forexample, Ward's _The Social Center_. 

4. Secondary Contacts

The transition from feudal societies of villages and towns to our modernworld-society of great cosmopolitan cities has received more attentionfrom economics and politics than from sociology. Studies of theindustrial basis of city life have given us the external pattern of thecity: its topographical conditions, the concentration of population asan outcome of large-scale production, division of labor, andspecialization of effort. Research in municipal government has proceededfrom the muck-raking period, indicated by Lincoln Steffens' _The Shameof the Cities_ to surveys of public utilities and city administration ofthe type of those made by the New York Bureau of Municipal Research. 

Social interest in the city was first stimulated by the polemics againstthe political and social disorders of urban life. There were those whowould destroy the city in order to remedy its evils and restore thesimple life of the country. Sociology sought a surer basis for thesolution of the problems from a study of the facts of city life. Statistics of population by governmental departments provide figuresupon conditions and tendencies. Community surveys have translated intounderstandable form a mass of information about the formal aspects ofcity life. 

Naturally enough, sympathetic and arresting pictures of city life havecome from residents of settlements as in Jane Addam's _Twenty Years atHull House_, Robert Wood's _The City Wilderness_, Lillian Wald's _TheHouse on Henry Street_ and Mrs. Simkhovitch's _The City Worker's World_. Georg Simmel has made the one outstanding contribution to a sociologyor, perhaps better, a social philosophy of the city in his paper "TheGreat City and Cultural Life. "

BIBLIOGRAPHY: MATERIALS FOR THE STUDY OF SOCIAL CONTACTS

I. THE NATURE AND IMPORTANCE OF SOCIAL CONTACTS

(1) Small, Albion W. _General Sociology. _ An exposition of the maindevelopment in sociological theory from Spencer to Ratzenhofer, pp. 486-91. Chicago, 1905. 

(2) Tarde, Gabriel. _The Laws of Imitation_. Translated from the Frenchby Elsie Clews Parsons. Chap. Iii, "What Is a Society?" New York, 1903. 

(3) Thomas, W. I. "Race Psychology: Standpoint and Questionnaire, withParticular Reference to the Immigrant and the Negro. " _American Journalof Sociology_, XVII (May, 1912), 725-75. 

(4) Boas, Franz. _The Mind of Primitive Man. _ New York, 1911. 

II. INTIMATE SOCIAL CONTACTS AND THE SOCIOLOGY OF THE SENSES

(1) Simmel, Georg. _Soziologie. _ Untersuchungen über die Formen derVergesellschaftung. Exkurs über die Soziologie der Sinne, pp. 646-65. Leipzig, 1908. 

(2) Crawley, E. _The Mystic Rose. _ A study of primitive marriage. Londonand New York, 1902. 

(3) Sully, James. _Sensation and Intuition. _ Studies in psychology andaesthetics. Chap, iv, "Belief: Its Varieties and Its Conditions. "London, 1874. 

(4) Moll, Albert. _Der Rapport in der Hypnose. _ Leipzig, 1892. 

(5) Elworthy, F. T. _The Evil Eye. _ An account of this ancient andwidespread superstition. London, 1895. 

(6) Lévy-Bruhl. _Les fonctions mentales dans les sociétés inférieures. _Paris, 1910. 

(7) Starbuck, Edwin D. "The Intimate Senses as Sources of Wisdom, " _TheJournal of Religion_, I (March, 1921), 129-45. 

(8) Paulhan, Fr. _Les transformations saddles des sentiments. _ Paris, 1920. 

(9) Stoll, O. _Suggestion und Hypnotismus in der Völkerpsychologie. _Chap. Ix, pp. 225-29. Leipzig, 1904. 

(10) Hooper, Charles E. _Common Sense. _ An analysis and interpretation. Being a discussion of its general character, its distinction fromdiscursive reasoning, its origin in mental imagery, its speculativeoutlook, its value for practical life and social well-being, itsrelation to scientific knowledge, and its bearings on the problems ofnatural and rational causation. London, 1913. 

(11) Weigall, A. "The Influence of the Kinematograph upon NationalLife, " _Nineteenth Century and After_, LXXXIX (April, 1921), 661-72. 

III. MATERIALS FOR THE STUDY OF MOBILITY

(1) Vallaux, Camille. "Le sol et l'état, " _Géographie sociale. _ Paris, 1911. 

(2) Demolins, Edmond. _Comment la route crée le type social. _ Lesgrandes routes des peuples; essai de géographie social. 2 vols. Paris, 1901. 

(3) Vandervelde, É. _L'exode rural el le retour aux champs. _ Chap. Iv, "Les conséquences de l'exode rural. " (Sec. 3 discusses the political andintellectual, the physical and moral consequences of the rural exodus, pp. 202-13. ) Paris, 1903. 

(4) Bury, J. B. _A History of Freedom of Thought. _ London and New York, 1913. 

(5) Bloch, Iwan. _Die Prostitution. _ Handbuch der gesamtenSexualwissenschaft in Einzeldarstellungen. Berlin, 1912. 

(6) Pagnier, Armand. _Du vagabondage et des vagabonds. _ Étudepsychologique, sociologique et médico-légale. Lyon, 1906. 

(7) Laubach, Frank C. _Why There Are Vagrants. _ A study based upon anexamination of one hundred men. New York, 1916. 

(8) Ribton-Turner, Charles J. _A History of Vagrants and Vagrancy andBeggars and Begging. _ London, 1887. 

(9) Florian, Eugenio. _I vagabondi. _ Studio sociologicoguiridico. Parteprima, "L'Evoluzione del vagabondaggio. " Pp. 1-124. Torino, 1897-1900. 

(10) Devine, Edward T. "The Shiftless and Floating City Population, "_Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science_, X(September, 1897), 149-164. 

IV. SOCIAL CONTACTS IN PRIMARY GROUPS

(1) Sumner, Wm. G. _Folkways. _ A study of the sociological importance ofusages, manners, customs, mores, and morals. "The In-Group and theOut-Group, " pp. 12-16. Boston, 1906. 

(2) Vierkandt, Alfred. _Naturvölker und Kulturvölker. _ Ein Beitrag zurSocialpsychologie. Leipzig, 1896. 

(3) Pandian, T. B. _Indian Village Folk. _ Their Works and Ways. London, 1897. 

(4) Dobschütz, E. V. _Die urchristlichen Gemeinden. _Sittengeschichtliche Bilder. Leipzig, 1902. 

(5) Kautsky, Karl. _Communism in Central Europe in the Time of theReformation. _ Translated by J. L. And E. G. Mulliken. London, 1897. 

(6) Hupka, S. Von. _Entwicklung der westgalizischen Dorfzustände in der2. Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts, verfolgt in einem Dörferkomplex. _Zürich, 1910. 

(7) Wallace, Donald M. _Russia. _ Chaps. Vi, vii, viii, and ix. New York, 1905. 

(8) Ditchfield, P. H. _Old Village Life, or, Glimpses of Village Lifethrough All Ages. _ New York, 1920. 

(9) Hammond, John L. , and Hammond, Barbara. _The Village Labourer, 1760-1832. _ A study in the government of England before the reform bill. London, 1911. 

(10) _The Blue Laws of Connecticut. _ A collection of the earlieststatutes and judicial proceedings of that colony, being an exhibition ofthe rigorous morals and legislation of the Puritans. Edited with anintroduction by Samuel M. Schmucker. Philadelphia, 1861. 

(11) Nordhoff, C. _The Communistic Societies of the United States. _ Frompersonal visit and observation. Including detailed accounts of theEconomists, Zoarites, Shakers, the Amana, Oneida, Bethel, Aurora, Icarian, and other existing societies, their religious creeds, socialpractices, numbers, industries, and present condition. New York, 1875. 

(12) Hinds, William A. _American Communities and Co-operative Colonies. _2d rev. Chicago, 1908. [Contains notices of 144 communities in theUnited States. ]

(13) L'Houet, A. _Zur Psychologie des Bauerntums. _ Ein Beitrag. Tübingen, 1905. 

(14) Pennington, Patience. _A Woman Rice-Planter. _ New York, 1913. 

(15) Smedes, Susan D. _A Southern Planter. _ London, 1889. 

(16) Sims, Newell L. _The Rural Community, Ancient and Modern. _ Chap. Iv, "The Disintegration of the Village Community. " New York, 1920. 

(17) Anderson, Wilbert L. _The Country Town. _ A study of ruralevolution. New York, 1906. 

(18) Zola, Émile. _La Terre. _ Paris, 1907. [Romance. ]

V. SOCIAL CONTACTS IN SECONDARY GROUPS

(1) Weber, Adna Ferrin. _The Growth of Cities in the NineteenthCentury. _ A study in statistics. New York, 1899. 

(2) Preuss, Hugo. _Die Entwicklung des deutschen Städtewesens. _ I Band. Leipzig, 1906. 

(3) Green, Alice S. A. (Mrs. J. R. ) _Town Life in the FifteenthCentury. _ London and New York, 1894. 

(4) Toynbee, Arnold. _Lectures on the Industrial Revolution of theEighteenth Century in England. _ London, 1890. 

(5) Hammond, J. L. , and Hammond, Barbara. _The Town Labourer, 1760-1832. _ The new civilization. London, 1917. 

(6) ----. _The Skilled Labourer_, 1760-1832. London, 1919. [Presents thedetailed history of particular bodies of skilled workers during thegreat change of the Industrial Revolution. ]

(7) Jastrow, J. "Die Stadtgemeinschaft in ihren kulturellenBeziehungen. " (Indicates the institutions which have come into existenceunder conditions of urban community life. ) _Zeitschrift fürSocialwissenschaft_, X (1907), 42-51, 92-101. [Bibliography. ]

(8) Sombart, Werner. _The Jews and Modern Capitalism. _ Translated fromthe German by M. Epstein. London, 1913. 

(9) ----. _The Quintessence of Capitalism. _ A study of the history andpsychology of the modern business man. Translated from the German by M. Epstein. New York, 1915. 

(10) Wallas, Graham. _The Great Society. _ A psychological analysis. NewYork, 1914. 

(11) Booth, Charles. _Life and Labour of the People in London. _ V, EastLondon, chap, ii, "The Docks. " III, chap, iv, "Influx of Population. "London, 1892. 

(12) Marpillero, G. "Saggio di psicologia dell'urbanismo, " _Rivistaitaliana di sociologia_, XII (1908), 599-626. 

(13) Besant, Walter. _East London. _ London and New York, 1901. 

(14) _The Pittsburgh Survey--the Pittsburgh District. _ Robert A. Woods, "Pittsburgh, an Interpretation. " Allen T. Burns, "Coalition ofPittsburgh Coal Fields. " New York, 1914. 

(15) _Hull House Maps and Papers. _ A presentation of nationalities andwages in a congested district of Chicago, together with comments andessays on problems growing out of the social conditions. New York, 1895. 

(16) Addams, Jane. _Twenty Years at Hull House. _ With autobiographicalnotes. New York, 1910. 

(17) ----. _The Spirit of Youth and the City Streets. _ New York, 1909. 

(18) Simkhovitch, Mary K. _The City Worker's World in America. _ NewYork, 1917. 

(19) Park, R. E. , and Miller, H. A. _Old World Traits Transplanted. _ NewYork, 1921. 

(20) Park, Robert E. _The Immigrant Press and Its Control. _ (In press. )

(21) Steiner, J. F. _The Japanese Invasion. _ A study in the psychologyof inter-racial contacts. Chicago, 1917. 

(22) Thomas, W. I. , and Znaniecki, F. _The Polish Peasant in Europe andAmerica. _ Monograph of an immigrant group. Vol. IV, Chicago, 1918. 

(23) Cahan, Abraham. _The Rise of David Levinsky. _ A novel. New York andLondon, 1917. 

(24) Hasanovitz, Elizabeth. _One of Them. _ Chapters from a passionateautobiography. Boston, 1918. 

(25) Ravage, M. E. _An American in the Making. _ The life story of animmigrant. New York and London, 1917. 

(26) Ribbany, Abraham Mitrie. _A Far Journey. _ Boston, 1914. 

(27) Riis, Jacob A. _The Making of an American. _ New York and London, 1901. 

(28) Cohen, Rose. _Out of the Shadow. _ New York, 1918. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. The Land as the Basis for Social Contacts. 

2. Density of Population, Social Contacts and Social Organization. 

3. Mobility and Social Types, as the Gypsy, the Nomad, the Hobo, thePioneer, the Commercial Traveler, the Missionary, the Globe-Trotter, theWandering Jew. 

4. Stability and Social Types, as the Farmer, the Home-Owner, theBusiness Man. 

5. Sensory Experience and Human Behavior. Nostalgia (Homesickness). 

6. Race Prejudice and Primary Contacts. 

7. Taboo and Social Contact. 

8. Social Contacts in a Primary Group, as the Family, the Play Group, the Neighborhood, the Village. 

9. Social Control in Primary Groups. 

10. The Substitution of Secondary for Primary Contacts as the Cause ofSocial Problems, as Poverty, Crime, Prostitution, etc. 

11. Control of Problems through Secondary Contacts, as CharityOrganization Society, Social Service Registration Bureau, PoliceDepartment, Morals Court, Publicity through the Press, etc. 

12. The Industrial Revolution and the Great Society. 

13. Attempts to Revive Primary Groups in the City, as the Social Center, the Settlement, the Social Unit Experiment, etc. 

14. Attempts to Restore Primary Contacts between Employer and Employee. 

15. The Anonymity of the Newspaper. 

16. Standardization and Impersonality of the Great Society. 

17. The Sociology of the Stranger; a Study of the Revivalist, theExpert, the Genius, the Trader. 

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. What do you understand by the term contact?

2. What are the ways in which geographic conditions influence socialcontacts?

3. What are the differences in contact with the land between primitiveand modern peoples?

4. In what ways do increasing social contacts affect contacts with thesoil? Give concrete illustrations. 

5. What is the social significance of touch as compared with that of theother senses?

6. In what sense is touch a social contact?

7. By what principle do you explain desire or aversion for contact?

8. Give illustrations indicating the significance of touch in variousfields of social life. 

9. How do you explain the impulse to touch objects which attractattention?

10. What are the differences in contacts within and without the group inprimitive society?

11. In what way do external relations affect the contacts within thegroup?

12. Give illustrations of group egotism or ethnocentrism. 

13. To what extent does the dependence of the solidarity of the in-groupupon its relations with the out-groups have a bearing upon presentinternational relations?

14. To what extent is the social control of the immigrant dependent uponthe maintenance of the solidarity of the immigrant group?

15. What are our reactions upon meeting a person? a friend? a stranger?

16. What do you understand Shaler to mean by the statement that "at thebeginning of any acquaintance the fellow-being is evidently dealt within the categoric way"?

17. How far is "the sympathetic way of approach" practical in humanrelations?

18. What is the difference in the basis of continuity between animal andhuman society?

19. What types of social contacts make for historical continuity?

20. What are the differences of social contacts in the movements ofprimitive and civilized peoples?

21. To what extent is civilization dependent upon increasing contactsand intimacy of contacts?

22. Does mobility always mean increasing contacts?

23. Under what conditions does mobility contribute to the increase ofexperience?

24. Does the hobo get more experience than the schoolboy?

25. Contrast the advantages and limitations of historical continuity andof mobility. 

26. What do you understand by a primary group?

27. Are primary contacts limited to members of face-to-face groups?

28. What attitudes and relations characterize village life?

29. Interpret sociologically the control by the group of the behavior ofthe individual in a rural community. 

30. Why has the growth of the city resulted in the substitution ofsecondary for primary social contacts?

31. What problems grow out of the breakdown of primary relations? Whatproblems are solved by the breakdown of primary relations?

32. Do the contacts of city life make for the development ofindividuality? personality? social types?

33. In what ways does publicity function as a form of secondary contactin American life?

34. Why does the European peasant first become a reader of newspapersafter his immigration to the United States?

35. Why does the shift from country to city involve a change (a) fromconcrete to abstract relations; (b) from absolute to relativestandards of life; (c) from personal to impersonal relations; and(d) from sentimental to rational attitudes?

36. How far is social solidarity based upon concrete and sentimentalrather than upon abstract and rational relations?

37. Why does immigration make for change from sentimental to rationalattitudes toward life?

38. In what way is capitalism associated with the growth of secondarycontacts?

39. How does "the stranger" include externality and intimacy?

40. In what ways would you illustrate the relation described by Simmelthat combines "the near" and "the far"?

41. Why is it that "the stranger" is associated with revolutions anddestructive forces in the group?

42. Why does "the stranger" have prestige?

43. In what sense is the attitude of the academic man that of "thestranger" as compared with the attitude of the practical man?

44. To what extent does the professional man have the characteristics of"the stranger"?

45. Why does the feeling of a relation as unique give it value that itloses when thought of as shared by others?

46. What would be the effect upon the problem of the relation of thewhites and negroes in the United States of the recognition that thisrelation is of the same kind as that which exists between other races insimilar situations?

FOOTNOTES:

[117] Alexander Pope, in smooth lines, and with apt phrases, hasconcretely described this process of perversion:

 "Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As to be hated needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. "

[118] H. S. Jennings, John B. Watson, Adolph Meyer, and W. I. Thomas, "Practical and Theoretical Problems in Instinct and Habit, " _Suggestionsof Modern Science Concerning Education_, p. 174. 

[119] See Introduction, pp. 8-10. 

[120] Thorstein Veblin, _The Instinct of Workmanship, and the State ofthe Industrial Arts_. (New York, 1914. )

[121] From Albion W. Small, _General Sociology_, pp. 486-89. (TheUniversity of Chicago Press, 1905. )

[122] From Ellen C. Semple, _Influences of Geographic Environment_, pp. 51-53. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1911. )

[123] From Ernest Crawley, _The Mystic Rose_, pp. 76-79. (Published byThe Macmillan Co. , 1902. Reprinted by permission. )

[124] From W. G. Sumner, _Folkways_, pp. 12-13. (Ginn & Co. , 1906. )

[125] Adapted from N. S. Shaler, _The Neighbor_, pp. 207-27. (HoughtonMifflin Co. , 1904. )

[126] From Friedrich Ratzel, _The History of Mankind_, I, 21-25. (Published by The Macmillan Co. , 1896. Reprinted by permission. )

[127] Adapted from Ellen C. Semple, _Influences of GeographicEnvironment_, pp. 75-84, 186-87. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1911. )

[128] Adapted from Caroline C. Richards, _Village Life in America_, pp. 21-138. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1912. )

[129] From Robert E. Park, "The City, " in the _American Journal ofSociology_, XX (1914-15), 593-609. 

[130] From Robert E. Park, "The City, " in the _American Journal ofSociology_, XX (1914-15), 604-7. 

[131] Adapted from Werner Sombart, _The Quintessence of Capitalism_, pp. 292-307. (T. F. Unwin, Ltd. , 1915. )

[132] Translated from Georg Simmel, _Soziologie_, pp. 685-91. (Leipzig:Duncker und Humblot, 1908. )

[133] Ellsworth Huntington, _Climate and Civilization_. (New Haven, 1915. )

[134] The following is one of the typical illustrations of this point. An art teacher conducted a group of children from a settlement, in asqualid city area, to the country. She asked the children to draw anyobject they wished. On examination of the drawings she was astonished tofind not rural scenes but pictures of the city streets, as lamp-postsand smokestacks. 

CHAPTER VI

SOCIAL INTERACTION

I. INTRODUCTION

1. The Concept of Interaction

The idea of interaction is not a notion of common sense. It representsthe culmination of long-continued reflection by human beings in theirceaseless effort to resolve the ancient paradox of unity in diversity, the "one" and the "many, " to find law and order in the apparent chaos ofphysical changes and social events; and thus to find explanations forthe behavior of the universe, of society, and of man. 

The disposition to be curious and reflective about the physical andsocial universe is human enough. For men, in distinction from animals, live in a world of ideas as well as in a realm of immediate reality. This world of ideas is something more than the mirror thatsense-perception offers us; something less than that ultimate reality towhich it seems to be a prologue and invitation. Man, in his ambition tobe master of himself and of nature, looks behind the mirror, to analyzephenomena and seek causes, in order to gain control. Science, naturalscience, is a research for causes, that is to say, for mechanisms, whichin turn find application in technical devices, organization, andmachinery, in which mankind asserts its control over physical nature andeventually over man himself. Education, in its technical aspects atleast, is a device of social control, just as the printing press is aninstrument that may be used for the same purpose. 

Sociology, like other natural sciences, aims at prediction and controlbased on an investigation of the nature of man and society, and naturemeans here, as elsewhere in science, just those aspects of life that aredetermined and predictable. In order to describe man and society interms which will reveal their nature, sociology is compelled to reducethe complexity and richness of life to the simplest terms, i. E. , elements and forces. Once the concepts "elements" or "forces" have beenaccepted, the notion of interaction is an evitable, logical development. In astronomy, for example, these elements are (a) the masses of theheavenly bodies, (b) their position, (c) the direction of theirmovement, and (d) their velocity. In sociology, these forces areinstitutions, tendencies, human beings, ideas, anything that embodiesand expresses motives and wishes. In _principle_, and with reference totheir logical character, the "forces" and "elements" in sociology may becompared with the forces and elements in any other natural science. 

Ormond, in his _Foundations of Knowledge_, [135] gives an illuminatinganalysis of interaction as a concept which may be applied equally to thebehavior of physical objects and persons. 

 The notion of interaction is not simple but very complex. The notion involves not simply the idea of bare collision and rebound, but something much more profound, namely, the internal modifiability of the colliding agents. Take for example the simplest possible case, that of one billiard ball striking against another. We say that the impact of one ball against another communicates motion, so that the stricken ball passes from a state of rest to one of motion, while the striking ball has experienced a change of an opposite character. But nothing is explained by this account, for if nothing happens but the communication of motion, why does it not pass through the stricken ball and leave its state unchanged? The phenomenon cannot be of this simple character, but there must be a point somewhere at which the recipient of the impulse gathers itself up, so to speak, into a knot and becomes the subject of the impulse which is thus translated into movement. We have thus movement, impact, impulse, which is translated again into activity, and outwardly the billiard ball changing from a state of rest to one of motion; or in the case of the impelling ball, from a state of motion to one of rest. Now the case of the billiard balls is one of the simpler examples of interaction. We have seen that the problem it supplies is not simple but very complex. The situation is not thinkable at all if we do not suppose the internal modifiability of the agents, and this means that these agents are able somehow to receive internally and to react upon impulses which are communicated externally in the form of motion or activity. The simplest form of interaction involves the supposition, therefore, of internal subject-points or their analogues from which impulsions are received and responded to. 

Simmel, among sociological writers, although he nowhere expresslydefines the term, has employed the conception of interaction with aclear sense of its logical significance. Gumplowicz, on the other hand, has sought to define social interaction as a principle fundamental toall natural sciences, that is to say, sciences that seek to describechange in terms of a process, i. E. , physics, chemistry, biology, psychology. The logical principle is the same in all these sciences; the_processes_ and the _elements_ are different. 

2. Classification of the Materials

The material in this chapter will be considered here under three mainheads: (a) society as interaction, (b) communication as the mediumof interaction, and (c) imitation and suggestion as mechanisms ofinteraction. 

a) _Society as interaction. _--Society stated in mechanistic termsreduces to interaction. A person is a member of society so long as heresponds to social forces; when interaction ends, he is isolated anddetached; he ceases to be a person and becomes a "lost soul. " This isthe reason that the limits of society are coterminous with the limits ofinteraction, that is, of the participation of persons in the life ofsociety. One way of measuring the wholesome or the normal life of aperson is by the sheer external fact of his membership in the socialgroups of the community in which his lot is cast. 

Simmel has illustrated in a wide survey of concrete detail howinteraction defines the group in time and space. Through contacts ofhistorical continuity, the life of society extends backward toprehistoric eras. More potent over group behavior than contemporarydiscovery and invention is the control exerted by the "dead hand of thepast" through the inertia of folkways and mores, through the revival ofmemories and sentiments and through the persistence of tradition andculture. Contacts of mobility, on the other hand, define the area of theinteraction of the members of the group in space. The degree ofdeparture from accepted ideas and modes of behavior and the extent ofsympathetic approach to the strange and the novel largely depend uponthe rate, the number, and the intensity of the contacts of mobility. 

b) _Communication as the medium of social interaction. _--Each sciencepostulates its own medium of interaction. Astronomy and physics assumea hypothetical substance, the ether. Physics has its principles of molaraction and reaction; chemistry studies molecular interaction. Biologyand medicine direct their research to the physiological interaction oforganisms. Psychology is concerned with the behavior of the individualorganism in terms of the interaction of stimuli and responses. Sociology, as collective psychology, deals with communication. Sociologists have referred to this process as intermental stimulationand response. 

The readings on communication are so arranged as to make clear the threenatural levels of interaction: (x) that of the senses; (y) that ofthe emotions; and (z) that of sentiments and ideas. 

Interaction through sense-perceptions and emotional responses may betermed the natural forms of communication since they are common to manand to animals. Simmel's interpretation of interaction through thesenses is suggestive of the subtle, unconscious, yet profound, way inwhich personal attitudes are formed. Not alone vision, but hearing, smell and touch exhibit in varying degrees the emotional responses ofthe type of appreciation. This means understanding other persons orobjects on the perceptual basis. 

The selections from Darwin and from Morgan upon emotional expression inanimals indicate how natural expressive signs become a vehicle forcommunication. A prepossession for speech and ideas blinds man to theimportant rôle in human conduct still exerted by emotionalcommunication, facial expression, and gesture. Blushing and laughter arepeculiarly significant, because these forms of emotional response aredistinctively human. To say that a person blushes when he isself-conscious, that he laughs when he is detached from, and superiorto, and yet interested in, an occurrence means that blushing andlaughter represent contrasted attitudes to a social situation. Therelation of blushing and laughter to social control, as an evidence ofthe emotional dependence of the person upon the group, is at its apogeein adolescence. 

Interaction through sensory impressions and emotional expression isrestricted to the communication of attitudes and feelings. Theselections under the heading "Language and the Communication of Ideas"bring out the uniquely human character of speech. Concepts, as MaxMüller insists, are the common symbols wrought out in social experience. They are more or less conventionalized, objective, and intelligiblesymbols that have been defined in terms of a common experience or, asthe logicians say, of a universe of discourse. Every group has its ownuniverse of discourse. In short, to use Durkheim's phrase, concepts are"collective representations. "

History has been variously conceived in terms of great events, epoch-making personalities, social movements, and cultural changes. Fromthe point of view of sociology social evolution might profitably bestudied in its relation to the development and perfection of the meansand technique of communication. How revolutionary was the transitionfrom word of mouth and memory to written records! The beginnings ofancient civilization with its five independent centers in Egypt, theEuphrates River Valley, China, Mexico, and Peru appear to beinextricably bound up with the change from pictographs to writing, thatis to say from symbols representing words to symbols representingsounds. The modern period began with the invention of printing and theprinting press. As books became the possession of the common man thefoundation was laid for experiments in democracy. From the sociologicalstandpoint the book is an organized objective mind whose thoughts areaccessible to all. The rôle of the book in social life has long beenrecognized but not fully appreciated. The Christian church, to be sure, regards the Bible as the word of God. The army does not question theinfallibility of the Manual of Arms. Our written Constitution has beentermed "the ark of the covenant. " The orthodox Socialist appeals inunquestioning faith to the ponderous tomes of Marx. 

World-society of today, which depends upon the almost instantaneouscommunication of events and opinion around the world, rests upon theinvention of telegraphy and the laying of the great ocean cables. Wireless telegraphy and radio have only perfected these earlier meansand render impossible a monopoly or a censorship of intercommunicationbetween peoples. The traditional cultures, the social inheritances ofages of isolation, are now in a world-process of interaction andmodification as a result of the rapidity and the impact of these modernmeans of the circulation of ideas and sentiments. At the present time itis so popular to malign the newspaper that few recognize the extent towhich news has freed mankind from the control of political parties, social institutions, and, it may be added, from the "tyranny" of books. 

c) _Imitation and suggestion the mechanistic forms ofinteraction. _--In all forms of communication behavior changes occur, butin two cases the processes have been analyzed, defined, and reduced tosimple terms, viz. , in imitation and in suggestion. 

Imitation, as the etymology of the term implies, is a process of copyingor learning. But imitation is learning only so far as it has thecharacter of an experiment, or trial and error. It is also obvious thatso-called "instinctive" imitation is not learning at all. Since theresults of experimental psychology have limited the field of instinctiveimitation to a few simple activities, as the tendencies to run whenothers run, to laugh when others laugh, its place in human life becomesof slight importance as compared with imitation which involvespersistent effort at reproducing standard patterns of behavior. 

This human tendency, under social influences, to reproduce the copyStout has explained in psychological terms of attention and interest. The interests determine the run of attention, and the direction ofattention fixes the copies to be imitated. Without in any waydiscounting the psychological validity of this explanation, or itspractical value in educational application, social factors controllinginterest and attention should not be disregarded. In a primary group, social control narrowly restricts the selection of patterns andbehavior. In an isolated group the individual may have no choicewhatsoever. Then, again, attention may be determined, not by interestsarising from individual capacity or aptitude, but rather from _rapport_, that is, from interest in the prestige or in the personal traits of theindividual presenting the copy. 

The relation of the somewhat complex process of imitation to the simplemethod of trial and error is of significance. Learning by imitationimplies at once both identification of the person with the individualpresenting the copy and yet differentiation from him. Through imitationwe appreciate the other person. We are in sympathy or _en rapport_ withhim, while at the same time we appropriate his sentiment and histechnique. Ribot and Adam Smith analyze this relation of imitation tosympathy and Hirn points out that in art this process of internalimitation is indispensable for aesthetic appreciation. 

In this process of appreciation and learning the primitive method oftrial and error comes into the service of imitation. In a real senseimitation is mechanical and conservative; it provides a basis fororiginality, but its function is to transmit, not to originate the new. On the other hand, the simple process of trial and error, a commonpossession of man and the animals, results in discovery and invention. 

The most scientifically controlled situation for the play of suggestionis in hypnosis. An analysis of the observed facts of hypnotism will behelpful in arriving at an understanding of the mechanism of suggestionin everyday life. The essential facts of hypnotism may be brieflysummarized as follows: (a) The establishment of a relation of_rapport_ between the experimenter and the subject of such a nature thatthe latter carries out suggestions presented by the former. (b) Thesuccessful response by the subject to the suggestion is conditional uponits relation to his past experience. (c) The subject responds to hisown idea of the suggestion, and not to the idea as conceived by theexperimenter. A consideration of cases is sufficient to convince thestudent of a complete parallel between suggestion in social life withsuggestion in hypnosis, so far, at least, as concerns the last twopoints. Wherever rapport develops between persons, as in the love ofmother and son, the affection of lovers, the comradeship of intimatefriends, there also arises the mechanism of the reciprocal influence ofsuggestion. But in normal social situations, unlike hypnotism, there maybe the effect of suggestion where no rapport exists. 

Herein lies the significance of the differentiation made by Bechterewbetween active perception and passive perception. In passive perceptionideas and sentiments evading the "ego" enter the "subconscious mind"and, uncontrolled by the active perception, form organizations orcomplexes of "lost" memories. It thus comes about that in socialsituations, where no rapport exists between two persons, a suggestionmay be made which, by striking the right chord of memory or byresurrecting a forgotten sentiment, may transform the life of the other, as in conversion. The area of suggestion in social life is indicated ina second paper selected from Bechterew. In later chapters upon "SocialControl" and "Collective Behavior" the mechanism of suggestion in thedetermination of group behavior will be further considered. 

Imitation and suggestion are both mechanisms of social interaction inwhich an individual or group is controlled by another individual orgroup. The distinction between the two processes is now clear. Thecharacteristic mark of imitation is the tendency, under the influence ofcopies socially presented, to build up mechanisms of habits, sentiments, ideals, and patterns of life. The process of suggestion, asdifferentiated from imitation in social interaction, is to release underthe appropriate social stimuli mechanisms already organized, whetherinstincts, habits, or sentiments. The other differences betweenimitation and suggestion grow out of this fundamental distinction. Inimitation attention is alert, now on the copy and now on the response. In suggestion the attention is either absorbed in, or distracted from, the stimulus. In imitation the individual is self conscious; the subjectin suggestion is unconscious of his behavior. In imitation the activitytends to reproduce the copy; in suggestion the response may be like orunlike the copy. 

II. MATERIALS

A. SOCIETY AS INTERACTION

1. The Mechanistic Interpretation of Society[136]

In every natural process we may observe the two essential factors whichconstitute it, namely, heterogeneous elements and their reciprocalinteraction which we ascribe to certain natural forces. We observe thesefactors in the natural process of the stars, by which the differentheavenly bodies exert certain influences over each other, which weascribe either to the force of attraction or to gravity. 

"No material bond unites the planets to the sun. The direct activity ofan elementary force, the general force of attraction, holds both in aninvisible connection by the elasticity of its influence. "

In the chemical natural process we observe the most varied elementsrelated to each other in the most various ways. They attract or repulseeach other. They enter into combinations or they withdraw from them. These are nothing but actions and interactions which we ascribe tocertain forces inherent in these elements. 

The vegetable and animal natural process begins, at any rate, with thecontact of heterogeneous elements which we characterize as sexual cells(gametes). They exert upon each other a reciprocal influence which setsinto activity the vegetable and animal process. 

The extent to which science is permeated by the hypothesis thatheterogeneous elements reacting upon each other are necessary to anatural process is best indicated by the atomic theory. 

Obviously, it is conceded that the origins of all natural processescannot better be explained than by the assumption of the existence inbodies of invisible particles, each of which has some sort of separateexistence and reacts upon the others. 

The entire hypothesis is only the consequence of the concept of anatural process which the observation of nature has produced in thehuman mind. 

Even though we conceive the social process as characteristic anddifferent from the four types of natural processes mentioned above, still there must be identified in it the two essential factors whichconstitute the generic conception of the natural process. And this is, in fact, what we find. The numberless human groups, which we assume asthe earliest beginnings of human existence, constitute the great varietyof heterogeneous ethnic elements. These have decreased with the decreasein the number of hordes and tribes. From the foregoing explanation weare bound to assume as certain that in this field we are concerned withethnically different and heterogeneous elements. 

The question now remains as to the second constitutive element of anatural process, namely, the definite interaction of these elements, andespecially as to those interactions which are characterized byregularity and permanency. Of course, we must avoid analogy with thereciprocal interaction of heterogeneous elements in the domain of othernatural processes. In strict conformity with the scientific method wetake into consideration merely such interactions as the facts of commonknowledge and actual experience offer us. Thus will we be able, happily, to formulate a principle of the reciprocal interaction of heterogeneousethnic, or, if you will, social elements, the mathematical certainty anduniversality of which cannot be denied irrefutably, since it manifestsitself ever and everywhere in the field of history and the livingpresent. 

This principle may be very simply stated: Every stronger ethnic orsocial group strives to subjugate and make serviceable to its purposesevery weaker element which exists or may come within the field of itsinfluence. This thesis of the relation of heterogeneous ethnic andsocial elements to each other, with all the consequences proceedingfrom it, contains within it the key to the solution of the entire riddleof the natural process of human history. We shall see this thesisillustrated ever and everywhere in the past and the present in theinterrelations of heterogeneous ethnic and social elements and becomeconvinced of its universal validity. In this latter relation it does notcorrespond at all to such natural laws, as, for example, attraction andgravitation or chemical affinity, or to the laws of vegetable and animallife. In order better to conceive of this social natural law in itsgeneral validity, we must study it in its different consequences and inthe various forms which it assumes according to circumstances andconditions. 

2. Social Interaction as the Definition of the Group in Time andSpace[137]

Society exists wherever several individuals are in reciprocalrelationship. This reciprocity arises always from specific impulses orby virtue of specific purposes. Erotic, religious, or merely associativeimpulses, purposes of defense or of attack, of play as well as of gain, of aid and instruction, and countless others bring it to pass that menenter into group relationships of acting for, with, against, oneanother; that is, men exercise an influence upon these conditions ofassociation and are influenced by them. These reactions signify that outof the individual bearers of those occasioning impulses and purposes aunity, that is, a "society, " comes into being. 

An organic body is a unity because its organs are in a relationship ofmore intimate interchange of their energies than with any externalbeing. A _state_ is _one_ because between its citizens the correspondingrelationship of reciprocal influences exists. We could, indeed, not callthe world _one_ if each of its parts did not somehow influence everyother, if anywhere the reciprocity of the influences, however mediated, were cut off. That unity, or socialization, may, according to the kindand degree of reciprocity, have very different gradations, from theephemeral combination for a promenade to the family; from allrelationships "at will" to membership in a state; from the temporaryaggregation of the guests in a hotel to the intimate bond of a medievalguild. 

Everything now which is present in the individuals--the immediateconcrete locations of all historical actuality--in the nature ofimpulse, interest, purpose, inclination, psychical adaptability, andmovement of such sort that thereupon or therefrom occurs influence uponothers, or the reception of influence from them--all this I designate asthe content or the material of socialization. In and of themselves, these materials with which life is filled, these motivations which impelit, are not social in their nature. Neither hunger nor love, neitherlabor nor religiosity, neither the technique nor the functions andresults of intelligence, as they are given immediately and in theirstrict sense, signify socialization. On the contrary, they constitute itonly when they shape the isolated side-by-sideness of the individualsinto definite forms of with-and-for-one-another, which belong under thegeneral concept of reciprocity. Socialization is thus the _form_, actualizing itself in countless various types, in which theindividuals--on the basis of those interests, sensuous or ideal, momentary or permanent, conscious or unconscious, casually driving orpurposefully leading--grow together into a unity, and within which theseinterests come to realization. 

That which constitutes "society" is evidently types of reciprocalinfluencing. Any collection of human beings whatsoever becomes"society, " not by virtue of the fact that in each of the number there isa life-content which actuates the individual as such, but only when thevitality of these contents attains the form of reciprocal influencing. Only when an influence is exerted, whether immediately or through athird party, from one upon another has society come into existence inplace of a mere spatial juxtaposition or temporal contemporaneousness orsuccession of individuals. If, therefore, there is to be a science, theobject of which is to be "society" and nothing else, it can investigateonly these reciprocal influences, these kinds and forms ofsocialization. For everything else found within "society" and realizedby means of it is not "society" itself, but merely a content whichbuilds or is built by this form of coexistence, and which indeed onlytogether with "society" brings into existence the real structure, "society, " in the wider and usual sense. 

The persistence of the group presents itself in the fact that, in spiteof the departure and the change of members, the group remains identical. We say that it is the same state, the same association, the same army, which now exists that existed so and so many decades or centuries ago;this, although no single member of the original organization remains. Here is one of the cases in which the temporal order of events presentsa marked analogy with the spatial order. Out of individuals existingside by side, that is, apart from each other, a social unity is formed. The inevitable separation which space places between men is neverthelessovercome by the spiritual bond between them, so that there arises anappearance of unified interexistence. In like manner the temporalseparation of individuals and of generations presents their union in ourconceptions as a coherent, uninterrupted whole. In the case of personsspatially separated, this unity is effected by the reciprocitymaintained between them across the dividing distance. The unity ofcomplex being means nothing else than the cohesion of elements which isproduced by the reciprocal exercise of forces. In the case of temporallyseparated persons, however, unity cannot be effected in this manner, because reciprocity is lacking. The earlier may influence the later, butthe later cannot influence the earlier. Hence the persistence of thesocial unity in spite of shifting membership presents a peculiar problemwhich is not solved by explaining how the group came to exist at a givenmoment. 

a) _Continuity by continuance of locality. _--The first and mostobvious element of the continuity of group unity is the continuance ofthe locality, of the place and soil on which the group lives. The state, still more the city, and also countless other associations, owe theirunity first of all to the territory which constitutes the abidingsubstratum for all change of their contents. To be sure, the continuanceof the locality does not of itself alone mean the continuance of thesocial unity, since, for instance, if the whole population of a state isdriven out or enslaved by a conquering group, we speak of a changedcivic group in spite of the continuance of the territory. Moreover, theunity of whose character we are speaking is psychical, and it is thispsychical factor itself which makes the territorial substratum a unity. After this has once taken place, however, the locality constitutes anessential point of attachment for the further persistence of the group. But it is only one such element, for there are groups that get alongwithout a local substratum. On the one hand, there are the very smallgroups, like the family, which continue precisely the same after theresidence is changed. On the other hand, there are the very largegroups, like that ideal community of the "republic of letters, " or theother international associations in the interest of culture, or thegroups conducting international commerce. Their peculiar charactercomes from entire independence of all attachment to a definite locality. 

b) _Continuity through blood relationship. _--In contrast with thismore formal condition for the maintenance of the group is thephysiological connection of the generations. Community of stock is notalways enough to insure unity of coherence for a long time. In manycases the local unity must be added. The social unity of the Jews hasbeen weakened to a marked degree since the dispersion, in spite of theirphysiological and confessional unity. It has become more compact incases where a group of Jews have lived for a time in the same territory, and the efforts of the modern "Zionism" to restore Jewish unity on alarger scale calculate upon concentration in one locality. On the otherhand, when other bonds of union fail, the physiological is the lastrecourse to which the self-maintenance of the group resorts. The morethe German guilds declined, the weaker their inherent power of cohesionbecame, the more energetically did each guild attempt to make itselfexclusive, that is, it insisted that no persons should be admitted asguildmasters except sons or sons-in-law of masters or the husbands ofmasters' widows. 

The physiological coherence of successive generations is of incomparablesignificance for the maintenance of the unitary self of the group, forthe special reason that the displacement of one generation by thefollowing _does not take place all at once_. By virtue of this fact itcomes about that a continuity is maintained which conducts the vastmajority of the individuals who live in a given moment into the life ofthe next moment. The change, the disappearance and entrance of persons, affects in two contiguous moments a number relatively small comparedwith the number of those who remain constant. Another element ofinfluence in this connection is the fact that human beings are not boundto a definite mating season, but that children are begotten at any time. It can never properly be asserted of a group, therefore, that at anygiven moment a new generation begins. The departure of the older and theentrance of the younger elements proceed so gradually and continuouslythat the group seems as much like a unified self as an organic body inspite of the change of its atoms. 

If the change were instantaneous, it is doubtful if we should bejustified in calling the group "the same" after the critical moment asbefore. The circumstance alone that the transition affected in a givenmoment only a minimum of the total life of the group makes it possiblefor the group to retain its selfhood through the change. We may expressthis schematically as follows: If the totality of individuals or otherconditions of the life of the group be represented by a, b, c, d, e; ina later moment by m, n, o, p, q; we may nevertheless speak of thepersistence of identical selfhood if the development takes the followingcourse: a, b, c, d, e--m, b, c, d, e--m, n, c, d, e--m, n, o, d, e--m, n, o, p, e--m, n, o, p, q. In this case each stage is differentiatedfrom the contiguous stage by only one member, and at each moment itshares the same chief elements with its neighboring moments. 

c) _Continuity through membership in the group. _--This continuity inchange of the individuals who are the vehicles of the group unity ismost immediately and thoroughly visible when it rests upon procreation. The same form is found, however, in cases where this physical agency isexcluded, as, for example, within the Catholic clerus. Here thecontinuity is secured by provision that enough persons always remain inoffice to initiate the neophytes. This is an extremely importantsociological fact. It makes bureaucracies tenacious, and causes theircharacter and spirit to endure in spite of all shifting of individuals. The physiological basis of self-maintenance here gives place to apsychological one. To speak exactly, the preservation of group identityin this case depends, of course, upon the amount of invariability in thevehicles of this unity, but, at all events, the whole body of membersbelonging in the group at any given moment only separate from the groupafter they have been associated with their successors long enough toassimilate the latter fully to themselves, i. E. , to the spirit, theform, the tendency of the group. The immortality of the group dependsupon the fact that the change is sufficiently slow and gradual. 

The fact referred to by the phrase "immortality of the group" is of thegreatest importance. The preservation of the identical selfhood of thegroup through a practically unlimited period gives to the group asignificance which, _ceteris paribus_, is far superior to that of theindividual. The life of the individual, with its purposes, itsvaluations, its force, is destined to terminate within a limited time, and to a certain extent each individual must start at the beginning. Since the life of the group has no such a priori fixed time limit, andits forms are really arranged as though they were to last forever, thegroup accomplishes a summation of the achievements, powers, experiences, through which it makes itself far superior to the fragmentary individuallives. Since the early Middle Ages this has been the source of the powerof municipal corporations in England. Each had from the beginning theright, as Stubbs expresses it, "of perpetuating its existence by fillingup vacancies as they occur. " The ancient privileges were given expresslyonly to the burghers and their heirs. As a matter of fact, they wereexercised as a right to add new members so that, whatever fate befellthe members and their physical descendants, the corporation, as such, was held intact. This had to be paid for, to be sure, by thedisappearance of the individual importance of the units behind theirrôle as vehicles of the maintenance of the group, for the group securitymust suffer, the closer it is bound up with the perishable individualityof the units. On the other hand, the more anonymous and unpersonal theunit is, the more fit is he to step into the place of another, and so toinsure to the group uninterrupted self-maintenance. This was theenormous advantage through which during the Wars of the Roses theCommons repulsed the previously superior power of the upper house. Abattle that destroyed half the nobility of the country took also fromthe House of Lords one-half its force, because this is attached to thepersonalities. The House of Commons is in principle assured against suchweakening. That estate at last got predominance which, through theequalizing of its members, demonstrated the most persistent power ofgroup existence. This circumstance gives every group an advantage incompetition with an individual. 

d) _Continuity through leadership. _--On this account specialarrangements are necessary so soon as the life of the group isintimately bound up with that of a leading, commanding individual. Whatdangers to the integrity of the group are concealed in this sociologicalform may be learned from the history of all interregnums--dangers which, of course, increase in the same ratio in which the ruler actually formsthe central point of the functions through which the group preserves itsunity, or, more correctly, at each moment creates its unity anew. Consequently a break between rulers may be a matter of indifferencewhere the prince only exercises a nominal sway--"reigns, but does notgovern"--while, on the other hand, we observe even in the swarm of beesthat anarchy results so soon as the queen is removed. Although it isentirely false to explain this latter phenomenon by analogy of a humanruler, since the queen bee gives no orders, yet the queen occupies themiddle point of the activity of the hive. By means of her antennae sheis in constant communication with the workers, and so all the signalscoursing through the hive pass through her. By virtue of this very factthe hive feels itself a unity, and this unity dissolves with thedisappearance of the functional center. 

e) _Continuity through the hereditary principle. _--In political groupsthe attempt is made to guard against all the dangers of personality, particularly those of possible intervals between the important persons, by the principle: "The king never dies. " While in the early Middle Agesthe tradition prevailed that when the king dies his peace dies with him, this newer principle contains provision for the self-preservation of thegroup. It involves an extraordinarily significant sociologicalconception, viz. , the king is no longer king as a person, but thereverse is the case, that is, his person is only the in itselfirrelevant vehicle of the abstract kingship, which is as unalterable asthe group itself, of which the kingship is the apex. The group reflectsits immortality upon the kingship, and the sovereign in return bringsthat immortality to visible expression in his own person, and by sodoing reciprocally strengthens the vitality of the group. That mightyfactor of social coherence which consists of loyalty of sentiment towardthe reigning power might appear in very small groups in the relation offidelity toward the person of the ruler. For large groups the definitionthat Stubbs once gave must certainly apply, viz. : "Loyalty is a habit ofstrong and faithful attachment to a person, not so much by reason of hispersonal character as of his official position. " By becoming objectifiedin the deathless office, the princely principle gains a newpsychological power for concentration and cohesion within the group, while the old princely principle that rested on the mere personality ofthe prince necessarily lost power as the size of the group increased. 

f) _Continuity through a material symbol. _--The objectification of thecoherence of the group may also do away with the personal form to suchan extent that it attaches itself to a material symbol. Thus in theGerman lands in the Middle Ages the imperial jewels were looked upon asthe visible realization of the idea of the realm and of its continuity, so that the possession of them gave to a pretender a decided advantageover all other aspirants, and this was one of the influences whichevidently assisted the heir of the body of the deceased emperor insecuring the succession. 

In view of the destructibility of a material object, since too thisdisadvantage cannot be offset, as in the case of a person, by thecontinuity of heredity, it is very dangerous for the group to seek sucha support for its self-preservation. Many a regiment has lost itscoherence with the loss of its standard. Many kinds of associations havedissolved after their palladium, their storehouse, their grail, wasdestroyed. When, however, the social coherence is lost in this way, itis safe to say that it must have suffered serious internal disorderbefore, and that in this case the loss of the external symbolrepresenting the unity of the group is itself only the symbol that thesocial elements have lost their coherence. When this last is not thecase, the loss of the group symbol not only has no disintegrating effectbut it exerts a direct integrating influence. While the symbol loses itscorporeal reality, it may, as mere thought, longing, ideal, work muchmore powerfully, profoundly, indestructibly. We may get a good view ofthese two opposite influences of the forms of destruction of the groupsymbol upon the solidity of the group by reference to the consequencesof the destruction of the Jewish temple by Titus. The hierarchal Jewishstate was a thorn in the flesh of the Roman statecraft that aimed at theunity of the empire. The purpose of dissolving this state wasaccomplished, so far as a certain number of the Jews were concerned, bythe destruction of the temple. Such was the effect with those who caredlittle, anyway, about this centralization. Thus the alienation of thePauline Christians from Judaism was powerfully promoted by this event. For the Palestinian Jews, on the other hand, the breach between Judaismand the rest of the world was deepened. By this destruction of itssymbol their national religious exclusiveness was heightened todesperation. 

g) _Continuity through group honor. _--The sociological significance ofhonor as a form of cohesion is extraordinarily great. Through the appealto honor, society secures from its members the kind of conduct conduciveto its own preservation, particularly within the spheres of conductintermediate between the purview of the criminal code, on the one hand, and the field of purely personal morality, on the other. By the demandsupon its members contained in the group standard of honor the grouppreserves its unified character and its distinctness from the othergroups within the same inclusive association. The essential thing is thespecific idea of honor in narrow groups--family honor, officers' honor, mercantile honor, yes, even the "honor among thieves. " Since theindividual belongs to various groups, the individual may, at the sametime, be under the demands of several sorts of honor which areindependent of each other. One may preserve his mercantile honor, or hisscientific honor as an investigator, who has forfeited his family honor, and vice versa; the robber may strictly observe the requirements ofthieves' honor after he has violated every other; a woman may have losther womanly honor and in every other respect be most honorable, etc. Thus honor consists in the relation of the individual to a particularcircle, which in this respect manifests its separateness, itssociological distinctness, from other groups. 

h) _Continuity through specialized organs. _--From such recourse ofsocial self-preservation to individual persons, to a material substance, to an ideal conception, we pass now to the cases in which socialpersistence takes advantage of an organ composed of a number of persons. Thus a religious community embodies its coherence and its life principlein its priesthood; a political community its inner principle of union inits administrative organization, its union against foreign power in itsmilitary system; this latter in its corps of officers; every permanentunion in its official head; transitory associations in their committees;political parties in their parliamentary representatives. 

B. THE NATURAL FORMS OF COMMUNICATION

1. Sociology of the Senses: Visual Interaction[138]

It is through the medium of the senses that we perceive our fellow-men. This fact has two aspects of fundamental sociological significance:(a) that of appreciation, and (b) that of comprehension. 

a) _Appreciation. _--Sense-impressions may induce in us affectiveresponses of pleasure or pain, of excitement or calm, of tension orrelaxation, produced by the features of a person, or by the tone of hisvoice, or by his mere physical presence in the same room. Theseaffective responses, however, do not enable us to understand or todefine the other person. Our emotional response to the sense-image ofthe other leaves his real self outside. 

b) _Comprehension. _--The sense-impression of the other person maydevelop in the opposite direction when it becomes the medium forunderstanding the other. What I see, hear, feel of him is only thebridge over which I reach his real self. The sound of the voice and itsmeaning, perhaps, present the clearest illustration. The speech, quiteas much as the appearance, of a person, may be immediately eitherattractive or repulsive. On the other hand, what he says enables us tounderstand not only his momentary thoughts but also his inner self. Thesame principle applies to all sense-impressions. 

The sense-impressions of any object produce in us not only emotional andaesthetic attitudes toward it but also an understanding of it. In thecase of reaction to non-human objects, these two responses are, ingeneral, widely separated. We may appreciate the emotional value of anysense-impression of an object. The fragrance of a rose, the charm of atone, the grace of a bough swaying in the wind, is experienced as a joyengendered within the soul. On the other hand, we may desire tounderstand and to comprehend the rose, or the tone, or the bough. In thelatter case we respond in an entirely different way, often withconscious endeavor. These two diverse reactions which are independent ofeach other are with human beings generally integrated into a unifiedresponse. Theoretically, our sense-impressions of a person may bedirected on the one hand to an appreciation of his emotional value, oron the other to an impulsive or deliberate understanding of him. Actually, these two reactions are coexistent and inextricably interwovenas the basis of our relation to him. Of course, appreciation andcomprehension develop in quite different degrees. These two diverseresponses--to the tone of voice and to the meaning of the utterance; tothe appearance of a person and to his individuality; to the attractionor repulsion of his personality and to the impulsive judgment upon hischaracter as well as many times upon his grade of culture--are presentin any perception in very different degrees and combinations. 

Of the special sense-organs, the eye has a uniquely sociologicalfunction. The union and interaction of individuals is based upon mutualglances. This is perhaps the most direct and purest reciprocity whichexists anywhere. This highest psychic reaction, however, in which theglances of eye to eye unite men, crystallizes into no objectivestructure; the unity which momentarily arises between two persons ispresent in the occasion and is dissolved in the function. So tenaciousand subtle is this union that it can only be maintained by the shortestand straightest line between the eyes, and the smallest deviation fromit, the slightest glance aside, completely destroys the unique characterof this union. No objective trace of this relationship is left behind, as is universally found, directly or indirectly, in all other types ofassociations between men, as, for example, in interchange of words. Theinteraction of eye and eye dies in the moment in which the directness ofthe function is lost. But the totality of social relations of humanbeings, their self-assertion and self-abnegation, their intimacies andestrangements, would be changed in unpredictable ways if there occurredno glance of eye to eye. This mutual glance between persons, indistinction from the simple sight or observation of the other, signifiesa wholly new and unique union between them. 

The limits of this relation are to be determined by the significant factthat the glance by which the one seeks to perceive the other is itselfexpressive. By the glance which reveals the other, one discloseshimself. By the same act in which the observer seeks to know theobserved, he surrenders himself to be understood by the observer. Theeye cannot take unless at the same time it gives. The eye of a persondiscloses his own soul when he seeks to uncover that of another. Whatoccurs in this direct mutual glance represents the most perfectreciprocity in the entire field of human relationships. 

Shame causes a person to look at the ground to avoid the glance of theother. The reason for this is certainly not only because he is thusspared the visible evidence of the way in which the other regards hispainful situation, but the deeper reason is that the lowering of hisglance to a certain degree prevents the other from comprehending theextent of his confusion. The glance in the eye of the other serves notonly for me to know the other but also enables him to know me. Upon theline which unites the two eyes, it conveys to the other the realpersonality, the real attitude, and the real impulse. The "ostrichpolicy" has in this explanation a real justification: who does not seethe other actually conceals himself in part from the observer. A personis not at all completely present to another, when the latter sees him, but only when he also sees the other. 

The sociological significance of the eye has special reference to theexpression of the face as the first object of vision between man andman. It is seldom clearly understood to what an extent even ourpractical relations depend upon mutual recognition, not only in thesense of all external characteristics, as the momentary appearance andattitude of the other, but what we know or intuitively perceive of hislife, of his inner nature, of the immutability of his being, all ofwhich colors unavoidably both our transient and our permanent relationswith him. The face is the geometric chart of all these experiences. Itis the symbol of all that which the individual has brought with him asthe pre-condition of his life. In the face is deposited what has beenprecipitated from past experience as the substratum of his life, whichhas become crystallized into the permanent features of his face. To theextent to which we thus perceive the face of a person, there enters intosocial relations, in so far as it serves practical purposes, asuper-practical element. It follows that a man is first known by hiscountenance, not by his acts. The face as a medium of expression isentirely a theoretical organ; it does not act, as the hand, the foot, the whole body; it transacts none of the internal or practical relationsof the man, it only tells about him. The peculiar and importantsociological art of "knowing" transmitted by the eye is determined bythe fact that the countenance is the essential object of theinterindividual sight. This knowing is still somewhat different fromunderstanding. To a certain extent, and in a highly variable degree, weknow at first glance with whom we have to do. Our unconsciousness ofthis knowledge and its fundamental significance lies in the fact that wedirect our attention from this self-evident intuition to anunderstanding of special features which determine our practicalrelations to a particular individual. But if we become conscious of thisself-evident fact, then we are amazed how much we know about a person inthe first glance at him. We do not obtain meaning from his expression, susceptible to analysis into individual traits. We cannot unqualifiedlysay whether he is clever or stupid, good- or ill-natured, temperamentalor phlegmatic. All these traits are general characteristics which heshares with unnumbered others. But what this first glance at himtransmits to us cannot be analyzed or appraised into any such conceptualand expressive elements. Yet our initial impression remains ever thekeynote of all later knowledge of him; it is the direct perception ofhis individuality which his appearance, and especially his face, discloses to our glance. 

The sociological attitude of the blind is entirely different from thatof the deaf-mute. For the blind, the other person is actually presentonly in the alternating periods of his utterance. The expression of theanxiety and unrest, the traces of all past events, exposed to view inthe faces of men, escape the blind, and that may be the reason for thepeaceful and calm disposition, and the unconcern toward theirsurroundings, which is so often observed in the blind. Indeed, themajority of the stimuli which the face presents are often puzzling; ingeneral, what we see of a man will be interpreted by what we hear fromhim, while the opposite is more unusual. Therefore the one who sees, without hearing, is much more perplexed, puzzled, and worried, than theone who hears without seeing. This principle is of great importance inunderstanding the sociology of the modern city. 

Social life in the large city as compared with the towns shows a greatpreponderance of occasions to _see_ rather than to _hear_ people. Oneexplanation lies in the fact that the person in the town is acquaintedwith nearly all the people he meets. With these he exchanges a word or aglance, and their countenance represents to him not merely the visiblebut indeed the entire personality. Another reason of especialsignificance is the development of public means of transportation. Before the appearance of omnibuses, railroads, and street cars in thenineteenth century, men were not in a situation where for periods ofminutes or hours they could or must look at each other without talkingto one another. Modern social life increases in ever growing degree therôle of mere visual impression which always characterizes thepreponderant part of all sense relationship between man and man, andmust place social attitudes and feelings upon an entirely changed basis. The greater perplexity which characterizes the person who only sees, ascontrasted with the one who only hears, brings us to the problems ofthe emotions of modern life: the lack of orientation in the collectivelife, the sense of utter lonesomeness, and the feeling that theindividual is surrounded on all sides by closed doors. 

2. The Expression of the Emotions[139]

Actions of all kinds, if regularly accompanying any state of the mind, are at once recognized as expressive. These may consist of movements ofany part of the body, as the wagging of a dog's tail, the shrugging of aman's shoulders, the erection of the hair, the exudation ofperspiration, the state of the capillary circulation, labored breathing, and the use of the vocal or other sound-producing instruments. Eveninsects express anger, terror, jealousy, and love by their stridulation. With man the respiratory organs are of especial importance inexpression, not only in a direct, but to a still higher degree in anindirect, manner. 

Few points are more interesting in our present subject than theextraordinarily complex chain of events which lead to certain expressivemovements. Take, for instance, the oblique eyebrows of a man sufferingfrom grief or anxiety. When infants scream loudly from hunger or pain, the circulation is affected, and the eyes tend to become gorged withblood; consequently the muscles surrounding the eyes are stronglycontracted as a protection. This action, in the course of manygenerations, has become firmly fixed and inherited; but when, withadvancing years and culture, the habit of screaming is partiallyrepressed, the muscles round the eyes still tend to contract, whenevereven slight distress is felt. Of these muscles, the pyramidals of thenose are less under the control of the will than are the others, andtheir contraction can be checked only by that of the central fasciae ofthe frontal muscle; these latter fasciae draw up the inner ends of theeyebrows and wrinkle the forehead in a peculiar manner, which weinstantly recognize as the expression of grief or anxiety. Slightmovements, such as these just described, or the scarcely perceptibledrawing down of the corners of the mouth, are the last remnants orrudiments of strongly marked and intelligible movements. They are asfull of significance to us in regard to expression as are ordinaryrudiments to the naturalist in the classification and genealogy oforganic beings. 

That the chief expressive actions exhibited by man and by the loweranimals are now innate or inherited--that is, have not been learned bythe individual--is admitted by everyone. So little has learning orimitation to do with several of them that they are from the earliestdays and throughout life quite beyond our control; for instance, therelaxation of the arteries of the skin in blushing, and the increasedaction of the heart in anger. We may see children only two or threeyears old, and even those born blind, blushing from shame; and the nakedscalp of a very young infant reddens from passion. Infants scream frompain directly after birth, and all their features then assume the sameform as during subsequent years. These facts alone suffice to show thatmany of our most important expressions have not been learned; but it isremarkable that some, which are certainly innate, require practice inthe individual before they are performed in a full and perfect manner;for instance, weeping and laughing. The inheritance of most of ourexpressive actions explains the fact that those born blind display them, as I hear from the Rev. R. H. Blair, equally well with those gifted witheyesight. We can thus also understand the fact that the young and theold of widely different races, both with man and animals, express thesame state of mind by the same movement. 

We are so familiar with the fact of young and old animals displayingtheir feelings in the same manner that we hardly perceive how remarkableit is that a young puppy should wag its tail when pleased, depress itsears and uncover its canine teeth when pretending to be savage, justlike an old dog; or that a kitten should arch its little back and erectits hair when frightened and angry, like an old cat. When, however, weturn to less common gestures in ourselves, which we are accustomed tolook at as artificial or conventional--such as shrugging the shouldersas a sign of impotence, or the raising the arms with open hands andextended fingers as a sign of wonder--we feel perhaps too much surpriseat finding that they are innate. That these and some other gestures areinherited we may infer from their being performed by very youngchildren, by those born blind, and by the most widely distinct races ofman. We should also bear in mind that new and highly peculiar tricks, inassociation with certain states of the mind, are known to have arisenin certain individuals and to have been afterward transmitted to theiroffspring, in some cases for more than one generation. 

Certain other gestures, which seem to us so natural that we might easilyimagine that they were innate, apparently have been learned like thewords of a language. This seems to be the case with the joining of theuplifted hands and the turning up of the eyes in prayer. So it is withkissing as a mark of affection; but this is innate, in so far as itdepends on the pleasure derived from contact with a beloved person. Theevidence with respect to the inheritance of nodding and shaking the headas signs of affirmation and negation is doubtful, for they are notuniversal, yet seem too general to have been independently acquired byall the individuals of so many races. 

We will now consider how far the will and consciousness have come intoplay in the development of the various movements of expression. As faras we can judge, only a few expressive movements, such as those justreferred to, are learned by each individual; that is, were consciouslyand voluntarily performed during the early years of life for somedefinite object, or in imitation of others, and then became habitual. The far greater number of the movements of expression, and all the moreimportant ones, are, as we have seen, innate or inherited; and suchcannot be said to depend on the will of the individual. Nevertheless, all those included under our first principle were at first voluntarilyperformed for a definite object, namely, to escape some danger, torelieve some distress, or to gratify some desire. For instance, therecan hardly be a doubt that the animals which fight with their teeth haveacquired the habit of drawing back their ears closely to their headswhen feeling savage from their progenitors having voluntarily acted inthis manner in order to protect their ears from being torn by theirantagonists; for those animals which do not fight with their teeth donot thus express a savage state of mind. We may infer as highly probablethat we ourselves have acquired the habit of contracting the musclesround the eyes whilst crying gently, that is, without the utterance ofany loud sound, from our progenitors, especially during infancy, havingexperienced during the act of screaming an uncomfortable sensation intheir eyeballs. Again, some highly expressive movements result from theendeavor to check or prevent other expressive movements; thus theobliquity of the eyebrows and the drawing down of the corners of themouth follow from the endeavor to prevent a screaming-fit from coming onor to check it after it has come on. Here it is obvious that theconsciousness and will must at first have come into play; not that weare conscious in these or in other such cases what muscles are broughtinto action, any more than when we perform the most ordinary voluntarymovements. 

The power of communication between the members of the same tribe bymeans of language has been of paramount importance in the development ofman; and the force of language is much aided by the expressive movementsof the face and body. We perceive this at once when we converse on animportant subject with any person whose face is concealed. Neverthelessthere are no grounds, as far as I can discover, for believing that anymuscle has been developed or even modified exclusively for the sake ofexpression. The vocal and other sound-producing organs by which variousexpressive noises are produced seem to form a partial exception; but Ihave elsewhere attempted to show that these organs were first developedfor sexual purposes, in order that one sex might call or charm theother. Nor can I discover grounds for believing that any inheritedmovement which now serves as a means of expression was at firstvoluntarily and consciously performed for this special purpose--likesome of the gestures and the finger-language used by the deaf and dumb. On the contrary, every true or inherited movement of expression seems tohave had some natural and independent origin. But when once acquired, such movements may be voluntarily and consciously employed as a means ofcommunication. Even infants, if carefully attended to, find out at avery early age that their screaming brings relief, and they soonvoluntarily practice it. We may frequently see a person voluntarilyraising his eyebrows to express surprise, or smiling to expresspretended satisfaction and acquiescence. A man often wishes to makecertain gestures conspicuous or demonstrative, and will raise hisextended arms with widely opened fingers above his head to showastonishment or lift his shoulders to his ears to show that he cannot orwill not do something. 

We have seen that the study of the theory of expression confirms to acertain limited extent the conclusion that man is derived from somelower animal form, and supports the belief of the specific orsubspecific unity of the several races; but as far as my judgmentserves, such confirmation was hardly needed. We have also seen thatexpression in itself, or the language of the emotions, as it hassometimes been called, is certainly of importance for the welfare ofmankind. To understand, as far as is possible, the source or origin ofthe various expressions which may be hourly seen on the faces of the menaround us, not to mention our domesticated animals, ought to possessmuch interest for us. From these several causes we may conclude that thephilosophy of our subject has well deserved that attention which it hasalready received from several excellent observers, and that it deservesstill further attention, especially from any able physiologist. 

3. Blushing[140]

Blushing is the most peculiar and the most human of all expressions. Monkeys redden from passion, but it would require an overwhelming amountof evidence to make us believe that any animal could blush. Thereddening of the face from a blush is due to the relaxation of themuscular coats of the small arteries, by which the capillaries becomefilled with blood; and this depends on the proper vasomotor center beingaffected. No doubt if there be at the same time much mental agitation, the general circulation will be affected; but it is not due to theaction of the heart that the network of minute vessels covering the facebecomes under a sense of shame gorged with blood. We can cause laughingby tickling the skin, weeping or frowning by a blow, trembling from thefear of pain, and so forth; but we cannot cause a blush by any physicalmeans--that is, by any action on the body. It is the mind which must beaffected. Blushing is not only involuntary, but the wish to restrain it, by leading to self-attention, actually increases the tendency. 

The young blush much more freely than the old, but not during infancy, which is remarkable, as we know that infants at a very early age reddenfrom passion. I have received authentic accounts of two little girlsblushing at the ages of between two and three years; and of anothersensitive child, a year older, blushing when reproved for a fault. Manychildren at a somewhat more advanced age blush in a strongly markedmanner. It appears that the mental powers of infants are not as yetsufficiently developed to allow of their blushing. Hence, also, it isthat idiots rarely blush. Dr. Crichton Browne observed for me thoseunder his care, but never saw a genuine blush, though he has seen theirfaces flush, apparently from joy, when food was placed before them, andfrom anger. Nevertheless some, if not utterly degraded, are capable ofblushing. A microcephalous idiot, for instance, thirteen years old, whose eyes brightened a little when he was pleased or amused, has beendescribed by Dr. Behn as blushing and turning to one side when undressedfor medical examination. 

Women blush much more than men. It is rare to see an old man, but notnearly so rare to see an old woman, blushing. The blind do not escape. Laura Bridgman, born in this condition, as well as completely deaf, blushes. The Rev. R. H. Blair, principal of the Worcester College, informs me that three children born blind, out of seven or eight then inthe asylum, are great blushers. The blind are not at first consciousthat they are observed, and it is a most important part of theireducation, as Mr. Blair informs me, to impress this knowledge on theirminds; and the impression thus gained would greatly strengthen thetendency to blush, by increasing the habit of self-attention. 

The tendency to blush is inherited. Dr. Burgess gives the case of afamily consisting of a father, mother, and ten children, all of whom, without exception, were prone to blush to a most painful degree. Thechildren were grown up; "and some of them were sent to travel in orderto wear away this diseased sensibility, but nothing was of the slightestavail. " Even peculiarities in blushing seem to be inherited. Sir JamesPaget, whilst examining the spine of a girl, was struck at her singularmanner of blushing; a big splash of red appeared first on one cheek, andthen other splashes, variously scattered over the face and neck. Hesubsequently asked the mother whether her daughter always blushed inthis peculiar manner and was answered, "Yes, she takes after me. " Sir J. Paget then perceived that by asking this question he had caused themother to blush and she exhibited the same peculiarity as her daughter. 

In most cases the face, ears, and neck are the sole parts which redden;but many persons, whilst blushing intensely, feel that their wholebodies grow hot and tingle; and this shows that the entire surface mustbe in some manner affected. Blushes are said sometimes to commence onthe forehead, but more commonly on the cheeks, afterward spreading tothe ears and neck. In two albinos examined by Dr. Burgess, the blushescommenced by a small circumscribed spot on the cheeks, over theparotidean plexus of nerves, and then increased into a circle; betweenthis blushing circle and the blush on the neck there was an evident lineof demarcation, although both arose simultaneously. The retina, which isnaturally red in the albino, invariably increased at the same time inredness. Every one must have noticed how easily after one blush freshblushes chase each other over the face. Blushing is preceded by apeculiar sensation in the skin. According to Dr. Burgess the reddeningof the skin is generally succeeded by a slight pallor, which shows thatthe capillary vessels contract after dilating. In some rare casespaleness instead of redness is caused under conditions which wouldnaturally induce a blush. For instance, a young lady told me that in alarge and crowded party she caught her hair so firmly on the button of apassing servant that it took some time before she could be extricated;from her sensation she imagined that she had blushed crimson but wasassured by a friend that she had turned extremely pale. 

The mental states which induce blushing consist of shyness, shame, andmodesty, the essential element in all being self-attention. Many reasonscan be assigned for believing that originally self-attention directed topersonal appearance, in relation to the opinion of others, was theexciting cause, the same effect being subsequently produced, through theforce of association, by self-attention in relation to moral conduct. Itis not the simple act of reflecting on our own appearance, but thethinking what others think of us, which excites a blush. In absolutesolitude the most sensitive person would be quite indifferent about hisappearance. We feel blame or disapprobation more acutely thanapprobation; and consequently depreciatory remarks or ridicule, whetherof our appearance or conduct, cause us to blush much more readily thandoes praise. But undoubtedly praise and admiration are highly efficient:a pretty girl blushes when a man gazes intently at her, though she mayknow perfectly well that he is not depreciating her. Many children, aswell as old and sensitive persons, blush when they are much praised. Hereafter the question will be discussed how it has arisen that theconsciousness that others are attending to our personal appearanceshould have led to the capillaries, especially those of the face, instantly becoming filled with blood. 

My reasons for believing that attention directed to personal appearance, and not to moral conduct, has been the fundamental element in theacquirement of the habit of blushing will now be given. They areseparately light, but combined possess, as it appears to me, considerable weight. It is notorious that nothing makes a shy personblush so much as any remark, however slight, on his personal appearance. One cannot notice even the dress of a woman much given to blushingwithout causing her face to crimson. It is sufficient to stare hard atsome persons to make them, as Coleridge remarks, blush--"account forthat he who can. "

With the two albinos observed by Dr. Burgess, "the slightest attempt toexamine their peculiarities" invariably caused them to blush deeply. Women are much more sensitive about their personal appearance than menare, especially elderly women in comparison with elderly men, and theyblush much more freely. The young of both sexes are much more sensitiveon this same head than the old, and they also blush much more freelythan the old. Children at a very early age do not blush; nor do theyshow those other signs of self-consciousness which generally accompanyblushing; and it is one of their chief charms that they think nothingabout what others think of them. At this early age they will stare at astranger with a fixed gaze and unblinking eyes, as on an inanimateobject, in a manner which we elders cannot imitate. 

It is plain to everyone that young men and women are highly sensitive tothe opinion of each other with reference to their personal appearance;and they blush incomparably more in the presence of the opposite sexthan in that of their own. A young man, not very liable to blush, willblush intensely at any slight ridicule of his appearance from a girlwhose judgment on any important subject he would disregard. No happypair of young lovers, valuing each other's admiration and love more thananything else in the world, probably ever courted each other withoutmany a blush. Even the barbarians of Tierra del Fuego, according to Mr. Bridges, blush "chiefly in regard to women, but certainly also at theirown personal appearance. "

Of all parts of the body, the face is most considered and regarded, asis natural from its being the chief seat of expression and the source ofthe voice. It is also the chief seat of beauty and of ugliness, andthroughout the world is the most ornamented. The face, therefore, willhave been subjected during many generations to much closer and moreearnest self-attention than any other part of the body; and inaccordance with the principle here advanced we can understand why itshould be the most liable to blush. Although exposure to alternations oftemperature, etc. , has probably much increased the power of dilatationand contraction in the capillaries of the face and adjoining parts, yetthis by itself will hardly account for these parts blushing much morethan the rest of the body; for it does not explain the fact of the handsrarely blushing. With Europeans the whole body tingles slightly when theface blushes intensely; and with the races of men who habitually gonearly naked, the blushes extend over a much larger surface than withus. These facts are, to a certain extent, intelligible, as theself-attention of primeval man, as well as of the existing races whichstill go naked, will not have been so exclusively confined to theirfaces, as is the case with the people who now go clothed. 

We have seen that in all parts of the world persons who feel shame forsome moral delinquency are apt to avert, bend down, or hide their faces, independently of any thought about their personal appearance. The objectcan hardly be to conceal their blushes, for the face is thus averted orhidden under circumstances which exclude any desire to conceal shame, aswhen guilt is fully confessed and repented of. It is, however, probablethat primeval man before he had acquired much moral sensitiveness wouldhave been highly sensitive about his personal appearance, at least inreference to the other sex, and he would consequently have felt distressat any depreciatory remarks about his appearance; and this is one formof shame. And as the face is the part of the body which is mostregarded, it is intelligible that any one ashamed of his personalappearance would desire to conceal this part of his body. The habit, having been thus acquired, would naturally be carried on when shame fromstrictly moral causes was felt; and it is not easy otherwise to see whyunder these circumstances there should be a desire to hide the face morethan any other part of the body. 

The habit, so general with everyone who feels ashamed, of turning awayor lowering his eyes, or restlessly moving them from side to side, probably follows from each glance directed toward those present, bringing home the conviction that he is intently regarded; and heendeavors, by not looking at those present, and especially not at theireyes, momentarily to escape from this painful conviction. 

4. Laughing[141]

Sympathy, when it is not the direct cause, is conditional to theexistence of laughter. Sometimes it provokes it; always it spreads it, sustains and strengthens it. 

First of all, it is so much the nature of laughter to communicate itselfthat when it no longer communicates itself it ceases to exist. One mightsay that outbursts of merriment need to be encouraged, that they are notself-sufficient. Not to share them is to blow upon them and extinguishthem. When, in an animated and mirthful group, some one remains cold orgloomy, the laughter immediately stops or is checked. Yet those whom thecommon people call, in their picturesque language, wet blankets, spoil-sports, or kill-joys, are not necessarily hostile to the gaiety ofthe rest. They may only have, and, in fact, very often do have, nothingbut the one fault of being out of tune with this gaiety. But even theircalm appears an offense to the warmth and the high spirits of the othersand kills by itself alone this merriment. 

Not only is laughter maintained by sympathy but it is even born ofsympathy. The world is composed of two kinds of people: those who makeone laugh and those who are made to laugh, these latter being infinitelymore numerous. How many there are, indeed, who have no sense of humor, and who, of themselves, would not think of laughing at things at whichthey do nevertheless laugh heartily because they see others laugh. Asfor those who have a ready wit and a sense of the comic, do they notenjoy the success of their jokes as much, if not more, than their jokesthemselves? Their mirthfulness, then, at least, grows with the joy ofspreading it. Very often it happens that many good humorists aretemperamentally far from gay, and laugh at their jokes only on therebound, echoing the laughter which they provoke. To laugh, then, is toshare the gaiety of others, whether this gaiety is communicated fromthem to us or from us to them. It seems that we can be moved to laughteronly by the merriment of others, that we possess ours only indirectlywhen others send it to us. Human solidarity never appears more clearlythan in the case of laughter. 

Yet can one say that sympathy actually produces laughter? Is it notenough to say that it increases it, that it strengthens its effects? Allour sentiments are without doubt in a sense revealed to us by others. How many, as Rochefoucauld says, would be ignorant of love if they hadnever read novels! How many in the same way would never have discoveredby themselves the laughable side of people and things. Yet even thefeelings which one experiences by contagion one can experience only ofone's own accord, in one's own way, and according to one's disposition. This fact alone of their contagion proves that from one's birth onecarries the germ in himself. Sympathy would explain, then, contagion, but not the birth, of laughter. The fact is that our feelings exist forourselves only when they acquire a communicative or social value; theyhave to be diffused in order to manifest themselves. Sympathy does notcreate them but it gives them their place in the world. It gives themjust that access of intensity without which their nature cannot developor even appear: thus it is that our laughter would be for us as if itdid not exist, if it did not find outside itself an echo which increasesit. 

From the fact that sympathy is the law of laughter, does it follow thatit is the cause? Not at all. It would be even contradictory to maintainthis. A laugh being given, others are born out of sympathy. But thefirst laugh or one originally given, where does it get its origin?Communicated laughter implies spontaneous laughter as the echo implies asound. If sympathy explains one, it is, it would seem, an antipathy orthe absence of sympathy which produces the other. "The thing at which welaugh, " says Aristotle, "is a defect or ugliness which is not greatenough to cause suffering or injury. Thus, for example, a ridiculousface is an ugly or misshapen face, but one on which suffering has notmarked. " Bain says likewise, "The laughable is the deformed or uglything which is not pushed to the point where it is painful or injurious. An occasion for laughter is the degradation of a person of dignity incircumstances which do not arouse a strong emotion, " like indignation, anger, or pity. Descartes puts still more limits upon laughter. Speakingof malice he says that laughter cannot be provoked except by misfortunesnot only _light_ but also _unforseen_ and _deserved_. "Derision ormockery, " he says, "is a kind of joy mixed with hate, which comes fromone's perceiving some _little misfortune_ in a person _whom one thinksdeserves it_. We hate this misfortune but are happy at seeing it in someone who merits it, and, _when this happens unexpectedly, surprise causesus to burst out laughing_. But this misfortune must be small, for if itis great we cannot believe that he who meets it deserves it, unless onehas a very malicious or hateful nature. "

This fact can be established directly by analyzing the most cruellaughter. If we enter into the feelings of the one who laughs and setaside the disagreeable sentiments, irritation, anger, and disgust, whichat times they produce upon us, we come to understand even the savagesneer which appears to us as an insult to suffering; the laugh of thesavage, trampling his conquered enemy under foot, or that of the childtorturing unfortunate animals. This laugh is, in fact, inoffensive inits way, it is cruel in fact but not in intention. What it expresses isnot a perverse, satanic joy but a _heartlessness_, as is so properlysaid. In the child and the savage sympathy has not been born, that is tosay, the absence of imagination for the sufferings of others iscomplete. As a result we have a negative cruelty, a sort of altruisticor social anaesthesia. 

When such an anaesthesia is not complete, when the altruisticsensibility of one who laughs is only dull, his egotism being very keen, his laughter might appear still less hatefully cruel. It would expressthen not properly the joy of seeing others suffer but that of not havingto undergo their suffering and the power of seeing it only as aspectacle. 

Analogous facts may be cited closer to us, easier to verify. Those whoenjoy robust health often laugh at invalids: their imagination does notcomprehend physical suffering, they are incapable of sympathizing withthose who experience it. Likewise those who possess calm and evendispositions cannot witness without laughing an excess of mad anger orof impotent rage. In general we do not take seriously those feelings towhich we ourselves are strangers; we consider them extravagant andamusing. "How can one be a Persian?" To laugh is to detach one's selffrom others, to separate one's self and to take pleasure in thisseparation, to amuse one's self by contrasting the feelings, character, and temperament of others and one's own feelings, character, andtemperament. _Insensibility_ has been justly noted by M. Bergson as anessential characteristic of him who laughs. But this _insensibility_, this heartlessness, gives very much the effect of a positive and realill nature, and M. Bergson had thus simply repeated and expressed in anew way, more precise and correct, the opinion of Aristotle: the causeof laughter is malice mitigated by insensibility or the absence ofsympathy. 

Thus defined, malice is after all essentially relative, and when onesays that the object of our laughter is the misfortune of someone else, _known by us_ to be endurable and slight, it must be understood thatthis misfortune may be _in itself_ very serious as well as undeserved, and in this way laughter is often really cruel. 

The coarser men are, the more destitute they are of sympatheticimagination, and the more they laugh at one another with an offensiveand brutal laugh. There are those who are not even touched by contactwith physical suffering; such ones have the heart to laugh at theshufflings of a bandy-legged man, at the ugliness of a hunchback, or therepulsive hideousness of an idiot. Others there are who are moved byphysical suffering but who are not at all affected by moral suffering. These laugh at a self-love touched to the quick, at a wounded pride, atthe tortured self-consciousness of one abashed or humiliated. These are, in their eyes, harmless, and slight pricks which they themselves, by acoarseness of nature, or a fine moral health, would endure perhaps withequanimity, which at any rate they do not feel in behalf of others, withwhom they do not suffer in sympathy. 

_Castigat ridendo mores. _ According to M. A. Michiels, the author of abook upon the _World of Humor and of Laughter_, this maxim must beunderstood in its broadest sense. "Everything that is contrary to theabsolute ideal of human perfection, " in whatever order it be, whetherphysical, intellectual, moral, or social, arouses laughter. The fear ofridicule is the most dominant of our feelings, that which controls us inmost things and with the most strength. Because of this fear one does"what one would not do for the sake of justice, scrupulousness, honor, or good will;" one submits to an infinite number of obligations whichmorality would not dare to prescribe and which are not included in thelaws. "Conscience and the written laws, " says A. Michiels, "form twolines of ramparts against evil, the ludicrous is the third line ofdefense, it stops, brands, and condemns the little misdeeds which theguards have allowed to pass. "

Laughter is thus the great censor of vices, it spares none, it does noteven grant indulgence to the slightest imperfections, of whatever naturethey be. This mission, which M. Michiels attributes to laughter, granting that it is fulfilled, instead of taking its place in thenatural or providential order of things, does it not answer simply tothose demands, whether well founded or not, which society makes uponeach of us? M. Bergson admits this, justly enough, it appears, when hedefines laughter as a social bromide. But then it is no longer mereimperfection in general, it is not even immorality, properly speaking;it is merely unsociability, well or badly understood, which laughtercorrects. More precisely, it is a special unsociability, one whichescapes all other penalties, which it is the function of laughter toreach. What can this unsociability be? It is the self-love of each oneof us in so far as it has anything disagreeable to others in it, anabstraction of every injurious or hateful element. It is the harmlessself-love, slight, powerless, which one does not fear but one scorns, yet for all that does not pardon but on the contrary pitilessly pursues, wounds, and galls. Self-love thus defined is vanity, and what is calledthe moral correction administered by laughter is the wound to self-love. "The specific remedy for vanity, " says M. Bergson, "is laughter, and theessentially ridiculous is vanity. "

One sees in what sense laughter is a "correction. " Whether one considersthe jests uttered, the feelings of the jester, or of him at whom onejests, laughter appears from the point of view of morality as acorrection most often undeserved, unjust--or at least disproportionateto the fault--pitiless, and cruel. 

In fact, the self-love at which one laughs is, as we have said, harmless. Besides it is often a natural failing, a weakness, not a vice. Even if it were a vice, the jester would not be justified in laughing atit, for it does not appear that he himself is exempt. On the contrary, his vanity is magnified when that of others is upon the rack. Finallythe humiliation caused by laughter is not a chastisement which oneaccepts but a torture to which one submits; it is a feeling ofresentment, of bitterness, not a wholesome sense of shame, nor one fromwhich anyone is likely to profit. Laughter may then have a social use;but it is not an act of justice. It is a quick and summary policemeasure which will not stand too close a scrutiny but which it would beimprudent either to condemn or to approve without reserve. Society isestablished and organized according to natural laws which seem to bemodeled on those of reason, but self-loves discipline themselves, theyenter into conflict and hold each other in check. 

C. LANGUAGE AND THE COMMUNICATION OF IDEAS

1. Intercommunication in the Lower Animals[142]

The foundations of intercommunication, like those of imitation, are laidin certain instinctive modes of response, which are stimulated by theacts of other animals of the same social group. 

Some account has already been given of the sounds made by young birds, which seem to be instinctive and to afford an index of the emotionalstate at the time of utterance. That in many cases they serve to evoke alike emotional state and correlated expressive behavior in other birdsof the same brood cannot be questioned. The alarm note of a chick willplace its companions on the alert; and the harsh "krek" of a youngmoor-hen, uttered in a peculiar crouching attitude, will often throwothers into this attitude, though the maker of the warning sound may beinvisible. That the cries of her brood influence the conduct of the henis a matter of familiar observation; and that her danger signal causesthem at once to crouch or run to her for protection is not lessfamiliar. No one who has watched a cat with her kittens, or a sheep withher lambs, can doubt that such "dumb animals" are influenced in theirbehavior by suggestive sounds. The important questions are, how theyoriginate, what is their value, and how far such intercommunication--ifsuch we may call it--extends. 

There can be but little question that in all cases of animals undernatural conditions such behavior has an instinctive basis. Though theeffect may be to establish a means of communication, such is not theirconscious purpose at the outset. They are presumably congenital andhereditary modes of emotional expression which serve to evoke responsivebehavior in another animal--the reciprocal action being generally in itsprimary origin between mate and mate, between parent and offspring, orbetween members of the same family group. _And it is this reciprocalaction which constitutes it a factor in social evolution. _ Its chiefinterest in connection with the subject of behavior lies in the factthat it shows the instinctive foundations on which intelligent andeventually rational modes of intercommunication are built up. Forinstinctive as the sounds are at the outset, by entering into theconscious situation and taking their part in the association-complex ofexperience, they become factors in the social life as modified anddirected by intelligence. To their original instinctive value as theoutcome of stimuli, and as themselves affording stimuli to responsivebehavior, is added a value for consciousness in so far as they enterinto those guiding situations by which intelligent behavior isdetermined. And if they also serve to evoke, in the reciprocatingmembers of the social group, similar or allied emotional states, thereis thus added a further social bond, inasmuch as there are thus laid thefoundations of sympathy. 

"What makes the old sow grunt and the piggies sing and whine?" said alittle girl to a portly, substantial farmer. "I suppose they does it forcompany, my dear, " was the simple and cautious reply. So far asappearances went, that farmer looked as guiltless of theories as mancould be. And yet he gave terse expression to what may perhaps beregarded as the most satisfactory hypothesis as to the primary purposeof animal sounds. They are a means by which each indicates to others thefact of his comforting presence; and they still, to a large extent, retain their primary function. The chirping of grasshoppers, the song ofthe cicada, the piping of frogs in the pool, the bleating of lambs atthe hour of dusk, the lowing of contented cattle, the call-notes of themigrating host of birds--all these, whatever else they may be, are thereassuring social links of sound, the grateful signs of kindredpresence. Arising thus in close relation to the primitive feelings ofsocial sympathy, they would naturally be called into play with specialforce and suggestiveness at times of strong emotional excitement, andthe earliest differentiations would, we may well believe, be determinedalong lines of emotional expression. Thus would originate mating cries, male and female after their kind; and parental cries more or lessdifferentiated into those of mother and offspring, the deeper note ofthe ewe differing little save in pitch and timbre from the bleating ofher lamb, while the cluck of the hen differs widely from the peepingnote of the chick in down. Thus, too, would arise the notes of anger andcombat, of fear and distress, of alarm and warning. If we call these theinstinctive language of emotional expression, we must remember that such"language" differs markedly from the "language" of which the sentence isthe recognized unit. 

It is, however, not improbable that, through association in theconscious situation, sounds, having their origin in emotional expressionand evoking in others like emotional states, may acquire a new value insuggesting, for example, the presence of particular enemies. An examplewill best serve to indicate my meaning. The following is from H. B. Medlicott:

 In the early dawn of a grey morning I was geologizing along the base of the Muhair Hills in South Behar, when all of a sudden there was a stampede of many pigs from the fringe of the jungle, with porcine shrieks of _sauve qui peut_ significance. After a short run in the open they took to the jungle again, and in a few minutes there was another uproar, but different in sound and in action; there was a rush, presumably of the fighting members, to the spot where the row began, and after some seconds a large leopard sprang from the midst of the scuffle. In a few bounds he was in the open, and stood looking back, licking his chops. The pigs did not break cover, but continued on their way. They were returning to their lair after a night's feeding on the plain, several families having combined for mutual protection; while the beasts of prey were evidently waiting for the occasion. I was alone, and, though armed, I did not care to beat up the ground to see if in either case a kill had been effected. The numerous herd covered a considerable space, and the scrub was thick. The prompt concerted action must in each case have been started by the special cry. I imagine that the first assailant was a tiger, and the case was at once known to be hopeless, the cry prompting instant flight, while in the second case the cry was for defense. It can scarcely be doubted that in the first case each adult pig had a vision of a tiger, and in the second of a leopard or some minor foe. 

If we accept Mr. Medlicott's interpretation as in the main correct, wehave in this case: (1) common action in social behavior, (2) communityof emotional state, and (3) the suggestion of natural enemies notunfamiliar in the experience of the herd. It is a not improbablehypothesis, therefore, that in the course of evolution the initial valueof uttered sounds is emotional; but that on this may be grafted infurther development the indication of particular enemies. If, forexample, the cry which prompts instant flight among the pigs is calledforth by a tiger, it is reasonable to suppose that this cry would giverise to a representative generic image of that animal having itsinfluence on the conscious situation. But if the second cry, fordefense, was prompted sometimes by a leopard and sometimes by some otherminor foe, then this cry would not give rise to a representative imageof the same definiteness. Whether animals have the power ofintentionally differentiating the sounds they make to indicate differentobjects is extremely doubtful. Can a dog bark in different tones toindicate "cat" or "rat, " as the case may be? Probably not. It may, however, be asked why, if a pig may squeak differently, and thus, perhaps, incidentally indicate on the one hand "tiger" and on the otherhand "leopard, " should not a dog bark differently and thus indicateappropriately "cat" or "rat"? Because it is assumed that the twodifferent cries in the pig are the instinctive expression of twodifferent emotional states, and Mr. Medlicott could distinguish them;whereas, in the case of the dog, we can distinguish no differencebetween his barking in the one case and the other, nor do the emotionalstates appear to be differentiated. Of course there may be differenceswhich we have failed to detect. What may be regarded, however, asimprobable is the _intentional_ differentiation of sounds by barking indifferent tones with the _purpose_ of indicating "cat" or "rat. "

Such powers of intercommunication as animals possess are based on directassociation and refer to the here and the now. A dog may be able tosuggest to his companion the fact that he has descried a worriable cat;but can a dog tell his neighbor of the delightful worry he enjoyed theday before yesterday in the garden where the man with the biscuit tinlives? Probably not, bark he never so expressively. 

From the many anecdotes of dogs calling others to their assistance orbringing others to those who feed them or treat them kindly, we mayindeed infer the existence of a social tendency and of the suggestiveeffects of behavior, but we cannot derive conclusive evidence ofanything like descriptive communication. 

Such intentional communication as is to be found in animals, if indeedwe may properly so call it, seems to arise by an association of theperformance of some act in a conscious situation involving furtherbehavior for its complete development. Thus the cat which touches thehandle of the door when it wishes to leave the room has had experiencein which the performance of this act has coalesced with a specificdevelopment of the conscious situation. The case is similar when yourdog drops a ball or stick at your feet, wishing you to throw it for himto fetch. Still, it is clear that such an act would be the perceptualprecursor of the deliberate conduct of the rational being by whom thesign is definitely realized as a sign, the intentional meaning of whichis distinctly present to thought. This involves a judgment concerningthe sign as an object of thought; and this is probably beyond thecapacity of the dog. For, as Romanes himself says, "It is because thehuman mind is able, so to speak, to stand outside of itself and thus toconstitute its own ideas the subject-matter of its own thought that itis capable of judgment, whether in the act of conception or in that ofpredication. We have no evidence to show that any animal is capable ofobjectifying its own ideas; and therefore we have no evidence that anyanimal is capable of judgment. "

2. The Concept as the Medium of Human Communication[143]

There is a petrified philosophy in language, and if we examine the mostancient word for "name, " we find it is _nâman_ in Sanskrit, _nomen_ inLatin, _namô_ in Gothic. This _nâman_ stands for _gnâman_, and isderived from the root _gnâ_, to know, and meant originally that by whichwe know a thing. 

And how do we know things?

The first step toward the real knowledge, a step which, however small inappearance, separates man forever from all other animals, is _the namingof a thing_, or the making a thing knowable. All naming isclassification, bringing the individual under the general; and whateverwe know, whether empirically or scientifically, we know it by means ofour general ideas. 

At the very point where man parts company with the brute world, at thefirst flash of reason as the manifestation of the light within us, therewe see the true genesis of language. Analyze any word you like and youwill find that it expresses a general idea peculiar to the individual towhom the name belongs. What is the meaning of moon? The measurer. Whatis the meaning of sun? The begetter. What is the meaning of earth? Theploughed. 

If the serpent is called in Sanskrit _sarpa_, it is because it wasconceived under the general idea of creeping, an idea expressed by theroot _srip_. 

An ancient word for man was the Sanskrit _marta_, the Greek _brotos_, the Latin _mortalis_. _Marta_ means "he who dies, " and it is remarkablethat, where everything else was changing, fading, and dying, this shouldhave been chosen as the distinguishing name for man. 

There were many more names for man, as there were many names for allthings in ancient languages. Any feature that struck the observing mindas peculiarly characteristic could be made to furnish a new name. Incommon Sanskrit dictionaries we find 5 words for hand, 11 for light, 15for cloud, 20 for moon, 26 for snake, 33 for slaughter, 35 for fire, 37for sun. The sun might be called the bright, the warm, the golden, thepreserver, the destroyer, the wolf, the lion, the heavenly eye, thefather of light and life. Hence that superabundance of synonyms inancient dialects, and hence that struggle for life carried on amongthese words, which led to the destruction of the less strong, the lessfertile, the less happy words, and ended in the triumph of _one_ as therecognized and proper name for every object in every language. On a verysmall scale this process of natural selection, or, as it would better becalled, elimination, may still be watched even in modern languages, thatis to say, even in languages so old and stricken in years as English andFrench. What it was at the first burst of dialects we can only gatherfrom such isolated cases as when von Hammer counts 5, 744 words allrelating to the camel. 

The fact that every word is originally a predicate--that names, thoughsigns of individual conceptions, are all, without exception, derivedfrom general ideas--is one of the most important discoveries in thescience of language. It was known before that language is thedistinguishing characteristic of man; it was known also that the havingof general ideas is that which puts a perfect distinction betwixt manand brutes; but that these two were only different expressions of thesame fact was not known till the theory of roots had been established aspreferable to the theories both of onomatopoicia and of interjections. But, though our modern philosophy did not know it, the ancient poets andframers of language must have known it. For in Greek, language is_logos_, but _logos_ means also reason, and _alogon_ was chosen as thename and the most proper name, for brute. No animal, so far as we know, thinks and speaks except man. Language and thought are inseparable. Words without thought are dead sounds; thoughts without words arenothing. To think is to speak low; to speak is to think aloud. The wordis the thought incarnate. 

What are the two problems left unsettled at the end of the _Science ofLanguage_: "How do mere cries become phonetic types?" and "How cansensations be changed into concepts?" What are these two, if takentogether, but the highest problem of all philosophy, viz. , "What is theorigin of reason?"

3. Writing as a Form of Communication[144]

The earliest stages of writing were those in which pictographic formswere used; that is, a direct picture was drawn upon the writing surface, reproducing as nearly as possible the kind of impression made upon theobserver by the object itself. To be sure, the drawing used to representthe object was not an exact reproduction or full copy of the object, butit was a fairly direct image. The visual memory image was thus arousedby a direct perceptual appeal to the eye. Anyone could read a documentwritten in this pictograph form, if he had ever seen the objects towhich the pictures referred. There was no special relation between thepictures or visual forms at this stage of development and the soundsused in articulate language. Concrete examples of such writing are seenin early monuments, where the moon is represented by the crescent, aking by the drawing of a man wearing a crown. 

The next stage of development in writing began when the pictographicforms were reduced in complexity to the simplest possible lines. Thereduction of the picture to a few sketchy lines depended upon thegrowing ability of the reader to contribute the necessaryinterpretation. All that was needed in the figure was something whichwould suggest the full picture to the mind. Indeed, it is probably truethat the full picture was not needed, even in the reader'sconsciousness. Memory images are usually much simplified reproductionsof the perceptual facts. In writing we have a concrete expression ofthis tendency of memory to lose its full reproductive form and to becomereduced to the point of the most meager contents for conscious thought. The simplification of the written forms is attained very early, and isseen even in the figures which are used by savage tribes. Thus, torepresent the number of an enemy's army, it is not necessary to drawfull figures of the forms of the enemy; it is enough if single straightlines are drawn with some brief indication, perhaps at the beginning ofthe series of lines, to show that these stand each for an individualenemy. This simplification of the drawing leaves the written symbol withvery much larger possibilities of entering into new relations in themind of the reader. Instead, now, of being a specific drawing related toa specific object, it invites by its simple character a number ofdifferent interpretations. A straight line, for example, can representnot only the number of an enemy's army but it can represent also thenumber of sheep in a flock, or the number of tents in a village, oranything else which is capable of enumeration. The use of a straightline for these various purposes stimulates new mental developments. Thisis shown by the fact that the development of the idea of the numberrelation, as distinguished from the mass of possible relations in whichan object may stand, is greatly facilitated by this general writtensymbol for numbers. The intimate relation between the development ofideas on the one hand and the development of language on the other ishere very strikingly illustrated. The drawing becomes more usefulbecause it is associated with more elaborate ideas, while the ideasdevelop because they find in the drawing a definite content which helpsto mark and give separate character to the idea. 

As soon as the drawing began to lose its significance as a directperceptual reproduction of the object and took on new and broadermeanings through the associations which attached to it, the written formbecame a symbol, rather than a direct appeal to visual memory. As asymbol it stood for something which, in itself, it was not. The way wasthus opened for the written symbol to enter into relation with oralspeech, which is also a form of symbolism. Articulate sounds aresimplified forms of experience capable through association with ideas ofexpressing meanings not directly related to the sounds themselves. Whenthe written symbol began to be related to the sound symbol, there was atfirst a loose and irregular relation between them. The Egyptians seem tohave established such relations to some extent. They wrote at times withpictures standing for sounds, as we now write in rebus puzzles. In suchpuzzles the picture of an object is intended to call up in the mind ofthe reader, not the special group of ideas appropriate to the objectrepresented in the picture, but rather the sound which serves as thename of this object. When the sound is once suggested to the reader, heis supposed to attend to that and to connect with it certain otherassociations appropriate to the sound. To take a modern illustration, wemay, for example, use the picture of the eye to stand for the firstpersonal pronoun. The relationship between the picture and the idea forwhich it is used is in this case through the sound of the name of theobject depicted. That the early alphabets are of this type of rebuspictures appears in their names. The first three letters of the Hebrewalphabet, for example, are named, respectively, _aleph_ which means ox, _beth_ which means house, and _gimmel_ which means camel. 

The complete development of a sound alphabet from this type of rebuswriting required, doubtless, much experimentation on the part of thenations which succeeded in establishing the association. The Phoenicianshave generally been credited with the invention of the forms andrelations which we now use. Their contribution to civilization cannot beoverestimated. It consisted, not in the presentation of new material orcontent to conscious experience, but rather in the bringing together byassociation of groups of contents which, in their new relation, transformed the whole process of thought and expression. They associatedvisual and auditory content and gave to the visual factors a meaningthrough association which was of such unique importance as to justify usin describing the association as a new invention. 

There are certain systems of writing which indicate that the type ofrelationship which we use is not the only possible type of relationship. The Chinese, for example, have continued to use simple symbols which arerelated to complex sounds, not to elementary sounds, as are our ownletters. In Chinese writing the various symbols, though much corruptedin form, stand each for an object. It is true that the forms of Chinesewriting have long since lost their direct relationship to the picturesin which they originated. The present forms are simplified andsymbolical. So free has the symbolism become that the form has beenarbitrarily modified to make it possible for the writer to use freelythe crude tools with which the Chinaman does his writing. Thesepractical considerations could not have become operative, if the directpictographic character of the symbols had not long since given place toa symbolical character which renders the figure important, not becauseof what it shows in itself, but rather because of what it suggests tothe mind of the reader. The relation of the symbol to elementary soundshas, however, never been established. This lack of association withelementary sounds keeps the Chinese writing at a level much lower andnearer to primitive pictographic forms than is our writing. 

Whether we have a highly elaborated symbolical system, such as thatwhich appears in Chinese writing, or a form of writing which is relatedto sound, the chief fact regarding writing, as regarding all language, is that it depends for its value very much more upon the ideationalrelations into which the symbols are brought in the individual's mindthan upon the impressions which they arouse. 

The ideational associations which appear in developed language couldnever have reached the elaborate form which they have at present ifthere had not been social co-operation. The tendency of the individualwhen left to himself is to drop back into the direct adjustments whichare appropriate to his own life. He might possibly develop articulationto a certain extent for his own sake, but the chief impulse to thedevelopment of language comes through intercourse with others. As wehave seen, the development of the simplest forms of communication, as inanimals, is a matter of social imitation. Writing is also an outgrowthof social relations. It is extremely doubtful whether even the child ofcivilized parents would ever have any sufficient motive for thedevelopment of writing, if it were not for the social encouragement hereceives. 

4. The Extension of Communication by Human Invention[145]

No one who is asked to name the agencies that weave the great web ofintellectual and material influences and counter-influences by whichmodern humanity is combined into the unity of society will need muchreflection to give first rank to the newspaper, along with the post, railroad, and telegraph. 

In fact, the newspaper forms a link in the chain of modern commercialmachinery; it is one of those contrivances by which in society theexchange of intellectual and material goods is facilitated. Yet it isnot an instrument of commercial intercourse in the sense of the post orthe railway, both of which have to do with the transport of persons, goods, and news, but rather in the sense of the letter and circular. These make the news capable of transport only because they are enabledby the help of writing and printing to cut it adrift, as it were, fromits originator and give it corporeal independence. 

However great the difference between letter, circular, and newspaper mayappear today, a little reflection shows that all three are essentiallysimilar products, originating in the necessity of communicating news andin the employment of writing in its satisfaction. The sole differenceconsists in the letter being addressed to individuals, the circular toseveral specified persons, the newspaper to many unspecified persons. Or, in other words, while letter and circular are instruments for theprivate communication of news, the newspaper is an instrument for itspublication. 

Today we are, of course, accustomed to the regular printing of thenewspaper and its periodical appearance at brief intervals. But neitherof these is an essential characteristic of the newspaper as a means ofnews publication. On the contrary, it will become apparent directly thatthe primitive paper from which this mighty instrument of commercialintercourse is sprung appeared neither in printed form nor periodically, but that it closely resembled the letter from which, indeed, it canscarcely be distinguished. To be sure, repeated appearance at briefintervals is involved in the very nature of news publication. For newshas value only so long as it is fresh; and to preserve for it the charmof novelty its publication must follow in the footsteps of the events. We shall, however, soon see that the periodicity of these intervals, asfar as it can be noticed in the infancy of journalism, depended upon theregular recurrence of opportunities to transport the news, and was in noway connected with the essential nature of the newspaper. 

The regular collection and despatch of news presupposes a widespreadinterest in public affairs, or an extensive area of trade exhibitingnumerous commercial connections and combinations of interest, or both atonce. Such interest is not realized until people are united by some moreor less extensive political organization into a certain community oflife-interest. The city republics of ancient times required nonewspaper; all their needs of publication could be met by the herald andby inscriptions, as occasion demanded. Only when Roman supremacy hadembraced or subjected to its influence all the countries of theMediterranean was there need of some means by which those members of theruling class who had gone to the provinces as officials, tax-farmers, and in other occupations, might receive the current news of the capital. It is significant that Caesar, the creator of the military monarchy andof the administrative centralization of Rome, is regarded as the founderof the first contrivance resembling a newspaper. 

Indeed, long before Caesar's consulate it had become customary forRomans in the provinces to keep one or more correspondents at thecapital to send them written reports on the course of political movementand on other events of the day. Such a correspondent was generally anintelligent slave or freedman intimately acquainted with affairs at thecapital, who, moreover, often made a business of reporting for several. He was thus a species of primitive reporter, differing from those oftoday only in writing, not for a newspaper, but directly for readers. Onrecommendation of their employers, these reporters enjoyed at timesadmission even to the senate discussions. Antony kept such a man, whoseduty it was to report to him not merely on the senate's resolutions butalso on the speeches and votes of the senators. Cicero, when proconsul, received through his friend, M. Caelius, the reports of a certainChrestus, but seems not to have been particularly well satisfied withthe latter's accounts of gladiatorial sports, law-court proceedings, andthe various pieces of city gossip. As in this case, such correspondencenever extended beyond a rude relation of facts that requiredsupplementing through letters from party friends of the absent person. These friends, as we know from Cicero, supplied the real report onpolitical feeling. 

The innovation made by Caesar consisted in instituting the publicationof a brief record of the transactions and resolutions of the senate, andin his causing to be published the transactions of the assemblies of theplebs, as well as other important matters of public concern. 

The Germanic peoples who, after the Romans, assumed the lead in thehistory of Europe were neither in civilization nor in politicalorganization fitted to maintain a similar constitution of the newsservice; nor did they require it. All through the Middle Ages thepolitical and social life of men was bounded by a narrow horizon;culture retired to the cloisters and for centuries affected only thepeople of prominence. There were no trade interests beyond the narrowwalls of their own town or manor to draw men together. It is only in thelater centuries of the Middle Ages that extensive social combinationsonce more appear. It is first the church, embracing with her hierarchyall the countries of Germanic and Latin civilization, next the burgherclass with its city confederacies and common trade interests, and, finally, as a counter-influence to these, the secular territorialpowers, who succeed in gradually realizing some form of union. In thetwelfth and thirteenth centuries we notice the first traces of anorganized service for transmission of news and letters in the messengersof monasteries, the universities, and the various spiritual dignitaries;in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries we have advanced to acomprehensive, almost postlike, organization of local messenger bureausfor the epistolary intercourse of traders and of municipal authorities. And now, for the first time, we meet with the word _Zeitung_, ornewspaper. The word meant originally that which was happening at thetime (_Zeit_ = "time"), a present occurrence; then information on suchan event, a message, a report, news. 

Venice was long regarded as the birthplace of the newspaper in themodern acceptation of the word. As the channel of trade between the Eastand the West, as the seat of a government that first organized thepolitical news service and the consular system in the modern sense, theold city of lagoons formed a natural collecting center for importantnews items from all lands of the known world. Even early in thefifteenth century, as has been shown by the investigations ofValentinelli, the librarian of St. Mark's Library, collections of newshad been made at the instance of the council of Venice regarding eventsthat had either occurred within the republic or been reported byambassadors, consuls, and officials, by ships' captains, merchants, andthe like. These were sent as circular despatches to the Venetianrepresentatives abroad to keep them posted on international affairs. Such collections of news were called _fogli d'avvisi_. 

The further development of news publication in the field that it hasoccupied since the more general adoption of the printing-press has beenpeculiar. At the outset the publisher of a periodical printed newspaperdiffered in no wise from the publisher of any other printed work--forinstance, of a pamphlet or a book. He was but the multiplier and sellerof a literary product, over whose content he had no control. Thenewspaper publisher marketed the regular post-news in its printed formjust as another publisher offered the public a herbal or an edition ofan old writer. 

But this soon changed. It was readily perceived that the contents of anewspaper number did not form an entity in the same sense as thecontents of a book or pamphlet. The news items there brought together, taken from different sources, were of varying reliability. They neededto be used judicially and critically: in this a political or religiousbias could find ready expression. In a still higher degree was this thecase when men began to discuss contemporary political questions in thenewspapers and to employ them as a medium for disseminating partyopinions. 

This took place first in England during the Long Parliament and theRevolution of 1640. The Netherlands and a part of the imperial freetowns of Germany followed later. In France the change was notconsummated before the era of the great Revolution: in most othercountries it occurred in the nineteenth century. The newspaper, frombeing a mere vehicle for the publication of news, became an instrumentfor supporting and shaping public opinion and a weapon of partypolitics. 

The effect of this upon the internal organization of the newspaperundertaking was to introduce a third department, the _editorship_, between news collecting and news publication. For the newspaperpublisher, however, it signified that from a mere seller of news he hadbecome a dealer in public opinion as well. 

At first this meant nothing more than that the publisher was placed in aposition to shift a portion of the risk of his undertaking upon a partyorganization, a circle of interested persons, or a government. If theleanings of the paper were distasteful to the readers, they ceased tobuy the paper. Their wishes thus remained, in the final analysis, thedetermining factor for the contents of the newspapers. 

The gradually expanding circulation of the printed newspapersnevertheless soon led to their employment by the authorities for makingpublic announcements. With this came, in the first quarter of the lastcentury, the extension of private announcements, which have nowattained, through the so-called advertising bureaus, some suchorganization as political news-collecting possesses in thecorrespondence bureaus. 

The modern newspaper is a capitalistic enterprise, a sort ofnews-factory in which a great number of people (correspondents, editors, typesetters, correctors, machine-tenders, collectors of advertisements, office clerks, messengers, etc. ) are employed on wage, under a singleadministration, at very specialized work. This paper produces wares foran unknown circle of readers, from whom it is, furthermore, frequentlyseparated by intermediaries, such as delivery agencies and postalinstitutions. The simple needs of the reader or of the circle of patronsno longer determine the quality of these wares; it is now the verycomplicated conditions of competition in the publication market. In thismarket, however, as generally in wholesale markets, the consumers of thegoods, the newspaper readers, take no direct part; the determiningfactors are the wholesale dealers and the speculators in news: thegovernments, the telegraph bureaus dependent upon their specialcorrespondents, the political parties, artistic and scientific cliques, men on 'change, and, last but not least, the advertising agencies andlarge individual advertisers. 

Each number of a great journal which appears today is a marvel ofeconomic division of labor, capitalistic organization, and mechanicaltechnique; it is an instrument of intellectual and economic intercourse, in which the potencies of all other instruments of commerce--therailway, the post, the telegraph, and the telephone--are united as in afocus. 

D. IMITATION

1. Definition of Imitation[146]

The term "imitation" is used in ordinary language to designate anyrepetition of any act or thought which has been noted by an observer. Thus one imitates the facial expression of another, or his mode ofspeech. The term has been brought into prominence in scientificdiscussions through the work of Gabriel Tarde, who in his _Les lois del'imitation_ points out that imitation is a fundamental fact underlyingall social development. The customs of society are imitated fromgeneration to generation. The fashions of the day are imitated by largegroups of people without any consciousness of the social solidaritywhich is derived from this common mode of behavior. There is developedthrough these various forms of imitation a body of experiences which iscommon to all of the members of a given social group. In complex societythe various imitations which tend to set themselves up are frequentlyfound to be in conflict; thus the tendency toward elaborate fashions indress is constantly limited by the counter-tendency toward simplerfashions. The conflict of tendencies leads to individual variations fromthe example offered at any given time, and, as a result, there are newexamples to be followed. Complex social examples are thus products ofconflict. 

This general doctrine of Tarde has been elaborated by a number of recentwriters. Royce calls attention to the fundamental importance ofimitation as a means of social inheritance. The same doctrine is takenup by Baldwin in his _Mental Development in the Child and Race_, and in_Social and Ethical Interpretations_. With these later writers, imitation takes on a significance which is somewhat technical andbroader than the significance which it has either with Tarde or in theordinary use of the term. Baldwin uses the term to cover that case inwhich an individual repeats an act because he has himself gone throughthe act. In such a case one imitates himself and sets up what Baldwinterms a circular reaction. The principle of imitation is thus introducedinto individual psychology as well as into general social psychology, and the relation between the individual's acts and his own imagery isbrought under the same general principle as the individual's responsesto his social environment. The term "imitation" in this broader sense isclosely related to the processes of sympathy. 

The term "social heredity" has very frequently been used in connectionwith all of the processes here under discussion. Society tends toperpetuate itself in the new individual in a fashion analogous to thatin which the physical characteristics of the earlier generation tend toperpetuate themselves in the physical characteristics of the newgeneration. Since modes of behavior, such as acts of courtesy, cannot betransmitted through physical structure, they would tend to lapse if theywere not maintained through imitation from generation to generation. Thus imitation gives uniformity to social practices and consequently isto be treated as a form of supplementary inheritance extending beyondphysical inheritance and making effective the established forms ofsocial practice. 

2. Attention, Interest, and Imitation[147]

Imitation is a process of very great importance for the development ofmental life in both men and animals. In its more complex forms itpresupposes trains of ideas; but in its essential features it is presentand operative at the perceptual level. It is largely through imitationthat the results of the experience of one generation are transmitted tothe next, so as to form the basis for further development. Where trainsof ideas play a relatively unimportant part, as in the case of animals, imitation may be said to be the sole form of social tradition. In thecase of human beings, the thought of past generations is embodied inlanguage, institutions, machinery, and the like. This distinctivelyhuman tradition presupposes trains of ideas in past generations, whichso mold the environment of a new generation that in apprehending andadapting itself to this environment it must re-think the old trains ofthought. Tradition of this kind is not found in animal life, because theanimal mind does not proceed by way of trains of ideas. None the less, the more intelligent animals depend largely on tradition. This traditionconsists essentially in imitation by the young of the actions of theirparents, or of other members of the community in which they are born. The same directly imitative process, though it is very far from formingthe whole of social tradition in human beings, forms a very importantpart of it. 

a) _The imitative impulse. _--We must distinguish between ability toimitate and impulse to imitate. We may be already fully able to performan action, and the sight of it as performed by another may merely promptus to reproduce it. But the sight of an act performed by another mayalso have an educational influence; it may not only stimulate us to dowhat we are already able to do without its aid; it may also enable us todo what we could not do without having an example to follow. When thecough of one man sets another coughing, it is evident that imitationhere consists only in the impulse to follow suit. The second man doesnot learn how to cough from the example of the first. He is simplyprompted to do on this particular occasion what he is otherwise quitecapable of doing. But if I am learning billiards and someone shows me byhis own example how to make a particular stroke, the case is different. It is not his example which in the first instance prompts me to theaction. He merely shows the way to do what I already desire to do. 

We have then first to discuss the nature of the imitative impulse--theimpulse to perform an action which arises from the perception of it asperformed by another. 

This impulse is an affair of attentive consciousness. The perception ofan action prompts us to reproduce it when and so far as it excitesinterest or is at least intimately connected with what does exciteinterest. Further, the interest must be of such a nature that it is morefully gratified by partially or wholly repeating the interesting action. Thus imitation is a special development of attention. Attention isalways striving after a more vivid, more definite, and more completeapprehension of its object. Imitation is a way in which this endeavormay gratify itself when the interest in the object is of a certain kind. It is obvious that we do not try to imitate all manner of actions, without distinction, merely because they take place under our eyes. Whatis familiar and commonplace or what for any other reason is unexcitingor insipid fails to stir us to re-enact it. It is otherwise with what isstrikingly novel or in any way impressive, so that our attention dwellson it with relish or fascination. It is, of course, not true thatwhatever act fixes attention prompts to imitation. This is only the casewhere imitation helps attention, where it is, in fact, a specialdevelopment of attention. This is so when interest is directlyconcentrated on the activity itself for its own sake rather than for thesake of its possible consequences and the like ulterior motives. But itis not necessary that the act in itself should be interesting; in a mostimportant class of cases the interest centers, not directly in theexternal act imitated, but in something else with which this act is sointimately connected as virtually to form a part of it. Thus there is atendency to imitate not only interesting acts but also the acts ofinteresting persons. Men are apt to imitate the gestures and modes ofspeech of those who excite their admiration or affection or some otherpersonal interest. Children imitate their parents or their leaders inthe playground. Even the mannerisms and tricks of a great man are oftenunconsciously copied by those who regard him as a hero. In suchinstances the primary interest is in the whole personality of the model;but this is more vividly and distinctly brought before consciousness byreproducing his external peculiarities. Our result, then, is thatinterest in an action prompts to imitation in proportion to itsintensity, provided the interest is of a kind which will be gratified orsustained by imitative activity. 

b) _Learning by imitation. _--Let us now turn to the other side of thequestion. Let us consider the case in which the power of performing anaction is acquired in and by the process of imitation itself. Here thereis a general rule which is obvious when once it is pointed out. It ispart of the still more general rule that "to him that hath shall begiven. " Our power of imitating the activity of another is strictlyproportioned to our pre-existing power of performing the same generalkind of action independently. For instance, one devoid of musicalfaculty has practically no power of imitating the violin playing ofJoachim. Imitation may develop and improve a power which already exists, but it cannot create it. Consider the child beginning for the first timeto write in a copybook. He learns by imitation; but it is only becausehe has already some rudimentary ability to make such simple figures aspothooks that the imitative process can get a start. At the outset, hispothooks are very unlike the model set before him. Gradually heimproves; increased power of independent production gives step by stepincreased power of imitation, until he approaches too closely the limitsof his capacity in this direction to make any further progress of anappreciable kind. 

But this is an incomplete account of the matter. The power of learningby imitation is part of the general power of learning by experience; itinvolves mental plasticity. An animal which starts life with congenitaltendencies and aptitudes of a fixed and stereotyped kind, so that theyadmit of but little modification in the course of individualdevelopment, has correspondingly little power of learning by imitation. 

At higher levels of mental development the imitative impulse is far lessconspicuous because impulsive activity in general is checked andoverruled by activity organized in a unified system. Civilized menimitate not so much because of immediate interest in the action imitatedas with a view to the attainment of desirable results. 

3. The Three Levels of Sympathy[148]

Sympathy is not an instinct or a tendency, i. E. , a group of co-ordinatedmovements adapted to a particular end, and showing itself inconsciousness as an emotion, such as fear, anger, sex attraction; it is, on the contrary, a highly generalized psycho-physiological property. Tothe specialized character of each emotion it opposes a character ofalmost unlimited plasticity. We have not to consider it under all itsaspects but as one of the most important manifestations of emotionallife, as the basis of the tender emotions, and one of the foundations ofsocial and moral existence. 

a) _The first phase. _--In its primitive form sympathy is reflex, automatic, unconscious, or very slightly conscious; it is, according toBain, the tendency to produce in ourselves an attitude, a state, abodily movement which we perceive in another person. This is imitationin its most rudimentary form. Between sympathy and imitation, at anyrate in this primitive period, I see only one difference of aspect:sympathy everywhere marks the passive, receptive side of the phenomenon;imitation, its active and motor side. 

It manifests itself in animals forming aggregates (not societies), suchas a flock of sheep, or a pack of dogs who run, stop, bark all at thesame time, through a purely physical impulse of imitation; in man, infectious laughter or yawning, walking in step, imitating the movementsof a rope-walker while watching him, feeling a shock in one's legs whenone sees a man falling, and a hundred other occurrences of this kind arecases of physiological sympathy. It plays a great part in the psychologyof crowds, with their rapid attacks and sudden panics. In nervousdiseases, there is a superfluity of examples: epidemics of hystericfits, convulsive barking, hiccup, etc. I omit the mental maladies(epidemics of suicide, double or triple madness) since we are onlyconsidering the purely physiological stage. 

To sum up, sympathy is originally a property of living matter: as thereis an organic memory and an organic sensitiveness, being those of thetissues and ultimate elements which compose them, there is an organicsympathy, made up of receptivity and imitative movements. 

b) _The second phase. _--The next phase is that of sympathy in thepsychological sense, necessarily accompanied by consciousness; itcreates in two or more individuals analogous emotional states. Such arethe cases in which we say that fear, indignation, joy, or sorrow arecommunicated. It consists in feeling an emotion existing in another, andis revealed to us by its physiological expression. This phase consistsof two stages. 

(1) The first might be defined as psychological unison. If, during thisperiod of unison, we could read the minds of those who sympathize, weshould see a single emotional fact reflected in the consciousness ofseveral individuals. L. Noiré, in his book, _Ursprung der Sprache_, hasproposed the theory that language originated in community of actionamong the earliest human beings. When working, marching, dancing, rowing, they uttered (according to this writer) sounds which became theappellatives of these different actions, or of various objects; andthese sounds, being uttered by all, must have been understood by all. Whether this theory be correct or not (it has been accepted as such byMax Müller), it will serve as an illustration. But this state ofsympathy does not by itself constitute a tie of affection or tendernessbetween those who feel it; it only prepares the way for such an emotion. It may be the basis of a certain social solidarity, because the sameinternal states excite the same acts of a mechanical, exterior, non-moral solidarity. 

(2) The second stage is that of sympathy, in the restricted and popularsense of the word. This consists of psychological unison, _plus_ a newelement: there is added another emotional manifestation, tender emotion(benevolence, sympathy, pity, etc. ). It is no longer sympathy pure andsimple, it is a binary compound. The common habit of consideringphenomena only under their higher and complete forms often misleads usas to their origin and constitution. Moreover, in order to understandthat this is a case of duality--the fusion of two distinct elements--andthat our analysis is not a factitious one, it is sufficient to point outthat sympathy (in the etymological sense) may exist without any tenderemotion--nay, that it may exclude instead of excite it. According toLubbock, while ants carry away their wounded, bees--though forming asociety--are indifferent toward each other. It is well known thatgregarious animals nearly always shun and desert a wounded member of theherd. Among men, how many there are who, when they see suffering, hastento withdraw themselves from the spectacle, in order to escape the painwhich it sympathetically awakens in them. This impulse may go to thelength of aversion, as typified by Dives in the Gospel. It is thereforea complete psychological error to consider sympathy as capable, unaided, of delivering men from egoism; it only takes the first step, and notalways that. 

c) _The third phase. _--Under its intellectual form, sympathy is anagreement in feelings and actions, founded on unity of representation. The law of development is summed up in Spencer's formula, "The degreeand range of sympathy depend on the clearness and extent ofrepresentation. " I should, however, add: on condition of being based onan emotional temperament. This last is the source _par excellence_ ofsympathy, because it vibrates like an echo; the active temperament lendsitself less to such impulses, because it has so much to do inmanifesting its own individuality that it can scarcely manifest those ofothers; finally, the phlegmatic temperament does so least of all, because it presents a minimum of emotional life; like Leibnitz' monads, it has no windows. 

In passing from the emotional to the intellectual phase, sympathy gainsin extent and stability. In fact, emotional sympathy requires someanalogy in temperament or nature; it can scarcely be established betweenthe timid and the daring, between the cheerful and the melancholic; itmay be extended to all human beings and to the animals nearest us, butnot beyond them. On the contrary, it is the special attribute ofintelligence to seek resemblances or analogies everywhere, to unify; itembraces the whole of nature. By the law of transfer (which we havealready studied) sympathy follows this invading march and comprehendseven inanimate objects, as in the case of the poet, who feels himself incommunion with the sea, the woods, the lakes, or the mountains. Besides, intellectual sympathy participates in the relative fixity ofrepresentation; we find a simple instance of this in animal societies, such as those of the bees, where unity or sympathy among the members isonly maintained by the perception or representation of the queen. 

4. Rational Sympathy[149]

As we have no immediate experience of what other men feel, we can formno idea of the manner in which they are affected but by conceiving whatwe ourselves should feel in the like situation. Though our brother isupon the rack, as long as we ourselves are at our ease our senses willnever inform us of what he suffers. They never did, and never can, carryus beyond our own person, and it is by the imagination only that we canform any conception of what are his sensations. Neither can that facultyhelp us to this any other way than by representing to us what would beour own, if we were in his case. It is the impressions of our own sensesonly, not those of his, which our imaginations copy. By the imaginationwe place ourselves in his situation, we conceive ourselves enduring allthe same torments, we enter as it were into his body and become in somemeasure the same person with him, and thence form some idea of hissensations, and even feel something which, though weaker in degree, isnot altogether unlike them. His agonies, when they are thus brought hometo ourselves, when we have thus adopted and made them our own, begin atlast to affect us, and we then tremble and shudder at the thought ofwhat he feels. For, as to be in pain or distress of any kind excites themost excessive sorrow, so to conceive or to imagine that we are in itexcites some degree of the same emotion, in proportion to the vivacityor dulness of the conception. 

That this is the source of our fellow-feeling for the misery of others, that it is by changing places in fancy with the sufferer that we comeeither to conceive or to be affected by what he feels, may bedemonstrated by many obvious observations, if it should not be thoughtsufficiently evident of itself. When we see a stroke aimed, and justready to fall upon the leg or arm of another person, we naturally shrinkand draw back our own leg or our own arm; and when it does fall, we feelit in some measure and are hurt by it as well as the sufferer. The mob, when they are gazing at a dancer on the slack rope, naturally writhe andtwist and balance their own bodies as they see him do, and as they feelthat they themselves must do if in his situation. Persons of delicatefibers and a weak constitution of body complain that in looking on thesores and ulcers which are exposed by beggars in the streets they areapt to feel an itching or uneasy sensation in the corresponding part oftheir own bodies. The horror which they conceive at the misery of thosewretches affects that particular part in themselves more than any otherbecause that horror arises from conceiving what they themselves wouldsuffer if they really were the wretches whom they are looking upon, andif that particular part in themselves was actually affected in the samemiserable manner. The very force of this conception is sufficient, intheir feeble frames, to produce that itching or uneasy sensationcomplained of. Men of the most robust make observe that in looking uponsore eyes they often feel a very sensible soreness in their own, whichproceeds from the same reason; that organ, being in the strongest manmore delicate than any other part of the body, is the weakest. 

Upon some occasions sympathy may seem to arise merely from the view of acertain emotion in another person. The passions upon some occasions mayseem to be transfused from one man to another instantaneously andantecedent to any knowledge of what excited them in the personprincipally concerned. Grief and joy, for example, strongly expressed inthe look and gestures of any person at once affect the spectator withsome degree of a like painful or agreeable emotion. A smiling face is, to everybody that sees it, a cheerful object, as a sorrowfulcountenance, on the other hand, is a melancholy one. 

This, however, does not hold universally, or with regard to everypassion. There are some passions of which the expressions excite nosort of sympathy, but, before we are acquainted with what gave occasionto them, serve rather to disgust and provoke us against them. Thefurious behavior of an angry man is more likely to exasperate us againsthimself than against his enemies. As we are unacquainted with hisprovocation, we cannot bring his case home to ourselves, nor conceiveanything like the passions which it excites. But we plainly see what isthe situation of those with whom he is angry, and to what violence theymay be exposed from so enraged an adversary. We readily, therefore, sympathize with their fear or resentment, and are immediately disposedto take part against the man from whom they appear to be in danger. 

If the very appearances of grief and joy inspire us with some degree ofthe like emotions, it is because they suggest to us the general idea ofsome good or bad fortune that has befallen the person in whom we observethem: and in these passions this is sufficient to have some littleinfluence upon us. The effects of grief and joy terminate in the personwho feels these emotions, of which the expressions do not, like those ofresentment, suggest to us the idea of any other person for whom we areconcerned and whose interests are opposite to his. The general idea ofgood or bad fortune, therefore, creates some concern for the person whohas met with it; but the general idea of provocation excites no sympathywith the anger of the man who has received it. Nature, it seems, teachesus to be more averse to enter into this passion, and, till informed ofits cause, to be disposed rather to take part against it. 

Even our sympathy with the grief or joy of another, before we areinformed of the cause of either, is always extremely imperfect. Generallamentations, which express nothing but the anguish of the sufferer, create rather a curiosity to inquire into his situation, along with somedisposition to sympathize with him, than any actual sympathy that isvery sensible. The first question which we ask is, What has befallenyou? Till this be answered, though we are uneasy both from the vagueidea of his misfortune and still more from torturing ourselves withconjectures about what it may be, yet our fellow-feeling is not veryconsiderable. 

Sympathy, therefore, does not arise so much from the view of the passionas from that of the situation which excites it. We sometimes feel foranother a passion of which he himself seems to be altogether incapable, because, when we put ourselves in his case, that passion arises in ourbreast from the imagination, though it does not in his from the reality. We blush for the impudence and rudeness of another, though he himselfappears to have no sense of the impropriety of his own behavior, becausewe cannot help feeling with what confusion we ourselves should becovered, had we behaved in so absurd a manner. 

Of all the calamities to which the condition of mortality exposesmankind, the loss of reason appears, to those who have the least sparkof humanity, by far the most dreadful; and they behold that last stageof human wretchedness with deeper commiseration than any other. But thepoor wretch who is in it laughs and sings, perhaps, and is altogetherinsensible to his own misery. The anguish which humanity feels, therefore, at the sight of such an object cannot be the reflection ofany sentiment of the sufferer. The compassion of the spectator mustarise altogether from the consideration of what he himself would feel ifhe was reduced to the same unhappy situation, and, what perhaps isimpossible, was at the same time able to regard it with his presentreason and judgment. 

What are the pangs of a mother when she hears the meanings of herinfant, that, during the agony of disease, cannot express what it feels?In her idea of what it suffers, she joins to its real helplessness herown consciousness of that helplessness and her own terrors for theunknown consequences of its disorder; and, out of all these, forms forher own sorrow the most complete image of misery and distress. Theinfant, however, feels only the uneasiness of the present instant, whichcan never be great. With regard to the future it is perfectly secure inits thoughtlessness and want of anxiety, the great tormentors of thehuman breast, from which reason and philosophy will in vain attempt todefend it when it grows up to a man. 

But whatever may be the cause of sympathy, or however it may be excited, nothing pleases us more than to observe in other men a fellow-feelingwith all the emotions of our own breast; nor are we ever so much shockedas by the appearance of the contrary. Those who are fond of deducing allour sentiments from certain refinements of self-love think themselves atno loss to account, according to their own principles, both for thispleasure and for this pain. Man, say they, conscious of his own weaknessand of the need which he has for the assistance of others, rejoiceswhenever he observes that they adopt his own passions because he is thenassured of that assistance and grieves whenever he observes thecontrary, because he is then assured of their opposition. But both thepleasure and the pain are always felt so instantaneously, and often uponsuch frivolous occasions, that it seems evident that neither of them canbe derived from any such self-interested consideration. A man ismortified when, after having endeavored to divert the company, he looksround and sees that nobody laughs at his jests but himself. On thecontrary, the mirth of the company is highly agreeable to him and heregards this correspondence of their sentiments with his own as thegreatest applause. 

5. Art, Imitation, and Appreciation[150]

The investigation into the psychology of masses, as well as theexperiments on suggestive therapeutics, have proved to how great anextent mental states may be transmitted from individual to individual byunconscious imitation of the accompanying movements. The doctrine ofuniversal sympathy, a clear statement of which was given long ago in theethical theory of Adam Smith, has thus acquired a psychologicaljustification in the modern theories of imitative movement. Contemporaryscience has at last learned to appreciate the fundamental importance ofimitation for the development of human culture. And some authors haveeven gone so far as to endeavor to deduce all sociological laws fromthis one principle. At the same time natural history has begun to paymore and more attention to the indispensability of imitation for thefull development of instincts, as well as for training in thoseactivities which are the most necessary in life. 

It is fortunate for the theory of art that the importance of theimitative functions has thus been simultaneously acknowledged in variousdepartments of science. Whatever one may think of the somewhat audaciousgeneralizations which have been made in the recent application of thisnew principle, it is incontestable that the aesthetic activities can beunderstood and explained only by reference to the universal tendency toimitate. It is also significant that writers on aesthetic had feltthemselves compelled to set up a theory of imitation long beforeexperimental psychologists had begun to turn their attention in thisdirection. In Germany the enjoyment of form and form-relations has, since Vischer's time, been interpreted as the result of the movements bywhich, not only our eye, but also our whole body follows the outlines ofexternal things. In France Jouffroy stated the condition for thereceiving of aesthetic impressions to be a "power of internallyimitating the states which are externally manifested in living nature. "In England, finally, Vernon Lee and Anstruther Thompson have founded atheory of beauty and ugliness upon this same psychical impulse to copyin our own unconscious movements the forms of objects. And in thewritings of, for instance, Home, Hogarth, Dugald Stewart, and Spencer, there can be found a multitude of isolated remarks on the influencewhich is in a direct way exercised on our mental life by the perceptionof lines and forms. 

In most of these theories and observations, however, the imitativeactivity has been noticed only in so far as it contributes to theaesthetic delight which may be derived from sensual impressions. But itsimportance is by no means so restricted as this; on the contrary, webelieve it to be a fundamental condition for the existence of intuitionitself. Without all these imperceptible tracing movements with which ourbody accompanies the adaptation of the eye-muscles to the outlines ofexternal objects, our notions of depth, height, and distance, and so on, would certainly be far less distinct than they are. On the other hand, the habit of executing such movements has, so to say, brought theexternal world within the sphere of the internal. The world has beenmeasured with man as a standard, and objects have been translated intothe language of mental experience. The impressions have hereby gained, not only in emotional tone, but also in intellectual comprehensibility. 

Greater still is the importance of imitation for our intuition of movingobjects. And a difficult movement itself is fully understood only whenit has been imitated, either internally or in actual outward activity. The idea of a movement, therefore, is generally associated with anarrested impulse to perform it. Closer introspection will show everyoneto how great a part our knowledge, even of persons, is built up of motorelements. By unconscious and imperceptible copying in our own body theexternal behavior of a man, we may learn to understand him withbenevolent or malevolent sympathy. And it will, no doubt, be admittedby most readers that the reason why they know their friends and foesbetter than they know anyone else is that they carry the remembrance ofthem not only in their eyes, but in their whole body. When in idlemoments we find the memory of an absent friend surging up in our mindswith no apparent reason, we may often note, to our astonishment, that wehave just been unconsciously adopting one of his characteristicattitudes, or imitating his peculiar gestures or gait. 

It may, however, be objected that the above-mentioned instances referonly to a particular class of individuals. In other minds, it will besaid, the world-picture is entirely built up of visual and acousticelements. It is also impossible to deny that the classification of mindsin different types, which modern psychology has introduced, is aslegitimate as it is advantageous for the purposes of research. But wecan hardly believe that such divisions have in view anything more than arelative predominance of the several psychical elements. It is easilyunderstood that a man in whose store of memory visual or acoustic imagesoccupy the foremost place may be inclined to deny that motor sensationsof unconscious copying enter to any extent into his psychicalexperience. But an exclusively visual world-image, if such a thing ispossible, must evidently be not only emotionally poorer, but alsointellectually less distinct and less complete, than an intuition, inwhich such motor elements are included. 

The importance of motor sensations in the psychology of knowledge is byitself of no aesthetic interest. The question has been touched upon inthis connection only because of the illustration which it gives to theimitation theory. If, as we believe is the case, it is really necessary, for the purpose of acquiring a complete comprehension of things andevents, to "experience" them--that is to say, to pursue and seize uponthem, not only with that particular organ of sense to which they appeal, but also by tracing movements of the whole body--then there is no needto wonder at the universality of the imitative impulse. Imitation doesnot only, according to this view, facilitate our training in usefulactivities, and aid us in deriving an aesthetic delight from oursensations; it serves also, and perhaps primarily, as an expedient forthe accommodating of ourselves to the external world, and for theexplaining of things by reference to ourselves. It is therefore naturalthat imitative movements should occupy so great a place among theactivities of children and primitive men. And we can also understand whythis fundamental impulse, which has played so important a part in racialas well as in individual education, may become so great as to be adisease and dominate the whole of conscious life. As children we allimitated before we comprehended, and we have learned to comprehend byimitating. It is only when we have grown familiar by imitation with themost important data of perception that we become capable ofappropriating knowledge in a more rational way. Although no adult hasany need to resort to external imitation in order to comprehend newimpressions, it is still only natural that in a pathological conditionhe should relapse into the primitive imitative reaction. And it isequally natural that an internal, i. E. , arrested, imitation should takeplace in all our perceptions. After this explanation of the universalityof this phenomenon we have no further need to occupy ourselves with thegeneral psychology of imitation. We have here only to take notice of itsimportance for the communication of feeling. 

As is well known, it is only in cases of abnormally increasedsensibility--for instance, in some of the stages of hypnotism andthought transmission--that the motor counterpart of a mental state canbe imitated with such faithfulness and completeness that the imitator isthereby enabled to partake of all the _intellectual_ elements of thestate existing in another. The hedonic qualities, on the other hand, which are physiologically conditioned by much simpler motorcounterparts, may of course be transmitted with far greater perfection:it is easier to suggest a pleasure than a thought. It is also evidentthat it is the most general hedonic and volitional elements which havebeen considered by the German authors on aesthetic in their theories oninternal imitation ("Die innere Nachahmung"). They seem to have thoughtthat the adoption of the attitudes and the performance of the movementswhich usually accompany a given emotional state will also succeed tosome extent in producing a similar emotional state. This assumption isperfectly legitimate, even if the connection between feeling andmovement be interpreted in the associative way. And it needs nojustification when the motor changes are considered as the physiologicalcorrelate of the feeling itself. 

Everyday experience affords many examples of the way in which feelingsare called into existence by the imitation of their expressivemovements. A child repeats the smiles and the laughter of its parents, and can thus partake of their joy long before it is able to understandits cause. Adult life naturally does not give us many opportunities ofobserving this pure form of direct and almost automatic transmission. But even in adult life we may often meet with an exchange of feelingwhich seems almost independent of any intellectual communication. Loversknow it, and intimate friends like the brothers Goncourt, to say nothingof people who stand in so close a rapport with each other as ahypnotiser and his subject. And even where there is no previoussympathetic relation, a state of joy or sadness may often, if it is onlydistinctly expressed, pass over, so to say, from the individual who hasbeen under the influence of its objective cause, to another who, as itwere, borrows the feeling, but remains unconscious of its cause. Weexperience this phenomenon almost daily in the influence exerted upon usby social intercourse, and even by those aspects of nature--forinstance, blue open sky or overhanging mountains--which naturally callup in us the physical manifestation of emotional states. The coerciveforce with which our surroundings--animate or inanimate--compel us toadopt the feelings which are suggested by their attitudes, forms, ormovements, is perhaps as a rule too weak to be noticed by aself-controlled, unemotional man. But if we want an example of thisinfluence at its strongest, we need but remember how difficult it is foran individual to resist the contagion of collective feeling. On publicoccasions the common mood, whether of joy or sorrow, is oftencommunicated even to those who were originally possessed by the oppositefeeling. So powerful is the infection of great excitementthat--according to M. Féré--even a perfectly sober man who takes part ina drinking bout may often be tempted to join in the antics of hisdrunken comrades in a sort of second-hand intoxication, "drunkenness byinduction. " In the great mental epidemics of the Middle Ages this kindof contagion operated with more fatal results than ever before orafterward. But even in modern times a popular street riot may often showus something of the same phenomenon. The great tumult in London in 1886afforded, it is said, a good opportunity of observing how people who hadoriginally maintained an indifferent attitude were gradually carriedaway by the general excitement, even to the extent of joining in theoutrages. In this instance the contagious effect of expressionalmovements was undoubtedly facilitated by their connection with soprimary an impulse as that of rapine and destruction. But the case isthe same with all the activities which appear as the outwardmanifestations of our strongest feeling-states. They all consist ofinstinctive actions with which everyone is well familiar from his ownexperience. It is therefore natural that anger, hate, or love may becommunicated almost automatically from an individual to masses, and frommasses to individuals. 

Now that the principle of the interindividual diffusion of feeling hasbeen stated and explained, we may return to our main line of researchand examine its bearings on the expressional impulse. We have seen thatin the social surroundings of the individual there is enacted a processresembling that which takes place within his own organism. Just asfunctional modifications spread from organ to organ, just as wider andwider zones of the system are brought into participation in the primaryenhancement or inhibition, so a feeling is diffused from an individualto a circle of sympathisers who repeat its expressional movements. Andjust as all the widened "somatic resonances" contribute to the primaryfeeling-tone increased strength and increased definiteness, so must theemotional state of an individual be enhanced by retroactive stimulationfrom the expressions by which the state has, so to say, been continuedin others. By the reciprocal action of primary movements and borrowedmovements, which mutually imitate each other, the social expressionoperates in the same way as the individual expression. And we areentitled to consider it as a secondary result of the generalexpressional impulse, that when mastered by an overpowering feeling weseek enhancement or relief by retroaction from sympathisers, whoreproduce and in their expression represent the mental state by which weare dominated. 

In point of fact, we can observe in the manifestations of all strongfeelings which have not found a satisfactory relief in individualexpression, a pursuit of social resonance. A happy man wants to see gladfaces around him, in order that from their expression he may derivefurther nourishment and increase for his own feeling. Hence thebenevolent attitude of mind which as a rule accompanies all strong andpure joy. Hence also the widespread tendency to express joy by gifts orhospitality. In moods of depression we similarly desire a response toour feeling from our surroundings. In the depth of despair we may longfor a universal cataclysm to extend, as it were, our own pain. As joynaturally makes men good, so pain often makes them hard and cruel. Thatthis is not always the case is a result of the increased power ofsympathy which we gain by every experienced pain. Moreover, we have needof sympathetic rapport for our motor reactions against pain. All theactive manifestations of sorrow, despair, or anger which are not whollypainful in themselves are facilitated by the reciprocal influence ofcollective excitement. Thus all strong feelings, whether pleasurable orpainful, act as socialising factors. This socialising action may beobserved at all stages of development. Even the animals seek theirfellows in order to stimulate themselves and each other by the commonexpression of an overpowering feeling. As has been remarked by Espinas, the flocking together of the male birds during the pairing season isperhaps as much due to this craving for mutual stimulation as to thedesire to compete for the favor of the hen. The howling choirs of themacaws and the drum concerts of the chimpanzees are still better andunmistakable instances of collective emotional expression. In man wefind the results of the same craving for social expression in thegatherings for rejoicing or mourning which are to be met with in alltribes, of all degrees of development. And as a still higher developmentof the same fundamental impulse, there appears in man the artisticactivity. 

The more conscious our craving for retroaction from sympathisers, themore there must also be developed in us a conscious endeavor to causethe feeling to be appropriated by as many as possible and as completelyas possible. The expressional impulse is not satisfied by the resonancewhich an occasional public, however sympathetic, is able to afford. Itsnatural aim is to bring more and more sentient beings under theinfluence of the same emotional state. It seeks to vanquish therefractory and arouse the indifferent. An echo, a true and powerfulecho--that is what it desires with all the energy of an unsatisfiedlonging. As a result of this craving the expressional activities lead toartistic production. The work of art presents itself as the mosteffective means by which the individual is enabled to convey to widerand wider circles of sympathisers an emotional state similar to that bywhich he is himself dominated. 

E. SUGGESTION

1. A Sociological Definition of Suggestion[151]

The nature of suggestion manifestly consists not in any externalpeculiarities whatever. It is based upon the peculiar kind of relationof the person making the suggestion to the "ego" of the subject duringthe reception and realization of the suggestion. 

Suggestion, is, in general, one of many means of influence of man on manthat is exercised with or without intention on persons, who respondeither consciously or unconsciously. 

For a closer acquaintance with what we call "suggestion, " it may beobserved that our perceptive activities are divided into (a) active, and (b) passive. 

a) _Active perception. _--In the first case the "ego" of the subjectnecessarily takes a part, and according to the trend of our thinking orto the environmental circumstances directs the attention to these orthose external impressions. These, since they enter the mind through theparticipation of attention and will and through reflection and judgment, are assimilated and permanently incorporated in the personalconsciousness or in our "ego. " This type of perception leads to anenrichment of our personal consciousness and lies at the bottom of ourpoints of view and convictions. The organization of more or lessdefinite convictions is the product of the process of reflectioninstituted by active perception. These convictions, before they becomethe possession of our personal consciousness, may conceal themselvesawhile in the so-called subconsciousness. They are capable of beingaroused at any moment at the desire of the "ego" whenever certainexperienced representations are reproduced. 

b) _Passive perception. _--In contrast to active perception we perceivemuch from the environment in a passive manner without that participationof the "ego. " This occurs when our attention is diverted in anyparticular direction or concentrated on a certain thought, and when itscontinuity for one or another reason is broken up, which, for instance, occurs in cases of so-called distraction. In these cases the object ofthe perception does not enter into the personal consciousness, but itmakes its way into other spheres of our mind, which we call the generalconsciousness. The general consciousness is to a certain degreeindependent of the personal consciousness. For this reason everythingthat enters into the general consciousness cannot be introduced at willinto the personal consciousness. Nevertheless products of the generalconsciousness make their way into the sphere of the personalconsciousness, without awareness by it of their original derivation. 

In passive perception, without any participation of attention, a wholeseries of varied impressions flow in upon us and press in past our "ego"directly to the general consciousness. These impressions are the sourcesof those influences from the outer world so unintelligible even toourselves, which determine our emotional attitudes and those obscuremotives and impulses which often possess us in certain situations. 

The general consciousness, in this way, plays a permanent rôle in thespiritual life of the individual. Now and then an impression passivelyreceived in the train of an accidental chain of ideas makes its way intothe sphere of the personal consciousness as a mental image, whosenovelty astounds us. In specific cases this image or illusion takes theform of a peculiar voice, a vision, or even a hallucination, whoseorigin undoubtedly lies in the general consciousness. When the personalconsciousness is in abeyance, as in sleep or in profound hypnosis, theactivity of the general consciousness comes into the foreground. Theactivity of the general consciousness is limited neither by our ways ofviewing things nor by the conditions under which the personalconsciousness operates. On this account, in a dream and in profoundhypnosis acts appear feasible and possible which with our full personalconsciousness we would not dare to contemplate. 

This division of our mind into a personal and a general consciousnessaffords a basis for a clear understanding of the principles ofsuggestion. The personal consciousness, the so-called "ego, " aided bythe will and attention, largely controls the reception of externalimpressions, influences the trend of our ideas, and determines theexecution of our voluntary behavior. Every impression that the personalconsciousness transmits to the mind is usually subject to a definitecriticism and remodeling which results in the development of our pointsof view and of our convictions. 

This mode of influence from the outer world upon our mind is that of"logical conviction. " As the final result of that inner reconstructionof impressions appears always the conviction: "This is true, thatuseful, inevitable, etc. " We can say this inwardly when anyreconstruction of the impressions has been affected in us through theactivity of the personal consciousness. Many impressions get into ourmind without our remarking them. In case of distraction, when ourvoluntary attention is in abeyance, the impression from without evadesour personal consciousness and enters the mind without coming intocontact with the "ego. " Not through the front door, but--so to speak--upthe back steps, it gets, in this case, directly into the inner rooms ofthe soul. 

Suggestion may now be defined as the direct infection of one person byanother of certain mental states. In other words, suggestion is thepenetration or inoculation of a strange idea into the consciousness, without direct immediate participation of the "ego" of the subject. Moreover, the personal consciousness in general appears quite incapableof rejecting the suggestion, even when the "ego" detects itsirrationality. Since the suggestion enters the mind without the activeaid of the "ego, " it remains outside the borders of the personalconsciousness. All further effects of the suggestion, therefore, takeplace without the control of the "ego. "

By the term suggestion we do not usually understand the effect upon themind of the totality of external stimuli, but the influence of personupon person which takes place through passive perception and istherefore independent of the activity of the personal consciousness. Suggestion is, moreover, to be distinguished from the other type ofinfluences operating through mental processes of attention and theparticipation of the personal consciousness, which result in logicalconvictions and the development of definite points of view. 

Lowenfeld emphasized a distinction between the actual process of"suggesting" and its result, which one simply calls "suggestion. " It isself-evident that these are two different processes, which should not bemistaken for each other. A more adequate definition might be accepted, which embraces at once the characteristic manner of the "suggesting, "and the result of its activity. 

Therefore for suggestion it is not alone the process itself that ischaracteristic, or the kind of psychic influence, but also the resultof this reaction. For that reason I do not understand under "suggesting"alone a definite sort and manner of influence upon man but at the sametime the eventual result of it; and under "suggestion" not only adefinite psychical result but to a certain degree also the manner inwhich this result was obtained. 

An essential element of the concept of suggestion is, first of all, apronounced directness of action. Whether a suggestion takes placethrough words or through attitudes, impressions, or acts, whether it isa case of a verbal or of a concrete suggestion, makes no difference hereso long as its effect is never obtained through logical conviction. Onthe other hand, the suggestion is always immediately directed to themind by evading the personal consciousness, or at least without previousrecasting by the "ego" of the subject. This process represents a realinfection of ideas, feelings, emotions, or other psychophysical states. 

In the same manner there arise somewhat similar mental states known asauto-suggestion. These do not require an external influence for theirappearance but originate immediately in the mind itself. Such is thecase, for instance, when any sort of an image forces itself into theconsciousness as something complete, whether it is in the form of anidea that suddenly emerges and dominates consciousness, or a vision, apremonition, or the like. 

In all these cases psychic influences which have arisen without externalstimulus have directly inoculated the mind, thereby evading thecriticism of the "ego" or of personal consciousness. 

"Suggesting" signifies, therefore, to inoculate the mind of a personmore or less directly with ideas, feelings, emotions, and otherpsychical states, in order that no opportunity is left for criticism andconsideration. Under "suggestion, " on the other hand, is to beunderstood that sort of direct inoculation of the mind of an individualwith ideas, feelings, emotions, and other psychophysical states whichevade his "ego, " his personal self-consciousness, and his criticalattitude. 

Now and then, especially in the French writers, one will find besides"suggestion" the term "psychic contagion, " under which, however, nothingfurther than involuntary imitation is to be understood (compare A. Vigouroux and P. Juquelier, _La contagion mentale_, Paris, 1905). If onetakes up the conception of suggestion in a wider sense, and considersby it the possibility of involuntary suggestion in the way of exampleand imitation, one will find that the conceptions of suggestion and ofpsychic contagion depend upon each other most intimately, and to a greatextent are not definitely to be distinguished from each other. In anycase, it is to be maintained that a strict boundary between psychiccontagion and suggestion does not always exist, a fact which Vigourouxand Juquelier in their paper have rightly emphasized. 

2. The Subtler Forms of Suggestion[152]

In one very particular respect hypnotism has given us a lesson of thegreatest importance to psychology: it has proved that specialprecautionary measures must be taken in planning psychologicalexperiments. The training of hypnotics has thrown light on this sourceof error. A hypnotizer may, often without knowing it, by the tone of hisvoice or by some slight movement cause the hypnotic to exhibit phenomenathat at first could only be produced by explicit verbal suggestion, andthat altogether the signs used by the hypnotizer to cause suggestionsmay go on increasing in delicacy. A dangerous source of error isprovided by the hypnotic's endeavor to divine and obey theexperimenter's intentions. This observation has also proved useful innon-hypnotic experiments. We certainly knew before the days of hypnotismthat the signs by which A betrays his thoughts to B may gradually becomemore delicate. We see this, for example, in the case of the schoolboy, who gradually learns how to detect from the slightest movement made byhis master whether the answer he gave was right or not. We find the samesort of thing in the training of animals--the horse, for instance, inwhich the rough methods at first employed are gradually toned down untilin the end an extremely slight movement made by the trainer produces thesame effect that the rougher movements did originally. But even if thislessening in the intensity of the signals exists independently ofhypnosis, it is the latter that has shown us how easily neglect of thisfactor may lead to erroneous conclusions being drawn. The suggestibilityof the hypnotic makes these infinitesimal signals specially dangerous inhis case. But when once this danger was recognized, greater attentionwas paid to this source of error in non-hypnotic cases than before. Itis certain that many psychological experiments are vitiated by the factthat the subject knows what the experimenter wishes. Results are thusbrought about that can only be looked upon as the effects of suggestion;they do not depend on the external conditions of the experiment but onwhat is passing in the mind of the subject. 

An event which at the time of its occurrence created a considerablecommotion (I refer to the case of Clever Hans), will show how far we maybe led by neglecting the above lesson taught us by hypnotism. If theBerlin psychologist Stumpf, the scientific director of the committee ofinvestigation, had but taken into consideration the teachings ofhypnotism, he would never have made the fiasco of admitting that thehorse, Clever Hans, had been educated like a boy, not trained like ananimal. 

Clever Hans answered questions by tapping his hoof on the stage; and theobservers, more particularly the committee presided over by Stumpf, believed that answers tapped out were the result of due deliberation onthe part of the horse, exactly as spiritists believe that the spiritshold intelligent intercourse with them by means of "raps. " One tapdenoted a, two taps b, three taps c, etc. ; or, where numbers wereconcerned, one tap signified 1, two taps 2, etc. In this way the animalanswered the most complicated questions. For instance, it apparently notonly solved such problems as 3 times 4 by tapping 12 times, and 6 times3 by tapping 18 times, but even extracted square roots, distinguishedbetween concords and discords, also between ten different colors, andwas able to recognize the photographs of people; altogether, Clever Hanswas supposed to be at that time about upon a level with fifth-form boys(the fifth form is the lowest form but one in a German gymnasium). Afterinvestigating the matter, Stumpf and the members of his committee drewup the following conjoint report, according to which only one of twothings was possible--either the horse could think and calculateindependently, or else he was under telepathic, perhaps occult, influence:

 The undersigned met together to decide whether there was any trickery in the performance given by Herr v. Osten with his horse, i. E. , whether the latter was helped or influenced intentionally. As the result of the exhaustive tests employed, they have come to the unanimous conclusion that, apart from the personal character of Herr v. Osten, with which most of them were well acquainted, the precautions taken during the investigation altogether precluded any such assumption. Notwithstanding the most careful observation, they were well unable to detect any gestures, movements, or other intimations that might serve as signs to the horse. To exclude the possible influence of involuntary movements on the part of spectators, a series of experiments was carried out solely in the presence of Herr Busch, councilor of commissions. In some of these experiments, tricks of the kind usually employed by trainers were, in his judgment as an expert, excluded. Another series of experiments was so arranged that Herr v. Osten himself could not know the answer to the question he was putting to the horse. From previous personal observations, moreover, the majority of the undersigned knew of numerous individual cases in which other persons had received correct answers in the momentary absence of Herr v. Osten and Herr Schillings. These cases also included some in which the questioner was either ignorant of the solution or only had an erroneous notion of what it should be. Finally, some of the undersigned have a personal knowledge of Herr v. Osten's method, which is essentially different from ordinary "training" and is copied from the system of instruction employed in primary schools. In the opinion of the undersigned, the collective results of these observations show that even unintentional signs of the kind at present known were excluded. It is their unanimous opinion that we have here to deal with a case that differs in principle from all former and apparently similar cases; that it has nothing to do with "training" in the accepted sense of the word, and that it is consequently deserving of earnest and searching scientific investigation. Berlin, September 12, 1904. [Here follow the signatures, among which is that of Privy Councilor Dr. C. Stumpf, university professor, director of the Psychological Institute, member of the Berlin Academy of Sciences. ]

Anyone who has done critical work in the domain of hypnotism after themanner insisted on by the Nancy school cannot help considering Stumpf'smethod of investigation erroneous from the very outset. A first sourceof error that had to be considered was that someone present--itmight have been Herr v. Osten or it might have been anyoneelse--unintentionally had given the horse a sign when to stop tapping. It cannot be considered sufficient, as stated in Stumpf's report, thatHerr v. Osten did not know the answer; no one should be present whoknows it. This is the first condition to be fulfilled when making suchexperiments. Anybody who has been engaged in training hypnotizedsubjects knows that these insignificant signs constitute one of thechief sources of error. Some of the leading modern investigators in thedomain of hypnotism--Charcot and Heidenhain, for instance--were misledby them at the time they thought they had discovered new physicalreflexes in hypnosis. But in 1904, by which time suggestion had beensufficiently investigated to prevent such an occurrence, a psychologistshould not have fallen into an error that had been sufficiently mademore than twenty years previously. But the main point is this: signsthat are imperceptible to others are nevertheless perceived by a subjecttrained to do so, no matter whether that subject be a human being or ananimal. 

3. Social Suggestion and Mass or "Corporate" Action[153]

In most cases the crowd naturally is under leaders, who, with aninstinctive consciousness of the importance and strength of the crowd, seek to direct it much more through the power of suggestion than bysound conviction. 

It is conceivable, therefore, that anyone who understands how to arrestthe attention of the crowd, may always influence it to do great deeds, as history, indeed, sufficiently witnesses. One may recall from thehistory of Russia Minin, who with a slogan saved his native land fromthe gravest danger. His "Pawn your wife and child, and free yourfatherland" necessarily acted as a powerful suggestion on the alreadyintense crowd. How the crowd and its sentiments may be controlled isindicated in the following account by Boris Sidis:

 On the 11th of August, 1895, there took place in the open air a meeting at Old Orchard, Maine. The business at hand was a collection for missionary purposes. The preacher resorted to the following suggestions: "The most remarkable remembrance which I have of foreign lands is that of multitudes, the waves of lost humanity who ceaselessly are shattered on the shores of eternity. How despairing are they, how poor in love--their religion knows no joy, no pleasure, nor song. Once I heard a Chinaman say why he was a Christian. It seemed to him that he lay in a deep abyss, out of which he could not escape. Have you ever wept for the sake of the lost world, as did Jesus Christ? If not, then woe to you. Your religion is then only a dream and a blind. We see Christ test his disciples. Will he take them with him? My beloved, today he will test you. [Indirect suggestion. ] He could convert a thousand millionaires, but he gives you an opportunity to be saved. [More direct suggestion. ] Are you strong enough in faith? [Here follows a discussion about questions of faith. ] Without faith God can do no great things. I believe that Jesus will appear to them who believe firmly in him. My dear ones, if only you give for the sake of God, you have become participants in the faith. [Still more direct suggestion. ] The youth with the five loaves and the two little fishes [the story follows]. When everything was ended, he did not lose his loaves; there were twelve baskets left over. O my dear ones, how will that return! Sometime the King of Kings will call to you and give you an empire of glory, and simply because you have had a little faith in him. It is a day of much import to you. Sometime God will show us how much better he has guarded our treasure than we ourselves. " The suggestion had the desired effect. Money streamed from all sides; hundreds became thousands, tens of thousands. The crowd gave seventy thousand dollars. 

Of analogous importance are the factors of suggestions in wars, wherethe armies go to brilliant victories. Discipline and the sense of dutyunite the troops into a single mighty giant's body. To develop its fullstrength, however, this body needs some inspiration through a suggestedidea, which finds an active echo in the hearts of the soldiers. Maintenance of the warlike spirit in decisive moments is one of the mostimportant problems for the ingenious general. 

Even when the last ray of hope for victory seems to have disappeared, the call of an honored war chief, like a suggestive spark, may fire thehosts to self-sacrifice and heroism. A trumpet signal, a cry "hurrah, "the melody of the national hymn, can here at the decisive moment haveincalculable effects. There is no need to recall the rôle of the"Marsellaise" in the days of the French Revolution. The agencies ofsuggestion in such cases make possible, provided that they are only ableto remove the feeling of hopelessness, results which a moment before areneither to be anticipated nor expected. Where will and the sense of dutyalone seem powerless, the mechanisms of suggestion may developsurprising effects. 

Excited masses are, it is well known, capable of the most inhumanbehavior, and indeed for the very reason that, instead of sound logic, automatism and impulsiveness have entered in as direct results ofsuggestion. The modern barbarities of the Americans in the shape oflynch law for criminals or those who are only under a suspicion of acrime redound to the shame of the land of freedom, but find their fullexplanation in that impulsiveness of the crowd which knows no mercy. 

The multitude can, therefore, ever be led according to the content ofthe ideas suggested to it, as well to sublime and noble deeds as, on theother hand, to expressions of the lower and barbaric instincts. That isthe art of manipulating the masses. 

It is a mistake to regard popular assemblies who have adopted a certainuniform idea simply as a sum of single elements, as is now and thenattempted. For one is dealing in such cases, not with accidental, butwith actual psychical, processes of fusion, which reciprocal suggestionis to a high degree effective in establishing and maintaining. Theaggressiveness of the single elements of the mass arrives in this attheir high point at one and the same time, and with complete spiritualunanimity the mass can now act as _one_ man; it moves, then, like oneenormous social body, which unites in itself the thoughts and feelingsof all by the very fact that there is a temper of mind common to all. Easily, however, as the crowd is to excite to the highest degrees ofactivity, as quickly--indeed, much more quickly--does it allow itself, as we have already seen, to be dispersed by a panic. Here too the panicrests entirely on suggestion, contra-suggestion, and the instinct ofimitation, not on logic and conviction. Automatism, not intelligence, isthe moving factor therein. 

Other, but quite generally favorable, conditions for suggestions areuniversally at hand in the human society, whose individual members incontrast to the crowd are physically separated from each other but standin a spiritual alliance to each other. Here obviously those preliminaryconditions for the dissemination of psychical infections are lacking asthey exist in the crowd, and the instruments of the voice, of mimicry, of gestures, which often fire the passions with lightning rapidity, arenot allowed to assert themselves. There exists much rather a certainspiritual cohesion on the ground perhaps of common impressions(theatrical representations), a similar direction of thoughts (articlesin periodicals, etc. ). These conditions are quite sufficient to preparethe foundation on which similar feelings propagate themselves fromindividual to individual by the method of suggestion andauto-suggestion, and similar decisions for many are matured. 

Things occur here more slowly, more peacefully, without those passionateoutbreaks to which the crowd is subjected; but this slow infectionestablishes itself all the more surely in the feelings, while theinfection of the crowd often only continues for a time until the latteris broken up. 

Moreover, such contagious examples in the public do not usually lead tosuch unexpected movements as they easily induce in the crowd. But here, too, the infection frequently acts in defiance of a man's soundintelligence; complete points of view are accepted upon trust and faith, without further discussion, and frequently immature resolutions areformed. On the boards representing the stage of the world there are evermoving idols, who after the first storm of admiration which they callout, sink back into oblivion. The fame of the people's leaders maintainsitself in quite the same way by means of psychical infection through thesimilar national interest of a unified group. It has often happened thattheir brightness was extinguished with the first opposition which themasses saw setting its face against their wishes and ideals. What we, however, see in close popular masses recurs to a certain degree in everysocial milieu, in every larger society. 

Between the single elements of such social spheres there occuruninterrupted psychical infections and contra-infections. Ever accordingto the nature of the material of the infection that has been received, the individual feels himself attracted to the sublime and the noble, orto the lower and bestial. Is, then, the intercourse between teacher andpupil, between friends, between lovers, uninfluenced by reciprocalsuggestion? Suicide pacts and other mutual acts present a certainparticipation of interacting suggestion. Yet more. Hardly a single deedwhatever occurs that stands out over the everyday, hardly a crime iscommitted, without the concurrence of third persons, direct or indirect, not unseldom bearing a likeness to the effects of suggestion. 

We must here admit that Tarde was right when he said that it is lessdifficult to find crimes of the crowd than to discover crimes which werenot such and which would indicate no sort of promotion or participationof the environment. That is true to such a degree that one may askwhether there are any individual crimes at all, as the question is alsoconceivable whether there are any works of genius which do not have acollective character. 

Many believe that crimes are always pondered. A closer insight into thebehavior of criminals testifies, however, in many cases that even whenthere is a long period of indecision, a single encouraging word from theenvironment, an example with a suggestive effect, is quite sufficient toscatter all considerations and to bring the criminal intention to thedeed. In organized societies, too, a mere nod from the chief may oftenlead with magic power to a crime. 

The ideas, efforts, and behavior of the individual may by no means belooked on as something sharply distinct, individually peculiar, sincefrom the form and manner of these ideas, efforts, and behavior, thereshines forth ever, more or less, the influence of the milieu. 

In close connection with this fact there stands also the so-calledastringent effect of the milieu upon the individuals who are incapableof rising out of their environment, of stepping out of it. In societythat bacillus for which one has found the name "suggestion" appearscertainly as a leveling element, and, accordingly, whether theindividual stands higher or lower than his environment, whether hebecomes worse or better under its influence, he always loses or gainssomething from the contact with others. This is the basis of the greatimportance of suggestion as a factor in imposing a social uniformityupon individuals. 

The power of suggestion and contra-suggestion, however, extends yetfurther. It enhances sentiments and aims and enkindles the activity ofthe masses to an unusual degree. 

Many historical personages who knew how to embody in themselves theemotions and the desires of the masses--we may think of Jeanne d'Arc, Mahomet, Peter the Great, Napoleon I--were surrounded with a nimbus bythe more or less blind belief of the people in their genius; thisfrequently acted with suggestive power upon the surrounding companywhich it carried away with a magic force to its leaders, and supportedand aided the mission historically vested in the latter by means oftheir spiritual superiority. A nod from a beloved leader of any army issufficient to enkindle anew the courage of the regiment and to lead themirresistibly into sure death. 

Many, it is well known, are still inclined to deny the individualpersonality any influence upon the course of historic events. Theindividual is to them only an expression of the views of the mass, anembodiment of the epoch, something, therefore, that cannot activelystrike at the course of history; he is much rather himself heaved up outof the mass by historic events, which, unaffected by the individual, proceed in the courses they have themselves chosen. 

We forget in such a theory the influences of the suggestive factorswhich, independently of endowments and of energy, appear as a mightylever in the hands of the fortunately situated nature and of thosecreated to be the rulers of the masses. That the individual reflects hisenvironment and his time, that the events of world-history only taketheir course upon an appropriately prepared basis and underappropriately favorable circumstances, no one will deny. There rests, however, in the masters of speech and writing, in the demagogues and thefavorites of the people, in the great generals and statesmen, an innerpower which welds together the masses for battle for an ideal, sweepsthem away to heroism, and fires them to do deeds which leave enduringimpressions in the history of humanity. 

I believe, therefore, that suggestion as an active agent should be theobject of the most attentive study for the historians and thesociologists. Where this factor is not reckoned with, a whole series ofhistorical and social phenomena is threatened with the danger ofincomplete, insufficient, and perhaps even incorrect elucidation. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. The Process of Interaction

The concept of universal interaction was first formulated in philosophy. Kant listed community or reciprocity among his dynamic categories. Inthe Herbartian theory of a world of coexisting individuals, the notionof reciprocal action was central. The distinctive contribution of Lotzewas his recognition that interaction of the parts implies the unity ofthe whole since external action implies internal changes in theinteracting objects. Ormond in his book _The Foundations of Knowledge_completes this philosophical conception by embodying in it a conclusionbased on social psychology. Just as society is constituted byinteracting persons whose innermost nature, as a result of interaction, is internal to each, so the universe is constituted by the totality ofinteracting units internally predisposed to interaction as elements andproducts of the process. 

In sociology, Gumplowicz arrived at the notions of a "natural socialprocess" and of "reciprocal action of heterogeneous elements" in hisstudy of the conflict of races. Ratzenhofer, Simmel, and Small place thesocial process and socialization central in their systems of sociology. Cooley's recent book _The Social Process_ is an intimate and sympatheticexposition of "interaction" and the "social process. " "Society is acomplex of forms or processes each of which is living and growing byinteraction with the others, the whole being so unified that what takesplace in one part affects all the rest. It is a vast tissue ofreciprocal activity, differentiated into innumerable systems, some ofthem quite distinct, others not readily traceable, and all interwoven tosuch a degree that you see different systems according to the point ofview you take. "[154]

This brief résumé of the general literature upon the social process andsocial interaction is introductory to an examination of the moreconcrete material upon communication, imitation, and suggestion. 

2. Communication

"Many works have been written on Expression, but a greater number onPhysiognomy" wrote Charles Darwin in 1872. Physiognomy, or theinterpretation of character through the observation of the features, haslong been relegated by the scientific world to the limbo occupied byastrology, alchemy, phrenology, and the practice of charlatans. 

While positive contributions to an appreciation of human expression weremade before Darwin, as by Sir Charles Bell, Pierre Gratiolet, and Dr. Piderit, his volume on _The Expression of the Emotions in Man andAnimals_ marked an epoch in the thinking upon the subject. Although histhree principles of utility, antithesis, and direct nervous discharge toexplain the signs of emotions may be open to question, as thephysiological psychologist, Wilhelm Wundt, asserts, the great value ofhis contribution is generally conceded. His convincing demonstration ofthe universal similarity of emotional expression in the various humanraces, a similarity based on a common human inheritance, prepared theway for further study. 

Darwin assumed that the emotion was a mental state which preceded andcaused its expression. According to the findings of later observation, popularly known as the James-Lange Theory, the emotion is the mentalsign of a behavior change whose external aspects constitute theso-called "expression. " The important point brought out by this new viewof the emotion was an emphasis upon the nature of physiological changesinvolved in emotional response. Certain stimuli affect visceralprocesses and thereby modify the perception of external objects. 

The impetus to research upon this subject given by Darwin was firstmanifest in the reports of observation upon the expression of differentemotions. Fear, anger, joy, were made the subjects of individualmonographs. Several brilliant essays, as those by Sully, Dugas, andBergson, appeared in one field alone, that of laughter. In the lastdecade there has been a distinct tendency toward the experimental studyof the physiological and chemical changes which constitute the inneraspect of emotional responses, as for example, the report of Cannon uponhis studies in his book _Bodily Changes in Pain, Hunger, Fear, andRage_. 

Simultaneous with this study of the physiological aspect of theemotional responses went further observation of its expression, themanifestation of the emotion. The research upon the communication ofemotions and ideas proceeded from natural signs to gesture and finallyto language. Genetic psychologists pointed out that the natural gestureis an abbreviated act. Mallery's investigation upon "Sign Language amongNorth American Indians Compared with that among Other Peoples and DeafMutes" disclosed the high development of communication by gestures amongIndian tribes. Wilhelm Wundt in his study of the origin of speechindicated the intimate relation between language and gesture in hisconclusion that speech is vocal gesture. Similarly research in theorigin of writing derives it, as indicated earlier in this chapter, through the intermediate form of pictographs from pictures. 

The significance for social life of the extension of communicationthrough inventions has impressed ethnologists, historians, andsociologists. The ethnologist determines the beginnings of ancientcivilization by the invention of writing. Historians have noted andemphasized the relation of the printing press to the transition frommedieval to modern society. Graham Wallas in his _Great Society_interprets modern society as a creation of the machine and of theartificial means of communication. 

Sociological interest in language and writing is turning from studies oforigins to investigations of their function in group life. Material isnow available which indicates the extent to which the group may bestudied through its language. Accordingly the point of view for thestudy of orthodox speech, or "correct" English, is that of thecontinuity of society; just as the standpoint for the study of heterodoxlanguage, or "slang, " is that of the life of the group at the moment. The significance of the fact that "every group has its own language" isbeing recognized in its bearings upon research. Studies of dialects ofisolated groups, of the argot of social classes, of the technical termsof occupational groups, of the precise terminology of scientific groupssuggest the wide range of concrete materials. The expression "differentuniverses of discourse" indicates how communication separates as well asunites persons and groups. 

3. Imitation

Bagehot's _Physics and Politics_ published in 1872, with its chapter on"Imitation, " was the first serious account of the nature of the rôle ofimitation in social life. Gabriel Tarde, a French magistrate, becominginterested in imitation as an explanation of the behavior of criminals, undertook an extensive observation of its effects in the entire field ofhuman activities. In his book _Laws of Imitation_, published in 1890, hemade imitation synonymous with all intermental activity. "I have alwaysgiven it (imitation) a very precise and characteristic meaning, that ofthe action at a distance of one mind upon another.... By imitation Imean every impression of interpsychical photography, so to speak, willedor not willed, passive or active. "[155] "The unvarying characteristic ofevery social fact whatsoever is that it is imitative, and thischaracteristic belongs exclusively to social facts. "[156]

In this unwarranted extension of the concept of imitation Tardeundeniably had committed the unpardonable sin of science, i. E. , hesubstituted for the careful study and patient observation of imitativebehavior, easy and glittering generalizations upon uniformities insociety. Contributions to an understanding of the actual process ofimitation came from psychologists. Baldwin brought forward the conceptof circular reaction to explain the interrelation of stimulus andresponse in imitation. He also indicated the place of imitation inpersonal development in his description of the dialectic of personalgrowth where the self develops in a process of give-and-take with otherselves. Dewey, Stout, Mead, Henderson, and others, emphasizing thefutility of the mystical explanation of imitation by imitation, havepointed out the influence of interest and attention upon imitation as alearning process. Mead, with keen analysis of the social situation, interprets imitation as the process by which the person practices rôlesin social life. The studies of Thorndike may be mentioned asrepresentative of the important experimental research upon this subject. 

4. Suggestion

The reflective study of imitation originated in attempts at theexplanation of uniformities in the behavior of individuals. Research insuggestion began in the narrow but mysterious field of the occult. In1765 Mesmer secured widespread attention by advancing the theory thatheavenly bodies influence human beings by means of a subtle fluid whichhe called "animal magnetism. " Abbé Faria, who came to Paris from Indiain 1814-15, demonstrated by experiments that the cause of the hypnoticsleep was subjective. With the experiments in 1841 of Dr. James Braid, the originator of the term "hypnotism, " the scientific phase of thedevelopment of hypnotism began. The acceptance of the facts of hypnotismby the scientific world was the result of the work of Charcot and hisstudents of the so-called Nancy School of Psychology. 

From the study of hypnotism to observation upon the rôle of suggestionin social life was a short step. Binet, Sidis, Münsterberg haveformulated psychological definitions of suggestion and indicated itssignificance for an understanding of so-called crowd phenomena in humanbehavior. Bechterew in his monograph _Die Bedeutung der Suggestion imSozialen Leben_ has presented an interpretation of distinct value forsociological research. At the present time there are many promisingdevelopments in the study of suggestion in special fields, such asadvertising, leadership, politics, religion. 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. INTERACTION AND SOCIAL INTERACTION

(1) Lotze, Hermann. _Metaphysic. _ Vol. I, chap, vi, "The Unity ofThings. " Oxford, 1887. 

(2) Ormond, Alexander T. _Foundations of Knowledge. _ Chap, vii, "Community or Interaction. " London and New York, 1900. 

(3) Gumplowicz, L. _Der Rassenkampf. _ Sociologische Untersuchungen. Pp. 158-75. Innsbruck, 1883. 

(4) Simmel, Georg. "Über sociale Differenzierung, sociologische undpsychologische Untersuchungen. " _Staats- und SocialwissenschaftlicheForschungen_, edited by G. Schmoller. Vol. X. Leipzig, 1891. 

(5) Royce, J. _The World and the Individual. _ 2d ser. "Nature, Man, andthe Moral Order, " Lecture IV. "Physical and Social Reality. " London andNew York, 1901. 

(6) Boodin, J. E. "Social Systems, " _American Journal of Sociology_, XXIII (May, 1918), 705-34. 

(7) Tosti, Gustavo. "Social Psychology and Sociology, " _ThePsychological Review_, V (July, 1898), 348-61. 

(8) Small, Albion W. _General Sociology. _ Chicago, 1905. 

(9) Cooley, Charles H. _The Social Process. _ New York, 1918. 

II. SOCIAL INTERACTION AND SOCIAL CONSCIOUSNESS

(1) Marshall, Henry R. _Consciousness. _ Chap, vii, "Of ConsciousnessesMore Complex than Human Consciousnesses. " New York and London, 1909. 

(2) Baldwin, James Mark. _Social and Ethical Interpretations in MentalDevelopment. _ A study in social psychology. New York and London, 1906. 

(3) Royce, Josiah. "Self-Consciousness, Social Consciousness andNature, " _Philosophical Review_, IV (1895), 465-85; 577-602. 

(4) ----. "The External World and the Social Consciousness, "_Philosophical Review_, III (1894), 513-45. 

(5) Worms, René. _Organisme et Société. _ Chap. X, "Fonctions deRelation. " Paris, 1896. 

(6) Mead, G. H. "Social Consciousness and the Consciousness of Meaning, "_Psychological Bulletin_, VII (Dec. 15, 1910), 397-405. 

(7) ----. "Psychology of Social Consciousness Implied in Instruction, "_Science_, N. S. , XXI (1910), 688-93. 

(8) Novicow, J. _Conscience et volonté sociales. _ Paris, 1897. 

(9) McDougall, W. _The Group Mind. _ A sketch of the principles ofcollective psychology with some attempt to apply them to theinterpretation of national life and character. New York and London, 1920. 

(10) Ames, Edward S. "Religion in Terms of Social Consciousness, " _TheJournal of Religion_, I (1921), 264-70. 

(11) Burgess, E. W. _The Function of Socialization in Social Evolution. _Chicago, 1916. 

(12) Maciver, R. M. _Community. _ A sociological study, being an attemptto set out the nature and fundamental laws of social life. London, 1917. 

III. COMMUNICATION AND INTERACTION

A. _The Emotions and Emotional Expression_

(1) James, William. _The Principles of Psychology. _ Vol. II, chap. Xxv. New York, 1896. 

(2) Dewey, John. "The Theory of Emotion, " _Psychological Review_, I(1894), 553-69; II (1895), 13-32. 

(3) Wundt, Wilhelm. _Grundzüge der physiologischen Psychologie. _ 3 vols. 6th ed. Leipzig, 1908-11. 

(4) Ribot, T. _The Psychology of the Emotions. _ London and New York, 1898. 

(5) Darwin, Charles. _The Expression of the Emotions in Man andAnimals. _ London and New York, 1873. 

(6) Rudolph, Heinrich. _Der Ausdruck der Gemütsbewegungen des Menschendargestellt und erklärt auf Grund der Urformen-und der Gesetze desAusdrucks und der Erregungen. _ Dresden, 1903. 

(7) Piderit, T. _Mimik und Physiognomik. _ Rev. Ed. Detmold, 1886. 

(8) Cannon, Walter B. _Bodily Changes in Pain, Hunger, Fear, and Rage. _An account of recent researches into the function of emotionalexcitement. New York and London, 1915. 

(9) Hirn, Yrjö. _The Origins of Art. _ A psychological and sociological, inquiry. London and New York, 1900. 

(10) Bergson, H. _Le Rire. _ Essai sur la signification du comique. Paris, 1900. 

(11) Sully, James. _An Essay on Laughter. _ Its forms, its causes, itsdevelopment, and its value. London and New York, 1902. 

(12) Dugas, L. _Psychologie du rire. _ Paris, 1902. 

(13) Groos, Karl. _The Play of Man. _ Translated from the German byElizabeth L. Baldwin. New York, 1901. 

(14) ----. _The Play of Animals. _ Translated from the German byElizabeth L. Baldwin. New York, 1898. 

(15) Royce, J. _The Spirit of Modern Philosophy. _ An essay in the formof lectures. Chap. Xii, "Physical Law and Freedom: The World ofDescription and the World of Appreciation. " Boston, 1892. 

(16) Bücher, Karl. _Arbeit und Rhythmus. _ Leipzig, 1902. 

(17) Mallery, Garrick. "Sign Language among North American Indianscompared with That among Other Peoples and Deaf Mutes. " _United StatesBureau of American Ethnology. First Annual Report. _ Washington, 1881. 

B. _Language and the Printing Press_

(1) Schmoller, Gustav. _Grundriss der allgemeinenVolkswirtschaftslehre. _ Chap, ii, 2, "Die psychophysischen Mittelmenschlicher Verständigung: Sprache und Schrift. " Leipzig, 1900. 

(2) Lazarus, Moritz. "Das Leben der Seele, " _Geist und Sprache_, Vol. II. Berlin, 1878. 

(3) Wundt, Wilhelm. "Völkerpsychologie. " Eine Untersuchung derEntwicklungsgesetze von Sprache, Mythus, und Sitte. _Die Sprache_, Vol. I. Part i. Leipzig, 1900. 

(4) Wuttke, Heinrich. _Die deutschen Zeitschriften und die Entstehungder öffentlichen Meinung. _ Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte desZeitungswesens. Leipzig, 1875. 

(5) Mason, William A. _A History of the Art of Writing. _ New York, 1920. 

(6) Bücher, Carl. _Industrial Evolution. _ Translated from the German byS. M. Wickett. Chap. Vi, "The Genesis of Journalism. " New York, 1901. 

(7) Dibblee, G. Binney. _The Newspaper. _ New York and London, 1913. 

(8) Payne, George Henry. _History of Journalism in the United States. _New York and London, 1920. 

(9) Kawabé, Kisaburo. _The Press and Politics in Japan. _ A study ofthe relation between the newspaper and the political development ofmodern Japan. Chicago, 1921. 

(10) Münsterberg, Hugo. _The Photoplay. _ A psychological study. NewYork, 1916. 

(11) Kingsbury, J. E. _The Telephone and Telephone Exchanges. _ Theirinvention and development. London and New York, 1915. 

(12) Borght, R. Van der. _Das Verkehrswesen. _ Leipzig, 1894. 

(13) Mason, O. T. _Primitive Travel and Transportation. _ New York, 1897. 

C. _Slang, Argot, and Universes of Discourse_

(1) Farmer, John S. _Slang and Its Analogues Past and Present. _ Adictionary, historical and comparative, of the heterodox speech of allclasses of society for more than three hundred years. With synonyms inEnglish, French, German, Italian, etc. London, 1890-1904. 

(2) Sechrist, Frank K. _The Psychology of Unconventional Language. _Worcester, Mass. , 1913. 

(3) Ware, J. Redding. _Passing English of the Victorian Era. _ Adictionary of heterodox English, slang and phrase. New York, 1909. 

(4) Hotten, John C. _A Dictionary of Modern Slang, Cant, and VulgarWords. _ Used at the present day in the streets of London; theuniversities of Oxford and Cambridge; the houses of Parliament; the densof St. Giles; and the palaces of St. James. Preceded by a history ofcant and vulgar language; with glossaries of two secret languages, spoken by the wandering tribes of London, the costermongers, and thepatterers. London, 1859. 

(5) ----. _The Slang Dictionary. _ Etymological, historical, andanecdotal. New York, 1898. 

(6) Farmer, John S. _The Public School Word-Book. _ A contribution to ahistorical glossary of words, phrases, and turns of expression, obsoleteand in present use, peculiar to our great public schools, together withsome that have been or are modish at the universities. London, 1900. 

(7) _A New Dictionary of the Terms Ancient and Modern of the CantingCrew. _ In its several tribes of gypsies, beggars, thieves, cheats, etc. , with an addition of some proverbs, phrases, and figurative speeches, etc. London, 1690. Reprinted, 19--. 

(8) Kluge, F. _Rotwelsch. _ Quellen und Wortschatz der Gaunersprache undder verwandten Geheimsprachen. Strassburg, 1901. 

(9) Barrère, Albert, and Leland, C. G. , editors. _A Dictionary of Slang, Jargon, and Cant. _ Embracing English, American, and Anglo-Indian slang, pidgin English, gypsies' jargon, and other irregular phraseology. 2vols. London, 1897. 

(10) Villatte, Césaire. _Parisismen. _ Alphabetisch geordnete Sammlungder eigenartigen Ausdrucksweisen des Pariser Argot. Ein Supplement zuallen französisch-deutschen Wörterbüchern. Berlin, 1899. 

(11) Delesalle, Georges. _Dictionnaire argot-français etfrançais-argot. _ Nouvelle Edition. Paris, 1899. 

(12) Villon, François. _Le jargon et jobelin de François Villon, suividu jargon an théatre. _ Paris, 1888. 

(13) Saineanu, Lazar. _L'Argot ancien_ (1455-1850). Ses élémentsconstitutifs, ses rapports avec les langues secrètes de l'Europeméridionale et l'argot moderne, avec un appendice sur l'argot juge parVictor Hugo et Balzac; par Lazare Sainéan, pseud. Paris, 1907. 

(14) Dauzat, Albert. _Les argots des métiers franco-provençaux. _ Paris, 1917. 

(15) Leland, Charles G. _The English Gypsies and Their Languages. _ 4thed. New York, 1893. 

(16) _Dictionnaire des termes militaires et de l'argot poilu. _ Paris, 1916. 

(17) Empey, Arthur Guy. _Over the Top. _ By an American soldier who went, Arthur Guy Empey, machine gunner, serving in France; together withTommy's dictionary of the trenches. New York and London, 1917. 

(18) Smith, L. N. _Lingo of No Man's Land; or, War Time Lexicon. _Compiled by Sergt. Lorenzo N. Smith. Chicago, 1918. 

(19) Saineanu, Lazar. _L'Argot des tranchées. _ D'après les lettresdes poilus et les journaux du front. Paris, 1915. 

(20) Horn, Paul. _Die deutsche Soldatensprache. _ Giessen, 1905. 

IV. IMITATION AND SUGGESTION

A. _Imitation_

(1) Bagehot, Walter. _Physics and Politics; or, Thoughts on theApplication of the Principles of "Natural Selection" and "Inheritance"to Political Society. _ New York, 1873. 

(2) Tarde, Gabriel. _The Laws of Imitation. _ Translated from the 2d. French ed. By Elsie Clews Parsons. New York, 1903. 

(3) Baldwin, James M. _Mental Development in the Child and the Race. _Methods and processes. 3d. Rev. Ed. New York, 1906. 

(4) ----. _Social and Ethical Interpretations in Mental Development. _ Astudy in social psychology. 4th ed. New York, 1906. 

(5) Royce, Josiah. _Outlines of Psychology. _ An elementary treatise withsome practical applications. New York, 1903. 

(6) Henderson, Ernest N. _A Text-Book in the Principles of Education. _Chap. Xi, "Imitation. " New York, 1910. 

(7) Thorndike, E. L. _Educational Psychology. _ Vol. I. , The OriginalNature of Man. Chap. Viii, pp. 108-22. New York, 1913. 

(8) Hughes, Henry. _Die Mimik des Menschen auf Grund voluntarischerPsychologie. _ Frankfurt a. M. , 1900. 

(9) Park, Robert E. _Masse und Publikum. _ Eine methodologische undsoziologische Untersuchung. Chap. Ii, "Der soziologische Prozess, "describes the historical development of the conception of imitation inits relation to sympathy and mimicry in the writings of Hume, Butler, and Dugald Stewart. Bern, 1904. 

(10) Smith, Adam. _The Theory of Moral Sentiments. _ To which is added adissertation on the origin of languages. London, 1892. 

(11) Ribot, T. _The Psychology of the Emotions. _ Part II, chap. Iv, "Sympathy and the Tender Emotions, " pp. 230-38. Translated from theFrench, 2d ed. London, 1911. 

(12) Dewey, John. "Imitation in Education, " _Cyclopedia of Education_, III, 389-90. 

(13) Him, Yrjö. _The Origins of Art. _ A psychological and sociologicalinquiry. Chap. Vi, "Social Expression. " London and New York, 1900. 

B. _Suggestion_

(1) Moll, Albert. _Hypnotism. _ Including a study of the chief points ofpsychotherapeutics and occultism. Translated from the 4th enl. Ed. By A. F. Hopkirk. London and New York, 1909. 

(2) Binet, A. , and Féré, Ch. _Animal Magnetism. _ New York, 1892. 

(3) Janet, Pierre. _L'Automisme psychologique. _ Essai de psychologieexpérimental sur les formes inférieures de l'activité humaine. Paris, 1889. 

(4) Bernheim, H. _Hypnotisme, Suggestion, Psychothérapie. _ Paris, 1891. 

(5) Richet, Ch. _Experimentelle Studien auf dem Gebiete derGedankenübertragung und des sogenannten Hellsehens. _ Deutsch von Frhrn. Von Schrenck-Notzing. Stuttgart, 1891. 

(6) Pfungst, Oskar. _Clever Hans (The Horse of Mr. Von Osten). _ Acontribution to experimental animal and human psychology. New York, 1911. [Bibliography. ]

(7) Hansen, F. C. C. , and Lehmann, A. _Über unwillkürliches Flüstern. _Philosophische Studien, Leipzig, XI (1895), 471-530. 

(8) Féré, Ch. _Sensation et mouvement. _ Chap, xix, pp. 120-24. Paris, 1887. 

(9) Sidis, Boris. _The Psychology of Suggestion. _ A research into thesubconscious nature of man and society. New York, 1898. 

(10) Bechterew, W. V. _Die Bedeutung der Suggestion im Sozialen Leben. _Grenzfragen des Nerven- und Seelenlebens. Wiesbaden, 1905. 

(11) Stoll, Otto. _Suggestion und Hypnotismus in der Völkerpsychologie. _Leipzig, 1904. 

(12) Binet, Alfred. _La Suggestibilité. _ Paris, 1900. 

(13) Münsterberg, Hugo. _Psychotherapy. _ Chap. V, "Suggestion andHypnotism, " pp. 85-124. New York, 1909. 

(14) Cooley, Charles. _Human Nature and the Social Order. _ Chap. Ii. NewYork, 1902. 

(15) Gulick, Sidney. _The American Japanese Problem. _ A study of theracial relations of the East and the West. Pp. 118-68. New York, 1914. 

(16) Fishberg, Maurice. _The Jews. _ A study of race and environment. London and New York, 1911. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. A History of the Concept of Social Interaction. 

2. Interaction and the Atomic Theory. 

3. Interaction and Social Consciousness. 

4. Interaction and Self-Consciousness. 

5. Religion and Social Consciousness. 

6. Publicity and Social Consciousness. 

7. Interaction and the Limits of the Group. 

8. The Senses and Communication: a Comparative Study of the Rôle ofTouch, Smell, Sight, and Hearing in Social Intercourse. 

9. Facial Expression as a Form of Communication. 

10. Laughter and Blushing and Self-Consciousness. 

11. The Sociology of Gesture. 

12. The Subtler Forms of Interaction; "Mind-Reading, " "ThoughtTransference. "

13. Rapport, A Study of Mutual Influence in Intimate Associations. 

14. A History of Imitation as a Sociological Theory. 

15. Suggestion as an Explanation of Collective Behavior. 

16. Adam Smith's Theory of the Relation of Sympathy and Moral Judgment. 

17. Interest, Attention, and Imitation. 

18. Imitation and Appreciation. 

19. The History of Printing and of the Press. 

20. Modem Extensions of Communication: the Telephone, the Telegraph, Radio, the Motion Picture, Popular Music. 

21. An Explanation of Secondary Society in Terms of Secondary Devices ofCommunication. 

22. Graham Wallas' Conception of the Problem of Social Heritages inSecondary Society. 

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. What do you understand Gumplowicz to mean by a "natural process"?

2. Do you think that the idea of a "natural process" is applicable tosociety?

3. Is Gumplowicz' principle of the interaction of social elementsvalid?

4. What do you understand Simmel to mean by society? by socialization?

5. Do you agree with Simmel when he says, "In and of themselves, thesematerials with which life is filled, these motivations which impel it, are not social in their nature"?

6. In what ways, according to Simmel, does interaction maintain themechanism of the group in time?

7. What do you understand to be the distinction which Simmel makesbetween attitudes of appreciation and comprehension?

8. "The interaction of individuals based upon mutual glances is perhapsthe most direct and purest reciprocity which exists. " Explain. 

9. Explain the sociology of the act of looking down to avoid the glanceof the other. 

10. In what way does Simmel's distinction between the reactions to otherpersons of the blind and the deaf-mute afford an explanation of thedifference between the social life of the village and of the large city?

11. In what sense are emotions expressive? To whom are they expressive?

12. What is the relation of emotional expression to communication?

13. Why would you say Darwin states that "blushing is the most peculiarand the most human of all expressions"?

14. Does a person ever blush in isolation?

15. What in your opinion is the bearing of the phenomenon of blushingupon interaction and communication?

16. What is the difference between the function of blushing and oflaughing in social life?

17. In what sense is sympathy the "law of laughter"?

18. What determines the object of laughter?

19. What is the sociological explanation of the rôle of laughter andridicule in social control?

20. What are the likenesses and differences between intercommunicationamong animals and language among men?

21. What is the criterion of the difference between man and the animal, according to Max Müller?

22. In your opinion, was the situation in which language arose one ofunanimity or diversity of attitude?

23. "Language and ideational processes developed together and arenecessary to each other. " Explain. 

24. What is the relation of the evolution of writing as a form ofcommunication (a) to the development of ideas, and (b) to sociallife?

25. What difference in function, if any, is there between communicationcarried on (a) merely through expressive signs, (b) language, (c)writing, (d) printing?

26. How does the evolution of publicity exhibit the extension ofcommunication by human invention?

27. In what ways is the extension of communication related to primaryand secondary contacts?

28. Does the growth of communication make for or against the developmentof individuality?

29. How do you define imitation?

30. What is the relation of attention and interest to the mechanism ofimitation?

31. What is the relation of imitation to learning?

32. What is the relation of imitation to the three phases of sympathydifferentiated by Ribot?

33. What do you understand by Smith's definition of sympathy? How doesit differ from that of Ribot?

34. Under what conditions is the sentiment aroused in the observerlikely to resemble that of the observed? When is it likely to bedifferent?

35. In what sense is sympathy the basis for passing a moral judgmentupon a person or an act?

36. What do you understand by "internal imitation"?

37. What is the significance of imitation for artistic appreciation?

38. What do you understand by the term "appreciation"? Distinguishbetween "appreciation" and "comprehension. " (Compare Hirn's distinctionwith that made by Simmel. )

39. Upon what is the nature of suggestion based? How do you definesuggestion?

40. What do you understand by Bechterew's distinction between activeperception and passive perception?

41. Why can we speak of suggestion as a mental automatism?

42. How real is the analogy of suggestion to an infection or aninoculation?

43. What do you understand by the distinction between personalconsciousness and general consciousness?

44. What is the significance of attention in determining the characterof suggestion?

45. What is the relation of rapport to suggestion?

46. How would you distinguish suggestion from other forms of stimulusand response?

47. Is suggestion a term of individual or of social psychology?

48. What is the significance of the case of Clever Hans for theinterpretation of so-called telepathy? of muscle reading?

49. How extensive, would you say, are the subtler forms of suggestion innormal life? What illustrations would you give?

50. What is the rôle of social contagion in mass action?

51. What do you understand Bechterew to mean by "the psychologicalprocesses of fusion"? "spiritual cohesion, " etc. ?

52. What does it mean to say that historical personages "embody inthemselves the emotions and the desires of the masses"?

53. What, in your judgment, are the differentiating criteria ofsuggestion and imitation?

54. What do you understand is meant by speaking of imitation andsuggestion as mechanisms of interaction?

FOOTNOTES:

[135] Pp. 70 and 72. 

[136] Translated and adapted from Ludwig Gumplowicz, _Der Rassenkampf_, pp. 158-61. (Innsbruck: Wagnerische Univ. Buchhandlung, 1883. )

[137] Translated from Georg Simmel, _Soziologie_, by Albion W. Small, _American Journal of Sociology_, XV (1909), 296-98; III (1898), 667-83. 

[138] Translated and adapted from Georg Simmel, _Soziologie_, pp. 646-51. (Leipzig: Duncker und Humblot, 1908. )

[139] Adapted from Charles Darwin, _The Expression of the Emotions_, pp. 350-67. (John Murray, 1873. )

[140] Adapted from Charles Darwin, _The Expression of the Emotions_, pp. 310-37. (John Murray, 1873. )

[141] Translated and adapted from L. Dugas, _Psychologie du rire_, pp. 32-153. (Félix Alcan, 1902. )

[142] Adapted from C. Lloyd Morgan, _Animal Behaviour_, pp. 193-205. (Edward Arnold, 1908. )

[143] Adapted from F. Max Müller, _The Science of Language_, I, 520-27. (Longmans, Green & Co. , 1891. )

[144] Adapted from Charles H. Judd, _Psychology_, pp. 219-24. (Ginn &Co. , 1917. )

[145] Adapted from Carl Bücher, _Industrial Evolution_. Translated by S. Morley Wickett, pp. 216-43. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1907. )

[146] From Charles H. Judd, "Imitation, " in _Monroe's Cyclopedia ofEducation_, III, 388-89. (Published by The Macmillan Co. , 1912. Reprinted by permission. )

[147] Adapted from G. F. Stout, _A Manual of Psychology_, pp. 390-91. (The University Tutorial Press, 1913. )

[148] Adapted from Th. Ribot, _The Psychology of the Emotions_, pp. 230-34. (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1898. )

[149] Adapted from Adam Smith, _The Theory of Moral Sentiments_, pp. 3-10. (G. Bell & Sons, 1893. )

[150] From Yrjö Hirn, _The Origins of Art_, pp. 74-85. (Published by TheMacmillan Co. , 1900. Reprinted by permission. )

[151] Translated and adapted from the German, _Die Bedeutung derSuggestion im Sozialen Leben_, pp. 10-15, from the original Russian ofW. V. Bechterew. (J. F. Bergmann, Wiesbaden, 1905. )

[152] Adapted from Albert Moll, _Hypnotism_, pp. 453-57. TheContemporary Science Series. (Walter Scott, 1909. )

[153] Translated and adapted from the German, _Die Bedeutung derSuggestion im Sozialen Leben_, pp. 134-42, from the original Russian ofW. V. Bechterew. (Wiesbaden: J. F. Bergmann, 1905. )

[154] _The Social Process_, p. 28. 

[155] P. Xiv. 

[156] P. 41. 

CHAPTER VII

SOCIAL FORCES

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Sources of the Notion of Social Forces

The concept of interaction is an abstraction so remote from ordinaryexperience that it seems to have occurred only to scientists andphilosophers. The idea of forces behind the manifestations of physicalnature and of society is a notion which arises naturally out of theexperience of the ordinary man. Historians, social reformers, andstudents of community life have used the term in the language of commonsense to describe factors in social situations which they recognized butdid not attempt to describe or define. Movements for social reform haveusually met with unexpected obstacles. Public welfare programs have notinfrequently been received with popular antagonism instead of popularsupport. Lack of success has led to the search for causes, andinvestigation has revealed the obstacles, as well as the aids, to reformembodied in influential persons, "political bosses, " "union leaders, ""the local magnate, " and in powerful groups such as party organizations, unions, associations of commerce, etc. Social control, it appears, isresident, not in individuals as individuals, but as members ofcommunities and social groups. Candid recognition of the rôle of thesepersons and groups led popular writers on social, political, andeconomic topics to give them the impersonal designation "social forces. "

A student made the following crude and yet illuminating analysis of thesocial forces in a small community where he had lived: the communityclub, "the Davidson clique, " and the "Jones clique" (these two largefamily groups are intensely hostile and divide village life); thecommunity Methodist church; the Presbyterian church group (no church);the library; two soft-drink parlors where all kinds of beverages aresold; the daily train; the motion-picture show; the dance hall; agambling clique; sex attraction; gossip; the "sporting" impulse; theimpulse to be "decent. "

"The result, " he states, "is a disgrace to our modern civilization. Itis one of the worst communities I ever saw. "

The most significant type of community study has been the social survey, with a history which antedates its recent developments. Yet the surveymovement from the _Domesday Survey_, initiated in 1085 by William theConqueror, to the recent _Study of Methods of Americanization_ by theCarnegie Corporation, has been based upon an implicit or explicitrecognition of the interrelations of the community and its constituentgroups. The _Domesday Survey_, although undertaken for financial andpolitical purposes, gives a picture of the English nation as anorganization of isolated local units, which the Norman Conquest first ofall forced into closer unity. The surveys of the Russell Sage Foundationhave laid insistent emphasis upon the study of social problems and ofsocial institutions in their context within the life of the community. The central theme of the different divisions of the Carnegie _Study ofMethods of Americanization_ is the nature and the degree of theparticipation of the immigrant in our national and cultural life. Inshort, the survey, wittingly or unwittingly, has tended to penetratebeneath surface observations to discover the interrelations of socialgroups and institutions and has revealed community life as a_constellation of social forces_. 

2. History of the Concept of Social Forces

The concept of social forces has had a history different from that ofinteraction. It was in the writings of the historians rather than of thesociologists that the term first gained currency. The historians, intheir description and interpretation of persons and events, discerneddefinite motives or tendencies, which served to give to the meretemporal sequence of the events a significance which they did nototherwise possess. These tendencies historians called "social forces. "

From the point of view and for the purposes of reformers social forceswere conceived as embodied in institutions. For the purposes of thehistorian they are merely tendencies which combine to define the generaltrend of historical change. The logical motive, which has everywhereguided science in formulating its conceptions, is here revealed in itsmost naïve and elementary form. Natural science invariably seeks todescribe change in terms of process, that is to say, in terms ofinteraction of tendencies. These tendencies are what science callsforces. 

For the purposes of an adequate description, however, it is necessarynot merely to conceive change in terms of the interplay of forces, butto think of these forces as somehow objectively embodied, as socialforces are conceived to be embodied in institutions, organizations, andpersons. These objects in which the forces are, or seem to be, residentare not forces in any real or metaphysical sense, as the physicists tellus. They are mere points of reference which enable us to visualize thedirection and measure the intensity of change. 

Institutions and social organizations may, in any given situation, beregarded as social forces, but they are not ultimate nor elementaryforces. One has but to carry the analysis of the community a littlefarther to discover the fact that institutions and organizations may befurther resolved into factors of smaller and smaller denominations untilwe have arrived at individual men and women. For common sense theindividual is quite evidently the ultimate factor in every community orsocial organization. 

Sociologists have carried the analysis a step farther. They have soughtto meet the problem raised by two facts: (1) the same individual may bea member of different societies, communities, and social groups at thesame time; (2) under certain circumstances his interests as a member ofone group may conflict with his interests as a member of another group, so that the conflict between different social groups will be reflectedin the mental and moral conflicts of the individual himself. Furthermore, it is evident that the individual is, as we frequently say, "not the same person" at different times and places. The phenomena ofmoods and of dual personality has sociological significance in just thisconnection. 

From all this it is quite evident that the individual is not elementaryin a sociological sense. It is for this reason that sociologists haveinvariably sought the sociological element, not in the individual but inhis appetites, desires, wishes--the human motives which move him toaction. 

3. Classification of the Materials

The readings in this chapter are arranged in the natural order of thedevelopment of the notion of social forces. They were first thought ofby historians as tendencies and trends. Then in the popular sociologysocial forces were identified with significant social objects in whichthe factors of the situations under consideration were embodied. Thiswas a step in the direction of a definition of the elementary socialforces. Later the terms interests, sentiments, and attitudes made theirappearance in the literature of economics, social psychology, andsociology. Finally the concept of the wishes, first vaguely apprehendedby sociologists under the name "desires, " having gained a more adequatedescription and definition in the use made of it by psychoanalysis, hasbeen reintroduced into sociology by W. I. Thomas under the title of the"four wishes. " This brief statement is sufficient to indicate themotives determining the order of the materials included under "SocialForces. "

In the list of social forces just enumerated, attitudes are, for thepurposes of sociology, elementary. They are elementary because, beingtendencies to act, they are expressive and communicable. They present ushuman motives in the only form in which we can know them objectively, namely, as behavior. Human motives become social forces only so far asthey are communicable, only when they are communicated. Becauseattitudes have for the purposes of sociology this elementary character, it is desirable to define the term "attitude" before attempting todefine its relation to the wishes and sentiments. 

a) _The social element defined. _--What is an attitude? Attitudes arenot instincts, nor appetites, nor habits, for these refer to specifictendencies to act that condition attitudes but do not define them. Attitudes are not the same as emotions or sentiments although attitudesalways are emotionally toned and frequently supported by sentiments. Opinions are not attitudes. An opinion is rather a statement made tojustify and make intelligible an existing attitude or bias. A wish is aninherited tendency or instinct which has been fixed by attentiondirected to objects, persons, or patterns of behavior, which objectsthen assume the character of values. An attitude is the tendency of theperson to react positively or negatively to the total situation. Accordingly, attitudes may be defined as the mobilization of the will ofthe person. 

Attitudes are as many and as varied as the situations to which they area response. It is, of course, not to be gainsaid that instincts, appetites, habits, emotions, sentiments, opinions, and wishes areinvolved in and with the attitudes. Attitudes are mobilizations andorganizations of the wishes with reference to definite situations. Mywishes may be very positive and definite in a given situation, but myattitude may be wavering and undetermined. On the other hand, myattitude may be clearly defined in situations where my wishes are notgreatly involved. It is characteristic of the so-called academic, asdistinguished from the "practical" and emotional, attitude that, underits influence, the individual seeks to emphasize all the factors in thesituation and thus qualifies and often weakens the will to act. Thewishes enter into attitudes as components. How many, varied, ill-defined, and conflicting may be and have been the wishes that havedetermined at different times the attitudes and the sentiments ofindividuals and nations toward the issues of war and peace? Thefundamental wishes, we may assume, are the same in all situations. Theattitudes and sentiments, however, in which the wishes of the individualfind expression are determined not merely by these wishes, but by otherfactors in the situation, the wishes of other individuals, for example. The desire for recognition is a permanent and universal trait of humannature, but in the case of an egocentric personality, this wish may takethe form of an excessive humility or a pretentious boasting. The wish isthe same but the attitudes in which it finds expression are different. 

The attitudes which are elementary for _sociological analysis_ may beresolved by _psychological analysis_ into smaller factors so that we maythink, if we choose, of attitudes as representing constellations ofsmaller components which we call wishes. In fact it has been one of thegreat contributions of psychoanalysis to our knowledge of human behaviorthat it has been able to show that attitudes may be analyzed into stillmore elementary components and that these components, like theattitudes, are involved in a process of interaction among themselves. Inother words there is organization, tension, and change in theconstituent elements of the attitudes. This accounts, in part, for theirmutability. 

b) _Attitudes as behavior patterns. _--If the attitude may be said toplay the rôle in sociological analysis that the elementary substancesplay in chemical analysis, then the rôle of the wishes may be comparedto that of the electrons. 

The clearest way to think of attitudes is as behavior patterns or unitsof behavior. The two most elementary behavior patterns are the tendencyto approach and the tendency to withdraw. Translated into terms of theindividual organism these are tendencies to expand and to contract. Asthe self expands to include other selves, as in sympathy and infellowship, there is an extension of self-feeling to the whole group. Self-consciousness passes over, in the rapport thus established, intogroup consciousness. In the expansive movements characteristic ofindividuals under the influence of crowd excitements the individual issubmerged in the mass. 

On the other hand, in movements of withdrawal or of recoil from otherpersons, characteristic of fear and embarrassment, there is aheightening of self-consciousness. The tendency to identify one's selfwith other selves, to lose one's self in the ecstasy of psychic unionwith others, is essentially a movement toward contact; while theinclination to differentiate one's self, to lead a self-sufficientexistence, apart from others, is as distinctly a movement resulting inisolation. 

The simplest and most fundamental types of behavior of individuals andof groups are represented in these contrasting tendencies to approach anobject or to withdraw from it. If instead of thinking of these twotendencies as unrelated, they are thought of as conflicting responses tothe same situation, where the tendency to approach is modified andcomplicated by a tendency to withdraw, we get the phenomenon of _socialdistance_. There is the tendency to approach, but not too near. There isa feeling of interest and sympathy of A for B, but only when B remainsat a certain distance. Thus the Negro in the southern states is "allright in his place. " The northern philanthropist is interested in theadvancement of the Negro but wants him to remain in the South. At leasthe does not want him for a neighbor. The southern white man likes theNegro as an individual, but he is not willing to treat him as an equal. The northern white man is willing to treat the Negro as an equal but hedoes not want him too near. The wishes are in both cases essentially thesame but the attitudes are different. 

The accommodations between conflicting tendencies, so flagrantlydisplayed in the facts of race prejudice, are not confined to therelation of white men and black. The same mechanisms are involved in allthe subordinations, exclusions, privacies, social distances, andreserves which we seek everywhere, by the subtle devices of taboo andsocial ritual, to maintain and defend. Where the situation calls forthrival or conflicting tendencies, the resulting attitude is likely to bean accommodation, in which what has been described as distance is thedetermining factor. When an accommodation takes the form of thedomination of A and the submission of B, the original tendencies ofapproach and withdrawal are transformed into attitudes ofsuperordination and subordination. If primary attitudes of expansion andof contraction are thought of in terms of lateral distance, thenattitudes of superiority and inferiority may be charted in the verticalplane as illustrated by the following diagram:

[Illustration: FIG. 4. --A = tendency to approach; B = tendency towithdraw; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 = distance defining levels of accommodation; X= superordination; Y = subordination. ]

This polar conception of attitudes, in which they are conceived in termsof movements of expansion and contraction, of approach and withdrawal, of attraction and repulsion, of domination and submission, may beapplied in an analysis of the sentiments. 

A sentiment, as defined by McDougall, is "an organized system ofemotional dispositions centered about the idea of some object. " Thepolarity of the sentiments is, however, one of its evident and strikingcharacteristics. Love and hate, affection and dislike, attachment andaversion, self-esteem and humility have this character of polaritybecause each pair of sentiments and attitudes represents a differentconstellation of the same component wishes. 

A significant feature of sentiments and attitudes is inner tension andconsequent tendency to mutation. Love changes into hate, or dislike istransformed into affection, or humility is replaced by self-assertion. This mutability is explained by the fact, just mentioned, that thesentiment-attitude is a complex of wishes and desires organized around aperson or object. In this complex one motive--love, for example--is fora moment the dominant component. In this case components which tend toexcite repulsion, hostility, and disgust are for the moment suppressed. With a change in the situation, as in the distance, these suppressedcomponents are released and, gaining control, convert the system intothe opposite sentiment, as hate. 

c) _Attitudes and wishes. _--The wishes, as popularly conceived, are asnumerous as the objects or values toward which they are directed. Asthere are positive and negative values, so there are positive andnegative wishes. Fears are negative wishes. The speculations of theFreudian school of psychology have attempted to reduce all wishes toone, the _libido_. In that case, the wishes, as we know them and as theypresent themselves to us in consciousness, are to be regarded asoffshoots or, perhaps better, specifications of the _one wish_. As theone wish is directed to this or that object, it makes of that object avalue and the object gives its name to the wish. In this way the onewish becomes many wishes. 

Science demands, however, not a theory of the origin of the wishes but aclassification based on fundamental natural differences; differenceswhich it is necessary to take account of in explaining human behavior. Thomas' fourfold classification fulfils this purpose. The wish forsecurity, the wish for new experience, the wish for response, and thewish for recognition are the permanent and fundamental unconsciousmotives of the person which find expression in the many and changingconcrete and conscious wishes. As wishes find expression incharacteristic forms of behavior they may also be thought of in spatialterms as tendencies to move toward or away from their specific objects. The wish for security may be represented by position, mere immobility;the wish for new experience by the greatest possible freedom of movementand constant change of position; the wish for response, by the numberand closeness of points of contact; the wish for recognition, by thelevel desired or reached in the vertical plane of superordination andsubordination. 

The fundamental value for social research of the classification inheresin the fact that the wishes in one class cannot be substituted forwishes in another. The desire for response and affection cannot besatisfied by fame and recognition or only partially so. The wholesomeindividual is he who in some form or other realizes all the fourfundamental wishes. The security and permanence of any society orassociation depends upon the extent to which it permits the individualswho compose it to realize their fundamental wishes. The restlessindividual is the individual whose wishes are not realized even indreams. 

This suggests the significance of the classification for the purposes ofsocial science. Human nature, and personality as we know it, requiresfor its healthy growth security, new experience, response, andrecognition. In all races and in all times these fundamental longings ofhuman nature have manifested themselves; the particular patterns inwhich the wish finds expression and becomes fixed depends upon somespecial experience of the person, is influenced by individualdifferences in original nature, and is circumscribed by the folkways, the mores, the conventions, and the culture of his group. 

II. MATERIALS

A. TRENDS, TENDENCIES, AND PUBLIC OPINION

1. Social Forces in American History[157]

That political struggles are based upon economic interests is todaydisputed by few students of society. The attempt has been made in thiswork to trace the various interests that have arisen and struggled ineach social stage and to determine the influence exercised by thesecontending interests in the creation of social institutions. 

Back of every political party there has always stood a group or classwhich expected to profit by the activity and the success of that party. When any party has attained to power, it has been because it has triedto establish institutions or to modify existing ones in accord with itsinterests. 

Changes in the industrial basis of society--inventions, new processes, and combinations and methods of producing and distributing goods--createnew interests with new social classes to represent them. Theseimprovements in the technique of production are the dynamic element thatbrings about what we call progress in society. 

In this work I have sought to begin at the origin of each line of socialprogress. I have first endeavored to describe the steps in mechanicalprogress, then the social classes brought into prominence by themechanical changes, then the struggle by which these new classes soughtto gain social power, and, finally, the institutions which were createdor the alterations made in existing institutions as a consequence of thestruggle or as a result of the victory of a new class. 

It has seemed to me that these underlying social forces are of moreimportance than the individuals that were forced to the front in theprocess of these struggles, or even than the laws that were establishedto record the results of the conflict. In short, I have tried todescribe the dynamics of history rather than to record the accomplishedfacts, to answer the question, "Why did it happen?" as well as, "Whathappened?"

An inquiry into causes is manifestly a greater task than the recordingof accomplished facts. To determine causes it is necessary to spend muchtime in the study of "original documents"--the newspapers, magazines, and pamphlet literature of each period. In these, rather than in the"musty documents" of state, do we find history in the making. Here wecan see the clash of contending interests before they are crystallizedinto laws and institutions. 

2. Social Tendencies as Social Forces[158]

The philosophy of the eighteenth century viewed external nature as theprincipal thing to be considered in a study of society, and not societyitself. The great force in society was extraneous to society. Butaccording to the philosophy of our times, the chief forces working insociety are truly social forces, that is to say, they are immanent insociety itself. 

Let us briefly examine the social forces which are at work, eitherconcentrating or diffusing the ownership of wealth. If it is true that, necessarily, there is going forward a concentration of property, thatthe rich are necessarily becoming richer, that wealth is passing intofewer and fewer hands, this gives a strong reason for believing thatthose are right who hold to the fact that every field of production mustsoon be controlled by monopoly. If, on the other hand, we find that theforces which make for diffusion are dominant, we may believe that it isquite possible for society to control the forces of production. 

a) Forces operating in the direction of concentration of wealth: (1)The unearned increment of land, especially in cities, is no doubt a realforce. (2) The trust movement is operating in its earlier phases, atleast, in the direction of concentration. (3) In the third place, war, whenever it comes, carries with it forces which bring wealth to the fewrather than to the many. (4) Arrangements of one kind and another may bementioned by means of various trust devices to secure the ends ofprimogeniture and entail. (5) Another force operating to concentrate theownership of wealth may be called economic inertia. According to theprinciple of inertia, forces continue to operate until they are checkedby other forces coming into contact with them. 

b) Forces which operate to diffuse wealth: (1) Education, broadlyconsidered, should be mentioned first of all. (2) Next, mention must bemade of the public control of corporations. (3) Changes in taxation arethe third item in this enumeration of forces. (4) The development of theidea of property as a trust is next mentioned. (5) Profit-sharing andco-operation. (6) Sound currency is next mentioned. (7) Public ownershipof public utilities is a further force. (8) Labor organizations. (9)Institutions, especially in the interest of the wage-earning andeconomically weaker elements in the community. (10) Savings institutionsand insurance. 

3. Public Opinion: School of Thought and Legislation in England[159]

Public legislative opinion, as it has existed in England during thenineteenth century, presents several noteworthy aspects orcharacteristics. They may conveniently be considered under five heads:the existence at any given period of a predominant public opinion; theorigin of such opinion; the development and continuity thereof; thechecks imposed on such opinion by the existence of counter-currents andcross-currents of opinion; the action of laws themselves as the creatorsof legislative opinion. 

_First_, there exists at any given time a body of beliefs, convictions, sentiments, accepted principles, or firmly rooted prejudices, which, taken together, make up the public opinion of a particular era, or whatwe may call the reigning or predominant current of opinion, and, asregards at any rate the last three or four centuries, and especially thenineteenth century, the influence of this dominant current of opinionhas, in England, if we look at the matter broadly, determined, directlyor indirectly, the course of legislation. 

_Second_, the opinion which affects the development of the law has, inmodern England at least, often originated with some single thinker orschool of thinkers. No doubt it is at times allowable to talk of aprevalent belief or opinion as "being in the air, " by which expressionis meant that a particular way of looking at things has become thecommon possession of all the world. But though a belief, when itprevails, may at last be adopted by the whole of a generation, it rarelyhappens that a widespread conviction has grown up spontaneously amongthe multitude. "The initiation, " it has been said, "of all wise or noblethings comes, and must come, from individuals; generally at first fromsome one individual, " to which it ought surely to be added that theorigination of a new folly or of a new form of baseness comes, and mustin general come, at first from individuals or from some one individual. The peculiarity of individuals, as contrasted with the crowd, liesneither in virtue nor in wickedness but in originality. It is idle tocredit minorities with all the good without ascribing to themmost, at least, of the evils due to that rarest of all humanqualities--inventiveness. 

The course of events in England may often, at least, be thus described:A new and, let us assume, a true idea presents itself to some one man oforiginality or genius; the discoverer of the new conception, or somefollower who has embraced it with enthusiasm, preaches it to his friendsor disciples, they in their turn become impressed with its importanceand its truth, and gradually a whole school accepts the new creed. Theseapostles of a new faith are either persons endowed with special abilityor, what is quite as likely, they are persons who, owing to theirpeculiar position, are freed from a bias, whether moral or intellectual, in favor of prevalent errors. At last the preachers of truth make animpression, either directly upon the general public or upon some personof eminence, say a leading statesman, who stands in a position toimpress ordinary people and thus to win the support of the nation. Success, however, in converting mankind to a new faith, whetherreligious or economical or political, depends but slightly on thestrength of the reasoning by which the faith can be defended, or evenon the enthusiasm of its adherents. A change of belief arises, in themain, from the occurrence of circumstances which incline the majority ofthe world to hear with favor theories which, at one time, men of commonsense derided as absurdities or distrusted as paradoxes. The doctrine offree trade, for instance, has in England for about half a century heldthe field as an unassailable dogma of economic policy, but a historianwould stand convicted of ignorance or folly who should imagine that thefallacies of protection were discovered by the intuitive good sense ofthe people, even if the existence of such a quality as the good sense ofthe people be more than a political fiction. The principle of free trademay, as far as Englishmen are concerned, be treated as the doctrine ofAdam Smith. The reasons in its favor never have been, nor will, from thenature of things, be mastered by the majority of any people. The apologyfor freedom of commerce will always present, from one point of view, anair of paradox. Every man feels or thinks that protection would benefithis own business, and it is difficult to realize that what may be abenefit for any man taken alone may be of no benefit to a body of menlooked at collectively. The obvious objections to free trade may, asfree traders conceive, be met; but then the reasoning by which theseobjections are met is often elaborate and subtle and does not carryconviction to the crowd. It is idle to suppose that belief in freedom oftrade--or indeed in any other creed--ever won its way among the majorityof converts by the mere force of reasoning. The course of events wasvery different. The theory of free trade won by degrees the approval ofstatesmen of special insight, and adherents to the new economic religionwere one by one gained among persons of intelligence. Cobden and Brightfinally became potent advocates of truths of which they were in no sensethe discoverers. This assertion in no way detracts from the credit dueto these eminent men. They performed to admiration the proper functionof popular leaders; by prodigies of energy and by seizing a favorableopportunity, of which they made the very most use that was possible, they gained the acceptance by the English people of truths which haverarely, in any country but England, acquired popularity. Much was due tothe opportuneness of the time. Protection wears its most offensive guisewhen it can be identified with a tax on bread, and therefore can, without patent injustice, be described as the parent of famine andstarvation. The unpopularity, moreover, inherent in a tax on corn isall but fatal to a protective tariff when the class which protectionenriches is comparatively small, whilst the class which would sufferkeenly from dearness of bread and would obtain benefit from free tradeis large, and, having already acquired much, is certain soon to acquiremore political power. Add to all this that the Irish famine made thesuspension of the corn laws a patent necessity. It is easy, then, to seehow great in England was the part played by external circumstances--onemight almost say by accidental conditions--in determining the overthrowof protection. A student should further remark that after free tradebecame an established principle of English policy, the majority of theEnglish people accepted it mainly on authority. Men who were neitherland-owners nor farmers perceived with ease the obtrusive evils of a taxon corn, but they and their leaders were far less influenced byarguments against protection generally than by the immediate and almostvisible advantage of cheapening the bread of artisans and laborers. What, however, weighed with most Englishmen, above every otherconsideration, was the harmony of the doctrine that commerce ought to befree, with that disbelief in the benefits of state intervention which in1846 had been gaining ground for more than a generation. 

It is impossible, indeed, to insist too strongly upon the considerationthat whilst opinion controls legislation, public opinion is itself farless the result of reasoning or of argument than of the circumstances inwhich men are placed. Between 1783 and 1861 negro slavery wasabolished--one might almost say ceased of itself to exist--in thenorthern states of the American Republic; in the South, on the otherhand, the maintenance of slavery developed into a fixed policy, andbefore the War of Secession the "peculiar institution" had become thefoundation stone of the social system. But the religious beliefs and, except as regards the existence of slavery, the political institutionsprevalent throughout the whole of the United States were the same. Thecondemnation of slavery in the North, and the apologies for slavery inthe South, must therefore be referred to difference of circumstances. Slave labor was obviously out of place in Massachusetts, Vermont, or NewYork; it appeared to be, even if in reality it was not, economicallyprofitable in South Carolina. An institution, again, which was utterlyincompatible with the social condition of the northern statesharmonized, or appeared to harmonize, with the social conditions of thesouthern states. The arguments against the peculiar institution were inthemselves equally strong in whatever part of the Union they wereuttered, but they carried conviction to the white citizens ofMassachusetts, whilst, even when heard or read, they did not carryconviction to the citizens of South Carolina. Belief, and, to speakfairly, honest belief, was to a great extent the result, not ofargument, nor even of direct self-interest, but of circumstances. Whatwas true in this instance holds good in others. There is no reason tosuppose that in 1830 the squires of England were less patriotic than themanufacturers, or less capable of mastering the arguments in favor of oragainst the reform of Parliament. But everyone knows that, as a rule, the country gentlemen were Tories and anti-reformers, whilst themanufacturers were Radicals and reformers. Circumstances are thecreators of most men's opinions. 

_Third_, the development of public opinion generally, and therefore oflegislative opinion, has been in England at once gradual, or slow, andcontinuous. The qualities of slowness and continuity may conveniently beconsidered together, and are closely interconnected, but they aredistinguishable and essentially different. 

Legislative public opinion generally changes in England with unexpectedslowness. Adam Smith's _Wealth of Nations_ was published in 1776; thepolicy of free exchange was not completely accepted by England till1846. All the strongest reasons in favor of Catholic emancipation werelaid before the English world by Burke between 1760 and 1797; the RomanCatholic Relief Act was not carried till 1829. 

The opinion which changes the law is in one sense the opinion of thetime when the law is actually altered; in another sense it has oftenbeen in England the opinion prevalent some twenty or thirty years beforethat time; it has been as often as not in reality the opinion, not oftoday, but of yesterday. 

Legislative opinion must be the opinion of the day, because, when lawsare altered, the alteration is of necessity carried into effect bylegislators who act under the belief that the change is an amendment;but this law-making opinion is also the opinion of yesterday, becausethe beliefs which have at last gained such hold on the legislature as toproduce an alteration in the law have generally been created bythinkers or writers who exerted their influence long before the changein the law took place. Thus it may well happen that an innovation iscarried through at a time when the teachers who supplied the argumentsin its favor are in their graves, or even--and this is well worthnoting--when in the world of speculation a movement has already set inagainst ideas which are exerting their full effect in the world ofaction and of legislation. 

Law-making in England is the work of men well advanced in life; thepoliticians who guide the House of Commons, to say nothing of the peerswho lead the House of Lords, are few of them below thirty, and most ofthem are above forty, years of age. They have formed or picked up theirconvictions, and, what is of more consequence, their prepossessions, inearly manhood, which is the one period of life when men are easilyimpressed with new ideas. Hence English legislators retain theprejudices or modes of thinking which they acquired in their youth; andwhen, late in life, they take a share in actual legislation, theylegislate in accordance with the doctrines which were current, eithergenerally or in the society to which the law-givers belonged, in thedays of their early manhood. The law-makers, therefore, of 1850 may giveeffect to the opinions of 1830, whilst the legislators of 1880 arelikely enough to impress upon the statute book the beliefs of 1860, orrather the ideas which in the one case attracted the young men of 1830and in the other the youth of 1860. We need not therefore be surprisedto find that a current of opinion may exert its greatest legislativeinfluence just when its force is beginning to decline. The tide turnswhen at its height; a school of thought or feeling which still governslaw-makers has begun to lose its authority among men of a youngergeneration who are not yet able to influence legislation. 

_Fourth_, the reigning legislative opinion of the day has never, at anyrate during the nineteenth century, exerted absolute or despoticauthority. Its power has always been diminished by the existence ofcounter-currents or cross-currents of opinion which were not in harmonywith the prevalent opinion of the time. 

A counter-current here means a body of opinion, belief, or sentimentmore or less directly opposed to the dominant opinion of a particularera. Counter-currents of this kind have generally been supplied by thesurvival of ideas or convictions which are gradually losing their holdupon a given generation, and particularly the youthful part thereof. This kind of "conservatism" which prompts men to retain convictionswhich are losing their hold upon the mass of the world is found, itshould be remarked, as much among the adherents of one religious orpolitical creed as of another. Any Frenchman who clung to Protestantismduring the reign of Louis the Fourteenth; any north-country squire whoin the England of the eighteenth century adhered to the RomanCatholicism of his fathers; Samuel Johnson, standing forth as a Tory anda High Churchman amongst Whigs and Free Thinkers; the Abbé Gregoire, retaining in 1830 the attitude and the beliefs of a bishop of thatconstitutional church of France whereof the claims have been repudiatedat once by the Church and by the State; James Mill, who, though theleader in 1832 of philosophic Radicals, the pioneers as they deemedthemselves of democratic progress, was in truth the last "of theeighteenth century"--these are each and all of them examples of thatintellectual and moral conservatism which everywhere, and especially inEngland, has always been a strong force. The past controls the present. 

Counter-currents, again, may be supplied by new ideals which arebeginning to influence the young. The hopes or dreams of the generationjust coming into the field of public life undermine the energy of adominant creed. 

Counter-currents of opinion, whatever their source, have one certain andone possible effect. The certain effect is that a check is imposed uponthe action of the dominant faith. 

_Fifth_, laws foster or create law-making opinion. This assertion maysound, to one who has learned that laws are the outcome of publicopinion, like a paradox; when properly understood, it is nothing but anundeniable, though sometimes neglected, truth. 

B. INTERESTS, SENTIMENTS, AND ATTITUDES

1. Social Forces and Interaction[160]

We must guard at the outset against an illusion that has exerted aconfusing influence. There are no social forces which are not at thesame time forces lodged in individuals, deriving their energy fromindividuals and operating in and through individuals. There are nosocial forces that lurk in the containing ether, and affect personswithout the agency of other persons. There are, to be sure, all thephysical conditions that affect persons just as they affect all otherforms of matter. So far, these are not social forces at all. They do notget to be social forces until they get into persons, and in thesepersons they take the form of feelings which impel them to react uponother persons. Persons are thus transmuters of physical forces intosocial forces; but all properly designated social forces are essentiallypersonal. They are within some persons, and stimulate them to act uponother persons; or they are in other persons, and exert themselves asexternal stimuli upon otherwise inert persons. In either case socialforces are personal influences passing from person to person andproducing activities that give content to the association. 

The conception of social forces was never challenged so long as it wasmerely an everyday commonplace. When it passed into technical forms ofexpression, doubts began to be urged. If anyone in the United States hadquestioned the existence of Mrs. Grundy fifty years ago, he would havebeen pitied and ignored as a harmless "natural. " Social forces in theform of gossip, and personified in Mrs. Grundy, were real to everybody. But the particular species of social forces which Mrs. Grundyrepresented were neither more nor less real than the other social forceswhich had no name in folklore. Persons incessantly influence persons. The modes of this influence are indescribably varied. They are consciousand unconscious, accidental and momentary, or deliberate and persistent;they are conventional and continuous, the result of individual habit, orof customs crystallized into national or racial institutions. 

The simple fact which the concept "social forces" stands for is thatevery individual acts and is acted upon in countless ways by the otherpersons with whom he associates. These modes of action and reactionbetween persons may be classified, and the more obvious and recurrentamong them may be enumerated. More than this, the action of these socialforces may be observed, and the results of observation may be organizedinto social laws. Indeed, there would be only two alternatives, if wedid not discover the presence and action of social forces. On the onehand, social science would at most be a subdivision of natural science;on the other hand, the remaining alternative would be the impossibilityof social science altogether. 

But social forces are just as distinctly discernible as chemical forces. The fact that we are not familiar with them no more makes against theirexistence and their importance than general ignorance of the pressure ofthe atmosphere takes that phenomenon out of the physical world. They arenot only the atmosphere but they are a very large part of the moralworld in general. If we could compose a complete account of the socialforces, we should at the same time have completed, from one point ofattention at least, a science of everything involved in human society. 

"All beings which can be said to perform actions do so in obedience tothose mental states which are denominated desires. " But we have goneback a step beyond the desires and have found it necessary to assume theexistence of underlying interests. These have to desires very nearly therelation of substance to attribute, or, in a different figure, of genusto species. Our interests may be beyond or beneath our ken; our desiresare strong and clear. I may not be conscious of my health interests inany deep sense, but the desires that my appetites assert are specificand concrete and real. The implicit interests, of which we may be veryimperfectly aware, move us to desires which may correspond well or illwith the real content of the interests. At all events, it is thesedesires which make up the active social forces, whether they are more orless harmonious with the interests from which they spring. The desiresthat the persons associating actually feel are practically the elementalforces with which we have to reckon. They are just as real as theproperties of matter. They have their ratios of energy, just ascertainly as though they were physical forces. They have their peculiarmodes of action, which may be formulated as distinctly as the variousmodes of chemical action. 

Every desire that any man harbors is a force making or marring, strengthening or weakening, the structure and functions of the societyof which he is a part. What the human desires are, what their relationsare to each other, what their peculiar modifications are under differentcircumstances--these are questions of detail which must be answered ingeneral by social psychology, and in particular by specific analysis ofeach social situation. The one consideration to be urged at this pointis that the concept "social forces" has a real content. It representsreality. There are social forces. They are the desires of persons. Theyrange in energy from the vagrant whim that makes the individual atemporary discomfort to his group, to the inbred feelings that wholeraces share. It is with these subtle forces that social arrangements andthe theories of social arrangements have to deal. 

2. Interests[161]

During the past generation, the conception of the "atom" has been ofenormous use in physical discovery. Although no one has ever seen anatom, the supposition that there are ultimate particles of matter inwhich the "promise and potency" of all physical properties and actionsreside has served as a means of investigation during the most intensiveperiod of research in the history of thought. Without the hypothesis ofthe atom, physics and chemistry, and in a secondary sense biology, wouldhave lacked chart and compass upon their voyages of exploration. Although the notion of the atom is rapidly changing, and the tendency ofphysical science is to construe physical facts in terms of motion ratherthan of the traditional atom, it is probably as needless as it isuseless for us to concern ourselves as laymen with this refinement. Although we cannot avoid speaking of the smallest parts into whichmatter can be divided, and although we cannot imagine, on the otherhand, how any portions of matter can exist and not be divisible intoparts, we are probably quite as incapable of saving ourselves fromparadox by resort to the vortex hypothesis in any form. That is, thesesubtleties are too wonderful for most minds. Without pushing analysistoo far, and without resting any theory upon analogy with the atom ofphysical theory, it is necessary to find some starting-place from whichto trace up the composition of sentient beings, just as the physicistsassumed that they found their starting-place in the atom. The notion ofinterests is accordingly serving the same purpose in sociology which thenotion of atoms has served in physical science. Interests are the stuffthat men are made of. More accurately expressed, the last elements towhich we can reduce the actions of human beings are units which we mayconveniently name "interests. " It is merely inverting the form ofexpression to say: _Interests are the simplest modes of motion which wecan trace in the conduct of human beings. _

To the psychologist the individual is interesting primarily as a centerof knowing, feeling, and willing. To the sociologist the individualbegins to be interesting when he is thought as knowing, feeling, andwilling _something_. In so far as a mere trick of emphasis may serve todistinguish problems, this ictus indicates the sociologicalstarting-point. The individual given in experience is thought to thepoint at which he is available for sociological assumption, when he isrecognized as a center of activities which make for something outside ofthe psychical series in which volition is a term. These activities mustbe referred primarily to desires, but the desires themselves may befurther referred to certain universal interests. In this character theindividual becomes one of the known or assumed terms of sociology. Theindividual as a center of active interests may be thought both as thelowest term in the social equation and as a composite term whose factorsmust be understood. These factors are either the more evident desires, or the more remote interests which the individual's desires in some wayrepresent. At the same time, we must repeat the admission that theseassumed interests are like the atom of physics. They are themetaphysical recourse of our minds in accounting for concrete facts. Wehave never seen or touched them. They are the hypothetical substratum ofthose regularities of conduct which the activities of individualsdisplay. 

We may start with the familiar popular expressions, "the farminginterest, " "the railroad interest, " "the packing interest, " "the millinginterest, " etc. , etc. Everyone knows what the expressions mean. Our useof the term "interest" is not co-ordinate with these, but it may beapproached by means of them. All the "interests" that are struggling forrecognition in business and in politics are highly composite. The ownerof a flour mill, for example, is a man before he is a miller. He becomesa miller at last because he is a man; i. E. , because he has interests--ina deeper sense than that of the popular expressions--which impel him toact in order to gain satisfactions. The clue to all social activity isin this fact of individual interests. Every act that every man performsis to be traced back to an interest. We eat because there is a desirefor food; but the desire is set in motion by a bodily interest inreplacing exhausted force. We sleep because we are tired; but theweariness is a function of the bodily interest in rebuilding used-uptissue. We play because there is a bodily interest in use of themuscles. We study because there is a mental interest in satisfyingcuriosity. We mingle with our fellow-men because there is a mentalinterest in matching our personality against that of others. We go tomarket to supply an economic interest, and to war because of some socialinterest of whatever mixed or simple form. 

With this introduction, we may venture an extremely abstract definitionof our concept "interest. " In general, _an interest is an unsatisfiedcapacity, corresponding to an unrealized condition, and it ispredisposition to such rearrangement as would tend to realize theindicated condition_. Human needs and human wants are incidents in theseries of events between the latent existence of human interest and theachievement of partial satisfaction. Human interests, then, are theultimate terms of calculation in sociology. _The whole life-process, sofar as we know it, whether viewed in its individual or in its socialphase, is at last the process of developing, adjusting, and satisfyinginterests. _

No single term is of more constant use in recent sociology than thisterm "interests. " We use it in the plural partly for the sake ofdistinguishing it from the same term in the sense which has become sofamiliar in modern pedagogy. The two uses of the term are closelyrelated, but they are not precisely identical. The pedagogical emphasisis rather on the voluntary attitude toward a possible object ofattention. The sociological emphasis is on attributes of persons whichmay be compared to the chemical affinities of different elements. 

To distinguish the pedagogical from the sociological use of the term"interest, " we may say pedagogically of a supposed case: "The boy has no_interest_ in physical culture, or in shopwork, or in companionship withother boys, or in learning, or in art, or in morality. " That is, attention and choice are essential elements of interest in thepedagogical sense. On the other hand, we may say of the same boy, in thesociological sense: "He has not discovered his health, wealth, sociability, knowledge, beauty, and rightness _interests_. " We thusimply that interests, in the sociological sense, are not necessarilymatters of attention and choice. They are affinities, latent in persons, pressing for satisfaction, whether the persons are conscious of themeither generally or specifically, or not; they are indicated spheres ofactivity which persons enter into and occupy in the course of realizingtheir personality. 

Accordingly, we have virtually said that interests are merelyspecifications in the make-up of the personal units. We have severaltimes named the most general classes of interests which we findserviceable in sociology, viz. : _health_, _wealth_, _sociability_, _knowledge_, _beauty_, and _rightness_. 

We need to emphasize, in addition, several considerations about theseinterests which are the motors of all individual and social action. First, there is a subjective and an objective aspect of them all. Itwould be easy to use terms of these interests in speculative argumentsin such a way as to shift the sense fallaciously from the one aspect tothe other; e. G. , moral conduct, as an actual adjustment of the person inquestion with other persons, is that person's "interest, " in theobjective sense. On the other hand, we are obliged to think of somethingin the person himself impelling him, however unconsciously, toward thatmoral conduct, i. E. , interest as "unsatisfied capacity" in thesubjective sense. So with each of the other interests. The fact thatthese two senses of the term are always concerned must never be ignored;but, until we reach refinements of analysis which demand use for thesediscriminations, they may be left out of sight. Second, human interestspass more and more from the latent, subjective, unconscious state to theactive, objective, conscious form. That is, before the baby isself-conscious, the baby's essential interest in bodily well-being isoperating in performance of the organic functions. A little later thebaby is old enough to understand that certain regulation of his diet, certain kinds of work or play, will help to make and keep him well andstrong. Henceforth there is in him a co-operation of interest in thefundamental sense, and interest in the derived, secondary sense, involving attention and choice. If we could agree upon the use of terms, we might employ the word "desire" for this development of interest;i. E. , physiological performance of function is, strictly speaking, thehealth interest; the desires which men actually pursue within the realmof bodily function may be normal or perverted, in an infinite scale ofvariety. So with each of the other interests. Third, with thesequalifications provided for, resolution of human activities into pursuitof differentiated interests becomes the first clue to the combinationthat unlocks the mysteries of society. For our purposes in thisargument we need not trouble ourselves very much about nice metaphysicaldistinctions between the aspects of interest, because we have mainly todo with interests in the same sense in which the man of affairs uses theterm. The practical politician looks over the lobby at Washington and heclassifies the elements that compose it. He says: "Here is the railroadinterest, the sugar interest, the labor interest, the army interest, thecanal interest, the Cuban interest, etc. " He uses the term "interest"essentially in the sociological sense but in a relatively concrete form, and he has in mind little more than variations of the wealth interest. He would explain the legislation of a given session as the final balancebetween these conflicting pecuniary interests. He is right, in the main;and every social action is, in the same way, an accommodation of thevarious interests which are represented in the society concerned. 

3. Social Pressures[162]

The phenomena of government are from start to finish phenomena of force. But force is an objectionable word. I prefer to use the word pressureinstead of force, since it keeps the attention closely directed upon thegroups themselves, instead of upon any mystical "realities" assumed tobe underneath and supporting them, and since its connotation is notlimited to the narrowly "physical. " We frequently talk of "bringingpressure to bear" upon someone, and we can use the word here with butslight extension beyond this common meaning. 

Pressure, as we shall use it, is always a group phenomenon. It indicatesthe push and resistance between groups. The balance of the grouppressures _is_ the existing state of society. Pressure is broad enoughto include all forms of the group influence upon group, from battle andriot to abstract reasoning and sensitive morality. It takes up intoitself "moral energy" and the finest discriminations of conscience aseasily as bloodthirsty lust of power. It allows for humanitarianmovements as easily as for political corruption. The tendencies toactivity are pressures, as well as the more visible activities. 

All phenomena of government are phenomena of groups pressing oneanother, forming one another, and pushing out new groups and grouprepresentatives (the organs or agencies of government) to mediate theadjustments. It is only as we isolate these group activities, determinetheir representative values, and get the whole process stated in termsof them that we approach to a satisfactory knowledge of government. 

When we take such an agency of government as a despotic ruler, we cannotpossibly advance to an understanding of him except in terms of the groupactivities of his society which are most directly represented throughhim, along with those which almost seem not to be represented throughhim at all, or to be represented to a different degree or in a differentmanner. And it is the same with democracies, even in their "purest" andsimplest forms, as well as in their most complicated forms. We cannotfairly talk of despotisms or of democracies as though they wereabsolutely distinct types of government to be contrasted offhand witheach other or with other types. All depends for each despotism and eachdemocracy and each other form of government on the given interests, their relations, and their methods of interaction. The interest groupscreate the government and work through it; the government, as activity, works "for" the groups; the government, from the viewpoint of certain ofthe groups, may at times be their private tool; the government, from theviewpoint of others of the groups, seems at times their deadly enemy;but the process is all one, and the joint participation is alwayspresent, however it may be phrased in public opinion or clamor. 

It is convenient most of the time in studying government to talk ofthese groups as interests. But I have already indicated with sufficientclearness that the interest is nothing other than the group activityitself. The words by which we name the interests often give the bestexpression to the value of the group activities in terms of other groupactivities: if I may be permitted that form of phrasing, they are morequalitative than quantitative in their implications. But that issometimes a great evil as well as sometimes an advantage. We must alwaysremember that there is nothing in the interests purely because ofthemselves and that we can depend on them only as they stand for groupswhich are acting or tending toward activity or pressing themselves alongin their activity with other groups. 

When we get the group activities on the lower planes worked out and showthem as represented in various forms of higher groups, culminating inthe political groups, then we make progress in our interpretations. Always and everywhere our study must be a study of the interests thatwork through government; otherwise we have not got down to facts. Norwill it suffice to take a single interest group and base ourinterpretation upon it, not even for a special time and a special place. No interest group has meaning except with reference to other interestgroups; and those other interest groups are pressures; they count in thegovernment process. The lowest of despised castes, deprived of rights tothe protection of property and even life, will still be found to be afactor in the government, if only we can sweep the whole field andmeasure the caste in its true degree of power, direct or represented, inits potentiality of harm to the higher castes, and in its identificationwith them for some important purposes, however deeply hidden fromordinary view. No slaves, not the worst abused of all, but help to formthe government. They are an interest group within it. 

Tested by the interest groups that function through them, legislaturesare of two general types. First are those which represent one class orset of classes in the government as opposed to some other class, whichis usually represented in a monarch. Second are those which are not theexclusive stronghold of one class or set of classes, but are instead thechannel for the functioning of all groupings of the population. Theborders between the two types are of course indistinct, but theyapproximate closely to the borders between a society with classorganization and one with classes broken down into freer and morechangeable group interests. 

Neither the number of chambers in the legislative body nor theconstitutional relations of the legislature to the executive can serveto define the two types. The several chambers may represent severalclasses, or again the double-chamber system may be in fact merely atechnical division, with the same interests present in both chambers. The executive may be a class representative, or merely a co-ordinateorgan, dividing with the legislature the labor of providing channelsthrough which the same lot of manifold interest groups can work. 

It lies almost on the surface that a legislature which is a class agencywill produce results in accordance with the class pressure behind it. Its existence has been established by struggle, and its life is acontinual struggle against the representatives of the opposite class. Ofcourse there will be an immense deal of argument to be heard on bothsides, and the argument will involve the setting forth of "reasons" inlimitless number. It is indeed because of the advantages (in groupterms, of course) of such argument as a technical means of adjustmentthat the legislative bodies survive. Argument under certain conditionsis a greater labor-saver than blows, and in it the group interests morefully unfold themselves. But beneath all the argument lies the strength. The arguments go no farther than the strength goes. What the new Russianduma will get, if it survives, will be what the people it solidlyrepresents are strong enough to make it get, and no more and no less, with bombs and finances, famine and corruption funds alike in the scale. 

But the farther we advance among legislatures of the second type, andthe farther we get away from the direct appeal to muscle and weapon, themore difficult becomes the analysis of the group components, the greateris the prominence that falls to the process of argumentation, the moreadroitly do the group forces mask themselves in morals, ideals, andphrases, the more plausible becomes the interpretation of thelegislature's work as a matter of reason, not of pressure, and the morecommon it is to hear condemnations of those portions of the process atwhich violence shows through the reasoning as though they were per seperverted, degenerate, and the bearers of ruin. There is, of course, astrong, genuine group opposition to the technique of violence, which isan important social fact; but a statement of the whole legislativeprocess in terms of the discussion forms used by that anti-violenceinterest group is wholly inadequate. 

4. Idea-Forces[163]

The principle that I assume at the outset is that every idea tends toact itself out. If it is an isolated idea, or if it is notcounterbalanced by a stronger force, its realization must take place. Thus the principle of the struggle for existence and of selection, taking the latter word in its broadest sense, is in my opinion asapplicable to ideas as to individuals and living species; a selectiontakes place in the brain to the advantage of the strongest and mostexclusive idea, which is thus able to control the whole organism. Inparticular, the child's brain is an arena of conflict for ideas and theimpulses they include; in the brain the new idea is a new force whichencounters the ideas already installed, and the impulses alreadydeveloped therein. Assume a mind, as yet a blank, and suddenly introduceinto it the representation of any movement, the idea of any action--suchas raising the arm. This idea being isolated and unopposed, the wave ofdisturbance arising in the brain will take the direction of the arm, because the nerves terminating in the arm are disturbed by therepresentation of the arm. The arm will therefore be lifted. Before amovement begins, we must think of this; now no movement that has takenplace is lost; it is necessarily communicated from the brain to theorgans if unchecked by any other representation or impulse. Thetransmission of the idea to the limbs is inevitable as long as the ideais isolated or unopposed. This I have called the law of idea-forces, andI think I have satisfactorily explained the curious facts in connectionwith the impulsive actions of the idea. 

The well-known experiments of Chevreul on the "pendule explorateur, " andon the divining rod, show that if we represent to ourselves a movementin a certain direction, the hand will finally execute this movementwithout our consciousness, and so will transmit it to the instrument. Table-turning is the realization of the expected movement by means ofthe unconscious motion of the hands. Thought-reading is theinterpretation of imperceptible movements, in which the thought of thesubject betrays itself, even without his being conscious of it. In theprocess that goes on when we are fascinated or on the point of fainting, a process more obvious in children than in adults, there is an inchoatemovement which the paralysis of the will fails to check. When I was alad, I was once running over a plank across the weir of a river, itnever entering my head that I ran any risk of falling; suddenly thisidea came into play like a force obliquely compounded with the straightcourse of thought which had up to that moment been guiding my footsteps. I felt as if an invisible arm had seized me and was dragging me down. Ishrieked and stood trembling above the foaming water until assistancecame. Here the mere idea of vertigo produced vertigo. A plank on theground may be crossed without arousing any idea of falling; but if it isabove a precipice, and we think of the distance below, the impulse tofall is very strong. Even when we are in perfect safety we may feel whatis known as the "fascination" of a precipice. The sight of the gulfbelow, becoming a fixed idea, produces a resultant inhibition on allother ideas. Temptation, which is always besetting a child becauseeverything is new to it, is nothing but the power of an idea and itsmotor impulse. 

The power of an idea is the greater, the more prominently it is singledout from the general content of consciousness. This selection of anidea, which becomes so exclusive that the whole consciousness isabsorbed in it, is called _monoïdeism_. This state is precisely that ofa person who has been hypnotized. What is called hypnotic suggestion isnothing but the artificial selection of one idea to the exclusion of allothers, so that it passes into action. Natural somnambulism similarlyexhibits the force of ideas; whatever idea is conceived by thesomnambulist, he carries into action. The kind of dream in whichchildren often live is not without analogy to somnambulism. The fixedidea is another instance of the same phenomenon, which is produced inthe waking state, and which, when exaggerated, becomes monomania, a kindof morbid monoïdeism; children, having very few ideas, would very soonacquire fixed ideas, if it were not for the mobility of attention whichthe ceaseless variation of the surrounding world produces in them. Thusall the facts grouped nowadays under the name of auto-suggestion may, inmy opinion, be explained. Here we shall generalize the law in this form:every idea conceived by the mind is an auto-suggestion, the selectiveeffect of which is only counterbalanced by other ideas producing adifferent auto-suggestion. This is especially noticeable in the young, who so rapidly carry into action what is passing through their minds. 

The philosophers of the seventeenth century, with Descartes and Pascal, considered sentiments and passions as indistinct thoughts, as "thoughts, as it were, in process of precipitation. " This is true. Beneath all oursentiments lies a totality of imperfectly analyzed ideas, a swellingstream of crowded and indistinct reasons by the momentum of which we arecarried away and swept along. Inversely, sentiments underlie all ourideas; they smoulder in the dying embers of abstractions. Even languagehas a power because it arouses all the sentiments which it condenses ina formula; the mere names "honor" and "duty" arouse infinite echoes inthe consciousness. At the name of "honor" alone, a legion of images ison the point of surging up; vaguely, as with eyes open in the dark, wesee all the possible witnesses of our acts, from father and mother tofriends and fellow-countrymen; further, if our imagination is vividenough, we can see those great ancestors who did not hesitate undersimilar circumstances. "We must; forward!" We feel that we are enrolledin an army of gallant men; the whole race, in its most heroicrepresentatives, is urging us on. There is a social and even ahistorical element beneath moral ideas. Besides, language, a socialproduct, is also a social force. The pious mind goes farther still; dutyis personified as a being--the living Good whose voice we hear. 

Some speak of lifeless formulas; of these there are very few. A word, anidea, is a formula of possible action and of sentiments ready to passinto acts; they are "verbs. " Now, every sentiment, every impulse whichbecomes formulated with, as it were, a _fiat_, acquires by this alone anew and quasi-creative force; it is not merely rendered visible by itsown light to itself but it is defined, specified, and selected from therest, and _ipso facto_ directed in its course. That is why formulasrelative to action are so powerful for good or evil; a child feels avague temptation, a tendency for which it cannot account. Pronounce inits hearing the formula, change the blind impulse into the luminousidea, and this will be a new suggestion which may, perhaps, cause it tofall in the direction to which it was already inclined. On the otherhand, some formulas of generous sentiments will carry away a vastaudience immediately they are uttered. The genius is often the man whotranslates the aspirations of his age into ideas; at the sound of hisvoice a whole nation is moved. Great moral, religious, and socialrevolutions ensue when the sentiments, long restrained and scarcelyconscious of their own existence, become formulated into ideas andwords; the way is then opened, the means and the goal are visible alike, selection takes place, all the volitions are simultaneously guided inthe same direction, like a torrent which has found the weakest point inthe dam. 

5. Sentiments[164]

We seldom experience the primary emotions in the pure or unmixed formsin which they are commonly manifested by the animals. Our emotionalstates commonly arise from the simultaneous excitement of two or more ofthe instinctive dispositions; and the majority of the names currentlyused to denote our various emotions are the names of such mixed, secondary, or complex emotions. That the great variety of our emotionalstates may be properly regarded as the result of the compounding of arelatively small number of primary or simple emotions is no newdiscovery. Descartes, for example, recognized only six primary emotions, or passions as he termed them, namely--admiration, love, hatred, desire, joy, and sadness, and he wrote, "All the others are composed of some outof these six and derived from them. " He does not seem to have formulatedany principles for the determination of the primaries and thedistinction of them from the secondaries. 

The compounding of the primary emotions is largely, though not wholly, due to the existence of sentiments, and some of the complex emotionalprocesses can only be generated from sentiments. Before going on todiscuss the complex emotions, we must therefore try to understand asclearly as possible the nature of a sentiment. 

The word "sentiment" is still used in several different senses. M. Ribotand other French authors use its French equivalent as covering all thefeelings and emotions, as the most general name for the affective aspectof mental processes. We owe to Mr. A. F. Shand the recognition offeatures of our mental constitution of a most important kind that havebeen strangely overlooked by other psychologists, and the application ofthe word "sentiments" to denote features of this kind. Mr. Shand pointsout that our emotions, or, more strictly speaking, our emotionaldispositions, tend to become organized in systems about the variousobjects and classes of objects that excite them. Such an organizedsystem of emotional tendencies is not a fact or mode of experience, butis a feature of the complexly organized structure of the mind thatunderlies all our mental activity. To such an organized system ofemotional tendencies centered about some object Mr. Shand proposes toapply the name "sentiment. " This application of the word is in fairaccordance with its usage in popular speech, and there can be littledoubt that it will rapidly be adopted by psychologists. 

The organization of the sentiments in the developing mind is determinedby the course of experience; that is to say, the sentiment is a growthin the structure of the mind that is not natively given in the inheritedconstitution. This is certainly true in the main, though the maternalsentiment might almost seem to be innate; but we have to remember thatin the human mother this sentiment may, and generally does, begin togrow up about the idea of its object, before the child is born. 

The growth of the sentiments is of the utmost importance for thecharacter and conduct of individuals and of societies; it is theorganization of the affective and conative life. In the absence ofsentiments our emotional life would be a mere chaos, without order, consistency, or continuity of any kind; and all our social relations andconduct, being based on the emotions and their impulses, would becorrespondingly chaotic, unpredictable, and unstable. It is only throughthe systematic organization of the emotional dispositions in sentimentsthat the volitional control of the immediate promptings of the emotionsis rendered possible. Again, our judgments of value and of merit arerooted in our sentiments; and our moral principles have the same source, for they are formed by our judgments of moral value. 

The sentiments may be classified according to the nature of theirobjects; they then fall into three main classes: the concreteparticular, the concrete general, and the abstract sentiments--e. G. , thesentiment of love for a child, of love for children in general, of lovefor justice or virtue. Their development in the individual follows thisorder, the concrete particular sentiments being, of course, the earliestand most easily acquired. The number of sentiments a man may acquire, reckoned according to the number of objects in which they are centered, may, of course, be very large; but almost every man has a small numberof sentiments--perhaps one only--that greatly surpass all the rest instrength and as regards the proportion of his conduct that springs fromthem. 

Each sentiment has a life-history, like every other vital organization. It is gradually built up, increasing in complexity and strength and maycontinue to grow indefinitely, or may enter upon a period of decline, and may decay slowly or rapidly, partially or completely. 

When any one of the emotions is strongly or repeatedly excited by aparticular object, there is formed the rudiment of a sentiment. Supposethat a child is thrown into the company of some person given to frequentoutbursts of violent anger, say, a violent-tempered father who isotherwise indifferent to the child and takes no further notice of himthan to threaten, scold, and, perhaps, beat him. At first the childexperiences fear at each exhibition of violence, but repetition of theseincidents very soon creates the habit of fear, and in the presence ofhis father, even in his mildest moods, the child is timorous; that is tosay, the mere presence of the father throws the child's fear-dispositioninto a condition of sub-excitement, which increases on the slightestoccasion until it produces all the subjective and objectivemanifestations of fear. As a further stage, the mere idea of the fatherbecomes capable of producing the same effects as his presence; this ideahas become associated with the emotion; or, in stricter language, thepsychophysical disposition whose excitement involves the rise toconsciousness of this idea, has become associated or intimatelyconnected with the psychophysical disposition whose excitement producesthe bodily and mental symptoms of fear. Such an association constitutesa rudimentary sentiment that we can only call a sentiment of fear. 

In a similar way, a single act of kindness done by A to B may evoke in Bthe emotion of gratitude; and if A repeats his kindly acts, conferringbenefits on B, the gratitude of B may become habitual, may become anenduring emotional attitude of B towards A--a sentiment of gratitude. Or, in either case, a single act--one evoking very intense fear orgratitude--may suffice to render the association more or less durableand the attitude of fear, or gratitude, of B toward A more or lesspermanent. 

6. Social Attitudes[165]

"Consciousness, " says Jacques Loeb, "is only a metaphysical term forphenomena which are determined by associative memory. By associativememory I mean that mechanism by which a stimulus brings about not onlythe effects which its nature and the specific structure of the irritableorgan call for, but by which it brings about also the effects of otherstimuli which formerly acted upon the organism almost or quitesimultaneously with the stimulus in question. If an animal can betrained, if it can learn, it possesses associative memory. " In short, because we have memories we are able to profit by experiences. 

It is the memories that determine, on the whole, what objects shall meanto us, and how we shall behave toward them. We cannot say, however, thata perception or an object is ever wholly without meaning to us. Theflame to which the child stretches out its hand means, even before hehas any experience of it, "something to be reached for, something to behandled. " After the first experience of touching it, however, it means"something naturally attractive but still to be avoided. " Each newexperience, so far as it is preserved in memory, adds new meanings tothe objects with which it is associated. 

Our perceptions and our ideas embody our experiences of objects and soserve as signs of what we may expect of them. They are the means bywhich we are enabled to control our behavior toward them. On the otherhand, if we lose our memories, either temporarily or permanently, welose at the same time our control over our actions and are still able torespond to objects, but only in accordance with our inborn tendencies. After all our memories are gone, we still have our original nature tofall back upon. 

There is a remarkable case reported by Sidis and Goodhart whichillustrates the rôle that memory plays in giving us control over ourinherited tendencies. It is that of Rev. Thomas C. Hanna, who, whileattempting to alight from a carriage, lost his footing, fell to theground and was picked up unconscious. When he awoke it was found that hehad not only lost the faculty of speech but he had lost all voluntarycontrol of his limbs. He had forgotten how to walk. He had not lost hissenses. He could feel and see, but he was not able to distinguishobjects. He had no sense of distance. He was in a state of complete"mental blindness. " At first he did not distinguish between his ownmovements and those of other objects. "He was as much interested in themovements of his own limbs as in that of external things. " He had noconception of time. "Seconds, minutes, and hours were alike to him. " Hefelt hunger but he did not know how to interpret the feeling and had nonotion of how to satisfy it. When food was offered him he did not knowwhat to do with it. In order to get him to swallow food it had to beplaced far back in his throat, in order to provoke reflex swallowingmovements. In their report of the case the authors say:

 Like an infant, he did not know the meaning of the simplest words, nor did he understand the use of language. Imitation was the factor in his first education. He learned the meaning of words by imitating definite articulate sounds made in connection with certain objects and activities. The pronunciation of words and their combination into whole phrases he acquired in the same imitative way. At first he simply repeated any word and sentence heard, thinking that this meant something to others. This manner of blind repetition and unintelligent imitation was, however, soon given up, and he began systematically to learn the meaning of words in connection with the objective content they signified. As in the case of children who, in their early developmental stage, use one word to indicate many objects different in their nature, but having some common point of superficial resemblance, so was it in the case of Mr. Hanna: the first word he acquired was used by him to indicate all the objects he wanted. 

The first word he learned was "apple" and for a time apple was the onlyword he knew. At first he learned only the names of particular objects. He did not seem able to learn words with an abstract or generalsignificance. But although he was reduced to a state of mental infancy, his "intelligence" remained, and he learned with astonishing rapidity. "His faculty of judgment, his power of reasoning, were as sound andvigorous as ever, " continues the report. "The content of knowledgeseemed to have been lost, but the form of knowledge remained as activeas before the accident and was perhaps even more precise and definite. "

One reason why man is superior to the brutes is probably that he has abetter natural memory. Another reason is that there are more things thathe can do, and so he has an opportunity to gain a wider and more variedexperience. Consider what a man can do with his hands! To this he hasadded tools and machinery, which are an extension of the hand and havemultiplied its powers enormously. It is now pretty well agreed, however, that the chief advantage which mankind has over the brutes is in thepossession of speech by which he can communicate his ideas. Incomparatively recent times he has supplemented this means ofcommunication by the invention of the printing press, the telegraph, andthe telephone. In this way he has been able not only to communicate hisexperiences but to fund and transmit them from one generation toanother. 

As soon as man began to point out objects and associate them with vocalsounds, he had obtained possession of a symbol by which he was able todeliberately communicate his desires and his intentions to other men ina more precise and definite way than he had been able to do through themedium of spontaneous emotional expression. 

The first words, we may suppose, were onomatopoetic, that is to say, vocal imitations of the objects to which they referred. At any rate theyarose spontaneously in connection with the situation that inspired them. They were then imitated by others and thus became the common andpermanent possession of the group. Language thus assumed for the groupthe rôle of perception in the individual. It became the sign and symbolof those meanings which were the common possession of the group. 

As the number of such symbols was relatively small in comparison to thenumber of ideas, words inevitably came to have different meanings indifferent contexts. In the long run the effect of this was to detach thewords from the particular contexts in which they arose and loosen theirconnections with the particular sentiments and attitudes with which theywere associated. They came to have thus a more distinctively symbolicand formal character. It was thus possible to give them more precisedefinitions, to make of them abstractions and mental toys, which theindividual could play with freely and disinterestedly. Like the childwho builds houses with blocks, he was able to arrange them in orders andsystems, create ideal structures, like the constructions of mathematics, which he was then able to employ as means of ordering and systematizinghis more concrete experiences. 

All this served to give the individual a more complete control over hisown experience and that of the group. It made it possible to analyze andclassify his own experiences and compare them with those of his fellowsand so, eventually, to erect the vast structure of formal and scientificknowledge on the basis of which men are able to live and work togetherin co-operation upon the structure of a common civilization. 

The point is that the breadth of the experience over which man hascontrol and the disinterestedness with which he is able to view it isthe basis of the intellectual attainment of the individual, as of therace. 

If human beings were thoroughly rational creatures, we may presume thatthey would act, at every instant, on the basis of all their experienceand all the knowledge that they were able to obtain from the experienceof others. The truth is, however, that we are never able, at any onetime, to mobilize, control, and use all the experience and all theknowledge that we now possess and which, if we were less human than weare, might serve to guide and control our actions. It is precisely thefunction of science to collect, organize, and make available for ourpractical uses the fund of experience and of knowledge we do possess. 

Not only do we already have more knowledge than we can use, but much ofour personal and individual experience drops out and is lost in thecourse of a lifetime. Meanwhile, later experiences are constantly addingthemselves to the earlier ones. In this way the meaning of the world isconstantly changing for us, much as the surface of the earth isconstantly under the influence of the weather. 

The actual constellation of our memories and ideas is determined at anygiven moment not merely by processes of association but also byprocesses of dissociation. Practical interests, sentiments, andemotional outbursts--love, fear, and anger--are constantly interruptingthe logical and constructive processes of the mind. These forces tend todissolve established connections between ideas and disintegrate ourmemories so that they rarely function as a whole or as a unit, butrather as more or less dissociated systems. 

The mere act of attention, for example, so far as it focuses theactivities upon a single object, tends to narrow the range ofassociations, check deliberation, and, by isolating one idea or systemof ideas, prepares us to act in accordance with them without regard tothe demands of other ideas in the wider but now suppressed context ofour experience. The isolation of one group of ideas implies thesuppression of other groups which are inconsistent with them or hinderthe indicated action. 

When the fundamental instinct-emotions are aroused, they invariably havethe effect of isolating the ideas with which they are associated and ofinhibiting the contrary emotions. This is the explanation of war. Whenthe fighting instincts are stirred, men lose the fear of death and thehorror of killing. 

When an idea, particularly one that is associated with some originaltendency of human nature, is thus isolated in consciousness, thetendency is to respond to it automatically, just as one would respond toa simple reflex. This explains the phenomena of suggestion. A state ofsuggestibility is always a pre-condition of suggestion, andsuggestibility means just such an isolation and dissociation of thesuggested idea as has been described. Hypnotic trance may be defined asa condition of abnormal suggestibility, in which the subject tends tocarry out automatically the commands of the experimenter, "as if, " asthe familiar phrase puts it, "he had no will of his own, " or rather, asif the will of the experimenter had been substituted for that of thesubject. In fact the phenomena of auto-suggestion, in which one obeyshis own suggestion, seems to differ from other forms of the samephenomena only in the fact that the subject obeys his own commandsinstead of those of the experimenter. Not only suggestion andauto-suggestion, but imitation, which is nothing more than another formof suggestion, are made possible by the existence of mental mechanismscreated by dissociation. 

Hypnotism represents an extreme but temporary form of dissociation ofthe memories, artificially produced. Fascination and abstraction(absent-mindedness) are milder forms of the same phenomena with thisdifference, that they occur "in nature" and without artificialstimulation. 

A more permanent dissociation is represented in moods. The memorieswhich connect themselves with moods are invariably such as will supportthe dominant emotion. At the same time memories which tend in any way tomodify the prevailing tone of the mood are spontaneously suppressed. 

It is a familiar fact that persons whose occupations or whose mode oflife brings them habitually into different worlds, so that theexperiences in one have little or nothing in common with those of theother, inevitably develop something akin to a dual personality. Thebusiness man, for example, is one person in the city and another at hishome in the suburbs. 

The most striking and instructive instances of dissociation, however, are the cases of dual or multiple personality in which the sameindividual lives successively or simultaneously two separate lives, eachof which is wholly oblivious of the other. The classic instance of thiskind is the case of the Rev. Ansel Bourne reported by William James inhis _Principles of Psychology_. Ansel Bourne was an itinerant preacherliving at Greene, Rhode Island. On January 19, 1887, he drew $551. 00from a bank in Providence and entered a Pawtucket horse car anddisappeared. He was advertised as missing, foul play being suspected. 

On the morning of March 24, at Norristown, Pennsylvania, a man callinghimself A. J. Brown awoke in a fright and called on the people of thehouse to tell him who he was. Later he said he was Ansel Bourne. Nothingwas known of him in Norristown except that six weeks before he hadrented a small shop, stocked it with stationery, confectionery, andother small articles, and was carrying on a quiet trade "without seemingto anyone unnatural or eccentric. " At first it was thought he wasinsane, but his story was confirmed and he was returned to his home. Itwas then deemed that he had lost all memory of the period which hadelapsed since he boarded the Pawtucket car. What he had done or where hehad been between the time he left Providence and arrived in Norristown, no one had the slightest information. 

In 1890 he was induced by William James to submit to hypnotism in orderto see whether in his trance state his "Brown" memories would come back. The experiment was so successful that, as James remarks, "it provedquite impossible to make him, while in hypnosis, remember any of thefacts of his normal life. " The report continues:

 He had heard of Ansel Bourne, but "didn't know as he had ever met the man. " When confronted with Mrs. Bourne he said that he had "never seen the woman before, " etc. On the other hand, he told of his peregrinations during the lost fortnight, and gave all sorts of details about the Norristown episode. The whole thing was prosaic enough; and the Brown-personality seems to be nothing but a rather shrunken, dejected, and amnesic extract of Mr. Bourne himself. He gave no motive for the wandering except that there was "trouble back there" and he "wanted rest. " During the trance he looks old, the corners of his mouth are drawn down, his voice is slow and weak, and he sits screening his eyes and trying vainly to remember what lay before and after the two months of the Brown experience. "I'm all hedged in, " he says, "I can't get out at either end. I don't know what set me down in that Pawtucket horse-car, and I don't know how I ever left that store or what became of it. " His eyes are practically normal, and all his sensibilities (save for tardier response) about the same in hypnosis as in waking. I had hoped by suggestion to run the two personalities into one, and make the memories continuous, but no artifice would avail to accomplish this, and Mr. Bourne's skull today still covers two distinct personal selves. 

An interesting circumstance with respect to this case and others is thatthe different personalities, although they inhabit the same body anddivide between them the experiences of a single individual, not onlyregard themselves as distinct and independent persons but they exhibitmarked differences in character, temperament, and tastes, and frequentlyprofess for one another a decided antipathy. The contrasts intemperament and character displayed by these split-off personalities areillustrated in the case of Miss Beauchamp, to whose strange andfantastic history Morton Prince has devoted a volume of nearly sixhundred pages. 

In this case, the source of whose morbidity was investigated by means ofhypnotism, not less than three distinct personalities in addition tothat of the original and real Miss Beauchamp were evolved. Each one ofthese was distinctly different and decidedly antipathetic to the others. 

Pierre Janet's patient, Madam B, however, is the classic illustration ofthis dissociated personality. From the time she was sixteen years ofage, Léonie, as she was called, had been so frequently hypnotized andsubjected to so much clinical experimentation that a well-organizedsecondary personality was elaborated, which was designated as Léontine. Léonie was a poor peasant woman, serious, timid, and melancholy. Léontine was gay, noisy, restless, and ironical. Léontine did notrecognize that she had any relationship with Léonie, whom she referredto as "that good woman, " "the other, " who "is not I, she is too stupid. "Eventually a third personality, known as Léonore, appeared who did notwish to be mistaken for either that "good but stupid woman" Léonie, norfor the "foolish babbler" Léontine. 

Of these personalities Léonie possessed only her own memories, Léontinepossessed the memories of Léonie and her own, while the memories ofLéonore, who was superior to them both, included Madam B's whole life. 

What is particularly interesting in connection with this phenomenon ofmultiple personality is the fact that it reveals in a striking way therelation of the subconscious to the conscious. The term subconscious, asit occurs in the literature of psychology, is a word of variousmeanings. In general, however, we mean by subconscious a region ofconsciousness in which the dissociated memories, the "suppressedcomplexes, " as they are called, maintain some sort of consciousexistence and exercise an indirect though very positive influence uponthe ideas in the focus of consciousness, and so upon the behavior of theindividual. The subconscious, in short, is the region of the suppressedmemories. They are suppressed because they have come into conflict withthe dominant complex in consciousness which represents the personalityof the individual. 

"Emotional conflicts" have long been the theme of literary analysis anddiscussion. In recent years they have become the subject of scientificinvestigation. In fact a new school of medical psychology with a vastliterature has grown up around and out of the investigations of theeffects of the suppression of a single instinct--the sexual impulse. Awhole class of nervous disorders, what are known as psychoneuroses, aredirectly attributed by Dr. Sigmund Freud and the psychoanalytic school, as it is called, to these suppressions, many of which consist ofmemories that go back to the period of early childhood before the sexualinstinct had attained the form that it has in adults. 

The theory of Freud, stated briefly, amounts to this: As a result ofemotional conflicts considerable portions of the memories of certainindividuals, with the motor impulses connected with them, are thrustinto the background of the mind, that is to say, the subconscious. Suchsuppressed memories, with the connected motor dispositions, he firstnamed "suppressed complexes. " Now it is found that these suppressedcomplexes, which no longer respond to stimulations as they would undernormal conditions, may still exercise an indirect influence upon theideas which are in the focus of consciousness. Under certain conditionsthey may not get into consciousness at all but manifest themselves, forexample, in the form of hysterical tics, twitchings, and muscularconvulsions. 

Under other circumstances the ideas associated with the suppressedcomplexes tend to have a dominating and controlling place in the life ofthe individual. All our ideas that have a sentimental setting are ofthis character. We are all of us a little wild and insane upon certainsubjects or in regard to certain persons or objects. In such cases avery trivial remark or even a gesture will fire one of these loadedideas. The result is an emotional explosion, a sudden burst of weeping, a gust of violent, angry, and irrelevant emotion, or, in case thefeelings are more under control, merely a bitter remark or a chillingand ironical laugh. It is an interesting fact that a jest may serve aswell to give expression to the "feelings" as an expletive or any otheremotional expression. All forms of fanaticism, fixed ideas, phobias, ideals, and cherished illusions may be explained as the effects ofmental mechanisms created by the suppressed complexes. 

From what has been said we are not to assume that there is any necessaryand inevitable conflict among ideas. In our dreams and day-dreams, as infairyland, our memories come and go in the most disorderly and fantasticway, so that we may seem to be in two places at the same time, or we mayeven be two persons, ourselves and someone else. Everything tripslightly along, in a fantastic pageant without rhyme or reason. Wediscover something of the same freedom when we sit down to speculateabout any subject. All sorts of ideas present themselves; we entertainthem for a moment, then dismiss them and turn our attention to someother mental picture which suits our purpose better. At such times we donot observe any particular conflict between one set of ideas andanother. The lion and the lamb lie down peacefully together, and even ifthe lamb happens to be inside we are not particularly disturbed. 

Conflict arises between memories when our personal interests areaffected, when our sentiments are touched, when some favorite opinion ischallenged. Conflict arises between our memories when they are connectedwith some of our motor dispositions, that is to say, when we begin toact. Memories which are suppressed as a result of emotional conflicts, memories associated with established motor dispositions, inevitably tendto find some sort of direct or symbolic expression. In this way theygive rise to the symptoms which we meet in hysteria andpsychasthenia--fears, phobias, obsessions, and tics, like stammering. 

The suppressed complexes do not manifest themselves in the pathologicalforms only, but neither do the activities of the normal complexes giveany clear and unequivocal evidence of themselves in ordinaryconsciousness. We are invariably moved to act by motives of which we areonly partially conscious or wholly unaware. Not only is this true, butthe accounts we give to ourselves and others of the motives upon whichwe acted are often wholly fictitious, although they may be given inperfect good faith. 

A simple illustration will serve, however, to indicate how this can beeffected. In what is called post-hypnotic suggestion we have anillustration of the manner in which the waking mind may be influenced byimpulses of whose origin and significance the subject is wholly unaware. In a state of hypnotic slumber the suggestion is given that afterawaking the subject will, upon a certain signal, rise and open thewindow or turn out the light. He is accordingly awakened and, at thesignal agreed upon while he was in the hypnotic slumber but of which heis now wholly unconscious, he will immediately carry out the command aspreviously given. If the subject is then asked why he opened the windowor turned out the light, he will, in evident good faith, make someordinary explanation, as that "it seemed too hot in the room, " or thathe "thought the light in the room was disagreeable. " In some cases, whenthe command given seems too absurd, the subject may not carry it out, but he will then show signs of restlessness and discomfort, just forinstance as one feels when he is conscious that he has left somethingundone which he intended to do, although he can no longer recall what itwas. Sometimes when the subject is not disposed to carry out the commandactually given, he will perform some other related act as a substitute, just as persons who have an uneasy conscience, while still unwilling tomake restitution or right the wrong which they have committed, willperform some other act by way of expiation. 

Our moral sentiments and social attitudes are very largely fixed anddetermined by our past experiences of which we are only vaguelyconscious. 

"This same principle, " as Morton Prince suggests, "underlies what iscalled the 'social conscience, ' the 'civic' and 'national conscience, ''patriotism, ' 'public opinion, ' what the Germans call 'Sittlichkeit, 'the war attitude of mind, etc. All these mental attitudes may be reducedto common habits of thought and conduct derived from mental experiencescommon to a given community and conserved as complexes in theunconscious of the several individuals of the community. "

Sentiments were first defined and distinguished from the emotions byShand, who conceived of them as organizations of the emotions about someparticular object or type of object. Maternal love, for example, includes the emotions of fear, anger, joy, or sorrow, all organizedabout the child. This maternal love is made up of innate tendencies butis not itself a part of original nature. It is the mother's fosteringcare of the child which develops her sentiments toward it, and thesentiment attaches to any object that is bound up with the life of thechild. The cradle is dear to the mother because it is connected with heroccupation in caring for the child. The material fears for its welfare, her joy in its achievements, her anger with those who injure or evendisparage it, are all part of the maternal sentiment. 

The mother's sentiment determines her attitude toward her child, towardother children, and toward children in general. Just as back of everysensation, perception, or idea there is some sort of motor disposition, so our attitudes are supported by our sentiments. Back of everypolitical opinion there is a political sentiment and it is the sentimentwhich gives force and meaning to the opinion. 

Thus we may think of opinions merely as representative of apsycho-physical mechanism, which we may call the sentiment-attitude. These sentiment-attitudes are to be regarded in turn as organizations ofthe original tendencies, the instinct-emotions, about some memory, idea, or object which is, or once was, the focus and the end for which theoriginal tendencies thus organized exist. In this way opinions turn out, in the long run, to rest on original nature, albeit original naturemodified by experience and tradition. 

C. THE FOUR WISHES: A CLASSIFICATION OF SOCIAL FORCES

1. The Wish, the Social Atom[166]

The Freudian psychology is based on the doctrine of the "wish, " just asphysical science is based, today, on the concept of function. Both ofthese are what may be called dynamic concepts, rather than static; theyenvisage natural phenomena not as things but as processes and largely tothis fact is due their pre-eminent explanatory value. Through the "wish"the "thing" aspect of mental phenomena, the more substantive "content ofconsciousness, " becomes somewhat modified and reinterpreted. This"wish, " which as a concept Freud does not analyze, includes all thatwould commonly be so classed, and also whatever would be called impulse, tendency, desire, purpose, attitude, and the like, not including, however, any emotional components thereof. Freud also acknowledges theexistence of what he calls "negative wishes, " and these are not fearsbut negative purposes. An exact definition of the "wish" is that it is_a course of action_ which some mechanism of the body is _set_ to carryout, whether it actually does so or does not. All emotions, as well asthe feelings of pleasure and displeasure, are separable from the"wishes, " and this precludes any thought of a merely hedonisticpsychology. The wish is any purpose of project for _a course of action_, whether it is being merely entertained by the mind or is being actuallyexecuted--a distinction which is really of little importance. We shalldo well if we consider this to be, as in fact it is, dependent on a_motor attitude_ of the physical body, which goes over into overt actionand _conduct_ when the wish is carried into execution. 

It is this "wish" which transforms the principal doctrines of psychologyand recasts the science, much as the "atomic theory" and later the"ionic theory" have reshaped earlier conceptions of chemistry. Thisso-called "wish" becomes the unit of psychology, replacing the olderunit commonly called "sensation, " which latter, it is to be noted, was a_content_ of consciousness unit, whereas the "wish" is a more dynamicaffair. 

Unquestionably the mind is somehow "embodied" in the body. But how?Well, if the unit of mind and character is a "wish, " it is easy enoughto perceive how it is incorporated. It is, this "wish, " something whichthe body as a piece of mechanism can do--a course of action with regardto the environment which the machinery of the body is capable ofcarrying out. This capacity resides clearly in the parts of which thebody consists and in the way in which these are put together, not somuch in the matter of which the body is composed, as in the forms whichthis matter assumes when organized. 

In order to look at this more closely we must go a bit down theevolutionary series to the fields of biology and physiology. Here wefind much talk of nerves and muscles, sense-organs, reflex arcs, stimulation, and muscular response, and we feel that somehow thesethings do not reach the core of the matter, and that they never can;that spirit is not nerve or muscle; and that intelligent conduct, to saynothing of conscious thought, can never be reduced to reflex arcs andthe like--just as a printing press is not merely wheels and rollers, and still less is it chunks of iron. The biologist has only himself tothank if he has overlooked a thing which lay directly under his nose. Hehas overlooked the _form of organization_ of these his reflex arcs, hasleft out of account that step which assembles wheels and rollers into aprinting press, and that which organizes reflex arcs, as we shallpresently see, into an intelligent, conscious creature. Evolution tookthis important little step of organization ages ago, and therebyproduced the rudimentary "wish. "

Now in the reflex arc a sense-organ is stimulated and the energy ofstimulation is transformed into nervous energy, which then passes alongan afferent nerve to the central nervous system, passes through this andout by an efferent or motor nerve to a muscle, where the energy is againtransformed and the muscle contracts. Stimulation at one point of theanimal organism produces contraction at another. The principles ofirritability and of motility are involved, but all further study of_this_ process will lead us only to the physics and chemistry of theenergy transformations--will lead us, that is, in the direction of_analysis_. If, however, we inquire in what way such reflexes arecombined or "integrated" into more complicated processes, we shall beled in exactly the opposite direction, that of _synthesis_, and here wesoon come, as is not surprising, to a synthetic novelty. This is_specific response_ or _behavior_. 

In this single reflex something is done to a sense-organ and the processwithin the organ is comparable to the process in any unstable substancewhen the foreign energy strikes it; it is strictly a chemical process, and so for the conducting nerve, likewise for the contracting muscle. Ithappens, as a physiological fact, that in this process stored energy isreleased so that a reflex contraction is literally comparable to thefiring of a pistol. But the reflex arc is not "aware" of anything, andindeed there is nothing more to say about the process unless we shouldbegin to analyze it. But even two such processes going on together inone organism are a very different matter. Two such processes require twosense-organs, two conduction paths, and two muscles; and since we areconsidering the result of the two in combination, the relativeanatomical location of these six members is of importance. Forsimplicity I will take a hypothetical but strictly possible case. Asmall water animal has an eyespot located on each side of its anteriorend; each spot is connected by a nerve with a vibratory silium or finon the side of the posterior end; the thrust exerted by each fin istoward the rear. If, now, light strikes one eye, say the right, the leftfin is set in motion and the animal's body is set rotating toward theright like a rowboat with one oar. This is all that one such reflex arccould do for the animal. Since, however, there are now two, when theanimal comes to be turned far enough toward the right so that some ofthe light strikes the second eyespot (as will happen when the animalcomes around facing the light), the second fin, on the right side, isset in motion, and the two together propel the animal forward in astraight line. The direction of this line will be that in which theanimal lies when its two eyes receive equal amounts of light. In otherwords, by the combined operation of two reflexes the animal swims_toward the light_, while either reflex alone would only have set itspinning like a top. It now responds specifically in the direction ofthe light, whereas before it merely spun when lashed. 

Suppose, now, that it possess a _third_ reflex arc--a "heat spot" soconnected with the same or other fins that when stimulated by a certainintensity of heat it initiates a nervous impulse which stops the forwardpropulsion. The animal is still "lashed, " but nevertheless no light canforce it to swim "blindly to its death" by scalding. It has therudiments of "intelligence. " But so it had before. For as soon as tworeflex arcs capacitate it mechanically to swim _toward light_, it was nolonger exactly like a pinwheel; it could respond specifically toward atleast one thing in its environment. 

It is this objective reference of a process of release that issignificant. The mere reflex does not refer to anything beyond itself;if it drives an organism in a certain direction, it is only as a rocketignited at random shoots off in some direction, depending on how ithappened to lie. But specific response is not merely in some randomdirection, it is _toward an object_, and if this object is moved, theresponding organism changes its direction and still moves after it. Andthe objective reference is that the organism is _moving with referenceto some object or fact of the environment_. For the organism, while avery interesting mechanism in itself, is one whose movements turn onobjects outside of itself, much as the orbit of the earth turns upon thesun; and these external, and sometimes very distant, objects are as much_constituents_ of the behavior process as is the organism which doesthe turning. It is this _pivotal outer object_, the object of specificresponse, which seems to me to have been overneglected. 

It is not surprising, then, that in animals as highly organized reflexlyas are many of the invertebrates, even though they should possess noother principle of action than that of specific response, the variouslife-activities should present an appearance of considerableintelligence. And I believe that in fact this intelligence is solely theproduct of accumulated specific responses. Our present point is that thespecific response and the "wish" as Freud uses the term, are one and thesame thing. 

2. The Freudian Wish[167]

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride" is a nursery saw which, inthe light of recent developments in psychology, has come to have a muchmore universal application than it was formerly supposed to have. If thefollowers of the Freudian school of psychologists can be believed--andthere are many reasons for believing them--all of us, no matter howapparently contented we are and how well we are supplied with the goodthings of the earth, are "beggars, " because at one time or another andin one way or another we are daily betraying the presence of unfulfilledwishes. Many of these wishes are of such a character that we ourselvescannot put them into words. Indeed, if they were put into words for us, we should straightway deny that such a wish is or was ever harbored byus in our waking moments. But the stretch of time indicated by "wakingmoments" is only a minor part of the twenty-four hours. Even during thetime we are not asleep we are often abstracted, day-dreaming, lettingmoments go by in reverie. Only during a limited part of our wakingmoments are we keenly and alertly "all there" in the possession of ourfaculties. There are thus, even apart from sleep, many unguarded momentswhen these so-called "repressed wishes" may show themselves. 

In waking moments we wish only for the conventional things which willnot run counter to our social traditions or code of living. But theseopen and above-board wishes are not very interesting to thepsychologist. Since they are harmless and call for the kinds of thingsthat everybody in our circle wishes for, we do not mind admitting themand talking about them. Open and uncensored wishes are best seen inchildren (though children at an early age begin to show repressions). Only tonight I heard a little girl of nine say: "I wish I were a boy andwere sixteen years old--I'd marry Ann" (her nine-year old companion). And recently I heard a boy of eight say to his father: "I wish you wouldgo away forever; then I could marry mother. " The spontaneous anduncensored wishes of children gradually disappear as the children takeon the speech conventions of the adult. But even though the crassness ofthe form of expression of the wish disappears with age, there is noreason to suppose that the human organism ever gets to the point wherewishes just as unconventional as the above do not rise to trouble it. Such wishes, though, are immediately repressed; we never harbor them nordo we express them clearly to ourselves in our waking moments. 

The steps by which repression takes place in the simpler cases are notespecially difficult to understand. When the child wants something itought not to have, its mother hands it something else and moves theobject about until the child reaches out for it. When the adult strivesfor something which society denies him, his environment offers him, ifhe is normal, something which is "almost as good, " although it may notwholly take the place of the thing he originally strove for. This ingeneral is the process of substitution or sublimation. It is nevercomplete from the first moment of childhood. Consequently it is naturalto suppose that many of the things which have been denied us should attimes beckon to us. But since they are banned they must beckon indevious ways. These sometime grim specters both of the present and ofthe past cannot break through the barriers of our staid and sober wakingmoments, so they exhibit themselves, at least to the initiated, inshadowy form in reverie, and in more substantial form in the slips wemake in conversation and in writing, and in the things we laugh at; butclearest of all in dreams. I say the meaning is clear to the initiatedbecause it does require special training and experience to analyze theseseemingly nonsensical slips of tongue and pen, these highly elaboratedand apparently meaningless dreams, into the wishes (instinct and habitimpulses) which gave them birth. It is fortunate for us that we areprotected in this way from having to face openly many of our own wishesand the wishes of our friends. 

We get our clue to the dream as being a wish fulfilment by taking thedreams of children. Their dreams are as uncensored as is theirconversation. Before Christmas my own children dreamed nightly that theyhad received the things they wanted for Christmas. The dreams wereclear, logical, and open wishes. Why should the dreams of adults be lesslogical and less open unless they are to act as concealers of the wish?If the dream processes in the child run in an orderly and logical way, would it indeed not be curious to find the dream processes of the adultless logical and full of meaning?

This argument gives us good a priori grounds for supposing that thedreams of adults too are full of meaning and are logical; that there isa wish in every dream and that the wish is fulfilled in the dream. Thereason dreams appear illogical is due to the fact that if the wish wereto be expressed in its logical form it would not square with oureveryday habits of thought and action. We should be disinclined to admiteven to ourselves that we have such dreams. Immediately upon waking onlyso much of the dream is remembered, that is, put into ordinary speech, as will square with our life at the time. The dream is "censored, " inother words. 

The question immediately arises, who is the censor or what part of usdoes the censoring? The Freudians have made more or less of a"metaphysical entity" out of the censor. They suppose that when wishesare repressed, they are repressed into the "unconscious, " and that thismysterious censor stands at the trapdoor lying between the conscious andthe unconscious. Many of us do not believe in a world of the unconscious(a few of us even have grave doubts about the usefulness of the termconsciousness), hence we try to explain censorship along ordinarybiological lines. We believe that one group of habits can "down" anothergroup of habits--or instincts. In this case our ordinary system ofhabits--those which we call expressive of our "real selves"--inhibit orquench (keep inactive or partially inactive) those habits andinstinctive tendencies which belong largely in the past. 

This conception of the dream as having both censored and uncensoredfeatures has led us to divide the dream into its specious or manifestcontent (face value, which is usually nonsensical) and its latent orlogical content. We should say that while the manifest content of thedream is nonsensical, its true or latent content is usually logical andexpressive of some wish that has been suppressed in the waking state. 

On examination the manifest content of dreams is found to be full ofsymbols. As long as the dream does not have to be put into customarylanguage, it is allowed to stand as it is dreamed--the symbolic featuresare uncensored. Symbolism is much more common than is ordinarilysupposed. All early language was symbolic. The language of children andof savages abounds in symbolism. Symbolic modes of expression both inart and in literature are among the earliest forms of treating difficultsituations in delicate and inoffensive ways. In other words, symbols inart are a necessity and serve the same purpose as does the censor in thedreams. Even those of us who have not an artistic education, however, have become familiar with the commoner forms of symbolism through ouracquaintance with literature. In the dream, when the more finelycontrolled physiological processes are in abeyance, there is a tendencyto revert to the symbolic modes of expression. This has its use, becauseon awaking the dream does not shock us, since we make no attempt toanalyze or trace back in the dream the symbol's original meaning. Hencewe find that the manifest content is often filled with symbols whichoccasionally give us the clue to the dream analysis. 

The dream then brings surcease from our maladjustments: If we are deniedpower, influence, or love by society or by individuals, we can obtainthese desiderata in our dreams. We can possess in dreams the thingswhich we cannot have by day. In sleep the poor man becomes a Midas, theugly woman handsome, the childless woman surrounded by children, andthose who in daily life live upon a crust in their dreams dine likeprinces (after living upon canned goods for two months in the DryTortugas, the burden of my every dream was food). Where the wished-forthings are compatible with our daily code, they are remembered onawaking as they were dreamed. Society, however, will not allow theunmarried woman to have children, however keen her desire for them. Hence her dreams in which the wish is gratified are remembered inmeaningless words and symbols. 

Long before the time Freud's doctrine saw the light of day, WilliamJames gave the key to what I believed to be the true explanation of thewish. Thirty years ago he wrote:

 I am often confronted by the necessity of standing by one of my selves and relinquishing the rest. Not that I would not, if I could, be both handsome and fat and well dressed, and a great athlete, and make a million a year, be a wit, a _bon vivant_, and a lady-killer, as well as a philosopher, a philanthropist, a statesman, a warrior, and African explorer, as well as a "tone-poet" and a saint. But the thing is simply impossible. The millionaire's work would run counter to the saint's; the _bon vivant_ and the philanthropist would trip each other up; the philosopher and the lady-killer could not well keep house in the same tenement of clay. Such different characters may conceivably at the outset of life be alike possible to a man. But to make any one of them actual, the rest must more or less be suppressed. 

What James is particularly emphasizing here is that the human organismis instinctively capable of developing along many different lines, butthat due to the stress of civilization some of these instinctivecapacities must be thwarted. In addition to these impulses which areinstinctive, and therefore hereditary, there are many habit impulseswhich are equally strong and which for similar reasons must be given up. The systems of habits we form (i. E. , the acts we learn to perform) atfour years of age will not serve us when we are twelve, and those formedat the age of twelve will not serve us when we become adults. As we passfrom childhood to man's estate, we are constantly having to give upthousands of activities which our nervous and muscular systems have atendency to perform. Some of these instinctive tendencies born with useare poor heritages; some of the habits we early develop are equally poorpossessions. But, whether they are "good" or "bad, " they must give wayas we put on the habits required of adults. Some of them yield withdifficulty and we often get badly twisted in attempting to put themaway, as every psychiatric clinic can testify. It is among thesefrustrated impulses that I would find the biological basis of theunfulfilled wish. Such "wishes" need never have been "conscious" and_need never have been suppressed into Freud's realm of the unconscious_. It may be inferred from this that there is no particular reason forapplying the term "wish" to such tendencies. What we discover then indreams and in conversational slips and other lapses are really at heart"reaction tendencies"--tendencies which we need never have faced nor putinto words at any time. On Freud's theory these "wishes" have at onetime been faced and put into words by the individual, and when facedthey were recognized as not squaring with his ethical code. They werethen immediately "repressed into the unconscious. "

A few illustrations may help in understanding how thwarted tendenciesmay lay the basis for the so-called unfulfilled wish which later appearsin the dream. One individual becomes a psychologist in spite of hisstrong interest in becoming a medical man, because at the time it waseasier for him to get the training along psychological lines. Anotherpursues a business career, when, if he had had his choice, he would havebecome a writer of plays. Sometimes on account of the care of a motheror of younger brothers and sisters, a young man cannot marry, eventhough the mating instinct is normal; such a course of actionnecessarily leaves unfulfilled wishes and frustrated impulses in itstrain. Again a young man will marry and settle down when matureconsideration would show that his career would advance much more rapidlyif he were not burdened with a family. Again, an individual marries andwithout even admitting to himself that his marriage is a failure hegradually shuts himself off from any emotional expression--protectshimself from the married state by sublimating his natural domestic ties, usually in some kind of engrossing work, but often in questionableways--by hobbies, speed manias, and excesses of various kinds. Inconnection with this it is interesting to note that the automobile, quite apart from its utilitarian value, is coming to be a widely usedmeans of repression or wish sublimation. I have been struck by theenormously increasing number of women drivers. Women in the presentstate of society have not the same access to absorbing kinds of worksthat men have (which will shortly come to be realized as a crime farworse than that of the Inquisition). Hence their chances of normalsublimation are limited. For this reason women seek an outlet by rushingto the war as nurses, in becoming social workers, pursuing aviation, etc. Now if I am right in this analysis these unexercised tendencies todo things other than we are doing are never quite got rid of. We cannotget rid of them unless we could build ourselves over again so that ourorganic machinery would work only along certain lines and only forcertain occupations. Since we cannot completely live these tendenciesdown, we are all more or less "unadjusted" and ill adapted. Thesemaladjustments are exhibited whenever the brakes are off, that is, whenever our higher and well-developed habits of speech and action aredormant, as in sleep, in emotional disturbances, etc. 

Many but not all of these "wishes" can be traced to early childhood orto adolescence, which is a time of stress and strain and a period ofgreat excitement. In childhood the boy often puts himself in hisfather's place; he wishes that he were grown like his father and couldtake his father's place, for then his mother would notice him more andhe would not have to feel the weight of authority. The girl likewiseoften becomes closely attached to her father and wishes her mother woulddie (which in childhood means to disappear or go away) so that she couldbe all in all to her father. These wishes, from the standpoint ofpopular morality, are perfectly innocent; but as the children grow olderthey are told that such wishes are wrong and that they should not speakin such a "dreadful" way. Such wishes are, then, graduallysuppressed--replaced by some other mode of expression. But thereplacement is often imperfect. The apostle's saying, "When we becomemen we put away childish things" was written before the days ofpsychoanalysis. 

3. The Person and His Wishes[168]

The human being has a great variety of "wishes, " ranging from the desireto have food to the wish to serve humanity. 

Anything capable of being appreciated (wished for) is a "value. " Food, money, a poem, a political doctrine, a religious creed, a member of theother sex, etc. , are values. 

There are also negative values--things which exist but which theindividual does not want, which he may even despise. Liquor or theYiddish language may be a positive value for one person and a negativevalue for another. 

The state of mind of the individual toward a value is an "attitude. "Love of money, desire for fame, appreciation of a given poem, reverencefor God, hatred of the Jew, are attitudes. 

We divide wishes into four classes: (1) the desire for new experience;(2) the desire for security; (3) the desire for recognition; (4) thedesire for response. 

1. The desire for new experience is seen in simple forms in the prowlingand meddling activities of the child, and the love of adventure andtravel in the boy and the man. It ranges in moral quality from thepursuit of game and the pursuit of pleasure to the pursuit of knowledgeand the pursuit of ideals. It is found equally in the vagabond and thescientific explorer. Novels, theaters, motion pictures, etc. , are meansof satisfying this desire vicariously, and their popularity is a sign ofthe elemental force of this desire. 

In its pure form the desire for new experience implies motion, change, danger, instability, social irresponsibility. The individual dominatedby it shows a tendency to disregard prevailing standards and groupinterests. He may be a complete failure, on account of his instability;or a conspicuous success, if he converts his experiences into socialvalues--puts them in the form of a poem, makes of them a contribution toscience, etc. 

2. The desire for security is opposed to the desire for new experience. It implies avoidance of danger and death, caution, conservatism. Incorporation in an organization (family, community, state) provides thegreatest security. In certain animal societies (e. G. , the ants) theorganization and co-operation are very rigid. Similarly among thepeasants of Europe, represented by our immigrant groups, all lines ofbehavior are predetermined for the individual by tradition. In such agroup the individual is secure as long as the group organization issecure, but evidently he shows little originality or creativeness. 

3. The desire for recognition expresses itself in devices for securingdistinction in the eyes of the public. A list of the different modes ofseeking recognition would be very long. It would include courageousbehavior, showing off through ornament and dress, the pomp of kings, thedisplay of opinions and knowledge, the possession of specialattainments--in the arts, for example. It is expressed alike inarrogance and in humility, even in martyrdom. Certain modes of seekingrecognition we define as "vanity, " others as "ambition. " The "will topower" belongs here. Perhaps there has been no spur to human activity sokeen and no motive so naïvely avowed as the desire for "undying fame, "and it would be difficult to estimate the rôle the desire forrecognition has played in the creation of social values. 

4. The desire for response is a craving, not for the recognition of thepublic at large, but for the more intimate appreciation of individuals. It is exemplified in mother-love (touch plays an important rôle in thisconnection), in romantic love, family affection, and other personalattachments. Homesickness and loneliness are expressions of it. Many ofthe devices for securing recognition are used also in securing response. 

Apparently these four classes comprehend all the positive wishes. Suchattitudes as anger, fear, hate, and prejudice are attitudes toward thoseobjects which may frustrate a wish. 

Our hopes, fears, inspirations, joys, sorrows are bound up with thesewishes and issue from them. There is, of course, a kaleidoscopicmingling of wishes throughout life, and a single given act may contain aplurality of them. Thus when a peasant emigrates to America he mayexpect to have a good time and learn many things (new experience), tomake a fortune (greater security), to have a higher social standing onhis return (recognition), and to induce a certain person to marry him(response). 

The "character" of the individual is determined by the nature of theorganization of his wishes. The dominance of any one of the four typesof wishes is the basis of our ordinary judgment of his character. Ourappreciation (positive or negative) of the character of the individualis based on his display of certain wishes as against others, and on hismodes of seeking their realization. 

The individual's attitude toward the totality of his attitudesconstitutes his conscious "personality. " The conscious personalityrepresents the conception of self, the individual's appreciation of hisown character. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

Literature on the concept of social forces falls under four heads: (1)popular notions of social forces; (2) social forces and history; (3)interests, sentiments, and attitudes as social forces; and (4) wishes associal forces. 

1. Popular Notions of Social Forces

The term "social forces" first gained currency in America with the riseof the "reformers, " so called, and with the growth of popular interestin the problems of city life; that is, labor and capital, municipalreform and social welfare, problems of social politics. 

In the rural community the individual had counted; in the city he islikely to be lost. It was this declining weight of the individual in thelife of great cities, as compared with that of impersonal socialorganizations, the parties, the unions, and the clubs, that firstsuggested, perhaps, the propriety of the term social forces. In 1897Washington Gladden published a volume entitled _Social Facts and Forces:the Factory, the Labor Union, the Corporation, the Railway, the City, the Church_. The term soon gained wide currency and general acceptance. 

At the twenty-eighth annual National Conference of Charities andCorrection, at Washington, D. C. , Mary E. Richmond read a paper upon"Charitable Co-operation" in which she presented a diagram and aclassification of the social forces of the community from the point ofview of the social worker[169] given on page 492. 

Beginning in October, 1906, there appeared for several years in thejournal of social workers, _Charities and Commons_, now _The Survey_, editorial essays upon social, industrial, and civic questions under theheading "Social Forces. " In the first article E. T. Devine made thefollowing statement: "In this column the editor intends to have his sayfrom month to month about the persons, books, and events which havesignificance as social forces.... Not all the social forces areobviously forces of good, although they are all under the ultimatecontrol of a power which makes for righteousness. "

[Illustration: DIAGRAM OF FORCES WITH WHICH THE CHARITY WORKER MAYCO-OPERATE

A. Family Forces B. Personal Forces C. Neighborhood Forces D. CivicForces E. Private Charitable Forces F. Public Relief Forces

A. --_Family Forces. _ Capacity of each member for Affection Training Endeavor Social development. B. --_Personal Forces. _ Kindred. Friends. C. --_Neighborhood Forces. _ Neighbors, landlords, tradesmen. Former and present employers. Clergymen, Sunday-school teachers, fellow church members. Doctors. Trade-unions, fraternal and benefit societies, social clubs, fellow-workmen. Libraries, educational clubs, classes, settlements, etc. Thrift agencies, savings-banks, stamp-savings, building and loan associations. D. --_Civic Forces. _ School-teachers, truant officers. Police, police magistrates, probation officers, reformatories. Health department, sanitary inspectors, factory inspectors. Postmen. Parks, baths, etc. E. --_Private Charitable Forces. _ Charity organization society. Church of denomination to which family belongs. Benevolent individuals. National, special, and general relief societies. Charitable employment agencies and work-rooms. Fresh-air society, children's aid society, society for protection ofchildren, children's homes, etc. District nurses, sick-diet kitchens, dispensaries, hospitals, etc. Society for suppression of vice, prisoner's aid society, etc. F. --_Public Relief Forces. _ Almshouses. Outdoor poor department. Public hospitals and dispensaries. ]

Ten years later a group of members in the National Conference of SocialWork formed a division under the title "The Organization of the SocialForces of the Community. " The term community, in connection with that ofsocial forces, suggests that every community may be conceived as adefinite constellation of social forces. In this form the notion hasbeen fruitful in suggesting a more abstract, intelligible, and, at thesame time, sounder conception of the community life. 

Most of the social surveys made in recent years are based upon thisconception of the community as a complex of social forces embodied ininstitutions and organizations. It is the specific task of everycommunity survey to reveal the community in its separated and oftenisolated organs. The references to the literature on the communitysurveys at the conclusion of chapter iii, "Society and the Group, "[170]will be of service in a further study of the application of the conceptof social forces to the study of the community. 

2. Social Forces and History

Historians, particularly in recent years, have frequently used theexpression "social forces" although they have nowhere defined it. KunoFrancke, in the Preface of his book entitled _A History of GermanLiterature as Determined by Social Forces_, states that it "is an honestattempt to analyze the social, religious, and moral forces whichdetermined the growth of German literature as a whole. " Taine in thePreface to _The Ancient Régime_ says: "Without taking any side, curiosity becomes scientific and centres on the secret forces whichdirect the wonderful process. These forces consist of the situations, the passions, the ideas, and the wills of each group of actors, andwhich can be defined and almost measured. "[171]

It is in the writings of historians, like Taine in France, Buckle inEngland, and Karl Lamprecht in Germany, who started out with thedeliberate intention of writing history as if it were natural history, that we find the first serious attempts to use the concept of socialforces in historical analysis. Writers of this school are quite as muchinterested in the historical process as they are in historical fact, andthere is a constant striving to treat the individual as representativeof the class, and to define historical tendencies in general andabstract terms. 

But history conceived in those terms tends to become sociology. "History, " says Lamprecht, "is a _socio-psychological science_. In theconflict between the old and the new tendencies in historicalinvestigation, the main question has to do with social-psychic, ascompared and contrasted with individual-psychic factors; or to speaksomewhat generally, the understanding on the one hand of conditions, onthe other of heroes, as the motive powers in the course ofhistory. "[172] It was Carlyle--whose conception of history is farthestremoved from that of Lamprecht--who said, "Universal history is atbottom the history of great men. "

The criticism of history by historians and the attempts, never quitesuccessful, to make history positive furnish further interesting commenton this topic. [173]

3. Interest, Sentiments, and Attitudes as Social Forces

More had been written, first and last, about human motives than anyother aspect of human life. Only in very recent years, however, havepsychologists and social psychologists had either a point of view ormethods of investigation which enabled them to analyze and explain thefacts. The tendency of the older introspective psychology was to referin general terms to the motor tendencies and the will, but in theanalysis of sensation and the intellectual processes, will disappeared. 

The literature on this subject covers all that has been written by thestudents of animal behavior and instinct, Lloyd Morgan, Thorndike, Watson, and Loeb. It includes the interesting studies of human behaviorby Bechterew, Pavlow, and the so-called objective school of psychologyin Russia. It should include likewise writers like Graham Wallas inEngland, Carleton Parker and Ordway Tead in America, who are seeking toapply the new science of human nature to the problems of society. [174]

Every social science has been based upon some theory, implicit orexplicit, of human motives. Economics, political science, and ethics, before any systematic attempt had been made to study the matterempirically, had formulated theories of human nature to justify theirpresuppositions and procedures. 

In classical political economy the single motive of human action wasembodied in the abstraction "the economic man. " The utilitarian schoolof ethics reduced all human motives to self-interest. Disinterestedconduct was explained as enlightened self-interest. This theory wascriticized as reducing the person to "an intellectual calculatingmachine. " The theory of evolution suggested to Herbert Spencer a newinterpretation of human motives which reasserted their individualisticorigin, but explained altruistic sentiments as the slowly accumulatedproducts of evolution. Altruism to Spencer was the enlightenedself-interest of the race. 

It was the English economists of the eighteenth century who gave us thefirst systematic account of modern society in deterministic terms. Theconception of society implicit in Adam Smith's _Wealth of Nations_reflects at once the temper of the English people and of the age inwhich he lived. [175] The eighteenth century was the age ofindividualism, laissez faire and freedom. Everything was in process ofemancipation except woman. 

The attention of economists at this time was directed to that region ofsocial life in which the behavior of the individual is mostindividualistic and least controlled, namely, the market place. Theeconomic man, as the classical economists conceived him, is morecompletely embodied in the trader in the auction pit, than in any otherfigure in any other situation in society. And the trader in thatposition performs a very important social function. [176]

There are, however, other social situations which have created othersocial types, and the sociologists have, from the very first, directedtheir attention to a very different aspect of social life, namely, itsunity and solidarity. Comte conceived humanity in terms of the family, and most sociologists have been disposed to take the family asrepresentative of the type of relations they are willing to call social. Not the auction pit but the family has been the basis of thesociological conception of society. Not competition but control has beenthe central fact and problem of sociology. 

Socialization, when that word is used as a term of appreciation ratherthan of description, sets up as the goal of social effort a world inwhich conflict, competition, and the externality of individuals, if theydo not disappear altogether, will be so diminished that all men may livetogether as members of one family. This, also, is the goal of progressaccording to our present major prophet, H. G. Wells. [177]

It is intelligible, therefore, that sociologists should conceive ofsocial forces in other terms than self-interest. If there had been noother human motives than those attributed to the economic man therewould have been economics but no sociology, at least in the sense inwhich we conceive it today. 

In the writings of Ratzenhofer and Small human interests are postulatedas both the unconscious motives and the conscious ends of behavior. Small's classification of interests--health, wealth, sociability, knowledge, beauty, rightness--has secured general acceptance. 

"Sentiment" was used by French writers, Ribot, Binet, and others, as ageneral term for the entire field of affective life. A. F. Shand in twoarticles in _Mind_, "Character and the Emotions" and "Ribot's Theory ofthe Passions, " has made a distinct contribution by distinguishing thesentiments from the emotions. Shand pointed out that the sentiment, as aproduct of social experience, is an organization of emotions around theidea of an object. McDougall in his _Social Psychology_ adopted Shand'sdefinition and described the organization of typical sentiments, as loveand hate. 

Thomas was the first to make fruitful use of the term attitude, which hedefined as a "tendency to act. " Incidentally he points out thatattitudes are social, that is, the product of interaction. 

4. Wishes and Social Forces

Ward had stated that "The social forces are wants seeking satisfactionthrough efforts, and are thus social motives or motors inspiringactivities which either create social structures through social synergyor modify the structures already created through innovation andconation. "[178] Elsewhere Ward says that "desire is the only motive toaction. "[179]

The psychoanalytic school of psychiatrists have attempted to reduce allmotives to one--the wish, or _libido_. Freud conceived that sex appetiteand memories connected with it were the unconscious sources of some ifnot all of the significant forms of human behavior. Freud'sinterpretation of sex, however, seemed to include the whole field ofdesires that have their origin in touch stimulations. To Jung the_libido_ is vital energy motivating the life-adjustments of the person. Adler from his study of organic inferiority interpreted the _libido_ asthe wish for completeness or perfection. Curiously enough, these criticsof Freud, while not accepting his interpretation of the unconsciouswish, still seek to reduce all motives to a single unit. To explain allbehavior by one formula, however, is to explain nothing. 

On the other hand, interpretation by a multitude of unrelated consciousdesires in the fashion of the older sociological literature is no greatadvance beyond the findings of common sense. The distinctive value ofthe definition, and classification, of Thomas lies in the fact that itreduces the multitude of desires to four. These four wishes, however, determine the simplest as well as the most complex behavior of persons. The use made of this method in his study of the Polish peasant indicatedits possibilities for the analysis of the organization of the life ofpersons and of social groups. 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. POPULAR NOTION OF SOCIAL FORCES

(1) Patten, Simon N. _The Theory of Social Forces. _ Philadelphia, 1896. 

(2) Gladden, Washington. _Social Facts and Forces. _ The factory, thelabor union, the corporation, the railway, the city, the church. NewYork, 1897. 

(3) Richmond, Mary. "Charitable Co-operation, " _Proceedings of theNational Conference of Charities and Correction_, 1901, pp. 298-313. (Contains "Diagram of Forces with which Charity Worker may Co-operate. ")

(4) Devine, Edward T. _Social Forces. _ From the editor's page of _TheSurvey_. New York, 1910. 

(5) Edie, Lionel D. , Editor. _Current Social and Industrial Forces. _Introduction by James Harvey Robinson. New York, 1920. 

(6) Burns, Allen T. "Organization of Community Forces for the Promotionof Social Programs, " _Proceedings of the National Conference ofCharities and Correction_, 1916, pp. 62-78. 

(7) _Social Forces. _ A topical outline with bibliography. WisconsinWoman's Suffrage Association, Educational Committee. Madison, Wis. , 1915. 

(8) Wells, H. G. _Social Forces in England and America. _ London and NewYork, 1914. 

II. HISTORICAL TENDENCIES AS SOCIAL FORCES

(1) Lamprecht, Karl. _What Is History?_ Five lectures on the modernscience of history. Translated from the German by E. A. Andrews. Londonand New York, 1905. 

(2) Loria, A. _The Economic Foundations of Society. _ Translated from the2d French ed. By L. M. Keasbey. London and New York, 1899. 

(3) Beard, Charles A. _An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution ofthe United States. _ New York, 1913. 

(4) Brandes, Georg. _Main Currents in Nineteenth-Century Literature. _ 6vols. London, 1906. 

(5) Taine, H. A. _The Ancient Régime. _ Translated from the French byJohn Durand. New York, 1891. 

(6) Buckle, Henry Thomas. _History of Civilization in England. _ 2 vols. New York, 1892. 

(7) Lacombe, Paul. _De l'histoire considérée comme science. _ Paris, 1894. 

(8) Francke, Kuno. _Social Forces in German Literature. _ A study in thehistory of civilization. New York, 1896. 

(9) Hart, A. B. _Social and Economic Forces in American History. _ From_The American Nation, A History_. London and New York, 1904. 

(10) Turner, Frederick J. _Social Forces in American History, TheAmerican Historical Review_, XVI (1910-11), 217-33. 

(11) Woods, F. A. _The Influence of Monarchs. _ Steps in a new science ofhistory. New York, 1913. 

III. INTERESTS AND WANTS

A. _Interests, Desires, and Wants as Defined by the Sociologist_

(1) Ward, Lester F. _Dynamic Sociology, or Applied Social Science. _ Asbased upon statical sociology and the less complex sciences. "The SocialForces, " I, 468-699. New York, 1883. 

(2) ----. _Pure Sociology. _ A treatise on the origin and spontaneousdevelopment of society. Chap. Xii, "Classification of the SocialForces, " pp. 256-65. New York, 1903. 

(3) ----. _The Psychic Factors of Civilization. _ Chap. Ix, "ThePhilosophy of Desire, " pp. 50-58, chap. Xviii, "The Social Forces, " pp. 116-24. Boston, 1901. 

(4) Small, Albion W. _General Sociology. _ Chaps. Xxvii and xxxi, pp. 372-94; 425-42. Chicago, 1905. 

(5) Ross, Edward A. _The Principles of Sociology. _ Part II, "SocialForces, " pp. 41-73. New York, 1920. 

(6) Blackmar, F. W. , and Gillin, J. L. _Outlines of Sociology. _ PartIII, chap ii, "Social Forces, " pp. 283-315. New York, 1915. 

(7) Hayes, Edward C. "The 'Social Forces' Error, " _American Journal ofSociology_, XVI (1910-11), 613-25; 636-44. 

(8) Fouillée, Alfred. _Education from a National Standpoint. _ Translatedfrom the French by W. J. Greenstreet. Chap. I, pp. 10-27. New York, 1892. 

(9) ----. _Morale des idées-forces. _ 2d ed. Paris, 1908. [Book II, PartII, chap. Iii, pp. 290-311, describes opinion, custom, law, educationfrom the point of view of "Idea-Forces. "]

B. _Interests and Wants as Defined by the Economist_

(1) Hermann, F. B. W. V. _Staatswirthschaftliche Untersuchungen. _ Chap. Ii. München, 1870. [First of the modern attempts to classify wants. ]

(2) Walker, F. A. _Political Economy. _ 3d ed. New York, 1888. [Seediscussion of competition, pp. 91-111. ]

(3) Marshall, Alfred. _Principles of Economics. _ An introductory volume. Chap. Ii, "Wants in Relation to Activities, " pp. 86-91. 6th ed. London, 1910. 

(4) ----. "Some Aspects of Competition, " _Journal of the RoyalStatistical Society. _ Sec. VII, "Modern Analysis of the Motives ofBusiness Competition, " LIII (1890), 634-37. [See also Sec. VIII, "Growing Importance of Public Opinion as an Economic Force, " pp. 637-41. ]

(5) Menger, Karl. _Grundsatze der Volkswirthschaftslehre. _ Chap. Ii, Wien, 1871. 

(6) ----. _Untersuchungen über die Methode der Socialwissenschaften undder politischen Ökonomie insbesondere. _ Chap. Vii, "Über das Dogma, "etc. Leipzig, 1883. 

(7) Jevons, W. S. _The Theory of Political Economy. _ Chap. Ii, "Theoryof Pleasure and Pain, " pp. 28-36; "The Laws of Human Wants, " pp. 39-43. 4th ed. London, 1911. 

(8) Bentham, Jeremy. "A Table of the Springs of Action. " Showing theseveral species of pleasures and pains of which man's nature issusceptible; together with the several species of _interests_, _desires_and _motives_ respectively corresponding to them; and the several setsof appellatives, _neutral_, _eulogistic_, and _dyslogistic_, by whicheach species of _motive_ is wont to be designated. [First published in1817. ] _The Works of Jeremy Bentham_, I, 195-219. London, 1843. 

C. _Wants and Values_

(1) Kreibig, Josef K. _Psychologische Grundlegung eines Systems derWert-Theorie. _ Wien, 1902. 

(2) Simmel, Georg. _Einleitung in die Moralwissenschaft. _ Eine Kritikder ethischen Grundbegriffe. Vol. I, chap. Iv, "Die Glückseligkeit. " 2vols. Berlin, 1904-05. 

(3) Meinong, Alexius. _Psychologische-ethische Untersuchungen zurWert-Theorie. _ Graz, 1894. 

(4) Ehrenfels, Chrn. V. _System der Wert-Theorie. _ 2 vols. Leipzig, 1897-98. 

(5) Brentano, Franz. _Psychologie vom empirischen Standpunkte. _ Chap. Vi-ix, pp. 256-350. Leipzig, 1874. 

(6) Urban, Wilbur Marshall. _Valuation, Its Nature and Laws. _ Being anintroduction to the general theory of value. London, 1909. 

(7) Cooley, Charles H. _Social Process. _ Part VI, "Valuation, " pp. 283-348. New York, 1918. 

IV. SENTIMENTS, ATTITUDES, AND WISHES

(1) White, W. A. _Mechanisms of Character Formation. _ An introduction topsychoanalysis. New York, 1916. 

(2) Pfister, Oskar. _The Psychoanalytic Method. _ Translated from theGerman by Dr. C. R. Payne. New York, 1917. 

(3) Jung, Carl G. _Analytical Psychology. _ Translated from the German byDr. Constance E. Long. New York, 1916. 

(4) Adler, Alfred. _The Neurotic Constitution. _ Outlines of acomparative individualistic psychology and psychotherapy. Translatedfrom the German by Bernard Glueck. New York, 1917. 

(5) Freud, Sigmund. _General Introduction to Psychoanalysis. _ New York, 1920. 

(6) Tridon, André. _Psychoanalysis and Behavior. _ New York, 1920. 

(7) Holt, Edwin B. _The Freudian Wish and Its Place in Ethics. _ NewYork, 1915. 

(8) Mercier, C. A. _Conduct and Its Disorders Biologically Considered. _London, 1911. 

(9) Bechterew, W. V. _La psychologie objective. _ Translated from theRussian. Paris, 1913. 

(10) Kostyleff, N. _Le mécanisme cérébral de la pensée. _ Paris, 1914. 

(11) Bentley, A. F. _The Process of Government. _ A study of socialpressures. Chicago, 1908. 

(12) Veblen, T. _The Theory of the Leisure Class. _ An economic study inthe evolution of institutions. New York, 1899. [Discusses the wish forrecognition. ]

(13) ----. _The Instinct of Workmanship. _ And the state of theindustrial arts. New York, 1914. [Discusses the wish for recognition. ]

(14) McDougall, William. _An Introduction to Social Psychology. _ Chaps. V-vi, pp. 121-73. 13th ed. Boston, 1918. 

(15) Shand, A. F. "Character and the Emotions, " _Mind. _, n. S. , V(1896), 203-26. 

(16) ----. "M. Ribot's Theory of the Passions, " _Mind. _, n. S. , XVI(1907), 477-505. 

(17) ----. _The Foundations of Character. _ Being a study of thetendencies of the emotions and sentiments. Chaps. Iv-v, "The Systems ofthe Sentiments, " pp. 35-63. London, 1914. 

(18) Thomas, W. I. , and Znaniecki, F. _The Polish Peasant in Europe andAmerica. _ III, 5-81. Boston, 1919. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. The Concept of Forces in the Natural Sciences. 

2. Historical Interpretation and Social Forces. 

3. The Concept of Social Forces in Recent Studies of the LocalCommunity. 

4. Institutions as Social Forces: The Church, the Press, the School, etc. 

5. Institutions as Organizations of Social Forces: Analysis of a TypicalInstitution, Its Organization, Dominant Personalities, etc. 

6. Persons as Social Forces: Analysis of the Motives determining theBehavior of a Dominant Personality in a Typical Social Group. 

7. Group Opinion as a Social Force. 

8. Tendencies, Trends, and the Spirit of the Age. 

9. History of the Concepts of Attitudes, Sentiments, and Wishes asDefined in Psychology, Psychoanalysis, and Sociology. 

10. Attitudes as the Organizations of Wishes. 

11. The Freudian Wish. 

12. Personal and Social Disorganization from the Standpoint of the FourWishes. 

13. The Law of the Four Wishes: All the Wishes Must Be Realized. A Wishof One Type, Recognition, Is Not a Substitute for a Wish of AnotherType, Response. 

14. The Dominant Wish: Its Rôle in the Organization of the Person and ofthe Group. 

15. Typical Attitudes: Familism, Individualism, "Oppressed NationalityPsychosis, " Race Prejudice. 

16. The Mutability of the Sentiment-Attitude: Love and Hate, Self-esteemand Humility, etc. 

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. Make a list of the outstanding social forces affecting social life ina community which you know. What is the value of such an analysis?

2. How does Simons use the term "social forces" in analyzing the courseof events in American history?

3. In what sense do you understand Ely to use the term "social forces"?

4. Would there be, in your opinion, a social tendency without conflictwith other tendencies?

5. How far is it correct to predict from present tendencies what thefuture will be?

6. What do you understand by _Zeitgeist_, "trend of the times, " "spiritof the age"?

7. What do you understand by public opinion? How does it originate?

8. Is legislation in the United States always a result of publicopinion?

9. Does the trend of public opinion determine corporate action?

10. Is public opinion the same as the sum of the opinion of the membersof the group?

11. What is the relation of social forces to interaction?

12. Is it possible to study trends, tendencies, and public opinion asintegrations of interests, sentiments, and attitudes?

13. Are desires the fundamental "social elements"?

14. What do you understand Small to mean when he says, "The lastelements to which we can reduce the actions of human beings are unitswhich we may conveniently name 'interests'"?

15. What is Small's classification of interests? Do you regard it assatisfactory?

16. What do you think is the difference between an impulse and aninterest?

17. Do people behave according to their interests or their impulses?

18. Make a chart showing the difference in interests of six persons withwhom you are acquainted. 

19. Make a chart indicating the variations in interests of six selectedgroups. 

20. What difference is there, in your opinion, between interests andsocial pressures?

21. Do you consider the following statement of Bentley's correct: "Noslaves, not the worst abused of all, but help to form the government"?

22. Does the group exert social pressure upon its members? Giveillustrations. 

23. What do you understand to be the differences between an idea and anidea-force?

24. Give illustrations of idea-forces. 

25. Are there any ideas that are not idea-forces?

26. What do you understand by a sentiment?

27. What is the difference between an interest and a sentiment? Give anillustration of each. 

28. Are sentiments or interests more powerful in influencing thebehavior of a person or of a group?

29. What do you understand by a social attitude?

30. What is a mental conflict?

31. To what extent does unconsciousness rather than consciousnessdetermine the behavior of a person? Give an illustration where thebehavior of a person was inconsistent with his rational determination. 

32. What do you understand by mental complexes?

33. What is the relation of memory to mental complexes?

34. What do you understand by personality? What is its relation tomental complexes?

35. What is meant by common sense?

36. How does Holt define the Freudian wish?

37. What distinction does he make between the wish and the motorattitude?

38. How would you illustrate the difference between an attitude and awish as defined in the introduction?

39. How far would you say that the attitude may be described as anorganization of the wishes?

40. How far is the analogy between the wish as the social atom and theattitude as the social element justified?

41 What is the "psychic censor"?

42. What is the Freudian theory of repression? Is repression consciousor unconscious?

43. What is the relation of wishes to occupational selection?

44. Give illustrations of the "four wishes. "

45. Describe a person in terms of the type of expression of these fourwishes. 

46. What social problems arise because of the repression of certainwishes?

47. "Wishes in one class cannot be substituted for wishes in another. "Do you agree? Elaborate your position. 

48. Analyze the organization of a group from the standpoint of the fourwishes. 

FOOTNOTES:

[157] Adapted from A. M. Simons, in the Preface to _Social Forces inAmerican History_, pp. Vii-viii. (Published by The Macmillan Co. , 1912. Reprinted by permission. )

[158] Adapted from Richard T. Ely, _Evolution of Industrial Society_, pp. 456-84. (Published by The Macmillan Co. , 1903. Reprinted bypermission. )

[159] Adapted from A. V. Dicey, _Law and Public Opinion in England_, pp. 19-41. (Published by The Macmillan Co. , 1905. Reprinted by permission. )

[160] Adapted from Albion W. Small, _General Sociology_, pp. 532-36. (The University of Chicago Press, 1905. )

[161] Adapted from Albion W. Small, _General Sociology_, pp. 425-36. (The University of Chicago Press, 1905. )

[162] Adapted from Arthur F. Bentley, _The Process of Government_, pp. 258-381. (The University of Chicago Press, 1908. )

[163] Adapted from Alfred Fouillée, _Education from a NationalStandpoint_, pp. 10-16. (D. Appleton & Co. , 1897. )

[164] Adapted from William McDougall, _An Introduction to SocialPsychology_, pp. 121-64. (John W. Luce & Co. , 1916. )

[165] From Robert E. Park, _Principles of Human Behavior_, pp. 18-34. (The Zalaz Corporation, 1915. )

[166] Adapted from Edwin B. Holt, _The Freudian Wish and Its Place inEthics_, pp. 3-56. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1915. )

[167] Adapted from John B. Watson, "The Psychology of Wish Fulfillment, "in the _Scientific Monthly_, III (1916), 479-86. 

[168] A restatement from a paper by William I. Thomas, "The Persistenceof Primary-Group Norms in Present-Day Society, " in Jennings, Watson, Meyer, and Thomas, _Suggestions of Modern Science Concerning Education_. (Published by The Macmillan Co. , 1917. Reprinted by permission. )

[169] _Proceedings of the National Conference of Charities andCorrection_, 1901, p. 300. 

[170] See p. 219. 

[171] H. A. Taine, _The Ancient Régime_, Preface, p. Viii. (New York, 1891. )

[172] Karl Lamprecht, _What Is History?_ p. 3. (New York, 1905. )

[173] See chap. I, _Sociology and the Social Sciences_, pp. 6-12. 

[174] See references, chap. Ii, "Human Nature, " p. 149. 

[175] For a discussion of the philosophical background of Adam Smith'spolitical philosophy see Wilhelm Hasbach, _Untersuchungen über AdamSmith_. (Leipzig, 1891. )

[176] "The science of Political Economy as we have it in England may bedefined as the science of business, such as business is in largeproductive and trading communities. It is an analysis of that world sofamiliar to many Englishmen--the 'great commerce' by which England hasbecome rich. It assumes the principal facts which make that commercepossible, and as is the way of an abstract science it isolates andsimplifies them: it detaches them from the confusion with which they aremixed in fact. And it deals too with the men who carry on that commerce, and who make it possible. It assumes a sort of human nature such as wesee everywhere around us, and again it simplifies that human nature; itlooks at one part of it only. Dealing with matters of 'business, ' itassumes that man is actuated only by motives of business. It assumesthat every man who makes anything, makes it for money, that he alwaysmakes that which brings him in most at least cost, and that he will makeit in the way that will produce most and spend least; it assumes thatevery man who buys, buys with his whole heart, and that he who sells, sells with his whole heart, each wanting to gain all possible advantage. Of course we know that this is not so, that men are not like this; butwe assume it for simplicity's sake, as an hypothesis. "--Walter Bagehot, _The Postulates of English Political Economy_. (New York and London, 1885. )

[177] H. G. Wells, _The Outline of History_, Vol. II, pp. 579-95. (NewYork, 1920. )

[178] _Pure Sociology_, p. 261. (New York, 1903. )

[179] _Dynamic Sociology_, II, 90. (New York, 1883. )

CHAPTER VIII

COMPETITION

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Popular Conception of Competition

Competition, as a universal phenomenon, was first clearly conceived andadequately described by the biologists. As defined in the evolutionaryformula "the struggle for existence" the notion captured the popularimagination and became a commonplace of familiar discourse. Prior tothat time competition had been regarded as an economic rather than abiological phenomenon. 

It was in the eighteenth century and in England that we first find anygeneral recognition of the new rôle that commerce and the middleman wereto play in the modern world. "Competition is the life of trade" is atrader's maxim, and the sort of qualified approval that it gives to theconception of competition contains the germ of the whole philosophy ofmodern industrial society as that doctrine was formulated by Adam Smithand the physiocrats. 

The economists of the eighteenth century were the first to attempt torationalize and justify the social order that is based on competitionand individual freedom. They taught that there was a natural harmony inthe interests of men, which once liberated would inevitably bring about, in the best of all possible worlds, the greatest good to the greatestnumber. 

The individual man, in seeking his own profit, will necessarily seek toproduce and sell that which has most value for the community, and so "heis in this, as in many other cases, " as Adam Smith puts it, "led by aninvisible hand to promote an end which was no part of his intention. "

The conception has been stated with even greater unction by the Frenchwriter, Frédéric Bastiat. 

 Since goods which seem at first to be the exclusive property of individuals become by the estimable decrees of a wise providence [competition] the common possession of all; since the natural advantages of situation, the fertility, temperature, mineral richness of the soil and even industrial skill do not accrue to the producers, because of competition among themselves, but contribute so much the more to the profit of the consumer; it follows that there is no country that is not interested in the advancement of all the others. [180]

The freedom which commerce sought and gained upon the principle oflaissez faire has enormously extended the area of competition and indoing so has created a world-economy where previously there were onlylocal markets. It has created at the same time a division of labor thatincludes all the nations and races of men and incidentally has raisedthe despised middleman to a position of affluence and power undreamed ofby superior classes of any earlier age. And now there is a new demandfor the control of competition in the interest, not merely of those whohave not shared in the general prosperity, but in the interest ofcompetition itself. 

"Unfair competition" is an expression that is heard at the present timewith increasing frequency. This suggests that there are rules governingcompetition by which, in its own interest, it can and should becontrolled. The same notion has found expression in the demand for"freedom of competition" from those who would safeguard competition bycontrolling it. Other voices have been raised in denunciation ofcompetition because "competition creates monopoly. " In other words, competition, if carried to its logical conclusion, ends in theannihilation of competition. In this destruction of competition bycompetition we seem to have a loss of freedom by freedom, or, to stateit in more general terms, unlimited liberty, without social control, ends in the negation of freedom and the slavery of the individual. Butthe limitation of competition by competition, it needs to be said, meanssimply that the process of competition tends invariably to establish anequilibrium. 

The more fundamental objection is that in giving freedom to economiccompetition society has sacrificed other fundamental interests that arenot directly involved in the economic process. In any case economicfreedom exists in an order that has been created and maintained bysociety. Economic competition, as we know it, presupposes the existenceof the right of private property, which is a creation of the state. Itis upon this premise that the more radical social doctrines, communismand socialism, seek to abolish competition altogether. 

2. Competition a Process of Interaction

Of the four great types of interaction--competition, conflict, accommodation, and assimilation--competition is the elementary, universal and fundamental form. Social contact, as we have seen, initiates interaction. But competition, strictly speaking, is_interaction without social contact_. If this seems, in view of what hasalready been said, something of a paradox, it is because in humansociety competition is always complicated with other processes, that isto say, with conflict, assimilation, and accommodation. 

It is only in the plant community that we can observe the process ofcompetition in isolation, uncomplicated with other social processes. Themembers of a plant community live together in a relation of mutualinterdependence which we call social probably because, while it is closeand vital, it is not biological. It is not biological because therelation is a merely external one and the plants that compose it are noteven of the same species. They do not interbreed. The members of a plantcommunity adapt themselves to one another as all living things adaptthemselves to their environment, but there is no conflict between thembecause they are not conscious. Competition takes the form of conflictor rivalry only when it becomes conscious, when competitors identify oneanother as rivals or as enemies. 

This suggests what is meant by the statement that competition isinteraction _without social contact_. It is only when minds meet, onlywhen the meaning that is in one mind is communicated to another mind sothat these minds mutually influence one another, that social contact, properly speaking, may be said to exist. 

On the other hand, social contacts are not limited to contacts of touchor sense or speech, and they are likely to be more intimate and morepervasive than we imagine. Some years ago the Japanese, who are brown, defeated the Russians, who are white. In the course of the next fewmonths the news of this remarkable event penetrated, as we afterwardlearned, uttermost ends of the earth. It sent a thrill through all Asiaand it was known in the darkest corners of Central Africa. Everywhere itawakened strange and fantastic dreams. This is what is meant by socialcontact. 

a) _Competition and competitive co-operation. _--Social contact, whichinevitably initiates conflict, accommodation, or assimilation, invariably creates also sympathies, prejudices, personal and moralrelations which modify, complicate, and control competition. On theother hand, within the limits which the cultural process creates, andcustom, law, and tradition impose, competition invariably tends tocreate an impersonal social order in which each individual, being freeto pursue his own profit, and, in a sense, compelled to do so, makesevery other individual a means to that end. In doing so, however, heinevitably contributes through the mutual exchange of services soestablished to the common welfare. It is just the nature of the tradingtransaction to isolate the motive of profit and make it the basis ofbusiness organization, and so far as this motive becomes dominant andexclusive, business relations inevitably assume the impersonal characterso generally ascribed to them. 

"Competition, " says Walker, "is opposed to sentiment. Whenever anyeconomic agent does or forbears anything under the influence of anysentiment other than the desire of giving the least and gaining the mosthe can in exchange, be that sentiment patriotism, or gratitude, orcharity, or vanity, leading him to do otherwise than as self interestwould prompt, in that case also, the rule of competition is departedfrom. Another rule is for the time substituted. "[181]

This is the significance of the familiar sayings to the effect that one"must not mix business with sentiment, " that "business is business, ""corporations are heartless, " etc. It is just because corporations are"heartless, " that is to say impersonal, that they represent the mostadvanced, efficient, and responsible form of business organization. Butit is for this same reason that they can and need to be regulated inbehalf of those interests of the community that cannot be translatedimmediately into terms of profit and loss to the individual. 

The plant community is the best illustration of the type of socialorganization that is created by competitive co-operation because in theplant community competition is unrestricted. 

b) _Competition and freedom. _--The economic organization of society, so far as it is an effect of free competition, is an ecologicalorganization. There is a human as well as a plant and an animal ecology. 

If we are to assume that the economic order is fundamentally ecological, that is, created by the struggle for existence, an organization likethat of the plant community in which the relations between individualsare conceivably at least wholly external, the question may be veryproperly raised why the competition and the organization it has createdshould be regarded as social at all. As a matter of fact sociologistshave generally identified the social with the moral order, and Dewey, inhis _Democracy and Education_, makes statements which suggest that thepurely economic order, in which man becomes a means rather than an endto other men, is unsocial, if not anti-social. 

The fact is, however, that this character of _externality_ in humanrelations is a fundamental aspect of society and social life. It ismerely another manifestation of what has been referred to as thedistributive aspect of society. Society is made up of individualsspatially separated, territorially distributed, and capable ofindependent locomotion. This capacity of independent locomotion is thebasis and the symbol of every other form of independence. Freedom isfundamentally freedom to move and individuality is inconceivable withoutthe capacity and the opportunity to gain an individual experience as aresult of independent action. 

On the other hand, it is quite as true that society may be said to existonly so far as this independent activity of the individual is_controlled_ in the interest of the group as a whole. That is the reasonwhy the problem of control, using that term in its evident significance, inevitably becomes the central problem of sociology. 

c) _Competition and control. _--Conflict, assimilation andaccommodation as distinguished from competition are all intimatelyrelated to control. Competition is the process through which thedistributive and ecological organization of society is created. Competition determines the distribution of population territorially andvocationally. The division of labor and all the vast organized economicinterdependence of individuals and groups of individuals characteristicof modern life are a product of competition. On the other hand, themoral and political order, which imposes itself upon this competitiveorganization, is a product of conflict, accommodation and assimilation. 

Competition is universal in the world of living things. Under ordinarycircumstances it goes on unobserved even by the individuals who are mostconcerned. It is only in periods of crisis, when men are making new andconscious efforts to control the conditions of their common life, thatthe forces with which they are competing get identified with persons, and competition is converted into conflict. It is in what has beendescribed as the _political process_ that society consciously deals withits crises. [182] War is the political process par excellence. It is inwar that the great decisions are made. Political organizations exist forthe purpose of dealing with conflict situations. Parties, parliamentsand courts, public discussion and voting are to be considered simply assubstitutes for war. 

d) _Accommodation, assimilation, and competition. _--Accommodation, onthe other hand, is the process by which the individuals and groups makethe necessary internal adjustments to social situations which have beencreated by competition and conflict. War and elections changesituations. When changes thus effected are decisive and are accepted, conflict subsides and the tensions it created are resolved in theprocess of accommodation into profound modifications of the competingunits, i. E. , individuals and groups. A man once thoroughly defeated is, as has often been noted, "never the same again. " Conquest, subjugation, and defeat are psychological as well as social processes. They establisha new order by changing, not merely the status, but the attitudes of theparties involved. Eventually the new order gets itself fixed in habitand custom and is then transmitted as part of the established socialorder to succeeding generations. Neither the physical nor the socialworld is made to satisfy at once all the wishes of the natural man. Therights of property, vested interests of every sort, the familyorganization, slavery, caste and class, the whole social organization, in fact, represent accommodations, that is to say, limitations of thenatural wishes of the individual. These socially inheritedaccommodations have presumably grown up in the pains and struggles ofprevious generations, but they have been transmitted to and accepted bysucceeding generations as part of the natural, inevitable social order. All of these are forms of control in which competition is limited bystatus. 

Conflict is then to be identified with the political order and withconscious control. Accommodation, on the other hand, is associated withthe social order that is fixed and established in custom and the mores. 

Assimilation, as distinguished from accommodation, implies a morethoroughgoing transformation of the personality--a transformation whichtakes place gradually under the influence of social contacts of the mostconcrete and intimate sort. 

Accommodation may be regarded, like religious conversion, as a kind ofmutation. The wishes are the same but their organization is different. Assimilation takes place not so much as a result of changes in theorganization as in the content, i. E. , the memories, of the personality. The individual units, as a result of intimate association, interpenetrate, so to speak, and come in this way into possession of acommon experience and a common tradition. The permanence and solidarityof the group rest finally upon this body of common experience andtradition. It is the rôle of history to preserve this body of commonexperience and tradition, to criticise and reinterpret it in the lightof new experience and changing conditions, and in this way to preservethe continuity of the social and political life. 

The relation of social structures to the processes of competition, conflict, accommodation, and assimilation may be representedschematically as follows:

 SOCIAL PROCESS SOCIAL ORDER

 Competition The economic equilibrium Conflict The political order Accommodation Social organization Assimilation Personality and the cultural heritage

3. Classification of the Materials

The materials in this chapter have been selected to exhibit (1) the rôlewhich competition plays in social life and all life, and (2) the typesof organization that competition has everywhere created as a result ofthe division of labor it has everywhere enforced. These materials fallnaturally under the following heads: (a) the struggle for existence;(b) competition and segregation; and (c) economic competition. 

This order of the materials serves the purpose of indicating the stagesin the growth and extension of man's control over nature and over manhimself. The evolution of society has been the progressive extension ofcontrol over nature and the substitution of a moral for the naturalorder. 

Competition has its setting in the struggle for existence. This struggleis ordinarily represented as a chaos of contending individuals in whichthe unfit perish in order that the fit may survive. This conception ofthe natural order as one of anarchy, "the war of each against all, "familiar since Hobbes to the students of society, is recent in biology. Before Darwin, students of plant and animal life saw in nature, notdisorder, but order; not selection, but design. The difference betweenthe older and the newer interpretation is not so much a difference offact as of point of view. Looking at the plant and animal species withreference to their classification they present a series of relativelyfixed and stable types. The same thing may be said of the plant andanimal communities. Under ordinary circumstances the adjustment betweenthe members of the plant and animal communities and the environment isso complete that the observer interprets it as an order of co-operationrather than a condition of competitive anarchy. 

Upon investigation it turns out, however, that the plant and animalcommunities are in a state of unstable equilibrium, such that any changein the environment may destroy them. Communities of this type are notorganized to resist or adapt themselves as communities to changes in theenvironment. The plant community, for example, is a mere product ofsegregation, an aggregate without nerves or means of communication thatwould permit the individuals to be controlled in the interest of thecommunity as a whole. [183]

The situation is different in the so-called animal societies. Animalsare adapted in part to the situation of competition, but in part also tothe situation of co-operation. With the animal, maternal instinct, gregariousness, sex attraction restrict competition to a greater or lessextent among individuals of the same family, herd, or species. In thecase of the ant community competition is at a minimum and co-operationat a maximum. 

With man the free play of competition is restrained by sentiment, custom, and moral standards, not to speak of the more conscious controlthrough law. 

It is a characteristic of competition, when unrestricted, that it isinvariably more severe among organisms of the same than of differentspecies. Man's greatest competitor is man. On the other hand, man'scontrol over the plant and animal world is now well-nigh complete, sothat, generally speaking, only such plants and animals are permitted toexist as serve man's purpose. 

Competition among men, on the other hand, has been very largelyconverted into rivalry and conflict. The effect of conflict has been toextend progressively the area of control and to modify and limit thestruggle for existence within these areas. The effect of war has been, on the whole, to extend the area over which there is peace. Competitionhas been restricted by custom, tradition, and law, and the struggle forexistence has assumed the form of struggle for a livelihood and forstatus. 

Absolute free play of competition is neither desirable nor evenpossible. On the other hand, from the standpoint of the individual, competition means mobility, freedom, and, from the point of view ofsociety, pragmatic or experimental change. Restriction of competition issynonymous with limitation of movement, acquiescence in control, andtelesis, Ward's term for changes ordained by society in distinction fromthe natural process of change. 

The political problem of every society is the practical one: how tosecure the maximum values of competition, that is, personal freedom, initiative, and originality, and at the same time to control theenergies which competition has released in the interest of thecommunity. 

II. MATERIALS

A. THE STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE

1. Different Forms of the Struggle for Existence[184]

The formula "struggle for existence, " familiar in human affairs, wasused by Darwin in his interpretation of organic life, and he showedthat we gain clearness in our outlook on animate nature if we recognizethere, in continual process, a struggle for existence not merelyanalogous to, but fundamentally the same as, that which goes on in humanlife. He projected on organic life a sociological idea, and showed thatit fitted. But while he thus vindicated the relevancy and utility of thesociological idea within the biological realm, he declared explicitlythat the phrase "struggle for existence" was meant to be a shorthandformula, summing up a vast variety of strife and endeavor, of thrust andparry, of action and reaction. 

Some of Darwin's successors have taken pains to distinguish a great manydifferent forms of the struggle for existence, and this kind of analysisis useful in keeping us aware of the complexities of the process. Darwinhimself does not seem to have cared much for this logical mapping outand defining; it was enough for him to insist that the phrase was used"in a large and metaphorical sense, " and to give full illustrations ofits various modes. For our present purpose it is enough for us to followhis example. 

a) _Struggle between fellows. _--When the locusts of a huge swarm haveeaten up every green thing, they sometimes turn on one another. Thiscannibalism among fellows of the same species--illustrated, forinstance, among many fishes--is the most intense form of the strugglefor existence. The struggle does not need to be direct to be real; theessential point is that the competitors seek after the same desiderata, of which there is a limited supply. 

As an instance of keen struggle between nearly related species, Darwinreferred to the combats of rats. The black rat was in possession of manyEuropean towns before the brown rat crossed the Volga in 1727; wheneverthe brown rat arrived, the black rat had to go to the wall. Thus at thepresent day there are practically no black rats in Great Britain. Herethe struggle for existence is again directly competitive. It isdifficult to separate the struggle for food and foothold from thestruggle for mates, and it seems clearest to include here the battles ofthe stags and the capercailzies, or the extraordinary lek of theblackcock, showing off their beauty at sunrise on the hills. 

b) _Struggle between foes. _--In the locust swarm and in the rats'combats there is competition between fellows of the same or nearlyrelated species, but the struggle for existence includes much widerantipathies. We see it between foes of entirely different nature, between carnivores and herbivores, between birds of prey and smallmammals. In both these cases there may be a stand-up fight, for instancebetween wolf and stag, or between hawk and ermine; but neither the logicnor the biology of the process is different when all the fight is on oneside. As the lemmings, which have overpopulated the Scandinavianvalleys, go on the march they are followed by birds and beasts of prey, which thin their ranks. Moreover, the competition between species neednot be direct; it will come to the same result if both types seek afterthe same things. The victory will be with the more effective and themore prolific. 

c) _Struggle with fate. _--Our sweep widens still further, and we passbeyond the idea of competition altogether to cases where the strugglefor existence is between the living organism and the inanimateconditions of its life--for instance, between birds and the winter'scold, between aquatic animals and changes in the water, between plantsand drought, between plants and frost--in a wide sense, between Life andFate. 

We cannot here pursue the suggestive idea that, besides struggle betweenindividuals, there is struggle between groups of individuals--the lattermost noticeably developed in mankind. Similarly, working in the otherdirection, there is struggle between parts or tissues in the body, between cells in the body, between equivalent germ-cells, and, perhaps, as Weismann pictures, between the various multiplicate items that makeup our inheritance. 

2. Competition and Natural Selection[185]

The term "struggle for existence" is used in a large and metaphoricalsense, including dependence of one being on another, and including(which is more important) not only the life of the individual butsuccess in leaving progeny. Two canine animals in a time of dearth maybe truly said to struggle with each other which shall get food and live. But a plant on the edge of a desert is said to struggle for life againstthe drought, though more properly it should be said to be dependent onthe moisture. A plant which annually produces a thousand seeds, of whichonly one of an average comes to maturity, may be more truly said tostruggle with the plants of the same and other kinds which alreadyclothe the ground. The mistletoe is dependent on the apple and a fewother trees, but can only in a far-fetched sense be said to strugglewith these trees, for, if too many of these parasites grow on the sametree, it languishes and dies. But several seedling mistletoes growingclose together on the same branch may more truly be said to strugglewith each other. As the mistletoe is disseminated by birds, itsexistence depends on them; and it may metaphorically be said to strugglewith other fruit-bearing plants in tempting the birds to devour and thusdisseminate its seeds. In these several senses which pass into eachother, I use for convenience' sake the general term of "struggle forexistence. "

A struggle for existence inevitably follows from the high rate at whichall organic beings tend to increase. Every being which during itsnatural lifetime produces several eggs or seeds must suffer destructionduring some period of its life, and during some season or occasionalyear, otherwise, on the principle of geometrical increase, its numberswould quickly become so inordinately great that no country could supportthe product. Hence, as more individuals are produced than can possiblysurvive, there must in every case be a struggle for existence, eitherone individual with another of the same species, or with the individualsof distinct species, or with the physical conditions of life. It is thedoctrine of Malthus applied with manifold force to the whole animal andvegetable kingdoms; for in this case there can be no artificial increaseof food, and no prudential restraint from marriage. Although somespecies may be now increasing more or less rapidly in numbers, allcannot do so, for the world would not hold them. 

There is no exception to the rule that every organic being naturallyincreases at so high a rate that, if not destroyed, the earth would soonbe covered by the progeny of a single pair. Even slow-breeding man hasdoubled in twenty-five years, and at this rate in less than a thousandyears there would literally not be standing-room for his progeny. Linnaeus has calculated that if an annual plant produced only twoseeds--and there is no plant so unproductive as this--and theirseedlings next year produced two, and so on, then in twenty years therewould be a million plants. The elephant is reckoned the slowest breederof all known animals, and I have taken some pains to estimate itsprobable minimum rate of natural increase; it will be safest to assumethat it begins breeding when thirty years old and goes on breeding tillninety years old, bringing forth six young in the interval and survivingtill one hundred years old; if this be so, after a period of from 740 to750 years there would be nearly nineteen million elephants alive, descended from the first pair. 

The struggle for life is most severe between individuals and varietiesof the same species. As the species of the same genus usually have, though by no means invariably, much similarity in habits andconstitution, and always similarity in structure, the struggle willgenerally be more severe between them if they come into competition witheach other than between the species of distinct genera. We see this inthe recent extension over parts of the United States of one species ofswallow having caused the decrease of another species. The recentincrease of the missel-thrush in parts of Scotland has caused thedecrease of the song-thrush. How frequently we hear of one species ofrat taking the place of another species under the most differentclimates! In Russia the small Asiatic cockroach has everywhere drivenbefore it its great congener. In Australia the imported hive-bee israpidly exterminating the small, stingless native bee. We can dimly seewhy the competition should be most severe between allied forms whichfill nearly the same place in the economy of nature; but probably in noone case could we precisely say why one species has been victorious overanother in the great battle of life. 

A corollary of the highest importance may be deduced from the foregoingremarks, namely, that the structure of every organic being is related, in the most essential yet often hidden manner, to that of all the otherorganic beings with which it comes into competition for food orresidence or from which it has to escape or on which it preys. This isobvious in the structure of the teeth and talons of the tiger; and inthat of the legs and claws of the parasite which clings to the hair onthe tiger's body. But in the beautifully plumed seed of the dandelion, and in the flattened and fringed legs of the water-beetle, the relationseems at first confined to the elements of air and water. Yet theadvantage of plumed seeds no doubt stands in the closest relations tothe land being already thickly clothed with other plants; so that theseeds may be widely distributed and fall on unoccupied ground. In thewater beetle, the structure of its legs, so well adapted for diving, allows it to compete with other aquatic insects, to hunt for its ownprey, and to escape serving as prey to other animals. 

The store of nutriment laid up within the seeds of many plants seems atfirst sight to have no sort of relation to other plants. But from thestrong growth of young plants produced from such seeds, as peas andbeans, when sown in the midst of long grass, it may be suspected thatthe chief use of the nutriment in the seed is to favor the growth ofseedlings whilst struggling with other plants growing vigorously allaround. 

Look at a plant in the midst of its range; why does it not double orquadruple its numbers? We know that it can perfectly well withstand alittle more heat or cold, dampness or dryness, for elsewhere it rangesinto slightly hotter or colder, damper or drier, districts. In this casewe can clearly see that if we wish in imagination to give the plant thepower of increasing in number, we should have to give it some advantageover its competitors, or over the animals which prey upon it. On theconfines of its geographical range, a change of constitution withrespect to climate would clearly be an advantage to our plant; but wehave reason to believe that only a few plants or animals range so far, that they are destroyed exclusively by the rigor of the climate. Notuntil we reach the extreme confines of life, in the Arctic regions or onthe borders of an utter desert, will competition cease. The land may beextremely cold or dry, yet there will be competition between some fewspecies, or between the individuals of the same species, for the warmestor dampest spots. 

Hence we can see that when a plant or an animal is placed in a newcountry amongst new competitors, the conditions of its life willgenerally be changed in an essential manner, although the climate may beexactly the same as in its former home. If its average numbers are toincrease in its new home, we should have to modify it in a different wayto what we should have had to do in its native country; for we shouldhave to give it some advantage over a different set of competitors orenemies. 

It is good thus to try in imagination to give to any one species anadvantage over another. Probably in no single instance should we knowwhat to do. This ought to convince us of our ignorance on the mutualrelations of all organic beings, a conviction as necessary as it isdifficult to acquire. All that we can do is to keep steadily in mindthat each organic being is striving to increase in a geometrical ratio;that each at some period of its life, during some season of the year, during each generation or at intervals, has to struggle for life and tosuffer great destruction. When we reflect on this struggle, we mayconsole ourselves with the full belief that the war of nature is notincessant, that no fear is felt, that death is generally prompt, andthat the vigorous, the healthy, and the happy survive and multiply. 

3. Competition, Specialization, and Organization[186]

Natural selection acts exclusively by the preservation and accumulationof variations, which are beneficial under the organic and inorganicconditions to which each creature is exposed at all periods of life. Theultimate result is that each creature tends to become more and moreimproved in relation to its conditions. This improvement inevitablyleads to the gradual advancement of the organization of the greaternumber of living beings throughout the world. 

But here we enter on a very intricate subject, for naturalists have notdefined to each other's satisfaction what is meant by an advance inorganization. Amongst the vertebrata the degree of intellect and anapproach in structure to man clearly come into play. It might be thoughtthat the amount of change which the various parts and organs passthrough in their development from the embryo to maturity would sufficeas a standard of comparison; but there are cases, as with certainparasitic crustaceans, in which several parts of the structure becomeless perfect, so that the mature animal cannot be called higher than itslarva. Von Baer's standard seems the most widely applicable and thebest, namely, the amount of differentiation of the parts of the sameorganic being, in the adult state, as I should be inclined to add, andtheir specialization for different functions; or, as Milne Edwards wouldexpress it, the completeness of the division of physiological labor. Butwe shall see how obscure this subject is if we look, for instance, tofishes, amongst which some naturalists rank those as highest which, likethe sharks, approach nearest to amphibians; whilst other naturalistsrank the common bony or teleostean fishes as the highest, inasmuch asthey are most strictly fishlike and differ most from the othervertebrate classes. We see still more plainly the obscurity of thesubject by turning to plants, amongst which the standard of intellectis, of course, quite excluded; and here some botanists rank those plantsas highest which have every organ, as sepals, petals, stamens, andpistils, fully developed in each flower; whereas other botanists, probably with more truth, look at the plants which have their severalorgans much modified and reduced in number as the highest. 

If we take as the standard of high organization the amount ofdifferentiation and specialization of the several organs in each beingwhen adult (and this will include the advancement of the brain forintellectual purposes), natural selection clearly leads toward thisstandard; for all physiologists admit that the specialization of organs, inasmuch as in this state they perform their functions better, is anadvantage to each being; and hence the accumulation of variationstending toward specialization is within the scope of natural selection. On the other hand, we can see, bearing in mind that all organic beingsare striving to increase at a high ratio and to seize on everyunoccupied or less well-occupied place in the economy of nature, that itis quite possible for natural selection gradually to fit a being to asituation in which several organs would be superfluous or useless: insuch cases there would be retrogression in the scale of organization. 

But it may be objected that if all organic beings thus tend to rise inthe scale, how is it that throughout the world a multitude of the lowestforms still exist; and how is it that in each great class some forms arefar more highly developed than others? Why have not the more highlydeveloped forms everywhere supplanted and exterminated the lower? On ourtheory the continued existence of lowly organisms offers no difficultyfor natural selection, or the survival of the fittest does notnecessarily include progressive development--it only takes advantage ofsuch variations as arise and are beneficial to each creature under itscomplex relations of life. And it may be asked what advantage, as far aswe can see, would it be to an infusorian animalcule--to an intestinalworm, or even to an earthworm--to be highly organized. If it were noadvantage, these forms would be left, by natural selection, unimprovedor but little improved, and might remain for indefinite ages in theirpresent lowly condition. And geology tells us that some of the lowestforms, as the infusoria and rhizopods, have remained for an enormousperiod in nearly their present state. But to suppose that most of themany low forms now existing have not in the least advanced since thefirst dawn of life would be extremely rash; for every naturalist who hasdissected some of the beings now ranked as very low in the scale musthave been struck with their really wondrous and beautiful organization. 

Nearly the same remarks are applicable if we look to the differentgrades of organization within the same great group; for instance, in thevertebrata to the coexistence of mammals and fish; amongst mammalia tothe coexistence of man and the ornithorhynchus; amongst fishes to thecoexistence of the shark and the lancelet (Amphioxus), which later fishin the extreme simplicity of its structure approaches the invertebrateclasses. But mammals and fish hardly come into competition with eachother; the advancement of the whole class of mammals, or of certainmembers in this class, to the highest grade would not lead to theirtaking the place of fishes. Physiologists believe that the brain must bebathed by warm blood to be highly active, and this requires aerialrespiration; so that warm-blooded mammals when inhabiting the water lieunder a disadvantage in having to come continually to the surface tobreathe. With fishes, members of the shark family would not tend tosupplant the lancelet; for the lancelet, as I hear from Fritz Müller, has as sole companion and competitor on the barren sandy shore of SouthBrazil an anomalous annelid. The three lowest orders of mammals, namely, marsupials, edentata, and rodents, coexist in South America in the sameregion with numerous monkeys, and probably interfere little with eachother. 

Although organization, on the whole, may have advanced and may be stilladvancing throughout the world, yet the scale will always present manydegrees of perfection; for the high advancement of certain wholeclasses, or of certain members of each class, does not at allnecessarily lead to the extinction of those groups with which they donot enter into close competition. In some cases, lowly organized formsappear to have been preserved to the present day from inhabitingconfined or peculiar stations, where they have been subjected to lesssevere competition and where their scanty numbers have retarded thechance of favorable variations arising. 

Finally, I believe that many lowly organized forms now exist throughoutthe world from various causes. In some cases variations or individualdifferences of a favorable nature may never have arisen for naturalselection to act on and accumulate. In no case, probably, has timesufficed for the utmost possible amount of development. In some fewcases there has been what we must call retrogression of organization. But the main cause lies in the fact that under very simple conditions oflife a high organization would be of no service--possibly would be ofactual disservice, as being of a more delicate nature and more liable tobe put out of order and injured. 

4. Man: An Adaptive Mechanism[187]

Everything in nature, living or not living, exists and develops at theexpense of some other thing, living or not living. The plant borrowsfrom the soil; the soil from the rocks and the atmosphere; men andanimals take from the plants and from each other the elements which theyin death return to the soil, the atmosphere, and the plants. Year afteryear, century after century, eon after eon, the mighty, immeasurable, ceaseless round of elements goes on, in the stupendous process ofchemical change, which marks the eternal life of matter. 

To the superficial observer, nature in all her parts seems imbued with aspirit of profound peace and harmony; to the scientist it is obviousthat every infinitesimal particle of the immense concourse is in a stateof desperate and ceaseless struggle to obtain such share of theavailable supply of matter and energy as will suffice to maintain itspresent ephemeral form in a state of equilibrium with its surroundings. Not only is this struggle manifest among living forms, among birds andbeasts and insects in their competition for food and habitat, but--if wemay believe the revelations of the science of radio-activity--a processof transmutation, of disintegration of the atoms of one element withsimultaneous formation of another element, is taking place in everyfragment of inanimate matter, a process which parallels in character themore transitory processes of life and death in organisms and isprobably a representation of the primary steps in that great process ofevolution by which all terrestrial forms, organic and inorganic, havebeen evolved from the original ether by an action inconceivably slow, continuous, and admitting of no break in the series from inanimate toanimate forms. 

From colloidal slime to man is a long road, the conception of whichtaxes our imaginations to the utmost, but it is an ascent which is nowfairly well demonstrated. Indeed, the problems of the missing links arenot so difficult as is the problem of the origin of the organs andfunctions which man has acquired as products of adaptation. For whetherwe look upon the component parts of our present bodies as useful oruseless mechanisms, we must regard them as the result of age-longconflicts between environmental forces and organisms. 

Everywhere something is pursuing and something is escaping anothercreature. It is a constant drama of getting food and of seeking toescape being made food, evolving in the conflict structures fitted toaccomplish both reactions. Everywhere the strong prey upon the weak, theswift upon the slow, the clever upon the stupid; and the weak, the slow, the stupid, retaliate by evolving mechanisms of defense, which more orless adequately repel or render futile the oppressor's attack. For eachmust live, and those already living have proved their right to existenceby a more or less complete adaptation to their environment. The resultof this twofold conflict between living beings is to evolve the manifoldstructures and functions--teeth, claws, skin, color, fur, feathers, horns, tusks, wily instincts, strength, stealth, deceit, andhumility--which make up character in the animal world. According to thenature and number of each being's enemies has its own special mechanismbeen evolved, distinguishing it from its fellows and enabling it to geta living in its particular environment. 

In every case the fate of each creature seems to have been staked uponone mechanism. The tiger by its teeth and claws, the elephant and therhinoceros by their strength, the bird by its wings, the deer by itsfleetness, the turtle by its carapace--all are enabled to counter theattacks of enemies and to procreate. Where there is a negative defense, such as a shell or quills, there is little need and no evidence ofintelligence: where a rank odor, no need and no presence of claws orcarapace; where sting or venom, no need and no possession of odor, claws, shell, extraordinary strength, or sagacity. Where the struggle ismost bitter, there exist the most complex and most numerous contrivancesfor living. 

Throughout its whole course the process of evolution, where it isvisible in the struggle of organisms, has been marked by a progressivevictory of brain over brawn. And this, in turn, may be regarded as but amanifestation of the process of survival by _lability_ rather than by_stability_. Everywhere the organism that exhibits the qualities ofquick response, of extreme sensibility to stimuli, of capacity tochange, is the individual that survives, "conquers, " "advances. " Thequality most useful in nature, from the point of view of the dominationof a wider environment, is the quality of _changeableness_, _plasticity_, _mobility_, or _versatility_. Man's particular means ofadaptation to his environment is this quality of versatility. By meansof this quality expressed through the manifold reactions of his highlyorganized central nervous system, man has been able to dominate thebeasts and to maintain himself in an environment many times moreextensive than theirs. Like the defensive mechanisms of shells, poisons, and odors, man's particular defensive mechanism--his versatility ofnervous response (mind)--was acquired automatically as a result of aparticular combination of circumstances in his environment. 

In the Tertiary era--some twenty millions of years ago--the earth, basking in the warmth of a tropical climate, had produced a luxuriantvegetation and a swarming progeny of gigantic small-brained animals forwhich the exuberant vegetation provided abundant and easily acquiredsustenance. They were a breed of huge, clumsy, and grotesque monsters, vast in bulk and strength, but of little intelligence, that wanderedheavily on the land and gorged lazily on the abundant food at hand. Withthe advance of the carnivora, the primitive forerunners of our tigers, wolves, hyenas, and foxes, came a period of stress, comparable to aseven years of famine following a seven years of plenty, which subjectedthe stolid herbivorous monsters to a severe selective struggle. 

Before the active onslaught of lighter, lither, more intelligent foes, the clumsy, inelastic types succumbed, those only surviving which, through the fortunate possession of more varied reactions, were able toevolve modes of defense equal to the modes of attack possessed by theirenemies. Many, unable to evolve the acute senses and the fleet limbsnecessary for the combat on the ground, shrank from the fray andacquired more negative and passive means of defense. Some, like the bat, escaped into the air. Others, such as the squirrel and the ape, tookrefuge in the trees. 

It was in this concourse of weak creatures which fled to the treesbecause they lacked adequate means of offense, defense, or escape on theground that the lineaments of man's ancient ancestor might have beendiscerned. One can imagine what must have been the pressure from thecarnivora that forced a selective transformation of the feet of theprogenitor of the anthropoids into grasping hands. Coincidentally withthe tree life, man's special line of adaptation--_versatility_--wasundoubtedly rapidly evolved. Increased versatility and the evolution ofhands enabled man to come down from the trees millions of yearsthereafter, to conquer the world by the further evolution and exerciseof his organ of strategy--the brain. Thus we may suppose have arisen theintricate reactions we now call mind, reason, foresight, invention, etc. 

Man's claim to a superior place among animals depends less upon_different_ reactions than upon a _greater number_ of reactions ascompared with the reactions of "lower" animals. Ability to respondadaptively to more elements in the environment gives a larger dominion, that is all. 

The same measure applies within the human species--the number of nervousreactions of the artist, the financier, the statesman, the scientist, being invariably greater than the reactions of the stolid savage. Thatman alone of all animals should have achieved the degree of versatilitysufficient for such advance is no more remarkable than that the elephantshould have evolved a larger trunk and tusks than the boar; that thelegs of the deer should be fleeter than those of the ox; that the wingsof the swallow should outfly those of the bat. Each organism, inevolving the combination of characters commensurate with safety in itsparticular environment, has touched the limit of both its necessity andits power to "advance. " There exists abundant and reliable evidence ofthe fact that wherever man has been subjected to the stunting influencesof an unchanging environment fairly favorable to life, he has shown nomore disposition to progress than the most stolid animals. Indeed, hehas usually retrograded. The need to fight for food and home has beenthe spur that has ever driven man forward to establish the manifoldforms of physical and mental life which make up human existence today. Like the simple adaptive mechanisms of the plant by which it gets air, and of the animal by which it overcomes its rivals in battle, thesupremely differentiated functions of thought and human relations arethe outcome of the necessity of the organism to become adapted toentities in its environment. 

B. COMPETITION AND SEGREGATION

1. Plant Migration, Competition, and Segregation[188]

Invasion is the complete or complex process of which migration, ecesis(the adjustment of a plant to a new home), and competition are theessential parts. It embraces the whole movement of a plant or group ofplants from one area into another and their colonization in the latter. From the very nature of migration, invasion is going on at all times andin all directions. 

Effective invasion is predominantly local. It operates in mass onlybetween bare areas and adjacent communities which contain speciescapable of pioneering, or between contiguous communities which offersomewhat similar conditions or contain species of wide range ofadjustment. Invasion into a remote region rarely has any successionaleffect (effect tending to transform the character of a plant community), as the invaders are too few to make headway against the plants inpossession or against those much nearer a new area. Invasion into a newarea or a plant community begins with migration when this is followed byecesis. In new areas, ecesis produces reaction (the effect which a plantor a community exerts upon its habitat) at once, and this is followed byaggregation and competition, with increasing reaction. In an areaalready occupied by plants, ecesis and competition are concomitant andquickly produce reactions. Throughout the development migrants areentering and leaving, and the interactions of the various processes cometo be complex in the highest degree. 

Local invasion in force is essentially _continuous_ or _recurrent_. Between contiguous communities it is _mutual_, unless they are toodissimilar. The result is a transition area or ecotone which epitomizesthe next stage in development. By far the greater amount of invasioninto existing vegetation is of this sort. The movement into a bare areais likewise continuous, though it is necessarily not mutual, and hencethere is no ecotone during the earlier stages. The significant featureof continuous invasion is that an outpost may be repeatedly reinforced, permitting rapid aggregation and ecesis, and the production of newcenters from which the species may be extended over a wide area. Contrasted with continuous invasion is intermittent or periodic movementinto distant regions, but this is rarely concerned in succession. Whenthe movement of invaders into a community is so great that the originaloccupants are driven out, the invasion is _complete_. 

A topographic feature or a physical or a biological agency thatrestricts or prevents invasions is a barrier. Topographic features areusually permanent and produce permanent barriers. Biological ones areoften temporary and exist for a few years or even a single season. Temporary barriers are often recurrent, however. Barriers are completeor incomplete with respect to the thoroughness of their action. They mayaffect invasion either by limiting migration or by preventing ecesis. 

Biological barriers comprise plant communities, man and animals, andparasitic plants. The limiting effect of a plant community is exhibitedin two ways. In the first place, an association acts as a barrier to theecesis of species invading it from associations of another type, onaccount of the physical differences of the habitats. Whether such abarrier be complete or partial will depend upon the relative unlikenessof the two areas. Shade plants are unable to invade a prairie, thoughthe species of open thickets or woodland may do so to a certain degree. Closed communities (one in which all the soil is occupied) likewiseexert a marked influence in decreasing invasion by reason of the intenseand successful competition which all invaders must meet. Closedassociations usually act as complete barriers, while more open onesrestrict invasion in direct proportion to the degree of occupation. Tothis fact may be traced the fundamental law of succession (the law bywhich one type of community or formation is succeeded by another) thatthe number of stages is determined largely by the increasing difficultyof invasion as the area becomes stabilized. Man and animals affectinvasion by the destruction of germules. Both in bare areas and in seralstages the action of rodents and birds is often decisive to the extentof altering the whole course of development. Man and animals operate asmarked barriers to ecesis wherever they alter conditions unfavorably toinvaders or where they turn the scale in competition by cultivating, grazing, camping, parasitism, etc. The absence of pollinating insects issometimes a curious barrier to the complete ecesis of species far out oftheir usual habitat or region. Parasitic fungi decrease migration in sofar as they affect seed production. They restrict or prevent ecesiseither by the destruction of invaders or by placing them at adisadvantage with respect to the occupants. 

By the term _reaction_ is understood the effect which a plant or acommunity exerts upon its habitat. In connection with succession, theterm is restricted to this special sense alone. It is entirely distinctfrom the response of the plant or group, i. E. , its adjustment andadaptation to the habitat. In short, the habitat causes the plant tofunction and grow, and the plant then reacts upon the habitat, changingone or more of its factors in decisive or appreciable degree. The twoprocesses are mutually complementary and often interact in most complexfashion. 

The reaction of a community is usually more than the sum of thereactions of the component species and individuals. It is the individualplant which produces the reaction, though the latter usually becomesrecognizable through the combined action of the group. In most cases theaction of the group accumulates or emphasizes an effect which wouldotherwise be insignificant or temporary. A community of trees casts lessshade than the same number of isolated individuals, but the shade isconstant and continuous, and hence controlling. The significance of thecommunity reaction is especially well shown in the case of leaf mold andduff. The leaf litter is again only the total of the fallen leaves ofall the individuals but its formation is completely dependent upon thecommunity. The reaction of plants upon wind-borne sand and silt-ladenwaters illustrates the same fact. 

2. Migration and Segregation[189]

All prehistoric investigation, as far as it relates to the phenomena ofthe animate world, necessarily rests upon the hypothesis of migration. The distribution of plants, of the lower animals, and of men over thesurface of the earth; the relationships existing between the differentlanguages, religious conceptions, myths and legends, customs and socialinstitutions--all these seem in this one assumption to find their commonexplanation. 

Each fresh advance in culture commences, so to speak, with a new periodof wandering. The most primitive agriculture is nomadic, with a yearlyabandonment of the cultivated area; the earliest trade is migratorytrade; the first industries that free themselves from the householdhusbandry and become the special occupations of separate individuals arecarried on itinerantly. The great founders of religion, the earliestpoets and philosophers, the musicians and actors of past epochs, are allgreat wanderers. Even today, do not the inventor, the preacher of a newdoctrine, and the virtuoso travel from place to place in search ofadherents and admirers--notwithstanding the immense recent developmentin the means of communicating information?

As civilization grows older, settlement becomes more permanent. TheGreek was more settled than the Phoenician, the Roman than the Greek, because one was always the inheritor of the culture of the other. Conditions have not changed. The German is more migratory than theLatin, the Slav than the German. The Frenchman cleaves to his nativesoil; the Russian leaves it with a light heart to seek in other parts ofhis broad fatherland more favorable conditions of living. Even thefactory workman is but a periodically wandering peasant. 

To all that can be adduced from experience in support of the statementthat in the course of history mankind has been ever growing moresettled, there comes a general consideration of a twofold nature. In thefirst place, the extent of fixed capital grows with advancing culture;the producer becomes stationary with his means of production. Theitinerant smith of the southern Slav countries and the Westphalian ironworks, the pack-horses of the Middle Ages and the great warehouses ofour cities, the Thespian carts and the resident theater mark thestarting and the terminal points of this evolution. In the second place, the modern machinery of transportation has in a far higher degreefacilitated the transport of goods than of persons. The distribution oflabor determined by locality thereby attains greater importance than thenatural distribution of the means of production; the latter in manycases draws the former after it, where previously the reverse occurred. 

The migrations occurring at the opening of the history of Europeanpeoples are migrations of whole tribes, a pushing and pressing ofcollective units from east to west, which lasted for centuries. Themigrations of the Middle Ages ever affect individual classes alone; theknights in the crusades, the merchants, the wage-craftsmen, thejourneymen hand-workers, the jugglers and minstrels, the villeinsseeking protection within the walls of a town. Modern migrations, on thecontrary, are generally a matter of private concern, the individualsbeing led by the most varied motives. They are almost invariably withoutorganization. The process repeating itself daily a thousand times isunited only through the one characteristic, that it is everywhere aquestion of change of locality by persons seeking more favorableconditions of life. 

Among all the phenomena of masses in social life suited to statisticaltreatment, there is without doubt scarcely one that appears to fall ofitself so completely under the general law of causality as migrations;and likewise hardly one concerning whose real cause such mistyconceptions prevail. 

The whole department of migrations has never yet undergone systematicstatistical observation; exclusive attention has hitherto been centeredupon remarkable individual occurrences of such phenomena. Even arational classification of migrations in accord with the demand ofsocial science is at the present moment lacking. 

Such a classification would have to take as its starting-point theresult of migrations from the point of view of population. On this basisthey would fall into these groups: (1) migrations with continuous changeof locality; (2) migrations with temporary change of settlement; (3)migrations with permanent settlement. 

To the _first_ group belong gypsy life, peddling, the carrying on ofitinerant trades, tramp life; to the _second_, the wandering ofjourneymen craftsmen, domestic servants, tradesmen seeking the mostfavorable spots for temporary undertakings, officials to whom a definiteoffice is for a time entrusted, scholars attending foreign institutionsof learning; to the _third_, migration from place to place within thesame country or province and to foreign parts, especially across theocean. 

An intermediate stage between the first and second group is found in the_periodical migrations_. To this stage belong the migrations of farmlaborers at harvest time, of the sugar laborers at the time of the_campagne_, of the masons of Upper Italy and the Ticino district, commonday-laborers, potters, chimney-sweeps, chestnut-roasters, etc. , whichoccur at definite seasons. 

In this division the influence of the natural and political insulationof the different countries is, it is true, neglected. It must not, however, be overlooked that in the era of nationalism and protection ofnational labor political allegiance has a certain importance inconnection with the objective point of the migrations. It would, therefore, in our opinion, be more just to make another division, takingas a basis the politico-geographical extent of the migrations. From thispoint of view migrations would fall into _internal_ and _foreign_ types. 

Internal migrations are those whose points of departure and destinationlie within the same national limits; foreign, those extending beyondthese. The foreign may again be divided into _continental_ and_extra-European_ (generally transmaritime) emigration. One can, however, in a larger sense designate all migrations that do not leave the limitsof the Continent as internal, and contrast with them real emigration, ortransfer of domicile to other parts of the globe. 

Of all these manifold kinds of migration, the transmaritime alone hasregularly been the subject of official statistics; and even it has beenbut imperfectly treated, as every student of this subject knows. Theperiodic emigrations of labor and the peddling trade have occasionallybeen also subjected to statistical investigation--mostly with thesecondary aim of legislative restriction. Yet these migrations fromplace to place within the same country are vastly more numerous and intheir consequences vastly more important than all other kinds ofmigration put together. 

Of the total population of the kingdom of Belgium there were, accordingto the results of the census of December 31, 1880, not less than 32. 8per cent who were born outside the municipality in which they had theirtemporary domicile; of the population of Austria (1890), 34. 8 per cent. In Prussia, of 27, 279, 111 persons, 11, 552, 033, or 42. 4 per cent, wereborn outside the municipality where they were domiciled. More thantwo-fifths of the population had changed their municipality at leastonce. 

If we call the total population born in a given place and domiciledanywhere within the borders of the country that locality's _native_population, then according to the conditions of interchange ofpopulation just presented the native population of the country places isgreater than their actual population; that of the cities, smaller. 

A balancing of the account of the internal migrations in the grand duchyof Oldenburg gives the cities a surplus, and country municipalities adeficit, of 15, 162 persons. In the economy of population one is thecomplement of the other, just as in the case of two brothers ofdifferent temperament, one of whom regularly spends what the other haslaboriously saved. To this extent, then, we are quite justified from thepoint of view of population in designating the cities man-consuming andthe country municipalities man-producing social organisms. 

There is a very natural explanation for this condition of affairs in thecountry. Where the peasant, on account of the small population of hisplace of residence, is much restricted in his local choice of help, adjoining communities must supplement one another. In like manner theinhabitants of small places will intermarry more frequently than theinhabitants of larger places where there is a greater choice among thenative population. Here we have the occasion for very numerousmigrations to places not far removed. Such migrations, however, onlymean a local exchange of socially allied elements. 

This absorption of the surplus of emigration over immigration is thecharacteristic of modern cities. If in our consideration of this problemwe pay particular attention to this urban characteristic and to a likefeature of the factory districts--where the conditions as to internalmigrations are almost similar--we shall be amply repaid by thediscovery that in such settlements the result of internal shiftings ofpopulation receives its clearest expression. Here, where the immigrantelements are most numerous, there develops between them and the nativepopulation a social struggle--a struggle for the best conditions ofearning a livelihood or, if you will, for existence, which ends with theadaptation of one part to the other, or perhaps with the finalsubjugation of the one by the other. Thus, according to Schliemann, thecity of Smyrna had in the year 1846 a population of 80, 000 Turks and8, 000 Greeks; in the year 1881, on the contrary, there were 23, 000 Turksand 76, 000 Greeks. The Turkish portion of the population had thus inthirty-five years decreased by 71 per cent, while the Greeks hadincreased ninefold. 

Not everywhere, to be sure, do those struggles take the form of such ageneral process of displacement; but in individual cases it will occurwith endless frequency within a country that the stronger andbetter-equipped element will overcome the weaker and less well-equipped. 

Thus we have here a case similar to that occurring so frequently innature: on the same terrain where a more highly organized plant oranimal has no longer room for subsistence, others less exacting in theirdemands take up their position and flourish. The coming of the new is infact not infrequently the cause of the disappearance of those alreadythere and of their withdrawal to more favorable surroundings. 

If these considerations show that by no means the majority of internalmigrations find their objective point in the cities, they at the sametime prove that the trend toward the great centers of population can, initself be looked upon as having an extensive social and economicimportance. It produces an alteration in the distribution of populationthroughout the state; and at its originating and objective points itgives rise to difficulties which legislative and executive authority hashitherto labored, usually with but very moderate success, to overcome. It transfers large numbers of persons almost directly from a sphere oflife where barter predominates into one where money and credit exchangeprevail, thereby affecting the social conditions of life and the socialcustoms of the manual laboring classes in a manner to fill thephilanthropist with grave anxiety. 

3. Demographic Segregation and Social Selection[190]

There are two ways in which demographic crystallization may have takenplace. A people may have become rigid horizontally, divided into castes, or social strata; or it may be geographically segregated into localizedcommunities, varying in size all the way from the isolated hamlet to thehighly individualized nation. Both of these forms of crystallization arebreaking down today under the pressure of modern industrialism anddemocracy, in Europe as well as in America. 

The sudden growth of great cities is the first result of the phenomenonof migration which we have to note. We think of this as essentially anAmerican problem. We comfort ourselves in our failures of municipaladministration with that thought. This is a grievous deception. Most ofthe European cities have increased in population more rapidly than inAmerica. This is particularly true of great German urban centers. Berlinhas outgrown our own metropolis, New York, in less than a generation, having in twenty-five years added as many actual new residents asChicago, and twice as many as Philadelphia. Hamburg has gained twice asmany in population since 1875 as Boston; Leipzig has distanced St. Louis. The same demographic outburst has occurred in the smaller Germancities as well. Beyond the confines of the German Empire, from Norway toItaly, the same is true. 

Contemporaneously with this marvellous growth of urban centers weobserve a progressive depopulation of the rural districts. What is goingon in our New England states, especially in Massachusetts, is entirelycharacteristic of large areas in Europe. Take France, for example. Thetowns are absorbing even more than the natural increment of countrypopulation; they are drawing off the middle-aged as well as the young. Thus great areas are being actually depopulated. 

A process of selection is at work on a grand scale. The great majoritytoday who are pouring into the cities are those who, like the emigrantsto the United States in the old days of natural migration, come becausethey have the physical equipment and the mental disposition to seek abetterment of their fortunes away from home. Of course, an appreciablecontingent of such migrant types is composed of the merely discontented, of the restless, and the adventurous; but, in the main, the best bloodof the land it is which feeds into the arteries of city life. 

Another more certain mode of proof is possible for demonstrating thatthe population of cities is largely made up either of direct immigrantsfrom the country or of their immediate descendants. In German cities, Hansen found that nearly one-half their residents were of direct countrydescent. In London it has been shown that over one-third of itspopulation are immigrants; and in Paris the same is true. For thirty ofthe principal cities of Europe it has been calculated that only aboutone-fifth of their increase is from the loins of their own people, theoverwhelming majority being of country birth. 

The first physical characteristic of urban populations, as compared withthose of country districts, which we have to note, is their tendencytoward that shape of head characteristic of two of our racial types, Teutonic and Mediterranean respectively. It seems as if for some reasonthe broad-headed Alpine race was a distinctly rural type. Thirty yearsago an observer in the ethnically Alpine district of south centralFrance noted an appreciable difference between town and country in thehead form of the people. In a half-dozen of the smaller cities hisobservations pointed to a greater prevalence of the long-headed typethan in the country roundabout. Dr. Ammon of Carlsruhe, working uponmeasurements of thousands of conscripts of the Grand Duchy of Baden, discovered radical differences here between the head form in city andcountry, and between the upper and lower classes in the larger towns. Several explanations for this were possible. The direct influence ofurban life might conceivably have brought it about, acting throughsuperior education, habits of life, and the like. There was nopsychological basis for this assumption. Another tenable hypothesis wasthat in these cities, situated, as we have endeavored to show, in a landwhere two racial types of population were existing side by side, thecity for some reason exerted superior powers of attraction upon thelong-headed race. If this were true, then by a combined process ofsocial and racial selection, the towns would be continually drawing untothemselves that tall and blond Teutonic type of population which, ashistory teaches us, has dominated social and political affairs in Europefor centuries. This suggested itself as the probable solution of thequestion; and investigations all over Europe during the last five yearshave been directed to the further analysis of the matter. 

Is this phenomenon, the segregation of a long-headed physical type incity populations, merely the manifestation of a restless tendency on thepart of the Teutonic race to reassert itself in the new phases ofnineteenth-century competition? All through history this type has beencharacteristic of the dominant classes, especially in military andpolitical, perhaps rather than purely intellectual, affairs. All theleading dynasties of Europe have long been recruited from its ranks. Thecontrast of this type, whose energy has carried it all over Europe, withthe persistently sedentary Alpine race is very marked. A certainpassivity, or patience, is characteristic of the Alpine peasantry. As arule, not characterized by the domineering spirit of the Teuton, thisAlpine type makes a comfortable and contented neighbor, a resigned andpeaceful subject. Whether this rather negative character of the Alpinerace is entirely innate, or whether it is in part, like many of itssocial phenomena, merely a reflection from the almost invariablyinhospitable habitat in which it has long been isolated, we may notpretend to decide. 

Let us now for a moment take up the consideration of a second physicalcharacteristic of city populations--viz. , stature. If there be a law atall in respect of average statures, it demonstrates rather thedepressing effects of city life than the reverse. For example, Hamburgis far below the average for Germany. All over Britain there areindications of this law, that town populations are, on the average, comparatively short of stature. Dr. Beddoe, the great authority uponthis subject, concludes his investigation of the population of GreatBritain thus: "It may therefore be taken as _proved_ that the stature ofmen in the large towns of Britain is lowered considerably below thestandard of the nation, and as _probable_ that such degradation ishereditary and progressive. "

A most important point in this connection is the great variability ofcity populations in size. All observers comment upon this. It is ofprofound significance. The people of the west and east ends in each citydiffer widely. The population of the aristocratic quarters is oftenfound to exceed in stature the people of the tenement districts. Weshould expect this, of course, as a direct result of the depressinginfluence of unfavorable environment. Yet there is apparently anotherfactor underlying that--viz. , social selection. While cities contain solarge a proportion of degenerate physical types as on the average tofall below the surrounding country in stature, nevertheless they alsoare found to include an inordinately large number of very tall andwell-developed individuals. In other words, compared with the ruraldistricts, where all men are subject to the same conditions of life, wediscover in the city that the population has differentiated into thevery tall and the very short. 

The explanation for this phenomenon is simple. Yet it is not direct, asin Topinard's suggestion that it is a matter of race or that a change ofenvironment operates to stimulate growth. Rather does it appear that itis the growth which suggests the change. The tall men are in the mainthose vigorous, mettlesome, presumably healthy individuals who havethemselves, or in the person of their fathers, come to the city insearch of the prizes which urban life has to offer to the successful. Onthe other hand, the degenerate, the stunted, those who entirelyoutnumber the others so far as to drag the average for the city as awhole below the normal, are the grist turned out by the city mill. Theyare the product of the tenement, the sweat shop, vice, and crime. Ofcourse, normally developed men, as ever, constitute the main bulk of thepopulation, but these two widely divergent classes attain a veryconsiderable representation. 

We have seen thus far that evidence seems to point to an aggregation ofthe Teutonic long-headed population in the urban centers of Europe. Perhaps a part of the tall stature in some cities may be due to suchracial causes. A curious anomaly now remains, however, to be noted. Citypopulations appear to manifest a distinct tendency towardbrunetness--that is to say, they seem to comprise an abnormal proportionof brunet traits, as compared with the neighboring rural districts. Thistendency was strikingly shown to characterize the entire German Empirewhen its six million school children were examined under Virchow'sdirection. In twenty-five out of thirty-three of the larger cities werethe brunet traits more frequent than in the country. 

Austria offers confirmation of the same tendency toward brunetness intwenty-four out of its thirty-three principal cities. Farther south, inItaly, it was noted much earlier that cities contained fewer blonds thanwere common in the rural districts roundabout. In conclusion let us add, not as additional testimony, for the data are too defective, that amongfive hundred American students at the Institute of Technology in Boston, roughly classified, there were 9 per cent of pure brunet type amongthose of country birth and training, while among those of urban birthand parentage the percentage of such brunet type rose as high as 15. 

It is not improbable that there is in brunetness, in the dark hair andeye, some indication of vital superiority. If this were so, it wouldserve as a partial explanation for the social phenomena which we havebeen at so much pains to describe. If in the same community there were aslight vital advantage in brunetness, we should expect to find that typeslowly aggregating in the cities; for it requires energy and courage, physical as well as mental, not only to break the ties of home andmigrate, but also to maintain one's self afterward under the stress ofurban life. 

From the preceding formidable array of testimony it appears that thetendency of urban populations is certainly not toward the pure blond, long-headed, and tall Teutonic type. The phenomenon of urban selectionis something more complex than a mere migration of a single racialelement in the population toward the cities. The physicalcharacteristics of townsmen are too contradictory for ethnicexplanations alone. To be sure, the tendencies are slight; we are noteven certain of their universal existence at all. We are merely watchingfor their verification or disproof. There is, however, nothingimprobable in the phenomena we have noted. Naturalists have alwaysturned to the environment for the final solution of many of the greatproblems of nature. In this case we have to do with one of the mostsudden and radical changes of environment known to man. Every conditionof city life, mental as well as physical, is at the polar extreme fromthose which prevail in the country. To deny that great modifications inhuman structure and functions may be effected by a change from one tothe other is to gainsay all the facts of natural history. 

4. Inter-racial Competition and Race Suicide[191]

I have thus far spoken of the foreign arrivals at our ports, asestimated. Beginning with 1820, however, we have custom-house statisticsof the numbers of persons annually landing upon our shores. Some ofthese, indeed, did not remain here; yet, rudely speaking, we may callthem all immigrants. Between 1820 and 1830, population grew to12, 866, 020. The number of foreigners arriving in the ten years was151, 000. Here, then, we have for forty years an increase, substantiallyall out of the loins of the four millions of our own people living in1790, amounting to almost nine millions, or 227 per cent. Such a rate ofincrease was never known before or since, among any considerablepopulation over any extensive region. 

About this time, however, we reach a turning-point in the history of ourpopulation. In the decade 1830-40 the number of foreign arrivals greatlyincreased. Immigration had not, indeed, reached the enormous dimensionsof these later days. Yet, during the decade in question, the foreignerscoming to the United States were almost exactly fourfold those coming inthe decade preceding, or 599, 000. The question now of vital importanceis this: Was the population of the country correspondingly increased? Ianswer, No! The population of 1840 was almost exactly what, bycomputation, it would have been had no increase in foreign arrivalstaken place. Again, between 1840 and 1850, a still further access offoreigners occurred, this time of enormous dimensions, the arrivals ofthe decade amounting to not less than 1, 713, 000. Of this gigantic total, 1, 048, 000 were from the British Isles, the Irish famine of 1846-47having driven hundreds of thousands of miserable peasants to seek foodupon our shores. Again we ask, Did this excess constitute a net gain tothe population of the country? Again the answer is, No! Populationshowed no increase over the proportions established before immigrationset in like a flood. In other words, as the foreigners began to come inlarger numbers, the native population more and more withheld their ownincrease. 

Now this correspondence might be accounted for in three different ways:(1) It might be said that it was a mere coincidence, no relation ofcause and effect existing between the two phenomena. (2) It might besaid that the foreigners came because the native population wasrelatively declining, that is, failing to keep up its pristine rate ofincrease. (3) It might be said that the growth of the native populationwas checked by the incoming of the foreign elements in such largenumbers. 

The view that the correspondence referred to was a mere coincidence, purely accidental in origin, is perhaps that most commonly taken. Ifthis be the true explanation, the coincidence is a most remarkable one. In the June number of this magazine, I cited the predictions as to thefuture population of the country made by Elkanah Watson, on the basis ofthe censuses of 1790, 1800, and 1810, while immigration still remainedat a minimum. Now let us place together the actual census figures for1840 and 1850, Watson's estimates for those years, and the foreignarrivals during the preceding decade:

 1840 1850The census 17, 069, 453 23, 191, 876Watson's estimates 17, 116, 526 23, 185, 368 ___________ ___________The difference -47, 073 +6, 508

Foreign arrivals during the precedingdecade 599, 000 1, 713, 000

Here we see that, in spite of the arrival of 500, 000 foreigners duringthe period 1830-40, four times as many as had arrived during anypreceding decade, the figures of the census coincided closely with theestimate of Watson, based on the growth of population in thepre-immigration era, falling short of it by only 47, 073 in a total of17, 000, 000; while in 1850 the actual population, in spite of the arrivalof 1, 713, 000 more immigrants, exceeded Watson's estimates by only 6, 508in a total of 23, 000, 000. Surely, if this correspondence between theincrease of the foreign element and the relative decline of the nativeelement is a mere coincidence, it is one of the most astonishing inhuman history. The actuarial degree of improbability as to a coincidenceso close, over a range so vast, I will not undertake to compute. 

If, on the other hand, it be alleged that the relation of cause andeffect existed between the two phenomena, this might be put in twowidely different ways: either that the foreigners came in increasingnumbers because the native element was relatively declining, or that thenative element failed to maintain its previous rate of increase becausethe foreigners came in such swarms. What shall we say of the former ofthese explanations? Does anything more need to be said than that it istoo fine to be the real explanation of a big human fact like this we areconsidering? To assume that at such a distance in space, in the thenstate of news-communication and ocean-transportation, and in spite ofthe ignorance and extreme poverty of the peasantries of Europe fromwhich the immigrants were then generally drawn, there was so exact adegree of knowledge not only of the fact that the native element herewas not keeping up its rate of increase but also of the precise ratio ofthat decline as to enable those peasantries, with or without a mutualunderstanding, to supply just the numbers necessary to bring ourpopulation up to its due proportions, would be little less thanlaughable. Today, with quick passages, cheap freights, and oceantransportation there is not a single wholesale trade in the worldcarried on with this degree of knowledge, or attaining anything likethis point of precision in results. 

The true explanation of the remarkable fact we are considering I believeto be the last of the three suggested. The access of foreigners, at thetime and under the circumstances, constituted a shock to the principleof population among the native element. That principle is always acutelysensitive alike to sentimental and to economic conditions. And it is tobe noted, in passing, that not only did the decline in the nativeelement, as a whole, take place in singular correspondence with theexcess of foreign arrivals, but it occurred chiefly in just thoseregions to which the newcomers most freely resorted. 

But what possible reason can be suggested why the incoming of theforeigner should have checked the disposition of the native toward theincrease of population at the traditional rate? I answer that the bestof good reasons can be assigned. Throughout the northeastern andnorthern middle states, into which, during the period underconsideration, the newcomers poured in such numbers, the standard ofmaterial living, of general intelligence, of social decency, had beensingularly high. Life, even at its hardest, had always had its luxuries;the babe had been a thing of beauty, to be delicately nurtured andproudly exhibited; the growing child had been decently dressed, atleast for school and church; the house had been kept in order, atwhatever cost, the gate hung, the shutters in place, while the frontyard had been made to bloom with simple flowers; the village church, thepublic schoolhouse, had been the best which the community, with greatexertions and sacrifices, could erect and maintain. Then came theforeigner, making his way into the little village, bringing--small blameto him!--not only a vastly lower standard of living, but too often anactual present incapacity even to understand the refinements of life andthought in the community in which he sought a home. Our people had tolook upon houses that were mere shells for human habitations, the gateunhung, the shutters flapping or falling, green pools in the yard, babesand young children rolling about half naked or worse, neglected, dirty, unkempt. Was there not in this a sentimental reason strong enough togive a shock to the principle of population? But there was, besides, aneconomic reason for a check to the native increase. The American shrankfrom the industrial competition thus thrust upon him. He was unwillinghimself to engage in the lowest kind of day labor with these newelements of the population; he was even more unwilling to bring sons anddaughters into the world to enter into that competition. For the firsttime in our history, the people of the free states became divided intoclasses. Those classes were natives and foreigners. Politically, thedistinction had only a certain force, which yielded more or less readilyunder partisan pressure; but socially and industrially that distinctionhas been a tremendous power, and its chief effects have been wroughtupon population. Neither the social companionship nor the industrialcompetition of the foreigner has, broadly speaking, been welcome to thenative. 

It hardly needs to be said that the foregoing descriptions are notintended to apply to all of the vast body of immigrants during thisperiod. Thousands came over from good homes; many had all the advantagesof education and culture; some possessed the highest qualities ofmanhood and citizenship. 

But let us proceed with the census. By 1860 the causes operating toreduce the growth of the native element--to which had then manifestlybeen added the force of important changes in the manner of living, theintroduction of more luxurious habits, the influence of city life, andthe custom of "boarding"--had reached such a height as, in spite of astill-increasing immigration, to leave the population of the country310, 503 below the estimate. The fearful losses of the Civil War and therapid extension of habits unfavorable to increase of numbers make anyfurther use of Watson's computations uninstructive; yet still the greatfact protrudes through all the subsequent history of our population thatthe more rapidly foreigners came into the United States, the smaller wasthe rate of increase, not merely among the native population separately, but throughout the population of the country, as a whole, including theforeigners. The climax of this movement was reached when, during thedecade 1880-90, the foreign arrivals rose to the monstrous total of fiveand a quarter millions (twice what had ever before been known), whilethe population, even including this enormous re-enforcement, increasedmore slowly than in any other period of our history except, possibly, that of the great Civil War. 

If the foregoing views are true, or contain any considerable degree oftruth, foreign immigration into this country has, from the time it firstassumed large proportions, amounted, not to a reinforcement of ourpopulation, but to a replacement of native by foreign stock. That if theforeigners had not come the native element would long have filled theplaces the foreigners usurped, I entertain not a doubt. The competencyof the American stock to do this it would be absurd to question, in theface of such a record as that for 1790 to 1830. During the period from1830 to 1860 the material conditions of existence in this country werecontinually becoming more and more favorable to the increase ofpopulation from domestic sources. The old man-slaughtering medicine wasbeing driven out of civilized communities; houses were becoming larger;the food and clothing of the people were becoming ampler and better. Norwas the cause which, about 1840 or 1850, began to retard the growth ofpopulation here to be found in the climate which Mr. Clibbornestigmatizes so severely. The climate of the United States has beenbenign enough to enable us to take the English shorthorn and greatly toimprove it, as the re-exportation of that animal to England at monstrousprices abundantly proves; to take the English race-horse and to improvehim to a degree of which the startling victories of Parole, Iroquois, and Foxhall afford but a suggestion; to take the Englishman and toimprove him, too, adding agility to his strength, making his eye keenerand his hand steadier, so that in rowing, in riding, in shooting, and inboxing, the American of pure English stock is today the better animal. No! Whatever were the causes which checked the growth of the nativepopulation, they were neither physiological nor climatic. They weremainly social and economic; and chief among them was the access of vasthordes of foreign immigrants, bringing with them a standard of living atwhich our own people revolted. 

C. ECONOMIC COMPETITION

1. Changing Forms of Economic Competition[192]

There is a sense in which much of the orthodox system of politicaleconomy is eternally true. Conclusions reached by valid reasoning arealways as true as the hypotheses from which they are deduced. It willremain forever true that if unlimited competition existed, most of thetraditional laws would be realized in the practical world. It will alsobe true that in those corners of the industrial field which still showan approximation to Ricardian competition there will be seen as much ofcorrespondence between theory and fact as candid reasoners claim. Ifpolitical economy will but content itself with this kind of truth, itneed never be disturbed by industrial revolutions. The science need nottrouble itself to progress. 

This hypothetical truth, or science of what would take place if societywere fashioned after an ideal pattern, is not what Ricardo believed thathe had discovered. His system was positive; actual life suggested it bydeveloping tendencies for which the scientific formulas which at thattime were traditional could not account. It was a new industrial worldwhich called for a modernized system of economic doctrine. Ricardo wasthe first to understand the situation, to trace the new tendencies totheir consummation, and to create a scientific system by insight andforesight. He outran history in the process, and mentally created aworld more relentlessly competitive than any which has existed; and yetit was fact and not imagination that lay at the basis of the wholesystem. Steam had been utilized, machines were supplanting hand labor, workmen were migrating to new centers of production, guild regulationswere giving way, and competition of a type unheard of before wasbeginning to prevail. 

A struggle for existence had commenced between parties of unequalstrength. In manufacturing industries the balance of power had beendisturbed by steam, and the little shops of former times weredisappearing. The science adapted to such conditions was an economicDarwinism; it embodied the laws of a struggle for existence betweencompetitors of the new and predatory type and those of the peaceabletype which formerly possessed the field. Though the process was savage, the outlook which it afforded was not wholly evil. The survival of crudestrength was, in the long run, desirable. Machines and factories meant, to every social class, cheapened goods and more comfortable living. Efficient working establishments were developing; the social organismwas perfecting itself for its contest with crude nature. It was a fullerand speedier dominion over the earth which was to result from theconcentration of human energy now termed centralization. 

The error unavoidable to the theorists of the time lay in basing ascientific system on the facts afforded by a state of revolution. Thiswas attempting to derive permanent principles from transient phenomena. Some of these principles must become obsolete; and the work demanded ofmodern economists consists in separating the transient from thepermanent in the Ricardian system. How much of the doctrine holds truewhen the struggle between unequal competitors is over, and when a few ofthe very strongest have possession of the field?

In most branches of manufacturing, and in other than localtransportation, the contest between the strong and the weak is eithersettled or in process of rapid settlement. The survivors are becoming sofew, so powerful, and so nearly equal that if the strife were tocontinue, it would bid fair to involve them all in a common ruin. Whathas actually developed is not such a battle of giants but a system ofarmed neutralities and federations of giants. The new era is distinctlyone of consolidated forces; rival establishments are formingcombinations, and the principle of union is extending itself to thelabor and the capital in each of them. Laborers who once competed witheach other are now making their bargains collectively with theiremployers. Employers who under the old régime would have workedindependently are merging their capital in corporations and allowing itto be managed as by a single hand. 

Predatory competition between unequal parties was the basis of theRicardian system. This process was vaguely conceived and never fullyanalyzed; what was prominent in the thought of men in connection with itwas the single element of struggle. Mere effort to survive, theDarwinian feature of the process, was all that, in some uses, the term"competition" was made to designate. Yet the competitive action of anorganized society is systematic; each part of it is limited to aspecific field, and tends, within these limits, to self-annihilation. 

An effort to attain a conception of competition that should remove someof the confusion was made by Professor Cairnes. His system of"non-competing groups" is a feature of his value theory, which is anoteworthy contribution to economic thought. Mr. Mill had followedRicardo in teaching that the natural price of commodities is governed bythe cost of producing them. Professor Cairnes accepts this statement, but attaches to it a meaning altogether new. He says, in effect:

 Commodities do indeed exchange according to their cost of production; but cost is something quite different from what currently passes by that name. That is merely the outlay incurred by the capitalist-employer for raw materials, labor, etc. The real cost is the personal sacrifice made by the producing parties, workmen as well as employers. It is not a mercantile but a psychological phenomenon, a reaction upon the men themselves occasioned by the effort of the laborer and the abstinence of the capitalist. These personal sacrifices gauge the market value of commodities within the fields in which, in the terms of the theory, competition is free. The adjustment takes place through the spontaneous movement of capital and labor from employments that yield small returns to those that give larger ones. Capital migrates freely from place to place and from occupation to occupation. If one industry is abnormally profitable, capital seeks it, increases and cheapens its product, and reduces its profits to the prevailing level. Profits tend to a general uniformity. 

Wages are said to tend to equality only within limits. The transfer oflabor from one employment to another is checked by barriers. 

 What we find, in effect [continues Professor Cairnes], is not a whole population competing indiscriminately for all occupations, but a series of industrial layers, superimposed on one another, within each of which the various candidates for employment possess a real and effective power of selection, while those occupying the several strata are, for all purposes of effective competition, practically isolated from each other. We may perhaps venture to arrange them in some such order as this: first, at the bottom of the scale there would be the large group of unskilled or nearly unskilled laborers, comprising agricultural laborers, laborers engaged in miscellaneous occupations in towns, or acting in attendance on skilled labor. Secondly, there would be the artisan group, comprising skilled laborers of the secondary order--carpenters, joiners, smiths, masons, shoemakers, tailors, hatters, etc. , etc. --with whom might be included the very large class of small retail dealers, whose means and position place them within the reach of the same industrial opportunities as the class of artisans. The third layer would contain producers and dealers of a higher order, whose work would demand qualifications only obtainable by persons of substantial means and fair educational opportunities; for example, civil and mechanical engineers, chemists, opticians, watchmakers, and others of the same industrial grade, in which might also find a place the superior class of retail tradesmen; while above these there would be a fourth, comprising persons still more favorably circumstanced, whose ampler means would give them a still wider choice. This last group would contain members of the learned professions, as well as persons engaged in the various careers of science and art, and in the higher branches of mercantile business. 

It is essential to the theory that not only workmen but their childrenshould be confined to a producing group. The equalizing process may takeplace even though men do not actually abandon one occupation and enteranother; for there exists, in the generation of young men not yetcommitted to any occupation, a disposable fund of labor which willgravitate naturally to the occupations that pay the largest wages. It isnot necessary that blacksmiths should ever become shoemakers, or viceversa, but only that the children of both classes of artisans should befree to enter the trade that is best rewarded. 

Professor Cairnes does not claim that his classification is exhaustive, nor that the demarcation is absolute:

 No doubt the various ranks and classes fade into each other by imperceptible gradations, and individuals from all classes are constantly passing up or dropping down; but while this is so, it is nevertheless true that the average workman, from whatever rank he be taken, finds his power of competition limited for practical purposes to a certain range of occupations, so that, however high the rates of remuneration in those which lie beyond may rise, he is excluded from sharing them. We are thus compelled to recognize the existence of non-competing industrial groups as a feature of our social economy. 

It will be seen that the competition which is here under discussion isof an extraordinary kind; and the fact that the general term is appliedto it without explanation is a proof of the vagueness of the conceptionsof competition with which acute writers have contented themselves. Actual competition consists invariably in an effort to undersell a rivalproducer. A carpenter competes with a carpenter because he creates asimilar utility and offers it in the market. In the theory of ProfessorCairnes the carpenter is the competitor of the blacksmith, because hischildren may enter the blacksmith's calling. In the actual practice ofhis own trade, the one artisan in no wise affects the other. It ispotential competition rather than actual that is here under discussion;and even this depends for its effectiveness on the action of the risinggeneration. 

Modern methods of production have obliterated Professor Cairnes'sdividing lines. Potential competition extends to every part of theindustrial field in which men work in organized companies. Throwing outof account the professions, a few trades of the highest sort, and theclass of labor which is performed by employers themselves and theirsalaried assistants, it is practically true that labor is in a universalebb and flow; it passes freely to occupations which are, for the timebeing, highly paid, and reduces their rewards to the general level. 

This objection to the proposed grouping is not theoretical. The questionis one of fact; it is the development of actual industry that hasinvalidated the theory which, in the seventies, expressed an importanttruth concerning economic relations in England. Moreover, the author ofthe theory anticipated one change which would somewhat lessen itsapplicability to future conditions. He recorded his belief thateducation would prove a leveler, and that it would merge to some extentthe strata of industrial society. The children of hod-carriers mightbecome machinists, accountants, or lawyers when they could acquire theneeded education. He admitted also that new countries afford conditionsin which the lines of demarcation are faint. He was not in a position toappreciate the chief leveling agency, namely, the machine method ofproduction as now extended and perfected. Education makes the laborercapable of things relatively difficult, and machines render theprocesses which he needs to master relatively easy. The so-calledunskilled workmen stand on a higher personal level than those of formertimes; and the new methods of manufacturing are reducing class afterclass to that level. Mechanical labor is resolving itself into processesso simple that anyone may learn them. An old-time shoemaker could notbecome a watchmaker, and even his children would have found difficultiesin their way had they attempted to master the higher trade; but a lasterin a Lynn shoe factory can, if he will, learn one of the minute tradesthat are involved in the making of a Waltham watch. His children may doso without difficulty; and this is all that is necessary for maintainingthe normal balance between the trades. 

The largest surviving differences between workmen are moral. Bodilystrength still counts for something, and mental strength for more; butthe consideration which chiefly determines the value of a workman to theemployer who intrusts to him costly materials and a delicate machine isthe question of fidelity. Character is not monopolized by any socialclass; it is of universal growth, and tends by the prominent part whichit plays in modern industry, to reduce to their lowest terms the classdifferences of the former era. 

The rewards of professional life are gauged primarily by character andnative endowment, and are, to this extent, open to the children ofworkmen. New barriers, however, arise here in the ampler educationwhich, as time advances, is demanded of persons in these pursuits; andthese barriers give to a part of the fourth and highest class in thescheme that we are criticising a permanent basis of existence. Anothervariety of labor retains a pre-eminence based on native adaptations andspecial opportunities. It is the work of the employer himself. It is anorganizing and directing function, and in large industries is performedonly in part by the owners. A portion of this work is committed to hiredassistants. Strictly speaking, the entrepreneur, or employer, of a greatestablishment is not one man, but many, who work in a collectivecapacity, and who receive a reward that, taken in the aggregate, constitutes the "wages of superintendence. " To some members of thisadministrative body the returns come in the form of salaries, while toothers they come partly in the form of dividends; but if we regard theirwork in its entirety, and consider their wages in a single sum, we mustclass it with entrepreneur's profits rather than with ordinary wages. Itis a different part of the product from the sum distributed among daylaborers; and this fact separates the administrative group from theclass considered in our present inquiry. Positions of the higher sortare usually gained either through the possession of capital or throughrelations to persons who possess it. Though clerkships of the lowergrade demand no attainments which the children of workmen cannot gain, and though promotion to the higher grades is still open, the tendency ofthe time is to make the transition from the ranks of labor to those ofadministration more and more difficult. The true laboring class ismerging its subdivisions, while it is separating more sharply from theclass whose interests, in test questions, place them on the side ofcapital. 

2. Competition and the Natural Harmony of Individual Interests[193]

The general industry of the society never can exceed what the capital ofthe society can employ. As the number of workmen that can be kept inemployment by any particular person must bear a certain proportion tohis capital, so the number of those that can be continually employed byall the members of a great society must bear a certain proportion to thewhole capital of that society and never can exceed that proportion. Noregulation of commerce can increase the quantity of industry in anysociety beyond what its capital can maintain. It can only divert a partof it into a direction into which it might not otherwise have gone; andit is by no means certain that this artificial direction is likely to bemore advantageous to the society than that into which it would have goneof its own accord. 

Every individual is continually exerting himself to find out the mostadvantageous employment for whatever capital he can command. It is hisown advantage, indeed, and not that of the society, which he has inview. But the study of his own advantage naturally, or rathernecessarily, leads him to prefer that employment which is mostadvantageous to the society. 

As every individual, therefore, endeavors as much as he can both toemploy his capital in the support of domestic industry and so to directthat industry that its product may be of the greatest value; everyindividual necessarily labors to render the annual revenue of thesociety as great as he can. He generally, indeed, neither intends topromote the public interest nor knows how much he is promoting it. Bypreferring the support of domestic to that of foreign industry, heintends only his own security; and by directing that industry in such amanner that its product may be of the greatest value, he intends onlyhis own gain, and he is in this, as in many other cases, led by aninvisible hand to promote an end which was no part of his intention. Noris it always worse for the society that it was no part of it. Bypursuing his own interest he frequently promotes that of the societymore effectually than when he really intends to promote it. I have neverknown much good done by those who affected to trade for the public good. It is an affectation, indeed, not very common among merchants, and veryfew words need be employed in dissuading them from it. 

What is the species of domestic industry which his capital can employ, and of which the product is likely to be of the greatest value, everyindividual, it is evident, can, in his local situation, judge muchbetter than any statesman or lawgiver can do for him. The statesman whoshould attempt to direct private people in what manner they ought toemploy their capitals would not only load himself with a mostunnecessary attention but assume an authority which could safely betrusted, not only to no single person, but to no council or senatewhatever, and which would nowhere be so dangerous as in the hands of aman who had folly and presumption enough to fancy himself fit toexercise it. 

3. Competition and Freedom[194]

What, after all, is competition? Is it something that exists and acts ofitself, like the cholera? No, competition is simply the absence ofoppression. In reference to the matters that interest me, I _prefer_ tochoose for myself and I do not want anyone else to choose for me againstmy will; that's all. And if anyone undertakes to substitute his judgmentfor mine in matters that concern me I shall demand the privilege ofsubstituting my wishes for his in matters which concern him. Whatguaranty is there that this arrangement will improve matters? It isevident that competition is liberty. To destroy liberty of action is todestroy the possibility and consequently the faculty of choosing, judging, comparing; it is to kill intelligence, to kill thought, to killman himself. Whatever the point of departure, there is where modernreforms always end; in order to improve society it is necessary toannihilate the individual, upon the assumption that the individual isthe source of all evil, and as if the individual was not likewise thesource of all good. 

4. Money and Freedom[195]

Money not only makes the relation of individuals to the group a moreindependent one, but the content of the special forms of associationsand the relations of the participants to these associations is subjectto an entirely new process of differentiation. 

The medieval corporations included in themselves all the humaninterests. A guild of cloth-makers was not an association of individualswhich cultivated the interests of cloth-making exclusively. It was acommunity in a vocational, personal, religious, political sense and inmany other respects. And however technical the interests that might begrouped together in such an association, they had an immediate andlively interest for all members. Members were wholly bound up in theassociation. 

In contrast to this form of organization the capitalistic system hasmade possible innumerable associations which either require from theirmembers merely money contributions or are directed toward mere moneyinterests. In the case of the business corporation, especially, thebasis of organization of members is exclusively an interest in thedividends, so exclusively that it is a matter of entire indifference tothe individual what the society (enterprise) actually produces. 

The independence of the person of the concrete objects, in which he hasa mere money interest, is reflected, likewise, in his independence, inhis personal relations, of the other individuals with whom he isconnected by an exclusive money interest. This has produced one of themost effective cultural formations--one which makes it possible forindividuals to take part in an association whose objective aim it willpromote, use, and enjoy without this association bringing with it anyfurther personal connection or imposing any further obligation. Moneyhas brought it about that one individual may unite himself with otherswithout being compelled to surrender any of his personal freedom orreserve. That is the fundamental and unspeakably significant differencebetween the medieval form of organization which made no differencebetween the association of men as men and the association of men asmembers of an organization. The medieval form or organization unitedequally in one circle the entire business, religious, political, andfriendly interests of the individuals who composed it. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. Biological Competition

The conception of competition has had a twofold origin: in the notions(a) of the struggle for existence and (b) of the struggle forlivelihood. Naturally, then, the concept of competition has had aparallel development in biology and in economics. The growth of thenotion in these two fields of thought, although parallel, is notindependent. Indeed, the fruitful process of interaction between thediffering formulations of the concept in biology and economics is asignificant illustration of the cross-fertilization of the sciences. Although Malthus was a political economist, his principle of populationis essentially biological rather than economic. He is concerned with thestruggle for existence rather than for livelihood. Reacting against thetheories of Condorcet and of Godwin concerning the natural equality, perfectability, and inevitable progress of man, Malthus in 1798 statedthe dismal law that population tends to increase in geometricalprogression and subsistence in arithmetical progression. In the prefaceto the second edition of his _Essay on the Principle of Population_Malthus acknowledged his indebtedness to "Hume, Wallace, Dr. Adam Smithand Dr. Price. " Adam Smith no doubt anticipated and perhaps suggested toMalthus his thesis in such passages in the _Wealth of Nations_ as, "Every species of animals naturally multiplies in proportion to themeans of their subsistence, " "The demand for men necessarily regulatesthe production of men. " These statements of the relation of populationto food supply, however, are incidental to Smith's general theories ofeconomics; the contribution of Malthus lay in taking this principle outof its limited context, giving it the character of scientificgeneralization, and applying it to current theories and programs ofsocial reform. 

The debt of biology to Malthus is acknowledged both by Darwin and byWallace. Fifteen months after Darwin had commenced his inquiry a chancereading of Malthus' _Essay on the Principle of Population_ gave him theclue to the explanation of the origin of species through the strugglefor existence. During an attack of intermittent fever Wallace recalledMalthus' theory which he had read twelve years before and in it foundthe solution of the problem of biological evolution. 

Although the phrase "the struggle for existence" was actually used byMalthus: Darwin, Wallace, and their followers first gave it a generalapplication to all forms of life. Darwin in his _The Origin of Species_, published in 1859, analyzed with a wealth of detail the struggle forexistence, the nature and forms of competition, natural selection, thesurvival of the fittest, the segregation and consequent specializationof species. 

Biological research in recent years has directed attention away from thetheory of evolution to field study of plant and animal communities. Warming, Adams, Wheeler, and others have described, in their plant andanimal ecologies, the processes of competition and segregation by whichcommunities are formed. Clements in two studies, _Plant Succession_ and_Plant Indicators_, has described in detail the life-histories of someof these communities. His analysis of the succession of plantcommunities within the same geographical area and of the relations ofcompetitive co-operation of the different species of which thesecommunities are composed might well serve as a model for similar studiesin human ecology. 

2. Economic Competition

Research upon competition in economics falls under two heads: (a) thenatural history of competition, and (b) the history of theories ofcompetition. 

a) Competition on the economic level, i. E. , of struggle forlivelihood, had its origins in the market place. Sir Henry Maine, on thebasis of his study of village communities, states in effect that thebeginnings of economic behavior are first to be seen in neutral meetingplaces of strangers and foes. 

 In order to understand what a market originally was, you must try to picture to yourselves a territory occupied by village-communities, self-acting and as yet autonomous, each cultivating its arable land in the middle of its waste, and each, I fear I must add, at perpetual war with its neighbour. But at several points, points probably where the domains of two or three villages converged, there appear to have been spaces of what we should now call neutral ground. These were the Markets. They were probably the only places at which the members of the different primitive groups met for any purpose except warfare, and the persons who came to them were doubtless at first persons especially empowered to exchange the produce and manufactures of one little village-community for those of another. But, besides the notion of neutrality, another idea was anciently associated with markets. This was the idea of sharp practice and hard bargaining. 

 What is the real origin of the feeling that it is not creditable to drive a hard bargain with a near relative or friend? It can hardly be that there is any rule of morality to forbid it. The feeling seems to me to bear the traces of the old notion that men united in natural groups do not deal with one another on principles of trade. The only natural group in which men are now joined is the family; and the only bond of union resembling that of the family is that which men create for themselves by friendship. 

 The general proposition which is the basis of Political Economy, made its first approach to truth under the only circumstances which admitted of men meeting at arm's length, not as members of the same group, but as strangers. Gradually the assumption of the right to get the best price has penetrated into the interior of these groups, but it is never completely received so long as the bond of connection between man and man is assumed to be that of family or clan connection. The rule only triumphs when the primitive community is in ruins. What are the causes which have generalized a Rule of the Market until it has been supposed to express an original and fundamental tendency of human nature, it is impossible to state fully, so multifarious have they been. Everything which has helped to convert a society into a collection of individuals from being an assemblage of families has helped to add to the truth of the assertion made of human nature by the Political Economists. [196]

The extension of the relations of the market place to practically allaspects of life having to do with livelihood has been the outcome of theindustrial revolution and the growth of Great Society. Standardizationof commodities, of prices, and of wages, the impersonal nature ofbusiness relations, the "cash-nexus" and the credit basis of all humanrelations has greatly extended the external competitive forms ofinteraction. Money, with its abstract standards of value, is not only amedium of exchange, but at the same time symbol par excellence of theeconomic nature of modern competitive society. 

The literature describing change from the familial communism, typical ofprimitive society, to the competitive economy of modern capitalisticsociety is indicated in the bibliography. 

b) The history of competition as a concept in political economy goesback to the Physiocrats. This French school of economists, laying stressupon the food supply as the basis and the measure of the wealth of thenation, demanded the abolition of restrictions upon agriculturalproduction and commerce. The Physiocrats based their theories upon thenatural rights of individuals to liberty. 

 The miserable state of the nation seemed to demand a _volte face_. Taxes were many and indirect. Let them be single and direct. Liberty of enterprise was shackled. Let it be free. State-regulation was excessive. _Laissez-faire!_ Their economic plea for liberty is buttressed by an appeal to Nature, greater than kings or ministers, and by an assertion of the natural, inherent rights of man to be unimpeded in his freedom except so far as he infringes upon that of others. [197]

While the Physiocrats emphasized the beneficent effects of freedom inindustry to which the individual has a natural right, Adam Smith, in hisbook _The Wealth of Nations_, emphasized the advantages of competition. To him competition was a protection against monopoly. "It [competition]can never hurt either the consumer or the producer; on the contrary itmust tend to make the retailers both sell cheaper and buy dearer than ifthe whole trade was monopolized by one or two persons!"[198] It was atthe same time of benefit to both producer and consumer. "Monopoly is agreat enemy to good management which can never be universallyestablished but in consequence of that free and universal competitionwhich forces everybody to have recourse to it for the sake ofself-defence. "[199]

Before Darwin, competition had been conceived in terms of freedom and ofthe natural harmony of interests. His use of the term introduced intocompetition the notion of struggle for existence and the survival of thefittest. This new conception, in which competition appears as afundamental process in all life, has been a powerful prop to the laissezfaire policy and has led to its continuance regardless of the misery anddestitution which, if it did not create, it certainly did not remedy. The works of Herbert Spencer, the greatest expounder of the doctrine ofevolution, contain a powerful massing of evidence in favor of laissezfaire as a conclusion to be drawn from a scientific study of humanbehavior. "Nothing but the slow modifications of human nature by thediscipline of social life, " he said, "can produce permanentlyadvantageous changes. A fundamental error pervading the thinking ofnearly all parties, political and social, is that evils admit ofimmediate and radical remedies. "[200]

With the growth of large-scale production with the tendency to theformation of combinations and monopolies, as a result of freedom ofcompetition, works began to appear on the subject of unrestrictedcompetition. The expressions "unfair" and "cut-throat" competition, which occur frequently in recent literature, suggest the new point ofview. Another euphemism under which other and more far-reachingproposals for the limitation of competition and laissez faire have beenproposed is "social justice. " In the meantime the trend of legislationin England for a hundred years, as Mr. A. V. Dicey[201] has pointed out, has been, in spite of Herbert Spencer, away from the individualistic andin the direction of a collectivistic social order. This means morelegislation, more control, and less individual liberty. 

The full meaning of this change in law and opinion can only be fullyunderstood, however, when it is considered in connection with the growthof communication, economic organization, and cities, all of which haveso increased the mutual interdependence of all members of society as torender illusory and unreal the old freedoms and liberties which thesystem of laissez faire was supposed to guarantee. 

3. Competition and Human Ecology

The ecological conception of society is that of a society created bycompetitive co-operation. Adam Smith's _Wealth of Nations_ was adescription of society in so far as it is a product of economiccompetition. David Ricardo, in his _Principles of Political Economy_, defined the process of competition more abstractly and states itsconsequences with more ruthless precision and consistency. "His theory, "says Kolthamer in his introduction, "seems to be an everlastingjustification of the _status quo_. As such at least it was used. "

But Ricardo's doctrines were both "a prop and a menace to the middleclasses, " and the errors which they canonized have been thepresuppositions of most of the radical and revolutionary programs sincethat time. 

 The socialists, adopting his theories of value and wages, interpreted Ricardo's crude expressions to their own advantage. To alter the Ricardian conclusions, they said, alter the social conditions upon which they depend: to improve upon subsistence wage, deprive capital of what it steals from labour--the value which labour creates. The land-taxers similarly used the Ricardian theory of rent: rent is a surplus for the existence of which no single individual is responsible--take it therefore for the benefit of all, whose presence creates it. [202]

The anarchistic, socialistic, and communistic doctrines, to whichreference is made in the bibliography, are to be regarded as themselvessociological phenomena, without reference to their value as programs. They are based on ecological and economic conceptions of society inwhich competition is the fundamental fact and, from the point of view ofthese doctrines, the fundamental evil of society. What is sociologicallyimportant in these doctrines is the wishes that they express. Theyexhibit among other things, at any rate, the character which the hopesand the wishes of men take in this vast, new, restless world, the GreatSociety, in which men find themselves but in which they are not yet, andperhaps never will be, at home. 

4. Competition and the "Inner Enemies": the Defectives, the Dependents, and the Delinquents

Georg Simmel, referring, in his essay on "The Stranger, " to the poor andthe criminal, bestowed upon them the suggestive title of "The InnerEnemies. " The criminal has at all times been regarded as a rebel againstsociety, but only recently has the existence of the dependent and thedefective been recognized as inimical to the social order. [203]

Modern society, so far as it is free, has been organized on the basis ofcompetition. Since the status of the poor, the criminal, and thedependent, has been largely determined by their ability or willingnessto compete, the literature upon defectiveness, dependency, anddelinquency may be surveyed in its relation to the process ofcompetition. For the purposes of this survey the dependent may bedefined as one who is unable to compete; the defective as the person whois, if not unable, at least handicapped, in his efforts to compete. Thecriminal, on the other hand, is one who is perhaps unable, but at anyrate refuses, to compete according to the rules which society lays down. 

Malthus' _Essay on the Principle of Population_ first called attentionto the pathological effects of the struggle for existence in modernsociety and emphasized the necessity of control, not merely in theinterest of the defeated and rejected members of society, but in theinterest of society itself. Malthus sought a mitigation, if not aremedy, for the evils of overpopulation by what he called "moralrestraint, " that is, "a restraint from marriage, from prudentialmotives, with a conduct strictly moral during the period of restraint. "The alternatives were war, famine, and pestilence. These latter have, infact, been up to very recent times the effective means through which theproblem of overpopulation has been solved. 

The Neo-Malthusian movement, under the leadership of Francis Place, Richard Carlile, and Robert Dale Owen in the decade of 1820-30 and ofCharles Bradlaugh and Annie Besant in the decade of 1870-80, advocatedthe artificial restriction of the family. The differential decline inthe birth-rate, that is, the greater decrease in the number of childrenin the well-to-do and educated classes as compared with the poor anduneducated masses, was disclosed through investigations by the GaltonEugenics Laboratory in England and characterized as a national menace. In the words of David Heron, a study of districts in London showed that"one-fourth of the married population was producing one-half of the nextgeneration. " In United States less exhaustive investigation showed thesame tendency at work and the alarm which the facts created found apopular expression in the term "race-suicide. "

It is under these circumstances and as a result of investigations andagitations of the eugenists, that the poor, the defective, and thedelinquent have come to be regarded as "inner enemies" in a sense thatwould scarcely have been understood a hundred years ago. 

Poverty and dependency in modern society have a totally differentsignificance from that which they have had in societies in the past. Theliterature descriptive of primitive communities indicated that in theeconomic communism of a society based on kinship, famines were frequentbut poverty was unknown. In ancient and medieval societies thedependency, where it was not professional, as in the case of themendicant religious orders, was intimate and personal. In this respectit differed widely from the organized, official, and supervisedphilanthropy of our modern cities. 

With the abolition of serfdom, the break-up of the medieval guilds, andthe inauguration of a period of individual freedom and relativelyunrestricted competition (laissez faire) which ushered in the modernindustrial order, the struggle for existence ceased to be communal, andbecame individual. The new order based on individual freedom, ascontrasted with the old order based on control, has been described as asystem in which every individual was permitted to "go to hell in his ownindividual way. " "The only purpose for which power can be rightfullyexercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, "said Mill, "is to prevent harm to others. His own good either physicalor moral is not a sufficient warranty. " Only when the individual becamea criminal or a pauper did the state or organized society attempt tocontrol or assist him in the competitive struggle for existence. [204]

Since competitive industry has its beginnings in England, the study ofthe English poor laws is instructive. Under the influence of Malthusand of the classical economists the early writers upon poverty regardedit as an inevitable and natural consequence of the operation of the"iron laws" of political economy. For example, when Harriet Martineauwas forced to admit, by the evidence collected by the FactoryCommissioners in 1833, that "the case of these wretched factory childrenseems desperate, " she goes on to add "the only hope seems to be that therace will die out in two or three generations. "

Karl Marx, accepting the Ricardian economics, emphasized the misery anddestitution resulting from the competitive process, and demanded theabolition of competition and the substitution therefor of the absolutecontrol of a socialistic state. 

Recent studies treat poverty and dependency as a disease and look to itsprevention and cure. Trade unions, trade associations, and socialinsurance are movements designed to safeguard industry and the workeragainst the now generally recognized consequences of unlimitedcompetition. The conceptions of industrial democracy and citizenship inindustry have led to interesting and promising experiments. 

In this connection, the efforts of employers to protect themselves aswell as the community from accidents and occupational diseases may beproperly considered. During and since the Great War efforts have beenmade on a grand scale to rehabilitate, re-educate, and restore tousefulness the war's wounded soldiers. This interest in the formersoldiers and the success of the efforts already made has led to anincreased interest in all classes of the industrially handicapped. Anumber of surveys have been made, in different parts of the country, ofthe crippled, and efforts are in progress to discover occupations andprofessions in which the deaf, the blind, and otherwise industriallyhandicapped can be employed and thus restored to usefulness and relativeindependence. 

The wide extension of the police power in recent times in the interestof public health, sanitation, and general public welfare represents theeffort of the government, in an individualistic society in which theolder sanctions and securities no longer exist, to protect theindividual as well as the community from the effects of unrestrictedcompetition. 

The literature of criminology has sought an answer to the enigma of thecriminal. The writings of the European criminologists run the gamut ofexplanation from Lombroso, who explained crime as an inborn tendency ofthe criminal, to Tarde, who defines the criminal as a purely socialproduct. 

W. A. Bonger, [205] a socialist, has sought to show that criminality is adirect product of the modern economic system. Without accepting eitherthe evidence or the conclusions of Bonger, it cannot be gainsaid thatthe modern offender must be studied from the standpoint of his failureto participate in a wholesome and normal way in our competitive, secondary society which rests upon the institution of private propertyand individual competition. 

The failure of the delinquent to conform to the social code may bestudied from two standpoints: (a) that of the individual as anorganization of original mental and temperamental traits, and (b) thatof a person with a status and a rôle in the social group. The book _TheIndividual Delinquent_, by William Healy, placed the study of theoffender as an individual upon a sound scientific basis. That the personcan and should be regarded as part and parcel of his social milieu hasbeen strikingly illustrated by T. M. Osborne in two books, _WithinPrison Walls_ and _Society and Prisons_. The fact seems to be that theproblem of crime is essentially like that of the other major problems ofour social order, and its solution involves three elements, namely:(a) the analysis of the aptitudes of the individual and the wishes ofthe person; (b) the analysis of the activities of our society with itsspecialization and division of labor; and (c) the accommodation oradjustment of the individual to the social and economic environment. 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. BIOLOGICAL COMPETITION

(1) Crile, George W. _Man an Adaptive Mechanism. _ New York, 1901. 

(2) Darwin, Charles. _The Origin of Species. _ London, 1859. 

(3) Wallace, Alfred Russel. _Studies Scientific and Social. _ 2 vols. NewYork, 1900. 

(4) ----. _Darwinism. _ An exposition of the theory of natural selectionwith some of its applications. Chap. Iv, "The Struggle for Existence, "pp. 14-40; chap. V, "Natural Selection by Variation and Survival of theFittest, " pp. 102-25. 3d ed. London, 1901. 

(5) Weismann, August. _On Germinal Selection as a Source of DefiniteVariation. _ Translated from the German. Chicago, 1896. 

(6) Malthus, T. R. _An Essay on the Principle of Population. _ Or a viewof its past and present effects on human happiness, with an inquiry intoour prospects respecting the future removal or mitigation of the evilswhich it occasions. 2d ed. London, 1803. [1st ed. , 1798. ]

(7) Knapp, G. F. "Darwin und Socialwissenschaften, " _Jahrbücher fürNationalökonomie und Statistik_. Erste Folge, XVIII (1872), 233-47. 

(8) Thomson, J. Arthur. _Darwinism and Human Life. _ New York, 1918. 

II. ECONOMIC COMPETITION

(1) Wagner, Adolf. _Grundlegung der politischen Ökonomie. _ Pp. 794-828. [The modern private industrial system of free competition. ] Pp. 71-137. [The industrial nature of men. ] Leipzig, 1892-94. 

(2) Effertz, Otto. _Arbeit und Boden. _ System der politischen Ökonomie. Vol. II, chaps, xix, xx, xxi, xxiii, xxiv, pp. 237-320. Berlin, 1897. 

(3) Marshall, Alfred. _Principles of Economics. _ Appendix A, "The Growthof Free Industry and Enterprise, " pp. 723-54. London, 1910. 

(4) Seligman, E. R. A. _Principles of Economics. _ Chap, x, pp. 139-53. New York, 1905. 

(5) Schatz, Albert. _L'Individualisme économique et social, sesorigines, son évolution, ses formes contemporaines. _ Paris, 1907. 

(6) Cunningham, William. _An Essay on Western Civilization in ItsEconomic Aspects. _ Medieval and modern times. Cambridge, 1913. 

III. FREEDOM AND LAISSEZ FAIRE

(1) Simmel, Georg. _Philosophie des Geldes. _ Chap. Iv, "Die individuelleFreiheit, " pp. 279-364. Leipzig, 1900. 

(2) Bagehot, Walter. _Postulates of English Political Economics. _ With apreface by Alfred Marshall. New York and London, 1885. 

(3) Oncken, August. _Die Maxime Laissez Faire et Laissez Passer, ihrUrsprung, ihr Werden. _ Bern, 1886. 

(4) Bastiat, Frédéric. _Harmonies économiques. _ 9th ed. Paris, 1884. 

(5) Cunningham, William. _The Growth of English Industry and Commerce inModern Times. _ Vol. III, "Laissez Faire. " 3 vols. 3d ed. Cambridge, 1903. 

(6) Ingram, John K. _A History of Political Economy. _ Chap. V, "ThirdModern Phase; System of Natural Liberty. " 2d ed. New York, 1908. 

(7) Hall, W. P. "Certain Early Reactions against Laissez Faire, " _AnnualReport of the American Historical Association for the Year 1913. _ I, 127-38. Washington, 1915. 

(8) Adams, Henry C. "Relation of the State to Industrial Action, "_Publications of the American Economic Association_, I (1887), 471-549. 

IV. THE MARKETS

(1) Walker, Francis A. _Political Economy. _ Chap. Ii, pp. 97-102. 3d ed. New York, 1887. [Market defined. ]

(2) Grierson, P. J. H. _The Silent Trade. _ A contribution to the earlyhistory of human intercourse. Edinburgh, 1903. [Bibliography. ]

(3) Maine, Henry S. _Village Communities in the East and West. _ LectureVI, "The Early History of Price and Rent, " pp. 175-203. New York, 1885. 

(4) Walford, Cornelius. _Fairs, Past and Present. _ A chapter in thehistory of commerce. London, 1883. 

(5) Bourne, H. R. F. _English Merchants. _ Memoirs in illustration of theprogress of British commerce. New ed. London, 1898. 

(6) Webb, Sidney and Beatrice. _Industrial Democracy. _ Part III, chap. Ii, "The Higgling of the Market, " pp. 654-702. New ed. London, 1902. 

(7) Bagehot, Walter. _Lombard Street. _ A description of the moneymarket. New York, 1876. 

V. COMPETITION AND INDUSTRIAL ORGANIZATION

(1) Crowell, John F. _Trusts and Competition. _ Chicago, 1915. [Bibliography. ]

(2) Macrosty, Henry W. _Trusts and the State. _ A sketch of competition. London, 1901. 

(3) Carter, George R. _The Tendency toward Industrial Combination. _ Astudy of the modern movement toward industrial combination in somespheres of British industry; its forms and developments, their causes, and their determinant circumstances. London, 1913. 

(4) Levy, Hermann. _Monopoly and Competition. _ A study in Englishindustrial organization. London, 1911. 

(5) Haney, Lewis H. _Business Organization and Combination. _ An analysisof the evolution and nature of business organization in the UnitedStates and a tentative solution of the corporation and trust problems. New York, 1914. 

(6) Van Hise, Charles R. _Concentration and Control. _ A solution of thetrust problem in the United States. New York, 1912. 

(7) Kohler, Josef. _Der unlautere Wettbewerb. _ Darstellung desWettbewerbsrechts. Berlin und Leipzig, 1914. 

(8) Nims, Harry D. _The Law of Unfair Business Competition. _ Includingchapters on trade secrets and confidential business relations; unfairinterference with contracts; libel and slander of articles ofmerchandise, trade names and business credit and reputation. New York, 1909. 

(9) Stevens, W. H. S. _Unfair Competition. _ A study of certain practiceswith some reference to the trust problem in the United States ofAmerica. Chicago, 1917. 

(10) Eddy, Arthur J. _The New Competition. _ An examination of theconditions underlying the radical change that is taking place in thecommercial and industrial world; the change from a competitive to aco-operative basis. New York, 1912. 

(11) Willoughby, W. W. _Social Justice. _ A critical essay. Chap. Ix, "The Ethics of the Competitive Process, " pp. 269-315. New York, 1900. 

(12) Rogers, Edward S. _Good Will, Trade-Marks and Unfair Trading. _Chicago, 1914. 

VI. SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM

(1) Stirner, Max. (Kaspar Schmidt). _The Ego and His Own. _ Translatedfrom the German by S. T. Byington. New York, 1918. 

(2) Godwin, William. _An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice and ItsInfluence on General Virtue and Happiness. _ Book V, chap. Xxiv. London, 1793. 

(3) Proudhon, Pierre Joseph. _What Is Property?_ An inquiry into theprinciple of right and of government. Translated from the French by B. R. Tucker. New York, 189-?

(4) Zenker, E. V. _Anarchism. _ A criticism and history of the anarchisttheory. Translated from the German. New York, 1897. [Withbibliographical references. ]

(5) Bailie, William. _Josiah Warren, the First American Anarchist. _ Asociological study. Boston, 1906. 

(6) Russell, B. A. W. _Proposed Roads to Freedom. _ Socialism, anarchism, and syndicalism. New York, 1919. 

(7) Mackay, Thomas, editor. _A Plea for Liberty. _ An argument againstsocialism and socialistic legislation. New York, 1891. 

(8) Spencer, Herbert. "The Man _versus_ the State, " Appendix to _SocialStatics_. New York, 1897. 

(9) Marx, Karl, and Engels, Frederick. _Manifesto of the CommunistParty. _ Authorized English translation edited and annotated by FrederickEngels. London, 1888. 

(10) Stein, L. _Der Socialismus und Communismus des heutigenFrankreichs. _ Ein Beitrag zur Zeitgeschichte. Leipzig, 1848. 

(11) Guyot, Édouard. _Le Socialisme et l'évolution de l'Angleterrecontemporaine_ (1880-1911). Paris, 1913. 

(12) Flint, Robert. _Socialism. _ 2d ed. London, 1908. 

(13) Beer, M. _A History of British Socialism. _ Vol. I, "From the Daysof the Schoolmen to the Birth of Chartism. " Vol. II, "From Chartism to1920. " London, 1919-21. 

(14) Levine, Louis. _Syndicalism in France. _ 2d ed. New York, 1914. 

(15) Brissenden, Paul F. _The I. W. W. _ A study of American syndicalism. New York, 1919. [Bibliography. ]

(16) Brooks, John Graham. _American Syndicalism. _ New York, 1913. 

(17) ----. _Labor's Challenge to the Social Order. _ Democracy its owncritic and educator. New York, 1920. 

VII. COMPETITION AND "THE INNER ENEMIES"

A. _The Struggle for Existence and Its Social Consequences_

(1) Henderson, Charles R. _Introduction to the Study of the Dependent, Defective, and Delinquent Classes, and of Their Social Treatment. _ 2ded. Boston, 1908. 

(2) Grotjahn, Alfred. _Soziale Pathologie. _ Versuch einer Lehre von densozialen Beziehungen der menschlichen Krankheiten als Grundlage dersozialen Medizin und der sozialen Hygiene. Berlin, 1912. 

(3) Lilienfeld, Paul de. _La Pathologie sociale. _ Avec une préface deRené Worms. Paris, 1896. 

(4) Thompson, Warren S. _Population. _ A study in Malthusianism. NewYork, 1915. 

(5) Field, James A. "The Early Propagandist Movement in EnglishPopulation Theory, " _American Economic Association Bulletin_, 4th Ser. , I (1911), 207-36. 

(6) Heron, David. _On the Relation of Fertility in Man to SocialStatus. _ And on the changes in this relation that have taken placeduring the last fifty years. London, 1906. 

(7) Elderton, Ethel M. "Report on the English Birthrate. " University ofLondon, Francis Galton Laboratory for National Eugenics. _EugenicsLaboratory Memoirs_, XIX-XX. London, 1914. 

(8) D'Ambrosio, Manlio A. _Passività Economica. _ Primi principi di unateoria sociologica della popolazione economicamente passiva. Napoli, 1909. 

(9) Ellwood, Charles A. _Sociology and Modern Social Problems. _ Rev. Ed. New York, 1913. 

B. _Poverty, Labor, and the Proletariat_

(1) Woods, Robert A. , Elsing, W. T. , and others. _The Poor in GreatCities. _ Their problems and what is being done to solve them. New York, 1895. 

(2) Rowntree, B. Seebohm. _Poverty, a Study of Town Life. _ London, 1901. 

(3) Devine, Edward T. _Misery and Its Causes. _ New York, 1909. 

(4) Marx, Karl. _Capital. _ A critical analysis of capitalist production. Chap. Xv, "Machinery and Modern Industry. " Translated from the thirdGerman edition by Samuel Moore and Edward Aveling, and edited byFrederick Engels. London, 1908. 

(5) Hobson, John A. _Problems of Poverty. _ An inquiry into theindustrial condition of the poor. London, 1891. 

(6) Kydd, Samuel [Alfred, pseud. ] _The History of the Factory Movement. _From the year 1802 to the enactment of the ten hours' bill in 1847. 2vols. London, 1857. 

(7) Rowntree, B. S. , and Lasker, Bruno. _Unemployment, a Social Study. _London, 1911. 

(8) Beveridge, William Henry. _Unemployment. _ A problem of industry. 3ded. London, 1912. 

(9) Parmelee, Maurice. _Poverty and Social Progress. _ New York, 1916. 

(10) Gillin, John L. _Poverty and Dependency. _ Their relief andprevention. New York, 1921. 

(11) Sombart, Werner. _Das Proletariat; Bilder und Studien. _ Frankfurtam Main, 1906. 

(12) Riis, Jacob A. _How the Other Half Lives. _ Studies among thetenements of New York. New York, 1890. 

(13) Nevinson, Margaret W. _Workhouse Characters and Other Sketches ofthe Life of the Poor. _ London, 1918. 

(14) Sims, George R. _How the Poor Live; and Horrible London. _ London, 1898. 

C. _The Industrially Handicapped_

(1) Best, Harry. _The Deaf. _ Their position in society and the provisionfor their education in the United States. New York, 1914. 

(2) ----. _The Blind. _ Their condition and the work being done for themin the United States. New York, 1919. 

(3) United States Bureau of the Census. _The Blind and the Deaf, 1900. _Washington, 1906. 

(4) ----. _Deaf-Mutes in the United States. _ Analysis of the census of1910 with summary of state laws relating to the deaf as of January 1, 1918. Washington, 1918. 

(5) ----. _The Blind in the United States 1910. _ Washington, 1917. 

(6) Niceforo, Alfredo. _Les Classes pauvres. _ Recherchesanthropologiques et sociales. Paris, 1905. 

(7) Goddard, Henry H. _Feeble-mindedness, Its Causes and Consequences. _Chap. I, "Social Problems, " pp. 1-20. New York, 1914. 

(8) Popenoe, Paul B. , and Johnson, Roswell H. _Applied Eugenics. _ Chap. Ix, "The Dysgenic Classes, " pp. 176-83. New York, 1918. 

(9) Pintner, Rudolph, and Toops, Herbert A. "Mental Test of UnemployedMen, " _Journal of Applied Psychology_, I (1917), 325-41; II (1918), 15-25. 

(10) Oliver, Thomas. _Dangerous Trades. _ The historical, social, andlegal aspects of industrial occupations affecting health, by a number ofexperts. New York, 1902. 

(11) Jarrett, Mary C. "The Psychopathic Employee: a Problem ofIndustry, " _Bulletin of the Massachusetts Commission on MentalDiseases_, I (1917-18), Nos. 3-4, 223-38. Boston, 1918. 

(12) Thompson, W. Gilman. _The Occupational Diseases. _ Their causation, treatment, and prevention. New York, 1914. 

(13) Kober, George M. , and Hanson, William C. , editors. _Diseases ofOccupation and Vocational Hygiene. _ Philadelphia, 1916. 

(14) Great Britain. Ministry of Munitions. _Health of Munition WorkersCommittee. _ Hours, fatigue, and health in British munition factories. Reprints of the memoranda of the British Health of Munition WorkersCommittee, April, 1917. Washington, 1917. 

(15) Great Britain Home Department. _Report of the Committee onCompensation for Industrial Diseases. _ London, 1907. 

(16) McMurtrie, Douglas C. _The Disabled Soldier. _ With an introductionby Jeremiah Milbank. New York, 1919. 

(17) Rubinow, I. M. "A Statistical Consideration of the Number of MenCrippled in War and Disabled in Industry, " _Publication of Red CrossInstitute for Crippled and Disabled Men_. Series I, No. 4, Feb. 14, 1918. 

(18) Love, Albert G. , and Davenport, C. B. _Defects Found in DraftedMen. _ Statistical information compiled from the draft records showingthe physical condition of the men registered and examined in pursuanceof the requirements of the selective-service act. War Department, U. S. Surgeon General's Office, Washington, 1920. 

D. _Alcoholism and Drug Addiction_

(1) Partridge, George E. _Studies in the Psychology of Intemperance. _New York, 1912. 

(2) Kelynack, T. N. _The Drink Problem of Today in ItsMedicosociological Aspects. _ New York, 1916. 

(3) Kerr, Norman S. _Inebriety or Narcomania. _ Its etiology, pathology, treatment, and jurisprudence. 3d ed. London, 1894. 

(4) Elderton, Ethel M. "A First Study of the Influence of ParentalAlcoholism on the Physique and Ability of the Offspring. " _EugenicsLaboratory Memoirs_, University of London, Francis Galton Laboratory forNational Eugenics. London, 1910. 

(5) Koren, John. _Economic Aspects of the Liquor Problem. _ Aninvestigation made for the Committee of Fifty under the direction ofHenry W. Farnam. Boston, 1899. 

(6) Towns, Charles B. _Habits that Handicap. _ The menace of opium, alcohol, and tobacco, and the remedy. New York, 1916. 

(7) Wilbert, Martin I. "The Number and Kind of Drug Addicts, " _U. S. Public Health Reprint_, No. 294. Washington, 1915. 

(8) Rowntree, B. Seebohm. _Land and Labour: Lessons from Belgium. _ Chap. Xxvi, "The Drink Problem. " London, 1910. 

(9) McIver, J. , and Price, G. F. "Drug Addiction, " _Journal of theAmerican Medical Association_, LXVI (1915), 476-80. [A study of 147cases. ]

(10) Stanley, L. L. "Drug Addictions, " _Journal of the AmericanInstitute of Criminal Law and Criminology_, X (1919), 62-70. [Four casestudies. ]

E. _Crime and Competition_

(1) Parmelee, Maurice. _Criminology. _ Chap. Vi, pp. 67-91. New York, 1918. 

(2) Bonger, William A. _Criminality and Economic Conditions. _ Translatedfrom the French by H. P. Horton, with editorial preface by EdwardLindsey and with an introduction by Frank H. Norcross. Boston, 1916. 

(3) Tarde, G. "La Criminalité et les phénomènes économiques, " _Archivesd'anthropologie criminelle_, XVI (1901), 565-75. 

(4) Van Kan, J. _Les Causes économiques de la criminalité. _ Étudehistorique et critique d'étiologie criminelle. Lyon, 1903. 

(5) Fornasári di Verce, E. _La Criminalità e le vicende economiched'Italia, dal 1873 al 1890, con prefazione di Ces. Lombroso. _ Torino, 1894. 

(6) Devon, J. _The Criminal and the Community. _ London and New York, 1912. 

(7) Breckinridge, Sophonisba, and Abbott, Edith. _The Delinquent Childand the Home. _ Chap. Iv, "The Poor Child: The Problem of Poverty, " pp. 70-89. New York, 1912. 

(8) Donovan, Frances. _The Woman Who Waits. _ Boston, 1920. 

(9) Fernald, Mabel R. , Hayes, Mary H. S. , and Dawley, Almena. _A Studyof Women Delinquents in New York State. _ With statistical chapter byBeardsley Ruml; preface by Katharine Bement Davis. Chap. Xi, "Occupational History and Economic Efficiency, " pp. 304-79. New York, 1920. 

(10) Miner, Maude. _The Slavery of Prostitution. _ A plea foremancipation. Chap. Iii, "Social Factors Leading to Prostitution, " pp. 53-88. New York, 1916. 

(11) Ryckère, Raymond de. _La Servante criminelle. _ Étude decriminologie professionelle. Paris, 1908. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. The Struggle for Existence and the Survival of the Fittest. 

2. Economic Competition and the Economic Equilibrium. 

3. "Unfair" Competition and Social Control. 

4. Competition versus Sentiment. 

5. The History of the Market, the Exchange, the Board of Trade. 

6. The Natural History of the Laissez-Faire Theory in Economics andPolitics. 

7. Competition, Money, and Freedom. 

8. Competition and Segregation in Industry and in Society. 

9. The Neo-Malthusian Movement and Race Suicide. 

10. The Economic Order of Competition and "the Inner Enemies. "

11. The History of the English Poor Law. 

12. Unemployment and Poverty in a Competitive, Secondary Society. 

13. Modern Economy and the Psychology of Intemperance. 

14. Modern Industry, the Physically Handicapped and Programs ofRehabilitation. 

15. Crime in Relation to Economic Conditions. 

16. Methods of Social Amelioration: Philanthropy, Welfare Work inIndustry, Social Insurance, etc. 

17. Experiments in the Limitation of Competition: Collective Bargaining, Trade Associations, Trade Boards, etc. 

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. In what fields did the popular conceptions of competition originate?

2. In what way does competition as a form of interaction differ fromconflict, accommodation, and assimilation?

3. What do you understand to be the difference between struggle, conflict, competition, and rivalry?

4. What are the different forms of the struggle for existence?

5. In what different meanings do you understand Darwin to use the term"the struggle for existence"? How many of these are applicable to humansociety?

6. What do you understand Darwin to mean when he says: "The structure ofevery organic being is related, in the most essential yet often hiddenmanner, to that of all the other organic beings with which it comes intocompetition for food or residence, or from which it has to escape, or onwhich it preys"? Does his principle, in your opinion, also apply to thestructure of social groups?

7. What examples of competition occur to you in human or socialrelations? In what respects are they (a) alike, (b) different, fromcompetition in plant communities?

8. To what extent is biological competition present in modern humansociety?

9. Does competition always lead to increased specialization and higherorganization?

10. What evidences are there in society of the effect of competitionupon specialization and organization?

11. What do you understand Crile to mean by the sentence: "In every casethe fate of each creature seems to have been staked upon one mechanism"?What is this mechanism with man?

12. Do you think that Crile has given an adequate explanation of theevolution of mind?

13. Is there a difference in the character of the struggle for existenceof animals and of man?

14. What is the difference in competition within a community based onlikenesses and one based on diversities?

15. Compare the ecological concept "reaction" with the sociologicalconception "control. "

16. What do you understand by the expression "the reaction of acommunity is usually more than the sum of the reaction of the componentspecies and individuals"? Explain. 

17. How far can the terms migration, ecesis, and competition, as used byClements in his analysis of the invasion of one plant community byanother, be used in the analysis of the process by which immigrants"invade" this country, i. E. , migrate, settle, and are assimilated, "Americanized"?

18. What are the social forces involved in (a) internal, (b)foreign, migrations?

19. What do you understand by the term segregation? To what extent arethe social forces making for segregation (a) economic, (b)sentimental? Illustrate. 

20. In what ways has immigration to the United States resulted insegregation?

21. Does the segregation of the immigrant in our American cities makefor or against (a) competition, (b) conflict, (c) social control, (d) accommodation, and (e) assimilation?

22. What are the factors producing internal migration in the UnitedStates?

23. In what sense is the drift to the cities a result of competition?

24. What is Ripley's conclusion in regard to urban selection and theethnic composition of cities?

25. What are the outstanding results of demographic segregation andsocial selection in the United States?

26. What, in your judgment, are the chief characteristics ofinter-racial competition?

27. To what extent do you agree with Walker's analysis of the socialforces involved in race suicide in the United States?

28. In what specific ways is competition now a factor in race suicide?

29. What will be the future effects of inter-racial competition upon theethnic stock of the American people?

30. "There is a sense in which much of the orthodox system of politicaleconomy is eternally true. " Explain. 

31. To what extent and in what sense is economic competitionunconscious?

32. What differences other than innate mental ability enter intocompetition between different social groups and different persons?

33. Who are your competitors?

34. Of the existence (as identified persons) of what proportion of thesecompetitors are you unconscious?

35. What is meant by competitive co-operation? Illustrate. (See pp. 508, 558. )

36. What do you understand by the term "economic equilibrium"?

37. Is "economic equilibrium" identical with "social solidarity"? Whatis the relation, if any, between the two concepts?

38. To what extent does competition make for a natural harmony ofindividual interests?

39. What did Adam Smith mean by "an invisible hand"?

40. "Civilization is the resultant not of conscious co-operation but ofthe unconscious competition of individuals. " Do you agree or disagreewith this statement?

41. "By pursuing his own interest he frequently promotes that of thesociety more effectually than when he really intends to promote it. "What is the argument for and against this position?

42. Why has the laissez-faire theory in economics been largelyabandoned?

43. What do you understand by the term "freedom"? How far may freedom beidentified with freedom of competition?

44. Do you accept the conception of Bastiat that "competition isliberty"?

45. How does money make for freedom? Does it make for or againstco-operation? Are co-operation and competition mutually antagonisticterms?

46. Under what circumstances do you have competition between individualsand competition between groups?

47. What do you understand by the statement that anarchism, socialism, and communism are based upon the ecological conceptions of society?

48. What is the difference between an opinion or a doctrine taken (a)as a datum, and (b) as a value?

49. From what point of view may the dependent, the delinquent, and thedefective be regarded as "inner enemies"? Is this notionindividualistic, socialistic, or how would you characterize it?

FOOTNOTES:

[180] Bastiat, Frédéric, _Oeuvres complètes_, tome VI, "Harmonieséconomiques, " 9e édition, p. 381. (Paris, 1884. )

[181] Walker, Francis A. , _Political Economy_, p. 92. (New York, 1887. )

[182] See chap. I, pp. 51-54. 

[183] The introduction of the rabbit into Australia, where predatorycompetitors are absent, has resulted in so great a multiplication of themembers of this species that their numbers have become an economicmenace. The appearance of the boll weevil, an insect which attacks thecotton boll, has materially changed the character of agriculture inareas of cotton culture in the South. Scientists are now looking forsome insect enemy of the boll weevil that will restore the equilibrium. 

[184] Adapted from J. Arthur Thomson, _Darwinism and Human Life_, pp. 72-75. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1910. )

[185] Adapted from Charles Darwin, _The Origin of Species_, pp. 50-61. (D. Appleton & Co. , 1878. )

[186] Adapted from Charles Darwin, _The Origin of Species_, pp. 97-100. (D. Appleton & Co. , 1878. )

[187] Adapted from George W. Crile, _Man: An Adaptive Mechanism_, pp. 17-39. (Published by The Macmillan Co. , 1916. Reprinted by permission. )

[188] Adapted from F. E. Clements, _Plant Succession_. An analysis ofthe development of vegetation, pp. 75-79. (Carnegie Institution ofWashington, 1916. )

[189] Adapted from Carl Bücher, _Industrial Evolution_, pp. 345-69. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1907. )

[190] From William Z. Ripley, _The Races of Europe_, pp. 537-59. (D. Appleton & Co. , 1899. )

[191] Adapted from Francis A. Walker, _Economics and Statistics_, II, 421-26. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1899. )

[192] Adapted from John B. Clark, "The Limits of Competition, " in Clarkand Giddings, _The Modern Distributive Process_, pp. 2-8. (Ginn & Co. , 1888. )

[193] Adapted from Adam Smith, _An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes ofthe Wealth of Nations_, I (1904), 419, 421. (By kind permission ofMessrs. Methuen & Co. , Ltd. )

[194] Translated from Frédéric Bastiat, _Oeuvres complètes_, tome VI, "Harmonies économiques, " 9e édition, p. 350. (Paris, 1884. )

[195] Translated from Georg Simmel, _Philosophie des Geldes_, pp. 351-52. (Duncker und Humblot, 1900. )

[196] Henry S. Maine, _Village-Communities in the East and West_, pp. 192-97. (New York, 1889. )

[197] Henry Higgs, _The Physiocrats_, p. 142. (London, 1897. )

[198] Adam Smith, _Wealth of Nations_ (Cannan's edition), I, 342. London, 1904. 

[199] _Ibid. _ I, 148. 

[200] Thomas Mackay, _A Plea for Liberty_. An argument against socialismand socialistic legislation, consisting of an introduction by HerbertSpencer and essays by various writers, p. 24. (New York, 1891. )

[201] _Lectures on the Relation between Law and Opinion in England, during the Nineteenth Century. _ 2d ed. (London, 1914). 

[202] _The Principles of Taxation. _ Everyman's Library. Preface by F. W. Kolthamer, p. Xii. 

[203] _Soziologie_, p. 686. (Leipzig, 1908. )

[204] John Stuart Mill, _On Liberty_. (London, 1859. )

[205] _Criminality and Economic Conditions. _ (Boston, 1916. )

CHAPTER IX

CONFLICT

I. INTRODUCTION

1. The Concept of Conflict

The distinction between competition and conflict has already beenindicated. Both are forms of interaction, but competition is a strugglebetween individuals, or groups of individuals, who are not necessarilyin contact and communication; while conflict is a contest in whichcontact is an indispensable condition. Competition, unqualified anduncontrolled as with plants, and in the great impersonal life-struggleof man with his kind and with all animate nature, is unconscious. Conflict is always conscious, indeed, it evokes the deepest emotions andstrongest passions and enlists the greatest concentration of attentionand of effort. Both competition and conflict are forms of struggle. Competition, however, is continuous and impersonal, conflict isintermittent and personal. 

Competition is a struggle for position in an economic order. Thedistribution of populations in the world-economy, the industrialorganization in the national economy, and the vocation of the individualin the division of labor--all these are determined, in the long run, bycompetition. The status of the individual, or a group of individuals, inthe social order, on the other hand, is determined by rivalry; by war, or by subtler forms of conflict. 

"Two is company, three is a crowd" suggests how easily the socialequilibrium is disturbed by the entrance of a new factor in a socialsituation. The delicate nuances and grades of attention given todifferent individuals moving in the same social circle are thesuperficial reflections of rivalries and conflicts beneath the smoothand decorous surfaces of polite society. 

In general, we may say that competition determines the position of theindividual in the community; conflict fixes his place in society. Location, position, ecological interdependence--these are thecharacteristics of the community. Status, subordination andsuperordination, control--these are the distinctive marks of a society. 

The notion of conflict, like the fact, has its roots deep in humaninterest. Mars has always held a high rank in the hierarchy of the gods. Whenever and wherever struggle has taken the form of conflict, whetherof races, of nations, or of individual men, it has invariably capturedand held the attention of spectators. And these spectators, when theydid not take part in the fight, always took sides. It was this conflictof the non-combatants that made public opinion, and public opinion hasalways played an important rôle in the struggles of men. It is this thathas raised war from a mere play of physical forces and given it thetragic significance of a moral struggle, a conflict of good and evil. 

The result is that war tends to assume the character of litigation, ajudicial procedure, in which custom determines the method of procedure, and the issue of the struggle is accepted as a judgment in the case. 

The duello, as distinguished from the wager of battle, although it neverhad the character of a judicial procedure, developed a strict code whichmade it morally binding upon the individual to seek redress for wrongs, and determined in advance the methods of procedure by which such redresscould and should be obtained. The penalty was a loss of status in theparticular group of which the individual was a member. 

It was the presence of the public, the ceremonial character of theproceedings, and the conviction that the invisible powers were on theside of truth and justice that gave the trial by ordeal and the trial bybattle a significance that neither the duello nor any other form ofprivate vengeance ever had. 

It is interesting in this connection, also, that political and judicialforms of procedure are conducted on a conflict pattern. An election is acontest in which we count noses when we do not break heads. A trial byjury is a contest in which the parties are represented by champions, asin the judicial duels of an earlier time. 

In general, then, one may say competition becomes conscious and personalin conflict. In the process of transition competitors are transformedinto rivals and enemies. In its higher forms, however, conflict becomesimpersonal--a struggle to establish and maintain rules of justice and amoral order. In this case the welfare not merely of individual men butof the community is involved. Such are the struggles of politicalparties and religious sects. Here the issues are not determined by theforce and weight of the contestants immediately involved, but to agreater or less extent, by the force and weight of public opinion of thecommunity, and eventually by the judgment of mankind. 

2. Classification of the Materials

The materials on conflict have been organized in the readings under fourheads: (a) conflict as conscious competition; (b) war, instincts, and ideals; (c) rivalry, cultural conflicts, and social organization;and (d) race conflicts. 

a) _Conscious competition. _--Self-consciousness in the individualarises in the contacts and conflicts of the person with other persons. It manifests itself variously in pride and in humility, vanity andself-respect, modesty and arrogance, pity and disdain, as well as inrace prejudice, chauvinism, class and caste distinctions, and in everyother social device by which the social distances are maintained. 

It is in these various responses called forth by social contacts andintercourse that the personality of the individual is developed and hisstatus defined. It is in the effort to maintain this status or improveit; to defend this personality, enlarge its possessions, extend itsprivileges, and maintain its prestige that conflicts arise. This appliesto all conflicts, whether they are personal and party squabbles, sectarian differences, or national and patriotic wars, for thepersonality of the individual is invariably so bound up with theinterests and order of his group and clan, that, in a struggle, he makesthe group cause his own. 

Much has been said and written about the economic causes of war, butwhatever may be the ultimate sources of our sentiments, it is probablytrue that men never go to war for economic reasons merely. It is becausewealth and possessions are bound up with prestige, honor, and positionin the world, that men and nations fight about them. 

b) _War, instincts, and ideals. _--War is the outstanding and thetypical example of conflict. In war, where hostility prevails overevery interest of sentiment or utility which would otherwise unite thecontending parties or groups, the motives and the rôle of conflict insocial life present themselves in their clearest outline. There is, moreover, a practical reason for fixing upon war as an illustration ofconflict. The tremendous interest in all times manifested in war, theamazing energies and resources released in peoples organized formilitary aggression or defense, the colossal losses and sacrificesendured for the glory, the honor, or the security of the fatherland havemade wars memorable. Of no other of the larger aspects of collectivelife have we such adequate records. 

The problem of the relation of war to human instincts, on the one hand, and to human ideals, on the other, is the issue about which most recentobservation and discussion has centered. It seems idle to assert thathostility has no roots in man's original nature. The concrete materialsgiven in this chapter show beyond question how readily the wishes andthe instincts of the person may take the form of the fighting pattern. On the other hand, the notion that tradition, culture, and collectiverepresentations have no part in determining the attitudes of nationstoward war seems equally untenable. The significant sociological inquiryis to determine just in what ways a conjunction of the tendencies inoriginal nature, the forces of tradition and culture, and the exigenciesof the situation determine the organization of the fighting pattern. Wehave historical examples of warlike peoples becoming peaceful and ofpacific nations militaristic. An understanding of the mechanism of theprocess is a first condition to any exercise of control. 

c) _Rivalry, cultural conflicts, and social organization. _--Rivalry isa sublimated form of conflict where the struggle of individuals issubordinated to the welfare of the group. In the rivalry of groups, likewise, conflict or competition is subordinated to the interests of aninclusive group. Rivalry may then be defined as conflict controlled bythe group in its interest. A survey of the phenomena of rivalry bringsout its rôle as an organizing force in group life. 

In the study of conflict groups it is not always easy to apply withcertainty the distinction between rivalry and conflict made here. Thesect is a conflict group. In its struggle for survival and success withother groups, its aim is the highest welfare of the inclusive society. Actually, however, sectarian warfare may be against the moral, social, and religious interests of the community. The denomination, which is anaccommodation group, strives through rivalry and competition, not onlyto promote the welfare of the inclusive society, but also of its othercomponent groups. 

In cultural and political conflict the function of conflict in sociallife becomes understandable and reasonable. The rôle of mental conflictsin the life of the individual is for the purpose of making adjustmentsto changing situations and of assimilating new experiences. It isthrough this process of conflict of divergent impulses to act that theindividual arrives at decisions--as we say, "makes up his mind. " Onlywhere there is conflict is behavior conscious and self-conscious; onlyhere are the conditions for rational conduct. 

d) _Race conflicts. _--Nowhere do social contacts so readily provokeconflicts as in the relations between the races, particularly whenracial differences are re-enforced, not merely by differences ofculture, but of color. Nowhere, it might be added, are the responses tosocial contact so obvious and, at the same time, so difficult to analyzeand define. 

Race prejudice, as we call the sentiments that support the racialtaboos, is not, in America at least, an obscure phenomenon. But no onehas yet succeeded in making it wholly intelligible. It is evident thatthere is in race prejudice, as distinguished from class and casteprejudice, an instinctive factor based on the fear of the unfamiliar andthe uncomprehended. Color, or any other racial mark that emphasizesphysical differences, becomes the symbol of moral divergences whichperhaps do not exist. We at once fear and are fascinated by thestranger, and an individual of a different race always seems more of astranger to us than one of our own. This naïve prejudice, unless it isre-enforced by other factors, is easily modified, as the intimaterelations of the Negroes and white man in slavery show. 

A more positive factor in racial antagonism is the conflict of cultures:the unwillingness of one race to enter into personal competition with arace of a different or inferior culture. This turns out, in the longrun, to be the unwillingness of a people or a class occupying a superiorstatus to compete on equal terms with a people of a lower status. Raceconflicts like wars are fundamentally the struggles of racial groups forstatus. In this sense and from this point of view the struggles of theEuropean nationalities and the so-called "subject peoples" forindependence and self-determination are actually struggles for status inthe family of nations. 

Under the conditions of this struggle, racial or national consciousnessas it manifests itself, for example, in Irish nationalism, JewishZionism, and Negro race consciousness, is the natural and obviousresponse to a conflict situation. The nationalistic movements in Europe, in India, and in Egypt are, like war, rivalry and more personal forms ofconflict, mainly struggles for recognition--that is, honor, glory, andprestige. 

II. MATERIALS

A. CONFLICT AS CONSCIOUS COMPETITION

1. The Natural History of Conflict[206]

All classes of society, and the two sexes to about the same degree, aredeeply interested in all forms of contest involving skill and chance, especially where the danger or risk is great. Everybody will stop towatch a street fight, and the same persons would show an equal interestin a prize fight or a bull fight, if certain scruples did not stand inthe way of their looking on. Our socially developed sympathy and pitymay recoil from witnessing a scene where physical hurt is the object ofthe game, but the depth of our interest in the conflict type of activityis attested by the fascination which such a game as football has for themasses, where our instinctive emotional reaction to a conflict situationis gratified to an intense degree by a scene of the conflict pattern. 

If we examine, in fact, our pleasures and pains, our moments of elationand depression, we find that they go back for the most part to instinctsdeveloped in the struggle for food and rivalry for mates. The structureof the organism has been built up gradually through the survival of themost efficient structures. Corresponding with a structure mechanicallyadapted to successful movements, there is developed on the psychic sidean interest in the conflict situation as complete and perfect as is thestructure itself. The emotional states are, indeed, organic preparationsfor action, corresponding broadly with a tendency to advance orretreat; and a connection has even been made out between pleasurablestates and the extensor muscles, and painful states and the flexormuscles. We can have no adequate idea of the time consumed and theexperiments made in nature before the development of these types ofstructure and interest of the conflict pattern, but we know from thegeological records that the time and experiments were long and many, andthe competition so sharp that finally, not in man alone, but in all thehigher classes of animals, body and mind, structure and interest, wereworking perfectly in motor actions of the violent type involved in alife of conflict, competition, and rivalry. There could not have beendeveloped an organism depending on offensive and defensive movements forfood and life without an interest in what we call a dangerous orprecarious situation. A type without this interest would have beendefective, and would have dropped out in the course of development. 

The fact that our interests and enthusiasms are called out in situationsof the conflict type is shown by a glance at the situations which arousethem most readily. War is simply an organized form of fight, and as suchis most attractive, or, to say the least, arouses the interestspowerfully. With the accumulation of property and the growth ofsensibility and intelligence it becomes apparent that war is a wastefuland unsafe process, and public and personal interests lead us to avoidit as much as possible. But, however genuinely war may be deprecated, itis certainly an exciting game. The Rough Riders in this countryrecently, and more recently the young men of the aristocracy of England, went to war from motives of patriotism, no doubt, but there areunmistakable evidences that they also regarded it as the greatest sportthey were likely to have a chance at in a lifetime. And there isevidence in plenty that the emotional attitude of women toward war is noless intense. Grey relates that half a dozen old women among theAustralians will drive the men to war with a neighboring tribe over afancied injury. The Jewish maidens went out with music and dancing andsang that Saul had slain his thousands, but David his ten thousands. Theyoung women of Havana are alleged, during the late Spanish War, to havesent pieces of their wardrobe to young men of their acquaintance whohesitated to join the rebellion, with the suggestion that they wearthese until they went to the war. 

The feud is another mode of reaction of the violent, instinctive, andattractive type. The feud was originally of defensive value to theindividual and to the tribe, since in the absence of criminal law thefeeling that retaliation would follow was a deterrent from acts ofaggression. But it was an expensive method of obtaining order in earlysociety, since response to stimulus reinstated the stimulus, and everydeath called for another death; so, finally, after many experiments anddevices, the state has forbidden the individual to take justice into hisown hands. In out-of-the-way places, however, where governmental controlis weak, men still settle their disputes personally, and one who isfamiliar with the course of a feud cannot avoid the conclusion that thispractice is kept up, not because there is no law to resort to, butbecause the older mode is more immediate and fascinating. I mean simplythat the emotional possibilities and actual emotional reactions in thefeud are far more powerful than in due legal process. 

Gladiatorial shows, bear baiting, bull fighting, dog and cock fighting, and prize fighting afford an opportunity to gratify the interest inconflict. The spectator has by suggestion emotional reactions analogousto those of the combatant, but without personal danger; and vicariouscontests between slaves, captives, and animals, whose blood and life arecheap, are a pleasure which the race allowed itself until a higher stageof morality was reached. Pugilism is the modification of the fight in aslightly different way. The combatants are members of society, notslaves or captives, but the conflict is so qualified as to safeguardtheir lives, though injury is possible and is actually planned. Theintention to do hurt is the point to which society and the law object. But the prize fight is a fight as far as it goes, and the difficultieswhich men will surmount to "pull off" and to witness these contests aresufficient proof of their fascination. A football game is also a fight, with the additional qualification that no injury is planned, and with anadvantage over the prize fight in the fact that it is not asingle-handed conflict, but an organized mêlée--a battle where theaction is more massive and complex and the strategic opportunities aremultiplied. It is a fact of interest in this connection that, unlessappearances are deceptive, altogether the larger number of visitors to auniversity during the year are visitors to the football field. It is theonly phase of university life which appeals directly and powerfully tothe instincts, and it is consequently the only phase of university lifewhich appeals equally to the man of culture, the artist, the businessman, the man about town, the all-round sport, and, in fact, to all theworld. 

The instincts of man are congenital; the arts and industries areacquired by the race and must be learned by the individual after birth. We have seen why the instinctive activities are pleasurable and theacquired habits irksome. The gambler represents a class of men who havenot been weaned from their instincts. There are in every speciesbiological "sports" and reversions, and there are individuals of thiskind among sporting men who are not reached by ordinary socialsuggestion and stimuli. But granting that what we may call theinstinctive interests are disproportionately strong in the sportingclass, as compared with, say, the merchant class, yet these instinctsare also strongly marked in what may roughly be called the artist classand in spite of a marked psychic disposition for stimuli of theemotional type; and precisely because of this disposition, the artistclass has a very high social value. Art products are, indeed, perhapsmore highly esteemed than any other products whatever. The artist classis not, therefore, socially unmanageable because of its instinctiveinterest, though perhaps we may say that some of its members are savedfrom social vagabondage only because their emotional predisposition hasfound an expression in emotional activities to which some social valuecan be attached. 

2. Conflict as a Type of Social Interaction[207]

That conflict has sociological significance inasmuch as it eitherproduces or modifies communities of interest, unifications, organizations, is in principle never contested. On the other hand, itmust appear paradoxical to the ordinary mode of thinking to ask whetherconflict itself, without reference to its consequences or itsaccompaniments, is not a form of socialization. This seems, at firstglance, to be merely a verbal question. If every reaction among men is asocialization, of course conflict must count as such, since it is one ofthe most intense reactions and is logically impossible if restricted toa single element. The actually dissociating elements are the causes ofthe conflict--hatred and envy, want and desire. If, however, from theseimpulses conflict has once broken out, it is in reality the way toremove the dualism and to arrive at some form of unity, even if throughannihilation of one of the parties. The case is, in a way, illustratedby the most violent symptoms of disease. They frequently represent theefforts of the organism to free itself from disorders and injuries. Thisis by no means equivalent merely to the triviality, _si vis pacem parabellum_, but it is the wide generalization of which that special case isa particular. Conflict itself is the resolution of the tension betweenthe contraries. That it eventuates in peace is only a single, speciallyobvious and evident, expression of the fact that it is a conjunction ofelements. 

As the individual achieves the unity of his personality, not in suchfashion that its contents invariably harmonize according to logical ormaterial, religious or ethical, standards, but rather as contradictionand strife not merely precede that unity but are operative in it atevery moment of life; so it is hardly to be expected that there shouldbe any social unity in which the converging tendencies of the elementsare not incessantly shot through with elements of divergence. A groupwhich was entirely centripetal and harmonious--that is, "unification"merely--is not only impossible empirically, but it would also display noessential life-process and no stable structure. As the cosmos requires_Liebe und Hass_, attraction and repulsion, in order to have a form, society likewise requires some quantitative relation of harmony anddisharmony, association and dissociation, liking and disliking, in orderto attain to a definite formation. Society, as it is given in fact, isthe result of both categories of reactions, and in so far both act in acompletely positive way. The misconception that the one factor tearsdown what the other builds up, and that what at last remains is theresult of subtracting the one from the other (while in reality it ismuch rather to be regarded as the addition of one to the other), doubtless springs from the equivocal sense of the concept of unity. 

We describe as unity the agreement and the conjunction of socialelements in contrast with their disjunctions, separations, disharmonies. We also use the term unity, however, for the total synthesis of thepersons, energies, and forms in a group, in which the final wholenessis made up, not merely of those factors which are unifying in thenarrower sense, but also of those which are, in the narrower sense, dualistic. We associate a corresponding double meaning with disunity oropposition. Since the latter displays its nullifying or destructivesense _between the individual elements_, the conclusion is hastily drawnthat it must work in the same manner upon the _total relationship_. Inreality, however, it by no means follows that the factor which issomething negative and diminutive in its action between individuals, considered in a given direction and separately, has the same workingthroughout the totality of its relationships. In this larger circle ofrelationships the perspective may be quite different. That which wasnegative and dualistic may, after deduction of its destructive action inparticular relationships, on the whole, play an entirely positive rôle. This visibly appears especially in those instances where the socialstructure is characterized by exactness and carefully conserved purityof social divisions and gradations. 

The social system of India rests not only upon the hierarchy of thecastes but also directly upon the reciprocal repulsion. Enmities notmerely prevent gradual disappearance of the boundaries within thesociety--and for this reason these enmities may be consciously promoted, as guaranty of the existing social constitution--but more than this, theenmities are directly productive sociologically. They give classes andpersonalities their position toward each other, which they would nothave found if these objective causes of hostility had been present andeffective in precisely the same way but had not been accompanied by thefeeling of enmity. It is by no means certain that a secure and completecommunity life would always result if these energies should disappearwhich, looked at in detail, seem repulsive and destructive, just as aqualitatively unchanged and richer property results when unproductiveelements disappear; but there would ensue rather a condition as changed, and often as unrealizable, as after the elimination of the forces ofco-operation--sympathy, assistance, harmony of interests. 

The opposition of one individual element to another in the sameassociation is by no means merely a negative social factor, but it is inmany ways the only means through which coexistence with individualsintolerable in themselves could be possible. If we had not power andright to oppose tyranny and obstinacy, caprice and tactlessness, wecould not endure relations with people who betray such characteristics. We should be driven to deeds of desperation which would put therelationships to an end. This follows not alone for the self-evidentreason--which, however, is not here essential--that such disagreeablecircumstances tend to become intensified if they are endured quietly andwithout protest; but, more than this, opposition affords us a subjectivesatisfaction, diversion, relief, just as under other psychologicalconditions, whose variations need not here be discussed, the sameresults are brought about by humility and patience. Our opposition givesus the feeling that we are not completely crushed in the relationship. It permits us to preserve a consciousness of energy, and thus lends avitality and a reciprocity to relationships from which, without thiscorrective, we should have extricated ourselves at any price. In casethe relationships are purely external, and consequently do not reachdeeply into the practical, the latent form of conflict discharges thisservice, i. E. , aversion, the feeling of reciprocal alienation andrepulsion, which in the moment of a more intimate contact of any sort isat once transformed into positive hatred and conflict. Without thisaversion life in a great city, which daily brings each into contact withcountless others, would have no thinkable form. The activity of ourminds responds to almost every impression received from other people insome sort of a definite feeling, all the unconsciousness, transience, and variability of which seem to remain only in the form of a certainindifference. In fact, this latter would be as unnatural for us as itwould be intolerable to be swamped under a multitude of suggestionsamong which we have no choice. Antipathy protects us against these twotypical dangers of the great city. It is the initial stage of practicalantagonism. It produces the distances and the buffers without which thiskind of life could not be led at all. The mass and the mixtures of thislife, the forms in which it is carried on, the rhythm of its rise andfall--these unite with the unifying motives, in the narrower sense, togive to a great city the character of an indissoluble whole. Whatever inthis whole seems to be an element of division is thus in reality onlyone of its elementary forms of socialization. 

A struggle for struggle's sake seems to have its natural basis in acertain formal impulse of hostility, which forces itself sometimes uponpsychological observation, and in various forms. In the first place, itappears as that natural enmity between man and man which is oftenemphasized by skeptical moralists. The argument is: Since there issomething not wholly displeasing to us in the misfortune of our bestfriends, and, since the presupposition excludes, in this instance, conflict of material interests, the phenomenon must be traced back to ana priori hostility, to that _homo homini lupus_, as the frequentlyveiled, but perhaps never inoperative, basis of all our relationships. 

3. Types of Conflict Situations[208]

a) _War. _--The reciprocal relationship of primitive groups isnotoriously, and for reasons frequently discussed almost invariably, oneof hostility. The decisive illustration is furnished perhaps by theAmerican Indians, among whom every tribe on general principles wassupposed to be on a war footing toward every other tribe with which ithad no express treaty of peace. It is, however, not to be forgotten thatin early stages of culture war constitutes almost the only form in whichcontact with an alien group occurs. So long as inter-territorial tradewas undeveloped, individual tourneys unknown, and intellectual communitydid not extend beyond the group boundaries, there was, outside of war, no sociological relationship whatever between the various groups. Inthis case the relationship of the elements of the group to each otherand that of the primitive groups to each other present completelycontrasted forms. Within the closed circle hostility signifies, as arule, the severing of relationships, voluntary isolation, and theavoidance of contact. Along with these negative phenomena there willalso appear the phenomena of the passionate reaction of open struggle. On the other hand, the group as a whole remains indifferently side byside with similar groups so long as peace exists. The consequence isthat these groups become significant for each other only when war breaksout. That the attitude of hostility, considered likewise from this pointof view, may arise independently in the soul is the less to be doubtedsince it represents here, as in many another easily observablesituation, the embodiment of an impulse which is in the first placequite general, but which also occurs in quite peculiar forms, namely, _the impulse to act in relationships with others_. 

In spite of this spontaneity and independence, which we may thusattribute to the antagonistic impulse, there still remains the questionwhether it suffices to account for the total phenomena of hostility. This question must be answered in the negative. In the first place, thespontaneous impulse does not exercise itself upon every object but onlyupon those that are in some way promising. Hunger, for example, springsfrom the subject. It does not have its origin in the object. Nevertheless, it will not attempt to satisfy itself with wood or stonebut it will select only edible objects. In the same way, love andhatred, however little their impulses may depend upon external stimuli, will yet need some sort of opposing object, and only with suchco-operation will the complete phenomena appear. On the other hand, itseems to me probable that the hostile impulse, on account of its formalcharacter, in general intervenes, only as a reinforcement of conflictsstimulated by material interest, and at the same time furnishes afoundation for the conflict. And where a struggle springs up from sheerformal love of fighting, which is also entirely impersonal andindifferent both to the material at issue and to the personal opponent, hatred and fury against the opponent as a person unavoidably increase inthe course of the conflict, and probably also the interest in the stakeat issue, because these affections stimulate and feed the psychicalenergy of the struggle. It is advantageous to hate the opponent withwhom one is for any reason struggling, as it is useful to love him withwhom one's lot is united and with whom one must co-operate. Thereciprocal attitude of men is often intelligible only on the basis ofthe perception that actual adaptation to a situation teaches us thosefeelings which are appropriate to it; feelings which are the mostappropriate to the employment or the overcoming of the circumstances ofthe situation; feelings which bring us, through psychical association, the energies necessary for discharging the momentary task and fordefeating the opposing impulses. 

Accordingly, no serious struggle can long continue without beingsupported by a complex of psychic impulses. These may, to be sure, gradually develop into effectiveness in the course of the struggle. Thepurity of conflict merely for conflict's sake, accordingly, undergoesadulteration, partly through the admixture of objective interests, partly by the introduction of impulses which may be satisfied otherwisethan by struggle, and which, in practice, form a bridge between struggleand other forms of reciprocal relationship. I know in fact only a singlecase in which the stimulus of struggle and of victory in itselfconstitutes the exclusive motive, namely, the war game, and only in thecase that no further gain is to arise than is included in the outcome ofthe game itself. In this case the pure sociological attraction ofself-assertion and predominance over another in a struggle of skill iscombined with purely individual pleasure in the exercise of purposefuland successful activity, together with the excitement of taking riskswith the hazard of fortune which stimulates us with a sense of mysticharmony of relationship to powers beyond the individual, as well as thesocial occurrences. At all events, the war game, _in its sociologicalmotivation_, contains absolutely nothing but struggle itself. Theworthless markers, for the sake of which men often play with the sameearnestness with which they play for gold pieces, indicate the formalismof this impulse which, even in the play for gold pieces, often faroutweighs the material interest. The thing to be noticed, however, isthat, in order that the foregoing situations may occur, certainsociological forms--in the narrower sense, unifications--arepresupposed. There must be agreement in order to struggle, and thestruggle occurs under reciprocal recognition of norms and rules. In themotivation of the whole procedure these unifications, as said above, donot appear, but the whole transaction shapes itself under the formswhich these explicit or implicit agreements furnish. They create thetechnique. Without this, such a conflict, excluding all heterogeneous orobjective factors, would not be possible. Indeed, the conduct of the wargame is often so rigorous, so impersonal, and observed on both sideswith such nice sense of honor that unities of a corporate order canseldom in these respects compare with it. 

b) _Feud and faction. _--The occasion for separate discussion of thefeud is that here, instead of the consciousness of difference, anentirely new motive emerges--the peculiar phenomenon of social hatred, that is, of hatred toward a member of a group, not from personalmotives, but because he threatens the existence of the group. In so faras such a danger threatens through feud within the group, the one partyhates the other, not alone on the material ground which instigated thequarrel, but also on the sociological ground, namely, that we hate theenemy of the group as such; that is, the one from whom danger to itsunity threatens. Inasmuch as this is a reciprocal matter, and eachattributes the fault of endangering the whole to the other, theantagonism acquires a severity which does not occur when membership in agroup-unity is not a factor in the situation. Most characteristic inthis connection are the cases in which an actual dismemberment of thegroup has not yet occurred. If this dismemberment has already takenplace, it signifies a certain termination of the conflict. Theindividual difference has found its sociological termination, and thestimulus to constantly renewed friction is removed. To this result thetension between antagonism and still persisting unity must directlywork. As it is fearful to be at enmity with a person to whom one isnevertheless bound, from whom one cannot be freed, whether externally orsubjectively, even if one will, so there is increased bitterness if onewill not detach himself from the community because he is not willing togive up the value of membership in the containing unity, or because hefeels this unity as an objective good, the threatening of which deservesconflict and hatred. From such a correlation as this springs theembittering with which, for example, quarrels are fought out within apolitical faction or a trade union or a family. 

The individual soul offers an analogy. The feeling that a conflictbetween sensuous and ascetic feelings, or selfish and moral impulses, orpractical and intellectual ambitions, within us not merely lowers theclaims of one or both parties and permits neither to come to quite freeself-realization but also threatens the unity, the equilibrium, and thetotal energy of the soul as a whole--this feeling may in many casesrepress conflict from the beginning. In case the feeling cannot avail tothat extent, it, on the contrary, impresses upon the conflict acharacter of bitterness and desperation, an emphasis as though astruggle were really taking place for something much more essential thanthe immediate issue of the controversy. The energy with which each ofthese tendencies seeks to subdue the others is nourished not only bytheir egoistic interest but by the interest which goes much farther thanthat and attaches itself to the unity of the ego, for which thisstruggle means dismemberment and destruction if it does not end with avictory for unity. Accordingly, struggle within a closely integratedgroup often enough grows beyond the measure which its object and itsimmediate interest for the parties could justify. The feelingaccumulates that this struggle is an affair not merely of the party butof the group as a whole; that each party must hate in its opponent, notan opponent merely, but at the same time the enemy of its highersociological unity. 

c) _Litigation. _--Moreover, what we are accustomed to call the joy andpassion of conflict in the case of a legal process is probably, in mostcases, something quite different, namely, the energetic sense ofjustice, the impossibility of tolerating an actual or supposed invasionof the sphere of right with which the ego feels a sense of solidarity. The whole obstinacy and uncompromising persistence with which parties insuch struggles often maintain the controversy to their own hurt has, even in the case of the aggressive party, scarcely the character of anattack in the proper sense, but rather of a defense in a deepersignificance. The point at issue is the self-preservation of thepersonality which so identifies itself with its possessions and itsrights that any invasion of them seems to be a destruction of thepersonality; and the struggle to protect them at the risk of the wholeexistence is thoroughly consistent. This individualistic impulse, andnot the sociological motive of struggle, will consequently characterizesuch cases. 

With respect to the form of the struggle itself, however, judicialconflict is, to be sure, of an absolute sort; that is, the reciprocalclaims are asserted with a relentless objectivity and with employment ofall available means, without being diverted or modified by personal orother extraneous considerations. The judicial conflict is, therefore, absolute conflict in so far as nothing enters the whole action whichdoes not properly belong in the conflict and which does not serve theends of conflict; whereas, otherwise, even in the most savage struggles, something subjective, some pure freak of fortune, some sort ofinterposition from a third side, is at least possible. In the legalstruggle everything of the kind is excluded by the matter-of-factnesswith which the contention, and absolutely nothing outside thecontention, is kept in view. This exclusion from the judicialcontroversy of everything which is not material to the conflict may, tobe sure, lead to a formalism of the struggle which may come to have anindependent character in contrast with the content itself. This occurs, on the one hand, when real elements are not weighed against each otherat all but only quite abstract notions maintain controversy with eachother. On the other hand, the controversy is often shifted to elementswhich have no relation whatever to the subject which is to be decided bythe struggle. Where legal controversies, accordingly, in highercivilizations are fought out by attorneys, the device serves to abstractthe controversy from all personal associations which are essentiallyirrelevant. If, on the other hand, Otto the Great ordains that a legalcontroversy shall be settled by judicial duel between professionalfighters, there remains of the whole struggle of interests only the bareform, namely, that there shall be struggle and victory. 

This latter case portrays, in the exaggeration of caricature, thereduction of the judicial conflict to the mere struggle element. Butprecisely through its pure objectivity because it stands quite beyondthe subjective antitheses of pity and cruelty, this unpitying type ofstruggle, as a whole, rests on the presupposition of a unity and acommunity of the parties never elsewhere so severely and constantlymaintained. The common subordination to the law, the reciprocalrecognition that the decision can be made only according to theobjective weight of the evidence, the observance of forms which are heldto be inviolable by both parties, the consciousness throughout the wholeprocedure of being encompassed by a social power and order which are themeans of giving to the procedure its significance and security--all thismakes the legal controversy rest upon a broad basis of community andconsensus between the opponents. It is really a unity of a lesser degreewhich is constituted by the parties to a compact or to a commercialtransaction, a presupposition of which is the recognition, along withthe antithesis of interests, that they are subject to certain common, constraining, and obligatory rules. The common presuppositions, whichexclude everything that is merely personal from the legal controversy, have that character of pure objectivity to which, on its side, thesharpness, the inexorableness, and the absoluteness of the species ofstruggle correspond. The reciprocity between the dualism and the unityof the sociological relationship is accordingly shown by the judicialstruggle not less than by the war game. Precisely the most extreme andunlimited phases of struggle occur in both cases, since the struggle issurrounded and maintained by the severe unity of common norms andlimitations. 

d) _The conflict of impersonal ideals. _--Finally, there is thesituation in which the parties are moved by an objective interest; thatis, where the interest of the struggle, and consequently the struggleitself, is differentiated from the personality. The consciousness ofbeing merely the representative of superindividual claims--that is, offighting not for self but only for the thing itself--may lend to thestruggle a radicalism and mercilessness which have their analogy in thetotal conduct of many very unselfish and high-minded men. Because theygrant themselves no consideration, they likewise have none for othersand hold themselves entirely justified in sacrificing everybody else tothe idea to which they are themselves a sacrifice. Such a struggle, intowhich all the powers of the person are thrown, while victory accruesonly to the cause, carries the character of respectability, for thereputable man is the wholly personal, who, however, understands how tohold his personality entirely in check. Hence objectivity operates as_noblesse_. When, however, this differentiation is accomplished, andstruggle is objectified, it is not subjected to a further reserve, whichwould be quite inconsistent; indeed, that would be a sin against thecontent of the interest itself upon which the struggle had beenlocalized. On the basis of this common element between theparties--namely, that each defends merely the issue and its right, andexcludes from consideration everything selfishly personal--the struggleis fought out without the sharpness, but also without the mollifyings, which come from intermingling of the personal element. Merely theimmanent logic of the situation is obeyed with absolute precision. Thisform of antithesis between unity and antagonism intensifies conflictperhaps most perceptibly in cases where both parties actually pursue oneand the same purpose; for example, in the case of scientificcontroversies, in which the issue is the establishment of the truth. Insuch a case, every concession, every polite consent to stop short ofexposing the errors of the opponent in the most unpitying fashion, everyconclusion of peace previous to decisive victory, would be treasonagainst that reality for the sake of which the personal element isexcluded from the conflict. 

With endless varieties otherwise, the social struggles since Marx havedeveloped themselves in the above form. Since it is recognized that thesituation of laborers is determined by the objective organization andformulas of the productive system, independent of the will and power ofindividual persons, the personal embitterment incident to the strugglein general and to local conflicts exemplifying the general conflictnecessarily diminishes. The entrepreneur is no longer, as such, ablood-sucker and damnable egotist; the laborer is no longer universallyassumed to act from sinful greed; both parties begin, at least, toabandon the program of charging the other with demands and tacticsinspired by personal malevolence. This literalizing of the conflict hascome about in Germany rather along the lines of theory; in England, through the operation of the trade unions, in the course of which theindividually personal element of the antagonism has been overcome. InGermany this was effected largely through the more abstractgeneralization of the historical and class movement. In England it cameabout through the severe superindividual unity in the actions of theunions and of the combinations of employers. The intensity of thestruggle, however, has not on that account diminished. On the contrary, it has become much more conscious of its purpose, more concentrated, andat the same time more aggressive, through the consciousness of theindividual that he is struggling not merely, and often not at all, forhimself but rather for a vast superpersonal end. 

A most interesting symptom of this correlation was presented by theboycotting of the Berlin breweries by the labor body in the year 1894. This was one of the most intense local struggles of the last decade. Itwas carried on by both sides with extraordinary energy, yet without anypersonal offensiveness on either side toward the other, although thestimulus was close at hand. Indeed, two of the party leaders, in themidst of the struggle, published their opinions about it in the samejournal. They agreed in their formulation of the objective facts, anddisagreed in a partisan spirit only in the practical conclusions drawnfrom the facts. Inasmuch as the struggle eliminated everythingirrelevantly personal, and thereby restricted antagonism quantitatively, facilitating an understanding about everything personal, producing arecognition of being impelled on both sides by historical necessities, this common basis did not reduce but rather increased, the intensity, the irreconcilability, and the obstinate consistency of the struggle. 

B. WAR, INSTINCTS, AND IDEALS

1. War and Human Nature[209]

What can be said of the causes of war--not its political and economiccauses, nor yet the causes that are put forth by the nations engaged inthe conflict, but its psychological causes?

The fact that war to no small extent removes cultural repressions andallows the instincts to come to expression in full force is undoubtedlya considerable factor. In his unconscious man really takes pleasure inthrowing aside restraints and permitting himself the luxury of theuntrammeled expression of his primitive animal tendencies. The socialconventions, the customs, the forms, and institutions which he has builtup in the path of his cultural progress represent so much energy in theservice of repression. Repression represents continuous effort, while astate of war permits a relaxation of this effort and therefore relief. 

We are familiar, in other fields, with the phenomena of the unconscious, instinctive tendencies breaking through the bounds imposed upon them byrepression. The phenomena of crime and of so-called "insanity" representsuch examples, while drunkenness is one instance familiar to all. _Invino veritas_ expresses the state of the drunken man when his real, thatis, his primitive, self frees itself from restraint and runs riot. Thepsychology of the crowd shows this mechanism at work, particularly insuch sinister instances as lynching, while every crowd of collegestudents marching yelling and howling down the main street of the townafter a successful cane rush exhibits the joy of unbottling the emotionsin ways that no individual would for a moment think of availing himself. 

In addition to these active demonstrations of the unconscious there arethose of a more passive sort. Not a few men are only too glad to stepaside from the burden of responsibilities which they are forced to carryand seek refuge in a situation in which they no longer have to take theinitiative but must only do as they are directed by a superiorauthority. The government in some of its agencies takes over certain oftheir obligations, such as the support of wife and children, and theyclear out, free from the whole sordid problem of poverty, into asituation filled with dramatic interest. Then, too, if anything goeswrong at home they are not to blame, they have done their best, and whatthey have done meets with public approval. Is it any wonder that aninhabitant of the slums should be glad to exchange poverty and dirt, asick wife and half-starved children, for glorious freedom, especiallywhen he is urged by every sort of appeal to patriotism and duty to doso?

But all these are individual factors that enter into the causes of war. They represent some of the reasons why men like to fight, for it isdifficult not to believe that if no one wanted to fight war would bepossible at all. They too represent the darker side of the picture. Waras already indicated offers, on the positive side, the greatestopportunities for the altruistic tendencies; it offers the most gloriousoccasion for service and returns for such acts the greatest possiblepremium in social esteem. But it seems to me that the causes of war liemuch deeper, that they involve primarily the problems of the herd ratherthan the individual, and I think there are good biological analogieswhich make this highly probable. 

The mechanism of integration explains how the development of the groupwas dependent upon the subordination of the parts to the whole. Thisprocess of integration tends to solve more and more effectively theproblems of adjustment, particularly in some aspects, in the directionof ever-increasing stability. It is the process of the structuralizationof function. This increase in stability, however, while it has theadvantage of greater certainty of reaction, has the disadvantage of alessened capacity for variation, and so is dependent for its efficiencyupon a stable environment. As long as nothing unusual is asked of such amechanism it works admirably, but as soon as the unusual arises it tendsto break down completely. Life, however, is not stable; it is fluid, ina continuous state of flux, so, while the development of structure tomeet certain demands of adaptation is highly desirable and necessary, itof necessity has limits which must sooner or later be reached in everyinstance. The most typical example of this is the process of growingold. The child is highly adjustable and for that reason not to bedepended upon; the adult is more dependable but less adjustable; the oldman has become stereotyped in his reactions. Nature's solution of this_impasse_ is death. Death insures the continual removal of the no longeradjustable, and the places of those who die are filled by new materialcapable of the new demands. But it is the means that nature takes tosecure the renewal of material still capable of adjustment that is ofsignificance. From each adult sometime during the course of his lifenature provides that a small bit shall be detached which, in the higheranimals, in union with a similar detached bit of another individual willdevelop into a child and ultimately be ready to replace the adult whenhe becomes senile and dies. Life is thus maintained by a continuousstream of germ plasm and is not periodically interrupted in its course, as it seems to be, by death. 

The characteristics of this detached bit of germ plasm are interesting. It does not manifest any of that complicated structure which we meetwith in the other parts of the body. The several parts of the body arehighly differentiated, each for a specific function. Gland cells aredeveloped to secrete, muscle cells to contract, bone cells to withstandmechanical stresses, etc. Manifestly development along any one of theselines would not produce an individual possessing, in its several parts, all of these qualities. Development has to go back of the point oforigin of these several variations in order to include them all. Inother words, regeneration has to start with relatively undifferentiatedmaterial. This is excellently illustrated by many of the lower, particularly the unicellular, animals, in which reproduction is not yetsexual, but by the simple method of division. A cell comes to rest, divides into two, and each half then leads an independent existence. Before such a division and while the cell is quiescent--in the restingstage, as it is called--the differentiations of structure which it hadacquired in its lifetime disappear; it becomes undifferentiated, relatively simple in structure. This process has been calleddedifferentiation. When all the differentiations which had been acquiredhave been eliminated, then division--rejuvenescence--takes place. 

From this point of view we may see in war the preliminary process ofrejuvenescence. International adjustments and compromises are made untilthey can be made no longer; a condition is brought about which in Europehas been termed the balance of power, until the situation becomes socomplicated that each new adjustment has such wide ramifications that itthreatens the whole structure. Finally, as the result of the accumulatedstructure of diplomatic relations and precedents, a situation arises towhich adjustment, with the machinery that has been developed, isimpossible and the whole house of cards collapses. The collapse is aprocess of dedifferentiation during which the old structures aredestroyed, precedents are disavowed, new situations occur withbewildering rapidity, for dealing with which there is no recognizedmachinery available. Society reverts from a state in which a high gradeof individual initiative and development was possible to a relativelycommunistic and paternalistic state, the slate is wiped clear, and astart can be made anew along lines of progress mapped out by the newconditions--rejuvenescence is possible. 

War, from this point of view, is a precondition for development alongnew lines of necessity, and the dedifferentiation is the first stage ofa constructive process. Old institutions have to be torn down before thebricks with which they were built can be made available for newstructures. This accounts for the periodicity of war, which thus is theoutward and evident aspect of the progress of the life-force which inhuman societies, as elsewhere, advances in cycles. It is only by suchmeans that an _impasse_ can be overcome. 

War is an example of ambivalency on the grandest scale. That is, it isat once potent for the greatest good and the greatest evil: in the verymidst of death it calls for the most intense living; in the face of thegreatest renunciation it offers the greatest premium; for the maximum offreedom it demands the utmost giving of one's self; in order to live atone's best it demands the giving of life itself. "No man has reached hisethical majority who would not die if the real interests of thecommunity could thus be furthered. What would the world be without thevalues that have been bought at the price of death?" In this sense thegreat creative force, love, and the supreme negation, death, become one. That the larger life of the race should go forward to greater things, the smaller life of the individual must perish. In order that man shallbe born again, he must first die. 

Does all this necessarily mean that war, from time to time, in theprocess of readjustment, is essential? I think no one can doubt that ithas been necessary in the past. Whether it will be in the future dependsupon whether some sublimated form of procedure can adequately besubstituted. We have succeeded to a large extent in dealing with ourcombative instincts by developing sports and the competition ofbusiness, and we have largely sublimated our hate instinct in dealingwith various forms of anti-social conduct as exhibited in the so-called"criminal. " It remains to be seen whether nations can unite to a similarend and perhaps, by the establishment of an international court, and byother means, deal in a similar way with infractions of internationallaw. 

2. War as a Form of Relaxation[210]

The fact is that it does not take a very careful reader of the humanmind to see that all the utopias and all the socialistic schemes arebased on a mistaken notion of the nature of this mind. 

It is by no means sure that what man wants is peace and quiet andtranquillity. That is too close to ennui, which is his greatest dread. What man wants is not peace but a battle. He must pit his force againstsomeone or something. Every language is most rich in synonyms forbattle, war, contest, conflict, quarrel, combat, fight. German childrenplay all day long with their toy soldiers. Our sports take the form ofcontests in football, baseball, and hundreds of others. Prize fights, dog fights, cock fights, have pleased in all ages. When Rome for aseason was not engaged in real war, Claudius staged a sea fight for thedelectation of an immense concourse, in which 19, 000 gladiators werecompelled to take a tragic part, so that the ships were broken to piecesand the waters of the lake were red with blood. 

You may perhaps recall Professor James's astonishing picture of hisvisit to a Chautauqua. Here he found modern culture at its best, nopoverty, no drunkenness, no zymotic diseases, no crime, no police, onlypolite and refined and harmless people. Here was a middle-classparadise, kindergarten and model schools, lectures and classes andmusic, bicycling and swimming, and culture and kindness and elysianpeace. But at the end of a week he came out into the real world, and hesaid:

 Ouf! What a relief! Now for something primordial and savage, even though it were as bad as an Armenian massacre, to set the balance straight again. This order is too tame, this culture too second-rate, this goodness too uninspiring. This human drama, without a villain or a pang; this community so refined that ice-cream soda-water is the utmost offering it can make to the brute animal in man; this city simmering in the tepid lakeside sun; this atrocious harmlessness of all things--I cannot abide with them. 

What men want, he says, is something more precipitous, something withmore zest in it, with more adventure. Nearly all the Utopias paint thelife of the future as a kind of giant Chautauqua, in which every man andwoman is at work, all are well fed, satisfied, and cultivated. But asman is now constituted he would probably find such a life flat, stale, and unprofitable. 

Man is not originally a working animal. Civilization has imposed workupon man, and if you work him too hard he will quit work and go to war. Nietzsche says man wants two things--danger and play. War representsdanger. 

It follows that all our social utopias are wrongly conceived. They areall based on a theory of pleasure economy. But history and evolutionshow that man has come up from the lower animals through a pain economy. He has struggled up--fought his way up through never-ceasing pain andeffort and struggle and battle. The utopias picture a society in whichman has ceased to struggle. He works his eight hours a day--everybodyworks--and he sleeps and enjoys himself the other hours. But man is nota working animal, he is a fighting animal. The utopias are ideal--butthey are not psychological. The citizens for such an ideal social orderare lacking. Human beings will not serve. 

Our present society tends more and more in its outward form in time ofpeace toward the Chautauqua plan, but meanwhile striving and passionburn in the brain of the human units, till the time comes when they findthis insipid life unendurable. They resort to amusement crazes, tonarcotic drugs, to political strife, to epidemics of crime, and finallyto war. The alcohol question well illustrates the tendencies we arepointing out. Science and hygiene have at last shown beyond allquestion that alcohol, whether in large or smaller doses, exerts adamaging effect upon both mind and body. It lessens physical and mentalefficiency, shortens life, and encourages social disorder. In spite ofthis fact and, what is still more amazing, in spite of the colossaleffort now being put forth to suppress by legislative means the trafficin liquor, the per capita consumption of alcoholic drinks in the UnitedStates increases from year to year. From a per capita consumption offour gallons in 1850, it has steadily risen to nearly twenty-fivegallons in 1913. 

Narcotic drugs, such as alcohol and tobacco, relieve in an artificialway the tension upon the brain by slightly paralyzing temporarily thehigher and more recently developed brain centers. The increase in theuse of these drugs is therefore both an index of the tension of modernlife and at the same time a means of relieving it to some extent. Werethe use of these drugs suddenly checked, no student of psychology or ofhistory could doubt that there would be an immediate increase of socialirritability, tending to social instability and social upheavals. 

Psychology, therefore, forces upon us this conclusion. Neither war noralcohol can be banished from the world by summary means nor directsuppressions. The mind of man must be made over. As the mind of man isconstituted, he will never be content to be a mere laborer, a producerand a consumer. He loves adventure, self-sacrifice, heroism, relaxation. 

These things must somehow be provided. And then there must be a systemof education of our young differing widely from our present system. Thenew education will not look to efficiency merely and ever moreefficiency, but to the production of a harmonized and balancedpersonality. We must cease our worship of American efficiency and German_Streberthum_ and go back to Aristotle and his teaching of "the mean. "

3. The Fighting Animal and the Great Society[211]

We must agree that man as he has existed, so far as we can read thestory of his development, has been, and as he exists today still is, afighting animal--that is to say that he has in the past answered, andstill answers, certain stimuli by the immediate reactions whichconstitute fighting. 

We find evidence of the existence of this fighting instinct in theordinary men around us. Remove but for a moment the restraints given inour civilized lands and this tendency is likely to become prominent uponthe slightest stimulation. We see this exemplified in the lives of thepioneer and adventurer the world over: in that of the cowboy of the farWest, in that of the rubber collector on the Amazon, in that of theivory trader on the Congo. 

Then, too, the prize fighter is still a prominent person in ourcommunity, taken as a whole, and even in our sports, as engaged in by"gentlemen amateurs, " we find it necessary to make rigid rules toprevent the friendly contest from developing into a fierce struggle forindividual physical dominance. 

But man gained his pre-eminent position among the animals mainly throughhis ability to form co-operative groups working to common ends; and longbefore the times of which anthropological research give us any clearknowledge, man had turned his individualistic fighting instincts to theservice of his group or clan. That is to say, he had become a warrior, giving his best strength to co-operative aggression in behalf ofsatisfactions that could not be won by him as an individual acting forhimself. 

Our earlier studies have taught us also that if man's instinctivetendencies could in any manner be inhibited or modified, so that he cameto display other characteristics than those observed in the presentexpression of these inborn instincts, then the law of his nature wouldin that very fact be changed. We are thus led to ask whether thebiologist finds evidence that an animal's instincts can be thus changedin mode of expression. 

The biologist speaks to us somewhat as follows. Although new racialcharacteristics have very rarely, if ever, been gained by theobliteration of instincts, changes in racial characteristics have notinfrequently occurred as the result of the control, rather than theloss, of these inherited instincts. 

This control may become effective in either one of two ways: first, bythe thwarting or inhibition of the expression of the instincts; orsecondly, by the turning of its expression to other uses than that whichoriginally resulted in its fixation. 

As an example of the thwarting of the expression of an instinct we maytake the functioning of the sexual instinct, which, as we see it inanimals in general, has been inhibited in the human animal by the habitsacquired by man as he has risen in the scale. 

This mode of change--that of the mere chaining of the instinctivetendency--is subject to one great difficulty. The chain may by chance bebroken; the inhibition may be removed; then the natural instinctivetendency at once shows itself. Remove the restraints of civilizedsociety but a little, and manifestations of the sexual instinct of ourrace appear in forms that are not far removed from those observed in theanimal. Place a man under conditions of starvation and he shows himselfas greedy as the dog. 

The second mode of change--that of the transference of functioning ofthe instincts into new channels--meets this special difficulty, for itdoes not depend upon the chaining of the instinct. It actually makes useof the instinct. And the more important to the race the newer referenceof the instinct's functioning turns out to be, the more certain is it toreplace the original reference. If the new mode of functioning bringsmarked advantage that is lost by reversion to the earlier manifestationof the instinct, so that such a reversion to this earlier manifestationis a detriment to the race, then the change is likely to become apermanent one. 

No better example of this second mode of change of an instinct'sfunctioning can be found than in the very existence of war itself. Thebasic instinct is one that led the savage man to fight to protecthimself or to gain something for himself by aggressive attack. War hascome into being as the result of a transfer of the functioning of thisinstinct, which at first had only an individualistic reference, so thatit has come to have a clan or national reference. The early man found hecould not have success as an individual unless he joined with hisfellow-men in defense and aggression; and that meant war. 

And note that this transfer of reference of the expression of thisfighting instinct soon became so important to the race that reversion toits primal individualistic reference had to be inhibited. Aggressiveattack by an individual upon another of his own clan or nationnecessarily tended to weaken the social unit and to reduce its strengthin its protective and aggressive wars; and thus such attacks byindividuals came to be discountenanced and finally in large measurerepressed. 

Here, it will be observed, the fighting instinct of the individual hasnot been obliterated; it has not even been bound with chains; but itsmodes of expression have been altered to have racial significance, andto have so great a significance in this new relation that reversion toits primary form of expression has become a serious obstacle to racialadvance. 

So it appears after all that, although instincts can rarely if ever beobliterated, their manifestations may be so altered as to give theanimal quite new characteristics. And this means that if thecharacteristics which we describe as the expressions of man's fightinginstincts could be so changed that these expressions were inhibited orturned into quite new channels, the man would no longer be describableas a fighting animal. 

The first indication in our conscious life of any tendency to inhibit ormodify the functioning of any instinct or habit must appear in the formof a dislike of, a revulsion from, the resultants of this functioning;and in the creation of an ideal of functioning that shall avoid thediscomforts attendant upon this revulsion. And when such an ideal hasonce been gained, it is possible, as we have seen, that thecharacteristics of nature may be changed by our creative efficiencythrough the devising of means looking to the realization of the ideal. 

We have the clearest evidence that this process is developing inconnection with these special instincts that make for war; for we menand women in these later times are repelled by the results of thefunctioning of these fighting instincts, and we have created the idealof peace, the conception of a condition that is not now realized innature, but which we think of as possible of realization. 

But the very existence of an ideal is indicative of a tendency, on thepart of the man who entertains it, to modify his characteristicactivities. Thus it appears that we have in the very existence of thisideal of peace the evidence that we may look for a change in man'snature, the result of which will be that we shall no longer be warrantedin describing him as a fighting animal. 

C. RIVALRY, CULTURAL CONFLICTS, AND SOCIAL ORGANIZATION

1. Animal Rivalry[212]

Among mammals the instinct of one and all is to lord it over the others, with the result that the one more powerful or domineering gets themastery, to keep it thereafter as long as he can. The lower animals are, in this respect, very much like us; and in all kinds that are at allfierce-tempered the mastery of one over all, and of a few under him overthe others, is most salutary; indeed, it is inconceivable that theyshould be able to exist together under any other system. 

On cattle-breeding establishments on the pampas, where it is usual tokeep a large number of fierce-tempered dogs, I have observed theseanimals a great deal and presume they are much like feral dogs andwolves in their habits. Their quarrels are incessant; but when a fightbegins, the head of the pack as a rule rushes to the spot, whereupon thefighters separate and march off in different directions or else castthemselves down and deprecate their tyrant's wrath with abject gesturesand whines. If the combatants are both strong and have worked themselvesinto a mad rage before their head puts in an appearance, it may go hardwith him; they know him no longer and all he can do is to join in thefray; then if the fighters turn on him he may be so injured that hispower is gone and the next best dog in the pack takes his place. Thehottest contests are always between dogs that are well matched; neitherwill give place to the other and so they fight it out; but from theforemost in power down to the weakest there is a gradation of authority;each one knows just how far he can go, which companion he can bully whenhe is in a bad temper or wishes to assert himself, and to which he musthumbly yield in his turn. In such a state the weakest one must yield toall the others and cast himself down, seeming to call himself a slaveand worshiper of any other member of the pack that chances to snarl athim or command him to give up his bone with good grace. 

This masterful or domineering temper, so common among social mammals, isthe cause of the persecution of the sick and weakly. When an animalbegins to ail he can no longer hold his own; he ceases to resent theoccasional ill-natured attacks made on him; his non-combative conditionis quickly discovered, and he at once drops down to a place below thelowest; it is common knowledge in the herd that he may be buffeted withimpunity by all, even by those that have hitherto suffered buffets buthave given none. But judging from my own observation, this persecutionis not, as a rule, severe, and is seldom fatal. 

2. The Rivalry of Social Groups[213]

Conflict, competition, and rivalry are the chief causes which forcehuman beings into groups and largely determine what goes on within them. Conflicts, like wars, revolutions, riots, still persist, but possiblythey may be thought of as gradually yielding to competitions which arechiefly economic. Many of these strivings seem almost wholly individual, but most of them on careful analysis turn out to be intimately relatedto group competition. A third form, rivalry, describes struggle forstatus, for social prestige, for the approval of inclusive publics whichform the spectators for such contests. The nation is an arena ofcompetition and rivalry. 

Much of this emulation is of a concealed sort. Beneath the unionservices of churches there is an element, for the most part unconscious, of rivalry to secure the approval of a public which in these daysdemands brotherliness and good will rather than proselyting andpolemics. Many public subscriptions for a common cause are based upongroup rivalry or upon individual competition which is group-determined. The Rhodes scholarships are in one sense a means of furthering imperialinterest. Christmas presents lavished upon children often have a bearingupon the ambition of the family to make an impression upon rivaldomestic groups. In the liberal policy of universities which by addingto the list of admission subjects desire to come into closer relationswith the public schools, there is some trace of competition for studentsand popular applause. The interest which nations manifest in the HagueTribunal is tinged with a desire to gain the good will of theinternational, peace-praising public. The professed eagerness of one orboth parties in a labor dispute to have the differences settled byarbitration is a form of competition for the favor of the onlookingcommunity. Thus in international relationships and in the life-processof each nation countless groups are in conflict, competition, orrivalry. 

This idea of the group seeking survival, mastery, aggrandizement, prestige, in its struggles with other groups is a valuable means ofinterpretation. Let us survey rapidly the conditions of success as agroup carries on its life of strife and emulation. In order to surviveor to succeed the group must organize, cozen, discipline, and stimulateits members. Fortunately it finds human nature in a great measurefashioned for control. 

Collective pride or group egotism is an essential source of strength inconflict. Every efficient group cultivates this sense of honor, importance, superiority, by many devices of symbol, phrase, and legend, as well as by scorn and ridicule of rivals. The college fraternity'ssublime self-esteem gives it strength in its competition for members andprestige. There is a chauvinism of "boom" towns and religious sects, aswell as of nations. What pride and self-confidence are to theindividual, ethnocentrism, patriotism, local loyalty are to socialunities. Diffidence, humility, self-distrust, tolerance, are asdangerous to militant groups as to fighting men. 

Then too the group works out types of personality, hero types to beemulated, traitor types to be execrated. These personality types mergeinto abstract ideals and standards. "Booster" and "knocker" bring uppictures of a struggling community which must preserve its hopefulnessand self-esteem at all hazards. "Statesman" and "demagogue" recall theproblem of selection which every self-governing community must face. "Defender of the faith" and "heretic" are eloquent of the Church'sdilemma between rigid orthodoxy and flexible accommodation to a changingorder. 

With a shifting in the conflict or rivalry crises, types change in valueor emphasis, or new types are created in adjustment to the new needs. The United Stated at war with Spain sought martial heroes. The economicand political ideals of personality, the captains of industry, thefascinating financiers, the party idols, were for the time retired tomake way for generals and admirals, soldiers and sailors, the heroes ofcamp and battleship. The war once over, the displaced types reappearedalong with others which are being created to meet new administrative, economic, and ethical problems. The competing church retires itsmilitant and disputatious leaders in an age which gives its applause toapostles of concord, fraternal feeling, and co-operation. At a giventime the heroes and traitors of a group reflect its competitions andrivalries with other groups. 

Struggle forces upon the group the necessity of cozening, beguiling, managing its members. The vast majority of these fall into a broad zoneof mediocrity which embodies group character and represents a generaladjustment to life-conditions. From this medial area individuals vary, some in ways which aid the group in its competition, others in a fashionwhich imperils group success. It is the task of the group both topreserve the solidarity of the medial zone and to discriminate betweenthe serviceable and the menacing variants. The latter must be coerced orsuppressed, the former encouraged and given opportunity. In Plato's_Republic_ the guardians did this work of selection which in moderngroups is cared for by processes which seem only slightly conscious andpurposeful. 

The competing group in seeking to insure acquiescence and loyaltyelaborates a protective philosophy by which it creates within itsmembers the belief that their lot is much to be preferred to that ofother comradeships and associations. Western Americans take satisfactionin living in a free, progressive, hospitable way in "God's country. "They try not to be pharisaical about the narrowness of the East, butthey achieve a sincere scorn for the hidebound conventions of an effetesociety. Easterners in turn count themselves fortunate in having ahighly developed civilization, and they usually attain real pity forthose who seem to live upon a psychic, if not a geographic, frontier. The middle class have a philosophy with which they protect themselvesagainst the insidious suggestions that come from the life of theconspicuous rich. These, on the other hand, half expecting thatsimplicity and domesticity may have some virtue, speak superciliously ofmiddle-class smugness and the bourgeois "home. " The less prosperous ofthe professional classes are prone to lay a good deal of stress upontheir intellectual resources as compared with the presumptive spiritualpoverty of the affluent. Country folk encourage themselves by assertingtheir fundamental value to society and by extolling their own simplestraightforward virtues, which present so marked a contrast to thedevious machinations of city-dwellers. Booker Washington's reiteratedassertion that if he were to be born again he would choose to be aNegro because the Negro race is the only one which has a great problemcontains a suggestion of this protective philosophy. This tendency of agroup to fortify itself by a satisfying theory of its lot is obviouslyrelated to group egotism and is immediately connected with grouprivalry. 

The competing group derides many a dissenter into conformity. Thisderision may be spontaneous, or reflective and concerted. The loudguffaw which greets one who varies in dress or speech or idea may comeinstantly or there may be a planned and co-operative ridiculesystematically applied to the recalcitrant. Derision is one of the mosteffective devices by which the group sifts and tests the variants. 

Upon the small number of rebels who turn a deaf ear to epithets, ostracism is brought to bear. This may vary from the "cold shoulder" tothe complete "boycott. " Losing the friendship and approval of comrades, being cut off from social sympathy, is a familiar form of grouppressure. Ridicule and derision are a kind of evanescent ostracism, atemporary exclusion from the comradeship. There are many degrees in thelowering of the social temperature: coolness, formality of intercourse, averted looks, "cutting dead, " "sending to Coventry, " form a progressiveseries. Economic pressure is more and more a resort of modern groups. Loss of employment, trade, or professional practice brings many a rebelto time. All coercion obviously increases as the group is hard pressedin its conflicts, competitions, and rivalries. 

These crises and conflicts of a competing group present problems whichmust be solved--problems of organization, of inventions of many kinds, of new ideas and philosophies, of methods of adjustment. The conditionsof competition or rivalry upset an equilibrium of habit and custom, anda process of problem-solving ensues. A typhoid epidemic forces thevillage to protect itself against the competition of a more healthfulrival. The resourceful labor union facing a corporation which offersprofit-sharing and retiring allowances must formulate a protectivetheory and practice. A society clique too closely imitated by a lowerstratum must regain its distinction and supremacy. A nation must beconstantly alert to adjust itself to the changing conditions ofinternational trade and to the war equipment and training of itsrivals. 

The theory of group rivalry throws light upon the individual. The personhas as many selves as there are groups to which he belongs. He is simpleor complex as his groups are few and harmonious or many and conflicting. What skilful management is required to keep business and moral selvesfrom looking each other in the eye, to prevent scientific andtheological selves from falling into discussion! Most men of many groupslearn, like tactful hosts, to invite at a given time only congenialcompanies of selves. A few brave souls resolve to set their house inorder and to entertain only such selves as can live together with goodwill and mutual respect. With these earnest folk their groups have toreckon. The conflicts of conscience are group conflicts. 

Tolerance is a sign that once vital issues within the group are losingtheir significance, or that the group feels secure, or that it isslowly, even unconsciously, merging into a wider grouping. Theologicalliberality affords a case in point. In the earlier days of sectarianstruggle tolerance was a danger both to group loyalty and to themilitant spirit. Cynicism for other reasons is also a menace. It meansloss of faith in the collective ego, in the traditions, shibboleths, symbols, and destiny of the group. Fighting groups cannot be tolerant;nor can they harbor cynics. Tolerance and cynicism are at once causesand results of group decay. They portend dissolution or they foreshadownew groupings for struggle over other issues on another plane. Evangelical churches are drawing together with mutual tolerance topresent a united front against modern skepticism and cynicism which aredirected against the older faiths and moralities. 

The subjective side of group rivalry offers an important study. Thereflection of the process of control in personal consciousness is fullof interest. The means by which the rebellious variant protects himselfagainst the coercion of his comrades have been already suggested in thedescription of ridicule and epithet. These protective methods resolvethemselves into setting one group against another in the mind of thederided or stigmatized individual. 

A national group is to be thought of as an inclusive unity with afundamental character, upon the basis of which a multitude of groupscompete with and rival each other. It is the task of the nation tocontrol and to utilize this group struggle, to keep it on as high aplane as possible, to turn it to the common account. Government gets itschief meaning from the rivalry of groups to grasp political power intheir own interests. Aristocracy and democracy may be interpreted interms of group antagonism, the specialized few versus theundifferentiated many. The ideal merges the two elements of efficiencyand solidarity in one larger group within which mutual confidence andemulation take the place of conflict. Just as persons must bedisciplined into serving their groups, groups must be subordinated tothe welfare of the nation. It is in conflict or competition with othernations that a country becomes a vivid unity to the members ofconstituent groups. It is rivalry which brings out the sense of teamwork, the social consciousness. 

3. Cultural Conflicts and the Organization of Sects[214]

It is assumed, I suppose, that contradictions among ideas and beliefsare of various degrees and of various modes besides that specific onewhich we call logical incompatibility. A perception, for example, may bepictorially inconsistent or tonically discordant with anotherperception; a mere faith unsupported by objective evidence may beemotionally antagonistic to another mere faith, as truly as a judgmentmay be logically irreconcilable with another judgment. And this widepossibility of contradiction is particularly to be recognized when thediffering ideas or beliefs have arisen not within the same individualmind but in different minds, and are therefore colored by personal orpartisan interest and warped by idiosyncrasy of mental constitution. Thecontradictions of, or rather _among_, ideas and beliefs, with which weare now concerned, are more extensive and more varied than mere logicalduels; they are also less definite, less precise. In reality they areculture conflicts in which the opposing forces, so far from beingspecific ideas only or pristine beliefs only, are in fact more or lessbewildering complexes of ideas, beliefs, prejudices, sympathies, antipathies, and personal interests. 

It is assumed also, I suppose, that any idea or group of ideas, anybelief or group of beliefs, may happen to be or may become a commoninterest, shared by a small or a large number of individuals. It maydraw and hold them together in bonds of acquaintance, of association, even of co-operation. It thus may play a group-making rôle. Contradictory ideas or beliefs, therefore, may play a group-making rôlein a double sense. Each draws into association the individual minds thatentertain it or find it attractive. Each also repels those minds to whomit is repugnant, and drives them toward the group which is being formedabout the contradictory idea or belief. Contradictions among ideas andbeliefs, then, it may be assumed, tend on the whole to sharpen the linesof demarcation between group and group. 

These assumptions are, I suppose, so fully justified by the everydayobservation of mankind and so confirmed by history that it isunnecessary now to discuss them or in any way to dwell upon them. Thequestion before us therefore becomes specific: "Are contradictions amongideas and beliefs likely to play an _important_ group-making rôle in thefuture?" I shall interpret the word important as connoting quality aswell as quantity. I shall, in fact, attempt to answer the question setfor me by translating it into this inquiry, namely: What kind or type ofgroups are the inevitable contradictions among ideas and beliefs mostlikely to create and to maintain within the progressive populations ofthe world from this time forth?

Somewhat more than three hundred years ago, Protestantism andgeographical discovery had combined to create conditions extraordinarilyfavorable to the formation of groups or associations about variousconflicting ideas and beliefs functioning as nuclei; and for nearlythree hundred years the world has been observing a remarkablemultiplication of culture groups of two fundamentally different types. One type is a sect, or denomination, having no restricted localhabitation but winning adherents here and there in various communes, provinces, or nations, and having, therefore, a membership eitherlocally concentrated or more or less widely dispersed; either regularlyor most irregularly distributed. The culture group of the other type, orkind, is a self-sufficing community. It may be a village, a colony, astate, or a nation. Its membership is concentrated, its habitat isdefined. 

To a very great extent, as everybody knows, American colonizationproceeded through the formation of religious communities. Such were thePilgrim and the Puritan commonwealths. Such were the Quaker groups ofRhode Island and Pennsylvania. Such were the localized societies of theDunkards, the Moravians, and the Mennonites. 

As late as the middle of the nineteenth century the American peoplewitnessed the birth and growth of one of the most remarkable religiouscommunities known in history. The Mormon community of Utah, which, originating in 1830 as a band of relatives and acquaintances, clusteredby an idea that quickly became a dogma, had become in fifty years acommonwealth _de facto_, defying the authority _de jure_ of the UnitedStates. 

We are not likely, however, again to witness a phenomenon of this kindin the civilized world. Recently we have seen the rise and theastonishingly rapid spread of another American religion, namely, theChristian Science faith. But it has created no community group. It hascreated only a dispersed sect. It is obvious to any intelligentobserver, however untrained in sociological discrimination he may be, that the forces of Protestantism, still dividing and differentiating asthey are, no longer to any great extent create new self-sufficingcommunities. They create only associations of irregular geographicaldispersion, of more or less unstable or shifting membership. In a word, the conflicting-idea forces, which in our colonial days tended to createcommunity groups as well as sects, tend now to create sectarian bodiesonly--mere denominational or partisan associations. 

A similar contrast between an earlier and a later stage of culturegroup-making may be observed if we go back to centuries before theProtestant Reformation, there to survey a wider field and a longerseries of historical periods. 

It is a commonplace of historical knowledge that in all of the earliestcivilizations there was an approximate identification of religion withethnic consciousness and of political consciousness with both religiousand race feeling. Each people had its own tribal or national gods, whowere inventoried as national assets at valuations quite as high as thoseattached to tribal or national territory. 

When, however, Roman imperial rule had been extended over the civilizedworld, the culture conflicts that then arose expended theirgroup-creating force in simply bringing together like believers insectarian association. Christianity, appealing to all bloods, in somemeasure to all economic classes, and spreading into all sections of theeastern Mediterranean region, did not to any great extent createcommunities. And what was true of Christianity was in like manner trueof the Mithras cult, widely diffused in the second Christian century. Even Mohammedanism, a faith seemingly well calculated to createautonomous states, in contact with a world prepared by Romanorganization could not completely identify itself with definitepolitical boundaries. 

The proximate causes of these contrasts are not obscure. We must supposethat a self-sufficing community might at one time, as well as atanother, be drawn together by formative beliefs. But that it may takeroot somewhere and, by protecting itself against destructive externalinfluences, succeed for a relatively long time in maintaining itsintegrity and its solidarity, it must enjoy a relative isolation. In aliteral sense it must be beyond easy reach of those antagonistic forceswhich constitute for it the outer world of unbelief and darkness. 

Such isolation is easily and often possible, however, only in the earlystages of political integration. It is always difficult and unusual inthose advanced stages wherein nations are combined in world-empires. Itis becoming well-nigh impossible, now that all the continents have beenbrought under the sovereignty of the so-called civilized peoples, whilethese peoples themselves, freely communicating and intermingling, maintain with one another that good understanding which constitutesthem, in a certain broad sense of the term, a world-society. Theproximate effects also of the contrast that has been sketched aregenerally recognized. 

So long as blood sympathy, religious faith, and political consciousnessare approximately coterminous, the groups that they form, whether localcommunities or nations, must necessarily be rather sharply delimited. They must be characterized also by internal solidarity. Their membershipis stable because to break the bond of blood is not only to make one'sself an outcast but is also to be unfaithful to the ancestral gods; tochange one's religion is not only to be impious but is also to committreason; to expatriate one's self is not only to commit treason but isalso to blaspheme against high heaven. 

But when associations of believers or of persons holding in common anyphilosophy or doctrine whatsoever are no longer self-sufficingcommunities, and when nations composite in blood have become compound instructure, all social groups, clusters, or organizations, not only thecultural ones drawn together by formative ideas, but also the economicand the political ones, become in some degree plastic. Their membershipthen becomes to some extent shifting and renewable. Under thesecircumstances any given association of men, let it be a village, areligious group, a trade union, a corporation, or a political party, notonly takes into itself new members from time to time; it also permitsold members to depart. Men come and men go, yet the association or thegroup itself persists. As group or as organization it remainsunimpaired. 

The economic advantage secured by this plasticity and renewableness isbeyond calculation enormous. It permits and facilitates the drafting ofmen at any moment from points where they are least needed, forconcentration upon points where they are needed most. The spiritual oridealistic advantage is not less great. The concentration of attentionand of enthusiasm upon strategic points gives ever-increasing impetus toprogressive movements. 

Let us turn now from these merely proximate causes and effects of groupformation to take note of certain developmental processes which liefarther back in the evolutionary sequence and which also havesignificance for our inquiry, since, when we understand them, they mayaid us in our attempt to answer the question, What kind of group-makingis likely to be accomplished by cultural conflicts from this time forth?

The most readily perceived, because the most pictorial, of the conflictsarising between one belief and another are those that are waged betweenbeliefs that have been localized and then through geographical expansionhave come into competition throughout wide frontier areas. Of all suchconflicts, that upon which the world has now fully entered betweenoccidental and oriental ideas is not merely the most extensive; it isalso by far the most interesting and picturesque. 

Less picturesque but often more dramatic are the conflicts that arisewithin each geographical region, within each nation, between old beliefsand new--the conflicts of sequent, in distinction from coexistent, ideas; the conflicts in time, in distinction from the conflicts inspace. A new knowledge is attained which compels us to question olddogmas. A new faith arises which would displace the ancient traditions. As the new waxes strong in some region favorable to it, it begins there, within local limits, to supersede the old. Only then, when the conflictbetween the old as old and the new as new is practically over, does thetriumphant new begin to go forth spatially as a conquering influencefrom the home of its youth into regions outlying and remote. 

Whatever the form, however, that the culture conflict assumes, whetherserial and dramatic or geographical and picturesque, its antecedentpsychological conditions are in certain great essentials the same. Menarray themselves in hostile camps on questions of theory and belief, notmerely because they are variously and conflictingly informed, but farmore because they are mentally unlike, their minds having been preparedby structural differentiation to seize upon different views and tocherish opposing convictions. That is to say, some minds have becomerational, critical, plastic, open, outlooking, above all, intuitive ofobjective facts and relations. Others in their fundamental constitutionhave remained dogmatic, intuitive only of personal attitudes or ofsubjective moods, temperamentally conservative and instinctive. Minds ofthe one kind welcome the new and wider knowledge; they go forth toembrace it. Minds of the other kind resist it. 

In the segregation thus arising, there is usually discoverable a certaintendency toward grouping by sex. 

Whether the mental and moral traits of women are inherent and thereforepermanent, or whether they are but passing effects of circumscribedexperience and therefore possibly destined to be modified, is immaterialfor my present purpose. It is not certain that either the biologist orthe psychologist is prepared to answer the question. It is certain thatthe sociologist is not. It is enough for the analysis that I am makingnow if we can say that, as a merely descriptive fact, women thus far inthe history of the race have generally been more instinctive, moreintuitive of subjective states, more emotional, more conservative thanmen; and that men, more generally than women, have been intuitive ofobjective relations, inclined therefore to break with instinct and torely on the later-developed reasoning processes of the brain, andwilling, consequently, to take chances, to experiment, and to innovate. 

If so much be granted, we may perhaps say that it is because of thesemental differences that in conflicts between new and old ideas, betweennew knowledge and old traditions, it usually happens that a largemajority of all women are found in the camp of the old, and that thecamp of the new is composed mainly of men. 

In the camp of the new, however, are always to be found women of alertintelligence, who happen also to be temperamentally radical; women inwhom the reasoning habit has asserted sway over instinct, and in whomintuition has become the true scientific power to discern objectiverelations. And in the camp of the old, together with a majority of allwomen, are to be found most of the men of conservative instinct, andmost of those also whose intuitive and reasoning powers are unequal tothe effort of thinking about the world or anything in it in terms ofimpersonal causation. Associated with all of these elements, both maleand female, may usually be discovered, finally, a contingent of priestlypersonalities; not necessarily religious priests, but men who love toassert spiritual dominion, to wield authority, to be reverenced andobeyed, and who naturally look for a following among the non-skepticaland easily impressed. 

Such, very broadly and rudely sketched, is the psychological backgroundof culture conflict. It is, however, a background only, a certainpersistent grouping of forces and conditions; it is not the cause fromwhich culture conflicts proceed. 

D. RACIAL CONFLICTS

1. Social Contacts and Race Conflict[215]

There is a conviction, widespread in America at the present time, thatamong the most fruitful sources of international wars are racialprejudice and national egotism. This conviction is the nerve of muchpresent-day pacifism. It has been the inspiration of such unofficialdiplomacy, for example, as that of the Federal Council of the Churchesof Christ in its effort to bring about a better understanding betweenthe Japanese and America. This book, _The Japanese Invasion_, by JesseF. Steiner, is an attempt to study this phenomenon of race prejudice andnational egotism, so far as it reveals itself in the relations of theJapanese and the Americans in this country, and to estimate the rôle itis likely to play in the future relations of the two countries. 

So far as I know, an investigation of precisely this nature has nothitherto been made. One reason for this is, perhaps, that not until veryrecent times did the problem present itself in precisely this form. Solong as the nations lived in practical isolation, carrying on theirintercourse through the medium of professional diplomats, and knowingeach other mainly through the products they exchanged, census reports, and the discreet observations of polite travelers, racial prejudice didnot disturb international relations. With the extension of internationalcommerce, the increase of immigration, and the interpenetration ofpeoples, the scene changes. The railway, the steamship, and thetelegraph are rapidly mobilizing the peoples of the earth. The nationsare coming out of their isolation, and distances which separated thedifferent races are rapidly giving way before the extension ofcommunication. 

The same human motives which have led men to spread a network oftrade-communication over the whole earth in order to bring about anexchange of commodities are now bringing about a new distribution ofpopulations. When these populations become as mobile as the commoditiesof commerce, there will be practically no limits--except thoseartificial barriers, like the customs and immigration restrictions, maintained by individual states--to a world-wide economic and personalcompetition. Furthermore when the natural barriers are broken down, artificial barriers will be maintained with increasing difficulty. 

Some conception of the extent of the changes which are taking place inthe world under the influence of these forces may be gathered from thefact that in 1870 the cost of transporting a bushel of grain in Europewas so great as to prohibit its sale beyond a radius of two hundredmiles from a primary market. By 1883 the importation of grains from thevirgin soil of the western prairies in the United States had broughtabout an agricultural crisis in every country in western Europe. 

One may illustrate, but it is scarcely possible to estimate, theeconomic changes which have been brought about by the enormous increasein ocean transportation. In 1840 the first Cunard liner, of 740horse-power with a speed of 8. 5 knots per hour, was launched. In 1907, when the Lusitania was built, ocean-going vessels had attained a speedof 25 knots an hour and were drawn by engines of 70, 000 horse-power. 

It is difficult to estimate the economic changes which have been broughtabout by the changes in ocean transportation represented by thesefigures. It is still less possible to predict the political effects ofthe steadily increasing mobility of the peoples of the earth. At thepresent time this mobility has already reached a point at which it isoften easier and cheaper to transport the world's population to thesource of raw materials than to carry the world's manufactures to theestablished seats of population. 

With the progressive rapidity, ease, and security of transportation, andthe increase in communication, there follows an increasing detachment ofthe population from the soil and a concurrent concentration in greatcities. These cities in time become the centers of vast numbers ofuprooted individuals, casual and seasonal laborers, tenement andapartment-house dwellers, sophisticated and emancipated urbanites, whoare bound together neither by local attachment nor by ties of family, clan, religion, or nationality. Under such conditions it is reasonableto expect that the same economic motive which leads every trader to sellin the highest market and to buy in the lowest will steadily increaseand intensify the tendency, which has already reached enormousproportions of the population in overcrowded regions with diminishedresources, to seek their fortunes, either permanently or temporarily, inthe new countries of undeveloped resources. 

Already the extension of commerce and the increase of immigration havebrought about an international and inter-racial situation that hasstrained the inherited political order of the United States. It is thissame expansive movement of population and of commerce, together with theracial and national rivalries that have sprung from them, which firstdestroyed the traditional balance of power in Europe and then broke upthe scheme of international control which rested on it. Whatever mayhave been the immediate causes of the world-war, the more remote sourcesof the conflict must undoubtedly be sought in the great cosmic forceswhich have broken down the barriers which formerly separated the racesand nationalities of the world, and forced them into new intimacies andnew forms of competition, rivalry, and conflict. 

Since 1870 the conditions which I have attempted to sketch have steadilyforced upon America and the nations of Europe the problem ofassimilating their heterogeneous populations. What we call the raceproblem is at once an incident of this process of assimilation and anevidence of its failure. 

The present volume, _The Japanese Invasion: A Study in the Psychology ofInter-racial Contact_, touches but does not deal with the generalsituation which I have briefly sketched. It is, as its title suggests, astudy in "racial contacts, " and is an attempt to distinguish and traceto their sources the attitudes and the sentiments--that is to say, mutual prejudices--which have been and still are a source of mutualirritation and misunderstanding between the Japanese and Americanpeoples. 

Fundamentally, prejudice against the Japanese in the United States ismerely the prejudice which attaches to every alien and immigrant people. The immigrant from Europe, like the immigrant from Asia, comes to thiscountry because he finds here a freedom of individual action and aneconomic opportunity which he did not find at home. It is an instance ofthe general tendency of populations to move from an area of relativelyclosed, to one of relatively open, resources. The movement is asinevitable and, in the long run, as resistless as that which draws waterfrom its mountain sources to the sea. It is one way of redressing theeconomic balance and bringing about an economic equilibrium. 

The very circumstances under which this modern movement of populationhas arisen implies then that the standard of living, if not the culturallevel, of the immigrant is lower than that of the native population. Theconsequence is that immigration brings with it a new and disturbing formof competition, the competition, namely, of peoples of a lower and of ahigher standard of living. The effect of this competition, where it isfree and unrestricted, is either to lower the living standards of thenative population; to expel them from the vocations in which theimmigrants are able or permitted to compete; or what may, perhaps, beregarded as a more sinister consequence, to induce such a restriction ofthe birth rate of the native population as to insure its ultimateextinction. The latter is, in fact, what seems to be happening in theNew England manufacturing towns where the birth rate in the nativepopulation for some years past has fallen below the death rate, so thatthe native stock has long since ceased to reproduce itself. The foreignpeoples, on the other hand, are rapidly replacing the native stocks, notmerely by the influence of new immigration, but because of a relativelyhigh excess of births over deaths. 

It has been assumed that the prejudice which blinds the people of onerace to the virtues of another and leads them to exaggerate that other'sfaults is in the nature of a misunderstanding which further knowledgewill dispel. This is so far from true that it would be more exact to saythat our racial misunderstandings are merely the expression of ourracial antipathies. Behind these antipathies are deep-seated, vital, andinstinctive impulses. Racial antipathies represent the collision ofinvisible forces, the clash of interests, dimly felt but not yet clearlyperceived. They are present in every situation where the fundamentalinterests of races and peoples are not yet regulated by some law, custom, or any other _modus vivendi_ which commands the assent and themutual support of both parties. We hate people because we fear them, because our interests, as we understand them at any rate, run counter totheirs. On the other hand, good will is founded in the long run uponco-operation. The extension of our so-called altruistic sentiments ismade possible only by the organization of our otherwise conflictinginterests and by the extension of the machinery of co-operation andsocial control. 

Race prejudice may be regarded as a spontaneous, more or lessinstinctive, defense-reaction, the practical effect of which is torestrict free competition between races. Its importance as a socialfunction is due to the fact that free competition, particularly betweenpeople with different standards of living, seems to be, if not theoriginal source, at least the stimulus to which race prejudice is theresponse. 

From this point of view we may regard caste, or even slavery, as one ofthose accommodations through which the race problem found a naturalsolution. Caste, by relegating the subject race to an inferior status, gives to each race at any rate a monopoly of its own tasks. When thisstatus is accepted by the subject people, as is the case where the casteor slavery systems become fully established, racial competition ceasesand racial animosity tends to disappear. That is the explanation of theintimate and friendly relations which so often existed in slaverybetween master and servant. It is for this reason that we hear it saidtoday that the Negro is all right in his place. In his place he is aconvenience and not a competitor. Each race being in its place, noobstacle to racial co-operation exists. 

The fact that race prejudice is due to, or is in some sense dependentupon, race competition is further manifest by a fact that Mr. Steinerhas emphasized, namely, that prejudice against the Japanese is nowhereuniform throughout the United States. It is only where the Japanese arepresent in sufficient numbers to actually disturb the economic status ofthe white population that prejudice has manifested itself to such adegree as to demand serious consideration. It is an interesting factalso that prejudice against the Japanese is now more intense than it isagainst any other oriental people. The reason for this, as Mr. Steinerhas pointed out, is that the Japanese are more aggressive, more disposedto test the sincerity of that statement of the Declaration ofIndependence which declares that all men are equally entitled to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness"--a statement, by the way, whichwas merely a forensic assertion of the laissez faire doctrine of freeand unrestricted competition as applied to the relations of individualmen. 

The Japanese, the Chinese, they too would be all right in their place, no doubt. That place, if they find it, will be one in which they do notgreatly intensify and so embitter the struggle for existence of thewhite man. The difficulty is that the Japanese is still less disposedthan the Negro or the Chinese to submit to the regulations of a castesystem and to stay in his place. The Japanese are an organized andmorally efficient nation. They have the national pride and the nationalegotism which rests on the consciousness of this efficiency. In fact, itis not too much to say that national egotism, if one pleases to call itsuch, is essential to national efficiency, just as a certainirascibility of temper seems to be essential to a good fighter. 

Another difficulty is that caste and the limitation of free competitionis economically unsound, even though it be politically desirable. Anational policy of national efficiency demands that every individualhave not merely the opportunity but the preparation necessary to performthat particular service for the community for which his naturaldisposition and aptitude fit him, irrespective of race or "previouscondition. "

Finally, caste and the limitation of economic opportunity is contrary, if not to our traditions, at least to our political principles. Thatmeans that there will always be an active minority opposed to anysettlement based on the caste system as applied to either the black orthe brown races, on grounds of political sentiment. This minority willbe small in parts of the country immediately adversely affected by thecompetition of the invading race. It will be larger in regions which arenot greatly affected. It will be increased if immigration is so rapid asto make the competition more acute. We must look to other measures forthe solution of the Japanese problem, if it should prove true, as seemsprobable, that we are not able or, for various reasons, do not carepermanently to hold back the rising tide of the oriental invasion. 

I have said that fundamentally and in principle prejudice against theJapanese in America today was identical with the prejudice whichattaches to any immigrant people. There is, as Mr. Steiner has pointedout, a difference. This is due to the existence in the human mind of amechanism by which we inevitably and automatically classify everyindividual human being we meet. When a race bears an external mark bywhich every individual member of it can infallibly be identified, thatrace is by that fact set apart and segregated. Japanese, Chinese, andNegroes cannot move among us with the same freedom as the members ofother races because they bear marks which identify them as members oftheir race. This fact isolates them. In the end the effect of thisisolation, both in its effects upon the Japanese themselves and upon thehuman environment in which they live, is profound. Isolation is at oncea cause and an effect of race prejudice. It is a viciouscircle--isolation, prejudice; prejudice, isolation. Were there no otherreasons which urge us to consider the case of the Japanese and theoriental peoples in a category different from that of the Europeanimmigrant, this fact, that they are bound to live in the Americancommunity a more or less isolated life, would impel us to do so. 

In conclusion, I may perhaps say in a word what seems to me thepractical bearing of Mr. Steiner's book. Race prejudice is a mechanismof the group mind which acts reflexly and automatically in response toits proper stimulus. That stimulus seems to be, in the cases where Ihave met it, unrestricted competition of peoples with differentstandards of living. Racial animosities and the so-called racialmisunderstandings that grow out of them cannot be explained or arguedaway. They can only be affected when there has been a readjustment ofrelations and an organization of interests in such a way as to bringabout a larger measure of co-operation and a lesser amount of frictionand conflict. This demands something more than a diplomacy of kindwords. It demands a national policy based on an unflinching examinationof the facts. 

2. Conflict and Race Consciousness[216]

The Civil War weakened but did not fully destroy the _modus vivendi_which slavery had established between the slave and his master. Withemancipation the authority which had formerly been exercised by themaster was transferred to the state, and Washington, D. C. , began toassume in the mind of the freedman the position that formerly had beenoccupied by the "big house" on the plantation. The masses of the Negropeople still maintained their habit of dependence, however, and afterthe first confusion of the change had passed, life went on, for most ofthem, much as it had before the war. As one old farmer explained, theonly difference he could see was that in slavery he "was working for oldMarster and now he was working for himself. "

There was one difference between slavery and freedom, nevertheless, which was very real to the freedman. And this was the liberty to move. To move from one plantation to another in case he was discontented wasone of the ways in which a freedman was able to realize his freedom andto make sure that he possessed it. This liberty to move meant a gooddeal more to the plantation Negro than one not acquainted with thesituation in the South is likely to understand. 

If there had been an abundance of labor in the South; if the situationhad been such that the Negro laborer was seeking the opportunity towork, or such that the Negro tenant farmers were competing for theopportunity to get a place on the land, as is so frequently the case inEurope, the situation would have been fundamentally different from whatit actually was. But the South was, and is today, what Nieboer called acountry of "open, " in contradistinction to a country of "closed"resources. In other words, there is more land in the South than there islabor to till it. Land owners are driven to competing for laborers andtenants to work their plantations. 

Owing to his ignorance of business matters and to a long-establishedhabit of submission, the Negro after emancipation was placed at a greatdisadvantage in his dealings with the white man. His right to move fromone plantation to another became, therefore, the Negro tenant's methodof enforcing consideration from the planter. He might not dispute theplanter's accounts, because he was not capable of doing so, and it wasunprofitable to attempt it, but if he felt aggrieved he could move. 

This was the significance of the exodus in some of the southern stateswhich took place about 1879, when 40, 000 people left the plantations inthe Black Belts of Louisiana and Mississippi and went to Kansas. Themasses of the colored people were dissatisfied with the treatment theywere receiving from the planters and made up their minds to move to "afree country, " as they described it. At the same time it was the attemptof the planter to bind the Negro tenant who was in debt to him to hisplace on the plantation that gave rise to the system of peonage thatstill exists in a mitigated form in the South today. 

When the Negro moved off the plantation upon which he was reared hesevered the personal relations which bound him to his master's people. It was just at this point that the two races began to lose touch witheach other. From this time on the relations of the black man and white, which in slavery had been direct and personal, became every year, as theold associations were broken, more and more indirect and secondary. There lingers still the disposition on the part of the white man totreat every Negro familiarly, and the disposition on the part of everyNegro to treat every white man respectfully. But these are habits whichare gradually disappearing. The breaking down of the instincts andhabits of servitude and the acquisition by the masses of the Negropeople of the instincts and habits of freedom have proceeded slowly butsteadily. The reason the change seems to have gone on more rapidly insome cases than others is explained by the fact that at the time ofemancipation 10 per cent of the Negroes in the United States werealready free, and others, those who had worked in trades, many of whomhad hired their own time from their masters, had become more or lessadapted to the competitive conditions of free society. 

One of the effects of the mobilization of the Negro has been to bringhim into closer and more intimate contact with his own people. Commoninterests have drawn the blacks together, and caste sentiment has keptthe black and white apart. The segregation of the races, which began asa spontaneous movement on the part of both, has been fostered by thepolicy of the dominant race. The agitation of the Reconstruction periodmade the division between the races in politics absolute. Segregationand separation in other matters have gone on steadily ever since. TheNegro at the present time has separate churches, schools, libraries, hospitals, Y. M. C. A. Associations, and even separate towns. There are, perhaps, a half-dozen communities in the United States, every inhabitantof which is a Negro. Most of these so-called Negro towns are suburbanvillages; two of them, at any rate, are the centers of a considerableNegro farming population. In general it may be said that where the Negroschools, churches, and Y. M. C. A. Associations are not separate they donot exist. 

It is hard to estimate the ultimate effect of this isolation of theblack man. One of the most important effects has been to establish acommon interest among all the different colors and classes of the race. This sense of solidarity has grown up gradually with the organization ofthe Negro people. It is stronger in the South, where segregation is morecomplete, than it is in the North where, twenty years ago, it would havebeen safe to say it did not exist. Gradually, imperceptibly, within thelarger world of the white man, a smaller world, the world of the blackman, is silently taking form and shape. 

Every advance in education and intelligence puts the Negro in possessionof the technique of communication and organization of the white man, andso contributes to the extension and consolidation of the Negro worldwithin the white. 

The motive for this increasing solidarity is furnished by the increasingpressure, or perhaps I should say by the increasing sensibility ofNegroes to the pressure and the prejudice without. The sentiment ofracial loyalty, which is a comparatively recent manifestation of thegrowing self-consciousness of the race, must be regarded as a responseand "accommodation" to changing internal and external relations of therace. The sentiment which Negroes are beginning to call "race pride"does not exist to the same extent in the North as in the South, but anincreasing disposition to enforce racial distinctions in the North, asin the South, is bringing it into existence. 

One or two incidents in this connection are significant. A few years agoa man who is the head of the largest Negro publishing business in thiscountry sent to Germany and had a number of Negro dolls manufacturedaccording to specifications of his own. At the time this company wasstarted, Negro children were in the habit of playing with white dolls. There were already Negro dolls on the market, but they were for whitechildren and represented the white man's conception of the Negro and notthe Negro's ideal of himself. The new Negro doll was a mulatto withregular features slightly modified in favor of the conventional Negrotype. It was a neat, prim, well-dressed, well-behaved, self-respectingdoll. Later on, as I understand, there were other dolls, equally tidyand respectable in appearance, but in darker shades, with Negro featuresa little more pronounced. The man who designed these dolls was perfectlyclear in regard to the significance of the substitution that he wasmaking. He said that he thought it was a good thing to let Negro girlsbecome accustomed to dolls of their own color. He thought it important, as long as the races were to be segregated, that the dolls, which, likeother forms of art, are patterns and represent ideals, should besegregated also. 

This substitution of the Negro model for the white is a very interestingand a very significant fact. It means that the Negro has begun tofashion his own ideals and in his own image rather than in that of thewhite man. It is also interesting to know that the Negro doll companyhas been a success and that these dolls are now widely sold in everypart of the United States. Nothing exhibits more clearly the extent towhich the Negro had become assimilated in slavery or the extent towhich he has broken with the past in recent years than this episode ofthe Negro doll. 

The incident is typical. It is an indication of the nature of tendenciesand of forces that are stirring in the background of the Negro's mind, although they have not succeeded in forcing themselves, except inspecial instances, into clear consciousness. 

In this same category must be reckoned the poetry of Paul LawrenceDunbar, in whom, as William Dean Howells has said, the Negro "attainedcivilization. " Before Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Negro literature had beeneither apologetic or self-assertive, but Dunbar "studied the Negroobjectively. " He represented him as he found him, not only withoutapology, but with an affectionate understanding and sympathy which onecan have only for what is one's own. In Dunbar, Negro literatureattained an ethnocentric point of view. Through the medium of his versesthe ordinary shapes and forms of the Negro's life have taken on thecolor of his affections and sentiments, and we see the black man, not ashe looks, but as he feels and is. 

It is a significant fact that a certain number of educated--or ratherthe so-called educated--Negroes were not at first disposed to accept attheir full value either Dunbar's dialect verse or the familiar picturesof Negro life which are the symbols in which his poetry usually foundexpression. The explanation sometimes offered for the dialect poems wasthat "they were made to please white folk. " The assumption seems to havebeen that if they had been written for Negroes it would have beenimpossible in his poetry to distinguish black people from white. Thiswas a sentiment which was never shared by the masses of the people, who, upon the occasions when Dunbar recited to them, were fairly bowled overwith amusement and delight because of the authenticity of the portraitshe offered them. At the present time Dunbar is so far accepted as tohave hundreds of imitators. 

Literature and art have played a similar and perhaps more important rôlein the racial struggles of Europe than of America. One reason seems tobe that racial conflicts, as they occur in secondary groups, areprimarily sentimental and secondarily economic. Literature and art, whenthey are employed to give expression to racial sentiment and form toracial ideals, serve, along with other agencies, to mobilize the groupand put the masses _en rapport_ with their leaders and with each other. In such cases art and literature are like silent drummers which summoninto action the latent instincts and energies of the race. 

These struggles, I might add, in which a submerged people seek to riseand make for themselves a place in a world occupied by superior andprivileged races, are not less vital or less important because they arebloodless. They serve to stimulate ambitions and inspire ideals whichyears, perhaps, of subjection and subordination have suppressed. Infact, it seems as if it were through conflicts of this kind, rather thanthrough war, that the minor peoples were destined to gain the moralconcentration and discipline that fit them to share, on anything likeequal terms, in the conscious life of the civilized world. 

Until the beginning of the last century the European peasant, like theNegro slave, bound as he was to the soil, lived in the little world ofdirect and personal relations, under what we may call a domestic régime. It was military necessity that first turned the attention of statesmenlike Frederick the Great of Prussia to the welfare of the peasant. Itwas the overthrow of Prussia by Napoleon in 1807 that brought about hisfinal emancipation in that country. In recent years it has been theinternational struggle for economic efficiency which has contributedmost to mobilize the peasant and laboring classes in Europe. 

As the peasant slowly emerged from serfdom he found himself a member ofa depressed class, without education, political privileges, or capital. It was the struggle of this class for wider opportunity and betterconditions of life that made most of the history of the previouscentury. Among the peoples in the racial borderland the effect of thisstruggle has been, on the whole, to substitute for a horizontalorganization of society--in which the upper strata, that is to say, thewealthy or privileged class, was mainly of one race and the poorer andsubject class was mainly of another--a vertical organization in whichall classes of each racial group were united under the title of theirrespective nationalities. Thus organized, the nationalities represent, on the one hand, intractable minorities engaged in a ruthless partisanstruggle for political privilege or economic advantage and, on theother, they represent cultural groups, each struggling to maintain asentiment of loyalty to the distinctive traditions, language, andinstitutions of the race they represent. 

This sketch of the racial situation in Europe is, of course, the barestabstraction and should not be accepted realistically. It is intendedmerely as an indication of similarities, in the broader outlines, of themotives that have produced nationalities in Europe and are making theNegro in America, as Booker Washington says, "a nation within a nation. "

It may be said that there is one profound difference between the Negroand the European nationalities, namely, that the Negro has had hisseparateness and consequent race consciousness thrust upon him becauseof his exclusion and forcible isolation from white society. The Slavicnationalities, on the contrary, have segregated themselves in order toescape assimilation and escape racial extinction in the largercosmopolitan states. 

The difference is, however, not so great as it seems. With the exceptionof the Poles, nationalistic sentiment may be said hardly to have existedfifty years ago. Forty years ago when German was the language of theeducated classes, educated Bohemians were a little ashamed to speaktheir own language in public. Now nationalist sentiment is so strongthat, where the Czech nationality has gained control, it has sought towipe out every vestige of the German language. It has changed the namesof streets, buildings, and public places. In the city of Prag, forexample, all that formerly held German associations now fairly reekswith the sentiment of Bohemian nationality. 

On the other hand, the masses of the Polish people cherished very littlenationalist sentiment until after the Franco-Prussian War. The fact isthat nationalist sentiment among the Slavs, like racial sentiment amongthe Negroes, has sprung up as the result of a struggle against privilegeand discrimination based upon racial distinctions. The movement is notso far advanced among Negroes; sentiment is not so intense, and forseveral reasons probably never will be. 

From what has been said it seems fair to draw one conclusion, namely:under conditions of secondary contact, that is to say, conditions ofindividual liberty and individual competition, characteristic of moderncivilization, depressed racial groups tend to assume the form ofnationalities. A nationality, in this narrower sense, may be defined asthe racial group which has attained self-consciousness, no matterwhether it has at the same time gained political independence or not. 

In societies organized along horizontal lines the disposition ofindividuals in the lower strata is to seek their models in the strataabove them. Loyalty attaches to individuals, particularly to the upperclasses, who furnish, in their persons and in their lives, the modelsfor the masses of the people below them. Long after the nobility haslost every other social function connected with its vocation the idealsof the nobility have survived in our conception of the gentleman, genteel manners and bearing--gentility. 

The sentiment of the Negro slave was, in a certain sense, not merelyloyalty to his master but to the white race. Negroes of the oldergenerations speak very frequently, with a sense of proprietorship, of"our white folks. " This sentiment was not always confined to theignorant masses. An educated colored man once explained to me "that wecolored people always want our white folks to be superior. " He wasshocked when I showed no particular enthusiasm for that form ofsentiment. 

The fundamental significance of the nationalist movement must be soughtin the effort of subject races, sometimes consciously, sometimesunconsciously, to substitute, for those supplied them by aliens, modelsbased on their own racial individuality and embodying sentiments andideals which spring naturally out of their own lives. 

After a race has achieved in this way its moral independence, assimilation, in the sense of copying, will still continue. Nations andraces borrow from those whom they fear as well as from those whom theyadmire. Materials taken over in this way, however, are inevitablystamped with the individuality of the nationalities that appropriatethem. These materials will contribute to the dignity, to the prestige, and to the solidarity of the nationality which borrows them, but theywill no longer inspire loyalty to the race from which they are borrowed. A race which has attained the character of a nationality may stillretain its loyalty to the state of which it is a part, but only in sofar as that state incorporates, as an integral part of its organization, the practical interests, the aspirations and ideals of thatnationality. 

The aim of the contending nationalities in Austria-Hungary at thepresent time seems to be a federation, like that of Switzerland, basedupon the autonomy of the different races composing the empire. In theSouth, similarly, the races seem to be tending in the direction of abi-racial organization of society, in which the Negro is graduallygaining a limited autonomy. What the ultimate outcome of this movementmay be it is not safe to predict. 

3. Conflict and Accommodation[217]

In the first place, what is race friction? To answer this elementaryquestion it is necessary to define the abstract mental quality uponwhich race friction finally rests. This is racial "antipathy, " popularlyspoken of as "race prejudice. " Whereas prejudice means merepredilection, either for or against, antipathy means "naturalcontrariety, " "incompatibility, " or "repugnance of qualities. " To quotethe Century Dictionary, antipathy "expresses most of constitutionalfeeling and least of volition"; "it is a dislike that seemsconstitutional toward persons, things, conduct, etc. ; hence it involvesa dislike for which sometimes no good reason can be given. " I woulddefine racial antipathy, then, as a natural contrariety, repugnancy ofqualities, or incompatibility between individuals or groups which aresufficiently differentiated to constitute what, for want of a more exactterm, we call races. What is most important is that it involves aninstinctive feeling of dislike, distaste, or repugnance, for whichsometimes no good reason can be given. Friction is defined primarily asa "lack of harmony, " or a "mutual irritation. " In the case of races itis accentuated by antipathy. We do not have to depend on race riots orother acts of violence as a measure of the growth of race friction. Itsexistence may be manifested by a look or a gesture as well as by a wordor an act. 

A verbal cause of much useless and unnecessary controversy is found inthe use of the word "race. " When we speak of "race problems" or "racialantipathies, " what do we mean by "race"? Clearly nothing scientificallydefinite, since ethnologists themselves are not agreed upon anyclassification of the human family along racial lines. Nor would thisso-called race prejudice have the slightest regard for suchclassification, if one were agreed upon. It is something which is notbounded by the confines of a philological or ethnological definition. The British scientist may tell the British soldier in India that thenative is in reality his brother, and that it is wholly absurd andillogical and unscientific for such a thing as "race prejudice" to existbetween them. Tommy Atkins simply replies with a shrug that to him andhis messmates the native is a "nigger"; and in so far as their attitudeis concerned, that is the end of the matter. The same suggestion, regardless of the scientific accuracy of the parallel, if made to theAmerican soldier in the Philippines, meets with the same reply. We havewasted an infinite amount of time in interminable controversies over therelative superiority and inferiority of different races. Suchdiscussions have a certain value when conducted by scientific men in apurely scientific spirit. But for the purpose of explaining orestablishing any fixed principle of race relations they are littlebetter than worthless. The Japanese is doubtless quite well satisfied ofthe superiority of his people over the mushroom growths of westerncivilization, and finds no difficulty in borrowing from the latterwhatever is worth reproducing, and improving on it in adapting it to hisown racial needs. The Chinese do not waste their time in idle chatterover the relative status of their race as compared with the whitebarbarians who have intruded themselves upon them with their grotesquecustoms, their heathenish ideas, and their childishly new religion. TheHindu regards with veiled contempt the racial pretensions of hisconqueror, and, while biding the time when the darker races of the earthshall once more come into their own, does not bother himself with suchan idle question as whether his temporary overlord is his racial equal. Only the white man writes volumes to establish on paper the fact of asuperiority which is either self-evident and not in need ofdemonstration, on the one hand, or is not a fact and is notdemonstrable, on the other. The really important matter is one aboutwhich there need be little dispute--the fact of racial differences. Itis the practical question of differences--the fundamental differences ofphysical appearance, of mental habit and thought, of social customs andreligious beliefs, of the thousand and one things keenly and clearlyappreciable, yet sometimes elusive and undefinable--these are the thingswhich at once create and find expression in what we call race problemsand race prejudices, for want of better terms. In just so far as thesedifferences are fixed and permanently associated characteristics of twogroups of people will the antipathies and problems between the two bepermanent. 

Probably the closest approach we shall ever make to a satisfactoryclassification of races as a basis of antipathy will be that of groupingmen according to color, along certain broad lines, the color beingaccompanied by various and often widely different, but always fairlypersistent, differentiating physical and mental characteristics. Thiswould give us substantially the white--not Caucasian, the yellow--notChinese or Japanese, and the dark--not Negro, races. The antipathiesbetween these general groups and between certain of their subdivisionswill be found to be essentially fundamental, but they will also be foundto present almost endless differences of degrees of actual and potentialacuteness. Here elementary psychology also plays its part. One of thesubdivisions of the Negro race is composed of persons of mixed blood. Inmany instances these are more white than black, yet the association ofideas has through several generations identified them with theNegro--and in this country friction between this class and white peopleis on some lines even greater than between whites and blacks. 

Race conflicts are merely the more pronounced concrete expressions ofsuch friction. They are the visible phenomena of the abstract quality ofracial antipathy--the tangible evidence of the existence of racialproblems. The form of such expressions of antipathy varies with thenature of the racial contact in each instance. Their different andwidely varying aspects are the confusing and often contradictoryphenomena of race relations. They are dependent upon diverse conditions, and are no more susceptible of rigid and permanent classification thanare the whims and moods of human nature. It is more than a truism to saythat a condition precedent to race friction or race conflict is contactbetween sufficient numbers of two diverse racial groups. There is adefinite and positive difference between contact between individuals andcontact between masses. The association between two isolated individualmembers of two races may be wholly different from contact between massesof the same race groups. The factor of numbers embraces, indeed, thevery crux of the problems arising from contact between different races. 

A primary cause of race friction is the vague, rather intangible, butwholly real, feeling of "pressure" which comes to the white man almostinstinctively in the presence of a mass of people of a different race. In a certain important sense all racial problems are distinctly problemsof racial distribution. Certainly the definite action of the controllingrace, particularly as expressed in laws, is determined by the factor ofthe numerical difference between its population and that of the inferiorgroup. This fact stands out prominently in the history of our coloniallegislation for the control of Negro slaves. These laws increased inseverity up to a certain point as the slave population increased innumbers. The same condition is disclosed in the history of theante-bellum legislation of the southern, eastern, New England, andmiddle western states for the control of the free Negro population. Sotoday no state in the Union would have separate car laws where the Negroconstituted only 10 or 15 per cent of its total population. No statewould burden itself with the maintenance of two separate school systemswith a negro element of less than 10 per cent. Means of local separationmight be found, but there would be no expression of law on the subject. 

Just as a heavy increase of Negro population makes for an increase offriction, direct legislation, the protection of drastic social customs, and a general feeling of unrest or uneasiness on the part of the whitepopulation, so a decrease of such population, or a relatively smallincrease as compared with the whites, makes for less friction, greaterracial tolerance, and a lessening of the feeling of necessity forseverely discriminating laws or customs. And this quite aside from thefact of a difference of increase or decrease of actual points ofcontact, varying with differences of numbers. The statement willscarcely be questioned that the general attitude of the white race, as awhole, toward the Negro would become much less uncompromising if we wereto discover that through two census periods the race had shown apositive decrease in numbers. Racial antipathy would not decrease, butthe conditions which provoke its outward expression would undergo achange for the better. There is a direct relation between the mollifiedattitude of the people of the Pacific coast toward the Chinesepopulation and the fact that the Chinese population decreased between1890 and 1900. There would in time be a difference of feeling toward theJapanese now there if the immigration of more were prohibited by treatystipulation. There is the same immediate relation between the tolerantattitude of whites toward the natives in the Hawaiian Islands and thefeeling that the native is a decadent and dying race. Aside from theinfluence of the Indian's warlike qualities and of his refusal to submitto slavery, the attitude and disposition of the white race toward himhave been influenced by considerations similar to those which todayoperate in Hawaii. And the same influence has been a factor indetermining the attitude of the English toward the slowly dying Maorisof New Zealand. 

At no time in the history of the English-speaking people and at no placeof which we have any record where large numbers of them have beenbrought into contact with an approximately equal number of Negroes havethe former granted to the latter absolute equality, either political, social, or economic. With the exception of five New England states, witha total Negro population of only 16, 084 in 1860, every state in theUnion discriminated against the Negro politically before the Civil War. The white people continued to do so--North as well as South--as long asthey retained control of the suffrage regulations of their states. Thedetermination to do so renders one whole section of the countrypractically a political unit to this day. In South Africa we see thesame determination of the white man to rule, regardless of the numericalsuperiority of the black. The same determination made Jamaica surrenderthe right of self-government and renders her satisfied with a hybridpolitical arrangement today. The presence of practically 100, 000 Negroesin the District of Columbia makes 200, 000 white people content to liveunder an anomaly in a self-governing country. The proposition is tooelementary for discussion that the white man when confronted with asufficient number of Negroes to create in his mind a sense of politicalunrest or danger either alters his form of government in order to be ridof the incubus or destroys the political strength of the Negro by force, by evasion, or by direct action. 

In the main, the millions in the South live at peace with their whiteneighbors. The masses, just one generation out of slavery and thousandsof them still largely controlled by its influences, accept thesuperiority of the white race as a race, whatever may be their privateopinion of some of its members. And, furthermore, they accept thisrelation of superior and inferior as a mere matter of course--as partof their lives--as something neither to be questioned, wondered at, orworried over. Despite apparent impressions to the contrary, the averagesouthern white man gives no more thought to the matter than does theNegro. As I tried to make clear at the outset, the status of superiorand inferior is simply an inherited part of his instinctive mentalequipment--a concept which he does not have to reason out. Therespective attitudes are complementary, and under the mutual acceptanceand understanding there still exist unnumbered thousands of instances ofkindly and affectionate relations--relations of which the outside worldknows nothing and understands nothing. In the mass, the southern Negrohas not bothered himself about the ballot for more than twenty years, not since his so-called political leaders let him alone; he is notdisturbed over the matter of separate schools and cars, and he neitherknows nor cares anything about "social equality. "

But what of the other class? The "masses" is at best an unsatisfactoryand indefinite term. It is very far from embracing even the southernNegro, and we need not forget that seven years ago there were 900, 000members of the race living outside of the South. What of the class, mainly urban and large in number, who have lost the typical habit andattitude of the Negro of the mass, and who, more and more, are becomingrestless and chafing under existing conditions? There is an intimate andvery natural relation between the social and intellectual advance of theso-called Negro and the matter of friction along social lines. It is, infact, only as we touch the higher groups that we can appreciate thepotential results of contact upon a different plane from that common tothe masses in the South. There is a large and steadily increasing groupof men, more or less related to the Negro by blood and wholly identifiedwith him by American social usage, who refuse to accept quietly thewhite man's attitude toward the race. I appreciate the mistake of layingtoo great stress upon the utterances of any one man or group of men, butthe mistakes in this case lie the other way. The American white manknows little or nothing about the thought and opinion of the colored menand women who today largely mold and direct Negro public opinion in thiscountry. Even the white man who considers himself a student of "the racequestion" rarely exhibits anything more than profound ignorance of theNegro's side of the problem. He does not know what the other man isthinking and saying on the subject. This composite type which wepoetically call "black, " but which in reality is every shade from blackto white, is slowly developing a consciousness of its own racialsolidarity. It is finding its own distinctive voice, and through its ownbooks and papers and magazines, and through its own socialorganizations, is at once giving utterance to its discontent and makingknown its demands. 

And with this dawning consciousness of race there is likewise coming anappreciation of the limitations and restrictions which hem in itsunfolding and development. One of the best indices to the possibilitiesof increased racial friction is the Negro's own recognition of theuniversality of the white man's racial antipathy toward him. This is theone clear note above the storm of protest against the things that are, that in his highest aspirations everywhere the white man's "prejudice"blocks the colored man's path. And the white man may with possibleprofit pause long enough to ask the deeper significance of the Negro'sfinding of himself. May it not be only part of a general awakening ofthe darker races of the earth? Captain H. A. Wilson, of the Englisharmy, says that through all Africa there has penetrated in some way avague confused report that far off somewhere, in the unknown, outsideworld, a great war has been fought between a white and a yellow race, and won by the yellow man. And even before the Japanese-Russianconflict, "Ethiopianism" and the cry of "Africa for the Africans" hadbegun to disturb the English in South Africa. It is said time and againthat the dissatisfaction and unrest in India are accentuated by theresults of this same war. There can be no doubt in the mind of any manwho carefully reads American Negro journals that their rejoicing overthe Japanese victory sounded a very different note from that of thewhite American. It was far from being a mere expression of sympathy witha people fighting for national existence against a power which had madeitself odious to the civilized world by its treatment of its subjects. It was, instead, a quite clear cry of exultation over the defeat of awhite race by a dark one. The white man is no wiser than the ostrich ifhe refuses to see the truth that in the possibilities of race frictionthe Negro's increasing consciousness of race is to play a part scarcelyless important than the white man's racial antipathies, prejudices, orwhatever we may elect to call them. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. The Psychology and Sociology of Conflict, Conscious Competition, andRivalry

Consciousness has been described as an effect of conflict--conflict ofmotor tendencies in the individual, conflict of sentiments, attitudes, and cultures in the group. The individual, activated in a givensituation by opposing tendencies, is compelled to redefine his attitude. Consciousness is an incident of this readjustment. 

Frequently adjustment involves a suppression of one tendency in theinterest of another, of one wish in favor of another. Where thesesuppressions are permanent, they frequently result in disorders ofconduct and disorganization of the personality. The suppressed wish, when suppression results in disturbances of the conscious life, has beencalled by psychoanalysts a _complex_. Freud and his colleagues haveisolated and described certain of these complexes. Most familiar ofthese are the Oedipus complex, which is explained as an effect of theunconscious conflict of father and son for the love of the mother; andthe Electra complex, which similarly has as its source the unconsciousstruggle of mother and daughter for the affection of the father. Adler, in his description of the "inferiority" complex, explains it as aneffect of the conflict growing out of the contrast between the ideal andthe actual status of the person. Other mental conflicts described by thepsychoanalysts are referred to the "adopted child" complex, theNarcissus complex, the sex shock, etc. These conflicts which disturb themental life of the person are all the reflections of social relationsand are to be explained in terms of status and the rôle of theindividual in the group. 

Emulation and rivalry represent conflict at higher social levels, wherecompetition has been translated into forms that inure to the survivaland success of the group. Research in this field, fragmentary as it is, confirms the current impression of the stimulation of effort in theperson through conscious competition with his fellows. Adler's theory of"psychic compensation" is based on the observation that handicappedindividuals frequently excel in the very fields in which they areapparently least qualified to compete. Demosthenes, for example, becamea great orator in spite of the fact that he stuttered. Ordahl presentsthe only comprehensive survey of the literature in this field. 

Simmel has made the outstanding contribution to the sociologicalconception of conflict. Just as the attitudes of the individual personrepresent an organization of antagonistic elements, society, as heinterprets it, is a unity of which the elements are conflictingtendencies. Society, he insists, would be quite other than it is, wereit not for the aversions, antagonisms, differences, as well as thesympathies, affections, and similarities between individuals and groupsof individuals. The unity of society includes these opposing forces, and, as a matter of fact, society is organized upon the basis ofconflict. 

Conflict is an organizing principle in society. Just as the individual, under the influences of contact and conflict with other individuals, acquires a status and develops a personality, so groups of individuals, in conflict with other groups, achieve unity, organization, groupconsciousness, and assume the forms characteristic of conflictgroups--that is to say, they become parties, sects, and nationalities, etc. 

2. Types of Conflict

Simmel, in his study of conflict, distinguished four types--namely, war, feud and faction, litigation, and discussion, i. E. , the impersonalstruggles of parties and causes. This classification, whilediscriminating, is certainly not complete. There are, for example, thevaried forms of sport, in which conflict assumes the form of rivalry. These are nevertheless organized on a conflict pattern. Particularlyinteresting in this connection are games of chance, gambling andgambling devices which appeal to human traits so fundamental that nopeople is without example of them in its folkways. 

Gambling is, according to Groos, "a fighting play, " and the universalhuman interest in this sport is due to the fact that "no other form ofplay displays in so many-sided a fashion the combativeness of humannature. "[218]

The history of the duel, either in the form of the judicial combat, thewager of battle of the Middle Ages, or as a form of private vengeance, offers interesting material for psychological or sociologicalinvestigation. The transition from private vengeance to publicprosecution, of which the passing of the duel is an example, has notbeen completed. In fact, new forms are in some cases gradually gainingsocial sanction. We still have our "unwritten laws" for certainoffenses. It is proverbially difficult to secure the conviction, incertain parts of the country, Chicago, for example, of a woman who killsher husband or her lover. The practice of lynching Negroes in thesouthern states, for offenses against women, and for any other form ofconduct that is construed as a challenge to the dominant race, is anillustration from a somewhat different field, not merely of thepersistence, but the gradual development of the so-called unwritten law. The circumstances under which these and all other unwritten laws arise, in which custom controls in contravention of the formal written code, have not been investigated from the point of view of sociology and intheir human-nature aspects. 

Several studies of games and gambling, in some respects the most uniqueobjectivations of human interest, have been made from the point of viewof the fundamental human traits involved, notably Thomas' article on_The Gaming Instinct_, Groos's chapter on "Fighting Play, " in his _Playof Man_, and G. T. W. Patrick's _Psychology of Relaxation_, in which thetheory of catharsis, familiar since Aristotle, is employed to explainplay, laughter, profanity, the drink habit, and war. 

Original materials exist in abundance for the study of feud, litigation, and war. No attempt seems to have been made to study feud and litigationcomparatively, as Westermarck has studied marriage institutions. Something has indeed been done in this direction with the subject ofwar, notably by Letourneau in France and by Frobenius in Germany. Sumner's notable essay on _War_ is likewise an important contribution tothe subject. The literature upon war, however, is so voluminous and soimportant that it will be discussed later, separately, and in greaterdetail. 

Quite as interesting and important as that of war is the natural historyof discussion, including under that term political and religiouscontroversy and social agitation, already referred to as impersonal orsecondary conflict. 

The history of discussion, however, is the history of freedom--freedom, at any rate, of thought and of speech. It is only when peace andfreedom have been established that discussion is practicable orpossible. A number of histories have been written in recent yearsdescribing the rise of rationalism, as it is called, and the rôle ofdiscussion and agitation in social life. Draper's _History of theIntellectual Development of Europe_ and Lecky's _History of the Rise andInfluence of the Spirit of Rationalism in Europe_ are among the earlierworks in this field. Robertson's _History of Free Thought_ is mainly asurvey of religious skepticism but contains important and suggestivereferences to the natural processes by which abstract thought has arisenout of the cultural contacts and conflicts among peoples, which conquestand commerce have brought into the same universe of discourse. What weseem to have in these works are materials for the study of the communalprocesses through which thought is formulated. Once formulated itbecomes a permanent factor in the life of the group. The rôle ofdiscussion in the communal process will be considered later inconnection with the newspaper, the press agent, propaganda, and thevarious factors and mechanisms determining the formation of publicopinion. 

3. The Literature of War

The emphasis upon the struggle for existence which followed thepublication of Darwin's _The Origin of Species_, in 1859, seemed to manythinkers to give a biological basis for the necessity and theinevitability of war. No distinction was made by writers of this schoolof thought between competition and conflict. Both were supposed to bebased on instinct. Nicolai's _The Biology of War_ is an essay with theavowed design of refuting the biological justification of war. 

Psychological studies of war have explained war either as an expressionof instinct or as a reversion to a primordial animal-human type ofbehavior. Patrick, who is representative of this latter school, interprets war as a form of relaxation. G. W. Crile has offered amechanistic interpretation of war and peace based on studies of thechemical changes which men undergo in warfare. Crile comes to theconclusion, however, that war is an action pattern, fixed in the socialheredity of the national group, and not a type of behavior determinedbiologically. 

The human nature of war and the motives which impel the person to thegreat adventure and the supreme risk of war have not been subjected tosociological study. A mass of material, however, consisting of personaldocuments of all types, letters, common-sense observation, and diariesis now available for such study. 

Much of the literature of war has been concentrated on this problem ofthe abolition of war. There are the idealists and the conscientiousobjectors who look to good will, humanitarian sentiment, and pacificismto end war by the transformation of attitudes of men and the policies ofnations. On the other hand, there are the hard-headed and practicalthinkers and statesmen who believe, with Hobbes, that war will not enduntil there is established a power strong enough to overawe arecalcitrant state. Finally, there is a third group of social thinkerswho emphasize the significance of the formation of a world publicopinion. This "international mind" they regard of far greatersignificance for the future of humanity than the problem of war orpeace, of national rivalries, or of future race conflicts. 

4. Race Conflict

A European school of sociologists emphasizes conflict as the fundamentalsocial process. Gumplowicz, in his book _Die Rassenkampf_, formulated atheory of social contacts and conflicts upon the conception of originalethnic groups in terms of whose interaction the history of humanitymight be written. Novicow and Ratzenhofer maintain similar, though notso extreme, theories of social origins and historical developments. 

With the tremendous extension of communication and growth of commerce, the world is today a great community in a sense that could not have beenunderstood a century ago. But the world, if it is now one community, isnot yet one society. Commerce has created an economic interdependence, but contact and communication have not resulted in either a political ora cultural solidarity. Indeed, the first evidences of the effects ofsocial contacts appear to be disruptive rather than unifying. In everypart of the world in which the white and colored races have come intointimate contact, race problems have presented the most intractable ofall social problems. 

Interest in this problem manifests itself in the enormous literature onthe subject. Most of all that has been written, however, is superficial. Much is merely sentimental, interesting for the attitudes it exhibits, but otherwise adding nothing to our knowledge of the facts. The bestaccount of the American situation is undoubtedly Ray Stannard Baker's_Following the Color Line_. The South African situation is interestinglyand objectively described by Maurice Evans in _Black and White in SouthEast Africa_. Steiner's book, _The Japanese Invasion_, is, perhaps, thebest account of the Japanese-American situation. 

The race problem merges into the problem of the nationalities and theso-called subject races. The struggles of the minor nationalities forself-determination is a phase of racial conflict; a phase, however, inwhich language rather than color is the basis of division and conflict. 

5. Conflict Groups

In chapter i conflict groups were divided into gangs, labororganizations, sects, parties, and nationalities. [219] Common to thesegroups is an organization and orientation with reference to conflictwith other groups of the same kind or with a more or less hostile socialenvironment, as in the case of religious sects. 

The spontaneous organizations of boys and youths called gangs attractedpublic attention in American communities because of the relation ofthese gangs to juvenile delinquency and adolescent crime. An interestingbut superficial literature upon the gang has developed in recent years, represented typically by J. Adams Puffer _The Boy and his Gang_. Thebrief but picturesque descriptions of individual gangs seem to indicatethat the play group tends to pass over into the gang when it comes intoconflict with other groups of like type or with the community. The fullydeveloped gang appears to possess a restricted membership, a naturalleader, a name--usually that of a leader or a locality--a body oftradition, custom and a ritual, a rendezvous, a territorial area whichit holds as a sort of possession and defends against invasion by othergroups. Attention was early called, as by Mr. Brewster Adams in anarticle _The Street Gang as a Factor in Politics_, to the facility withwhich the gang graduates into a local political organization, representing thus the sources of political power of the typical Americancity. 

Although the conflict of economic groups is not a new nor even a modernphenomenon, no such permanent conflict groups as those represented bycapital and labor existed until recent times. Veblen has made an acuteobservation upon this point. The American Federation of Labor, hestates, "is not organized for production but for bargaining. " It is, ineffect, an organization for the strategic defeat of employers and rivalorganizations, by recourse to enforced unemployment and obstruction; notfor the production of goods and services. [220]

Research in the labor problem by the Webbs in England and by Commons, Hoxie, and others in this country has been primarily concerned with thehistory and with the structure and functions of trade unions. At presentthere is a tendency to investigate the human-nature aspects of thecauses of the industrial conflict. The current phrases "instincts inindustry, " "the human factor in economics, " "the psychology of the labormovement, " "industry, emotion, and unrest" indicate the change inattitude. The essential struggle is seen to lie not in the conflict ofclasses, intense and ruthless as it is, but more and more in thefundamental struggle between a mechanical and impersonal system, on theone hand, and the person with his wishes unsatisfied and insatiable onthe other. All attempts to put the relations of capital and labor upon amoral basis have failed hitherto. The latest and most promisingexperiment in this direction is the so-called labor courts establishedby the Amalgamated Clothing Workers and their employees. 

The literature upon sects and parties has been written for the most partwith the purpose of justifying, to a critical and often hostile public, the sectarian and partisan aims and acts of their several organizations. In a few works such as Sighele's _Psychologie des sectes_ and Michels'_Political Parties_ an attempt has been made at objective descriptionand analysis of the mechanisms of the behavior of the sect and of theparty. 

The natural history of the state from the tribe to the modern nation hasbeen that of a political society based on conflict. Franz Oppenheimermaintains the thesis in his book _The State: Its History and DevelopmentViewed Sociologically_, that conquest has been the historical basis ofthe state. The state is, in other words, an organization of groups thathave been in conflict, i. E. , classes and castes; or of groups that arein conflict, i. E. , political parties. 

A nationality, as distinct from a nation, as for instance the Irishnationality, is a language and cultural group which has become groupconscious through its struggle for status in the larger imperial orinternational group. Nationalism is, in other words, a phenomenon ofinternationalism. 

The literature upon this subject is enormous. The most interestingrecent works on the general topic are Dominian's _The Frontiers ofLanguage and Nationality in Europe_, Pillsbury's _The Psychology ofNationality and Internationalism_, and Oakesmith's _Race andNationality_. 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. PSYCHOLOGY AND SOCIOLOGY OF CONFLICT

A. _Conflict and Social Process_

(1) Simmel, Georg. "The Sociology of Conflict. " Translated from theGerman by Albion W. Small. _American Journal of Sociology_, IX (1903-4), 490-525; 672-89; 798-811. 

(2) Gumplowicz, Ludwig. _Der Rassenkampf. _ Sociologische Untersuchungen. Innsbruck, 1883. 

(3) Novicow, J. _Les Luttes entre sociétés humaines et leurs phasessuccessives. _ Paris, 1893. 

(4) Ratzenhofer, Gustav. _Wesen und Zweck der Politik. _ Als Theil derSociologie und Grundlage der Staatswissenschaften. 3 vols. Leipzig, 1893. 

(5) ----. _Die sociologische Erkenntnis. _ Positive Philosophie desSocialen Lebens. Leipzig, 1898. 

(6) Sorel, Georges. _Reflections on Violence. _ New York, 1914. 

B. _Conflict and Mental Conflict_

(1) Healy, William. _Mental Conflicts and Misconduct. _ Boston, 1917. 

(2) Prince, Morton. _The Unconscious. _ The fundamentals of personality, normal and abnormal. Chap. Xv, "Instincts, Sentiments, and Conflicts, "pp. 446-87; chap, xvi, "General Phenomena Resulting from EmotionalConflicts, " pp. 488-528. New York, 1914. 

(3) Adler, Alfred. _The Neurotic Constitution. _ Outlines of acomparative individualistic psychology and psychotherapy. Translated byBernard Glueck and John E. Lind. New York, 1917. 

(4) Adler, Alfred. _A Study of Organ Inferiority and Its PsychicalCompensation. _ A contribution to clinical medicine. Translated by S. E. Jelliffe. "Nervous and Mental Disease Monograph Series, " No. 24. NewYork, 1917. 

(5) Lay, Wilfrid. _Man's Unconscious Conflict. _ A popular exposition ofpsychoanalysis. New York, 1917. 

(6) Blanchard, Phyllis. _The Adolescent Girl. _ A study from thepsychoanalytic viewpoint. Chap. Iii, "The Adolescent Conflict, " pp. 87-115. New York, 1920. 

(7) Weeks, Arland D. _Social Antagonisms. _ Chicago, 1918. 

C. _Rivalry_

(1) Baldwin, J. Mark, editor. _Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology. _Article on "Rivalry. " Vol. II, pp. 476-78. 

(2) Vincent, George E. "The Rivalry of Social Groups, " _American Journalof Sociology_, XVI (1910-11), 469-84. 

(3) Ordahl, George. "Rivalry: Its Genetic Development and Pedagogy, "_The Pedagogical Seminary_, XV (1908), 492-549. [Bibliography. ]

(4) Ely, Richard T. _Studies in the Evolution of Industrial Society. _Chap. Ii, "Rivalry and Success in Economic Life, " pp. 152-63. New York, 1903. 

(5) Cooley, Charles H. _Personal Competition: Its Place in the SocialOrder and Effect upon Individuals; with Some Considerations on Success. _"Economic Studies, " Vol. IV, No. 2. New York, 1899. 

(6) Triplett, Norman. "The Dynamogenic Factors in Pacemaking andCompetition, " _American Journal of Psychology_, IX (1897-98), 507-33. 

(7) Baldwin, J. Mark. "La Concurrence sociale et l'individualisme, "_Revue Internationale de sociologie_, XVIII (1910), 641-57. 

(8) Groos, Karl. _The Play of Man. _ Translated with author'sco-operation by Elizabeth L. Baldwin with a preface by J. Mark Baldwin. New York, 1901. 

D. _Discussion_

(1) Bagehot, Walter. _Physics and Politics. _ Or thoughts on theapplication of the principles of "Natural Selection" and "Inheritance"to political society. Chap. V, "The Age of Discussion, " pp. 156-204. NewYork, 1875. 

(2) Robertson, John M. _A Short History of Free Thought, Ancient andModern. _ 2 vols. New York, 1906. 

(3) Windelband, Wilhelm. _Geschichte der alten Philosophie. _ "DieSophistik und Sokrates, " pp. 63-92. München, 1894. 

(4) Mackay, R. W. _The Progress of the Intellect as Exemplified in theReligious Development of the Greeks and Hebrews. _ 2 vols. London, 1850. 

(5) Stephen, Sir Leslie. _History of English Thought in the EighteenthCentury. _ 2d ed. , 2 vols. London, 1881. 

(6) Damiron, J. Ph. _Mémoires pour servir à l'histoire de la philosophieau 18ième siècle. _ 3 vols. Paris, 1858-64. 

(7) Draper, J. W. _History of the Intellectual Development of Europe. _Rev. Ed. , 2 vols. New York, 1904. 

(8) ----. _History of the Conflict between Religion and Science. _ NewYork, 1873. 

(9) Lecky, W. E. H. _History of the Rise and Influence of the Spirit ofRationalism in Europe. _ Rev. Ed. , 2 vols. New York, 1903. 

(10) White, Andrew D. _History of the Warfare of Science with Theology. _An expansion of an earlier essay, "The Warfare of Science, " 2d. Ed. , 1877. 2 vols. New York, 1896. 

(11) Haynes, E. S. P. _Religious Persecution. _ A study in politicalpsychology. London, 1904. 

II. TYPES OF CONFLICT

A. _War_

1. Psychology and Sociology of War:

(1) Darwin, Charles. _The Descent of Man. _ Chaps. Xvii and xviii. "Secondary Sexual Characters of Mammals, " pp. 511-67. (Gives account ofthe fighting instinct in males and the methods of fighting of animals. )2d rev. Ed. New York, 1907. 

(2) Johnson, George E. "The Fighting Instinct: Its Place in Life, "_Survey_, XXXV (1915-16), 243-48. 

(3) Thorndike, Edward L. _The Original Nature of Man. _ "Fighting, " pp. 68-75. New York, 1913. 

(4) Hall, G. Stanley. "A Study of Anger, " _American Journal ofPsychology_, X (1898-99), 516-91. 

(5) Patrick, G. T. W. _The Psychology of Social Reconstruction. _ Boston, 1920. 

(6) ----. _The Psychology of Relaxation. _ Chap. Vi, "The Psychology ofWar, " pp. 219-52. Boston, 1916. 

(7) Pillsbury, W. B. _The Psychology of Nationalism andInternationalism. _ New York, 1919. 

(8) Trotter, W. _Instincts of the Herd in Peace and War. _ London, 1916. 

(9) La Grasserie, R. De. "De l'intolerance comme phénomène social, "_Revue International de Sociologie_, XVIII (1910), 76-113. 

(10) Percin, Alexandra. _Le Combat. _ Paris, 1914. 

(11) Huot, Louis, and Voivenel, Paul. _Le Courage. _ Paris, 1917. 

(12) Porter, W. T. _Shock at the Front. _ Boston, 1918. 

(13) Lord, Herbert Gardiner. _The Psychology of Courage. _ Boston, 1918. 

(14) Hall, G. Stanley. _Morale, the Supreme Standard of Life andConduct. _ New York, 1920. 

(15) Roussy, G. , and Lhermitte, J. _The Psychoneuroses of War. _Translated by W. B. Christopherson. London, 1918. 

(16) Babinski, J. F. , and Froment, J. _Hysteria or Pithiatism, andReflex Nervous Disorders in the Neurology of the War. _ Translated by J. D. Rolleston, with a preface by E. Farquhar Buzzard. London, 1918. 

2. The Natural History of War:

(1) Sumner, William G. _War and Other Essays. _ Edited with anintroduction by Albert Galloway Keller. New Haven, 1911. 

(2) Letourneau, Ch. _La Guerre dans les diverses races humaines. _ Paris, 1895. 

(3) Frobenius, Leo. _Weltgeschichte des Krieges. _ Unter Mitwirkung vonOberstleutnant a. D. H. Frobenius u. Korvetten-Kapitän a. D. E. Kohlhauer. Hannover, 1903. 

(4) Bakeless, John. _The Economic Causes of Modern Wars. _ A study of theperiod 1878-1918. New York, 1921. 

(5) Crosby, Oscar T. _International War, Its Causes and Its Cure. _London, 1919. 

(6) Sombart, Werner. _Krieg und Kapitalismus. _ Studien zurEntwicklungsgeschichte des modernen Kapitalismus. Vol. II, München, 1913. 

(7) Lagorgette, Jean. _Le Rôle de la guerre. _ Étude de sociologiegénérale. Préface de M. Anatole Leroy-Beaulieu. Paris, 1906. 

(8) Steinmetz, S. R. _Der Krieg als sociologisches Problem. _ Pp. 21 ff. Amsterdam, 1899. 

(9) ----. _Die Philosophie des Krieges. _ "Natur- undkultur-philosophische Bibliothek, " Band VI. Leipzig, 1907. 

(10) Constantin, A. _Le rôle sociologique de la guerre et le sentimentnational. _ Suivi de la guerre comme moyen de sélection collective, parS. R. Steinmetz. "Bibliothèque scientifique internationale, " Tome CVIII. Paris. 1907. 

(11) Keller, Albert G. _Through War to Peace. _ New York, 1918. 

(12) Worms, René, editor. "Les luttes sociales. " Études et paroles de E. Levasseur, Lord Avebury, René Worms, J. Novicow, Lester F. Ward, A. P. Xénopol, Louis Gumplowicz, Ferdinand Tönnies, Raoul de la Grasserie, Simon Halpércine, Ludwig Stein, Émile Worms, Charles M. Limousin, Frederick Harrison, C. L. Loch, G. Arcoleo, R. Garofalo, J. K. Kochanowski, Léon Phillipe, Alfredo Niceforo, N. A. Abrikossof, AdolpheLandry. _Annales de l'institut international de sociologie. _ Tome XI. Paris, 1907. 

(13) Fielding-Hall, H. _Nature of War and Its Causes. _ London, 1917. 

(14) Oliver, Frederick S. _Ordeal by Battle. _ London, 1915. 

3. War and Human Nature:

(1) Petit-Dutaillis, C. E. "L'Appel de guerre en Dauphiné Ier 2 août1914, " _Annales de l'Université de Grenoble_, XXVII (1915), 1-59. [Documents consisting of letters written by instructors and othersdescribing the sentiments with which the declaration of war wasreceived. ]

(2) Wood, Walter, editor. _Soldiers' Stories of the War. _ London, 1915. 

(3) Buswell, Leslie. _Ambulance No. 10: Personal Letters from theFront. _ Boston, 1916. 

(4) Kilpatrick, James A. _Tommy Atkins at War as Told in His OwnLetters. _ New York, 1914. 

(5) Fadl, Said Memun Abul. "Die Frauen des Islams und der Weltkrieg, "_Nord und Süd_, CLV (Nov. 1915), 171-74. [Contains a letter from aTurkish mother to her son at the front. ]

(6) Maublanc, René. "La guerre vue par des enfants (septembre, 1914). "(Recits par des enfants de campagne. ) _Revue de Paris_, XXII(septembre-octobre, 1915), 396-418. 

(7) Daudet, Ernest, editor. "L'âme française et l'âme allemande. "Lettres de soldats. _Documents pour l'histoire de la guerre. _ Paris, 1915. 

(8) "Heimatsbriefe an russische Soldaten. " (Neue philologischeRundschau; hrsg. Von dr. C. Wagener und dr. E. Ludwig in Bremen, jahrg. 1886-1908. ) _Die neue Rundschau_, II (1915), 1673-83. 

(9) "The Attack at Loos, " by a French Lieutenant. "Under Shell-Fire atDunkirk, " by an American Nurse. "The Winter's War, " by a BritishCaptain. "The Bitter Experience of Lorraine, " by the Prefect ofMeurthe-et-Moselle. _Atlantic Monthly_, CXVI (1915), 688-711. 

(10) Böhme, Margarete. _Kriegsbriefe der Familie Wimmel. _ (Personalexperiences in the Great War). Dresden, 1915. 

(11) Chevillon, André. "Lettres d'un soldat, " _Revue de Paris_, XXII(juillet-août, 1915), 471-95. 

(12) Boutroux, Pierre. "Les soldats allemands en campagne, d'après leurcorrespondance, " _Revue de Paris_, XXII (septembre-octobre, 1915), 323-43; 470-91

(13) West, Arthur Graeme. _The Diary of a Dead Officer. _ Posthumouspapers. London, 1918. 

(14) Mayer, Émile. "Emotions des chefs en campagne, " _Bibliothèqueuniverselle et Revue Suisse_, LXIX (1913), 98-131. 

(15) Wehrhan, K. "Volksdichtung über unsere gefallenen Helden, " _DieGrenzboten_, LXXIV (No. 28, July 14, 1915), 58-64. [Calls attention togrowth of a usage (anfangs, wagte sich der Brauch nur schüchtern, hierund da, hervor) of printing verses, some original, some quoted, in thedeath notices. ]

(16) Naumann, Friedrich. "Der Kriegsglaube, " _Die Hilfe_, XXI (No. 36, Sept. 9, 1915), 576. [Sketches the forces that have created a war creed, in which all confessions participate, immediately and withoutformalities. ]

(17) Roepke, Dr. Fritz. "Der Religiöse Geist in deutschenSoldatenbriefen, " _Die Grenzboten_, LXXIV (No. 30, July 28, 1915), 124-28. [An interesting analysis of letters which are not reproduced infull. ]

(18) Wendland, Walter, "Krieg und Religion, " _Die Grenzboten_, LXXIV(No. 33, Sept. 11, 1915), 212-19. [Reviews the literature of war andreligion. ]

(19) Bang, J. P. _Hurrah and Hallelujah. _ The teaching of Germany'spoets, prophets, professors, and preachers; a documentation. From theDanish by Jessie Bröchner. London and New York, 1917. 

B. _Race Conflict_

1. Race Relations in General:

(1) Bryce, James. _The Relations of the Advanced and the Backward Racesof Mankind. _ Oxford, 1903. 

(2) Simpson, Bertram L. _The Conflict of Colour. _ The threatenedupheaval throughout the world, by Weale, B. L. P. [_pseud. _]. London, 1910. 

(3) Steiner, Jesse F. _The Japanese Invasion. _ A study in the psychologyof inter-racial contacts. Chicago, 1917. 

(4) Stoddard, T. Lothrop. _The Rising Tide of Color against WhiteWorld-Supremacy. _ New York, 1920. 

(5) Blyden, Edward W. _Christianity, Islam, and the Negro Race. _ London, 1888. 

(6) Spiller, G. , editor. _Papers on Inter-racial Problems. _ Communicatedto the First Universal Races Congress, London, 1911, pp. 463-77. Boston, 1911. [Bibliography on Race Problems. ]

(7) Baker, Ray Stannard. _Following the Color Line. _ An account of Negrocitizenship in the American democracy. New York, 1908. 

(8) Miller, Kelly. _Race Adjustment. _ Essays on the Negro in America. New York, 1908. 

(9) Stephenson, Gilbert T. _Race Distinctions in American Law. _ NewYork, 1910. 

(10) Mecklin, John M. _Democracy and Race Friction. _ A study in socialethics. New York, 1914. 

(11) Evans, Maurice. _Black and White in South East Africa. _ London, 1911. 

(12) ----. _Black and White in the Southern States. _ A study of the raceproblem in the United States from a South African point of view. London, 1915. 

(13) Brailsford, H. N. _Macedonia: Its Races and Their Future. _ London, 1906. 

(14) Means, Philip A. _Racial Factors in Democracy. _ Boston, 1918. 

2. Race Prejudice:

(1) Crawley, Ernest. _The Mystic Rose. _ A study of primitive marriage. Pp. 33-58; 76-235. London, 1902. [Taboo as a mechanism for regulatingcontacts. ]

(2) Thomas, W. I. "The Psychology of Race-Prejudice, " _American Journalof Sociology_, IX (1903-4), 593-611. 

(3) Finot, Jean. _Race Prejudice. _ Translated from the French byFlorence Wade-Evans. London, 1906. 

(4) Pillsbury, W. B. _The Psychology of Nationality andInternationalism. _ Chap. Iii, "Hate as a Social Force, " pp. 63-89. NewYork, 1919. 

(5) Shaler, N. S. "Race Prejudices, " _Atlantic Monthly_, LVIII (1886), 510-18. 

(6) Stone, Alfred H. _Studies in the American Race Problem. _ Chap. Vi, "Race Friction, " pp. 211-41. New York, 1908. 

(7) Mecklin, John M. _Democracy and Race Friction. _ A study in socialethics. Chap v, "Race-Prejudice, " pp. 123-56. New York, 1914. 

(8) Bailey, T. P. _Race Orthodoxy in the South. _ And other aspects ofthe negro question. New York, 1914. 

(9) Parton, James. "Antipathy to the Negro, " _North American Review_, CXXVII (1878), 476-91. 

(10) Duncan, Sara Jeannette. "Eurasia, " _Popular Science Monthly_, XLII(1892), 1-9. 

(11) Morse, Josiah. "The Psychology of Prejudice, " _InternationalJournal of Ethics_, XVII (1906-7), 490-506. 

(12) McDougall, William. _An Introduction to Social Psychology. _ Chap. Xi, "The Instinct of Pugnacity, " pp. 279-95; "The Instinct of Pugnacityand the Emotion of Anger, " pp. 49-61. 4th rev. Ed. Boston, 1912. 

(13) Royce, Josiah. _Race Questions, Provincialism, and Other AmericanProblems. _ Chap. I, "Race Questions and Prejudices, " pp. 1-53. New York, 1908. 

(14) Thomas, William I. "Race Psychology: Standpoint and Questionnaire, with Particular Reference to the Immigrant and the Negro, " _AmericanJournal of Sociology_, XVII (1912-13), 725-75. 

(15) Bryce, James. _Race Sentiment as a Factor in History. _ A lecturedelivered before the University of London, February 22, 1915. London, 1915. 

3. Strikes:

(1) Schwittau, G. _Die Formen des wirtschaftlichen Kampfes, Streik, Boykott, Aussperung, usw. _ Eine volkswirtschaftliche Untersuchung aufdem Gebiete der gegenwärtigen Arbeitspolitik. Berlin, 1912. [Bibliography. ]

(2) Hall, Frederick S. _Sympathetic Strikes and Sympathetic Lockouts. _"Columbia University Studies in Political Science. " Vol. X. New York, 1898. [Bibliography. ]

(3) Bing, Alexander M. _War-time Strikes and Their Adjustment. _ With anintroduction by Felix Adler. New York, 1921. 

(4) Egerton, Charles E. , and Durand, E. Dana. _U. S. IndustrialCommission Reports of the Industrial Commission on Labor Organizations. _"Labor Disputes and Arbitration. " Washington, 1901. 

(5) Janes, George M. _The Control of Strikes in American Trade Unions. _Baltimore, 1916. 

(6) United States Strike Commission, 1895. _Report on the Chicago Strikeof June-July, 1894, by the United States Strike Commission. _ Washington, 1895. 

(7) Warne, Frank J. "The Anthracite Coal Strike, " _Annals of theAmerican Academy_, XVII (1901), 15-52. 

(8) Anthracite Coal Strike Commission, 1902-3. _Report to the Presidenton the Anthracite Coal Strike of May-October, 1902, by the AnthraciteCoal Strike Commission. _ Washington, 1903. 

(9) Hanford, Benjamin. _The Labor War in Colorado. _ New York, 1904. 

(10) Rastall, B. M. _The Labor History of the Cripple Creek District. _ Astudy in industrial evolution. Madison, Wis. , 1908. 

(11) United States Bureau of Labor. _Report on Strike at Bethlehem SteelWorks, South Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. _ Prepared under the direction ofCharles P. Neill, commissioner of labor. Washington, 1910. 

(12) Wright, Arnold. _Disturbed Dublin. _ The story of the great strikeof 1913-14, with a description of the industries of the Irish Capital. London, 1914. 

(13) Seattle General Strike Committee. _The Seattle General Strike. _ Anaccount of what happened in the Seattle labor movement, during thegeneral strike, February 6-11, 1919. Seattle, 1919. 

(14) Interchurch World Movement. _Report on the Steel Strike of 1919. _New York, 1920. 

(15) U. S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. _Report in Regard to the Strike ofMine Workers in the Michigan Copper District. _ Bulletin No. 139. February 7, 1914. 

(16) ----. _Strikes and Lockouts, 1881-1905. _ Twenty-first annualreport, 1906. 

(17) Foster, William Z. _The Great Steel Strike and Its Lessons. _ NewYork, 1920. 

(18) Wolman, Leo. "The Boycott in American Trade Unions, " _Johns HopkinsUniversity Studies in Historical and Political Science_, Vol. XXXIV. Baltimore, 1916. 

(19) Laidler, Harry W. _Boycotts and the Labor Struggle. _ Economic andlegal aspects. With an introduction by Henry R. Seager. New York andLondon, 1914. 

(20) Hunter, Robert. _Violence and the Labour Movement. _ New York, 1914. [Bibliography. ]

4. Lynch Law and Lynching:

(1) Walling, W. E. "The Race War in the North, " _Independent_, LXV(July-Sept. 1908), 529-34. 

(2) "The So-Called Race Riot at Springfield, " by an Eye Witness. _Charities_, XX (1908), 709-11. 

(3) Seligmann, H. J. "Race War?" _New Republic_, XX (1919), 48-50. [TheWashington race riot. ]

(4) Leonard, O. "The East St. Louis Pogrom, " _Survey_, XXXVIII (1917), 331-33. 

(5) Sandburg, Carl. _The Chicago Race Riots, July, 1919. _ New York, 1919. 

(6) Chicago Commission on Race Relations. _Report on the Chicago RaceRiot. _ [In Press. ]

(7) Cutler, James E. _Lynch-Law. _ An investigation into the history oflynching in the United States. New York, 1905. 

(8) National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. _ThirtyYears of Lynching in the United States, 1889-1918. _ New York, 1919. 

(9) ----. _Burning at Stake in the United States. _ A record of thepublic burning by mobs of six men, during the first six months of 1919, in the states of Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Mississippi, and Texas. NewYork, 1919. 

C. _Feuds_

(1) Miklosich, Franz. _Die Blutrache bei den Slaven. _ Wien, 1887. 

(2) Johnston, C. "The Land of the Blood Feud, " _Harper's Weekly_, LVII(Jan. 11, 1913), 42. 

(3) Davis, H. , and Smyth, C. "The Land of Feuds, " _Munseys'_, XXX(1903-4), 161-72. 

(4) "Avenging Her Father's Death, " _Literary Digest_, XLV (November 9, 1912), 864-70. 

(5) Campbell, John C. _The Southern Highlander and His Homeland. _ Pp. 110-13. New York, 1921. 

(6) Wermert, Georg. _Die Insel Sicilien, in volkswirtschaftlicher, kultureller, und sozialer Beziehung. _ Chap. Xxvii, "Volkscharacter undMafia. " Berlin, 1901. 

(7) Heijningen, Hendrik M. K. Van. _Het Straf- en Wraakrecht in denIndischen Archipel. _ Leiden, 1916. 

(8) Steinmetz, S. R. _Ethnologische Studien zur ersten Entwicklung derStrafe, nebst einer psychologischen Abhandlung über Grausamkeit undRachsucht. _ 2 vols. Leiden, 1894. 

(9) Wesnitsch, Milenko R. _Die Blutrache bei den Südslaven. _ Ein Beitragzur Geschichte des Strafrechts. Stuttgart, 1889. 

(10) Bourde, Paul. _En Corse. _ L'esprit de clan--les moeurspolitiques--les vendettas--le banditisme. Correspondances adressées au"Temps. " Cinquième édition. Paris, 1906. 

(11) Dorsey, J. Owen. "Omaha Sociology, " chap. Xii, "The Law, " sec. 310, "Murder, " p. 369. In _Third Annual Report of the U. S. Bureau of AmericanEthnology, 1881-82. _ Washington, 1884. 

(12) Woods, A. "The Problem of the Black Hand, " _McClure's_, XXXIII(1909), 40-47. 

(13) Park, Robert E. , and Miller, Herbert A. _Old World TraitsTransplanted. _ New York, 1921. [See pp. 241-58 for details of rise anddecline of Black Hand in New York. ]

(14) White, F. M. "The Passing of the Black Hand, " _Century_, XCV, N. S. 73 (1917-18), 331-37. 

(15) Cutrera, A. _La Mafia e i mafiosi. _ Origini e manifestazioni. Studio di sociologia criminale, con una carta a colori su la densitàdella Mafia in Sicilia. Palermo, 1900. 

D. _The Duel and the Ordeal of Battle_

(1) Millingen, J. G. _The History of Duelling. _ Including narratives ofthe most remarkable personal encounters that have taken place from theearliest period to the present time. 2 vols. London, 1841. 

(2) Steinmetz, Andrew. _The Romance of Duelling in All Times andCountries. _ London, 1868. 

(3) Sabine, Lorenzo. _Notes on Duels and Duelling. _ Boston, 1855. 

(4) Patetta, F. _Le Ordalie. _ Studio di storia del diritto e scienza deldiritto comparato. Turino, 1890. 

(5) Lea, Henry C. _Superstition and Force. _ Essays on the wager of law, the wager of battle, the ordeal, torture. 4th ed. , rev. , Philadelphia, 1892. 

(6) Neilson, George. _Trial by Combat. _ In Great Britain. Glasgow andLondon, 1890. 

E. _Games and Gambling_

(1) Culin, Stewart. "Street Games of Boys in Brooklyn, N. Y. , " _TheJournal of American Folk-Lore_, IV (1891), 221-37. 

(2) ----. _Korean Games. _ With notes on the corresponding games of Chinaand Japan. Philadelphia, 1895. 

(3) ----. "Games of the North American Indians, " _Twenty-fourth AnnualReport of the Bureau of American Ethnology, 1902-3. _ Washington, 1907. 

(4) Steinmetz, Andrew. _The Gaming Table: Its Votaries and Victims, inall Times and Countries, Especially in England and in France. _ London, 1870. 

(5) Thomas, W. I. "The Gaming Instinct, " _American Journal ofSociology_, VI (1900-1901), 750-63. 

(6) O'Brien, Frederick. _White Shadows in the South Seas. _ Chap. Xxii, pp. 240-48. [Memorable Game for Matches in the Cocoanut Grove of LanoKaioo]. 

III. CONFLICT GROUPS

A. _Gangs_

(1) Johnson, John H. _Rudimentary Society Among Boys. _ "Johns HopkinsUniversity Studies in Historical and Political Science, " 2d series, XI, 491-546. Baltimore, 1884. 

(2) Puffer, J. Adams. _The Boy and His Gang. _ Boston, 1912. 

(3) Sheldon, H. D. , "Institutional Activities of American Children, "_American Journal of Psychology_, IX (1899), 425-48. 

(4) Thurston, Henry W. _Delinquency and Spare Time. _ A study of a fewstories written into the court records of the City of Cleveland. Cleveland, Ohio. , 1918. 

(5) Woods, Robert A. , editor. _The City Wilderness. _ A settlement studyby residents and associates of the South End House. Chap. Vi, "The Rootsof Political Power, " pp. 114-47. Boston, 1898. 

(6) Hoyt, F. C. "The Gang in Embryo, " _Scribner's_, LXVIII (1920), 146-54. [Presiding justice of the Children's Court of the city of NewYork. ]

(7) _Boyhood and Lawlessness. _ Chap. Iv, "His Gangs, " pp. 39-54. RussellSage Foundation, New York, 1914. 

(8) Culin, Stewart. "Street Games of Boys in Brooklyn, N. Y. , " _TheJournal of American Folklore_, IV (1891), 221-37. [For observations ongangs see p. 235. ]

(9) Adams, Brewster. "The Street Gang as a Factor in Politics, "_Outlook_ LXXIV (1903), 985-88. 

(10) Lane, W. D. "The Four Gunmen, " _The Survey_, XXXII (1914), 13-16. 

(11) Rhodes, J. F. "The Molly Maguires in the Anthracite Region ofPennsylvania, " _American Historical Review_, XV (1909-10) 547-61. 

(12) Train, Arthur. "Imported Crime: The Story of the Camorra inAmerica, " _McClure's_, XXXIX (1912), 82-94. 

B. _Sects_

(1) Nordhoff, Charles. _The Communistic Societies of the United Statesfrom Personal Visit and Observation. _ Including chapters on "The AmanaSociety, " "The Separatists of Zoar, " "The Shakers, " "The Oneida andWallingford Perfectionists, " "The Aurora and Bethel Communes. " New York, 1875. 

(2) Gillin, John L. _The Dunkers: A Sociological Interpretation. _ NewYork, 1906. [Columbia University dissertation, V, 2. ]

(3) Milmine, Georgine. _The Life of Mary Baker G. Eddy and the Historyof Christian Science. _ New York, 1909. 

(4) Gehring, Johannes. _Die Sekten der russischen Kirche, 1003-1897. _Nach ihrem Ursprunge und inneren Zusammenhange dargestellt. Leipzig, 1898. 

(5) Grass, K. K. _Die russischen Sekten. _ I, "Die Gottesleute oderChlüsten"; II, "Die weissen Tauben oder Skopzen. " Leipzig, 1907-9. 

(6) Lea, Henry Charles. _The Moriscos of Spain. _ Their conversion andexpulsion. Philadelphia, 1901. 

(7) Friesen, P. M. _Geschichte der alt-evangelischen mennonitenBrüderschaft in Russland (1789-1910) im Rahmen der mennonitischenGesamtgeschichte. _ Halbstadt, 1911. 

(8) Kalb, Ernst. _Kirchen und Sekten der Gegenwart. _ Unter Mitarbeitverschiedener evangelischer Theologen. Stuttgart, 1905. 

(9) Mathiez, Albert. _Les origines des cultes révolutionnaires. _(1789-92). Paris, 1904. 

(10) Rossi, Pasquale. _Mistici e Settarii. _ Studio di psicopatologiacollettiva. Milan, 1900. 

(11) Rohde, Erwin. _Psyche: Seelencult und Unsterblichkeitsglaube derGriechen. _ Freiburg, 1890. 

C. _Economic Conflict Groups_

(1) Webb, Sidney and Beatrice. _Industrial Democracy. _ London, 1897. 

(2) ----. _The History of Trade Unionism. _ (Revised edition extended to1920. ) New York and London, 1920. 

(3) Commons, John R. , editor. _Trade Unionism and Labor Problems_, Boston, 1905. 

(4) ----. _History of Labor in the United States. _ 2 vols. New York, 1918. 

(5) Groat, George G. _An Introduction to the Study of Organized Labor inAmerica. _ New York, 1916. 

(6) Hoxie, Robert F. _Trade Unionism in the United States. _ New York, 1917. 

(7) Marot, Helen. _American Labor Unions. _ By a member. New York, 1914. 

(8) Carlton, Frank T. _Organized Labor in American History. _ New York, 1920. 

(9) Levine, Louis. _Syndicalism in France. _ 2d rev. Ed. Of _The LaborMovement in France. _ New York and London, 1914. 

(10) Brissenden, Paul Frederick. _The I. W. W. , A Study of AmericanSyndicalism. _ New York, 1919. [Bibliography. ]

(11) Brooks, John Graham. _American Syndicalism; the I. W. W. _ New York, 1913. 

(12) ----. _Labor's Challenge to the Social Order. _ Democracy its owncritic and educator. New York, 1920. 

(13) Baker, Ray Stannard. _The New Industrial Unrest. _ Reasons andremedies. New York, 1920. 

(14) Commons, John R. _Industrial Democracy. _ New York, 1921. 

(15) Brentano, Lujo. _On the History and Development of Gilds and theOrigin of Trade Unions. _ London, 1870. 

D. _Parties_

(1) Bluntschli, Johann K. _Charakter und Geist der politischenParteien. _ Nördlingen, 1869. 

(2) Ostrogorskïi, Moisei. _Democracy and the Organization of PoliticalParties. _ Translated from the French by F. Clarke with a preface byRight Hon. James Bryce. New York and London, 1902. 

(3) Lowell, A. Lawrence. _Governments and Parties in ContinentalEurope. _ 2 vols. Boston, 1896. 

(4) Merriam, C. E. _The American Party System. _ In press. 

(5) Haynes, Frederick E. _Third Party Movements since the Civil War, with Special Reference to Iowa. _ A study in social politics. Iowa City, 1916. 

(6) Ray, P. O. _An Introduction to Political Parties and PracticalPolitics. _ New York, 1913. 

(7) Bryce, James. _The American Commonwealth. _ 2 vols. New rev. Ed. NewYork, 1911. 

(8) Hadley, Arthur T. _Undercurrents in American Politics. _ Being theFord Lectures, delivered at Oxford University, and the Barbour-PageLectures, delivered at the University of Virginia in the spring of 1914. New Haven, 1915. 

(9) Lowell, A. Lawrence. _Annual Report of the American HistoricalAssociation, 1901. _ 2 vols. "The Influence of Party upon Legislation inEngland and America" (with four diagrams), I, 319-542. Washington, 1902. 

(10) Beard, Charles A. _Economic Origins of Jeffersonian Democracy. _ NewYork, 1915. 

(11) Morgan, W. T. _English Political Parties and Leaders in the Reignof Queen Anne, 1702-1710. _ New Haven, 1920. 

(12) Michels, Robert. _Political Parties. _ A sociological study of theoligarchical tendencies of modern democracy. Translated by Eden andCedar Paul. New York, 1915. 

(13) Haines, Lynn. _Your Congress. _ An interpretation of the politicaland parliamentary influences that dominate law-making in America. Washington, D. C. , 1915. 

(14) Hichborn, Franklin. _Story of the Session of the CaliforniaLegislature. _ San Francisco, 1909, 1911, 1913, 1915. 

(15) Myers, Gustavus. _The History of Tammany Hall. _ 2d ed. Rev. Andenl. New York, 1917. 

(16) Roosevelt, Theodore. _An Autobiography. _ New York, 1913. 

(17) Platt, Thomas C. _Autobiography. _ Compiled and edited by Louis J. Lang. New York, 1910. 

(18) Older, Fremont. _My Own Story. _ San Francisco, 1919. 

(19) Orth, Samuel P. _The Boss and the Machine. _ A chronicle of thepoliticians and party organization. New Haven, 1919. 

(20) Riordon, William L. _Plunkitt of Tammany Hall. _ A series of veryplain talks on very practical politics, delivered by ex-Senator GeorgeWashington Plunkitt, the Tammany philosopher, from his rostrum--the NewYork County Court House boot-black stand. New York, 1905. 

E. _Nationalities_

(1) Oakesmith, John. _Race and Nationality. _ An inquiry into the originand growth of patriotism. New York, 1919. 

(2) Lillehei, Ingebrigt. "Landsmaal and the Language Movement inNorway, " _Journal of English and Germanic Philology_, XIII (1914), 60-87. 

(3) Morris, Lloyd R. _The Celtic Dawn. _ A survey of the renascence inIreland, 1889-1916. New York, 1917. 

(4) Keith, Arthur. _Nationality and Race from an Anthropologist's Pointof View. _ London, 1919. 

(5) Barnes, Harry E. "Nationality and Historiography" in the article"History, Its Rise and Development, " _Encyclopedia Americana_, XIV, 234-43. 

(6) Fisher, H. A. "French Nationalism, " _Hibbert Journal_, XV (1916-17), 217-29. 

(7) Ellis, H. "The Psychology of the English, " _Edinburgh Review_, CCXXIII (April, 1916), 223-43. 

(8) Bevan, Edwyn R. _Indian Nationalism. _ An independent estimate. London, 1913. 

(9) Le Bon, Gustave. _The Psychology of Peoples. _ London, 1898. 

(10) Francke, K. "The Study of National Culture, " _Atlantic Monthly_, XCIX (1907), 409-16. 

(11) Auerbach, Bertrand. _Les races et nationalités enAutriche-Hongrie. _ Deuxième édition revisée. Paris, 1917. 

(12) Butler, Ralph. _The New Eastern Europe. _ London, 1919. 

(13) Kerlin, Robert T. _The Voice of the Negro 1919. _ New York, 1920. [Acompilation from the colored press of America for the four monthsimmediately succeeding the Washington riots. ]

(14) Boas, F. "Nationalism, " _Dial_, LXVI (March 8, 1919), 232-37. 

(15) Buck, Carl D. "Language and the Sentiment of Nationality, " _TheAmerican Political Science Review_, X (1916), 44-69. 

(16) McLaren, A. D. "National Hate, " _Hibbert Journal_, XV (1916-17), 407-18. 

(17) Miller, Herbert A. "The Rising National Individualism, "_Publications of the American Sociological Society_, VIII (1913), 49-65. 

(18) Zimmern, Alfred E. _Nationality and Government. _ With other wartimeessays. London and New York, 1918. 

(19) Small, Albion W. "Bonds of Nationality, " _American Journal ofSociology_, XX (1915-16), 629-83. 

(20) Faber, Geoffrey. "The War and Personality in Nations, " _FortnightlyReview_, CIII (1915), 538-46. Also in _Living Age_, CCLXXXV (1915), 265-72. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. The History of Conflict as a Sociological Concept

2. Types of Conflict: War, the Duello, Litigation, Gambling, the Feud, Discussion, etc. 

3. Conflict Groups: Gangs, Labor Organizations, Sects, Parties, Nationalities, etc. 

4. Mental Conflicts and the Development of Personality

5. Sex Differences in Conflict

6. Subtler Forms of Conflict: Rivalry, Emulation, Jealousy, Aversion, etc. 

7. Personal Rivalry in Polite Society

8. Conflict and Social Status

9. The Strike as an Expression of the Wish for Recognition

10. Popular Justice: the History of the Molly Maguires, of the NightRiders, etc. 

11. The Sociology of Race Prejudice

12. Race Riots in the North and the South

13. War as an Action Pattern, Biological or Social?

14. War as a Form of Relaxation

15. The Great War Interpreted by Personal Documents

16. Conflict and Social Organization

17. Conflict and Social Progress

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. How do you differentiate between competition and conflict?

2. Is conflict always conscious?

3. How do you explain the emotional interest in conflict?

4. In your opinion, are the sexes in about the same degree interested inconflict?

5. In what way do you understand Simmel to relate conflict to socialprocess?

6. What are the interrelations of war and social contacts?

7. "Without aversion life in a great city would have no thinkable form. "Explain. 

8. "It is advantageous to hate the opponent with whom one isstruggling. " Explain. 

9. Give illustrations of feuds not mentioned by Simmel. 

10. How do you distinguish between feuds and litigation?

11. What examples occur to you of conflicts of impersonal ideals?

12. What are the psychological causes of war?

13. "We may see in war the preliminary process of rejuvenescence. "Explain. 

14. Has war been essential to the process of social adjustment? Is itstill essential?

15. What do you understand by war as a form of relaxation?

16. How do you interpret Professor James's reaction to the Chautauqua?

17. What is the rôle of conflict in recreation?

18. Is it possible to provide psychic equivalents for war?

19. What application of the sociological theory of the relation ofideals to instinct would you make to war?

20. How do you distinguish rivalry from competition and conflict?

21. What bearing have the facts of animal rivalry upon an understandingof rivalry in human society?

22. What are the different devices by which the group achieves andmaintains solidarity? How many of these were characteristic of thewar-time situation?

23. In what way is group rivalry related to the development ofpersonality?

24. How does rivalry contribute to social organization?

25. What do you understand by Giddings' distinction between culturalconflicts and "logical duels"?

26. Have you reason for thinking that culture conflict will play alesser rôle in the future than in the past?

27. To what extent was the world-war a culture conflict?

28. Under what circumstances do social contacts make (a) for conflict, and (b) for co-operation?

29. What has been the effect of the extension of communication upon therelations of nations? Elaborate. 

30. What do you understand by race prejudice as a "more or lessinstinctive defense-reaction"?

31. To what extent is race prejudice based upon race competition?

32. Do you believe that it is possible to remove the causes of raceprejudice?

33. In what ways does race conflict make for race consciousness?

34. What are the different elements or forces in the interaction ofraces making for race conflict and race consciousness?

35. Is a heightening of race consciousness of value or of disadvantageto a racial group?

36. How do you explain the present tendency of the Negro to substitutethe copying of colored models for the imitation of white models?

37. "In the South, the races seem to be tending in the direction of abi-racial organization of society, in which the Negro is graduallygaining a limited autonomy. " Interpret. 

38. "All racial problems are distinctly problems of racialdistribution. " Explain with reference to relative proportion of Negroes, Chinese, and Japanese in certain sections of the United States. 

39. Why have few or no race riots occurred in the South?

40. Under what circumstances have race riots occurred in the North?

FOOTNOTES:

[206] Adapted from William I. Thomas, "The Gaming Instinct, " in the_American Journal of Sociology_, VI (1900-1901), 750-63. 

[207] Adapted from a translation of Georg Simmel, _Soziologie_, byAlbion W. Small, "The Sociology of Conflict, " in the _American Journalof Sociology_, IX (1903-4), 490-501. 

[208] Adapted from a translation of Georg Simmel, _Soziologie_, byAlbion W. Small, "The Sociology of Conflict, " in the _American Journalof Sociology_, IX (1903-4), 505-8. 

[209] Adapted from William A. White, _Thoughts of a Psychiatrist on theWar and After_, pp. 75-87. (Paul B. Hoeber, 1919. )

[210] From G. T. W. Patrick, "The Psychology of War, " in the _PopularScience Monthly_, LXXXVII (1915), 166-68. 

[211] Adapted from Henry Rutgers Marshall, _War and the Ideal of Peace_, pp. 96-110. (Duffield & Co. , 1915. )

[212] Adapted from William H. Hudson, "The Strange Instincts of Cattle, "_Longman's Magazine_, XVIII (1891), 393-94. 

[213] Adapted from George E. Vincent, "The Rivalry of Social Groups, " inthe _American Journal of Sociology_, XVI (1910-11), 471-84. 

[214] Adapted from Franklin H. Giddings, "Are Contradictions of Ideasand Beliefs Likely to Play an Important Group-making Rôle in theFuture?" in the _American Journal of Sociology_, XIII (1907-8), 784-91. 

[215] From Robert E. Park, Introduction to Jesse F. Steiner, _TheJapanese Invasion_. (A. C. McClurg & Co. , 1917. )

[216] From Robert E. Park, "Racial Assimilation in Secondary Groups, " in_Publications of the American Sociological Society_, VIII (1913), 75-82. 

[217] Adapted from Alfred H. Stone, "Is Race Friction between Blacks andWhites in the United States Growing and Inevitable?" in the _AmericanJournal of Sociology_, XIII (1907-8), 677-96. 

[218] Karl Groos, _The Play of Man_, p. 213. (New York, 1901. )

[219] _Supra_, p. 50. 

[220] _The Dial_, LXVII (Oct. 4, 1919), 297. 

CHAPTER X

ACCOMMODATION

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Adaptation and Accommodation

The term _adaptation_ came into vogue with Darwin's theory of the originof the species by natural selection. This theory was based upon theobservation that no two members of a biological species or of a familyare ever exactly alike. Everywhere there is variation and individuality. Darwin's theory assumed this variation and explained the species as theresult of natural selection. The individuals best fitted to live underthe conditions of life which the environment offered, survived andproduced the existing species. The others perished and the species whichthey represented disappeared. The differences in the species wereexplained as the result of the accumulation and perpetuation of theindividual variations which had "survival value. " Adaptations were thevariations which had been in this way selected and transmitted. 

The term _accommodation_ is a kindred concept with a slightly differentmeaning. The distinction is that adaptation is applied to organicmodifications which are transmitted biologically; while accommodation isused with reference to changes in habit, which are transmitted, or maybe transmitted, sociologically, that is, in the form of socialtradition. The term first used in this sense by Baldwin is defined inthe _Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology_. 

In view of modern biological theory and discussion, two modes ofadaptation should be distinguished: (a) adaptation through variation[hereditary]; (b) adaptation through modification [acquired]. For thefunctional adjustment of the individual to its environment [(b) above]J. Mark Baldwin has suggested the term "accommodation, " recommendingthat adaptation be confined to the structural adjustments which arecongenital and heredity [(a) above]. The term "accommodation" appliesto any acquired alteration of function resulting in better adjustmentto environment and to the functional changes which are thuseffected. [221]

The term accommodation, while it has a limited field of application inbiology, has a wide and varied use in sociology. All the socialheritages, traditions, sentiments, culture, technique, areaccommodations--that is, acquired adjustments that are socially and notbiologically transmitted. They are not a part of the racial inheritanceof the individual, but are acquired by the person in social experience. The two conceptions are further distinguished in this, that adaptationis an effect of competition, while accommodation, or more properlysocial accommodation, is the result of conflict. 

The outcome of the adaptations and accommodations, which the strugglefor existence enforces, is a state of relative equilibrium among thecompeting species and individual members of these species. Theequilibrium which is established by adaptation is biological, whichmeans that, in so far as it is permanent and fixed in the race or thespecies, it will be transmitted by biological inheritance. 

The equilibrium based on accommodation, however, is not biological; itis economic and social and is transmitted, if at all, by tradition. Thenature of the economic equilibrium which results from competition hasbeen fully described in chapter viii. The plant community is thisequilibrium in its absolute form. 

In animal and human societies the community has, so to speak, becomeincorporated in the individual members of the group. The individuals areadapted to a specific type of communal life, and these adaptations, inanimal as distinguished from human societies, are represented in thedivision of labor between the sexes, in the instincts which secure theprotection and welfare of the young, in the so-called gregariousinstinct, and all these represent traits that are transmittedbiologically. But human societies, although providing for the expressionof original tendencies, are organized about tradition, mores, collectiverepresentations, in short, _consensus_. And consensus represents, notbiological adaptations, but social accommodations. 

Social organization, with the exception of the order based oncompetition and adaptation, is essentially an accommodation ofdifferences through conflicts. This fact explains why diverse-mindednessrather than like-mindedness is characteristic of human as distinguishedfrom animal society. Professor Cooley's statement of this point isclear:

 The unity of the social mind consists not in agreement but in organization, in the fact of reciprocal influence or causation among its parts, by virtue of which everything that takes place in it is connected with everything else, and so is an outcome of the whole. [222]

The distinction between accommodation and adaptation is illustrated inthe difference between domestication and taming. Through domesticationand breeding man has modified the original inheritable traits of plantsand animals. He has changed the character of the species. Throughtaming, individuals of species naturally in conflict with man havebecome accommodated to him. Eugenics may be regarded as a program ofbiological adaptation of the human race in conscious realization ofsocial ideals. Education, on the other hand, represents a program ofaccommodation or an organization, modification, and culture of originaltraits. 

Every society represents an organization of elements more or lessantagonistic to each other but united for the moment, at least, by anarrangement which defines the reciprocal relations and respectivespheres of action of each. This accommodation, this _modus vivendi_, maybe relatively permanent as in a society constituted by castes, or quitetransitory as in societies made up of open classes. In either case, theaccommodation, while it is maintained, secures for the individual or forthe group a recognized status. 

Accommodation is the natural issue of conflicts. In an accommodation theantagonism of the hostile elements is, for the time being, regulated, and conflict disappears as overt action, although it remains latent as apotential force. With a change in the situation, the adjustment that hadhitherto successfully held in control the antagonistic forces fails. There is confusion and unrest which may issue in open conflict. Conflict, whether a war or a strike or a mere exchange of politeinnuendoes, invariably issues in a new accommodation or social order, which in general involves a changed status in the relations among theparticipants. It is only with assimilation that this antagonism, latentin the organization of individuals or groups, is likely to be whollydissolved. 

2. Classification of the Materials

The selections on accommodation in the materials are organized under thefollowing heads: (a) forms of accommodation; (b) subordination andsuperordination; (c) conflict and accommodation; and (d)competition, status, and social solidarity. 

a) _Forms of accommodation. _--There are many forms of accommodation. One of the most subtle is that which in human geography is calledacclimatization, "accommodation to new climatic conditions. " Recentstudies like those of Huntington in his "Climate and Civilization" haveemphasized the effects of climate upon human behavior. The selectionupon acclimatization by Brinton states the problems involved in theadjustment of racial groups to different climatic environments. Theanswers which he gives to the questions raised are not to be regarded asconclusive but only as representative of one school of investigators andas contested by other authorities in this field. 

Naturalization, which in its original sense means the process by which aperson is made "natural, " that is, familiar and at home in a strangesocial milieu, is a term used in America to describe the legal processby which a foreigner acquires the rights of citizenship. Naturalization, as a social process, is naturally something more fundamental than thelegal ceremony of naturalization. It includes accommodation to thefolkways, the mores, the conventions, and the social ritual(_Sittlichkeit_). It assumes also participation, to a certain extent atleast, in the memories, the tradition, and the culture of a new socialgroup. The proverb "In Rome do as the Romans do" is a basic principle ofnaturalization. The cosmopolitan is the person who readily accommodateshimself to the codes of conduct of new social milieus. [223]

The difficulty of social accommodation to a new social milieu is notalways fully appreciated. The literature on homesickness and nostalgiaindicates the emotional dependence of the person upon familiarassociations and upon early intimate personal relations. Leaving homefor the first time, the intense lonesomeness of the rural lad in thecrowds of the city, the perplexity of the immigrant in the confusingmaze of strange, and to him inexplicable, customs are common enoughinstances of the personal and social barriers to naturalization. But theobstacles to most social adjustments for a person in a new social worldare even more baffling because of their subtle and intangible nature. 

Just as in biology balance represents "a state of relatively goodadjustment due to structural adaptation of the organism as a whole" soaccommodation, when applied to groups rather than individuals, signifiestheir satisfactory co-ordination from the standpoint of the inclusivesocial organization. 

Historically, the organization of the more inclusive society--i. E. , states, confederations, empires, social and political units composed ofgroups accommodated but not fully assimilated--presents four typicalconstellations of the component group. Primitive society was anorganization of kinship groups. Ancient society was composed of mastersand slaves, with some special form of accommodation for the freeman andthe stranger, who was not a citizen, to be sure, but was not a slaveeither. 

Medieval society rested upon a system of class, approaching castes inthe distances it enforced. In all these different situations competitiontook place only between individuals of the same status. 

In contrast with this, modern society is made up of economic and socialclasses with freedom of economic competition and freedom in passage, therefore, from one class to the other. 

b) _Subordination and superordination. _--Accommodation, in the area ofpersonal relations, tends to take the form of subordination andsuperordination. Even where accommodation has been imposed, as in thecase of slavery, by force, the personal relations of master and slaveare invariably supported by appropriate attitudes and sentiments. Theselection "Excerpts from the Journal of a West India Slave Owner" is aconvincing exhibit of the way in which attitudes of superordination andsubordination may find expression in the sentiments of a conscientiousand self-complacent paternalism on the part of the master and of aningratiating and reverential loyalty on the part of the slave. In a likemanner the selection from the "Memories of an Old Servant" indicates thenatural way in which sentiments of subordination which have grown up inconformity with an accepted situation eventually become the basis of alife-philosophy of the person. 

Slavery and caste are manifestly forms of accommodation. The facts ofsubordination are quite as real, though not as obvious, in other phasesof social life. The peculiar intimacy which exists, for example, betweenlovers, between husband and wife, or between physician and patient, involves relations of subordination and superordination, though notrecognized as such. The personal domination which a coach exercises overthe members of a ball team, a minister over his congregation, thepolitical leader over his party followers are instances of the samephenomena. 

Simmel in his interesting discussion of the subject points out the factthat the relations of subordination and superordination are reciprocal. In order to impose his will upon his slaves it was necessary for themaster to retain their respect. No one had a keener appreciation of thearistocracy nor a greater scorn for the "poor white" than the Negroslaves in the South before the war. 

The leader of the gang, although he seems to have decisions absolutelyin his hand, has a sense of the attitudes of his followers. So thesuccessful political leader, who sometimes appears to be taking risks inhis advocacy of new issues, keeps "his ear close to the grass roots ofpublic opinion. "

In the selection upon "The Psychology of Subordination andSuperordination" Münsterberg interprets suggestion, imitation, andsympathy in terms of domination and submission. Personal influence, prestige, and authority, in whatever form they find expression, arebased, to a greater or less extent, on the subtle influences ofsuggestion. 

The natural affections are social bonds which not infrequently assumethe form of bondage. Many a mother has been reduced to a condition ofabject subjection through her affection for a son or a daughter. Thesame thing is notoriously true of the relations between the sexes. It isin social complexes of this sort, rather than in the formal proceduresof governments, that we must look for the fundamental mechanism ofsocial control. 

The conflicts and accommodations of persons with persons and of groupswith groups have their prototypes in the conflicts and accommodations ofthe wishes of the person. The conflicts and accommodations in the mentallife of the person have received the name in psychoanalysis of_sublimation_. The sublimation of a wish means its expression in a formwhich represents an accommodation with another conflicting wish whichhad repressed the original response of the first wish. The progressiveorganization of personality depends upon the successful functioning ofthis process of sublimation. The wishes of the person at birth areinchoate; with mental development these wishes come into conflict witheach other and with the enveloping social milieu. Adolescence ispeculiarly the period of "storm and stress. " Youth lives in a maze ofmental conflicts, of insurgent and aspiring wishes. Conversion is thesudden mutation of life-attitudes through a reorganization ortransformation of the wishes. 

c) _Conflict and accommodation. _--The intrinsic relation betweenconflict and accommodation is stated in the materials by Simmel in hisanalysis of war and peace and the problems of compromise. "Thesituations existing in time of peace are precisely the conditions out ofwhich war emerges. " War, on the other hand, brings about the adjustmentsin the relations of competing and conflict groups which make peacepossible. The problem, therefore, must find a solution in some method bywhich the conflicts which are latent in, or develop out of, theconditions of peace may be adjusted without a resort to war. In so faras war is an effect of the mere inhibitions which the conditions ofpeace impose, substitutes for war must provide, as William James hassuggested, for the expression of the expanding energies of individualsand nations in ways that will contribute to the welfare of the communityand eventually of mankind as a whole. The intention is to make life moreinteresting and at the same time more secure. 

The difficulty is that the devices which render life more securefrequently make it less interesting and harder to bear. Competition, thestruggle for existence and for, what is often more important than mereexistence, namely, status, may become so bitter that peace isunendurable. 

More than that, under the condition of peace, peoples whose life-habitsand traditions have been formed upon a basis of war frequently multiplyunder conditions of peace to such an extent as to make an ultimate warinevitable. The natives of South Africa, since the tribal wars haveceased, have so increased in numbers as to be an increasing menace tothe white population. Any amelioration of the condition of mankind thattends to disturb the racial equilibrium is likely to disturb the peaceof nations. When representatives of the Rockefeller Medical Foundationproposed to introduce a rational system of medicine in China, certain ofthe wise men of that country, it is reported, shook their headsdubiously over the consequences that were likely to follow any largedecrease in the death-rate, seeing that China was already overpopulated. 

In the same way education, which is now in a way to become a heritage ofall mankind, rather than the privilege of so-called superior peoples, undoubtedly has had the effect of greatly increasing the mobility andrestlessness of the world's population. In so far as this is true, ithas made the problem of maintaining peace more difficult and dangerous. 

On the other hand, education and the extension of intelligenceundoubtedly increase the possibility of compromise and conciliationwhich, as Simmel points out, represent ways in which peace may berestored and maintained other than by complete victory and subjugationof the conquered people. It is considerations of this kind that have ledmen like von Moltke to say that "universal peace is a dream and not evena happy one, " and has led other men like Carnegie to build peace palacesin which the nations of the world might settle their differences bycompromise and according to law. 

d) _Competition, status, and social solidarity. _--Under the title"Competition, Status, and Social Solidarity" selections are introducedin the materials which emphasize the relation of competition toaccommodation. Up to this point in the materials only the relations ofconflict to accommodation have been considered. Status has beendescribed as an effect of conflict. But it is clear that economiccompetition frequently becomes conscious and so passes over into some ofthe milder forms of conflict. Aside from this it is evident thatcompetition in so far as it determines the vocation of the individual, determines indirectly also his status, since it determines the class ofwhich he is destined to be a member. In the same way competition isindirectly responsible for the organization of society in so far as itdetermines the character of the accommodations and understandings whichare likely to exist between conflict groups. Social types as well asstatus are indirectly determined by competition, since most of them arevocational. The social types of the modern city, as indicated by theselection on "Personal Competition and the Evolution of IndividualTypes, " are an outcome of the division of labor. Durkheim points outthat the division of labor in multiplying the vocations has increasedand not diminished the unity of society. The interdependence ofdifferentiated individuals and groups has made possible a socialsolidarity that otherwise would not exist. 

II. MATERIALS

A. FORMS OF ACCOMMODATION

1. Acclimatization[224]

The most important ethnic question in connection with climate is that ofthe possibility of a race adapting itself to climatic conditions widelydifferent from those to which it has been accustomed. This is thequestion of acclimatization. 

Its bearings on ethnic psychology can be made at once evident by posinga few practical inquiries: Can the English people flourish in India?Will the French colonize successfully the Sudan? Have the Europeans lostor gained in power by their migration to the United States? Can thewhite or any other race ultimately become the sole residents of theglobe?

It will be seen that on the answers to such questions depends thedestiny of races and the consequences to the species of the facilitiesof transportation offered by modern inventions. The subject hastherefore received the careful study of medical geographers andstatisticians. 

I can give but a brief statement of their conclusions. They are to theeffect, first, that when the migration takes place along approximatelythe same isothermal lines, the changes in the system are slight; but asthe mean annual temperature rises, the body becomes increasingly unableto resist its deleterious action until a difference of 18° F. Isreached, at which continued existence of the more northern racesbecomes impossible. They suffer from a chemical change in the conditionof the blood cells, leading to anemia in the individual and toextinction of the lineage in the third generation. 

This is the general law of the relation to race and climate. Like mostlaws it has its exceptions, depending on special conditions. A stockwhich has long been accustomed to change of climate adapts itself to anywith greater facility. This explains the singular readiness of the Jewsto settle and flourish in all zones. For a similar reason a people whoat home are accustomed to a climate of wide and sudden changes, likethat of the eastern United States, supports others with less loss ofpower than the average. 

A locality may be extremely hot but unusually free from other maleficinfluences, being dry with regular and moderate winds, and well drained, such as certain areas between the Red Sea and the Nile, which are alsoquite salubrious. 

Finally, certain individuals and certain families, owing to somefortunate power of resistance which we cannot explain, acclimatesuccessfully where their companions perish. Most of the instances ofalleged successful acclimatization of Europeans in the tropics are dueto such exceptions, the far greater number of the victims being left outof the count. 

If these alleged successful cases, or that of the Jews or Arabs, beclosely examined, it will almost surely be discovered that anotherphysiological element has been active in bringing about acclimatization, and that is the mingling of blood with the native race. In the Americantropics the Spaniards have survived for four centuries; but how many ofthe _Ladinos_ can truthfully claim an unmixed descent? In Guatemala, forexample, says a close observer, _not any_. The Jews of the Malabar coasthave actually become black, and so has also in Africa many an Arabclaiming direct descent from the Prophet himself. 

But along with this process of adaptation by amalgamation comesunquestionably a lowering of the mental vitality of the higher race. That is the price it has to pay for the privilege of survival under thenew conditions. But, in conformity to the principles already laid downas accepted by all anthropologists, such a lowering must correspond to adegeneration in the highest grades of structure, the brain cells. 

We are forced, therefore, to reach the decision that the human speciesattains its highest development only under moderate conditions of heat, such as prevail in the temperate zones (an annual mean of 8°-12° C. );and the more startling conclusion that the races now native to the polarand tropical areas are distinctly _pathological_, are types ofdegeneracy, having forfeited their highest physiological elements inorder to purchase immunity from the unfavorable climatic conditions towhich they are subject. We must agree with a French writer, that "man isnot cosmopolitan, " and if he insists on becoming a "citizen of theworld" he is taxed heavily in his best estate for his presumption. 

The inferences in racial psychology which follow this opinion are tooevident to require detailed mention. Natural selection has fitted theEskimo and the Sudanese for their respective abodes, but it has been bythe process of regressive evolution; progressive evolution in man hasconfined itself to less extreme climatic areas. 

The facts of acclimatization stand in close connection with anotherdoctrine in anthropology which is interesting for my theme, that of"ethno-geographic provinces. " Alexander von Humboldt seems to have beenthe first to give expression to this system of human grouping, and ithas been diligently cultivated by his disciple, Professor Bastian. Itrests upon the application to the human species of two generalprinciples recognized as true in zoölogy and botany. The one is thatevery organism is directly dependent on its environment (the _milieu_), action and reaction going on constantly between them; the other is, thatno two faunal or floral regions are of equal rank in their capacity forthe development of a given type of organism. 

The features which distinguish one ethno-geographic province fromanother are chiefly, according to Bastian, meteorological, and theypermit, he claims, a much closer division of human groups than thegeneral continental areas which give us an African, a European, and anAmerican subspecies. 

It is possible that more extended researches may enable ethnographers tomap out, in this sense, the distribution of our species; but the secularalterations in meteorologic conditions, combined with the migratoryhabits of most early communities, must greatly interfere with a rigidapplication of these principles in ethnography. 

The historic theory of "centres of civilisation" is allied to that ofethno-geographic provinces. The stock examples of such are familiar. TheBabylonian plain, the valley of the Nile, in America the plateaus ofMexico and of Tiahuanuco are constantly quoted as such. The geographicadvantages these situations offered--a fertile soil, protection fromenemies, domesticable plants, and a moderate climate--are offered asreasons why an advanced culture rapidly developed in them, and from themextended over adjacent regions. 

Without denying the advantages of such surroundings, the most recentresearches in both hemispheres tend to reduce materially theirinfluence. The cultures in question did not begin at one point andradiate from it, but arose simultaneously over wide areas, in differentlinguistic stocks, with slight connections; and only later, andsecondarily, was it successfully concentrated by some one tribe--by theagency, it is now believed, of cognatic rather than geographic aids. 

Assyriologists no longer believe that Sumerian culture originated in thedelta of the Euphrates, and Egyptologists look for the sources of thecivilization of the Nile Valley among the Libyans; while in the NewWorld not one but seven stocks partook of the Aztec learning, and half adozen contributed to that of the Incas. The prehistoric culture ofEurope was not one of Carthaginians or Phoenicians, but wasself-developed. 

2. Slavery Defined[225]

In most branches of knowledge the phenomena the man of science has todeal with have their technical names, and, when using a scientificterm, he need not have regard to the meaning this term conveys inordinary language; he knows he will not be misunderstood by hisfellow-scientists. For instance, the Germans call a whale _Wallfisch_, and the English speak of shellfish; but a zoölogist, using the wordfish, need not fear that any competent person will think he means whalesor shellfish. 

In ethnology the state of things is quite different. There are a fewscientific names bearing a definite meaning, such as the terms "animism"and "survival, " happily introduced by Professor Tylor. But mostphenomena belonging to our science have not yet been investigated, soit is no wonder that different writers (sometimes even the same writeron different pages) give different names to the same phenomenon, whereas, on the other hand, sometimes the same term (e. G. , matriarchate)is applied to widely different phenomena. As for the subject we areabout to treat of, we shall presently see that several writers havegiven a definition of slavery; but no one has taken the trouble toinquire whether his definition can be of any practical use in socialscience. Therefore, we shall try to give a good definition and justifyit. 

But we may not content ourselves with this; we must also pay attentionto the meaning of the term "slavery" as commonly employed. There are tworeasons for this. First, we must always rely upon the statements ofethnographers. If an ethnographer states that some savage tribe carrieson slavery, without defining in what this "slavery" consists, we have toask: What may our informant have meant? And as he is likely to have usedthe word in the sense generally attached to it, we have to inquire: Whatis the ordinary meaning of the term "slavery"?

The second reason is this. Several theoretical writers speak of slaverywithout defining what they mean by it; and we cannot avail ourselves oftheir remarks without knowing what meaning they attach to this term. Andas they too may be supposed to have used it in the sense in which it isgenerally used, we have again to inquire: What is the meaning of theterm "slavery" in ordinary language?

The general use of the word, as is so often the case, is ratherinaccurate. Ingram says:

 Careless or rhetorical writers use the words "slave" and "slavery" in a very lax way. Thus, when protesting against the so-called "Subjection of Women, " they absurdly apply those terms to the condition of the wife in the modern society of the west--designations which are inappropriate even in the case of the inmate of Indian zenanas; and they speak of the modern worker as a "wage-slave, " even though he is backed by a powerful trade-union. Passion has a language of its own, and poets and orators must doubtless be permitted to denote by the word "slavery" the position of subjects of a state who labor under civil disabilities or are excluded from the exercise of political power; but in sociological study things ought to have their right names, and those names should, as far as possible, be uniformly employed. 

But this use of the word we may safely regard as a metaphor; nobody willassert that these laborers and women are really slaves. Whoever uses theterm slavery in its ordinary sense attaches a fairly distinct idea toit. What is this idea? We can express it most generally thus: a slave isone who is not free. There are never slaves without there being freementoo; and nobody can be at the same time a slave and a freeman. We must, however, be careful to remember that, man being a "social animal, " noman is literally free; all members of a community are restricted intheir behavior toward each other by social rules and customs. Butfreemen at any rate are relatively free; so a slave must be one who doesnot share in the common amount of liberty, compatible with the socialconnection. 

The condition of the slave as opposed to that of the freeman presentsitself to us under the three following aspects:

First, every slave has his master to whom he is subjected. And thissubjection is of a peculiar kind. Unlike the authority one freemansometimes has over another, the master's power over his slave isunlimited, at least in principle; any restriction put upon the master'sfree exercise of his power is a mitigation of slavery, not belonging toits nature, just as in Roman law the proprietor may do with his propertywhatever he is not by special laws forbidden to do. The relation betweenmaster and slave is therefore properly expressed by the slave beingcalled the master's "possession" or "property"--expressions wefrequently meet with. 

Secondly, slaves are in a lower condition as compared with freemen. Theslave has no political rights; he does not choose his government, hedoes not attend the public councils. Socially he is despised. 

In the third place, we always connect with slavery the idea ofcompulsory labor. The slave is compelled to work; the free laborer mayleave off working if he likes, be it at the cost of starving. Allcompulsory labor, however, is not slave labor; the latter requires thatpeculiar kind of compulsion that is expressed by the word "possession"or "property" as has been said before. 

Recapitulating, we may define a slave in the ordinary sense of the wordas a man who is the property of another, politically and socially at alower level than the mass of the people, and performing compulsorylabor. 

The great function of slavery can be no other than a _division oflabor_. Division of labor is taken here in the widest sense, asincluding not only a qualitative division, by which one man does onekind of work and another a different kind, but also a quantitative one, by which one man's wants are provided for, not by his own work only, butby another's. A society without any division of labor would be one inwhich each man worked for his own wants, and nobody for another's; inany case but this there is a division of labor in this wider sense ofthe word. Now this division can be brought about by two means. "Thereare two ways" says Puchta "in which we can avail ourselves of thestrength of other men which we are in need of. One is the way of freecommerce, that does not interfere with the liberty of the person whoserves us, the making of contracts by which we exchange the strength andskill of another, or their products, for other performances on our part:hire of services, purchase of manufactures, etc. The other way is thesubjugation of such persons, which enables us to dispose of theirstrength in our behalf but at the same time injures the personality ofthe subjected. This subjection can be imagined as being restricted tocertain purposes, for instance to the cultivation of the land, as withsoil-tilling serfs, the result of which is that this subjection, for thevery reason that it has a definite and limited aim, does not quite annulthe liberty of the subjected. But the subjection can also be anunlimited one, as is the case when the subjected person, in the whole ofhis outward life, is treated as but a means to the purposes of the manof power, and so his personality is entirely absorbed. This is theinstitution of slavery. "

3. Excerpts from the Journal of a West India Slave Owner[226]

Soon after nine o'clock we reached Savannah la Mar, where I found mytrustee, and a whole cavalcade, waiting to conduct me to my own estate;for he had brought with him a curricle and pair for myself, a gig for myservant, two black boys upon mules, and a cart with eight oxen to conveymy baggage. The road was excellent, and we had not above five miles totravel; and as soon as the carriage entered my gates, the uproar andconfusion which ensued sets all description at defiance. The works wereinstantly all abandoned; everything that had life came flocking to thehouse from all quarters; and not only the men, and the women, and thechildren, but, "by a bland assimilation, " the hogs, and the dogs, andthe geese, and the fowls, and the turkeys, all came hurrying along byinstinct, to see what could possibly be the matter, and seemed to beafraid of arriving too late. Whether the pleasure of the negroes wassincere may be doubted; but certainly it was the loudest that I everwitnessed: they all talked together, sang, danced, shouted, and, in theviolence of their gesticulations, tumbled over each other, and rolledabout upon the ground. Twenty voices at once enquired after uncles, andaunts, and grandfathers, and great-grandmothers of mine, who had beenburied long before I was in existence, and whom, I verily believe, mostof them only knew by tradition. One woman held up her little naked blackchild to me, grinning from ear to ear, "Look, Massa, look here! him nicelilly neger for Massa!" Another complained, "So long since none come seewe, Massa; good Massa, come at last. " As for the old people, they wereall in one and the same story: now they had lived once to see Massa, they were ready for dying tomorrow, "them no care. "

The shouts, the gaiety, the wild laughter, their strange and suddenbursts of singing and dancing, and several old women, wrapped up inlarge cloaks, their heads bound round with different-coloredhandkerchiefs, leaning on a staff, and standing motionless in the middleof the hubbub, with their eyes fixed upon the portico which I occupied, formed an exact counterpart of the festivity of the witches in Macbeth. Nothing could be more odd or more novel than the whole scene; and yetthere was something in it by which I could not help being affected;perhaps it was the consciousness that all these human beings were my_slaves_;--to be sure, I never saw people look more happy in my life;and I believe their condition to be much more comfortable than that ofthe laborers of Great Britain; and, after all, slavery, in _their_ case, is but another name for servitude, now that no more negroes can beforcibly carried away from Africa and subjected to the horrors of thevoyage and of the seasoning after their arrival; but still I had alreadyexperienced, in the morning, that Juliet was wrong in saying "What's ina name?" For soon after my reaching the lodging-house at Savannah laMar, a remarkably clean-looking negro lad presented himself with somewater and a towel--I concluded him to belong to the inn--and, on myreturning the towel, as he found that I took no notice of him, he atlength ventured to introduce himself by saying, "Massa not know me; _meyour slave!_"--and really the sound made me feel a pang at the heart. The lad appeared all gaiety and good humor, and his whole countenanceexpressed anxiety to recommend himself to my notice, but the word"slave" seemed to imply that, although he did feel pleasure then inserving me, if he had detested me he must have served me still. I reallyfelt quite humiliated at the moment, and was tempted to tell him, "Donot say that again; say that you are my negro, but do not call yourselfmy slave. "

As I was returning this morning from Montego Bay, about a mile from myown estate, a figure presented itself before me, I really think the mostpicturesque that I ever beheld: it was a mulatto girl, born uponCornwall, but whom the overseer of a neighboring estate had obtained mypermission to exchange for another slave, as well as two littlechildren, whom she had borne to him; but, as yet, he had been unable toprocure a substitute, owing to the difficulty of purchasing singlenegroes, and Mary Wiggins is still my slave. However, as she isconsidered as being manumitted, she had not dared to present herself atCornwall on my arrival, lest she should have been considered as anintruder; but she now threw herself in my way to tell me how glad shewas to see me, for that she had always thought till now (which is thegeneral complaint) that "_she had no massa_;" and also to obtain aregular invitation to my negro festival tomorrow. By this universalcomplaint, it appears that, while Mr. Wilberforce is lamenting theirhard fate in being subject to a master, _their_ greatest fear is the nothaving a master whom they know; and that to be told by the negroes ofanother estate that "they belong to no massa, " is one of the mostcontemptuous reproaches that can be cast upon them. Poor creatures, whenthey happened to hear on Wednesday evening that my carriage was orderedfor Montego Bay the next morning, they fancied that I was going away forgood and all, and came up to the house in such a hubbub that my agentwas obliged to speak to them, and pacify them with the assurance that Ishould come back on Friday without fail. 

But to return to Mary Wiggins: she was much too pretty not to obtain herinvitation to Cornwall; on the contrary, I _insisted_ upon her coming, and bade her tell her _husband_ that I admired his taste very much forhaving chosen her. I really think that her form and features were themost _statue-like_ that I ever met with; her complexion had no yellow init and yet was not brown enough to be dark--it was more of an ash-dovecolor than anything else; her teeth were admirable, both for color andshape; her eyes equally mild and bright; and her face merely broadenough to give it all possible softness and grandness of contour: herair and countenance would have suited Yarico; but she reminded me mostof Grassini in "La Vergine del Sole, " only that Mary Wiggins was athousand times more beautiful, and that, instead of a white robe, shewore a mixed dress of brown, white, and dead yellow, which harmonizedexcellently with her complexion; while one of her beautiful arms wasthrown across her brow to shade her eyes, and a profusion of rings onher fingers glittered in the sunbeams. Mary Wiggins and an old cottontree are the most picturesque objects that I have seen for these twentyyears. 

I really believe that the negresses can produce children at pleasure, and where they are barren, it is just as hens will frequently not layeggs on shipboard, because they do not like their situation. Cubina'swife is in a family way, and I told him that if the child should live, Iwould christen it for him, if he wished it. "Tank you, kind massa, melike it very much: much oblige if massa do that for _me_, too. " So Ipromised to baptize the father and the baby on the same day, and saidthat I would be godfather to any children that might be born on theestate during my residence in Jamaica. This was soon spread about, and, although I have not yet been here a week, two women are in the strawalready, Jug Betty and Minerva: the first is wife to my head driver, TheDuke of Sully, but my sense of propriety was much gratified at findingthat Minerva's husband was called Captain. I think nobody will be ableto accuse me of neglecting the religious education of my negroes, for Ihave not only promised to baptize all the infants, but, meeting a littleblack boy this morning, who said that his name was Moses, I gave him apiece of silver, and told him that it was for the sake of Aaron; which, I flatter myself, was planting in his young mind the rudiments ofChristianity. 

On my former visit to Jamaica, I found on my estate a poor woman nearlyone hundred years old, and stone blind. She was too infirm to walk, buttwo young negroes brought her on their backs to the steps of my house, in order, as she said, that she might at least touch massa, although shecould not see him. When she had kissed my hand, "that was enough, " shesaid: "now me hab once kiss a massa's hand, me willing to die tomorrow, me no care. " She had a woman appropriated to her service and was shownthe greatest care and attention; however, she did not live many monthsafter my departure. There was also a mulatto, about thirty years of age, named Bob, who had been almost deprived of the use of his limbs by thehorrible cocoa-bay, and had never done the least work since he wasfifteen. He was so gentle and humble and so fearful, from theconsciousness of his total inability of soliciting my notice, that Icould not help pitying the poor fellow; and whenever he came in my way Ialways sought to encourage him by little presents and other triflingmarks of favor. His thus unexpectedly meeting with distinguishingkindness, where he expected to be treated as a worthless incumbrance, made a strong impression on his mind. 

4. The Origin of Caste in India[227]

If it were possible to compress into a single paragraph a theory socomplex as that which would explain the origin and nature of Indiancaste, I should attempt to sum it up in some such words as thefollowing: A caste is a marriage union, the constituents of which weredrawn from various different tribes (or from various other castessimilarly formed) in virtue of some industry, craft, or function, eithersecular or religious, which they possessed in common. The internaldiscipline, by which the conditions of membership in regard to connubialand convivial rights are defined and enforced, has been borrowed fromthe tribal period which preceded the period of castes by many centuries, and which was brought to a close by the amalgamation of tribes into anation under a common scepter. The differentia of _caste_ as a marriageunion consists in some community of function; while the differentia of_tribe_ as a marriage union consisted in a common ancestry, or a commonworship, or a common totem, or in fact in any kind of common propertyexcept that of a common function. 

Long before castes were formed on Indian soil, most of the industrialclasses, to which they now correspond, had existed for centuries, and asa rule most of the industries which they practiced were hereditary onthe male side of the parentage. These hereditary classes were and aresimply the concrete embodiments of those successive stages of culturewhich have marked the industrial development of mankind in every part ofthe world. Everywhere (except at least in those countries where he isstill a savage), man has advanced from the stage of hunting and fishingto that of nomadism and cattle-grazing, and from nomadism to agricultureproper. Everywhere has the age of metallurgy and of the arts andindustries which are coeval with it been preceded by a ruder age, whenonly those arts were known or practiced which sufficed for the hunting, fishing, and nomad states. Everywhere has the class of ritualisticpriests and lettered theosophists been preceded by a class ofless-cultivated worshipers, who paid simple offerings of flesh and wineto the personified powers of the visible universe without the aid of ahereditary professional priesthood. Everywhere has the class of noblesand territorial chieftains been preceded by a humbler class of smallpeasant proprietors, who placed themselves under their protection andpaid tribute or rent in return. Everywhere has this class of nobles andchieftains sought to ally itself with that of the priests or sacerdotalorder; and everywhere has the priestly order sought to bring under itscontrol those chiefs and rulers under whose protection it lives. 

All these classes had been in existence for centuries before any suchthing as caste was known on Indian soil; and the only thing that wasneeded to convert them into castes, such as they now are, was that theBrahman, who possessed the highest of all functions--thepriestly--should set the example. This he did by establishing for thefirst time the rule that no child, either male or female, could inheritthe name and status of Brahman, unless he or she was of Brahmanparentage on _both_ sides. By the establishment of this rule theprinciple of marriage unionship was superadded to that of functionalunionship; and it was only by the combination of these two principlesthat a caste in the strict sense of the term could or can be formed. TheBrahman, therefore, as the Hindu books inform us, was "the first-bornof castes. " When the example had thus been set by an arrogant andoverbearing priesthood, whose pretensions it was impossible to put down, the other hereditary classes followed in regular order downward, partlyin imitation and partly in self-defence. Immediately behind theBrahman came the Kshatriya, the military chieftain or landlord. Hetherefore was the "second-born of castes. " Then followed the bankers orupper trading classes (the Agarwal, Khattri, etc. ); the scientificmusician and singer (Kathak); the writing or literary class(Kayasth); the bard or genealogist (Bhat); and the class ofinferior nobles (Taga and Bhuinhar) who paid no rent to the landedaristocracy. These, then, were the third-born of castes. Next in ordercame those artisan classes, who were coeval with the age and art ofmetallurgy; the metallurgic classes themselves; the middle tradingclasses; the middle agricultural classes, who placed themselves underthe protection of the Kshatriya and paid him rent in return (Kurmi, Kachhi, Mali, Tamboli); and the middle serving classes, such asNapit and Baidya, who attended to the bodily wants of their equals andsuperiors. These, then, were the fourth-born of castes; and their rankin the social scale has been determined by the fact that their mannersand notions are farther removed than those of the preceding castes fromthe Brahmanical ideal. Next came the inferior artisan classes, thosewho preceded the age and art of metallurgy (Teli, Kumhar, Kalwar, etc. ); the partly nomad and partly agricultural classes (Jat, Gujar, Ahir, etc. ); the inferior serving classes, such as Kahar;and the inferior trading classes, such as Bhunja. These, then, were thefifth-born of castes, and their mode of life is still farther removedfrom the Brahmanical ideal than that of the preceding. The last-born, and therefore the lowest, of all the classes are those semisavagecommunities, partly tribes and partly castes, whose function consists inhunting or fishing, or in acting as butcher for the general community, or in rearing swine and fowls, or in discharging the meanest domesticservices, such as sweeping and washing, or in practicing the lowest ofhuman arts, such as basket-making, hide-tanning, etc. Thus throughoutthe whole series of Indian castes a double test of social precedence hasbeen in active force, the industrial and the Brahmanical; and thesetwo have kept pace together almost as evenly as a pair of horsesharnessed to a single carriage. In proportion as the function practicedby any given caste stands high or low in the scale of industrialdevelopment, in the same proportion does the caste itself, impelled bythe general tone of society by which it is surrounded, approximate morenearly or more remotely to the Brahmanical idea of life. It is thesetwo criteria combined which have determined the relative ranks of thevarious castes in the Hindu social scale. 

5. Caste and the Sentiments of Caste Reflected in Popular Speech[228]

No one indeed can fail to be struck by the intensely popular characterof Indian proverbial philosophy and by its freedom from the note ofpedantry which is so conspicuous in Indian literature. These quaintsayings have dropped fresh from the lips of the Indian rustic; theyconvey a vivid impression of the anxieties, the troubles, theannoyances, and the humors of his daily life; and any sympatheticobserver who has felt the fascination of an oriental village would havelittle difficulty in constructing from these materials a fairly accuratepicture of rural society in India. The _mise en scène_ is not altogethera cheerful one. It shows us the average peasant dependent upon thevicissitudes of the season and the vagaries of the monsoon, and watchingfrom day to day to see what the year may bring forth. Should rain fallat the critical moment his wife will get golden earrings, but one shortfortnight of drought may spell calamity when "God takes all at once. "Then the forestalling Baniya flourishes by selling rotten grain, and theJat cultivator is ruined. First die the improvident Musalmanweavers, then the oil-pressers for whose wares there is no demand; thecarts lie idle, for the bullocks are dead, and the bride goes to herhusband without the accustomed rites. But be the season good or bad, thepious Hindu's life is ever overshadowed by the exactions of theBrahman--"a thing with a string round its neck" (a profane hit at thesacred thread), a priest by appearance, a butcher at heart, the chief ofa trio of tormentors gibbeted in the rhyming proverb:

 Blood-suckers three on earth there be, The bug, the Brahman, and the flea. 

Before the Brahman starves the king's larder will be empty; cakesmust be given to him while the children of the house may lick thegrindstone for a meal; his stomach is a bottomless pit; he eats soimmoderately that he dies from wind. He will beg with a lakh of rupeesin his pocket, and a silver begging-bowl in his hand. In his greed forfuneral fees he spies out corpses like a vulture, and rejoices in themisfortunes of his clients. A village with a Brahman in it is like atank full of crabs; to have him as a neighbor is worse than leprosy; ifa snake has to be killed the Brahman should be set to do it, for noone will miss him. If circumstances compel you to perjure yourself, whyswear on the head of your son, when there is a Brahman handy? Shouldhe die (as is the popular belief) the world will be none the poorer. Like the devil in English proverbial philosophy, the Brahman can citescripture for his purpose; he demands worship himself but does notscruple to kick his low-caste brethren; he washes his sacred thread butdoes not cleanse his inner man; and so great is his avarice that a manof another caste is supposed to pray "O God, let me not be reborn as aBrahman priest, who is always begging and is never satisfied. " Hedefrauds even the gods; Vishnu gets the barren prayers while theBrahman devours the offerings. So Pan complains in one of Lucian'sdialogues that he is done out of the good things which men offer at hisshrine. 

The next most prominent figure in our gallery of popular portraits isthat of the Baniya, money-lender, grain-dealer, and monopolist, whodominates the material world as the Brahman does the spiritual. Hisheart, we are told, is no bigger than a coriander seed; he has the jawsof an alligator and a stomach of wax; he is less to be trusted than atiger, a scorpion, or a snake; he goes in like a needle and comes outlike a sword; as a neighbor he is as bad as a boil in the armpit. If aBaniya is on the other side of a river you should leave your bundle onthis side, for fear he should steal it. When four Baniyas meet they robthe whole world. If a Baniya is drowning you should not give him a hand:he is sure to have some base motive for drifting down stream. He useslight weights and swears that the scales tip themselves; he keeps hisaccounts in a character that no one but God can read; if you borrow fromhim, your debt mounts up like a refuse heap or gallops like a horse; ifhe talks to a customer he "draws a line" and debits the conversation;when his own credit is shaky he writes up his transactions on the wallso that they can easily be rubbed out. He is so stingy that the dogsstarve at his feast, and he scolds his wife if she spends a farthing onbetel-nut. A Jain Baniya drinks dirty water and shrinks from killingants and flies, but will not stick at murder in pursuit of gain. As adruggist the Baniya is in league with the doctor; he buys weeds at anominal price and sells them very dear. Finally, he is always a shockingcoward: eighty-four Khatris will run away from four thieves. 

Nor does the clerical caste fare better at the hands of the popularepigrammatist. Where three Kayasths are gathered together athunderbolt is sure to fall; when honest men fall out the Kayasthgets his chance. When a Kayasth takes to money-lending he is amerciless creditor. He is a man of figures; he lives by the point of hispen; in his house even the cat learns two letters and a half. He is aversatile creature, and where there are no tigers he will become ashikari; but he is no more to be trusted than a crow or a snakewithout a tail. One of the failings sometimes imputed to the educatedIndian is attacked in the saying, "Drinking comes to a Kayasth withhis mother's milk. "

Considering the enormous strength of the agricultural population ofIndia, one would have expected to find more proverbs directed againstthe great cultivating castes. Possibly the reason may be that they mademost of the proverbs, and people can hardly be expected to sharpen theirwit on their own shortcomings. In two provinces, however, the ruralPasquin has let out very freely at the morals and manners of the Jat, the typical peasant of the eastern Punjab and the western districts ofthe United Provinces. You may as well, we are told, look for good in aJat as for weevils in a stone. He is your friend only so long as youhave a stick in your hand. If he cannot harm you he will leave a badsmell as he goes by. To be civil to him is like giving treacle to adonkey. If he runs amuck it takes God to hold him. A Jat's laughwould break an ordinary man's ribs. When he learns manners, he blows hisnose with a mat, and there is a great run on the garlic. His baby has aplowtail for a plaything. The Jat stood on his own corn heap andcalled out to the King's elephant-drivers, "Hi there, what will you takefor those little donkeys?" He is credited with practicing fraternalpolyandry, like the Venetian nobility of the early eighteenth century, as a measure of domestic economy, and a whole family are said to haveone wife between them. 

The Doms, among whom we find scavengers, vermin-eaters, executioners, basket-makers, musicians, and professional burglars, probably representthe remnants of a Dravidian tribe crushed out of recognition by theinvading Aryans and condemned to menial and degrading occupations. SirG. Grierson has thrown out the picturesque suggestion that they are theancestors of the European gypsies and that Rom or Romany is nothing morethan a variant of Dom. In the ironical language of the proverbs the Domfigures as "the lord of death" because he provides the wood for theHindu funeral pyre. He is ranked with Brahmans and goats as acreature useless in time of need. A common and peculiarly offensive formof abuse is to tell a man that he has eaten a Dom's leavings. A seriesof proverbs represents him as making friends with members of variouscastes and faring ill or well in the process. Thus the Kanjar steals hisdog, and the Gujar loots his house; on the other hand, the barbershaves him for nothing, and the silly Jolahaa makes him a suit ofclothes. His traditions associate him with donkeys, and it is said thatif these animals could excrete sugar, Doms would no longer be beggars. "A Dom in a palanquin and a Brahman on foot" is a type of societyturned upside down. Nevertheless, outcast as he is, the Dom occupies aplace of his own in the fabric of Indian society. At funerals heprovides the wood and gets the corpse clothes as his perquisite; hemakes the discordant music that accompanies a marriage procession; andbaskets, winnowing-fans, and wicker articles in general are the work ofhis hands. 

In the west of India, Mahars and Dheds hold much the same place asthe Dom. In the walled villages of the Maratha country theMahar is the scavenger, watchman, and gate-keeper. His presencepollutes; he is not allowed to live in the village; and his miserableshanty is huddled up against the wall outside. But he challenges thestranger who comes to the gate, and for this and other services he isallowed various perquisites, among them that of begging for brokenvictuals from house to house. He offers old blankets to his god, and hischild's playthings are bones. The Dhed's status is equally low. If helooks at a water jar he pollutes its contents; if you run up against himby accident, you must go off and bathe. If you annoy a Dhed he sweeps upthe dust in your face. When he dies, the world is so much the cleaner. If you go to the Dheds' quarter you find there nothing but a heap ofbones. 

This relegation of the low castes to a sort of ghetto is carried togreat lengths in the south of India where the intolerance of theBrahman is very conspicuous. In the typical Madras village thePariahs--"dwellers in the quarter" (_para_) as this broken tribeis now called--live in an irregular cluster of conical hovels of palmleaves known as the _parchery_, the squalor and untidiness of whichpresent the sharpest contrasts to the trim street of tiled masonryhouses where the Brahmans congregate. "Every village, " says theproverb, "has its Pariah hamlet"--a place of pollution the census ofwhich is even now taken with difficulty owing to the reluctance of thehigh-caste enumerator to enter its unclean precincts. "A palm tree, "says another, "casts no shade; a Pariah has no caste and rules. " Thepopular estimate of the morals of the Pariah comes out in the saying, "He that breaks his word is a Pariah at heart"; while the note of ironypredominates in the pious question, "If a Pariah offers boiled rice willnot the god take it?" the implication being that the Brahman priestswho take the offerings to idols are too greedy to inquire by whom theyare presented. 

B. SUBORDINATION AND SUPERORDINATION

1. The Psychology of Subordination and Superordination[229]

The typical suggestion is given by words. But the impulse to act underthe influence of another person arises no less when the action isproposed in the more direct form of showing the action itself. Thesubmission then takes the form of imitation. This is the earliest typeof subordination. It plays a fundamental rôle in the infant's life, longbefore the suggestion through words can begin its influence. The infantimitates involuntarily as soon as connections between the movementimpulses and the movement impressions have been formed. At firstautomatic reflexes produce all kinds of motions, and each movementawakes kinesthetic and muscle sensations. Through association theseimpressions become bound up with the motor impulses. As soon as themovements of other persons arouse similar visual sensations thekinesthetic sensations are associated and realize the correspondingmovement. Very soon the associative irradiation becomes more complex, and whole groups of emotional reactions are imitated. The child criesand laughs in imitation. 

Most important is the imitation of the speech movement. The sound awakesthe impulse to produce the same vocal sound long before the meaning ofthe word is understood. Imitation is thus the condition for theacquiring of speech, and later the condition for the learning of allother abilities. But while the imitation is at first simply automatic, it becomes more and more volitional. The child intends to imitate whatthe teacher shows as an example. This intentional imitation is certainlyone of the most important vehicles of social organization. The desire toact like certain models becomes the most powerful social energy. Buteven the highest differentiation of society does not eliminate theconstant working of the automatic, impulsive imitation. 

The inner relation between imitation and suggestion shows itself in thesimilarity of conditions under which they are most effective. Everyincrease of suggestibility facilitates imitation. In any emotionalexcitement of a group every member submits to the suggestion of theothers, but the suggestion is taken from the actual movements. A crowdin a panic or a mob in a riot shows an increased suggestibility by whicheach individual automatically repeats what his neighbors are doing. Evenan army in battle may become, either through enthusiasm or through fear, a group in which all individuality is lost and everyone is forced byimitative impulses to fight or escape. The psychophysical experimentleaves no doubt that this imitative response releases the sources ofstrongest energy in the mental mechanism. If the arm lifts the weight ofan ergograph until the will cannot overcome the fatigue, the mere seeingof the movement carried out by others whips the motor centers to newefficiency. 

We saw that our feeling states are both causes and effects of ouractions. We cannot experience the impulse to action without a newshading of our emotional setting. Imitative acting involves, therefore, an inner imitation of feelings too. The child who smiles in response tothe smile of his mother shares her pleasant feeling. The adult who iswitness of an accident in which someone is hurt imitates instinctivelythe cramping muscle contractions of the victim, and as a result he feelsan intense dislike without having the pain sensations themselves. Fromsuch elementary experiences an imitative emotional life develops, controlled by a general sympathetic tendency. We share the pleasures andthe displeasures of others through an inner imitation which remainsautomatic. In its richer forms this sympathy becomes an _altruisticsentiment_; it stirs the desire to remove the misery around us andunfolds to a general mental setting through which every action isdirected toward the service to others. But from the faintest echoing offeelings in the infant to the highest self-sacrifice from altruisticimpulse, we have the common element of submission. The individual isfeeling, and accordingly acting, not in the realization of hisindividual impulses, but under the influence of other personalities. 

This subordination to the feelings of others through sympathy and pityand common joy takes a new psychological form in the affection oftenderness and especially parental love. The relation of parents tochildren involves certainly an element of superordination, but thementally strongest factor remains the subordination, the completesubmission to the feelings of those who are dependent upon the parents'care. In its higher development the parental love will not yield toevery momentary like or dislike of the child, but will adjust theeducative influence to the lasting satisfactions and to the latersources of unhappiness. But the submission of the parents to the feelingtones in the child's life remains the fundamental principle of thefamily instinct. While the parents' love and tenderness mean that thestronger submits to the weaker, even up to the highest points ofself-sacrifice, the loving child submits to his parents from feelingswhich are held together by a sense of dependence. This feeling ofdependence as a motive of subordination enters into numberless humanrelations. Everywhere the weak lean on the strong, and choose theiractions under the influence of those in whom they have confidence. Thecorresponding feelings show the manifold shades of modesty, admiration, gratitude, and hopefulness. Yet it is only another aspect of the socialrelation if the consciousness of dependence upon the more powerful isfelt with fear and revolt, or with the nearly related emotion of envy. 

The desire to assert oneself is no less powerful, in the socialinterplay, than the impulse to submission. Society needs the leaders aswell as the followers. Self-assertion presupposes contact with otherindividuals. Man protects himself against the dangers of nature, andman masters nature; but he asserts himself against men who interferewith him or whom he wants to force to obedience. The most immediatereaction in the compass of self-assertion is indeed the _rejection ofinterference_. It is a form in which even the infant shows the oppositeof submission. He repels any effort to disturb him in the realization ofthe instinctive impulses. From the simplest reaction of the infantdisturbed in his play or his meal, a straight line of development leadsto the fighting spirit of man, whose pugnaciousness and whose longingfor vengeance force his will on his enemies. Every form of rivalry, jealousy, and intolerance finds in this feeling group its source ofautomatic response. The most complex intellectual processes may be madesubservient to this self-asserting emotion. 

But the effort to impose one's will on others certainly does not resultonly from conflict. An entirely different emotional center is given bythe mere desire for _self-expression_. In every field of human activitythe individual may show his inventiveness, his ability to be differentfrom others, to be a model, to be imitated by his fellows. The normalman has a healthy, instinctive desire to claim recognition from themembers of the social group. This interferes neither with the spirit ofco-ordination nor with the subordination of modesty. In so far as theindividual demands acknowledgement of his personal behavior and hispersonal achievement, he raises himself by that act above others. Hewants his mental attitude to influence and control the socialsurroundings. In its fuller development this inner setting becomes theambition for leadership in the affairs of practical life or in thesphere of cultural work. 

The superficial counterpart is the desire for _self-display_ with allits variations of vanity and boastfulness. From the most bashfulsubmission to the most ostentatious self-assertion, from theself-sacrifice of motherly love to the pugnaciousness of despoticegotism, the social psychologist can trace the human impulses throughall the intensities of the human energies which interfere with equalityin the group. Each variation has its emotional background and itsimpulsive discharge. Within normal limits they are all equally usefulfor the biological existence of the group and through the usefulness forthe group ultimately serviceable to its members. Only throughsuperordination and subordination does the group receive the innerfirmness which transforms the mere combination of men into workingunits. They give to human society that strong and yet flexibleorganization which is the necessary condition for its successfuldevelopment. 

2. Social Attitudes in Subordination: Memories of an Old Servant[230]

Work is a great blessing, and it has been wisely arranged by our divineMaster that all his creatures should have a work to do of some kind. Some are weak and some are strong. Old and young, rich and poor, thereis that work expected from us, and how much happier we are when we areat our work. 

There are so many things to learn, so many different kinds of work thatmust be done to make the world go on right. And some work is easier thanothers; but all ought to be well done, and in a cheerful, contentedmanner. Some prefer working with hands and feet; they say it is easierthan the head work; but surely both are heavy work, for it does dependon your ability. 

Boys and girls do not leave school so early as they did fifty or sixtyyears ago. The boys went out quite happy and manly to do their herdingat some farm, and would be very useful for some years till theypreferred learning some trade, etc. ; then a younger boy just filled hisplace; and by doing this they did learn farming a good bit, and thishelped them on in after years if they wanted to go back to farmingagain. We regret to see that the page-boy is not wanted so much as heused to be; and what a help that used to be for a young boy. He learns agreat deal by being first of all a while in the stable yard or garagebefore he goes into the gentleman's house, and he is neat and tidy atall times for messages. We have seen many of them in our young days; andeven the waif has been picked up by a good master, and began in thestables and worked his way up to be a respected valet in the samehousehold, and often and often told the story of his waif life in theservants' hall. 

The old servant has seen many changes and in many cases prefers the goodold ways; there may be some better arrangements made, we cannot doubtthat, but we are surprised at good old practices that our late belovedemployers had ignored by their own children after they have so fargrown up. Servants need the good example from their superiors, and whenthey hear the world speak well of them they do look for the good ways inthe home life. We all like to hold up an employer's good name, surely wedo if we are interested at all in our work, and if we feel that wecannot do our duty to them we ought to go elsewhere and not deceivethem. We are trusted with a very great deal, and it is well for us if weare doing all we can as faithful servants, and in the end lay down ourtools with the feeling that we have tried to do our best. 

We must remember that each one is born in his station in life, wiselyarranged by "One Who Knows and Who Is Our Supreme Ruler. " No one canalter this nor say to him, "What Doest Thou?" so we must each and allkeep our station and honor the rich man and the poor man who humblytries to live a Christian life, and when their faults are seen by us maywe at once turn to ourselves and look if we are not human, too, and maybe as vile as they. 

We have noticed some visitors very rude to the servants and so differentto our own employers, and we set a mark on them, for we would not go toserve them. We remember once when our lady's brother was showing avisiting lady some old relics near the front door they came upon thehead housemaid who was cleaning the church pew chairs (they were carriedin while the church was being repaired), and she was near a very oldgrand piano. The lady asked in such a jeer, "And is this the housemaid'spiano"? The gentleman looked very hard at the housemaid, for we weresure that he was very annoyed at her, but we did not hear his answer;but the housemaid had the good sense to keep quiet, but she could havetold her to keep her jeers, for we were not her class of servant, neither was she our class of employer. We heard her character after, andnever cared to see her. Some servants take great liberties, and then allare supposed to be alike; but we are glad that all ladies are not likethis, for the world would be poor indeed; they would soon ruin all thegirls--and no wonder her husband had left her. We heard of a gentlemanwho fancied his laundry-maid, so he called his servants together andtold them that he was to marry her and bring her home as the lady of hishouse, and he hoped they would all stay where they were; but if theyfelt that they could not look upon her as their mistress and his wife, they were free to go away. And not one of them left, for they stayed onwith them for years. This is a true story from one who knew them andcould show us their London house. Now we have lived with superiorservants, and we would much rather serve them even now in our old agethan serve any lady who can never respect a servant. 

Nothing brings master and servant closer together than the sudden sorebereavement, and very likely this book could not be written so sad wereit not for the many sad days that have been spent in service, and now sovery few of the employers are to be seen; and when they are with us wefeel that we are still respected by them, for there is the usualwelcome--for they would look back the same as we do on days that aregone by. In our young days the curtsy was fashionable; you would seeevery man's daughter bobbing whenever they met the lady or gentlemen orwhen they met their teacher. The custom is gone now, and we wonder why;but the days are changed, and some call it education that is so fardoing this; it cannot be education, for we do look for more respect fromthe educated than from the class that we called the ignorant. 

How well off the servants are in these years of war, for they have norent to worry about and no anxiety about their coal bill, nor how food, etc. , is to be got in and paid for, no taxes nor cares like so many poorworking men; they are also sure of their wages when quarter day comesround. It is true she may have a widow mother who requires some helpwith rent, coals, or food, but there are many who ought to value a goodsituation, whether in the small comfortable house as general or inlarger good situations where a few servants are, for we have seen themall and know what they have been like, and so, we say that all as a ruleought to be very thankful that they are the domestic servant and sostudy to show gratitude by good deeds to all around, as there is workjust now for everyone to do. 

A great deal more could easily be written, and we hope some old servantmay also speak out in favor of domestic service, and so let it be againwhat it has been, and when both will look on each other as they ought, for there has always been master and servant, and we have the number ofservants, or near the number, given here by one who knows, 1, 330, 783female domestic servants at the last census in 1911, and so the domesticservice is the largest single industry that is; there are more peopleemployed as domestic servants than any other class of employment. Before closing this book the writer would ask that a kinder interest maybe taken in girls who may have at one time been in disgrace; many ofthem have no homes and we might try to help them into situations. Thisappeal is from the old housekeeper and so from one who has had many atalk with young girls for their good; but they have often been led farastray. We ought to give them the chance again, by trying to get themsituations, and if the lady is not her friend, nor the housekeeper, wepity her. 

3. The Reciprocal Character of Subordination and Superordination[231]

Every social occurrence consists of an interaction between individuals. In other words, each individual is at the same time an active and apassive agent in a transaction. In case of superiority and inferiority, however, the relation assumes the appearance of a one-sided operation;the one party appears to exert, while the other seems merely to receive, an influence. Such, however, is not in fact the case. No one would givehimself the trouble to gain or to maintain superiority if it affordedhim no advantage or enjoyment. This return to the superior can bederived from the relation, however, only by virtue of the fact thatthere is a reciprocal action of the inferior upon the superior. Thedecisive characteristic of the relation at this point is this, that theeffect which the inferior actually exerts upon the superior isdetermined by the latter. The superior causes the inferior to produce agiven effect which the superior shall experience. In this operation, incase the subordination is really absolute, no sort of spontaneity ispresent on the part of the subordinate. The reciprocal influence israther the same as that between a man and a lifeless external objectwith which the former performs an act for his own use. That is, theperson acts upon the object in order that the latter may react uponhimself. In this reaction of the object no spontaneity on the part ofthe object is to be observed, but merely the further operation of thespontaneity of the person. Such an extreme case of superiority andinferiority will scarcely occur among human beings. Rather will acertain measure of independence, a certain direction of the relationproceed also from the self-will and the character of the subordinate. The different cases of superiority and inferiority will accordingly becharacterized by differences in the relative amount of spontaneity whichthe subordinates and the superiors bring to bear upon the totalrelation. In exemplification of this reciprocal action of the inferior, through which superiority and inferiority manifests itself as propersocialization, I will mention only a few cases, in which the reciprocityis difficult to discern. 

When in the case of an absolute despotism the ruler attaches to hisedicts the threat of penalty or the promise of reward, the meaning isthat the monarch himself will be bound by the regulation which he hasordained. The inferior shall have the right, on the other hand, todemand something from the lawgiver. Whether the latter subsequentlygrants the promised reward or protection is another question. The spiritof the relation as contemplated by the law is that the superiorcompletely controls the inferior, to be sure, but that a certain claimis assured to the latter, which claim he may press or may allow tolapse, so that even this most definite form of the relation stillcontains an element of spontaneity on the part of the inferior. 

Still farther; the concept "law" seems to connote that he who gives thelaw is in so far unqualifiedly superior. Apart from those cases in whichthe law is instituted by those who will be its subjects, there appearsin lawgiving as such no sign of spontaneity on the part of the subjectof the law. It is, nevertheless, very interesting to observe how theRoman conception of law makes prominent the reciprocity between thesuperior and the subordinate elements. Thus _lex_ means originally"compact, " in the sense, to be sure, that the terms of the same arefixed by the proponent, and the other party can accept or reject it only_en bloc_. The _lex publica populi Romani_ meant originally that theking proposed and the people accepted the same. Thus even here, wherethe conception itself seems to express the complete one-sidedness of thesuperior, the nice social instinct of the Romans pointed in the verbalexpression to the co-operation of the subordinate. In consequence oflike feeling of the nature of socialization the later Roman juristsdeclared that the _societas leonina_ is not to be regarded as a socialcompact. Where the one absolutely controls the other, that is, where allspontaneity of the subordinate is excluded, there is no longer anysocialization. 

Once more, the orator who confronts the assembly, or the teacher hisclass, seems to be the sole leader, the temporary superior. Neverthelesseveryone who finds himself in that situation is conscious of thelimiting and controlling reaction of the mass which is apparently merelypassive and submissive to his guidance. This is the case not merely whenthe parties immediately confront each other. All leaders are also led, as in countless cases the master is the slave of his slaves. "I am yourleader, therefore I must follow you, " said one of the most eminentGerman parliamentarians, with reference to his party. Every journalistis influenced by the public upon which he seems to exert an influenceentirely without reaction. The most characteristic case of actualreciprocal influence, in spite of what appears to be subordinationwithout corresponding reaction, is that of hypnotic suggestion. Aneminent hypnotist recently asserted that in every hypnosis there occursan actual if not easily defined influence of the hypnotized upon thehypnotist, and that without this the effect would not be produced. 

4. Three Types of Subordination and Superordination[232]

Three possible types of superiority present themselves. Superiority maybe exercised (a) by an individual, (b) by a group, (c) by anobjective principle higher than individuals. 

a) _Subordination to an individual. _--The subordination of a group toa single person implies a very decided unification of the group. This isequally the case with both the characteristic forms of thissubordination, viz. : (1) when the group with its head constitutes a realinternal unity; when the superior is more a leader than a master andonly represents in himself the power and the will of the group; (2) whenthe group is conscious of opposition between itself and its head, when aparty opposed to the head is formed. In both cases the unity of thesupreme head tends to bring about an inner unification of the group. Theelements of the latter are conscious of themselves as belongingtogether, because their interests converge at one point. Moreover theopposition to this unified controlling power compels the group tocollect itself, to condense itself into unity. This is true not aloneof the political group. In the factory, the ecclesiastical community, aschool class, and in associated bodies of every sort it is to beobserved that the termination of the organization in a head, whether incase of harmony or of opposition, helps to effect unification of thegroup. This is most conspicuous to be sure in the political sphere. History has shown it to be the enormous advantage of monarchies thatthey unify the political interests of the popular mass. The totality hasa common interest in holding the prerogatives of the crown within theirboundaries, possibly in restricting them; or there is a common field ofconflict between those whose interests are with the crown and those whoare opposed. Thus there is a supreme point with reference to which thewhole people constitutes either a single party or, at most, two. Uponthe disappearance of its head, to which all are subordinate--with theend of this political pressure--all political unity often likewiseceases. There spring up a great number of party factions whichpreviously, in view of that supreme political interest for or againstthe monarchy, found no room. 

Wonder has often been felt over the irrationality of the condition inwhich a single person exercises lordship over a great mass of others. The contradiction will be modified when we reflect that the ruler andthe individual subject in the controlled mass by no means enter into therelationship with an equal _quantum_ of their personality. The mass iscomposed through the fact that many individuals unite fractions of theirpersonality--one-sided purposes, interests and powers, while that whicheach personality as such actually is towers above this common level anddoes not at all enter into that "mass, " i. E. , into that which is reallyruled by the single person. Hence it is also that frequently in verydespotically ruled groups individuality may develop itself very freely, in those aspects particularly which are not in participation with themass. Thus began the development of modern individuality in thedespotisms of the Italian Renaissance. Here, as in other similar cases(for example, under Napoleon I and Napoleon III), it was for the directinterest of the despots to allow the largest freedom to all thoseaspects of personality which were not identified with the regulatedmass, i. E. , to those aspects most apart from politics. Thussubordination was more tolerable. 

b) _Subordination to a group. _--In the second place the group mayassume the form of a pyramid. In this case the subordinates stand overagainst the superior not in an equalized mass but in very nicely gradedstrata of power. These strata grow constantly smaller in extent butgreater in significance. They lead up from the inferior mass to thehead, the single ruler. 

This form of the group may come into existence in two ways. It mayemerge from the autocratic supremacy of an individual. The latter oftenloses the substance of his power and allows it to slip downward, whileretaining its form and titles. In this case more of the power isretained by the orders nearest to the former autocrat than is acquiredby those more distant. Since the power thus gradually percolates, acontinuity and graduation of superiority and inferiority must developitself. This is, in fact, the way in which in oriental states the socialforms often arise. The power of the superior orders disintegrates, either because it is essentially incoherent and does not know how toattain the above-emphasized proportion between subordination andindividual freedom; or because the persons comprising the administrationare too indolent or too ignorant of governmental technique to preservesupreme power. For the power which is exercised over a large circle isnever a constant possession. It must be constantly acquired and defendedanew if anything more than its shadow and name is to remain. 

The other way in which a scale of power is constructed up to a supremehead is the reverse of that just described. Starting with a relativeequality of the social elements, certain elements gain greatersignificance; within the circle of influence thus constituted certainespecially powerful individuals differentiate themselves until thisdevelopment accommodates itself to one or to a few heads. The pyramid ofsuperiority and inferiority is built in this case from below upward, while in the former case the development was from above downward. Thissecond form of development is often found in economic relationships, where at first there exists a certain equality between the personscarrying on the work of a certain industrial society. Presently some ofthe number acquire wealth; others become poor; others fall intointermediate conditions which are as dependent upon an aristocracy ofproperty as the lower orders are upon the middle strata; thisaristocracy rises in manifold gradations to the magnates, of whomsometimes a single individual is appropriately designated as the "king"of a branch of industry. By a sort of combination of the two ways inwhich graded superiority and inferiority of the group come into beingthe feudalism of the Middle Ages arose. So long as the fullcitizen--either Greek, Roman, or Teutonic--knew no subordination underan individual, there existed for him on the one hand complete equalitywith those of his own order, but on the other hand rigid exclusivenesstoward those of lower orders. Feudalism remodeled this characteristicsocial form into the equally characteristic arrangement which filled thegap between freedom and bondage with a scale of classes. 

A peculiar form of subordination to a number of individuals isdetermination by vote of a majority. The presumption of majority rule isthat there is a collection of elements originally possessing equalrights. In the process of voting the individual places himself insubordination to a power of which he is a part, but in this way, that itis left to his own volition whether he will belong to the superior orthe inferior, i. E. , the outvoted party. We are not now interested incases of this complex problem in which the superiority is entirelyformal, as, for example, in resolves of scientific congresses, but onlywith those in which the individual is constrained to an action by thewill of the party outvoting him, that is, in which he must practicallysubordinate himself to the majority. This dominance of numbers throughthe fact that others, though only equal in right, have another opinion, is by no means the matter of course which it seems to us today in ourtime of determinations by masses. Ancient German law knew nothing of it. If one did not agree with the resolve of the community, he was not boundby it. As an application of this principle, unanimity was laternecessary in the choice of king, evidently because it could not beexpected or required that one who had not chosen the king would obeyhim. The English baron who had opposed authorizing a levy, or who hadnot been present, often refused to pay it. In the tribal council of theIroquois, as in the Polish Parliament, decisions had to be unanimous. There was therefore no subordination of an individual to a majority, unless we consider the fact that a proposition was regarded as rejectedif it did not receive unanimous approval, a subordination, an outvoting, of the person proposing the measure. 

When, on the contrary, majority rule exists, two modes of subordinationof the minority are possible, and discrimination between them is of thehighest sociological significance. Control of the minority may, in thefirst place, arise from the fact that the many are more powerful thanthe few. Although, or rather because, the individuals participating in avote are supposed to be equals, the majority have the physical power tocoerce the minority. The taking of a vote and the subjection of theminority serves the purpose of avoiding such actual measurement ofstrength, but accomplishes practically the same result through the countof votes, since the minority is convinced of the futility of such resortto force. There exist in the group two parties in opposition as thoughthey were two groups, between which relative strength, represented bythe vote, is to decide. 

Quite another principle is in force, however, in the second place, wherethe group as a unity predominates over all individuals and so proceedsthat the passing of votes shall _merely give expression to the unitarygroup will_. In the transition from the former to this second principlethe enormously important step is taken from a unity made up merely ofthe sum of individuals to recognition and operation of an abstractobjective group unity. Classic antiquity took this step muchearlier--not only absolutely but relatively earlier--than the Germanpeoples. Among the latter the oneness of the community did not existover and against the individuals who composed it but entirely in them. Consequently the group will was not only not enacted but it did not evenexist so long as a single member dissented. The group was not completeunless all its members were united, since it was only in the sum of itsmembers that the group consisted. In case the group, however, is aself-existent structure--whether consciously or merely in point offact--in case the group organization effected by union of theindividuals remains along with and in spite of the individual changes, this self-existent unity--state, community, association for adistinctive purpose--must surely will and act in a definite manner. Since, however, only one of two contradictory opinions can ultimatelyprevail, it is assumed as more probable that the majority knows orrepresents this will better than the minority. According to thepresumptive principle involved the minority is, in this case, notexcluded but included. The subordination of the minority is thus in thisstage of sociological development quite different from that in case themajority simply represents the stronger power. In the case in hand themajority does not speak in its own name but in that of the ideal unityand totality. It is only to this unity, which speaks by the mouth of themajority, that the minority subordinates itself. This is the immanentprinciple of our parliamentary decisions. 

c) _Subordination to an impersonal principle. _--To these must bejoined, third, those formations in which subordination is neither to anindividual nor yet to a majority, but to an impersonal objectiveprinciple. Here, where we seem to be estopped from speaking of a_reciprocal influence_ between the superior and the subordinate, asociological interest enters in but two cases: first, when this idealsuperior principle is to be interpreted as the psychologicalconsolidation of a real social power; second, when the principleestablishes specific and characteristic relationships between those whoare subject to it in common. The former case appears chiefly inconnection with the moral imperatives. In the moral consciousness wefeel ourselves subject to a decree which does not appear to be issued byany personal human power; we hear the voice of conscience only inourselves, although with a force and definiteness, in contrast with allsubjective egoism, which, as it seems, could have had its source onlyfrom an authority outside the subject. As is well known, the attempt hasbeen made to resolve this contradiction by the assumption that we havederived the content of morality from social decrees. Whatever isserviceable to the species and to the group, whatever on that account isdemanded of the members for the self-preservation of the group, isgradually bred into individuals as an instinct, so that it assertsitself as a peculiar autonomous impression by the side of the properlypersonal, and consequently often contradictory, impulses. Thus would beexplained the double character of the moral command. On the one side itappears to us as an impersonal order to which we have simply to yield. On the other side, however, no visible external power but only our ownmost real and personal instinct enforces it upon us. Sociologically thisis of interest as an example of a wholly peculiar form of reactionbetween the individual and his group. The social force is herecompletely grown into the individual himself. 

We now turn to the second sociological question raised by the case ofsubordination to an impersonal ideal principle. How does thissubordination affect the reciprocal relation of the persons thussubordinated in common? The development of the position of the _paterfamilias_ among the Aryans exhibits this process clearly. The power ofthe _pater familias_ was originally unlimited and entirely subjective;that is, his momentary desire, his personal advantage, was permitted togive the decision upon all regulations. But this arbitrary powergradually became limited by a feeling of responsibility. The unity ofthe domestic group, embodied in the _spiritus familiaris_, grew into theideal power, in relation to which the lord of the whole came to regardhimself as merely an obedient agent. Accordingly it follows that moralsand custom, instead of subjective preference, determine his acts, hisdecisions, his judicial judgments; that he no longer behaves as thoughhe were absolute lord of the family property, but rather the manager ofit in the interest of the whole; that his position bears more thecharacter of an official station than that of an unlimited right. Thusthe relation between superiors and inferiors is placed upon an entirelynew basis. The family is thought of as standing above all the individualmembers. The guiding patriarch himself is, like every other member, subordinate to the family idea. He may give directions to the othermembers of the family only in the name of the higher ideal unity. 

C. CONFLICT AND ACCOMMODATION

1. War and Peace as Types of Conflict and Accommodation[233]

It is obvious that the transition from war to peace must present a moreconsiderable problem than the reverse, i. E. , the transition from peaceto war. The latter really needs no particular scrutiny. For thesituations existing in time of peace are precisely the conditions out ofwhich war emerges and contain in themselves struggle in a diffused, unobserved, or latent form. For instance, if the economic advantagewhich the southern states of the American Union had over the northernstates in the Civil War as a consequence of the slave system was alsothe reason for this war, still, so long as no antagonism arises from it, but is merely immanent in the existing conditions, this source ofconflict did not become specifically a question of war and peace. At themoment, however, at which the antagonism began to assume a color whichmeant war, an accumulation of antagonisms, feelings of hatred, newspaper polemics, frictions between private persons, and on theborders reciprocal moral equivocations in matters outside of the centralantithesis at once manifested themselves. The transition from peace towar is thus not distinguished by a special sociological situation. Rather out of relationships existing within a peaceful situationantagonism is developed immediately, in its most visible and, energeticform. The case is different, however, if the matter is viewed from theopposite direction. Peace does not follow so immediately upon conflict. The termination of strife is a special undertaking which belongs neitherin the one category nor in the other, like a bridge which is of adifferent nature from that of either bank which it unites. The sociologyof struggle demands, therefore, at least as an appendix, an analysis ofthe forms in which conflict is terminated, and these exhibit certainspecial forms of reaction not to be observed in other circumstances. 

The particular motive which in most cases corresponds with thetransition from war to peace is the simple longing for peace. With theemergence of this factor there comes into being, as a matter of fact, peace itself, at first in the form of the wish immediately parallel withthe struggle itself, and it may without any special transitional formdisplace struggle. We need not pause long to observe that the desire forpeace may spring up both directly and indirectly; the former may occureither through the return to power of this peaceful character in theparty which is essentially in favor of peace; or through the fact that, through the mere change of the formal stimulus of struggle and of peacewhich is peculiar to all natures, although in different rhythms, thelatter comes to the surface and assumes a control which is sanctioned byits own nature alone. In the case of the indirect motive, however, wemay distinguish, on the one hand, the exhaustion of resources which, without removal of the persistent contentiousness, may instal the demandfor peace; and, on the other hand, the withdrawal of interest fromstruggle through a higher interest in some other object. The latter casebegets all sorts of hypocrisies and self-deceptions. It is asserted andbelieved that peace is desired from ideal interest in peace itself andthe suppression of antagonism, while in reality only the object foughtfor has lost its interest and the fighters would prefer to have theirpowers free for other kinds of activity. 

The simplest and most radical sort of passage from war to peace isvictory--a quite unique phenomenon in life, of which there are, to besure, countless individual forms and measures, which, however, have noresemblance to any of the otherwise mentioned forms which may occurbetween persons. Victory is a mere watershed between war and peace; whenconsidered absolutely, only an ideal structure which extends itself overno considerable time. For so long as struggle endures there is nodefinitive victor, and when peace exists a victory _has been_ gained butthe act of victory has ceased to exist. Of the many shadings of victory, through which it qualifies the following peace, I mention here merely asan illustration the one which is brought about, not exclusively by thepreponderance of the one party, but, at least in part, through theresignation of the other. This confession of inferiority, thisacknowledgment of defeat, or this consent that victory shall go to theother party without complete exhaustion of the resources and chances forstruggle, is by no means always a simple phenomenon. A certain ascetictendency may also enter in as a purely individual factor, the tendencyto self-humiliation and to self-sacrifice, not strong enough tosurrender one's self from the start without a struggle, but emerging sosoon as the consciousness of being vanquished begins to take possessionof the soul; or another variation may be that of finding its supremecharm in the contrast to the still vital and active disposition tostruggle. Still further, there is impulse to the same conclusion in thefeeling that it is worthier to yield rather than to trust to the lastmoment in the improbable chance of a fortunate turn of affairs. To throwaway this chance and to elude at this price the final consequences thatwould be involved in utter defeat--this has something of the great andnoble qualities of men who are sure, not merely of their strengths, butalso of their weaknesses, without making it necessary for them in eachcase to make these perceptibly conscious. Finally, in this voluntarinessof confessed defeat there is a last proof of power on the part of theagent; the latter has of himself been able to act. He has therewithvirtually made a gift to the conqueror. Consequently, it is often to beobserved in personal conflicts that the concession of the one party, before the other has actually been able to compel it, is regarded by thelatter as a sort of insult, as though this latter party were really theweaker, to whom, however, for some reason or other, there is made aconcession without its being really necessary. Behind the objectivereasons for yielding "for the sake of sweet peace" a mixture of thesesubjective motives is not seldom concealed. The latter may not beentirely without visible consequences, however, for the furthersociological attitude of the parties. In complete antithesis with theend of strife by victory is its ending by compromise. One of the mostcharacteristic ways of subdividing struggles is on the basis of whetherthey are of a nature which admits of compromise or not. 

2. Compromise and Accommodation[234]

On the whole, compromise, especially of that type which is brought topass through negotiation, however commonplace and matter of fact it hascome to be in the processes of modern life, is one of the most importantinventions for the uses of civilization. The impulse of uncivilized men, like that of children, is to seize upon every desirable object withoutfurther consideration, even though it be already in the possession ofanother. Robbery and gift are the most naïve forms of transfer ofpossession, and under primitive conditions change of possession seldomtakes place without a struggle. It is the beginning of all civilizedindustry and commerce to find a way of avoiding this struggle through aprocess in which there is offered to the possessor of a desired objectsome other object from the possessions of the person desiring theexchange. Through this arrangement a reduction is made in the totalexpenditure of energy as compared with the process of continuing orbeginning a struggle. All exchange is a compromise. We are told ofcertain social conditions in which it is accounted as knightly to roband to fight for the sake of robbery; while exchange and purchase areregarded in the same society as undignified and vulgar. Thepsychological explanation of this situation is to be found partly in thefact of the element of compromise in exchange, the factors of withdrawaland renunciation which make exchange the opposite pole to all struggleand conquest. Every exchange presupposes that values and interest haveassumed an objective character. The decisive element is accordingly nolonger the mere subjective passion of desire, to which struggle alonecorresponds, but the value of the object, which is recognized by bothinterested parties but which without essential modification may berepresented by various objects. Renunciation of the valued object inquestion, because one receives in another form the quantum of valuecontained in the same, is an admirable reason, wonderful also in itssimplicity, whereby opposed interests are brought to accommodationwithout struggle. It certainly required a long historical development tomake such means available, because it presupposes a psychologicalgeneralization of the universal valuation of the individual object, anabstraction, in other words, of the value for the objects with which itis at first identified; that is, it presupposes ability to rise abovethe prejudices of immediate desire. Compromise by representation, ofwhich exchange is a special case, signifies in principle, althoughrealized only in part, the possibility of avoiding struggle or ofsetting a limit to it before the mere force of the interested partieshas decided the issue. 

In distinction from the objective character of accommodation of strugglethrough compromise, we should notice that conciliation is a purelysubjective method of avoiding struggle. I refer here not to that sort ofconciliation which is the consequence of a compromise or of any otheradjournment of struggle but rather to the reasons for this adjournment. The state of mind which makes conciliation possible is an elementaryattitude which, entirely apart from objective grounds, seeks to endstruggle, just as, on the other hand, a disposition to quarrel, evenwithout any real occasion, promotes struggle. Probably both mentalattitudes have been developed as matters of utility in connection withcertain situations; at any rate, they have been developedpsychologically to the extent of independent impulses, each of which islikely to make itself felt where the other would be more practicallyuseful. We may even say that in the countless cases in which struggle isended otherwise than in the pitiless consistency of the exercise offorce, this quite elementary and unreasoned tendency to conciliation isa factor in the result--a factor quite distinct from weakness, or goodfellowship; from social morality or fellow-feeling. This tendency toconciliation is, in fact, a quite specific sociological impulse whichmanifests itself exclusively as a pacificator, and is not even identicalwith the peaceful disposition in general. The latter avoids strife underall circumstances, or carries it on, if it is once undertaken, withoutgoing to extremes, and always with the undercurrents of longing forpeace. The spirit of conciliation, however, manifests itself frequentlyin its full peculiarity precisely after complete surrender to thestruggle, after the conflicting energies have exercised themselves tothe full in the conflict. 

Conciliation depends very definitely upon the external situation. It canoccur both after the complete victory of the one party and after theprogress of indecisive struggle, as well as after the arrangement of thecompromise. Either of these situations may end the struggle without theadded conciliation of the opponents. To bring about the latter it is notnecessary that there shall be a supplementary repudiation or expressionof regret with reference to the struggle. Moreover, conciliation is tobe distinguished from the situation which may follow it. This may beeither a relationship of attachment or alliance, and reciprocal respect, or a certain permanent distance which avoids all positive contacts. Conciliation is thus a removal of the roots of conflict, withoutreference to the fruits which these formerly bore, as well as to thatwhich may later be planted in their place. 

D. COMPETITION, STATUS, AND SOCIAL SOLIDARITY

1. Personal Competition, Social Selection, and Status[235]

The function of personal competition, considered as a part of the socialsystem, is to assign to each individual his place in that system. If"all the world's a stage, " this is a process that distributes the partsamong the players. It may do it well or ill, but after some fashion itdoes it. Some may be cast in parts unsuited to them; good actors may bedischarged altogether and worse ones retained; but nevertheless thething is arranged in some way and the play goes on. 

That such a process must exist can hardly, it seems to me, admit ofquestion; in fact, I believe that those who speak of doing away withcompetition use the word in another sense than is here intended. Withinthe course of the longest human life there is necessarily a completerenewal of the persons whose communication and co-operation make up thelife of society. The new members come into the world without any legiblesign to indicate what they are fit for, a mystery to others from thefirst and to themselves as soon as they are capable of reflection: theyoung man does not know for what he is adapted, and no one else can tellhim. The only possible way to get light upon the matter is to adopt themethod of experiment. By trying one thing and another and by reflectingupon his experience, he begins to find out about himself, and the worldbegins to find out about him. His field of investigation is of courserestricted, and his own judgment and that of others liable to error, butthe tendency of it all can hardly be other than to guide his choice tothat one of the available careers in which he is best adapted to holdhis own. I may say this much, perhaps, without assuming anythingregarding the efficiency or justice of competition as a distributor ofsocial functions, a matter regarding which I shall offer somesuggestions later. All I wish to say here is that the necessity of someselective process is inherent in the conditions of social life. 

It will be apparent that, in the sense in which I use the term, competition is not necessarily a hostile contention, nor even somethingof which the competing individual is always conscious. From our infancyonward throughout life judgments are daily forming regarding us of whichwe are unaware, but which go to determine our careers. "The world isfull of judgment days. " A and B, for instance, are under considerationfor some appointment; the experience and personal qualifications of eachare duly weighed by those having the appointment to make, and A, we willsay, is chosen. Neither of the two need know anything about the matteruntil the selection is made. It is eligibility to perform some socialfunction that makes a man a competitor, and he may or may not be awareof it, or, if aware of it, he may or may not be consciously opposed toothers. I trust that the reader will bear in mind that I always use theword competition in the sense here explained. 

There is but one alternative to competition as a means of determiningthe place of the individual in the social system, and that is some formof status, some fixed, mechanical rule, usually a rule of inheritance, which decides the function of the individual without reference to hispersonal traits, and thus dispenses with any process of comparison. Itis possible to conceive of a society organized entirely upon the basisof the inheritance of functions, and indeed societies exist which may besaid to approach this condition. In India, for example, the prevalentidea regarding the social function of the individual is that it isunalterably determined by his parentage, and the village blacksmith, shoemaker, accountant, or priest has his place assigned to him by a ruleof descent as rigid as that which governs the transmission of one of thecrowns of Europe. If all functions were handed down in this way, ifthere were never any deficiency or surplus of children to take the placeof their parents, if there were no progress or decay in the socialsystem making necessary new activities or dispensing with old ones, thenthere would be no use for a selective process. But precisely in themeasure that a society departs from this condition, that individualtraits are recognized and made available, or social change of any sortcomes to pass, in that measure must there be competition. 

Status is not an active process, as competition is; it is simply a ruleof conservation, a makeshift to avoid the inconveniences of continualreadjustment in the social structure. Competition or selection is theonly constructive principle, and everything worthy the name oforganization had at some time or other a competitive origin. At thepresent day the eldest son of a peer may succeed to a seat in the Houseof Lords simply by right of birth; but his ancestor got the seat bycompetition, by some exercise of personal qualities that made him valuedor loved or feared by a king or a minister. 

Sir Henry Maine has pointed out that the increase of competition is acharacteristic trait of modern life, and that the powerful ancientsocieties of the old world were for the most part non-competitive intheir structure. While this is true, it would be a mistake to draw theinference that status is a peculiarly natural or primitive principle oforganization and competition a comparatively recent discovery. On thecontrary the spontaneous relations among men, as we see in the case ofchildren, and as we may infer from the life of the lower animals, arehighly competitive, personal prowess and ascendency being everything andlittle regard being paid to descent simply as such. The régime ofinherited status, on the other hand, is a comparatively complex andartificial product, necessarily of later growth, whose very generalprevalence among the successful societies of the old world is doubtlessto be explained by the stability and consequently the power which it wascalculated to give to the social system. It survived because undercertain conditions it was the fittest. It was not and is notuniversally predominant among savages or barbarous peoples. With theAmerican Indians, for example, the definiteness and authority of statuswere comparatively small, personal prowess and initiative beingcorrespondingly important. The interesting monograph on Omaha sociology, by Dorsey, published by the United States Bureau of Ethnology, containsmany facts showing that the life of this people was highly competitive. When the tribe was at war any brave could organize an expedition againstthe enemy, if he could induce enough others to join him, and thisorganizer usually assumed the command. In a similar way the managers ofthe hunt were chosen because of personal skill; and, in general, "anyman can win a name and rank in the state by becoming 'wacuce' or brave, either in war or by the bestowal of gifts and the frequent giving offeasts. "

Throughout history there has been a struggle between the principles ofstatus and competition regarding the part that each should play in thesocial system. Generally speaking the advantage of status is in itspower to give order and continuity. As Gibbon informs us, "The superiorprerogative of birth, when it has obtained the sanction of time andpopular opinion, is the plainest and least invidious of all distinctionsamong mankind, " and he is doubtless right in ascribing the confusion ofthe later Roman Empire largely to the lack of an established rule forthe transmission of imperial authority. The chief danger of status isthat of suppressing personal development, and so of causing socialenfeeblement, rigidity, and ultimate decay. On the other hand, competition develops the individual and gives flexibility and animationto the social order, its danger being chiefly that of disintegration insome form or other. The general tendency in modern times has been towardthe relative increase of the free or competitive principle, owing to thefact that the rise of other means of securing stability has diminishedthe need for status. The latter persists, however, even in the freestcountries, as the method by which wealth is transmitted, and also insocial classes, which, so far as they exist at all, are based chieflyupon inherited wealth and the culture and opportunities that go with it. The ultimate reason for this persistence--without very seriousopposition--in the face of the obvious inequalities and limitationsupon liberty that it perpetuates is perhaps the fact that no othermethod of transmission has arisen that has shown itself capable ofgiving continuity and order to the control of wealth. 

2. Personal Competition and the Evolution of Individual Types[236]

The ancient city was primarily a fortress, a place of refuge in time ofwar. The modern city, on the contrary, is primarily a convenience ofcommerce and owes its existence to the market place around which itsprang up. Industrial competition and the division of labor, which haveprobably done most to develop the latent powers of mankind, are possibleonly upon condition of the existence of markets, of money and otherdevices for the facilitation of trade and commerce. 

The old adage which describes the city as the natural environment, ofthe free man still holds so far as the individual man finds in thechances, the diversity of interests and tasks, and in the vastunconscious co-operation of city life, the opportunity to choose his ownvocation and develop his peculiar individual talents. The city offers amarket for the special talents of individual men. Personal competitiontends to select for each special task the individual who is best suitedto perform it. 

 The difference of natural talents in different men is, in reality, much less than we are aware of; and the very different genius which appears to distinguish men of different professions, when grown up to maturity, is not upon many occasions so much the cause, as the effect of the division of labour. The difference between the most dissimilar characters, between a philosopher and a common street porter, for example, seems to arise not so much from nature, as from habit, custom and education. When they came into the world, and for the first six or eight years of their existence, they were perhaps very much alike, and neither their parents nor playfellows could perceive any remarkable difference. About that age, or soon after, they come to be employed in different occupations. The difference of talents comes then to be taken notice of, and widens by degrees, till at last the vanity of the philosopher is willing to acknowledge scarce any resemblance. But without the disposition to truck, barter, and exchange, every man must have procured to himself every necessary and conveniency of life which he wanted. All must have had the same duties to perform, and the same work to do, and there could have been no such difference of employment as could alone give occasion to any great difference of talent. 

 As it is the power of exchanging that gives occasion to the division of labour, so the extent of this division must always be limited by the extent of that power, or, in other words, by the extent of the market.... There are some sorts of industry, even of the lowest kind, which can be carried on nowhere but in a great town. 

Success, under conditions of personal competition, depends uponconcentration upon some single task, and this concentration stimulatesthe demand for rational methods, technical devices, and exceptionalskill. Exceptional skill, while based on natural talent, requiresspecial preparation, and it has called into existence the trade andprofessional schools, and finally bureaus for vocational guidance. Allof these, either directly or indirectly, serve at once to select andemphasize individual differences. 

Every device which facilitates trade and industry prepares the way for afurther division of labor and so tends further to specialize the tasksin which men find their vocations. 

The outcome of this process is to break down or modify the olderorganization of society, which was based on family ties, on localassociations, on culture, caste, and status, and to substitute for it anorganization based on vocational interests. 

In the city every vocation, even that of a beggar, tends to assume thecharacter of a profession, and the discipline which success in anyvocation imposes, together with the associations that it enforces, emphasizes this tendency. 

The effect of the vocations and the division of labor is to produce, inthe first instance, not social groups but vocational types--the actor, the plumber, and the lumber-jack. The organizations, like the trade andlabor unions, which men of the same trade or profession form are basedon common interests. In this respect they differ from forms ofassociation like the neighborhood, which are based on contiguity, personal association, and the common ties of humanity. The differenttrades and professions seem disposed to group themselves in classes, that is to say, the artisan, business, and professional classes. But inthe modern democratic state the classes have as yet attained noeffective organization. Socialism, founded on an effort to create anorganization based on "class consciousness, " has never succeeded increating more than a political party. 

The effects of the division of labor as a discipline may therefore bebest studied in the vocational types it has produced. Among the typeswhich it would be interesting to study are: the shopgirl, the policeman, the peddler, the cabman, the night watchman, the clairvoyant, thevaudeville performer, the quack doctor, the bartender, the ward boss, the strike-breaker, the labor agitator, the school teacher, thereporter, the stockbroker, the pawnbroker; all of these arecharacteristic products of the conditions of city life; each with itsspecial experience, insight, and point of view determines for eachvocational group and for the city as a whole its individuality. 

3. Division of Labor and Social Solidarity[237]

The most remarkable effect of the division of labor is not that itaccentuates the distinction of functions already divided but that itmakes them interdependent. Its rôle in every case is not simply toembellish or perfect existing societies but to make possible societieswhich, without it, would not exist. Should the division of labor betweenthe sexes be diminished beyond a certain point, the family would ceaseto exist and only ephemeral sexual relations would remain. If the sexeshad never been separated at all, no form of social life would ever havearisen. It is possible that the economic utility of the division oflabor has been a factor in producing the existing form of conjugalsociety. Nevertheless, the society thus created is not limited to merelyeconomic interests; it represents a unique social and moral order. Individuals are mutually bound together who otherwise would beindependent. Instead of developing separately, they concert theirefforts; they are interdependent parts of a unity which is effective notonly in the brief moments during which there is an interchange ofservices but afterward indefinitely. For example, does not conjugalsolidarity of the type which exists today among the most cultivatedpeople exert its influence constantly and in all the details of life? Onthe other hand, societies which are created by the division of laborinevitably bear the mark of their origin. Having this special origin, itis not possible that they should resemble those societies which havetheir origin in the attraction of like for like; the latter areinevitably constituted in another manner, repose on other foundations, and appeal to other sentiments. 

The assumption that the social relations resulting from the division oflabor consist in an exchange of services merely is a misconception ofwhat this exchange implies and of the effects it produces. It assumesthat two beings are mutually dependent the one on the other, becausethey are both incomplete without the other. It interprets this mutualdependence as a purely external relation. Actually this is merely thesuperficial expression of an internal and more profound state. Preciselybecause this state is constant, it provokes a complex of mental imageswhich function with a continuity independent of the series of externalrelations. The image of that which completes us is inseparable from theimage of ourselves, not only because it is associated with us, butespecially because it is our natural complement. It becomes then apermanent and integral part of self-consciousness to such an extent thatwe cannot do without it and seek by every possible means to emphasizeand intensify it. We like the society of the one whose image haunts us, because the presence of the object reinforces the actual perception andgives us comfort. We suffer, on the contrary, from every circumstancewhich, like separation and death, is likely to prevent the return ordiminish the vivacity of the idea which has become identified with ouridea of ourselves. 

Short as this analysis is, it suffices to show that this complex is notidentical with that which rests on sentiments of sympathy which havetheir source in mere likeness. Unquestionably there can be the sense ofsolidarity between others and ourselves only so far as we conceiveothers united with ourselves. When the union results from a perceptionof likeness, it is a cohesion. The two representations becomeconsolidated because, being undistinguished totally or in part, they aremingled and are no more than one, and are consolidated only in themeasure in which they are mingled. On the contrary, in the case of thedivision of labor, each is outside the other, and they are united onlybecause they are distinct. It is not possible that sentiments should bethe same in the two cases, nor the social relations which are derivedfrom them the same. 

We are then led to ask ourselves if the division of labor does not playthe same rôle in more extended groups; if, in the contemporaneoussocieties where it has had a development with which we are familiar, itdoes not function in such a way as to integrate the social body and toassure its unity. It is quite legitimate to assume that the facts whichwe have observed reproduce themselves there, but on a larger scale. Thegreat political societies, like smaller ones, we may assume maintainthemselves in equilibrium, thanks to the specialization of their tasks. The division of labor is here, again, if not the only, at least theprincipal, source of the social solidarity. Comte had already reachedthis point of view. Of all the sociologists, so far as we know, he isthe first who has pointed out in the division of labor anything otherthan a purely economic phenomenon. He has seen there "the most essentialcondition of the social life, " provided that one conceives it "in allits rational extent, that is to say, that one applies the conception tothe ensemble of all our diverse operations whatsoever, instead oflimiting it, as we so often do, to the simple material usages. "Considered under this aspect, he says:

 It immediately leads us to regard not only individuals and classes but also, in many respects, the different peoples as constantly participating, in their own characteristic ways and in their own proper degree, in an immense and common work whose inevitable development gradually unites the actual co-operators in a series with their predecessors and at the same time in a series with their successors. It is, then, the continuous redivison of our diverse human labors which mainly constitutes social solidarity and which becomes the elementary cause of the extension and increasing complexity of the social organism. 

If this hypothesis is demonstrated, division of labor plays a rôle muchmore important than that which has ordinarily been attributed to it. Itis not to be regarded as a mere luxury, desirable perhaps, but notindispensable to society; it is rather a condition of its veryexistence. It is this, or at least it is mainly this, that assures thesolidarity of social groups; it determines the essential traits of theirconstitution. It follows--even though we are not yet prepared to give afinal solution to the problem, we can nevertheless foresee from thispoint--that, if such is really the function of the division of labor, itmay be expected to have a moral character, because the needs of order, of harmony, of social solidarity generally, are what we understand bymoral needs. 

Social life is derived from a double source: (a) from a similarity ofminds, and (b) from the division of labor. The individual issocialized in the first case, because, not having his own individuality, he is confused, along with his fellows, in the bosom of the samecollective type; in the second case, because, even though he possesses aphysiognomy and a temperament which distinguish him from others, he isdependent upon these in the same measure in which he is distinguishedfrom them. Society results from this union. 

Like-mindedness gives birth to judicial regulations which, under themenace of measures of repression, impose upon everybody uniform beliefsand practices. The more pronounced this like-mindedness, the morecompletely the social is confused with the religious life, the morenearly economic institutions approach communism. 

The division of labor, on the other hand, gives birth to regulations andlaws which determine the nature and the relations of the dividedfunctions, but the violation of which entails only punitive measures notof an expiatory character. 

Every code of laws is accompanied by a body of regulations purely moral. Where the penal law is voluminous, moral consensus is very extended;that is to say, a multitude of collective activities is under theguardianship of public opinion. Where the right of reparation is welldeveloped, there each profession maintains a code of professionalethics. In a group of workers there invariably exists a body of opinion, diffused throughout the limits of the group, which, although notfortified with legal sanctions, still enforces its decrees. There aremanners and customs, recognized by all the members of a profession, which no one of them could infringe without incurring the blame ofsociety. Certainly this code of morals is distinguished from thepreceding by differences analogous to those which separate the twocorresponding kinds of laws. It is, in fact, a code localized in alimited region of society. Furthermore, the repressive character of thesanctions which are attached to it is sensibly less accentuated. Professional faults arouse a much feebler response than offenses againstthe mores of the larger society. 

Nevertheless, the customs and code of a profession are imperative. Theyoblige the individual to act in accordance with ends which to him arenot his own, to make concessions, to consent to compromises, to takeaccount of interests superior to his own. The consequence is that, evenwhere the society rests most completely upon the division of labor, itdoes not disintegrate into a dust of atoms, between which there canexist only external and temporary contacts. Every function which oneindividual exercises is invariably dependent upon functions exercised byothers and forms with them a system of interdependent parts. It followsthat, from the nature of the task one chooses, corresponding dutiesfollow. Because we fill this or that domestic or social function, we areimprisoned in a net of obligations from which we do not have the rightto free ourselves. There is especially one organ toward which our stateof dependencies is ever increasing--the state. The points at which weare in contact with it are multiplying. So are the occasions in which ittakes upon itself to recall us to a sense of the common solidarity. 

There are then two great currents in the social life, collectivism andindividualism, corresponding to which we discover two types of structurenot less different. Of these currents, that which has its origin inlike-mindedness is at first alone and without rival. At this moment itis identified with the very life of the society; little by little itfinds its separate channels and diminishes, whilst the second becomesever larger. In the same way, the segmentary structure of society ismore and more overlaid by the other, but without ever disappearingcompletely. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. Forms of Accommodation

The literature upon accommodation will be surveyed under four heads;(a) forms of accommodation; (b) subordination and superordination;(c) accommodation groups; and (d) social organization. 

The term accommodation, as has been noted, developed as adifferentiation within the field of the biological concept ofadaptation. Ward's dictum that "the environment transforms the animal, while man transforms the environment"[238] contained the distinction. Thomas similarly distinguished between the animal with its method ofadaptation and man with his method of control. Bristol in his work on_Social Adaptation_ is concerned, as the subtitle of the volumeindicates, "with the development of the doctrine of adaptation as atheory of social progress. " Of the several types of adaptation that heproposes, however, all but the first represent accommodations. Baldwin, though not the first to make the distinction, was the first student touse the separate term accommodation. "By accommodation old habits arebroken up, and new co-ordinations are made which are more complex. "[239]

Baldwin suggested a division of accommodation into the three fields:acclimatization, naturalization, and equilibrium. The term equilibriumaccurately describes the type of organization established by competitionbetween the different biological species and the environment, but notthe more permanent organizations of individuals and groups which we findin human society. In human society equilibrium means organization. Theresearch upon acclimatization is considerable, although there is farfrom unanimity of opinion in regard to its findings. 

Closely related to acclimatization but in the field of socialnaturalization are the accommodations that take place in colonizationand immigration. In colonization the adjustment is not only to climaticconditions but to the means of livelihood and habits of life required bythe new situation. Historic colonial settlements have most infrequentlybeen made in inhospitable areas, and that involved accommodations toprimitive peoples of different and generally lower cultural level thanthe settlers. Professor Keller's work on _Colonization_ surveys thedifferences in types of colonial ventures and describes the adjustmentsinvolved. It includes also a valuable bibliography of the literature ofthe subject. 

In immigration the accommodation to the economic situation and to thefolkways and mores of the native society are more important than incolonization. The voluminous literature upon immigration deals butslightly with the interesting accommodations of the newcomer to his newenvironment. One of the important factors in the process, as emphasizedin the recent "Americanization Study" of the Carnegie Corporation, isthe immigrant community which serves as a mediating agency between thefamiliar and the strange. The greater readiness of accommodation ofrecent immigrants as compared with that of an earlier period has beenexplained in terms of facilities of transportation, communication, andeven more in the mobility of employment in large-scale modern industrywith its minute subdivision of labor and its slight demand for skill andtraining on the part of the employees. 

The more subtle forms of accommodation to new social situations have notbeen subjected to analysis, although there is a small but importantnumber of studies upon homesickness. In fiction, to be sure, thedifficulties of the tenderfoot in the frontier community, or the awkwardrural lad in an urban environment and the _nouveau riche_ in theirsuccessful entrée among the social élite are often accuately andsympathetically described. The recent immigrant autobiographies containmaterials which throw much new light on the situation of the immigrantin process of accommodation to the American environment. 

The whole process of social organization is involved in the processes bywhich persons find their places in groups and groups are articulatedinto the life of the larger and more inclusive societies. The literatureon the taming of animals, the education of juveniles and adults, and onsocial control belongs in this field. The writings on diplomacy, onstatescraft, and upon adjudication of disputes are also to be consideredhere. The problem of the person whether in the narrow field of socialwork or the broader fields of human relations is fundamentally a problemof the adjustment of the person to his social milieu, to his family, tohis primary social groups, to industry, and to cultural, civic, andreligious institutions. The problems of community organization are forthe most part problems of accommodation, of articulation of groupswithin the community and of the adjustment of the local Community to thelife of the wider community of which it is a part. 

Adjustments of personal and social relations in the past have been madeunreflectively and with a minimum of personal and social consciousness. The extant literature reveals rather an insistent demand for theseaccommodations than any systematic study of the processes by which theaccommodations take place. Simmel's observation upon subordination andsuperordination is almost the only attempt that has been made to dealwith the subject from the point of view of sociology. 

2. Subordination and Superordination

Materials upon subordination and superordination may be found in theliterature under widely different names. Thorndike, McDougall, andothers have reported upon the original tendencies in the individual todomination and submission or to self-assertion and self-abasement. Veblen approaches nearer to a sociological explanation in his analysisof the self-conscious attitudes of invidious comparison and conspicuouswaste in the leisure class. 

The application of our knowledge of rapport, esprit de corps, and moraleto an explanation of personal conduct and group behavior is one of themost promising fields for future research. In the family, rapport andconsensus represent the most complete co-ordination of its members. Thelife of the family should be studied intensively in order to define moreexactly the nature of the family consensus, the mechanism of familyrapport, and minor accommodations made to minimize conflict and to averttendencies to disintegration in the interest of this real unity. 

Strachey's _Life of Queen Victoria_ sketches an interesting case ofsubordination and superordination in which the queen is the subordinate, and her adroit but cynical minister, Disraeli, is the master. 

Future research will provide a more adequate sociology of subordinationand superordination. A survey of the present output of material upon thenature and the effects of personal contacts reinforces the need for sucha fundamental study. The obsolete writings upon personal magnetism havebeen replaced by the so-called "psychology of salesmanship, " "scientificmethods of character reading, " and "the psychology of leadership. " Thewide sale of these books indicates the popular interest, quite as muchas the lack of any fundamental understanding of the technique of humanrelations. 

3. Accommodation Groups

The field of investigation available for the study of accommodationgroups and their relation to conflict groups may perhaps be bestillustrated by the table on page 722. 

The existence of conflict groups like parties, sects, nationalities, represents the area in any society of unstable equilibrium. Accommodation groups, classes, castes, and denominations on the otherhand, represent in this same society the areas of stable equilibrium. Aboys' club carries on contests, under recognized rules, with similarorganizations. A denomination engages in fraternal rivalry with otherdenominations for the advancement of common interests of the churchuniversal. A nation possesses status, rights, and responsibilities onlyin a commonwealth of nations of which it is a member. 

Conflict Groups Accommodation Groups

1. Gangs 1. Clubs2. Labor organizations, employers' 2. Social classes, vocational associations, middle-class unions, groups tenant protective unions3. Races 3. Castes4. Sects 4. Denominations5. Nationalities 5. Nations

The works upon accommodation groups are concerned almost exclusivelywith the principles, methods, and technique of organization. There are, indeed, one or two important descriptive works upon secret organizationsin primitive and modern times. The books and articles, however, onorganized boys' groups deal with the plan of organization of Boy Scouts, Boys' Brotherhood Republic, George Junior Republics, Knights of KingArthur, and many other clubs of these types. They are not studies ofnatural groups. 

The comparative study of social classes and vocational groups is anunworked field. The differentiation of social types, especially in urbanlife, and the complexity and subtlety of the social distinctionsseparating social and vocational classes, opens a fruitful prospect forinvestigation. Scattered through a wide literature, ranging fromofficial inquiries to works of fiction, there are, in occasionalparagraphs, pages, and chapters, observations of value. 

In the field of castes the work of research is well under way. The castesystem of India has been the subject of careful examination andanalysis. Sighele points out that the prohibition of intermarriageobserved in its most rigid and absolute form is a fundamentaldistinction of the caste. If this be regarded as the fundamentalcriterion, the Negro race in the United States occupies the position ofa caste. The prostitute, in America, until recently constituted aseparate caste. With the systematic breaking up of the segregated vicedistricts in our great cities prostitution, as a caste, seems to havedisappeared. The place of the prostitute seems to have been occupied bythe demimondaine who lives on the outskirts of society but who is not byany means an outcast. 

It is difficult to dissociate the materials upon nationalities fromthose upon nations. The studies, however, of the internal organizationof the state, made to promote law and order, would come under the latterhead. Here, also, would be included studies of the extension of thepolice power to promote the national welfare. In international relationsstudies of international law, of international courts of arbitration, ofleagues or associations of nations manifest the increasing interest inthe accommodations that would avert or postpone conflicts of militantnationalities. 

In the United States there is considerable literature upon churchfederation and the community church. This literature is one expressionof the transition of the Protestant churches from sectarian bodies, engaged in warfare for the support of distinctive doctrines and dogmas, to co-operating denominations organized into the Federal Council of theChurches of Christ in America. 

4. Social Organization

Until recently there has been more interest manifested in elaboratingtheories of the stages in the evolution of society than in analyzing thestructure of different types of societies. Durkheim, however, in _De ladivision du travail social_, indicated how the division of labor and thesocial attitudes, or the mental accommodations to the life-situation, shape social organization. Cooley, on the other hand, in his work_Social Organization_ conceived the structure of society to be "thelarger mind, " or an outgrowth of human nature and human ideals. 

The increasing number of studies of individual primitive communities hasfurnished data for the comparative study of different kinds of socialorganization. Schurtz, Vierkandt, Rivers, Lowie, and others in the lasttwenty years have made important comparative studies in this field. Thework of these scholars has led to the abandonment of the earlier notionsof uniform evolutionary stages of culture in which all peoples, primitive, ancient, and modern alike, might be classified. New light hasbeen thrown upon the actual accommodations in the small family, in thelarger family group, the clan, gens or sib, in the secret society, andin the tribe which determined the patterns of life of primitive peoplesunder different geographical and historical conditions. 

At the present time, the investigations of social organization ofcurrent and popular interest have to do with the problems of social workand of community life. "Community organization, " "community action, ""know your own community" are phrases which express the practicalmotives behind the attempts at community study. Such investigations ashave been made, with a few shining exceptions, the Pittsburgh Survey andthe community studies of the Russell Sage Foundation, have beensuperficial. All, perhaps, have been tentative and experimental. Thecommunity has not been studied from a fundamental standpoint. Indeed, there was not available, as a background of method and of orientation, any adequate analysis of social organization. 

A penetrating analysis of the social structure of a community must quitenaturally be based upon studies of human geography. Plant and animalgeography has been studied, but slight attention has been given to humangeography, that is, to the local distribution of persons who constitutea community and the accommodations that are made because of theconsequent physical distances and social relationships. 

Ethnological and historical studies of individual communities furnishvaluable comparative materials for a treatise upon human ecology whichwould serve as a guidebook for studies in community organization. C. J. Galpin's _The Social Anatomy of an Agricultural Community_ is an exampleof the recognition of ecological factors as basic in the study of socialorganization. 

In the bibliography of this chapter is given a list of references tocertain of the experiments in community organization. Students shouldstudy this literature in the light of the more fundamental studies oftypes of social groups and studies of individual communities listed inan earlier bibliography. [240] It is at once apparent that the ruralcommunity has been more carefully studied than has the urban community. Yet more experiments in community organization have been tried out inthe city than in the country. Reports upon social-center activities, upon community councils, and other types of community organization havetended to be enthusiastic rather than factual and critical. The mostnotable experiment of community organization, the Social Unit Plan, tried out in Cincinnati, was what the theatrical critics call a _succèsd'estime_, but after the experiment had been tried it was abandoned. Control of conditions of community life is not likely to meet withsuccess unless based on an appreciation and understanding of humannature on the one hand, and of the natural or ecological organization ofcommunity life on the other. 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. THE PSYCHOLOGY AND SOCIOLOGY OF ACCOMMODATION

A. _Accommodation Defined_

(1) Morgan, C. Lloyd, and Baldwin, J. Mark. Articles on "Accommodationand Adaptation, " _Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology_, I, 7-8, 14-15. 

(2) Baldwin, J. Mark. _Mental Development in the Child and the Race. _Methods and processes. Chap, xvi, "Habit and Accommodation, " pp. 476-88. New York, 1895. 

(3) Simmel, Georg. _Soziologie. _ Untersuchungen über die Formen derVergesellschaftung. "Kompromiss und Versöhnung, " pp. 330-36. Leipzig, 1908. 

(4) Bristol, L. M. _Social Adaptation. _ A study in the development ofthe doctrine of adaptation as a theory of social progress. Cambridge, Mass. , 1915. 

(5) Ross, E. A. _Principles of Sociology. _ "Toleration, " "Compromise, ""Accommodation, " pp. 225-34. New York, 1920. 

(6) Ritchie, David G. _Natural Rights. _ A criticism of some politicaland ethical conceptions. Chap. Viii, "Toleration, " pp. 157-209. London, 1895. 

(7) Morley, John. _On Compromise. _ London, 1874. 

(8) Tardieu, É. "Le cynisme: étude psychologique, " _Revuephilosophique_, LVII (1904), 1-28. 

(9) Jellinek, Georg. _Die Lehre von den Staatenverbindungen. _ Berlin, 1882. 

B. _Acclimatization and Colonization_

(1) Wallace, Alfred R. Article on "Acclimatization. " _EncyclopaediaBritannica_, I, 114-19. 

(2) Brinton, D. G. _The Basis of Social Relations. _ A study in ethnicpsychology. Part II, chap. Iv, "The Influence of GeographicEnvironment, " pp. 180-99. New York, 1902. 

(3) Ripley, W. Z. _The Races of Europe. _ A sociological study. Chap. Xxi, "Acclimatization: the Geographical Future of the European Races, "pp. 560-89. New York, 1899. [Bibliography. ]

(4) Virchow, Rudolph. "Acclimatization, " _Popular Science Monthly_, XXVIII (1886), 507-17. 

(5) Boas, Franz. "Changes in Bodily Form of Descendants of Immigrants, "_Report of Immigration Commission, 1907. _ Washington, 1911. 

(6) Keller, Albert G. _Colonization. _ A study of the founding of newsocieties. Boston, 1908. [Bibliography. ]

(7) ----. "The Value of the Study of Colonies for Sociology, " _AmericanJournal of Sociology_, XII (1906), 417-20. 

(8) Roscher, W. , and Jannasch, R. _Kolonien, Kolonialpolitik undAuswanderung. _ 3d ed. Leipzig, 1885. 

(9) Leroy-Beaulieu, P. _De la colonisation chez les peuples modernes. _5th ed. , 2 vols. Paris, 1902. 

(10) Huntington, Ellsworth. _Civilization and Climate. _ Chap. Iii, "TheWhite Man in the Tropics, " pp. 35-48. New Haven, 1915. 

(11) Ward, Robert De C. _Climate. _ Considered especially in relation toman. Chap. Viii, "The Life of Man in the Tropics, " pp. 220-71. New York, 1908. 

(12) Bryce, James. "British Experience in the Government of Colonies, "_Century_, LVII (1898-99), 718-29. 

C. _Superordination and Subordination_

(1) Simmel, Georg. "Superiority and Subordination as Subject Matter ofSociology, " translated from the German by Albion W. Small, _AmericanJournal of Sociology_, II (1896-97), 167-89, 392-415. 

(2) Thorndike, E. L. _The Original Nature of Man. _ "Mastering andSubmissive Behavior, " pp. 92-97. New York, 1913. 

(3) McDougall, William. _An Introduction to Social Psychology. _ "TheInstincts of Self-Abasement (or Subjection) and of Self-Assertion (orSelf-Display) and the Emotions of Subjection and Elation, " pp. 62-66. 12th ed. Boston, 1917. 

(4) Münsterberg, Hugo. _Psychology, General and Applied. _ Chap. Xviii, "Submission, " pp. 254-64. New York, 1914. 

(5) Galton, Francis. _Inquiries into Human Faculty and Its Development. _"Gregarious and Slavish Instincts, " pp. 68-82. New York, 1883. 

(6) Ellis, Havelock. _Studies in the Psychology of Sex. _ Vol. III, "Analysis of the Sexual Impulse. " "Sexual Subjection, " pp. 60-71; 85-87. Philadelphia, 1914. 

(7) Calhoun, Arthur W. _A Social History of the American Family. _ Fromcolonial times to the present. Vol. II, "From Independence through theCivil War. " Chap. Iv, "The Social Subordination of Woman, " pp. 79-101. 3vols. Cincinnati, 1918. 

(8) Galton, Francis. "The First Steps toward the Domestication ofAnimals, " _Transactions of the Ethnological Society of London_, III, 122-38. 

D. _Conversion_

(1) Starbuck, Edwin D. _The Psychology of Religion. _ London, 1899. 

(2) James, William. _The Varieties of Religious Experience. _ Lectures ixand x, "Conversion, " pp. 189-258. London, 1902. 

(3) Coe, George A. _The Psychology of Religion. _ Chap. X, "Conversion, "pp. 152-74. Chicago, 1916. 

(4) Prince, Morton. "The Psychology of Sudden Religious Conversion, "_Journal of Abnormal Psychology_, I (1906-7), 42-54. 

(5) Tawney, G. A. "The Period of Conversion, " _Psychological Review_, XI(1904), 210-16. 

(6) Partridge, G. E. _Studies in the Psychology of Intemperance. _ Pp. 152-63. New York, 1912. [Mental cures of alcoholism. ]

(7) Begbie, Harold. _Twice-born Men. _ A clinic in regeneration. Afootnote in narrative to Professor William James's _The Varieties ofReligious Experience_. New York, 1909. 

(8) Burr, Anna R. _Religious Confessions and Confessants. _ With achapter on the history of introspection. Boston, 1914. 

(9) Patterson, R. J. _Catch-My-Pal. _ A story of Good Samaritanship. NewYork, 1913. 

(10) Weber, John L. "A Modern Miracle, the Remarkable Conversion ofFormer Governor Patterson of Tennessee, " _Congregationalist_, XCIX(1914), 6, 8. [See also "The Conversion of Governor Patterson, "_Literary Digest_, XLVIII (1914), 111-12. ]

II. FORMS OF ACCOMMODATION

A. _Slavery_

(1) Letourneau, Ch. _L'évolution de l'esclavage dans les diverses raceshumaines. _ Paris, 1897. 

(2) Nieboer, Dr. H. J. _Slavery as an Industrial System. _ Ethnologicalresearches. The Hague, 1900. [Bibliography. ]

(3) Wallon, H. _Historie de l'esclavage dans l'antiquité. _ 2d ed. , 3vols. Paris, 1879. 

(4) Sugenheim, S. _Geschichte der Aufhebung der Leibeigenschaft undHörigkeit in Europa bis um die Mitte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts. _ St. Petersburg, 1861. 

(5) Edwards, Bryan. _The History, Civil and Commercial, of the BritishColonies in the West Indies. _ 3 vols. London, 1793-1801. 

(6) Helps, Arthur. _Life of Las Casas, "the Apostle of the Indies. "_ 5thed. London, 1890. 

(7) Phillips, Ulrich B. _American Negro Slavery. _ A survey of thesupply, employment, and control of Negro labor as determined by theplantation régime. New York, 1918. 

(8) ----. _Plantation and Frontier, 1649-1863. _ Documentary history ofAmerican industrial society. Vols. I-II. Cleveland, 1910-11. 

(9) _A Professional Planter. _ Practical rules for the management andmedical treatment of Negro slaves in the Sugar Colonies. London, 1803. [Excerpt in Phillips, U. B. , _Plantation and Frontier_, I, 129-30. ]

(10) Russell, J. H. "Free Negro in Virginia, 1619-1865, " _Johns HopkinsUniversity Studies in Historical and Political Science. _ Baltimore, 1913. 

(11) Olmsted, F. L. _A Journey in the Seaboard Slave States. _ Withremarks on their economy. New York, 1856. 

(12) Smedes, Susan D. _Memorials of a Southern Planter. _ Baltimore, 1887. 

(13) Sartorius von Walterhausen, August. _Die Arbeitsverfassung derenglischen Kolonien in Nordamerika. _ Strassburg, 1894. 

(14) Ballagh, James C. "A History of Slavery in Virginia, " _JohnsHopkins University Studies in Historical and Political Science_. Baltimore, 1902. 

(15) McCormac, E. I. "White Servitude in Maryland, 1634-1820, " _JohnsHopkins University Studies in Historical and Political Science_. Baltimore, 1904. 

(16) Kemble, Frances A. _Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantationin 1838-1839. _ New York, 1863. 

B. _Caste_

(1) Risley, Herbert H. _The People of India. _ Calcutta and London, 1915. 

(2) ----. _India. _ Ethnographic Appendices, being the data upon whichthe caste chapter of the report is based. Appendix IV. Typical Tribesand Castes. Calcutta, 1903. 

(3) Bouglé, M. C. "Remarques générales sur le régime des castes, "_L'Année sociologique_, IV (1899-1900), 1-64. 

(4) Crooke, W. "The Stability of Caste and Tribal Groups in India, "_Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute_, XLIV (1914), 270-81. 

(5) Bhattacharya, Jogendra Nath. _Hindu Castes and Sects. _ An expositionof the origin of the Hindu caste system and the bearing of the sectstoward each other and toward other religious systems. Calcutta, 1896. 

(6) Somló, F. _Der Güterverkehr in der Urgesellschaft. _ "Zum Ursprungder Kastenbildung, " pp. 157-59. Instituts Solvay: Travaux de l'Institutde Sociologie. _Notes et mémoires_, Fascicule 8. Bruxelles, 1909. 

(7) Ratzel, Friedrich. _Völkerkunde. _ I, 81. 2d rev. Ed. Leipzig andWien, 1894. [The origin of caste in the difference of occupation. ]

(8) Iyer, L. K. Anantha Krishna. _The Cochin Tribes and Castes. _ London, 1909. 

(9) Bailey, Thomas P. _Race Orthodoxy in the South. _ And other aspectsof the Negro question. New York, 1914. 

C. _Classes_

(1) Bücher, Carl. _Industrial Evolution. _ Translated from the 3d Germanedition by S. Morley Wickett. Chap. Ix, "Organization of Work and theFormation of Social Classes, " pp. 315-44. New York, 1907. 

(2) Hobhouse, L. T. _Morals in Evolution. _ A study in comparativeethics. Part I, chap. Vii, "Class Relations, " pp. 270-317. New York, 1915. 

(3) Schmoller, Gustav. _Grundriss der allgemeinenVolkswirtschaftslehre. _ Vol. I, Book II, chap. Vi, "Diegesellschaftliche Klassenbildung, " pp. 391-411. 6. Aufl. Leipzig, 1901. 

(4) Cooley, Charles H. _Social Organization. _ Part IV, "Social Classes, "pp. 209-309. New York, 1909. 

(5) Bauer, Arthur. "Les classes sociales, " _Revue internationale desociologie_, XI (1903), 119-35; 243-58; 301-16; 398-413; 474-98; 576-87. [Includes discussions at successive meetings of the Société deSociologie de Paris by G. Tarde, Ch. Limousin, H. Monin, René Worms, E. Delbet, L. Philippe, M. Coicou, H. Blondel, G. Pinet, P. Vavin, E. DeRoberty, G. Lafargue, M. Le Gouix, M. Kovalewsky, I. Loutschisky, E. Séménoff, Mme. De Mouromtzeff, R. De la Grasserie, E. Cheysson, D. Draghicesco. ]

(6) Bouglé, C. _Les idées égalitaires. _ Étude sociologique. Paris, 1899. 

(7) Thomas, William I. _Source Book for Social Origins. _ "The Relationof the Medicine Man to the Origin of the Professional Occupations, " pp. 281-303. Chicago, 1909. 

(8) Tarde, Gabriel. "L'hérédité des professions, " _Revue internationalede sociologie_, VIII (1900), 50-59. [Discussion of the subject wascontinued under the title "L'hérédité et la continuité des professions, "pp. 117-24, 196-207. ]

(9) Knapp, Georg F. _Die Bauernbefreiung und der Ursprung derLandarbeiter in den älteren Theilen Preussens. _ Leipzig, 1887. 

(10) Zimmern, Alfred E. _The Greek Commonwealth. _ Politics and economicsin fifth-century Athens. Pp. 255-73, 323-47, 378-94. 2d rev. Ed. Oxford, 1915. 

(11) Mallock, W. H. _Aristocracy and Evolution. _ A study of the rights, the origin, and the social functions of the wealthier classes. New York, 1898. 

(12) Veblen, Thorstein. _The Theory of the Leisure Class. _ An economicstudy in the evolution of institutions. New York, 1899. 

(13) D'Aeth, F. G. "Present Tendencies of Class Differentiation, "_Sociological Review_, III (1910), 267-76. 

III. ACCOMMODATION AND ORGANIZATION

A. _Social Organization_

(1) Durkheim, É. _De la division du travail social. _ 2d ed. Paris, 1902. 

(2) Cooley, Charles H. _Social Organization. _ A study of the largermind. Part V, "Institutions, " pp. 313-92. New York, 1909. 

(3) Salz, Arthur. "Zur Geschichte der Berufsidee, " _Archiv fürSozialwissenschaft_, XXXVII (1913), 380-423. 

(4) Rivers, W. H. R. _Kinship and Social Organization. _ Studies ineconomic and political science. London, 1914. 

(5) Schurtz, Heinrich. _Altersklassen und Männerbünde. _ Eine Darstellungder Grundformen der Gesellschaft. Berlin, 1902. 

(6) Vierkandt, A. "Die politischen Verhältnisse der Naturvölker, "_Zeitschrift für Sozialwissenschaft_, IV, 417-26, 497-510. 

(7) Lowie, Robert H. _Primitive Society. _ Chap. X, "Associations, " chap. Xi, "Theory of Associations, " pp. 257-337. New York, 1920. 

(8) Zimmern, Alfred E. _The Greek Commonwealth. _ Politics and economicsin fifth-century Athens. 2d rev. Ed. Oxford, 1915. 

(9) Thomas, William I. _Source Book for Social Origins. _ Ethnologicalmaterials, psychological standpoint, classified and annotatedbibliographies for the interpretation of savage society. Part VII, "Social Organization, Morals, the State, " pp. 753-869. Chicago, 1909. [Bibliography. ]

B. _Secret Societies_

(1) Simmel, Georg. "The Sociology of Secrecy and of Secret Societies, "translated from the German by Albion W. Small, _American Journal ofSociology_, XI (1905-6), 441-98. 

(2) Heckethorn, C. W. _The Secret Societies of All Ages and Countries. _A comprehensive account of upwards of one hundred and sixty secretorganizations--religious, political, and social--from the most remoteages down to the present time. New ed. , rev. And enl. , 2 vols. London, 1897. 

(3) Webster, Hutton. _Primitive Secret Societies. _ A study in earlypolitics and religion. New York, 1908. 

(4) Schuster, G. _Die geheimen Gesellschaften, Verbindungen und Orden. _2 vols. Leipzig, 1906. 

(5) Boas, Franz. "The Social Organization and the Secret Societies ofthe Kwakiutl Indians, " _U. S. National Museum, Annual Report, 1895_, pp. 311-738. Washington, 1897. 

(6) Frobenius, L. "Die Masken und Geheimbünde Afrikas, " _Abhandlungender Kaiserlichen Leopoldinisch-Carolinischen deutschen Akademie derNaturforscher_, LXXIV, 1-278. 

(7) Pfleiderer, Otto. _Primitive Christianity, Its Writings andTeachings in Their Historical Connections. _ Vol. III, chap, i, "TheTherapeutae and the Essenes, " pp. 1-22. Translated from the German by W. Montgomery. New York, 1910. 

(8) Jennings, Hargrave. _The Rosicrucians, Their Rites and Mysteries. _3d rev. And enl. Ed. , 2 vols. London, 1887. 

(9) Stillson, Henry L. , and Klein, Henri F. Article on "The MasonicFraternity, " _The Americana_, XVIII, 383-89. [Bibliography. ]

(10) Johnston, R. M. _The Napoleonic Empire in Southern Italy and theRise of the Secret Societies. _ Part II, "The Rise of the SecretSocieties, " Vol. II, pp. 3-139, 153-55; especially chap. Ii, "Origin andRites of the Carbonari, " Vol. II, pp. 19-44. London, 1904. [Bibliography. ]

(11) Fleming, Walter L. _Documentary History of Reconstruction. _ Vol. II, chap. Xii, "The Ku Klux Movement, " pp. 327-77. Cleveland, 1907. 

(12) Lester, J. C. , and Wilson, D. L. _The Ku Klux Klan. _ Its origin, growth, and disbandment. With appendices containing the prescripts ofthe Ku Klux Klan, specimen orders and warnings. With introduction andnotes by Walter L. Fleming. New York and Washington, 1905. 

(13) La Hodde, Lucien de. _The Cradle of Rebellions. _ A history of thesecret societies of France. Translated from the French by J. W. Phelps. New York, 1864. 

(14) Spadoni, D. _Sètte, cospirazioni e cospiratori nello StatoPontificio all'indomani della restaurazioni. _ Torino, 1904. 

(15) "Societies, Criminal, " _The Americana_, XXV, 201-5. 

(16) Clark, Thomas A. _The Fraternity and the College. _ Being a seriesof papers dealing with fraternity problems. Menasha, Wis. , 1915. 

C. _Social Types_

(1) Thomas, W. I. , and Znaniecki, F. _The Polish Peasant in Europe andAmerica. _ Monograph of an immigrant group. Vol. III, "Life Record of anImmigrant. " Boston, 1919. ["Introduction, " pp. 5-88, analyzes andinterprets three social types: the philistine, the bohemian, and thecreative. ]

(2) Paulhan, Fr. _Les caractères. _ Livre II, "Les types déterminés parles tendances sociales, " pp. 143-89. Paris, 1902. 

(3) Rousiers, Paul de. _L'élite dans la société moderne. _ Son rôle, etc. Paris, 1914. 

(4) Bradford, Gamaliel, Jr. _Types of American Character. _ New York, 1895. 

(5) Kellogg, Walter G. _The Conscientious Objector. _ Introduction byNewton D. Baker. New York, 1919. 

(6) Hapgood, Hutchins. _Types from City Streets. _ New York, 1910. 

(7) Bab, Julius. _Die Berliner Bohème. _ Berlin, 1905. 

(8) Cory, H. E. _The Intellectuals and the Wage Workers. _ A study ineducational psychoanalysis. New York, 1919. 

(9) Buchanan, J. R. _The Story of a Labor Agitator. _ New York, 1903. 

(10) Taussig, F. W. _Inventors and Money-Makers. _ New York, 1915. 

(11) Stoker, Bram. _Famous Impostors. _ London, 1910. 

D. _Community Organization_

(1) Galpin, Charles J. "Rural Relations of the Village and Small City, "_University of Wisconsin Bulletin No. 411. _

(2) ----. _Rural Life. _ Chaps. Vii-xi, pp. 153-314. New York, 1918. 

(3) Hayes, A. W. _Rural Community Organization. _ Chicago, 1921. [InPress. ]

(4) Morgan, E. L. "Mobilizing a Rural Community, " _MassachusettsAgricultural College, Extension Bulletin No. 23. _ Amherst, 1918. 

(5) "Rural Organization, " _Proceedings of the Third National CountryLife Conference, Springfield, Massachusetts, 1920. _ Chicago, 1921. 

(6) Hart, Joseph K. _Community Organization. _ New York, 1920. 

(7) _National Social Unit Organization, Bulletins 1, 2, 2a, 3, 4, 5. _Cincinnati, 1917-19. 

(8) Devine, Edward T. "Social Unit in Cincinnati, " _Survey_, XLIII(1919), 115-26. 

(9) Hicks, Mary L. , and Eastman, Rae S. "Block Workers as Developedunder the Social Unit Experiment in Cincinnati, " _Survey_ XLIV (1920), 671-74. 

(10) Ward, E. J. _The Social Center. _ New York, 1913. [Bibliography. ]

(11) Collier, John. "Community Councils--Democracy Every Day, " _Survey_, XL (1918), 604-6; 689-91; 709-11. [Describes community defenseorganizations formed in rural and urban districts during the war. ]

(12) Weller, Charles F. "Democratic Community Organization, " Anafter-the-war experiment in Chester, _Survey_, XLIV (1920), 77-79. 

(13) Rainwater, Clarence E. _Community Organization. _ SociologicalMonograph No. 15, University of Southern California. Los Angeles, 1920. [Bibliography. ]

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. Biological Accommodation and Social Accommodation. 

2. Acclimatization as Accommodation. 

3. The Psychology of Accommodation. 

4. Conversion as a Form of Accommodation: A Study of Mutations ofAttitudes in Religion, Politics, Morals, Personal Relation, etc. 

5. The Psychology and Sociology of Homesickness and Nostalgia. 

6. Conflict and Accommodation: War and Peace, Enmity and Conciliation, Rivalry and Status. 

7. Compromise as a Form of Accommodation. 

8. The Subtler Forms of Accommodation: Flattery, "Front, " Ceremony, etc. 

9. The Organization of Attitudes in Accommodation: Prestige, Taboo, Rapport, Prejudice, Fear, etc. 

10. Slavery, Caste, and Class as Forms of Accommodation. 

11. The Description and Analysis of Typical Examples of Accommodation:the Political "Boss" and the Voter, Physician and Patient, the Coach andthe Members of the Team, the Town Magnate and His Fellow-Citizens, "TheFour Hundred" and "Hoi Polloi, " etc. 

12. Social Solidarity as the Organization of Competing Groups. 

13. Division of Labor as a Form of Accommodation. 

14. A Survey of Historical Types of the Family in Terms of the Changesin Forms of Subordination and Superordination of Its Members. 

15. Social Types as Accommodations: the Quack Doctor, the Reporter, theStrike Breaker, the Schoolteacher, the Stockbroker, etc. 

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. How do you distinguish between biological adaptation and socialaccommodation?

2. Is domestication biological adaptation or accommodation?

3. Give illustrations of acclimatization as a form of accommodation. 

4. Discuss phenomena of colonization with reference to accommodation. 

5. What is the relation of lonesomeness to accommodation?

6. Do you agree with Nieboer's definition of slavery? Is the slave aperson? If so, to what extent? How would you compare the serf with theslave in respect to his status?

7. To what extent do slavery and caste as forms of accommodation restupon (a) physical force, (b) mental attitudes?

8. What is the psychology of subordination and superordination?

9. What do you understand to be the relation of suggestion and rapportto subordination and superordination?

10. What is meant by a person "knowing his place"?

11. How do you explain the attitude of "the old servant" to society? Doyou agree with her in lamenting the change in attitude of personsengaged in domestic service?

12. What types of the subtler forms of accommodation occur to you?

13. What arguments would you advance for the proposition that therelation of superiority and inferiority is reciprocal?

14. "All leaders are also led, as in countless cases the master is theslave of his slaves. " Explain. 

15. What illustrations, apart from the text, occur to you of reciprocalrelations in superiority and subordination?

16. What do you understand to be the characteristic differences of thethree types of superordination and subordination?

17. How would you classify the following groups according to these threetypes: the patriarchal family, the modern family, England from 1660 to1830, manufacturing enterprise, labor union, army, boys' gang, boys'club, Christianity, humanitarian movement?

18. What do you think Simmel means by the term "accommodation"?

19. How is accommodation related to peace?

20. Does accommodation end struggle?

21. In what sense does commerce imply accommodation?

22. What type of interaction is involved in compromise? Whatillustrations would you suggest to bring out your point?

23. Does compromise make for progress?

24. Is a compromise better or worse than either or both of the proposalsinvolved in it?

25. What, in your judgment, is the relation of personal competition tothe division of labor?

26. What examples of division of labor outside the economic field wouldyou suggest?

27. What do you understand to be the relation of personal competitionand group competition?

28. In what different ways does status (a) grow out of, and (b)prevent, the processes of personal competition and group competition?

29. To what extent, at the present time, is success in life determinedby personal competition, and social selection by status?

30. In what ways does the division of labor make for social solidarity?

31. What is the difference between social solidarity based uponlike-mindedness and based upon diverse-mindedness?

FOOTNOTES:

[221] _Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology_, I, 15, 8. 

[222] _Social Organization_, p. 4. 

[223] A teacher in the public schools of Chicago came in possession ofthe following letter written to a friend in Mississippi by a Negro boywho had come to the city from the South two months previously. Itillustrates his rapid accommodation to the situation including thehostile Irish group (the Wentworth Avenue "Mickeys"). 

 Dear leon I write to you--to let you hear from me--Boy you don't know the time we have with Sled. It Snow up here Regular. We Play foot Ball. But Now we have So much Snow we don't Play foot Ball any More. We Ride on Sled. Boy I have a Sled call The king of The hill and She king to. Tell Mrs. Sara that Coln Roscoe Conklin Simon Spoke at St Mark the church we Belong to. 

 Gus I havnt got chance to Beat But to Boy. Sack we show Runs them Mickeys. Boy them scoundle is bad on Wentworth Avenue. 

 Add 3123a Breton St Chi ill. 

[224] From Daniel G. Brinton, _The Basis of Social Relations_, pp. 194-99. (Courtesy of G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York and London, 1902. )

[225] From Dr. H. J. Nieboer, _Slavery as an Industrial System_, pp. 1-7. (Martinus Nijhoff, The Hague, 1910. )

[226] From Matthew G. Lewis, _Journal of a West India Proprietor_, pp. 60-337. (John Murray, 1834. )

[227] From "Modern Theories of Caste: Mr. Nesfield's Theory, " AppendixV, in Sir Herbert Risley, _The People of India_, pp. 407-8. (W. Thacker& Co. , 1915. )

[228] From Sir Herbert Risley, _The People of India_, pp. 130-39. (W. Thacker & Co. , 1915. )

[229] From Hugo Münsterberg, _Psychology, General and Applied_, pp. 259-64, (D. Appleton & Co. , 1914. )

[230] Adapted from _Domestic Service_, by An Old Servant, pp. 10-110. (Houghton Mifflin Co. , 1917. )

[231] Adapted from a translation of Georg Simmel by Albion W. Small, "Superiority and Subordination, " in the _American Journal of Sociology_, II (1896-97), 169-71. 

[232] Adapted from a translation of Georg Simmel by Albion W. Small, "Superiority and Subordination, " in the _American Journal of Sociology_, II (1896-97), 172-86. 

[233] Adapted from a translation of Georg Simmel by Albion W. Small, "The Sociology of Conflict, " in the _American Journal of Sociology_, IX(1903-4), 799-802. 

[234] Adapted from a translation of Georg Simmel by Albion W. Small, "The Sociology of Conflict, " in the _American Journal of Sociology_, IX(1903-4), 804-6. 

[235] Adapted from Charles H. Cooley, "Personal Competition, " in_Economic Studies_, IV (1899), No. 2, 78-86. 

[236] From Robert E. Park, "The City, " in the _American Journal ofSociology_, XX (1915), 584-86. 

[237] Translated and adapted from Émile Durkheim, _La division dutravail social_, pp. 24-209. (Félix Alcan, 1902. )

[238] _Pure Sociology_, p. 16. 

[239] _Mental Development in the Child and the Race_, p. 23. 

[240] _Supra_, pp. 218-19. 

CHAPTER XI

ASSIMILATION

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Popular Conceptions of Assimilation

The concept assimilation, so far as it has been defined in popularusage, gets its meaning from its relation to the problem of immigration. The more concrete and familiar terms are the abstract nounAmericanization and the verbs Americanize, Anglicize, Germanize, and thelike. All of these words are intended to describe the process by whichthe culture of a community or a country is transmitted to an adoptedcitizen. Negatively, assimilation is a process of denationalization, andthis is, in fact, the form it has taken in Europe. 

The difference between Europe and America, in relation to the problem ofcultures, is that in Europe difficulties have arisen from the forcibleincorporation of minor cultural groups, i. E. , nationalities, within thelimits of a larger political unit, i. E. , an empire. In America theproblem has arisen from the voluntary migration to this country ofpeoples who have abandoned the political allegiances of the old countryand are gradually acquiring the culture of the new. In both cases theproblem has its source in an effort to establish and maintain apolitical order in a community that has no common culture. Fundamentallythe problem of maintaining a democratic form of government in a southernvillage composed of whites and blacks, and the problem of maintaining aninternational order based on anything but force are the same. Theultimate basis of the existing moral and political order is stillkinship and culture. Where neither exist, a political order, not basedon caste or class, is at least problematic. 

Assimilation, as popularly conceived in the United States, was expressedsymbolically some years ago in Zangwill's dramatic parable of _TheMelting Pot_. William Jennings Bryan has given oratorical expression tothe faith in the beneficent outcome of the process: "Great has been theGreek, the Latin, the Slav, the Celt, the Teuton, and the Saxon; butgreater than any of these is the American, who combines the virtues ofthem all. "

Assimilation, as thus conceived, is a natural and unassisted process, and practice, if not policy, has been in accord with this laissez faireconception, which the outcome has apparently justified. In the UnitedStates, at any rate, the tempo of assimilation has been more rapid thanelsewhere. 

Closely akin to this "magic crucible" notion of assimilation is thetheory of "like-mindedness. " This idea was partly a product of ProfessorGiddings' theory of sociology, partly an outcome of the popular notionthat similarities and homogeneity are identical with unity. The ideal ofassimilation was conceived to be that of feeling, thinking, and actingalike. Assimilation and socialization have both been described in theseterms by contemporary sociologists. 

Another and a different notion of assimilation or Americanization isbased on the conviction that the immigrant has contributed in the pastand may be expected in the future to contribute something of his own intemperament, culture, and philosophy of life to the future Americancivilization. This conception had its origin among the immigrantsthemselves, and has been formulated and interpreted by persons who are, like residents in social settlements, in close contact with them. Thisrecognition of the diversity in the elements entering into the culturalprocess is not, of course, inconsistent with the expectation of anultimate homogeneity of the product. It has called attention, at anyrate, to the fact that the process of assimilation is concerned withdifferences quite as much as with likenesses. 

2. The Sociology of Assimilation

Accommodation has been described as a process of adjustment, that is, anorganization of social relations and attitudes to prevent or to reduceconflict, to control competition, and to maintain a basis of security inthe social order for persons and groups of divergent interests and typesto carry on together their varied life-activities. Accommodation in thesense of the composition of conflict is invariably the goal of thepolitical process. 

Assimilation is a process of interpenetration and fusion in whichpersons and groups acquire the memories, sentiments, and attitudes ofother persons or groups, and, by sharing their experience and history, are incorporated with them in a common cultural life. In so far asassimilation denotes this sharing of tradition, this intimateparticipation in common experiences, assimilation is central in thehistorical and cultural processes. 

This distinction between accommodation and assimilation, with referenceto their rôle in society, explains certain significant formaldifferences between the two processes. An accommodation of a conflict, or an accommodation to a new situation, may take place with rapidity. The more intimate and subtle changes involved in assimilation are moregradual. The changes that occur in accommodation are frequently not onlysudden but revolutionary, as in the mutation of attitudes in conversion. The modifications of attitudes in the process of assimilation are notonly gradual, but moderate, even if they appear considerable in theiraccumulation over a long period of time. If mutation is the symbol foraccommodation, growth is the metaphor for assimilation. In accommodationthe person or the group is generally, though not always, highlyconscious of the occasion, as in the peace treaty that ends the war, inthe arbitration of an industrial controversy, in the adjustment of theperson to the formal requirements of life in a new social world. Inassimilation the process is typically unconscious; the person isincorporated into the common life of the group before he is aware andwith little conception of the course of events which brought thisincorporation about. 

James has described the way in which the attitude of the person changestoward certain subjects, woman's suffrage, for example, not as theresult of conscious reflection, but as the outcome of the unreflectiveresponses to a series of new experiences. The intimate associations ofthe family and of the play group, participation in the ceremonies ofreligious worship and in the celebrations of national holidays, allthese activities transmit to the immigrant and to the alien a store ofmemories and sentiments common to the native-born, and these memoriesare the basis of all that is peculiar and sacred in our cultural life. 

As social contact initiates interaction, assimilation is its finalperfect product. The nature of the social contacts is decisive in theprocess. Assimilation naturally takes place most rapidly where contactsare primary, that is, where they are the most intimate and intense, asin the area of touch relationship, in the family circle and in intimatecongenial groups. Secondary contacts facilitate accommodations, but donot greatly promote assimilation. The contacts here are external and tooremote. 

A common language is indispensable for the most intimate association ofthe members of the group; its absence is an insurmountable barrier toassimilation. The phenomenon "that every group has its own language, "its peculiar "universe of discourse, " and its cultural symbols isevidence of the interrelation between communication and assimilation. 

Through the mechanisms of imitation and suggestion, communicationeffects a gradual and unconscious modification of the attitudes andsentiments of the members of the group. The unity thus achieved is notnecessarily or even normally like-mindedness; it is rather a unity ofexperience and of orientation, out of which may develop a community ofpurpose and action. 

3. Classification of the Materials

The selections in the materials on assimilation have been arranged underthree heads: (a) biological aspects of assimilation; (b) theconflict and fusion of cultures; and (c) Americanization as a problemin assimilation. The readings proceed from an analysis of the nature ofassimilation to a survey of its processes, as they have manifestedthemselves historically, and finally to a consideration of the problemsof Americanization. 

a) _Biological aspects of assimilation. _--Assimilation is to bedistinguished from amalgamation, with which it is, however, closelyrelated. Amalgamation is a biological process, the fusion of races byinterbreeding and intermarriage. Assimilation, on the other hand, islimited to the fusion of cultures. Miscegenation, or the mingling ofraces, is a universal phenomenon among the historical races. There areno races, in other words, that do not interbreed. Acculturation, or thetransmission of cultural elements from one social group to another, however, has invariably taken place on a larger scale and over a widerarea than miscegenation. 

Amalgamation, while it is limited to the crossing of racial traitsthrough intermarriage, naturally promotes assimilation or thecross-fertilization of social heritages. The offspring of a "mixed"marriage not only biologically inherits physical and temperamentaltraits from both parents, but also acquires in the nurture of familylife the attitudes, sentiments, and memories of both father and mother. Thus amalgamation of races insures the conditions of primary socialcontacts most favorable for assimilation. 

b) _The conflict and fusion of cultures. _--The survey of the processof what the ethnologists call _acculturation_, as it is exhibitedhistorically in the conflicts and fusions of cultures, indicates thewide range of the phenomena in this field. 

(1) Social contact, even when slight or indirect, is sufficient for thetransmission from one cultural group to another of the material elementsof civilization. Stimulants and firearms spread rapidly upon theobjective demonstration of their effects. The potato, a native ofAmerica, has preceded the white explorer in its penetration into manyareas of Africa. 

(2) The changes in languages in the course of the contacts, conflicts, and fusions of races and nationalities afford data for a more adequatedescription of the process of assimilation. Under what conditions does aruling group impose its speech upon the masses, or finally capitulate tothe vulgar tongue of the common people? In modern times theprinting-press, the book, and the newspaper have tended to fixlanguages. The press has made feasible language revivals in connectionwith national movements on a scale impossible in earlier periods. 

The emphasis placed upon language as a medium of cultural transmissionrests upon a sound principle. For the idioms, particularly of a spokenlanguage, probably reflect more accurately the historical experiences ofa people than history itself. The basis of unity among most historicalpeoples is linguistic rather than racial. The Latin peoples are aconvenient example of this fact. The experiment now in progress in thePhilippine Islands is significant in this connection. To what extentwill the national and cultural development of those islands bedetermined by native temperament, by Spanish speech and tradition, or bythe English language and the American school system?

(3) Rivers in his study of Melanesian and Hawaiian cultures wasimpressed by the persistence of fundamental elements of the socialstructure. The basic patterns of family and social life remainedpractically unmodified despite profound transformations in technique, in language, and in religion. Evidently many material devices and formalexpressions of an alien society can be adopted without significantchanges in the native culture. 

The question, however, may be raised whether or not the completeadoption of occidental science and organization of industry would notproduce far-reaching changes in social organization. The trend ofeconomic, social, and cultural changes in Japan will throw light on thisquestion. Even if revolutionary social changes actually occur, the pointmay well be made that they will be the outcome of the new economicsystem, and therefore not effects of acculturation. 

(4) The rapidity and completeness of assimilation depends directly uponthe intimacy of social contact. By a curious paradox, slavery, andparticularly household slavery, has probably been, aside fromintermarriage, the most efficient device for promoting assimilation. 

Adoption and initiation among primitive peoples provided a ceremonialmethod for inducting aliens and strangers into the group, thesignificance of which can only be understood after a more adequate studyof ceremonial in general. 

c) _Americanization as a problem of assimilation. _--Any considerationof policies, programs, and methods of Americanization gain perspectivewhen related to the sociology of assimilation. The "Study of Methods ofAmericanization, " of the Carnegie Corporation, defines Americanizationas "the participation of the immigrant in the life of the community inwhich he lives. " From this standpoint participation is both the mediumand the goal of assimilation. Participation of the immigrant in Americanlife in any area of life prepares him for participation in every other. What the immigrant and the alien need most is an opportunity forparticipation. Of first importance, of course, is the language. Inaddition he needs to know how to use our institutions for his ownbenefit and protection. But participation, to be real, must bespontaneous and intelligent, and that means, in the long run, that theimmigrant's life in America must be related to the life he alreadyknows. Not by the suppression of old memories, but by theirincorporation in his new life is assimilation achieved. The failure ofconscious, coercive policies of denationalization in Europe and thegreat success of the early, passive phase of Americanization in thiscountry afford in this connection an impressive contrast. It followsthat assimilation cannot be promoted directly, but only indirectly, thatis, by supplying the conditions that make for participation. 

There is no process but life itself that can effectually wipe out theimmigrant's memory of his past. The inclusion of the immigrant in ourcommon life may perhaps be best reached, therefore, in co-operation thatlooks not so much to the past as to the future. The second generation ofthe immigrant may share fully in our memories, but practically all thatwe can ask of the foreign-born is participation in our ideals, ourwishes, and our common enterprises. 

II. MATERIALS

A. BIOLOGICAL ASPECTS OF ASSIMILATION

1. Assimilation and Amalgamation[241]

Writers on historical and social science are just beginning to turntheir attention to the large subject of social assimilation. That thesubject has until recently received little attention is readily seen bya mere glance at the works of our leading sociologists and historians. The word itself rarely appears; and when the theme is touched upon, noclearly defined, stable idea seems to exist, even in the mind of theauthor. Thus Giddings at one time identifies assimilation with"reciprocal accommodation. " In another place he defines it as "theprocess of growing alike, " and once again he tells us it is the methodby which foreigners in the United States society become Americans. Norare M. Novicow's ideas on the subject perfectly lucid, for he considersassimilation sometimes as a _process_, at other times as an _art_, andagain as a _result_. He makes the term "denationalization" coextensivewith our "assimilation, " and says that the ensemble of measures which agovernment takes for inducing a population to abandon one type ofculture for another is denationalization. Denationalization by theauthority of the state carries with it a certain amount of coercion; itis always accompanied by a measure of violence. In the next sentence, however, we are told that the word "denationalization" may also be usedfor the non-coercive _process_ by which one nationality is assimilatedwith another. M. Novicow further speaks of the _art_ of assimilation, and he tells us that the _result_ of the intellectual struggle betweenraces living under the same government, whether free or forced, is inevery case assimilation. Burgess also takes a narrow view of thesubject, restricting the operation of assimilating forces to the presentand considering assimilation a result of modern political union. Hesays: "In modern times the political union of different races under theleadership of the dominant race results in assimilation. "

From one point of view assimilation is a process with its active andpassive elements; from another it is a result. In this discussion, however, assimilation is considered as a process due to prolongedcontact. It may, perhaps, be defined as that process of adjustment oraccommodation which occurs between the members of two different races, if their contact is prolonged and if the necessary psychic conditionsare present. The result is group homogeneity to a greater or lessdegree. Figuratively speaking, it is the process by which theaggregation of peoples is changed from a mere mechanical mixture into achemical compound. 

The process of assimilation is of a psychological rather than of abiological nature, and refers to the growing alike in character, thoughts, and institutions, rather than to the blood-mingling broughtabout by intermarriage. The intellectual results of the process ofassimilation are far more lasting than the physiological. Thus in Francetoday, though nineteen-twentieths of the blood is that of the aboriginalraces, the language is directly derived from that imposed by the Romansin their conquest of Gaul. Intermarriage, the inevitable result to agreater or less extent of race contact, plays its part in the process ofassimilation, but mere mixture of races will not cause assimilation. Moreover, assimilation is possible, partially at least, withoutintermarriage. Instances of this are furnished by the partialassimilation of the Negro and the Indian of the United States. Thinkersare beginning to doubt the great importance once attributed tointermarriage as a factor in civilization. Says Mayo-Smith, "It is notin unity of blood but in unity of institutions and social habits andideals that we are to seek that which we call nationality, " andnationality is the result of assimilation. 

2. The Instinctive Basis of Assimilation[242]

It is a striking fact that among animals there are some whose conductcan be generalized very readily in the categories of self-preservation, nutrition, and sex, while there are others whose conduct cannot be thussummarized. The behavior of the tiger and the cat is simple and easilycomprehensible, whereas that of the dog with his conscience, his humor, his terror of loneliness, his capacity for devotion to a brutal master, or that of the bee with her selfless devotion to the hive, furnishesphenomena which no sophistry can assimilate without the aid of a fourthinstinct. But little examination will show that the animals whoseconduct it is difficult to generalize under the three primitiveinstinctive categories are gregarious. If, then, it can be shown thatgregariousness is of a biological significance approaching in importancethat of the other instincts we may expect to find in it the source ofthese anomalies of conduct, and of the complexity of human behavior. 

Gregariousness seems frequently to be regarded as a somewhat superficialcharacter, scarcely deserving, as it were, the name of an instinct, advantageous, it is true, but not of fundamental importance or likely tobe deeply ingrained in the inheritance of the species. This attitude maybe due to the fact that among mammals, at any rate, the appearance ofgregariousness has not been accompanied by any very gross physicalchanges which are obviously associated with it. 

To whatever it may be due, this method of regarding the social habit is, in the opinion of the present writer, not justified by the facts, andprevents the attainment of conclusions of considerable fruitfulness. 

A study of bees and ants shows at once how fundamental the importance ofgregariousness may become. The individual in such communities iscompletely incapable, often physically, of existing apart from thecommunity, and this fact at once gives rise to the suspicion that, evenin communities less closely knit than those of the ant and the bee, theindividual may in fact be more dependent on communal life than appearsat first sight. 

Another very striking piece of general evidence of the significance ofgregariousness as no mere late acquirement is the remarkable coincidenceof its occurrence with that of exceptional grades of intelligence orthe possibility of very complex reactions to environment. It canscarcely be regarded as an unmeaning accident that the dog, the horse, the ape, the elephant, and man are all social animals. The instances ofthe bee and the ant are perhaps the most amazing. Here the advantages ofgregariousness seem actually to outweigh the most prodigious differencesof structure, and we find a condition which is often thought of as amere habit, capable of enabling the insect nervous system to compete inthe complexity of its power of adaptation with that of the highervertebrates. 

From the biological standpoint the probability of gregariousness being aprimitive and fundamental quality in man seems to be considerable. Itwould appear to have the effect of enlarging the advantages ofvariation. Varieties not immediately favorable, varieties departingwidely from the standard, varieties even unfavorable to the individual, may be supposed to be given by it a chance of survival. Now the courseof the development of man seems to present many features incompatiblewith its having proceeded among isolated individuals exposed to theunmodified action of natural selection. Changes so serious as theassumption of the upright posture, the reduction in the jaw and itsmusculature, the reduction in the acuity of smell and hearing, demand, if the species is to survive, either a delicacy of adjustment with thecompensatingly developing intelligence so minute as to be almostinconceivable, or the existence of some kind of protective enclosure, however imperfect, in which the varying individuals may be shelteredfrom the direct influence of natural selection. The existence of such amechanism would compensate losses of physical strength in the individualby the greatly increased strength of the larger unit, of the unit, thatis to say, upon which natural selection still acts unmodified. 

The cardinal quality of the herd is homogeneity. It is clear that thegreat advantage of the social habit is to enable large numbers to act asone, whereby in the case of the hunting gregarious animal strength inpursuit and attack is at once increased beyond that of the creaturespreyed upon, and in protective socialism the sensitiveness of the newunit to alarms is greatly in excess of that of the individual member ofthe flock. 

To secure these advantages of homogeneity, it is evident that themembers of the herd must possess sensitiveness to the behavior of theirfellows. The individual isolated will be of no meaning; the individualas part of the herd will be capable of transmitting the most potentimpulses. Each member of the flock tending to follow his neighbor, andin turn to be followed, each is in some sense capable of leadership; butno lead will be followed that departs widely from normal behavior. Alead will only be followed from its resemblance to the normal. If theleader go so far ahead as definitely to cease to be in the herd, he willnecessarily be ignored. 

The original in conduct, that is to say, resistiveness to the voice ofthe herd, will be suppressed by natural selection; the wolf which doesnot follow the impulses of the herd will be starved; the sheep whichdoes not respond to the flock will be eaten. 

Again, not only will the individual be responsive to impulses comingfrom the herd but he will treat the herd as his normal environment. Theimpulse to be in and always to remain with the herd will have thestrongest instinctive weight. Anything which tends to separate him fromhis fellows, as soon as it becomes perceptible as such, will be stronglyresisted. 

So far we have regarded the gregarious animal objectively. Let us nowtry to estimate the mental aspects of these impulses. Suppose a speciesin possession of precisely the instinctive endowments which we have beenconsidering to be also self-conscious, and let us ask what will be theforms under which these phenomena will present themselves in its mind. In the first place, it is quite evident that impulses derived from herdfeeling will enter the mind with the value of instincts--they willpresent themselves as "a priori syntheses of the most perfect sortneeding no proof but their own evidence. " They will not, however, it isimportant to remember, necessarily always give this quality to the samespecific acts, but will show this great distinguishing characteristicthat they may give to any opinion whatever the characters of instinctivebelief, making it into an "a priori synthesis"; so that we shall expectto find acts which it would be absurd to look upon as the results ofspecific instincts carried out with all the enthusiasm of instinct anddisplaying all the marks of instinctive behavior. 

In interpreting into mental terms the consequences of gregariousness wemay conveniently begin with the simplest. The conscious individual willfeel an unanalysable primary sense of comfort in the actual presence ofhis fellows and a similar sense of discomfort in their absence. It willbe obvious truth to him that it is not good for man to be alone. Loneliness will be a real terror insurmountable by reason. 

Again, certain conditions will become secondarily associated withpresence with, or absence from, the herd. For example, take thesensations of heat and cold. The latter is prevented in gregariousanimals by close crowding and experienced in the reverse condition;hence it comes to be connected in the mind with separation and soacquires altogether unreasonable associations of harmfulness. Similarly, the sensation of warmth is associated with feelings of the secure andsalutary. 

Slightly more complex manifestations of the same tendency to homogeneityare seen in the desire for identification with the herd in matters ofopinion. Here we find the biological explanation of the ineradicableimpulse mankind has always displayed toward segregation into classes. Each one of us in his opinions, and his conduct, in matters of dress, amusement, religion, and politics, is compelled to obtain the support ofa class, of a herd within the herd. The most eccentric in opinion orconduct is, we may be sure, supported by the agreement of a class, thesmallness of which accounts for his apparent eccentricity, and thepreciousness of which accounts for his fortitude in defying generalopinion. Again, anything which tends to emphasize difference from theherd is unpleasant. In the individual mind there will be an analysabledislike of the novel in action or thought. It will be "wrong, " "wicked, ""foolish, " "undesirable, " or, as we say, "bad form, " according tovarying circumstances which we can already to some extent define. 

Manifestations relatively more simple are shown in the dislike of beingconspicuous, in shyness, and in stage fright. It is, however, sensitiveness to the behavior of the herd which has the most importanteffects upon the structure of the mind of the gregarious animal. Thissensitiveness is, as Sidis has clearly seen, closely associated with thesuggestibility of the gregarious animal, and therefore with that of man. The effect of it will clearly be to make acceptable those suggestionswhich come from the herd, and those only. It is of especial importanceto note that this suggestibility is not general, and that it is onlyherd suggestions which are rendered acceptable by the action ofinstinct. 

B. THE CONFLICT AND FUSION OF CULTURES

1. The Analysis of Blended Cultures[243]

In the analysis of any culture, a difficulty which soon meets theinvestigator is that he has to determine what is due to mere contact andwhat is due to intimate intermixture, such intermixture, for instance, as is produced by the permanent blending of one people with another, either through warlike invasion or peaceful settlement. The fundamentalweakness of most of the attempts hitherto made to analyze existingcultures is that they have had their starting-point in the study ofmaterial objects, and the reason for this is obvious. Owing to the factthat material objects can be collected by anyone and subjected atleisure to prolonged study by experts, our knowledge of the distributionof material objects and of the technique of their manufacture has veryfar outrun that of the less material elements. What I wish now to pointout is that in distinguishing between the effects of mere contact andthe intermixture of peoples, material objects are the least trustworthyof all the constituents of culture. Thus in Melanesia we have theclearest evidence that material objects and processes can spread by merecontact, without any true admixture of peoples and without influence onother features of the culture. While the distribution of materialobjects is of the utmost importance in suggesting at the outsetcommunity of culture, and while it is of equal importance in the finalprocess of determining points of contact and in filling in the detailsof the mixture of cultures, it is the least satisfactory guide to theactual blending of peoples which must form the solid foundation of theethnological analysis of culture. The case for the value ofmagico-religious institutions is not much stronger. Here, again, inMelanesia there is little doubt that whole cults can pass from onepeople to another without any real intermixture of peoples. I do notwish to imply that such religious institutions can pass from people topeople with the ease of material objects, but to point out that there isevidence that they can and do so pass with very little, if any, admixture of peoples or of the deeper and more fundamental elements ofthe culture. Much more important is language; and if you will think overthe actual conditions when one people either visit or settle amonganother, this greater importance will be obvious. Let us imagine a partyof Melanesians visiting a Polynesian island, staying there for a fewweeks, and then returning home (and here I am not taking a fictitiousoccurrence, but one which really happens). We can readily understandthat the visitors may take with them their betel-mixture, and therebyintroduce the custom of betel-chewing into a new home; we can readilyunderstand that they may introduce an ornament to be worn in the noseand another to be worn on the chest; that tales which they tell will beremembered, and dances they perform will be imitated. A few Milanesianwords may pass into the language of the Polynesian island, especially asnames for the objects or processes which the strangers have introduced;but it is incredible that the strangers should thus in a short visitproduce any extensive change in the vocabulary, and still more that theyshould modify the structure of the language. Such changes can never bethe result of mere contact or transient settlement but must alwaysindicate a far more deeply seated and fundamental process of blending ofpeoples and cultures. 

Few will perhaps hesitate to accept this position; but I expect my nextproposition to meet with more skepticism, and yet I believe it to bewidely, though not universally, true. This proposition is that thesocial structure, the framework of society, is still more fundamentallyimportant and still less easily changed except as the result of theintimate blending of peoples, and for that reason furnishes by far thefirmest foundation on which to base the process of analysis of culture. I cannot hope to establish the truth of this proposition in the courseof a brief address, and I propose to draw your attention to one line ofevidence only. 

At the present moment we have before our eyes an object-lesson in thespread of our own people over the earth's surface, and we are thus ableto study how external influence affects different elements of culture. What we find is that mere contact is able to transmit much in the way ofmaterial culture. A passing vessel, which does not even anchor, may beable to transmit iron, while European weapons may be used by people whohave never even seen a white man. Again, missionaries introduce theChristian religion among people who cannot speak a word of English orany language but their own or only use such European words as have beenfound necessary to express ideas or objects connected with the newreligion. There is evidence how readily language may be affected, andhere again the present day suggests a mechanism by which such a changetakes place. English is now becoming the language of the Pacific and ofother parts of the world through its use as a _lingua franca_, whichenables natives who speak different languages to converse not only withEuropeans but with one another, and I believe that this has often beenthe mechanism in the past; that, for instance, the introduction of whatwe now call the Melanesian structure of language was due to the factthat the language of an immigrant people who settled in a region ofgreat linguistic diversity came to be used as a _lingua franca_, andthus gradually became the basis of the languages of the whole people. 

But now let us turn to social structure. We find in Oceania islandswhere Europeans have been settled as missionaries or traders perhaps forfifty or a hundred years; we find the people wearing European clothesand European ornaments, using European utensils and even Europeanweapons when they fight; we find them holding the beliefs and practicingthe ritual of a European religion; we find them speaking a Europeanlanguage, often even among themselves, and yet investigation shows thatmuch of their social structure remains thoroughly native anduninfluenced, not only in its general form, but often even in its minutedetails. The external influence has swept away the whole materialculture, so that objects of native origin are manufactured only to sellto tourists; it has substituted a wholly new religion and destroyedevery material, if not every moral, vestige of the old; it has causedgreat modification and degeneration of the old language; and yet it mayhave left the social structure in the main untouched. And the reasonsfor this are clear. Most of the essential social structure of a peoplelies so below the surface, it is so literally the foundation of thewhole life of the people, that it is not seen; it is not obvious, butcan only be reached by patient and laborious exploration. I will give afew specific instances. In several islands of the Pacific, some of whichhave had European settlers on them for more than a century, a mostimportant position in the community is occupied by the father's sister. If any native of these islands were asked who is the most importantperson in the determination of his life-history, he would answer, "Myfather's sister"; and yet the place of this relative in the socialstructure has remained absolutely unrecorded, and, I believe, absolutelyunknown, to the European settlers in those islands. Again, Europeanshave settled in Fiji for more than a century, and yet it is only duringthis summer that I have heard from Mr. A. M. Hocart, who is workingthere at present, that there is the clearest evidence of what is knownas the dual organization of society as a working social institution atthe present time. How unobtrusive such a fundamental fact of socialstructure may be comes home to me in this case very strongly, for itwholly eluded my own observation during a visit three years ago. 

Lastly, the most striking example of the permanence of social structurewhich I have met is in the Hawaiian Islands. There the original nativeculture is reduced to the merest wreckage. So far as material objectsare concerned, the people are like ourselves; the old religion has gone, though there probably still persists some of the ancient magic. Thepeople themselves have so dwindled in number, and the politicalconditions are so altered, that the social structure has alsonecessarily been greatly modified, and yet I was able to ascertain thatone of its elements, an element which I believe to form the deepestlayer of the foundation, the very bedrock of social structure, thesystem of relationship, is still in use unchanged. I was able to obtaina full account of the system as actually used at the present time, andfound it to be exactly the same as that recorded forty years ago byMorgan and Hyde, and I obtained evidence that the system is still deeplyinterwoven with the intimate mental life of the people. 

If, then, social structure has this fundamental and deeply seatedcharacter, if it is the least easily changed, and only changed as theresult either of actual blending of peoples or of the most profoundpolitical changes, the obvious inference is that it is with socialstructure that we must begin the attempt to analyze culture and toascertain how far community of culture is due to the blending ofpeoples, how far to transmission through mere contact or transientsettlement. 

The considerations I have brought forward have, however, in my opinionan importance still more fundamental. If social institutions have thisrelatively great degree of permanence, if they are so deeply seated andso closely interwoven with the deepest instincts and sentiments of apeople that they can only gradually suffer change, will not the studyof this change give us our surest criterion of what is early and what islate in any given culture, and thereby furnish a guide for the analysisof culture? Such criteria of early and late are necessary if we are toarrange the cultural elements reached by our analysis in order of time, and it is very doubtful whether mere geographical distribution itselfwill ever furnish a sufficient basis for this purpose. I may remind youhere that before the importance of the complexity of Melanesian culturehad forced itself on my mind, I had already succeeded in tracing out acourse for the development of the structure of Melanesian society, andafter the complexity of the culture had been established, I did not findit necessary to alter anything of essential importance in this scheme. Isuggest, therefore, that while the ethnological analysis of culturesmust furnish a necessary preliminary to any general evolutionaryspeculations, there is one element of culture which has so relativelyhigh a degree of permanence that its course of development may furnish aguide to the order in time of the different elements into which it ispossible to analyze a given complex. 

If the development of social structure is thus to be taken as a guide toassist the process of analysis, it is evident that there will beinvolved a logical process of considerable complexity in which therewill be the danger of arguing in a circle. If, however, the analysis ofculture is to be the primary task of the anthropologist, it is evidentthat the logical methods of the science will attain a complexity farexceeding those hitherto in vogue. I believe that the only logicalprocess which will in general be found possible will be the formulationof hypothetical working schemes into which the facts can be fitted, andthat the test of such schemes will be their capacity to fit in withthemselves, or, as we generally express it, "explain" new facts as theycome to our knowledge. This is the method of other sciences which dealwith conditions as complex as those of human society. In many othersciences these new facts are discovered by experiment. In our sciencethey must be found by exploration, not only of the cultures stillexistent in living form, but also of the buried cultures of past ages. 

2. The Extension of Roman Culture in Gaul[244]

The Roman conquest of Gaul was partially a feat of arms; but it was muchmore a triumph of Roman diplomacy and a genius for colonial government. Roman power in Gaul was centered in the larger cities and in theirstrongly fortified camps. There the laws and decrees of Rome werepromulgated and the tribute of the conquered tribes received. There, too, the law courts were held and justice administered. Rome bent herefforts to the Latinizing of her newly acquired possessions. Graduallyshe forced the inhabitants of the larger cities to use the Latin tongue. But this forcing was done in a diplomatic, though effective, manner. Even in the days of Caesar, Latin was made the only medium for theadministration of the law, the promulgation of decrees, the exercise ofthe functions of government, the administration of justice, and theperforming of the offices of religion. It was the only medium ofcommerce and trade with the Romans, of literature and art, of thetheater and of social relations. Above all, it was the only road tooffice under the Roman government and to political preferment. The Romanofficials in Gaul encouraged and rewarded the mastery of the Latintongue and the acquirement of Roman culture, customs, and manners. Thanks to this well-defined policy of the Roman government, native Gaulswere found in important offices even in Caesar's time. The number ofthese Gallo-Roman offices increased rapidly, and their influence wassteadily exercised in favor of the acquirement, by the natives, of theLatin language. A greater inducement still was held out to the Gauls toacquire the ways and culture of their conquerors. This was the prospectof employment or political preference and honors in the imperial city ofRome itself. Under this pressure so diplomatically applied, the study ofthe Latin language, grammar, literature, and oratory became a passionthroughout the cities of Gaul, which were full of Roman merchants, traders, teachers, philosophers, lawyers, artists, sculptors, andseekers for political and other offices. Latin was the symbol of successin every avenue of life. Native Gauls became noted merchant princes, lawyers, soldiers, local potentates at home, and favorites of powerfulpolitical personages in Rome and even in the colonies outside Gaul. Natives of Gaul, too, reached the highest offices in the land, becomingeven members of the Senate; and later on a native Gaul became one of themost noted of the Roman emperors. The political policy of Rome made theimposition of the Latin language upon the cities of Gaul a comparativelyeasy matter, requiring only time to assure its accomplishment. Everywhere throughout the populous cities of Gaul there sprang upschools that rivaled, in their efficacy and reputation, the most famousinstitutions of Rome. Rich Romans sent their sons to these schoolsbecause of their excellence and the added advantage that they couldacquire there a first-hand knowledge of the life and customs of thenatives, whom they might be called upon in the future to govern or tohave political or other relations with. Thus all urban Gaul traveledRome-ward--"all roads led to Rome. "

The influence of Roman culture extended itself much more slowly over therural districts, the inhabitants of which, in addition to being muchmore conservative and passionately attached to their native institutionsand language, lacked the incentive of ambition and of commercial andtrade necessity. A powerful Druidical priesthood held the rural Celtstogether and set their faces against Roman culture and religion. Buteven in the rural districts Latin made its way slowly and in a mangledform, yet none the less surely. This was accomplished almost entirelythrough the natural pressure from without exercised by the growing powerof the Latin tongue, which had greatly increased during the reign of theEmperor Claudius (41-54 A. D. ). Claudius, who was born in Lyon andeducated in Gaul, opened to the Gauls all the employments and dignitiesof the empire. On the construction of the many extensive public works heemployed many inhabitants of Gaul in positions requiring faithfulness, honesty, and skill. These, in their turn, frequently drew laborers fromthe rural districts of Gaul. These latter, during their residence inRome or other Italian cities, or in the populous centers of Gaul, acquired some knowledge of Latin. Thus, in time, through these and otheragencies, a sort of _lingua franca_ sprang up throughout the ruraldistricts of Gaul and served as a medium of communication between theCeltic-speaking population and the inhabitants of the cities and towns. This consisted of a frame of Latin words stripped of most of theirinflections and subjected to word-contractions and other modifications. Into this frame were fitted many native words which had already becomethe property of trade and commerce and the other activities of life inthe city, town, and country. Thus, as the influence of Latin becamestronger in the cities, it continued to exercise greater pressure on therural districts. This pressure soon began to react upon the centers ofLatin culture. The uneducated classes of Gaul everywhere, even in thecities, spoke very imperfect Latin, the genius of which is so differentfrom that of the native tongues of Gaul. But while the cities affordedsome correction for this universal tendency among the masses to corruptthe Latin language, the life of the rural districts, where the nativetongues were still universally spoken, made the disintegration of thehighly inflected Roman speech unavoidable. As the masses in the city andcountry became more Latinized, at the expense of their native tongues, the corrupted Latin spoken over immense districts of the country tendedto pass current as the speech of the populace and to crowd out classicalor school Latin. As this corrupted local Latin varied greatly indifferent parts of the country, due to linguistic and other influences, there resulted numerous Roman dialects throughout Gaul, many of whichare still in existence. 

The introduction of Christianity gave additional impulse to the study ofLatin, which soon became the official language of the Christian church;and it was taught everywhere by the priests to the middle and upperclasses, and they also encouraged the masses to learn it. It seemed asif this was destined to maintain the prestige of Latin as the officiallanguage of the country. But in reality it hastened its downfall bymaking it more and more the language of the illiterate masses. Soon therural districts furnished priests who spoke their own Roman tongue; andthe struggle to rehabilitate the literary Latin among the masses wasabandoned. The numerous French dialects of Latin had already begun toassume shape when the decline of the Roman Empire brought the Germanictribes down upon Gaul and introduced a new element into the Romanicspeech, which had already worked its will upon the tongue of theCaesars. Under its influence the loose Latin construction disappeared;articles and prepositions took the place of the inflectionalterminations brought to a high state of artificial perfection in Latin;and the wholesale suppression of unaccented syllables had so contractedthe Latin words that they were often scarcely recognizable. Themodification of vowel sounds increased the efficacy of the disguiseassumed by Latin words masquerading in the Romanic dialects throughoutGaul; and the Celtic and other native words in current use to designatethe interests and occupations of the masses helped to differentiate thepopular speech from the classical Latin. Already Celtic, as a spokentongue, had almost entirely disappeared from the cities; and even in therural districts it had fallen into a certain amount of neglect, as the_lingua franca_ of the first centuries of Roman occupation, reaching outin every direction, became the ever-increasing popular speech. 

3. The Competition of the Cultural Languages[245]

Some time ago a typewriter firm, in advertising a machine with Arabiccharacters, made the statement that the Arabic alphabet is used by morepeople than any other. A professor of Semitic languages was asked: "Howbig a lie is that?" He answered: "It is true. "

In a certain sense, it is true; the total population of all thecountries whose inhabitants use the Arabic alphabet (if they use any) isslightly larger than that of those who use the Latin alphabet and itsslight variations, or the Chinese characters (which of course are not analphabet), or the Russian alphabet. If, however, the question is howmany people can actually use any alphabet or system of writing, theArabic stands lowest of the four. 

The question of the relative importance of a language as a literarymedium is a question of how many people want to read it. There are twoclasses of these: those to whom it is vernacular, and those who learn itin addition to their own language. The latter class is of the greaterimportance in proportion to its numbers; a man who has education enoughto acquire a foreign language is pretty sure to use it, while many ofthe former class, who can read, really do read very little. Those whocount in this matter are those who can get information from a printedpage as easily as by listening to someone talking. A fair index of therelative number of these in a country is the newspaper circulationthere. 

A language must have a recognized literary standard and all the peoplein its territory must learn to use it as such before its influence goesfar abroad. English, French, and German, and they alone, have reachedthis point. French and German have no new country, and practically thewhole of their country is now literate; their relative share in theworld's reading can only increase as their population increases. Spanishand Russian, on the other hand, have both new country and room for amuch higher percentage of literacy. 

It is probable that all the countries in temperate zones will haveuniversal literacy by the end of the century. In this case, even if noone read English outside its vernacular countries, it would still holdits own as the leading literary language. German and French are bound tofall off relatively as vernaculars, and this implies a falling off oftheir importance as culture languages; but the importance of English inthis respect is bound to grow. The first place among foreign languageshas been given to it in the schools of many European and South Americancountries; Mexico and Japan make it compulsory in all schools of uppergrades; and China is to follow Japan in this respect as soon as the workcan be organized. 

The number of people who can actually read, or will learn if now tooyoung, for the various languages of the world appears to be as follows:

 Number in Millions Per Cent

English 136 27. 2German 82 16. 4Chinese[A] 70 14. 0French 28 9. 6Russian 30 6. 0Arabic 25 5. 0Italian 18 4. 6Spanish 12 2. 6Scandinavian 11 2. 2Dutch and Flemish 9 1. 9Minor European[B] 34 6. 8Minor Asiatic[B] 16 3. 2Minor African and Polynesian[B] 2+ 0. 5

Total 473+ 100. 0

Notes:[A] Not a spoken language, but a system of writing. 

[B] None representing as much as 1 per cent of total. 

English, therefore, now leads all other languages in the number of itsreaders. Three-fourths of the world's mail matter is addressed inEnglish. More than half of the world's newspapers are printed inEnglish, and, as they have a larger circulation than those in otherlanguages, probably three-fourths of the world's newspaper reading isdone in English. 

The languages next in importance, French and German, cannot maintaintheir relative positions because English has more than half of the newland in the temperate zone and they have none. The languages which havethe rest of the new territory, Spanish and Russian, are not establishedas culture languages, as English is. No other language, not even Frenchor German, has a vernacular so uniform and well established, and with sofew variations from the literary language. English is spoken in theUnited States by more than fifty million people with so slightvariations that no foreigner would ever notice them. No other languagewhatever can show more than a fraction of this number of persons whospeak so nearly alike. 

It is then probable that, within the century, English will be thevernacular of a quarter instead of a tenth of the people of the world, and be read by a half instead of a quarter of the people who can read. 

4. The Assimilation of Races[246]

The race problem has sometimes been described as a problem inassimilation. It is not always clear, however, what assimilation means. Historically the word has had two distinct significations. According toearlier usage it meant "to compare" or "to make like. " According tolater usage it signifies "to take up and incorporate. "

There is a process that goes on in society by which individualsspontaneously acquire one another's language, characteristic attitudes, habits, and modes of behavior. There is also a process by whichindividuals and groups of individuals are taken over and incorporatedinto larger groups. Both processes have been concerned in the formationof modern nationalities. The modern Italian, Frenchman, and German is acomposite of the broken fragments of several different racial groups. Interbreeding has broken up the ancient stocks, and interaction andimitation have created new national types which exhibit definiteuniformities in language, manners, and formal behavior. 

It has sometimes been assumed that the creation of a national type isthe specific function of assimilation and that national solidarity isbased upon national homogeneity and "like-mindedness. " The extent andimportance of the kind of homogeneity that individuals of the samenationality exhibit have been greatly exaggerated. Neither interbreedingnor interaction has created, in what the French term "nationals, " a morethan superficial likeness or like-mindedness. Racial differences have, to be sure, disappeared or been obscured, but individual differencesremain. Individual differences, again, have been intensified byeducation, personal competition, and the division of labor, untilindividual members of cosmopolitan groups probably represent greatervariations in disposition, temperament, and mental capacity than thosewhich distinguished the more homogeneous races and peoples of an earliercivilization. 

What then, precisely, is the nature of the homogeneity whichcharacterizes cosmopolitan groups?

The growth of modern states exhibits the progressive merging of smaller, mutually exclusive, into larger and more inclusive, social groups. Thisresult has been achieved in various ways, but it has usually beenfollowed or accompanied by a more or less complete adoption by themembers of the smaller groups of the language, technique, and mores ofthe larger and more inclusive ones. The immigrant readily takes over thelanguage, manners, the social ritual, and outward forms of his adoptedcountry. In America it has become proverbial that a Pole, Lithuanian, orNorwegian cannot be distinguished, in the second generation, from anAmerican born of native parents. 

There is no reason to assume that this assimilation of alien groups tonative standards has modified to any great extent fundamental racialcharacteristics. It has, however, erased the external signs whichformerly distinguished the members of one race from those of another. 

On the other hand, the breaking up of the isolation of smaller groupshas had the effect of emancipating the individual man, giving him roomand freedom for the expansion and development of his individualaptitudes. 

What one actually finds in cosmopolitan groups, then, is a superficialuniformity, a homogeneity in manners and fashion, associated withrelatively profound differences in individual opinions, sentiments, andbeliefs. This is just the reverse of what one meets among primitivepeoples, where diversity in external forms, as between different groups, is accompanied by a monotonous sameness in the mental attitudes ofindividuals. There is a striking similarity in the sentiments and mentalattitudes of peasant peoples in all parts of the world, although theexternal differences are often great. In the Black Forest, in Baden, Germany, almost every valley shows a different style of costume, adifferent type of architecture, although in each separate valley everyhouse is like every other and the costume, as well as the religion, isfor every member of each separate community absolutely after the samepattern. On the other hand, a German, Russian, or Negro peasant of thesouthern states, different as each is in some respects, are all verymuch alike in certain habitual attitudes and sentiments. 

What, then, is the rôle of homogeneity and like-mindedness, such as wefind them to be, in cosmopolitan states? So far as it makes eachindividual look like every other--no matter how different under theskin--homogeneity mobilizes the individual man. It removes the socialtaboo, permits the individual to move into strange groups, and thusfacilitates new and adventurous contacts. In obliterating the externalsigns, which in secondary groups seem to be the sole basis of caste andclass distinctions, it realizes, for the individual, the principle of_laissez faire_, _laissez aller_. Its ultimate economic effect is tosubstitute personal for racial competition, and to give free play toforces that tend to relegate every individual, irrespective of race orstatus, to the position he or she is best fitted to fill. 

As a matter of fact, the ease and rapidity with which aliens, underexisting conditions in the United States, have been able to assimilatethemselves to the customs and manners of American life have enabled thiscountry to swallow and digest every sort of normal human difference, except the purely external ones, like the color of the skin. 

It is probably true, also, that like-mindedness of the kind thatexpresses itself in national types contributes indirectly byfacilitating the intermingling of the different elements of thepopulation to the national solidarity. This is due to the fact that thesolidarity of modern states depends less on the homogeneity ofpopulation than, as James Bryce has suggested, upon the thoroughgoingmixture of heterogeneous elements. Like-mindedness, so far as that termsignifies a standard grade of intelligence, contributes little ornothing to national solidarity. Likeness is, after all, a purely formalconcept which of itself cannot hold anything together. 

In the last analysis social solidarity is based on sentiment and habit. It is the sentiment of loyalty and the habit of what Sumner calls"concurrent action" that gives substance and insures unity to the stateas to every other type of social group. This sentiment of loyalty hasits basis in a _modus vivendi_, a working relation and mutualunderstanding of the members of the group. Social institutions are notfounded in similarities any more than they are founded in differences, but in relations, and in the mutual interdependence of parts. When theserelations have the sanction of custom and are fixed in individual habit, so that the activities of the group are running smoothly, personalattitudes and sentiments, which are the only forms in which individualminds collide and clash with one another, easily accommodate themselvesto the existing situation. 

It may, perhaps, be said that loyalty itself is a form oflike-mindedness or that it is dependent in some way upon thelike-mindedness of the individuals whom it binds together. This, however, cannot be true, for there is no greater loyalty than that whichbinds the dog to his master, and this is a sentiment which that faithfulanimal usually extends to other members of the household to which hebelongs. A dog without a master is a dangerous animal, but the dog thathas been domesticated is a member of society. He is not, of course, acitizen, although he is not entirely without rights. But he has got intosome sort of practical working relations with the group to which hebelongs. 

It is this practical working arrangement, into which individuals withwidely different mental capacities enter as co-ordinate parts, thatgives the corporate character to social groups and insures theirsolidarity. It is the process of assimilation by which groups ofindividuals, originally indifferent or perhaps hostile, achieve thiscorporate character, rather than the process by which they acquire aformal like-mindedness, with which this paper is mainly concerned. 

The difficulty with the conception of assimilation which one ordinarilymeets in discussions of the race problem is that it is based onobservations confined to individualistic groups where the characteristicrelations are indirect and secondary. It takes no account of the kind ofassimilation that takes place in primary groups where relations aredirect and personal--in the tribe, for example, and in the family. 

Thus Charles Francis Adams, referring to the race problem in an addressat Richmond, Virginia, in November, 1908, said:

 The American system, as we know, was founded on the assumed basis of a common humanity, that is, absence of absolutely fundamental racial characteristics was accepted as an established truth. Those of all races were welcomed to our shores. They came, aliens; they and their descendants would become citizens first, natives afterward. It was a process first of assimilation and then of absorption. On this all depended. There could be no permanent divisional lines. That theory is now plainly broken down. We are confronted by the obvious fact, as undeniable as it is hard, that the African will only partially assimilate and that he cannot be absorbed. He remains an alien element in the body politic. A foreign substance, he can neither be assimilated nor thrown out. 

More recently an editorial in the _Outlook_, discussing the Japanesesituation in California, made this statement:

 The hundred millions of people now inhabiting the United States must be a united people, not merely a collection of groups of different peoples, different in racial cultures and ideals, agreeing to live together in peace and amity. These hundred millions must have common ideals, common aims, a common custom, a common culture, a common language, and common characteristics, if the nation is to endure. 

All this is quite true and interesting, but it does not clearlyrecognize the fact that the chief obstacle to the assimilation of theNegro and the Oriental are not mental but physical traits. It is notbecause the Negro and the Japanese are so differently constituted thatthey do not assimilate. If they were given an opportunity, the Japaneseare quite as capable as the Italians, the Armenians, or the Slavs ofacquiring our culture and sharing our national ideals. The trouble isnot with the Japanese mind but with the Japanese skin. The Jap is notthe right color. 

The fact that the Japanese bears in his features a distinctive racialhallmark, that he wears, so to speak, a racial uniform, classifies him. He cannot become a mere individual, indistinguishable in thecosmopolitan mass of the population, as is true, for example, of theIrish, and, to a lesser extent, of some of the other immigrant races. The Japanese, like the Negro, is condemned to remain among us anabstraction, a symbol--and a symbol not merely of his own race but ofthe Orient and of that vague, ill-defined menace we sometimes refer toas the "yellow peril. " This not only determines to a very large extentthe attitude of the white world toward the yellow man but it determinesthe attitude of the yellow man toward the white. It puts between theraces the invisible but very real gulf of self-consciousness. 

There is another consideration. Peoples we know intimately we respectand esteem. In our casual contact with aliens, however, it is theoffensive rather than the pleasing traits that impress us. Theseimpressions accumulate and reinforce natural prejudices. Where races aredistinguished by certain external marks, these furnish a permanentphysical substratum upon which and around which the irritations andanimosities, incidental to all human intercourse, tend to accumulate andso gain strength and volume. 

Assimilation, as the word is here used, brings with it a certainborrowed significance which it carried over from physiology, where it isemployed to describe the process of nutrition. By a process ofnutrition, somewhat similar to the physiological one, we may conceivealien peoples to be incorporated with, and made part of, the communityor state. Ordinarily assimilation goes on silently and unconsciously, and only forces itself into popular conscience when there is someinterruption or disturbance of the process. 

At the outset it may be said, then, that assimilation rarely becomes aproblem except in secondary groups. Admission to the primary group, thatis to say, the group in which relationships are direct and personal, as, for example, in the family and in the tribe, makes assimilationcomparatively easy and almost inevitable. 

The most striking illustration of this is the fact of domestic slavery. Slavery has been, historically, the usual method by which peoples havebeen incorporated into alien groups. When a member of an alien race isadopted into the family as a servant or as a slave, and particularlywhen that status is made hereditary, as it was in the case of the Negroafter his importation to America, assimilation followed rapidly and as amatter of course. 

It is difficult to conceive two races farther removed from each other intemperament and tradition than the Anglo-Saxon and the Negro, and yetthe Negro in the southern states, particularly where he was adopted intothe household as a family servant, learned in a comparatively short timethe manners and customs of his master's family. He very soon possessedhimself of so much of the language, religion, and the technique of thecivilization of his master as, in his station, he was fitted orpermitted to acquire. Eventually, also, Negro slaves transferred theirallegiance to the state of which they were only indirectly members, orat least to their masters' families, with whom they felt themselves inmost things one in sentiment and interest. 

The assimilation of the Negro field hand, where the contact of the slavewith his master and his master's family was less intimate, was naturallyless complete. On the large plantations, where an overseer stood betweenthe master and the majority of his slaves, and especially on the seaisland plantations off the coast of South Carolina, where the master andhis family were likely to be merely winter visitors, this distancebetween master and slave was greatly increased. The consequence is thatthe Negroes in these regions are less touched today by the white man'sinfluence and civilization than elsewhere in the southern states. 

C. AMERICANIZATION AS A PROBLEM IN ASSIMILATION[247]

1. Americanization as Assimilation

The Americanization Study has assumed that the fundamental condition ofwhat we call "Americanization" is the participation of the immigrant inthe life of the community in which he lives. The point here emphasizedis that patriotism, loyalty, and common sense are neither created nortransmitted by purely intellectual processes. Men must live and work andfight together in order to create that community of interest andsentiment which will enable them to meet the crises of their common lifewith a common will. 

It is evident, however, that the word "participation" as here employedhas a wide application, and it becomes important for working purposes togive a more definite and concrete meaning to the term. 

2. Language as a Means and a Product of Participation

Obviously any organized social activity whatever and any participationin this activity implies "communication. " In human, as distinguishedfrom animal, society common life is based on a common speech. To share acommon speech does not guarantee participation in the community life butit is an instrument of participation, and its acquisition by the membersof an immigrant group is rightly considered a sign and a rough index ofAmericanization. 

It is, however, one of the ordinary experiences of social intercoursethat words and things do not have the same meanings with differentpeople, in different parts of the country, in different periods of time, and, in general, in different contexts. The same "thing" has a differentmeaning for the naïve person and the sophisticated person, for the childand the philosopher; the new experience derives its significance fromthe character and organization of the previous experiences. To thepeasant a comet, a plague, and an epileptic person may mean a divineportent, a visitation of God, a possession by the devil; to thescientific man they mean something quite different. The word "slavery"had very different connotations in the ancient world and today. It has avery different significance today in the southern states and in thenorthern states. "Socialism" has a very different significance to theimmigrant from the Russian pale living on the "East Side" of New YorkCity, to the citizen on Riverside Drive, and to the native American inthe hills of Georgia. 

Psychologists explain this difference in the connotation of the sameword among people using the same language in terms of difference in the"apperception mass" in different individuals and different groups ofindividuals. In their phraseology the "apperception mass" represents thebody of memories and meanings deposited in the consciousness of theindividual from the totality of his experiences. It is the body ofmaterial with which every new datum of experience comes into contact, towhich it is related, and in connection with which it gets its meaning. 

When persons interpret data on different grounds, when the apperceptionmass is radically different, we say popularly that they live indifferent worlds. The logician expresses this by saying that they occupydifferent "universes of discourse"--that is, they cannot talk in thesame terms. The ecclesiastic, the artist, the mystic, the scientist, thePhilistine, the Bohemian, represent more or less different "universes ofdiscourse. " Even social workers occupy universes of discourse notmutually intelligible. 

Similarly, different races and nationalities as wholes representdifferent apperception masses and consequently different universes ofdiscourse and are not mutually intelligible. Even our remote forefathersare with difficulty intelligible to us, though always more intelligiblethan the Eastern immigrant because of the continuity of our tradition. Still it is almost as difficult for us to comprehend _Elsie Dinsmore_ orthe _Westminster Catechism_ as the Koran or the Talmud. 

It is apparent, therefore, that in the wide extension and vastcomplexity of modern life, in which peoples of different races andcultures are now coming into intimate contact, the divergences in themeanings and values which individuals and groups attach to objects andforms of behavior are deeper than anything expressed by differences inlanguage. 

Actually common participation in common activities implies a common"definition of the situation. " In fact, every single act, and eventuallyall moral life, is dependent upon the definition of the situation. Adefinition of the situation precedes and limits any possible action, anda redefinition of the situation changes the character of the action. Anabusive person, for example, provokes anger and possibly violence, butif we realize that the man is insane this redefinition of the situationresults in totally different behavior. 

Every social group develops systematic and unsystematic means ofdefining the situation for its members. Among these means are the"don'ts" of the mother, the gossip of the community, epithets ("liar, ""traitor, " "scab"), the sneer, the shrug, the newspaper, the theater, the school, libraries, the law, and the gospel. Education in the widestsense--intellectual, moral, aesthetic--is the process of defining thesituation. It is the process by which the definitions of an oldergeneration are transmitted to a younger. In the case of the immigrant itis the process by which the definitions of one cultural group aretransmitted to another. 

Differences in meanings and values, referred to above in terms of the"apperception mass, " grow out of the fact that different individuals anddifferent peoples have defined the situation in different ways. When wespeak of the different "heritages" or "traditions" which our differentimmigrant groups bring, it means that, owing to different historicalcircumstances, they have defined the situation differently. Certainprominent personalities, schools of thought, bodies of doctrine, historical events, have contributed in defining the situation anddetermining the attitudes and values of our various immigrant groups incharacteristic ways in their home countries. To the Sicilian, forexample, marital infidelity means the stiletto; to the American, thedivorce court. And even when the immigrant thinks that he understandsus, he nevertheless does not do this completely. At the best heinterprets our cultural traditions in terms of his own. Actually thesituation is progressively redefined by the consequences of the actions, provoked by the previous definitions, and a prison experience isdesigned to provide a datum toward the redefinition of the situation. 

It is evidently important that the people who compose a community andshare in the common life should have a sufficient body of commonmemories to understand one another. This is particularly true in ademocracy, where it is intended that the public institutions should beresponsive to public opinion. There can be no public opinion except inso far as the persons who compose the public are able to live in thesame world and speak and think in the same universe of discourse. Forthat reason it seems desirable that the immigrants should not only speakthe language of the country but should know something of the history ofthe people among whom they have chosen to dwell. For the same reason itis important that native Americans should know the history and sociallife of the countries from which the immigrants come. 

It is important also that every individual should share as fully aspossible a fund of knowledge, experience, sentiments, and ideals commonto the whole community and himself contribute to this fund. It is forthis reason that we maintain and seek to maintain freedom of speech andfree schools. The function of literature, including poetry, romance, andthe newspaper, is to enable all to share victoriously and imaginativelyin the inner life of each. The function of science is to gather up, classify, digest, and preserve, in a form in which they may becomeavailable to the community as a whole, the ideas, inventions, andtechnical experience of the individuals composing it. Thus not merelythe possession of a common language but the wide extension of theopportunities for education become conditions of Americanization. 

The immigration problem is unique in the sense that the immigrant bringsdivergent definitions of the situation, and this renders hisparticipation in our activities difficult. At the same time this problemis of the same general type as the one exemplified by "syndicalism, ""bolshevism, " "socialism, " etc. , where the definition of the situationdoes not agree with the traditional one. The modern "social unrest, "like the immigrant problem, is a sign of the lack of participation andthis is true to the degree that certain elements feel that violence isthe only available means of participating. 

3. Assimilation and the Mediation of Individual Differences

In general, a period of unrest represents the stage in which a newdefinition of the situation is being prepared. Emotion and unrest areconnected with situations where there is loss of control. Control issecured on the basis of habits and habits are built up on the basis ofthe definition of the situation. Habit represents a situation where thedefinition is working. When control is lost it means that the habits areno longer adequate, that the situation has changed and demands aredefinition. This is the point at which we have unrest--a heightenedemotional state, random movements, unregulated behavior--and thiscontinues until the situation is redefined. The unrest is associatedwith conditions in which the individual or society feels unable to act. It represents energy, and the problem is to use it constructively. 

The older societies tended to treat unrest by defining the situation interms of the suppression or postponement of the wish; they tried to makethe repudiation of the wish itself a wish. "Contentment, " "conformityto the will of God, " ultimate "salvation" in a better world, arerepresentative of this. The founders of America defined the situation interms of participation, but this has actually taken too exclusively theform of "political participation. " The present tendency is to define thesituation in terms of social participation, including demand for theimprovement of social conditions to a degree which will enable all toparticipate. 

But, while it is important that the people who are members of the samecommunity should have a body of common memories and a commonapperception mass, so that they may talk intelligibly to one another, itis neither possible nor necessary that everything should have the samemeaning for everyone. A perfectly homogeneous consciousness would mean atendency to define all situations rigidly and sacredly and once andforever. Something like this did happen in the Slavic villagecommunities and among all savage people, and it was the ideal of themedieval church, but it implies a low level of efficiency and a slowrate of progress. 

Mankind is distinguished, in fact, from the animal world by beingcomposed of persons of divergent types, of varied tastes and interests, of different vocations and functions. Civilization is the product of anassociation of widely different individuals, and with the progress ofcivilization the divergence in individual human types has been and mustcontinue to be constantly multiplied. Our progress in the arts andsciences and in the creation of values in general has been dependent onspecialists whose distinctive worth was precisely their divergence fromother individuals. It is even evident that we have been able to useproductively individuals who in a savage or peasant society would havebeen classed as insane--who perhaps were indeed insane. 

The ability to participate productively implies thus a diversity ofattitudes and values in the participants, but a diversity not so greatas to lower the morals of the community and to prevent effectiveco-operation. It is important to have ready definitions for allimmediate situations, but progress is dependent on the constantredefinitions for all immediate situations, and the ideal condition forthis is the presence of individuals with divergent definitions, whocontribute, in part consciously and in part unconsciously, through theirindividualism and labors to a common task and a common end. It is onlyin this way that an intelligible world, in which each can participateaccording to his intelligence, comes into existence. For it is onlythrough their consequences that words get their meanings or thatsituations become defined. It is through conflict and co-operation, or, to use a current phrase of economists, through "competitiveco-operation, " that a distinctively human type of society does anywhereexist. Privacy and publicity, "society" and solitude, public ends andprivate enterprises, are each and all distinctive factors in humansociety everywhere. They are particularly characteristic of historicAmerican democracy. 

In this whole connection it appears that the group consciousness and theindividual himself are formed by communication and participation, andthat the communication and participation are themselves dependent fortheir meaning on common interests. 

But it would be an error to assume that participation always implies anintimate personal, face-to-face relation. Specialists participatenotably and productively in our common life, but this is evidently noton the basis of personal association with their neighbors. Darwin wasassisted by Lyell, Owen, and other contemporaries in working out a newdefinition of the situation, but these men were not his neighbors. WhenMayer worked out his theory of the transmutation of energy, hisneighbors in the village of Heilbronn were so far from participatingthat they twice confined him in insane asylums. A postage stamp may be amore efficient instrument of participation than a village meeting. 

Defining the situation with reference to the participation of theimmigrant is of course not solving the problem of immigration. Thisinvolves an analysis of the whole significance of the qualitative andquantitative character of a population, with reference to any givenvalues--standards of living, individual level of efficiency, liberty anddeterminism, etc. We have, for instance, in America a certain level ofculture, depending, let us say as a minimum, on the perpetuation of ourpublic-school system. But, if by some conceivable _lusus naturae_ thebirth rate was multiplied a hundred fold, or by some conceivablecataclysm a hundred million African blacks were landed annually on oureastern coast and an equal number of Chinese coolies on our westerncoast, then we should have neither teachers enough nor buildings enoughnor material resources enough to impart even the three R's to afraction of the population, and the outlook of democracy, so far as itis dependent upon participation, would become very dismal. On the otherhand, it is conceivable that certain immigrant populations in certainnumbers, with their special temperaments, endowments, and socialheritages, would contribute positively and increasingly to our stock ofcivilization. These are questions to be determined, but certainly if theimmigrant is admitted on any basis whatever the condition of hisAmericanization is that he shall have the widest and freest opportunityto contribute in his own way to the common fund of knowledge, ideas, andideals which makes up the culture of our common country. It is only inthis way that the immigrant can "participate" in the fullest sense ofthe term. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. Assimilation and Amalgamation

The literature upon assimilation falls naturally under three main heads:(1) assimilation and amalgamation; (2) the conflict and fusion ofcultures; and (3) immigration and Americanization. 

Literature on assimilation is very largely a by-product of thecontroversy in regard to the relative superiority and inferiority ofraces. This controversy owes its existence, in the present century, tothe publication in 1854 of Gobineau's _The Inequality of Human Races_. This treatise appeared at a time when the dominant peoples of Europewere engaged in extending their benevolent protection over all the"unprotected" lesser breeds, and this book offered a justification, onbiological grounds, of the domination of the "inferior" by the"superior" races. 

Gobineau's theory, and that of the schools which have perpetuated andelaborated his doctrines, defined culture as an essentially racialtrait. Other races might accommodate themselves to, but could notoriginate nor maintain a superior culture. This is the aristocratictheory of the inequalities of races and, as might be expected, wasreceived with enthusiasm by the chauvinists of the "strong" nations. 

The opposing school is disposed to treat the existing civilizations aslargely the result of historical accident. The superior peoples arethose who have had access to the accumulated cultural materials of thepeoples that preceded them. Modern Europe owes its civilization to thefact that it went to school to the ancients. The inferior peoples arethose who did not have this advantage. 

Ratzel was one of the first to venture the theory that the natural andthe cultural peoples were fundamentally alike and that the existingdifferences, great as they are, were due to geographical and culturalisolation of the less advanced races. Boas' _Mind of Primitive Man_ isthe most systematic and critical statement of that view of the matter. 

The discussion which these rival theories provoked has led students tocloser studies of the effects of racial contacts and to a morepenetrating analysis of the cultural process. 

The contacts of races have invariably led to racial intermixture, andthe mixed breed, as in the case of the mulatto, the result of thewhite-Negro cross, has tended to create a distinct cultural as well as aracial type. E. B. Reuter's volume on _The Mulatto_ is the first seriousattempt to study the mixed blood as a cultural type and define his rôlein the conflict of races and cultures. 

Historical cases of the assimilation of one group by another arefrequent. Kaindl's investigations of the German settlements in theCarpathian lands are particularly instructive. The story of the mannerin which the early German settlers in Cracow, Galicia, were Polonizedmainly under the influence of the Polish nobility, is all the moreinteresting when it is contrasted with the German colonists in theSiebenbürgen, which have remained strongholds of the German language andculture in the midst of a population of Roumanian peasants for nearlyeight hundred years. Still more interesting are the recent attempts ofthe Prussians to Germanize the former province of Posen, now reunited toPoland. Prussia's policy of colonization of German peasants in Posenfailed for several reasons, but it failed finally because the Germanpeasant, finding himself isolated in the midst of a Polish community, either gave up the land the government had acquired for him and returnedto his native German province, or identified himself with the Polishcommunity and was thus lost to the cause of German nationalism. Thewhole interesting history of that episode is related in Bernard's _DiePolenfrage_, which is at the same time an account of the organization ofan autonomous Polish community within the limits of a German state. 

The competition and survival of languages affords interesting materialfor the study of cultural contacts and the conditions that determineassimilation. Investigations of the racial origins of European peopleshave discovered a great number of curious cultural anomalies. There arepeoples like the Spreewälder who inhabit a little cultural island ofabout 240 miles square in the Province of Brandenburg, Prussia. Surviving remnants of a Slavic people, they still preserve theirlanguage and their tribal costumes, and, although but thirty thousand innumber and surrounded by Germans, maintain a lively literary movementall their own. On the other hand, the most vigorous and powerful of theGermanic nationalities, the Prussian, bears the name of a conqueredSlavic people whose language, "Old Prussian, " not spoken since theseventeenth century, is preserved only in a few printed books, includinga catechism and German-Prussian vocabulary, which the Germanphilologists have rescued from oblivion. 

2. The Conflict and Fusion of Cultures

The contacts and transmission of cultures have been investigated indifferent regions of social life under different titles. Theethnologists have investigated the process among primitive peoples underthe title acculturation. Among historical peoples, on the other hand, acculturation has been called assimilation. The aim of missions hasbeen, on the whole, to bring the world under the domination of a singlemoral order; but in seeking to accomplish this task they havecontributed greatly to the fusion and cross-fertilization of racial andnational cultures. 

The problem of origin is the first and often the most perplexing problemwhich the study of primitive cultures presents. [248] Was a givencultural trait, i. E. , a weapon, a tool, or a myth, borrowed or invented?For example, there are several independent centers of origin andpropagation of the bow and arrow. Writing approached or reachedperfection in at least five different, widely separated regions. Otherproblems of acculturation which have been studied include the following:the degree and order of transmissibility of different cultural traits;the persistence or the immunity against change of different traits; themodification of cultural traits in the process of transmission; thecharacter of social contacts between cultural groups; the distance thatdivides cultural levels; and the rôle of prestige in stimulatingimitation and copying. 

The development of a world-commerce, the era of European colonizationand imperial expansion in America, Asia, and Africa and Australia, theforward drive of occidental science and the Western system oflarge-scale competitive industry have created racial contacts, culturalchanges, conflicts, and fusions of unprecedented and unforeseen extent, intensity, and immediateness. The crash of a fallen social order inRussia reverberates throughout the world; reports of the capitalizationof new enterprises indicate that India is copying the economicorganization of Europe; the feminist movement has invaded Japan;representatives of close to fifty nations of the earth meet in conclavein the assembly of the League of Nations. 

So complete has been in recent years the interpenetration of peoples andcultures that nations are now seeking to preserve their existence notalone from assault from without by force of arms, but they are equallyconcerned to protect themselves from the more insidious attacks ofpropaganda from within. Under these circumstances the ancient libertiesof speech and press are being scrutinized and questioned. Particularlyis this true when this freedom of speech and press is exercised by alienpeoples, who criticize our institutions in a foreign tongue and claimthe right to reform native institutions before they have become citizensand even before they are able to use the native language. 

3. Immigration and Americanization

The presence of large groups of foreign-born in the United States wasfirst conceived of as a problem of immigration. From the period of thelarge Irish immigration to this country in the decades following 1820each new immigrant group called forth a popular literature of protestagainst the evils its presence threatened. After 1890 the increasingvolume of immigration and the change in the source of the immigrantsfrom northwestern Europe to southeastern Europe intensified the generalconcern. In 1907 the Congress of the United States created theImmigration Commission to make "full inquiry, examination, andinvestigation into the subject of immigration. " The plan and scope ofthe work as outlined by the Commission "included a study of the sourcesof recent immigration in Europe, the general character of incomingimmigrants, the methods employed here and abroad to prevent theimmigration of persons classed as undesirable in the United Statesimmigration law, and finally a thorough investigation into the generalstatus of the more recent immigrants as residents of the United States, and the effect of such immigration upon the institutions, industries, and people of this country. " In 1910 the Commission made a report of itsinvestigations and findings together with its conclusions andrecommendations which were published in forty-one volumes. 

The European War focused the attention of the country upon the problemof Americanization. The public mind became conscious of the fact that"the stranger within our gates, " whether naturalized or unnaturalized, tended to maintain his loyalty to the land of his origin, even when itseemed to conflict with loyalty to the country of his sojourn or hisadoption. A large number of superficial investigations called "surveys"were made of immigrant colonies in the larger cities of the country. Americanization work of many varieties developed apace. A vastliterature sprang up to meet the public demand for information andinstruction on this topic. In view of this situation the CarnegieCorporation of New York City undertook in 1918 a "Study of the Methodsof Americanization or Fusion of Native and Foreign Born. " The point ofview from which the study was made may be inferred from the followingstatement by its director, Allen T. Burns:

 Americanization is the uniting of new with native born Americans in fuller common understanding and appreciation to secure by means of self-government the highest welfare of all. Such Americanization should produce no unchangeable political, domestic, and economic régime delivered once for all to the fathers, but a growing and broadening national life, inclusive of the best wherever found. With all our rich heritages, Americanism will develop through a mutual giving and taking of contributions from both newer and older Americans in the interest of the common weal. This study will follow such an understanding of Americanization. 

The study, as originally planned, was divided into ten divisions, asfollows: the schooling of the immigrant, the press and the theater, adjustment of homes and family life, legal protection and correction, health standards and care, naturalization and political life, industrial and economic amalgamation, treatment of immigrant heritages, neighborhood agencies, and rural developments. The findings of thesedifferent parts of the study are presented in separate volumes. 

This is the most recent important survey-investigation of the immigrant, although there are many less imposing but significant studies in thisfield. Among these are the interesting analyses of the assimilationprocess in Julius Drachsler's _Democracy and Assimilation_ and in A. M. Dushkin's study of _Jewish Education in New York City_. 

The natural history of assimilation may be best studied in personalnarratives and documents, such as letters and autobiographies, or inmonographs upon urban and rural immigrant communities. In recent years aseries of personal narrative and autobiographical sketches have revealedthe intimate personal aspects of the assimilation process. Theexpectancy and disillusionment of the first experiences, the consequentnostalgia and homesickness, gradual accommodation to the new situation, the first participations in American life, the fixation of wishes in theopportunities of the American social environment, the ultimateidentification of the person with the memories, sentiments, and futureof his adopted country--all these steps in assimilation are portrayed insuch interesting books as _The Far Journey_ by Abraham Rihbany, _ThePromised Land_ by Mary Antin, _Out of the Shadow_ by Rose Cohen, _AnAmerican in the Making_ by M. E. Ravage, _My Mother and I_ by E. C. Stern. 

The most reflective use of personal documents for the study of theproblems of the immigrant has been made by Thomas and Znaniecki in _ThePolish Peasant in Europe and America_. In these studies letters andlife-histories have been, for the first time, methodically employed toexhibit the processes of adjustment in the transition from a Europeanpeasant village to the immigrant colony of an American industrialcommunity. 

The work of Thomas and Znaniecki is in a real sense a study of thePolish community in Europe and America. Less ambitious studies have beenmade of individual immigrant communities. Several religious communitiescomposed of isolated and unassimilated groups, such as the GermanMennonites, have been intensively studied. 

Materials valuable for the study of certain immigrant communities, assembled for quite other purposes, are contained in the almanacs, yearbooks, and local histories of the various immigrant communities. Themost interesting of these are the _Jewish Communal Register_ of New Yorkand the studies made by the Norwegian Lutheran Church in America underthe direction of O. M. Norlie. [249]

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. ASSIMILATION AND AMALGAMATION

A. _The Psychology and Sociology of Assimilation_

(1) Wundt, Wilhelm. "Bermerkungen zur Associationslehre, "_Philosophische Studien_, VII (1892), 329-61. ["Complication undAssimilation, " pp. 334-53. ]

(2) ----. _Grundzüge der physiologischen Psychologie. _ "Assimilationen, "III, 528-35. 5th ed. Leipzig, 1903. 

(3) Ward, James. "Association and Assimilation, " _Mind_, N. S. , II(1893), 347-62; III (1894), 509-32. 

(4) Baldwin, J. Mark. _Mental Development in the Child and the Race. _Methods and processes. "Assimilation, Recognition, " pp. 308-19. NewYork, 1895. 

(5) Novicow, J. _Les Luttes entre sociétés humaines et leur phasessuccessives. _ Book II, chap. Vii, "La Dénationalisation, " pp. 125-53. Paris, 1893. [Definition of denationalization. ]

(6) Ratzenhofer, Gustav. _Die sociologische Erkenntnis_, pp. 41-42. Leipzig, 1898. 

(7) Park, Robert E. "Racial Assimilation in Secondary Groups withParticular Reference to the Negro, " _American Journal of Sociology_, XIX(1913-14), 606-23. 

(8) Simons, Sarah E. "Social Assimilation, " _American Journal ofSociology_, VI (1900-1901), 790-822; VII (1901-2), 53-79, 234-48, 386-404, 539-56. [Bibliography. ]

(9) Jenks, Albert E. "Assimilation in the Philippines as Interpreted inTerms of Assimilation in America, " _Publications of the AmericanSociological Society_, VIII (1913), 140-58. 

(10) McKenzie, F. A. "The Assimilation of the American Indian, "_Publications of the American Sociological Society_, VIII (1913), 37-48. [Bibliography. ]

(11) Ciszewski, S. _Kunstliche Verwandschaft bei den Südslaven. _Leipzig, 1897. 

(12) Windisch, H. _Taufe und Sünde im ältesten Christentum bis aufOrigines_. Ein Beitrag zur altchristlichen Dogmengeschichte. Tübingen, 1908. 

B. _Assimilation and Amalgamation_

(1) Gumplowicz, Ludwig. _Der Rassenkampf. _ Sociologische Untersuchungen, sec. 38, "Wie die Amalgamirung vor sich geht, " pp. 253-63. Innsbruck, 1883. 

(2) Commons, John R. _Races and Immigrants in America. _ Chap. Ix, "Amalgamation and Assimilation, " pp. 198-238. New ed. New York, 1920. [See also pp. 17-21. ]

(3) Ripley, William Z. _The Races of Europe. _ A sociological study. Chap. Ii, "Language, Nationality, and Race, " pp. 15-36. Chap. Xviii, "European Origins: Race and Culture, " pp. 486-512. New York, 1899. 

(4) Fischer, Eugen. _Die Rehobother Bastards und dasBastardierungsproblem beim Menschen. _ Anthropologische undethnographische Studien am Rehobother Bastardvolk in Deutsch-SüdwestAfrika. Jena, 1913. 

(5) Mayo-Smith, Richmond. "Theories of Mixture of Races andNationalities, " _Yale Review_, III (1894), 166-86. 

(6) Smith, G. Elliot. "The Influence of Racial Admixture in Egypt, "_Eugenics Review_, VII (1915-16), 163-83. 

(7) Reuter, E. B. _The Mulatto in the United States. _ Including a studyof the rôle of mixed-blood races throughout the world. Boston, 1918. 

(8) Weatherly, Ulysses G. "The Racial Element in Social Assimilation, "_Publications of the American Sociological Society_, V (1910), 57-76. 

(9) ----. "Race and Marriage, " _American Journal of Sociology_, XV(1909-10), 433-53. 

(10) Roosevelt, Theodore. "Brazil and the Negro, " _Outlook_, CVI (1904), 409-11. 

II. THE CONFLICT AND FUSION OF CULTURES

A. _Process of Acculturation_

(1) Ratzel, Friedrich. _The History of Mankind. _ Vol. I, Book I, sec. 4, "Nature, Rise and Spread of Civilization, " pp. 20-30. Vol. II, Book II, sec. 31, "Origin and Development of the Old American Civilization, " pp. 160-70. Translated from the 2d German ed. By A. J. Butler. 3 vols. London, 1896-98. 

(2) Rivers, W. H. R. "The Ethnological Analysis of Culture, " _Report ofthe 81st Meeting of the British Association for the Advancement ofScience_, 1911, pp. 490-99. 

(3) Frobenius, L. _Der Ursprung der afrikanischen Kulturen. _ Berlin, 1898. 

(4) Boas, Franz. _The Mind of Primitive Man. _ Chap. Vi, "TheUniversality of Cultural Traits, " pp. 155-73. Chap. Vii, "TheEvolutionary Viewpoint, " pp. 174-96. New York, 1911. 

(5) Vierkandt, A. _Die Stetigkeit im Kulturwandel. _ Eine sociologischeStudie. Leipzig, 1908. 

(6) McGee, W. J. "Piratical Acculturation, " _American Anthropologist_, XI (1898), 243-51. 

(7) Crooke, W. "Method of Investigation and Folklore Origins, "_Folklore_, XXIV (1913), 14-40. 

(8) Graebner, F. "Die melanesische Bogenkultur und ihre Verwandten, "_Anthropos_, IV (1909), 726-80, 998-1032. 

(9) Lowie, Robert H. "On the Principle of Convergence in Ethnology, "_Journal of American Folklore_, XXV (1912), 24-42. 

(10) Goldenweiser, A. A. "The Principle of Limited Possibilities in theDevelopment of Culture, " _Journal of American Folklore_, XXVI (1913), 259-90. 

(11) Dixon, R. B. "The Independence of the Culture of the AmericanIndian, " _Science_, N. S. , XXXV (1912), 46-55. 

(12) Johnson, W. _Folk-Memory. _ Or the continuity of Britisharchaeology. Oxford, 1908. 

(13) Wundt, Wilhelm. _Völkerpsychologie. _ Eine Untersuchung derEntwicklungsgesetze von Sprache, Mythus, und Sitte. Band I, "DieSprache. " 3 vols. Leipzig, 1900-1909. 

(14) Tarde, Gabriel. _The Laws of Imitation. _ Translated from the 2dFrench ed. By Elsie Clews Parsons. New York, 1903. 

B. _Nationalization and Denationalization_

(1) Bauer, Otto. _Die Nationalitätenfrage und die Sozialdemokratie. _Wien, 1907. Chap. Vi, sec. 30, "Der Sozialismus und dasNationalitätsprinzip, " pp. 507-21. (In: Adler, M. And Hildering, R. _Marx-Studien; Blätter zur Theorie und Politik des wissenschaftlichenSozialismus. _ Band II. Wien, 1904. 

(2) Kerner, R. J. _Slavic Europe. _ A selected bibliography in thewestern European languages, comprising history, languages, andliterature. "The Slavs and Germanization, " Nos. 2612-13, pp. 193-95. Cambridge, Mass. , 1918. 

(3) Delbrück, Hans. "Das Polenthum, " _Preussische Jahrbücher_, LXXVI(April, 1894), 173-86. 

(4) Warren, H. C. "Social Forces and International Ethics, "_International Journal of Ethics_, XXVII (1917), 350-56. 

(5) Prince, M. "A World Consciousness and Future Peace, " _Journal ofAbnormal Psychology_, XI (1917), 287-304. 

(6) Reich, Emil. _General History of Western Nations, from 5000 B. C. To1900 A. D. _ "Europeanization of Humanity, " pp. 33-65, 480-82. (Vols. I-IIpublished. ) London, 1908. 

(7) Thomas, William I. "The Prussian-Polish Situation: an Experiment inAssimilation, " _American Journal of Sociology_, XIX (1913-14), 624-39. 

(8) Parkman, Francis. _Conspiracy of Pontiac and the Indian Wars afterthe Conquest of Canada. _ 8th ed. , 2 vols. Boston, 1877. [Discusses thecultural effects of the mingling of French and Indians in Canada. ]

(9) Moore, William H. _The Clash. _ A study in nationalities. New York, 1919. [French and English cultural contacts in Canada. ]

(10) Mayo-Smith, Richmond. "Assimilation of Nationalities in the UnitedStates, " _Political Science Quarterly_, IX (1894), 426-44, 649-70. 

(11) Kelly, J. Liddell. "New Race in the Making; Many Nationalities inthe Territory of Hawaii--Process of Fusion Proceeding--the ComingPacific Race, " _Westminster Review_, CLXXV (1911), 357-66. 

(12) Kallen, H. M. _Structure of Lasting Peace. _ An inquiry into themotives of war and peace. Boston, 1918. 

(13) Westermarck, Edward. "Finland and the Czar, " _Contemporary Review_, LXXV (1899), 652-59. 

(14) Brandes, Georg. "Denmark and Germany, " _Contemporary Review_, LXXVI(1899), 92-104. 

(15) Marvin, Francis S. _The Unity of Western Civilization. _ Essays. London and New York, 1915. 

(16) Fishberg, Maurice. _The Jews: a Study in Race and Environment. _London and New York, 1911. [Chap. Xxii deals with assimilation versusnationalism. ]

(17) Bailey, W. F. , and Bates, Jean V. "The Early German Settlers inTransylvania, " _Fortnightly Review_, CVII (1917), 661-74. 

(18) Auerbach, Bertrand. _Les Races et les nationalités enAutriche-Hongrie. _ Paris, 1898. 

(19) Cunningham, William. _Alien Immigrants to England. _ London and NewYork, 1897. 

(20) Kaindl, Raimund Friedrich. _Geschichte der Deutschen in denKarpathenländern. _ Vol. I, "Geschichte der Deutschen in Galizien bis1772. " 3 vols. In 2. Gotha, 1907-11. 

C. _Missions_

(1) Moore, Edward C. _The Spread of Christianity in the Modern World. _Chicago, 1919. [Bibliography. ]

(2) World Missionary Conference. _Report of the World MissionaryConference, 1910. _ 9 vols. Chicago, 1910. 

(3) Robinson, Charles H. _History of Christian Missions. _ New York, 1915. 

(4) Speer, Robert E. _Missions and Modern History. _ A study of themissionary aspects of some great movements of the nineteenth century. 2vols. New York, 1904. 

(5) Warneck, Gustav. _Outline of a History of Protestant Missions fromthe Reformation to the Present Time. _ A contribution to modern churchhistory. Translated from the German by George Robson. Chicago, 1901. 

(6) Creighton, Louise. _Missions. _ Their rise and development. New York, 1912. [Bibliography. ]

(7) Pascoe, C. F. _Two Hundred Years of the Society for the Propagationof the Gospel, 1701-1900. _ Based on a digest of the Society's records. London, 1901. 

(8) Parkman, Francis. _The Jesuits in North America in the SeventeenthCentury. _ Part II. "France and England in North America. " Boston, 1902. 

(9) Bryce, James. _Impressions of South Africa. _ Chap. Xxii, "Missions, "pp. 384-93. 3d ed. New York, 1900. 

(10) Sumner, W. G. _Folkways. _ "Missions and Antagonistic Mores, " pp. 111-14, 629-31. New York, 1906. 

(11) Coffin, Ernest W. "On the Education of Backward Races, "_Pedagogical Seminary_, XV (1908), 1-62. [Bibliography. ]

(12) Blackmar, Frank W. _Spanish Colonization in the South West. _ "TheMission System, " pp. 28-48. "Johns Hopkins University Studies inHistorical and Political Science. " Baltimore, 1890. 

(13) Johnston, Harry H. _George Grenfell and the Congo. _ A history anddescription of the Congo Independent State and adjoining districts ofCongoland, together with some account of the native peoples and theirlanguages, the fauna and flora, and similar notes on the Cameroons, andthe Island of Fernando Pô, the whole founded on the diaries andresearches of the late Rev. George Grenfell, B. M. S. , F. R. S. G. ; and onthe records of the British Baptist Missionary society; and on additionalinformation contributed by the author, by the Rev. Lawson Forfeitt, Mr. Emil Torday, and others. 2 vols. London, 1908. 

(14) Kingsley, Mary H. _West African Studies. _ Pp. 107-9, 272-75. 2d ed. London, 1901. 

(15) Morel, E. D. _Affairs of West Africa. _ Chaps. Xxii-xxiii, "Islam inWest Africa, " pp. 208-37. London, 1902. 

(16) Sapper, Karl. "Der Charakter der mittelamerikanischen Indianer, "_Globus_, LXXXVII (1905), 128-31. 

(17) Fleming, Daniel J. _Devolution in Mission Administration. _ Asexemplified by the legislative history of five American missionarysocieties in India. New York, 1916. [Bibliography. ]

III. IMMIGRATION AND AMERICANIZATION

A. _Immigration and the Immigrant_

(1) United States Immigration Commission. _Reports of the ImmigrationCommission. _ 41 vols. Washington, 1911. 

(2) Lauck, William J. , and Jenks, Jeremiah. _The Immigration Problem. _New York, 1912. 

(3) Commons, John R. _Races and Immigrants in America. _ New ed. NewYork, 1920. 

(4) Fairchild, Henry P. _Immigration. _ A world-movement and its Americansignificance. New York, 1913. [Bibliography. ]

(5) Ross, E. A. _The Old World in the New. _ The significance of past andpresent immigration to the American people. New York, 1914. 

(6) Abbott, Grace. _The Immigrant and the Community. _ With anintroduction by Judge Julian W. Mack. New York, 1917. 

(7) Steiner, Edward A. _On the Trail of the Immigrant. _ New York, 1906. 

(8) ----. _The Immigrant Tide, Its Ebb and Flow. _ Chicago, 1909. 

(9) Brandenburg, Broughton. _Imported Americans. _ The story of theexperiences of a disguised American and his wife studying theimmigration question. New York, 1904. 

(10) Kapp, Friedrich. _Immigration and the Commissioners of Emigrationof the State of New York. _ New York, 1880. 

B. _Immigrant Communities_

(1) Faust, Albert B. _The German Element in the United States. _ Withspecial reference to its political, moral, social, and educationalinfluence. New York, 1909. 

(2) Green, Samuel S. _The Scotch-Irish in America, 1895. _ A paper readas the report of the Council of the American Antiquarian Society, at thesemi-annual meeting, April 24, 1895, with correspondence called out bythe paper. Worcester, Mass. , 1895. 

(3) Hanna, Charles A. _The Scotch-Irish. _ Or the Scot in North Britain, North Ireland, and North America. New York and London, 1902. 

(4) Jewish Publication Society of America. _The American JewishYearbook. _ Philadelphia, 1899. 

(5) _Jewish Communal Register, 1917-1918. _ 2d ed. Edited and publishedby the Kehillah (Jewish Community) of New York City. New York, 1919. 

(6) Balch, Emily G. _Our Slavic Fellow Citizens. _ New York, 1910. 

(7) Horak, Jakub. _Assimilation of Czechs in Chicago. _ [In press. ]

(8) Millis, Harry A. _The Japanese Problem in the United States. _ Aninvestigation for the Commission on Relations with Japan appointed bythe Federal Council of the Churches of Christ in America. New York, 1915. 

(9) Fairchild, Henry P. _Greek Immigration to the United States. _ NewHaven, 1911. 

(10) Burgess, Thomas. _Greeks in America. _ An account of their coming, progress, customs, living, and aspirations; with a historicalintroduction and the stories of some famous American-Greeks. Boston, 1913. 

(11) Coolidge, Mary R. _Chinese Immigration. _ New York, 1909. 

(12) Foerster, Robert F. _The Italian Emigration of Our Times. _Cambridge, Mass. , 1919. 

(13) Lord, Eliot, Trenor, John J. D. , and Barrows, Samuel J. _TheItalian in America. _ New York, 1905. 

(14) DuBois, W. E. Burghardt. _The Philadelphia Negro, A Social Study. _Together with a special report on domestic service by Isabel Eaton. "Publications of the University of Pennsylvania, Series in PoliticalEconomy and Public Law, " No. 14. Philadelphia, 1899. 

(15) Williams, Daniel J. _The Welsh of Columbus, Ohio. _ A study inadaptation and assimilation. Oshkosh, Wis. , 1913. 

C. _Americanization_

(1) Drachsler, Julius. _Democracy and Assimilation. _ The blending ofimmigrant heritages in America. New York, 1920. [Bibliography. ]

(2) Dushkin, Alexander M. _Jewish Education in New York City. _ New York, 1918. 

(3) Thompson, Frank V. _Schooling of the Immigrant. _ New York, 1920. 

(4) Daniels, John. _America via the Neighborhood. _ New York, 1920. 

(5) Park, Robert E. , and Miller, Herbert A. _Old World TraitsTransplanted. _ New York, 1921. 

(6) Speek, Peter A. _A Stake in the Land. _ New York, 1921. 

(7) Davis, Michael M. _Immigrant Health and the Community. _ New York, 1921. 

(8) Breckinridge, Sophonisba P. _New Homes for Old. _ New York, 1921. 

(9) Leiserson, William M. _Adjusting Immigrant and Industry. _ [Inpress. ]

(10) Gavit, John P. _Americans by Choice. _ [In press. ]

(11) Claghorn, Kate H. _The Immigrant's Day in Court. _ [In press. ]

(12) Park, Robert E. _The Immigrant Press and Its Control. _ [In press. ]New York, 1921. 

(13) Burns, Allen T. _Summary of the Americanization Studies of theCarnegie Corporation of New York. _ [In press. ]

(14) Miller, Herbert A. _The School and the Immigrant. _ ClevelandEducation Survey. Cleveland, 1916. 

(15) Kallen, Horace M. "Democracy versus the Melting-Pot, a Study ofAmerican Nationality. " _Nation_, C (1915), 190-94, 217-20. 

(16) Gulick, Sidney L. _American Democracy and Asiatic Citizenship. _ NewYork, 1918. 

(17) Talbot, Winthrop, editor. _Americanization. _ Principlesof Americanism; essentials of Americanization; technic ofrace-assimilation. New York, 1917. [Annotated bibliography. ]

(18) Stead, W. T. _The Americanization of the World. _ Or the trend ofthe twentieth century. New York and London, 1901. 

(19) Aronovici, Carol. _Americanization. _ St. Paul, 1919. [Also in_American Journal of Sociology_, XXV (1919-20), 695-730. ]

D. _Personal Documents_

(1) Bridges, Horace. _On Becoming an American. _ Some meditations of anewly naturalized immigrant. Boston, 1919. 

(2) Riis, Jacob A. _The Making of an American. _ New York, 1901. 

(3) Rihbany, Abraham Mitrie. _A Far Journey. _ Boston, 1914. 

(4) Hasanovitz, Elizabeth. _One of Them. _ Chapters from a passionateautobiography. Boston, 1918. 

(5) Cohen, Rose. _Out of the Shadow. _ New York, 1918. 

(6) Ravage, M. E. _An American in the Making. _ The life-story of animmigrant. New York, 1917. 

(7) Cahan, Abraham. _The Rise of David Levinsky. _ A novel. New York, 1917. 

(8) Antin, Mary. _The Promised Land. _ New York, 1912. 

(9) ----. _They Who Knock at Our Gates. _ A complete gospel ofimmigration. New York, 1914. 

(10) Washington, Booker T. _Up from Slavery. _ An autobiography. NewYork, 1901. 

(11) Steiner, Edward A. _From Alien to Citizen. _ The story of my life inAmerica. New York, 1914. 

(12) Stern, Mrs. Elizabeth Gertrude (Levin). _My Mother and I. _ NewYork, 1919. 

(13) DuBois, W. E. Burghardt. _Darkwater: Voices from within the Veil. _New York, 1920. 

(14) ----. _The Souls of Black Folk. _ Essays and sketches. Chicago, 1903. 

(15) Hapgood, Hutchins. _The Spirit of the Ghetto. _ Studies of theJewish quarter in New York. Rev. Ed. New York, 1909. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. Race and Culture, and the Problem of the Relative Superiority andInferiority of Races. 

2. The Relation of Assimilation to Amalgamation. 

3. The Mulatto as a Cultural Type. 

4. Language as a Means of Assimilation and a Basis of NationalSolidarity. 

5. History and Literature as Means for Preserving National Solidarity. 

6. Race Prejudice and Segregation in Their Relations to Assimilation andAccommodation. 

7. Domestic Slavery and the Assimilation of the Negro. 

8. A Study of Historical Experiments in Denationalization; theGermanization of Posen, the Russianization of Poland, the JapanesePolicy in Korea, etc. 

9. The "Melting-Pot" versus "Hyphen" in Their Relation toAmericanization. 

10. A Study of Policies, Programs, and Experiments in Americanizationfrom the Standpoint of Sociology. 

11. The Immigrant Community as a Means of Americanization. 

12. The Process of Assimilation as Revealed in Personal Documents, asAntin, _The Promised Land_; Rihbany, _A Far Journey_; Ravage, _AnAmerican in the Making_; etc. 

13. Foreign Missions and Native Cultures. 

14. The Rôle of Assimilation and Accommodation in the PersonalDevelopment of the Individual Man. 

15. Assimilation and Accommodation in Their Relations to the EducationalProcess. 

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. What do you understand Simons to mean by the term "assimilation"?

2. What is the difference between amalgamation and assimilation?

3. How are assimilation and amalgamation interrelated?

4. What do you consider to be the difference between Trotter'sexplanation of human evolution and that of Crile?

5. What do you understand Trotter to mean by the gregarious instinct asa mechanism controlling conduct?

6. Of what significance is the distinction made by Trotter between (a)the three individual instincts, and (b) the gregarious instincts?

7. What is the significance of material and non-material culturalelements for the study of race contact and intermixture?

8. How do you explain the difference in rapidity of assimilation of thevarious types of cultural elements?

9. What factors promoted and impeded the extension of Roman culture inGaul?

10. What social factors were involved in the origin of the Frenchlanguage?

11. To what extent does the extension of a cultural language involveassimilation?

12. In what sense do the cultural languages compete with each other?

13. Do you agree with the prediction that within a century English willbe the vernacular of a quarter of the people of the world? Justify yourposition. 

14. Does Park's definition of assimilation differ from that of Simons?

15. What do you understand Park to mean when he says, "Socialinstitutions are not founded in similarities any more than they arefounded in differences, but in relations, and in the mutualinterdependence of the parts"? What is the relation of this principle tothe process of assimilation?

16. What do you understand to be the difference between the type ofassimilation (a) that makes for group solidarity and corporate action, and (b) that makes for formal like-mindedness? What conditions favorthe one or the other type of assimilation?

17. What do you understand by the term "Americanization"?

18. Is there a difference between Americanization and Prussianization?

19. With what programs of Americanization are you familiar? Are theyadequate from the standpoint of the sociological interpretation ofassimilation?

20. In what way is language both a means and a product of assimilation?

21. What is meant by the phrases "apperception mass, " "universes ofdiscourse, " and "definitions of the situations"? What is theirsignificance for assimilation?

22. In what way does assimilation involve the mediation of individualdifferences?

23. Does the segregation of immigrants make for or against assimilation?

24. In what ways do primary and secondary contacts, imitation andsuggestion, competition, conflict and accommodation, enter into theprocess of assimilation?

FOOTNOTES:

[241] Adapted from Sarah E. Simons, "Social Assimilation, " in the_American Journal of Sociology_, VI (1901), 790-801. 

[242] Adapted from W. Trotter, "Herd Instinct, " in the _SociologicalReview_, I (1908), 231-42. 

[243] From W. H. R. Rivers, "The Ethnological Analysis of Culture, " in_Nature_, LXXXVII (1911), 358-60. 

[244] From John H. Cornyn, "French Language, " in the _EncyclopediaAmericana_, XI (1919), 646-47. 

[245] Adapted from E. H. Babbitt, "The Geography of the GreatLanguages, " in _World's Work_, XV (1907-8), 9903-7. 

[246] From Robert E. Park, "Racial Assimilation in Secondary Groups, " inthe _Publications of the American Sociological Society_, VIII (1914), 66-72. 

[247] The three selections under this heading are adapted from_Memorandum on Americanization_, prepared by the Division of ImmigrantHeritages, of the Study of Methods of Americanization, of the CarnegieCorporation, New York City, 1919. 

[248] See chap. I, pp. 16-24. 

[249] See _Menighetskalenderen_. (Minneapolis, Minn. : AugsburgPublishing Co. 1917. )

CHAPTER XII

SOCIAL CONTROL

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Social Control Defined

Social control has been studied, but, in the wide extension thatsociology has given to the term, it has not been defined. All socialproblems turn out finally to be problems of social control. In theintroductory chapter to this volume social problems were divided intothree classes: Problems (a) of administration, (b) of policy andpolity, (c) of social forces and human nature. [250] Social control maybe studied in each one of these categories. It is with social forces andhuman nature that sociology is mainly concerned. Therefore it is fromthis point of view that social control will be considered in thischapter. 

In the four preceding chapters the process of interaction, in its fourtypical forms, competition, conflict, accommodation, and assimilation, has been analyzed and described. The community and the natural orderwithin the limits of the community, it appeared, are an effect ofcompetition. Social control and the mutual subordination of individualmembers to the community have their origin in conflict, assume definiteorganized forms in the process of accommodation, and are consolidatedand fixed in assimilation. 

Through the medium of these processes, a community assumes the form of asociety. Incidentally, however, certain definite and quite spontaneousforms of social control are developed. These forms are familiar undervarious titles: tradition, custom, folkways, mores, ceremonial, myth, religious and political beliefs, dogmas and creeds, and finally publicopinion and law. In this chapter it is proposed to define a little moreaccurately certain of these typical mechanisms through which socialgroups are enabled to act. In the chapter on "Collective Behavior" whichfollows, materials will be presented to exhibit the group in action. 

It is in action that the mechanisms of control are created, and thematerials under the title "Collective Behavior" are intended toillustrate the stages, (a) social unrest, (b) mass movements, (c)institutions in which society is formed and reformed. Finally, in thechapter on "Progress, " the relation of social change to social controlwill be discussed and the rôle of science and collective representationsin the direction of social changes indicated. 

The most obvious fact about social control is the machinery by whichlaws are made and enforced, that is, the legislature, the courts, andthe police. When we think of social control, therefore, these are theimages in which we see it embodied and these are the terms in which weseek to define it. 

It is not quite so obvious that legislation and the police must, in thelong run, have the support of public opinion. Hume's statement thatgovernments, even the most despotic, have nothing but opinion to supportthem, cannot be accepted without some definition of terms, but it isessentially correct. Hume included under opinion what we woulddistinguish from it, namely, the mores. He might have added, usingopinion in this broad sense, that the governed, no matter how numerous, are helpless unless they too are united by "opinion. "

A king or a political "boss, " having an army or apolitical "machine" athis command, can do much. It is possible, also, to confuse or misleadpublic opinion, but neither the king nor the boss will, if he be wise, challenge the mores and the common sense of the community. 

Public opinion and the mores, however, representing as they do theresponses of the community to changing situations, are themselvessubject to change and variation. They are based, however, upon what wehave called fundamental human nature, that is, certain traits which insome form or other are reproduced in every form of society. 

 During the past seventy years the various tribes, races, and nationalities of mankind have been examined in detail by the students of ethnology, and a comparison of the results shows that the fundamental patterns of life and behavior are everywhere the same, whether among the ancient Greeks, the modern Italians, the Asiatic Mongols, the Australian blacks, or the African Hottentots. All have a form of family life, moral and legal regulations, a religious system, a form of government, artistic practices, and so forth. An examination of the moral code of any given group, say the African Kaffirs, will disclose many identities with that of any other given group, say the Hebrews. All groups have such "commandments" as "Honor thy father and mother, " "Thou shalt not kill, " "Thou shalt not steal. " Formerly it was assumed that this similarity was the result of borrowing between groups. When Bastian recorded a Hawaiian myth resembling the one of Orpheus and Eurydice, there was speculation as to how this story had been carried so far from Greece. But it is now recognized that similarities of culture are due, in the main, not to imitation, but to parallel development. The nature of man is everywhere essentially the same and tends to express itself everywhere in similar sentiments and institutions. [251]

There are factors in social control more fundamental than the mores. Herbert Spencer, in his chapter on "Ceremonial Government, " has definedsocial control from this more fundamental point of view. In that chapterhe refers to "the modified forms of action caused in men by the presenceof their fellows" as a form of control "out of which other more definitecontrols are evolved. " The spontaneous responses of one individual tothe presence of another which are finally fixed, conventionalized, andtransmitted as social ritual constitute that "primitive undifferentiatedkind of government from which political and religious government aredifferentiated, and in which they continue immersed. "

In putting this emphasis upon ceremonial and upon those forms ofbehavior which spring directly and spontaneously out of the innate andinstinctive responses of the individual to a social situation, Spenceris basing government on the springs of action which are fundamental, sofar, at any rate, as sociology is concerned. 

2. Classification of the Materials

The selections on social control have been classified under three heads:(a) elementary forms of social control, (b) public opinion, and(c) institutions. This order of the readings indicates the developmentof control from its spontaneous forms in the crowd, in ceremony, prestige, and taboo; its more explicit expression in gossip, rumor, news, and public opinion; to its more formal organization in law, dogma, and in religious and political institutions. Ceremonial, publicopinion, and law are characteristic forms in which social life findsexpression as well as a means by which the actions of the individual areco-ordinated and collective impulses are organized so that they issue inbehavior, that is, either (a) primarily expressive--play, forexample--or (b) positive action. 

A very much larger part of all human behavior than we ordinarily imagineis merely expressive. Art, play, religious exercises, and politicalactivity are either wholly or almost wholly forms of expression, andhave, therefore, that symbolic and ceremonial character which belongsespecially to ritual and to art, but is characteristic of every activitycarried on for its own sake. Only work, action which has some ulteriormotive or is performed from a conscious sense of duty, falls wholly andwithout reservation into the second class. 

a) _Elementary forms of social control. _--Control in the crowd, whererapport is once established and every individual is immediatelyresponsive to every other, is the most elementary form of control. 

Something like this same direct and spontaneous response of theindividual in the crowd to the crowd's dominant mood or impulse may beseen in the herd and the flock, the "animal crowd. "

Under the influence of the vague sense of alarm, or merely as an effectof heat and thirst, cattle become restless and begin slowly moving aboutin circles, "milling. " This milling is a sort of collective gesture, anexpression of discomfort or of fear. But the very expression of theunrest tends to intensify its expression and so increases the tension inthe herd. This continues up to the point where some sudden sound, thefiring of a pistol or a flash of lightning, plunges the herd into a wildstampede. 

Milling in the herd is a visible image of what goes on in subtler andless obvious ways in human societies. Alarms or discomforts frequentlyprovoke social unrest. The very expression of this unrest tends tomagnify it. The situation is a vicious circle. Every attempt to dealwith it merely serves to aggravate it. Such a vicious circle wewitnessed in our history from 1830 to 1861, when every attempt to dealwith slavery served only to bring the inevitable conflict between thestates nearer. Finally there transpired what had for twenty years beenvisibly preparing and the war broke. 

Tolstoi in his great historical romance, _War and Peace_, describes, ina manner which no historian has equaled, the events that led up to theFranco-Russian War of 1812, and particularly the manner in whichNapoleon, in spite of his efforts to avoid it, was driven by socialforces over which he had no control to declare war on Russia, and sobring about his own downfall. 

The condition under which France was forced by Bismarck to declare waron Prussia in 1870, and the circumstances under which Austria declaredwar on Serbia in 1914 and so brought on the world-war, exhibit the samefatal circle. In both cases, given the situation, the preparations thathad been made, the resolutions formed and the agreements entered into, it seems clear that after a certain point had been reached every movewas forced. 

This is the most fundamental and elementary form of control. It is thecontrol exercised by the mere play of elemental forces. These forcesmay, to a certain extent, be manipulated, as is true of other naturalforces; but within certain limits, human nature being what it is, theissue is fatally determined, just as, given the circumstances and thenature of cattle, a stampede is inevitable. Historical crises areinvariably created by processes which, looked at abstractly, are verymuch like milling in a herd. The vicious circle is the so-called"psychological factor" in financial depressions and panics and is, indeed, a factor in all collective action. 

The effect of this circular form of interaction is to increase thetensions in the group and, by creating a state of expectancy, tomobilize its members for collective action. It is like the attention inthe individual: it is the way in which the group prepares to act. 

Back of every other form of control--ceremonial, public opinion, orlaw--there is always this interaction of the elementary social forces. What we ordinarily mean by social control, however, is the arbitraryintervention of some individual--official, functionary, or leader--inthe social process. A policeman arrests a criminal, an attorney swaysthe jury with his eloquence, the judge passes sentence; these are thefamiliar formal acts in which social control manifests itself. Whatmakes the control exercised in this way social, in the strict sense ofthat term, is the fact that these acts are supported by custom, law, andpublic opinion. 

The distinction between control in the crowd and in other forms ofsociety is that the crowd has no tradition. It has no point of referencein its own past to which its members can refer for guidance. It hastherefore neither symbols, ceremonies, rites, nor ritual; it imposes noobligations and creates no loyalties. 

Ceremonial is one method of reviving in the group a lively sense of thepast. It is a method of reinstating the excitements and the sentimentswhich inspired an earlier collective action. The savage war dance is adramatic representation of battle and as such serves to rouse andreawaken the warlike spirit. This is one way in which ceremonial becomesa means of control. By reviving the memories of an earlier war, itmobilizes the warriors for a new one. 

Ernst Grosse, in _The Beginnings of Art_, has stated succinctly what hasimpressed all first-hand observers, namely, the important rôle which thedance plays in the lives of primitive peoples. 

 The dances of the hunting peoples are, as a rule, mass dances. Generally the men of the tribe, not rarely the members of several tribes, join in the exercises, and the whole assemblage then moves according to one law in one time. All who have described the dances have referred again and again to this "wonderful" unison of the movements. In the heat of the dance the several participants are fused together as into a single being, which is stirred and moved as by one feeling. During the dance they are in a condition of complete social unification, and the dancing group feels and acts like a single organism. _The social significance of the primitive dance lies precisely in this effect of social unification. _ It brings and accustoms a number of men who, in their loose and precarious conditions of life, are driven irregularly hither and thither by different individual needs and desires, to act under one impulse with one feeling for one object. It introduces order and connection, at least occasionally, into the rambling, fluctuating life of the hunting tribes. It is, besides wars, perhaps the only factor that makes their solidarity vitally perceptible to the adherents of a primitive tribe, and it is at the same time one of the best preparations for war, for the gymnastic dances correspond in more than one respect to our military exercises. It would be hard to overestimate the importance of the primitive dance in the culture development of mankind. All higher civilization is conditioned upon the uniformly ordered co-operation of individual social elements, and primitive men are trained to this co-operation by the dance. [252]

The dance, which is so characteristic and so universal a feature of thelife of primitive man--at once a mode of collective expression and ofcollective representation--is but a conventionalized form of thecircular reaction, which in its most primitive form is represented bythe milling of the herd. 

b) _Public opinion. _--We ordinarily think of public opinion as a sortof social weather. At certain times, and under certain circumstances, weobserve strong, steady currents of opinion, moving apparently in adefinite direction and toward a definite goal. At other times, however, we note flurries and eddies and counter-currents in this movement. Everynow and then there are storms, shifts, or dead calms. These suddenshifts in public opinion, when expressed in terms of votes, are referredto by the politicians as "landslides. "

In all these movements, cross-currents and changes in direction which acloser observation of public opinion reveals, it is always possible todiscern, but on a much grander scale, to be sure, that same type ofcircular reaction which we have found elsewhere, whenever the group waspreparing to act. Always in the public, as in the crowd, there will be acircle, sometimes wider, sometimes narrower, within which individualsare mutually responsive to motives and interests of one another, so thatout of this interplay of social forces there may emerge at any time acommon motive and a common purpose that will dominate the whole. 

Within the circle of the mutual influence described, there will be nosuch complete rapport and no such complete domination of the individualby the group as exists in a herd or a crowd in a state of excitement, but there will be sufficient community of interest to insure a commonunderstanding. A public is, in fact, organized on the basis of auniverse of discourse, and within the limits of this universe ofdiscourse, language, statements of fact, news will have, for allpractical purposes, the same meanings. It is this circle of mutualinfluence within which there is a universe of discourse that defines thelimits of the public. 

A public like the crowd is not to be conceived as a formal organizationlike a parliament or even a public meeting. It is always the widest areaover which there is conscious participation and consensus in theformation of public opinion. The public has not only a circumference, but it has a center. Within the area within which there isparticipation and consensus there is always a focus of attention aroundwhich the opinions of the individuals which compose the public seem torevolve. This focus of attention, under ordinary circumstances, isconstantly shifting. The shifts of attention of the public constitutewhat is meant by the changes in public opinion. When these changes takea definite direction and have or seem to have a definite goal, we callthe phenomenon a social movement. If it were possible to plot thismovement in the form of maps and graphs, it would be possible to showmovement in two dimensions. There would be, for example, a movement inspace. The focus of public opinion, the point namely at which there isthe greatest "intensity" of opinion, tends to move from one part of thecountry to another. [253] In America these movements, for reasons thatcould perhaps be explained historically, are likely to be along themeridians, east and west, rather than north and south. In the course ofthis geographical movement of public opinion, however, we are likely toobserve changes in intensity and changes in direction (devagation). 

 Changes in intensity seem to be in direct proportion to the area over which opinion on a given issue may be said to exist. In minorities opinion is uniformly more intense than it is in majorities and this is what gives minorities so much greater influence in proportion to their numbers than majorities. While changes in intensity have a definite relation to the area over which public opinion on an issue may be said to exist, the devagations of public opinion, as distinguished from the trend, will probably turn out to have a direct relation to the character of the parties that participate. Area as applied to public opinion will have to be measured eventually in terms of social rather than geographical distance, that is to say, in terms of isolation and contact. The factor of numbers is also involved in any such calculation. Geographical area, communication, and the number of persons involved are in general the factors that would determine the concept "area" as it is used here. If party spirit is strong the general direction or trend of public opinion will probably be intersected by shifts and sudden transient changes in direction, and these shifts will be in proportion to the intensity of the party spirit. Charles E. Merriam's recent study of political parties indicates that the minority parties formulate most of the legislation in the United States. [254] This is because there is not very great divergence in the policies of the two great parties and party struggles are fought out on irrelevant issues. So far as this is true it insures against any sudden change in policy. New legislation is adopted in response to the trend of public opinion, rather than in response to the devagations and sudden shifts brought about by the development of a radical party spirit. 

All these phenomena may be observed, for example, in the ProhibitionMovement. Dicey's study of _Law and Public Opinion in England_ showedthat while the direction of opinion in regard to specific issues hadbeen very irregular, on the whole the movement had been in one generaldirection. The trend of public opinion is the name we give to thisgeneral movement. In defining the trend, shifts, cross-currents, andflurries are not considered. When we speak of the tendency or directionof public opinion we usually mean the trend over a definite period oftime. 

When the focus of public attention ceases to move and shift, when it isfixed, the circle which defines the limits of the public is narrowed. Asthe circle narrows, opinion itself becomes more intense andconcentrated. This is the phenomenon of crisis. It is at this point thatthe herd stampedes. 

The effect of crisis is invariably to increase the dangers ofprecipitate action. The most trivial incident, in such periods oftension, may plunge a community into irretrievable disaster. It is underconditions of crisis that dictatorships are at once possible andnecessary, not merely to enable the community to act energetically, butin order to protect the community from the mere play of external forces. The manner in which Bismarck, by a slight modification of the famoustelegram of Ems, provoked a crisis in France and compelled Napoleon III, against his judgment and that of his advisers, to declare war onGermany, is an illustration of this danger. [255]

It is this narrowing of the area over which a definite public opinionmay be said to exist that at once creates the possibility and definesthe limits of arbitrary control, so far as it is created or determinedby the existence of public opinion. 

Thus far the public has been described almost wholly in terms that couldbe applied to a crowd. The public has been frequently described as if itwere simply a great crowd, a crowd scattered as widely as news willcirculate and still be news. [256] But there is this difference. In theheat and excitement of the crowd, as in the choral dances of primitivepeople, there is for the moment what may be described as complete fusionof the social forces. Rapport has, for the time being, made the crowd, in a peculiarly intimate way, a social unit. 

No such unity exists in the public. The sentiment and tendencies whichwe call public opinion are never unqualified expressions of emotion. Thedifference is that public opinion is determined by conflict anddiscussion, and made up of the opinions of individuals not wholly atone. In any conflict situation, where party spirit is aroused, thespectators, who constitute the public, are bound to take sides. Theimpulse to take sides is, in fact, in direct proportion to theexcitement and party spirit displayed. The result is, however, that bothsides of an issue get considered. Certain contentions are rejectedbecause they will not stand criticism. Public opinion formed in this wayhas the character of a judgment, rather than a mere unmeditatedexpression of emotion, as in the crowd. The public is never ecstatic. Itis always more or less rational. It is this fact of conflict, in theform of discussion, that introduces into the control exercised by publicopinion the elements of rationality and of fact. 

In the final judgment of the public upon a conflict or an issue, weexpect, to be sure, some sort of unanimity of judgment, but in thegeneral consensus there will be some individual differences of opinionstill unmediated, or only partially so, and final agreement of thepublic will be more or less qualified by all the different opinions thatco-operated to form its judgment. 

In the materials which follow a distinction is made between publicopinion and the mores, and this distinction is important. Custom and thefolkways, like habit in the individual, may be regarded as a mereresiduum of past practices. When folkways assume the character of mores, they are no longer merely matters of fact and common sense, they arejudgments upon matters which were probably once live issues and as suchthey may be regarded as the products of public opinion. 

Ritual, religious or social, is probably the crystallization of forms ofbehavior which, like the choral dance, are the direct expression of theemotions and the instincts. The mores, on the other hand, in so far asthey contain a rational element, are the accumulations, the residuum, not only of past practices, but of judgments such as find expression inpublic opinion. The mores, as thus conceived, are the judgments ofpublic opinion in regard to issues that have been settled and forgotten. 

L. T. Hobhouse, in his volume, _Morals in Evolution_, has described, ina convincing way, the process by which, as he conceives it, custom ismodified and grows under the influence of the personal judgments ofindividuals and of the public. Public opinion, as he defines it, issimply the combined and sublimated judgments of individuals. 

Most of these judgments are, to be sure, merely the repetition of oldformulas. But occasionally, when the subject of discussion touches usmore deeply, when it touches upon some matter in which we have had adeeper and more intimate experience, the ordinary patter that passes aspublic opinion is dissipated and we originate a moral judgment that notonly differs from, but is in conflict with, the prevailing opinion. Inthat case "we become, as it were, centers from which judgments of onekind or another radiate and from which they pass forth to fill theatmosphere of opinion and take their place among the influences thatmould the judgments of men. "

The manner in which public opinion issues from the interaction ofindividuals, and moral judgments are formed that eventually become thebasis of law, may be gathered from the way in which the process goes onin the daily life about us. 

 No sooner has the judgment escaped us--a winged word from our own lips--than it impinges on the judgment similarly flying forth to do its work from our next-door neighbor, and if the subject is an exciting one the air is soon full of the winged forces clashing, deflecting or reinforcing one another as the case may be, and generally settling down toward some preponderating opinion which is society's judgment on the case. But in the course of the conflict many of the original judgments are modified. Discussion, further consideration, above all, the mere influence of our neighbour's opinion reacts on each of us, with a stress that is proportioned to various mental and moral characteristics of our own, our clearness of vision, our firmness, or, perhaps, obstinacy of character, our self-confidence, and so forth. Thus, the controversy will tend to leave its mark, small or great, on those who took part in it. It will tend to modify their modes of judgment, confirming one, perhaps, in his former ways, shaping the confidence of another, opening the eyes of a third. Similarly, it will tend to set a precedent for future judgments. It will affect what men say and think on the next question that turns up. It adds its weight, of one grain it may be, to some force that is turning the scale of opinion and preparing society for some new departure. In any case, we have here in miniature at work every day before our eyes the essential process by which moral judgments arise and grow. [257]

c) _Institutions. _--An institution, according to Sumner, consists of aconcept and a structure. The concept defines the purpose, interest, orfunction of the institution. The structure embodies the idea of theinstitution and furnishes the instrumentalities through which the ideais put into action. The process by which purposes, whether they areindividual or collective, are embodied in structures is a continuousone. But the structures thus formed are not physical, at least notentirely so. Structure, in the sense that Sumner uses the term, belongs, as he says, to a category of its own. "It is a category in which customproduces continuity, coherence, and consistency, so that the word'structure' may properly be applied to the fabric of relations andprescribed positions with which functions are permanently connected. "Just as every individual member of a community participates in theprocess by which custom and public opinion are made, so also heparticipates in the creation of the structure, that "cake of custom"which, when it embodies a definite social function, we call aninstitution. 

Institutions may be created just as laws are enacted, but only when asocial situation exists to which they correspond will they becomeoperative and effective. Institutions, like laws, rest upon the moresand are supported by public opinion. Otherwise they remain mere paperprojects or artefacts that perform no real function. History records theefforts of conquering peoples to impose upon the conquered their ownlaws and institutions. The efforts are instructive, but not encouraging. The most striking modern instance is the effort of King Leopold ofBelgium to introduce civilization into the Congo Free State. [258]

Law, like public opinion, owes its rational and secular character to thefact that it arose out of an effort to compromise conflict and tointerpret matters which were in dispute. 

To seek vengeance for a wrong committed was a natural impulse, and therecognition of this fact in custom established it not merely as a rightbut as a duty. War, the modern form of trial by battle, the vendetta, and the duel are examples that have survived down to modern times ofthis natural and primitive method of settling disputes. 

In all these forms of conflict custom and the mores have tended to limitthe issues and define the conditions under which disputes might besettled by force. At the same time public opinion, in passing judgmenton the issues, exercised a positive influence on the outcome of thestruggle. 

Gradually, as men realized the losses which conflicts incurred, thecommunity has intervened to prevent them. At a time when the blood feudwas still sanctioned by the mores, cities of refuge and sanctuaries wereestablished to which one who had incurred a blood feud might flee untilhis case could be investigated. If it then appeared that the wrongcommitted had been unintentional or if there were other mitigatingcircumstances, he might find in the sanctuary protection. Otherwise, ifa crime had been committed in cold blood, "lying in wait, " or "inenmity, " as the ancient Jewish law books called it, he might be put todeath by the avenger of blood, "when he meeteth him. "[259]

Thus, gradually, the principle became established that the communitymight intervene, not merely to insure that vengeance was executed in dueform, but to determine the facts, and thus courts which determined bylegal process the guilt or innocence of the accused were established. 

It does not appear that courts of justice were ever set up within thekinship group for the trial of offenses, although efforts were madethere first of all, by the elders and the headmen, to compromisequarrels and compose differences. 

Courts first came into existence, the evidence indicates, when societywas organized over wider areas and after some authority had beenestablished outside of the local community. As society was organizedover a wider territory, control was extended to ever wider areas ofhuman life until we have at present a program for international courtswith power to intervene between nations to prevent wars. [260]

Society, like the individual man, moves and acts under the influence ofa multitude of minor impulses and tendencies which mutually interact toproduce a more general tendency which then dominates all the individualsof the group. This explains the fact that a group, even a mere casualcollection of individuals like a crowd, is enabled to act more or lessas a unit. The crowd acts under the influence of such a dominanttendency, unreflectively, without definite reference to a past or afuture. The crowd has no past and no future. The public introduces intothis vortex of impulses the factor of reflection. The public presupposesthe existence of a common impulse such as manifests itself in the crowd, but it presupposes, also, the existence of individuals and groups ofindividuals representing divergent tendencies. These individualsinteract upon one another _critically_. The public is, what the crowd isnot, a discussion group. The very existence of discussion presupposesobjective standards of truth and of fact. The action of the public isbased on a universe of discourse in which things, although they may anddo have for every individual somewhat different value, are describableat any rate in terms that mean the same to all individuals. The public, in other words, moves in an objective and intelligible world. 

Law is based on custom. Custom is group habit. As the group acts itcreates custom. There is implicit in custom a conception and a rule ofaction, which is regarded as right and proper in the circumstances. Lawmakes this rule of action explicit. Law grows up, however, out of adistinction between this rule of action and the facts. Custom is boundup with the facts under which the custom grew up. Law is the result ofan effort to frame the rule of action implicit in custom in such generalterms that it can be made to apply to new situations, involving new setsof facts. This distinction between the law and the facts did not existin primitive society. The evolution of law and jurisprudence has been inthe direction of an increasingly clearer recognition of this distinctionbetween law and the facts. This has meant in practice an increasingrecognition by the courts of the facts, and a disposition to act inaccordance with them. The present disposition of courts, as, forexample, the juvenile courts, to call to their assistance experts toexamine the mental condition of children who are brought before them andto secure the assistance of juvenile-court officers to advise and assistthem in the enforcement of the law, is an illustration of an increasingdisposition to take account of the facts. 

The increasing interest in the natural history of the law and of legalinstitutions, and the increasing disposition to interpret it insociological terms, from the point of view of its function, is anotherevidence of the same tendency. 

II. MATERIALS

A. ELEMENTARY FORMS OF SOCIAL CONTROL

1. Control in the Crowd and the Public[261]

In August, 1914, I was a cowboy on a ranch in the interior of BritishColumbia. How good a cowboy I would not undertake to say, because ifthere were any errands off the ranch the foreman seemed better able tospare me for them than anyone else in the outfit. 

One ambition, and one only, possessed me in those days. And it was notto own the ranch! All in the world I wanted was to accumulate moneyenough to carry me to San Francisco when the Panama exposition opened inthe autumn. After that I didn't care. It would be time enough to worryabout another job when I had seen the fair. 

Ordinarily I was riding the range five days in the week. Saturdays I wassent on a 35-mile round trip for the mail. It was the most delightfulday of them all for me. The trail lay down the valley of the Fraser andalthough I had been riding it for months it still wove a spell over methat never could be broken. Slipping rapidly by as though escaping tothe sea from the grasp of the hills that hemmed it in on all sides, theriver always fascinated me. It was new every time I reached its edge. 

An early Saturday morning in August found me jogging slowly along thetrail to Dog Creek. Dog Creek was our post-office and trading-center. This morning, however, my mind was less on the beauties of the Fraserthan on the Dog Creek hotel. Every week I had my dinner there beforestarting in mid-afternoon on my return to the ranch, and this day hadsucceeded one of misunderstanding with "Cookie" wherein all the boys ofour outfit had come off second-best. I was hungry and that dinner at thehotel was going to taste mighty good. Out there on the range we hadheard rumors of a war in Europe. We all talked it over in the eveningand decided it was another one of those fights that were always startingin the Balkans. One had just been finished a few months before and wethought it was about time another was under way, so we gave the matterno particular thought. But when I got within sight of Dog Creek I knewsomething was up. The first thing I heard was that somebody hadretreated from Mons and that the Germans were chasing them. So, theGermans were fighting anyway. Then a big Indian came up to me as I wasgetting off my pony and told me England's big white chief was going towar, or had gone, he wasn't certain which, but he was going too. WouldI?

I laughed at him. "What do you mean, go to war?" I asked him. 

I wasn't English; I wasn't Canadian. I was from the good old U. S. A. Andfrom all we could understand the States were neutral. So, I reasoned, Iought to be neutral too, and I went in to see what there might be toeat. 

There was plenty of excitement in the dining-room. Under its influence Ibegan to look at the thing in a different light. While I was an alien, Ihad lived in Canada. I had enjoyed her hospitality. Much of my educationwas acquired in a Canadian school. Canadians were among my dearestfriends. Some of these very fellows, there in Dog Creek, were "goingdown" to enlist. 

All the afternoon we argued about it. Politics, economics, diplomacy;none of them entered into the question. In fact we hadn't the faintestidea what the war was all about. Our discussion hinged solely on whatwe, personally, ought to do. England was at war. She had sent out a callto all the Empire for men; for help. Dog Creek heard and was going toanswer that call. Even if I were an alien I had been in that districtfor more than a year and I owed it to Dog Creek and the district to joinup with the rest. By that time I wanted to go. I was crazy to go! Itwould be great to see London and maybe Paris and some of the otherfamous old towns--if the war lasted long enough for us to get overthere. I began to bubble over with enthusiasm, just thinking about it. So I made an appointment with some of the boys for the next evening, rode back to the ranch and threw the mail and my job at the foreman. 

A week later we were in Vancouver. Then things began to get plainer--tosome of the fellows. We heard of broken treaties, "scraps of paper, ""Kultur, " the rights of nations, big and small, "freedom of the seas, "and other phrases that meant less than nothing to most of us. It wasenough for me, then, that the country which had given me the protectionof its laws wanted to help England. I trusted the government to knowwhat it was doing. Before we were in town an hour we found ourselves ata recruiting office. By the simple expedient of moving my birthplace afew hundred miles north I became a Canadian and a member of theexpeditionary force--a big word with a big meaning. Christmas came and Iwas in a well-trained battalion of troops with no more knowledge of thewar than the retreat from Mons, the battles of the Marne and the Aisne, and an occasional newspaper report of the capture of a hundred thousandtroops here and a couple of hundred thousand casualties somewhere else. We knew, at that rate, it couldn't possibly last until we got to theother side, but we prayed loudly that it would. In April we heard of thegassing of the first Canadians at Ypres. Then the casualty lists fromthat field arrived and hit Vancouver with a thud. Instantly a changecame over the city. Before that day, war had been a romance, a thing faraway about which to read and over which to wave flags. It wasintangible, impersonal. It was the same attitude the States exhibited inthe autumn of '17. Then suddenly it became real. This chap and thatchap; a neighbor boy, a fellow from the next block or the next desk. Dead! Gassed! This was war; direct, personal, where you could count thetoll among your friends. Personally, I thought that what the Germans haddone was a terrible thing and I wondered what kind of people they mightbe that they could, without warning, deliver such a foul blow. In aprize ring the Kaiser would have lost the decision then and there. Wewondered about gas and discussed it by the hour in our barracks. Some ofus, bigger fools than the rest, insisted that the German nation wouldrepudiate its army. But days went by and nothing of the kind occurred. It was then I began to take my soldiering a little more seriously. If anation wanted to win a war so badly that it would damn its good nameforever by using means ruled by all humanity as beyond the bounds ofcivilized warfare, it must have a very big object in view. And Istarted--late it is true--to obtain some clue to those objects. 

May found us at our port of embarkation for the voyage to England. Thenews of the "Lusitania" came over the wires and that evening our convoysteamed. For the first time, I believe, I fully realized I was a soldierin the greatest war of all the ages. 

Between poker, "blackjack, " and "crown and anchor" with the crew, wetalked over the two big things that had happened in our soldierlives--gas and the "Lusitania. " And to these we later added liquid fire. 

Our arguments, our logic, may have been elemental, but I insist theystruck at the root. I may sum them up thus: Germany was not using themethods of fighting that could be countenanced by a civilized nation. Asthe nation stood behind its army in all this barbarism, there must besomething inherently lacking in it despite its wonderful music, itsdivine poetry, its record in the sciences. It, too, must be barbarian atheart. We agreed that if it should win this war it would be veryuncomfortable to belong to one of the allied nations, or even to live inthe world at all, since it was certain German manners and German methodswould not improve with victory. And we, as a battalion, were ready totake our places in France to back up our words with deeds. 

A week or so later we landed in England. A marked change had come overthe men since the day we left Halifax. Then most of us regarded thewhole war, or our part in it, as more or less of a lark. On landing wewere still for a lark, but something else had come into ourconsciousness. We were soldiers fighting for a cause--a cause clear cutand well defined--the saving of the world from a militarily mad countrywithout a conscience. At our camp in England we saw those boys of thefirst division who had stood in their trenches in front of Ypres onebright April morning and watched with great curiosity a peculiar lookingbank of fog roll toward them from the enemy's line. It rolled into theirtrenches, and in a second those men were choking and gasping for breath. Their lungs filled with the rotten stuff, and they were dying by dozensin the most terrible agony, beating off even as they died a part of the"brave" Prussian army as it came up behind those gas clouds; came upwith gas masks on and bayonets dripping with the blood of men lying onthe ground fighting, true, but for breath. A great army, that Prussianarmy! And what a "glorious" victory! Truly should the Hun be proud! Sofar as I am concerned, Germany did not lose the war at the battle of theMarne, at the Aisne, or at the Yser. She lost it there at Ypres, onApril 22, 1915. It is no exaggeration when I say our eagerness to work, to complete our training, to learn how to kill, so we could take ourplaces in the line, and help fight off those mad people, grew by thehour. _They_ stiffened our backs and made us fighting mad. We saw whatthey had done to our boys from Canada; they and their gas. The effect onour battalion was the effect on the whole army, and, I am quite sure, onthe rest of the world. They put themselves beyond the pale. Theycompelled the world to look on them as mad dogs, and to treat them asmad dogs. We trained in England until August, when we went to France. Toall outward appearances we were still happy, carefree soldiers, all outfor a good time. We were happy! We were happy we were there, and downdeep there was solid satisfaction, not on account of thedifferent-colored books that were issuing from every chancellory inEurope, but from a feeling rooted in white men's hearts, backed by theknowledge of Germany's conduct, that we were there in a righteous cause. Our second stop in our march toward the line was a little village whichhad been occupied by the Boches in their mad dash toward Paris. Ourbillet was a farm just on the edge of the village. The housewifepermitted us in her kitchen to do our cooking, at the same time sellingus coffee. We stayed there two or three days and became quite friendlywith her, even if she did scold us for our muddy boots. Two prettylittle kiddies played around the house, got in the way, were scolded andspanked and in the next instant loved to death by Madame. Then she wouldparade them before a picture of a clean-cut looking Frenchman in theuniform of the army, and say something about "après la guerre. " In alittle crib to one side of the room was a tiny baby, neglected byMadame, except that she bathed and fed it. The neglect was so pronouncedthat our curiosity was aroused. The explanation came through the_estaminet_ gossip, and later from Madame herself. A Hun captain ofcavalry had stayed there a few days in August, '14, and not only had heallowed his detachment full license in the village, but had abused hisposition in the house in the accustomed manner of his bestial class. AsMadame told us her story; how her husband had rushed off to his unitwith the first call for reserves, leaving her alone with two children, and how the blond beast had come, our fists clenched and we boiled withrage. That is German war! but it is not all. What will be the storiesthat come out of what is now occupied France? This Frenchwoman's storywas new to us then, but, like other things in the war, as we movedthrough the country it became common enough, with here and there arevolting detail more horrible than anything we had heard before. 

Now and then Germany expresses astonishment at the persistence of theBritish and the French. They are a funny people, the Germans. There areso many things they do not, perhaps cannot, understand. They never couldunderstand why Americans, such as myself, who enlisted in a spirit ofadventure, and with not a single thought on the justice of the cause, could experience such a marked change of feeling as to regard thisconflict as the most holy crusade in which a man could engage. It is aholy crusade! Never in the history of the world was the cause of rightmore certainly on the side of an army than it is today on the side ofthe allies: We who have been through the furnace of France know this. Ionly say what every other American who has been fighting under an alienflag said when our country came in: "Thank God we have done it. Someboy, Wilson, believe me!"

2. Ceremonial Control[262]

If, disregarding conduct that is entirely private, we consider only thatspecies of conduct which involves direct relations with other persons;and if under the name government we include all control of conduct, however arising; then we must say that the earliest kind of government, the most general kind of government, and the government which is everspontaneously recommencing, is the government of ceremonial observance. This kind of government, besides preceding other kinds, and besideshaving in all places and times approached nearer to universality ofinfluence, has ever had, and continues to have, the largest share inregulating men's lives. 

Proof that the modifications of conduct called "manners" and "behavior"arise before those which political and religious restraints cause isyielded by the fact that, besides preceding social evolution, theyprecede human evolution: they are traceable among the higher animals. The dog afraid of being beaten comes crawling up to his master clearlymanifesting the desire to show submission. Nor is it solely to humanbeings that dogs use such propitiatory actions. They do the like one toanother. All have occasionally seen how, on the approach of someformidable Newfoundland or mastiff, a small spaniel, in the extremity ofits terror, throws itself on its back with legs in the air. Clearlythen, besides certain modes of behavior expressing affection, which areestablished still earlier in creatures lower than man, there areestablished certain modes of behavior expressing subjection. 

After recognizing this fact, we shall be prepared to recognize the factthat daily intercourse among the lowest savages, whose small loosegroups, scarcely to be called social, are without political or religiousregulation, is under a considerable amount of ceremonial regulation. Noruling agency beyond that arising from personal superioritycharacterizes a horde of Australians; but every such horde hasimperative observances. Strangers meeting must remain some time silent;a mile from an encampment approach has to be heralded by loud _cooeys_;a green bough is used as an emblem of peace; and brotherly feeling isindicated by exchange of names. Ceremonial control is highly developedin many places where other forms of control are but rudimentary. Thewild Comanche "exacts the observance of his rules of etiquette fromstrangers, " and "is greatly offended" by any breach of them. WhenAraucanians meet, the inquiries, felicitations, and condolences whichcustom demands are so elaborate that "the formality occupies ten orfifteen minutes. "

That ceremonial restraint, preceding other forms of restraint, continuesever to be the most widely diffused form of restraint we are shown bysuch facts as that in all intercourse between members of each society, the decisively governmental actions are usually prefaced by thisgovernment of observances. The embassy may fail, negotiation may bebrought to a close by war, coercion of one society by another may set upwider political rule with its peremptory commands; but there ishabitually this more general and vague regulation of conduct precedingthe more special and definite. So within a community acts of relativelystringent control coming from ruling agencies, civil and religious, begin with and are qualified by this ceremonial control which not onlyinitiates but in a sense envelops all other. Functionaries, ecclesiastical and political, coercive as their proceedings may be, conform them in large measure to the requirements of courtesy. Thepriest, however arrogant his assumption, makes a civil salute; and theofficer of the law performs his duty subject to certain propitiatorywords and movements. 

Yet another indication of primordialism may be named. This species ofcontrol establishes itself anew with every fresh relation amongindividuals. Even between intimates greetings signifying continuance ofrespect begin each renewal of intercourse. And in the presence of astranger, say in a railway carriage, a certain self-restraint, joinedwith some small act like the offer of a newspaper, shows the spontaneousrise of a propitiatory behavior such as even the rudest of mankind arenot without. So that the modified forms of action caused in men by thepresence of their fellows constitute that comparatively vague controlout of which other more definite controls are evolved--the primitiveundifferentiated kind of government from which the political andreligious governments are differentiated, and in which they evercontinue immersed. 

3. Prestige[263]

Originally _prestige_--here, too, etymology proves to be an _enfantterrible_--means delusion. It is derived from the Latin _praestigiae_(_-arum_)--though it is found in the forms _praestigia_ (_-ae_) and_praestigium_ (_-ii_) too: the juggler himself (dice-player, rope-walker, "strong man, " etc. ) was called _praestigiator_ (_-oris_). Latin authors and mediaeval writers of glossaries took the word to mean"deceptive juggling tricks, " and, as far as we know, did not use it inits present signification. The _praestigiator_ threw dice or put coinson a table, then passed them into a small vessel or box, moved thelatter about quickly and adroitly, till finally, when you thought theywere in a certain place, the coins turned up somewhere else: "Thelooker-on is deceived by such innocent tricks, being often inclined topresume the sleight of hand to be nothing more or less than magic art. "

The practice of French writers in the oldest times was, so far as wehave been able to discover, to use the word _prestige_ at first in thesignification above assigned to the Latin "praestigiae" (_prestige_, _prestigiateur_, _-trice_, _prestigieux_). The use of the word was notrestricted to the prestige of prophets, conjurers, demons, but wastransferred by analogy to delusions the cause of which is not regardedany longer as supernatural. Diderot actually makes mention of theprestige of harmony. The word "prestige" became transfigured, ennobled, and writers and orators refined it so as to make it applicable toanalogies of the remotest character. Rousseau refers to the prestige ofour passions, which dazzles the intellect and deceives wisdom. Prestigeis the name continually given to every kind of spell, the effect ofwhich reminds us of "prestige" ("cet homme exerce une influence querassemble à une prestige"--Littre), and to all magic charms andattractive power which is capable of dulling the intellect while itenhances sensation. We may read of the prestige of fame, of the powerwhich, in default of prestige, is brute force; in 1869 numberlessplacards proclaimed through the length and breadth of Paris thatBourbeau, Minister of Public Instruction, though reputed to be asplendid lawyer, "lacked prestige"--"Bourbeau manque de prestige. " TheEnglish and German languages make use of the word in the latter meaningas opposed to the imaginary virtue of the conjurer; the samesignification is applied, generally speaking, to the Italian and Spanish_prestigio_, only that the Italian _prestigiáo_ and the Spanish_prestigiador_, just like the French _prestigiateur_, have, as opposedto the more recent meaning, kept the older significance; neither of themmeans anything more or less than conjurer or juggler. 

The market clown, the rope-walker, the sword-swallower, the reciter oflong poems, the clever manipulator who defies imitation--all possessprestige: but on the other hand, prestige surrounds demoniacal spells, wizardry, and all effectiveness not comprehensible by logic. 

We state something of someone when we say that he possesses prestige;but our statement is not clear, and the predicate cannot bedistinguished from the subject. Of what is analysable, well-known, commonplace, or what we succeed in understanding thoroughly, inattaining or imitating, we do not say that it possesses prestige. 

What is the relation between _prestige_ and _prejudice_? When what isunintelligible, or mysterious, is at one time received with enthusiasm, at another with indignation, _what renders necessary these two extremesentiments of appreciation_ which, though appearing under apparentlyidentical circumstances, are diametrically opposed to one another?

The most general form of social prejudice is that of race. A _foreigner_is received with prejudice, conception, or prestige. If we put"conception" aside, we find prejudice and prestige facing one another. We see this split most clearly demonstrated if we observe thedifferences of conduct in the reception of strangers by primitivepeoples. In Yrjö Hirn's _Origins of Art_ we are told that thosetravellers who have learned the tongues of savages have often observedthat their persons were made the subjects of extemporized poems by therespective savages. Sometimes these verses are of a derisive character;at other times they glorify the white man. When do they deride, whenglorify?

Where strong prejudice values are present, as in the case of Negroes, every conception of equality and nationalism incorporated in thestatute-book is perverted. All that _appears_ permanently divergent ismade the subject of damnatory prejudice; and the more apparent andseeming, the more primitive the impression that restrains, the moregeneral the prejudice; smell affects more keenly than form, and formmore than mode of thought. If a member of a nation is not typical, butexercises an exclusive, personal impression on us, he possessesprestige; if he is typical, he is indifferent to us, or we look downupon him and consider him comical. To sum up: the stranger whom we feelto be divergent as compared with ourselves is indifferent or the objectof prejudice; the stranger whom we feel ourselves unable to measure byour own standard, whose measure--not his qualities--we feel to bedifferent, we receive with prestige. We look with prejudice on thestranger whom we dissociate, and receive with prestige the stranger whois dissociated. 

Even in the animal world we come across individuals consistently treatedwith deference, of which, in his work on the psychical world of animals, Perty has plenty to tell us: "Even in the animal world, " he says, "thereare certain eminent individuals, which in comparison with the othermembers of their species show a superiority of capability, brain power, and force of will, and obtain a _predominance_ over the other animals. "Cuvier observed the same in the case of a buck which had only one horn;Grant tells us of a certain ourang-outang which got the upper hand ofthe rest of the monkeys and often threatened them with the stick; fromNaumann we hear of a clever crane which ruled over all the domesticanimals and quickly settled any quarrels that arose among them. Far moreimportant than these somewhat obscure observations is the peculiarsocial mechanism of the animal world to be found in the mechanicalfollowing of the leaders of flocks and herds. But this obedience is soconspicuously instinctive, so genuine, and so little varying insubstance and intensity, that it can hardly be identified with prestige. Bees are strong royalists; but the extent to which their selection of aqueen is instinctive and strictly exclusive is proved by the fact thatthe smell of a strange queen forced on them makes them hate her; theykill her or torture her--though the same working bees prefer to die ofhunger rather than allow their own queen to starve. 

Things are radically changed when animals are brought face to face withman. Some animals sympathize with men, and like to take part in theirhunting and fighting, as the dog and the horse; others subjectthemselves as a result of force. Consequently men have succeeded in_domesticating_ a number of species of animals. It is here that we findthe first traces, in the animal world, of phenomena, reactions ofconduct in the course of development, which, to a certain extent, remindus of the reception of prestige. The behaviour of a dog, says Darwin, which returns to its master after being absent--or the conduct of amonkey, when it returns to its beloved keeper--_is far different fromwhat these animals display towards beings of the same order asthemselves_. In the latter case the expressions of joy seem to besomewhat less demonstrative, and all their actions evince a feeling ofequality. Even Professor Braubach declares that _a dog looks upon itsmaster as a divine person_. Brehm gives us a description of the tenderrespect shown towards his children by a chimpanzee that had been broughtto his home and domesticated. "When we first introduced my littlesix-weeks-old daughter to him, " he says, "at first he regarded the childwith evident astonishment, as if desirous to convince himself of itshuman character, then touched its face with one finger with remarkablegentleness, and amiably offered to shake hands. This triflingcharacteristic, which I observed in the case of all chimpanzees rearedin my house, is worthy of particular emphasis, because it seems to provethat _our man-monkey descries and pays homage to that higher being, man, even in the tiniest child. On the other hand, he by no means shows anysuch friendly feelings towards creatures like himself--not even towardslittle ones_. "

In every stage of the development of savage peoples we come acrossclassical examples of mock kings--of the "primus inter pares, " "duces exvirtute, " _not_ "ex nobilitate reges"--of rational and valued leaders. The savages of Chile elect as their chief the man who is able to carrythe trunk of a tree farthest. In other places, military prowess, commandof words, crafts, a knowledge of spells are the causal sources of theusually extremely trifling homage due to the chieftain. "Savage hordesin the lowest stage of civilization are organized, like troops ofmonkeys, on the basis of authority. The strongest old male by virtue ofhis strength acquires a certain ascendancy, which lasts as long as hisphysical strength is superior to that of every other male.... "

Beyond that given by nature, primitive society recognizes no otherprestige, for the society of savages lacks the subjective conditions ofprestige--settlement in large numbers and permanency. The lack ofdistance compels the savage to respect only persons who hold their ownin his presence: this conspicuous clearness of the estimation ofprimitive peoples is the cause that has prevailed on us to dwell so longon this point. That the cause of this want of prestige among savages isthe lack of concentration in masses, not any esoteric peculiarity, isproved by the profound psychological appreciation of the distancescreated by nature, and still more by the expansion of tribal life into abarbarian one. The tenfold increase of the number of a tribe rendersdifficult a logical, ethical, or aesthetic selection of a leader, aswell as an intuitive control of spells and superstitions. 

The dramatic _mise en scène_ of human prestige coincides with the firstappearance of this concentration in masses, and triumphs with itstriumph. 

4. Prestige and Status in South East Africa[264]

In no other land under the British flag, except, perhaps, in the FarEast, certainly in none of the great self-governing colonies with whichwe rank ourselves, is the position of white man _qua_ white man so high, his status so impugnable, as in South East Africa. Differing in muchelse, the race instinct binds the whites together to demand recognitionas a member of the ruling and inviolable caste, even for the poorest, the degraded of their race. And this position connotes freedom from allmanual and menial toil; without hesitation the white man demands thisfreedom, without question the black man accedes and takes up the burden, obeying the race command of one who may be his personal inferior. It isdifficult to convey to one who has never known this distinction the wayin which the very atmosphere is charged with it in South East Africa. Awhite oligarchy, every member of the race an aristocrat; a blackproletariat, every member of the race a server; the line of cleavage asclear and deep as the colours. The less able and vigorous of our race, thus protected, find here an ease, a comfort, a recognition to whichtheir personal worth would never entitle them in a homogeneous whitepopulation. 

When uncontaminated by contact with the lower forms of our civilization, the native is courteous and polite. Even today, changed for the worse ashe is declared to be by most authorities, a European could ride or walkalone, unarmed even with a switch, all through the locations of Nataland Zululand, scores of miles away from the house of any white man, andreceive nothing but courteous deference from the natives. If he met, ashe certainly would, troops of young men, dressed in all their barbaricfinery, going to wedding or dance, armed with sticks and shields, fullof hot young blood, they would still stand out of the narrow path, giving to the white man the right of way and saluting as he passed. Ihave thus travelled alone all over South East Africa, among thousands ofblacks and never a white man near, and I cannot remember the natives, even if met in scores or hundreds, ever disputing the way for a moment. All over Africa, winding and zigzagging over hill and dale, overgrassland and through forest, from kraal to kraal, and tribe to tribe, go the paths of the natives. In these narrow paths worn in the grass bythe feet of the passers, you could travel from Natal to Benguela andback again to Mombasa. Only wide enough for one to travel thereon, ifopposite parties meet one must give way; cheerfully, courteously, without cringing, often with respectful salute, does the native stand onone side allowing the white man to pass. One accepts it without thought;it is the expected, but if pondered upon it is suggestive of much. 

5. Taboo[265]

Rules of holiness in the sense just explained, i. E. , a system ofrestrictions on man's arbitrary use of natural things, enforced by thedread of supernatural penalties, are found among all primitive peoples. It is convenient to have a distinct name for this primitive institution, to mark it off from the later developments of the idea of holiness inadvanced religions, and for this purpose the Polynesian term "taboo"has been selected. The field covered by taboos among savage andhalf-savage races is very wide, for there is no part of life in whichthe savage does not feel himself to be surrounded by mysterious agenciesand recognise the need of walking warily. Moreover all taboos do notbelong to religion proper, that is, they are not always rules of conductfor the regulation of man's contact with deities that, when taken in theright way, may be counted on as friendly, but rather appear in manycases to be precautions against the approach of malignantenemies--against contact with evil spirits and the like. Thus alongsideof taboos that exactly correspond to rules of holiness, protecting theinviolability of idols and sanctuaries, priest and chiefs, and generallyof all persons and things pertaining to the gods and their worship, wefind another kind of taboo which in the Semitic field has its parallelin rules of uncleanness. Women after childbirth, men who have touched adead body, and so forth, are temporarily taboo and separated from humansociety, just as the same persons are unclean in Semitic religion. Inthese cases the person under taboo is not regarded as holy, for he isseparated from approach to the sanctuary as well as from contact withmen; but his act or condition is somehow associated with supernaturaldangers, arising, according to the common savage explanation, from thepresence of formidable spirits which are shunned like an infectiousdisease. In most savage societies no sharp line seems to be drawnbetween the two kinds of taboo just indicated, and even in more advancednations the notions of holiness and uncleanness often touch. Among theSyrians, for example, swine's flesh was taboo, but it was an openquestion whether this was because the animal was holy or because it wasunclean. But though not precise, the distinction between what is holyand what is unclean is real; in rules of holiness the motive is respectfor the gods, in rules of uncleanliness it is primarily fear of anunknown or hostile power, though ultimately, as we see in the Leviticallegislation, the law of clean and unclean may be brought within thesphere of divine ordinances, on the view that uncleanness is hateful toGod and must be avoided by all that have to do with Him. 

The fact that all the Semites have rules of uncleanness as well as rulesof holiness, that the boundary between the two is often vague, and thatthe former as well as the latter present the most startling agreementin point of detail with savage taboos, leaves no reasonable doubt as tothe origin and ultimate relations of the idea of holiness. On the otherhand, the fact that the Semites--or at least the northernSemites--distinguish between the holy and the unclean, marks a realadvance above savagery. All taboos are inspired by awe of thesupernatural, but there is a great moral difference between precautionsagainst the invasion of mysterious hostile powers and precautionsfounded on respect for the prerogative of a friendly god. The formerbelong to magical superstition--the barrenest of all aberrations of thesavage imagination--which, being founded only on fear, acts merely as abar to progress and an impediment to the free use of nature by humanenergy and industry. But the restrictions on individual licence whichare due to respect for a known and friendly power allied to man, howevertrivial and absurd they may appear to us in their details, containwithin them germinant principles of social progress and moral order. Toknow that one has the mysterious powers of nature on one's side so longas one acts in conformity with certain rules, gives a man strength andcourage to pursue the task of the subjugation of nature to his service. To restrain one's individual licence, not out of slavish fear, but fromrespect for a higher and beneficent power, is a moral discipline ofwhich the value does not altogether depend on the reasonableness ofsacred restrictions; an English schoolboy is subject to manyunreasonable taboos, which are not without value in the formation ofcharacter. But finally, and above all, the very association of the ideaof holiness with a beneficent deity, whose own interests are bound upwith the interests of a community, makes it inevitable that the laws ofsocial and moral order, as well as mere external precepts of physicalobservance, shall be placed under the sanction of the god of thecommunity. Breaches of social order are recognised as offences againstthe holiness of the deity, and the development of law and morals is madepossible, at a stage when human sanctions are still wanting, or tooimperfectly administered to have much power, by the belief that therestrictions on human licence which are necessary to social well-beingare conditions imposed by the god for the maintenance of a goodunderstanding between himself and his worshippers. 

Various parallels between savage taboos and Semitic rules of holinessand uncleanness will come before us from time to time; but it may beuseful to bring together at this point some detailed evidences that thetwo are in their origin indistinguishable. 

Holy and unclean things have this in common, that in both cases certainrestrictions lie on men's use of and contact with them, and that thebreach of these restrictions involves supernatural dangers. Thedifference between the two appears, not in their relation to man'sordinary life, but in their relation to the gods. Holy things are notfree to man, because they pertain to the gods; uncleanness is shunned, according to the view taken in the higher Semitic religions, because itis hateful to the god, and therefore not to be tolerated in hissanctuary, his worshippers, or his land. But that this explanation isnot primitive can hardly be doubted when we consider that the acts thatcause uncleanness are exactly the same which among savage nations placea man under taboo, and that these acts are often involuntary, and ofteninnocent, or even necessary to society. The savage, accordingly, imposesa taboo on a woman in childbed, or during her courses, and on the manwho touches a corpse, not out of any regard for the gods, but simplybecause birth and everything connected with the propagation of thespecies on the one hand, and disease and death on the other, seem to himto involve the action of superhuman agencies of a dangerous kind. If heattempts to explain, he does so by supposing that on these occasionsspirits of deadly power are present; at all events the persons involvedseem to him to be sources of mysterious danger, which has all thecharacters of an infection and may extend to other people unless dueprecautions are observed. This is not scientific, but it is perfectlyintelligible, and forms the basis of a consistent system of practice;whereas, when the rules of uncleanness are made to rest on the will ofthe gods, they appear altogether arbitrary and meaningless. The affinityof such taboos with laws of uncleanness comes out most clearly when weobserve that uncleanness is treated like a contagion, which has to bewashed away or otherwise eliminated by physical means. Take the rulesabout the uncleanness produced by the carcases of vermin in Lev. 11:32ff. ; whatever they touch must be washed; the water itself is thenunclean, and can propagate the contagion; nay, if the defilement affectan (unglazed) earthen pot, it is supposed to sink into the pores, andcannot be washed out, so that the pot must be broken. Rules like thishave nothing in common with the spirit of Hebrew religion; they canonly be remains of a primitive superstition, like that of the savage whoshuns the blood of uncleanness, and such like things, as a supernaturaland deadly virus. The antiquity of the Hebrew taboos, for such they are, is shown by the way in which many of them reappear in Arabia; cf. Forexample Deut. 21:12, 13, with the Arabian ceremonies for removing theimpurity of widowhood. In the Arabian form the ritual is of purelysavage type; the danger to life that made it unsafe for a man to marrythe woman was transferred in the most materialistic way to an animal, which it was believed generally died in consequence, or to a bird. 

B. PUBLIC OPINION

1. The Myth[266]

There is no process by which the future can be predicted scientifically, nor even one which enables us to discuss whether one hypothesis about itis better than another; it has been proved by too many memorableexamples that the greatest men have committed prodigious errors in thusdesiring to make predictions about even the least distant future. 

And yet, without leaving the present, without reasoning about thisfuture, which seems forever condemned to escape our reason, we should beunable to act at all. Experience shows that the _framing of a future, insome indeterminate time_, may, when it is done in a certain way, be veryeffective, and have very few inconveniences; this happens when theanticipations of the future take the form of those myths, which enclosewith them all the strongest inclinations of a people, of a party, or ofa class, inclinations which recur to the mind with the insistence ofinstincts in all the circumstances of life; and which give an aspect ofcomplete reality to the hopes of immediate action by which, more easilythan by any other method, men can reform their desires, passions, andmental activity. We know, moreover, that these social myths in no wayprevent a man profiting by the observations which he makes in the courseof his life, and form no obstacle to the pursuit of his normaloccupations. 

The truth of this may be shown by numerous examples. 

The first Christians expected the return of Christ and the total ruin ofthe pagan world, with the inauguration of the kingdom of the saints, atthe end of the first generation. The catastrophe did not come to pass, but Christian thought profited so greatly from the apocalyptic myth thatcertain contemporary scholars maintain that the whole preaching ofChrist referred solely to this one point. The hopes which Luther andCalvin had formed of the religious exaltation of Europe were by no meansrealised; these fathers of the Reformation very soon seemed men of apast era; for present-day Protestants they belong rather to the MiddleAges than to modern times, and the problems which troubled them mostoccupy very little place in contemporary Protestantism. Must we for thatreason deny the immense result which came from their dreams of Christianrenovation? It must be admitted that the real developments of theRevolution did not in any way resemble the enchanting pictures whichcreated the enthusiasm of its first adepts; but without those pictures, would the Revolution have been victorious? Many Utopias were mixed upwith the Revolutionary myth, because it had been formed by a societypassionately fond of imaginative literature, full of confidence in the"science, " and very little acquainted with the economic history of thepast. These Utopias came to nothing; but it may be asked whether theRevolution was not a much more profound transformation than thosedreamed of by the people who in the eighteenth century had inventedsocial Utopias. In our own times Mazzini pursued what the wiseacres ofhis time called a mad chimera; but it can no longer be denied that, without Mazzini, Italy would never have become a great power, and thathe did more for Italian unity than Cavour and all the politicians of hisschool. 

A knowledge of what the myths contain in the way of details which willactually form part of the history of the future is then of smallimportance; they are not astrological almanacs; it is even possible thatnothing which they contain will ever come to pass--as was the case withthe catastrophe expected by the first Christians. In our own daily life, are we not familiar with the fact that what actually happens is verydifferent from our preconceived notion of it? And that does not preventus from continuing to make resolutions. Psychologists say that there isheterogeneity between the ends in view and the ends actually realised:the slightest experience of life reveals this law to us, which Spencertransferred into nature, to extract therefrom his theory of themultiplication of effects. 

The myth must be judged as a means of acting on the present; any attemptto discuss how far it can be taken literally as future history is devoidof sense. _It is the myth in its entirety which is alone important:_ itsparts are only of interest in so far as they bring out the main idea. Nouseful purpose is served, therefore, in arguing about the incidentswhich may occur in the course of a social war, and about the decisiveconflicts which may give victory to the proletariat; even supposing therevolutionaries to have been wholly and entirely deluded in setting upthis imaginary picture of the general strike, this picture may yet havebeen, in the course of the preparation for the revolution, a greatelement of strength, if it has embraced all the aspirations ofsocialism, and if it has given to the whole body of revolutionarythought a precision and a rigidity which no other method of thoughtcould have given. 

To estimate, then, the significance of the idea of the general strike, all the methods of discussion which are current among politicians, sociologists, or people with pretensions to political science, must beabandoned. Everything which its opponents endeavour to establish may beconceded to them, without reducing in any way the value of the theorywhich they think they have refuted. The question whether the generalstrike is a partial reality, or only a product of popular imagination, is of little importance. All that it is necessary to know is, whetherthe general strike contains everything that the socialist doctrineexpects of the revolutionary proletariat. 

To solve this question, we are no longer compelled to argue learnedlyabout the future; we are not obliged to indulge in lofty reflectionsabout philosophy, history, or economics; we are not on the plane oftheories, and we can remain on the level of observable facts. We have toquestion men who take a very active part in the real revolutionarymovement amidst the proletariat, men who do not aspire to climb into themiddle class and whose mind is not dominated by corporative prejudices. These men may be deceived about an infinite number of political, economical, or moral questions; but their testimony is decisive, sovereign, and irrefutable when it is a question of knowing what are theideas which most powerfully move them and their comrades, which mostappeal to them as being identical with their socialistic conceptions, and thanks to which their reason, their hopes, and their way of lookingat particular facts seem to make but one indivisible unity. 

Thanks to these men, we know that the general strike is indeed what Ihave said: the _myth_ in which socialism is wholly comprised, i. E. , abody of images capable of evoking instinctively all the sentiments whichcorrespond to the different manifestations of the war undertaken bysocialism against modern society. Strikes have engendered in theproletariat the noblest, deepest, and most moving sentiments that theypossess; the general strike groups them all in a co-ordinated picture, and, by bringing them together, gives to each one of them its maximum ofintensity; appealing to their painful memories of particular conflicts, it colours with an intense life all the details of the compositionpresented to consciousness. We thus obtain that intuition of socialismwhich language cannot give us with perfect clearness--and we obtain itas a whole, perceived instantaneously. 

2. The Growth of a Legend[267]

Hardly had the German armies entered Belgium when strange rumors beganto circulate. They spread from place to place, they were reproduced bythe press, and they soon permeated the whole of Germany. It was saidthat the Belgian people, instigated by the clergy, had intervenedperfidiously in the hostilities; had attacked by surprise isolateddetachments; had indicated to the enemy the positions occupied by thetroops; that women, old men, and even children had been guilty ofhorrible atrocities upon wounded and defenseless German soldiers, tearing out their eyes and cutting off fingers, nose, or ears; that thepriests from their pulpits had exhorted the people to commit thesecrimes, promising them as a reward the Kingdom of Heaven, and had eventaken the lead in this barbarity. 

Public credulity accepted these stories. The highest powers in the statewelcomed them without hesitation and indorsed them with their authority. Even the Emperor echoed them, and, taking them for a text, advanced, inthe famous telegram of September 8, 1914, addressed to the President ofthe United States, the most terrible accusations against the Belgianpeople and clergy. 

At the time of the invasion of Belgium, it was the German army which, aswe have seen, constituted the chief breeding ground for legendarystories. These were disseminated with great rapidity among the troops;the _liaison_ officers, the dispatch riders, the food convoys, thevictualling posts assured the diffusion of them. 

These stories were not delayed in reaching Germany. As in most wars, itwas the returning soldiery who were responsible for the transmission ofthem. 

From the first day of hostilities in enemy territory the fighting troopswere in constant touch with those behind them. Through the frontiertowns there was a continual passage of convoys, returning empty orloaded with prisoners and wounded. These last, together with theescorting soldiers, were immediately surrounded and pressed for news byan eager crowd. It is they who brought the first stories. 

 As a silent listener, seated on the boulevards, I have noticed how curious people, men and women, question the wounded who are resting there, suggesting to them answers to inquiries on the subject of the battles, the losses, and the atrocities of war; how they interpret silence as an affirmative answer and how they wish to have confirmed things always more terrible. I am convinced that shortly afterward they will repeat the conversation, adding that they have heard it as the personal experience of somebody present at the affair. 

In their oral form stories of this kind are not definite, theirsubstance is malleable; they can be modified according to the taste ofthe narrator; they transform themselves; they evolve. To sum up, notonly do the soldiers, returned from the field of battle, insure thetransmission of the stories, they also elaborate them. 

The military post links the campaigning army directly with Germany. Thesoldiers write home, and in their letters they tell of their adventures, which people are eager to hear, and naturally they include the rumorscurrent among the troops. Thus a soldier of the Landsturm writes to hiswife that he has seen at Liége a dozen priests condemned to deathbecause they put a price on the heads of German soldiers; he had alsoseen there civilians who had cut off the breasts of a Red Cross nurse. Again, a Hessian schoolmaster tells in a letter how his detachment hadbeen treacherously attacked at Ch----by the inhabitants, with the curéat their head. 

Submitted to the test of the German military inquiry these stories areshown to be without foundation. Received from the front and narrated bya soldier who professes to have been an eyewitness, they arenevertheless clothed in the public view with special authority. 

Welcomed without control by the press, the stories recounted in lettersfrom the front appear, however, in the eyes of the readers of a paperclothed with a new authority--that which attaches to printed matter. They lose in the columns of a paper their individual and particularcharacter. Those who send them have, as the _Kölnische Volkszeitung_notes, usually effaced all personal allusions. The statements thusobtain a substance and an objectivity of which they would otherwise bedevoid. Mixed with authentic news, they are accepted by the publicwithout mistrust. Is not their appearance in the paper a guaranty ofaccuracy?

Besides imposing itself on public credulity, the printed story fixesitself in the mind. It takes a lasting form. It has entered permanentlyinto consciousness, and more, it has become a source of reference. 

All these pseudo-historical publications are, however, only one aspectof the abundant literary production of the Great War. All the varietiesof popular literature, the romances of cloak and sword, the stories ofadventure, the collections of news and anecdotes, the theater itself, are in turn devoted to military events. The great public loves livelyactivity, extraordinary situations, and sensational circumstancescalculated to strike the imagination and cause a shiver of horror. 

So one finds in this literature of the lower classes the principallegendary episodes of which we have studied the origin and followed thedevelopment; accommodated to a fiction, woven into a web of intrigue, they have undergone new transformations; they have lost every indicationof their source; they are transposed in the new circumstances imaginedfor them; they have usually been dissociated from the circumstanceswhich individualize them and fix their time and place. The thematicmotives from which they spring nevertheless remain clearly recognizable. 

The legendary stories have thus attained the last stage of theirelaboration and completed their diffusion. They have penetrated not onlyinto the purlieus of the cities but into distant countries; intocenters of education as among the popular classes. Wounded convalescentsand soldiers on leave at home for a time have told them to the city manand to the peasant. Both have found them in letters from the front; bothhave read them in journals and books, both have listened to the warningsof the government and to the imperial word. The schoolteacher has mixedthese episodes with his teaching; he has nourished with them infantileimaginations. Scholars have read the text of them in their classbooksand have enacted them in the games inspired by the war; they have toldthem at home in the family circle, giving them the authority attached tothe master's word. 

Everywhere these accounts have been the subject of ardent commentaries;in the village, in the councils held upon doorsteps, and in the barroomsof inns; in the big cafés, the trams, and the public promenades oftowns. Everywhere they have become an ordinary topic of conversation, everywhere they have met with ready credence. The term _franc tireur_has become familiar. Its use is general and its acceptance widespread. 

A collection of prayers for the use of the Catholic German soldiersincludes this incredible text: "Shame and malediction on him who wishesto act like the Belgian and French, perfidious and cruel, who have evenattacked defenseless wounded. "

3. Ritual, Myth, and Dogma[268]

The antique religions had for the most part no creed; they consistedentirely of institutions and practices. No doubt, men will nothabitually follow certain practices without attaching a meaning to them;but as a rule we find that while the practice was rigorously fixed, themeaning attached to it was extremely vague, and the same rite wasexplained by different people in different ways, without any question oforthodoxy or heterodoxy arising in consequence. In ancient Greece, forexample, certain things were done at a temple, and people were agreedthat it would be impious not to do them. But if you had asked why theywere done, you would probably have had several mutually contradictoryexplanations from different persons, and no one would have thought it amatter of the least religious importance which of these you chose toadopt. Indeed, the explanations offered would not have been of a kind tostir any strong feeling; for in most cases they would have been merelydifferent stories as to the circumstances under which the rite firstcame to be established, by the command or by the direct example of thegod. The rite, in short, was connected not with a dogma but with a myth. 

In all the antique religions, mythology takes the place of dogma; thatis, the sacred lore of priests and people, so far as it does not consistof mere rules for the performance of religious acts, assumes the form ofstories about the gods; and these stories afford the only explanationthat is offered of the precepts of religion and the prescribed rules ofritual. But, strictly speaking, this mythology was no essential part ofancient religion, for it had no sacred sanction and no binding force onthe worshippers. The myths connected with individual sanctuaries andceremonies were merely part of the apparatus of the worship; they servedto excite the fancy and sustain the interest of the worshipper; but hewas often offered a choice of several accounts of the same thing, and, provided that he fulfilled the ritual with accuracy, no one cared whathe believed about its origin. Belief in a certain series of myths wasneither obligatory as a part of true religion, nor was it supposed that, by believing, a man acquired religious merit and conciliated the favourof the gods. What was obligatory or meritorious was the exactperformance of certain sacred acts prescribed by religious tradition. This being so, it follows that mythology ought not to take the prominentplace that is too often assigned to it in the scientific study ofancient faiths. So far as myths consist of explanations of ritual, theirvalue is altogether secondary, and it may be affirmed with confidencethat in almost every case the myth was derived from the ritual, and notthe ritual from the myth; for the ritual was fixed and the myth wasvariable, the ritual was obligatory and faith in the myth was at thediscretion of the worshipper. The conclusion is, that in the study ofancient religions we must begin, not with myth, but with ritual andtraditional usage. 

Nor can it be fairly set against this conclusion, that there are certainmyths which are not mere explanations of traditional practices, butexhibit the beginnings of larger religious speculation, or of anattempt to systematise and reduce to order the motley variety of localworships and beliefs. For in this case the secondary character of themyths is still more clearly marked. They are either products of earlyphilosophy, reflecting on the nature of the universe; or they arepolitical in scope, being designed to supply a thread of union betweenthe various worships of groups, originally distinct, which have beenunited into one social or political organism; or, finally, they are dueto the free play of epic imagination. But philosophy, politics, andpoetry are something more, or something less, than religion pure andsimple. 

There can be no doubt that, in the later stages of ancient religions, mythology acquired an increased importance. In the struggle ofheathenism with scepticism on the one hand and Christianity on theother, the supporters of the old traditional religions were driven tosearch for ideas of a modern cast, which they could represent as thetrue inner meaning of the traditional rites. To this end they laid holdof the old myths, and applied to them an allegorical system ofinterpretation. Myth interpreted by the aid of allegory became thefavourite means of infusing a new significance into ancient forms. Butthe theories thus developed are the falsest of false guides as to theoriginal meaning of the old religions. 

Religion in primitive times was not a system of belief with practicalapplications; it was a body of fixed traditional practices, to whichevery member of society conformed as a matter of course. Men would notbe men if they agreed to do certain things without having a reason fortheir action; but in ancient religion the reason was not firstformulated as a doctrine and then expressed in practice, but conversely, practice preceded doctrinal theory. Men form general rules of conductbefore they begin to express general principles in words; politicalinstitutions are older than political theories, and in like mannerreligious institutions are older than religious theories. This analogyis not arbitrarily chosen, for in fact the parallelism in ancientsociety between religious and political institutions is complete. Ineach sphere great importance was attached to form and precedent, but theexplanation why the precedent was followed consisted merely of a legendas to its first establishment. That the precedent, once established, wasauthoritative did not appear to require any proof. The rules of societywere based on precedent, and the continued existence of the society wassufficient reason why a precedent once set should continue to befollowed. 

I say that the oldest religious and political institutions present aclose analogy. It would be more correct to say that they were parts ofone whole of social custom. Religion was a part of the organised sociallife into which a man was born, and to which he conformed through lifein the same unconscious way in which men fall into any habitual practiceof the society in which they live. Men took the gods and their worshipfor granted, just as they took the other usages of the state forgranted, and if they reasoned or speculated about them, they did so onthe presupposition that the traditional usages were fixed things, behindwhich their reasonings must not go, and which no reasoning could beallowed to overturn. To us moderns religion is above all a matter ofindividual conviction and reasoned belief, but to the ancients it was apart of the citizen's public life, reduced to fixed forms, which he wasnot bound to understand and was not at liberty to criticise or toneglect. Religious non-conformity was an offence against the state; forif sacred tradition was tampered with the bases of society wereundermined, and the favour of the gods was forfeited. But so long as theprescribed forms were duly observed, a man was recognised as trulypious, and no one asked how his religion was rooted in his heart oraffected his reason. Like political duty, of which indeed it was a part, religion was entirely comprehended in the observance of certain fixedrules of outward conduct. 

From the antique point of view, indeed, the question what the gods arein themselves is not a religious but a speculative one; what isrequisite to religion is a practical acquaintance with the rules onwhich the deity acts and on which he expects his worshippers to frametheir conduct--what in II Kings 17:26 is called the "manner" or ratherthe "customary law" (_mishpat_) of the god of the land. This is trueeven of the religion of Israel. When the prophets speak of the knowledgeof God, they always mean a practical knowledge of the laws andprinciples of His government in Israel, and a summary expression forreligion as a whole is "the knowledge and fear of Jehovah, " i. E. , theknowledge of what Jehovah prescribes, combined with a reverentobedience. 

The traditional usages of religion had grown up gradually in the courseof many centuries, and reflected habits of thought characteristic ofvery diverse stages of man's intellectual and moral development. No oneconception of the nature of the gods could possibly afford the clue toall parts of that motley complex of rites and ceremonies which the laterpaganism had received by inheritance, from a series of ancestors inevery state of culture from pure savagery upwards. The record of thereligious thought of mankind, as it is embodied in religiousinstitutions, resembles the geological record of the history of theearth's crust; the new and the old are preserved side by side or ratherlayer upon layer. The classification of ritual formations in theirproper sequence is the first step towards their explanation, and thatexplanation itself must take the form, not of a speculative theory, butof a rational life-history. 

4. The Nature of Public Opinion[269]

"_Vox populi_ may be _vox Dei_, but very little attention shows thatthere has never been any agreement as to what _vox_ means or as to what_populus_ means. " In spite of endless discussions about democracy, thisremark of Sir Henry Maine is still so far true that no other excuse isneeded for studying the conceptions which lie at the very base ofpopular government. In doing so one must distinguish the form from thesubstance; for the world of politics is full of forms in which thespirit is dead--mere shams, but sometimes not recognized as such even bythe chief actors, sometimes deceiving the outside multitude, sometimesno longer misleading anyone. Shams, are, indeed, not without value. Political shams have done for English government what fictions have donefor English law. They have promoted growth without revolutionary change. But while shams play an important part in political evolution, they aresnares for the political philosopher who fails to see through them, whoascribes to the forms a meaning that they do not really possess. Populargovernment may in substance exist under the form of a monarchy, and anautocratic despotism can be set up without destroying the forms ofdemocracy. If we look through the forms to observe the vital forcesbehind them; if we fix our attention, not on the procedure, the extentof the franchise, the machinery of elections, and such outward things, but on the essence of the matter, popular government, in one importantaspect at least, may be said to consist of the control of politicalaffairs by public opinion. 

If two highwaymen meet a belated traveler on a dark road and propose torelieve him of his watch and wallet, it would clearly be an abuse ofterms to say that in the assemblage on that lonely spot there was apublic opinion in favor of a redistribution of property. Nor would itmake any difference, for this purpose, whether there were two highwaymenand one traveler, or one robber and two victims. The absurdity in such acase of speaking about the duty of the minority to submit to the verdictof public opinion is self-evident; and it is not due to the fact thatthe three men on the road form part of a larger community, or that theyare subject to the jurisdiction of a common government. The expressionwould be quite as inappropriate if no organized state existed; on asavage island, for example, where two cannibals were greedy to devourone shipwrecked mariner. In short, the three men in each of the casessupposed do not form a community that is capable of a public opinion onthe question involved. May this not be equally true under an organizedgovernment, among people that are for certain purposes a community?

To take an illustration nearer home. At the time of the Reconstructionthat followed the American Civil War the question whether public opinionin a southern state was or was not in favor of extending the suffrage tothe Negroes could not in any true sense be said to depend on which ofthe two races had a slight numerical majority. One opinion may have beenpublic or general in regard to the whites, the other public or generalin regard to the Negroes, but neither opinion was public or general inregard to the whole population. Examples of this kind could bemultiplied indefinitely. They can be found in Ireland, inAustria-Hungary, in Turkey, in India, in any country where the cleavageof race, religion, or politics is sharp and deep enough to cut thecommunity into fragments too far apart for an accord on fundamentalmatters. 

In all these instances an opinion cannot be public or general withrespect to both elements in the state. For that purpose they are asdistinct as if they belonged to different commonwealths. You may countheads, you may break heads, you may impose uniformity by force; but onthe matters at stake the two elements do not form a community capableof an opinion that is in any rational sense public or general. If we areto employ the term in a sense that is significant for government, thatimports any obligation moral or political on the part of the minority, surely enough has been said to show that the opinion of a mere majoritydoes not by itself always suffice. Something more is clearly needed. 

But if the opinion of a majority does not of itself constitute a publicopinion, it is equally certain that unanimity is not required. Unanimousopinion is of no importance for our purpose, because it is perfectlysure to be effective in any form of government, however despotic, and itis, therefore, of no particular interest in the study of democracy. Legislation by unanimity was actually tried in the kingdom of Poland, where each member of the assembly had the right of _liberum veto_ on anymeasure, and it prevented progress, fostered violence, and spelledfailure. The Polish system has been lauded as the acme of liberty, butin fact it was directly opposed to the fundamental principle of modernpopular government; that is, the conduct of public affairs in accordwith a public opinion which is general, although not universal, andwhich implies under certain conditions a duty on the part of theminority to submit. 

A body of men are politically capable of a public opinion only so far asthey are agreed upon the ends and aims of government and upon theprinciples by which those ends shall be attained. They must be united, also, about the means whereby the action of the government is to bedetermined, in a conviction, for example, that the views of amajority--or it may be some other portion of their numbers--ought toprevail, and a political community as a whole is capable of publicopinion only when this is true of the great bulk of the citizens. Suchan assumption was implied, though usually not expressed in all theoriesof the social compact; and, indeed, it is involved in all theories thatbase rightful government upon the consent of the governed, for theconsent required is not a universal approval by all the people of everymeasure enacted, but a consensus in regard to the legitimate characterof the ruling authority and its right to decide the questions thatarise. 

One more remark must be made before quitting the subject of the relationof public opinion to the opinion of the majority. The late GabrielTarde, with his habitual keen insight, insisted on the importance of theintensity of belief as a factor in the spread of opinions. There is acommon impression that public opinion depends upon and is measured bythe mere number of persons to be found on each side of a question; butthis is far from accurate. If 49 per cent of a community feel verystrongly on one side, and 51 per cent are lukewarmly on the other, theformer opinion has the greater public force behind it and is certain toprevail ultimately, if it does not at once. 

One man who holds his belief tenaciously counts for as much as severalmen who hold theirs weakly, because he is more aggressive and therebycompels and overawes others into apparent agreement with him, or atleast into silence and inaction. This is, perhaps, especially true ofmoral questions. It is not improbable that a large part of the acceptedmoral code is maintained by the earnestness of a minority, while morethan half of the community is indifferent or unconvinced. In short, public opinion is not strictly the opinion of the numerical majority, and no form of its expression measures the mere majority, for individualviews are always to some extent weighed as well as counted. 

Without attempting to consider how the weight attaching to intensity andintelligence can be accurately gauged, it is enough for our purpose topoint out that when we speak of the opinion of a majority we mean, notthe numerical, but the effective, majority. 

5. Public Opinion and the Mores[270]

We are interested in public opinion, I suppose, because public opinionis, in the long run, the sovereign power in the state. There is not now, and probably there never has been a government that did not rest onpublic opinion. The best evidence of this is the fact that allgovernments have invariably sought either to _control_ or, at least, toinspire and direct it. 

The Kaiser had his "official" and his "semiofficial" organs. Thecommunists in Russia have taken possession of the schools. It is in theschoolroom that the bolshevists propose to complete the revolution. Hume, the English historian, who was also the greatest of Englishphilosophers, said:

 As force is always on the side of the governed, the governors have nothing to support them but opinion. It is therefore on opinion only that government is founded; and this maxim extends to the most despotic and the most military governments as well as to the most free and popular. The soldan of Egypt, or the emperor of Rome, might drive their helpless subjects, like brute beasts, against their sentiments and inclinations, but he must at least have led his mameluks, or praetorian bands, like men, by their opinions. 

Hume's statement is too epigrammatic to be true. Governments can and domaintain themselves by force rather than consent. They have done thiseven when they were greatly inferior in numbers. Witness Cortez inMexico, the Belgians in the Congo, and the recent English conquest, withtwo hundred aeroplanes, of the Mad Mullah in Somaliland. Civilizedpeople must be governed in subtle ways. Unpopular governments maintainthemselves sometimes by taking possession of the means of communication, by polluting the sources of information, by suppressing newspapers, bypropaganda. 

Caspar Schmidt, "Max Stirner, " the most consistent of anarchists, saidthe last tyranny is the tyranny of the idea. The last tyrant, in otherwords, is the propagandist, the individual who gives a "slant" to thefacts in order to promote his own conception of the welfare of thecommunity. 

We use the word public opinion in a wider and in a narrower sense. Thepublic, the popular mind, is controlled by something more than opinion, or public opinion, in the narrower sense. 

We are living today under the subtle tyranny of the advertising man. Hetells us what to wear, and makes us wear it. He tells us what to eat, and makes us eat it. We do not resent this tyranny. We do not feel it. We do what we are told; but we do it with the feeling that we arefollowing our own wild impulses. This does not mean that, under theinspiration of advertisements, we act irrationally. We have reasons; butthey are sometimes after-thoughts. Or they are supplied by theadvertiser. 

Advertising is one form of social control. It is one way of capturingthe public mind. But advertising does not get its results by provokingdiscussion. That is one respect in which it differs from public opinion. 

Fashion is one of the subtler forms of control to which we all bow. Weall follow the fashions at a greater or less distance. Some of us fallbehind the fashions, but no one ever gets ahead of them. No one ever canget ahead of the fashions because we never know what they are, untilthey arrive. 

Fashion, in the broad sense, comes under the head of what HerbertSpencer called ceremonial government. Ceremony, he said, is the mostprimitive and the most effective of all forms of government. There is norebellion against fashion; no rebellion against social ritual. At leastthese rebellions never make martyrs or heroes. Dr. Mary Walker, who woremen's clothes, was a heroine no doubt, but never achieved martyrdom. 

So far as ceremonial government finds expression in a code it isetiquette, social ritual, form. We do not realize how powerful aninfluence social form is. There are breaches of etiquette that anyordinary human being would rather die than be guilty of. 

We often speak of social usages and the dictates of fashion as if theywere imposed by public opinion. This is not true, if we are to usepublic opinion in the narrower sense. Social usages are not matters ofopinion; they are matters of custom. They are fixed in habits. They arenot matters of reflection, but of impulse. They are parts of ourselves. 

There is an intimate relation between public opinion and social customsor the mores, as Sumner calls them. But there is this difference: Publicopinion fluctuates. It wobbles. Social customs, the mores, changeslowly. Prohibition was long in coming; but the custom of drinking hasnot disappeared. The mores change slowly; but they change _in onedirection_ and they change _steadily_. Mores change as fashion does; aslanguage does; by a law of their own. 

Fashions must change. It is in their nature to do so. As the existingthing loses its novelty it is no longer stimulating; no longerinteresting. It is no longer the fashion. 

What fashion demands is not something new; but something different. Itdemands the old in a new and stimulating form. Every woman who is upwith the fashion wants to be in the fashion; but she desires to besomething different from everyone else, especially from her best friend. 

Language changes in response to the same motives and according to thesame law. We are constantly seeking new metaphors for old ideas;constantly using old metaphors to express new ideas. Consider the waythat slang grows!

There is a fashion or a trend in public opinion. A. V. Dicey, in hisvolume on _Law and Opinion in England_, points out that there has been aconstant tendency, for a hundred years, in English legislation, fromindividualism to collectivism. This does not mean that public opinionhas changed constantly in one direction. There have been, as he says, "cross currents. " Public opinion has veered, but the changes in themores have been steadily in one direction. 

There has been a change in the fundamental attitudes. This change hastaken place in response to changed conditions. Change in mores issomething like change in the nest-building habits of certain birds, theswallows, for example. This change, like the change in bird habits, takes place without discussion--without clear consciousness--in responseto changed conditions. Furthermore, changes in the mores, like changesin fashion, are only slightly under our control. They are not the resultof agitation; rather they are responsible for the agitation. 

There are profound changes going on in our social organization today. Industrial democracy, or something corresponding to it, is coming. It iscoming not entirely because of social agitation. It is coming, perhaps, in spite of agitation. It is a social change, but it is part of thewhole cosmic process. 

There is an intimate relation between the mores and opinion. The moresrepresent the attitudes in which we agree. Opinion represents theseattitudes in so far as we do not agree. We do not have opinions exceptover matters which are in dispute. 

So far as we are controlled by habit and custom, by the mores, we do nothave opinions. I find out what my opinion is only after I discover thatI disagree with my fellow. What I call my opinions are for the most partinvented to justify my agreements or disagreements with prevailingpublic opinion. The mores do not need justification. As soon as I seekjustification for them they have become matters of opinion. 

Public opinion is just the opinion of individuals plus theirdifferences. There is no public opinion where there is no substantialagreement. But there is no public opinion where there is notdisagreement. Public opinion presupposes public discussion. When amatter has reached the stage of public discussion it becomes a matter ofpublic opinion. 

Before war was declared in France there was anxiety, speculation. Aftermobilization began, discussion ceased. The national ideal was exalted. The individual ceased to exist. Men ceased even to think. They simplyobeyed. This is what happened in all the belligerent countries exceptAmerica. It did not quite happen here. Under such circumstances publicopinion ceases to exist. This is quite as true in a democracy as it isin an autocracy. 

The difference between an autocracy and a democracy is not that in onethe will of the people finds expression and in the other it does not. Itis simply that in a democracy a larger number of the citizensparticipate in the discussions which give rise to public opinion. Atleast they are supposed to do so. In a democracy everyone belongs, or issupposed to belong, to one great public. In an autocracy there areperhaps many little publics. 

What rôle do the schools and colleges play in the formation of publicopinion? The schools transmit the tradition. They standardize ournational prejudices and transmit them. They do this necessarily. 

A liberal or college education tends to modify and qualify all ourinherited political, religious, and social prejudices. It does so bybringing into the field of discussion matters that would not otherwiseget into the public consciousness. In this way a college education putsus in a way to control our prejudices instead of being controlled bythem. This is the purpose of a liberal education. 

The emancipation which history, literature, and a wider experience withlife give us permits us to enter sympathetically into the lives andinterests of others; it widens that area over which public opinionrather than force exercises control. 

It makes it possible to extend the area of political control. It meansthe extension of democratic participation in the common life. Theuniversities, by their special studies in the field of social science, are seeking to accumulate and bring into the view of public opinion alarger body of attested fact upon which the public may base its opinion. 

It is probably not the business of the universities to agitate reformsnor to attempt directly to influence public opinion in regard to currentissues. To do this is to relax its critical attitude, lessen itsauthority in matters of fact, and jeopardize its hard-won academicfreedom. When a university takes over the function of a political partyor a church it ceases to perform its function as a university. 

6. News and Social Control[271]

Everywhere today men are conscious that somehow they must deal withquestions more intricate than any that church or school had preparedthem to understand. Increasingly they know that they cannot understandthem if the facts are not quickly and steadily available. Increasinglythey are baffled because the facts are not available; and they arewondering whether government by consent can survive in a time when themanufacture of consent is an unregulated private enterprise. For in anexact sense the present crisis of western democracy is a crisis injournalism. 

I do not agree with those who think that the sole cause is corruption. There is plenty of corruption, to be sure, moneyed control, castepressure, financial and social bribery, ribbons, dinner parties, clubs, petty politics. The speculators in Russian rubles who lied on the ParisBourse about the capture of Petrograd are not the only example of theirspecies. And yet corruption does not explain the condition of modernjournalism. 

Mr. Franklin P. Adams wrote recently:

 Now there is much pettiness--and almost incredible stupidity and ignorance--in the so-called free press; but it is the pettiness, etc. , common to the so-called human race--a pettiness found in musicians, steamfitters, landlords, poets, and waiters. And when Miss Lowell [who had made the usual aristocratic complaint] speaks of the incurable desire in all American newspapers to make fun of everything in season and out, we quarrel again. There is an incurable desire in American newspapers to take things much more seriously than they deserve. Does Miss Lowell read the ponderous news from Washington? Does she read the society news? Does she, we wonder, read the newspapers?

Mr. Adams does read them, and when he writes that the newspapers takethings much more seriously than they deserve, he has, as the mayor'swife remarked to the queen, said a mouthful. Since the war, especially, editors have come to believe that their highest duty is not to reportbut to instruct, not to print news but to save civilization, not topublish what Benjamin Harris calls "the Circumstances of PubliqueAffairs, both abroad and at home, " but to keep the nation on thestraight and narrow path. Like the kings of England, they have electedthemselves Defenders of the Faith. "For five years, " says Mr. Cobb ofthe _New York World_, "there has been no free play of public opinion inthe world. Confronted by the inexorable necessities of war, governmentsconscripted public opinion. They goose-stepped it. They taught it tostand at attention and salute. It sometimes seems that, after thearmistice was signed, millions of Americans must have taken a vow thatthey would never again do any thinking for themselves. They were willingto die for their country but not willing to think for it. " Thatminority, which is proudly prepared to think for it, and not onlyprepared but cocksure that it alone knows how to think for it, hasadopted the theory that the public should know what is good for it. 

The work of reporters has thus become confused with the work ofpreachers, revivalists, prophets, and agitators. The current theory ofAmerican newspaperdom is that an abstraction like the truth and agrace-like fairness must be sacrificed whenever anyone thinks thenecessities of civilization require the sacrifice. To ArchbishopWhately's dictum that it matters greatly whether you put truth in thefirst place or the second, the candid expounder of modern journalismwould reply that he put truth second to what he conceived to be thenational interest. Judged simply by their product, men like Mr. Ochs orViscount Northcliffe believe that their respective nations will perishand civilization decay unless their idea of what is patriotic ispermitted to temper the curiosity of their readers. 

They believe that edification is more important than veracity. Theybelieve it profoundly, violently, relentlessly. They preen themselvesupon it. To patriotism, as they define it from day to day, all otherconsiderations must yield. That is their pride. And yet what is this butone more among myriad examples of the doctrine that the end justifiesthe means? A more insidiously misleading rule of conduct was, I believe, never devised among men. It was a plausible rule as long as men believedthat an omniscient and benevolent Providence taught them what end toseek. But now that men are critically aware of how their purposes arespecial to their age, their locality, their interests, and their limitedknowledge, it is blazing arrogance to sacrifice hard-won standards ofcredibility to some special purpose. It is nothing but the doctrine thatI want what I want when I want it. Its monuments are the Inquisitionand the invasion of Belgium. It is the reason given for every act ofunreason, the law invoked whenever lawlessness justifies itself. Atbottom it is nothing but the anarchical nature of man imperiouslyhacking its way through. 

Just as the most poisonous form of disorder is the mob incited from highplaces, the most immoral act the immorality of a government, so the mostdestructive form of untruth is sophistry and propaganda by those whoseprofession it is to report the news. The news columns are commoncarriers. When those who control them arrogate to themselves the rightto determine by their own consciences what shall be reported and forwhat purpose, democracy is unworkable. Public opinion is blockaded. Forwhen a people can no longer confidently repair "to the best fountainsfor their information, " then anyone's guess and anyone's rumor, eachman's hope and each man's whim, become the basis of government. All thatthe sharpest critics of democracy have alleged is true if there is nosteady supply of trustworthy and relevant news. Incompetence andaimlessness, corruption and disloyalty, panic and ultimate disaster, must come to any people which is denied an assured access to the facts. No one can manage anything on pap. Neither can a people. 

Few episodes in recent history are more poignant than that of theBritish prime minister, sitting at the breakfast table with thatmorning's paper before him, protesting that he cannot do the sensiblething in regard to Russia because a powerful newspaper proprietor hasdrugged the public. That incident is a photograph of the supreme dangerwhich confronts popular government. All other dangers are contingentupon it, for the news is the chief source of the opinion by whichgovernment now proceeds. So long as there is interposed between theordinary citizen and the facts a news organization determining byentirely private and unexamined standards, no matter how lofty, what heshall know, and hence what he shall believe, no one will be able to saythat the substance of democratic government is secure. The theory of ourconstitution, says Mr. Justice Holmes, is that truth is the only groundupon which men's wishes safely can be carried out. In so far as thosewho purvey the news make of their own beliefs a higher law than truth, they are attacking the foundations of our constitutional system. Therecan be no higher law in journalism than to tell the truth and shame thedevil. 

In a few generations it will seem ludicrous to historians that a peopleprofessing government by the will of the people should have made noserious effort to guarantee the news without which a governing opinioncannot exist. "Is it possible, " they will ask, "that at the beginning ofthe twentieth century nations calling themselves democracies werecontent to act on what happened to drift across their doorsteps; thatapart from a few sporadic exposures and outcries they made no plans tobring these common carriers under social control, that they provided nogenuine training schools for the men upon whose sagacity they weredependent; above all, that their political scientists went on year afteryear writing and lecturing about government without producing onesingle, significant study of the process of public opinion?" And thenthey will recall the centuries in which the church enjoyed immunity fromcriticism, and perhaps they will insist that the news structure ofsecular society was not seriously examined for analogous reasons. 

7. The Psychology of Propaganda[272]

Paper bullets, according to Mr. Creel, won the war. But they haveforever disturbed our peace of mind. The war is long since over, all butsaying so; but our consciousness of the immanence of propaganda bidsfair to be permanent. It has been discovered by individuals, byassociations, and by governments that a certain kind of advertising canbe used to mold public opinion and control democratic majorities. Aslong as public opinion rules the destinies of human affairs, there willbe no end to an instrument that controls it. 

The tremendous forces of propaganda are now common property. They areavailable for the unscrupulous and the destructive as well as for theconstructive and the moral. This gives us a new interest in itstechnique, namely, to inquire if anywhere there is an opportunity forregulative and protective interference with its indiscriminateexploitation. 

Until recently the most famous historical use of the term propagandamade it synonymous with foreign missions. It was Pope Gregory XV whoalmost exactly three centuries ago, after many years of preparation, finally founded the great Propaganda College to care for the interestsof the church in non-Catholic countries. With its centuries ofexperience this is probably the most efficient organization forpropaganda in the world. Probably most apologetics is propaganda. Noreligion and no age has been entirely free from it. 

One of the classical psychoanalytic case histories is that of Breuer'swater glass and the puppy dog. A young lady patient was utterly unableto drink water from a glass. It was a deep embarrassment. Even under thestress of great thirst in warm weather and the earnest effort to breakup a foolish phobia, the glass might be taken and raised, but itcouldn't be drunk from. Psychoanalysis disclosed the following facts. Underlying this particular phobia was an intense antipathy to dogs. Theyoung lady's roommate had been discovered giving a dog a drink from thecommon drinking-glass. The antipathy to the dog was simply transferredto the glass. 

The case is a commonplace in the annals of hysteria. But let us examinethe mechanism. Suppose that I had wanted to keep that drinking-glass formy own personal use. A perfectly simple and effective expedient it wouldhave been in the absence of other good motives to capitalize thatantipathy by allowing her to see the dog drink out of the glass. Thecase would then have been a perfect case of propaganda. All propagandais capitalized prejudice. It rests on some emotional premise which isthe motive force of the process. The emotional transfer is worked bysome associative process like similarity, use, or the causalrelationship. The derived sympathetic antipathy represents the goal. 

The great self-preservative, social, and racial instincts will alwaysfurnish the main reservoir of motive forces at the service ofpropaganda. They will have the widest and the most insistent appeal. Only second to these in importance are the peculiar racial tendenciesand historical traditions that represent the genius of a civilization. The racial-superiority consciousness of the Germans operated as anever-ending motive for their "Aushalten" propaganda. We Americans havea notable cultural premise in our consideration for the underdog. Fewthings outside our consciousness of family will arouse us as surely andas universally as this modification of the protective instinct. 

In addition to the group tendencies that arise from a community ofexperience, individual propaganda may use every phase of individualexperience, individual bias and prejudice. I am told that first-classsalesmen not infrequently keep family histories of their customers, producing a favorable attitude toward their merchandise by way of anapparent personal interest in the children. Apparently any group ofideas with an emotional valence may become the basis for propaganda. 

There are three limitations to the processes of propaganda. The first isemotional recoil, the second is the exhaustion of available motiveforce, the third is the development of internal resistance ornegativism. 

The most familiar of the three is emotional recoil. We know only toowell what will happen if we tell a boy all the things that he likes todo are "bad, " while all the things that he dislikes are "good. " Up to acertain point the emotional value of bad and good respectively will betransferred to the acts as we intend. But each transfer has an emotionalrecoil on the concepts good and bad. At the end a most surprising thingmay happen. The moral values may get reversed in the boy's mind. Bad maycome to represent the sum total of the satisfactory and desirable, whilegood may represent the sum total of the unsatisfactory and theundesirable. To the pained adult such a consequence is utterlyinexplicable, only because he fails to realize that all mental productsare developments. There is always a kind of reciprocity in emotionaltransfer. The value of the modified factor recoils to the modifyingfactor. 

The whole mechanism of the transfer and of the recoil may best beexpressed in terms of the conditioned reflex of Pavlov. The flow ofsaliva in a dog is a natural consequence to the sight and smell of food. If concurrently with the smelling of food the dog is pinched, the pinchceases to be a matter for resentment. By a process of emotionaltransfer, on being pinched the dog may show the lively delight thatbelongs to the sight and smell of food. Even the salivary secretions maybe started by the transfigured pinch. It was the great operatingphysiologist Sherrington who exclaimed after a visit to Pavlov that atlast he understood the psychology of the martyrs. But it is possible soto load the smell of food with pain and damage that its positive valuebreaks down. Eating-values may succumb to the pain values instead of thepain to the eating-values. This is the prototype of the concept bad whenit gets overloaded with the emotional value of the intrinsicallydesirable. The law of recoil seems to be a mental analogue of thephysical law that action and reaction are equal and in oppositedirections. 

The second limitation to propaganda occurs when the reciprocal effectsof transfer exhaust the available motive forces of a mind. Propagandacertainly weakens the forces that are appealed to too often. We areliving just now in a world of weakened appeals. Many of the great humanmotives were exploited to the limit during the war. It is harder toraise money now than it was, harder to find motives for giving that arestill effective. One of my former colleagues once surprised and shockedme by replying to some perfectly good propaganda in which I tried totell him that certain action was in the line of duty, to the effect thathe was tired of being told that something was his duty, and that he wasresolved not to do another thing because it was his duty. There seems tobe evidence that in some quarters, at least, patriotism, philanthropy, and civic duty have been exploited as far as the present systems willcarry. It is possible to exhaust our floating capital of social-motiveforces. When that occurs we face a kind of moral bankruptcy. 

A final stage of resistance is reached when propaganda develops anegativistic defensive reaction. To develop such negativisms is alwaysthe aim of counterpropaganda. It calls the opposed propaganda, prejudiced, half-truth, or, as the Germans did, "Lies, All Lies. " Thereis evidence that the moral collapse of Germany under the fire of ourpaper bullets came with the conviction that they had been systematicallydeceived by their own propagandists. 

There are two great social dangers in propaganda. Great power inirresponsible hands is always a social menace. We have some legalsafeguards against careless use of high-powered physical explosives. Against the greater danger of destructive propaganda there seems to belittle protection without imperiling the sacred principles of freespeech. 

The second social danger is the tendency to overload and level downevery great human incentive in the pursuit of relatively trivial ends. To become _blasé_ is the inevitable penalty of emotional exploitation. Ibelieve there may well be grave penalties in store for the recklesscommercialized exploitation of human emotions in the cheapsentimentalism of our moving pictures. But there are even graverpenalties in store for the generation that permits itself to growmorally _blasé_. One of our social desiderata, it seems to me, is theprotection of the great springs of human action from destructiveexploitation for selfish, commercial, or other trivial ends. 

The slow constructive process of building moral credits by systematiceducation lacks the picturesqueness of propaganda. It also lacks itsquick results. But just as the short cut of hypnotism proved a dangeroussubstitute for moral training, so I believe we shall find that not onlyis moral education a necessary precondition for effective propaganda, but that in the end it is a safer and incomparably more reliable socialinstrument. 

C. INSTITUTIONS

1. Institutions and the Mores[273]

Institutions and laws are produced out of mores. An institution consistsof a concept (idea, notion, doctrine, interest) and a structure. Thestructure is a framework, or apparatus, or perhaps only a number offunctionaries set to co-operate in prescribed ways at a certainconjuncture. The structure holds the concept and furnishesinstrumentalities for bringing it into the world of facts and action ina way to serve the interests of men in society. Institutions are eithercrescive or enacted. They are crescive when they take shape in themores, growing by the instinctive efforts by which the mores areproduced. Then the efforts, through long use, become definite andspecific. 

Property, marriage, and religion are the most primary institutions. Theybegan in folkways. They became customs. They developed into mores by theaddition of some philosophy of welfare, however crude. Then they weremade more definite and specific as regards the rules, the prescribedacts, and the apparatus to be employed. This produced a structure andthe institution was complete. Enacted institutions are products ofrational invention and intention. They belong to high civilization. Banks are institutions of credit founded on usages which can be tracedback to barbarism. There came a time when, guided by rational reflectionon experience, men systematized and regulated the usages which hadbecome current, and thus created positive institutions of credit, defined by law and sanctioned by the force of the state. Pure enactedinstitutions which are strong and prosperous are hard to find. It is toodifficult to invent and create an institution, for a purpose, out ofnothing. The electoral college in the Constitution of the United Statesis an example. In that case the democratic mores of the people haveseized upon the device and made of it something quite different fromwhat the inventors planned. All institutions have come out of mores, although the rational element in them is sometimes so large that theirorigin in the mores is not to be ascertained except by a historicalinvestigation (legislatures, courts, juries, joint-stock companies, thestock exchange). Property, marriage, and religion are still almostentirely in the mores. Amongst nature men any man might capture and holda woman at any time, if he could. He did it by superior force which wasits own supreme justification. But his act brought his group and hergroup into war, and produced harm to his comrades. They forbade capture, or set conditions for it. Beyond the limits, the individual might stilluse force, but his comrades were no longer responsible. The glory tohim, if he succeeded, might be all the greater. His control over hiscaptive was absolute. Within the prescribed conditions, "capture" becametechnical and institutional, and rights grew out of it. The woman had astatus which was defined by custom, and was very different from thestatus of a real captive. Marriage was the institutional relation, inthe society and under its sanction, of a woman to a man, where the womanhad been obtained in the prescribed way. She was then a "wife. " What herrights and duties were was defined by the mores, as they are today inall civilized society. 

Acts of legislation come out of the mores. In low civilization allsocietal regulations are customs and taboos, the origin of which isunknown. Positive laws are impossible until the stage of verification, reflection, and criticism is reached. Until that point is reached thereis only customary law, or common law. The customary law may be codifiedand systematized with respect to some philosophical principles, and yetremain customary. The codes of Manu and Justinian are examples. Enactment is not possible until reverence for ancestors has been so muchweakened that it is no longer thought wrong to interfere withtraditional customs by positive enactment. Even then there isreluctance to make enactments, and there is a stage of transition duringwhich traditional customs are extended by interpretation to cover newcases and to prevent evils. Legislation, however, has to seek standingground on the existing mores, and it soon becomes apparent thatlegislation, to be strong, must be consistent with the mores. Thingswhich have been in the mores are put under police regulation and laterunder positive law. It is sometimes said that "public opinion" mustratify and approve police regulations, but this statement rests on animperfect analysis. The regulations must conform to the mores, so thatthe public will not think them too lax or too strict. The mores of oururban and rural populations are not the same; consequently legislationabout intoxicants which is made by one of these sections of thepopulation does not succeed when applied to the other. The regulation ofdrinking-places, gambling-places, and disorderly houses has passedthrough the above-mentioned stages. It is always a question ofexpediency whether to leave a subject under the mores, or to make apolice regulation for it, or to put it into the criminal law. Betting, horse racing, dangerous sports, electric cars, and vehicles are casesnow of things which seem to be passing under positive enactment and outof the unformulated control of the mores. When an enactment is madethere is a sacrifice of the elasticity and automatic self-adaptation ofcustom, but an enactment is specific and is provided with sanctions. Enactments come into use when conscious purposes are formed, and it isbelieved that specific devices can be framed by which to realize suchpurposes in the society. Then also prohibitions take the place oftaboos, and punishments are planned to be deterrent rather thanrevengeful. The mores of different societies, or of different ages, arecharacterized by greater of less readiness and confidence in regard tothe use of positive enactments for the realization of societal purposes. 

2. Common Law and Statute Law[274]

It probably would have surprised the early Englishman if he had beentold that either he or anybody else did not know the law--still morethat there was ever any need for any parliament or assembly to tell himwhat it was. They all knew the law, and they all knew that they knewthe law, and the law was a thing that they knew as naturally as theyknew fishing and hunting. They had grown up into it. It never occurredto them as an outside thing. 

So it has been found that where you take children, modern children, atleast boys who are sons of educated parents, and put them in largemasses by themselves, they will, without apparently any reading, rapidlyinvent a notion of law; that is, they will invent a certain set ofcustoms which are the same thing to them as law, and which indeed arethe same as law. They have tried in Johns Hopkins University experimentsamong children, to leave them entirely alone, without any instruction, and it is quite singular how soon customs will grow up, and it is alsoquite singular, and a thing that always surprises the socialist andcommunist, that about the earliest concept at which they will arrive isthat of private property! They will soon get a notion that one childowns a stick, or toy, or seat, and the others must respect thatproperty. This I merely use as an illustration to show how simple thenotion of law was among our ancestors in England fifteen hundred yearsago, and how it had grown up with them, of course, from many centuries, but in much the same way that the notion of custom or law grows up amongchildren. 

The "law" of the free Angelo-Saxon people was regarded as a thingexisting by itself, like the sunlight, or at least as existing like auniversally accepted custom observed by everyone. It was five hundredyears before the notion crept into the minds, even of the members of theBritish Parliaments, that they could make a new law. What they supposedthey did, and what they were understood by the people to do, was merelyto declare the law, as it was then and as it had been from timeimmemorial; the notion always being--and the farther back you go and themore simple the people are, the more they have that notion--that theirfree laws and customs were something which came from the beginning ofthe world, which they always held, which were immutable, no more to bechanged than the forces of nature; and that no Parliament, under thefree Angelo-Saxon government or later under the Norman kings who triedto make them unfree, no king could ever make a law but could onlydeclare what the law was. The Latin phrase for that distinction is _jusdare_, and _jus dicere_. In early England, in Anglo-Saxon times, theParliament never did anything but tell what the law was; and, as I havesaid, not only what it was then but what it had been, as they supposed, for thousands of years before. The notion of a legislature to make newlaws is an entirely modern conception of Parliament. 

The notion of law as a statute, a thing passed by a legislature, a thingenacted, made new by representative assembly, is perfectly modern, andyet it has so thoroughly taken possession of our minds, and particularlyof the American mind (owing to the forty-eight legislatures that we haveat work, besides the national Congress, every year, and to the fact thatthey try to do a great deal to deserve their pay in the way of enactinglaws), that statutes have assumed in our minds the main bulk of theconcept of law as we formulate it to ourselves. 

Statutes with us are recent, legislatures making statutes are recenteverywhere; legislatures themselves are fairly recent; that is, theydate only from the end of the Dark Ages, at least in Anglo-Saxoncountries. Representative government itself is supposed, by mostscholars, to be the one invention that is peculiar to the Anglo-Saxonpeople. 

I am quite sure that all the American people when they think of law inthe sense I am now speaking of, even when they are not thinkingnecessarily of statute law, do mean, nevertheless, a law which isenforced by somebody with power, somebody with a big stick. They mean alaw, an ordinance, an order or dictate addressed to them by a sovereign, or at least by a power of some sort, and they mean an ordinance which ifthey break they are going to suffer for, either in person or inproperty. In other words, they have a notion of law as a written commandaddressed by the sovereign to the subject, or at least by one of thedepartments of government to the citizen. Now that, I must caution you, is in the first place rather a modern notion of law, quite modern inEngland; it is really Roman, and was not law as it was understood by ourAnglo-Saxon ancestors. He did not think of law as a thing written, addressed to him by the king. Neither did he necessarily think of it asa thing which had any definite punishment attached or any code attached, any "sanction, " as we call it, or thing which enforces the law; apenalty or fine or imprisonment. There are just as good "sanctions" forlaw outside of the sanctions that our people usually think of as thereare inside of them, and often very much better; for example, thesanction of a strong custom. Take any example you like; there are manystates where marriage between blacks and whites is not made unlawful butwhere practically it is made tremendously unlawful by the force ofpublic opinion [mores]. Take the case of debts of honor, so called, debts of gambling; they are paid far more universally than ordinarycommercial debts, even by the same people; but there is no law enforcingthem--there is no sanction for the collection of gambling debts. Andtake any custom that grows up. We know how strong our customs in collegeare. Take the mere custom of a club table; no one dares or ventures tosupplant the members at that table. That kind of sanction is just asgood a law as a law made by statute and imposing five or ten dollars'penalty or a week's imprisonment. And judges or juries recognize thosethings as laws, just as much as they do statute laws; when all otherlaws are lacking, our courts will ask what is the "custom of the trade. "These be laws, and are often better enforced than the statute law; therules of the New York Stock Exchange are better enforced than the lawsof the state legislature. Now all our early Anglo-Saxon law was law ofthat kind. For the law was but universal custom, and that custom had nosanction; but for breach of the custom anybody could make personalattack, or combine with his friends to make attack, on the person whocommitted the breach, and then, when the matter was taken up by themembers of both tribes, and finally by the witenagemot as a judicialcourt, the question was, what the law was. That was the working of theold Anglo-Saxon law, and it was a great many centuries before the notionof law changed from that in their minds. And this "unwritten law"perdures in the minds of many of the people today. 

3. Religion and Social Control[275]

As a social fact religion is, indeed, not something apart from mores orsocial standards; it is these as regarded as "sacred. " Strictly speakingthere is no such thing as an unethical religion. We judge some religionsas unethical because the mores of which they approve are not our mores, that is, the standards of higher civilization. All religions areethical, however, in the sense that without exception they supportcustomary morality, and they do this necessarily because the valueswhich the religious attitude of mind universalizes and makes absoluteare social values. Social obligations thus early become religiousobligations. In this way religion becomes the chief means of conservingcustoms and habits which have been found to be safe by society or whichare believed to conduce to social welfare. 

As the guardian of the mores, religion develops prohibitions and"taboos" of actions of which the group, or its dominant class, disapproves. It may lend itself, therefore, to maintaining a givensocial order longer than that order is necessary, or even after it hasbecome a stumbling-block to social progress. For the same reason it maybe exploited by a dominant class in their own interest. It is in thisway that religion has often become an impediment to progress and aninstrument of class oppression. This socially conservative side ofreligion is so well known and so much emphasized by certain writers thatit scarcely needs even to be mentioned. It is the chief source of theabuses of religion, and in the modern world is probably the chief causeof the deep enmity which religion has raised up for itself in a certainclass of thinkers who see nothing but its negative and conservativeside. 

There is no necessity, however, for the social control which religionexerts being of a non-progressive kind. The values which religionuniversalizes and makes absolute may as easily be values which areprogressive as those which are static. In a static society whichemphasizes prohibitions and the conservation of mere habit or custom, religion will also, of course, emphasize the same things; but in aprogressive society religion can as easily attach its sanctions tosocial ideals and standards beyond the existing order as to thoseactually realized. Such an idealistic religion will, however, have thedisadvantages of appealing mainly to the progressive and idealizingtendencies of human nature rather than to its conservative andreactionary tendencies. Necessarily, also, it will appeal more stronglyto those enlightened classes in society who are leading in socialprogress rather than to those who are content with things as they are. This is doubtless the main reason why progressive religions areexceedingly rare in human history, taking it as a whole, and haveappeared only in the later stages of cultural evolution. 

Nevertheless, there are good reasons for believing that the inevitableevolution of religion has been in a humanitarian direction, and thatthere is an intimate connection between social idealism and the higherreligions. There are two reasons for this generalization. The sociallife becomes more complex with each succeeding stage of upwarddevelopment, and groups have therefore more need of commanding theunfailing devotion of their members if they are to maintain their unityand efficiency as groups. More and more, accordingly, religion in itsevolution has come to emphasize the self-effacing devotion of theindividual to the group in times of crisis. And as the complexity ofsocial life increases, the crises increase in which the group must askthe unfailing service and devotion of its members. Thus religion in itsupward evolution becomes increasingly social, until it finally comes tothrow supreme emphasis upon the life of service and of self-sacrificefor the sake of the group; and as the group expands from the clan andthe tribe to humanity, religion necessarily becomes less tribal and morehumanitarian until the supreme object of the devotion which itinculcates must ultimately be the whole of humanity. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. Social Control and Human Nature

Society, so far as it can be distinguished from the individuals thatcompose it, performs for those individuals the function of a mind. Likemind in the individual man, society is a control organization. Evidenceof mind in the animal is the fact that it can make adjustments to newconditions. The evidence that any group of persons constitutes a societyis the fact that the group is able to act with some consistency, and asa unit. It follows that the literature on social control, in the widestextension of that term, embraces most that has been written and all thatis fundamental on the subject of society. In chapter ii, "Human Nature, "and the later chapters on "Interaction" and its various forms, "Conflict, " "Accommodation, " and "Assimilation, " points of view andliterature which might properly be included in an adequate study ofsocial control have already been discussed. The present chapter isconcerned mainly with ceremonial, public opinion, and law, three of thespecific forms in which social control has universally foundexpression. 

Sociology is indebted to Edward Alsworth Ross for a general term broadenough to include all the special forms in which the solidarity of thegroup manifests itself. It was his brilliant essay on the subjectpublished in 1906 that popularized the term social control. Thematerials for such a general, summary statement had already been broughttogether by Sumner and published in 1906 in his _Folkways_. This volume, in spite of its unsystematic character, must still be regarded as themost subtle analysis and suggestive statement about human nature andsocial relations that has yet been written in English. 

A more systematic and thoroughgoing review of the facts and literature, however, is Hobhouse's _Morals in Evolution_. After Hobhouse the nextmost important writer is Westermarck, whose work, _The Origin andDevelopment of the Moral Ideas_, published in 1906, was a pioneer inthis field. 

2. Elementary Forms of Social Control

Literature upon elementary forms of social control includes materialsupon ceremonies, taboo, myth, prestige, and leadership. These arecharacterized as elementary because they have arisen spontaneouslyeverywhere out of original nature. The conventionalized form in which wenow find them has arisen in the course of their repetition andtransmission from one generation to another and from one culture groupto another. The fact that they have been transmitted over long periodsof time and wide areas of territory is an indication that they are thenatural vehicle for the expression of fundamental human impulses. 

It is quite as true of leadership, as it is of myth and prestige, thatit springs directly out of an emotional setting. The natural leaders arenever elected and leadership is, in general, a matter that cannot berationally controlled. 

The materials upon ceremony, social ritual, and fashion are large incomparison with the attempts at a systematic study of the phenomena. Herbert Spencer's chapter on "Ceremonial Government, " while itinterprets social forms from the point of view of the individual ratherthan of the group, is still the only adequate survey of the materials inthis special field. 

Ethnology and folklore have accumulated an enormous amount ofinformation in regard to primitive custom which has yet to beinterpreted from the point of view of more recent studies of humannature and social life. The most important collections are Frazer's_Golden Bough_ and his _Totemism and Exogamy_. Crawley's _The MysticRose_ is no such monument of scholarship and learning as Frazer's_Golden Bough_, but it is suggestive and interesting. 

Prestige and taboo represent fundamental human traits whose importanceis by no means confined to the life of primitive man where, almostexclusively hitherto, they have been observed and studied. 

The existing literature on leadership, while serving to emphasize theimportance of the leader as a factor in social organization and socialprocess, is based on too superficial an analysis to be of permanentscientific value. Adequate methods for the investigation of leadershiphave not been formulated. In general it is clear, however, thatleadership must be studied in connection with the social group in whichit arises and that every type of group will have a different type ofleader. The prophet, the agitator, and the political boss are types ofleaders in regard to whom there already are materials available forstudy and interpretation. A study of leadership should include, however, in addition to the more general types, like the poet, the priest, thetribal chieftain, and the leader of the gang, consideration ofleadership in the more specific areas of social life, the precinctcaptain, the promoter, the banker, the pillar of the church, thefootball coach, and the society leader. 

3. Public Opinion and Social Control

Public opinion, "the fourth estate" as Burke called it, has beenappreciated, but not studied. The old Roman adage, _Vox populi, voxdei_, is a recognition of public opinion as the ultimate seat ofauthority. Public opinion has been elsewhere identified with the"general will. " Rousseau conceived the general will to be best expressedthrough a plebiscite at which a question was presented without thepossibilities of the divisive effects of public discussion. The naturalimpulses of human nature would make for more uniform and beneficialdecisions than the calculated self-interest that would follow discussionand deliberation. English liberals like John Stuart Mill, of the latterhalf of the nineteenth century, looked upon freedom of discussion andfree speech as the breath of life of a free society, and that traditionhas come down to us a little shaken by recent experience, butsubstantially intact. 

The development of advertising and of propaganda, particularly duringand since the world-war, has aroused a great many misgivings, nevertheless, in regard to the traditional freedom of the press. WalterLippmann's thoughtful little volume, _Liberty and the News_, has statedthe whole problem in a new form and has directed attention to anentirely new field for observation and study. 

De Tocqueville, in his study of the early frontier, _Democracy inAmerica_, and James Bryce, in his _American Commonwealth_, havecontributed a good deal of shrewd observation to our knowledge of therôle of political opinion in the United States. The important attemptsin English to define public opinion as a social phenomenon and study itobjectively are A. V. Dicey's _Law and Opinion in England in theNineteenth Century_ and A. Lawrence Lowell's _Public Opinion and PopularGovernment_. Although Dicey's investigation is confined to England andto the nineteenth century, his analysis of the facts throws new light onthe nature of public opinion in general. The intimate relation betweenthe press and parliamentary government in England is revealed in aninteresting historical monograph by Michael Macdonagh, _The Reporters'Gallery_. 

4. Legal Institutions and Law

Public law came into existence in an effort of the community to dealwith conflict. In achieving this result, however, courts of lawinvariably have sought to make their decisions first in accordance withprecedent, and second in accordance with common sense. The latterinsured that the law would be administered equitably; the former thatinterpretations of the law would be consistent. Post says:

 Jural feelings are principally feelings of indignation as when an injustice is experienced by an individual, a feeling of fear as when an individual is affected by an inclination to do wrong, a feeling of penitence as when the individual has committed a wrong. With the feeling of indignation is joined a desire for vengeance, with the feeling of penitence a desire of atonement, the former tending towards an act of vengeance and the latter towards an act of expiation. The jural judgments of individuals are not complete judgments; they are based upon an undefined sense of right and wrong. In the consciousness of the individual there exists no standard of right and wrong under which every single circumstance giving rise to the formation of a jural judgment can be subsumed. A simple instinct impels the individual to declare an action right or wrong. [276]

If these motives are the materials with which the administration ofjustice has to deal, the legal motive which has invariably controlledthe courts is something quite different. The courts in theadministration of law have invariably sought, above all else, to achieveconsistency. It is an ancient maxim of English law that "it is betterthat the law should be certain than that the law should be just. "[277]

The conception implicit in the law is that the rule laid down in onecase must apply in every similar case. In the effort to preserve thisconsistency in a constantly increasing variety of cases the courts havebeen driven to the formulation of principles, increasingly general andabstract, to multiply distinctions and subtleties, and to operate withlegal fictions. All this effort to make the law a rationally consistentsystem was itself inconsistent with the conception that law, likereligion, had a natural history and was involved, like language, in aprocess of growth and decay. It is only in recent years that comparativejurisprudence has found its way into the law schools. Although there isa vast literature upon the subject of the history of the law, Maine's_Ancient Law_, published in 1861, is still the classic work in thisfield in English. 

More recently there has sprung up a school of "legal ethnology. " Thepurpose of these studies is not to trace the historical development, ofthe law, but to seek in the forms in use in isolated and primitivesocieties materials which will reveal, in their more elementaryexpressions, motives and practices that are common to legal institutionsof every people. In the Preface to a recent volume of _Select Readingson the Origin and Development of Legal Institutions_, the editorsventure the statement, in justification of the materials from sociologythat these volumes include, that "contrary, perhaps, to legal tradition, the law itself is only a social phenomenon and not to be understood indetachment from human uses, necessities and forces from which itarises. " Justice Holmes's characterization of law as "a greatanthropological document" seems to support that position. 

Law in its origin is related to religion. The first public law was thatwhich enforced the religious taboos, and the ceremonial purificationsand expiations were intended to protect the community from the divinepunishment for any involuntary disrespect or neglect of the rites duethe gods which were the first crimes to be punished by the community asa whole, and for the reason that failure to punish or expiate them wouldbring disaster upon the community as a whole. 

Maine says that the earliest conceptions of law or a rule of life amongthe Greeks are contained in the Homeric words _Themis_ and _Themistes_. 

 When a king decided a dispute by a sentence, the judgment was assumed to be the result of direct inspiration. The divine agent, suggesting judicial awards to kings or to gods, the greatest of kings, was _Themis_. The peculiarity of the conception is brought out by the use of the plural. _Themistes_, Themises, the plural of Themis, are the awards themselves, divinely dictated to the judge. Kings are spoken of as if they had a store of "Themistes" ready to hand for use; but it must be distinctly understood that they are not laws, but judgments. "Zeus, or the human king on earth, " says Mr. Grote, in his _History of Greece_, "is not a law-maker, but a judge. " He is provided with Themistes, but, consistently with the belief in their emanation from above, they cannot be supposed to be connected by any thread of principle; they are separate, isolated judgments. [278]

It is only in recent times, with the gradual separation of the functionof the church and the state, that legal institutions have acquired acharacter wholly secular. Within the areas of social life that arerepresented on the one hand by religion and on the other by law areincluded all the sanctions and the processes by which society maintainsits authority and imposes its will upon its individual members. [279]

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. SOCIAL CONTROL AND HUMAN NATURE

(1) Maine, Henry S. _Dissertations on Early Law and Custom_. New York, 1886. 

(2) Kocourek, Albert, and Wigmore, John H. , editors. _Evolution of Law_. Select readings on the origin and development of legal institutions. Vol. I, "Sources of Ancient and Primitive Law. " Vol. II, "Primitive andAncient Legal Institutions. " Vol. III, "Formative Influences of LegalDevelopment. " Boston, 1915. 

(3) Sumner, W. G. _Folkways_. A study of the sociological importance ofusages, manners, customs, mores, and morals. Boston, 1906. 

(4) Letourneau, Ch. _L'Évolution de la morale_. Paris, 1887. 

(5) Westermarck, Edward. _The Origin and Development of the MoralIdeas_, 2 vols. London, 1906-8. 

(6) Hobhouse, L. T. _Morals in Evolution_. New ed. A study incomparative ethics. New York, 1915. 

(7) Durkheim, Émile. _The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life_. Astudy in religious sociology. Translated from the French by J. W. Swain. London, 1915. 

(8) Novicow, J. _Conscience et volonté sociales_. Paris, 1897. 

(9) Ross, Edward A. _Social Control_. A survey of the foundations oforder. New York, 1906. 

(10) Bernard, Luther L. _The Transition to an Objective Standard ofSocial Control_. Chicago, 1911. 

II. ELEMENTARY FORMS OF SOCIAL CONTROL

A. _Leadership_

(1) Woods, Frederick A. _The Influence of Monarchs_. Steps in a newscience of history. New York, 1913. 

(2) Smith, J. M. P. _The Prophet and His Problems_. New York, 1914. 

(3) Walter, F. _Die Propheten in ihrem sozialen Beruf und dasWirtschaftsleben ihrer Zeit_. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte derSozialethik. Freiburg-in-Brisgau, 1900. 

(4) Vierkandt, A. "Führende Individuen bei den Naturvölkern, "_Zeitschrift für Sozialwissenschaft_, XI (1908), 542-53, 623-39. 

(5) Dixon, Roland B. "Some Aspects of the American Shaman, " _The Journalof American Folk-Lore_, XXI (1908), 1-12. 

(6) Kohler, Josef. _Philosophy of Law_. (Albrecht's translation. )"Cultural Importance of Chieftainry. " "Philosophy of Law Series, " Vol. XII. [Reprinted in the _Evolution of Law_, II, 96-103. ]

(7) Fustel de Coulanges. _The Ancient City_, Book III, chap. Ix, "TheGovernment of the City. The King, " pp. 231-39. Boston, 1896. 

(8) Leopold, Lewis. _Prestige_. A psychological study of socialestimates. London, 1913. 

(9) Clayton, Joseph. _Leaders of the People_. Studies in democratichistory. London, 1910. 

(10) Brent, Charles H. _Leadership_. New York, 1908. 

(11) Rothschild, Alonzo. _Lincoln: Master of Men_. A study in character. Boston, 1906. 

(12) Mumford, Eben. _The Origins of Leadership_. Chicago, 1909. 

(13) Ely, Richard T. _The World War and Leadership in a Democracy_. NewYork, 1918. 

(14) Terman, L. M. "A Preliminary Study of the Psychology and Pedagogyof Leadership, " _Pedagogical Seminary_, XI (1904), 413-51. 

(15) Miller, Arthur H. _Leadership_. A study and discussion of thequalities most to be desired in an officer. New York, 1920. 

(16) Gowin, Enoch B. _The Executive and His Control of Men_. A study inpersonal efficiency. New York, 1915. 

(17) Cooley, Charles H. "Genius, Fame and the Comparison of Races, "_Annals of the American Academy_, IX (1897), 317-58. 

(18) Odin, Alfred. _Genèse des grands hommes, gens de lettres françaismodernes_. Paris, 1895. [See Ward, Lester F. , _Applied Sociology_, for astatement in English of Odin's study. ]

(19) Kostyleff, N. _Le Mécanisme cérébral de la pensée_. Paris, 1914. [This is a study of the mechanism of the inspiration of poets andwriters of romance. ]

(20) Chabaneix, Paul. _Physiologie cérébrale_. Le subconscient chez lesartistes, les savants, et les écrivains. Bordeaux, 1897-98. 

B. _Ceremony, Rites, and Ritual_

(1) Spencer, Herbert. _The Principles of Sociology, Part IV_, "Ceremonial Institutions. " Vol. II, pp. 3-225. London, 1893. 

(2) Tylor, Edward B. _Primitive Culture_. Researches into thedevelopment of mythology, philosophy, religion, language, art, andcustom. Chap. Xviii, "Rites and Ceremonies, " pp. 362-442. New York, 1874. 

(3) Frazer, J. G. _Totemism and Exogamy_. A treatise on certain earlyforms of superstition and society. 4 vols. London, 1910. 

(4) Freud, Sigmund. _Totem and Taboo_. Resemblances between the psychiclife of savages and neurotics. Authorized translation from the German byA. A. Brill. New York, 1918. 

(5) James, E. O. _Primitive Ritual and Belief_. An anthropologicalessay. With an introduction by R. R. Marett. London, 1917. 

(6) Brinton, Daniel G. _The Religious Sentiment: Its Source and Aim_. Acontribution to the science and philosophy of religion. Chap. Vi, "TheCult, Its Symbols and Rites, " pp. 197-227. New York, 1876. 

(7) Frazer, J. G. _Golden Bough_. A study in magic and religion. PartVI, "The Scapegoat. " 3d ed. London, 1913. 

(8) Nassau, R. H. _Fetichism in West Africa_. Forty years' observationof native customs and superstitions. New York, 1907. 

(9) Hubert, H. , and Mauss, M. "Essai sur la nature et la fonction desacrifice, " _L'Année sociologique_, II (1897-98), 29-138. 

(10) Farnell, L. R. _The Higher Aspects of Greek Religion_. New York, 1912. 

(11) ----. _The Cults of the Greek States_. 5 vols. Oxford, 1896-1909. 

(12) ----. "Religious and Social Aspects of the Cult of Ancestors andHeroes, " _Hibbert Journal_, VII (1909), 415-35. 

(13) Harrison, Jane E. _Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion_. Cambridge, 1903. 

(14) De-Marchi, A. _Il Culto privato di Roma antica_. Milano, 1896. 

(15) Oldenberg, H. _Die Religion des Veda_. Part III, "Der Cultus, " pp. 302-523. Berlin, 1894. 

C. _Taboo_

(1) Thomas, N. W. Article on "Taboo" in _Encyclopaedia Britannica_, XXVI, 337-41. 

(2) Frazer, J. G. _The Golden Bough_. A study in magic and religion. Part II, "Taboo and the Perils of the Soul. " London, 1911. 

(3) Kohler, Josef. _Philosophy of Law_. "Taboo as a Primitive Substitutefor Law. " "Philosophy of Law Series, " Vol. XII. Boston, 1914. [Reprintedin _Evolution of Law_, II, 120-21. ]

(4) Crawley, A. E. "Sexual Taboo, " _Journal of AnthropologicalInstitute_, XXIV (London, 1894), 116-25, 219-35, 430-45. 

(5) Gray, W. "Some Notes on the Tannese, " _Internationales Archiv fürEthnographie_, VII (1894), 232-37. 

(6) Waitz, Theodor, und Gerland, Georg. _Anthropologie der Naturvölker_, VI, 343-63. 6 vols. Leipzig, 1862-77. 

(7) Tuchmann, J. "La Fascination, " _Mélusine_, II (1884-85), 169-175, 193-98, 241-50, 350-57, 368-76, 385-87, 409-17, 457-64, 517-24; III(1886-87), 49-56, 105-9, 319-25, 412-14, 506-8. 

(8) Durkheim, É. "La prohibition de l'inceste et ses origines, " _L'Annéesociologique_, I (1896-97), 38-70. 

(9) Crawley, A. E. "Taboos of Commensality, " _Folk-Lore_, VI (1895), 130-44. 

(10) Hubert, H. , and Mauss, M. "Le Mana, " _L'Année sociologique_, VII(1902-3), 108-22. 

(11) Codrington, R. H. _The Melanesians_. Studies in their anthropologyand folklore. "Mana, " pp. 51-58, 90, 103, 115, 118-24, 191, 200, 307-8. Oxford, 1891. 

D. _Myths_

(1) Sorel, Georges. _Reflections on Violence_. Chap. Iv, "TheProletarian Strike, " pp. 126-67. Translated from the French by T. E. Hulme. New York, 1912. 

(2) Smith, W. Robertson. _Lectures on the Religion of the Semites_. "Ritual, Myth and Dogma, " pp. 16-24. New ed. London, 1907. 

(3) Harrison, Jane E. _Themis_. A study of the social origins of Greekreligion. Cambridge, 1912. 

(4) Clodd, Edward. _The Birth and Growth of Myth_. Humboldt Library ofPopular Science Literature. New York, 1888. 

(5) Gennep, A. Van. _La Formation des légendes_. Paris, 1910. 

(6) Langenhove, Fernand van. _The Growth of a Legend_. A study basedupon the German accounts of _francs-tireurs_ and "atrocities" inBelgium. With a preface by J. Mark Baldwin. New York, 1916. 

(7) Case, S. J. _The Millennial Hope_. Chicago, 1918. 

(8) Abraham, Karl. _Dreams and Myths_. Translated from the German by W. A. White. "Nervous and Mental Disease Monograph Series, " No. 15. Washington, 1913. 

(9) Pfister, Oskar. _The Psychoanalytic Method_. Translated from theGerman by C. R. Payne. Pp. 410-15. New York, 1917. 

(10) Jung, C. G. _Psychology of the Unconscious_. A study of thetransformations and symbolisms of the libido. A contribution to thehistory of the evolution of thought. Authorized translation from theGerman by Beatrice M. Hinkle. New York, 1916. 

(11) Brinton, Daniel G. _The Religious Sentiment: Its Source and Aim_. Acontribution to the science and philosophy of religion. Chap. V, "TheMyth and the Mythical Cycles, " pp. 153-96. New York, 1876. 

(12) Rivers, W. H. R. "The Sociological Significance of Myth, "_Folk-Lore_, XXIII (1912), 306-31. 

(13) Rank, Otto. _The Myth of the Birth of the Hero_. A psychologicalinterpretation of mythology. "Nervous and Mental Disease MonographSeries, " No. 18. Translated from the German by Drs. F. Robbins and SmithE. Jelliffe. Washington, 1914. 

(14) Freud, Sigmund. "Der Dichter und das Phantasieren, " _Sammlungkleiner Schriften zur Neurosenlehre_. 2d ed. Wien, 1909. 

III. PUBLIC OPINION AND SOCIAL CONTROL

A. _Materials for the Study of Public Opinion_

(1) Lowell, A. Lawrence. _Public Opinion and Popular Government_. NewYork, 1913. 

(2) Tarde, Gabriel. _L'Opinion et la foule_. Paris, 1901. 

(3) Le Bon, Gustave. _Les Opinions et les croyances; genèse-évolution_. Paris, 1911. [Discusses the formation of public opinion, trends, etc. ]

(4) Bauer, Wilhelm. _Die öffentliche Meinung und ihre geschichtlichenGrundlagen_. Tübingen, 1914. 

(5) Dicey, A. V. _Lectures on the Relation between Law and PublicOpinion in England during the Nineteenth Century_. 2d ed. London, 1914. 

(6) Shepard, W. J. "Public Opinion, " _American Journal of Sociology_, XV(1909), 32-60. 

(7) Tocqueville, Alexius de. _The Republic of the United States ofAmerica_. Book IV. "Influence of Democratic Opinion on PoliticalSociety, " pp. 306-55. 2 vols. In one. New York, 1858. 

(8) Bryce, James. _The American Commonwealth_, Vol. II, Part IV, "PublicOpinion, " pp. 239-64. Chicago, 1891. 

(9) ----. _Modern Democracies_. 2 vols. New York, 1921. 

(10) Lecky, W. E. H. _Democracy and Liberty_. New York, 1899. 

(11) Godkin, Edwin L. _Unforeseen Tendencies of Democracy_. Boston, 1898. 

(12) Sageret, J. "L'opinion, " _Revue philosophique_, LXXXVI (1918), 19-38. 

(13) Bluntschli, Johann K. Article on "Public Opinion, " _Lalor'sCyclopaedia of Political Science, Political Economy and of the PoliticalHistory of the United States_. Vol. III, pp. 479-80. 

(14) Lewis, George C. _An Essay on the Influence of Authority in Mattersof Opinion_. London, 1849. 

(15) Jephson, Henry. _The Platform_. Its rise and progress. 2 vols. London, 1892. 

(16) Junius. (Pseud. ) _The Letters of Junius_. Woodfall's ed. , revisedby John Wade. 2 vols. London, 1902. 

(17) Woodbury, Margaret. _Public Opinion in Philadelphia, 1789-1801_. "Smith College Studies in History. " Vol. V. Northampton, Mass. , 1920. 

(18) Heaton, John L. _The Story of a Page_. Thirty years of publicservice and public discussion in the editorial columns of _The New YorkWorld_. New York, 1913. 

(19) _Editorials from the Hearst Newspapers_. New York, 1906. 

(20) Harrison, Shelby M. _Community Action through Surveys_. A paperdescribing the main features of the social survey. Russell SageFoundation. New York, 1916. 

(21) Millioud, Maurice. "La propagation des idées, " _Revuephilosophique_, LXIX (1910), 580-600; LXX (1910), 168-91. 

(22) Scott, Walter D. _The Theory of Advertising_. Boston, 1903. 

B. _The Newspaper as an Organ of Public Opinion_

(1) Dana, Charles A. _The Art of Newspaper Making_. New York, 1895. 

(2) Irwin, Will. "The American Newspaper, " _Colliers_, XLVI and XLVII(1911). [A series of fifteen articles beginning in the issue of January21 and ending in the issue of July 29, 1911. ]

(3) Park, Robert E. _The Immigrant Press and Its Control_. [In Press. ]New York, 1921. 

(4) Stead, W. T. "Government by Journalism, " _Contemporary Review_, XLIX(1886), 653-74. 

(5) Blowitz, Henri G. S. A. O. De. _Memoirs of M. De Blowitz_. New York, 1903. 

(6) Cook, Edward. _Delane of the Times_. New York, 1916. 

(7) Trent, William P. _Daniel Defoe: How to Know Him_. Indianapolis, 1916. 

(8) Oberholtzer, E. P. _Die Beziehungen zwischen dem Staat und derZeitungspresse im Deutschen Reich_. Nebst einigen Umrissen für dieWissenschaft der Journalistik. Berlin, 1895. 

(9) Yarros, Victor S. "The Press and Public Opinion, " _American Journalof Sociology_, V (1899-1900), 372-82. 

(10) Macdonagh, Michael. _The Reporters' Gallery_. London, 1913. 

(11) Lippmann, Walter. _Liberty and the News_. New York, 1920. 

(12) O'Brien, Frank M. _The Story of the Sun, New York, 1833-1918_. Withan introduction by Edward Page Mitchell, editor of _The Sun_. New York, 1918. 

(13) Hudson, Frederic. _Journalism in the United States, from 1690 to1872_. New York, 1873. 

(14) Bourne, H. R. Fox. _English Newspapers_. London, 1887. 

(15) Andrews, Alexander. _The History of British Journalism_. 2 vols. London, 1859. 

(16) Lee, James Melvin. _A History of American Journalism_. Boston, 1917. 

IV. LAW AND SOCIAL CONTROL

A. _The Sociological Conception of Law_

(1) Post, Albert H. "Ethnological Jurisprudence. " Translated from theGerman by Thomas J. McCormack. _Open Court_, XI (1897), 641-53, 718-32. [Reprinted in _Evolution of Law_, II, 10-36. ]

(2) Vaccaro, M. A. _Les Bases sociologiques_. Du droit et de l'état. Translated by J. Gaure. Paris, 1898. 

(3) Duguit, Léon. _Law in the Modern State_. With introduction by HaroldLaski. Translated from the French by Frida and Harold Laski. New York, 1919. [The inherent nature of law is to be found in the social needs ofman. ]

(4) Picard, Edmond. _Le Droit pur_. Secs. 140-54. Paris, 1908. [Translated by John H. Wigmore, under the title "Factors of LegalEvolution, " in _Evolution of Law_, III, 163-81. ]

(5) Laski, Harold J. _Studies in the Problem of Sovereignty_. New Haven, 1917. 

(6) ----. _Authority in the Modern State_. New Haven, 1919. 

(7) ----. _The Problem of Administrative Areas_. An essay inreconstruction. Northampton, Mass. , 1918. 

B. _Ancient and Primitive Law_

(1) Maine, Henry S. _Ancient Law_. 14th ed. London, 1891. 

(2) Fustel de Coulanges. _The Ancient City_. A study on the religion, laws, and institutions of Greece and Rome. Boston, 1894. 

(3) Kocourek, Albert, and Wigmore, J. H. , editors. _Sources of Ancientand Primitive Law_. "Evolution of Law Series. " Vol. I. Boston, 1915. 

(4) Steinmetz, S. R. _Rechtsverhältnisse von eingeborenen Völkern inAfrika und Oceanien_. Berlin, 1903. 

(5) Sarbah, John M. _Fanti Customary Law_. A brief introduction to theprinciples of the native laws and customs of the Fanti and Akandistricts of the Gold Coast with a report of some cases thereon decidedin the law courts. London, 1904. [Reprinted in _Evolution of Law_, I, 326-82. ]

(6) McGee, W. J. "The Seri Indians, " _Seventeenth Annual Report of theBureau of American Ethnology_, 1895-96. Part I, pp. 269-95. [Reprintedin _Evolution of Law_, I, 257-78. ]

(7) Dugmore, H. H. _Compendium of Kafir Laws and Customs_. Grahamstown, South Africa, 1906. [Reprinted in _Evolution of Law_, I 292-325. ]

(8) Spencer, Baldwin, and Gillen, F. J. _The Northern Tribes of CentralAustralia_. London, 1904. [Reprinted in _Evolution of Law_, I, 213-326. ]

(9) Seebohm, Frederic. _Tribal Custom in Anglo-Saxon Law_. Being anessay supplemental to (1) "The English Village Community, " (2) "TheTribal System in Wales. " London, 1903. 

C. _The History and Growth of Law_

(1) Wigmore, John H. "Problems of the Law's Evolution, " _Virginia LawReview_, IV (1917), 247-72. [Reprinted, in part, in _Evolution of Law_, III, 153-58. ]

(2) Robertson, John M. _The Evolution of States_. An introduction toEnglish politics. New York, 1913. 

(3) Jhering, Rudolph von. _The Struggle for Law_. Translated from theGerman by John J. Lalor. 1st ed. Chicago, 1879. [Chap. I, reprinted in_Evolution of Law_, III, 440-47. ]

(4) Nardi-Greco, Carlo. _Sociologia giuridica_. Chap. Viii, pp. 310-24. Torino, 1907. [Translated by John H. Wigmore under the title "Causes forthe Variation of Jural Phenomena in General, " in _Evolution of Law_, III, 182-97. ]

(5) Bryce, James. _Studies in History and Jurisprudence_. Oxford, 1901. 

(6) ----. "Influence of National Character and Historical Environment onthe American Law. " Annual address to the Bar Association, 1907. _Reportsof American Bar Association_, XXXI (1907), 444-59. [Abridged andreprinted in _Evolution of Law_, III, 369-77. ]

(7) Pollock, Frederick, and Maitland, Frederic W. _The History ofEnglish Law before the Time of Edward I_. 2d ed. Cambridge, 1899. 

(8) Jenks, Edward. _Law and Politics in the Middle Ages_. With asynoptic table of sources. London, 1913. 

(9) Holdsworth, W. S. _A History of English Law_. 3 vols. London, 1903-9. 

(10) _The Modern Legal Philosophy Series_. Edited by a committee of theAssociation of American Law Schools. 13 vols. Boston, 1911-. 

(11) _Continental Legal History Series_. Published under the auspices ofthe Association of American Law Schools. 11 vols. Boston, 1912-. 

(12) _Select Essays in Anglo-American Legal History. _ Compiled andedited by a committee of the Association of American Law Schools. 3vols. Boston, 1907-9. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. Social Interaction and Social Control

2. Social Control as the Central Fact and the Central Problem ofSociology

3. Social Control, Collective Behavior, and Progress

4. Manipulation and Participation as Forms of Social Control

5. Social Control and Self-Control

6. Accommodation as Control

7. Elementary Forms of Social Control: Ceremony, Fashion, Prestige, andTaboo, etc. 

8. Traditional Forms of Control, as Folkways, Mores, Myths, Law, Education, Religion, etc. 

9. Rumors, News, Facts, etc. , as Forms of Control

10. Case Studies of the Influence of Myths, Legends, "Vital Lies, " etc. , on Collective Behavior

11. The Newspaper as Controlling and as Controlled by Public Opinion

12. Gossip as Social Control

13. Social Control in the Primary Group in the Village Community asCompared with Social Control in the Secondary Group in the City

14. An Analysis of Public Opinion in a Selected Community

15. The Politician and Public Opinion

16. The Social Survey as a Mechanism of Social Control

17. A Study of Common Law and Statute Law from the Standpoint of Moresand Public Opinion

18. A Concrete Example of Social Change Analyzed in Terms of Mores, theTrend, and Public Opinion, as Woman's Suffrage, Prohibition, theAbolition of Slavery, Birth Control, etc. 

19. The Life History of an Institution from the Standpoint of Its Originand Survival as an Agency of Control

20. Unwritten Law; a Case Study

21. Legal Fictions and Their Function in Legal Practice

22. The Sociology of Authority in the Social Group and in the State

23. Maine's Conception of Primitive Law

24. The Greek Conception of Themistes and Their Relation to Code ofSolon

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. What do you understand by social control?

2. What do you mean by elementary social control? How would youdistinguish it from control exercised by public opinion and law?

3. How does social control in human society differ from that in animalsociety?

4. What is the natural history of social control in the crowd and thepublic?

5. What is the fundamental mechanism by which control is established inthe group?

6. How do you explain the process by which a crisis develops in a socialgroup? How is crisis related to control?

7. Under what conditions is a dictatorship a necessary form of control?Why?

8. In what way does the crowd control its members?

9. Describe and analyze your behavior in a crowd. Were you conscious ofcontrol by the group?

10. What is the mechanism of control in the public?

11. In what sense is ceremony a control?

12. How do music, rhythm, and art enter into social control?

13. Analyze the mechanism of the following forms of ceremonial control:the salute, the visit, the decoration, forms of address, presents, greetings. What other forms of ceremonial control occur to you?

14. What is the relation of fashions to ceremonial control?

15. What is the meaning to the individual of ceremony?

16. What are the values and limitations of ceremonial control?

17. What do you understand by "prestige" in interpreting control throughleadership?

18. In what sense is prestige an aspect of personality?

19. What relation, if any, is there between prestige and prejudice?

20. How do you explain the prestige of the white man in South EastAfrica? Does the white man always have prestige among colored races?

21. What is the relation of taboo to contact? (See pp. 291-93. )

22. Why does taboo refer both to things "holy" and things "unclean"?

23. How does taboo function for social control?

24. Describe and analyze the mechanism of control through taboo in aselected group. 

25. What examples do you discover of American taboos?

26. What is the mechanism of control by the myth?

27. "Myths are projections of our hopes and of our fears. " Explain withreference to the Freudian wish. 

28. How do you explain the growth of a legend? Make an analysis of theorigin and development of the legend. 

29. Under what conditions does the press promote the growth of myths andlegends?

30. Does control by public opinion exist outside of democracies?

31. What is the relation of the majority and the minority to publicopinion?

32. What is the distinction made by Lowell between (a) an effectivemajority, and (b) a numerical majority, with reference to publicopinion?

33. What is the relation of mores to public opinion?

34. How do you distinguish between public opinion, advertising, andpropaganda as means and forms of social control?

35. What is the relation of news to social control?

36. "The news columns are common carriers. " Discuss the implications ofthis statement. 

37. How do you explain the psychology of propaganda?

38. What is the relation between institutions and the mores?

39. What is the nature of social control exerted by the institution?

40. What is the relation of mores to common law and statute law?

41. "Under the free Anglo-Saxon government, no king could ever make alaw, but could only declare what the law was. " Discuss the significanceof this fact. 

42. In what different ways does religion control the behavior of theindividual and of the group?

43. Is religion a conservative or a progressive factor in society?

FOOTNOTES:

[250] Chap. I, pp. 46-47. 

[251] Robert E. Park and Herbert A. Miller, _Old World TraitsTransplanted_, pp. 1-2. (New York, 1921. )

[252] Ernst Grosse, _The Beginnings of Art_, pp. 228-29. (New York, 1897. )

[253] See A. L. Lowell, _Public Opinion and Popular Government_, pp. 12-13. (New York, 1913. )

[254] _The American Party System_, chap. Viii. (New York, 1922. ) [Inpress. ]

[255] "On the afternoon of July 13, Bismarck, Roon, and Moltke wereseated together in the Chancellor's Room at Berlin. They were depressedand moody; for Prince Leopold's renunciation had been trumpeted in Parisas a humiliation for Prussia. They were afraid, too, that King William'sconciliatory temper might lead him to make further concessions, and thatthe careful preparations of Prussia for the inevitable war with Francemight be wasted, and a unique opportunity lost. A telegram arrived. Itwas from the king at Ems, and described his interview that morning withthe French ambassador. The king had met Benedetti's request for theguarantee required by a firm but courteous refusal; and when theambassador had sought to renew the interview, he had sent a politemessage through his aide-de-camp informing him that the subject must beconsidered closed. In conclusion, Bismarck was authorized to publish themessage if he saw fit. The Chancellor at once saw his opportunity. Inthe royal despatch, though the main incidents were clear enough, therewas still a note of doubt, of hesitancy, which suggested a possibilityof further negotiation. The excision of a few lines would alter, notindeed the general sense, but certainly the whole tone of the message. Bismarck, turning to Moltke, asked him if he were ready for a suddenrisk of war; and on his answering in the affirmative, took a blue penciland drew it quickly through several parts of the telegram. Without thealteration or addition of a single word, the message, instead ofappearing a mere 'fragment of a negotiation still pending, ' was thusmade to appear decisive. In the actual temper of the French people therewas no doubt that it would not only appear decisive, but insulting, andthat its publication would mean war. 

"On July 14 the publication of the 'Ems telegram' became known in Paris, with the result that Bismarck had expected. The majority of the Cabinet, hitherto in favour of peace, were swept away by the popular tide; andNapoleon himself reluctantly yielded to the importunity of his ministersand of the Empress, who saw in a successful war the best, if not theonly, chance of preserving the throne for her son. On the evening of thesame day, July 14, the declaration of war was signed. "--W. AlisonPhillips, _Modern Europe, 1815-1899_, pp. 465-66. (London, 1903. )

[256] G. Tarde, _L'opinion et la foule. _ (Paris, 1901. )

[257] L. T. Hobhouse, _Morals in Evolution, A Study in ComparativeEthics_, pp. 13-14. (New York, 1915. )

[258] E. D. Morel, _King Leopold's Rule in Africa_. (London, 1904. )

[259] L. T. Hobhouse, _op. Cit. _, p. 85. 

[260] The whole process of evolution by which a moral order has beenestablished over ever wider areas of social life has been sketched in amasterly manner by Hobhouse in his chapter, "Law and Justice, " _op. Cit. _, pp. 72-131. 

[261] From Lieutenant Joseph S. Smith, _Over There and Back_, pp. 9-22. (E. P. Dutton & Co. , 1917. )

[262] From Herbert Spencer, _The Principles of Sociology_, II, 3-6. (Williams & Norgate, 1893. )

[263] Adapted from Lewis Leopold, _Prestige_, pp. 16-62. (T. FisherUnwin, 1913. )

[264] Adapted from Maurice S. Evans, _Black and White in South EastAfrica_, pp. 15-35. (Longmans, Green & Co. , 1911. )

[265] From W. Robertson Smith, _The Religion of the Semites_, pp. 152-447. (Adam and Charles Black, 1907. )

[266] From Georges Sorel, _Reflections on Violence_, pp. 133-37. (B. W. Huebsch, 1912. )

[267] Adapted from Fernand van Langenhove, _The Growth of a Legend_, pp. 5-275. (G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1916. )

[268] From W. Robertson Smith, _The Religion of the Semites_, pp. 16-24. (Adam and Charles Black, 1907. )

[269] Adapted from A. Lawrence Lowell, _Public Opinion and PopularGovernment_, pp. 3-14. (Longmans, Green & Co. , 1913. )

[270] From Robert E. Park, _The Crowd and the Public_. (Unpublishedmanuscript. )

[271] Adapted from Walter Lippmann, _Liberty and the News_, pp. 4-15. (Harcourt, Brace & Howe, 1920. )

[272] From Raymond Dodge, "The Psychology of Propaganda, " _ReligiousEducation_, XV (1920), 241-52. 

[273] From William G. Sumner, _Folkways_, pp. 53-56. (Ginn & Co. , 1906. )

[274] Adapted from Frederic J. Stimson, _Popular Law-Making_, pp. 2-16. (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1912. )

[275] From Charles A. Ellwood, "Religion and Social Control, " in the_Scientific Monthly_, VII (1918), 339-41. 

[276] Albert H. Post, _Evolution of Law: Select Readings on the Originand Development of Legal Institutions_, Vol. II, "Primitive and AncientLegal Institutions, " complied by Albert Kocourek and John H. Wigmore;translated from the German by Thomas J. McCormack. Section 2, "Ethnological Jurisprudence, " p. 12. (Boston, 1915. )

[277] Quoted by James Bryce, "Influence of National Character andHistorical Environment on Development of Common Law, " annual address tothe American Bar Association, 1907, _Reports of the American BarAssociation_, XXXI (1907), 447. 

[278] Henry S. Maine, _Ancient Law_. Its connection with the earlyhistory of society and its relation to modern ideas, pp. 4-5. 14th ed. (London, 1891. )

[279] For the distinction between the cultural process and the politicalprocess see _supra_, pp. 52-53. 

CHAPTER XIII

COLLECTIVE BEHAVIOR

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Collective Behavior Defined

A collection of individuals is not always, and by the mere fact of itscollectivity, a society. On the other hand, when people come togetheranywhere, in the most casual way, on the street corner or at a railwaystation, no matter how great the social distances between them, the merefact that they are aware of one another's presence sets up a livelyexchange of influences, and the behavior that ensues is both social andcollective. It is social, at the very least, in the sense that the trainof thought and action in each individual is influenced more or less bythe action of every other. It is collective in so far as each individualacts under the influence of a mood or a state of mind in which eachshares, and in accordance with conventions which all quite unconsciouslyaccept, and which the presence of each enforces upon the others. 

The amount of individual eccentricity or deviation from normal andaccepted modes of behavior which a community will endure without commentand without protest will vary naturally enough with the character of thecommunity. A cosmopolitan community like New York City can and doesendure a great deal in the way of individual eccentricity that a smallercity like Boston would not tolerate. In any case, and this is the pointof these observations, even in the most casual relations of life, peopledo not behave in the presence of others as if they were living alonelike Robinson Crusoe, each on his individual island. The very fact oftheir consciousness of each other tends to maintain and enforce a greatbody of convention and usage which otherwise falls into abeyance and isforgotten. Collective behavior, then, is the behavior of individualsunder the influence of an impulse that is common and collective, animpulse, in other words, that is the result of social interaction. 

2. Social Unrest and Collective Behavior

The most elementary form of collective behavior seems to be what isordinarily referred to as "social unrest. " Unrest in the individualbecomes social when it is, or seems to be, transmitted from oneindividual to another, but more particularly when it produces somethingakin to the milling process in the herd, so that the manifestations ofdiscontent in A communicated to B, and from B reflected back to A, produce the circular reaction described in the preceding chapter. 

The significance of social unrest is that it represents at once abreaking up of the established routine and a preparation for newcollective action. Social unrest is not of course a new phenomenon; itis possibly true, however, that it is peculiarly characteristic, as hasbeen said, of modern life. The contrast between the conditions of modernlife and of primitive society suggests why this may be true. 

The conception which we ought to form of primitive society, says Sumner, is that of small groups scattered over a territory. The size of thegroup will be determined by the conditions of the struggle for existenceand the internal organization of each group will correspond (1) to thesize of the group, and (2) to the nature and intensity of the strugglewith its neighbors. 

 Thus war and peace have reacted on each other and developed each other, one within the group, the other in the intergroup relation. The closer the neighbors, and the stronger they are, the intenser is the warfare, and then the intenser is the internal organization and discipline of each. Sentiments are produced to correspond. Loyalty to the group, sacrifice for it, hatred and contempt for outsiders, brotherhood within, warlikeness without--all grow together, common products of the same situation. These relations and sentiments constitute a social philosophy. It is sanctified by connection with religion. Men of an others-group are outsiders with whose ancestors the ancestors of the we-group waged war. The ghosts of the latter will see with pleasure their descendants keep up the fight, and will help them. Virtue consists in killing, plundering, and enslaving outsiders. [280]

The isolation, territorial and cultural, under which alone it ispossible to maintain an organization which corresponds to Sumner'sdescription, has disappeared within comparatively recent times from allthe more inhabitable portions of the earth. In place of it there hascome, and with increasing rapidity is coming, into existence a societywhich includes within its limits the total population of the earth andis so intimately bound together that the speculation of a grain merchantin Chicago may increase the price of bread in Bombay, while the act ofan assassin in a provincial town in the Balkans has been sufficient toplunge the world into a war which changed the political map of threecontinents and cost the lives, in Europe alone, of 8, 500, 000 combatants. 

The first effect of modern conditions of life has been to increase andvastly complicate the economic interdependence of strange and distantpeoples, i. E. , to destroy distances and make the world, as far asnational relations are concerned, small and tight. 

The second effect has been to break down family, local, and nationalties, and emancipate the individual man. 

 When the family ceases, as it does in the city, to be an economic unit, when parents and children have vocations that not only intercept the traditional relations of family life, but make them well nigh impossible, the family ceases to function as an organ of social control. When the different nationalities, with their different national cultures, have so far interpenetrated one another that each has permanent colonies within the territorial limits of the other, it is inevitable that the old solidarities, the common loyalties and the common hatreds that formerly bound men together in primitive kinship and local groups should be undermined. 

A survey of the world today shows that vast changes are everywhere inprogress. Not only in Europe but in Asia and in Africa new culturalcontacts have undermined and broken down the old cultures. The effecthas been to loosen all the social bonds and reduce society to itsindividual atoms. The energies thus freed have produced a world-wideferment. Individuals released from old associations enter all the morereadily into new ones. Out of this confusion new and strange politicaland religious movements arise, which represent the groping of men for anew social order. 

3. The Crowd and the Public

Gustave Le Bon, who was the first writer to call attention to thesignificance of the crowd as a social phenomenon, [281] said that massmovements mark the end of an old régime and the beginning of a new. 

"When the structure of a civilization is rotten, it is always the massesthat bring about its downfall. "[282] On the other hand, "all founders ofreligious or political creeds have established them solely because theywere successful in inspiring crowds with those fanatical sentimentswhich have as result that men find their happiness in worship andobedience and are ready to lay down their lives for their idol. "[283]

The crowd was, for Le Bon, not merely any group brought together by theaccident of some chance excitement, but it was above all the emancipatedmasses whose bonds of loyalty to the old order had been broken by "thedestruction of those religious, political, and social beliefs in whichall the elements of our civilization are rooted. " The crowd, in otherwords, typified for Le Bon the existing social order. Ours is an age ofcrowds, he said, an age in which men, massed and herded together ingreat cities without real convictions or fundamental faiths, are likelyto be stampeded in any direction for any chance purpose under theinfluence of any passing excitement. 

Le Bon did not attempt to distinguish between the crowd and the public. This distinction was first made by Tarde in a paper entitled "Le Publicet la foule, " published first in _La Revue de Paris_ in 1898, andincluded with several others on the same general theme under the title_L'Opinion et la foule_ which appeared in 1901. The public, according toTarde, was a product of the printing press. The limits of the crowd aredetermined by the length to which a voice will carry or the distancethat the eye can survey. But the public presupposes a higher stage ofsocial development in which suggestions are transmitted in the form ofideas and there is "contagion without contact. "[284]

The fundamental distinction between the crowd and the public, however, is not to be measured by numbers nor by means of communication, but bythe form and effects of the interactions. In the public, interactiontakes the form of discussion. Individuals tend to act upon one anothercritically; issues are raised and parties form. Opinions clash and thusmodify and moderate one another. 

The crowd does not discuss and hence it does not reflect. It simply"mills. " Out of this milling process a collective impulse is formedwhich dominates all members of the crowd. Crowds, when they act, do soimpulsively. The crowd, says Le Bon, "is the slave of its impulses. "

"The varying impulses which crowds obey may be, according to theirexciting causes, generous or cruel, heroic or cowardly, but they willalways be so imperious that the interest of the individual, even theinterest of self-preservation, will not dominate them. "[285]

When the crowd acts it becomes a mob. What happens when two mobs meet?We have in the literature no definite record. The nearest approach to itare the occasional accounts we find in the stories of travelers of thecontacts and conflicts of armies of primitive peoples. Theseundisciplined hordes are, as compared with the armies of civilizedpeoples, little more than armed mobs. Captain S. L. Hinde in his storyof the Belgian conquest of the Congo describes several such battles. From the descriptions of battles carried on almost wholly between savageand undisciplined troops it is evident that the morale of an army ofsavages is a precarious thing. A very large part of the warfare consistsin alarms and excursions interspersed with wordy duels to keep up thecourage on one side and cause a corresponding depression on theother. [286]

Gangs are conflict groups. Their organization is usually quite informaland is determined by the nature and imminence of its conflicts withother groups. When one crowd encounters another it either goes to piecesor it changes its character and becomes a conflict group. Whennegotiations and palavers take place as they eventually do betweenconflict groups, these two groups, together with the neutrals who haveparticipated vicariously in the conflict, constitute a public. It ispossible that the two opposing savage hordes which seek, by threats andboastings and beatings of drums, to play upon each other's fears and sodestroy each other's morale, may be said to constitute a very primitivetype of public. 

Discussion, as might be expected, takes curious and interesting formsamong primitive peoples. In a volume, _Iz Derevni: 12 Pisem_ ("From theCountry: 12 Letters"), A. N. Engelgardt describes the way in which theSlavic peasants reach their decisions in the village council. 

 In the discussion of some questions by the _mir_ [organization of neighbors] there are no speeches, no debates, no votes. They shout, they abuse one another--they seem on the point of coming to blows; apparently they riot in the most senseless manner. Some one preserves silence, and then suddenly puts in a word, one word, or an ejaculation, and by this word, this ejaculation, he turns the whole thing upside down. In the end, you look into it and find that an admirable decision has been formed and, what is most important, a unanimous decision.... (In the division of land) the cries, the noise, the hubbub do not subside until everyone is satisfied and no doubter is left. [287]

4. Crowds and Sects

Reference has been made to the crowds that act, but crowds do not alwaysact. Sometimes they merely dance or, at least, make expressive motionswhich relieve their feelings. "The purest and most typical expression ofsimple feeling, " as Hirn remarks, "is that which consists of mere randommovements. "[288] When these motions assume, as they so easily do, thecharacter of a fixed sequence in time, that is to say when they arerhythmical, they can be and inevitably are, as by a sort of innercompulsion, imitated by the onlookers. "As soon as the expression isfixed in rhythmical form its contagious power is incalculablyincreased. "[289]

This explains at once the function and social importance of the danceamong primitive people. It is the form in which they prepare for battleand celebrate their victories. It gives the form at once to theirreligious ritual and to their art. Under the influence of the memoriesand the emotions which these dances stimulate the primitive groupachieves a sense of corporate unity, which makes corporate actionpossible outside of the fixed and sacred routine of ordinary daily life. 

If it is true, as has been suggested, that art and religion had theirorigin in the choral dance, it is also true that in modern timesreligious sects and social movements have had their origin in crowdexcitements and spontaneous mass movements. The very names which havebeen commonly applied to them--Quakers, Shakers, Convulsionaires, HolyRollers--suggest not merely the derision with which they were at onetime regarded, but indicate likewise their origin in ecstatic orexpressive crowds, the crowds that _do not act_. 

All great mass movements tend to display, to a greater or less extent, the characteristics that Le Bon attributes to crowds. Speaking of theconvictions of crowds, Le Bon says:

 When these convictions are closely examined, whether at epochs marked by fervent religious faith, or by great political upheavals such as those of the last century, it is apparent that they always assume a peculiar form which I cannot better define than by giving it the name of a religious sentiment. [290]

Le Bon's definition of religion and religious sentiment will hardly findgeneral acceptance but it indicates at any rate his conception of theextent to which individual personalities are involved in the excitementsthat accompany mass movements. 

 A person is not religious solely when he worships a divinity, but when he puts all the resources of his mind, the complete submission of his will, and the whole-souled ardour of fanaticism at the service of a cause or an individual who becomes the goal and guide of his thoughts and actions. [291]

Just as the gang may be regarded as the perpetuation and permanent formof "the crowd that acts, " so the sect, religious or political, may beregarded as a perpetuation and permanent form of the orgiastic(ecstatic) or expressive crowd. 

"The sect, " says Sighele, "is a crowd _triée_, selected, and permanent, the crowd is a transient sect, which does not select its members. Thesect is the _chronic_ form of the crowd; the crowd is the _acute_ formof the sect. "[292] It is Sighele's conception that the crowd is anelementary organism, from which the sect issues, like the chick from theegg, and that all other types of social groups "may, in this samemanner, be deduced from this primitive social protoplasm. " This is asimplification which the facts hardly justify. It is true that, implicitin the practices and the doctrines of a religious sect, there is thekernel of a new independent culture. 

5. Sects and Institutions

A sect is a religious organization that is at war with the existingmores. It seeks to cultivate a state of mind and establish a code ofmorals different from that of the world about it and for this it claimsdivine authority. In order to accomplish this end it invariably seeks toset itself off in contrast with the rest of the world. The simplest andmost effective way to achieve this is to adopt a peculiar form of dressand speech. This, however, invariably makes its members objects of scornand derision, and eventually of persecution. It would probably do thiseven if there was no assumption of moral superiority to the rest of theworld in this adoption of a peculiar manner and dress. 

Persecution tends to dignify and sanctify all the external marks of thesect, and it becomes a cardinal principle of the sect to maintain them. Any neglect of them is regarded as disloyalty and is punished as heresy. Persecution may eventually, as was the case with the Puritans, theQuakers, the Mormons, compel the sect to seek refuge in some part of theworld where it may practice its way of life in peace. 

Once the sect has achieved territorial isolation and territorialsolidarity, so that it is the dominant power within the region that itoccupies, it is able to control the civil organization, establishschools and a press, and so put the impress of a peculiar culture uponall the civil and political institutions that it controls. In this caseit tends to assume the form of a state, and become a nationality. Something approaching this was achieved by the Mormons in Utah. The moststriking illustration of the evolution of a nationality from a sect isUlster, which now has a position not quite that of a nation within theEnglish empire. 

This sketch suggests that the sect, like most other social institutions, originates under conditions that are typical for all institutions of thesame species; then it develops in definite and predictable ways, inaccordance with a form or entelechy that is predetermined bycharacteristic internal processes and mechanisms, and that has, inshort, a nature and natural history which can be described and explainedin sociological terms. Sects have their origin in social unrest to whichthey give a direction and expression in forms and practices that arelargely determined by historical circumstances; movements which were atfirst inchoate impulses and aspirations gradually take form; policiesare defined, doctrine and dogmas formulated; and eventually anadministrative machinery and efficiencies are developed to carry intoeffect policies and purposes. The Salvation Army, of which we have amore adequate history than of most other religious movements, is anexample. 

A sect in its final form may be described, then, as a movement of socialreform and regeneration that has become institutionalized. Eventually, when it has succeeded in accommodating itself to the other rivalorganizations, when it has become tolerant and is tolerated, it tends toassume the form of a denomination. Denominations tend and are perhapsdestined to unite in the form of religious federations--a thing which isinconceivable of a sect. 

What is true of the sect, we may assume, and must assume if socialmovements are to become subjects for sociological investigation, is trueof other social institutions. Existing institutions represent socialmovements that survived the conflict of cultures and the struggle forexistence. 

Sects, and that is what characterizes and distinguishes them fromsecular institutions, at least, have had their origin in movements thataimed to reform the mores--movements that sought to renovate and renewthe inner life of the community. They have wrought upon society fromwithin outwardly. Revolutionary and reform movements, on the contrary, have been directed against the outward fabric and formal structure ofsociety. Revolutionary movements in particular have assumed that if theexisting structure could be destroyed it would then be possible to erecta new moral order upon the ruins of the old social structures. 

A cursory survey of the history of revolutions suggests that the mostradical and the most successful of them have been religious. Of thistype of revolution Christianity is the most conspicuous example. 

6. Classification of the Materials

The materials in this chapter have been arranged under the headings:(a) social contagion, (b) the crowd, and (c) types of massmovements. The order of materials follows, in a general way, the orderof institutional evolution. Social unrest is first communicated, thentakes form in crowd and mass movements, and finally crystallizes ininstitutions. The history of almost any single social movement--woman'ssuffrage, prohibition, protestantism--exhibit in a general way, if notin detail, this progressive change in character. There is at first avague general discontent and distress. Then a violent, confused, anddisorderly, but enthusiastic and popular movement, and finally themovement takes form; develops leadership, organization; formulatesdoctrines and dogmas. Eventually it is accepted, established, legalized. The movement dies, but the institution remains. 

a) _Social contagion. _--The ease and the rapidity with which acultural trait originating in one cultural group finds its way to otherdistant groups is familiar to students of folklore and ethnology. Themanner in which fashions are initiated in some metropolitan community, and thence make their way, with more or less rapidity, to the provincesis an illustration of the same phenomenon in a different context. 

 Fashion plays a much larger rôle in social life than most of us imagine. Fashion dominates our manners and dress but it influences also our sentiments and our modes of thought. Everything in literature, art or philosophy that was characteristic of the middle of the nineteenth century, the "mid-Victorian period, " is now quite out of date and no one who is intelligent now-a-days practices the pruderies, defends the doctrines, nor shares the enthusiasms of that period. Philosophy, also, changes with the fashion and Sumner says that even mathematics and science do the same. Lecky in his history of Rationalism in Europe describes in great detail how the belief in witches, so characteristic of the Middle Ages, gradually disappeared with the period of enlightenment and progress. [293] But the enlightenment of the eighteenth century was itself a fashion and is now quite out of date. In the meantime a new popular and scientific interest is growing up in obscure mental phenomena which no man with scientific training would have paid any attention to a few years ago because he did not believe in such things. It was not good form to do so. 

But the changes of fashion are so pervasive, so familiar, and, indeed, universal phenomena that we do not regard the changes which they bring, no matter how fantastic, as quite out of the usual and expected order. Gabriel Tarde, however, regards the "social contagion" represented infashion (imitation) as the fundamental social phenomenon. [294]

The term social epidemic, which is, like fashion, a form of socialcontagion, has a different origin and a different connotation. J. F. C. Hecker, whose study of the Dancing Mania of the Middle Ages, publishedin 1832, was an incident of his investigation of the Black Death, wasperhaps the first to give currency to the term. [295] Both the BlackDeath and the Dancing Mania assumed the form of epidemics and thelatter, the Dancing Mania, was in his estimation the sequel of theformer, the Black Death. It was perhaps this similarity in the manner inwhich they spread--the one by physical and the other by psychicalinfection--that led him to speak of the spread of a popular delusion interms of a physical science. Furthermore, the hysteria was directlytraceable, as he believed, to the prevailing conditions of the time, andthis seemed to put the manifestations in the world of intelligible andcontrollable phenomena, where they could be investigated. 

It is this notion, then, that unrest which manifests itself in socialepidemics is an indication of pathological social conditions, and thefurther, the more general, conception that unrest does not become socialand hence contagious except when there are contributing causes in theenvironment--it is this that gives its special significance to the termand the facts. Unrest in the social organism with the social fermentsthat it induces is like fever in the individual organism, a highlyimportant diagnostic symptom. 

b) _The crowd. _--Neither Le Bon nor any of the other writers upon thesubject of mass psychology has succeeded in distinguishing clearlybetween the organized or "psychological" crowd, as Le Bon calls it, andother similar types of social groups. These distinctions, if they are tobe made objectively, must be made on the basis of case studies. It isthe purpose of the materials under the general heading of "The 'Animal'Crowd, " not so much to furnish a definition, as to indicate the natureand sources of materials from which a definition can be formulated. Itis apparent that the different animal groups behave in ways that aredistinctive and characteristic, ways which are predetermined in theorganism to an extent that is not true of human beings. 

One other distinction may possibly be made between the so-called"animal" and the human crowd. The organized crowd is controlled by _acommon purpose_ and acts to achieve, no matter how vaguely it isdefined, a common end. The herd, on the other hand, has apparently nocommon purpose. Every sheep in the flock, at least as the behavior ofthe flock is ordinarily interpreted, behaves like every other. Action ina stampede, for example, is collective but it is not concerted. It isvery difficult to understand how there can be concerted action in theherd or the flock unless it is on an instinctive basis. The crowd, however, responds to collective representations. The crowd does notimitate or follow its leader as sheep do a bellwether. On the contrary, the crowd _carries out the suggestions of the leader_, and even thoughthere be no division of labor each individual acts more or less in hisown way to achieve a common end. 

In the case of a panic or a stampede, however, where there is no commonend, the crowd acts like a flock of sheep. But a stampede or a panic isnot a crowd in Le Bon's sense. It is not a psychological unity, nor a"single being, " subject to "the mental unity of crowds. "[296] The panicis the crowd in dissolution. All effective methods of dispersing crowdsinvolve some method of distracting attention, breaking up the tension, and dissolving the mob into its individual units. 

c) _Types of mass movements. _--The most elementary form of massmovement is a mass migration. Such a mass movement displays, in fact, many of the characteristics of the "animal" crowd. It is the "human"herd. The migration of a people, either as individuals or in organizedgroups, may be compared to the swarming of the hive. Peoples migrate insearch of better living conditions, or merely in search of newexperience. It is usually the younger generation, the more restless, active, and adaptable, who go out from the security of the old home toseek their fortunes in the new. Once settled on the new land, however, immigrants inevitably remember and idealize the home they have left. Their first disposition is to reproduce as far as possible in the newworld the institutions and the social order of the old. Just as thespider spins his web out of his own body, so the immigrant tends to spinout of his experience and traditions, a social organization whichreproduces, as far as circumstances will permit, the organization andthe life of the ancestral community. In this way the older culture istransplanted and renews itself, under somewhat altered circumstances, inthe new home. That explains, in part, at any rate, the fact thatmigration tends to follow the isotherms, since all the more fundamentalcultural devices and experience are likely to be accommodations togeographical and climatic conditions. 

In contrast with migrations are movements which are sometimes referredto as crusades, partly because of the religious fervor and fanaticismwith which they are usually conducted and partly because they are anappeal to the masses of the people for direct action and depend fortheir success upon their ability to appeal to some universal humaninterest or to common experiences and interests that are keenlycomprehended by the common man. 

The Woman's Christian Temperance Crusade, referred to in the materials, may be regarded, if we are permitted to compare great things with small, as an illustration of collective behavior not unlike the crusades of theeleventh and twelfth centuries. 

Crusades are reformatory and religious. This was true at any rate of theearly crusades, inspired by Peter the Hermit, whatever may have been thepolitical purposes of the popes who encouraged them. It was the samemotive that led the people of the Middle Ages to make pilgrimages whichled them to join the crusades. At bottom it was an inner restlessness, that sought peace in great hardship and inspiring action, which movedthe masses. 

Somewhat the same widespread contagious restlessness is the source ofmost of our revolutions. It is not, however, hardships and actualdistress that inspire revolutions but hopes and dreams, dreams whichfind expression in those myths and "vital lies, " as Vernon Lee callsthem, [297] which according to Sorel are the only means of moving themasses. 

The distinction between crusades, like the Woman's Temperance Crusade, and revolutions, like the French Revolution, is that one is a radicalattempt to correct a recognized evil and the other is a radical attemptto reform an existing social order. 

II. MATERIALS

A. SOCIAL CONTAGION

1. An Incident in a Lancashire Cotton Mill[298]

At a cotton manufactory at Hodden Bridge, in Lancashire, a girl, on thefifteenth of February, 1787, put a mouse into the bosom of another girl, who had a great dread of mice. The girl was immediately thrown into afit, and continued in it with the most violent convulsions fortwenty-four hours. On the following day three more girls were seized inthe same manner; and on the seventeenth, six more. By this time thealarm was so great that the whole work, in which 200 or 300 wereemployed, was totally stopped, and an idea prevailed that a particulardisease had been introduced by a bag of cotton opened in the house. OnSunday, the eighteenth, Dr. St. Clare was sent for from Preston; beforehe arrived three more were seized, and during that night and the morningof the nineteenth, eleven more, making in all twenty-four. Of these, twenty-one were young women, two were girls of about ten years of age, and one man, who had been much fatigued with holding the girls. Three ofthe number lived about two miles from the place where the disorderfirst broke out, and three at another factory in Clitheroe, about fivemiles distant, which last and two more were infected entirely fromreport, not having seen the other patients, but, like them and the restof the country, strongly impressed with the idea of the plague beingcaught from the cotton. The symptoms were anxiety, strangulation, andvery strong convulsions; and these were so violent as to last withoutany intermission from a quarter of an hour to twenty-four hours, and torequire four or five persons to prevent the patients from tearing theirhair and dashing their heads against the floor or walls. Dr. St. Clarehad taken with him a portable electrical machine, and by electric shocksthe patients were universally relieved without exception. As soon as thepatients and the country were assured that the complaint was merelynervous, easily cured, and not introduced by the cotton, no fresh personwas affected. To dissipate their apprehension still further, the besteffects were obtained by causing them to take a cheerful glass and joinin a dance. On Tuesday, the twentieth, they danced, and the next daywere all at work, except two or three, who were much weakened by theirfits. 

2. The Dancing Mania of the Middle Ages[299]

So early as the year 1374, assemblages of men and women were seen atAix-la-Chapelle who had come out of Germany and who, united by onecommon delusion, exhibited to the public both in the streets and in thechurches the following strange spectacle. They formed circles hand inhand and, appearing to have lost all control over their senses, continued dancing, regardless of the by-standers, for hours together inwild delirium, until at length they fell to the ground in a state ofexhaustion. While dancing they neither saw nor heard, being insensibleto external impressions through the senses, but were haunted by visions, their fancies conjuring up spirits whose names they shrieked out; andsome of them afterward asserted that they felt as if they had beenimmersed in a stream of blood, which obliged them to leap so high. Others, during the paroxysm, saw the heavens open and the Saviourenthroned with the Virgin Mary, according as the religious notions ofthe age were strangely and variously reflected in their imaginations. 

Where the disease was completely developed, the attack commenced withepileptic convulsions. Those affected fell to the ground senseless, panting and laboring for breath. They foamed at the mouth, and suddenlyspringing up began their dance amid strange contortions. Yet the maladydoubtless made its appearance very variously, and was modified bytemporary or local circumstances, whereof non-medical contemporaries butimperfectly noted the essential particulars, accustomed as they were toconfound their observation of natural events with their notions of theworld of spirits. 

It was but a few months ere this demoniacal disease had spread fromAix-la-Chapelle, where it appeared in July, over the neighboringNetherlands. Wherever the dancers appeared, the people assembled incrowds to gratify their curiosity with the frightful spectacle. Atlength the increasing number of the affected excited no less anxietythan the attention that was paid to them. In towns and villages theytook possession of the religious houses, processions were everywhereinstituted on their account, and masses were said and hymns were sung, while the disease itself, of the demoniacal origin of which no oneentertained the least doubt, excited everywhere astonishment and horror. In Liége the priests had recourse to exorcisms and endeavored by everymeans in their power to allay an evil which threatened so much danger tothemselves; for the possessed, assembling in multitudes, frequentlypoured forth imprecations against them and menaced their destruction. 

A few months after this dancing malady had made its appearance atAix-la-Chapelle, it broke out at Cologne, where the number of thosepossessed amounted to more than five hundred; and about the same time atMetz, the streets of which place are said to have been filled witheleven hundred dancers. Peasants left their plows, mechanics theirworkshops, housewives their domestic duties, to join the wild revels, and this rich commercial city became the scene of the most ruinousdisorder. Secret desires were excited and but too often foundopportunities for wild enjoyment; and numerous beggars, stimulated byvice and misery, availed themselves of this new complaint to gain atemporary livelihood. Girls and boys quitted their parents, andservants their masters, to amuse themselves at the dances of thosepossessed, and greedily imbibed the poison of mental infection. Above ahundred unmarried women were seen raving about in consecrated andunconsecrated places, and the consequences were soon perceived. Gangs ofidle vagabonds, who understood how to imitate to the life the gesturesand convulsions of those really affected, roved from place to placeseeking maintenance and adventures, and thus, wherever they went, spreading this disgusting spasmodic disease like a plague; for inmaladies of this kind the susceptible are infected as easily by theappearance as by the reality. At last it was found necessary to driveaway these mischievous guests, who were equally inaccessible to theexorcisms of the priests and the remedies of the physicians. It was not, however, until after four months that the Rhenish cities were able tosuppress these impostures, which had so alarmingly increased theoriginal evil. In the meantime, when once called into existence, theplague crept on and found abundant food in the tone of thought whichprevailed in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and even, though ina minor degree, throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth, causing apermanent disorder of the mind, and exhibiting, in those cities to whoseinhabitants it was a novelty, scenes as strange as they were detestable. 

B. THE CROWD

1. The "Animal" Crowd

_a. The Flock_[300]

Understand that a flock is not the same thing as a number of sheep. Onthe stark, wild headlands of the White Mountains, as many as thirtyBighorn are known to run in loose, fluctuating hordes; in fencedpastures, two to three hundred; close-herded on the range, two to threethousand; but however artificially augmented, the flock is always aconscious adjustment. There are always leaders, middlers, and tailers, each insisting on its own place in the order of going. Should the flockbe rounded up suddenly in alarm it mills within itself until these havecome to their own places. 

There is much debate between herders as to the advantage of goats oversheep as leaders. In any case there are always a few goats in a flock, and most American owners prefer them; but the Frenchmen choosebell-wethers. Goats lead naturally by reason of a quicker instinct, forage more freely, and can find water on their own account. Butwethers, if trained with care, learn what goats abhor, to take brokenground sedately, to walk through the water rather than set the wholeflock leaping and scrambling; but never to give voice to alarm, as goatswill, and call the herder. 

It appears that leaders understand their office, and goats particularlyexhibit a jealousy of their rights to be first over the stepping-stonesor to walk the teetering log-bridges at the roaring creeks. By thisfacile reference of the initiative to the wisest one, the shepherd isserved most. The dogs learn to which of the flock to communicate orders, at which heels a bark or a bite soonest sets the flock in motion. Butthe flock-mind obsesses equally the best-trained, flashes as instantlyfrom the meanest of the flock. 

By very little the herder may turn the flock-mind to his advantage, butchiefly it works against him. Suppose on the open range the impulse toforward movement overtakes them, set in motion by some eager leadersthat remember enough of what lies ahead to make them oblivious to whatthey pass. They press ahead. The flock draws on. The momentum of travelgrows. The bells clang soft and hurriedly; the sheep forget to feed;they neglect the tender pastures; they will not stay to drink. Under anunwise or indolent herder the sheep going on an unaccustomed trail willovertravel and underfeed, until in the midst of good pasture they starveupon their feet. So it is on the Long Trail you so often see the herderwalking with his dogs ahead of his sheep to hold them back to feed. Butif it should be new ground he must go after and press them skilfully, for the flock-mind balks chiefly at the unknown. 

In sudden attacks from several quarters, or inexplicable man-thwartingof their instincts, the flock-mind teaches them to turn a solid front, revolving about in the smallest compass with the lambs in their midst, narrowing and indrawing until they perish by suffocation. So they did inthe intricate defiles of Red Rock, where Carrier lost 250 in '74, and atPoison Springs, as Narcisse Duplin told me, where he had to choosebetween leaving them to the deadly waters, or, prevented from thespring, made witless by thirst, to mill about until they piled up andkilled threescore in their midst. By no urgency of the dogs could theybe moved forward or scattered until night fell with coolness andreturning sanity. Nor does the imperfect gregariousness of man alwayssave us from ill-considered rushes or strangulous in-turnings of thesocial mass. Notwithstanding there are those who would have us to beflock-minded. 

It is doubtful if the herder is anything more to the flock than anincident of the range, except as a giver of salt, for the only cry theymake to him is the salt cry. When the natural craving is at the point ofurgency, they circle about his camp or his cabin, leaving off feedingfor that business; and nothing else offering, they will continue thisheadlong circling about a bowlder or any object bulking large in theirimmediate neighborhood remotely resembling the appurtenances of man, asif they had learned nothing since they were free to find licks forthemselves, except that salt comes by bestowal and in conjunction withthe vaguely indeterminate lumps of matter that associate with man. As ifin fifty centuries of man-herding they had made but one step out of theterrible isolation of brute species, an isolation impenetrable except byfear to every other brute, but now admitting the fact without knowledge, of the God of the Salt. Accustomed to receiving this miracle on openbowlders, when the craving is strong upon them, they seek such as theseto run about, vociferating, as if they said, In such a place our God hasbeen wont to bless us, come now, let us greatly entreat Him. This onequavering bleat, unmistakable to the sheepman even at a distance, is theonly new note in the sheep's vocabulary, and the only one which passeswith intention from himself to man. As for the call of distress which aleader raised by hand may make to his master, it is not new, is notcommon to flock usage, and is swamped utterly in the obsession of theflock-mind. 

_b. The Herd_[301]

My purpose in this paper is to discuss a group of curious and uselessemotional instincts of social animals, which have not yet been properlyexplained. Excepting two of the number, placed first and last in thelist, they are not related in their origin; consequently they are heregrouped together arbitrarily, only for the reason that we are veryfamiliar with them on account of their survival in our domestic animals, and because they are, as I have said, useless; also because theyresemble each other, among the passions and actions of the loweranimals, in their effect on our minds. This is in all cases unpleasant, and sometimes exceedingly painful, as when species that rank next toourselves in their developed intelligence and organized societies, suchas elephants, monkeys, dogs, and cattle, are seen under the dominationof impulses, in some cases resembling insanity, and in others simulatingthe darkest passions of man. 

These instincts are:

(1) The excitement caused by the smell of blood, noticeable in horsesand cattle among our domestic animals, and varying greatly in degree, from an emotion so slight as to be scarcely perceptible to the greatestextremes of rage or terror. 

(2) The angry excitement roused in some animals when a scarlet or brightred cloth is shown to them. So well known is this apparently insaneinstinct in our cattle that it has given rise to a proverb and metaphorfamiliar in a variety of forms to everyone. 

(3) The persecution of a sick or weakly animal by its companions. 

(4) The sudden deadly fury that seizes on the herd or family at thesight of a companion in extreme distress. Herbivorous mammals at suchtimes will trample and gore the distressed one to death. In the case ofwolves, and other savage-tempered carnivorous species, the distressedfellow is frequently torn to pieces and devoured on the spot. 

To take the first two together. When we consider that blood is red; thatthe smell of it is, or may be, or has been, associated with that vividhue in the animal's mind; that blood, seen and smelt, is, or has been, associated with the sight of wounds and with cries of pain and rage orterror from the wounded or captive animal, there appears at first sightto be some reason for connecting these two instinctive passions ashaving the same origin--namely, terror and rage caused by the sight of amember of the herd struck down and bleeding, or struggling for life inthe grasp of an enemy. I do not mean to say that such an image isactually present in the animal's mind, but that the inherited orinstinctive passion is one in kind and in its working with the passionof the animal when experience and reason were its guides. 

But the more I consider the point, the more am I inclined to regardthese two instincts as separate in their origin, although I retain thebelief that cattle and horses and several wild animals are violentlyexcited by the smell of blood for the reason just given--namely, theirinherited memory associates the smell of blood with the presence amongthem of some powerful enemy that threatens their life. 

The following incident will show how violently this blood passionsometimes affects cattle, when they are permitted to exist in ahalf-wild condition, as on the Pampas. I was out with my gun one day, afew miles from home, when I came across a patch on the ground where thegrass was pressed or trodden down and stained with blood. I concludedthat some thievish Gauchos had slaughtered a fat cow there on theprevious night, and, to avoid detection, had somehow managed to carrythe whole of it away on their horses. As I walked on, a herd of cattle, numbering about three hundred, appeared moving slowly on to a smallstream a mile away; they were traveling in a thin, long line, and wouldpass the blood-stained spot at a distance of seven to eight hundredyards, but the wind from it would blow across their track. When thetainted wind struck the leaders of the herd they instantly stood still, raising their heads, then broke out into loud, excited bellowings; andfinally turning, they started off at a fast trot, following up the scentin a straight line, until they arrived at the place where one of theirkind had met its death. The contagion spread, and before long all thecattle were congregated on the fatal spot, and began moving round in adense mass, bellowing continually. 

It may be remarked here that the animal has a peculiar language onoccasions like this; it emits a succession of short, bellowing cries, like excited exclamations, followed by a very loud cry, alternatelysinking into a hoarse murmur and rising to a kind of scream that gratesharshly on the sense. Of the ordinary "cow-music" I am a great admirer, and take as much pleasure in it as in the cries and melody of birds andthe sound of the wind in trees; but this performance of cattle excitedby the smell of blood is most distressing to hear. 

The animals that had forced their way into the center of the mass to thespot where the blood was, pawed the earth, and dug it up with theirhorns, and trampled each other down in their frantic excitement. It wasterrible to see and hear them. The action of those on the border of theliving mass, in perpetually moving round in a circle with dolorousbellowings, was like that of the women in an Indian village when awarrior dies, and all night they shriek and howl with simulated grief, going round and round the dead man's hut in an endless procession. 

_c. The Pack_[302]

Wolves are the most sociable of beasts of prey. Not only do they gatherin bands, but they arrange to render each other assistance, which is themost important test of sociability. The most gray wolves I ever saw in aband was five. This was in northern New Mexico in January, 1894. Themost I ever heard of in a band was thirty-two that were seen in the sameregion. These bands are apparently formed in winter only. The packs areprobably temporary associations of personal acquaintances, for sometemporary purpose, or passing reason, such as food question ormating-instinct. As soon as this is settled, they scatter. 

An instance in point was related to me by Mr. Gordon Wright of Carberry, Manitoba. During the winter of 1865 he was logging at Sturgeon Lake, Ontario. One Sunday he and some companions strolled out on the ice ofthe lake to look at the logs there. They heard the hunting-cry ofwolves, then a deer (a female) darted from the woods to the open ice. Her sides were heaving, her tongue out, and her legs cut by the slightcrust of the snow. Evidently she was hard pressed. She was coming towardthem, but one of the men gave a shout which caused her to sheer off. Aminute later six timber wolves appeared galloping on her trail, headslow, tails horizontal, and howling continuously. They were utteringtheir hunting-cry, but as soon as they saw her they broke into a louder, different note, left the trail and made straight for her. Five of thewolves were abreast and one that seemed much darker was behind. Withinhalf a mile they overtook her and pulled her down, all seemed to seizeher at once. For a few minutes she bleated like a sheep in distress;after that the only sound was the snarling and the crunching of thewolves as they feasted. Within fifteen minutes nothing was left of thedeer but hair and some of the larger bones, and the wolves fightingamong themselves for even these. Then they scattered, each going aquarter of a mile or so, no two in the same direction, and those thatremained in view curled up there on the open lake to sleep. Thishappened about ten in the morning within three hundred yards of severalwitnesses. 

2. The Psychological Crowd[303]

In its ordinary sense the word "crowd" means a gathering of individualsof whatever nationality, profession, or sex, and whatever be the chancesthat have brought them together. From the psychological point of viewthe expression "crowd" assumes quite a different signification. Undercertain given circumstances, and only under those circumstances, anagglomeration of men presents new characteristics very different fromthose of the individuals composing it. The sentiments and ideas of allthe persons in the gathering take one and the same direction, and theirconscious personality vanishes. A collective mind is formed, doubtlesstransitory, but presenting very clearly defined characteristics. Thegathering has thus become what, in the absence of a better expression, Iwill call an organized crowd, or, if the term is considered preferable, a psychological crowd. It forms a single being, and is subjected to thelaw of the mental unity of crowds. 

It is evident that it is not by the mere fact of a number of individualsfinding themselves accidentally side by side that they acquire thecharacter of an organized crowd. A thousand individuals accidentallygathered in a public place without any determined object in no wayconstitute a crowd, from the psychological point of view. To acquire thespecial characteristics of such a crowd, the influence is necessary ofcertain predisposing causes, of which we shall have to determine thenature. 

The disappearance of conscious personality and the turning of feelingsand thoughts in a definite direction, which are the primarycharacteristics of a crowd about to become organized, do not alwaysinvolve the simultaneous presence of a number of individuals on onespot. Thousands of isolated individuals may acquire at certain moments, and under the influence of certain violent emotions--such, for example, as a great national event--the characteristics of a psychological crowd. It will be sufficient in that case that a mere chance should bring themtogether for their acts at once to assume the characteristics peculiarto the acts of a crowd. At certain moments half a dozen men mightconstitute a psychological crowd, which may not happen in the case ofhundreds of men gathered together by accident. On the other hand, anentire nation, though there may be no visible agglomeration, may becomea crowd under the action of certain influences. 

It is not easy to describe the mind of crowds with exactness, becauseits organization varies not only according to race and composition butalso according to the nature and intensity of the exciting causes towhich crowds are subjected. The same difficulty, however, presentsitself in the psychological study of an individual. It is only in novelsthat individuals are found to traverse their whole life with anunvarying character. It is only the uniformity of the environment thatcreates the apparent uniformity of characters. I have shown elsewherethat all mental constitutions contain possibilities of character whichmay be manifested in consequence of a sudden change of environment. Thisexplains how it was that among the most savage members of the FrenchConvention were to be found inoffensive citizens who, under ordinarycircumstances, would have been peaceable notaries or virtuousmagistrates. The storm past, they resumed their normal character ofquiet, law-abiding citizens. Napoleon found amongst them his most docileservants. 

It being impossible to study here all the successive degrees oforganization of crowds, we shall concern ourselves more especially withsuch crowds as have attained to the phase of complete organization. Inthis way we shall see what crowds may become, but not what theyinvariably are. It is only in this advanced phase of organization thatcertain new and special characteristics are superposed on the unvaryingand dominant character of the race; then takes place that turning, already alluded to, of all the feelings and thoughts of the collectivityin an identical direction. It is only under such circumstances, too, that what I have called above the psychological law of the mental unityof crowds comes into play. 

The most striking peculiarity presented by a psychological crowd is thefollowing: Whoever be the individuals that compose it, however like orunlike be their mode of life, their occupations, their character, ortheir intelligence, the fact that they have been transformed into acrowd puts them in possession of a sort of collective mind which makesthem feel, think, and act in a manner quite different from that in whicheach individual of them would feel, think, and act, were he in a stateof isolation. There are certain ideas and feelings which do not comeinto being or do not transform themselves into acts except in the caseof individuals forming a crowd. The psychological crowd is a provisionalbeing formed of heterogeneous elements, which for a moment are combined, exactly as the cells which constitute a living body form by theirreunion a new being which displays characteristics very different fromthese possessed by each of the cells singly. 

Contrary to an opinion which one is astonished to find coming from thepen of so acute a philosopher as Herbert Spencer, in the aggregate whichconstitutes a crowd there is in no sort a summing-up of or an averagestruck between its elements. What really takes place is a combinationfollowed by the creation of new characteristics, just as in chemistrycertain elements, when brought into contact--bases and acids, forexample--combine to form a new body possessing properties quitedifferent from those of the bodies that have served to form it. 

It is easy to prove how much the individual forming part of a crowddiffers from the isolated individual, but it is less easy to discoverthe causes of this difference. To obtain, at any rate, a glimpse of themit is necessary in the first place to call to mind the truth establishedby modern psychology that unconscious phenomena play an altogetherpreponderating part not only in organic life but also in the operationsof the intelligence. The conscious life of the mind is of smallimportance in comparison with its unconscious life. The most subtleanalyst, the most acute observer, is scarcely successful in discoveringmore than a very small number of the unconscious motives that determinehis conduct. 

The greater part of our daily actions are the result of hidden motiveswhich escape our observation. It is more especially with respect tothose unconscious elements that all the individuals belonging to itresemble each other, while it is principally in respect to the consciouselements of their character--the fruit of education, and yet more ofexceptional hereditary conditions--that they differ from each other. Menmost unlike in the matter of their intelligence possess instincts, passions, and feelings that are very similar. In the case of everythingthat belongs to the realm of sentiment--religion, politics, morality, the affections and antipathies, etc. --the most eminent men seldomsurpass the standard of the most ordinary individuals. From theintellectual point of view an abyss may exist between a greatmathematician and his bootmaker, but from the point of view of characterthe difference is most often slight or nonexistent. 

It is precisely these general qualities of character, governed by forcesof which we are unconscious, and possessed by the majority of the normalindividuals of a race in much the same degree, it is precisely thesequalities that in crowds become common property. In the collective mindthe intellectual aptitudes of the individuals, and in consequence theirindividuality, are weakened. The heterogeneous is swamped by thehomogeneous, and the unconscious qualities obtain the upper hand. 

This very fact that crowds possess in common ordinary qualities explainswhy they can never accomplish acts demanding a high degree ofintelligence. The decisions affecting matters of general interest cometo by an assembly of men of distinction, but specialists in differentwalks of life, are not sensibly superior to the decisions that would beadopted by a gathering of imbeciles. The truth is, they can only bringto bear in common on the work in hand those mediocre qualities which arethe birthright of every average individual. In crowds it is stupidityand not mother-wit that is accumulated. It is not all the world, as isso often repeated, that has more wit than Voltaire, but assuredlyVoltaire that has more wit than all the world, if by "all the world"crowds are to be understood. 

If the individuals of a crowd confined themselves to putting in commonthe ordinary qualities of which each of them has his share, there wouldmerely result the striking of an average, and not, as we have said isactually the case, the creation of new characteristics. How is it thatthese new characteristics are created? This is what we are now toinvestigate. 

Different causes determine the appearance of these characteristicspeculiar to crowds and not possessed by isolated individuals. The firstis that the individual forming part of a crowd acquires, solely fromnumerical considerations, a sentiment of invincible power which allowshim to yield to instincts which, had he been alone, he would perforcehave kept under restraint. He will be the less disposed to check himselffrom the consideration that, a crowd being anonymous and in consequenceirresponsible, the sentiment of responsibility which always controlsindividuals disappears entirely. 

The second cause, which is contagion, also intervenes to determine themanifestation in crowds of their special characteristics, and at thesame time the trend they are to take. Contagion is a phenomenon of whichit is easy to establish the presence, but which it is not easy toexplain. It must be classed among those phenomena of a hypnotic order. In a crowd every sentiment and act is contagious, and contagious to sucha degree that an individual readily sacrifices his personal interest tothe collective interest. This is an aptitude very contrary to hisnature, and of which a man is scarcely capable except when he makes partof a crowd. 

A third cause, and by far the most important, determines in theindividuals of a crowd special characteristics which are quite contraryat times to those presented by the isolated individual. I allude to thatsuggestibility of which, moreover, the contagion mentioned above isneither more nor less than an effect. 

The most careful observations seem to prove that an individual immergedfor some length of time in a crowd in action soon finds himself--eitherin consequence of the magnetic influence given out by the crowd or fromsome other cause of which we are ignorant--in a special state, whichmuch resembles the state of fascination in which the hypnotizedindividual finds himself in the hands of the hypnotizer. 

Such also is approximately the state of the individual forming part of apsychological crowd. He is no longer conscious of his acts. In his case, as in the case of the hypnotized subject, at the same time that certainfaculties are destroyed, others may be brought to a high degree ofexaltation. Under the influence of a suggestion, he will undertake theaccomplishment of certain acts with irresistible impetuosity. Thisimpetuosity is the more irresistible in the case of crowds than in thatof the hypnotized subject, from the fact that, the suggestion being thesame for all the individuals of the crowd, it gains in strength byreciprocity. The individualities in the crowd who might possess apersonality sufficiently strong to resist the suggestion are too few innumber to struggle against the current. At the utmost, they may be ableto attempt a diversion by means of different suggestions. It is in thisway, for instance, that a happy expression, an image opportunely evoked, have occasionally deterred crowds from the most bloodthirsty acts. 

We see, then, that the disappearance of the conscious personality, thepredominance of the unconscious personality, the turning by means ofsuggestion and contagion of feelings and ideas in an identicaldirection, the tendency to immediately transform the suggested ideasinto acts; these, we see, are the principal characteristics of theindividual forming part of a crowd. He is no longer himself, but hasbecome an automaton who has ceased to be guided by his will. 

Moreover, by the mere fact that he forms part of an organized crowd, aman descends several rungs in the ladder of civilization. Isolated, hemay be a cultivated individual; in a crowd, he is a barbarian--that is, a creature acting by instinct. He possesses the spontaneity, theviolence, the ferocity, and also the enthusiasm and heroism of primitivebeings. 

An individual in a crowd is a grain of sand amid other grains of sand, which the wind stirs up at will. It is for these reasons that juries areseen to deliver verdicts of which each individual juror woulddisapprove, that parliamentary assemblies adopt laws and measures ofwhich each of their members would disapprove in his own person. Takenseparately, the men of the Convention were enlightened citizens ofpeaceful habits. United in a crowd, they did not hesitate to give theiradhesion to the most savage proposals, to guillotine individuals mostclearly innocent, and, contrary to their interest, to renounce theirinviolability and to decimate themselves. 

The conclusion to be drawn from what precedes is that the crowd isalways intellectually inferior to the isolated individual, but that, from the point of view of feelings and of the acts these feelingsprovoke, the crowd may, according to circumstances, be better or worsethan the individual. All depends on the nature of the suggestion towhich the crowd is exposed. This is the point that has been completelymisunderstood by writers who have only studied crowds from the criminalpoint of view. Doubtless a crowd is often criminal, but also it is oftenheroic. It is crowds rather than isolated individuals that may beinduced to run the risk of death to secure the triumph of a creed or anidea, that may be fired with enthusiasm for glory and honor, that areled on--almost without bread and without arms, as in the age of theCrusades--to deliver the tomb of Christ from the infidel, or, as in '93, to defend the fatherland. Such heroism is without doubt somewhatunconscious, but it is of such heroism that history is made. Werepeoples only to be credited with the great actions performed in coldblood, the annals of the world would register but few of them. 

3. The Crowd Defined[304]

A crowd in the ordinary sense of that term is any chance collection ofindividuals. Such a collectivity becomes a crowd in the sociologicalsense only when a condition of _rapport_ has been established among theindividuals who compose it. 

_Rapport_ implies the existence of a mutual responsiveness, such thatevery member of the group reacts immediately, spontaneously, andsympathetically to the sentiments and attitudes of every other member. 

The fact that A responds sympathetically toward B and C implies theexistence in A of an attitude of receptivity and suggestibility towardthe sentiments and attitudes of B and C. Where A, B, and C are mutuallysympathetic, the inhibitions which, under ordinary circumstances, serveto preserve the isolation and self-consciousness of individuals arerelaxed or completely broken down. Under these circumstances eachindividual, in so far as he may be said to reflect, in his ownconsciousness and in his emotional reactions, the sentiments andemotions of all the others, tends at the same time to modify thesentiments and attitudes of those others. The effect is to produce aheightened, intensified, and relatively impersonal state ofconsciousness in which all seem to share, but which is, at the sametime, relatively independent of each. 

The development of this so-called "group-consciousness" represents acertain amount of loss of self-control on the part of the individual. Such control as the individual loses over himself is thus automaticallytransferred to the group as a whole or to the leader. 

What is meant by _rapport_ in the group may be illustrated by a somewhatsimilar phenomenon which occurs in hypnosis. In this case a relation isestablished between the experimenter and his subject such that thesubject responds automatically to every suggestion of the experimenterbut is apparently oblivious of suggestions coming from other personswhose existence he does not perceive or ignores. This is the conditioncalled "isolated rapport. "[305]

In the case of the crowd this mutual and exclusive responsiveness ofeach member of the crowd to the suggestions emanating from the othermembers produces here also a kind of mental isolation which isaccompanied by an inhibition of the stimuli and suggestions that controlthe behavior of individuals under the conditions of ordinary life. Underthese conditions impulses long repressed in the individual may find anexpression in the crowd. It is this, no doubt, which accounts for thoseso-called criminal and atavistic tendencies of crowds, of which Le Bonand Sighele speak. [306]

The organization of the crowd is only finally effected when theattention of the individuals who compose it becomes focused upon someparticular object or some particular objective. This object thus fixedin the focus of the attention of the group tends to assume the characterof a _collective representation_. [307] It becomes this because it is thefocus of the collectively enhanced emotion and sentiment of the group. It becomes the representation and the symbol of what the crowd feels andwills at the moment when all members are suffused with a commoncollective excitement and dominated by a common and collective idea. This excitement and this idea with the meanings that attach to it arecalled collective because they are a product of the interactions of themembers of the crowd. They are not individual but corporate products. 

Le Bon describes the organization thus effected in a chance-metcollection of individuals as a "collective mind, " and refers to thegroup, transitory and ephemeral though it be, as a "single being. "

The positive factors in determining the organization of the crowd arethen:

(1) A condition of _rapport_ among the members of the group with acertain amount of contagious excitement and heightened suggestibilityincident to it. 

(2) A certain degree of mental isolation of the group following as aconsequence of the _rapport_ and sympathetic responsiveness of membersof the group. 

(3) Focus of attention; and finally the consequent. 

(4) Collective representation. 

C. TYPES OF MASS MOVEMENTS

1. Crowd Excitements and Mass Movements: The Klondike Rush[308]

It was near the middle of July when the steamer _Excelsior_ arrived inSan Francisco from St. Michael's, on the west coast of Alaska, withforty miners, having among them seven hundred and fifty thousanddollars' worth of gold, brought down from the Klondike. When the bagsand cans and jars containing it had been emptied and the gold piled onthe counters of the establishment to which it was brought, no such sighthad been seen in San Francisco since the famous year of 1849. 

On July 18 the _Portland_ arrived in Seattle, on Puget Sound, having onboard sixty-eight miners, who brought ashore bullion worth a milliondollars. The next day it was stated that these miners had in additionenough gold concealed about their persons and in their baggage to doublethe first estimate. Whether all these statements were correct or notdoes not signify, for those were the reports that were spread throughoutthe states. From this last source alone, the mint at San Franciscoreceived half a million dollars' worth of gold in one week, and it wascertain that men who had gone away poor had come back with fortunes. Itwas stated that a poor blacksmith who had gone up from Seattle returnedwith $115, 000, and that a man from Fresno, who had failed as a farmer, had secured $135, 000. 

The gold fever set in with fury and attacked all classes. Men in goodpositions, with plenty of money to spend on an outfit, and men withlittle beyond the amount of their fare, country men and city men, clerksand professional men without the faintest notion of the meaning of"roughing it, " flocked in impossible numbers to secure a passage. Therewere no means of taking them. Even in distant New York, the offices ofrailroad companies and local agencies were besieged by anxiousinquirers eager to join the throng. On Puget Sound, mills, factories, and smelting works were deserted by their employees, and all the minerson the upper Skeena left their work in a body. On July 21 the NorthAmerican Transportation Company (one of two companies which monopolizedthe trade of the Yukon) was reincorporated in Chicago with a quadrupledcapital, to cope with the demands of traffic. At the different Pacificports every available vessel was pressed into the service, and still thewild rush could not be met. Before the end of July the _Portland_ leftSeattle again for St. Michael's, and the _Mexico_ and _Topeka_ for Dyea;the _Islander_ and _Tees_ sailed for Dyea from Victoria, and the _G. W. Elder_ from Portland; while from San Francisco the _Excelsior_, of theAlaska Company, which had brought the first gold down, left again forSt. Michael's on July 28, being the last of the company's fleetscheduled to connect with the Yukon river boats for the season. Threetimes the original price was offered for the passage, and one passengeraccepted an offer of $1, 500 for the ticket for which he had paid only$150. 

This, however, was only the beginning of the rush. Three more steamerswere announced to sail in August for the mouth of the Yukon, and atleast a dozen more for the Lynn Canal, among which were old tubs, which, after being tied up for years, were now overhauled and refitted for thevoyage north. One of these was the _Williamette_, an old collier withonly sleeping quarters for the officers and crew, which, however, wasfitted up with bunks and left Seattle for Dyea and Skagway with 850passengers, 1, 200 tons of freight, and 300 horses, men, live stock, andfreight being wedged between decks till the atmosphere was like that ofa dungeon; and even with such a prospect in view, it was only by alavish amount of tipping that a man could get his effects taken aboard. Besides all these, there were numerous scows loaded with provisions andfuel, and barges conveying horses for packing purposes. 

A frightful state of congestion followed as each successive steamer onits arrival at the head of the Lynn Canal poured forth its crowds ofpassengers and added to the enormous loads of freight alreadyaccumulated. Matters became so serious that on August 10 the UnitedStates Secretary of the Interior, having received information that 3, 000persons with 2, 000 tons of baggage and freight were then waiting tocross the mountains to Yukon, and that many more were preparing to jointhem, issued a warning to the public (following that of the DominionGovernment of the previous week) in which he called attention to theexposure, privation, suffering, and danger incident to the journey atthat advanced period of the season, and further referred to the gravityof the possible consequences to people detained in the mountainouswilderness during five or six months of Arctic winter, where no reliefcould reach them. 

To come now to the state of things at the head of the Lynn Canal, wherethe steamers discharged their loads of passengers, horses, and freight. This was done either at Dyea or Skagway, the former being thelanding-place for the Chilcoot Pass, and the latter for the White Pass, the distance between the two places being about four miles by sea. Therewere no towns at these places, nor any convenience for landing except asmall wharf at Skagway, which was not completed, the workmen having beensmitten with the gold fever. Every man had to bring with him, if hewanted to get through and live, supplies for a year: sacks of flour, slabs of bacon, beans, and so forth, his cooking utensils, his miningoutfit and building tools, his tent, and all the heavy clothing andblankets suitable for the northern winter, one thousand pounds' weightat least. Imagine the frightful mass of stuff disgorged as eachsuccessive vessel arrived, with no adequate means of taking it inland!

Before the end of September people were preparing to winter on thecoast, and Skagway was growing into a substantial town. Where in thebeginning of August there were only a couple of shacks, there were inthe middle of October 700 wooden buildings and a population of about1, 500. Businesses of all kinds were carried on, saloons and low gaminghouses and haunts of all sorts abounded, but of law and order there wasnone. Dyea also, which at one time was almost deserted, was growing intoa place of importance, but the title of every lot in both towns was indispute. Rain was still pouring down, and without high rubber bootswalking was impossible. None indeed but the most hardy could standexistence in such places, and every steamer from the south carried freshloads of people back to their homes. 

Of the 6, 000 people who went in this fall, 200 at the most got over tothe Dawson Route by the White Pass, and perhaps 700 by the Chilcoot. There were probably 1, 000 camped at Lake Bennett, and all the rest, except the 1, 500 remaining on the coast, had returned home to wait tillmidwinter or the spring before venturing up again. The question of whichwas the best trail was still undecided, and men vehemently debated itevery day with the assistance of the most powerful language at theircommand. 

As to the crowds who had gone to St. Michael's, it is doubtful whetherany of them got through to Dawson City, since the lower Yukon isimpassable by the end of September, and, at any rate, in view of theprospects of short rations, it would have been rash to try. Theconsequence would be that they would have to remain on that desolateisland during nine months of almost Arctic winter, for the river doesnot open again till the end of June. Here they would be absolutelywithout employment unless they chose to stack wood for the steamboatcompanies, and their only amusements (save the mark) would be drinkingbad rye whiskey--for Alaska is a "prohibition" country--andpoker-playing. For men with a soul above such delights, theheart-breaking monotony of a northern winter would be appalling, and itis only to be understood by those who have had to endure similarexperiences themselves on the western prairies. 

2. Mass Movements and the Mores: The Woman's Crusade[309]

On the evening of December 23, 1873, there might have been seen in thestreets of Hillsboro, Ohio, persons singly or in groups wending theirway to Music Hall, where a lecture on temperance was to be delivered byDr. Dio Lewis, of Boston, Massachusetts. 

Hillsboro is a small place, containing something more than 3, 000 people. The inhabitants are rather better educated than is usually the case insmall towns, and its society is indeed noted in that part of the countryfor its quietude, culture, and refinement. 

But Hillsboro was by no means exempt from the prevailing scourge ofintemperance. The early settlers of Hillsboro were mostly from Virginia, and brought with them the old-fashioned ideas of hospitality. For manyyears previous to the crusade the professional men, and especially ofthe bar, were nearly all habitual drinkers, and many of them verydissipated. When a few earnest temperance men, among whom was GovernorAllen Trimble, initiated a total-abstinence movement in or about theyear 1830, the pulpit took up arms against them, and a condemnatorysermon was preached in one of the churches. 

Thus it was that, although from time to time men, good and true, bandedthemselves together in efforts to break up this dreadful state of thingsand reform society, all endeavors seemed to fail of any permanenteffect. 

The plan laid down by Dr. Lewis challenged attention by its novelty atleast. He believed the work of temperance reform might be successfullycarried on by women if they would set about it in the rightmanner--going to the saloon-keeper in a spirit of Christian love, andpersuading him for the sake of humanity and his own eternal welfare toquit the hateful, soul-destroying business. The doctor spoke withenthusiasm; and seeing him so full of faith, the hearts of the womenseized the hope--a forlorn one, 'tis true, but still a hope--and whenDr. Lewis asked if they were willing to undertake the task, scores ofwomen rose to their feet, and there was no lack of good men who pledgedthemselves to encourage and sustain the women in their work. 

At a subsequent meeting an organization was effected and Mrs. Eliza J. Thompson, a daughter of ex-Governor Trimble of Ohio, was electedchairman. Mrs. Thompson gives the following account of the manner inwhich the crusade was organized:

 My boy came home from Dr. Dio Lewis' lecture and said, "Ma, they've got you into business"; and went on to tell that Dio Lewis had incidentally related the successful effort of his mother, by prayer and persuasion, to close the saloon in a town where he lived when a boy, and that he had exhorted the women of Hillsboro to do the same, and fifty had risen up to signify their willingness, and that they looked to me to help them to carry out their promise. As I'm talking to you here familiarly, I'll go on to say that my husband, who had retired, and was in an adjoining room, raised up on his elbow and called out, "Oh! that's all tomfoolery!" I remember I answered him something like this: "Well, husband, the men have been in the tomfoolery business a long time; perhaps the Lord is going to call us into partnership with them. " I said no more. The next morning my brother-in-law, Colonel ----, came in and told me about the meeting, and said, "Now, you must be sure to go to the women's meeting at the church this morning; they look to see you there. " Our folks talked it all over, and my husband said, "Well, we all know where your mother'll take this case for counsel, " and then he pointed to the Bible and left the room. 

 I went into the corner of my room, and knelt down and opened my Bible to see what God would say to me. Just at that moment there was a tap on the door and my daughter entered. She was in tears; she held her Bible in her hand, open to the 146th Psalm. She said, "Ma, I just opened to this, and I think it is for you, " and then she went away, and I sat down and read

 THIS WONDERFUL MESSAGE FROM GOD

 "Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help. Happy is he that hath the God of Jacob for his help, whose hope is in the Lord his God; which keepeth truth forever; which executeth judgment for the oppressed; the Lord looseth the prisoners; the Lord openeth the eyes of the blind; the Lord raiseth them that are bowed down; the Lord loveth the righteous; the Lord relieveth the fatherless and the widow--_but the way of the wicked he turneth upside down_. The Lord shall reign forever, even thy God, O Zion, unto all generations. Praise ye the Lord!"

 I knew that was for me, and I got up, put on my shoes, and started. I went to the church, in this town where I was born. I sat down quietly in the back part of the audience room, by the stove. A hundred ladies were assembled. I heard my name--heard the whisper pass through the company, "Here she is!" "She's come!" and before I could get to the pulpit, they had put me "in office"--I was their leader. 

 Many of our citizens were there, and our ministers also. They stayed a few minutes, and then rose and went out, saying, "This is your work--we leave it with the women and the Lord. " When they had gone, I just opened the big pulpit Bible and read that 146th Psalm, and told them the circumstance of my selecting it. The women sobbed so I could hardly go on. When I had finished, I felt inspired to call on a dear Presbyterian lady to pray. She did so without the least hesitation, though it was the first audible prayer in her life. I can't tell you anything about that prayer, only that the words were like fire. 

 When she had prayed, I said--and it all came to me just at the moment--"Now, ladies, let us file out, two by two, the smallest first, and let us sing as we go, 'Give to the winds thy fears. '"

 We went first to John ----'s saloon. Now, John was a German, and his sister had lived in my family thirteen years, and she was very mild and gentle, and I hoped it might prove a family trait, but I found out it wasn't. He fumed about dreadfully and said, "It's awful; it's a sin and a shame to pray in a saloon!" But we prayed right on just the same. 

Next day the ladies held another meeting, but decided not to make anyvisitations, it being Christmas day, and the hotel-keepers more thanusually busy and not likely to listen very attentively to ourproposition. 

On the twenty-sixth, the hotels and saloons were visited; Mrs. Thompsonpresenting the appeal. And it was on this morning, and at the saloon ofRobert Ward, that there came a break in the established routine. "Bob"was a social, jolly sort of fellow, and his saloon was a favoriteresort, and there were many women in the company that morning whosehearts were aching in consequence of his wrong-doing. Ward was evidentlytouched. He confessed that it was a "bad business, " said if he couldonly "afford to quit it he would, " and then tears began to flow from hiseyes. Many of the ladies were weeping, and at length, as if byinspiration, Mrs. Thompson kneeled on the floor of the saloon, allkneeling with her, even the saloonist, and prayed, pleading withindescribable pathos and earnestness for the conversion and salvation ofthis and all saloon-keepers. When the amen was sobbed rather thanspoken, Mrs. Washington Doggett's sweet voice began, "There is afountain, " etc. , in which all joined; the effect was most solemn, andwhen the hymn was finished the ladies went quietly away, and that wasthe first saloon prayer meeting. 

There was a saloon-keeper brought from Greenfield to H---- to be triedunder the Adair law. The poor mother who brought the suit had besoughthim not to sell to her son--"her only son. " He replied roughly that hewould sell to him "as long as he had a dime. " Another mother, an oldlady, made the same request, "lest, " she said, "he may some day fill adrunkard's grave. " "Madam, " he replied, "your son has as good a right tofill a drunkard's grave as any other mother's son. " And in one of theHillsboro saloons a lady saw her nephew. "O, Mr. B----, " said she, "don't sell whiskey to that boy: if he has one drink he will wantanother, and he may die a drunkard. " "Madam, I will sell to him if itsends his soul to hell, " was the awful reply. The last man is apeculiarly hard, stony sort of man; his lips look as if chiseled out offlint, a man to be afraid of. One morning, when the visiting bandreached his door, they found him in a very bad humor. He locked his doorand seated himself on the horse block in front in a perfect rage, clenched his fist, swore furiously, and ordered us to go home. Somegentlemen, on the opposite side of the street, afterward said that theywere watching the scene, ready to rush over and defend the ladies froman attack, and they were sure it would come; but one of the ladies, asweet-souled woman, gentle and placid, kneeled just at his feet, andpoured out such a tender, earnest prayer for him, that he quieted downentirely, and when she rose and offered him her hand in token of kindfeeling, he could not refuse to take it. 

 During the Crusade, a saloon-keeper (at Ocean Grove) consented to close his business. There was a great deal of enthusiasm and interest, and we women decided to compensate the man for his whiskey and make a bonfire of it in the street. A great crowd gathered about the saloon, and the barrels of whiskey were rolled out to the public square where we were to have our bonfire. Myself and two other little women, who had been chosen to knock in the heads, and had come to the place with axes concealed under our shawls, went to our work with a will. 

 I didn't know I was so strong, but I lifted that axe like a woodman and brought it down with such force that the first blow stove in the head of a barrel and splashed the whiskey in every direction. I was literally baptized with the noxious stuff. The intention was to set it on fire, and we had brought matches for that purpose, _but it would not burn_! It was a villainous compound of some sort, but we had set out to have a fire, and were determined by some means or other to make it burn, so we sent for some coal oil and poured it on and we soon had a blaze. The man who could sell such liquors would not be likely to keep the pledge. He is selling liquors again. 

The crusade began at Washington C. H. Only two days later than atHillsboro. And Washington C. H. Was the first place where the crusade wasmade prominent and successful. 

On Friday morning, December 26, 1873, after an hour of prayer in theM. E. Church, forty-four women filed slowly and solemnly down the aisle, and started forth upon their strange mission with fear and trembling, while the male portion of the audience remained at the church to prayfor the success of this new undertaking; the tolling of the church-bellkeeping time to the solemn march of the women, as they wended their wayto the first drug-store on the list. (The number of places within thecity limits where intoxicating drinks were sold was fourteen--elevensaloons and three drug-stores. ) Here, as in every place, they enteredsinging, every woman taking up the sacred strain as she crossed thethreshold. This was followed by the reading of the appeal and prayer;then earnest pleading to desist from their soul-destroying traffic andsign the dealer's pledge. 

Thus, all the day long, they went from place to place, without stoppingeven for dinner or lunch, till five o'clock, meeting with no markedsuccess; but invariably courtesy was extended to them; not even theirreiterated promise, "We will call again, " seeming to offend. 

No woman who has ever entered one of these dens of iniquity on such anerrand needs to be told of the heartsickness that almost over-came themas they, for the first time, saw behind those painted windows or greenblinds, or entered the little stifling "back room, " or found their waydown winding steps into the damp, dark cellars, and realized that into_such places_ those they loved best were being landed, through theallurements of the brilliantly lighted drug-store, the fascinatingbilliard table, or the enticing beer gardens, with their sirenattractions. A crowded house at night, to hear the report of the day'swork, betrayed the rapidly increasing interest in this mission. 

On the twenty-seventh the contest really began, and, at the first place, the doors were found locked. With hearts full of compassion, the womenknelt in the snow upon the pavement, to plead for the divine influenceupon the heart of the liquor-dealer, and there held their first streetprayer meeting. 

At night the weary but zealous workers reported at a mass meeting of thevarious rebuffs, and the success in having two druggists sign the pledgenot to sell, except upon the written prescription of a physician. 

The Sabbath, was devoted to union mass meeting, with direct reference tothe work in hand; and on Monday the number of ladies had increased tonear one hundred. That day, December 29, is one long to be remembered inWashington, as the day upon which occurred the first surrender ever madeby a liquor-dealer, of his stock of liquors of every kind and variety, to the women, in answer to their prayers and entreaties, and by thempoured into the street. Nearly a thousand men, women, and childrenwitnessed the mingling of beer, ale, wine, and whiskey, as they filledthe gutters and were drunk up by the earth, while the bells wereringing, men and boys shouting, and women singing and praying to God whohad given the victory. But on the fourth day, "stock sale-day, " thecampaign had reached its height, the town being filled with visitorsfrom all parts of the county and adjoining villages. Another publicsurrender, and another pouring into the street of a larger stock ofliquors than on the previous day, and more intense excitement andenthusiasm. 

Mass meetings were held nightly, with new victories reported constantly, until on Friday, January 21, one week from the beginning of the work, atthe public meeting held in the evening, the secretary's report announcedthe unconditional surrender of every liquor-dealer, some having shippedtheir liquors back to wholesale dealers, others having poured them intothe gutters, and the druggists as all having signed the pledge. Thus acampaign of prayer and song had, in eight days, closed eleven saloons, and pledged three drug-stores to sell only on prescription. At first menhad wondered, scoffed, and laughed, then criticized, respected, andyielded. 

Morning prayer and evening mass meetings continued daily, and thepersonal pledge was circulated till over one thousand signatures wereobtained. Physicians were called upon to sign a pledge not to prescribeardent spirits when any other substitute could be found, and in no casewithout a personal examination of the patient. 

Early in the third week the discouraging intelligence came that a newman had taken out a license to sell liquor in one of the desertedsaloons, and that he was backed by a whiskey house in Cincinnati, to theamount of $5, 000, to break down this movement. On Wednesday, 'thefourteenth, the whiskey was unloaded at his room. About forty women wereon the ground and followed the liquor in, and remained holding anuninterrupted prayer meeting all day and until eleven o'clock at night. The next day, bitterly cold, was spent in the same place and manner, without fire or chairs, two hours of that time the women being lockedin, while the proprietor was off attending a trial. On the followingday, the coldest of the winter of 1874, the women were locked out, andstood on the street holding religious services all day long. 

Next morning a tabernacle was built in the street, just in front of thehouse, and was occupied for the double purpose of _watching_ and prayerthrough the day; and before night the sheriff closed the saloon, and theproprietor surrendered; thus ended the third week. 

A short time after, on a dying-bed, this four days' liquor-dealer sentfor some of these women, telling them their songs and prayers had neverceased to ring in his ears, and urging them to pray again in his behalf;so he passed away. 

Thus, through most of the winter of 1874 no alcoholic drinks werepublicly sold as a beverage in the county. 

During the two intervening years weekly temperance-league meetings havebeen kept up by the faithful few, while frequent union mass meetingshave been held, thus keeping the subject always before the people. Todaythe disgraceful and humiliating fact exists that there are more placeswhere liquors are sold than before the crusade. 

3. Mass Movements and Revolution

_a. The French Revolution_[310]

The outward life of men in every age is molded upon an inward lifeconsisting of a framework of traditions, sentiments, and moralinfluences which direct their conduct and maintain certain fundamentalnotions which they accept without discussion. 

Let the resistance of this social framework weaken, and ideas whichcould have had no force before will germinate and develop. Certaintheories whose success was enormous at the time of the Revolution wouldhave encountered an impregnable wall two centuries earlier. 

The aim of these considerations is to recall to the reader the fact thatthe outward events of revolutions are always a consequence of invisibletransformations which have slowly gone forward in men's minds. Anyprofound study of a revolution necessitates a study of the mental soilupon which the ideas that direct its courses have to germinate. 

Generally slow in the extreme, the evolution of ideas is often invisiblefor a whole generation. Its extent can only be grasped by comparing themental condition of the same social classes at the two extremities ofthe curve which the mind has followed. 

The actual influence of the philosophers in the genesis of theRevolution was not that which was attributed to them. They revealednothing new, but they developed the critical spirit which no dogma canresist, once the way is prepared for its downfall. 

Under the influence of this developing critical spirit things which wereno longer very greatly respected came to be respected less and less. When tradition and prestige had disappeared, the social edifice suddenlyfell. This progressive disaggregation finally descended to the people, but was not commenced by them. The people follow examples, but never setthem. 

The philosophers, who could not have exerted any influence over thepeople, did exert a great influence over the enlightened portion of thenation. The unemployed nobility, who had long been ousted from their oldfunctions and who were consequently inclined to be censorious, followedtheir leadership. Incapable of foresight, the nobles were the first tobreak with the traditions that were their only _raison d'être_. Assteeped in humanitarianism and rationalism as the _bourgeoisie_ oftoday, they continually sapped their own privileges by their criticisms. As today, the most ardent reformers were found among the favorites offortune. The aristocracy encouraged dissertations on the socialcontract, the rights of man, and the equality of citizens. At thetheater it applauded plays which criticized privileges, thearbitrariness and the incapacity of men in high places, and abuses ofall kinds. 

As soon as men lose confidence in the foundations of the mentalframework which guides their conduct, they feel at first uneasy and thendiscontented. All classes felt their old motives of action graduallydisappearing. Things that had seemed sacred for centuries were nowsacred no longer. 

The censorious spirit of the nobility and of the writers of the daywould not have sufficed to move the heavy load of tradition but that itsaction was added to that of other powerful influences. We have alreadystated, in citing Bossuet, that under the _ancien régime_ the religiousand civil governments, widely separated in our day, were intimatelyconnected. To injure one was inevitably to injure the other. Now evenbefore the monarchical idea was shaken, the force of religious traditionwas greatly diminished among cultivated men. The constant progress ofknowledge had sent an increasing number of minds from theology toscience by opposing the truth observed to the truth revealed. 

This mental evolution, although as yet very vague, was sufficient toshow that the traditions which for so many centuries had guided men hadnot the value which had been attributed to them, and that it would soonbe necessary to replace them. 

But where discover the new elements which might take the place oftradition? Where seek the magic ring which would raise a new socialedifice on the remains of that which no longer contented men?

Men were agreed in attributing to reason the power that tradition andthe gods seemed to have lost. How could its force be doubted? Itsdiscoveries having been innumerable, was it not legitimate to supposethat by applying it to the construction of societies it would entirelytransform them? Its possible function increased very rapidly in thethoughts of the more enlightened, in proportion as tradition seemed moreand more to be distrusted. 

The sovereign power attributed to reason must be regarded as theculminating idea which not only engendered the Revolution but governedit throughout. During the whole Revolution men gave themselves up to themost persevering efforts to break with the past and to erect societyupon a new plan dictated by logic. 

Slowly filtering downward, the rationalistic theories of thephilosophers meant to the people simply that all the things which hadbeen regarded as worthy of respect were now no longer worthy. Men beingdeclared equal, the old masters need no longer be obeyed. The multitudeeasily succeeded in ceasing to respect what the upper classes themselvesno longer respected. When the barrier of respect was down the Revolutionwas accomplished. 

The first result of this new mentality was a general insubordination. Mme. Vigée Lebrun relates that on the promenade at Longchamps men of thepeople leaped on the footboards of the carriages, saying, "Next year youwill be behind and we shall be inside. "

The populace was not alone in manifesting insubordination anddiscontent. These sentiments were general on the eve of the Revolution. "The lesser clergy, " says Taine, "are hostile to the prelates; theprovincial gentry to the nobility of the court; the vassals to theseigneurs; the peasants to the townsmen, etc. "

This state of mind, which had been communicated from the nobles andclergy to the people, also invaded the army. At the moment the StatesGeneral were opened, Necker said: "We are not sure of the troops. " Theofficers were becoming humanitarian and philosophical. The soldiers, recruited from the lowest class of the population, did not philosophize, but they no longer obeyed. In their feeble minds the ideas of equalitymeant simply the suppression of all leaders and masters, and thereforeof all obedience. In 1790 more than twenty regiments threatened theirofficers, and sometimes, as at Nancy, threw them into prison. 

The mental anarchy which, after spreading through all classes ofsociety, finally invaded the army was the principal cause of thedisappearance of the _ancien régime_. "It was the defection of the armyaffected by the ideas of the Third Estate, " wrote Rivarol, "thatdestroyed royalty. "

The genesis of the French Revolution, as well as its duration, wasconditioned by elements of a rational, affective, mystic, and collectivenature, each category of which was ruled by a different logic. Therational element usually invoked as an explanation exerted in realitybut very slight influence. It prepared the way for the Revolution, butmaintained it only at the outset, while it was still exclusively middleclass. Its action was manifested by many measures of the time, such asthe proposals to reform the taxes, the suppression of the privileges ofa useless nobility, etc. 

As soon as the Revolution reached the people, the influence of therational elements speedily vanished before that of the affective andcollective elements. As for the mystic elements, the foundation of therevolutionary faith, they made the army fanatical and propagated the newbelief throughout the world. 

We shall see these various elements as they appeared in events and inthe psychology of individuals. Perhaps the most important was the mysticelement. The Revolution cannot be clearly comprehended--we cannot repeatit too often--unless it is considered as the formation of a religiousbelief. What I have said elsewhere of all beliefs applies equally to theRevolution. They impose themselves on men apart from reason and have thepower to polarize men's thoughts and feelings in one direction. Purereason had never such a power, for men were never impassioned by reason. 

The religious forms rapidly assumed by the Revolution explain its powerof expansion and the prestige which it possessed and has retained. Fewhistorians have understood that this great monument ought to be regardedas the foundation of a new religion. The penetrating mind ofTocqueville, I believe, was the first to perceive as much. He wrote:

 The French Revolution was a political revolution which operated in the manner of and assumed something of the aspect of a religious revolution. See by what regular and characteristic traits it finally resembled the latter; not only did it spread itself far and wide like a religious revolution, but, like the latter, it spread itself by means of preaching and propaganda. A political revolution which inspires proselytes, which is preached as passionately to foreigners as it is accomplished at home: consider what a novel spectacle was this. 

Although the mystic element is always the foundation of beliefs, certainaffective and rational elements are quickly added thereto. A belief thusserves to group sentiments and passions and interests which belong tothe affective domain. Reason then envelops the whole, seeking to justifyevents in which, however, it played no part whatever. 

At the moment of the Revolution everyone, according to his aspirations, dressed the new belief in a different rational vesture. The peoples sawin it only the suppression of the religious and political despotisms andhierarchies under which they had so often suffered. Writers like Goetheand thinkers like Kant imagined that they saw in it the triumph ofreason. Foreigners like Humboldt came to France "to breathe the air ofliberty and to assist at the obsequies of despotism. " These intellectualillusions did not last long. The evolution of the drama soon revealedthe true foundations of the dream. 

_b. Bolshevism_[311]

Great mass movements, whether these be religious or political, are atfirst always difficult to understand. Invariably they challenge existingmoral and intellectual values, the revaluation of which is, for thenormal mind, an exceedingly difficult and painful task. Moreover thedefinition of their aims and policies into exact and comprehensiveprograms is generally slowly achieved. At their inception and during theearly stages of their development there must needs be many crude andtentative statements and many rhetorical exaggerations. It is safe toassert as a rule that at no stage of its history can a great movementof the masses be fully understood and fairly interpreted by a study ofits formal statements and authentic expositions only. These must besupplemented by a careful study of the psychology of the men and womenwhose ideals and yearnings these statements and expositions aim torepresent. It is not enough to know and comprehend the creed: it isessential that we also know and comprehend the spiritual factors, thediscontent, the hopes, the fears, the inarticulate visionings of thehuman units in the movement. This is of greater importance in theinitial stages than later, when the articulation of the soul of themovement has become more certain and clear. 

No one who has attended many bolshevist meetings or is acquainted withmany of the individuals to whom bolshevism makes a strong appeal willseriously question the statement that an impressively large number ofthose who profess to be Bolshevists present a striking likeness toextreme religious zealots, not only in the manner of manifesting theirenthusiasm, but also in their methods of exposition and argument. Justas in religious hysteria a single text becomes a whole creed to theexclusion of every other text, and instead of being itself subject torational tests is made the sole test of the rationality of everythingelse, so in the case of the average Bolshevist of this type a singlephrase received into the mind in a spasm of emotion, never tested by theusual criteria of reason, becomes not only the very essence of truth butalso the standard by which the truth or untruth of everything else mustbe determined. Most of the preachers who become pro-Bolshevists are ofthis type. 

People who possess minds thus affected are generally capable of, andfrequently indulge in, the strictest logical deduction and analysis. Sometimes they acquire the reputation of being exceptionally brilliantthinkers because of this power. But the fact is that their initialideas, upon which everything is pivoted, are derived emotionally and arenot the results of a deliberate weighing of available evidence. Theinitial movement is one of feeling, of emotional impulse. The convictionthereby created is so strong and so dominant that it cannot be affectedby any purely rational functional factors. 

People of this type jump at decisions and reach very positiveconvictions upon the most difficult matters with bewildering ease. Forthem the complexities and intricacies which trouble the normal mind donot exist. Everything is either black or white: there are no perplexingintervening grays. Right is right and wrong is wrong; they do notrecognize that there are doubtful twilight zones. Ideas capable of themost elaborate expansion and the most subtle intricacies ofinterpretation are immaturely grasped and preached with naïve assurance. Statements alleged to be facts, no matter what their source, if theyseem to support the convictions thus emotionally derived, are receivedwithout any examination and used as conclusive proof, notwithstandingthat a brief investigation would prove them to be worthless as evidence. 

If we take the group of American intellectuals who at present are ardentchampions of bolshevism we shall find that, with exceptions so few as tobe almost negligible, they have embraced nearly every "ism" as it arose, seeing in each one the magic solvent of humanity's ills. Those of anolder generation thus regarded bimetallism, for instance. What elsecould be required to make the desert bloom like a garden and to usher inthe earthly Paradise? The younger ones, in their turn, took upanarchist-communism, Marxian socialism, industrial unionism, syndicalism, birth control, feminism, and many other movements andpropagandas, each of which in its turn induced ecstatic visions of a newheaven and a new earth. The same individuals have grown lyrical inpraise of every bizarre and eccentric art fad. In the banal andgrotesque travesties of art produced by cubists, futurists, _et al. _, they saw transcendent genius. They are forever seeking new gods andburying old ones. 

It would be going too far to say that these individuals are allhystericals in the pathological sense, but it is strictly accurate tosay that the class exhibits marked hysterical characteristics and thatit closely resembles the large class of over-emotionalized religiousenthusiasts which furnish so many true hystericals. It is probable thataccidents of environment account for the fact that their emotionalismtakes sociological rather than religious forms. If the sociologicalimpetus were absent, most of them would be religiously motived to astate not less abnormal. 

To understand the spread of bolshevist agitation and sympathy among avery considerable part of the working class in this country, we musttake into account the fact that its logical and natural nucleus is theI. W. W. It is necessary also to emancipate our minds from the obsessionthat only "ignorant foreigners" are affected. This is not a trueestimate of either the I. W. W. Or the bolshevist propaganda as a whole. There are indeed many of this class in both, but there are also manynative Americans, sturdy, self-reliant, enterprising, and courageousmen. The peculiar group psychology which we are compelled to study isless the result of those subtle and complex factors which arecomprehended in the vague term "race" than of the political and economicconditions by which the group concerned is environed. 

The typical native-born I. W. W. Member, the "Wobbly" one frequentlyencounters in our mid-western and western cities, is very unlike thehideous and repulsive figure conjured up by sensational cartoonists. Heis much more likely to be a very attractive sort of man. Here are somecharacteristics of the type: figure robust, sturdy, and virile; dressrough but not unclean; speech forthright, deliberate, and bold; featuresintelligent, frank, and free from signs of alcoholic dissipation;movements slow and leisurely as of one averse to over-exertion. Thereare thousands of "wobblies" to whom the specifications of thisdescription will apply. Conversation with these men reveals that, as ageneral rule, they are above rather than below the average in sobriety. They are generally free from family ties, being either unmarried or, asoften happens, wife-deserters. They are not highly educated, few havingattended any school beyond the grammar-school grade. Many of them have, however, read a great deal more than the average man, though theirreading has been curiously miscellaneous in selection and nearly alwaysbadly balanced. Theology, philosophy, sociology, and economics seem toattract most attention. In discussion--and every "Wobbly" seems topossess a passion for disputation--men of this type will manifest asurprising familiarity with the broad outlines of certain theologicalproblems, as well as with the scriptural texts bearing upon them. It isvery likely to be the case, however, that they have only read a fewpopular classics of what used to be called rationalism--Paine's _Age ofReason_, Ingersoll's lectures in pamphlet form, and Haeckel's _Riddle ofthe Universe_ are typical. A surprisingly large number can quoteextensively from Buckle's _History of Civilization_ and from thewritings of Marx. They quote statistics freely--statistics of wages, poverty, crime, vice, and so on--generally derived from the radicalpress and implicitly believed because so published, with what theyaccept as adequate authority. 

Their most marked peculiarity is the migratory nature of their lives. Whether this is self-determined, a matter of temperament and habit, ordue to uncontrollable factors, it is largely responsible for thecontempt in which they are popularly held. It naturally brings upon themthe reproach and resentment everywhere visited upon "tramps" and"vagabonds. " They rarely remain long enough in any one place to formlocal attachments and ties or anything like civic pride. They move fromjob to job, city to city, state to state, sometimes tramping afoot, begging as they go; sometimes stealing rides on railway trains, infreight cars--"side-door Pullmans"--or on the rods underneath the cars. Frequently arrested for begging, trespassing, or stealing rides, theyare often victims of injustice at the hands of local judges andjustices. The absence of friends, combined with the prejudice againstvagrants which everywhere exists, subjects them to arbitrary andhigh-handed injustice such as no other body of American citizens has toendure. Moreover, through the conditions of their existence they arereadily suspected of crimes they do not commit; it is all too easy forthe hard-pushed police officer or sheriff to impute a crime to the loneand defenseless "Wobbly, " who frequently can produce no testimony toprove his innocence, simply because he has no friends in theneighborhood and has been at pains to conceal his movements. In thismanner the "Wobbly" becomes a veritable son of Ishmael, his hand againstthe hand of nearly every man in conventional society. In particular hebecomes a rebel by habit, hating the police and the courts as hisconstant enemies. 

Doubtless the great majority of these men are temperamentallypredisposed to the unanchored, adventurous, migratory existence whichthey lead. Boys so constituted run away to sea, take jobs with travelingcircuses, or enlist as soldiers. The type is familiar and not uncommon. Such individuals cannot be content with the prosaic, humdrum, monotonouslife of regular employment. As a rule we do not look upon this trait inboy or man as criminal. 

Many a hardworking, intelligent American, who from choice or fromnecessity is a migratory worker, following his job, never has anopportunity to vote for state legislators, for governor, forcongressman or president. He is just as effectively excluded from theactual electorate as if he were a Chinese coolie, ignorant of ourcustoms and our speech. 

We cannot wonder that such conditions prove prolific breeders ofbolshevism and similar "isms. " It would be strange indeed if it wereotherwise. We have no right to expect that men who are so constantly thevictims of arbitrary, unjust, and even brutal treatment at the hands ofour police and our courts will manifest any reverence for the law andthe judicial system. Respect for majority rule in government cannotfairly be demanded from a disfranchised group. It is not to be wonderedat that the old slogan of socialism, "Strike at the ballot-box!"--thecall to lift the struggle of the classes to the parliamentary level forpeaceful settlement--becomes the desperate, anarchistic I. W. W. Slogan, "Strike at the ballot-box with an ax!" Men who can have no family lifecannot justly be expected to bother about school administration. Men whocan have no home life but only dreary shelter in crowded work-camps ordirty doss-houses are not going to bother themselves with municipalhousing reforms. 

In short, we must wake up to the fact that, as the very heart of ourproblem, we have a bolshevist nucleus in America composed of virile, red-blooded Americans, racy of our soil and history, whose conditions oflife and labor are such as to develop in them the psychology ofreckless, despairing, revengeful bolshevism. They really are littleconcerned with theories of the state and of social development, which toour intellectuals seem to be the essence of bolshevism. They are vitallyconcerned only with action. Syndicalism and bolshevism involve speedyand drastic action--hence the force of their appeal. 

Finally, if we would understand why millions of people in all lands haveturned away from old ideals, old loyalties, and old faiths tobolshevism, with something of the passion and frenzy characteristic ofgreat messianic movements, we must take into account the intensespiritual agony and hunger which the Great War has brought into thelives of civilized men. The old gods are dead and men are everywhereexpectantly waiting for the new gods to arise. The aftermath of the waris a spiritual cataclysm such as civilized mankind has never beforeknown. The old religions and moralities are shattered and men arewaiting and striving for new ones. It is a time suggestive of the birthof new religions. Man cannot live as yet without faith, without somesort of religion. The heart of the world today is strained with yearningfor new and living faiths to replace the old faiths which are dead. Weresome persuasive fanatic to arise proclaiming himself to be a newMessiah, and preaching the religion of action, the creation of a newsociety, he would find an eager, soul-hungry world already predisposedto believe. 

4. Mass Movements and Institutions: Methodism[312]

The corruption of manners which has been general since the restorationwas combated by societies for "the reformation of manners, " which in thelast years of the seventeenth century acquired extraordinary dimensions. They began in certain private societies which arose in the reign ofJames II, chiefly under the auspices of Beveridge and Bishop Horneck. These societies were at first purely devotional, and they appear to havebeen almost identical in character with those of the early Methodists. They held prayer meetings, weekly communions, and Bible-readings; theysustained charities and distributed religious books, and they cultivateda warmer and more ascetic type of devotion than was common in theChurch. Societies of this description sprang up in almost everyconsiderable city in England and even in several of those in Ireland. Inthe last years of the seventeenth century we find no less than ten ofthem in Dublin. Without, however, altogether discarding their firstcharacter, they assumed, about 1695, new and very important functions. They divided themselves into several distinct groups, undertaking thediscovery and suppression of houses of ill fame, and the prosecution ofswearers, drunkards, and Sabbath-breakers. They became a kind ofvoluntary police, acting largely as spies, and enforcing the lawsagainst religious offenses. The energy with which this scheme wascarried out is very remarkable. As many as seventy or eighty personswere often prosecuted in London and Westminster for cursing andswearing, in a single week. Sunday markets, which had hitherto been notuncommon, were effectually suppressed. Hundreds of disorderly houseswere closed. Forty or fifty night-walkers were sent every week toBridewell, and numbers were induced to emigrate to the colonies. A greatpart of the fines levied for these offenses was bestowed on the poor. Inthe fortieth annual report of the "Societies for the Reformation ofManners" which appeared in 1735, it was stated that the number ofprosecutions for debauchery and profaneness in London and Westminsteralone, since the foundation of the societies, had been 99, 380. 

The term Methodist was a college nickname bestowed upon a small societyof students at Oxford, who met together between 1729 and 1735 for thepurpose of mutual improvement. They were accustomed to communicate everyweek, to fast regularly on Wednesdays and Fridays, and on most daysduring Lent; to read and discuss the Bible in common, to abstain frommost forms of amusement and luxury, and to visit sick persons andprisoners in the gaol. John Wesley, the future leader of the religiousrevival of the eighteenth century, was the master-spirit of thissociety. The society hardly numbered more than fifteen members, and wasthe object of much ridicule at the university; but it included some menwho afterward played considerable parts in the world. Among them wasCharles, the younger brother of John Wesley, whose hymns became thefavorite poetry of the sect, and whose gentler, more submissive, andmore amiable character, though less fitted than that of his brother forthe great conflicts of public life, was very useful in moderating themovement, and in drawing converts to it by personal influence. CharlesWesley appears to have originated the society at Oxford; he broughtWhitefield into its pale, and besides being the most popular poet he wasone of the most persuasive preachers of the movement. 

In the course of 1738 the chief elements of the movement were alreadyformed. Whitefield had returned from Georgia, Charles Wesley had begunto preach the doctrine with extraordinary effect to the criminals inNewgate and from every pulpit into which he was admitted. Methodistsocieties had already sprung up under Moravian influence. They were inpart a continuation of the society at Oxford, in part a revival of thosereligious societies that have been already noticed as so common afterthe Revolution. The design of each was to be a church within a church, aseedplot of a more fervent piety, the center of a stricter disciplineand a more energetic propagandism than existed in religious communitiesat large. In these societies the old Christian custom of love-feastswas revived. The members sometimes passed almost the whole night in themost passionate devotions, and voluntarily submitted to a spiritualtyranny that could hardly be surpassed in a Catholic monastery. Theywere to meet every week, to make an open and particular confession ofevery frailty, to submit to be crossexamined on all their thoughts, words, and deeds. The following among others were the questions asked atevery meeting: "What known sin have you committed since our lastmeeting? What temptations have you met with? How were you delivered?What have you thought, said, or done of which you doubt whether it besin or not? Have you nothing you desire to keep secret?"

Such rules could only have been accepted under the influence of anoverpowering religious enthusiasm, and there was much truth in thejudgment which the elder brother of John Wesley passed upon them in1739. "Their societies, " he wrote to their mother, "are sufficient todissolve all other societies but their own. Will any man of common senseor spirit suffer any domestic to be in a band engaged to relate to fiveor ten people everything without reserve that concerns the person'sconscience how much soever it may concern the family? Ought any marriedpersons to be there unless husband and wife be there together?"

From this time the leaders of the movement became the most active ofmissionaries. Without any fixed parishes they wandered from place toplace, proclaiming their new doctrine in every pulpit to which they wereadmitted, and they speedily awoke a passionate enthusiasm and a bitterhostility in the Church. 

We may blame, but we can hardly, I think, wonder at the hostility allthis aroused among the clergy. It is, indeed, certain that Wesley andWhitefield were at this time doing more than any other contemporaryclergymen to kindle a living piety among the people. Yet before the endof 1738 the Methodist leaders were excluded from most of the pulpits ofthe Church, and were thus compelled, unless they consented to relinquishwhat they considered a Divine mission, to take steps in the direction ofseparation. 

Two important measures of this nature were taken in 1739. One of themwas the creation of Methodist chapels, which were intended not to opposeor replace, but to be supplemental and ancillary to, the churches, andto secure that the doctrine of the new birth should be faithfully taughtto the people. The other and still more important event was theinstitution by Whitefield of field-preaching. The idea had occurred tohim in London, where he found congregations too numerous for the churchin which he preached, but the first actual step was taken in theneighborhood of Bristol. At a time when he was himself excluded from thepulpits at Bristol, and was thus deprived of the chief normal means ofexercising his talents, his attention was called to the condition of thecolliers at Kingswood. He was filled with horror and compassion atfinding in the heart of a Christian country, and in the immediateneighborhood of a great city, a population of many thousands, sunk inthe most brutal ignorance and vice, and entirely excluded from theordinances of religion. Moved by such feelings, he resolved to addressthe colliers in their own haunts. The resolution was a bold one, forfield-preaching was then utterly unknown in England, and it needed nocommon courage to brave all the obloquy and derision it must provoke, and to commence the experiment in the center of a half-savagepopulation. Whitefield, however, had a just confidence in his cause andin his powers. Standing himself upon a hillside, he took for his textthe first words of the sermon which was spoken from the Mount, and headdressed with his accustomed fire an astonished audience of some twohundred men. The fame of his eloquence spread far and wide. Onsuccessive occasions, five, ten, fifteen, even twenty thousand werepresent. It was February, but the winter sun shone clear and bright. Thelanes were filled with carriages of the more wealthy citizens, whomcuriosity had drawn from Bristol. The trees and hedges were crowded withhumbler listeners, and the fields were darkened by a compact mass. Thevoice of the great preacher pealed with a thrilling power to theoutskirts of that mighty throng. The picturesque novelty of the occasionand of the scene, the contagious emotion of so great a multitude, a deepsense of the condition of his hearers and of the momentous importance ofthe step he was taking, gave an additional solemnity to his eloquence. His rude auditors were electrified. They stood for a time in rapt andmotionless attention. Soon tears might be seen forming white guttersdown cheeks blackened from the coal mine. Then sobs and groans told howhard hearts were melting at his words. A fire was kindled among theoutcasts of Kingswood which burnt long and fiercely, and was destinedin a few years to overspread the land. 

But for the simultaneous appearance of a great orator and a greatstatesman, Methodism would probably have smouldered and at last perishedlike the very similar religious societies of the preceding century. Whitefield was utterly destitute of the organizing skill which couldalone give a permanence to the movement, and no talent is naturally moreephemeral than popular oratory; while Wesley, though a great andimpressive preacher, could scarcely have kindled a general enthusiasmhad he not been assisted by an orator who had an unrivaled power ofmoving the passions of the ignorant. The institution of field-preachingby Whitefield in the February of 1739 carried the impulse through thegreat masses of the poor, while the foundation by Wesley, in the May ofthe same year, of the first Methodist chapel was the beginning of anorganized body capable of securing and perpetuating the results that hadbeen achieved. 

From the time of the institution of lay preachers Methodism became in agreat degree independent of the Established Church. Its chapelsmultiplied in the great towns, and its itinerant missionaries penetratedto the most secluded districts. They were accustomed to preach in fieldsand gardens, in streets and lecture-rooms, in market places andchurchyards. On one occasion we find Whitefield at a fair mounting astage which had been erected for some wrestlers, and there denouncingthe pleasures of the world; on another, preaching among the mountebanksat Moorfields; on a third, attracting around his pulpit ten thousand ofthe spectators at a race course; on a fourth, standing beside thegallows at an execution to speak of death and of eternity. Wesley, whenexcluded from the pulpit of Epworth, delivered some of his mostimpressive sermons in the churchyard, standing on his father's tomb. Howell Harris, the apostle of Wales, encountering a party ofmountebanks, sprang into their midst exclaiming, in a solemn voice, "Letus pray, " and then proceeded to thunder forth the judgments of the Lord. Rowland Hill was accustomed to visit the great towns on market day inorder that he might address the people in the market place, and to gofrom fair to fair preaching among the revelers from his favorite text, "Come out from among them. " In this manner the Methodist preachers camein contact with the most savage elements of the population, and therewere few forms of mob violence they did not experience. In 1741 one oftheir preachers named Seward, after repeated ill treatment in Wales, wasat last struck on the head while preaching at Monmouth, and died of theblow. In a riot, while Wheatley was preaching at Norwich, a poor womanwith child perished from the kicks and blows of the mob. At Dublin, Whitefield was almost stoned to death. At Exeter he was stoned in thevery presence of the bishop. At Plymouth he was violently assaulted andhis life seriously threatened by a naval officer. 

Scenes of this kind were of continual occurrence, and they wereinterspersed with other persecutions of a less dangerous description. Drums were beaten, horns blown, guns let off, and blacksmiths hired toply their noisy trade in order to drown the voices of the preachers. Once, at the very moment when Whitefield announced his text, the belfrygave out a peal loud enough to make him inaudible. On other occasionspacks of hounds were brought with the same object, and once, in order toexcite the dogs to fury, a live cat in a cage was placed in their midst. Fire engines poured streams of fetid water upon the congregation. Stonesfell so thickly that the faces of many grew crimson with blood. AtHoxton the mob drove an ox into the midst of the congregation. AtPensford the rabble, who had been baiting a bull, concluded their sportby driving the torn and tired animal full against the table on whichWesley was preaching. Sometimes we find innkeepers refusing to receivethe Methodist leaders in their inns, farmers entering into an agreementto dismiss every laborer who attended a Methodist preacher, landlordsexpelling all Methodists from their cottages, masters dismissing theirservants because they had joined the sect. The magistrates, who knew byexperience that the presence of a Methodist preacher was the usualprecursor of disturbance and riot, looked on them with the greatestdisfavor, and often scandalously connived at the persecutions theyunderwent. 

It was frequently observed by Wesley that his preaching rarely affectedthe rich and the educated. It was over the ignorant and the credulousthat it exercised its most appalling power, and it is difficult tooverrate the mental anguish it must sometimes have produced. Timid anddesponding natures unable to convince themselves that they had undergonea supernatural change, gentle and affectionate natures who believed thatthose who were dearest to them were descending into everlasting fire, must have often experienced pangs compared with which the torments ofthe martyr were insignificant. The confident assertions of the Methodistpreacher and the ghastly images he continually evoked poisoned theirimaginations, haunted them in every hour of weakness or depression, discolored all their judgments of the world, and added a tenfold horrorto the darkness of the grave. Sufferings of this description, thoughamong the most real and the most terrible that superstition can inflict, are so hidden in their nature that they leave few traces in history; butit is impossible to read the journals of Wesley without feeling thatthey were most widely diffused. Many were thrown into paroxysms ofextreme, though usually transient, agony; many doubtless nursed a secretsorrow which corroded all the happiness of their lives, while not a fewbecame literally insane. On one occasion Wesley was called to thebedside of a young woman at Kingswood. He tells us:

 She was nineteen or twenty years old, but, it seems, could not write or read. I found her on the bed, two or three persons holding her. It was a terrible sight. Anguish, horror, and despair above all description appeared in her pale face. The thousand distortions of her whole body showed how the dogs of hell were gnawing at her heart. The shrieks intermixed were scarce to be endured. But her stony eyes could not weep. She screamed out as soon as words could find their way, "I am damned, damned, lost forever: six days ago you might have helped me. But it is past. I am the devil's now.... I will go with him to hell. I cannot be saved. " They sang a hymn, and for a time she sank to rest, but soon broke out anew in incoherent exclamations, "Break, break, poor stony hearts! Will you not break? What more can be done for stony hearts? I am damned that you may be saved!"... She then fixed her eyes in the corner of the ceiling, and said, "There he is, ay, there he is! Come, good devil, come! Take me away. "... We interrupted her by calling again on God, on which she sank down as before, and another young woman began to roar out as loud as she had done. 

For more than two hours Wesley and his brother continued praying overher. At last the paroxysms subsided and the patient joined in a hymn ofpraise. 

In the intense religious enthusiasm that was generated, many of the tiesof life were snapped in twain. Children treated with contempt thecommands of their parents, students the rules of their colleges, clergymen the discipline of their Church. The whole structure ofsociety, and almost all the amusements of life, appeared criminal. Thefairs, the mountebanks, the public rejoicings of the people, were allSatanic. It was sinful for a woman to wear any gold ornament or anybrilliant dress. It was even sinful for a man to exercise the commonprudence of laying by a certain portion of his income. When Whitefieldproposed to a lady to marry him, he thought it necessary to say, "Ibless God, if I know anything of my own heart, I am free from thatfoolish passion which the world calls love. " "I trust I love you onlyfor God, and desire to be joined to you only by His commands, and forHis sake. " It is perhaps not very surprising that Whitefield's marriage, like that of Wesley, proved very unhappy. Theaters and the reading ofplays were absolutely condemned, and Methodists employed all theirinfluence with the authorities to prevent the erection of the former. Itseems to have been regarded as a divine judgment that once, when_Macbeth_ was being acted at Drury Lane, a real thunderstorm mingledwith the mimic thunder in the witch scene. Dancing was, if possible, even worse than the theater. "Dancers, " said Whitefield, "please thedevil at every step"; and it was said that his visit to a town usuallyput "a stop to the dancing-school, the assemblies, and every pleasantthing. " He made it his mission to "bear testimony against the detestablediversions of this generation"; and he declared that no "recreations, considered as such, can be innocent. "

Accompanying this asceticism we find an extraordinary revival of thegrossest superstition. It was a natural consequence of the essentiallyemotional character of Methodism that its disciples should imagine thatevery strong feeling or impulse within them was a direct inspiration ofGod or Satan. The language of Whitefield--the language in a great degreeof all the members of the sect--was that of men who were at oncecontinually inspired and the continual objects of miraculousinterposition. In every perplexity they imagined that, by casting lotsor opening their Bibles at random, they could obtain a supernaturalanswer to their inquiries. 

In all matters relating to Satanic interference, Wesley was especiallycredulous. "I cannot give up to all the Deists in Great Britain theexistence of witchcraft till I give up the credit of all history, sacredand profane. " He had no doubt that the physical contortions into whichso many of his hearers fell were due to the direct agency of Satan, whotore the converts as they were coming to Christ. He had himself seen menand women who were literally possessed by devils; he had witnessed formsof madness which were not natural, but diabolical, and he hadexperienced in his own person the hysterical affections which resultedfrom supernatural agency. 

If Satanic agencies continually convulsed those who were coming to thefaith, divine judgments as frequently struck down those who opposed it. Every illness, every misfortune that befell an opponent, was believed tobe supernatural. Molther, the Moravian minister, shortly after theMethodists had separated from the Moravians, was seized with a passingillness. "I believe, " wrote Wesley, "it was the hand of God that wasupon him. " Numerous cases were cited of sudden and fearful judgmentswhich fell upon the adversaries of the cause. A clergyman at Bristol, standing up to preach against the Methodists, "was suddenly seized witha rattling in his throat, attended with a hideous groaning, " and on thenext Sunday he died. At Todmorden a minister was struck with a violentfit of palsy immediately after preaching against the Methodists. AtEnniscorthy a clergyman, having preached for some time againstMethodism, deferred the conclusion of the discourse to the followingSunday. Next morning he was raging mad, imagined that devils were abouthim, "and not long after, without showing the least sign of hope, hewent to his account. " At Kingswood a man began a vehement invectiveagainst Wesley and Methodism. "In the midst he was struck raving mad. " Awoman, seeing a crowd waiting for Wesley at the church door, exclaimed, "They are waiting for their God. " She at once fell senseless to theground, and next day expired. "A party of young men rode up to Richmondto disturb the sermons of Rowland Hill. The boat sank, and all of themwere drowned. " At Sheffield the captain of a gang who had long troubledthe field-preachers, was bathing with his companions. "Another dip, " hesaid, "and then for a bit of sport with the Methodists. " He dived, struck his head against a stone, and appeared no more. By such anecdotesand by such beliefs a fever of enthusiasm was sustained. 

But with all its divisions and defects the movement was unquestionablyeffecting a great moral revolution in England. It was essentially apopular movement, exercising its deepest influence over the lower andmiddle classes. Some of its leaders were men of real genius, but ingeneral the Methodist teacher had little sympathy with the more educatedof his fellow-countrymen. To an ordinarily cultivated mind there wassomething extremely repulsive in his tears and groans and amorousejaculations, in the coarse and anthropomorphic familiarity and theunwavering dogmatism with which he dealt with the most sacred subjects, in the narrowness of his theory of life and his utter insensibility tomany of the influences that expand and embellish it, in the mingledcredulity and self-confidence with which he imagined that the wholecourse of nature was altered for his convenience. But the very qualitiesthat impaired his influence in one sphere enhanced it in another. Hisimpassioned prayers and exhortations stirred the hearts of multitudeswhom a more decorous teaching had left absolutely callous. Thesupernatural atmosphere of miracles, judgments, and inspirations inwhich he moved, invested the most prosaic life with a halo of romance. The doctrines he taught, the theory of life he enforced, provedthemselves capable of arousing in great masses of men an enthusiasm ofpiety which was hardly surpassed in the first days of Christianity, oferadicating inveterate vice, of fixing and directing impulsive andtempestuous natures that were rapidly hastening toward the abyss. Out ofthe profligate slave-dealer, John Newton, Methodism formed one of thepurest and most unselfish of saints. It taught criminals in Newgate tomount the gallows in an ecstasy of rapturous devotion. It planted afervid and enduring religious sentiment in the midst of the most brutaland most neglected portions of the population, and whatever may havebeen its vices or its defects, it undoubtedly emancipated great numbersfrom the fear of death, and imparted a warmer tone to the devotion and agreater energy to the philanthropy of every denomination both in Englandand the colonies. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. Social Unrest

The term collective behavior, which has been used elsewhere to includeall the facts of group life, has been limited for the purposes of thischapter to those phenomena which exhibit in the most obvious andelementary way the processes by which societies are disintegrated intotheir constituent elements and the processes by which these elements arebrought together again into new relations to form new organizations andnew societies. 

Some years ago John Graham Brooks wrote a popular treatise on the laborsituation in the United States. He called the volume _Social Unrest_. The term was, even at that time, a familiar one. Since then the wordunrest, in both its substantive and adjective forms, has gained wideusage. We speak in reference to the notorious disposition of the nativeAmerican to move from one part of the country to another, of hisrestless blood, as if restlessness was a native American traittransmitted in the blood. We speak more often of the "restless age, " asif mobility and the desire for novelty and new experience werepeculiarly characteristic of the twentieth century. We use the word todescribe conditions in different regions of social life in suchexpressions as "political, " "religious, " and "labor" unrest, and inevery case the word is used in a sense that indicates change, but changethat menaces the existing order. Finally, we speak of the "restlesswoman, " as of a peculiar modern type, characteristic of the changedstatus of women in general in the modern world. In all these differentuses we may observe the gradual unfolding of the concept which seems tohave been implicit in the word as it was first used. It is the conceptof an activity in response to some urgent organic impulse which theactivity, however, does not satisfy. It is a diagnostic symptom, asymptom of what Graham Wallas calls "balked disposition. " It is a signthat in the existing situation some one or more of the fourwishes--security, new experience, recognition, and response--has notbeen and is not adequately realized. The fact that the symptom issocial, that it is contagious, is an indication that the situations thatprovoke it are social, that is to say, general in the community or thegroup where the unrest manifests itself. [313] The materials in whichthe term unrest is used in the sense indicated are in the populardiscussions of social questions. The term is not defined but it isfrequently used in connection with descriptions of conditions which areevidently responsible for it. Labor strikes are evidences of socialunrest, and the literature already referred to in the chapter on"Conflict"[1] shows the conditions under which unrest arises, isprovoked and exploited in labor situations. The relation of unrest toroutine and fatigue has been the subject of a good deal of discussionand some investigation. The popular conception is that labor unrest isdue to the dull driving routine of machine industry. The matter needsfurther study. The actual mental experiences of the different sexes, ages, temperamental and mental types under the influence of routinewould add a much needed body of fact to our present psychology of theworker. 

2. Psychic Epidemics

If social unrest is a symptom of disorganization, then the psychicepidemics, in which all the phenomena of social unrest and contagion areintensified, is evidence positive that disorganization exists. Socialdisorganization must be considered in relation to reorganization. Allchange involves a certain amount of disorganization. In order that anindividual may make new adjustments and establish new habits it isinevitable that old habits should be broken up, and in order thatsociety may reform an existing social order a certain amount ofdisorganization is inevitable. Social unrest may be, therefore, asymptom of health. It is only when the process of disorganization goeson so rapidly and to such an extent that the whole existing socialstructure is impaired, and society is, for that reason, not able toreadjust itself, that unrest is to be regarded as a pathologicalsymptom. 

There is reason to believe, contrary to the popular conception, that theimmigrant in America, particularly in the urban environment, accommodates himself too quickly rather than too slowly to Americanlife. Statistics show, particularly in the second generation, a notableincrease in juvenile delinquency, and this seems to be due to the factthat in America the relation between parents and children is reversed. Owing to the children's better knowledge of English and their more rapidaccommodation to the conditions of American life, parents becomedependent upon their children rather than the children dependent upontheir parents. 

Social epidemics, however, are evidence of a social disintegration dueto more fundamental and widespread disorders. The literature hasrecorded the facts but writers have usually interpreted the phenomena inmedical rather than sociological terms. Stoll, in his very interestingbut rather miscellaneous collection of materials upon primitive life, disposes of the phenomena by giving them another name. His volume isentitled _Suggestion and Hypnotism in Folk Psychology_. [314] Friedmann, in his monograph, _Über Wahnideen im Völkerleben_, is disposed as apsychiatrist to treat the whole matter as a form of "social" insanity. 

3. Mass Movements

In spite of the abundance of materials on the subject of mass movementsno attempt has been made as yet to collect and classify them. There havebeen a number of interesting books in the field of collectivepsychology, so called mainly by French and Italian writers--Sighele, Rossi, Tarde, and Le Bon--but they are not based on a systematic studyof cases. The general assumption has been that the facts are so obviousthat any attempt to study systematically the mechanisms involved wouldamount to little more than academic elaboration of what is alreadyobvious, a restatement in more abstract terms of what is alreadyfamiliar. 

On the other hand, shepherds and cowboys, out of their experience inhandling cattle and sheep, have learned that the flock and the herd havequite peculiar and characteristic modes of collective behavior which itis necessary to know if one is to handle them successfully. At the sametime, practical politicians who make a profession of herding voters, getting them out to the polls at the times they are needed anddetermining for them, by the familiar campaign devices, the persons andthe issues for which they are to cast their ballots, have worked outvery definite methods for dealing with masses of people, so that theyare able to predict the outcome with considerable accuracy far inadvance of an election and make their dispositions accordingly. 

Political manipulation of the movements and tendencies of popularopinion has now reached a point of perfection where it can and will bestudied systematically. During the world-war it was studied, and all theknowledge which advertisers, newspaper men, and psychologists possessedwas used to win the war. 

Propaganda is now recognized as part of the grand strategy of war. Notonly political and diplomatic victories, but battles were won during theworld-war by the aid of this insidious weapon. The great victory of theAustrian and German armies at Caporetto which in a few days wiped outall the hard-won successes of the Italian armies was prepared by apsychic attack on the morale of the troops at the front and a defeatistcampaign among the Italian population back of the lines. 

 In the battle of Caporetto the morale of the troops at the front was undermined by sending postal cards and letters to individual soldiers stating that their wives were in illicit relations with officers and soldiers of the allies. Copies of Roman and Milanese newspapers were forged and absolute facsimiles of familiar journals were secretly distributed or dropped from Austrian aeroplanes over the Italian lines. These papers contained sensational articles telling the Italians that Austria was in revolt, that Emperor Charles had been killed. Accompanying these were other articles describing bread riots throughout Italy and stating that the Italian government, unable to quell them with its own forces, had sent British and French re-enforcing troops and even Zulus into the cities, and that these troops were shooting down women and children and priests without mercy. 

 This attack upon the morale of the troops was followed by an unforeseen assault upon a quiet sector, which succeeded in piercing the line at numerous points. In the confusion that followed the whole structure of the defense crumbled, and the result was disastrous. 

When the final history of the world-war comes to be written, one of itsmost interesting chapters will be a description of the methods anddevices which were used by the armies on both sides to destroy the willto war in the troops and among the peoples behind the lines. If theapplication of modern science to war has multiplied the engines ofdestruction, the increase of communication and the interpenetration ofpeoples has given war among civilized peoples the character of aninternal and internecine struggle. Under these circumstances propaganda, in the sense of an insidious exploitation of the sources of dissensionand unrest, may as completely change the character of wars of peoples asthey were once changed by the invention of gunpowder. 

In this field there is room for investigation and study, for almost allattempts thus far made to put advertising on a scientific basis havebeen made by students of individual rather than social psychology. 

4. Revivals, Religious and Linguistic

For something more than a hundred years Europe has experienced a seriesof linguistic and literary revivals, that is to say revivals of the folklanguages and the folk cultures. The folk languages are the speech ofpeoples who have been conquered but not yet culturally absorbed by thedominant language group. They are mostly isolated rural populations whohave remained to a large extent outside of the cosmopolitan cultures ofthe cities. These people while not wholly illiterate have never hadenough education in the language of the dominant peoples of the citiesto enable them to use this alien speech as a medium of education. Theconsequence is that, except for a relatively small group ofintellectuals, they have been cut off from the main current of Europeanlife and culture. These linguistic revivals have not been confined toany one nation, since every nation in Europe turns out upon analysis tobe a mosaic of minor nationalities and smaller cultural enclaves inwhich the languages of little and forgotten peoples have been preserved. Linguistic revivals have, in fact, been well-nigh universal. They havetaken place in France, Spain, Norway, Denmark, in most of the BalkanStates, including Albania, the most isolated of them all, and in all thesmaller nationalities along the Slavic-German border--Finland, Esthonia, Letvia, Lithuania, Poland, Bohemia, Slovakia, Roumania, and the Ukraine. Finally, among the Jews of Eastern Europe, there has been the HaskalaMovement, as the Jews of Eastern Europe call their period ofenlightenment, a movement that has quite unintentionally made theJudeo-German dialect (Yiddish) a literary language. 

 At first blush, it seems strange that the revivals of the folk speech should have come at a time when the locomotive and the telegraph were extending commerce and communication to the uttermost limits of the earth, when all barriers were breaking down, and the steady expansion of cosmopolitan life and the organization of the Great Society, as Graham Wallas has called it, seemed destined to banish all the minor languages, dialects, and obsolescent forms of speech, the last props of an international provincialism, to the limbo of forgotten things. The competition of the world-languages was already keen; all the little and forgotten peoples of Europe--the Finns, Letts, Ukrainians, Russo-Carpathians, Slovaks, Slovenians, Croatians, the Catalonians of eastern Spain, whose language, by the way, dates back to a period before the Roman Conquest, the Czechs, and the Poles--began to set up presses and establish schools to revive and perpetuate their several racial languages. 

 To those who, at this time, were looking forward to world-organization and a universal peace through the medium of a universal language, all this agitation had the appearance of an anachronism, not to say a heresy. It seemed a deliberate attempt to set up barriers, where progress demanded that they should be torn down. The success of such a movement, it seemed, must be to bring about a more complete isolation of the peoples, to imprison them, so to speak, in their own languages, and so cut them off from the general culture of Europe. [315]

The actual effect has been different from what was expected. It isdifficult, and for the masses of the people impossible, to learn throughthe medium of a language that they do not speak. The results of theefforts to cultivate Swedish and Russian in Finland, Polish and Russianin Lithuania, Magyar in Slovakia and at the same time to prohibit thepublication of books and newspapers in the mother-tongue of the countryhas been, in the first place, to create an artificial illiteracy and, inthe second, to create in the minds of native peoples a sense of socialand intellectual inferiority to the alien and dominant race. 

The effect of the literary revival of the spoken language, however, hasbeen to create, in spite of the efforts to suppress it, a vernacularpress which opened the gates of western culture to great masses ofpeople for whom it did not previously exist. The result has been a greatcultural awakening, a genuine renaissance, which has had profoundreverberations on the political and social life of Europe. 

 The literary revival of the folk speech in Europe has invariably been a prelude to the revival of the national spirit in subject peoples. The sentiment of nationality has its roots in memories that attach to the common possessions of the people, the land, the religion, and the language, but particularly the language. 

 Bohemian patriots have a saying, "As long as the language lives, the nation is not dead. " In an address in 1904 Jorgen Levland, who was afterward Premier of Norway, in a plea for "freedom with self-government, home, land, and our own language, " made this statement: "Political freedom is not the deepest and greatest. Greater is it for a nation to preserve her intellectual inheritance in her native tongue. "

 The revival of the national consciousness in the subject peoples has invariably been connected with the struggle to maintain a press in the native language. The reason is that it was through the medium of the national press that the literary and linguistic revivals took place. Conversely, the efforts to suppress the rising national consciousness took the form of an effort to censor or suppress the national press. There were nowhere attempts to suppress the spoken language as such. On the other hand, it was only as the spoken language succeeded in becoming a medium of literary expression that it was possible to preserve it under modern conditions and maintain in this way the national solidarity. When the Lithuanians, for example, were condemned to get their education and their culture through the medium of a language not their own, the effect was to denationalize the literate class and to make its members aliens to their own people. If there was no national press, there could be no national schools, and, indeed, no national church. It was for this reason that the struggle to maintain the national language and the national culture has always been a struggle to maintain a national press. 

 European nationalists, seeking to revive among their peoples the national consciousness, have invariably sought to restore the national speech, to purge it of foreign idioms, and emphasize every mark which serves to distinguish it from the languages with which it tended to fuse. [316]

Investigation of these linguistic revivals and the nationalist movementthat has grown out of them indicates that there is a very intimaterelation between nationalist and religious movements. Both of them arefundamentally cultural movements with incidental political consequences. The movement which resulted in the reorganization of rural life inDenmark, the movement that found expression in so unique an institutionas the rural high schools of Denmark, was begun by Bishop Grundtvig, called the Luther of Denmark, and was at once a religious and anationalist movement. The rural high schools are for this reason notlike anything in the way of education with which people outside ofDenmark are familiar. They are not technical schools but culturalinstitutions in the narrowest, or broadest, sense of that term. [317] Theteaching is "scientific, " but at the same time "inspirational. " Theyare what a Sunday school might be if it were not held on Sunday and wasorganized as Mr. H. G. Wells would organize it and with such a bible ashe would like to have someone write for us. [318]

The popular accounts which we have of religious revivals do not at firstsuggest any very definite relations, either psychological orsociological, between them and the literary revivals to which referencehas just been made. Religious revivals, particularly as described bydispassionate observers, have the appearance of something bizarre, fantastic, and wild, as indeed they often are. 

What must strike the thoughtful observer, however, is the markedsimilarity of these collective religious excitements, whether amongcivilized or savage peoples and at places and periods remote in time andin space. Frederick Morgan Davenport, who has collected and compared thematerials in this field from contemporary sources, calls attention inthe title of his volume, _Primitive Traits in Religious Revivals_, tothis fundamental similarity of the phenomena. Whatever else the word"primitive" may mean in this connection it does mean that the phenomenaof religious revivals are fundamentally human. 

From the frantic and disheveled dances of the Bacchantes, following awine cart through an ancient Greek village, to the shouts and groans ofthe mourners' bench of an old-time Methodist camp-meeting, religiousexcitement has always stirred human nature more profoundly than anyother emotion except that of passionate love. 

In the volume by Jean Pélissier, _The Chief Makers of the NationalLithuanian Renaissance_ (_Les Principaux artisans de la renaissancenationale lituanienne_), there is a paragraph describing the conversionof a certain Dr. Kudirka, a Lithuanian patriot, to the cause ofLithuanian nationality. It reads like a chapter from William James's_The Varieties of Religious Experience_. [319]

It is materials like this that indicate how close and intimate are therelations between cultural movements, whether religious or literary andnational, at least in their formal expression. The question that remainsto be answered is: In what ways do they differ?

5. Fashion, Reform and Revolution

A great deal has been written in recent times in regard to fashion. Ithas been studied, for example, as an economic phenomenon. Sombart haswritten a suggestive little monograph on the subject. It is in theinterest of machine industry that fashions should be standardized over awide area, and it is the function of advertising to achieve this result. It is also of interest to commerce that fashions should change and thisalso is largely, but not wholly, a matter of advertising. Tardedistinguishes between custom and fashion as the two forms in which allcultural traits are transmitted. "In periods when custom is in theascendant, men are more infatuated about their country than about theirtime; for it is the past which is pre-eminently praised. In ages whenfashion rules, men are prouder, on the contrary, of their time than oftheir country. "[320]

The most acute analysis that has been made of fashion is contained inthe observation of Sumner in _Folkways_. Sumner pointed out that fashionthough differing from, is intimately related to, the mores. Fashionfixes the attention of the community at a given time and place and by sodoing determines what is sometimes called the Spirit of the Age, the_Zeitgeist_. By the introduction of new fashions the leaders of societygain that distinction in the community by which they are able tomaintain their prestige and so maintain their position as leaders. Butin doing this, they too are influenced by the fashions which theyintroduce. Eventually changes in fashion affect the mores. [321]

Fashion is related to reform and to revolution, because it is one of thefundamental ways in which social changes take place and because, likereform and revolution, it also is related to the mores. 

Fashion is distinguished from reform by the fact that the changes itintroduces are wholly irrational if not at the same time whollyunpredictable. Reform, on the other hand, is nothing if not rational. Itachieves its ends by agitation and discussion. Attempts have been madeto introduce fashions by agitation, but they have not succeeded. On theother hand, reform is itself a fashion and has largely absorbed inrecent years the interest that was formerly bestowed on party politics. 

There has been a great deal written about reforms but almost nothingabout _reform_. It is a definite type of collective behavior which hascome into existence and gained popularity under conditions of modernlife. The reformer and the agitator, likewise, are definite, temperamental, and social types. Reform tends under modern conditions tobecome a vocation and a profession like that of the politician. Theprofession of the reformer, however, is social, as distinguished fromparty politics. 

Reform is not revolution. It does not seek to change the mores butrather to change conditions in conformity with the mores. There havebeen revolutionary reformers. Joseph II of Austria and Peter the Greatof Russia were reformers of that type. But revolutionary reforms haveusually failed. They failed lamentably in the case of Joseph II andproduced many very dubious results under Peter. 

A revolution is a mass movement which seeks to change the mores bydestroying the existing social order. Great and silent revolutionarychanges have frequently taken place in modern times, but as thesechanges were not recognized at the time and were not directly sought byany party they are not usually called revolutions. They might properlybe called "historical revolutions, " since they are not recognized asrevolutions until they are history. 

There is probably a definite revolutionary process but it has not beendefined. Le Bon's book on the _Psychology of Revolution_, which is thesequel to his study of _The Crowd_, is, to be sure, an attempt, but thebest that one can say of it is that it is suggestive. Many attempts havebeen made to describe the processes of revolution as part of the wholehistorical process. This literature will be considered in the chapter on"Progress. "

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. DISORGANIZATION, SOCIAL UNREST, AND PSYCHIC EPIDEMICS

A. _Social Disorganization_

(1) Cooley, Charles H. _Social Organization. _ Chap. Xxx, "Formalism andDisorganization, " pp. 342-55; chap. Xxxi, "Disorganization: the Family, "pp. 356-71; chap. Xxxii, "Disorganization: the Church, " pp. 372-82;chap. Xxxiii, "Disorganization: Other Traditions, " pp. 383-92. New York, 1909. 

(2) Thomas, W. I. , and Znaniecki, Florian. _The Polish Peasant in Europeand America. _ Monograph of an immigrant group. Vol. IV, "Disorganizationand Reorganization in Poland, " Boston, 1920. 

(3) ----. _The Polish Peasant in Europe and America. _ Vol. V, "Organization and Disorganization in America, " Part II, "Disorganizationof the Immigrant, " pp. 165-345. Boston, 1920. 

(4) Friedländer, L. _Roman Life and Manners under the Early Empire. _Authorized translation by L. A. Magnus from the 7th rev. Ed. Of theSittengeschichte Roms. 4 vols. London, 1908-13. 

(5) Lane-Poole, S. _The Mohammedan Dynasties. _ Charts showing "Growth ofthe Ottoman Empire" and "Decline of the Ottoman Empire, " pp. 190-91. London, 1894. 

(6) Taine, H. _The Ancient Régime. _ Translated from the French by JohnDurand. New York, 1896. 

(7) Wells, H. G. _Russia in the Shadows. _ New York, 1921. 

(8) Patrick, George T. W. _The Psychology of Social Reconstruction. _Chap. Vi, "Our Centripetal Society, " pp. 174-98. Boston, 1920. 

(9) Ferrero, Guglielmo. "The Crisis of Western Civilization, " _AtlanticMonthly_, CXXV (1920), 700-712. 

B. _Social Unrest_

(1) Brooks, John Graham. _The Social Unrest. _ Studies in labor andsocialist movements. London, 1903. 

(2) Fuller, Bampfylde. _Life and Human Nature. _ Chap. Ii, "Change, " pp. 24-45. London, 1914. 

(3) Wallas, Graham. _The Great Society. _ A psychological analysis. Chap. Iv, "Disposition and Environment, " pp. 57-68. New York, 1914. [Defines"the baulked disposition, " see also pp. 172-74. ]

(4) Healy, William. _The Individual Delinquent. _ A textbook of diagnosisand prognosis for all concerned in understanding offenders. "Hypomania, Constitutional Excitement, " pp. 609-13. Boston, 1915. 

(5) Janet, Pierre. _The Major Symptoms of Hysteria. _ Fifteen lecturesgiven in the medical school of Harvard University. New York, 1907. 

(6) Barr, Martin W. , and Maloney, E. F. _Types of Mental Defectives. _"Idiot Savant, " pp. 128-35. Philadelphia, 1920. 

(7) Thomas, Edward. _Industry, Emotion and Unrest. _ New York, 1920. 

(8) Parker, Carleton H. _The Casual Laborer and Other Essays. _ Chap. I, "Toward Understanding Labor Unrest, " pp. 27-59. New York, 1920. 

(9) _The Cause of World Unrest. _ With an introduction by the editor of_The Morning Post_ (of London). New York, 1920. 

(10) Ferrero, Guglielmo. _Ancient Rome and Modern America. _ Acomparative study of morals and manners. New York, 1914. 

(11) Veblen, Thorstein. "The Instinct of Workmanship and the Irksomenessof Labor, " _American Journal of Sociology_, IV (1898-99), 187-201. 

(12) Lippmann, Walter. "Unrest, " _New Republic_, XX (1919), 315-22. 

(13) Tannenbaum, Frank. _The Labor Movement. _ Its conservative functionsand social consequences. New York, 1921. 

(14) Baker, Ray Stannard. _The New Industrial Unrest. _ Its reason andremedy. New York, 1920. 

(15) MacCurdy, J. T. "Psychological Aspects of the Present Unrest, "_Survey_, XLIII (1919-20), 665-68. 

(16) Myers, Charles S. _Mind and Work. _ The psychological factors inindustry and commerce. Chap. Vi, "Industrial Unrest, " pp. 137-69. NewYork, 1921. 

(17) Adler, H. M. "Unemployment and Personality--a Study of PsychopathicCases, " _Mental Hygiene_, I (1917), 16-24. 

(18) Chirol, Valentine. _Indian Unrest. _ A reprint, revised and enlargedfrom _The Times_, with an introduction by Sir Alfred Lyall. London, 1910. 

(19) Münsterberg, Hugo. _Social Studies of Today. _ Chap. Ii, "TheEducational Unrest, " pp. 25-57. London, 1913. 

(20) ----. _American Problems. _ From the point of view of apsychologist. Chap. V, "The Intemperance of Women, " pp. 103-13. NewYork, 1912. 

(21) Corelli, Marie. "The Great Unrest, " _World Today_, XXI (1912), 1954-59. 

(22) Ferrero, Guglielmo. _The Women of the Caesars. _ New York, 1911. 

(23) Myerson, Abraham. The Nervous Housewife. Boston, 1920. 

(24) Mensch, Ella. _Bilderstürmer in der Berliner Frauenbewegung. _ 2ded. Berlin, 1906. 

C. _Psychic Epidemics_

(1) Hecker, J. F. C. _The Black Death and the Dancing Mania. _ Translatedfrom the German by B. G. Babington. Cassell's National Library. NewYork, 1888. 

(2) Stoll, Otto. _Suggestion und Hypnotismus in der Völkerpsychologie. _2d ed. Leipzig, 1904. 

(3) Friedmann, Max. _Über Wahnideen im Völkerleben. _ Wiesbaden, 1901. 

(4) Regnard, P. _Les maladies épidémiques de l'esprit. _ Sorcellerie, magnétisme, morphinisme, délire des grandeurs. Paris, 1886. 

(5) Meyer, J. L. _Schwärmerische Greuelscenen oder Kreuzigungsgeschichteeiner religiösen Schwärmerinn in Wildensbuch, Canton Zürich. _ Einmerkwürdiger Beytrag zur Geschichte des religiösen Fanatismus. 2d ed. Zürich, 1824. 

(6) Gowen, B. S. "Some Aspects of Pestilences and Other Epidemics, "_American Journal of Psychology_, XVIII (1907), 1-60. 

(7) Weygandt, W. _Beitrag zur Lehre von den psychischen Epidemien. _Halle, 1905. 

(8) _Histoire des diables de Loudun. _ Ou de la possession desReligieuses Ursulines et de la condamnation et du supplice d'UrbainGrandier, curé de la même ville, cruels effets de la vengeance duCardinal de Richelieu. Amsterdam, 1740. 

(9) Finsler, G. "Die religiöse Erweckung der zehner und zwanziger Jahreunseres Jahrhunderts in der deutschen Schweiz, " _Züricher Taschenbuchauf das Jahr 1890. _ Zürich, 1890. 

(10) Fauriel, M. C. _Histoire de la croisade centre les hérétiquesAlbigeois. _ Écrite en vers provençaux par un poête contemporain. (Aisoes la consos de la crozada contr els ereges Dalbeges. ) Paris, 1837. 

(11) Mosiman, Eddison. _Das Zungenreden, geschichtlich und psychologischuntersucht. _ Tübingen, 1911. [Bibliography. ]

(12) Vigouroux, A. , and Juquelier, P. _La contagion mentale. _ Paris, 1905. 

(13) Kotik, Dr. Naum. "Die Emanation der psychophysischen Energie, "_Grenzfragen des Nerven- und Seelenlebens. _ Wiesbaden, 1908. 

(14) Aubry, P. "De l'influence contagieuse de la publicité des faitscriminels, " _Archives d'anthropologie criminelle_, VIII (1893), 565-80. 

(15) Achelis, T. _Die Ekstase in ihrer kulturetten Bedeutung. _Kulturprobleme der Gegenwart. Berlin, 1902. 

(16) Cadière, L. "Sur quelques Faits religieux ou magiques, observéspendant une épidémie de choléra en Annam, " _Anthropos_, V (1910), 519-28, 1125-59. 

(17) Hansen, J. _Zauberwahn, Inquisition und Hexenprozess im Mittelalterund die Entstehung der grossen Hexenverfolgung. _ München, 1900. 

(18) Hansen, J. _Quellen und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte desHexenwahns und der Hexenverfolgung im Mittelalter. _ Bonn, 1901. 

(19) Rossi, P. _Psicologia collettiva morbosa. _ Torino, 1901. 

(20) Despine, Prosper. _De la Contagion morale. _ Paris, 1870. 

(21) Moreau de Tours. _De la Contagion du suicide à propos de l'épidémieactuelle. _ Paris, 1875. 

(22) Aubry, P. _La Contagion du meutre. _ Étude d'anthropologiecriminelle. 3d ed. Paris, 1896. 

(23) Rambosson, J. _Phénomènes nerveux, intellectuels et moraux, leurtransmission par contagion. _ Paris, 1883. 

(24) Dumas, Georges. "Contagion mentale, épidémies mentales, foliescollectives, folies grégaires, " _Revue philosophique_, LXXI (1911), 225-44, 384-407. 

II. MUSIC, DANCE, AND RITUAL

(1) Wallaschek, Richard. _Primitive Music. _ An inquiry into the originand development of music, songs, instruments, dances, and pantomimes ofsavage races. London, 1893. 

(2) Combarieu, J. _La Musique et le magic. _ Étude sur les originespopulaires de l'art musical; son influence et sa fonction dans lessociétés. Paris, 1908. 

(3) Simmel, Georg. "Psychologische und ethnologische Studien überMusik, " _Zeitschrift für Völkerpsychologie und Sprachwissenschaft_, XIII(1882), 261-305. 

(4) Boas, F. "Chinook Songs, " _Journal of American Folk-Lore_, I (1888), 220-26. 

(5) Densmore, Frances. "The Music of the Filipinos, " _AmericanAnthropologist_, N. S. , VIII (1906), 611-32. 

(6) Fletcher, Alice C. _Indian Story and Song from North America. _Boston, 1906. 

(7) ----. "Indian Songs and Music, " _Journal of American Folk-Lore_, XI(1898), 85-104. 

(8) Grinnell, G. B. "Notes on Cheyenne Songs, " _AmericanAnthropologist_, N. S. , V (1903), 312-22. 

(9) Mathews, W. "Navaho Gambling Songs, " _American Anthropologist_, II(1889), 1-20. 

(10) Hearn, Lafcadio. "Three Popular Ballads, " _Transactions of theAsiatic Society of Japan_, XXII (1894), 285-336. 

(11) Ellis, Havelock. "The Philosophy of Dancing, " _Atlantic Monthly_, CXIII (1914), 197-207. 

(12) Hirn, Yrjö. _The Origins of Art. _ A psychological and sociologicalinquiry. Chap. Xvii, "Erotic Art, " pp. 238-48. London, 1900. 

(13) Pater, Walter. _Greek Studies. _ A series of essays. London, 1911. 

(14) Grosse, Ernst. _The Beginnings of Art. _ Chap. Viii, "The Dance, "pp. 207-31. New York, 1898. 

(15) Bücher, Karl. _Arbeit und Rhythmus. _ 3d ed. Leipzig, 1902. 

(16) Lhérisson, E. "La Danse du vaudou, " _Semaine médicale_, XIX (1899), xxiv. 

(17) Reed, V. Z. "The Ute Bear Dance, " _American Anthropologist_, IX(1896) 237-44. 

(18) Gummere, F. B. _The Beginnings of Poetry. _ New York, 1901. 

(19) Fawkes, J. W. "The Growth of the Hopi Ritual, " _Journal of AmericanFolk-Lore_, XI (1898), 173-94. 

(20) Cabrol, F. _Les origines liturgiques. _ Paris, 1906. 

(21) Gennep, A. Van. _Les Rites de passage. _ Paris, 1909. 

(22) Pitre, Giuseppe. _Feste patronali in Sicilia. _ Palermo, 1900. 

(23) Murray, W. A. "Organizations of Witches in Great Britain, "_Folk-Lore_, XXVIII (1917), 228-58. 

(24) Taylor, Thomas. _The Eleusinian and Bacchic Mysteries. _ New York, 1891. 

(25) Tippenhauer, L. G. _Die Insel Haiti. _ Leipzig, 1893. [Describes theVoudou Ritual. ]

(26) Wuensch, R. _Das Frühlingsfest der Insel Malta. _ Ein Beitrag zurGeschichte der antiken Religion. Leipzig, 1902. 

(27) Loisy, Alfred. _Les mystères païens et le mystère chrétien. _ Paris, 1919. 

(28) Lummis, Charles F. _The Land of Poco Tiempo. _ Chap. Iv, "ThePenitent Brothers, " pp. 77-108. New York, 1893. 

(29) "Los Hermanos Penitentes, " _El Palacio_, VIII (1920), 3-20, 73-74. 

III. THE CROWD AND THE PUBLIC

A. _The Crowd_

(1) Le Bon, Gustave. _The Crowd. _ A study of the popular mind. London, 1920. 

(2) Tarde, G. _L'Opinion et la foule. _ Paris, 1901. 

(3) Sighele, S. _Psychologie des Aulaufs und der Massenverbrechen. _Translated from the Italian by Hans Kurella. Leipzig, 1897. 

(4) ----. _La foule criminelle. _ Essai de psychologie collective. 2ded. , entièrement refondue. Paris, 1901. 

(5) Tarde, Gabriel. "Foules et sectes au point de vue criminel, " _Revuedes deux mondes_, CXX (1893), 349-87. 

(6) Miceli, V. "La Psicologia della folla, " _Rivista italiana disociologia_, III (1899), 166-95. 

(7) Conway, M. _The Crowd in Peace and War. _ New York, 1915. 

(8) Martin, E. D. _The Behavior of Crowds. _ New York, 1920. 

(9) Christensen, A. _Politics and Crowd-Morality. _ New York, 1915. 

(10) Park, R. E. _Masse und Publikum. _ Bern, 1904. 

(11) Clark, H. "The Crowd. " "University of Illinois Studies. "_Psychological Monograph_, No. 92, XXI (1916), 26-36. 

(12) Tawney, G. A. "The Nature of Crowds, " _Psychological Bulletin_, II(1905), 329-33. 

(13) Rossi, P. _Le suggesteur et la foule, psychologie du meneur. _Paris, 1904. 

(14) ----. _I suggestionatori e la folla. _ Torino, 1902. 

(15) ----. "Dell'Attenzione collettiva e sociale, " _Manicomio_, XXI(1905), 248 ff. 

B. _Political Psychology_

(1) Beecher, Franklin A. "National Politics in Its PsychologicalAspect, " _Open Court_, XXXIII (1919), 653-61. 

(2) Boutmy, Émile. _The English People. _ A study of their politicalpsychology. London, 1904. 

(3) Palanti, G. "L'Esprit de corps. (Remarques sociologiques. )" _Revuephilosophique_, XLVIII (1899), 135-45. 

(4) Gardner, Chas. S. "Assemblies, " _American Journal of Sociology_, XIX(1914), 531-55. 

(5) Bentham, Jeremy. _Essay on Political Tactics. _ Containing six of theprincipal rules proper to be observed by a political assembly, in theprocess of forming a decision: with the reasons on which they aregrounded; and a comparative application of them to British and Frenchpractice. London, 1791. 

(6) Tönnies, Ferdinand. "Die grosse Menge und das Volk, " _SchmollersJahrbuch_, XLIV (1920), 317-45. [Criticism of Le Bon's conception of thecrowd. ]

(7) Botsford, George W. _The Roman Assemblies. _ From their origin to theend of the Republic. New York, 1909. 

(8) Crothers, T. D. "A Medical Study of the Jury System, " _PopularScience Monthly_, XLVII (1895), 375-82. 

(9) Coleman, Charles T. "Origin and Development of Trial by Jury, "_Virginia Law Review_, VI (1919-20), 77-86. 

C. _Collective Psychology in General_

(1) Rossi, P. _Sociologia e psicologia collettiva. _ 2d ed. Roma, 1909. 

(2) Straticò, A. _La Psicologia collettiva. _ Palermo, 1905. 

(3) Worms, René. "Psychologie collective et psychologie individuelle, "_Revue international de sociologie_, VII (1899), 249-74. 

(4) Brönner, W. "Zur Theorie der kollektiv-psychischen Erscheinungen, "_Zeitschrift für Philosophie und philosophische Kritik_, CXLI (1911), 1-40. 

(5) Newell, W. W. "Individual and Collective Characteristics inFolk-Lore, " _Journal of American Folk-Lore_, XIX (1906), 1-15. 

(6) Campeano, M. _Essai de psychologie militaire individuelle etcollective. _ Avec une préface de M. Th. Ribot. Paris, 1902. 

(7) Hartenberg, P. "Les émotions de Bourse. (Notes de psychologiecollective). " _Revue philosophique_, LVIII (1904), 163-70. 

(8) Scalinger, G. M. _La Psicologia a teatro. _ Napoli, 1896. 

(9) Burckhard, M. "Das Theater. " Die Gesellschaft. _SammlungSozial-Psychologische Monographien_, 18. Frankfurt-am-Main, 1907. 

(10) Woolbert, C. H. "The Audience. " "University of Illinois Studies. "_Psychological Monograph_, No. 92, XXI (1916), 36-54. 

(11) Howard, G. E. "Social Psychology of the Spectator, " _AmericanJournal of Sociology_, XVIII (1912), 33-50. 

(12) Peterson, J. "The Functioning of Ideas in Social Groups, "_Psychological Review_, XXV (1918), 214-26. 

IV. MASS MOVEMENTS

(1) Bryce, James. "Migrations of the Races of Men ConsideredHistorically, " _Contemporary Review_, LXII (1892), 128-49. 

(2) Mason, Otis T. "Migration and the Food Quest: A Study in thePeopling of America, " _American Anthropologist_, VII (1894), 275-92. 

(3) Pflugk-Harttung, Julius von. _The Great Migrations. _ Translated fromthe German by John Henry Wright. Philadelphia, 1905. 

(4) Bradley, Henry. _The Story of the Goths. _ From the earliest times tothe end of the Gothic dominion in Spain. New York, 1888. 

(5) Jordanes. _The Origin and Deeds of the Goths. _ English version byCharles C. Mierow. Princeton, 1908. 

(6) Archer, T. A. , and Kingsford, C. L. _The Crusades. _ New York, 1894. 

(7) Ireland, W. W. "On the Psychology of the Crusades, " _Journal ofMental Science_, LII (1906), 745-55; LIII (1907), 322-41. 

(8) Groves, E. R. "Psychic Causes of Rural Migration, " _American Journalof Sociology_, XXI (1916), 623-27. 

(9) Woodson, Carter G. _A Century of Negro Migrations. _ Washington, 1918. [Bibliography. ]

(10) Fleming, Walter L. "'Pap' Singleton, the Moses of the ColoredExodus, " _American Journal of Sociology_, XV (1909-10), 61-82. 

(11) Bancroft, H. H. _History of California. _ Vol. VI, 1848-59. Chaps. Ii-ix, pp. 26-163. San Francisco, 1888. [The discovery of gold inCalifornia. ]

(12) Down, T. C. "The Rush to the Klondike, " _Cornhill Magazine_, IV(1898), 33-43. 

(13) Ziegler, T. _Die geistigen und socialen Strömungen des neunzehntenJahrhunderts. _ Berlin, 1899. 

(14) Zeeb, Frieda B. "Mobility of the German Woman, " _American Journalof Sociology_, XXI (1915-16), 234-62. 

(15) Anthony, Katharine S. _Feminism in Germany and Scandinavia. _ NewYork, 1915. [Bibliography. ]

(16) Croly, Jane (Mrs. ). _The History of the Woman's Club Movement inAmerica. _ New York, 1898. 

(17) Taft, Jessie. _The Woman Movement from the Point of View of SocialConsciousness. _ Chicago, 1916. 

(18) Harnack, Adolf. _The Mission and Expansion of Christianity in theFirst Three Centuries. _ Translated from the 2d rev. German ed. By JamesMoffatt. New York, 1908. 

(19) Buck, S. J. _The Agrarian Crusade. _ A chronicle of the farmer inpolitics. New Haven, 1920. 

(20) _Labor Movement. _ The last six volumes of _The Documentary Historyof American Industrial Society_. Vols. V-VI, 1820-40, by John R. Commonsand Helen L. Sumner; Vols. VII-VIII, 1840-60, by John R. Commons; Vols. IX-X, 1860-80, by John R. Commons and John B. Andrews. Cleveland, 1910. 

(21) Begbie, Harold. _The Life of General William Booth. _ The Founder ofthe Salvation Army. 2 vols. New York, 1920. 

(22) Wittenmyer, Annie (Mrs. ). _History of the Women's TemperanceCrusade. _ A complete official history of the wonderful uprising of theChristian women of the United States against the liquor traffic whichculminated in the Gospel Temperance Movement. Introduction by Frances E. Willard. Philadelphia, 1878. 

(23) Gordon, Ernest. _The Anti-alcohol Movement in Europe. _ New York, 1913. 

(24) Cherrington, Ernest H. _The Evolution of Prohibition in the UnitedStates of America. _ A chronological history of the liquor problem andthe temperance reform in the United States from the earliest settlementsto the consummation of national prohibition. Westerville, Ohio, 1920. 

(25) Woods, Robert A. _English Social Movements. _ New York, 1891. 

(26) Zimand, Savel. _Modern Social Movements. _ Descriptive summaries andbibliographies. New York, 1921. 

V. REVIVALS, RELIGIOUS AND LINGUISTIC

A. _Religious Revivals and the Origin of Sects_

(1) Meader, John R. Article on "Religious Sects, " _EncyclopediaAmericana_, XXIII, 355-61. [List of nearly 300 denominations and sects. ]

(2) Articles on "sects, " _Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics_, XI, 307-47. [The subject and author of the different articles are "Sects(Buddhist), " T. W. Rhys Davids; "Sects (Chinese), " T. Richard; "Sects(Christian), " W. T. Whitley; "Sects (Hindu), " W. Crooke; "Sects(Jewish), " I. Abrahams; "Sects (Russian), " K. Grass and A. VonStromberg; "Sects (Samaritan), " N. Schmidt; "Sects (Zoroastrian), " E. Edwards. Bibliographies. ]

(3) United States Bureau of the Census. _Religious Bodies, 1906. _ 2vols. Washington, 1910. 

(4) ----. _Religious Bodies, 1916. _ 2 vols. Washington, 1919. 

(5) Davenport, Frederick M. _Primitive Traits in Religious Revivals. _ Astudy in mental and social evolution. New York, 1905. 

(6) Mooney, James. "The Ghost-Dance Religion and the Sioux Outbreak of1890. " _14th Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology_(1892-93), 653-1136. 

(7) Stalker, James. Article on "Revivals of Religion, " _Encyclopaedia ofReligion and Ethics_, X, 753-57. [Bibliography. ]

(8) Burns, J. _Revivals, Their Laws and Leaders. _ London, 1909. 

(9) Tracy, J. _The Great Awakening. _ A history of the revival ofreligion in the time of Edwards and Whitefield. Boston, 1842. 

(10) Finney, C. G. _Autobiography. _ London, 1892. 

(11) Hayes, Samuel P. "An Historical Study of the Edwardean Revivals, "_American Journal of Psychology_, XIII (1902), 550-74. 

(12) Maxon, C. H. _The Great Awakening in the Middle Colonies. _ Chicago, 1920. [Bibliography. ]

(13) Gibson, William. _Year of Grace. _ Edinburgh, 1860. [Irish revival, 1859. ]

(14) Moody, W. R. _The Life of Dwight L. Moody. _ New York, 1900. 

(15) Bois, Henri. _Le Réveil au pays de Galles. _ Paris, 1906. [Welshrevival of 1904-6. ]

(16) ----. _Quelques réflexions sur la psychologie des réveils. _ Paris, 1906. 

(17) Cartwright, Peter. _Autobiography of Peter Cartwright, theBackwoods Preacher. _ Cincinnati, 1859. 

(18) MacLean, J. P. "The Kentucky Revival and Its Influence on the MiamiValley, " _Ohio Archaeological and Historical Publications_, XII (1903), 242-86. [Bibliography. ]

(19) Cleveland, Catharine C. _The Great Revival in the West, 1797-1805. _Chicago, 1916. [Bibliography. ]

(20) Rogers, James B. _The Cane Ridge Meeting-House. _ To which isappended the autobiography of B. W. Stone. Cincinnati, 1910. 

(21) Stchoukine, Ivan. _Le Suicide collectif dans le Raskol russe. _Paris, 1903. 

(22) Bussell, F. W. _Religious Thought and Heresy in the Middle Ages. _London, 1918. 

(23) Egli, Emil. _Die Züricher Wiedertäufer zur Reformationszeit. _Zürich, 1878. 

(24) Bax, Ernest Belfort. _Rise and Fall of the Anabaptists. _ New York, 1903. 

(25) Schechter, S. _Documents of Jewish Sectaries. _ 2 vols. Cambridge, 1910. 

(26) Graetz, H. _History of the Jews. _ 6 vols. Philadelphia, 1891-98. 

(27) Jost, M. _Geschichte des Judenthums und seiner Sekten. _ 3 vols. Leipzig, 1857-59. 

(28) Farquhar, J. N. _Modern Religious Movements in India. _ New York, 1915. 

(29) Selbie, W. B. _English Sects. _ A history of non-conformity. HomeUniversity Library. New York, 1912. 

(30) Barclay, Robert. _The Inner Life of the Religious Societies of theCommonwealth. _ London, 1876. [Bibliography. ]

(31) Jones, Rufus M. _Studies in Mystical Religion. _ London, 1909. 

(32) Braithwaite, W. C. _Beginnings of Quakerism. _ London, 1912. 

(33) Jones, Rufus M. _The Quakers in the American Colonies. _ London, 1911. 

(34) Evans, F. W. _Shakers. _ Compendium of the origin, history, principles, rules and regulations, government, and doctrines of theUnited Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing. Withbiographies of Ann Lee, William Lee, James Whittaker, J. Hocknell, J. Meacham, and Lucy Wright. New York, 1859. 

(35) Train, J. _The Buchanites from First to Last. _ Edinburgh, 1846. 

(36) Miller, Edward. _The History and Doctrines of Irvingism. _ Or of theso-called Catholic and Apostolic Church. 2 vols. London, 1878. 

(37) Neatby, W. Blair. _A History of the Plymouth Brethren. _ London, 1901. 

(38) Lockwood, George B. _The New Harmony Movement. _ "The Rappites. "Chaps. Ii-iv, pp. 7-42. [Bibliography. ]

(39) James, B. B. _The Labadist Colony of Maryland. _ Baltimore, 1899. 

(40) Dixon, W. H. _Spiritual Wives. _ 2 vols. London, 1868. 

(41) Randall, E. O. _History of the Zoar Society from Its Commencementto Its Conclusion. _ Columbus, 1899. 

(42) Loughborough, J. N. _The Great Second Advent Movement. _ Its riseand progress. Nashville, Tenn. , 1905. [Adventists. ]

(43) Harlan, Rolvix. _John Alexander Dowie and the Christian CatholicApostolic Church in Zion. _ Evansville, Wis. , 1906. 

(44) Smith, Henry C. _Mennonites of America. _ Mennonite PublishingHouse, Scotdale, Pa. , 1909. [Bibliography. ]

(45) La Rue, William. _The Foundations of Mormonism. _ A study of thefundamental facts in the history and doctrines of the Mormons fromoriginal sources. With introduction by Alfred Williams Anthony. NewYork, 1919. [Bibliography. ]

B. _Language Revivals and Nationalism_

(1) Dominian, Leon. _Frontiers of Language and Nationality in Europe. _New York, 1917. 

(2) Bourgoing, P. De. _Les Guerres d'idiome et de nationalité. _ Paris, 1849. 

(3) Meillet, A. "Les Langues et les nationalités, " _Scientia_, XVIII, (1915), 192-201. 

(4) Rhys, John, and Brynmor-Jones, David. _The Welsh People. _ Chap. Xii, "Language and Literature of Wales, " pp. 501-50. London, 1900. 

(5) Dinneen, P. S. _Lectures on the Irish Language Movement. _ Deliveredunder the auspices of various branches of the Gaelic League. London, 1904. 

(6) Montgomery, K. L. "Some Writers of the Celtic Renaissance, "_Fortnightly Review_, XCVI (1911), 545-61. 

(7) ----. "Ireland's Psychology: a Study of Facts, " _FortnightlyReview_, CXII (1919), 572-88. 

(8) Dubois, L. Paul. _Contemporary Ireland. _ With an introduction by T. M. Kettle, M. P. London, 1908. 

(9) _The Teaching of Gaelic in Highland Schools. _ Published under theauspices of the Highland Association. London, 1907. 

(10) Fedortchouk, Y. "La Question des nationalités en Austriche-Hongrie:les Ruthenes de Hongrie, " _Annales des nationalités_, VIII (1915), 52-56. 

(11) Seton-Watson, R. W. [Scotus Viator, _pseud_. ] _Racial Problems inHungary. _ London, 1908. [Bibliography. ]

(12) Samassa, P. "Deutsche und Windische in Sudösterreich, " _DeutscheErde_, II (1903), 39-41. 

(13) Wace, A. J. B. , and Thompson, M. S. _The Nomads of the Balkans. _London, 1914. 

(14) Tabbé, P. _La vivante Roumanie. _ Paris, 1913. 

(15) Louis-Jarau, G. _L'Albanie inconnue. _ Paris, 1913. 

(16) Brancoff, D. M. _La Macédoine et sa population Chrétienne. _ Paris, 1905. 

(17) Fedortchouk, Y. _Memorandum on the Ukrainian Question in ItsNational Aspect. _ London, 1914. 

(18) Vellay, Charles. "L'Irredentisme hellénique, " _La Revue de Paris_, XX (Juillet-Août, 1913), 884-86. 

(19) Sands, B. _The Ukraine. _ London, 1914. 

(20) Auerbach, B. "La Germanization de la Pologne Prussienne. La loid'expropriation, " _Revue Politique et Parlementaire_, LVII (1908), 109-125. 

(21) Bernhard, L. _Das polnische Gemeinwesen im preussischen Staat. _ DiePolenfrage. Leipzig, 1910. 

(22) Henry, R. "La Frontière linguistique en Alsace-Lorraine, " _LesMarches de l'Est_, 1911-1912, pp. 60-71. 

(23) Nitsch, C. "Dialectology of Polish Languages, " _PolishEncyclopaedia_, Vol. III. Cracow, 1915. 

(24) Witte, H. "Wendische Bevölkerungsreste in Mecklenburg, "_Forschungen zur deutschen Landes- und Volkskunde_, XVI (1905), 1-124. 

(25) Kaupas, A. "L'Église et les Lituaniens aux États-Unis d'Amérique, "_Annales des Nationalités_, II (1913), 233 ff. 

(26) Pélissier, Jean. _Les Principaux artisans de la renaissancenationale lituanienne. _ Hommes et choses de Lituanie. Lausanne, 1918. 

(27) Jakstas, A. "Lituaniens et Polonais. " _Annales des nationalités_, VIII (1915), 219 ff. 

(28) Headlam, Cecil. _Provence and Languedoc. _ Chap. V, "FrédéricMistral and the Félibres. " London, 1912. 

(29) Belisle, A. _Histoire de la presse franco-américaine. _ Comprenantl'historique de l'émigration des Canadiens-Français aux États-Unis, leurdéveloppement, et leur progrès. Worcester, Mass. , 1911. 

VI. ECONOMIC CRISES

(1) Wirth, M. _Geschichte der Handelskrisen. _ Frankfurt-am-Main, 1890. 

(2) Jones, Edward D. _Economic Crises. _ New York, 1900. 

(3) Gibson, Thomas. _The Cycles of Speculation. _ 2d ed. New York, 1909. 

(4) Bellet, Daniel. _Crises économique. _ Crises commerciales. Crises deguerre. Leur caractères, leur indices, leurs effects. Paris, 1918. 

(5) Clough, H. W. "Synchronous Variations in Solar and TerrestrialPhenomena, " _Astrophysical Journal_, XXII (1905), 42-75. 

(6) Clayton, H. H. "Influence of Rainfall on Commerce and Politics, "_Popular Science Monthly_, LX (1901-2), 158-65. 

(7) Mitchell, Wesley C. _Business Cycles. _ Berkeley, Cal. , 1913. 

(8) Moore, Henry L. _Economic Cycles: Their Law and Cause. _ New York, 1914. 

(9) Hurry, Jamieson B. _Vicious Circles in Sociology and TheirTreatment. _ London, 1915. 

(10) Thiers, Adolphe. _The Mississippi Bubble. _ A memoir of John Law. Towhich are added authentic accounts of the Darien expedition and theSouth Sea scheme. Translated from the French by F. S. Fiske. New York, 1859. 

(11) Wiston-Glynn, A. W. _John Law of Lauriston. _ Financier andstatesman, founder of the Bank of France, originator of the Mississippischeme, etc. London, 1907. 

(12) Mackay, Charles. _Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions andthe Madness of Crowds. _ 2 vols. In one. London, 1859. [Vol. I, theMississippi scheme, the South Sea bubble, the tulipomania, thealchymists, modern prophecies, fortune-telling, the magnetisers, influence of politics and religion on the hair and beard. Vol. II, thecrusades, the witch mania, the slow prisoners, haunted houses, popularfollies of great cities, popular admiration of great thieves, duels andordeals, relics. ]

VII. FASHION, REFORM, AND REVOLUTION

A. _Fashion_

(1) Spencer, Herbert. _Principles of Sociology. _ Part IV, chap. Xi, "Fashion, " II, 205-10. London, 1893. 

(2) Tarde, Gabriel. _Laws of Imitation. _ Translated from the 2d Frenched. By Elsie Clews Parsons. Chap. Vii, "Custom and Fashion, " pp. 244-365. New York, 1903. 

(3) Simmel, G. _Philosophie der Mode. _ Berlin, 1905. 

(4) ----. "The Attraction of Fashion, " _International Quarterly_, X(1904), 130-55. 

(5) Sumner, W. G. _Folkways. _ "Fashion, " pp. 184-220. Boston, 1906. 

(6) Sombart, Werner. "Wirtschaft und Mode, " _Grenzfragen des Nerven- undSeelenlebens. _ Wiesbaden, 1902. 

(7) Clerget, Pierre. "The Economic and Social Rôle of Fashion. " _AnnualReport of the Smithsonian Institution_, 1913, pp. 755-65. Washington, 1914. 

(8) Squillace, Fausto. _La Moda. _ L'abito è l'uomo. Milano, 1912. 

(9) Shaler, N. S. "The Law of Fashion, " _Atlantic Monthly_, LXI (1888), 386-98. 

(10) Patrick, G. T. W. "The Psychology of Crazes, " _Popular ScienceMonthly_, LVII (1900), 285-94. 

(11) Linton, E. L. "The Tyranny of Fashion, " _Forum_ III (1887), 59-68. 

(12) Bigg, Ada H. "What is 'Fashion'?" _Nineteenth Century_, XXXIII(1893), 235-48. 

(13) Foley, Caroline A. "Fashion, " _Economic Journal_, III (1893), 458-74. 

(14) Aria, E. "Fashion, Its Survivals and Revivals, " _FortnightlyReview_, CIV (1915), 930-37. 

(15) Thomas, W. I. "The Psychology of Woman's Dress, " _AmericanMagazine_, LXVII (1908-9), 66-72. 

(16) Schurtz, Heinrich. _Grundzüge einer Philosophie der Tracht. _Stuttgart, 1871. 

(17) Wechsler, Alfred. _Psychologie der Mode. _ Berlin, 1904. 

(18) Stratz, Carl H. _Die Frauenkleidung und ihre natürlicheEntwicklung. _ Stuttgart, 1904. 

(19) Holmes, William H. "Origin and Development of Form and Ornament inCeramic Art, " _Fourth Annual Report of the U. S. Bureau of AmericanEthnology, 1882-83_, pp. 437-65. Washington, 1886. 

(20) Kroeber, A. L. "On the Principle of Order in Civilization asExemplified by Changes of Fashion, " _American Anthropologist_, N. S. , XXI(1919), 235-63. 

B. _Reform_

(1) Sumner, W. G. _Folkways. _ "Reform and Revolution, " pp. 86-95. Boston, 1906. 

(2) Patrick, G. T. W. _The Psychology of Social Reconstruction. _ Chaps. I-ii, "Psychological Factors in Social Reconstruction, " pp. 27-118. Boston, 1920. 

(3) Jevons, William S. _Methods of Social Reform. _ And other papers. London, 1883. 

(4) Pearson, Karl. _Social Problems. _ Their treatment, past, present, and future. London, 1912. 

(5) Mallock, W. H. _Social Reform as Related to Realities andDelusions. _ An examination of the increase and distribution of wealthfrom 1801 to 1910. New York, 1915. 

(6) Matthews, Brander. "Reform and Reformers, " _North American_, CLXXXIII (1906), 461-73. 

(7) Miller, J. D. "Futilities of Reformers, " _Arena_, XXVI (1901), 481-89. 

(8) Lippmann, Walter. _A Preface to Politics. _ Chap. V, "Well Meaningbut Unmeaning: The Chicago Vice Report, " pp. 122-58. New York, 1913. 

(9) Stanton, Henry B. _Sketches of Reforms and Reformers, of GreatBritain and Ireland. _ 2d rev. Ed. New York, 1850. 

(10) Stoughton, John. _William Wilberforce. _ London, 1880. 

(11) Field, J. _The Life of John Howard. _ With comments on his characterand philanthropic labours. London, 1850. 

(12) Hodder, Edwin. _The Seventh Earl of Shaftesbury, K. G. , as SocialReformer. _ New York, 1898. 

(13) Atkinson, Charles M. _Jeremy Bentham, His Life and Work. _ London, 1905. 

(14) Morley, John. _The Life of Richard Cobden. _ Boston, 1890. 

(15) Bartlett, David W. _Modern Agitators. _ Or pen portraits of livingAmerican reformers. New York, 1855. 

(16) Greeley, Horace. _Hints toward Reforms. _ In lectures, addresses, and other writing. New York, 1850. 

(17) Austin, George L. _The Life and Times of Wendell Phillips. _ New ed. Boston, 1901. 

(18) Hill, Georgiana. _Women in English Life. _ From medieval to moderntimes. Period III, chap. V, "The Philanthropists, " Vol. II, pp. 59-74;Period IV, chap. Xi, "The Modern Humanitarian Movement, " Vol. II, pp. 227-36. 2 vols. London, 1896. 

(19) Yonge, Charlotte M. _Hannah More. _ Famous women. Boston, 1888. 

(20) Besant, Annie. _An Autobiography. _ 2d ed. London, 1908. 

(21) Harper, Ida H. _The Life and Work of Susan B. Anthony. _ Includingpublic addresses, her own lectures and many from her contemporariesduring fifty years. A story of the evolution of the status of woman. 3vols. Indianapolis, 1898-1908. 

(22) Whiting, Lilian. _Women Who Have Ennobled Life. _ Philadelphia, 1915. 

(23) Willard, Frances E. _Woman and Temperance. _ Or the work and workersof the Woman's Christian Temperance Union. 3d ed. Hartford, Conn. , 1883. 

(24) Gordon, Anna A. _The Beautiful Life of Frances E. Willard. _ Amemorial volume. Introduction by Lady Henry Somerset. Chicago, 1898. 

C. _Revolution_

(1) Le Bon, Gustave. _The Psychology of Revolution. _ Translated from theFrench by Bernard Miall. New York, 1913. 

(2) Petrie, W. M. F. _The Revolutions of Civilisation. _ London, 1912. 

(3) Hyndman, Henry M. _The Evolution of Revolution. _ London, 1920. 

(4) Adams, Brooks. _The Theory of Social Revolutions. _ New York, 1913. 

(5) Landauer, G. _Die Revolution. _ "Die Gesellschaft, Sammlungsozial-psychologischer Monographien. " Frankfurt-am-Main, 1907. 

(6) Thomas, W. I. _Source Book for Social Origins. _ "Crisis andControl, " pp. 13-22. Chicago, 1909. 

(7) Ellwood, Charles A. "A Psychological Theory of Revolutions, "_American Journal of Sociology_, XI (1905-6), 49-59. 

(8) ----. _Introduction to Social Psychology. _ Chap. Viii, "SocialChange under Abnormal Conditions, " pp. 170-87. New York, 1917. 

(9) King, Irving. "The Influence of the Form of Social Change upon theEmotional Life of a People, " _American Journal of Sociology_, IX(1903-4), 124-35. 

(10) Toynbee, Arnold. _Lectures on the Industrial Revolution of theEighteenth Century in England. _ New ed. London, 1908. 

(11) Knowles, L. C. A. _The Industrial and Commercial Revolutions inGreat Britain during the Nineteenth Century. _ London, 1921. 

(12) Taine, H. A. _The French Revolution. _ Translated from the French byJohn Durand. 3 vols. New York, 1878-85. 

(13) Olgin, Moissaye J. _The Soul of the Russian Revolution. _Introduction by Vladimir G. Simkhovitch. New York, 1917. 

(14) Spargo, John. _The Psychology of Bolshevism. _ New York, 1919. 

(15) Khoras, P. "La Psychologie de la révolution chinoise, " _Revue desdeux mondes_, VIII (1912), 295-331. 

(16) Le Bon, Gustave. _The World in Revolt. _ A psychological study ofour times. Translated from the French by Bernard Miall. New York, 1921. 

(17) Lombroso, Cesare. _Le Crime politique et les révolutions parrapport au droit, à l'anthropologie criminelle et à science dugouvernement. _ Translated by A. Bouchard. Paris, 1912. 

(18) Prince, Samuel H. _Catastrophe and Social Change. _ Based upon asociological study of the Halifax disaster. "Columbia University Studiesin Political Science. " New York, 1920. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. Collective Behavior and Social Control

2. Unrest in the Person and Unrest in the Group

3. The Agitator as a Type of the Restless Person

4. A Study of Adolescent Unrest: the Runaway Boy and the Girl Who GoesWrong

5. A Comparison of Physical Epidemics with Social Contagion

6. Case Studies of Psychic Epidemics: the Mississippi Bubble, GoldFever, War-Time Psychosis, the Dancing Mania in Modern Times, etc. 

7. Propaganda as Social Contagion: an Analysis of a Selected Case

8. A Description and Interpretation of Crowd Behavior: the Orgy, theCult, the Mob, the Organized Crowd

9. The "Animal" Crowd: the Flock, the Herd, the Pack

10. A Description of Crowd Behavior on Armistice Day

11. The Criminal Crowd

12. The Jury, the Congenial Group, the Committee, the Legislature, theMass Meeting, etc. , as Types of Collective Behavior

13. Crowd Excitements and Mass Movements

14. A Study of Mass Migrations: the Barbarian Invasions, the Settlementof Oklahoma, the Migrations of the Mennonnites, the Treks of the Boers, the Rise of Mohammedanism, the Mormon Migrations, etc. 

15. Crusades and Reforms: the Crusades, the Abolition Movement, Prohibition, the Woman's Temperance Crusades, Moving-Picture Censorship, etc. 

16. Fashions, Revivals, and Revolutions

17. The Social Laws of Fashions

18. Linguistic Revivals and the Nationalist Movements

19. Religious Revivals and the Origin of Sects

20. Social Unrest, Social Movements, and Changes in Mores andInstitutions

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. What do you understand by collective behavior?

2. Interpret the incident in a Lancashire cotton factory in terms ofsympathy, imitation, and suggestion. 

3. What simple forms of social contagion have you observed?

4. In what sense may the dancing mania of the Middle Ages be compared toan epidemic?

5. Why may propaganda be interpreted as social contagion? Describe aconcrete instance of propaganda and analyze its _modus operandi_. 

6. What are the differences in behavior of the flock, the pack, and theherd?

7. Is it accurate to speak of these animal groups as "crowds"?

8. What do you understand Le Bon to mean by "the mental unity ofcrowds"?

9. Describe and analyze the behavior of crowds which you have observed. 

10. "The crowd is always intellectually inferior to the isolatedindividual. " "The crowd may be better or worse than the individual. " Arethese statements consistent? Elaborate your position. 

11. In what sense may we speak of sects, castes, and classes as crowds?

12. What do you mean by a social movement?

13. What is the significance of a movement?

14. Why is movement to be regarded as the fundamental form of freedom?

15. How does crowd excitement lead to mass movements?

16. What were the differences in the characteristics of mass movementsin the Klondike Rush, the Woman's Crusade, Methodism, and bolshevism?

17. What are the causes of social unrest?

18. What is the relation of social unrest to social organization?

19. How does Le Bon explain the mental anarchy at the time of the FrenchRevolution?

20. What was the nature of this mental anarchy in the different socialclasses? Are revolutions always preceded by mental anarchy?

21. What was the relative importance of belief and of reason in theFrench Revolution?

22. What are the likenesses and differences between the origin anddevelopment of bolshevism and of the French Revolution?

23. Do you agree with Spargo's interpretation of the psychology (a) ofthe intellectual Bolshevists, and (b) of the I. W. W. ?

24. Are mass movements organizing or disorganizing factors in society?Illustrate by reference to Methodism, the French Revolution, andbolshevism. 

25. Under what conditions will a mass movement (a) become organized, and (b) become an institution?

FOOTNOTES:

[280] W. G. Sumner, _Folkways_. A study of the sociological importanceof usages, manners, customs, mores, and morals, pp. 12-13. (Boston, 1906. )

[281] Scipio Sighele, in a note to the French edition of his _Psychologyof Sects_, claims that his volume, _La Folla delinquente_, of which thesecond edition was published at Turin in 1895, and his article"Physiologie du succès, " in the _Revue des Revues_, October 1, 1894, were the first attempts to describe the crowd from the point of view ofcollective psychology. Le Bon published two articles, "Psychologie desfoules" in the _Revue scientifique_, April 6 and 20, 1895. These werelater gathered together in his volume _Psychologie des foules_, Paris, 1895. See Sighele _Psychologie des sectes_, pp. 25, 39. 

[282] Gustave Le Bon, _The Crowd_. A study of the popular mind, p. 19. (New York, 1900. )

[283] _Ibid. _, p. 83. 

[284] _L'Opinion et la foule_, pp. 6-7. (Paris, 1901. )

[285] _The Crowd_, p. 41. 

[286] Sidney L. Hinde, _The Fall of the Congo Arabs_, p. 147. (London, 1897. ) Describing a characteristic incident in one of the strangeconfused battles Hinde says: "Wordy war, which also raged, had even moreeffect than our rifles. Mahomedi and Sefu led the Arabs, who werejeering and taunting Lutete's people, saying that they were in a badcase, and had better desert the white man, who was ignorant of the factthat Mohara with all the forces of Nyange was camped in his rear. Lutete's people replied: 'Oh, we know all about Mohara; we ate him theday before yesterday. '" This news became all the more depressing when itturned out to be true. See also Hirn, _The Origins of Art_, p. 269, foran explanation of the rôle of threats and boastings in savage warfare. 

[287] Robert E. Park and Herbert A. Miller, _Old World TraitsTransplanted_. Document 23, pp. 32-33. (New York, 1921. )

[288] Yrjö Hirn, _The Origins of Art_. A psychological and sociologicalinquiry, p. 87. (London, 1900. )

[289] _Ibid. _, p. 89. 

[290] Le Bon, _op. Cit. _, p. 82. 

[291] _Ibid. _, p. 82. 

[292] Scipio Sighele, _Psychologie des sectes_, p. 46. (Paris, 1898. )

[293] W. E. H. Lecky, _History of the Rise and Influence of the Spiritof Rationalism in Europe. _ 2 vols. (Vol. I. ) (New York, 1866. )

[294] See Gabriel Tarde, _Laws of Imitation. _

[295] J. F. C. Hecker, _Die Tanzwuth, eine Volkskrankheit imMittelalter. _ (Berlin, 1832. ) See Introduction of _The Black Death andthe Dancing Mania_. Translated from the German by B. G. Babington. Cassell's National Library. (New York, 1888. )

[296] Le Bon, _op. Cit. _, p. 26. 

[297] Vernon Lee [pseud. ], _Vital Lies. _ Studies of some varieties ofrecent obscurantism. (London, 1912. )

[298] Taken from _Gentleman's Magazine_, March, 1787, p. 268. 

[299] Adapted from J. F. C. Hecker, _The Black Death, and the DancingMania_, pp. 106-11. (Cassell & Co. , 1888. )

[300] From Mary Austin, _The Flock_, pp. 110-29. (Houghton Mifflin Co. , 1906. )

[301] From W. H. Hudson, "The Strange Instincts of Cattle, " in_Longman's Magazine_, XVIII (1891), 389-91. 

[302] From Ernest Thompson Seton, "The Habits of Wolves, " in _TheAmerican Magazine_, LXIV (1907), 636. 

[303] Adapted from Gustave Le Bon, _The Crowd_, pp. 1-14. (T. FisherUnwin, 1897. )

[304] From Robert E. Park, _The Crowd and the Public_. (Unpublishedmanuscript. )

[305] Moll, _Hypnotism_, pp. 134-36. 

[306] Sighele, _Psychologie des Auflaufs und der Massenverbrechen_(translated from the Italian), p. 79. 

[307] Durkheim, _The Elementary Forms of Religious Life_, pp. 432-37. 

[308] Adapted from T. C. Down, "The Rush to the Klondike, " in the_Cornhill Magazine_, IV (1898), 33-43. 

[309] Adapted from Mrs. Annie Wittenmyer, _History of the Woman'sTemperance Crusade_ (1878), pp. 34-62. 

[310] Adapted from Gustave Le Bon, _The Psychology of Revolution_, pp. 147-70. (G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1913. )

[311] Adapted from John Spargo, _The Psychology of Bolshevism_, pp. 1-120. (Harper & Brothers, 1919. )

[312] Adapted from William E. H. Lecky, _A History of England in theEighteenth Century_, III, 33-101. (D. Appleton & Co. , 1892. )

[313 1] _Supra_, pp. 652-53; 657-58. 

[314] Otto Stoll, _Suggestion und Hypnotismus in der Völkerpsychologie_. 2d ed. (Leipzig, 1904. )

[315] Robert E. Park, _Immigrant Press and Its Control_, chap. Ii, "Background of the Immigrant Press. " (New York, 1921. In press. )

[316] _Ibid. _

[317] Anton H. Hollman, _Die dänische Volkshochschule und ihre Bedeutungfür die Entwicklung einer völkischen Kultur in Dänemark_. (Berlin, 1909. )

[318] H. G. Wells, _The Salvaging of Civilization_, chaps. Iv-v, "TheBible of Civilization, " pp. 97-140. (New York, 1921. )

[319] See _The Immigrant Press and Its Control_, chap. Ii, for atranslation of Dr. Kudirka's so-called "Confession. "

[320] Gabriel Tarde, _The Laws of Imitation_. Translated from the 2dFrench ed. By Elsie Clews Parsons, p. 247. (New York, 1903. )

[321] Sumner, _Folkways_, pp. 200-201. 

CHAPTER XIV

PROGRESS

I. INTRODUCTION

1. Popular Conceptions of Progress

It seems incredible that there should have been a time when mankind hadno conception of progress. Ever since men first consciously united theircommon efforts to improve and conserve their common life, it would seemthere must have been some recognition that life had not always been asthey found it and that it could not be in the future what it then was. Nevertheless, it has been said that the notion of progress was unknownin the oriental world, that the opposite conception of deteriorationpervaded all ancient Asiatic thought. In India the prevailing notion wasthat of vast cycles of time "through which the universe and itsinhabitants must pass from perfection to destruction, from strength andinnocence to weakness and depravity until a new mahá-yuga begins. "[322]

The Greeks conceived the course of history in various ways, as progressand as deterioration, but in general they thought of it as a cycle. Thefirst clear description of the history of mankind as a progression byvarious stages, from a condition of primitive savagery to civilization, is in Lucretius' great poem _De Rerum Natura_. But Lucretius does notconceive this progress will continue. On the contrary he recognizes thatthe world has grown old and already shows signs of decrepitude whichforeshadow its ultimate destruction. 

It is only in comparatively recent times that the world has sought todefine progress philosophically, as part of the cosmic process, and hasthought of it abstractly as something to be desired for its own sake. Today the word progress is in everyone's mouth; still there is nogeneral agreement as to what progress is, and particularly in recentyears, with all the commonly accepted evidences of progress about them, skeptics have appeared, who, like the farmer who saw for the first timea camel with two humps, insisted "there's no such animal. "

The reason there is no general understanding in regard to the meaning ofprogress, as it has been defined by the philosophers, is not becausethere is no progress in detail, but because the conception of progressin general involves a balancing of the goods against the ills of life. It raises the question whether the gains which society makes as a wholeare compensation for the individual defeats and losses which progressinevitably involves. One reason why we believe in progress, perhaps, isthat history is invariably written by the survivors. 

In certain aspects and with people of a certain temperament, what weordinarily call progress, considering what it costs, will always seem avery dubious matter. William Ralph Inge, Dean of St. Paul's Cathedral, London, seems to be the most eminent modern example of the skeptic. 

 Human nature has not been changed by civilization. It has neither been leveled up nor leveled down, to an average mediocrity. Beneath the dingy uniformity of international fashions in dress, man remains what he has always been--a splendid fighting animal, a self-sacrificing hero, and a bloodthirsty savage. Human nature is at once sublime and horrible, holy and satanic. Apart from the accumulation of knowledge and experience, which are external and precarious acquisitions, there is no proof that we have changed much since the first stone age. [323]

It must be remembered in this connection that progress, in so far as itmakes the world more comfortable, makes it more complicated. Every newmechanical device, every advance in business organization or in science, which makes the world more tolerable for most of us, makes it impossiblefor others. Not all the world is able to keep pace with the generalprogress of the world. Most of the primitive races have beenexterminated by the advance of civilization, and it is still uncertainwhere, and upon what terms, the civilized man will let the remnant ofthe primitive peoples live. 

It has been estimated that, in the complicated life of modern cities, atleast one-tenth of the population is not competent to maintain anindependent, economic existence, but requires an increasing amount ofcare and assistance from the other nine-tenths. [324] To the inferior, incompetent, and unfortunate, unable to keep pace with progress, themore rapid advance of the world means disease, despair, and death. Inmedicine and surgery alone does progress seem wholly beneficent, but theeugenists are even now warning us that our indiscriminate efforts toprotect the weak and preserve the incompetent are increasing the burdensof the superior and competent, who are alone fit to live. 

On the other hand, every new invention is a response to some specificneed. Every new form of social control is intended to correct someexisting evil. So far as they are successful they represent progress. Progress in the concrete has reference to recognized social values. Values, as Cooley points out, have no meaning except with reference toan organism. 

 "The organism is necessary to give meaning to the idea [value]; there must be worth _to_ something. It need not be a person; a group, an institution, a doctrine, any organized form of life will do; and that it be conscious of the values that motivates it is not at all essential. "[325]

 Any change or adaptation to an existing environment that makes it easier for a person, group, institution, or other "organized form of life" to live may be said to represent progress. Whether the invention is a new plow or a new six-inch gun we accept it as an evidence of progress if it does the work for which it is intended more efficiently than any previous device. In no region of human life have we made greater progress than in the manufacture of weapons of destruction. 

 Not everyone would be willing to admit that progress in weapons of warfare represents "real" progress. That is because some people do not admit the necessity of war. Once admit that necessity, then every improvement is an evidence of progress, at least in that particular field. It is more easy to recognize progress in those matters where there is no conflict in regard to the social values. The following excerpt from Charles Zueblin's preface to his book on American progress is a concrete indication of what students of society usually recognize as progress. 

 Already this century has witnessed the first municipalized street railways and telephones in American cities; a national epidemic of street paving and cleaning; the quadrupling of electric lighting service and the national appropriation of display lighting; a successful crusade against dirt of all kinds--smoke, flies, germs, --and the diffusion of constructive provisions for health like baths, laundries, comfort stations, milk stations, school nurses and open air schools; fire prevention; the humanizing of the police and the advent of the policewomen; the transforming of some municipal courts into institutions for the prevention of crime and the cure of offenders; the elaboration of the school curriculum to give every child a complete education from the kindergarten to the vocational course in school or university or shop; municipal reference libraries; the completion of park systems in most large cities and the acceptance of the principle that the smallest city without a park and playground is not quite civilized; the modern playground movement giving organized and directed play to young and old; the social center; the democratic art museum; municipal theaters; the commission form of government; the city manager; home rule for cities; direct legislation--a greater advance than the whole nineteenth century compassed. [326]

2. The Problem of Progress

Sociology inherited its conception of progress from the philosophy ofhistory. That problem seems to have had its origin in the paradox thatprogress at retail does not insure progress at wholesale. The progressof the community as individuals or in specific directions may, forexample, bring about conditions which mean the eventual destruction ofthe community as a whole. This is what we mean by saying thatcivilizations are born, grow, and decay. We may see the phenomenon inits simplest form in the plant community, where the very growth of thecommunity creates a soil in which the community is no longer able toexist. But the decay and death of one community creates a soil in whichanother community will live and grow. This gives us the interestingphenomenon of what the ecologists call "succession. " So individualsbuild their homes, communities are formed, and eventually there comesinto existence a great city. But the very existence of a great citycreates problems of health, of family life, and social control which didnot exist when men lived in the open, or in villages. Just as the humanbody generates the poisons that eventually destroy it, so the communallife, in the very process of growth and as a result of its efforts tomeet the changes that its growth involves, creates diseases and viceswhich tend to destroy the community. This raises the problem in anotherform. Communities may and do grow old and die, but new communitiesprofiting by the experience of their predecessors are enabled to createsocial organizations, more adequate and better able to resist socialdiseases and corrupting vices. But in order to do this, succeedingcommunities have had to accumulate more experience, exercise moreforethought, employ more special knowledge and a greater division oflabor. In the meantime, life is becoming constantly more complex. Inplace of the simple spontaneous modes of behavior which enable the loweranimals to live without education and without anxiety, men are compelledto supplement original nature with special training and with more andmore elaborate machinery, until life, losing its spontaneity, seems indanger of losing all its joy. 

 Knowledge accumulates apace and its applications threaten the very existence of civilized man. The production of the flying machine represented a considerable advance in mechanical knowledge; but I am unaware of any respect in which human welfare has been increased by its existence; whereas it has not only intensified enormously the horrors of war, and, by furnishing criminal and other undesirable characters with a convenient means of rapid and secret movement, markedly diminished social security, but it threatens, by its inevitable advance in construction, to make any future conflict virtually equivalent to the extermination of civilized man. And the maleficent change in the conditions of human life which the flying machine has produced from the air, the submarine parallels from the depths of the sea; indeed, the perception of this truth has led to the very doubtfully practicable suggestion that the building of submarines be made illegal.... 

 Moreover if life itself is more secure, there is at the present moment a distinct tendency towards a diminution of personal liberty. The increasing control by the state over the conduct and activities of the individual; the management of his children, the details of his diet and the conduct of his ordinary affairs; tend more and more to limit his personal freedom. But the restriction of his liberty amounts to a reduction of his available life just as complete loss of liberty differs little from complete loss of life. [327]

It is this condition which, in spite of progress in details, has raisedin men's minds a question whether there is progress in general, and ifthere is, whether the mass of mankind is better or worse because of it. 

3. History of the Concept of Progress

The great task of mankind has been to create an organization which wouldenable men to realize their wishes. This organization we callcivilization. In achieving this result man has very slowly at first, butmore rapidly in recent times, established his control over externalnature and over himself. He has done this in order that he might remakethe world as he found it more after his own heart. 

But the world which man has thus remade has in turn reacted back uponman and in doing so has made him human. Men build houses to protect themfrom the weather and as places of refuge. In the end these houses havebecome homes, and man has become a domesticated animal, endowed with thesentiments, virtues, and lasting affections that the home inevitablycultivates and maintains. 

Men made for themselves clothing for ornament and for comfort, andmen's, and especially women's, clothes have become so much a part oftheir personalities that without them they cease to be persons and haveno status in human society. Except under very exceptional circumstancesa man who appeared without clothing would be treated as a madman, andhunted like a wild animal. 

Men have built cities for security and for trade, and cities have madenecessary and possible a division of labor and an economic organization. This economic organization, on the other hand, has been the basis of asociety and a social order which imposes standards of conduct andenforces minute regulations of the individual life. Out of theconditions of this common life there has grown a body of general andruling ideas: liberty, equality, democracy, fate, providence, personalimmortality, and progress. 

J. B. Bury, who has written a history of the idea of progress, says thatprogress is "the animating and controlling idea of westerncivilization. " But in defining progress he makes a distinction betweenideas like progress, providence, and fate and ideas like liberty, toleration, and socialism. The latter are approved or condemned becausethey are good or bad. The former are not approved or condemned. They arematters of fact, they are true or false. He says:

 When we say that ideas rule the world, or exercise a decisive power in history, we are generally thinking of those ideas which express human aims and depend for their realisation on the human will, such as liberty, toleration, equality of opportunity, socialism. Some of these have been partly realised, and there is no reason why any of them should not be fully realised, in a society or in the world, if it were the united purpose of a society or of the world to realise it. They are approved or condemned because they are held to be good or bad, not because they are true or false. But there is another order of ideas that play a great part in determining and directing the course of man's conduct but do not depend on his will--ideas which bear upon the mystery of life, such as Fate, Providence, or personal immortality. Such ideas may operate in important ways on the forms of social action, but they involve a question of fact and they are accepted or rejected not because they are believed to be useful or injurious, but because they are believed to be true or false. 

 The idea of the progress of humanity is an idea of this kind, and it is important to be quite clear on the point. [328]

All of the ideas mentioned are of such a general nature, embody so muchof the hopes, the strivings, and the sentiments of the modern world, that they have, or did have until very recently, something of thesanctity and authority of religious dogmas. All are expressions ofwishes, but there is this difference: ideas, like liberty, toleration, etc. , reflect the will of the people who accept them; ideas likeprovidence and progress, on the contrary, represent their hopes. Thequestion of the progress of humanity like that of personal immortalityis, as Bury points out, a question of fact. "It is true or false but itcannot be proved whether true or false. Belief in it is an act offaith. " When we hypostatize our hopes and wishes and treat them asmatters of fact, even though they cannot be proved to be either true orfalse, they assume a form which Sorel describes as myth. The progress ofhumanity, as Herbert Spencer and the other Victorians understood it, issuch a myth. Dean Inge calls it a "superstition" and adds: "To become apopular religion, it is only necessary for a superstition to enslave aphilosophy. The superstition of progress had the singular good fortuneto enslave at least three philosophies--those of Hegel, of Comte, and ofDarwin. "[329]

The conception of progress, if a superstition, is one of recent origin. It was not until the eighteenth century that it gained generalacceptance and became part of what Inge describes as the popularreligion. The conception which it replaced was that of providence. Butthe Greeks and Romans knew nothing of providence. They were under theinfluence of another idea of a different character, the idea, namely, ofnemesis and fate. And before them there were more primitive peoples whohad no conception of man's destiny at all. In a paper, not yetpublished, Ellsworth Faris has sketched the natural history of the ideaof progress and its predecessors and of a new conception, control, thatis perhaps destined to take its place. 

 The idea of progress which has been so influential in modern times is not a very old conception. In its distinctive form it came into existence in the rationalistic period which accompanied the Renaissance. Progress, in this sense, means a theory as to the way in which the whole cosmic process is developing. It is the belief that the world as a whole is growing better through definite stages, and is moving "to one far-off divine event. "

 The stages preceding this idea may be thought of under several heads. The first may be called "cosmic anarchy, " in which we find "primitive people" now living. It is a world of chaos, without meaning, and without purpose. There is no direction in which human life is thought of as developing. Death and misfortune are for the most part due to witchcraft and the evil designs of enemies; good luck and bad luck are the forces which make a rational existence hopeless. 

 Another stage of thinking is that which was found among the Greeks, the conception of the cosmic process as proceeding in cycles. The golden age of the Greeks lay in the past, the universe was considered to be following a set course, and the whole round of human experience was governed and controlled by an inexorable fate that was totally indifferent to human wishes. The formula which finally arose to meet this situation was "conformity to nature, " a submission to the iron laws of the world which it was vain to attempt to change. 

 This idea was succeeded in medieval Europe by the idea of providence, in which the world was thought of as a theater on which the drama of human redemption was enacted. God has created man free, but man was corrupted by the fall, given an opportunity to be redeemed by the gospel, and the world was soon to know the final triumph and happiness of the saved. Most of the early church fathers expected the end of the world very soon, many of them in their own lifetime. This is distinctly different from the preceding two ideas. All life had meaning to them, for the evil in the world was but God's way to accomplish his good purposes. It was man's duty to submit, but submission was to take the form of faith in an all-wise beneficent and perfect power, who was governing the world and who would make everything for the best. 

 The idea of progress arose on the ruins of this concept of providence. In the fourteenth century, progress did not mean merely the satisfaction of all human desires either individual or collective. The idea meant far more than that. It was the conviction that the world as a whole was proceeding onward indefinitely to greater and greater perfection. The atmosphere of progress was congenial to the construction of utopias and schemes of perfection which were believed to be in harmony with the nature of the world itself. The atmosphere of progress produced also optimists who were quite sure everything was in the long run to be for the best, and that every temporary evil was sure to be overcome by an ultimate good. 

 The difficulty in demonstrating the fact of progress has become very real as the problem has been presented to modern minds. It is possible to prove that the world has become more complex. It is hardly possible to prove that it has become better, and quite impossible to prove that it will continue to do so. From the standpoint of the Mohammedan Turks, the last two hundred years of the world's history have not been years of marked progress; from the standpoint of their enemies, the reverse statement is obviously true. 

 The conception which seems to be superseding the idea of progress in our day is that of control. Each problem whether personal or social is thought of as a separate enterprise. Poverty, disease, crime, vice, intemperance, or war, these are definite situations which challenge human effort and human ingenuity. Many problems are unsolved; many failures are recorded. The future is a challenge to creative intelligence and collective heroism. The future is thought of as still to be made. And there is no assurance that progress will take place. On the contrary, there is every reason to believe that progress will not take place unless men are able by their skill and devotion to find solutions for their present problems, and for the newer ones that shall arise. 

 The modern man finds this idea quite as stimulating to him as the idea of progress was to his ancestor of the Renaissance or the idea of providence to his medieval forebears. For while he does not blindly believe nor feel optimistically certain things will come about all right, yet he is nerved to square his shoulders, to think, to contrive, and to exert himself to the utmost in his effort to conquer the difficulties ahead, and to control the forces of nature and man. The idea of providence was not merely a generalization on life, it was a force that inspired hope. The idea of progress was likewise not merely a concept, it was also an energizing influence in a time of great intellectual activity. The idea that the forces of nature can be controlled in the service of man, differs from the others, but is also a dynamic potency that seems to be equally well adapted to the twentieth century. 

The conception that man's fate lies somehow in his own hands, if itgains general acceptance, will still be, so far as it inspires men towork and strive, an article of faith, and the image in which he picturesthe future of mankind, toward which he directs his efforts, will stillhave the character of myth. That is the function of myths. It is thisthat lends an interest to those ideal states in which men at differenttimes have sought to visualize the world of their hopes and dreams. 

4. Classification of the Materials

The purpose of the materials in this chapter is to exhibit the varietyand diversity of men's thought with reference to the concept ofprogress. What they show is that there is as yet no general agreement inregard to the meaning of the term. In all the special fields of socialreform there are relatively definite conceptions of what is desirableand what is not desirable. In the matter of _progress in general_ thereis no such definition. Except for philosophical speculation there is nosuch thing as "progress in general. " In practice, progress turns out tobe a number of special tasks. 

The "progress of civilization" is, to be sure, a concept in goodstanding in history. It is, however, a concept of appreciation ratherthan one of description. If history has to be rewritten for every newgeneration of men, it is due not merely to the discovery of newhistorical materials, but just to the fact that there is a newgeneration. Every generation has its own notion of the values of life, and every generation has to have its own interpretation of the facts oflife. 

It is incredible that Strachey's _Life of Queen Victoria_ could havebeen written forty years ago. It is incredible that the mass of menshould have been able to see the Victorian Age, as it is here presented, while they were living it. 

The materials in this chapter fall under three heads: (a) the conceptof progress, (b) progress and science, (c) progress and humannature. 

a) _The concept of progress. _--The first difficulty in the study ofprogress is one of definition. What are the signs and symptoms, thecriteria of progress? Until we have framed some sort of a definition wecannot know. Herbert Spencer identified progress with evolution. The lawof organic progress is the law of all progress. Intelligence, if weunderstand by that the mere accumulations of knowledge, does notrepresent progress. Rather it consists in "those internal modificationsof which this larger knowledge is an expression. " In so far, Spencer'sconception is that of the eugenists. Real progress is in the breed--inthe germ plasm. For men like Galton, Karl Pearson, and MadisonGrant, [330] what we call civilization is merely the efflorescence ofrace. Civilizations may pass away, but if the racial stock is preserved, civilization will reproduce itself. In recent years, a school ofpolitical philosophy has sprung up in Europe and in the United States, which is seeking to define our social policy toward the "inner enemies, "the dependents, the defectives, and the delinquents, and a foreignpolicy toward immigrant races and foreign peoples, on the generalconception that the chief aim of society and the state is to preservethe germ plasm of the Nordic race. [331] For Spencer, however, theconception that all values were in the organism was modified by theconviction that all life was involved in an irreversible process calledevolution which would eventually purge the race and society of the weak, the wicked, and the unfit. 

In contrast, both with the views of Spencer and of the eugenists, Hobhouse, voicing a conviction that was first expressed by Huxley, [332]believes that man is bound to intervene in the beneficent law of naturalselection. He insists, in fact, that social development is somethingquite distinct and relatively independent of the organic changes in theindividual. It is, in other words, a sociological rather than abiological product. It is an effect of the interaction of individualsand is best represented by organized society and by the social traditionin which that organization is handed on from earlier to latergenerations. 

b) _Progress and science. _--In contrast with other conceptions ofprogress is that of Dewey, who emphasizes science and social control, or, as he puts it, the "problem of discovering the needs and capacitiesof collective human nature as we find it aggregated in racial ornational groups on the surface of the globe. " The distinction betweenHobhouse and Dewey is less in substance than in point of view. Hobhouse, looking backward, is interested in progress itself rather than in itsmethods and processes. Dewey, on the other hand, looking forward, isinterested in a present program and in the application of scientificmethod to the problems of social welfare and world-organization. 

Arthur James Balfour, the most intellectual of the elder statesmen ofEngland, looking at progress through the experience of a politician, speaks in a less prophetic and authoritative tone, but with a wisdomborn of long experience with men. For him, as for many other thoughtfulminds, the future of the race is "encompassed with darkness, " and thewise man is he who is content to act in "a sober and a cautious spirit, "seeking to deal with problems as they arise. 

c) _Progress and human nature. _--Progress, which is much a matter ofinterpretation, is also very largely a matter of temperament. Thepurpose of the material upon human nature and progress is to callattention to this fact. Progress is with most people an article offaith, and men's faiths, as to their content, at least, are matters oftemperament. The conservative who perhaps takes a mild interest inprogress is usually "a sober and cautious" person, fairly content withthe present and not very sure about the future. The radical, on theother hand, is usually a naturally hopeful and enthusiastic individual, profoundly pessimistic about the present, but with a boundlessconfidence in even the most impossible future. 

Philosophy, like literature, is, in the final analysis, the expressionof a temperament, more or less modified by experience. The selectionsfrom Schopenhauer and Bergson may be regarded, therefore, as thecharacteristic reactions of two strikingly different temperaments to theconception of progress and to life. The descriptions which they give ofthe cosmic process are, considered formally, not unlike. Theirinterpretations and the practical bearings of these interpretations areprofoundly different. 

It is not necessary for the students of sociology to discuss the meritsof these different doctrines. We may accept them as human documents. They throw light, at any rate, upon the idea of progress, and upon allthe other fundamental ideas in which men have sought to formulate theircommon hopes and guide their common life. 

II. MATERIALS

A. THE CONCEPT OF PROGRESS

1. The Earliest Conception of Progress[333]

The word "progress, " like the word "humanity, " is one of the mostsignificant. It is a Latin word, not used in its current abstract senseuntil after the Roman incorporation of the Mediterranean world. Thefirst writer who expounds the notion with sufficient breadth of view andsufficiently accurate and concrete observation to provide a preliminarysketch was the great Roman poet, Lucretius. 

He begins by describing a struggle for existence in which the lesswell-adapted creatures died off, those who wanted either the power toprotect themselves or the means of adapting themselves to the purposesof man. In this stage, however, man was a hardier creature than heafterward became. He lived like the beasts of the field and was ignorantof tillage or fire or clothes or houses. He had no laws or government ormarriage and, though he did not fear the dark, he feared the real dangerof fiercer beasts. Men often died a miserable death, but not inmultitudes on a single day as they do now by battle or shipwreck. 

The next stage sees huts and skins and fire which softened their bodies, and marriage and the ties of family which softened their tempers. Andtribes began to make treaties of alliance with other tribes. Speecharose from the need which all creatures feel to exercise their naturalpowers, just as the calf will butt before his horns protrude. Men beganto apply different sounds to denote different things, just as brutebeasts will do to express different passions, as anyone must havenoticed in the cases of dogs and horses and birds. No one man set out toinvent speech. 

Fire was first learned from lightning and the friction of trees, andcooking from the softening and ripening of things by the sun. Then menof genius invented improved methods of life, the building of cities andprivate property in lands and cattle. But gold gave power to the wealthyand destroyed the sense of contentment in simple happiness. It mustalways be so whenever men allow themselves to become the slaves ofthings which should be their dependents and instruments. 

They began to believe in and worship gods, because they saw in dreamsshapes of preterhuman strength and beauty and deemed them immortal; andas they noted the changes of the seasons and all the wonders of theheavens they placed their gods there and feared them when they spoke inthe thunder. 

Metals were discovered through the burning of the woods, which causedthe ores to run. Copper and brass came first and were rated above goldand silver. And then the metals took the place of hands, nails, teeth, and clubs, which had been men's earliest arms and tools. Weavingfollowed the discovery of the use of iron. Sowing, planting, andgrafting were learned from nature herself, and gradually the cultivationof the soil was carried farther and farther up the hills. 

Men learned to sing from the birds, and to blow on pipes from thewhistling of the zephyr through the reeds; and those simple tunes gaveas much rustic jollity as our more elaborate tunes do now. 

Then, in a summary passage at the end, Lucretius enumerates all thechief discoveries which men have made in the age-long process--ships, agriculture, walled cities, laws, roads, clothes, songs, pictures, statues, and all the pleasures of life--and adds, "These things practiceand the experience of the unresting mind have taught mankind graduallyas they have progressed from point to point. "

It is the first definition and use of the word in literature. 

2. Progress and Organization[334]

The current conception of progress is shifting and indefinite. Sometimesit comprehends little more than simple growth--as of a nation in thenumber of its members and the extent of territory over which it spreads. Sometimes it has reference to quantity of material products--as when theadvance of agriculture and manufactures is the topic. Sometimes thesuperior quality of these products is contemplated; and sometimes thenew or improved appliances by which they are produced. When, again, wespeak of moral or intellectual progress, we refer to states of theindividual or people exhibiting it; while, when the progress of scienceor art is commented upon, we have in view certain abstract results ofhuman thought and action. 

Not only, however, is the current conception of progress more or lessvague, but it is in great measure erroneous. It takes in not so much thereality of progress as its accompaniments--not so much the substance asthe shadow. That progress in intelligence seen during the growth of thechild into the man, or the savage into the philosopher, is commonlyregarded as consisting in the greater number of facts known and lawsunderstood; whereas the actual progress consists in those internalmodifications of which this larger knowledge is the expression. Socialprogress is supposed to consist in the making of a greater quantity andvariety of the articles required for satisfying men's wants; in theincreasing security of person and property; in widening freedom ofaction; whereas, rightly understood, social progress consists in thosechanges of structure in the social organism which have entailed theseconsequences. The current conception is a ideological one. The phenomenaare contemplated solely as bearing on human happiness. Only thosechanges are held to constitute progress which directly or indirectlytend to heighten human happiness; and they are thought to constituteprogress simply because they tend to heighten human happiness. Butrightly to understand progress, we must learn the nature of thesechanges, considered apart from our interests. Ceasing, for example, toregard the successive geological modifications that have taken place inthe earth as modifications that have gradually fitted it for thehabitation of man, and as therefore constituting geological progress, wemust ascertain the character common to these modifications--the law towhich they all conform. And similarly in every other case. Leaving outof sight concomitants and beneficial consequences, let us ask whatprogress is in itself. 

In respect to that progress which individual organisms display in thecourse of their evolution, this question has been answered by theGermans. The investigations of Wolff, Goethe, and von Baer haveestablished the truth that the series of changes gone through during thedevelopment of a seed into a tree, or an ovum into an animal, constitutean advance from homogeneity of structure to heterogeneity of structure. In its primary stage, every germ consists of a substance that isuniform throughout, both in texture and chemical composition. The firststep is the appearance of a difference between two parts of thissubstance; or, as the phenomenon is called in physiological language, adifferentiation. Each of these differentiated divisions presently beginsitself to exhibit some contrast of parts; and by and by these secondarydifferentiations become as definite as the original one. This process iscontinuously repeated--is simultaneously going on in all parts of thegrowing embryo; and by endless differentiations of this sort there isfinally produced that complex combination of tissues and organsconstituting the adult animal or plant. This is the history of allorganisms whatever. It is settled beyond dispute that organic progressconsists in a change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. 

Now, we propose to show that this law of organic progress is the law ofall progress. Whether it be in the development of the earth, in thedevelopment of life upon its surface, in the development of society, ofgovernment, of manufactures, of commerce, of language, literature, science, art--this same evolution of the simple into the complex, through successive differentiations, holds throughout. From the earliesttraceable cosmic changes down to the latest results of civilization, weshall find that the transformation of the homogeneous into theheterogeneous is that in which progress essentially consists. 

3. The Stages of Progress[335]

If we regard the course of human development from the highest scientificpoint of view, we shall perceive that it consists in educing more andmore the characteristic faculties of humanity, in comparison with thoseof animality; and especially with those which man has in common with thewhole organic kingdom. It is in this philosophical sense that the mosteminent civilization must be pronounced to be fully accordant withnature, since it is, in fact, only a more marked manifestation of thechief properties of our species, properties which, latent at first, cancome into play only in that advanced state of social life for which theyare exclusively destined. The whole system of biological philosophyindicates the natural progression. We have seen how, in the brutekingdom, the superiority of each race is determined by the degree ofpreponderance of the animal life over the organic. In like manner we seethat our social evolution is only the final term of a progression whichhas continued from the simplest vegetables and most insignificantanimals, up through the higher reptiles to the birds and the mammifers, and still on to the carnivorous animals and monkeys, the organiccharacteristics retiring and the animal prevailing more and more, tillthe intellectual and moral tend toward the ascendancy which can never befully obtained, even in the highest state of human perfection that wecan conceive of. This comparative estimate affords us the scientificview of human progression, connected, as we see it is, with the wholecourse of animal advancement, of which it is itself the highest degree. The analysis of our social progress proves indeed that, while theradical dispositions of our nature are necessarily invariable, thehighest of them are in a continuous state of relative development, bywhich they rise to be preponderant powers of human existence, though theinversion of the primitive economy can never be absolutely complete. Wehave seen that this is the essential character of the social organism ina statical view; but it becomes much more marked when we study itsvariations in their gradual succession. 

4. Progress and the Historical Process[336]

The conclusion which these reflections suggest is that the uncriticalapplication of biological principles to social progress results in aninsuperable contradiction. The factors which determine the survival ofphysical organism, if applied as rules for the furtherance of socialprogress, appear to conflict with all that social progress means. Asense of this conflict is no doubt responsible for the furtherreconstruction which the biological view has in recent years undergone. Biologists now begin to inquire seriously whether "natural" selectionmay not be replaced by a rational selection in which "fitness forsurvival" would at length achieve its legitimate meaning, and thedevelopment of the race might be guided by reasoned conceptions ofsocial value. This is a fundamental change of attitude, and the newdoctrine of eugenics to which it has given rise requires carefulexamination. Before proceeding to this examination, however, it will bewell to inquire into the causes of the contrast on which we haveinsisted between biological evolution and social progress. Faced by thiscontradiction, we ask ourselves whether social development may not besomething quite distinct from the organic changes known to biology, andwhether the life of society may not depend upon forces which neverappear in the individual when he is examined merely as an individual ormerely as a member of a race. 

Take the latter point first. It is easily seen in the arguments ofbiologists that they conceive social progress as consisting essentiallyin an improvement of the stock to which individuals belong. This is away of looking at the matter intelligible enough in itself. Societyconsists of so many thousand or so many million individuals, and if, comparing any given generation with its ancestors, we could establish anaverage improvement in physical, mental, or moral faculty, we shouldcertainly have cause to rejoice. There is progress so far. But there isanother point of view which we may take up. Society consists ofindividual persons and nothing but individual persons, just as the bodyconsists of cells and the product of cells. But though the body mayconsist exclusively of cells, we should never understand its life byexamining the lives of each of its cells as a separate unit. We mustequally take into account that organic interconnection whereby theliving processes of each separate cell co-operate together to maintainthe health of the organism which contains them all. So, again, tounderstand the social order we have to take into account not only theindividuals with their capabilities and achievements but the socialorganization in virtue of which these individuals act upon one anotherand jointly produce what we call social results; and whatever may betrue of the physical organism, we can see that in society it is possiblethat individuals of the very same potentialities may, with goodorganization, produce good results, and, with bad organization, resultswhich are greatly inferior. 

The social phenomenon, in short, is not something which occurs in oneindividual, or even in several individuals taken severally. It isessentially an interaction of individuals, and as the capabilities ofany given individual are extraordinarily various and are only calledout, each by appropriate circumstances, it will be readily seen that thenature of the interaction may itself bring forth new and perhapsunexpected capacities, and elicit from the individuals contributing toit forces which, but for this particular opportunity, might possiblyremain forever dormant. If this is so, sociology as a science is not thesame thing as either biology or psychology. It deals neither with thephysical capacities of individuals as such nor with their psychologicalcapacities as such. It deals rather with results produced by the play ofthese forces upon one another, by the interaction of individuals underthe conditions imposed by their physical environment. The nature of theforces and the point of these distinctions may be made clear by a verysimple instance. 

The interplay of human motives and the interaction of human beings isthe fundamental fact of social life, and the permanent results whichthis interaction achieves and the influence which it exercises upon theindividuals who take part in it constitute the fundamental fact ofsocial evolution. These results are embodied in what may be called, generically, tradition. So understood, tradition--its growth andestablishment, its reaction upon the very individuals whocontribute to building it up, and its modifications by subsequentinteractions--constitutes the main subject of sociological inquiry. 

Tradition is, in the development of society, what heredity is in thephysical growth of the stock. It is the link between past and future, itis that in which the effects of the past are consolidated and on thebasis of which subsequent modifications are built up. We might push theanalogy a little further, for the ideas and customs which it maintainsand furnishes to each new generation as guides for their behavior inlife are analogous to the determinate methods of reaction, the inheritedimpulses, reflexes, and instincts with which heredity furnishes theindividual. The tradition of the elders is, as it were, the instinct ofsociety. It furnishes the prescribed rule for dealing with the ordinaryoccasions of life, which is for the most part accepted without inquiryand applied without reflection. It furnishes the appropriate institutionfor providing for each class of social needs, for meeting commondangers, for satisfying social wants, for regulating social relations. It constitutes, in short, the framework of society's life which to eachnew generation is a part of its hereditary outfit. 

But of course in speaking of tradition as a kind of inheritance weconceive of it as propagated by quite other than biological methods. Ina sense its propagation is psychological, it is handed on from mind tomind, and even though social institutions may in a sense be actuallyincorporated in material things, in buildings, in books, in coronationrobes, or in flags, still it need not be said that these things arenothing but for the continuity of thought which maintains and developstheir significance. Yet the forces at work in tradition are not purelypsychological; at least they are not to be understood in terms ofindividual psychology alone. What is handed on is not merely a set ofideas but the whole social environment; not merely certain ways ofthinking or of acting but the conditions which prescribe to individualsthe necessity for thinking or acting in certain specific ways if theyare to achieve their own desires. The point is worth dwelling on, because some writers have thought to simplify the working of traditionby reducing it to some apparently simple psychological phenomenon likethat of imitation. In this there is more than one element of fallacy. 

Now the growth of tradition will in a sense gravely modify theindividual members of the society which maintains it. To any given setof institutions a certain assemblage of qualities, mental and physical, will be most appropriate, and these may differ as much as the qualitiesnecessary for war differ from those of peaceful industry. Any traditionwill obviously call forth from human beings the qualities appropriate toit, and it will in a sense select the individuals in which thosequalities are the best developed and will tend to bring them to the topof the social fabric, but this is not to say that it will assert thesame modification upon the stock that would be accomplished by theworking of heredity. The hereditary qualities of the race may remain thesame, though the traditions have changed and though by them one set ofqualities are kept permanently in abeyance, while the other arecontinually brought by exercise to the highest point of efficiency. 

We are not to conclude that physical heredity is of no importance to thesocial order; it must be obvious that the better the qualities of theindividuals constituting a race, the more easily they will fitthemselves into good social traditions, the more readily they willadvance those traditions to a still higher point of excellence, and themore stoutly they would resist deterioration. The qualities upon whichthe social fabric calls must be there, and the more readily they areforthcoming, the more easily the social machine will work. Hence socialprogress necessarily implies a certain level of racial development, andits advance may always be checked by the limitations of the racial type. Nevertheless, if we look at human history as a whole, we are impressedwith the stability of the great fundamental characteristics of humannature and the relatively sweeping character and often rapid developmentof social change. 

In view of this contrast we must hesitate to attribute any substantialshare in human development to biological factors, and our hesitation isincreased when we consider the factors on which social change depends. It is in the department of knowledge and industry that advance is mostrapid and certain, and the reason is perfectly clear. It is that on thisside each generation can build on the work of its predecessors. A man ofvery moderate mathematical capacity today can solve problems whichpuzzled Newton, because he has available the work of Newton and of manyanother since Newton's time. In the department of ethics the case isdifferent. Each man's character has to be formed anew, and thoughteaching goes for much, it is not everything. The individual in the endworks out his own salvation. Where there is true ethical progress is inthe advance of ethical conceptions and principles which can be handedon; of laws and institutions which can be built up, maintained, andimproved. That is to say, there is progress just where the factor ofsocial tradition comes into play and just so far as its influenceextends. If the tradition is broken, the race begins again where itstood before the tradition was formed. We may infer that, while the racehas been relatively stagnant, society has rapidly developed, and we mustconclude that, whether for good or for evil, social changes are mainlydetermined, not by alterations of racial type, but by modifications oftradition due to the interactions of social causes. Progress is notracial but social. 

B. PROGRESS AND SCIENCE

1. Progress and Happiness[337]

Human progress may be properly defined as that which secures the_increase of human happiness_. Unless it do this, no matter how great acivilization may be, it is not progressive. If a nation rise, andextend its sway over a vast territory, astonishing the world with itspower, its culture, and its wealth, this alone does not constituteprogress. It must first be shown that its people are happier than theywould otherwise have been. If a people be seized with a rage for art, and, in obedience to their impulses or to national decrees, the wealthof that people be laid out in the cultivation of the fine arts, theemployment of master artists, the decoration of temples, public andprivate buildings, and the embellishment of streets and grounds, nomatter to what degree of perfection this purpose be carried out, it isnot to progress unless greater satisfaction be derived therefrom thanwas sacrificed in the deprivations which such a course must occasion. Tobe progressive in the true sense, it must work an increase in the sumtotal of human enjoyment. When we survey the history of civilization, weshould keep this truth in view, and not allow ourselves to be dazzled bythe splendor of pageantry, the glory of heraldry, or the beauty of art, literature, philosophy, or religion, but should assign to each its trueplace as measured by this standard. 

It cannot be denied that civilization, by the many false practices whichit has introduced, by the facilities which its very complexity affordsto the concealment of crime, and by the monstrous systems of corruptionwhich fashion, caste, and conventionality are enabled to shelter, is thedirect means of rendering many individuals miserable in the extreme; butthese are the necessary incidents to its struggles to advance under thedominion of natural forces alone. 

It would involve a great fallacy to deduce from this the conclusion thatcivilization begets misery or reduces the happiness of mankind. Againstthis gross but popular mistake may be cited the principle beforeintroduced, which is unanimously accepted by biologists, that anorganism is perfect in proportion as its organs are numerous and varied. This is because, the more organs there are, the greater is the capacityfor enjoyment. For this enjoyment is quantitative as well asqualitative, and the greater the number of faculties, the greater is thepossible enjoyment derivable from their normal exercise. To say thatprimitive man is happier than enlightened man, is equivalent to sayingthat an oyster or a polyp enjoys more than an eagle or an antelope. Thiscould be true only on the ground that the latter, in consequence oftheir sensitive organisms, suffer more than they enjoy; but if to behappy is to escape from all feeling, then it were better to be stones orclods, and destitute of conscious sensibility. If this be the happinesswhich men should seek, then is the Buddhist in the highest degreeconsistent when he prays for the promised _Nirvâna_, or annihilation. But this is not happiness--it is only the absence of it. For happinesscan only be increased by increasing the capacity for feeling, oremotion, and, when this is increased, the capacity for suffering islikewise necessarily increased, and suffering must be endured unlesssufficient sagacity accompanies it to prevent this consequence. And thatis the truest progress which, while it indefinitely multiplies andincreases the facilities for enjoyment, furnishes at the same time themost effective means of preventing discomfort, and, as nearly allsuffering is occasioned by the violation of natural laws throughignorance of or error respecting those laws, therefore that is thetruest progress which succeeds in overcoming ignorance and error. 

Therefore, we may enunciate the principle that progress is in proportionto the opportunities or facilities for exercising the faculties andsatisfying desire. 

2. Progress and Prevision[338]

We have confused rapidity of change with progress. We have confused thebreaking down of barriers by which advance is made possible with advanceitself. 

We had been told that the development of industry and commerce hadbrought about such an interdependence of peoples that war was henceforthout of the question--at least upon a vast scale. But it is now clearthat commerce also creates jealousies and rivalries and suspicions whichare potent for war. We were told that nations could not long finance awar under modern conditions; economists had demonstrated that to thesatisfaction of themselves and others. We see now that they hadunderrated both the production of wealth and the extent to which itcould be mobilized for destructive purposes. We were told that theadvance of science had made war practically impossible. We now know thatscience has not only rendered the machinery of war more deadly but hasalso increased the powers of resistance and endurance when war comes. If all this does not demonstrate that the forces which have broughtabout complicated and extensive changes in the fabric of society do notof themselves generate progress, I do not know what a demonstrationwould be. Has man subjugated physical nature only to release forcesbeyond his control?

The doctrine of evolution has been popularly used to give a kind ofcosmic sanction to the notion of an automatic and wholesale progress inhuman affairs. Our part, the human part, was simply to enjoy theusufruct. Evolution inherited all the goods of divine Providence and hadthe advantage of being in fashion. Even a great and devastating war isnot too great a price to pay for an awakening from such an infantile andselfish dream. Progress is not automatic; it depends upon human intentand aim and upon acceptance of responsibility for its production. It isnot a wholesale matter, but a retail job, to be contracted for andexecuted in sections. 

Spite of the dogma which measures progress by increase in altruism, kindliness, peaceful feelings, there is no reason that I know of tosuppose that the basic fund of these emotions has increased appreciablyin thousands and thousands of years. Man is equipped with these feelingsat birth, as well as with emotions of fear, anger, emulation, andresentment. What appears to be an increase in one set and a decrease inthe other set is, in reality, a change in their social occasions andsocial channels. Civilized man has not a better endowment of ear and eyethan savage man; but his social surroundings give him more importantthings to see and hear than the savage has, and he has the wit to deviseinstruments to reinforce his eye and ear--the telegraph and telephone, the microscope and telescope. But there is no reason for thinking thathe has less natural aggressiveness or more natural altruism--or willever have--than the barbarian. But he may live in social conditions thatcreate a relatively greater demand for the display of kindliness andwhich turn his aggressive instincts into less destructive channels. 

There is at any time a sufficient amount of kindly impulses possessed byman to enable him to live in amicable peace with all his fellows; andthere is at any time a sufficient equipment of bellicose impulses tokeep him in trouble with his fellows. An intensification of theexhibition of one may accompany an intensification of the display of theother, the only difference being that social arrangements cause thekindly feelings to be displayed toward one set of fellows and thehostile impulses toward another set. Thus, as everybody knows, thehatred toward the foreigner characterizing peoples now at war isattended by an unusual manifestation of mutual affection and love withineach warring group. So characteristic is this fact that that man was agood psychologist who said that he wished that this planet might getinto war with another planet, as that was the only effective way he sawof developing a world-wide community of interest in this globe'spopulation. 

The indispensable preliminary condition of progress has been supplied bythe conversion of scientific discoveries into inventions which turnphysical energy, the energy of sun, coal, and iron, to account. Neitherthe discoveries nor the inventions were the product of unconsciousphysical nature. They were the product of human devotion andapplication, of human desire, patience, ingenuity, and mother-wit. Theproblem which now confronts us, the problem of progress, is the same inkind, differing in subject-matter. It is a problem of discovering theneeds and capacities of collective human nature as we find it aggregatedin racial or national groups on the surface of the globe, and ofinventing the social machinery which will set available powers operatingfor the satisfaction of those needs. 

We are living still under the dominion of a laissez faire philosophy. Ido not mean by this an individualistic, as against a socialistic, philosophy. I mean by it a philosophy which trusts the direction ofhuman affairs to nature, or Providence, or evolution, or manifestdestiny--that is to say, to accident--rather than to a contriving andconstructive intelligence. To put our faith in the collective stateinstead of in individual activity is quite as laissez faire a proceedingas to put it in the results of voluntary private enterprise. The onlygenuine opposite to a go-as-you-please, let-alone philosophy is aphilosophy which studies specific social needs and evils with a view toconstructing the special social machinery for which they call. 

3. Progress and the Limits of Scientific Prevision[339]

Movement, whether of progress or of retrogression, can commonly bebrought about only when the sentiments opposing it have been designedlyweakened or have suffered a natural decay. In this destructive process, and in any constructive process by which it may be followed, reasoning, often very bad reasoning, bears, at least in western communities, alarge share as cause, a still larger share as symptom; so that theclatter of contending argumentation is often the most strikingaccompaniment of interesting social changes. Its position, therefore, and its functions in the social organism are frequently misunderstood. People fall instinctively into the habit of supposing that, as it playsa conspicuous part in the improvement or deterioration of humaninstitutions, it therefore supplies the very basis on which they may bemade to rest, the very mold to which they ought to conform; and theynaturally conclude that we have only got to reason more and to reasonbetter in order speedily to perfect the whole machinery by which humanfelicity is to be secured. 

Surely this is a great delusion. A community founded upon argument wouldsoon be a community no longer. It would dissolve into its constituentelements. Think of the thousand ties most subtly woven out of commonsentiments, common tastes, common beliefs, nay, common prejudices, bywhich from our very earliest childhood we are all bound unconsciouslybut indissolubly together into a compacted whole. Imagine these to besuddenly loosed and their places taken by some judicious piece ofreasoning on the balance of advantage, which, after taking all properdeductions, still remains to the credit of social life. These things wemay indeed imagine if we please. Fortunately, we shall never see them. Society is founded--and from the nature of the human beings whichconstitute it, must, in the main, be always founded--not upon criticismbut upon feelings and beliefs, and upon the customs and codes by whichfeelings and beliefs are, as it were, fixed and rendered stable. Andeven where these harmonize, so far as we can judge, with sound reason, they are in many cases not consciously based on reasoning; nor is theirfate necessarily bound up with that of the extremely indifferentarguments by which, from time to time, philosophers, politicians, and, Iwill add, divines have thought fit to support them. 

We habitually talk as if a self-governing or free community was onewhich managed its own affairs. In strictness, no community manages itsown affairs, or by any possibility could manage them. It manages but anarrow fringe of its affairs, and that in the main by deputy. It is onlythe thinnest surface layer of law and custom, belief and sentiment, which can either be successfully subjected to destructive treatment, orbecome the nucleus of any new growth--a fact which explains the apparentparadox that so many of our most famous advances in political wisdom arenothing more than the formal recognition of our political impotence. 

As our expectations of limitless progress for the race cannot dependupon the blind operation of the laws of heredity, so neither can theydepend upon the deliberate action of national governments. Suchexamination as we can make of the changes which have taken place duringthe relatively minute fraction of history with respect to which we havefairly full information shows that they have been caused by a multitudeof variations, often extremely small, made in their surroundings byindividuals whose objects, though not necessarily selfish, have oftenhad no intentional reference to the advancement of the community atlarge. But we have no scientific ground for suspecting that the stimulusto these individual efforts must necessarily continue; we know of no lawby which, if they do continue, they must needs be co-ordinated for acommon purpose or pressed into the service of a common good. We cannotestimate their remoter consequences; neither can we tell how they willact and react upon one another, nor how they will in the long run affectmorality, religion, and other fundamental elements of human society. Thefuture of the race is thus encompassed with darkness; no faculty ofcalculation that we possess, no instrument that we are likely to invent, will enable us to map out its course, or penetrate the secret of itsdestiny. It is easy, no doubt, to find in the clouds which obscure ourpaths what shapes we please: to see in them the promise of somemillennial paradise, or the threat of endless and unmeaning travelthrough waste and perilous places. But in such visions the wise man willput but little confidence, content, in a sober and cautious spirit, witha full consciousness of his feeble powers of foresight and the narrowlimits of his activity, to deal as they arise with the problems of hisown generation. 

4. Eugenics as a Science of Progress[340]

Eugenics is the science which deals with all influences that improve theinborn qualities of a race; also with those that develop them to theutmost advantage. 

What is meant by improvement? There is considerable difference betweengoodness in the several qualities and in that of the character as awhole. The character depends largely on the _proportion_ betweenqualities whose balance may be much influenced by education. We musttherefore leave morals as far as possible out of the discussion, notentangling ourselves with the almost hopeless difficulties they raise asto whether a character as a whole is good or bad. Moreover, the goodnessor badness of character is not absolute, but relative to the currentform of civilisation. A fable will best explain what is meant. Let thescene be the Zoölogical Gardens in the quiet hours of the night, andsuppose that, as in old fables, the animals are able to converse, andthat some very wise creature who had easy access to all the cages, say aphilosophic sparrow or rat, was engaged in collecting the opinions ofall sorts of animals with a view of elaborating a system of absolutemorality. It is needless to enlarge on the contrariety of ideals betweenthe beasts that prey and those they prey upon, between those of theanimals that have to work hard for their food and the sedentaryparasites that cling to their bodies and suck their blood and so forth. A large number of suffrages in favour of maternal affection would beobtained, but most species of fish would repudiate it, while among thevoices of birds would be heard the musical protest of the cuckoo. Thoughno agreement could be reached as to absolute morality, the essentials ofEugenics may be easily defined. All creatures would agree that it wasbetter to be healthy than sick, vigorous than weak, well fitted than illfitted for their part in life. In short, that it was better to be goodrather than bad specimens of their kind, whatever that kind might be. Sowith men. There are a vast number of conflicting ideals of alternativecharacters, of incompatible civilisations; but all are wanted to givefulness and interest to life. Society would be very dull if every manresembled the highly estimable Marcus Aurelius or Adam Bede. The aim ofEugenics is to represent each class or sect by its best specimens; thatdone, to leave them to work out their common civilisation in their ownway. 

The aim of Eugenics is to bring as many influences as can be reasonablyemployed, to cause the useful classes in the community to contribute_more_ than their proportion to the next generation. 

The course of procedure that lies within the functions of a learned andactive Society such as the Sociological may become, would be somewhat asfollows:

1. Dissemination of a knowledge of the laws of heredity so far as theyare surely known, and promotion of their further study. Few seem to beaware how greatly the knowledge of what may be termed the _actuarial_side of heredity has advanced in recent years. The average closeness ofkinship in each degree now admits of exact definition and of beingtreated mathematically, like birth- and death-rates, and the othertopics with which actuaries are concerned. 

2. Historical inquiry into the rates with which the various classes ofsociety (classified according to civic usefulness) have contributed tothe population at various times, in ancient and modern nations. There isstrong reason for believing that national rise and decline is closelyconnected with this influence. It seems to be the tendency of highcivilisation to check fertility in the upper classes, through numerouscauses, some of which are well known, others are inferred, and othersagain are wholly obscure. The latter class are apparently analogous tothose which bar the fertility of most species of wild animals inzoölogical gardens. Out of the hundreds and thousands of species thathave been tamed, very few indeed are fertile when their liberty isrestricted and their struggles for livelihood are abolished; those whichare so and are otherwise useful to man becoming domesticated. There isperhaps some connection between this obscure action and thedisappearance of most savage races when brought into contact with highcivilisation, though there are other and well-known concomitant causes. But while most barbarous races disappear, some, like the Negro, do not. It may therefore be expected that types of our race will be found toexist which can be highly civilised without losing fertility; nay, theymay become more fertile under artificial conditions, as is the case withmany domestic animals. 

3. Systematic collection of facts showing the circumstances under whichlarge and thriving families have most frequently originated; in otherwords, the _conditions_ of Eugenics. The names of the thriving familiesin England have yet to be learnt, and the conditions under which theyhave arisen. We cannot hope to make much advance in the science ofEugenics without a careful study of facts that are now accessible withdifficulty, if at all. The definition of a thriving family, such as willpass muster for the moment at least, is one in which the children havegained distinctly superior positions to those who were their classmatesin early life. Families may be considered "large" that contain not lessthan three adult male children. The point to be ascertained is the_status_ of the two parents at the time of their marriage, whence itsmore or less eugenic character might have been predicted, if the largerknowledge that we now hope to obtain had then existed. Some accountwould, of course, be wanted of their race, profession, and residence;also of their own respective parentages, and of their brothers andsisters. Finally, the reasons would be required why the childrendeserved to be entitled a "thriving" family, to distinguish worthy fromunworthy success. This manuscript collection might hereafter developinto a "golden book" of thriving families. The Chinese, whose customshave often much sound sense, make their honours retrospective. We mightlearn from them to show that respect to the parents of noteworthychildren, which the contributors of such valuable assets to the nationalwealth richly deserve. 

4. Influences affecting Marriage. The passion of love seems sooverpowering that it may be thought folly to try to direct its course. But plain facts do not confirm this view. Social influences of all kindshave immense power in the end, and they are very various. If unsuitablemarriages from the eugenic point of view were banned socially, or evenregarded with the unreasonable disfavour which some attach to cousinmarriages, very few would be made. The multitude of marriagerestrictions that have proved prohibitive among uncivilised people wouldrequire a volume to describe. 

5. Persistence in setting forth the national importance of Eugenics. There are three stages to be passed through. _Firstly_, it must be madefamiliar as an academic question, until its exact importance has beenunderstood and accepted as a fact; _secondly_, it must be recognised asa subject whose practical development deserves serious consideration;and _thirdly_, it must be introduced into the national conscience, like, a new religion. It has, indeed, strong claims to become an orthodoxreligious tenet of the future, for Eugenics cooperates with the workingsof Nature by securing that humanity shall be represented by the fittestraces. What Nature does blindly, slowly, and ruthlessly, man may doprovidently, quickly, and kindly. I see no impossibility in Eugenicsbecoming a religious dogma among mankind, but its details must first beworked out sedulously in the study. The first and main point is tosecure the general intellectual acceptance of Eugenics as a hopeful andmost important study. Then let its principles work into the heart ofthe nation, who will gradually give practical effect to them in waysthat we may not wholly foresee. 

C. PROGRESS AND HUMAN NATURE

1. The Nature of Man[341]

Man is certainly an animal that, when he lives at all, lives for ideals. Something must be found to occupy his imagination, to raise pleasure andpain into love and hatred, and change the prosaic alternative betweencomfort and discomfort into the tragic one between happiness and sorrow. Now that the hue of daily adventure is so dull, when religion for themost part is so vague and accommodating, when even war is a vastimpersonal business, nationality seems to have slipped into the place ofhonor. It has become the one eloquent, public, intrepidillusion--illusion, I mean, when it is taken for an ultimate good or amystical essence, for of course nationality is a fact. It is natural fora man to like to live at home, and to live long elsewhere without asense of exile is not good for his moral integrity. It is right to feela greater kinship and affection for what lies nearest to one's self. Butthis necessary fact and even duty of nationality is accidental; like ageor sex it is a physical fatality which can be made the basis of specificand comely virtues; but it is not an end to pursue or a flag to flauntor a privilege not balanced by a thousand incapacities. Yet of thisdistinction our contemporaries tend to make an idol, perhaps because itis the only distinction they feel they have left. 

Everywhere in the nineteenth century we find a double preoccupation withthe past and with the future, a longing to know what all experiencemight have been hitherto, and on the other hand to hasten to some whollydifferent experience, to be contrived immediately with a beating heartand with flying banners. The imagination of the age was intent onhistory; its conscience was intent on reform. 

2. Progress and the Mores[342]

What now are some of the leading features in the mores of civilizedsociety at the present time? Undoubtedly they are monogamy, anti-slavery, and democracy. All people now are more nervous thananybody used to be. Social ambition is great and is prevalent in allclasses. The idea of class is unpopular and is not understood. There isa superstitious yearning for equality. There is a decided preference forcity life, and a stream of population from the country into big cities. These are facts of the mores of the time. Our societies are almostunanimous in their response if there is any question raised on thesematters. 

Medieval people conceived of society under forms of status as generallyas we think of it under forms of individual liberty. The mores of theOrient and Occident differ from each other now, as they apparentlyalways have differed. The Orient is a region where time, faith, tradition, and patience rule. The Occident forms ideals and plans, andspends energy and enterprise to make new things with thoughts ofprogress. All details of life follow the leading ways of thought of eachgroup. We can compare and judge ours and theirs, but independentjudgment of our own, without comparison with other times or otherplaces, is possible only within narrow limits. 

Let us first take up the nervous desire and exertion which mark the menof our time in the western civilized societies. There is a wide popularbelief in what is called progress. The masses in all civilized statesstrain toward success in some adopted line. Struggling and striving arepassionate tendencies which take possession of groups from time to time. The newspapers, the popular literature, and the popular speakers showthis current and popular tendency. This is what makes the mores. 

3. War and Progress[343]

Let us see what progress means. It is a term which covers several quitedifferent things. 

There is material progress, by which I understand an increase in wealth, that is, in the commodities useful to man, which give him health, strength, and longer life, and make his life easier, providing morecomfort and more leisure, and thus enabling him to be more physicallyefficient, and to escape from that pressure of want which hampers thedevelopment of his whole nature. 

There is intellectual progress--an increase in knowledge, a greaterabundance of ideas, the training to think, and to think correctly, thegrowth in capacity for dealing with practical problems, the cultivationof the power to enjoy the exercise of thought and the pleasures ofletters and art. 

There is moral progress--a thing harder to define, but which includesthe development of those emotions and habits which make forhappiness--contentment and tranquility of mind; the absence of the morepurely animal and therefore degrading vices (such as intemperance andsensuality in all its other forms); the control of the violent passions;good will and kindliness toward others--all the things which fall withinthe philosophical conception of a life guided by right reason. Peoplehave different ideas of what constitutes happiness and virtue, but thesethings are at any rate included in every such conception. 

A further preliminary question arises. Is human progress to be estimatedin respect to the point to which it raises the few who have high mentalgifts and the opportunity of obtaining an education fitting them forintellectual enjoyment and intellectual vocations, or is it to bemeasured by the amount of its extension to and diffusion through eachnation, meaning the nation as a whole--the average man as well as thesuperior spirits? You may sacrifice either the many to the few--as wasdone by slavery--or the few to the many, or the advance may be generaland proportionate in all classes. 

Again, when we think of progress, are we to think of the world as awhole, or only of the stronger and more capable races and states? If thestronger rise upon the prostrate bodies of the weaker, is this cleargain to the world, because the stronger will ultimately do more for theworld, or is the loss and suffering of the weaker to be brought into theaccount? I do not attempt to discuss these questions; it is enough tonote them as fit to be remembered; for perhaps all three kinds ofprogress ought to be differently judged if a few leading nations onlyare to be regarded, or if we are to think of all mankind. 

It is undeniable that war has often been accompanied by an advance incivilization. If we were to look for progress only in time of peacethere would have been little progress to discover, for mankind has livedin a state of practically permanent warfare. The Egyptian and Assyrianmonarchs were always fighting. The author of the Book of Kings speaks ofspring as the time when kings go forth to war, much as we should speakof autumn as the time when men go forth to shoot deer. "War is thenatural relation of states to one another, " said Plato. The fact hasbeen hardly less true since his day, though latterly men have becomeaccustomed to think of peace as the normal, war as the abnormal orexceptional, relation of states to one another. In the ancient world, aslate as the days of Roman conquest, a state of peace was the rareexception among civilized states as well as barbarous tribes. ButCarthage, like her Phoenician mother-city, went on building up a mightycommerce till Rome smote her down, and the Hellenic people, in its manywarring cities, went on producing noble poems and profound philosophicalspeculations, and rearing majestic temples and adorning them withincomparable works of sculpture, in the intervals of their fighting withtheir neighbors of the same or other races. The case of the Greeksproves that war and progress are compatible. 

The capital instance of the association of war with the growth andgreatness of a state is found in Prussia. One may say that her historyis the source of the whole thesis and the basis of the whole argument. It is a case of what, in the days when I learned logic at the Universityof Oxford, we used to call the induction from a single instance. Prussia, then a small state, began her upward march under the warlikeand successful prince whom her people call the Great Elector. Her nextlong step to greatness was taken by Frederick II, again by favor ofsuccessful warfare, though doubtless also by means of a highlyorganized, and for those days very efficient, administration. Voltairesaid of Frederick's Prussia that its trade was war. Another war added toher territory in 1814-15. Three successful wars--those of 1864, 1866, and 1870-71--made her the nucleus of a united German nation and theleading military power of the Old World. 

Ever since those victories her industrial production, her commerce, andher wealth have rapidly increased, while at the same time scientificresearch has been prosecuted with the greatest vigor and on a scaleunprecedentedly large. These things were no doubt achieved during apeace of forty-three years. But it was what one may call a belligerentpeace, full of thoughts of war and preparations for war. There is nodenying that the national spirit has been carried to a high point ofpride, energy, and self-confidence, which have stimulated effort in alldirections and secured extraordinary efficiency in civil as well as inmilitary administration. Here, then, is an instance in which a state hasgrown by war and a people has been energized by war. 

Next, let us take the cases which show that there have been in manycountries long periods of incessant war with no corresponding progressin the things that make civilization. I will not speak of semi-barbaroustribes, among the more advanced of which may be placed the Albanians andthe Pathans and the Turkomans, while among the more backward were theNorth American Indians and the Zulus. But one may cite the case of thecivilized regions of Asia under the successors of Alexander, whencivilized peoples, distracted by incessant strife, did little for theprogress of arts or letters or government, from the death of the greatconqueror till they were united under the dominion of Rome and receivedfrom her a time of comparative tranquillity. 

The Thirty Years' War is an example of long-continued fighting which, far from bringing progress in its train, inflicted injuries on Germanyfrom which she did not recover for nearly two centuries. In recent timesthere has been more fighting in South and Central America, since thewars of independence, than in any other civilized countries. Yet cananyone say that anything has been gained by the unending civil wars andrevolutions, or those scarcely less frequent wars between the severalrepublics, like that terrible one thirty years ago in which Peru wasovercome by Chile? Or look at Mexico. Except during the years when thestern dictatorship of Porfirio Diaz kept order and equipped the countrywith roads and railways, her people have made no perceptible advance andstand hardly higher today than when they were left to work out their ownsalvation a hundred years ago. Social and economic conditions havedoubtless been against her. All that need be remembered is that warfarehas not bettered those conditions or improved the national character. 

If this hasty historical survey has, as I frankly admit, given us fewpositive and definite results, the reason is plain. Human progress isaffected by so many conditions besides the presence or absence offighting that it is impossible in any given case to pronounce that ithas been chiefly due either to war or to peace. Two conclusions, however, we may claim to have reached, though they are rather negativethan positive. One is that war does not necessarily arrest progress. Peoples may advance in thought, literature, and art while they arefighting. The other is that war cannot be shown to have been a cause ofprogress in anything except the wealth or power of a state which extendsits dominions by conquest or draws tribute from the vanquished. 

What, then, are the causes to which the progress of mankind is due? Itis due partly, no doubt, if not to strife, to competition. But chieflyto thought, which is more often hindered than helped by war. It is theraces that know how to think, rather than the far more numerous racesthat excel in fighting rather than in thinking, that have led the world. Thought, in the form of invention and inquiry, has given us thoseimprovements in the arts of life and in the knowledge of nature by whichmaterial progress and comfort have been obtained. Thought has producedliterature, philosophy, art, and (when intensified by emotion)religion--all the things that make life worth living. Now the thought ofany people is most active when it is brought into contact with thethought of another, because each is apt to lose its variety and freedomof play when it has worked too long upon familiar lines and flowed toolong in the channels it has deepened. Hence isolation retards progress, while intercourse quickens it. 

The great creative epochs have been those in which one people of naturalvigor received an intellectual impulse from the ideas of another, ashappened when Greek culture began to penetrate Italy, and thirteencenturies later, when the literature of the ancients began to work onthe nations of the medieval world. 

Such contact, with the process of learning which follows from it, mayhappen in or through war, but it happens far oftener in peace; and it isin peace that men have the time and the taste to profit fully by it. Astudy of history will show that we may, with an easy conscience, dismissthe theory of Treitschke--that war is a health-giving tonic whichProvidence must be expected constantly to offer to the human race forits own good. 

The future progress of mankind is to be sought, not through the strifesand hatreds of the nations, but rather by their friendly co-operation inthe healing and enlightening works of peace and in the growth of aspirit of friendship and mutual confidence which may remove the causesof war. 

4. Progress and the Cosmic Urge

_a. The "Élan Vitale"_[344]

All life, animal and vegetable, seems in its essence like an effort toaccumulate energy and then to let it flow into flexible channels, changeable in shape, at the end of which it will accomplish infinitelyvaried kinds of work. That is what the _vital impetus_, passing throughmatter, would fain do all at once. It would succeed, no doubt, if itspower were unlimited, or if some reinforcement could come to it fromwithout. But the impetus is finite, and it has been given once for all. It cannot overcome all obstacles. The movement it starts is sometimesturned aside, sometimes divided, always opposed; and the evolution ofthe organized world is the unrolling of this conflict. The first greatscission that had to be effected was that of the two kingdoms, vegetableand animal, which thus happen to be mutually complementary, without, however, any agreement having been made between them. To this scissionthere succeeded many others. Hence the diverging lines of evolution, atleast what is essential in them. But we must take into accountretrogressions, arrests, accidents of every kind. And we must remember, above all, that each species behaves as if the general movement of lifestopped at it instead of passing through it. It thinks only of itself, it lives only for itself. Hence the numberless struggles that we beholdin nature. Hence a discord, striking and terrible, but for which theoriginal principle of life must not be held responsible. 

It is therefore conceivable that life might have assumed a totallydifferent outward appearance and designed forms very different fromthose we know. With another chemical substratum, in other physicalconditions, the impulsion would have remained the same, but it wouldhave split up very differently in course of progress; and the wholewould have traveled another road--whether shorter or longer who cantell? In any case, in the entire series of living beings no term wouldhave been what it now is. 

There are numerous cases in which nature seems to hesitate between thetwo forms, and to ask herself if she shall make a society or anindividual. The slightest push is enough, then, to make the balanceweigh on one side or the other. If we take an infusorian sufficientlylarge, such as the Stentor, and cut it into two halves each containing apart of the nucleus, each of the two halves will generate an independentStentor; but if we divide it incompletely, so that a protoplasmiccommunication is left between the two halves, we shall see them execute, each from its side, corresponding movements; so that in this case it isenough that a thread should be maintained or cut in order that lifeshould affect the social or the individual form. Thus, in rudimentaryorganisms consisting of a single cell, we already find that the apparentindividuality of the whole is the composition of an _undefined_ numberof potential individualities potentially associated. But, from top tobottom of the series of living beings, the same law is manifested. Andit is this that we express when we say that unity and multiplicity arecategories of inert matter, that the vital impetus is neither pure unitynor pure multiplicity, and that if the matter to which it communicatesitself compels it to choose one of the two, its choice will never bedefinitive: it will leap from one to the other indefinitely. Theevolution of life in the double direction of individuality andassociation has therefore nothing accidental about it: it is due to thevery nature of life. 

Essential also is the progress to reflexion. If our analysis is correct, it is consciousness, or rather supra-consciousness, that is at theorigin of life. Consciousness, or supra-consciousness, is the name forthe rocket whose extinguished fragments fall back as matter;consciousness, again, is the name for that which subsists of the rocketitself, passing through the fragments and lighting them up intoorganisms. But this consciousness, which is a _need of creation_, ismade manifest to itself only where creation is possible. It lies dormantwhen life is condemned to automatism; it wakens as soon as thepossibility of a choice is restored. That is why, in organismsunprovided with a nervous system, it varies according to the power oflocomotion and of deformation of which the organism disposes. And inanimals with a nervous system, it is proportional to the complexity ofthe switchboard on which the paths called sensory and the paths calledmotor intersect--that is, of the brain. 

Consciousness corresponds exactly to the living being's power of choice;it is coextensive with the fringe of possible action that surrounds thereal action: consciousness is synonymous with invention and withfreedom. Now, in the animal, invention is never anything but a variationon the theme of routine. Shut up in the habits of the species, itsucceeds, no doubt, in enlarging them by its individual initiative; butit escapes automatism only for an instant, for just the time to create anew automatism. The gates of its prison close as soon as they areopened; by pulling at its chain it succeeds only in stretching it. Withman, consciousness breaks the chain. In man, and in man alone, it setsitself free. The whole history of life until man has been that of theeffort of consciousness to raise matter, and of the more or lesscomplete overwhelming of consciousness by the matter which has fallenback on it. The enterprise was paradoxical, if, indeed, we may speakhere otherwise than by metaphor of enterprise and of effort. It was tocreate with matter, which is necessity itself, an instrument of freedom, to make a machine which should triumph over mechanism, and to usedeterminism of nature to pass through the meshes of the net which thisvery determinism had spread. But, everywhere except in man, consciousness has let itself be caught in the net whose meshes it triedto pass through: it has remained the captive of the mechanisms it hasset up. Automatism, which it tries to draw in the direction of freedom, winds about it and drags it down. It has not the power to escape, because the energy it has provided for acts is almost all employed inmaintaining the infinitely subtle and essentially unstable equilibriuminto which it has brought matter. But man not only maintains hismachine, he succeeds in using it as he pleases. Doubtless he owes thisto the superiority of his brain, which enables him to build an unlimitednumber of motor mechanisms, to oppose new habits to the old onesunceasingly, and, by dividing automatism against itself, to rule it. Heowes it to his language, which furnishes consciousness with animmaterial body in which to incarnate itself and thus exempts it fromdwelling exclusively on material bodies, whose flux would soon drag italong and finally swallow it up. He owes it to social life, which storesand preserves efforts as language stores thought, fixes thereby a meanlevel to which individuals must raise themselves at the outset, and bythis initial stimulation prevents the average man from slumbering anddrives the superior man to mount still higher. But our brain, oursociety, and our language are only the external and various signs of oneand the same internal superiority. They tell, each after its manner, theunique, exceptional success which life has won at a given moment of itsevolution. They express the difference of kind, and not only of degree, which separates man from the rest of the animal world. They let us guessthat, while at the end of the vast springboard from which life has takenits leap, all the others have stepped down, finding the cord stretchedtoo high, man alone has cleared the obstacle. 

It is in this quite special sense that man is the "term" and the "end"of evolution. Life, we have said, transcends finality as it transcendsthe other categories. It is essentially a current sent through matter, drawing from it what it can. There has not, therefore, properlyspeaking, been any project or plan. On the other hand, it is abundantlyevident that the rest of nature is not for the sake of man: we strugglelike the other species, we have struggled against other species. Moreover, if the evolution of life had encountered other accidents inits course, if, thereby, the current of life had been otherwise divided, we should have been, physically and morally, far different from what weare. For these various reasons it would be wrong to regard humanity, such as we have it before our eyes, as prefigured in the evolutionarymovement. It cannot even be said to be the outcome of the whole ofevolution, for evolution has been accomplished on several divergentlines, and while the human species is at the end of one of them, otherlines have been followed with other species at their end. It is in aquite different sense that we hold humanity to be the ground ofevolution. 

From our point of view, life appears in its entirety as an immense wavewhich, starting from a centre, spreads outwards, and which on almost thewhole of its circumference is stopped and converted into oscillation: atone single point the obstacle has been forced, the impulsion has passedfreely. It is this freedom that the human form registers. Everywhere butin man, consciousness has had to come to a stand; in man alone it haskept on its way. Man, then, continues the vital movement indefinitely, although he does not draw along with him all that life carries initself. On other lines of evolution there have traveled other tendencieswhich life implied, and of which, since everything interpenetrates, manhas, doubtless, kept something, but of which he has kept only verylittle. _It is as if a vague and formless being, whom we may call, as wewill_, man _or_ superman, _had sought to realize himself, and hadsucceeded only by abandoning a part of himself on the way_. The lossesare represented by the rest of the animal world, and even by thevegetable world, at least in what these have that is positive and abovethe accidents of evolution. 

From this point of view, the discordances of which nature offers us thespectacle are singularly weakened. The organized world as a wholebecomes as the soil on which was to grow either man himself or a beingwho morally must resemble him. The animals, however distant they may befrom our species, however hostile to it, have none the less been usefultraveling companions, on whom consciousness has unloaded whateverencumbrances it was dragging along, and who have enabled it to rise, inman, to heights from which it sees an unlimited horizon open againbefore it. 

Consciousness is distinct from the organism it animates, although itmust undergo its vicissitudes. As the possible actions which a state ofconsciousness indicates are at every instant beginning to be carried outin the nervous centres, the brain underlies at every instant the motorindications of the state of consciousness; but the interdependency ofconsciousness and brain is limited to this; the destiny of consciousnessis not bound up on that account with the destiny of cerebral matter. Finally, consciousness is essentially free; it is freedom itself; but itcannot pass through matter without settling on it, without adaptingitself to it: this adaptation is what we call intellectuality; and theintellect, turning itself back towards active, that is to say, free, consciousness, naturally makes it enter into the conceptual forms intowhich it is accustomed to see matter fit. It will therefore alwaysperceive freedom in the form of necessity; it will always neglect thepart of novelty or of creation inherent in the free act; it will alwayssubstitute for action itself an imitation artificial, approximative, obtained by compounding the old with the old and the same with the same. Thus, to the eyes of a philosophy that attempts to reabsorb intellect inintuition, many difficulties vanish or become light. But such a doctrinedoes not only facilitate speculation; it gives us also more power to actand to live. For, with it, we feel ourselves no longer isolated inhumanity, humanity no longer seems isolated in the nature that itdominates. As the smallest grain of dust is bound up with our entiresolar system, drawn along with it in that undivided movement of descentwhich is materiality itself, so all organized beings, from the humblestto the highest, from the first origins of life to the time in which weare, and in all places, as in all times, do but evidence a singleimpulsion, the inverse of the movement of matter, and in itselfindivisible. All the living hold together, and all yield to the sametremendous push. The animal takes its stand on the plant, man bestridesanimality, and the whole of humanity, in space and in time, is oneimmense army galloping beside and before and behind each of us in anoverwhelming charge able to beat down every resistance and clear themost formidable obstacles, perhaps even death. 

_b. The "Dunkler Drang"_[345]

Every glance at the world, to explain which is the task of thephilosopher, confirms and proves that _will to live_, far from being anarbitrary hypostasis or an empty word, is the only true expression ofits inmost nature. Everything presses and strives towards _existence_, if possible _organized existence_, i. E. , _life_, and after that to thehighest possible grade of it. In animal nature it then becomes apparentthat _will to live_ is the keynote of its being, its one unchangeableand unconditioned quality. Let anyone consider this universal desire forlife, let him see the infinite willingness, facility, and exuberancewith which the will to live pressed impetuously into existence under amillion forms everywhere and at every moment, by means of fructificationand of germs, nay, when these are wanting, by means of _generatioaequivoca_, seizing every opportunity, eagerly grasping for itself everymaterial capable of life: and then again let him cast a glance at itsfearful alarm and wild rebellion when in any particular phenomenon itmust pass out of existence; especially when this takes place withdistinct consciousness. Then it is precisely the same as if in thissingle phenomenon the whole world would be annihilated forever, and thewhole being of this threatened living thing is at once transformed intothe most desperate struggle against death and resistance to it. Look, for example, at the incredible anxiety of a man in danger of his life, the rapid and serious participation in this of every witness of it, andthe boundless rejoicing at his deliverance. Look at the rigid terrorwith which a sentence of death is heard, the profound awe with which weregard the preparations for carrying it out, and the heartrendingcompassion which seizes us at the execution itself. We would thensuppose there was something quite different in question than a few lessyears of an empty, sad existence, embittered by troubles of every kind, and always uncertain: we would rather be amazed that it was a matter ofany consequence whether one attained a few years earlier to the placewhere after an ephemeral existence he has billions of years to be. Insuch phenomena, then, it becomes visible that I am right in declaringthat _the will to live_ is that which cannot be further explained, butlies at the foundation of all explanations, and that this, far frombeing an empty word, like the absolute, the infinite, the idea, andsimilar expressions, is the most real thing we know, nay, the kernel ofreality itself. 

But if now, abstracting for a while from this interpretation drawn fromour inner being, we place ourselves as strangers over against nature, inorder to comprehend it objectively, we find that from the grade oforganized life upwards it has only one intention--that of the_maintenance of the species_. To this end it works, through the immensesuperfluity of germs, through the urgent vehemence of the sexualinstinct, through its willingness to adapt itself to all circumstancesand opportunities, even to the production of bastards, and through theinstinctive maternal affection, the strength of which is so great thatin many kinds of animals it even outweighs self-love, so that the mothersacrifices her life in order to preserve that of the young. Theindividual, on the contrary, has for nature only an indirect value, onlyso far as it is the means of maintaining the species. Apart from this, its existence is to nature a matter of indifference; indeed nature evenleads it to destruction as soon as it has ceased to be useful for thisend. Why the individual exists would thus be clear; but why does thespecies itself exist? That is a question which nature when consideredmerely objectively cannot answer. For in vain do we seek bycontemplating her for an end of this restless striving, this ceaselesspressing into existence, this anxious care for the maintenance of thespecies. The strength and the time of the individuals are consumed inthe effort to procure sustenance for themselves and their young, and areonly just sufficient, sometimes even not sufficient, for this. The wholething, when regarded thus purely objectively, and indeed as extraneousto us, looks as if nature was only concerned that of all her (Platonic)_Ideas_, i. E. , permanent forms, none should be lost. For the individualsare fleeting as the water in the brook; and Ideas, on the contrary, arepermanent, like its eddies: but the exhaustion of the water would alsodo away with the eddies. We would have to stop at this unintelligibleview if nature were known to us only from without, thus were given usmerely _objectively_, and we accepted it as it is comprehended byknowledge, and also as sprung from knowledge, i. E. , in the sphere of theidea, and were therefore obliged to confine ourselves to this provincein solving it. But the case is otherwise, and a glance at any rate isafforded us into the _interior of nature_; inasmuch as this is nothingelse than _our own inner being_, which is precisely where nature, arrived at the highest grade to which its striving could work itself up, is now by the light of knowledge found directly in self-consciousness. Thus the subjective here gives the key for the exposition of theobjective. In order to recognize, as something original andunconditioned, that exceedingly strong tendency of all animals and mento retain life and carry it on as long as possible--a tendency which wasset forth above as characteristic of the subjective, or of the will--itis necessary to make clear to ourselves that this is by no means theresult of any objective _knowledge_ of the worth of life, but isindependent of all knowledge; or, in other words, that those beingsexhibit themselves, not as drawn from in front, but as impelled frombehind. 

If with this intention we first of all review the interminable series ofanimals, consider the infinite variety of their forms, as they exhibitthemselves always differently modified according to their element andmanner of life, and also ponder the inimitable ingenuity of theirstructure and mechanism, which is carried out with equal perfection inevery individual; and finally, if we take into consideration theincredible expenditure of strength, dexterity, prudence, and activitywhich every animal has ceaselessly to make through its whole life; if, approaching the matter more closely, we contemplate the untiringdiligence of wretched little ants, the marvellous and ingeniousindustry of the bees, or observe how a single burying-beetle(_Necrophorus vespillo_) buries a mole of forty times its own size intwo days in order to deposit its eggs in it and insure nourishment forthe future brood (Gleditsch, _Physik. Bot. Oekon. Abhandl. _, III, 220), at the same time calling to mind how the life of most insects is nothingbut ceaseless labour to prepare food and an abode for the future broodwhich will arise from their eggs, and which then, after they haveconsumed the food and passed through the chrysalis state, enter uponlife merely to begin again from the beginning the same labour; then alsohow, like this, the life of the birds is for the most part taken up withtheir distant and laborious migrations, then with the building of theirnests and the collection of food for their brood, which itself has toplay the same rôle the following year; and so all work constantly forthe future, which afterwards makes bankrupt--then we cannot avoidlooking round for the reward of all this skill and trouble, for the endwhich these animals have before their eyes, which strive soceaselessly--in short, we are driven to ask: What is the result? What isattained by the animal existence which demands such infinitepreparation? And there is nothing to point to but the satisfaction ofhunger and the sexual instinct, or in any case a little momentarycomfort, as it falls to the lot of each animal individual, now and thenin the intervals of its endless need and struggle. Take, for example, the mole, that unwearied worker. To dig with all its might with itsenormous shovel claws is the occupation of its whole life; constantnight surrounds it; its embryo eyes only make it avoid the light. Italone is truly an _animal nocturnum_; not cats, owls, and bats, who seeby night. But what, now, does it attain by this life, full of troubleand devoid of pleasure? Food and the begetting of its kind; thus onlythe means of carrying on and beginning anew the same doleful course innew individuals. In such examples it becomes clear that there is noproportion between the cares and troubles of life and the results orgain of it. The consciousness of the world of perception gives a certainappearance of objective worth of existence to the life of those animalswhich can see, although in their case this consciousness is entirelysubjective and limited to the influence of motives upon them. But the_blind_ mole, with its perfect organization and ceaseless activity, limited to the alternation of insect larvae and hunger, makes thedisproportion of the means to the end apparent. 

Let us now add the consideration of the human race. The matter indeedbecomes more complicated, and assumes a certain seriousness of aspect;but the fundamental character remains unaltered. Here also life presentsitself by no means as a gift for enjoyment, but as a task, a drudgery tobe performed; and in accordance with this we see, in great and small, universal need, ceaseless cares, constant pressure, endless strife, compulsory activity, with extreme exertion of all the powers of body andmind. Many millions, united into nations, strive for the common good, each individual on account of his own; but many thousands fall as asacrifice for it. Now senseless delusions, now intriguing politics, incite them to wars with each other; then the sweat and the blood of thegreat multitude must flow, to carry out the ideas of individuals, or toexpiate their faults. In peace industry and trade are active, inventionswork miracles, seas are navigated, delicacies are collected from allends of the world, the waves engulf thousands. All strive, someplanning, others acting; the tumult is indescribable. But the ultimateaim of it all, what is it? To sustain ephemeral and tormentedindividuals through a short span of time in the most fortunate ease withendurable want and comparative freedom from pain, which, however, is atonce attended with ennui; then the reproduction of this race and itsstriving. In this evident disproportion between the trouble and thereward, the will to live appears to us from this point of view, if takenobjectively, as a fool, or subjectively, as a delusion, seized by whicheverything living works with the utmost exertion of its strength forsomething that is of no value. But when we consider it more closely, weshall find here also that it is rather a blind pressure, a tendencyentirely without ground or motive. 

The law of motivation only extends to the particular actions, not towilling _as a whole and in general_. It depends upon this, that if weconceive of the human race and its action _as a whole and universally_, it does not present itself to us, as when we contemplate the particularactions, as a play of puppets who are pulled after the ordinary mannerby threads outside them; but from this point of view, as puppets thatare set in motion by internal clockwork. For if, as we have done above, one compares the ceaseless, serious, and laborious striving of men withwhat they gain by it, nay, even with what they ever can gain, thedisproportion we have pointed out becomes apparent, for one recognizesthat that which is to be gained, taken as the motive power, is entirelyinsufficient for the explanation of that movement and that ceaselessstriving. What, then, is a short postponement of death, a slight easingof misery or deferment of pain, a momentary stilling of desire, comparedwith such an abundant and certain victory over them all as death? Whatcould such advantages accomplish taken as actual moving causes of ahuman race, innumerable because constantly renewed, which unceasinglymoves, strives, struggles, grieves, writhes, and performs the wholetragi-comedy of the history of the world, nay, what says more than all, _perseveres_ in such a mock-existence as long as each one possibly can?Clearly this is all inexplicable if we seek the moving causes outsidethe figures and conceive the human race as striving, in consequence ofrational reflection, or something analogous to this (as moving threads), after those good things held out to it, the attainment of which would bea sufficient reward for its ceaseless cares and troubles. The matterbeing taken thus, everyone would rather have long ago said, "Le jeu nevaut pas la chandelle, " and have gone out. But, on the contrary, everyone guards and defends his life, like a precious pledge entrustedto him under heavy responsibility, under infinite cares and abundantmisery, even under which life is tolerable. The wherefore and the why, the reward for this, certainly he does not see; but he has accepted theworth of that pledge without seeing it, upon trust and faith, and doesnot know what it consists in. Hence I have said that these puppets arenot pulled from without, but each bears in itself the clockwork fromwhich its movements result. This is _the will to live_, manifestingitself as an untiring machine, an irrational tendency, which has not itssufficient reason in the external world. It holds the individuals firmlyupon the scene, and is the _primum mobile_ of their movements; while theexternal objects, the motives, only determine their direction in theparticular case; otherwise the cause would not be at all suitable to theeffect. For, as every manifestation of a force of nature has a cause, but the force of nature itself none, so every particular act of will hasa motive, but the will in general has none: indeed at bottom these twoare one and the same. The will, as that which is metaphysical, iseverywhere the boundary-stone of every investigation, beyond which itcannot go. We often see a miserable figure, deformed and shrunk withage, want, and disease, implore our help from the bottom of his heartfor the prolongation of an existence, the end of which would necessarilyappear altogether desirable if it were an objective judgment thatdetermined here. Thus instead of this it is the blind will, appearing asthe tendency to life, the love of life, and the sense of life; it is thesame which makes the plants grow. This sense of life may be compared toa rope which is stretched above the puppet show of the world of men, andon which the puppets hang by invisible threads, while apparently theyare supported only by the ground beneath them (the objective value oflife). But if the rope becomes weak the puppet sinks; if it breaks thepuppet must fall, for the ground beneath it only seemed to support it:i. E. , the weakening of that love of life shows itself as hypochondria, spleen, melancholy: its entire exhaustion as the inclination to suicide. And as with the persistence in life, so is it also with its action andmovement. This is not something freely chosen; but while everyone wouldreally gladly rest, want and ennui are the whips that keep the topspinning. Therefore everything is in continual strain and forcedmovement, and the course of the world goes on, to use an expression ofAristotle's (_De coelo_ ii. 13), [Greek: "ou physei, alla bia"] (_motu, non naturali sed molento_). Men are only apparently drawn from in front;really they are pushed from behind; it is not life that tempts them on, but necessity that drives them forward. The law of motivation is, likeall causality, merely the form of the phenomenon. 

In all these considerations, then, it becomes clear to us that the willto live is not a consequence of the knowledge of life, is in no way a_conclusio ex praemissis_, and in general is nothing secondary. Rather, it is that which is first and unconditioned, the premiss of allpremisses, and just on that account that from which philosophy must_start_, for the will to live does not appear in consequence of theworld, but the world in consequence of the will to live. 

III. INVESTIGATIONS AND PROBLEMS

1. Progress and Social Research

The problem of progress comes back finally to the problem of theultimate good. If the world is getting better, measured by this ultimatestandard, then there is progress. If it is growing worse, then there isretrogression. But in regard to the ultimate good there is no agreement. What is temporary gain may be ultimate loss. What is one man's evil maybe, and often seems to be, another man's good. In the final analysiswhat seems evil may turn out to be good and what seems good may be aneventual evil. But this is a problem in philosophy which sociology isnot bound to solve before it undertakes to describe society. It does noteven need to discuss it. Sociology, just as any other natural science, accepts the current values of the community. The physician, like thesocial worker, assumes that health is a social value. With this as adatum his studies are directed to the discovery of the nature and causesof diseases, and to the invention of devices for curing them. There isjust as much, and no more, reason for a sociologist to formulate adoctrine of social progress as there is for the physician to do so. Bothare concerned with specific problems for which they are seeking specificremedies. 

If there are social processes and predictable forms of change insociety, then there are methods of human intervention in the processesof society, methods of controlling these processes in the interest ofthe ends of human life, methods of progress in other words. If there areno intelligible or describable social processes, then there may beprogress, but there will be no sociology and no _methods of progress_. We can only hope and pray. 

It is not impossible to formulate a definition of progress which doesnot assume the perfectibility of mankind, which does not regard progressas a necessity, and which does not assume to say with finality what hashappened or is likely to happen to humanity as a whole. [346]

Progress may be considered as the addition to the sum of accumulatedexperience, tradition, and technical devices organized for socialefficiency. This is at once a definition of progress and ofcivilization, in which civilization is the sum of social efficienciesand progress consists of the units (additions) of which it is composed. Defined in these terms, progress turns out to be a relative, local, temporal, and secular phenomenon. It is possible, theoretically atleast, to compare one community with another with respect to theirrelative efficiency and their relative progress in efficiency, just aswe can compare one institution with another in respect to its efficiencyand progress. It is even possible to measure the progress of humanity inso far as humanity can be said to be organized for social action. 

This is in fact the point of view which sociologists have adopted assoon as progress ceased to be, for sociology, a matter of definition andbecame a matter of observation and research. Score cards forneighborhoods and for rural communities have already been devised. [347]

2. Indices of Progress

A few years ago, Walter F. Willcox, in an article "A Statistician's Ideaof Progress, " sought to define certain indices of social progress whichwould make it possible to measure progress statistically. "If progressbe merely a subjective term, " he admitted, "statistics can throw nolight upon it because all such ends as happiness, or self-realization, or social service are incapable of statistical measurement. " Statisticsworks with indices, characteristics which are accessible to measurementbut are "correlated with some deeper immeasurable characteristic. " Mr. Willcox took as his indices of progress:

 1. Increase in population. 2. Length of life. 3. Uniformity in population. 4. Racial homogeneity. 5. Literacy. 6. Decrease of the divorce rate. 

Certainly these indices, like uniformity, are mere temporary measures ofprogress, since diversity in the population is not per se an evil. Itbecomes so only when the diversities in the community are so great asto endanger its solidarity. Applying his indices to the United States, Mr. Willcox sums up the result as follows:

 The net result is to indicate for the United States a rapid increase of population and probable increase in length of life, and increase in racial uniformity and perhaps in uniformity of other sorts connected with immigration, and at the same time a decrease in uniformity in the stability and social serviceability of family life. Some of these indications look towards progress, others look towards retrogression. As they cannot be reduced to any common denominator, the statistical method is unable to answer the question with which we started. [348]

The securing of indices which will measure satisfactorily even suchsocial values as are generally accepted is difficult. The problem ofgiving each index in the series a value or weight in proportion to thevalue of all the others is still more difficult. This statement, at anyrate, illustrates the procedure and the method. 

The whole subject of numerical indices for the measurement ofcivilization and progress has recently been discussed in a little volumeby Alfredo Niceforo, [349] professor in the School of Criminal Law atRome. He proposes as indices of progress:

1. The increase in wealth and in the consumption of goods, and thediminution of the mortality rate. These are evidences of materialprogress. 

2. The diffusion of culture, and "when it becomes possible to measureit, " the productivity of men of genius. This is the measure ofintellectual superiority. 

3. Moral progress he would measure in terms of crime. 

4. There remains the social and political organization, which he wouldmeasure in terms of the increase and decrease of individual liberty. 

In all these attempts to measure the progress of the community theindices have invariably shown progression in some direction, retrogression in others. 

From the point of view of social research the problem of progress ismainly one of getting devices that will measure all the differentfactors of progress and of estimating the relative value of differentfactors in the progress of the community. 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

1. THE DEFINITION OF PROGRESS

(1) Dewey, John. "Progress, " _International Journal of Ethics_, XXVI(1916), 311-22. 

(2) Bury, J. B. _The Idea of Progress_. An inquiry into its origin andgrowth. London, 1921. 

(3) Bryce, James. "What is Progress?" _Atlantic Monthly_, C (1907), 145-56. 

(4) Todd, A. J. _Theories of Social Progress_. A critical attempt toformulate the conditions of human advance. New York, 1918. 

(5) Woods, E. B. "Progress as a Sociological Concept, " _American Journalof Sociology_, XII (1906-7), 779-821. 

(6) Cooley, Charles H. _The Social Process_. Chap, xxvii, "The Sphere ofPecuniary Valuation, " pp. 309-28. New York, 1918. 

(7) Mackenzie, J. S. "The Idea of Progress, " _International Journal ofEthics_, IX (1899), 195-213. 

(8) Bergson, H. _Creative Evolution_. New York, 1911. 

(9) Frobenius, L. _Die Weltanschauung der Naturvölker_. Weimar, 1899. 

(10) Inge, W. R. _The Idea of Progress_. The Romanes Lecture, 1920. Oxford, 1920. 

(11) Balfour, Arthur J. _Arthur James Balfour, as Philosopher andThinker_. A collection of the more important and interesting passages inhis non-political writings, speeches, and addresses, 1879-1912. Selectedand arranged by Wilfrid M. Short. "Progress, " pp. 413-35. London and NewYork, 1912. 

(12) Carpenter, Edward. _Civilization, Its Cause and Cure_. And otheressays. New and enlarged ed. London and New York, 1917. 

(13) Nordau, Max S. _The Interpretation of History_. Translated from theGerman by M. A. Hamilton. Chap viii, "The Question of Progress. " NewYork, 1911. 

(14) Sorel, Georges. _Les Illusions du progrès_. 2d ed. Paris, 1911. 

(15) Allier, R. "Pessimisme et civilisation, " _Revue Encyclopédique_, V(1895), 70-73. 

(16) Simmel, Georg. "Moral Deficiencies as Determining IntellectualFunctions, " _International Journal of Ethics_, III (1893), 490-507. 

(17) Delvaille, Jules. _Essai sur histoire de l'idée de progrès jusq'àla fin du 18ième siècle_. Paris, 1910. 

(18) Sergi, G. "Qualche idea sul progresso umano, " _Rivista italiana disociologia_, XVII (1893), 1-8. 

(19) Barth, Paul. "Die Frage des sittlichen Fortschritts derMenschheit, " _Vierteljahrsschrift für wissenschaftliche Philosophie_, XXIII (1899), 75-116. 

(20) Lankester, E. Ray. _Degeneration_. A chapter in Darwinism, andparthenogenesis. Humboldt Library of Science. New York. 18--. 

(21) Lloyd, A. H. "The Case of Purpose against Fate in History, "_American Journal of Sociology_, XVII (1911-12), 491-511. 

(22) Case, Clarence M. "Religion and the Concept of Progress, " _Journalof Religion_, I (1921), 160-73. 

(23) Reclus, E. "The Progress of Mankind, " _Contemporary Review_, LXX(1896), 761-83. 

(24) Bushee, F. A. "Science and Social Progress, " _Popular ScienceMonthly_, LXXIX (1911), 236-51. 

(25) Jankelevitch, S. "Du Rôle des idées dans l'évolution des sociétés, "_Revue philosophique_, LXVI (1908), 256-80. 

II. HISTORY, THE PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY AND PROGRESS

(1) Condorcet, Marquis de. _History of the Progress of the Human Mind_. London, 1795. 

(2) Comte, Auguste. _The Positive Philosophy of Auguste Comte_. (Translated from the French by Harriet Martineau) Book VI, chap, ii, vi. 2d ed. 2 vols. London, 1875-90. 

(3) Caird, Edward. _The Social Philosophy and Religion of Comte_. 2d ed. Glasgow and New York, 1893. 

(4) Buckle, Henry Thomas. _History of Civilization in England_. 2 vols. From 2d London ed. New York, 1903. 

(5) Condorcet, Marie J. A. C. _Esquisse d'un tableau historique desprogrès de l'esprit humain_. 2 vols in one. Paris, 1902. 

(6) Harris, George. _Civilization Considered as a Science_. In relationto its essence, its elements, and its end. London, 1861. 

(7) Lamprecht, Karl. _Alte und neue Richtungen in derGeschichtswissenschaft_. Berlin, 1896. 

(8) ----. "Individualität, Idee und sozialpsychische Kraft in derGeschichte, " _Jahrbücher für National-Ökonomie und Statistik_, XIII(1897), 880-900. 

(9) Barth, Paul. _Philosophie der Geschichte als Sociologie_. ErsterTeil, "Einleitung und kritische Übersicht. " Leipzig, 1897. 

(10) Rickert, Heinrich. _Die Grenzen der NaturwissenschaftlichenBegriffsbildung_. Leipzig, 1902. 

(11) Simmel, Georg. _Die Problems der Geschichtsphilosophie_. Eineerkenntnistheoretische Studie. 2d ed. Leipzig, 1905. 

(12) Mill, John Stuart. _A System of Logic, Ratiocinative andInductive_. Being a connected view of the principles of evidence and themethods of scientific investigation. 8th ed. New York and London, 1900. 

(13) Letelier, Valentin. _La Evoluçion de la historia_. 2d ed. 2 vols. Santiago de Chile, 1900. 

(14) Teggart, Frederick J. _The Processes of History. _ New Haven, 1918. 

(15) Znaniecki, Florian. _Cultural Reality. _ Chicago, 1919. 

(16) Hibben, J. G. "The Philosophical Aspects of Evolution, "_Philosophical Review_, XIX (1910), 113-36. 

(17) Bagehot, Walter. _Physics and Politics. _ Or thoughts on theapplication of the principles of "natural selection" and "inheritance"to political society. Chap. Vi, "Verifiable Progress PoliticallyConsidered, " pp. 205-24. New York, 1906. 

(18) Crawley, A. E. "The Unconscious Reason in Social Evolution, "_Sociological Review_, VI (1913), 236-41. 

(19) Froude, James A. "Essay on Progress, " _Short Studies on GreatSubjects. _ 2d Ser. II, 245-79, 4 vols. New York, 1888-91. 

(20) Morley, John. "Some Thoughts on Progress, " _Educational Review_, XXIX (1905), 1-17. 

III. EVOLUTION AND PROGRESS

(1) Spencer, Herbert. "Progress, Its Law and Cause, " _WestminsterReview_, LXVII (1857), 445-85. [Reprinted in Everyman's edition of his_Essays_, pp. 153-97. New York, 1866. ]

(2) Federici, Romolo. _Les Lois du Progrès. _ II, 32-35, 44, 127, 136, 146-47, 158 ff. , 223, etc. 2 vols. Paris, 1888-91. 

(3) Baldwin, James Mark. _Development and Evolution. _ Includingpsychophysical evolution, evolution by orthoplasy, and the theory ofgenetic modes. New York, 1902. 

(4) Adams, Brooks. _The Law of Civilization and Decay. _ An essay onhistory. New York and London, 1903. 

(5) Kidd, Benjamin. _Principles of Western Civilization. _ London, 1902. 

(6) ----. _Social Evolution. _ New ed. New York and London, 1896. 

(7) Müller-Lyer, F. _Phasen der Kultur und Richtungslinien desFortschritts. _ Soziologische Überblicke. München, 1908. 

(8) McGee, W. J. "The Trend of Human Progress, " _AmericanAnthropologist_, N. S. , I (1899), 401-47. 

(9) Carver, Thomas N. _Sociology and Social Progress. _ A handbook forstudents of sociology. Boston, 1905. 

(10) Weber, L. _Le Rythme du progrès. _ Étude sociologique. Paris, 1913. 

(11) Baldwin, J. Mark. _Social and Ethical Interpretations in MentalDevelopment. _ Chap. Xiv. "Social Progress, " pp. 537-50. New York, 1906. 

(12) Kropotkin, P. _Mutual Aid. _ A factor of evolution. London, 1902. 

(13) Wallace, Alfred R. _Social Environment and Moral Progress. _ Londonand New York, 1913. 

(14) Freeman, R. Austin. _Social Decay and Regeneration. _ With anintroduction by Havelock Ellis. Boston, 1921. 

IV. EUGENICS AND PROGRESS

(1) Galton, Francis, and others. "Eugenics, Its Scope and Aims, "_American Journal of Sociology_, X (1904-5), 1-25. 

(2) Saleeby, Caleb W. _The Progress of Eugenics. _ London, 1914. 

(3) Ellis, Havelock. _The Problem of Race Regeneration. _ New York, 1911. 

(4) Pearson, Karl. _National Life from the Standpoint of Science. _ 2ded. London, 1905. 

(5) Saleeby, Caleb W. _Methods of Race Regeneration. _ New York, 1911. 

(6) Davenport, C. B. _Heredity in Relation to Eugenics. _ New York, 1911. 

(7) Demoor, Massart, et Vandervelde. _L'Évolution régressive en biologieet en sociologie. _ Paris, 1897. 

(8) Thomson, J. Arthur. "Eugenics and War, " _Eugenics Review_, VII(1915-16), 1-14. 

(9) Southard, E. E. "Eugenics _vs. _ Cacogenics, " _Journal of Heredity_, V (1914), 408-14. 

(10) Conn, Herbert W. _Social Heredity and Social Evolution. _ The otherside of eugenics. Cincinnati, 1914. 

(11) Popenoe, Paul, and Johnson, R. H. _Applied Eugenics. _ New York, 1918. 

(12) Kelsey, Carl. "Influence of Heredity and Environment upon RaceImprovement, " _Annals of the American Academy_, XXXIV (1909) 3-8. 

(13) Ward, L. F. "Eugenics, Euthenics and Eudemics, " _American Journalof Sociology_, XVIII (1912-13), 737-54. 

V. PROGRESS AND THE MORAL ORDER

(1) Harrison, Frederic. _Order and Progress. _ London, 1875. 

(2) Hobhouse, Leonard T. _Social Evolution and Political Theory. _ Chaps, i, ii, vii, pp. 1-39; 149-65. New York, 1911. 

(3) ----. _Morals in Evolution. _ A study in comparative ethics. 2 vols. New York, 1906. 

(4) Alexander, Samuel. _Moral Order and Progress. _ An analysis ofethical conceptions. 2d ed. London, 1891. 

(5) Chapin, F. S. "Moral Progress, " _Popular Science Monthly_, LXXXVI(1915), 467-71. 

(6) Keller, Albert G. _Societal Evolution. _ New York, 1915. 

(7) Dellepiane, A. "Le Progrès et sa formule. La lutte pour le progrès, "_Revue Internationale de sociologie_, XX (1912), 1-30. 

(8) Burgess, Ernest W. _The Function of Socialization in SocialEvolution. _ Chicago, 1916. 

(9) Ellwood, C. A. "The Educational Theory of Social Progress, "_Scientific Monthly_, V (1917), 439-50. 

(10) Bosanquet, Helen. "The Psychology of Social Progress, "_International Journal of Ethics_, VII (1896-97), 265-81. 

(11) Perry, Ralph Barton. _The Moral Economy_. Chap, iv, "The Moral Testof Progress, " pp. 123-70. New York, 1909. 

(12) Patten, S. N. "Theories of Progress, " _American Economic Review_, II (1912), 61-68. 

(13) Alexander, H. B. "The Belief in God and Immortality as Factors inRace Progress. " _Hibbert Journal_, IX (1910-11), 169-87. 

VI. UTOPIAS

(1) Plato. _The Republic of Plato_. Translated into English by BenjaminJowett. 2 vols. Oxford, 1908. 

(2) More, Thomas. _The "Utopia" of Sir Thomas More_. Ralph Robinson'stranslation, with Roper's "Life of More" and some of his letters. London, 1910. 

(3) _Ideal Commonwealths_. Comprising More's "Utopia, " Bacon's "NewAtlantis, " Campanella's "City of the Sun, " and Harrington's "Oceana, "with introductions by Henry Morley. Rev. Ed. New York, 1901. 

(4) Kaufmann, Moritz. _Utopias, or Schemes of Social Improvement_. FromSir Thomas More to Karl Marx. London, 1879. 

(5) Bacon, Francis. _New Atlantis_. Oxford, 1915. 

(6) Campanella, Tommaso. _La città di sole e aforasmi politici_. Lanciana, Carabba, 19--. 

(7) Andreä, Johann V. _Christianopolis_. An ideal state of theseventeenth century. Translated from the Latin by T. E. Held. New York, 1916. 

(8) Harrington, James. _The Oceana of James Harrington_. London, 1700. 

(9) Mandeville, Bernard de. _Fable of the Bees_. Or private vices, public benefits. Edinburgh, 1772. [First published in 1714. ]

(10) Cabet, Étienne. _Voyage en Icarie_. 5th ed. Paris, 1848. 

(11) Butler, Samuel. _Erewhon: or over the Range_. New York, 1917. [First published in 1872. ]

(12) ----. _Erewhon Revisited Twenty Years Later_. New York, 1901. 

(13) Lytton, Edward Bulwer. _The Coming Race_. London, 1871. 

(14) Bellamy, Edward. _Looking Backward, 2000-1887_. Boston, 1898. 

(15) Morris, William. _News from Nowhere_. Or an epoch of rest, beingsome chapters from a utopian romance. New York, 1910. [First publishedin 1891. ]

(16) Hertzka, Theodor. _Freeland_. A social anticipation. New York, 1891. 

(17) Wells, H. G. _A Modern Utopia_. New York, 1905. 

(18) ----. _New Worlds for Old_. New York, 1908. 

VII. PROGRESS AND SOCIAL WELFARE

(1) Crozier, John B. _Civilization and Progress_. 3d ed. , pp. 366-440. London and New York, 1892. 

(2) Obolensky, L. E. ["Self-Consciousness of Classes in SocialProgress"] _Voprosy filosofii i psichologuïi_, VII (1896), 521-51. [Short review in _Revue philosophique_, XLIV (1897), 106. ]

(3) Mallock, William H. _Aristocracy and Evolution_. A study of therights, the origin, and the social functions of the wealthier classes. London, 1898. 

(4) Tenney, E. P. _Contrasts in Social Progress_. New York, 1907. 

(5) Hall, Arthur C. _Crime in Its Relations to Social Progress_. NewYork, 1902. 

(6) Hughes, Charles E. _Conditions of Progress in a DemocraticGovernment_. New Haven, 1910. 

(7) Parmelee, Maurice. _Poverty and Social Progress_. Chaps. Vi-vii. NewYork, 1916. 

(8) George, Henry. _Progress and Poverty_. Book X, chap. Iii. New York, 1899. 

(9) Nasmyth, George. _Social Progress and the Darwinian Theory_. NewYork, 1916. 

(10) Harris, George. _Inequality and Progress_. New York, 1897. 

(11) Irving, L. "The Drama as a Factor in Social Progress, " _FortnightlyReview_, CII (1914), 268-74. 

(12) Salt, Henry S. _Animal Rights Considered in Relation to SocialProgress_. New York, 1894. 

(13) Delabarre, Frank A. "Civilisation and Its Effects on Morbidity andMortality, " _Journal of Sociologic Medicine_, XIX (1918), 220-23. 

(14) Knopf, S. A. "The Effects of Civilisation on the Morbidity andMortality of Tuberculosis, " _Journal of Sociologic Medicine_, XX (1919), 5-15. 

(15) Giddings, Franklin H. "The Ethics of Social Progress, " in thecollection _Philanthropy and Social Progress_. Seven essays ... Delivered before the School of Applied Ethics at Plymouth, Mass. , duringthe session of 1892. With introduction by Professor Henry C. Adams. NewYork and Boston, 1893. 

(16) Morgan, Alexander. _Education and Social Progress_. Chaps. Vi, ix-xxi. London and New York, 1916. 

(17) Butterfield, K. L. _Chapters in Rural Progress. _ Chicago, 1908. 

(18) Robertson, John M. _The Economics of Progress. _ New York, 1918. 

(19) Willcox, Walter F. "A Statistician's Idea of Progress, "_International Journal of Ethics_, XXIII (1913), 275-98. 

(20) Zueblin, Charles. _American Municipal Progress. _ Rev. Ed. New York, 1916. 

(21) Niceforo, Alfredo. _Les Indices numérique de la civilisation et duprogrès_. Paris, 1921. 

(22) Todd, A. J. _Theories of Social Progress. _ Chap, vii, "The Criteriaof Progress, " pp. 113-53. New York, 1918. 

TOPICS FOR WRITTEN THEMES

1. The History of the Concept of Progress

2. Popular Notions of Progress

3. The Natural History of Progress: Evolution of Physical and MentalTraits, Economic Progress, Moral Development, Intellectual Development, Social Evolution

4. Stages of Progress: Determined by Type of Control over Nature, Typeof Social Organization, Type of Communication, etc. 

5. Score Cards and Scales for Grading Communities and Neighborhoods

6. Progress as Wish-Fulfilment: an Analysis of Utopias

7. Criteria or Indices of Progress: Physical, Mental, Intellectual, Economic, Moral, Social, etc. 

8. Progress as an Incident of the Cosmic Process

9. Providence versus Progress

10. Happiness as the Goal of Progress

11. Progress as Social Change

12. Progress as Social Evolution

13. Progress as Social Control

14. Progress and the Science of Eugenics

15. Progress and Socialization

16. Control through Eugenics, Education, and Legislation

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. What do you understand by progress?

2. How do you explain the fact that the notion of progress originated?

3. What is the relation of change to progress?

4. What is Spencer's law of evolution? Is it an adequate generalization?What is its value?

5. Why do we speak of "stages of progress"?

6. To what extent has progress been a result (a) of eugenics, (b) oftradition?

7. What do you understand by progress as (a) a historical process, and(b) increase in the content of civilization?

8. What is the relation of progress to happiness?

9. "We have confused rapidity of change with progress. " Explain. 

10. "Progress is not automatic. " Elaborate your position with referenceto this statement. 

11. What is the relation of prevision to progress?

12. Do you believe that mankind can control and determine progress?

13. "Our expectations of limitless progress cannot depend upon thedeliberate action of national governments. " Contrast this statement ofBalfour with the statement of Dewey. 

14. "A community founded on argument would dissolve into its constituentelements. " Discuss this statement. 

15. What is Galton's conception of progress?

16. What would you say to the possibility or the impossibility of thesuggestion of eugenics becoming a religious dogma as suggested byGalton?

17. What is the relation, as conceived by the eugenists, as between germplasm and culture?

18. Is progress dependent upon change in human nature?

19. How are certain persistent traits of human nature related toprogress?

20. What is meant by the statement that progress is in the mores?

21. What are the different types of progress analyzed by Bryce? Hasadvance in each of them been uniform in the last one thousand years?

22. Does war make for or against progress?

23. What is the relation of freedom to progress?

24. What place has the myth in progress?

25. To what extent is progress as a process of realizing values a matterof temperament, of optimism, and of pessimism?

FOOTNOTES:

[322] Robert Flint, _The Philosophy of History in Europe_, I, 29-30. (London, 1874. )

[323] W. R. Inge, _Outspoken Essays_, i, "Our Present Discontents, " p. 2. (London, 1919. )

[324] Charles Booth, _Labour and Life of the People_, I, 154-55, 598. 2ded. (London, 1889. )

[325] Charles Cooley, _The Social Process_, p. 284. (New York, 1918. )

[326] Charles Zueblin, _American Municipal Progress_, pp. Xi-xii. Newand rev. Ed. (New York, 1916. )

[327] R. Austin Freeman, _Social Decay and Regeneration_. With anintroduction by Havelock Ellis. Pp. 16-17. (Boston, 1921. )

[328] J. B. Bury, _The Idea of Progress. _ An inquiry into its origin andgrowth, p. 1. (London, 1921. )

[329] W. R. Inge, _The Idea of Progress_, p. 9. The Romanes Lecture, 1920. (Oxford, 1920. )

[330] Author of _The Passing of a Great Race, or the Racial Basis ofEuropean History_. (New York, 1916. )

[331] See Stoddard Lothrop, _The Rising Tide of Color against WhiteWorld-Supremacy_ (New York, 1920); and William McDougall, _Is AmericaSafe for Democracy?_ (New York, 1921. )

[332] Thomas H. Huxley, _Evolution and Ethics and Other Lectures_, Lecture ii, pp. 46-116. (New York, 1894. )

[333] Adapted from F. S. Marvin, _Progress and History_, pp. 8-10. (Oxford University Press, 1916. 

[334] Adapted from Herbert Spencer, _Essays_, I, 8-10. (D. Appleton &Co. , 1899. )

[335] Adapted from Auguste Comte, _Positive Philosophy_, II, 124. (Trübner & Co. , 1875. )

[336] Adapted from Leonard T. Hobhouse, _Social Evolution and PoliticalTheory_, pp. 29-39. (The Columbia University Press, 1911. )

[337] From Lester F. Ward, _Dynamic Sociology_, II, 174-77. (D. Appleton& Co. , 1893. )

[338] Adapted from John Dewey, "Progress, " in the _International Journalof Ethics_, XXVI (1916), 312-18. 

[339] From _The Mind of Arthur James Balfour_, by Wilfrid M. Short, pp. 293-97. (Copyright 1918, George H. Doran Company, publishers. )

[340] From Francis Galton, "Eugenics: Its Definition, Scope, and Aims, "in the _American Journal of Sociology_, X (1904-5), 1-6. 

[341] Adapted from G. Santayana, _Winds of Doctrine_, pp. 6-8. (CharlesScribner's Sons, 1913. )

[342] Adapted from W. G. Sumner, "The Mores of the Present and theFuture, " in the _Yale Review_, XVIII (1909-10), 235-36. (Quoted byspecial permission of the _Yale Review_. )

[343] Adapted from James Bryce, "War and Human Progress, " in_International Conciliation_, CVIII (November, 1916), 13-27. 

[344] From Henri Bergson, _Creative Evolution_, translated by ArthurMitchell, pp. 253-71. (Henry Holt & Co. , 1913. )

[345] From Arthur Schopenhauer, _The World as Will and Idea_, III, 107-18. (Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co. , 1909. )

[346] Scientific optimism was no doubt rampant before Darwin. Forexample, Herschel says: "Man's progress towards a higher state neednever fear a check, but must continue till the very last existence ofhistory. " But Herbert Spencer asserts the perfectibility of man with anassurance which makes us gasp. "Progress is not an accident, but anecessity. What we call evil and immorality must disappear. It iscertain that man must become perfect. " "The ultimate development of theideal man is certain--as certain as any conclusion in which we place themost implicit faith; for instance, that all men will die. " "Alwaystowards perfection is the mighty movement--towards a completedevelopment and a more unmixed good. "--W. R. Inge, _The Idea ofProgress_, p. 9. (Oxford, 1920. )

[347] "Scale for Grading Neighborhood Conditions, " _Publications of theWhittier State School, Research Bulletin, No. 5_, Whittier, Cal. , May, 1917. "Guide to the Grading of Neighborhoods, " _Publications of theWhittier State School, Research Bulletin, No. 8_, Whittier, Cal. , April, 1918. Dwight Sanderson, "Scale for Grading Social Conditions in RuralCommunities, " _New York State Agricultural College Bulletin_ [in press], Ithaca, N. Y. , 1921. 

[348] "A Statistician's Idea of Progress, " _International Journal ofEthics_, XVIII (1913), 296. 

[349] _Les indices numériques de la civilisation et du progrès_. (Paris, 1921. )

INDEX OF NAMES

[Page numbers in italics refer to selections or short extracts. ]

Abbott, Edith, 223, 569. 

Abbott, Grace, 780. 

Abraham, Karl, 857. 

Abrahams, I. , 943. 

Abrikossof, N. A. , 649. 

Achelis, T. , 937. 

Adams, Brewster, 643, 656. 

Adams, Brooks, 950, 1006. 

Adams, Charles C. , 218, 554. 

Adams, Charles F. , _760_. 

Adams, Franklin P. , _834_. 

Adams, Henry, _5_, 14, _15_, 563. 

Addams, Jane, 329, 331, 335. 

Addison, Joseph, 66. 

Adler, Alfred, 144, 150, 497, 501, 638, 645, 646. 

Adler, H. M. , 936. 

Alexander, H. B. , 1008. 

Alexander, Samuel, 1007. 

Alexander the Great, 987. 

Alfred [_pseud. _], _see_ Kydd, Samuel. 

Alher, R. , 1004. 

Ambrosio, M. A. D', 566. 

Ames, Edward S. , 426. 

Amiel, H. , 151. 

Ammon, Dr. O. , 535. 

Amsden, G. S. , 152. 

Anderson, Wilbert L. , 334. 

Andreä, Johann V. , 1008. 

Andrews, Alexander, 860. 

Andrews, John B. , 942. 

Anthony, Katharine S. , 151, 942. 

Anthony, Susan B. , 949. 

Antin, Mary, 774, 782, 783. 

Antony, Marc, 386. 

Archer, T. A. , 941. 

Arcoleo, G. , 649. 

Aria, E. , 948. 

Aristotle, 11, 29, 30, 32, 61, 140, 144, 156, 223, 231, 261, 373, 640, 1000. 

Aronovici, Carol, 218, 782. 

Atkinson, Charles M. , 949. 

Aubry, P. , 937, 938. 

Audoux, Marguerite, 151. 

Auerbach, Bertrand, 275, 660, 778. 

Augustinus, Aurelius (Saint Augustine), 122, 144, 150. 

Austin, George L. , 949. 

Austin, John, 106. 

Austin, Mary, _881-83_. 

Avebury, _Lord_, 649. 

Bab, Julius, 731. 

Babbitt, Eugene H. , 275, _754-56_. 

Babinski, J. F. , 648. 

Bachofen, J. J. , 214, 220. 

Bacon, Lord Francis, 66, _233-34_, 1008. 

Baden-Powell, H. , 219. 

Baer, Karl Ernst von, 967. 

Bagehot, Walter, 423, 429, _495-96_, 563, 564, 646. 

Bailey, Thomas P. , 652, 728. 

Bailey, W. F. , 778. 

Bailie, William, 565. 

Bakeless, John, 648. 

Baker, Ray Stannard, 643, 651, 658, 936. 

Balch, Emily G. , 781. 

Baldwin, J. Mark, 41, 85, 149, 150, 390, 423, 425, 429, 646, 663, 719, 725, 775, 1006. 

Balfour, Arthur James, 964, _977-79_, 1004. 

Ballagh, James C. , 728. 

Bancroft, H. H. , 942. 

Bang, J. P. , 650. 

Barbellion, W. N. P. [_pseud. _], _see_ Cummings, B. F. 

Barclay, Robert, 944. 

Baring Gould, S. , 274. 

Barnes, Harry E. , 659. 

Barr, Martin W. , 935. 

Barrère, Albert, 428. 

Barrow, _Sir_ John, 275. 

Barrows, Samuel J. , 781. 

Barth, Paul, _4_, 211, 1004, 1005. 

Bartlett, David W. , 949. 

Bastian, A. , 673, 787. 

Bastiat, Frederic, _505-6_, _552-53_, 563, 573. 

Bates, Jean V. , 778. 

Bauer, Arthur, 729. 

Bauer, Otto, 777. 

Bax, Ernest B. , 944. 

Beard, Charles A. , 498, 658. 

Beaulieu, P. Leroy, _see_ Leroy-Beaulieu, P. 

Bechterew, W. V, _123-25_, 150, 157, 345, _408-12_, _415-20_, 424, 430, 433, 434, 494, 501. 

Beck, von, 179. 

Beddoe, _Dr. _ John, 536. 

Beecher, Franklin A. , 940. 

Beer, M. , 566. 

Beers, C. W. , 152. 

Beethoven, Ludwig von, 228. 

Begbie, Harold, 727, 942. 

Behn, 366. 

Belisle, A. , 946. 

Bell, Alexander G. , 276. 

Bell, Sir Charles, 421. 

Bellamy, Edward, 1008. 

Bellet, Daniel, 947. 

Bennett, Arnold, 216. 

Bentham, Jeremy, 106, 500, 940, 949. 

Bentley, A. F. , _458-61_, 501, 503. 

Bergson, Henri, 373, 374, 422, 426, 964, _989-94_, 1004. 

Bernard, Luther L. , 854. 

Bernhard, L. , 275, 770, 946. 

Bernheim, A. , 430. 

Bertillon, Jacques, 265. 

Besant, Annie, 120, 121, 559, 949. 

Besant, Walter, 335. 

Best, Harry, 276, 567. 

Bevan, Edwyn R. , 659. 

Beveridge, W. H. , 567. 

Bhattacharya, Jogendra N. , 728. 

Bigg, Ada H. , 948. 

Binet, Alfred, _113-17_, 145, 150, 154, 424, 430, 496. 

Bing, Alexander M. , 652. 

Bismarck, 238, 239, 789. 

Blackmar, F. W. , 499, 779. 

Blair, R. H. , 362, 366. 

Blanchard, Phyllis, 646. 

Bloch, Iwan, 221, 333. 

Blondel, H. , 729. 

Blowitz, Henri de, 859. 

Blumenbach, J. F. , 243. 

Bluntschli, Johann K. , 658, 858. 

Blyden, Edward W. , 651. 

Boas, Franz, 19, 154, 332, 660, 725, 730, 770, 777, 938. 

Bodenhafer, Walter B. , 48. 

Böhme Margarete, 650. 

Bohannon, E. W. , 273. 

Bois, Henri, 943. 

Bonger, W. A. , 562, 569. 

Bonnaterre, J. P. , 277. 

Boodin, J. E. , 425. 

Booth, Charles, 44, _45_, 59, 212, 219, 335, 955. 

Booth, William, 942. 

Borght, R. Van der, 427. 

Bosanquet, Helen, 215, 222, 1008. 

Bossuet, J. B. , 906. 

Botsford, George W. , 940. 

Bouglé, C. , 728, 729. 

Bourde, Paul, 654. 

Bourgoing, P. De, 275, 945. 

Bourne, _Rev. _ Ansel, 472, 473. 

Bourne, H. R. Fox, 564, 859. 

Boutmy, Émile, 940. 

Boutroux, Pierre 650. 

Bradford, Gamaliel, Jr. , 731. 

Bradlaugh, Charles, 559. 

Bradley, F. H. , 106. 

Bradley, Henry, 941. 

Braid, James, 424. 

Brailsford, H. N. , 651. 

Braithwaite, W. C. , 944. 

Brancoff, D. M. , 946. 

Brandenburg, Broughton, 780. 

Brandes, Georg, 141, 498, 778. 

Braubach, Prof. , 810. 

Breckinridge, Sophonisba P. , 222, 223, 569, 782. 

Brehm, A. E. , 810. 

Brent, Charles H. , 855. 

Brentano, Lujo, 500, 658. 

Breuer, J. , 838. 

Bridges, 368. 

Bridges, Horace, 782. 

Bridgman, Laura, 244, 366. 

Bright, John, 447. 

Brill, A. A. , 273. 

Brinton, Daniel G. , _666_, _671-74_, 725, 857. 

Brissenden, Paul Frederick, 566, 658. 

Bristol, Lucius M. , 718, 725. 

Bronner, Augusta F. , 152. 

Brönner, W. , 941. 

Brooks, John Graham, 566, 658, 925, 935. 

Browne, Crichton, 366. 

Browne, Sir Thomas, 65, _128_. 

Bruhl, S. Levy, _see_ Levy Bruhl, S. 

Brunhes, Jean, 270, 274. 

Bryan, William J. , 734. 

Bryce, James, 650, 652, 658, 726, 759, 779, 851, 852 n. , 858, 861, 941, _984-89_, 1004. 

Brynmor-Jones, David, 149, 945. 

Buchanan, J. R. , 731. 

Buck, Carl D. , 660. 

Buck, S. J. , 942. 

Buckle, Henry Thomas, 270, 493, 498, 912, 1005. 

Bücher, Karl, _385-89_, 427, _529-33_, 728. 

Bunyan, John, 122. 

Burckhard, M. , 941. 

Burgess, Dr. , 366, 367, 368. 

Burgess, Ernest W. , 426, 1007. 

Burgess, John, 741. 

Burgess, Thomas, 781. 

Burke, Edmund, 449, 850. 

Burnell, A. C. , 276. 

Burns, Allen T. , 59, 335, 498, _773_, 782. 

Burns, J. , 943. 

Burr, Anna R. , 727. 

Bury, J. B. , 333, _958-59_, 1004. 

Busch, 414. 

Bushee, F. A. , 1005. 

Bussell, F. W. , 904. 

Buswell, Leslie, 649. 

Butler, Joseph, 429. 

Butler, Ralph, 660. 

Butler, Samuel, 1008. 

Butterfield, K. L. , 1010. 

Cabet, Étienne, 1008. 

Cabrol, F. , 939. 

Cadière, L. , 937. 

Caelius, 386. 

Caesar, 144, 238, 386, 387. 

Cahan, Abraham, 335, 782. 

Caird, Edward, 1005. 

Cairnes, J. E. , _546_, _547_, _548_. 

Calhoun, Arthur W. , 215, 222, 726. 

Cambarieu, J. , 938. 

Campanella, Tommaso, 1008. 

Campbell, John C. , 275, 654. 

Campeano, M. , 941. 

Canat, René, 273. 

Cannon, Walter B. , 422, 426. 

Cardan, Jerome, 144. 

Carlton, Frank T. , 657. 

Carlyle, Thomas, 494. 

Carnegie, Andrew, 670. 

Carpenter, Edward, 1004. 

Carter, George R. , 564. 

Cartwright, Peter, 944. 

Carver, Thomas N. , 1006. 

Case, Clarence M. , 1005. 

Case, S. J. , 857. 

Castle, W. E. , _128-33_, 147. 

Caxton, William, 237. 

Cellini, Benvenuto, 151. 

Chabaneix, Paul, 855. 

Chapin, F. Stuart, 59, 1007. 

Chapin, Robert C. , 215, 222. 

Chapman, 298. 

Charcot, J. M. , 144, 415, 424. 

Charlemagne, 238. 

Cherrington, Ernest H. , 942. 

Chevillon, Andre, 650. 

Chevreul, M. E. , 462. 

Cheysson, E. , 729. 

Chirol, Valentine, 936. 

Chrestus, 386. 

Christensen, A. , 940. 

Churchill, William, 275, 428. 

Cicero, 386, 387. 

Ciszewski, S. , 775. 

Claghorn, Kate H. , 782. 

Clarendon, Earl of, 65. 

Clark, H. , 940. 

Clark, John B. , _544-50_. 

Clark, Thomas A. , 731. 

Claudius, Emperor, 752. 

Clayton, H. H. , 947. 

Clayton, Joseph, 855. 

Clemens, Samuel L. , (Mark Twain, _pseud. _), 152. 

Clements, Frederic E. , 217, _526-28_, 554, 571. 

Clerget, Pierre, 948. 

Cleveland, Catharine C. , 944. 

Clibborne, 543. 

Clodd, Edward, 857. 

Clough, H. W. , 947. 

Cobb, Irvin, _735_. 

Cobden, Richard, 447, 949. 

Coblenz, Felix, 150. 

Codrington, R. H. , 857. 

Coe, George Albert, _235-37_, 726. 

Coffin, Ernest W. , 779. 

Cohen, Rose, 336, 774, 782. 

Coicou, M. , 729. 

Colcord, Joanna, 223. 

Coleman, Charles T. , 940. 

Coleridge, Samuel T. , 368. 

Collier, John, 732. 

Commons, John R. , 644, 657, 658, 776, 780, 942. 

Comte, Auguste, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 12, 24, 25, 39, 43, 44, 57, 60, 61, 68, 140, 210, 496, _716_, 959, _968-69_, 1005. 

Condorcet, Marie J. A. C. , 3, 553, 1005. 

Conn, Herbert W. , 1007. 

Connor, Dr. Bernard, 241. 

Constantin, A. , 648. 

Conway, M. , 940. 

Cook, Edward, 859. 

Cooley, Charles H. , 56, 58, 67, _67-68_, 70, _71_, 147, 154, 156, 157, 216, 285, 330, 421, 425, 430, 500, 646, _665_, _708-12_, _723_, 729, 855, 934, 955, 1004. 

Coolidge, Mary R. , 781. 

Corelli, Marie, 936. 

Cornyn, John H. , _751-54_. 

Corot, Jean Baptiste Camille, 126. 

Cory, H. E. , 731. 

Coulter, J. M. , 128-33, 147. 

Crafts, L. W. , _254-57_. 

Crawley, A. Ernest, 221, _291-93_, 282, 330, 332, 651, 850, 856, 857, 1006. 

Creighton, Louise, _779_. 

Crile, George W. , _522-26_, 562, 571, 641, 563, 564, 783. 

Croly, Jane (Mrs. ), 942. 

Crooke, William, 276, 728, 777, 943. 

Crosby, Arthur T. , 648. 

Crothers, T. D. , 940. 

Crowell, John F. , 564. 

Crozier, John B. , 1009. 

Culin, Stewart, 655, 656. 

Cummings, B. F. , 151. 

Cunningham, William, 563. 

Cutler, James E. , 654. 

Cutrera, A. , 655. 

Cuvier, Georges, i. E. , J. L. N. F. , 809. 

D'Aeth, F. G. , 729. 

Damiron, J. Ph. , 647. 

Dana, Charles A. , 859. 

Dana, Richard H. , Jr. , 276. 

Daniels, John, 781. 

Danielson, F. H. , 147, 254. 

Dargun, L. Von, 220. 

Darwin, Charles, 7, 143, 165, 214, 329, 342, _361-65_, _365-70_, 421, 422, 426, 432, 512, 513, 514, _515-19_, _519-22_, 554, 557, 562, 563, 570, 571, 641, 647, 663, 768, 810, 959, 1001. 

Daudet, Alphonse, 120. 

Daudet, Ernest, 649. 

Dauzat, Albert, 429. 

Davenport, C. B. , 71, _128-33_, 147, 254, 568, 1007. 

Davenport, Frederick M. , 943. 

Davids, T. W. Rhys, 943. 

Davis, H. , 654. 

Davis, Katharine B. , 570. 

Davis, Michael M. , 781. 

Dawley, Almena, 569. 

Dealey, J. Q. , 222. 

Deane, 238. 

DeGreef, Guillaume, 58. 

Delabarre, Frank A. , 1009. 

Delbet, E. , 729. 

Delbrück, A. , 273, 777. 

Delesalle, Georges, 428. 

Dellepaine, A. , 1007. 

Delvaille, Jules, 1004. 

De-Marchi, A, 856. 

Demolins, Edmond, 333. 

Demoor, Jean, 1007. 

Demosthenes, 638. 

Densmore, Frances, 938. 

Desagher, Maurice, 276. 

Descartes, René, 372, 463, 465. 

Despine, Prosper, 938, 940. 

Devine, Edward T. , 333, _491_, 498, 567, 732. 

Devon, J. , 569. 

Dewey, John, _36_, _37_, 38, 149, 164, _182-85_, 200, 225, 424, _426_, 430, 509, 964, _975-77_, 1004, 1010. 

Dibblee, G. Binney, 427. 

Dicey, A. V. , _445-51_, 557, 793, 831, 851, 858. 

Dilich, Wilhelm, 241. 

Dinneen, P. S. , 945. 

Disraeli, Benjamin, 721. 

Ditchfield, P. H. , 334. 

Dixon, Roland B. , 777, 854. 

Dixon, W. H. , 945. 

Dobschütz, E. Von, 333. 

Dodge, Raymond, _837-41_. 

Doll, E. A. , _254-57_. 

Dominian, Leon, 275, 645, 945. 

Donovan, Frances, 569. 

Dorsey, J. Owen, 655, 711. 

Dostoévsky, F. , 142, 273. 

Down, T. C. , _895-98_, 942. 

Downey, June E. , 146, 153. 

Drachsler, Julius, 774, 781. 

Draghicesco, D. , 729. 

Draper, J. W. , 641, 647. 

Dubois, L. Paul, 945. 

Du Bois, W. E. Burghardt, 152, 222, 781, 783. 

Dugas, L. , _370-75_, 422, 426. 

Dugdale, Richard L. , 143, 147, 254. 

Dugmore, H. H. , 861. 

Duguit, Léon, 850. 

Dumas, Georges, 938. 

Dunbar, Paul Lawrence, 627. 

Duncan, Sara Jeannette, 652. 

Durand, E. Dana, 652. 

Durkheim, Émile, 18, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, _39_, 40, 58, 164, _193-96_, 217, 221, 222, _267_, _268_, 343, 671, _714-18_, 723, 729, 854, 857, 894. 

Dushkin, Alexander M. , 774, 781. 

Dutaillis, C. E. Petit-, _see_ Petit-Dutaillis, C. E. 

East, E. M. , _128-33_, 147. 

Eastman, R. S. , 732. 

Eaton, Isabel, 781. 

Eddy, Arthur J. , 565. 

Edie, Lionel D. , 498. 

Edman, Irwin, 148. 

Edwards, Bryan, _727_. 

Edwards, E. , 943. 

Edwards, Milne, _519_. 

Effertz, Otto, 563. 

Egerton, Charles E. , 652. 

Egli, Emil, 944. 

Ehrenfels, Chrn. V. , 500. 

Elderton, Ethel M. , 566, 568. 

Eliot, George, 142, 231. 

Elliott, A. M. , 276. 

Ellis, Havelock, 148, 153, 215, 221, 223, 659, 726, 938, 957, 1007. 

Ellwood, Charles A. , 41, 58, 566, _846-48_, 950. 

Elsing, W. T. , 566. 

Elworthy, F. T. , 332. 

Ely, Richard T. , _444-45_, 502, _646_, 855. 

Empey, Arthur Guy, 429. 

Engel, Ernst, 215, 222. 

Engelgardt, A. N. , 870. 

Engels, Frederick, 565. 

Espinas, Alfred, 163, _165-66_, 217, 224, 225, 407. 

Estabrook, A. H. , 147, 254. 

Eubank, Earle E. , 223. 

Evans, F. W. , 944. 

Evans, Maurice S. , 643, 651, _811-12_. 

Faber, Geoffrey, 660. 

Fadl, Said Memum Abul, 649. 

Fahlbeck, Pontus, 218. 

Fairfield, Henry P. , 780, 781. 

Faria, Abbé, 424. 

Faris, Ellsworth, 147, _960-62_. 

Farmer, John S. , 427, 428. 

Farnell, L. R. , 856. 

Farnam, Henry W. , 569. 

Farquhar, J. N. , 944. 

Fauriel, M. C. , 937. 

Faust, Albert B. , 780. 

Fawkes, J. W. , 939. 

Fay, Edward A. , 276. 

Fedortchouk Y. , 946. 

Féré, Ch. , 405, 430. 

Ferguson, G. O. , Jr. , 154. 

Fernald, Mabel R. , 569. 

Ferrari, G. O. , 115. 

Ferrero, Guglielmo, 935, 936. 

Feuerbach, Paul J. A. , von, 277. 

Field, J. , 949. 

Field, James, A. , 566. 

Fielding Hall, H. , 649. 

Finck, Henry T. , 221. 

Finlayson, Anna W. , 148. 

Finney, C. J. , 943. 

Finot, Jean, 651. 

Finsler, G. , 937. 

Fischer, Eugen, 776. 

Fishberg, Maurice, 149, _271_, 274, 431, 778. 

Fisher, H. A. , 639. 

Flaten, Nils, 276. 

Fleming, Daniel J. , 780. 

Fleming, Walter L. , 730, 731, 942. 

Fletcher, Alice C. , 938. 

Flint, Robert, 565, 953. 

Florian, Eugenio, 333. 

Foerster, Robert F. , 781. 

Foley, Caroline A. , 948. 

Forel, A. , 169, 170. 

Fornarsi di Verce, E. , 569. 

Fosbroke, Thomas D. , 274. 

Fosdick, H. E. , 237. 

Foster, William Z. , 653. 

Fouillée, Alfred, 149, 152, _461-64_, 499. 

Francke, Kuno, 493, 498, 660. 

Frazer, J. G. , 149, 221, 330, 850, 855, 856. 

Frederici, Romolo, 1006. 

Frederick the Great, 628, 986. 

Freeman, Edward A. , 3, 10, _23_. 

Freeman, R. Austin, 957, 1007. 

Freud, Sigmund, 41, 144, 236, 329, 475, 478, 479, 482, 486, 487, 497, 501, 504, 638, 855, 858. 

Friedländer, L. , 935. 

Friedmann, Max, 927, 937. 

Friesen, P. M. , 657. 

Frobenius, Leo, 640, 648, 730, 776, 1004. 

Froebel, F. W. A. , 82. 

Froment, J. , 648. 

Froude, James A. , 1006. 

Fuller, Bampfylde, 935. 

Fustel de Coulanges, 855, 860. 

Gall, F. J. , 145. 

Galpin, Charles J. , 212, 218, _247-49_, 275, 724, 731. 

Galton, Francis, 726, 963, _979-83_, 1007, 1011. 

Gardner, Charles S. , 940. 

Garofalo, R. , 649. 

Gavit, John P. , 782. 

Geddes, P. , 153. 

Gehring, Johannes, 657. 

Gennep, A. Van, 857. 

George, Henry, 1009. 

Gerland, Georg, 270, 274, 856. 

Gesell, A. L. , 148. 

Gibbon, Edward, 711. 

Gibson, Thomas, 947. 

Gibson, William, 943. 

Giddings, Franklin H. , _32_, 33, 36, 40, 58, 544, _610-16_, 661, 735, 740, 1009. 

Gilbert, William S. , _65_. 

Gillen, F. J. , 149, 220, 861. 

Gillin, J. L. 499, 567, 657. 

Ginsberg, M. , 214, 220. 

Gladden, Washington, 491, 498. 

Glynn, A. W. Wiston-, _see_ Wiston-Glynn. 

Gobineau, Arthur de, 769. 

Goddard, Henry H. , 131, 143, 147, 152, 254, 568. 

Godkin, Edwin L. , 858. 

Godwin, William, 553. 

Godwin, William, 565. 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, 126, 909, 967. 

Goldenweiser, A. A. , 777. 

Goltz, E. Von der, 273. 

Goncourt, Edward de, and Jules de, 405. 

Goodhart, S. P. , 468. 

Goodsell, Willystine, 222. 

Gordon, Anna A. , 950. 

Gordon, Ernest, 942. 

Goring, Charles, 145, 153. 

Gould S. Baring-, _see_ Baring-Gould, S. 

Gowen, B. S. , 937. 

Gowin, Enoch B. , 855. 

Graebner, F. , 777. 

Graetz, H. , 944. 

Grant, 809. 

Grant, Madison, 963. 

Grass, K. , 943. 

Grass, K. K. , 657. 

Grasserie, R. , de la, _see_ La Grasserie, R. De. 

Gratiolet, Pierre, 421. 

Gray, Thomas, 314. 

Gray, W. , 856. 

Greco, Carlo Nardi-, _see_ Nardi-Greco, Carlo. 

Greeley, Horace, 949. 

Green, Alice S. A. , 334. 

Green, Samuel S. , 780. 

Gregoire, Abbé, 451. 

Gregory XV, 837. 

Grierson, Sir G. , 687. 

Grierson, P. J. H. , 564. 

Griffiths, Arthur, 274. 

Grinnell, G. B. , 938. 

Groat, George G. , 657. 

Groos, Karl, 426, 639, 640, 646. 

Grosse, Ernst, 221, _790_, 939. 

Grote, George, 233, _260-64_. 

Grotjahn, Alfred, 566. 

Groves. E. R. , 941. 

Grundtvig, N. F. S. , _Bishop_, 931. 

Gulick, Sidney L. , 431, 782. 

Gummere, Amelia M. , 274. 

Gummere, F. B. , 939. 

Gumplowicz, Ludwig, 212, 341, _346-48_, 420, 425, 431, 642, 645, 649, 776. 

Guyot, Édouard, 565. 

Hadley, Arthur T. , 658. 

Haeckel, Ernst, 912. 

Hagens, von, 169. 

Haines, Lynn, 659. 

Haldane, _Viscount_, _102-8_. 

Hall, Arthur C. , 1009. 

Hall, Frederick S. , 652. 

Hall, G. Stanley, 77, 150, 647, 648. 

Hall, H. , Fielding-, _see_ Fielding-Hall, H. 

Hall, W. P. , 563. 

Halpércine, Simon, 649. 

Hammer, von, 380. 

Hammond, Barbara, 334. 

Hammond, John L. , 334. 

Haney, Levi H. , 564. 

Hanford, Benjamin, 653. 

Hanna, Charles A. , 780. 

Hanna, Rev. Thomas C. , 468, 469. 

Hansen, F. C. C. , 430, 535. 

Hansen, J. , 937, 938. 

Hanson, William C. , 568. 

Hapgood, Hutchins, 152, 731, 783. 

Harlan, Rolvix, 945. 

Harnack, Adolf, 942. 

Harper, Ida H. , 949. 

Harrington, James, 1008. 

Harris, Benjamin, 834. 

Harris, George, 1005, 1009. 

Harrison, Frederic, 649, 1007. 

Harrison, James A. , 276. 

Harrison, Jane E. , 17, _18_, 856, 857. 

Harrison, Shelby M. , 59, 219, 859. 

Hart, A. B. , 499. 

Hart, Joseph K. , 731. 

Hartenberg, P. , 941. 

Hartmann, Berthold, 86. 

Harttung, Pflug-, _see_ Pflug-Harttung. 

Hasanovitz, Elizabeth, 335, 782. 

Hasbach, Wilhelm, 495. 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 237. 

Hayes. A. W. , 731. 

Hayes, Edward C. , 499. 

Hayes, Mary H. , 569. 

Hayes, Samuel P. , 943. 

Haynes, E. S. P. , 647. 

Haynes, Frederick E. , 658. 

Headlam, Cecil, 946. 

Healy, William, 59, 152, 273, 562, 645, 935. 

Hearn, Lafcadio, 938. 

Heaton, John L. , 859. 

Hecker, J. F. C. , 875, _879-81_, 936. 

Heckethorn, C. W. , 274, 730. 

Hegel, G. W. F. , 69, 156, 959. 

Heidenhain, 415. 

Heijningen, Hendrik M. K. Van, 654. 

Helps, Sir Arthur, _66_, 727. 

Hempl, Georg, 276. 

Henderson, Charles R. , 566. 

Henderson, Ernest L. , 424, 429. 

Henry, R. , 946. 

Hericourt, 115. 

Hermann, F. B. W. V. , 499. 

Heron, David, 560, 566. 

Herschel, Sir J. F. W. , 1001. 

Hertzka, Theodor, 1009. 

Hess, Grete Meisel, _see_ Meisel Hess. 

Hibben, J. G. , 1006. 

Hichborn, Franklin, 659. 

Hicks, Mary L. , 732. 

Higgs, Henry, _556_. 

Hill, Georgiana, 949. 

Hinde, Sidney L. , _869_. 

Hinds, William A. , 334. 

Hirn, Yrjö, 344, _401-7_, 426, 430, 433, 808, 869, 870, 938. 

Hirt, Eduard, 152. 

Hobbes, Thomas, _25_, 29, 30, 61, 106, 140, 156, 223, 512, 642. 

Hobhouse, Leonard T. , 56, _190-93_, 214, 220, 225, 728, 795, _796_, _798_ n. , 849, 854, 963, 964, _969-73_. 

Hobson, John A. , 567. 

Hocart, A. M. , 749. 

Hoch, A. , 152, 273. 

Hocking, W. E. , _95-97_, 148, _205-9_. 

Hodder, Edwin, 949. 

Hogarth, William, 402. 

Holdsworth, W. S. , 861. 

Hollingworth, H. L. , 149. 

Hollingworth, Leta S. , 152, 153. 

Hollman, Anton H. , 931. 

Holmes (Judge), 736, 853. 

Holmes, William H. , 948. 

Holt, Edward B. , _478-82_, 501, 503. 

Home, H. , _Lord Kames_, 402. 

Homer, 264. 

Hooper, Charles E. , 332. 

Horak, Jakub, 781. 

Horn, Paul, 429. 

Hotten, John C. , 428. 

Howard, G. E. , 214, 222. 

Howard, John, 949. 

Howells, William Dean, 627. 

Hoxie, Robert F. , 644, 657. 

Hoyt, F. C. , 656. 

Hubert, H. , 856, 857. 

Hudson, Frederic, 859. 

Hudson, W. H. , _245-47_, _604-5_, _883-86_. 

Hughes, Charles C. , 1009. 

Hughes, Henry, 429. 

Humboldt, Alexander von, 673, 909. 

Hume, David, 3, 429, 553, 786, _829-30_. 

Hunter, Robert, 653. 

Huntington, Ellsworth, 328, 666, 726. 

Huot, Louis, 648. 

Hupka, S. Von, 333. 

Hurry, Jamieson B. , 947. 

Huxley, Thomas H. , 963. 

Hyde, 749. 

Hyndman, Henry M. , 950. 

Inge, William R. , _954_, 959, _1001_, 1004. 

Ingersoll, Robert, 912. 

Ingram, John K. , 563, 675. 

Ireland, W. W. , 941. 

Irving, L. , 1009. 

Irwin, Will, 859. 

Itard, Dr. Jean E. M. G. , 242, 271, 277. 

Iyer, L. K. A. K. , 728. 

Jacobowski, L. , 221. 

Jakstas, A. , 946. 

James, B. B. , 945. 

James, E. O. , 856. 

James, William, 77, _119-23_, 148, 150, 421, 426, 472, 473, 486, 598, 661, 669, 726, 736, 932. 

Janes, George M. , 652. 

Janet, Pierre, 144, 430, 935. 

Jankelevitch, S. , 1005. 

Jannasch, R. , 726. 

Jarau, G. Louis-, _see_ Louis-Jarau. 

Jarrett, Mary C. , 568. 

Jastrow, J. , 335. 

Jellinek, Georg, 725. 

Jenks, Albert, 211, 219, 775. 

Jenks, Edward, 861. 

Jenks, Jeremiah, 780. 

Jennings, Hargrave, 730. 

Jennings, H. S. , 147, 285, 488. 

Jephson, Henry, 858. 

Jevons, William S. , 500, 948. 

Jhering, Rudolph von, 861. 

Johnson, George E. , 647. 

Johnson, James W. , 152. 

Johnson, John H. , 656. 

Johnson, R. H. , 568, 1007. 

Johnson, Samuel, 451. 

Johnson, W. , 777. 

Johnston, C. , 654. 

Johnston, Harry H. , 779. 

Johnston, R. M. , 730. 

Jones, David Brynmor-, _see_ Brynmor Jones. 

Jones, Edward D. , 947. 

Jones, Rufus M. , 944. 

Jonson, Ben, 239. 

Jordanes, 941. 

Joseph II, of Austria, 934. 

Jost, M. , 944. 

Jouffroy, T. S. , 402. 

Judd, Charles H. , _381-84_, _390-91_. 

Jung, Carl G. , 144, 236, 497, 501, 857. 

Junius [_pseud. _], 858. 

Juquelier, P. , 411, 412, 937

Kaindl, Raimund F. , 770, 778. 

Kalb, Ernst, 657. 

Kallen, Horace M. , 778, 782. 

Kammerer, Percy G. , 223. 

Kan, J. Van, 569. 

Kant, Immanuel, 82, 108, 420, 909. 

Kapp, Friedrich, 780. 

Kaufmann, Moritz, 1008. 

Kaupas, H. , 946. 

Kautsky, Karl, 333. 

Kawabé, Kisaburo, 427. 

Keith, Arthur 659. 

Keller, Albert G. , 72, _134-35_, 157, 648, 719, 726, 1007. 

Keller, Helen, 151, 231, _243-45_. 

Kellogg, Paul U. , 59, 219. 

Kellogg, Walter G. , 731. 

Kelly, J. Liddell, 778. 

Kelsey, Carl, 1007. 

Kelynack, T. N. , 568. 

Kemble, Frances A. , 728. 

Kenngott, G. F. , 219. 

Kerlin, Robert T. , 660. 

Kerner, R. J. , 777. 

Kerr, Norman S. , 568. 

Kerschensteiner, Georg, 87. 

Key, Ellen, 214, 221, 254. 

Khoras, P. , 950. 

Kidd, Benjamin, 1006. 

Kidd, D. , 149. 

Kilpatrick, James A. , 649. 

King, Irving, 150, 950. 

Kingsbury, J. E. , 427. 

Kingsford, C. L. , 941. 

Kingsley, Charles, 274. 

Kingsley, Mary H. , 779. 

Kipling, Rudyard, 67. 

Kirchhoff. G. R. , 13. 

Kirkpatrick, E. A. , 150. 

Kistiakowski, _Dr. _ Th. , 217. 

Kite, Elizabeth S. , 147, 254. 

Klein, Henri F. , 730. 

Kline, L. W. , 221. 

Kluge, F. , 428. 

Knapp, G. F. , 217, 563, 729. 

Knopf, S. A. , 1009. 

Knortz, Karl, 276. 

Knowles, L. C. A. , 950. 

Knowlson, T. Sharper, _237-39_. 

Kober, George M. , 568. 

Kobrin, Leon, 219. 

Kochanowski, J. K. , 649. 

Kocourek, Albert, 854, 860. 

Kohler, Josef, 564, 854, 856. 

Kolthamer, F. W. , 558. 

Koren, John, 569. 

Kostir, Mary S. , 148, 254. 

Kostyleff, N. , 501, 855. 

Kotik, _Dr. _ Naum, 937. 

Kovalewsky, M. , 220, 729. 

Kowalewski, A. , 153. 

Kraepehn, E. , 146, 153. 

Krauss, F. S. , 149. 

Kreibig, Josef K. , 500. 

Kroeber, A. L. , 948. 

Kropotkin, P. , 1006. 

Kudirka, _Dr. _, 932. 

Kydd, Samuel (Alfred, _pseud. _), 567. 

LaBruyère, Jean de, 144, 151. 

Lacombe, Paul, 498. 

Lafargue, G. , 729. 

Lagorgette, Jean, 648. 

La Grasserie, R. De, 647, 649, 729. 

La Hodde, Lucien de, 731. 

Laidler, Harry W. , 653. 

Lamarck, J. B. , 143

Lamprecht, Karl, 493, _494_, 498, 1005. 

Landauer, G. , 950. 

Landry, A. , 649. 

Lane, W. D. , 656. 

Lane-Poole, S. , 935. 

Lang, Andrew, 277. 

Lange, C. G. , 421. 

Langenhove, Fernand van, _819-22_, 857. 

Lankester, E. Ray, 1005. 

Lapouge, V. , 266. 

La Rochefoucauld, François, 371. 

La Rue, William, 945. 

Lasch, R. , 221. 

Laski, Harold, 860. 

Laubach, Frank C. , 333. 

Lauck, William J. , 780. 

Law, John, 947. 

Lay, Wilfrid, 646. 

Lazarus, Moritz, 217, 427. 

Lea, Henry C. , 655, 657. 

Le Bon, Gustave, 33, 34, 41, 58, 154, 164, 200, 201, 213, 218, 225, 659, 858, 867, _868_, 869, _871_, 876, _887-93_, 894, _905-9_, 927, 939, 950, 952. 

Lecky, W. E. H. , 641, 647, 858, 875, _915-24_. 

Lee, James Melvin, 860. 

Lee, Vernon (_pseud. _), 402, 878. 

Le Gouix, M. , 729. 

Lehmann, A. , 430. 

Leiserson, William M. , 782. 

Leland, C. G. , 428, 429. 

Leonard, O. , 654. 

Leopold III, 797. 

Leopold, Lewis, _807-11_, 855. 

LePlay, P. G. Frédéric, 215, 221, 222. 

Leroy Beaulieu, P. , 726. 

Lester, J. C. , 730. 

Letcher, Valentin, 1005. 

Letourneau, Ch. , 220, 640, 648, 727, 854. 

Letzner, Karl, 276. 

Levasseur, E. De, 649. 

Levine, Louis, 566, 658. 

Lévy-Bruhl, L. , _24_, _332_. 

Levy, Hermann, 564. 

Lewis, George G. , 858. 

Lewis, Matthew G. , _677-81_. 

Lewis, Sinclair, 213, 219. 

Lhérisson, E. , 939. 

Lhermitte, J. , 648. 

L'Houet, A. , 334. 

Lichtenberger, J. P. , 223. 

Lilienfeld, Paul von, 28, 58, 566. 

Lillehei, Ingebrigt, 659. 

Limousin, Ch. , 649, 729. 

Linnaeus, 516. 

Linton, E. L. , 948. 

Lippert, Julius, 148. 

Lippmann, Walter, 148, _834-37_, 851, 859, 936, 949. 

Lloyd, A. H. , 1005. 

Lock, C. L. , 649. 

Lockwood, George B. , 945. 

Loeb, Jacques, 79, _80_, 81, 147, 467, 494. 

Lowenfeld, L. , 153, 410. 

Loisy, Alfred, 939. 

Lombroso, Cesare. 145, 153, 562, 951. 

Lord, Eliot, 781. 

Lord, Herbert Gardiner, 648. 

Loria, A. , 498. 

Lotze, Hermann, 420, 425. 

Loughborough, J. N. , 945. 

Louis-Jarau, G. , 946. 

Loutschisky, I. , 729. 

Love, Albert G. , 568. 

Lowell, A. Lawrence, 658, 792, _826-29_, 851, 858, 864. 

Lowie, Robert H. , 18, _19_, 220, 723, 730, 777. 

Lubbock, J. , 180, 396. 

Lucretius, 953, 965, 966. 

Lummis, Charles F. , 939. 

Lyall, Sir Alfred, 105. 

Lyell, Charles, 768. 

Lyer, F. Müller-, _see_ Müller-Lyer. 

Lytton, Edward Bulwer, 1008. 

Macauley, T. B. 139. 

McCormac, E. I. , 728. 

M'Culloch, O. C. , 143, 147. 

MacCurdy, J. T. , 936. 

Macdonagh, Michael, 851, 859. 

McDougall, William, 58, 425, 441, _464-67_, 496, 501, 652, 721, 726, 963. 

McGee, W. J. , 211, 219, 777, 860, 1006. 

Mach, Ernst, 13. 

Machiavelli, 97, 140. 

Maciver, R. M. , 426. 

McIver, J. , 569. 

Mackay, Charles, 947. 

Mackay, R. W. , 647. 

MacKay, Thomas, 557, 565. 

McKenzie, F. A. , 775. 

Mackenzie, J. S. , 1004. 

McKenzie, R. D. , 218. 

McLaren, A. D. , 660. 

MacLean, J. P. , 944. 

McLennan, J. F. , 220. 

McMurtrie, Douglas C. , 568. 

Macrosty, Henry W. , 564. 

Maine, Sir Henry S. , 219, 220, _555_, 564, 826, 852, _853_, 854, 860, 862. 

Maitland, Frederic W. , 861. 

Malinowski, Bronislaw, 220. 

Mallery, Garrick, 422, 427. 

Mallock, W. H. , 729, 949, 1009. 

Maloney, E. F. , 935. 

Malthus, T. R. , 7, 516, 553, 554, 559, 561, 563. 

Mandeville, Bernard de, 1008. 

Marchi, A. De, _see_ De Marchi, A. 

Marot, Helen, 149, 657. 

Marpillero, G. , 335. 

Marshall, Alfred, 500, 563. 

Marshall, Henry R. , 425, _600-3_. 

Martin, E. D. , 940. 

Martineau, Harriet, 1, 2, 57, 561. 

Marvin, Francis S. , 778, _965-66_. 

Marx, Karl, 561, 565, 567, 912. 

Mason, Otis T. , 302, 427, 941. 

Mason, William A. , 427. 

Massart, J. , 218, 1007. 

Mathiez, Albert, 657. 

Matthews, Brander, 949. 

Matthews, W. , 938. 

Maublanc, René, 649. 

Mauss, M. , 856, 857. 

Maxon, C. H. , 943. 

Mayer, Émile, 650. 

Mayer, J. R. , 768. 

Mayo Smith, Richmond, 741, 776, 778. 

Mead, G. H. , 424, 425. 

Meader, John R. , 943. 

Means, Philip A. , 651. 

Mecklin, John M. , 651, 652. 

Medlicott, H. B. , _377_. 

Meillet, A. , 275, 945. 

Meinong, Alexius, 500. 

Meisel Hess, Grete, 214, 221. 

Mendel, G. , 71, 143, 157. 

Menger, Karl, 500. 

Mensch, Ella, 936. 

Mercier, C. A. , 501. 

Meredith, George, 142. 

Merker, 240. 

Merriam, Charles E. , 658, 792. 

Mesmer, F. A. , 424. 

Metcalf, H. C. , 149. 

Meumann, Ernst, 86. 

Meyer, Adolph, 285, 488. 

Meyer, J. L. , 937. 

Miceli, V. , 939. 

Michels, Robert 644, 659. 

Michiels, A. , 373, 374. 

Miklosich, Franz, 654. 

Mill, James, 451. 

Mill, John Stuart, 546, 560, 850, 1005. 

Miller, Arthur H. , 855. 

Miller, Edward, 944. 

Miller, Herbert A. , 335, 655, 660, 781, 782, _786-87_, 870. 

Miller, J. D. , 949. 

Miller, Kelly 137, _251_, 651. 

Millingen, J. G. , 655. 

Milhoud, Maurice, 859. 

Millis, Harry A. , 781. 

Milmine, Georgine, 657. 

Miner, Maude, 670. 

Minin, 415. 

Mirabeau, Octave, 151. 

Mitchell, P. Chalmers, _170-73_. 

Mitchell, Wesley C. , 947. 

Moll, Albert, _85-89_, 332, _412-15_, 430. 

Moltke, Count von, 670, 793 n. 

Monin, H. , 729. 

Montagu, 7. 

Montague, Helen, 153. 

Montesquieu, _3_, 270. 

Montgomery, K. L. , 945. 

Moody, Dwight L. , 943. 

Moody, W. R. , 943. 

Mooney, James, 943. 

Moore, Edward C. , 778. 

Moore, Henry L. , 947. 

Moore, William H. , 778. 

More, Hannah, 949. 

More, Thomas, 1008. 

Moreau de Tours, 938. 

Morel, E. D. , 779, 797. 

Morgan, Alexander, 1009. 

Morgan, C. Lloyd, 147, 186, 187, 342, _375-79_, 494, 725. 

Morgan, E. L. , 731. 

Morgan, Lewis H. , 214, 749. 

Morgan, W. T. , 658. 

Morley, John, 725, 949, 1006. 

Morris, Lloyd R. , 659. 

Morris, William, 1008. 

Morrow, Prince A. , 223. 

Morse, Josiah, 652. 

Morselli, Henry, 266, 272, 273. 

Mosiman, Eddison, 937. 

Mouromtzeff, Mme de, 729. 

Müller, F. Max, _379-81_, 395, 432. 

Müller, Fritz, 521. 

Müller-Lyer, F. , 1006. 

Mumford, Eben, 855. 

Münsterberg, Hugo, 424, 427, 430, _668-92_, 726, 936. 

Murray, W. A. , 939. 

Myers, C. S. , _89-92_, 936. 

Myers, Gustavus, 659. 

Myerson, Abraham, 223, 936. 

Napoleon I, 238, 241, 419, 628, 789. 

Napoleon III, 793. 

Nardi-Greco, Carlo, 861. 

Nasmyth, George, 1009. 

Nassau, R. H. , 856. 

Naumann, Friedrich, 650, 809. 

Neatby, W. Blair, 945. 

Neill, Charles P. , 653. 

Neilson, George, 655. 

Nesbitt, Florence, 222. 

Nesfield, John C. , 218, _681-84_. 

Neter, Eugen, 273. 

Nevinson, Margaret W. , 567. 

Newell, W. W. , 941. 

Newton, Sir Isaac, _13_. 

Niceforo, Alfredo, 567, 649, _1003_, 1010. 

Nicolai, G. F. , 641. 

Nieboer, Dr H. J. , _674-77_, 727, 733. 

Nims, Harry D. , 564. 

Nitsch, C. , 946. 

Noiré, L. , 395. 

Nordau, Max, 1004. 

Nordhoff, Charles, 334, 656. 

Norhe, O. M. , 775. 

Novicow, J. , 212, 425, 642, 645, 649, 740, 741, 775, 854. 

Oakesmith, John, 645, 659. 

Oberholtzer, E. P. , 859. 

Obolensky, L. E. , 1008. 

O'Brien, Frank M. , 859. 

O'Brien, Frederick, 656. 

Odin, Alfred, 855. 

Oertel, Hans, 22. 

Ogburn, W. F. , 215. 

Oldenberg, H. , 856. 

Older, Fremont, 659. 

Olgin, Moissaye J. , 950. 

Oliver, Frederick S. , 649. 

Oliver, Thomas, 568. 

Olmsted, F. L. , 727. 

Oncken, August, 563. 

Oppenheimer, Franz, _50_, 644. 

Ordahl, George, 639, 646. 

Ormond, Alexander T. , _340_, 420, 425. 

Orth, Samuel P. , 659. 

Osborne, T. M. , 562. 

Osten, 413, 414, 430. 

Osterhausen, Dr. , 240. 

Ostrogorsku, Johann K. , 658. 

Owen, Richard, 768. 

Owen, Robert Dale, 559. 

Paget, _Sir_ James, 366. 

Pagnier, Armand, 153, 333. 

Paine, Thomas, 912. 

Palanti, G. , 940. 

Pandian, T. B. , 333. 

Park, Robert E. , _76-81_, _135-39_, 155, _185-89_, _198-200_, 218, 225, 252, _311-15_, _315-17_, 335, 429, _467-78_, _616-23_, 623-31, 655, _712-14_, _756-62_, 775, 781, 782, 784, _786-87_, _829-33_, 859, 870, _893-95_, _930_, 934. 

Parker, Carleton H. , 149, 494, 936. 

Parkman, Francis, 778, 779. 

Parmelee, Maurice, 217, 267, 569, 1009. 

Parsons, Elsie Clews, 220. 

Parton, James, 652. 

Partridge, G. E. , 568, 727. 

Pascal, 463. 

Pascoe, C. F. , 779. 

Pasteur, Louis, 44. 

Pater, Walter, 939. 

Patetta, F. , 655. 

Paton, Stewart, 147. 

Patrick, G. T. W. , _598-600_, 640, 641, 647, 935, 948. 

Patten, Simon N. , 498, 1008. 

Patterson, R. J. , 727. 

Paulhan, Fr. , 332, 731. 

Pavlo, I. P. , 494, 839. 

Payne, George Henry, 427. 

Pearson, Karl, 13, _14_, 949, 963, 1007. 

Pélissier, Jean, 932, 946. 

Pennington, Patience, 334. 

Percin, Alexandre, 648. 

Periander, 67. 

Perry, Bliss, _40_. 

Perry, Ralph B. , 1008. 

Perty, M. , 809. 

Peter the Great, 934. 

Peterson, J. , 941. 

Petit-Dutaillis, C. E. , 649. 

Petman, Charles, 276. 

Petrie, W. M. F. , 950. 

Pfister, Ch. , 275. 

Pfister, Oskar, 501, 857. 

Pfleiderer, Otto, 730. 

Pflug-Harttung, Julius von, 941. 

Pfungst, Oskar, 430. 

Philippe, L. , 649, 729. 

Phillips, Ulrich B. , 727. 

Phillips, W. Alison, _793-94_ n. 

Phillips, Wendell, 949. 

Picard, Edmond, 860. 

Piderit. T. , 421, 426. 

Pillsbury, W. B. , 645, 647, 651. 

Pinet, G. , 729. 

Pintner, Rudolf, 568. 

Pitre, Giuseppe, 939. 

Place, Francis, 559. 

Plato, 96, 105, 238, 261, 607, 1008. 

Platt, Thomas G. , 659. 

Ploss, H. , 221. 

Plunkitt, G. W. , 659. 

Pollock Frederick, 861. 

Pope, Alexander, 83 n. 

Popenoe, Paul, 568, 1007. 

Porter, W. T. , 648. 

Post, Albert H. , _851-52_. 

Powell, H. Baden-, _see_ Baden-Powell, H. 

Poynting, J. H. , 13. 

Preuss, Hugo, 334. 

Preyer, W. , 84. 

Price, Dr. , 553. 

Price, G. F. , 569. 

Prince, Morton, 70, _110-13_, 150, 474, 477, 645, 727, 777. 

Prince, Samuel H. , 951. 

Probst, Ferdinand, 144, 151. 

Proudhon, P. J. , 565. 

Puchta, G. F. , 677. 

Puffer, J. Adams, 643, 656. 

Rainwater, Clarence E. , 732. 

Ralph, Julian, 276. 

Rambosson, J. , 938. 

Randall, E. O. , 945. 

Rank, Otto, 858. 

Rastall, B. M. , 653. 

Ratzel, Friedrich, 148, 270, 274, _298-301_, 728, 776. 

Ratzenhofer, Gustav, 36, 58, 212, 421, 496, 642, 645, 775. 

Rauber, August, 241, 242, 243, 277. 

Ravage, M. E. , 336, 782, 783. 

Ray, P. O. , 658. 

Reclus, E. , 1005. 

Reed, V. Z. , 939. 

Regnard, P. , 937. 

Reich, Emil, 778. 

Reinheimer, H. , 218. 

Reuter, E. B. , 154, 770, 776. 

Rhodes, J. F. , 656. 

Rhys, John, 149, 945. 

Ribot, Th. A. , _108-10_, 124, 144, 150, 344, _394-97_, 426, 430, 433, 496. 

Ribton-Turner, Charles J. , 333. 

Ricardo, David, 544, 546, 558. 

Richard. T. , 943. 

Richards, Caroline C. , 305-11. 

Richet, Ch. , 113, 115, 430. 

Richmond, Mary E. , 59, 215, 491, 498. 

Rickert, Heinrich, 10, 1005. 

Rihbany, Abraham M. , 336, 774, 782, 783. 

Riis, Jacob A. 336, 567, 782. 

Riley, I. W. , 151. 

Riordan, William L. , 659. 

Ripley, William Z. , _264-68_, 275, _534-38_, 572, 725, 776. 

Risley, Herbert H. , 681, _684-88_, 728. 

Ritchie, David G. , 725. 

Rivarol, Antoine, 908. 

Rivers, W. H. R. , 211, 219, 220, 723, 729, 738, _746-50_, 776, 857. 

Roberts, Peter, 219. 

Robertson, John M. , 641, 646, 861, 1010. 

Roberty, E. De, 729. 

Robinson, Charles H. , 779. 

Robinson, James Harvey, _5_, _6_, 498. 

Robinson, Louis, 82. 

Roepke, Dr. Fritz, 650. 

Rogers, Edward S. , 565. 

Rogers, James B. , 944. 

Rohde, Erwin, 657. 

Romanes, G. J. , 379. 

Roosevelt, Theodore, 659, 776. 

Rosanoff, A. J. , 132. 

Roscher, W. , 726. 

Ross, Edward A. , 58, 213, 499, 725, 780, 849, 854. 

Rossi, Pasquale, 557, 927, 938. 

Rothschild, Alonzo, 855. 

Rousiers, Paul de, 731. 

Rousseau, Jean Jacques, 107, 139, 223, 231, _234-35_, 241, 850. 

Roussy, G. , 648. 

Routledge, Mrs. Scoresby, 275. 

Rowntree, B. Seebohm, 567, 569. 

Royce, Josiah, 150, 390, 425, 426, 429, 652. 

Rubinow, I. M. , 568. 

Rudolph, Heinrich, 426. 

Rudolphi, K. A. , 243. 

Russell, B. A. W. , 565. 

Russell, J. H. , 727. 

Ryckère, Raymond de, 569. 

Sabine, Lorenzo, 655. 

Sageret, J. , 858. 

Sagher, Maurice de, 276. 

Saineanu, Lazar, 428, 429. 

Saint-Simon, C. H. Comte de, 3, 4. 

Saleeby, Caleb W. , 1007. 

Salt, Henry S. , 1009. 

Salz, Arthur, 729. 

Samassa, P. , 946. 

Sandburg, Carl, 654. 

Sanderson, Dwight, 1002. 

Sands, B. , 946. 

Santayana, G. , _983_. 

Sapper, Karl, 780. 

Sarbah, John M. , 860. 

Sartorius von Walterhausen, August, 728. 

Scalinger, G. M. , 941. 

Schaeffle, Albert, 28, 58. 

Schatz, Albert, 563. 

Schechter, S. , 944. 

Schmidt, Caspar, 565, 830. 

Schmidt, N. , 943. 

Schmoller, Gustav, 427, 729. 

Schmucker, Samuel M. (ed. ), 334. 

Schopenhauer, Arthur, 964, _994-1000_. 

Schurtz, Heinrich, 723, 729, 948. 

Schwartz, 82. 

Schwittau, G. , 652. 

Scott, Walter D. , 859. 

Secrist, Frank K. , 428. 

Seebohm, Frederic, 219, 861. 

Seguin, Edward, 277. 

Selbie, W. B. , 944. 

Seligman, E. R. A. , 563. 

Seligmann, H. J. , 654. 

Séménoff, E. , 729. 

Semple, Ellen C. , _268-69_, 274, _289-91_, _301-5_. 

Sergi, G. , 1004. 

Seton, Ernest Thompson, _886-87_. 

Seton-Watson, R. W. , 946. 

Shaftesbury, _Seventh Earl of_, 949. 

Shakespeare, William, 238, 239. 

Shaler, N. S. , 148, 233, _257-59_, 283, _294-98_, 330, 337, 651, 948. 

Shand, A. F. , 150, 465, 477, 496, 497, 501. 

Sheldon, H. D. , 656. 

Shepard, W. J. , 858. 

Sherrington, C. S. , 838. 

Shinn, Milicent W. , _82-85_, 150. 

Short, Wilfrid M. , _977-79_. 

Shuster, G. , 730. 

Sicard, Abbé, 242. 

Sidis, Boris, _415-16_, 424, 430, 468. 

Sighele, Scipio, 41, 58, _200-205_, 213, 218, 644, 722, 867, _872_, 894, 927, 939. 

Simkhovitch, (Mrs. ) Mary K. , 331. 

Simmel, Georg, 10, 36, 58, 151, 217, 218, 221, 286, _322-27_, 331, 332, 341, 342, _348-56_, _356-61_, 421, 425, 432, 433, 500, 559, 563, _582-86_, _586-94_, 639, 645, 670, _695-97_, _697-703_, _703-6_, _706-8_, 720, 725, 726, 730, 733, 938, 947, 1004, 1005. 

Simon, Th. , 145, 154. 

Simons, A. M. , _443-44_, 502. 

Simons, Sarah E. , _740-41_, 775. 

Simpson, Bertram L. , 650. 

Sims, George R. , 567. 

Sims, Newell L. , 218, 334. 

Skeat, Walter W. , 276. 

Small, Albion W. , 36, 58, _196-98_, _288-89_, 332, 348, 425, 427, _451-54_, _454-58_, 496, 499, 503, 582, 586, 645, 660, 695, 697, 703, 706, 726. 

Small, Maurice H. , _239-43_. 

Smedes, Susan D. , 334, 728. 

Smith, Adam, 344, _397-401_, 401, 429, 431, 433, 447, 449, 495, 505, _550-51_, 553, 554, 556, 558, 572. 

Smith, Henry C. , 945. 

Smith, J. M. P. , 854. 

Smith, _Lieut. _ Joseph S. , _800-805_. 

Smith, Lorenzo N. , 429. 

Smith, Richmond Mayo-, _see_ Mayo-Smith, Richmond. 

Smith, W. Robertson, _16_, _813-16_, _822-26_, 857. 

Smyth, C. , 654. 

Socrates, 105, 140, 646. 

Solenberger, Alice W. , 274. 

Solon, 261. 

Sombart, Werner, _317-22_, 335, 567, 648, 948. 

Somló, F. , 728. 

Sorel, Georges, 645, _816-19_, 857, 959, 1004. 

Southard, E. E. , 1007. 

Spadoni, D. , 731. 

Spargo, John, _909-15_, 950, 952. 

Speek, Peter A. , 781. 

Speer, Robert E. , 779. 

Spencer, Baldwin, 149, 220, 861. 

Spencer, Herbert, 24, _25_, _26_, _27_, 28, 43, 44, 58, 60, 61, 141, 210, 217, 396, 402, 495, 557, 565, 787, _805-7_, 831, 849, 855, 889, 947, 959, 963, _966-68_, 1001, 1006, 1010. 

Spiller, G. (ed. ), _89-92_, 651. 

Spurzheim, J. F. K. , 145. 

Squillace, Fausto, 948. 

Stalker, James, 943. 

Stanhope, Philip Henry (Fourth Earl), 240, 277. 

Stanley, L. L. , 569. 

Stanton, Henry B. , 949. 

Starbuck, Edwin D. , 332, 726. 

Starcke, C. N. , 220. 

Stchoukine, Ivan, 944. 

Stead, W. T. , 782, 859. 

Steffens, Lincoln, 331. 

Stein, L. , 565, 649. 

Steiner, Edward A. , 780, 782. 

Steiner, Jesse F. , 335, 616, 621, 622, 643, 651. 

Steinmetz, Andrew, 655. 

Steinmetz, S. R. , 648, 654, 860. 

Steinthal, H. , 217. 

Stephen, Sir Leslie, 647. 

Stephenson, Gilbert T. , 651. 

Stern, B. , 86, 87, 149, 150. 

Stern, Mrs. Elizabeth G. , 774, 783. 

Stern, W. , 152. 

Stevens, W. H. S. , 565. 

Stewart, Dugald, 402, 429. 

Stillson, Henry L. , 730. 

Stimson, Frederic J. , _843-46_. 

Stirner, Max [_pseud. _], _see_ Schmidt, Caspar. 

Stoddard, Lothrop, 963. 

Stoker, Bran, 731. 

Stoll, Otto, 221, 332, 430, 926 f, 937. 

Stone, Alfred H. , _631-37_, 651. 

Stoughton, John, 949. 

Stout, G. F. , 344, _391-94_, 424. 

Stow, John, 219. 

Strachey, Lytton, 721, 962. 

Straticò, A. , 940. 

Stratz, Carl H. , 948. 

Strausz, A. , 149. 

Stromberg, A. Von, 943. 

Strong, Anna L. , 273. 

Stubbs, William, 353, 354. 

Stumpf, C. , 413, 414. 

Sugenheim, S. , 727. 

Sullivan, Anne, 243, 244. 

Sully, J. , 150, 332, 422, 426. 

Sumner, Helen L. , 942. 

Sumner, William G. , 36, 37, 46, _97-100_, 143, 147, 283, _293-94_, 333, 640, 648, 759, 779, 796, 797, 831, 841-43, 849, 854, _866_, 933, 948, _983-84_. 

Swift, Jonathan, 67. 

Tabbé, P. , 946. 

Taft, Jessie, 942. 

Taine, H. A. , 141, _493_, 498, 907, 935, 950. 

Talbot, Marion, 222. 

Talbot, Winthrop, 782. 

Tannenbaum, Frank, _49_, 936. 

Tarde, Gabriel, _21_, 22, 32, _33_, 36, 37, 41, 58, 201, 202, 213, 218, 332, 390, 418, 423, 429, 562, 569, 729, 777, 794 n. , 828, 858, 868, 875, 927, _933_, 939, 947. 

Tardieu, É. , 725. 

Taussig, F. W. , 731. 

Tawney, G. A. , 727, 940. 

Taylor, F. W. , 149. 

Taylor, Graham R. , 219. 

Taylor, Thomas, 939. 

Tead, Ordway, 149, 494. 

Teggart, Frederick J. , 1006. 

Tenney, E. P. , 1009. 

Terman, L. M. , 855. 

Theophrastus, 144, 151. 

Thiers, Adolphe, 947. 

This, G. , 275. 

Thomas, Edward, 935. 

Thomas, N. W. , 220, 856. 

Thomas, William I. , _47_, _52_, _57_, _59_, 144, 146, 148, 151, 153, 215, 222, _249-52_, 285, 332, 335, 438, 442, _488-90_, 497, 501, _579-82_, 640, 651, 652, 655, 718, 729, 730, 731, 774, 778, 935, 948, 950. 

Thompson, Anstruther, 402. 

Thompson, Frank V. , 781. 

Thompson, Helen B. , 153. 

Thompson, M. S. , 946. 

Thompson, Warren S. , 566. 

Thompson, W. Gilman, 568. 

Thomson, J. Arthur, 13, 71, _126-28_, 147, 153, 218, _513-15_, 563, 1007. 

Thorndike, Edward L. , 68, 71, _73-76_, _78_, _92-94_, 147, 150, 152, 155, 187, 424, 429, 494, 647, 721, 726. 

Thoreau, H. D. , 229. 

Thurston, Henry W. , 656. 

Thwing, Charles F. , and Carrie F. B. , 222. 

Tippenhauer, L. G. , 939. 

Tocqueville Alexius de, 851, 858, _909_. 

Todd, Arthur J. , 1004, 1010. 

Tolstoy, _Count_ Leon, 151, 789. 

Tönnies, Ferdinand, _100-102_, 649, 740. 

Toops, Herbert A. , 568. 

Topinard, Paul, 537. 

Tosti, Gustavo, 425. 

Tower, W. L. , _128-33_, 147. 

Towns, Charles B. , 569. 

Toynbee, Arnold, 334, 950. 

Tracy, J. , 943. 

Train, Arthur, 656. 

Train, J. , 944. 

Tredgold, A. F. , 152, 277. 

Treitschke, Heinrich von, 988. 

Trenor, John J. D. , 781. 

Trent, William P. , 859. 

Tridon, André, 501. 

Triplett, Norman, 646. 

Trotter, W. , _31_, 647, _742-45_, 783, 784. 

Tuchmann, J. , 856. 

Tufts, James H. , 149. 

Tulp, Dr. , 241. 

Turner, Charles J. Ribton-, _see_ Ribton-Turner, Charles J. 

Turner, Frederick J. , 499. 

Twain, Mark [_pseud. _] _see_ Clemens, Samuel L. 

Tylor, Edward B. , 19, 148, 220, 674, 855. 

Urban, Wilbur M. , 500. 

Vaccaro, M. A. , 860. 

Vallaux, Camille, 274, 333. 

Vandervelde, É. , 218, 333, 1007. 

Van Hise, Charles R. , 564. 

Vavin, P. , 729. 

Veblen, Thorstein, 71, 287, 501, 644, 721, 729, 936. 

Vellay, Charles, 946. 

Vierkandt, Alfred, 148, 333, 723, 729, 777, 854. 

Vigouroux, A. , 411, 412, 937. 

Villatte, Césaire, 428. 

Villon, François, 428. 

Vincent, George E. , 58, _605-10_, 646. 

Virchow, Rudolph, 537, 725. 

Vischer, F. T. , 402. 

Voivenel, Paul, 648. 

Voltaire, 986. 

Von Kolb, 240. 

Vries, Hugo de, 143. 

Wace, A. J. B. , 946. 

Wagner, 243. 

Wagner, Adolf, 563. 

Waitz, Theodor, 856. 

Wald, Lilian, 331. 

Walford, Cornelius, 564. 

Walker, Francis A. , 499, _508_, _539-44_, 564, 572. 

Wallace, 553. 

Wallace, Alfred R. , 562, 554, 725, 1006. 

Wallace, Donald M. , 333. 

Wallas, Graham, 148, 162, 335, 422, 431, 494, 925, 929, 935. 

Wallaschek, Richard, 938. 

Walling, W. E. , 653. 

Wallon, H. , 727. 

Walter, F. , 854. 

Ward, E. J. , 331, 732. 

Ward, James, 775. 

Ward, Lester F. , 58, 497, 499, 513, 649, 718, _973-75_, 1007. 

Ward, Robert de C. , 726. 

Ware, J. Redding, 428. 

Warming, Eugenius, _173-80_, 218, 554. 

Warne, Frank J. , 653. 

Warneck, Gustav, 779. 

Warren, H. C. , 777. 

Warren, Josiah, 565. 

Washburn, Margaret F. , 147. 

Washington, Booker T. , 152, 607, 629, 782. 

Wasmann, Eric, 169. 

Watson, Elkanah, 540, 543. 

Watson, John B. , 81, 147, 285, _482-88_, 488, 494. 

Watson, R. W. Seton-, _see_ Seton-Watson, R. W. 

Waxweiler, E. , 218. 

Weatherly, U. G. , 776. 

Webb, Sidney and Beatrice, 564, 644, 657. 

Weber, Adna P. , 334. 

Weber, John L. , 727. 

Weber, L. , 1006. 

Webster, Hutton, 274, 730. 

Wechsler, Alfred, 948. 

Weeks, Arland D. , 646. 

Wehrhan, K. , 650. 

Weidensall, C. J. , 153. 

Weigall, A. , 332. 

Weismann, August, 143, 515, 563. 

Weller, Charles F. , 732. 

Wells, H. G. , 151, 496, 498, 932, 935, 1009. 

Wendland, Walter, 650. 

Wermert, George, 654. 

Wesley, Charles, 916. 

Wesley, John, 151, 916 ff. 

Wesnitsch, Milenko R. , 654. 

West, Arthur Graeme, 650. 

Westermarck, Edward, 16, _17_, 60, 147, 214, 215, 220, 640, 778, 849, 854. 

Weygandt, W. , 937. 

Whately, Archbishop, 735. 

Wheeler, G. C. , 220. 

Wheeler, William M. , _167-70_, _180-82_, 214, 217, 554. 

White, Andrew D. , 647. 

White, F. M. , 655. 

White, W. A. , 500, 594-98. 

Whitefield, George, 916 ff. 

Whiting, Lilian, 949. 

Whitley, W. T. , 943. 

Wigmore, John H. , 854, 860, 861. 

Wilberforce, William, 949. 

Wilbert, Martin I. , 569. 

Wilde, Oscar, 151. 

Willard, Frances E. , 942, 950. 

Willard, Josiah Flynt, 151. 

Willcox, Walter F. , 223, _1002-3_, 1010. 

Williams, Daniel J. , 781. 

Williams, J. M. , 212, 219, 223. 

Williams, Whiting, 149. 

Willoughby, W. W. , 565. 

Wilmanns, Karl, 153. 

Wilson, D. L. , 730. 

Wilson, _Captain_ H. A. , 637. 

Wilson, Warren H. , 219. 

Windelband, Wilhelm, _8-10_, 286-646. 

Windisch, H. , 775. 

Winship, A. E. , 147. 

Winston, L. G. , _117-19_. 

Wirth, M. , 947. 

Wishart, Alfred W. , 274. 

Wiston-Glynn, A. W. , 947. 

Witte, H. , 946. 

Wittenmyer, _Mrs. _ Annie, _898-905_, 942. 

Wolff, C. F. , 967. 

Wolman, Leo, 653. 

Wood, Walter, 649, (ed). 

Woodbury, Margaret, 859. 

Woodhead, 179. 

Woods, A. , 655. 

Woods, E. B. , 1004. 

Woods, Frederick A. , 499, 854. 

Woods, Robert A. , 219, 331, 335, 566, 656 (ed. ), 943. 

Woodson, Carter G. , 941. 

Woodworth, R. S. , 154. 

Woolbert, C. H. , 941. 

Woolman, John, 151. 

Wordsworth, William, _66_. 

Worms, Émile, 649. 

Worms, René, 28, _29_, 58, 61, 425, 649 (ed. ), 729. 

Wright, Arnold, 653. 

Wright, Gordon, 886. 

Wuensch, R. , 939. 

Wundt, Wilhelm, 21, 421, 422, 426, 427, 775, 777. 

Wuttke, Heinrich, 427. 

Xénopol, A. P. , 649. 

Yule, Henry, 276. 

Zangwill, Israel, 734. 

Zeeb, Frieda B. , 942. 

Zenker, E. V. , 565. 

Ziegler, T. , 942. 

Zimand, Savel, 943. 

Zimmermann, Johann G. , 271, 273. 

Zimmern, Alfred E. , 660, 729, 730. 

Znaniecki, Florian, _47_, _52_, _57_, _59_, 144, 151, 222, 335, 501, 774, 935, 1006. 

Zola, Émile, 141, _142_, 266, 334. 

Zueblin, Charles, _955-56_, 1010. 

GENERAL INDEX

ACCLIMATIZATION: _bibliography_, 725-26; as a form of accommodation, 666, 671-74, 719. 

ACCOMMODATION: _chap. X_, 663-733; _bibliography_, 725-32; and adaptation, 663-65; and assimilation, 735-36; and competition, 664-65; and compromise, 706-8; and conflict, 631-37, 669-70, 703-8; creates social organization, 511; defined, 663-64; distinguished from assimilation, 511; facilitated by secondary contacts, 736-37; in the form of domination and submission, 440-41; in the form of slavery, 674-77, 677-81; forms of, 666-67, 671-88, 718-20; and historic forms of the organization of society, 667; investigations and problems, 718-25; natural issue of conflict, 665; and the origin of caste in India, 681-84, 684-88; and peace, 703-63; in relation to competition, 510-11; in relation to conflict, 511; as subordination and superordination, 667-69. _See_ Subordination and superordination. 

ACCOMMODATION GROUPS, classified, 50, 721-23. 

ACCULTURATION: _bibliography_, 776-77; defined, 135; problems of, 771-72; and tradition, 172; transmission of cultural elements, 737. 

ADAPTATION, and accommodation, 663-65. 

ADVERTISING. _See_ Publicity. 

AGGREGATES, SOCIAL: composed of spacially separated units, 26; and organic aggregates, 25. 

AMALGAMATION: _bibliography_, 776; and assimilation, 740-41, 769-71; fusion of races by intermarriage, 737-38; result of contacts of races, 770. _See_ Miscegenation. 

AMERICANIZATION: _bibliography_, 781-83; as assimilation, 762-63; and immigration, 772-75; as participation, 762-63; as a problem of assimilation, 739-40, 762-69; Study of Methods of, 736, 773-74; surveys and studies of, 772-75. _See_ Immigration. 

ANARCHISM: _bibliography_, 565-66; economic doctrine of, 558. 

ANARCHY, of political opinion and parties, 2. 

ANIMAL CROWD. _See_ Crowd, animal. 

ANIMAL SOCIETY: bee and ant community, 742; prestige in, 809-10. 

ANTHROPOLOGY, 10. 

APPRECIATION: in relation to imitation, 344, 401-7; and sense impressions, 356-57. 

ARCHAEOLOGY, as a new social science, 5. 

ARGOT, _bibliography_, 427-29. 

ART: as expressive behavior, 787-88; origin in the choral dance, 871. 

ASSIMILATION: _chap. Xi_, 734-84; _bibliography_, 775-83; and accommodation, 735-36; and amalgamation, 740-41, 769-71; Americanization as, 762-63; based on differences, 724; biological aspects of, 737-38, 740-45; conceived as a "Melting Pot, " 734; defined, 756, 761; and democracy, 734; distinguished from accommodation, 511; facilitated by primary contacts, 736-37, 739, 761-62; final product of social contact, 736-37; in the formation of nationalities, 756-58; fusion of cultures, 737; of the Germans in the Carpathian lands, 770; instinctive basis of, 742-45; investigations and problems, 769-75; as like-mindedness, 735, 741; and mediation of individual differences, 766-69; natural history of, 774; in personal development, 511; popular conceptions of, 724-35; a problem of secondary groups, 761; a process of prolonged contact, 741; of races, 756-62; and racial differences, 769-70; sociology of, 735-37. _See_ Amalgamation, Americanization, Cultures, conflict and fusion of, Denationalization. 

ATTENTION, in relation to imitation, 344, 391-94. 

ATTITUDES: _bibliography_, 501; as behavior patterns, 439-42; complexes of, 57; polar conception of, 441-42; as the social element, 438-39; as social forces, 467-78; in subordination and superordination, 692-95; and wishes, 442-43; wishes as components of, 439. 

BALKED DISPOSITION, a result of secondary contacts, 287. 

BEHAVIOR: defined, 185-86; expressive and positive, 787-88. 

BEHAVIOR, COLLECTIVE. _See_ Collective behavior. 

BEHAVIOR PATTERNS, and culture, 72. 

BLUSHING, communication by, 365-70. 

BOLSHEVISM, 909-15. 

BUREAU OF MUNICIPAL RESEARCH, of New York City, 46, 315. 

CARNEGIE REPORT UPON MEDICAL EDUCATION, 315. 

CASTE: _bibliography_, 728; as an accommodation of conflict, 584; defined, 203-4; a form of accommodation group, 50; interpreted by superordination and subordination, 684-88; its origin in India, 681-84; and the limitation of free competition, 620-22; study of, 722-23. 

CATEGORIC CONTACTS. _See_ Sympathetic contacts. 

CEREMONY: _bibliography_, 855-56; as expressive behavior, 787-88; fundamental form of social control, 787. 

CHARACTER: defined, 81; inherited or acquired, 127-28; and instinct, 190-93; as the organization of the wishes of the person, 490; related to custom, 192-93. 

CIRCLE, VICIOUS. _See_ Vicious circle. 

CIRCULAR REACTION. _See_ Reaction, circular. 

CITY: an area of secondary contacts, 285-87; aversion, a protection of the person in the, 584-85; and the evolution of individual types, 712-14; growth of, 534-35; physical human type of, 535-38; planning, studies of, 328-29; studies of, 331. 

CIVILIZATION: and historical continuity, 298-301; life of, 956-57; and mobility, 303-5; a part of nature, 3; an organization to realize wishes, 958; and permanent settlement, 529-30. 

CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS, 40. 

CLASSES, SOCIAL: _bibliography_, 728-29; defined, 204-5; as a form of accommodation groups, 50; patterns of life of, 46; separated by isolation, 230; study of, 722. 

CLEVER HANS, case of, 412-15. 

COLLECTIVE BEHAVIOR: _chap. Xiii_, 865-952; _bibliography_, 934-51; defined, 865; investigations and problems, 924-34; and the origin of concerted activity, 32; and social control, 785-86; and social unrest, 866-67. _See_ Crowd, Herd, Mass movements, Public. 

COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUSNESS: defined, 195; of society, 28. 

COLLECTIVE FEELING, and collective thinking, 17. 

COLLECTIVE MIND, and social control, 36-43. 

COLLECTIVE REPRESENTATION: application of Durkheim's conception of, 18; contrasted with sensation, 193; in the crowd, 894-95; defined, 164-65, 195-96; and intellectual life, 193-96; and public opinion, 38. 

COLLECTIVISM: and the division of labor, 718. 

COLONIZATION: _bibliography_, 725-26; a form of accommodation, 719; and mobility, 302. 

COMMON PURPOSE, as ideal, wish, and obligation, 33. 

COMMUNISM, economic doctrine of, 558. 

COMMUNITY ORGANIZATION: _bibliography_, 731-32; study of, 724-25. 

COMMUNICATION: _bibliography_, 275-76; 426-29; and art, 37; basis of participation in community life, 763-66; basis of society, 183-85; basis of world-society, 343; by blushing, 365-70; concept, the medium of, 379-81; extension of, by human invention, 343, 385-89; a form of social interaction, 36; and inter-stimulation, 37; by laughing, 370-75; in the lower animals, 375-79; as the medium of social interaction, 341-43; natural forms of, 356-75; newspaper as medium of, 316-17; rôle of the book in, 343; study of, 421-23; through the expression of the emotions, 342, 361-75; through language and ideas, 375-89; through the senses, 342, 356-61; writing as a form of, 381-84. _See_ Language, Newspaper, Publicity. 

COMMUNITIES: _bibliography_, 59, 219; animal, 26; defined, 161; local and territorial, 50; plant, _bibliography_, 217-18; plant, organization of, 26, 173-80; 526-28; plant, unity of, 198-99; rural and urban, 56; scale for grading, 1002 n. ; studies of, 211-12, 327-29. 

COMMUNITY, as a constellation of social forces, 436, 493. 

COMPETITION: _chap, viii_, 505-65; _bibliography_, 552-70; and accommodation, 510-11, 664-65; biological, 553-54; changing forms of, 545-50; conscious, as conflict, 574, 576, 579-94; and control, 509-10; of cultural languages, 754-56, 771; and the defectives, the dependents, and the delinquents, 559-62; destroys isolation, 232; economic, 544-54, 554-558; and the economic equilibrium, 505-6, 511; the elementary process of interaction, 507-11; elimination of, and caste, 620-22; and freedom, 506-7, 509, 513, 551-52; history of theories of, 556-58; and human ecology, 558; and the "inner enemies, " 559-62; investigations and problems 553-62; and laissez faire, 554-58; the "life of trade, " 505; makes for progress, 988; makes for specialization and organization, 519-22; and man as an adaptive mechanism, 522-26; and mobility, 513; most severe between members of the same species, 517; and the natural harmony of individual interests, 550-51; natural history of, 555-56; and natural selection, 515-19; opposed to sentiment, 509; personal, as conflict, 574, 575-76; personal, and the evolution of individual types, 712-14; personal, and social selection, 708-12; and plant migration, 526-28; popular conception of, 504-7; and race suicide, 539-44; restricted by custom, tradition, and law, 513; and segregation, 526-44; and social contact, 280-81; and social control, 561-62; and social solidarity, 670-71, 708-18; and the standard of living, 543-44; and status, 541-43, 670-71, 708-18; and the struggle for existence, 505, 512, 513-15, 515-19, 522-26, 545-50; unfair, 506. _See_ Competitive co-operation. 

COMPETITIVE CO-OPERATION: Adam Smith's conception of an "invisible hand, " 504, 551; in the ant community, 512-13; and competition, 508; complementary association, 179-80; and human ecology, 558; and participation, 767-78; in the plant community, 163. 

COMPREHENSION, and sense impressions, 357-61. 

COMPROMISE, a form of accommodation, 706-8. 

CONCEPTS: as collective representations, 193-96; as medium of communication, 379-81. 

CONDUCT: as self-conscious behavior, 188-89. 

CONFLICT: _chap. Ix_, 574-662; _bibliography_, 645-60; accommodation, 511, 631-37, 665, 669-70, 703-8; of beliefs, and the origin of sects, 611-12; concept of, 574-76; as conscious competition, 281, 574, 576, 579-94; cultural, and the organization of sects, 610-16; cultural, and sex differences, 615-16; cultural, and social organization, 577-78; determines the status of the person in society, 574-75, 576; emotional, 475-76; and fusion of cultures, 738-39, 746-62, 740-45; and fusion of cultures and social unity, 200; of impersonal ideals, 592-94; instinctive interest in, 579-82; investigations and problems, 639-45; natural history of, 579-82; and origin of law, 850-52; as personal competition, 575-76; and the political order, 551; psychology and sociology of, 638-39; race, and social contact, 615-23; and race consciousness, 623-31; racial, 616-37; and the rise of nationalities, 628-31; and repression, 601-2; and social control, 607-8; as a struggle for status, 574, 578-79; as a type of social interaction, 582-86; types of, 239-41, 586-94; and the unification of personality, 583-84. _See_ Feud, Litigation, Mental conflict, Race conflicts, Rivalry, War. 

CONFLICT GROUPS, classified, 50. 

CONSCIENCE: as an inward feeling, 103; a manifestation of the collective mind, 33; a peculiar possession of the gregarious animals, 31. 

CONSCIOUS, 41. 

CONSCIOUSNESS: national and racial, 40-41; and progress, 990-94. 

CONSCIOUSNESS, SOCIAL: _bibliography_, 425-26; of the community, 48; existence of, 28; as mind of the group, 41; in the person, 29; and the social organism, 39. 

CONSENSUS: defined, 164; social, and solidarity, 24; social, closer than the vital, 25; as society, 161; versus co-operation, 184. 

CONTACT, maritime, and geographical, 260-64. 

CONTACTS, PRIMARY: _bibliography_, 333-34; and absolute standards, 285-86; defined, 284, 311; distinguished from secondary contacts, 284-87, 305-27; facilitate assimilation, 736-37, 739; of intimacy and acquaintanceship, 284-85; related to concrete experience, 286; and sentimental attitudes, 319-20; studies of, 329-31; in village life in America, 305-11. 

CONTACTS, SECONDARY: _bibliography_, 334-36; and abstract relations, 325; accommodation, facilitated by, 736-37; and capitalism, 317-22; a cause of the balked disposition, 287; characteristic of city life, 285-87, 311-15; conventional, formal, and impersonal, 56; defined, 284; distinguished from primary contacts, 284-87, 305-27; laissez faire in, 758; modern society based on, 286-87; publicity as a form of, 315-17; and the problems of social work, 287; and rational attitudes, 317-22; sociological significance of the stranger, 286, 322-27; studies of, 331. 

CONTACTS, SOCIAL: _chap. V_, 280-338; _bibliography_, 332-36; in assimilation, 736-37; avoidance of, 292-93, 330; defined, 329; desire for, 291-92; distinguished from physical contacts, 282; economic conception of, 280-81; extension through the devices of communication, 280-81; as the first stage of social interaction, 280, 282; frontiers of, 288-89; intensity of, 282-83; investigations and problems of, 327-31; land as a basis for, 282, 289-91; preliminary notions of, 280-81; and progress, 988-89; and race conflict, 615-23; and racial intermixture, 770; and social forces, 36; sociological concept of, 281-82; spatial conception of, 282; sympathetic versus categoric, 294-98; in the transmission of cultural objects, 746. _See_ Communication; Contacts, primary; Contacts, secondary; Continuity; Interaction, social; Mobility; Touch; We-group and others-group. 

CONTAGION, SOCIAL: _bibliography_, 936-38; and collective behavior, 874-86, 878-81; in fashion, 874-75; and psychic epidemics, 926-27. 

CONTINUITY: through blood-relationship, 351-52; by continuance of locality, 350; through group honor, 355-56; through the hereditary principle, 353-54; historical, 283-84, 298-301; through leadership, 353-54; through material symbols, 354-55; through membership in the group, 352-53; through specialized organs, 356. 

CONTROL: aim of sociology, 339; defined, 182; the fundamental social fact, 34; loss of, and unrest, 766-67. _See_ Control, social. 

CONTROL, SOCIAL: _chap. Xii_, 785-864; _bibliography_, 854-61; absolute in primary groups, 285-86, 305-11; through advertising, 830; in the animal "crowd, " 788-90; as an artefact, 29; central problem of society, 42; and collective behavior, 785-86; and the collective mind, 36-43; and competition, 509-10, 561-62; and conflict, 607-8; and corporate action, 27; in the crowd, 790-91; in the crowd and the public, 800-805; defined, 785-87; and definitions of the situation, 764-65; elementary forms of, 788-91, 800-816, 849-50; and human nature, 785-87, 848-49; and the individual, 52; investigations and problems, 848-53; through laughter, 373-75; mechanisms of, 29; through news, 834-37; through opinion, 191-92; organization of, 29; through prestige, 807-11, 811-12; through propaganda, 837-41; in the public, 791-96, 800-805; through public opinion in cities, 316-17; resting on consent, 29; with the savage, 90; and schools of thought, 27-35; and social problems, 785; as taming, 163. _See_ Ceremonial, Law, Leadership, Institutions, Mores, Myth, Taboo. 

CONVERSION: _bibliography_, 726-27; as the mutation of attitudes and wishes, 669; religious, and the social group, 48. 

CO-OPERATION: of the machine type, 184. _See_ Collective behavior, Corporate action. 

CORPORATE ACTION: problem of, 30; and social consciousness, 41-42; and social control, 27; as society, 163. _See_ Collective behavior. 

CRIME, from the point of view of the primary group, 48, 49. _See_ Defectives, dependents, and delinquents. 

CRISES, ECONOMIC: _bibliography_, 947. 

CRISIS, and public opinion, 793, 794. 

CROWD: _bibliography_, 939-40; animal, 788-89, 876, 881-87; characteristics of, 890-93; classified, 200-201; control in the, 790-91, 800-805; defined, 868, 893-95; excitement of, in mass movements, 895-98; homogeneous and heterogeneous, 200-201; "in being, " 33; milling in, 869; organized, 33, 34; "psychological, " 34, 876-77, 887-93; psychology of, 5; and the public, 867-70; and unreflective action, 798-99. 

CULTURAL DIFFERENCES, as caused by isolation, 229. 

CULTURAL PROCESS: the function of, 52-54; and isolation, 233. 

CULTURAL RESEMBLANCES, interpretation of, 19. 

CULTURAL TRAITS: independently created, 20; transmission of, 21. 

CULTURE: and behavior patterns, 72; materials, why diffused, 20; Roman, extension of in Gaul, 751-54. 

CULTURES, CONFLICT AND FUSION OF: _bibliography_, 776-80; analysis of blended, 746-50; comparative study of, 18; conflict and fusion of, 738-39, 746-62, 771-72; fusions of, nature of the process, 20. 

CUSTOM: as the general will, 102; and law, 799. _See_ Mores. 

DANCE: _bibliography_, 938-39; and corporate action, 870-71. 

DANCING MANIA OF THE MIDDLE AGES, 875, 879-81. 

DEFECTIVES, DEPENDENTS, AND DELINQUENTS: _bibliography_, 147-48, 566-70; and competition, 559-62; isolated groups, 232-33, 254-57, 271; and progress, 954-55; solution of problems of, 562. 

DEFINITION OF THE SITUATION, 764-65. 

DENATIONALIZATION: _bibliography_, 777-78; implies coercion, 740-41; as negative assimilation, 724; in the Roman conquest of Gaul, 751-54. 

DENOMINATIONS: as accommodation groups, 50; distinguished from sects, 873. 

DESIRES: in relation to interests, 456; as social forces, 437-38, 453-54, 455, 497. 

DIALECTS: _bibliography_, 275, 427-29; caused by isolation, 271; of isolated groups, 423; _lingua franca_, 752-54. 

DISCOURSE, UNIVERSES OF. _See_ Universes of discourse. 

DISCUSSION, _bibliography_, 646-47. 

DISORGANIZATION, SOCIAL: _bibliography_, 934-35; and change, 55; disintegrating influences of city life, 312-13; and emancipation of the individual, 867. 

DIVISION OF LABOR: and collectivism, 718; and co-operation, 42; and individualism, 718; and the moral code, 717-18; physiological, 26; in slavery, 677; and social solidarity, 714-18; and social types, 713-14. 

DOGMA, as based upon ritual and myth, 822-26. 

DOMESDAY SURVEY, 436. 

DOMESTICATION: defined, 163; of animals, 171-73. 

DOMINATION. _See_ Subordination and superordination. 

DUEL: _bibliography_, 655. 

ECESIS, defined, 526. 

ECONOMIC COMPETITION. _See_ Competition. 

ECONOMIC CONFLICT GROUPS: _bibliography_, 657-58. 

ECONOMIC CRISES. _See_ Crises, economic. 

ECONOMIC MAN, as an abstraction to explain behavior, 495-96. 

ECONOMIC PROCESS, and personal values, 53-54. 

ECONOMICS: conception of society of, 280-81; and the economic process, 53-54; use of social forces in, 494-96. _See_ Competition. 

EDUCATION: device of social control, 339; purpose of, 833. 

EMOTIONS, expressions of: _bibliography_, 426-27; study of, 421-22. 

EPIDEMICS, PSYCHIC OR SOCIAL. _See_ Contagion, social. 

EQUILIBRIUM, a form of accommodation, 667-719. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS: as affective morale, 209; defined, 164; in relation to isolation, 229-30. 

ETHNOLOGY: and history, 18; as a social science, 5. 

EUGENICS: _bibliography_, 1007; and biological inheritance, 133; as human domestication, 163; and progress, 969-73, 979-83; research in, 143. 

EVOLUTION, SOCIAL: and progress, _bibliography_, 1006-7. 

FAMILY: _bibliography_, 220-23, 947-48; government of, 46; outline for sociological study, 216; a primary group, 56; as a social group, 50; study of, 213-16. 

FASHION: a form of imitation, 390; as social contagion, 874-75; and social control, 831-32; study of, 933-34. 

FEEBLE-MINDEDNESS. _See_ Defectives, dependents, and delinquents. 

FERAL MEN: _bibliography_, 277; result of isolation, 71-72, 239-43. 

FERMENTATION, SOCIAL, 34. 

FEUD: _bibliography_, 654-55; as a form of conflict, 588-90; as the personal settlement of disputes, 581. 

FLOCK, 881-83. 

FOLK PSYCHOLOGY: aim of, 21; its origin, 20; and sociology, 5. 

FOLKLORE, as a social science, 5. 

FOLKWAYS: not creations of human purpose, 98. _See_ Customs, Mores. 

FORCES, SOCIAL: _chap. Vii_, 435-504; _bibliography_, 498-501; in American history, 443-44; attitudes as, 437-42, 457-78; desires as, 437-38, 453-54, 497; gossip as, 452; in history, 436-37, 493-94; history of the concept of, 436-37; idea-forces as, 461-64; and interaction, 451-54; interests, as, 454-58, 458-62, 494-96; investigations and problems of, 491-97; organized in public opinion, 35; popular notions of, 491-93; in public opinion in England, 445-51; social pressures as, 458-61; and the social survey, 436; in social work, 435-37, 491-93; sources of the notion of, 435-36; tendencies as, 444-45; trends as, 436-37. _See_ Attitudes, Desires, Interests, Sentiments, and Wishes. 

FREEDOM: _bibliography_, 563; and competition, 506-7, 509, 551-52; and laissez faire, 560-61; as the liberty to move, 323; of thought and speech, 640-41. 

FRENCH REVOLUTION, 905-9. 

GALTON LABORATORY FOR NATIONAL EUGENICS, 143, 560. 

GAMES AND GAMBLING: _bibliography_, 655; study of, 640. 

GANGS: _bibliography_, 656; as a form of conflict groups, 50, 870; permanent form of crowd that acts, 872. 

GENERAL EDUCATION BOARD, 315. 

GENIUS, among civilized peoples, 92. 

GEOGRAPHY: and history, 8; as a science, 7. 

GOVERNMENT: a technical science, 1. _See_ Politics. 

GREGARIOUSNESS, regarded as an instinct, 30, 742-45. 

GROUP, PRIMARY, defined, 50, 56. 

GROUP SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS, 51. 

GROUPS, SECONDARY: in relation to conflict and accommodation, 50. _See_ Contacts, secondary. 

GROUPS, SOCIAL: _bibliography_, 218-23, 274, 333-36; accommodation type of, 721-23; centers of new ideas, 21; and character, 57; classification of, 50, 200-205; concept of, 47; co-operation in, 22; defined, 45, 196-98; determines types of personality, 606-7; investigations of, 210-16, 270-71; natural, 30; organization and structure of, 51; persistence of, 349-56; a real corporate existence, 33; rivalry of, 605-10; and social problems, 50; study of, 643-45; subordination to, 609-702; types of, 47-51; unit of classification, 161-62; unit of investigation, 212-13; unity of, 198-200. _See_ Groups, primary, Groups, secondary, Contacts, primary, Contacts, secondary, also the names of specific groups. 

GROWTH, SOCIAL, 26. 

HABIT, as the individual will, 100-102. 

HERD: behavior of, 30; contagion in, 885-86; homogeneity of, 31; instinct of the, 32, 724-45, 884-86; milling in the, 788-90; simplest type of social group, 30. 

HEREDITY AND EUGENICS: _bibliography_, 147-48. 

HERITAGES, SOCIAL: complex of stimuli, 72; of the immigrant, 765; investigation of, 51; transmission of, 72. 

HISTORICAL FACT, 7. 

HISTORICAL PROCESS, and progress, 969-73. 

HISTORICAL RACES: as products of isolation, 257-60. 

HISTORY: a catalogue of facts, 14; defined by Karl Pearson, 14; and geography, 15; as group memory, 51-52; mother science of all the social sciences, 42, 43; as a natural science, 23; and the natural sciences, 6; scientific, 4, 14; and sociology, 5, 1-12, 16-24. 

HOMOGENEITY: and common purpose, 32; and like-mindedness, 32. 

HOUSING, and zoning studies, 328-29. 

HUMAN BEINGS, as artificial products, 95. 

HUMAN ECOLOGY, and competition, 558. 

HUMAN NATURE: _chap. Ii_, 64-158; _bibliography_, 147-54; adaptability of, 95-97; Aristotle's conception of, 140; defined, 65-67; described in literature, 141-43; description and explanation of, 79; founded on instincts, 77-78; and the four wishes, 442-43; Hobbes' conception, 140; human interest in, 64-65; investigations and problems, 139-46; and law, 12-16; Machiavelli's conception, 140; and the mores, 97-100; political conceptions, 140-41; problems of, 47; product of group life, 67; product of social intercourse, 47; product of society, 159; and progress, 954, 957-58, 964-65, 983-1000; religious conceptions of, 139; and social control, 785-87; 848-49; and social life, 69; Spencer's conception, 141; and war, 594-98. 

HUMAN NATURE AND INDUSTRY: _bibliography_, 149. 

HUMAN SOCIETY: contrasted with animal societies, 199-200; and social life, 182-85. 

HYPNOTISM: a form of dissociation of memory, 472; post-hypnotic suggestion, 477. _See_ Suggestion. 

IDEA-FORCES, 461-64. _See_ Sentiment, Wishes. 

IMITATION: _bibliography_, 429-30; active side of sympathy, 394-95; and appropriation of knowledge, 403-4; and art, 401-8; circular reaction, 390-91; communication by, 72; defined, 344, 390-91, 391-94; in emotional communication, 404-7; and fashion, 390; and the imitative process, 292-93; internal, 404-5; and like-mindedness, 33; as a process of learning, 344, 393-94; and rapport, 344; in relation to attention and interest, 344, 391-94; in relation to trial and error, 344-45; and the social inheritance, 390-91; as the social process, 21; study of, 423-24; and suggestion, differentiated, 346; and suggestion, inner relation between, 688-889; and the transmission of tradition, 391-92. 

IMMIGRATION: _bibliography_, 780-81; and Americanization, 772-75; involves accommodation, 719. _See_ Migration. 

IMMIGRATION COMMISSION, REPORT OF, 772-73. 

INBORN CAPACITIES, defined, 73-74. 

INDIVIDUAL: _bibliography_, 149-50, 152-53; an abstraction, 24; isolated, 55; and person 55; subordination to, 698-99. 

INDIVIDUAL DIFFERENCES: _bibliography_, 152-54, 276; assimilation and the mediation of, 766-69; cause of isolation, 228-29; described, 92-94; developed by city life, 313-15; measurement of, 145-46; in primitive and civilized man, 90; and sex differences, 87. 

INDIVIDUAL REPRESENTATION, 37, 193. 

INDIVIDUALISM, and the division of labor, 718. 

INDUSTRIAL ORGANIZATION: _bibliography_, 564-65; impersonality of, 287. 

INHERITANCE, BIOLOGICAL: _bibliography_, 147. 

INHERITANCE, SOCIAL: through imitation, 390-91. _See_ Heritages, social. 

"INNER ENEMIES. " _See_ Defectives, dependents, and delinquents. 

INSPIRATION, and public sentiment, 34, 35. 

INSTINCTS: _bibliography_, 147-48, 152-54; and character, 190-93; in conflict, 576-77; 579-82; defined, 73-74; gregarious, 742-45; in the human baby, 82-84; instinctive movements as race movements, 82; physiological bases of assimilation, 742-45. _See_ Human nature, Original nature. 

INSTITUTIONS: defined, 796-97, 841; investigations of, 51; and law, 797-99; and mass movements, 915-24; and mores, 841-43; natural history of, 16; and sects, 872-74; and social control, 796-99, 841-48, 851-53. 

INTERACTION, SOCIAL: _chap. Vi_, 339-434; _bibliography_, 425-31; in communication, 341-43, 344-46, 356-89, 408-42; concept of, 339-41; in conflict, 582-86; defines the group in time and space, 341, 348-56; history of the concept, 420-21; imitation as a mechanistic form of, 344, 390-407; investigations and problems, 420-24; language, science, religion, public opinion, and law products of, 37; and mobility, 341; Ormond's analysis, 340; as a principal fundamental to all the natural sciences, 341-42, 346-48; in secondary contacts in the large city, 360-61; and social forces, 451-54; and social process, 36, 421; visual, 356-61. _See_ Communication, Imitation, Process, social, Suggestion, and Sympathy. 

INTEREST: in relation to imitation, 344, 391-94. 

INTERESTS: _bibliography_, 499-500; classification of, 456-57; defined, 456; and desires, 456; instincts and sentiments, 30; natural harmony of, 550-51; as social forces, 454-58, 458-62. 

INTIMACY: _bibliography_, 332; and the desire for response, 329-30; form of primary contact, 294-85. 

INVERSION, of impulses and sentiments, 283, 292, 329. 

INVESTIGATION, and research, 45. 

ISOLATION: _chap. Iv_, 226-79; _bibliography_, 273-77; in anthropogeography, 226, 269-70; barrier to invasion in plant communities, 527-28; in biology, 227-28, 270; cause of cultural differences, 229; cause of dialects, 271; cause of mental retardation, 231, 239-52; cause of national individuality, 233, 257-69; cause of originality, 237-39; cause of personal individuality, 233-39, 271-73; cause of race prejudice, 250-52; cause of the rural mind, 247-49; circle of, 232; destroyed by competition, 232; disappearance of, 866-67; effect upon social groups, 270-71; feral men, 239-43; geographical, and maritime contact, 260-64; investigations and problems of, 269-73; isolated groups, 270-71; mental effects of, 245-47; and prayer, 235-37; and the processes of competition, selection and segregation, 232-33; product of physical and mental differences, 228-29; result of segregation, 254-57; and secrecy, 230; and segregation, 228-30; and solidarity, 625-26; solitude and society, 243-45; subtler effects of, 249-52. 

JEW: product of isolation, 271; racial temperament, 136-37; as the sociological stranger, 318-19, 323. 

KLONDIKE RUSH, 895-98. 

LABOR ORGANIZATIONS: as conflict groups, 50. 

LABORING CLASS, psychology of, 40. 

LAISSEZ FAIRE: _bibliography_, 563; and competition, 554-58; and individual freedom, 560-61; in secondary contacts, 758. 

LANGUAGE: _bibliography_, 427-29; as condition of Americanization, 765-66; gesture, 362-64; and participation, 763-66. _See_ Communication, Speech community. 

LANGUAGE GROUPS AND NATIONALITIES, 50-51. 

LANGUAGE REVIVALS AND NATIONALISM: _bibliography_, 945-46; study of 930-32. 

LANGUAGES: comparative study of, and sociology, 5, 22; cultural, competition of, 754-56, 771. 

LAUGHTER: communication by, 370-75; essays upon, 422; in social control, 373-75; and sympathy, 370-73, 401. 

LAW: _bibliography_, 860-62; based on custom and mores, 799, 843-46; common and statute, 842-46; comparative study of, 5; and conscience, 102-8; and creation of law-making opinion, 451; formation of, 16; and the general will, 102-8; and human nature, 12-16; as influenced by public opinion, 446-51; and institutions, 797-99; and legal institutions, 851-53; moral, 13; municipal, 13; natural, defined, 11; natural, distinguished from other forms, 12; and public opinion, 446-51; and religion, 853; result of like-mindedness, 717; social, as an hypothesis, 12; "unwritten, " 640. 

LAWS OF NATURE, 13. 

LAWS OF PROGRESS, 15. 

LAWS OF SOCIAL EVOLUTION, 18. 

LEADERSHIP: _bibliography_, 854-55; in the flock, 881-83; and group continuity, 353-54; interpreted by subordination and superordination, 695-97, 697-98; in Methodism, 916-17; study of, 721, 849-50. _See_ Collective behavior, Social control, Suggestion, Subordination and superordination. 

LEGEND: as a form of social control, 819-22; growth of, 819-22; in the growth of Methodism, 922-23. _See_ Myth. 

LEGISLATION. _See_ Law. 

LIKE-MINDEDNESS: and corporate action, 42; as an explanation of social behavior, 32-33; formal, in assimilation, 757-60; in a panic, 33-34. 

LINGUA FRANCA, 752-54. 

LITERATURE, and the science of human nature, 141-43. 

LITIGATION, as a form of conflict, 590-92. 

LYNCHING: _bibliography_, 653-54. 

MAN: an adaptive mechanism, 522-26; economic, 495-96; the fighting animal, 600-603; the natural, 82-85; as a person, 10; a political animal, 10, 32; primitive and civilized, sensory discrimination in, 90. _See_ Human nature, Individual, Person, Personality. 

MARKETS: _bibliography_, 564; and the origin of competition, 555-56. 

MASS MOVEMENTS: _bibliography_, 941-43; crowd excitements and, 895-98; and institutions, 915-24; and mores, 898-905; and progress, 54; and revolution, 905-15; study of, 927-32; types of, 895-924. 

MEMORY: associative, Loeb's definition, 467; rôle of, in the control of original nature, 468-71. 

MENTAL CONFLICT: _bibliography_, 645-46; and the disorganization of personality, 638; its function in individual and group action, 578; and sublimation, 669. 

MENTAL DIFFERENCES. _See_ Individual differences. 

METHODISM, 915-24. 

MIGRATION: classified into internal and foreign, 531-33; and mobility, 301-5; in the plant community, 526-28; and segregation, 529-33. _See_ Immigration, mobility. 

MILLING, in the herd, 788-90. 

MIND, COLLECTIVE, 887, 889-90. 

MISCEGENATION: and the mores, 53. _See_ Amalgamation. 

MISSIONS: _bibliography_, 778-80; and the conflict and fusion of cultures, 771; and social transmission, 200. 

MOBILITY: _bibliography_, 333; and communication, 284; and competition, 513; contrasted with continuity, 286; defined, 283-84; facilitated by city life, 313-14; and instability of natural races, 300-301; of the migratory worker, 912-13; and the movement of the peoples, 301-5; and news, 284; and social interaction, 341; and the stranger, 323-24. _See_ Communication, Contacts, social, Migration. 

MOBILIZATION, of the individual man, 313. 

MORALE: defined, 164; and isolation, 229-30; of social groups, 205-9. _See Esprit de corps_, Collective representation, Consciousness, social. 

MORES: _bibliography_, 148-49; as the basis of social control, 786-87; and conduct, 189; and human nature, 97-100; influence of, 30; and institutions, 841-43; and mass movements, 898-905; and miscegenation, 53; not subject of discussion, 52-53; and progress, 983-84; and public opinion, differentiated, 832. 

MOVEMENTS. _See_ Mass movements. 

MUSIC: _bibliography_, 938-39. 

MYTHOLOGY, comparative study of, 5. 

MYTHS: _bibliography_, 857-58; as a form of social control, 816-19; progress as a, 958-62; relation to ritual and dogma, 822-26; revolutionary, 817-19, 909, 911; and socialism, 818-19. _See_ Legend. 

NATIONAL DEVELOPMENT, as affected by natural or vicinal location, 268-69. 

NATIONAL DIFFERENCES, explained by isolation, 264-68. 

NATIONALITIES: _bibliography_, 275, 659-60; assimilation in the formation of, 756-58; conflict groups, 50, 628-31; defined, 645; and nations, 723; and patterns of life, 46; and racial temperament, 135-39. _See_ Denationalization, Nationalization, Language revivals. 

NATIONALIZATION: _bibliography_, 777-78. 

NATURAL HISTORY: and natural science, 16; of a social institution, 16. 

NATURAL SCIENCE: defined 12; and history, 8. 

NATURALIZATION, SOCIAL: as a form of accommodation, 666-67, 719. 

NATURE: defined, 11; laws of, 13; and nurture, 126-28. 

NATURE, HUMAN. _See_ Human nature. 

NEGRO: accommodation of, in slavery and freedom, 631-37; assimilation of, 960-62; race consciousness of, 623-31; racial temperament of, 136-37, 762. 

NEIGHBORHOOD: deterioration of, 252-54; as a local community, 50; as a natural area of primary contacts, 285; as a primary group, 56; scale for grading, 1002 n. 

NEO-MALTHUSIAN MOVEMENT, 559-60. 

NEWS: and social control, 834-37. _See_ Newspaper, Publicity. 

NEWSPAPER: _bibliography_, 427, 859-60; historical development of, 385-89; as medium of communication, 316-17. _See_ Public opinion, Publicity. 

NOMINALISM, and social psychology, 41. 

NOMINALISTS, and realists in sociology, 36. 

OPINION. _See_ Public opinion. 

ORDEAL OF BATTLE: _bibliography_, 655. 

ORGANISM, SOCIAL: and biological, 28; Comte's conception of, 24-25, 39; humanity or Leviathan? 24-27; and the separate organs, 27; Spencer's definition of, 25; Spencer's essay on, 28. 

ORGANIZATION, SOCIAL: _bibliography_, 729-30; of groups, 51; and progress, 966-68; and rivalry, 604-16; study of, 723-25. 

ORGANIZATIONS, sociological and biological, 26. 

ORIGINAL NATURE: an abstraction, 68; control over, 81; controlled through memory, 468-71; defined, 56, 73-74; and environment, 73; inheritance of, 128-33; of man, 68-69; research in, 143. _See_ Individual, Individual differences, Instincts. 

ORIGINAL TENDENCIES: inventory of, 75-76; range of, 74. 

ORIGINALITY: accumulated commonplaces, 21; in relation to isolation, 237-39. 

PACK, 886-87. 

PARTICIPATION: Americanization as, 762-63; and competitive co-operation, 767-68; language as a means and a product of, 763-66. _See_ Americanization, Assimilation, Collective behavior, Social control. 

PARTIES: _bibliography_, 658-59; as conflict groups, 50. 

PATTERNS OF LIFE, in nationalities, 46; in social classes, 46. 

PEACE, as a type of accommodation, 703-6. 

PERIODICALS, SOCIOLOGICAL: _bibliography_, 59-60. 

PERSON: _bibliography_, 150-52, 273-74; effect of city upon, 329; and his wishes, 388-90; as an individual with status, 55. _See_ Personality, Status. 

PERSONALITY: _bibliography_, 149-52; alterations of, 113-17; classified, 146; as a complex, 69, 110-13; conscious, 490; defined, 70, 112-13; defined in terms of attitudes, 490; disorganization of, and mental conflict, 628; dissociation of, 472-75; effect of isolation upon, 233-39, 271-73; and the four wishes, 442-43; and group membership, 609; harmonization of conflict, 583-84; of individuals and peoples, 123-25; investigation of, 143-45; as the organism, 108-10; shut-in type of, 272; and the social group, 48; study of, 271-73; and suggestion, 419-20; types of, determined by the group, 606-7. _See_ Individual, Person, Self, Status. 

PERSONS, defined, 55; as "parts" of society, 36; product of society, 159. 

PHILOSOPHY, and natural science, 4. 

PITTSBURGH SURVEY, 315, 724. 

PLANT COMMUNITIES. _See_ Communities. 

PLAY: as expressive behavior, 787-88. 

POLITICS: _bibliography_, 940; comparative, Freeman's lectures on, 23; as expressive behavior, 787-88; among the natural sciences, 3; as a positive science, 3; shams in, 826-82. 

POVERTY. _See_ Defectives, dependents, and delinquents. 

PRESTIGE: with animals, 809-10; defined, 807; and prejudice, 808-9; in primitive society, 810-11, 811-12; in social control, 807-11, 811-12; and status in South East Africa, 811-12. _See_ Leadership, Status. 

PRIMARY CONTACTS. _See_ Contacts, primary. 

PRINTING-PRESS, _bibliography_, 427. 

PRIVACY: defined, 231; values of, 231. 

PROBLEMS, ADMINISTRATIVE: practical and technical, 46. 

PROBLEMS, HISTORICAL: become psychological and sociological, 19. 

PROBLEMS OF POLICY: political and legislative, 46. 

PROBLEMS, SOCIAL: classification of, 45, 46; of the group, 47. 

PROCESS, historical, 51; political, as distinguished from the cultural, 52-54. 

PROCESS, SOCIAL: defined, 51; and interaction, 36, 346; natural, 346-48, 420-21; and social progress, 51-55. 

PROGRESS: _chap. Xiv_, 952-1011; _bibliography_, 57-58, 1004-10; as the addition to the sum of accumulated experience, 1001-2; concept of, 962-63, 965-73; and consciousness, 990-94; and the cosmic urge, 989-1000; criteria of, 985-86; and the defectives, the dependents, and the delinquents, 954-55; and the _dunkler drang_, 954-1000; earliest conception of, 965-66; and the _élan vitale_, 989-94; and eugenics, 969-73; and happiness, 967, 973-75; and the historical process, 969-73; history of the concept of, 958-62; as a hope or myth, 958-62; and human nature, 954, 957-58, 964-65, 983-1000; indices of, 1002-3; investigations and problems, 1000-3; laws of, 15; and the limits of scientific prevision, 978-79; and mass movements, 54; a modern conception, 960-62; and the mores, 983-84; and the nature of man, 983; and organization, 966-68; popular conceptions of, 953-56; and prevision, 975-77; problem of, 956-58; and providence, in contrast, 960-62; and religion, 846-48; a result of competition, 988; a result of contact, 988-89; and science, 973-83; and social control, 786; and social process, 51-58; and social research, 1000-12; and social values, 955; stages of, 968-69; types of, 985-96; and war, 984-89. 

PROPAGANDA: in modern nations, 772; psychology of, 837-41. 

PROVIDENCE: in contrast with progress, 960-62. 

PSYCHOLOGY, COLLECTIVE, _bibliography_, 940-41. 

PUBLIC: and the crowd, 867-70; control in, 800-805; a discussion group, 798-99, 870. 

PUBLIC OPINION: _bibliography_, 858-60; changes in intensity and direction of, 792-93; and collective representations, 38; combined and sublimated judgments of individuals, 795-96; continuity in its development, 450-51; and crises, 793-94; cross currents in, 450-51, 791-93; defined, 38; and legislation in England, 445-51; and mores, 829-33; nature of, 826-29; opinion of individuals plus their differences, 832-33; organization of, 51; organization of social forces, 35; and schools of thought, 446-49; and social control, 786, 816-41, 850-51; as social weather, 791-93; as a source of social control in cities, 316-17; supported by sentiment, 478. 

PUBLICITY: as a form of social contact, 315-17; as a form of social control, 830; historical evolution of the newspaper, 385-89; and publication, 38. 

RACE CONFLICT: _bibliography_, 650-52; and race prejudice, 578-79; study of, 642-43. 

RACE CONSCIOUSNESS: and conflict, 623-31; in relation to literature and art, 626-29. 

RACE PREJUDICE: and competition of peoples with different standards of living, 620-23; as a defense-reaction, 620; a form of isolation, 250-52; and inter-racial competition, 539-44; a phenomenon of social distance, 440; and prestige, 808-9; and primary contacts, 330; and race conflicts, 578-79. 

RACES: assimilation of, 756-62; defined, 631-33. 

RACIAL DIFFERENCES: _bibliography_, 154; and assimilation, 769-70; basis of race prejudice and conflict, 631-33; in primitive and civilized man, 89-92. 

RAPPORT: in the crowd, 893-94; in hypnotism, 345; in imitation, 344; in suggestion, 345. 

REACTION, CIRCULAR: in collective behavior and social control, 788-92; in imitation, 390-91; in social unrest, 866. 

REALISTS, and nominalists in sociology, 43. 

REALISM, and collective psychology, 41. 

REFLEX: defined, 73; as response toward an object, 479-82; Watson's definition of, 81. 

REFORM: _bibliography_, 948-50; method of effecting, 47; study of, 934. 

RESEARCH, SOCIAL: and progress, 1000-1002; and sociology, 43-57. 

RESEARCH, sociological, defined, 44. 

RELIGION: as an agency of social control, 846-48; comparative study of, 5; as expressive behavior, 787-88; as the guardian of mores, 847; and law, 853; Methodism, 915-24; origin in the choral dance, 871; and revolutionary and reform movements, 873-74, 908-9. 

RELIGIOUS REVIVALS, AND THE ORIGIN OF SECTS: _bibliography_, 933-45; study of, 932-33. 

RESPONSE, MULTIPLE, and multiple causation, 75. 

REVIVALS. _See_ Language revivals, Religious revivals. 

REVOLUTION: _bibliography_, 950-51; bolshevism, 909-15; French, 905-9; and mass movements, 905-15; moral, and Methodism, 923-24; and religion, 873-74; 908-9; study of, 934. 

RITES. _See_ Ritual. 

RITUAL: _bibliography_, 855-56, 938-39; as a basis of myth and dogma, 822-26. 

RIVALRY: _bibliography_, 646; animal, 604-5; and national welfare, 609-10; of social groups, 605-10; and social organization, 577-78, 604-16; sublimated form of conflict, 577-78. 

ROCKEFELLER MEDICAL FOUNDATION, 670. 

RURAL COMMUNITIES: as local groups, 50. _See_ Communities. 

RURAL MIND, as a product of isolation, 247-49. 

RUSSELL SAGE FOUNDATION, social surveys, 46, 315, 724. 

SALVATION ARMY, 873. 

SCIENCE: and concrete experience, 15; and description, 13; and progress, 973-83. 

SCIENCES, ABSTRACT, instrumental character of, 15. 

SCIENTIFIC EXPLANATION, and common sense, 80. 

SECONDARY CONTACTs. _See_ Contacts, secondary. 

SECRET SOCIETIES, _bibliography_, 730-32. 

SECTS: _bibliography_, 656-57; as conflict groups, 50; defined, 202-3; distinguished from denomination, 873; and institutions, 872-74; origin in conflict of beliefs, 611-12; origin in the crowd, 870-72; permanent form of expressive crowd, 872. _See_ Religious revivals. 

SEGREGATION: and competition, 526-44; and isolation, 228-30, 254-57; and migration, 529-33; in the plant community, 526-28; as a process, 252-54; and social selection, 534-38. 

SELECTION, SOCIAL: and demographic segregation, 534-38; personal competition and status, 708-12. 

SELF: conventional, versus natural person, 117-19; divided, and moral consciousness, 119-23; as the individual's conception of his rôle, 113-17; "looking-glass, " 70-71. _See_ Individual, Person, Personality. 

SENSES, SOCIOLOGY OF, _bibliography_, 332. 

SENSORIUM, SOCIAL, 27, 28. 

SENTIMENTS: _bibliography_, 501; of caste, 684-88; and competition, 508; classification of, 466-67; and idea-forces, 463-64; of loyalty, as basis of social solidarity, 759; McDougall's definition, 441, 465; mutation of, 441-42; related to opinion, 478; as social forces, 464-67. 

SEX DIFFERENCES: _bibliography_, 153-54; and cultural conflicts, 615-16; described, 85-89. 

SITTLICHKEIT: defined, 102-4. 

SITUATION: definition of, 764-65; and response, 73. 

SLANG, _bibliography_, 427-29. 

SLAVERY: _bibliography_, 727-28; defined, 674-77; and the division of labor, 677; interpreted by subordination and superordination, 676, 677-81. 

SOCIAL ADVERTISING. _See_ Publicity. 

SOCIAL AGGREGATES. _See_ Aggregates, social. 

SOCIAL CHANGES, and disorganization, 55. 

SOCIAL CLASSES. _See_ Classes, social. 

SOCIAL CONSCIOUSNESS. _See_ Consciousness, social. 

SOCIAL CONTACT. _See_ Contact, social. 

SOCIAL CONTROL. _See_ Control, social. 

SOCIAL DISORGANIZATION. _See_ Disorganization, social. 

SOCIAL DISTANCE: graphic representation of, 282; maintained by isolation, 230; as psychic separation, 162; and race prejudice, 440. 

SOCIAL FACT: classification of, 51; imitative, 21. 

SOCIAL FORCES. _See_ Forces, social. 

SOCIAL GROUPS. _See_ Groups, social. 

SOCIAL HERITAGES. _See_ Heritages, social. 

SOCIAL INTERACTION. _See_ Interaction, social. 

SOCIAL LIFE: defined, 183-85; and human nature, 182-85. 

SOCIAL MOVEMENTS. _See_ Mass movements. 

SOCIAL ORGANISM. _See_ Organism, social. 

SOCIAL ORGANIZATION. _See_ Organization, social. 

SOCIAL PHENOMENA: causes of, 17; as susceptible of prevision, 1. 

SOCIAL PRESSURES, as social forces, 458-61. 

SOCIAL PROBLEMS. _See_ Problems, social. 

SOCIAL PROCESS. _See_ Process, social. 

SOCIAL REFORM. _See_ Problem, social, Reform. 

SOCIAL SENSORIUM. _See_ Sensorium, social. 

SOCIAL SOLIDARITY. _See_ Solidarity, social. 

SOCIAL SURVEYS. _See_ Surveys, social. 

SOCIAL TYPES. _See_ Types, social. 

SOCIAL UNIT PLAN, 724. 

SOCIAL UNITY, as a product of isolation, 229-30. 

SOCIAL UNREST. _See_ Unrest, social. 

SOCIALISM: _bibliography_, 565-66; economic doctrines of, 558; function of myth in, 818-19. 

SOCIALIZATION: the goal of social effort, 496; as the unity of society, 348-49. 

SOCIETY: _bibliography_, 217-23; animal, _bibliography_, 217-18; in the animal colony, 24; ant, 180-82; an artefact, 30; based on communication, 183-84; collection of persons, 158; collective consciousness of, 28; "collective organism, " 24; as consensus, 161; defined, 159-62, 165-66, 348-49; differentiated from community and social group, 161-62; as distinct from individuals, 27; exists in communication, 36; an extension of the individual organism, 159-60; and the group, _chap. Iii_, 159-225; _bibliography_, 217-23; from an individualistic and collectivistic point of view, 41, 42; investigations and problems of, 210-16; mechanistic interpretation of, 346-48; metaphysical science of, 2; as part of nature, 29; product of nature and of design, 30; scientific study of, 210-11; and social distance, 162; as social interaction, 341, 348; and the social process, 211; and solitude, 233-34, 234-45; as the sum total of institutions, 159; and symbiosis, 165-73. 

SOCIOLOGY: aims at prediction and control, 339-40; in the classification of the sciences, 6; as collective psychology, 342; Comte's program, 1; a description and explanation of the cultural process, 35; an experimental science, 6; a fundamental science, 6; and history, 1-12, 16-24; as an independent science, 1; origin in history, 23; origin of, 5, 6; and the philosophy of history, 44; positive science of society, 3; representative works in, _bibliography_, 57-59; rural and urban, 40; schools of, 28; a science of collective behavior, 24; a science of humanity, 5; and social research, 43-57; and the social sciences, _chap. I. _, 1-63. 

SOCIOLOGICAL INVESTIGATION: methods of, _bibliography_, 58-59. 

SOCIOLOGICAL METHOD, 23. 

SOCIOLOGICAL POINT OF VIEW, 16. 

SOLIDARITY, SOCIAL: and the division of labor, 714-18; and loyalty, 759; and status and competition, 670-71, 708-18. 

SOLITUDE. _See_ Isolation. 

SPEECH COMMUNITY, changes in, 22. _See_ Language. 

STATE, sociological definition of, 50. 

STATISTICS, as a method of investigation, 51. 

STATUS: and competition, 541-43, 670-71, 708-18; determined by conflict, 574-75, 576; determined by members of a group, 36; of the person in the city, 313; and personal competition and social selection, 708-12; and prestige in South East Africa, 811-12; and social solidarity, 670-71, 708-18. _See_ Prestige. 

STRANGER, sociology of, 317-22, 322-27. 

STRIKES, _bibliography_, 652-53. 

STRUCTURE, SOCIAL, permanence of, 746-50. 

STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE: and competition, 505, 512, 513-15, 522-26; and natural selection, 515-19. _See_ Competition. 

STRUGGLE: for struggle's sake, 585-86. 

SUBLIMATION: the accommodation of mental conflict, 669. 

SUBMISSION. _See_ Subordination and superordination. 

SUBORDINATION AND SUPERORDINATION, _bibliography_, 726; in accommodation, 667-68; in animal rivalry, 604-5; in caste, 684-88; in leadership, 695-97; literature of, 721; psychology of, 688-92; reciprocal character of, 695-97; in slavery, 676, 677-81; social attitudes in, 692-95; three types of, 697-703. 

SUGGESTION: _bibliography_, 430-31; basis of social change, 22; case of Clever Hans, 412-15; and contra-suggestion, 419; in the crowd, 415-16; defined, 408; distinguished from imitation, 345-46; in hypnotism, 345, 412, 424, 471-72; and idea-forces, 461-64; and imitation, inner relation between, 688-89; and leadership, 419-20; and mass or corporate action, 415-20; as a mechanistic form of interaction, 344-46, 408-20; and perception, active and passive, 345, 408-12; personal and general consciousness, 409-12; and personality, 419-20; as psychic infection, 410-12; in social life, 345-46, 408-20, 424; study of, 424; subtler forms of, 413-15. _See_ Hypnotism. 

SUPERORDINATION. _See_ Subordination and superordination. 

SURVEY, SOCIAL: as a type of community study, 436; types of, 46. 

SYMBIOSIS: in the ant community, 167-70; in the plant community, 175-80

SYMPATHETIC CONTACTS, versus categoric contacts, 294-98. 

SYMPATHY: and imagination, 397-98; imitation its most rudimentary form, 394-95; intellectual or rational, 396-97, 397-401; the "law of laughter, " 370-73, 401; psychological unison, 395; Ribot's three levels of, 394-97. 

TABOO: _bibliography_, 856-58; and religion, 847; and rules of holiness and uncleanness, 813-16; as social control, 813-16; and touch, 291-93. _See_ Touch. 

TAMING, of animals, 170-73. 

TEMPERAMENT: _bibliography_, 152-53; divergencies in, 91; of Negro, 762; racial and national, 135-39. 

TOUCH: as most intimate kind of contact, 280; and social contact, 282-83, 291-93; study of, 329-30; and taboo, 291-93. 

TRADITION: and inheritance of acquired nature, 134-35; and temperament, 135-39; versus acculturation, 72. _See_ Heritages, social. 

TRANSMISSION: by imitation and inculcation, 72, 135; and society, 183; Tarde's theory of, 21. 

TYPES, SOCIAL: _bibliography_, 731; in the city, 313-15; and the division of labor, 713-14; result of personal competition, 712-14. 

UNIVERSES OF DISCOURSE: _bibliography_, 427-29; and assimilation, 735, 764; "every group has its own language, " 423. _See_ Communication, Language, Publicity. 

UNREST, MORAL, 57. 

UNREST, SOCIAL: _bibliography_, 935-36; and circular reaction, 866; and collective behavior, 866-67; increase of Bohemianism, 57; in the I. W. W. , 911-15; like milling in the herd, 788; manifest in discontent and mental anarchy, 907-8; product of the artificial conditions of city life, 287, 329; result of mobility, 320-21; sign of lack of participation, 766-67; and social contagion, 875-76; studies of, 924-26; and unrealized wishes, 442-43. 

URBAN COMMUNITIES: as local groups, 50. _See_ Communities. 

UTOPIAS, _bibliography_, 1008-9. 

VALUES: _bibliography_, 500; object of the wish, 442; personal and impersonal, 54; positive and negative, 488; and progress, 955. 

VICIOUS CIRCLE, 788-89. 

VOCATIONAL GROUPS, as a type of accommodation groups, 50. 

WANTS AND VALUES, _bibliography_, 499-500. 

WAR: _bibliography_, 648-50; as an exciting game, 580; as a form of conflict, 575-76, 576-77, 586-88, 703-6; and the "Great Society, " 600-601; and human nature, 594-98; literature of, 641-42; and man as the fighting animal, 600-603; and possibility of its sublimation, 598; the preliminary process of rejuvenescence, 596-97; and progress, 984-89; in relation to instincts and ideals, 576-77, 594-603; as relaxation, 598-603; and social utopia, 599. 

WE-GROUP: and collective egotism, 606; and others-group defined, 283, 293-94; ethnocentrism, 294. 

WILL: common, 106; general, 107-8; general, in relation to law and conscience, 102-8; individual, 101; social, 102. 

WISH, the Freudian, 438, 442, 478-80, 482-88, 497. 

WISHES: _bibliography_, 501; and attitudes, 442-43; civilization organized to realize, 958; as components of attitudes, 439; and growth of human nature and personality, 442-43; as libido, 442; organized into character, 90; of the person, 388-90; as psychological unit, 479; and the psychic censor, 484-88; and the reflex, 479-82; repressed, 482-83; as the social atoms, 478-82; Thomas' classification of, 438, 442, 488-90, 497; and values, 442, 488. 

WOMAN'S TEMPERANCE CRUSADE, 898-905. 

WRITING: as form of communication, 381-84; pictographic forms, 381; by symbols, 382-83.