Chapter VIII: Part 8

Of course we could get on without all these things. We do not have to have the flowers; we could dispense with the moonbeams; our three meals a day do not depend upon the singing of the birds; the world could no doubt continue on its way if the wind never again whispered a lullaby among the trees. But this is not the kind of world for which the heart longs. The deeper hunger is satisfied only with a world made beautiful with the things that were whispered only into the more sacred chambers of the heart of man—the beautiful and the unnecessary things.

Some New Facts About Alcohol (1918)

After all, it may not have been so bad a thing that many defenders rose up during the past years to champion the failing cause of alcohol. The debate which has resulted from their mistaken contentions has really led to a determination on the part of people in general to look into the question and to determine for themselves whether alcohol is really a benefit or a menace to the user.

No believer in abstinence needs to ask for anything better than just such a spirit of scientific investigation. The best thing that can happen to the truth is that it be investigated. Such investigation into the drink question has been the result of the general questioning, and it has led to the general conclusion that alcohol works harm and not good to the human system.

One of the most useful of American scientific establishments is the Carnegie Institution at Washington. During the last few years, two of its experts, Drs. Dodge and Benedict, have been following special lines of study on the effect of alcohol upon the human brain and nervous system. Their achievements in this field of investigation have been notable for both their scientific and their moral value.

These investigations were, of course, conducted with that care which always characterizes the work of the genuine scientist. The laboratory expert never works from a prejudiced viewpoint. He approaches his task with an open mind. He does not seek the proof of some contention of his own. He looks for nothing more nor less than the truth about a thing. He would rather fail altogether in an investigation than to reach a false conclusion and publish it to the world. Such a result would not only be failure but deception as well. When one is following the results of the work of a true scientist, he may rely upon it that no unfair advantage will be taken of the facts.

Of course, it must be remembered that much still remains to be discovered concerning alcohol. Those who have studied the subject thus far have only been pioneers in their field. We shall learn a great deal more about it, but we have already learned enough to indicate the fact that alcohol is an enemy of men.

One of the conclusions reached is that alcohol is not, as has so long been supposed, a stimulant. It is, instead, really a depressant. The seeming increase of vitality which follows its use is entirely deceptive. According to fundamental tests, it really robs the body of a measure of vitality.

We have long been accustomed to suppose the case otherwise. Even the most ardent opponent of liquor has taken for granted its power to stimulate. Working upon the basis of this assumption, the medical profession has too long taken it for granted that, being a stimulant, alcohol had a proper and rightful place in the dispensing of drugs and the practice of medicine.

Of course, the use of alcohol is always followed by a certain increase of seeming vivacity. The user becomes more talkative, and, up to a certain stage, even more active. Whence do these manifestations come, and what is their cause, if alcohol depresses rather than stimulates?

They rise directly from the fact that the depressing effect of alcohol reaches to the inhibitory centers—the storehouses of self-control. The point is, then, that alcohol does not increase the power of action. It only decreases the power of self-restraint. The things one does and says when under the influence of liquor are simply the things from the doing or saying of which he would ordinarily have restrained himself. If he were sober, his words and actions would be tempered with good judgment. Under the influence of liquor, he has no fear of any kind of risk or trespass.

Some have supposed that these manifestations prove the power of liquor to render one temporarily clever. The fact is that the seeming cleverness in the actions or words of a tipsy person simply represents the things which, as a sober person, he would know better than to do or say.

Each advance in our knowledge of the effect of alcohol upon the human system only serves to confirm the old contention that it is a foe of efficiency. This is true not only because it tends to deteriorate the tissues and organs of the body, but also because it strikes directly at the seat of reason as well.

The muscular reflex is dulled. The power to react to sounds and other _stimuli_ is distinctly lessened. The memory is affected. The fingers lose approximately nine per cent of their deftness. The eye loses about eleven per cent of its quickness and accuracy.

These are results following directly upon the effects exerted by alcohol upon the brain and nervous system in general. Ordinary men failed to slay the hydra of old because they struck only at some one of its many heads. It perished only when there came a man who thought to strike at the one vital center. Alcohol does not content itself with striking at those parts of the physical life which are able to renew themselves or without which the life can still go on. It strikes at the seat of all that makes life worth while. It stands second in the list of causes of insanity. It damages the efficiency of many thousands, however, who never reach the stage of complete insanity.

No further words are needed to indicate the truth of the old dictum that drink and workmanship do not go together. Each ounce of liquor consumed reduces a man’s capacity for skilled labor by a definite and unfailing percentage.

It has always been important that a workman should be at his best, but it has now come to be more so than ever before. The powers of men are taxed in an unusual degree, and processes of production are put upon the most severe strain of all their history. In former years, one owed it to himself, his family, and his friends to steer clear of alcohol, but his obligation is now vastly increased. He owes it to his country and his flag as well.

An interesting development concerning the effect of alcohol upon human efficiency has come as a result of the military efforts of the last several years. It has been proven that liquor makes a poor soldier. This is true in spite of the notion that once prevailed to the effect that strong drink was a necessity in an army camp. A few cherish that notion still, but their tribe steadily decreases.

About six years before the outbreak of the great war, the Bavarian ministry of war determined upon a shooting tournament in which the participating marksmen were to be under various degrees of the influence of alcohol. Thousands of shots were fired, and the results were very important and significant from both the military and the human viewpoint.

It was found that a man can not hope, after taking a drink of liquor, to shoot with the accuracy that was his before. Under even the slightest degrees of intoxication the marksmanship of the participants was lowered, in many cases as much as twelve per cent.

The tournament mentioned also emphasized the promptness of the effect of alcohol upon the nerves. It was discovered that the influence of a drink of liquor begins to manifest itself in a man’s marksmanship almost immediately after the beverage is taken. Five minutes suffices in any case for the results to begin to show. As moments multiply, the effect is increasingly apparent.

As is true of work, war in the latest notable instance is no haphazard thing. It requires mechanical accuracy and scientific precision, and it can not be successfully carried on by a race of inebriates. However much we may hope that warfare will soon be a thing of the past, while it remains with us our only hope of escaping death in its awful clutches is our disposition and ability to maintain efficient armies. An efficient army necessarily means, for one thing, a sober one. Whether in the workshop or in the military camp, liquor and efficiency are sworn and uncompromising foes.

Facing the Future (1919)

It has become a common tendency on the part of a certain group of people to continually glorify the “good old days.” The type of mind possessed by this group sets the past up as a sort of fetish. As it were, they move forward with their faces turned backward. Some strange glamour about the by-gone days proves irresistibly fascinating. The past is the standard by which they judge all things. The present is good or bad to them according as it conforms or fails to conform to that standard.

Such a criterion would not be so bad a thing if those who establish it only took pains to remember the past as it really was. Such is not the case, however. They remember it with all its imperfections omitted. The past which they treasure is built of dreams. It held much that was dear to them, and it came at the hopeful and exultant period of their lives. They therefore treasure its dead years in memory as a sort of acme of all the perfections which any age can possess.

This process continues until it becomes a fixed mental habit. It is then indulged almost as unconsciously as the drawing of breath. At this point in the history of one’s thought-life his standards have become second nature. A thing is then proven good if its definite relation to the good old days can be established. On the other hand, it is at once proven frivolous and superficial if it is shown to originate in the present age.

No real thought process is here involved. The thing is only an assumption and is simply taken for granted. It reveals itself in daily conversation. It even reveals itself in the language of the sanctuary where the truth is assumed to prevail. The truth, however, is never reached by methods of prejudice or undue assumption. It is approached by fair and honest habits of thought. We need but to look at the facts. If they indicate that the old days were better than the new, they must be accepted as dependable authority. Whatever the truth may be, it will prevail. We must give it right of way, however unwelcome its conclusions may seem. It is as changeless as its Creator. We must accept it as we find it, but we dare not fail to look first at the facts and form our conclusions accordingly.

Of course, distance lends enchantment to the view. This, however, is not a reason for persisting in error. It is one of the facts to be taken into consideration in estimating the relative values to be placed upon the distant and the near. When a gunner is getting the range of a target an angle must be computed between the target and a point at each side of the gun. Various conditions which may affect the shot, however, must also be considered. Among these are the movement of the target, the condition of the atmosphere, and the direction and velocity of the wind. Just such influences must also be considered in taking mental aim. The tendency mentioned above is one of them.

In some ways it is a fortunate fact that we are prone to forget the sordid in the past. It is better that it should be the good rather than the evil of past days that is best remembered. This is one of the hopeful elements in human nature. It is a fact, nevertheless, that sordid elements existed in the ages gone. Each epoch has had its failings, and each generation has discovered that life has its seamy side.

It is an interesting commentary on this common human tendency that one of the last utterances of George Washington was an expression of regret that the spirit of the old times seemed to be passing, and that the tendencies of the new age seemed less hopeful and promising. More than a century has gone by since this lament was uttered. The world is still having its struggles, just as it did then. The prices, the weather, and the conditions produced by the war are still making the grounds for daily complaint, just as was the case in other days. The race is still achieving some progress, however, and most of us still believe that the most promising days of civilization are yet to be.

The lament of the passing of the good old days may be found in times more remote, however, than even those of George Washington. Some years ago an archeological investigator discovered an ancient Egyptian record which, when its message had been deciphered, was found to be a complaint that the good old days seemed to have passed, and that great uncertainty attached to the dawning period which was entirely too different from the past.

So it appears that this regretful attitude is not a new story. Ever since human nature has existed these lugubrious things have been said. Only the use of the power of reason is necessary, however, to see that the world has, after all, made wonderful progress in most things since the writing of the old Egyptian records, and even since the days of George Washington.

The past and its real achievements should never be discounted. The present owes all that it is to the fact that it is built on ages gone by, and that its foundations were so well laid by hands which now rest from their labors. All things considered, however, each age has been a little better than the age preceding it. It is not proper to say that the old days were better than the new, unless it is proper to say that the foundation is better than the superstructure. The things that were served simply as the basis and preparation for the things that are.

We can appreciate the past without discounting the present. We can also glorify the present without discounting the past. Each epoch has had its own particular place to fill and each generation has had its own particular part to play in the general scheme of things. No age could properly be exchanged for any other, nor could any generation properly fill another’s place. We must take the facts of history as they are. Each age is best for its own time and in its own place.

Certain things are changeless. There are great, abiding quantities which necessarily remain the same throughout the years. Human affection, love of home, fidelity to a country, ambition for success, and the religious instinct are among those things.

While the essential nature of these things is changeless, yet their outward manifestation does undergo development. Love remains the same, yet men learn how to enlarge its meaning. Patriotism is the same, yet it assumes higher forms with advancing standards of national life. The heart of religion is changeless, yet religion receives an ever more adequate and satisfying interpretation. The new days cannot change the nature of abiding things, but they can increase the adaptability of those things to human needs.

Our times are not perfect. However, the old days also fell short of perfection. Not only did they have their struggles and their failings, but those struggles and failings menaced the race just as seriously as have any of later days. We too easily forget what the past was like. We also fail to take a full inventory of the meaning of the present. All in all, it is safe to assume that men are sound at heart. Each age struggles on as well as it knows how. We get up the hill a little way and then fall back. On the whole, however, we climb a little more distance than we tumble.

We are not moving backward from the perfect to the less perfect ages as Ovid wrote. We are moving forward to the divine event of which Tennyson dreamed. We are tending toward that perfect social condition revealed in the visions of the seer of Patmos—a new heaven and a new earth. The past was that the best might come. The last of life for which the first was made is a racial as well as a personal hope.

Life’s Backgrounds (1919)

An ancient thinker remarked that life is spent like a tale that is told. It might just as truly be said that life is like a picture that is painted. It is a series of scenes which, when all are finished, becomes a panorama. It demands perspective. In order to have this, it possesses, just as does a picture, a foreground, a mid-ground, and a background.

The foreground is simply a bit of nothing in particular. It contributes nothing substantial. It is only there to give relief and proportion. It does not amount to much, but the picture would not be complete without it. Life has some phases which are quite like it. They do not count for anything substantial, but they help to furnish a setting for the parts that are really important.

The mid-ground contains the real picture. The important figures, objects, and action are all there. It corresponds to the toils, the concerns, and the achievements which go to make up life. Life’s mid-ground is composed of its realities.

The background is the part that stretches away in the distance. It may not consist of much. Cloudland, shadows, or distant hills or woods may be all it presents to the view. It is that against which the outlines of the real picture are cast.

It is a determining factor, for from it the picture seems to spring. From such a picture as Millet’s _Angelus_, for instance, take the background with its little church from the tower of which the bell is calling to prayer, and you have removed the whole motive and explanation of the picture itself. A natural harmony exists between the picture and its background. The detail cannot appropriately be anything except what its background determines that it shall be. The background of life’s picture is no less determining.

One of life’s backgrounds is character. This is an invisible thing, but the fact that a thing is hidden from the eyes of men does not make it in the least less real. There is no means by which it may be measured or weighed as other things are, but there is no more potent factor in the determination of a life. It may be seldom taken into account in human calculations. The practical and workaday world insists that it does not care about vague, mystical things. It is only concerned about the practical questions of definite action. It only asks what a man can really do. This is all very well, but the man himself must not forget that what he can do and what he will do are entirely determined by what he is.

Correct conduct of the sustained sort does not come as the result of calculation. One may stand upon artificial good behavior for an hour or a day, but he cannot do it permanently without the staying force of a fixed principle. It takes more than good resolutions to make an ethical life. One must more than have an axe to grind if he expects to deport himself well in any constant way. No matter what the reward may be, the lure of reward alone cannot lastingly elevate life to a high grade of ability and action. Whitewash cannot change the fact of hidden faultiness. The heart of a thing alone reveals the truth.

The hands of a clock do not have to stop and figure their course and speed. If they did, they would be forever getting out of harmony with their purpose and with one another. They are moved and regulated by machinery which the ordinary observer does not see. The world only asks to be told what time it is, but the hands of the clock could not give the information were there not maintained a background of mechanism operating according to fixed and permanent principles. In this regard the clock is a very good analogy of a life.

Another of life’s backgrounds is preparation. How one really conducts himself is largely a question of whether or not he is prepared to do the right thing. Opportunity does not fail anyone, but a great many people fail opportunity by not being prepared for it when it arrives. They may seize their chances, but they do not perform their part well because they have not gotten themselves ready in mind, hand, or soul. An attempt to play any worthy part in life without proper preparation gives the same general impression as does a picture without a background. The result is unsatisfying.

Not all of life’s preparation can be specific. It is well enough to make specific preparation for the expected task of a given day. That specific preparation is at its best, however, only when it is backed up with a strong general preparation. This general background of preparation cannot be made in a day. It is the result of sustained reading, thinking, and trying throughout the years.

Pliny the Elder used to have books read to him during every spare moment. When working at a sawmill, Daniel Webster used to carry reading matter with which to occupy himself to advantage during the three-minute periods required for the log-carriage to pass the saw. These men were merely hanging backgrounds for action when the time should come to act. Its fabric was woven of thought, knowledge, and personality.

A musical artist, when asked the secret of his success, remarked that before anyone can expect to be an artist he must first expect to be a drudge. This principle holds good in everything. Whoever succeeds must carry a cross of self-denial. The public will suppose that he does his work with ease. Few will suspect his toils and sacrifices. He will, however, pay dearly for all the genius he acquires. While others sleep he will work, building the background from which will some day burst the outlines of worthy achievement.

Another of life’s backgrounds is its relationships. In greater measure than many will suspect, the things we are and do will always spring from the influence of the friends we have had and the loves we have known. The ties that bind us to the hearts of others are the cables that help to drag us toward the dust or to lift us in the direction of the heights.

Back of the lives of the great, the despicable, and the insignificant alike, even back of the great deeds and movements of history, one can detect the presence of the silent shadows of those who have made or marred. As the kindly old teacher built his own soul into the life of Geordie Hoo, the “Lad o’ Pairts,” so has someone spoken of his or her own spirit into the lives of each of us.

So is life’s picture painted. We are often so busy that we forget the background, but when we think about it we see again the faces that have smiled, the hands that have lifted, the toils that have helped, the qualities that have steadied and impelled.

Without its background a picture would be a lone bit of detail without perspective or relief. A life cannot be so. We are not unrelated beings. Our lives are linked with all the generations of all the ages. We are in league with all that has being. We are the products of the ages past and the forces present. Powers seen and unseen have largely made us what we are.

The New Philosophy (1920)

Old ideals and purposes have undergone sweeping revision. The very social structure has proved obsolete and is being reorganized.

In the general process of readjustment, the various lines of thought and knowledge have not remained unaffected. Particularly have the more speculative subjects undergone a decided change in their dominant spirit and motive. Without exception, they have been brought down from the ethereal levels of their former dwelling-places and have been made to deal with the practical things of a practical world. This has been particularly true of Philosophy.

The present period has, in fact, marked a revolutionary point in the history of that subject. We have faced many stern crises during the last few years, and it is natural that they should be reflected in our thinking. The necessity of meeting these crises has forced our thinking into definite, practical, and original channels. In our time of need we found that, while the old formulae had possessed their value, they did not offer sufficient help for the problems of the new day. There was nothing to do but to formulate new ones that were vital in their bearing upon our problems now.

A hint at the new spirit of Philosophy is given in the fact that the title of the presidential address before the American Philosophical Association at its 1916 meeting was: “On Some Conditions of Progress in Philosophical Enquiry.” This title suggests that the new outlook is forward rather than backward, and that the philosophical searchlight is now turned outward as well as inward. It indicates the fact that philosophers feel a growing realization that advancement is the proper aim of human endeavor, and that the vital problem of Philosophy is human welfare and progress.

The older Philosophy was scientifically productive only in a measurable degree. It spent itself somewhat too largely in unprofitable contentions. It had a great many exceptional minds working at random on many problems, but it lacked a definite and commonly accepted plan of co-operative investigation. The old Philosophy was largely an art. The new is altogether a science.

The last few years, with their turmoil and suffering, have brought the thinking world to understand that Philosophy holds great potentiality as a determining factor in national and world affairs. The pressure of the world conditions which lately existed, and which in a measure still exist, has generated a proof of this statement. We have had a perfect flood of books and articles on the subject of Philosophy as it applies in the social and political fields.

We could not have looked intelligently upon the events of 1914 and the several years preceding without seeing the power of Philosophy in the shaping of national ideals. Germany’s policy throughout the war was the direct result of the philosophy which has for years been taught in the German schools and encouraged by the German government. A wrong philosophy can lead a nation to its ruin within the space of a few generations. A worthy one can as promptly and definitely determine a nation’s progress and happiness.

Possibly the majority of people dream, as some have long done, of some day making this a peaceful planet. If we ever achieve such an end, we shall have to do it through the establishment of a peaceful philosophy. The thinkers of a nation sow the seeds. The people sooner or later harvest the fruit. One of the most vital problems now confronting the philosopher is that of giving to the world a sane basis for peace. This involves a system of right human and international relationships. It involves also an adequate plan for social reconstruction.

These are things for which the world must depend upon its thinkers. Fortunately, its thinkers realize their duty and are already busy at their task. Philosophical writing in books and periodicals indicates a common tendency to emphasize the forward look in a spirit of genuine concern for social progress. This is the normal result of a social unrest which seeks the realization of a safe and dependable international ideal.

Philosophy has entered very largely into the making of the life of the various nations. Social life is, however, a sort of chambered nautilus which one by one outgrows the barriers of earlier customs and conceptions. The time seems now to have arrived when national ideals can be best realized through co-operation in some form of international union. This new social life, organized according to a world plan, Philosophy is struggling to help actualize.

The fact that this is one of the supreme concerns of present-day thinking is indicated in the general theme for discussion at the meeting of the American Association held in December of 1917. It was: “Ethics and International Relations.”

Nor is America the only country in which this leavening process of philosophical inquiry has been in progress. It is also very noticeable in the trend of French thought. Indeed the burden of contemporary French Philosophy is largely to the effect that the proper goal of the French Nationalism of yesterday is to be found in the dawning Internationalism of tomorrow.

If it continues long enough, the thinking of any nation or group of nations crystallizes into definite and actual form. The material result of the internationalistic trend of thinking and agitation of the various countries involved will have been an inciting cause. The present ideal will remain dominant until a larger and more adequate one is found.

It is interesting to note how the general recasting of philosophical thought is reflected in the new nomenclature which has now grown familiar to the philosophical pen. In the vocabulary of the modern philosopher, such words as democracy, humanity, fraternity, and liberty are apparent. The modern idea is, moreover, not merely to discuss these things but also to apply them.

A great nation or a great race is dependent upon the performance of great actions proceeding from great motives. The fact that Philosophy is more and more a program of action is indicative of our future. Not all the questions of Philosophy are political or social, either. It has taken a fresh hold upon the equally vital problems of Ethics and Religion. Lately, men have been obliged to face serious questions. The trend of Philosophy indicates that they are trying to answer them and to gauge their actions by the truth arrived at. The result will be a more satisfactory, adequate, and serviceable idea of such facts as those of God, Right, Religion, and Providence. Each fiber of the social structure will reveal the effects of the new enthusiasm now evident in the field of the Philosophy of Religion.

Psychology, closely related as it is to Philosophy, presents much the same present-day aspect. It reveals what is called a behavioristic turn. Pragmatism seems to be having its day. In this busy, exacting, problematic time, the world wants results, and it means to cling only to that which can produce them.

We must not forget, however, that Realism is never wholly at its best when unmixed with Idealism. The physical and the metaphysical are not only mutually dependent, but they are two different phases of the same thing. The basis of the new order will not be exclusively material. In it, both the seen and the unseen world will have their place and consideration.

Mind and matter will not be rivals. Hope and achievement will be partners. The things of the spirit and those of sense will be jointly supreme.

The Sense of the Human (1920)

In his book, “What Men Live By,” Dr. Richard C. Cabot makes what might be called a plea for the sense of the human. In speaking of the peril of looking on individuals in terms of sex rather than in terms of personality, he carries the matter a little farther. He says the physician should not look on a patient as merely a sort of walking disease, that the teacher should not think of the student as merely a piece of raw material for the educative process, and that the lawyer should see more in his client than a case at law.

The point is clear. It is that we need to treasure the sense of the human, to keep alive a proper estimate of the human values, and to fulfil our obligation to the thinking, toiling, feeling people about us. People are the one great concern for one’s mind. Humanity is the center of all creation, and the proper object of all our striving.

There is much in the world about us that is more or less negligible. We have to do with it. It plays its part in our daily round of life. It seems necessary in the scheme of things that we have established. Yet there is nothing permanent or supremely vital about it.

These negligible things, however, do not include the human beings with whom we associate and with whom we have to deal. They belong to an altogether different class of interests. Humanity is one of the few everlasting things in the swiftly changing picture of this world’s temporary landscape. Moreover, it is the one thing which reacts with suffering when it is wronged, and is thrilled with joy at the deed of kindness. Humanity, therefore, is our great concern. We need to keep the sense of it very clear and responsive.

It is important that we look further than the cheap and often sordid glare which surrounds us. Beyond it we can always behold a sea of human faces. Each represents a person who shares the common lot of humanity. Each has his hopes, joys, fears, struggles, and anxieties. There are among them many unwritten stories of heroism, many unvoiced pleadings of need, many unsuspected opportunities for service. There is no measuring the possibilities hidden in that circle of faces.

Daily we see people about us without realizing their presence and what it means. This is altogether possible, for seeing and realizing are two entirely different things. One may see a rose by his path every morning for days or every summer for many seasons, and yet never be really impressed with its beauty. One morning he stops and notes its form, and color, and perfume. His soul reaches out in answer to its silent message. On this particular morning he has not only seen, but he has also realized the presence of the rose.

In the same way we need to realize the presence of people about us. If we did so, we would see that we have with them a great mutuality of interest and need. We would realize the tenderness of their hearts, the worth of their lives, the presence of the immortal image upon them.

The sense of the human must be kept uppermost in our relation to money and money-making. If it is not, one soon gets into the wrong relation to his money, and it becomes a curse when it might as well have been a blessing.

This is a point at which many make a serious mistake. They enter life with the right viewpoint and understand that money is only a means to the happiness and well-being of people. As time goes on, however, their plans and purposes get out of adjustment. They become guilty of the fatal assumption that people are a means to the making of money. Accordingly, they keep wages at too low a level; sacrifice the lives of men to bad air, poor working conditions, and dangerous machinery; and subordinate the interests of living human beings to the declaring of dividends.

Not only do they assume this perilous attitude toward others, but they also assume the same attitude toward themselves and their families. They have simply allowed money to get into the position of an end instead of that of a means. It has become a fetish instead of a convenience.

The trouble is largely a lost sense of the human. The man who succumbs to this common temptation takes love, hope, kindliness, and human appreciation from the high pedestal which they should by right occupy, and puts a golden idol in their place.

The value of a dollar is measured by its power to make life more worth living for some human being. The more people it can make comfortable and happy the more valuable it is. When it is appropriated to any other purpose, it is removed from its right relationship to the general scheme of things. As an end within itself, it is not worth the struggle it costs in the acquiring. Its one business is to purchase comfort for and render service to people.

The sense of the human is also necessary in the administration of government. Throughout the ages, there have been two dominating ideas of empire. One is the autocratic idea, and the other is the democratic idea. The former has held that the state exists for the sake of itself and its rulers. The latter has held that the state exists for the good of its population. The former has steadily lost ground. The latter has as steadily gained it.

A certain French monarch is said to be the author of the declaration: “I am the state.” Whether he said it or not, there have been plenty of national leaders in history whose deeds would indicate their faith in such a governmental philosophy. From the first, such a race has been destined to perish. There is no place in the modern conception of government for any regime which does not strive to better the condition of the people within its scope of power. In these times we see with increasing clearness that there is but one worthy conception of kingliness, and that it is the kingliness of service. Incidentally, against such there are no revolutions.

A good public official thinks often of the eyes that are turned in his direction to see what he is going to do, of the lives that depend upon his action for much of their peace and contentment, of the children who must have food, of the aged who must have shelter, and of the struggling who must have encouragement. To him, the people are not simply something to govern. They are human beings, the mission of whose government is to see that each of them has his complete opportunity in life.

Nowhere in these days do we need more to have the sense of the human keen and operative than in our industrial system. It is a question worth asking whether we would have our present industrial turmoils if the men who buy labor and the men who sell it would make a serious effort to know and understand one another. It seems that most of the trouble and strife of this world is the result of a lack of mutual human understanding. Capitalists and laboring men segregate themselves in different neighborhoods, churches, lodges, and social circles. They need to mingle on a common basis, be in one another’s homes, know one another’s families, and enter into the spirit each of the others’ joys and troubles.

One is certainly not religiously heterodox when he contends for such a principle. Nothing stands out more clearly in the philosophy of the Man of Galilee than this particular ideal. The emphasis of Jesus was upon the human being. He held all men in much the same esteem, for to Him a human being was inherently worthy of respect and honor. His friends were a varied group. He could meet a tax collector, a fisherman, an erring Samaritan woman, a rich host, a conscience-stricken tradesman, an afflicted sufferer, a sinful woman, or a little child, and make each one feel that they had found a friend. When we learn to be like Him, we shall possess the same viewpoint.

The Holy Spirit and Social Viewpoint (1922)

It is the idea of some that the old Methodist standard of personal experience is a mere individualistic viewpoint, and that it is inadequate because it sounds no social note. They feel that the visitation of the Divine Spirit will do well enough for the man, but that it has no provision for the group. It will do for a personal experience but not for a mass movement, they say. This is one of the mistakes that has led to the present lack of emphasis on the person and work of the Holy Spirit. That it is a mistake is easy to see on second thought.

The salvation of the group can only be accomplished by the salvation of the individuals who compose it. One by one we must come to the throne of grace. One by one we must confess our sins and seek pardon. One by one we must have our hearts transformed. One by one we must go back to the ways of existence and live anew. A righteous community, state, or nation is only a group of individuals wearing, each for himself, the clean, white garments of right living.

However, the Holy Spirit can possess the mind of the group as well as that of the individual. It was so on the Day of Pentecost. Those present entered into that great spiritual experience as one person. They were gathered with one accord in one place. These are the two conditions to any such manifestation of divine power. They felt the experience more keenly and profited from it more largely because their minds were fused into a common consciousness.

The social gospel needs the Holy Spirit element in it just as much as the individualistic gospel ever did. As we once tried to have the Holy Spirit transform hearts, and still must, so too we must now endeavor to have the Holy Spirit cleanse and exalt social relationships. What it once did for the man, and still does, we must also seek that it shall do for the mass.

Civilization (1929)

A visitor from Mars found his way to the planet Earth. Needless to say, he found plenty of things here to interest him. Many questions occurred to him. Some of them he asked. Others, being a gentleman, he kept in the silence of his own thoughts.

He noticed that the earth people had a haggard and hunted look. On the street he looked in vain for happy faces. Eyes were dull and tired. Features were drawn and hard. Steps were either quick with nervous ambition or slow with lagging weariness.

He asked about it, and was told that these people were working very long hours. Many of them had very exacting positions to fill during the regular working hours of the day, performing the duties incident to some other line of work evenings, odd hours, and holidays. Those who did not do this had to work hard all day, then help themselves along in business by seeking profitable and advantageous social contacts in the evening. They were often too tired, yet they and their families had to force themselves to it.

The visitor from Mars asked why people punished themselves in such a way, struggling to get in another hour, earn another dollar, see another prospect, or sell another customer, before quitting for the day; denying themselves and their families the joy of companionship; driving on when they longed for blue skies, green fields, laughing waters, and roses.

“They must make money,” was the answer. “There is a standard of living to be kept up, family position to maintain, children to push along. The country is developing. Skyscrapers are going up. Science, invention, and discovery are putting all kinds of new and wonderful things at our disposal. Its weight is upon us. It increases, for each year we think we must do better and have more. The competition is keen and fierce. It drives us hard.”

“I see,” said the visitor from Mars. “And what do you call this giant thing you have built up with which to crush yourselves?”

“Civilization,” was the reply.

The Road Uphill (1929)

One day in the year 520 B. C., Zechariah was preaching in Jerusalem. He had been in Babylon during the great captivity, and had returned with some other Jews in the hope of rebuilding the ruined capital and beginning anew their broken national life. He asked the younger people to avoid the sins which in their fathers had wrought all this ruin. He meant that in successively better generations is the road uphill for the race.

One day I met a father who was some twelve inches shorter than his accompanying son. The difference was the more conspicuous in that they were close companions. Some one referred to it, and the father replied that he considered it was as it should be—each generation a little taller than the preceding one. I knew what he meant. He had seen where lies the road uphill.

In 1714, in a little English tavern, a boy was born who was destined to affect the history of religion. George Whitefield was brought up cleaning floors and selling drink to the rough frequenters of his father’s tavern. He worked his way through Oxford since his parents were little concerned with such matters. He lived to make hearts tremble with his prophetic voice and to plant undying works of Christian service and benevolence. He pushed a little ahead of what his parents were. That is the road uphill.

During the presidency of General Grant, an old sailor went to the White House to object that the naval department had promoted his son to a place of authority above him, saying that it would not look right to be taking orders from his own son. The President replied that he had just appointed his father, Jesse Grant, postmaster in a little town in a distant state, and that he did not seem to mind taking orders from his own son. Jesse Grant had seen the road uphill.

One day in a Nazarene synagogue, Mary’s Son stood up and read from the Book of Isaiah His own commission to proclaim the kingdom of God. His human heritage was a long line of choice ancestors, but He had surpassed all those behind Him in the line. He was traveling and leading His race along the road uphill.

Some Stories About Beethoven (1915)

The world of art remembers two figures which are especially pathetic, and for similar reasons. One is that of Homer, the bard, living in a world the beauties of which he loved but could not see. The other is that of Beethoven, the musician, living in the midst of harmonies which he loved but which were denied to his unhearing ears. A great soul may be better able than others to fortify itself against the terrors of misfortune, but it is at the same time more keenly sensitive to them. Blindness is more of a tragedy to one who would more especially love and appreciate beauty, could he see it. Deafness is more of a tragedy to one whose ears feel a special hunger for the harmonies of sound.

Ludwig van Beethoven was not only the greatest master of the classical school in music. He was also one of the strong and unique personalities of his day. He was not a puppet who fell a slave to usage and custom. The outlines of his nature were clear and bold. He acted with no uncertain meaning and spoke with no uncertain sound. That he was wholly original and self-reliant is shown in many incidents, the record of which has been preserved from among his busy and eventful years.

For him mere conventionalities had no terrors. When the law of established custom seemed just and sufficient, he observed it. When it did not, he became a law unto himself. He placed the claims of life, right, and truth in a place of supremacy over all other claims. One of his pupils, Ferdinand Ries, once attempted to convince him of the impropriety of certain use he had made of consecutive fifths in one of his compositions. During the discussion Ries called attention to a number of composers who had forbidden their use in the manner under discussion. When Ries had finished, Beethoven replied with spirit, “And they have forbidden them! Well, I allow them.”

As has been said, self-reliance was one of the strongest elements in his nature. At one time, Moscheles, the Austrian composer, prepared a piano arrangement of Beethoven’s “Fidelio” and sent it to him with the inscription “With God’s help” written upon it. When it came back to the hand of Moscheles, he found that the master had written upon it the reply, “O man, help thyself.”

He possessed of a genial nature and a happy sense of humor. When a music student in Vienna, he had three teachers at the same time, each one of whom was a great name in music. Under one of them, Schuppanzigh, he studied violin. His relations with this instructor were especially pleasant—more so than those which prevailed between him and at least one of the others. As time passed, the teacher revealed an increasing tendency to corpulence, whereupon Beethoven took up the habit of addressing him as “My Lord Falstaff.”

A high appreciation of purely personal qualities was a part of Beethoven’s makeup. To him these constituted the only true fortune. He had a brother, Johann, who had become wealthy, and whose worldly success had acted so unfortunately upon his nature that his pride and arrogance had become somewhat unduly swollen. One day this brother called on the composer and did not find him at home. He left a card bearing this inscription, “Johann van Beethoven, Land Proprietor.” Upon returning home and receiving the card, the musician promptly returned it to his brother with the added words, “Ludwig van Beethoven, Brain Proprietor.”

On another occasion, a stranger mistook the word Van in his name for the common sign of nobility. When addressed as a nobleman, he revealed his true spirit of democracy by laying his hand first upon his head and then upon his heart and replying that whatever claim to nobility he had lay at those two points.

His temper was strong but not unjust. When his heart was touched rightly, it rose in great pity and devotion. When touched wrongly, it flamed up like a meteor of wrath. On one occasion, at least, he threw aside all restraint for the moment. One evening at a rehearsal, Beethoven’s patron, Prince Lobkowitz, ventured an assertion which grated very severely upon the composer’s sensibilities. At the end of the performance Beethoven is said to have run into the yard of his patron’s palace and to have shouted insult and ridicule at the man who, in his opinion, had committed so great an impropriety.

He was not only a great composer and conductor, but a great pianist as well. He was also keenly sensitive as to his art and highly exacting in regard to the attitude of others toward it. Once when, in a private home, he was playing a duet with his pupil, Ferdinand Ries, two persons disturbed the performance by conversation. He immediately ceased playing and would neither play nor allow Ries to do so again during the evening.

His music was to him an absorbing passion. No matter in what capacity he might be ministering at its shrine, he always did so with entire devotion. About 1813 an incident occurred in which his entire self-forgetfulness in his work caused him to play a ludicrous part. He was playing one of his own compositions in a public concert when he so far forgot himself as to think he conducting instead of playing. Leaving his seat, he began violently directing. He knocked the lights from the piano. Two boys were directed to hold the lights while the managers and audience waited for the seemingly mad man to become quiet. One of the boys, light and all, was soon floored by a blow in the mouth from the swinging arm of the musician. The other boy dodged and ducked in his efforts to escape a like fate, while the audience roared with mirth.

Beethoven had a certain admiration for Napoleon Bonaparte as a soldier and statesman. The symphony now known as “Eroica” was written in Napoleon’s honor and was to bear his name. About the time of the completion of the first score, which was to be sent to the Corsican, the word came that its subject had proclaimed itself emperor. Beethoven at once tore the title from the score and changed the name of the composition to “Eroica.” Upon Napoleon’s death, he remarked that the symphony contained the funeral march of the conqueror.