acting each other, and beauty of the one sort triumphing over ugliness of the other. Beauty of personality, or moral beauty, is everywhere to be seen, even though never perfect-the beauty of an unspoiled child, of a man as sturdy in character and intelligence as in body, of a woman worthy of that name, or of serene, magnanimous, and dignified old age.

It is likely to be the case that we justly appraise only our brief or unusual pleasures, which give us a shock of contrast, and fail to appreciate or even to name those which give light and warmth and color to the successive hours of our common days until they are cut off and we find how cold and dark it would be without them. If it were always day we should have the cheer of the light, but should take it for granted, and our experience would scarcely inform us that it is the light that gives us this cheer. And so in making an inventory of life's values it is well to emphasize the beauty of Nature, home, and people.

Of the aesthetic experiences which are ministered to by the arts usually called fine, one may remark with satisfaction that the American people have begun to admit that the promotion of these values is work worthy of real men having the manliest gifts; though it is still to be feared that a Michael Angelo, or Leonardo, or Beethoven born among us would be in danger of going into business.

Of these arts literature and music are the first to be appreciated by a new nation, because the former is diffused by the press, and the latter by the tours of good musical performers. The painter, sculptor, and architect do not take with them, wherever they go, their revelations of beauty. The printed picture now aids in the diffusion of taste for these arts, yet as a rule, in a new country it is only in the wealthy city that the original productions of these arts can be seen.

The third great class of values which life contains is made up of satisfactions that accompany the active exercise of the intellectual powers, the satisfaction of interest, the joy of comprehension, the zest of mental application rewarded by perceptions and insights. This is the distinctive delight of the reader, though in his case it is complicated with nearly every other kind of pleasure, as he imagines scenes and experiences portrayed and enters into

comradeship with the author and his characters. The pleasures of curiosity lure on the traveler also. Curiosity is as natural an appetite as hunger, and its gratification is a pleasure, often keener than that derived from food, and capable of being indefinitely more prolonged. The amateur scientist also partakes of intellectual pleasure, he reads Nature's own book, and looks upon all living things, material events, and even the dead but storied rocks with eyes that have been touched and opened. And the professional scientist is in the truest sense no less an amateur. Even those of us who are somewhat dull and ignorant, find wherever we go, something about which to question and speculate and wonder, and feed our hungry wits; it may be the interpretation of our neighbors' movements, the study of a stranger's physiognomy and dress, judging the contents of a package by the evidence afforded by its outward appearance, or solving the puzzles in the weekly paper. The pathos of ignorance is that the ravenous mind feeds upon husks instead of bread. Education makes life a feast. In our day some look upon education merely or chiefly as a means of making money-a means to a means. It is that, but it is chiefly an introduction to life's values, that without it would be largely missed, not intellectual values only but all those that escape the mere animal man. It is entering upon our heritage as sons of man and heirs of the ages.

Fourth among life's values are the social experiences, experiences of a peculiar character and flavor, which are conditioned by our thoughts of our associates. For intensity and permanence, in the case of most of us, they exceed all of the preceding three combined. To be wholly satisfying our thoughts of our associates must include thoughts of their thoughts or feelings about us. Imagine, if one can, a human being never noticed by any other human being, never receiving an answering smile, or greeting word or gesture, to show that his presence was observed, who, whether alone or in the crowd, was equally non-existent for his kind, as if forever wearing the garment of invisibility. No physical deprivation would compare with such a fate. Absolute isolation, if prolonged, causes hunger for this natural satisfaction which may become unbearable and induce insanity. Yet in isolation we may have

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some social pleasures, for we are not wholly deprived of thoughts about associates, but only of the new and vivid ones which their presence would occasion. To pass from a community where one has been surrounded by friends and the marks of respect and esteem, to dwell in the midst of strangers, is like falling from a sunny shore into the North Atlantic. And what shall be said of one who suddenly finds the cordiality of friends diminished, silence, averted looks, suspicion, contempt? We expand under the favor of our associates like flowers in the sun; joy blooms and all our powers bear fruit; but their indifference blights, and withers us like a frost.

What is so precious as the friendship of one comrade whom we like, whose judgment we trust, who knows us thoroughly and likes, approves, and trusts us, what else is the occasion of so deep a comfort and joy, and what advantage is there in exchange for which we could afford to lose the trust of such a friend. Fame is the acquaintance, or esteem, or friendship, of a great number. As cold esteem it may be of the highest; as friendship it is likely to be thinly diluted.

Con

Our personality is largely the fruit of social contacts. scious life is adjustment to a psychic milieu furnished by our kind, as animal life is adjustment to a physical environment which meets its needs; and it is scarcely too much to say that our higher and more constant satisfaction depends upon social relations as completely as animal pleasure depends upon material conditions. Probably the desire to love and be loved, to esteem and to be esteemed, to be thought successful and admirable, and the corresponding satisfactions, are the heartfelt side of more human striving and realization, than physical, intellectual, and aesthetic pleasures combined. Even the outcast criminal boasts to his pals of his success in crime, and the tramp prizes his reputation among tramps as a successful beggar. Physical desires are universal and urgent, but they are soon satisfied and even satiated, not so the appetite for social satisfaction. Whatever achievement friends and associates reward with approval and honor men will strive for. By its approvals society can turn its members to follow with eager feet any path it may select, and for this reward it may

have any service up to the very limit of human possibility. That is a wise society in which the mass knows what to frown upon and what to honor-none yet has been so wise as that.

The fifth form of value realized in experience is that which accompanies one's thought of himself. This we may call the personal satisfaction, for it is the sense of one's own personality. It has its roots in social experience. We who pass judgments upon our associates are compelled by the logical consistency of the human mind more or less to judge ourselves by similar standards; having called another a villain for a certain act, straightway to view the same act in one's self is likely to produce a twinge, and having called another glorious for a certain act, one aspires to like action and commends himself if he perform it. We all are born into a society in which social interaction has equipped each adult with developed standards, which judge us and teach us to judge ourselves and others.

We find it hard or impossible to think well of ourselves when all others think ill of us. But we live in many groups, the home, the school, the shop, the newspaper world, each has its standards; the vicious gang, the boarding-house company, a single powerful personality representative of another circle than any in which we usually move, the characters in a story-book-we are impressed by the standards and sentiments of each; and concerning each we often ask half-consciously: What would these think of me? What would my sweetheart think? What would my boy think if he should see that in his father? What would my dead mother think, whose standards differed from those of my present associates? What would God think? And since the social contacts from which we derive our standards of self-judgment are so numerous and so diverse as to impose on us opposite requirements, we cannot be simultaneously governed by them all, but are compelled at any given moment to select some one course of conduct, making it our way, and its standard of judgment our standard of self-judgment.

The personal ideal may be shifting, and vague at points, wanting in standards applying to some situations, and in part irrational and absurd; but in no individual who is the product of any normal

I * Baldwin, Social and Ethical Interpretations, chaps. i, ii.

social life, however primitive, is it absent, nor are its promptings at all points lacking in definiteness and urgency. I do not mean that every human individual, even in the most advanced society, has consciously formed and chosen a personal ideal. It may be a mere natural product, the result of reaction between inborn tendencies and external suggestions. But if the environment has been fortunate and the education wisely conducted, the personal ideal represents a working adjustment between the various interests of the individual and claims of society upon him, as they are understood by the group that has chiefly influenced him. What I am calling the personal ideal includes not only moral requirements but also ambitions and all standards of personal success and worth. It is the concrete concept of a satisfactory self. The individual measures himself by it when he dresses and looks in the mirror, when he has the feel of himself in company, when he plays a game at which he has some pretensions to skill, when he reviews a speech that he has made or a bargain that he has driven. His self-thought, if tolerably definite and stable, is the most central and determining thing in his character. It dominates his deliberate choices, and even in the busy hours where absorption in objective aims drives it below the threshold of consciousness, if he lives an organized life, it still is determining the direction and force of his activity.

We differ greatly as to the honesty with which we select our self-thought on its merits, and the deliberation and constancy with which we cherish any chosen standard. This honesty and constancy, or the lack of them, mark the path of our ascent or our descent.

We tend to cherish a self-thought that does not make us too uncomfortable by its exactions. Many experiment with ideals that prove too high for comfort. When their personal reaction upon some situation disagrees with their ideal, they say to themselves that under the peculiar circumstances under which they acted the ideal was not binding, or else that the ideal was impracticable anyway for real life as conditions now are, and comfort themselves with the opinion that most persons would have done no no better than they. Others are too honest for this, and here is