I had an experience the other day, very disagreeable but most wholesome, which held up for a moment a mirror to my life and character.  I suppose that, at least once in his life, every one has known what it is, in some corridor or stairway, to see a figure advancing towards him, and then to discover with a shock of surprise that he has been advancing to a mirror, and that the stranger is himself.  This happened to me some short while ago, and I was by no means favourably impressed by what I saw!

Well, the other day I was conducting an argument with an irascible man.  His temper suddenly boiled over, and he said several personal things to me, of which I did not at once recognize the truth; but I have since considered the criticisms, and have decided that they are mainly true, heightened perhaps by a little tinge of temper.

I am sorry my friend said the things, because it is difficult to meet, on cordial terms, a man whom one knows to hold an unfavourable opinion of oneself.  But in one way I am glad he said them, because I do not think I could in any other manner have discerned the truth.  If a friend had said them without anger, he would no doubt have so gilded the pill that it would have seemed rather a precious ornament than a bitter remedy.

I will not here say in detail what my friend accused me of, but it amounted to a charge of egotism; and as egotism is a common fault, and particularly common with lonely and unmarried men, I will make no excuse for propounding a few considerations on the point, and how it may perhaps be cured, or, if not cured, at least modified.

I suppose that the egotist is the man who regards the world as a setting for himself, as opposed to the man who realizes that he is a small unit in a gigantic system.  The characteristic of the egotist is to consider himself of too great importance, while the danger of the non-egotist is not sufficiently to realize his significance.  Egotism is the natural temptation of all those whose individuality is strong; the man of intense desires, of acute perceptions, of vigorous preferences, of eager temperament, is in danger of trying to construct his life too sedulously on his own lines; and yet these are the very people who help other people most, and in whom the hope of the race lies.  Meek, humble, timid persons, who accept things as they are, who tread in beaten paths, who are easily persuaded, who are cautious, prudent, and submissive, leave things very much as they find them.  I need make no attempt at indicating the line that such people ought to follow, because it is, unhappily, certain that they will follow the line of least resistance, and that they have no more power of initiative than the bricks of a wall or the waters of a stream.  The following considerations will be addressed to people of a certain vividness of nature, who have strong impulses, fervent convictions, vigorous desires.  I shall try to suggest a species of discipline that can be practised by such persons, a line that they can follow, in order that they may aim at, and perhaps attain, a due subordination and co-ordination of themselves and their temperaments.

To treat of intellectual egotism first, the danger that besets such people as I have described is a want of sympathy with other points of view, and the first thing that such natures must aim at, is the getting rid of what I will call the sectarian spirit.  We ought to realize that absolute truth is not the property of any creed or school or nation; the whole lesson of history is the lesson of the danger of affirmation.  The great difference between the modern and the ancient world is the growth of the scientific spirit, and the meaning and value of evidence.  There are many kinds of certainties.  There is the absolute scientific certainty of such propositions as that two and two make four, and cannot possibly make five.  This is of course only the principle that two and two cannot be said to make four, but that they are four, and that 2 + 2 and 4 are only different ways of describing the same phenomenon.  Then there come the lesser certainties, that is to say, the certainties that justify practical action.  A man who is aware that he has twenty thousand pounds in the hands of trustees, whose duty it is to pay him the interest, is justified in spending a certain income; but he cannot be said to know at any moment that the capital is there, because the trustees may have absconded with the money, and the man may not have been informed of the fact.  The danger of the egotist is that he is apt to regard as scientific certainties what are only relative certainties; and the first step towards the tolerant attitude is to get rid of these prejudices as far as possible, and to perceive that the first duty of the philosopher is not to deal in assumptions, but to realize that other people’s regions of what may be called practical certainties - that is to say, the assurances which justify practical action - may be both smaller or even larger than his own.  The first duty then of the man of vivid nature is to fight resolutely against the sin of impatience.  He must realize that some people may regard as a certainty what is to him a questionable opinion, and that his business is not the destruction of the certainties of others, but the defining the limits of his own.  The sympathy that can be practised intellectually is the resolute attempt to enter into the position of others.  The temptation to argue with people of convinced views should be resolutely resisted; argument only strengthens and fortifies the convictions of opponents, and I can honestly say that I have never yet met a man of strong intellectual fibre who was ever converted by argument.  Yet I am sure that it is a duty for all of us to aim at a just appreciation of various points of view, and that we ought to try to understand others rather than to persuade them.

So far I have been speaking of the intellectual region, and I would sum it up by saying that I think that the duty of every thoughtful person, who desires to avoid egotism in the intellectual region, is to cultivate what may be called the scientific, or even the sceptical spirit, to weigh evidence, and not to form conclusions without evidence.  Thus one avoids the dangers of egotism best, because egotism is the frame of mind of the man who says credo quia credo.  Whereas the aim of the philosopher should be to take nothing for granted, and to be ready to give up personal preferences in the light of truth.  In dealing with others in the intellectual region, the object should be not to convince, but to get people to state their own views, and to realize that unless a man converts himself, no one else can; the method therefore should be not to attack conclusions, but to ask patiently for the evidence upon which those conclusions are based.

But there is a danger in lingering too long in the intellectual regions; the other regions of the human spirit may be called the aesthetic and the mystical regions.  To take the aesthetic region next, the duty of the philosopher is to realize at the outset that the perception of beauty is essentially an individual thing, and that the canons of what are called good taste are of all things the most shifting.  In this region the danger of dogmatism is very great, because the more that a man indulges the rapturous perception of the beauty that appeals to himself, the more likely he is to believe that there is no beauty outside of his own perceptions.  The duty of a man who wishes to avoid egotism in this region is to try and recognize faithful conception and firm execution everywhere; to realize that half, and more than half, of the beauty of everything is the beauty of age, remoteness, and association.  There is no temptation so strong for the aesthetic nature, as to deride and contemn the beauty of the art that we have just outgrown.  To take a simple case.  The Early Victorian upholsterers derided the stiffness and austerity of Queen Anne furniture, and the public genuinely admired the florid and rococo forms of Early Victorian art.  A generation passed, and Early Victorian art was relentlessly derided, while the Queen Anne was reinstalled.  Now there are signs of a growing tolerance among connoisseurs of the Early Victorian taste again.  The truth is that there is no absolute beauty in either; that the thing to aim at is progress and development in art, and that probably the most dangerous and decadent sign of all is the reverting to the beauty of a previous age rather than striking out a new line of our own.  The aim then of the man who would avoid aesthetic egotism should be, not to lay down canons of what is or what is not good art, but to try to recognize, as I have said, faithful conception and firm execution wherever he can discern it; and, for himself, to express as vividly as he can his own keenest and acutest perceptions of beauty.  The only beauty that is worth anything, is the beauty perceived in sincerity, and here again the secret lies in resolutely abstaining from laying down laws, from judging, from condemning.  The victory always remains with those who admire, rather than with those who deride, and the power of appreciating is worth any amount of the power of despising.

And now we pass to the third and most intangible region of the spirit, the region that I will call the mystical region.  This is in a sense akin to the aesthetic region, because it partly consists in the appreciation of beauty in ethical things.  Here the danger of the vivid personality is to let his preferences be his guide, and to contemn certain types of character, certain qualities, certain modes of thought, certain points of view.  Here again one’s duty is plain.  It is the resolute avoidance of the critical attitude, the attempt to disentangle the golden thread, the nobility, the purity, the strength, the intensity, that may underlie characters and views that do not superficially appeal to oneself.  The philosopher need not seek the society of uncongenial persons:  such a practice is a useless expenditure of time and energy; but no one can avoid a certain contact with dissimilar natures, and the aim of the philosopher must be to try and do sympathetic justice to them, to seek earnestly for points of contact, rather than to attempt to emphasize differences.  For instance, if the philosopher is thrown into the society of a man who can talk nothing but motor jargon or golfing shop - I select the instances of the conversation that is personally to me the dreariest - he need not attempt to talk of golf or motors, and he is equally bound not to discourse of his own chosen intellectual interests; but he ought to endeavour to find a common region, in which he can meet the golfer or the motorist without mutual dreariness.

Perhaps it may be thought that I have drifted out of the mystical region, but it is not so, for the relations of human beings with each other appear to me to belong to this region.  The strange affinities and hostilities of temperament, the inexplicable and undeniable thing called charm, the attraction and repulsion of character - all this is in the mystical region of the spirit, the region of intuition and instinct, which is a far stronger, more vital, and more general region than the intellectual or the artistic.  And further, there comes the deepest intuition of all, the relation of the human spirit to its Maker, its originating cause.  Whether this relation can be a direct one is a matter for each person to decide from his own experience; but perhaps the only two things of which a human being can be said to be absolutely conscious are his own identity, and the existence of a controlling Power outside of him.  And here lies the deepest danger of all, that a man should attempt to limit or define his conception of the Power that originated him, by his own preferences.  The deepest mystery of all lies in the conviction, which seems to be inextricably rooted in the human spirit, namely, the instinct to distinguish between the impulses which we believe emanate from God, and the impulses which we believe emanate from ourselves.  It is incontestable that the greater part of the human race have the instinct that in following beneficent, unselfish, noble impulses they are following the will of their Maker; but that in yielding to cruel, sensual, low impulses they are acting contrary to the will of the Creator.  And this intuition is one which many of us do not doubt, though it is a principle, which cannot be scientifically proved.  Indeed, it is incontestable that, though we believe the will of God to be on the side of what is good, yet He puts many obstacles, or permits them to be put, in the way of the man who desires to act rightly.

The only way, I believe, in this last region, in which we can hope to improve, to win victories, is the way of a quiet and sincere submission.  It is easy to submit to the Will of God when it sends us joy and peace, when it makes us courageous, high-hearted, and just.  The difficulty is to acquiesce when He sends us adversity, ill-health, suffering; when He permits us to sin, or if that is a faithless phrase, does not grant us strength to resist.  But we must try to be patient, we must try to interpret the value of suffering, the meaning of failure, the significance of shame.  Perhaps it may be urged that this too is a temptation of egotism in another guise, and that we grow thus to conceive of ourselves as filling too large a space in the mind of God.  But unless we do this, we can only conceive of ourselves as the victims of God’s inattention or neglect, which is a wholly despairing thought.

In one sense we must be egotistic, if self-knowledge is egotism.  We must try to take the measure of our faculties, and we must try to use them.  But while we must wisely humiliate ourselves before the majesty of God, the vast and profound scheme of the Universe, we must at the same time believe that we have our place and our work; that God indeed purposely set us where we find ourselves; and among the complicated difficulties of sense, of temptation, of unhappiness, of failure, we must try to fix our eyes humbly and faithfully upon the best, and seek to be worthy of it.  We must try not to be self-sufficient, but to be humble and yet diligent.

I do not think that we practise this simple resignation often enough; it is astonishing how the act of placing our own will as far as possible in unison with the Will of God restores our tranquillity.

It was only a short time ago that I was walking alone among fields and villages.  It was one of those languid days of early spring, when the frame and the mind alike seem unstrung and listless.  The orchards were white with flower, and the hedges were breaking into fresh green.  I had just returned to my work after a brief and delightful holiday, and was overshadowed with the vague depression that the resumption of work tends to bring to anxious minds.  I entered a little ancient church that stood open; it was full of sunlight, and had been tenderly decked with an abundance of spring flowers.  If I had been glad at heart it would have seemed a sweet place, full of peace and beautiful mysteries.  But it had no voice, no message for me.  I was overshadowed too by a sad anxiety about one whom I loved, who was acting perversely and unworthily.  There came into my mind a sudden gracious thought to commit myself to the heart of God, not to disguise my weakness and anxiety, not to ask that the load should be lightened, but that I might endure His will to the uttermost.

In a moment came the strength I sought; no lightening of the load, but a deeper serenity, a desire to bear it faithfully.  The very fragrance of the flowers seemed to mingle like a sweet incense with my vow.  The old walls whispered of patience and hope.  I do not know where the peace that then settled upon me came from, but not, it seemed, out of the slender resources of my own vexed spirit.

But after all, the wonder is, in this mysterious world, not that there is so much egotism abroad, but that there is so little!  Considering the narrow space, the little cage of bones and skin, in which our spirit is confined, like a fluttering bird, it often astonished me to find how much of how many people’s thoughts is not given to themselves, but to their work, their friends, their families.

The simplest and most practical cure for egotism, after all, is resolutely to suppress public manifestations of it; and it is best to overcome it as a matter of good manners, rather than as a matter of religious principle.  One does not want people to be impersonal; all one desires to feel is that their interest and sympathy is not, so to speak, tethered by the leg, and only able to hobble in a small and trodden circle.  One does not want people to suppress their personality, but to be ready to compare it with the personalities of others, rather than to refer other personalities to the standard of their own; to be generous and expansive, if possible, and if that is not possible, or not easy, to be prepared, at least, to take such deliberate steps as all can take, in the right direction.  We can all force ourselves to express interest in the tastes and idiosyncrasies of others, we can ask questions, we can cultivate relations.  The one way in which we can all of us improve, is to commit ourselves to a course of action from which we shall be ashamed to draw back.  Many people who would otherwise drift into self-regarding ways do this when they marry.  They may marry for egotistical reasons; but once inside the fence, affection and duty and the amazing experience of having children of their own give them the stimulus they need.  But even the most helpless celibate has only to embark upon relations with others, to find them multiply and increase.  After all, egotism has little to do with the forming or holding of strong opinions, or even with the intentness with which we pursue our aims.  The dog is the intentest of all animals, and throws himself most eagerly into his pursuits, but he is also the least egotistical and the most sympathetic of creatures.  Egotism resides more in a kind of proud isolation, in a species of contempt for the opinions and aims of others.  It is not, as a rule, the most successful men who are the most egotistical.  The most uncompromisingly egotist I know is a would-be literary man, who has the most pathetic belief in the interest and significance of his own very halting performances, a belief which no amount of rejection or indifference can shake, and who has hardly a good word for the books of other writers.  I have sometimes thought that it is in his case a species of mental disease, because he is an acute critic of all work except his own.  Doctors will indeed tell one that transcendent egotism is very nearly allied to insanity; but in ordinary cases a little common sense and a little courtesy will soon suppress the manifestations of the tendency, if a man can only realize that the forming of decided opinions is the cheapest luxury in the world, while a licence to express them uncompromisingly is one of the most expensive.  Perhaps the hardest kind of egotism to cure, is the egotism that is combined with a deferential courtesy, and the power of displaying a superficial sympathy, because an egotist of this type so seldom encounters any checks which would convince him of his fault.  Such people, if they have natural ability, often achieve great success, because they pursue their own ambitions with relentless perseverance, and have the tact to do it without appearing to interfere with the designs of others.  They bide their time; they are all consideration and delicacy; they are never importunate or tiresome; if they fail, they accept the failure as though it were a piece of undeserved good fortune; they never have a grievance; they simply wipe up the spilt milk, and say no more about it; baffled at one point, they go quietly round the corner, and continue their quest.  They never for a moment really consider any one’s interests except their own; even their generous impulses are deliberately calculated for the sake of the artistic effect.  Such people make it hard to believe in disinterested virtue; yet they join with the meek in inheriting the earth, and their prosperity seems the sign of Divine approval.

But apart from the definite steps that the ordinary, moderately interesting, moderately successful man may take, in the direction of a cure for egotism, the best cure, after all, for all faults, is a humble desire to be different.  That is the most transforming power in the world; we may fail a thousand times, but as long as we are ashamed of our failure, as long as we do not helplessly acquiesce, as long as we do not try to comfort ourselves for it by a careful parade of our other virtues, we are in the pilgrim’s road.  It is a childish fault, after all.  I watched to-day a party of children at play.  One detestable little boy, the clumsiest and most incapable of the party, spent the whole time in climbing up a step and jumping from it, while he entreated all the others to see how far he could project himself.  There was not a child there who could not have jumped twice as far, but they were angelically patient and sympathetic with the odious little wretch.  It seemed to me a sad, small parable of what we so many of us are engaged all our lives long in doing.  The child had no eyes for and no thoughts of the rest; he simply reiterated his ridiculous performance, and claimed admiration.  There came into my mind that exquisite and beautiful ode, the work too, strange to say, of a transcendent egotist, Coventry Patmore, and the prayer he made: 

   “Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,
    Nor vexing Thee in death,
    And Thou rememberest of what toys
    We made our joys,
    How weakly understood
    Thy great commanded good,
    Then, fatherly not less
    Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
    Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
    ‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’”

This is where we may leave our problem; leave it, that is to say, if we have faithfully struggled with it, if we have tried to amend ourselves and to encourage others; if we have done all this, and reached a point beyond which progress seems impossible.  But we must not fling our problems and perplexities, as we are apt to do, upon the knees of God, the very instant they begin to bewilder us, as children bring a tangled skein, or a toy bent crooked, to a nurse.  We must not, I say; and yet, after all, I am not sure that it is not the best and simplest way of all!