University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII

THE METHODS OF PURPOSE—WORK CHARACTERS

HAVING asked concerning any person, "What are his purposes?'' whether of power or fellowship, whether permanent or transitory, whether adjustable or not, we next ask, "How does he seek their fulfillment?''

"He who wills the end wills the means'' is an old saying, but men who will the same end may will different means. There have been those who used assassination to bring about reform, and there are plenty who use philanthropy to hasten their egoistic aims. The nihilist who throws a bomb to bring about an altruistic state is own cousin to the ward heeler who gives coal to his poor constituents so that his grafting rule may continue.

1. There are those who use the direct route of force to reach their goal of desire and purpose. They attempt to make no nice adjustments of their wishes to the wishes of others; the obstacle, whether human or otherwise must get out of their way or be forcibly removed or destroyed. "A straight line is the shortest distance between two points,'' and there is only one absolute law,—"the good old rule, the simple plan that they may take who have the power and they may keep who can.'' The individuals who react this way to obstacles are choleric, passionate, egoistic and in the last analysis somewhat brutal. This is especially true if they seek force at first, for with nearly all of us extreme provocation or desperation brings direct-action measures.

Conspicuously those accustomed to arbitrary power use this method. They have grown accustomed to believing that their will or wish is a cause, able to remove obstacles of all kinds. When at all opposed the angry reaction is extreme, and they tend to violence at once. The old-fashioned home was modeled in tyranny, and the force reaction of the father and husband to his children and wife was sanctioned by law and custom. The attitude of the employer to employee, universally in the past and still prominent, was that of the master, able in ancient times to use physical punishment and in our day to cut off a man's livelihood if he showed any rebellion. In a larger social way War is crude brute force, and those who delude themselves that the God of victory is a righteous God have read history with a befoozled mind. Force, though the world rests on it, is a terrible weapon and engenders brutality in him who uses it and rebellion, hate and humiliation in him upon whom it is used. It is an insult to the dignity and worth of the human being. It must be used for disciplining purposes only,—on children, on the criminal, and then more to restrain than to punish. It cannot disappear from the world, but it should be minimized. Only the sentimentalized believe it can disappear entirely, only the brutal rejoice in its use. Force is a crude way of asserting and obtaining superiority; the gentle hate to use it, for it arouses their sympathy for their opponent. Whoever preaches force as the first weapon in any struggle is either deluded as to its value or an enemy of mankind.

As a non-inhibited response, force and brutality appear in the mentally sick. General paresis, cerebral arterio-selerosis, alcoholic psychoses present classical examples of the impatient brutal reaction, often in men hitherto patient and gentle.

2. Strategy or cunning appears as a second great method of obtaining the fulfillment of one's purposes. We all use strategy in the face of superior or equal power, just as we tend to use force confronted by inferiority. There is of course a legitimate use of cunning, but there is also an anti-social trend to it, quite evident in those who by nature or training are schemers. The strategist in love, war or business simulates what he does not feel, is not frank or sincere in his statements and believes firmly that the end justifies the means. He uses the indirect force of the lie, the slander, insinuation —he has no aversion to flattery and bribery—he uses spies and false witnesses. He is a specialist in the unexpected and seeks to lull suspicion and disarms watchfulness, waiting for the moment to strike. Sometimes he weaves so tangled a web that he falls into it himself, and one of the stock situations in humor, the novel and the stage is where the cunning schemer falls into the pit he has dug for others. In his highest aspect he is the diplomat; in his lowest he is the sneak. People who are weak or cowardly tend to the use of these methods, but also there is a group of the strong who hate direct force and rather like the subtler weapons.

The strategist tends to be quite cynical, and his effect on his fellow men is to increase cynicism and pessimism. They who have suffered through the schemer grow to suspect their fellows under any guise. They become suspicious and hard, determined never to trust any one again. Indeed, practical wisdom to a large extent is the wisdom of strategy and is full of mottoes and proverbs inculcating non-generous ideals. When people have been "fooled'' or misled, the most valuable of the social cementing qualities, faith in one's fellows, is

weakened. Despite the disintegrating effect of unscrupulous shrewdness, it is common enough to hear men say of a successful votary of the art, "Well, I give him credit. He is a very clever fellow, and he has brought home the bacon.'' Success is so highly prized and admired that the means of obtaining it becomes secondary in the eyes of the majority.

3. The rôle of speech in the relationships of human beings is of course too great to be over-estimated. Speech becomes the prime weapon in swaying and molding the opinions and acts of others. It is the medium of the threat of force and the stratagem of cunning, but also it enters human life as the medium of persuasion and conviction. The speech ability, the capacity to use words in attaining purpose, shows as striking variations as any other capacity.

Though a function of intelligence, the power to speak (and write) convincingly and easily, is not at all related to other phases of intelligence. Though it can be cultivated, good verbalism is an innate ability, and a most valuable one. The power to speak clearly so as to express what is on one's own mind is uncommon, as any one can testify who has watched people struggling to express themselves. "You know'' is a very frequent phrase in the conversation of the average man, and he means that, "My words are inadequate, but you know what I mean.'' The delight in the good writer or speaker is that he relieves other people's dissatisfaction in their own inadequate expression by saying what they yearn to say for themselves, thus giving them a vicarious achievement.

But the power of clear expression is not at all the power of persuasion, although it may be a part of it. One may clearly express himself and antagonize others.

The persuader seeks to discover the obstacles to agreement with him in the minds of others and to remove or nullify them. He may seek to do this by a clear exposition of his wishes and desires, by showing how these will benefit the others (or at least not harm them), by meeting logically or otherwise the objections and demonstrating their futility. This he will attempt, if he is wise and practical, only in a limited group or among those who are keen-minded and open to reason. Even with them he will have to kindle and maintain their interest, and he must arouse a favorable emotional state.

This latter is the principal goal in persuasion. Every good speaker or writer who seeks to reach the mass of people needs the effect of the great feelings—of patriotism, sympathy and humor—needs flattery, gross or subtle, makes people laugh or smile or feel kindly disposed to him before he attempts to get their coöperation. He must place himself on their level, be regarded as one of them; fellowship and the coöperative tendencies must be awakened before logic will have value.

The persuader cuts his cloth to suit his case. He is a psychologist of the intuitive type. He may thunder and scold if he finds in his audience, whether numbering one or a million, a tendency to yield to authority, and he then poses as that authority, handing out his dicta in an awe-inspiring fashion. He will awaken the latent trend to ridicule and scoffing by pointing out inconsistency in others, or he may awaken admiration for his fairness and justice by lauding his opponent, taking care not to overdo it.

Persuasion is often a part of scheming, rarely is it used by the forceful, except in the authoritative way or to arouse anger against the opponent. It is the weapon of those who believe in democracy, for all exposition

has persuasion as its motive. A statement must not only be true to others,—to the mass. Therefore persuasion as applied to the great mass of people is rarely closely knit or a fine exposition of truth and historical evolution; that one must leave for the highbrow book or treatise. It is passionate and pleading; it thunders and storms; it has wit and humor; it deals with symbols and analogies, it plays on the words of truth, justice, ideals, patriotism. It may be honest and truthful, but it cannot be really accurate or of high intellectual value.

And the persuasion that seeks private ends from private audiences "sizes'' up its audience as a preliminary. The capacity to understand others and to sway them, to impress them according to their make-up, is a trait of great importance for success or failure. It needs cultivation, but often it depends on a native sociability, a friendliness and genuine interest, on a "good nature'' that is what it literally purports to be,—good nature. Though many of the persuasive kind are insincere and selfish, I believe that on the whole the taciturn and gruff are less interested in their fellows than the talkative and cordial.

The persuasive person has a touch of the fighting spirit in the trait called aggressiveness. He is rarely shy or retiring. To do well, he must be prepared for rebuffs, and he is possessed of a species of courage and resistance against refusal and humiliation. In the highest form the persuader is a teacher and propagandist, changing the policy of peoples; in the commonest form he is a salesman, seeking to sell a commodity; in the lowest he is the faker, trying to hoodwink the credulous.

4. The strong, the crafty, the talkers each seek fulfillment of purpose from an equal or higher level than their

fellows. But power and fulfillment may be reached at from a lower level, from the beggar's position, from the place of weakness. There are some whose existence depends upon the response given to their supplications, who throw themselves directly on the charity and tender-heartedness of society. Inefficient, incapable of separate existence, this parasitic class is known to every social service group, to every rich or powerful man who helps at least in part to maintain them. I do not mean those who are physically or intellectually unable to cope with the world; these are merely unfortunate. I mean those whose energy and confidence is so low, or whose lack of pride is such that they are willing to ask for help continually rather than make their own way.

There is, however, a very interesting type of person who uses weakness as a weapon to gain a purpose, not support. The tears of many women have long been recognized as potent in that warfare that goes on between the sexes; the melting of opposition to the whim or wish when this manifestation of weakness is used is an old story. The emotional display renders the man uncomfortable, it disturbs him, he fears to increase it lest the opponent become sick, his conscience reproaches him, and he yields rather than "make a fuss.'' Tears can be replaced by symptoms of a hysteric nature. I do not mean that these symptoms are caused by the effort to win, but they become useful and are made habitual. Nor is this found only in woman; after an accident there are men in plenty whose symptoms play a rôle in securing compensation for themselves, not necessarily as malingerers. It is in human nature to desire the sympathy of others, and in some cases this sympathy is sought because through sympathy some other good will be forthcoming,—a new dress, a lump sum of money,

or merely securing one's own way. Very noticeably do children tend to injure themselves if crossed; anger tends to turn on itself, and the effect on the other party is soon realized, and often utilized. A child may strike its head against the floor without any other motive than that arising from hopeless anger, but if this brings the parents to their knees,[1] the association is made and the experience becomes part of the working technique of the child.

5. There is in man an urge to activity independent of reward save in the satisfaction that comes from that activity. This current is organized into work, and the goal becomes achievement. The most powerful factor in discharging the energies of man is the desire for achievement. Wealth, superiority, power, philanthropy, renown, safety and pleasure enormously reinforce this purpose, but behind the good work of the world is the passion to create, to make something, to mold the resisting forces of nature into usefulness and beauty. Handicraftsman, artist, farmer, miner, housewife, writer,— all labor contradicts the legend that work is a curse. To gain by work, to obtain desires through labor, is a method of attainment that is a natural ideal of man.

This makes opportune a discussion of the work-traits. Since ours is an industrial society, in which the work of a member is his means of obtaining not only respect, but a living, these traits are largely those by which he is judged and by which he judges himself.

Since work for some is their life and for others their means of obtaining a living, it is obvious that the work-traits may be all the traits of the individual, or only a

few of them. Certain traits are especially important, and to these we must limit ourselves.

The energy of the individual. Some are so constituted that they can constantly discharge their energy at a high rate. These are the dynamics, the hyperkinetic, the Rooseveltian—strenuous—the busy people, always able to do more. The modern American life holds this type as an ideal, though it is quite questionable whether these rather over-busy people do not lose in reflective and creative ability. The rushing stream turns the wheels of the mills, but it is too strenuous for stately ships. This type however achieves things, is seen often in the fine executive and usually needs no urging.

There is another fine type not so well adapted to our civilization, which is easily exhausted, but can accomplish very much in a short time; in other words discharges energy intermittently at a high rate. Charles Darwin was of this kind—intermittently hyperkinetic —obliged to rest after an hour's labor, but by understanding this, willing to rest. Unfortunately, unless one is a genius or rich, industry does not make allowances for this type. Industry is organized on steadiness of energy discharge,—eight hours every day, six days a week.

The commonest type is the "average'' person who is capable of moderately intense but constant activity. This is the steady man and woman; it is upon this steadiness that the whole factory—shop system—is based. That this steadiness deadens, injures vivacity and makes for restlessness, is another matter.

A distinctly pathological type is found in some feebleminded and some high mentalities. This unfortunate discharges energy at a low rate is slow in action and

often intermittent as well as hypokinetic. The loafer and the tramp are of this type. Around the water front of the seaports one can find the finest specimens who do odd jobs for as much as will pay for lodging and food and drink. Perhaps the order of the desired rewards should be reversed. Every village furnishes individuals of this group, either unable or unwilling to work consecutively or with energy. Often purposeless day-dreamers or else bereft of normal human mentality, these are the chronically unemployed of our social-industrial system.

It must be remembered that to work steadily every day and in the same place is not an innate circumstance of man's life. For the untold centuries before he developed into an agriculturist and a handicraftsman, he sought his food and his protection in the simplest way and with little steady labor. Whether as hunter or fisher or nomad herdsman, he lived in the open air, slept in caves or in rudely constructed shelters and knew nothing of those purposes that keep men working from morning till night. It's a long way from primitive man and his occupations, with their variety and their relaxations, to the factory hand, shut up in a shop all day and doing just one thing year in and year out, to the housewife with her multitudinous, never-ending tasks within four walls, to the merchant engrossed with profit and loss, weighing, measuring, buying, selling and worrying without cessation. The burden of steadiness in labor is new to the race, and it is only habit, necessity and social valuation that keeps most men to their wheel.

We would, I think, be oversentimental in our treatment of this subject if we omitted two hugely important factors in work character. Two powerful motives operate,

—the necessity of working and work as an escapea from ourselves.

Not much need be said of the pressure of necessity. "To eat one must work.'' This sentence condenses the threat behind most of the workers of the world. They cannot stop if they would—for few are those, even in prosperous communities, who have three months of idleness in their savings. The feeling of insecurity this fact brings makes a nightmare out of the lives of the many, for to the poor worker the charity organization is part of the penalty to be paid for sickness or unemployment. To my mind there are few things more pathetic than a good man out of a job, and few things for which our present society can be so heartily damned. Few even of the middle class can rest; their way of living leaves them little reserve, and so they plug along, with necessity as the spur to their industry.

To escape ourselves! Put any person of adult age, or younger, in a room with nothing to do but think, and you reduce him to abject misery and restlessness. Most of our reading, entertainment, has this object, and if necessity did not spur men on to work steadily, the tedium of their own thoughts would. To reflect is pleasant only to a few, and the need of a task is the need of the average human being. Perhaps once upon a time in some idyllic age, some fabled age of innocence, time passed pleasantly without work. To-day, work is the prime way of killing time, adding therefore to its functions of organizing activity, achievement and social value of recreation.

Yet contradictory as it seems, though many of us love work for its own sake, most of us do not love our own work. That is because few of us choose our work;

it is thrust upon us. Happy is he who has chosen and chosen wisely!

Industry, energy, steadiness are parts of the work-equipment; enthusiasm, eagerness, the love of work, in short, is another part. Love of work is not a unitary character; it is a resultant of many forces and motives. Springing from the love of activity, it receives its direction from ambition and is reinforced by success and achievement. Few can continue to love a work at which they fail, for self-love is injured and that paralyzes the activity. Here and there is some one who can love his work, even though he is half-starved as a result,—a poet, a novelist, an inventor, a scientist, but these dream and hope for better things. But the bulk of the half-starved labor of the world, half-starved literally as well as symbolically, has no light of hope ahead of it and cannot love the work that does not offer a reward. It is easy for those who reap pleasure and reward from their labors to sing of the joy of work; business man, professional man, artist, handicraftsman, farmer,— these may find in the thing they do the satisfaction of the creative desires and the reward of seeing their product; but the factory is a Frankenstein delivering huge masses of products but eating up the producers. The more specialized it becomes the less each man creates of the unit, machine or ornament; the less he feels of achievement. Go into a cotton mill and watch the machines and their less than human attendants at their over-specialized tasks. Then ask how such workers can take any joy in work? Let us say they are paid barely enough to live upon. What food does the desire for achievement receive? What feeds the love of the concrete finished product of which a man can proudly say, "I did it!'' The restlessness of this thwarted desire

is back of much of that social restlessness that puzzles, annoys and angers the better-to-do of the world. As the factory system develops, as "efficiency'' removes more and more of the interest in the task, social unrest will correspondingly increase. One of the great problems of society is this:

How are we to maintain or increase production and still maintain the love of work? To solve this problem will take more than the efficiency expert who works in the interest of production alone; it will take the type of expert who seeks to increase human happiness.

Native industry, the love of work are variables of importance. No matter what social condition we evolve, there will be some who will be "slackers,'' who will regard work as secondary to pleasure, who will take no joy or pride in the finished product, who will feel no loyalty to their organization; and vice versa, there will be those working under the most adverse conditions who will identify themselves, their wishes and purposes with "the job'' and the product. Nowhere are the qualities of persistent effort and interest of such importance as in industry, and nowhere so well rewarded.

In the habits of efficiency we have a group of mechanically performed actions and stereotyped reactions essential for work. Except in certain high kinds of work, which depend upon originality and initiative, method, neatness and exactness are essential. "Time is money'' in most of the business of the world; in fact time is the great value, since in it life operates. The unmethodical and untidy waste time as well as offend the esthetic tastes, as well as directly lose material and information. The habits in this sense are the tools of industry, though exactness may be defined as more than a tool, since it is also part of the final result. He whose work-conscience

permits him to be inexact, permits himself to do less than his best and in that respect cheats and steals.

The work-conscience is as variably developed as any other type of conscience. There are those who are rogues in all else but not in their work. They will not turn out a bad piece of work for they have identified the best in them with their work. Contrariwise, there are others who are punctilious in all other phases of morality who are slackers of an easy standard in their work efforts. This is as truly a double standard of morals as anything in the sex sphere,—and as disastrous.

There is on every second wall in America the motto typical of our country, "Do it now!'' To it could be added a much better one, "Do it well!'' The energy of work and its promptness are only valuable when controlled by an ideal of service and thoroughness. A great part of the morals of the world is neglected; part of the responsibility is not felt, in that a code of work is yet to be enunciated in an authoritative way. I would have it shown graphically that all inefficiency is a social damage with a boomerang effect on the inefficient and careless, and in the earliest school, teaching the need of thoroughness would be emphasized. Our schools are tending in the other direction; the curriculum has become so extensive that superficiality is encouraged, the thorough are penalized, and "to get away with it'' is the motto of most children as a result.

In an ideal community every man and woman will be evaluated as to intelligence and skill, and a place found accordingly. Since we live a few centuries too soon to see that community, since jobs are given out on a sort

of catch-as-catch-can plan, it would be merely a counsel of perfection to urge some such method.

Nevertheless ambitious parents, whose means or whose self-sacrifice enable them to plan careers for their children, should take into solemn account, not their own ambitions, but the ability of the child. A man is apt to see in his son his second self and to plan for him as for a self that was somehow to succeed where he failed. But every tub in the ocean of human life must navigate on its own bottom, and a father's wishes will not make a poet into a banker or a fool into a philosopher. Nothing is so disastrous to character as to be misplaced in work, and there is as much social inefficiency in the high-grade man in the low-grade place as when the low-grade man occupies a high-grade place. We have no means of discovering originality, imagination or special ability in our present-day psychological tests, and we cannot measure intensity of purpose, courage and the quality of interest. Yet watching a child through its childhood and its adolescence ought to tell us whether it is brilliant or stupid, whether it is hand-minded or word-minded, whether it is brave, loyal, honest, a leader or a follower, etc. Moreover, the child's inclinations should play a part in the plans made. A man who develops a strong will where his desires lead the way will hang back and be a slacker where dissatisfaction is aroused.

To that employer of labor who seeks more than dividends from his "hands,'' who has in mind that he is merely an agent of the community, and is not obsessed with the idea that he is "boss,'' I make bold to make the following suggestions:

Any plan of efficiency must be based on sympathy and human feeling. To avoid unnecessary fatigue is imperative,

not only because it increases production, but because it increases happiness. Fatigue may have its origin in little matters,—in a bad bench, in a poor work table, or an inferior tool. Chronic fatigue[2] alters character; the drudge and slave are not really human, and if your workers become drudges, to that degree have you lapsed from your stewardship. Men react to fatigue in different ways: one is merely tired, weak and sleepy —a "dope,'' to use ordinary characterization—but another becomes a dangerous rebel, ready to take fire at any time.

More important than physical fatigue (or at least as important) is the fatigue of monotony. If your shop is organized on a highly mechanical basis, then the worker must be allowed to interrupt his labors now and then, must have time for a chat, or to change his position or even to lie down or walk. Monotony disintegrates mind and body—disintegrates character and personality—brings about a fierce desire for excitement; and the well-known fact that factory towns are very immoral is no accident, but the direct result of monotony and opportunity. It's bad enough that men and women have to become parts of the machine and thus lowered in dignity, worth and achievement; it is adding cruelty to this to whitewash windows, prohibit any conversation and count every movement. Before you may expect loyalty you must deserve it, and the record of the owners of industry warrants no great loyalty on the part of their employees. Annoying restrictions are more than injuries; they are insults to the self-feeling of the worker and are never forgotten or forgiven.

That a nation is built on the work of its people— their steadiness, energy, originality and intelligence, is trite. That anything is really gained by huge imports and exports when people live in slums and have their creative work impulses thwarted is not my idea of value. Factories are necessary to a large production and a large population, but the idea of quantity seems somehow to have exercised a baleful magic on the minds of men. England became "great'' through its mills, and its working people were starved and stunted, body and soul. Of what avail are our Lawrences and Haverhills when we learn that in the draft examinations the mill towns showed far more physical defects, tuberculosis and poor nutrition than the non-factory towns?

Work is the joy of life, because through it we fulfill purposes of achievement and usefulness. Society must have an organization to fit the man to his task and his task to the man; it must organize its rewards on an ethical basis and must find the way to eliminate unnecessary fatigue and monotony. The machine which increases production decreases the joy of work; we cannot help that, therefore society must at least add other rewards to the labor that is robbed of its finest recompense.

A counsel of perfection! The sad part is that books galore are written about the ways of changing, but meanwhile the law of competition and "progress'' adds machines to the world, still further enslaving men and women. We cannot do without machines,—nor can we do without free men and women. The fact is that competition is a spur to production and to industrial malpractice, since the generous employer must adopt the tactics of his competitors whether in a Southern mill town or in Japan.

I must confess to a feeling of disgust when I read preachments on the joys of work, on consecrating one's self to one's task. I can do that, because I do about what I please and when I please, and so do you, Mister Preacher, and so do the exceptional and the able and the fortunate here and there and everywhere. But this is mathematically and socially impossible for the great majority, and unless a plan of life fits that majority it is best to call the plan what it is,—an aristocratic creed, meant for the more able and the more fortunate.