What Is and What Might Be
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Edmond Holmes >> What Is and What Might Be
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The phrase "the good things of life" is significant, and explains
much. It means that an outward standard of reality has fully
established itself in the community, that money and the possessions
of various kinds which money can buy are regarded as the good things
of life,--things which are intrinsically good, and therefore
legitimate ends of Man's ambition and endeavour, things to pursue
which is to fulfil one's destiny and to win which is to achieve
salvation. It means, in other words, that the life of the community
is a scramble for material possessions and outward and visible
"results"--a scramble which on its lowest level becomes a struggle
for bare existence, and on the next level a struggle for the
"necessaries of life"--and that this legalised scramble is the basis
of the whole social order. In such a scramble the great prizes are
necessarily few, and the number of complete failures is always
considerable; for the wealthier a country, the higher is its standard
of comfort, so that the _proportion_ of failures--the percentage of
men who are submerged and outcast, who are in want and misery--is at
least as great in the wealthiest as in the poorest community, while
the extremes of wealth and poverty are as a rule greatest where the
pursuit of riches is carried on with the keenest vigour and the most
complete success.
There are many persons, rich as well as poor, who, viewing the
legalised scramble from an entirely impersonal standpoint, are filled
with disgust and dismay, and who dream of making an end of it, by
substituting what they call _collectivism_ for the individualism
which they regard as the source of all our troubles. These persons
are known as _Socialists_. Their ruling idea is that the "State"
should become the sole owner of property, and that this radical
change should be effected by a series of legislative measures. With
their social ideal, regarded as an ideal, one has of course the
deepest sympathy. Their motto is, I believe, "Each for all, and all
for each"; and if this ideal could be realised, the social millennium
would indeed have begun. But in trying to compass their ends by
legislation, _before the standard of reality has been changed_, they
are making a disastrous mistake. For, to go no further, our schools
are hotbeds of individualism, the spirit of "competitive selfishness"
being actively and systematically fostered in all of them, with a few
exceptions; and so long as this is so, so long as our highly
individualised society is recruited, year by year, by a large
contingent of individualists of all ranks, drawn from schools of
all grades, for so long will the Socialistic ideal remain an
impracticable dream. An impracticable and a mischievous dream; for
in the attempt to realise it, the community will almost inevitably
be brought to the verge of civil war. When the seeds of socialistic
legislation, or even of socialistic agitation, are sown in a soil
which is highly charged with the poison of individualism, the
resulting crop will be class hatred and social strife.
No, we must change our standard of reality before we can hope to
reform society. Where the outward standard prevails, where material
possessions are regarded as "the good things of life," the basis of
society must needs be competitive rather than communal, for there
will never be enough of those "good things" to satisfy the desires of
_all_ the members of any community. And even if the socialistic
dream of state-ownership could be universally realised, the
change--so long as the outward standard of reality prevailed--would
not necessarily be for the better, and might well be for the worse.
Competition for "the good things of life" would probably go on as
fiercely as ever; but it would be a scramble among nations rather
than individuals, and it might conceivably take the form of open
warfare waged on a titanic scale.[35] Even now there are indications
that such a struggle, or series of struggles, if not actually
approaching, is at any rate not beyond the bounds of possibility. And
on the way to the realisation of the collectivist ideal, we should
probably have in each community a similar struggle for wealth and
power among political parties,--a struggle which would generate many
social evils, of which civil war might not be the most malignant.
But if we are to change our standard of reality we must change it,
first and foremost, in the school. The way to do this is quite
simple. We need not give lessons on altruism. We need not teach or
preach a new philosophy of life. All that we need do is to foster the
growth of the child's soul. When the growth of the soul is healthy
and harmonious, the cultivation of all the expansive instincts having
been fully provided for, the _communal_ instinct will evolve itself
in its own season; and when the communal instinct has been fully
evolved, the social order will begin to reform itself. This is what
has happened in Utopia. There, where competition is unknown, where
prizes are undreamed of, where the growth of the child's natural
faculties, and the consequent well-being of his soul, is "its own
exceeding great reward," the communal instinct has grown with the
growth of the child's whole nature, and has generated an ideal social
life.
At the end of the last section I asked myself what was the ethical
ideal of the life of self-realisation,--the positive ideal as
distinguished from the more negative ideal of emancipating from
egoism and sensuality. I will now try to answer this question.
Emancipation from egoism and sensuality is effected by the outgrowth
of a larger and truer self. This larger and truer self, as it unfolds
itself, directs our eyes towards the ideal self--the goal of the
whole process of growth--which is to the ordinary self what the
full-grown tree, embodying in itself the perfection of oakhood, is to
the sapling oak, or what the ripe peach, embodying in itself the
perfection of peachhood, is to the green unripened fruit. The ideal
self is, in brief, perfect Manhood. What perfect Manhood may be, we
need not pause to inquire. Whatever it may be, it is the true self of
each of us. It follows that the nearer each of us gets to it, the
nearer he is to the true self of each of his fellow-men; that the
more closely he is able to identify himself with it, the more closely
he is able to identify himself with each of his fellow-men; that in
realising it, he is realising, he is entering into, he is becoming
one with, the real life of each of his fellow-men. And not of each
of his fellow-men only. He is also entering into the life of the
whole community of men--(for it is the presence of the ideal self in
each of us which makes communal life possible)--and, through this, of
each of the lesser communities to which he may happen to belong. In
other words, he is losing himself in the lives of others, and is
finding his well-being, and therefore his happiness, in doing so.
But self-loss, with joy in the loss of self, is, in a word, love.
The path of self-realisation is, then, in its higher stages, a life
of love. He who walks in that path must needs lead a life of love.
He will love and serve his fellow-men, both as individuals and as
members of this or that community, not because he is consciously
trying to live up to a high ideal, but because he has reached a stage
in his development beyond which he cannot develop himself except by
leading a life of love, because the path of self-realisation has led
him into the sunshine of love, and if he will not henceforth walk in
that sunshine he will cease to follow his path. He has indeed long
walked in the foreglow of the sunshine of love. The dawn of the orb
of love is heralded by a gradual twilight, which lights the path of
self-realisation, even in its earlier stages. In Utopia the joy on
the faces of the children is the joy of goodwill not less than of
well-being. Or rather it is the joy of goodwill because it is the joy
of well-being, because well-being would not be well-being if it did
not ceaselessly generate goodwill.
That love is "the fulfilling of the law," and therefore the keystone
of every sound system of ethics, is a truth on which I need scarcely
insist. The final proof that the ethics of self-realisation are
sound to the core lies in the fact that the path of self-realisation,
besides emancipating from egoism and sensuality, leads all who walk
in it, first into the foreglow and then into the sunshine of love.
But it is with the social rather than the ethical aspect of
self-realisation that I am now concerned. And the social aspect of
the fact which has just been stated is obviously of vital importance.
Love, which is commensurate with life, has innumerable phases. One of
these is what I have called the communal instinct,--the sense of
belonging to a community, of being a vital part of it, of sharing
in its life, of being what one is (in part at least) because one
shares in its life. If Socialism is to realise its noble dream, this
instinct, strongly developed and directed towards the well-being of
the whole social order, must become part of the normal equipment of
every citizen. And if this is to come to pass, self-realisation must
be made the basis of education in all our schools. What it has done
for the children of Utopia, in the way of developing their communal
instinct and making their school an ideal community, it is capable of
doing for every school in England,--I might almost say for every
school on the face of the earth.
There are faddists who advocate the teaching of _patriotism_ in our
elementary schools. There are Local Education Committees which insist
on _citizenship_ being taught in the schools under their control. By
teaching patriotism, and citizenship is meant treating them as
"subjects," finding places for them on the "time-table," and giving
formal lessons on them. Where this is done, the time of the
teachers and the children is wasted. The teaching of patriotism
and citizenship, if it is to produce any effect, must be entirely
informal and indirect. Let the child be so educated that he will
develop himself freely on all the sides of his being, and his
communal instinct will, as I have said, evolve itself in its own
season. Until it has evolved itself, patriotism and citizenship will
be mere names to him, and what he is taught about them will make no
impression on him. When it has evolved itself, he will be a patriot
and a good citizen in _posse_, and will be ready on occasion to prove
his patriotism and his good citizenship by his deeds, or, better
still, by his life.[36]
While the communal instinct is evolving itself, first in the school
and then in the community at large, the standard of reality will, by
a parallel or perhaps identical process, be transforming itself in
all the grades of society. The inward will be taking the place of the
outward standard; and men will be learning to form a different
conception of "the good things of life" from that which now dominates
our social life. The Socialist will then have his opportunity.
That any member of the community should be in physical want or
irremediable misery, will begin to be felt, partly as a personal
grief, partly as a reflection on himself, by each member of the
community in turn; and steps will begin to be taken--what steps I
cannot pretend to forecast--to make physical want and irremediable
misery impossible. Meanwhile, with the gradual substitution of the
inward for the outward standard of reality, the mad scramble for
wealth and possessions and distinctions will gradually cease, the
conception of what constitutes "comfort" and of what are the real
"necessaries of life" will be correspondingly changed, and men will
begin to realise that of the genuine "good things of life"--the good
things which the children of Utopia carry with them into the world,
and which make them exceedingly rich in spite of their apparent
poverty--there are enough and more than enough "to go round."
_The Religious Aspect of Self-realisation._
The oak-tree is present in embryo in the acorn. What is it that is
present in embryo in the new-born child? To achieve salvation is to
realise one's true self. But what is one's true self? The "perfection
of manhood" is an obvious answer to this question; but it explains so
little that we cannot accept it as final. We may, however, accept it
as a resting-place in our search for the final answer.
It is on the religious aspect of self-realisation that I now propose
to dwell. The function of Religion is to bring a central aim into
man's life, to direct his eyes towards the true end of his being
and to help him to reach it. The true end of Man's being is the
perfection of his nature; and the way to this end is the process
which we call growth. When I speak of Man's nature I am thinking of
his universal nature, of the nature which is common to all men, the
nature of Man as Man. Each of us has his own particular nature, his
individuality, as it is sometimes called. The nature of Man as Man is
no mere common measure of these particular natures, but is rather
what I may call their organised totality, the many-sided nature which
includes, explains, and even justifies them all.
What perfection may mean when we predicate the term of our common
nature, we cannot even imagine. The potentialities of our nature seem
to be infinite, and our knowledge of them is limited and shallow.
When we compare an untutored savage or a brutal, ignorant European
with a Christ or a Buddha, or again with a Shakespeare or a Goethe,
we realise how vast is the range--the lineal even more than the
lateral range--of Man's nature, and we find it easy to believe that
in any ordinary man there are whole tracts, whole aspects of human
nature, in which his consciousness has not yet been awakened, and
which therefore seem to be nonexistent in him, though in reality they
are only dormant or inert. These, however, are matters with which we
need not at present concern ourselves. Let the potentialities of our
common nature be what they may. Our business is to realise them as,
little by little, they present themselves to us for realisation. Let
the end of the process of growth be what it may. Our business is to
grow.
In the effort to grow we are not left without guidance. The stimulus
to grow, the forces and the tendencies that make for growth, all come
from within ourselves. Yet it is only to a limited extent that they
come under our direct control. So, too, the goal of growth, the
ideal perfection of our nature, is our own; and yet on the way to it
we must needs outgrow ourselves. What part do we play in this mighty
drama? The mystery of selfhood is unfathomable. The word _self_
changes its meaning the moment we begin to think about it. So does
the word _nature_. The range of meaning is in each case unlimited.
Yet there are limits beyond which we cannot use either word without
some risk of being misunderstood. When we are meditating on our
origin and our destiny, some other word seems to be needed to enable
us to complete the span of our thoughts.
Is not that word _God_? The source of our life, the ideal end of our
being,--how shall we think about these if we may not speak of them as
_divine_? And in using the word "divine," do we not set ourselves
free to stretch the respective meanings of the words "self" and
"nature" beyond what would otherwise have been the breaking point of
each? The true self is worthier of the name of "self" than the
apparent self. The true nature is worthier of the name of "nature"
than the lower nature. But the true self is the Divine Self; and the
highest nature is the Nature of God. If this is so, we serve God best
and obey God best by trying to perfect our nature in response to a
stimulus, a pressure, and a guidance which is at once natural and
divine.
In other words, we serve God best by following the path of
self-realisation. And the better we serve God, the more truly and
fully do we learn to know him. If to know him, and to live up to our
knowledge of him, is to be truly religious, then the life of
self-realisation is, in the truest and deepest sense of the word, a
_religious_ life. Or rather it is the only religious life, for in no
other way can knowledge of God be won.
Let me try to make good this statement. Knowledge of God is the
outcome, not of definite dogmatic instruction in theology, but of
spiritual growth. Knowledge, whatever may be its object, is always
the outcome of growth. Even knowledge of _number_ is the outcome, not
of definite dogmatic instruction in the arithmetical rules and
tables, but of the growth of the arithmetical sense. It is the same
with literature, the same with history, the same with chemistry, the
same with "business," the same with navigation, the same with the
driving of vehicles in crowded streets, the same with every art,
craft, sport, game, and pursuit. In evolving a special sense, the
soul is growing in one particular direction, a direction which is
marked out for it by the environment in which it finds it needful or
desirable to energise. The soul has, as we have seen, a general power
of adapting itself to its environment, of permeating it, of feeling
its way through it, of getting to understand it, of dealing with it
at last with skill and success. As is the particular environment, so
is the subtle, tactful, adaptive, directly perceptive, subconsciously
cognitive faculty,--the "sense," as I have called it--by means of
which the soul acquires the particular knowledge that it needs. The
more highly specialised (whether by subdivision or by abstraction)
the environment, the more highly specialised the sense. The larger
and more comprehensive the environment, the larger and more "massive"
the sense. The acquired aptitude which enables an omnibus driver to
steer his bulky vehicle through the traffic of London is a highly
specialised sense. At the other end of the scale we have the
"massive" spiritual faculties which deal with whole aspects of life
or Nature, such as the sense of beauty or of moral worth.
But there is a sense which is larger and more "massive" even than
these. When the environment is all-embracing, when it covers the
whole circle of which the soul is or can be the centre, the growth
made in response to it is the growth of the soul as such, and the
knowledge which rewards that growth is the knowledge of supreme
reality, or, in the language of religion, the knowledge of God. The
highest of all senses is the religious sense, the sense which gives
us knowledge of God. But the religious sense is not, as we are apt
to imagine, one of many senses. No one individual sense, however
"massive" or subtle it might be, could enable its possessor to get
on terms, so to speak, with the totality of things, with the
all-vitalising Life, with the all-embracing Whole. _The religious
sense is the well-being of the soul._ For the soul as such grows in
and through the growth of its various senses,--its own growth being
reinforced by the growth of each of these when Nature's balance is
kept, and retarded by the growth of one or more of them when Nature's
balance is lost,--and in proportion as its own vital, central growth
is vigorous and healthy, its power of apprehending reality unfolds
itself little by little. That power is of its inmost essence. When
reality, in the full sense of the word, is its object, it sees with
the whole of its being; it is itself, when it is at the centre of
its universe, its own supreme perceptive faculty, its own religious
sense.
If this is so, if the soul in its totality, the soul acting through
its whole "apperceptive mass," is its own religious sense, it is
abundantly clear that the path of self-realisation is the only path
which leads to knowledge of God, and through knowledge of God to
salvation. For self-realisation is the only scheme of life which
provides for the growth of the soul in its totality, for the
harmonious, many-sided development of the soul as such. I have often
dwelt on this point. If we have never before realised its importance
we must surely do so now. A one-sided training, even when its
one-sidedness takes the form of specialising in theology, is a
non-religious, and may well become an irreligious training, for it
does not lead to, and may well lead away from, knowledge of God.
And if we have never before realised how great are the opportunities
and responsibilities of the teacher, we must surely do so now. For a
certain number of years--the number varies with the social standing
of the child, and the financial resources of his parents--the teacher
can afford to disregard utilitarian considerations and think only of
what is best for the child. What use will he make of those years?
Will he lead the child into the path of self-realisation, and so give
a lifelong impetus to the growth of his soul? Or will he, in his
thirst for "results," lead him into the path of mechanical obedience,
or, at best, of one-sided development, and so blight his budding
faculties and arrest the growth of his soul? On the practical answer
that he gives to this question will depend the fate of the child.
For to the child the difference between the two paths will be the
difference between fulfilling and missing his destiny, between
knowledge and ignorance of God.
If any of my readers have imagined that I am an advocate of what is
called "secular education," they will, I hope, now realise that they
have misread this book. Far from wishing to secularise education, I
hold that it cannot be too religious. And, far from wishing to limit
its religious activities to the first forty minutes of the morning
sessions, I hold that it should be actively religious through every
minute of every school session, that whatever it does it should do to
the glory of God.
But how does knowledge of God show itself? Knowledge, so far as it is
real, always shows itself in right bearing, and (if action is called
for) in right action. Knowledge of arithmetic and of other more or
less abstract subjects, shows itself in the successful working of the
corresponding problems, theoretical or practical as the case may be.
Knowledge of the laws of physical nature shows itself in practical
mastery of the forces and resources of physical nature. Knowledge of
history and geography, in a right attitude towards the problems and
sub-problems of these complex and comprehensive subjects, an attitude
which may on occasion translate itself into right action. And so on.
Knowledge of God, being a state or attitude of the soul as such, must
show itself in the right bearing and the right action of the soul as
such, in other words, of Man as Man,--not as mathematician, not as
financier, not as sculptor, not as cricketer, but simply as Man. Now
Man as Man has to bear himself aright towards the world in which he
finds himself, and in particular towards the world which touches him
most closely and envelops him most completely,--the world of human
life. Therefore knowledge of God will show itself, principally and
chiefly, though by no means wholly, in dealing aright with one's
fellow-men, in being rightly disposed towards them, and in doing the
right things to them. I have found it convenient to disconnect the
moral from the religious aspect of self-realisation. We can now see
that in the last resort the two aspects are one.
From every point of view, then, and above all from that of Religion,
the path of self-realisation is seen to be the path of salvation.
For it is the only scheme of life which enables him who follows it
to attain to knowledge of God; and knowledge of God has, as its
necessary counterpart, a right attitude, in general towards the world
which surrounds him, and in particular towards his fellow-men.
But is it possible, within the limits of one earth-life, to follow
the path of self-realisation to its appointed goal? And if not, will
the path be continued beyond that abrupt turn in it which we call
death? The respective attitudes of the two great schools of popular
thought towards the problem of the grave, are in brief as follows.
The Materialists (or Naturalists, as they miscall themselves) believe
that death is the end of life. The Supernaturalists believe that one
earth-life (or even a few years or months) of mechanical obedience to
supernatural direction will be rewarded by an eternity of happiness
in "Heaven." But those who walk in the path of self-realisation, and
whose unswerving loyalty to Nature is rewarded by some measure of
insight into her deeper laws, know that the goal of the path is
infinitely far away, and in their heart of hearts they laugh both the
current eschatologies to scorn. And the higher they ascend, as they
follow the path, the more vividly do they realise how unimaginably
high above them is the summit of the mountain which the path is
ascending in spiral coils.
The Utopian experiment, humble as it is, can, I think, throw some
light on these mighty problems. The relations between the type and
the various sub-types, between the type and the individual, between
the sub-type and the individual--whether in plant or beast or
man--are matters which could not be handled within the limits of this
book, and which I have therefore as far as possible ignored. Nor have
I attempted to deal with the difficult problems that are presented by
the existence of races, such as the Negro, which seem to be far below
the normal level of human development. There is, however, in the vast
region of thought which these and kindred problems open out to us,
one by-way which I must be allowed to follow for a while.
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