II.
THE EFFICIENT MOTIVES OF GOOD CONDUCT
There are persons in whom moral principle seems to have completely triumphed; whose conduct, so far as one can judge, is determined solely by moral rules; but whom, nevertheless, we do not wholly admire. We feel instinctively that there is in their virtue a certain flaw – the absence of a saving grace. They are too rigorous, too much the slaves of duty. They lack geniality.
Like religion, morality has its fanatics. Thus, there is in the temperance movement a class of fanatics who look at every public question from the point of view of temperance reform, and from that only. There are also woman's-rights fanatics, social purity fanatics, etc. The moral fanatic in every case is a person whose attention is wholly engrossed by some one moral interest, and who sees this out of its relation to other moral interests. The end he has in view may be in itself highly laudable, but the exaggerated emphasis put upon it, the one-sided pursuit of it, is a mischievous error.
Observe, further, that there are degrees of moral fanaticism. The fanatic of the first degree, to whom Emerson addresses the words, "What right have you, sir, to your one virtue?" has just been described. He is a person who exalts some one moral rule at the expense of the others. A fanatic of a higher order is he who exalts the whole body of moral rules at the expense of human instincts and desires. He is a person who always acts according to rule; who introduces moral considerations into every detail of life; who rides the moral hobby; in whose eyes the infinite complexity of human affairs has only one aspect, namely, the moral; who is never satisfied unless at every step he feels the strain of the bridle of conscience; who is incapable of spontaneous action and of naïve enjoyment. It is believed that there are not a few persons of this description in the United States, and especially in the New England States – fanatics on the moral side, examples of a one-sided development in the direction of moral formalism. We must be very careful, when insisting on the authority of moral ideas, lest we encourage in the young a tendency of this sort. The hearts of children are very pliable; it is easily possible to produce on them too deep an impression: to give them at the outset a fatal twist, all the more since at a certain age many young people are prone to exaggerated introspection and self-questioning. But it may be asked: Are not moral principles really clothed with supreme authority? Ought we not, indeed, to keep the standard of righteousness constantly before our eyes; in brief, is it possible to be too moral? Evidently we have reached a point where a distinction requires to be drawn.
Ethics is a science of relations. The things related are human interests, human ends. The ideal which ethics proposes to itself is the unity of ends, just as the ideal of science is the unity of causes. The ends of the natural man are the subject-matter with which ethics deals. The ends of the natural man are not to be crushed or wiped out, but to be brought into right relations with one another. The ends of the natural man are to be respected from an ethical point of view, so long as they remain within their proper limits. The moral laws are formulas expressing relations of equality or subordination, or superordination. The moral virtue of our acts consists in the respect which we pay to the system of relationships thus prescribed, in the willingness with which we co-ordinate our interests with those of others, or subordinate them to those of others, as the exigencies of the moral situation may require.
But the point on which it is now necessary to fix our attention is that when morality has once sanctioned any of the ends of life, the natural man may be left to pursue them without interference on the part of the moralist. When morality has marked out the boundaries within which the given end shall be pursued, its work so far is done; except, indeed, that we are always to keep an eye upon those boundaries, and that the sense of their existence should pervade the whole atmosphere of our lives.3 A few illustrations will make my meaning clear. There is a moral rule which says that we should eat to live; not, conversely, live to eat. This means that we should regulate our food in such a way that the body may become a fit instrument for the higher purposes of existence, and that the time and attention bestowed upon the matter of eating shall not be so great as to divert us from other and more necessary objects. But, these limits being established, it does not follow that it is wrong or unspiritual to enjoy a meal. The senses, even the lowest of them, are permitted to have free play within the bounds prescribed. Nor, again, should we try rigidly to determine the choice of food according to moral considerations. It would be ridiculous to attempt to do so. The choice of food within a wide range depends entirely on taste, and has nothing to do with moral considerations (whether, for instance, we should have squash or beans for dinner). Those who are deeply impressed with the importance of moral rules are often betrayed into applying them to the veriest minutiæ of conduct. Did they remember that ethics is a science of relations, or, what amounts to the same thing, a science of limits, they would be saved such pedantry. Undoubtedly there are moral adiaphora. The fact that such exist has been a stumbling-block in the way of those who believe that morality ought to cover the whole of conduct. The definition of ethics as a science of relations or limits removes this stumbling-block. Ethics stands at the frontier. With what goes on in the interior it does not interfere, except in so far as the limitations it prescribes are an interference. Take another illustration. Ethics condemns vanity and whatever ministers to vanity – as, e. g., undue attention to dress and adornment of the person – on the ground that this implies an immoral subordination of the inner to the outer, of the higher to the lesser ends. But, to lay down a cast-iron rule as to how much one has a right to expend on dress, can not be the office of ethics, on account of the infinite variety of conditions and occupations which subsists among men. And the attempt to prescribe a single fashion of dress, by sumptuary laws or otherwise, would impair that freedom of taste which it is the business of the moralist to respect. Again, every one knows with what bitterness the moral rigorists of all ages have condemned the impulse which attracts the sexes toward one another, and how often they have tried, though vainly, to crush it. But here, again, the true attitude is indicated by the definition of ethics as a science of limits. The moral law prescribes bounds within which this emotional force shall be free to operate, and claims for it the holy name of love, so long as it remains within the bounds prescribed, and, being within, remains conscious of them. That is what is meant when we speak of spiritualizing the feelings. The feelings are spiritualized when they move within certain limits, and when the sense of the existence of these limits penetrates them, and thereby imparts to them a new and nobler quality. And, because such limitation is felt to be satisfying and elevating, the system of correlations which we call ethical, and which, abstractly stated, would fail to interest, does by this means find an entrance into the human heart, and awakens in it the sense of the sublimity and the blessedness of the moral commands.
There are two defects of the moral fanatic which can now be signalized: First, he wrongly believes that whatever is not of morality is against it. He therefore is tempted to frown upon the natural pleasures; to banish them if he can, and, if not, to admit them only within the narrowest possible limits as a reluctant concession to the weakness of human nature. In consequence, the moral fanatic commits the enormity of introducing the taint of the sense of sin into the most innocent enjoyments, and thus perverts and distorts the conscience. Secondly, he is always inclined to seek a moral reason for that which has only a natural one; to forget that, like the great conquerors of antiquity, Morality respects the laws of the several realms which it unites into a single empire, and guarantees to each the unimpaired maintenance of its local customs. These remarks are intended to serve as a general caution. I find that young people, when they have become awakened on ethical subjects, often betray a tendency toward moral asceticism. I find that teachers, in the earnest desire to impress the laws of the moral empire, are sometimes betrayed into disregarding the provincial laws of the senses, the intellect, and the feelings; are apt to go too far in applying moral prescriptions to the minutiæ of conduct; are apt to leave the impression that pleasant things, just because they are pleasant, are therefore sinful.
But we have now to take a further step, which will bring us close to our special subject for to-day, viz., the efficient motives of good conduct. The non-moral faculties are not only not anti-moral, as has been shown, but, when appealed to in the right way, they lend to Morality a friendly, an almost indispensable support. The æsthetic, the intellectual, and the emotional faculty have not in themselves a moral quality, but when used as auxiliaries they pave the way for moral considerations pure and simple, and have in this sense an immense propædeutic value. Without entering in this place into the philosophy of æsthetics, it is enough to say that the beautiful, like the good, results from and depends on the observance of certain limits and certain relations. And it will not seem far-fetched to suggest that pupils who have been trained to appreciate moderation, restraint and harmony of relations in external objects, will be predisposed to apply analogous measures to matters of conduct, and that a standard of valuation will thus be created in their minds which must prove favorable to right action. Æsthetics may become a pedagogue unto ethics. The same pedagogical function may be claimed for the intellect. The intellect traces the connection between causes and effects. Applied to conduct, it shows the connection between acts and their consequences. It is the faculty which counsels prudence. One does not need to accept the egoistic theory of morals to concede that self-interest is an ally of morality, that Prudence and Virtue travel hand in hand a certain distance on the same road. Not, indeed, until the ideal state shall have been reached will the dictates of the two ever coincide entirely; but to a certain extent the coincidence already exists, and the moral teacher is justified in availing himself of it as far as it goes.
To take a very simple case – a child handles a knife which it has been told not to touch, and cuts his fingers. Morally speaking, his fault is disobedience. He would have been equally guilty if he had escaped injury. But he would hardly be so ready to obey another time, if he had been less sharply reminded of the usefulness of obedience. It is wrong to lie – wrong on purely moral grounds, with which self-interest has nothing to do. But for all that we can not dispense with the lesson contained in the well-known fable of the boy who cried, "Wolf!" It is wrong to steal on purely moral grounds. But even a child can be made to understand that the thief, as Emerson puts it, "steals from himself," and that, besides being a rogue, he is deficient in enlightened self-interest. The maxim that honesty is the best policy is true enough so far as the facts are concerned, which come under the observation of children, though one may question whether it be true absolutely.
Lastly, when we come to consider the emotional faculty, we find that the intimate connection between it and the moral is so generally conceded as to make it quite superfluous to expatiate on it. On the contrary, it seems necessary to expostulate with those who claim too much credit for the feelings, who ascribe to them a moral value which they by no means possess. Thus, gentleness is not necessarily a virtue; it may be a mere matter of temperament. Sympathetic impulses, per se, are not praiseworthy. Sympathy quite as often leads us astray as aright; sympathy, indeed, unless tutored and regulated by moral principles, is a danger against which we ought to be on our guard almost as much as against selfishness. Yet, no one will deny that the feelings, when rightly trained, are of inestimable service as auxiliaries in the task of moral education.
To sum up, let me say that the wise teacher will appeal to the taste, the intelligence, and the feelings of his pupils; that he will touch these various springs of conduct all the time, and get from them all the help he can. Thus, when speaking of cleanliness, he will appeal to the æsthetic instinct of the children, awakening in them a feeling of disgust at untidiness. He will appeal to the prudential motive, by showing that want of cleanliness breeds disease. "You do not wish to be sick? You do not wish to suffer? Therefore, it is to your interest to be clean." But, finally, he will touch a higher motive than any of these. "If you are unclean, you cease to respect yourself." And the term self-respect expresses in a condensed form the moral motive proper. It implies the idea of moral personality, which it is not necessary, nor possible, at this stage to analyze, but which the pupil will somehow understand, for his conscience will respond. In many cases the appeal will be made chiefly to the sympathetic feelings; for through these feelings we become aware of the pains and joys of others, and thus of the consequences of the benefits we confer or the evil we inflict. The sympathetic feelings supply the information upon which the will can act. They tell us that others suffer or are glad. And yet the strength to labor persistently for the relief of others' suffering and the enhancement of others' joy – that we can derive from the moral impulse alone.
The moral motive is the highest, it is really the only sufficient motive. Pray, understand me well at this point. I should say to the child: It is wrong to lie. That is sufficient. It is wrong, it is forbidden; you must yourself acknowledge the truth of my words, because you despise yourself when you have told a lie. But, in order to strengthen your weak resolution, to confirm you in well-doing, let me show you that it is also contrary to self-interest to lie, and likewise that it is disgusting to be unclean, and that a wrong done to another causes pain. Thus the æsthetic, intellectual, and emotional faculties are called in as witnesses to bear testimony to the moral truths; they are invited to stand up in chorus and say Amen! to the moral commands.
III.
OPPORTUNITIES FOR MORAL TRAINING IN THE DAILY SCHOOL
The school should be to the pupil not an intellectual drill-ground, but a second home; a place dear at the time, and to be gratefully remembered ever after; a place in which his whole nature, and especially what is best in him, may expand and grow. The educational aim should be, not merely to pave the pupil's way to future success, not merely to make of his mind a perfect instrument of thought, a kind of intellectual loom, capable of turning out the most complicated intellectual patterns. The aim should be, above all; to build up manhood, to develop character. There is no school in which moral influence is wanting. The pity is, that in many schools it is incidental, not purposed. And yet there are manifold opportunities in every school for influencing the moral life. Let us consider a few of these.
1. The teaching of science lends itself to the cultivation of truthfulness. Truthfulness may be defined as the correspondence between thought and word and fact. When the thought in the mind fits the fact, and the word on the tongue fits the thought, then the circuit of truth is complete. Now, with respect to the inculcating of truthfulness, science teaching has this advantage above other branches, that the palpable nature of the facts dealt with makes it possible to note and check the least deviation from the truth. The fact is present, right before the pupil, to rebuke him if he strays from it in thought or speech. And this circumstance may be utilized even in the humble beginnings of science teaching, in the so-called object-lessons. For instance, a bird, or the picture of one, is placed before the child. The teacher says, "Observe closely and tell me exactly what you see – the length of the neck, the curve of the beak, the colors of the plumage," etc. The pupil replies. The teacher objects: "You have not observed accurately. The color is not what you describe it to be. Look again. The curve of the beak does not resemble what you have just drawn on the blackboard. You must tell me exactly what you see. Your words must tally with the facts." And the same sort of practice may be continued in the science-lessons of the upper classes.
Scientists are distinguished from other observers by their greater accuracy. Intellectual honesty is that moral quality which science is best calculated to foster. All the great scientists have been haunted by a high ideal of truth, and a gleam of that ideal, however faint, may be made to shed its light even into the school-room. It is obvious that this realistic tutoring into veracity will be of special use to children who are led into lying by a too vivid imagination.
Let me add the following remarks in regard to indirect means of promoting truthfulness: The teacher can do a great deal to cultivate respect for the truth among his pupils by frankly admitting an error whenever he has fallen into one. Some teachers try to save their dignity by glossing over their mistakes. But even young children are shrewd enough to estimate such trickery at its worth; while he who manfully confesses that he has been in the wrong, earns the respect of his class, and sets them an invaluable example.
It is well also to observe strict accuracy even in matters which of themselves are of no moment. For instance, in giving an account of a botanizing expedition, you begin, perhaps, by saying, "It was half-past ten when we arrived at our destination." Suddenly you stop and correct yourself. "No, I was mistaken; it could not have been later than ten o'clock." Does this strike you as pedantic? But if you fix the time at all, is it not worth while to fix it with approximate exactness? True, it makes no difference in regard to what you are about to relate, whether you arrived at half-past ten or at ten. But, precisely because it makes no difference, it shows the value which you set on accuracy even in trifles. And by such little turns of phrase, by such insubstantial influences, coming from the teacher, the pupil's character is molded.
2. The study of history, when properly conducted is of high moral value. History sets before the mind examples of heroism, of self-sacrifice, of love of country, of devotion to principles at the greatest cost. How can such examples fail to inspire, to ennoble, to awaken emulation? The great and good men of the past, the virtuous and the wise, serve as models to the young, and often arouse in them an enthusiastic admiration, a passionate discipleship. In the next place, the study of history may be used to exercise the moral judgment. The characters which history presents are not all good; the characters even of the good are by no means faultless. It is in the power of the teacher to train the moral judgment and to increase the moral insight of his pupils by leading them to enter into the motives, and to weigh the right and wrong of the actions which history reports. He will also find many an occasion to warn against being dazzled by brilliant success to such a degree as to condone the moral turpitude by which it is often bought. The study of history can thus be made the means of enlightening the conscience as well as of awakening generous aspirations – but, let me hasten to add, only in the hands of a teacher who is himself morally mature, and fully imbued with the responsibilities of his task. Lastly, the study of history among advanced pupils may be used to confirm the moral idea of the mission of mankind, and to set it in its true light. The human race, as, from the moral point of view, we are bound to assume, exists on earth in order to attempt the solution of a sublime problem – the problem of the perfect civilization, the just society, the "kingdom of God." But on every page of history there are facts that warn us that progress toward this high ideal is of necessity slow. Whether we review the evolution of religion, or of political institutions, or of industrial society, we are still forced to the same solemn conclusion, that in view of the ultimate goal, "a thousand years are as a day," and that while we may not relax our efforts to attain the ideal, we must be well content in case we are permitted to advance the mighty work even a little. This conviction is calculated to engender in us a new spirit of piety and self-abnegation, which yet is consistent with perfect alacrity in discharging the duty of the hour.
There could be no better result from the study of history among young men and young women than if it should have the effect of impressing on them this new piety, this genuine historic sense, in which the average citizen, especially of democratic communities, is so conspicuously deficient. But this is a digression which I must ask you to pardon.
3. The moral value of the study of literature is as great as it is obvious. Literature is the medium through which all that part of our inner life finds expression which defies scientific formulation. In the text-books of science we possess the net result of the purely intellectual labors of the past; in universal literature we have composite photographs, as it were, of the typical hopes, sentiments, and aspirations of the race. Literature gives a voice to that within us which would otherwise remain dumb, and fixity to that which would otherwise be evanescent. The best literature, and especially the best poetry, is a glass in which we see our best selves reflected. There is a legend which tells of two spirits, the one an angel, the other a demon, that accompany every human being through life, and walk invisibly at his side. The one represents our bad self, the other our better self. The moral service which the best literature renders us is to make the invisible angel visible.
4. I can but cast a cursory glance at some of the remaining branches of instruction.
Manual training has a moral effect upon the pupil, of which I have spoken at some length on another occasion.4
Music, apart from its subtler influences, which can not be considered here, has the special function of producing in the pupil a feeling of oneness with others, or of social unity. This is best accomplished through the instrumentality of chorus singing, while particular moral sentiments, like charity, love of home, etc., can be inculcated by means of the texts.
Gymnastic exercises likewise have a moral effect in promoting habits of self-control, prompt obedience at the word of command, etc. Indeed, it is not difficult to show the moral bearings of the ordinary branches of instruction. It would, on the contrary, be difficult to find a single one, which, when rightly viewed, is not surrounded by a moral photosphere.
Science, history, literature, and the other branches lend themselves in various ways to the development of character. But there are certain other opportunities which every school offers, apart from the teaching, and these may be utilized to the same end. The discipline of the school, above all, has an immense effect on the character. If it is of the right kind, a beneficial effect; if not, a most pernicious one.
The mere working of what may be called the school machinery tends to inculcate habits of order, punctuality, and the like. The aggregation of a large number of scholars in the same building and their intercourse with one another under the eye of the teachers, afford frequent opportunities for impressing lessons of kindness, politeness, mutual helpfulness, etc.
The recitations of lessons give occasion not only to suppress prompting, but to eradicate the motives which lead to it, and to impress deeply the duty of honesty.
The very atmosphere of the class-room should be such as to encourage moral refinement; it should possess a sunny climate, so to speak, in which meanness and vulgarity can not live.
But there is especially one avenue of influence, which I have much at heart to recommend. The teacher should join in the games of his pupils. He will thus at once come to stand on a friendly footing with them, and win their confidence, without in the least derogating from his proper dignity. And thus will be removed that barrier which in many schools separates pupils and teachers to such a degree that there actually seem to exist side by side two worlds – the world to which the teacher has access, and the world from which he is shut out. Moreover, while they are at play, the true character of the pupils reveals itself. At such times the sneak, the cheat, the bully, the liar, shows his true colors, and the teacher has the best opportunity of studying these pathological subjects and of curing their moral defects. For, while playing with them, as one concerned in the game, he has the right to insist on fair dealing, to express his disgust at cowardice, to take the part of the weak against the strong, and his words spoken on the playground will have tenfold the effect of any hortatory address which he might deliver from the platform. The greatest and most successful of teachers have not disdained to use this device.
Finally, let me say that the personality of the master or principal of the school is the chief factor of moral influence in it. Put a great, sound, whole-souled nature at the head of a school, and everything else may almost be taken for granted. In every school there exists a public opinion among the scholars, by which they are affected to a far greater degree than by the words of their superiors. The tactful master will direct his chief attention to shaping and improving this public opinion, while at the same time interfering as little as possible with the freedom of his pupils. He can accomplish his purpose by drawing close to himself those scholars who make the public opinion of the school, and these in turn he can win to fine and manly views only by the effect of his personality. The personality of the head-master is everything. It is the ultimate source of power in the school, the central organ which sends out its life-giving currents through the whole organism. And let me here add that, if I am in favor of excluding direct religious teaching from our schools, I am not in favor of excluding religious influence. That, too, flows from the personality of the true master. For if he be reverent, a truly pious soul, humble in his estimate of self, not valuing his petty schoolmaster's authority on its own account, but using it lovingly as an instrument for higher ends, he will be sure to communicate of his spirit to his pupils, and by that spirit will open their hearts, better than by any doctrinal teaching he could give, to the reception of the highest spiritual truths.
By all these means – by the culture of the intellect, the taste, and the feelings, by his daily dealings with the young, in work and play – the teacher helps to create in them certain moral habits. Why, then, should not these habits suffice? What need is there of specific moral instruction? And what is the relation of moral instruction to the habits thus engendered?
The function of moral instruction is to clinch the habits. The function of moral instruction is to explicate in clear statements, fit to be grasped by the intellect, the laws of duty which underlie the habits. The value of such intellectual statements is that they give a rational underpinning to moral practice, and, furthermore, that they permit the moral rules to be applied to new cases not heretofore brought within the scope of habit. This thought will be more fully developed and explained as we proceed.