Get ebook downloads in full at ebookmeta.

com

Research Software Engineering with Python:

Building software that makes research possible 1st
Edition Damien Irving

https://ebookmeta.com/product/research-software-engineering-
with-python-building-software-that-makes-research-
possible-1st-edition-damien-irving/

OR CLICK BUTTON

DOWNLOAD NOW

Explore and download more ebook at https://ebookmeta.com

 Recommended digital products (PDF, EPUB, MOBI) that
you can download immediately if you are interested.

Applied Mathematics with Open Source Software Operational

Research Problems with Python and R 1st Edition Vincent
Knight
https://ebookmeta.com/product/applied-mathematics-with-open-source-
software-operational-research-problems-with-python-and-r-1st-edition-
vincent-knight/
ebookmeta.com

Software Engineering Research and Practice 1st Edition

Hamid R Arabnia Leonidas Deligiannidis Fernando G Tinetti

https://ebookmeta.com/product/software-engineering-research-and-
practice-1st-edition-hamid-r-arabnia-leonidas-deligiannidis-fernando-
g-tinetti/
ebookmeta.com

Engineering Software Products: An Introduction to Modern

Software Engineering Ian Sommerville

https://ebookmeta.com/product/engineering-software-products-an-
introduction-to-modern-software-engineering-ian-sommerville/

ebookmeta.com

Famous Obsession Endless Obsession 1st Edition M K Moore

https://ebookmeta.com/product/famous-obsession-endless-obsession-1st-
edition-m-k-moore-2/

ebookmeta.com
Self Defense for Women Fight Back 2nd Edition Loren W
Christensen Lisa Christensen

https://ebookmeta.com/product/self-defense-for-women-fight-back-2nd-
edition-loren-w-christensen-lisa-christensen/

ebookmeta.com

The Authority of Tenderness Dignity and the True Self in

Psychoanalysis 1st Edition Paul Williams

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-authority-of-tenderness-dignity-and-
the-true-self-in-psychoanalysis-1st-edition-paul-williams/

ebookmeta.com

The Healing Energy of Your Hands Michael Bradford

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-healing-energy-of-your-hands-
michael-bradford-2/

ebookmeta.com

Expert Python Programming 2nd Edition Michal Jaworski

Tarek Ziadé

https://ebookmeta.com/product/expert-python-programming-2nd-edition-
michal-jaworski-tarek-ziade/

ebookmeta.com

New Screen Media Cinema Art Narrative 1st Edition Martin

Rieser

https://ebookmeta.com/product/new-screen-media-cinema-art-
narrative-1st-edition-martin-rieser/

ebookmeta.com
His Terms 1st Edition Jenika Snow

https://ebookmeta.com/product/his-terms-1st-edition-jenika-snow/

ebookmeta.com
Research Software Engineering
with Python
Research Software Engineering
with Python
Building software that makes research
possible

Damien Irving
Kate Hertweck
Luke Johnston
Joel Ostblom
Charlotte Wickham
Greg Wilson
First edition published 2022
by CRC Press
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300, Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742

and by CRC Press

2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN

© 2022 Damien Irving, Kate Hertweck, Luke Johnston, Joel Ostblom, Charlotte Wickham, and
Greg Wilson

CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, LLC

Reasonable efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but the author and
publisher cannot assume responsibility for the validity of all materials or the consequences of their
use. The authors and publishers have attempted to trace the copyright holders of all material
reproduced in this publication and apologize to copyright holders if permission to publish in this
form has not been obtained. If any copyright material has not been acknowledged please write and
let us know so we may rectify in any future reprint.

Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Law, no part of this book may be reprinted, reproduced,
transmitted, or utilized in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or
hereafter invented, including photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publishers.

For permission to photocopy or use material electronically from this work, access
www.copyright.com or contact the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. (CCC), 222 Rosewood Drive,
Danvers, MA 01923, 978-750-8400. For works that are not available on CCC please contact
mpkbookspermissions@tandf.co.uk

Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks and are
used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.

Library of Congress Cataloging‑in‑Publication Data

Names: Irving, Damien, author.
Title: Research software engineering with Python : building software that
makes research possible / Damien Irving, Kate Hertweck, Luke William
Johnston, Joel Ostblom, Charlotte Wickham, and Greg Wilson.
Description: First edition. | Boca Raton, FL : CRC Press, 2021. | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021006032 | ISBN 9780367698348 (hardback) | ISBN
9780367698324 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003143482 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Research--Data processing. | Computer
software--Development. | Python (Computer program language)
Classification: LCC Q180.55.E4 I76 2021 | DDC 001.40285/5133--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021006032

ISBN: 978-0-367-69834-8 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-0-367-69832-4 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-14348-2 (ebk)

DOI: 10.1201/9781003143482

Publisher's note: This book has been prepared from camera-ready copy provided by the authors.
 To David Flanders
who taught me so much about growing and sustaining coding communities.
— Damien

To the UofT Coders Group

who taught us much more than we taught them.
— Luke and Joel

To my parents Judy and John

who taught me to love books and everything I can learn from them.
— Kate

To Joshua.
— Charlotte

To Brent Gorda
without whom none of this would have happened.
— Greg

All royalties from this book are being donated to The Carpentries,
an organization that teaches foundational coding and data science skills
to researchers worldwide.
Contents

Welcome 1
0.1 The Big Picture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
0.2 Intended Audience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
0.3 What You Will Learn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
0.4 Using this Book . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
0.5 Contributing and Re-Use . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
0.6 Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

1 Getting Started 7
1.1 Project Structure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
1.2 Downloading the Data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
1.3 Installing the Software . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
1.4 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
1.5 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
1.6 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

2 The Basics of the Unix Shell 13

2.1 Exploring Files and Directories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
2.2 Moving Around . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
2.3 Creating New Files and Directories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
2.4 Moving Files and Directories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
2.5 Copying Files and Directories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
2.6 Deleting Files and Directories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
2.7 Wildcards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
2.8 Reading the Manual . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

iii
iv Contents

2.9 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
2.10 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
2.11 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44

3 Building Tools with the Unix Shell 45

3.1 Combining Commands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
3.2 How Pipes Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
3.3 Repeating Commands on Many Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
3.4 Variable Names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
3.5 Redoing Things . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
3.6 Creating New Filenames Automatically . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
3.7 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
3.8 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
3.9 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

4 Going Further with the Unix Shell 69

4.1 Creating New Commands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
4.2 Making Scripts More Versatile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
4.3 Turning Interactive Work into a Script . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
4.4 Finding Things in Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
4.5 Finding Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
4.6 Configuring the Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
4.7 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
4.8 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
4.9 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93

5 Building Command-Line Tools with Python 95

5.1 Programs and Modules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
5.2 Handling Command-Line Options . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
5.3 Documentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
5.4 Counting Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
5.5 Pipelining . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Contents v

5.6 Positional and Optional Arguments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108

5.7 Collating Results . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
5.8 Writing Our Own Modules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
5.9 Plotting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
5.10 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
5.11 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
5.12 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120

6 Using Git at the Command Line 121

6.1 Setting Up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
6.2 Creating a New Repository . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
6.3 Adding Existing Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
6.4 Describing Commits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
6.5 Saving and Tracking Changes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130
6.6 Synchronizing with Other Repositories . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
6.7 Exploring History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
6.8 Restoring Old Versions of Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
6.9 Ignoring Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
6.10 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
6.11 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
6.12 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

7 Going Further with Git 157

7.1 What’s a Branch? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
7.2 Creating a Branch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
7.3 What Curve Should We Fit? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161
7.4 Verifying Zipf’s Law . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
7.5 Merging . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
7.6 Handling Conflicts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
7.7 A Branch-Based Workflow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
7.8 Using Other People’s Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
vi Contents

7.9 Pull Requests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184

7.10 Handling Conflicts in Pull Requests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
7.11 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194
7.12 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
7.13 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196

8 Working in Teams 199

8.1 What Is a Project? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200
8.2 Include Everyone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
8.3 Establish a Code of Conduct . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202
8.4 Include a License . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
8.5 Planning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210
8.6 Bug Reports . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212
8.7 Labeling Issues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
8.8 Prioritizing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216
8.9 Meetings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218
8.10 Making Decisions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221
8.11 Make All This Obvious to Newcomers . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
8.12 Handling Conflict . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
8.13 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226
8.14 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227
8.15 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229

9 Automating Analyses with Make 231

9.1 Updating a Single File . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
9.2 Managing Multiple Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235
9.3 Updating Files When Programs Change . . . . . . . . . . . 237
9.4 Reducing Repetition in a Makefile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238
9.5 Automatic Variables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240
9.6 Generic Rules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
9.7 Defining Sets of Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243
Contents vii

9.8 Documenting a Makefile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246

9.9 Automating Entire Analyses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 248
9.10 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
9.11 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
9.12 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255

10 Configuring Programs 257

10.1 Configuration File Formats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258
10.2 Matplotlib Configuration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259
10.3 The Global Configuration File . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260
10.4 The User Configuration File . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
10.5 Adding Command-Line Options . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263
10.6 A Job Control File . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 264
10.7 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267
10.8 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 268
10.9 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 270

11 Testing Software 271

11.1 Assertions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272
11.2 Unit Testing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 274
11.3 Testing Frameworks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276
11.4 Testing Floating-Point Values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 280
11.5 Integration Testing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283
11.6 Regression Testing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285
11.7 Test Coverage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286
11.8 Continuous Integration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
11.9 When to Write Tests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293
11.10 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
11.11 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
11.12 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298
viii Contents

12 Handling Errors 299

12.1 Exceptions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 300
12.2 Writing Useful Error Messages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 307
12.3 Testing Error Handling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309
12.4 Reporting Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 310
12.5 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314
12.6 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314
12.7 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319

13 Tracking Provenance 321

13.1 Data Provenance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323
13.2 Code Provenance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325
13.3 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 330
13.4 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 330
13.5 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 333

14 Creating Packages with Python 335

14.1 Creating a Python Package . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 336
14.2 Virtual Environments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339
14.3 Installing a Development Package . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 342
14.4 What Installation Does . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 349
14.5 Distributing Packages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 350
14.6 Documenting Packages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355
14.7 Software Journals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365
14.8 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 366
14.9 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 366
14.10 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 368

15 Finale 369
15.1 Why We Wrote This Book . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 370

Appendix 371
Contents ix

A Solutions 371

B Learning Objectives 419

B.1 Getting Started . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419
B.2 The Basics of the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419
B.3 Building Tools with the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 420
B.4 Going Further with the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 420
B.5 Building Command-Line Tools with Python . . . . . . . . . 420
B.6 Using Git at the Command Line . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421
B.7 Going Further with Git . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421
B.8 Working in Teams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 422
B.9 Automating Analyses with Make . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 422
B.10 Configuring Programs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 422
B.11 Testing Software . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 423
B.12 Handling Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 423
B.13 Tracking Provenance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 423
B.14 Creating Packages with Python . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 424

C Key Points 425

C.1 Getting Started . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 425
C.2 The Basics of the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 425
C.3 Building Tools with the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 426
C.4 Going Further with the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 427
C.5 Building Command-Line Programs in Python . . . . . . . . 427
C.6 Using Git at the Command Line . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 428
C.7 Going Further with Git . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 428
C.8 Working in Teams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 429
C.9 Automating Analyses with Make . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 429
C.10 Configuring Programs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 430
C.11 Testing Software . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 430
C.12 Handling Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 430
C.13 Tracking Provenance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 431
C.14 Creating Packages with Python . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 431
x Contents

D Project Tree 433

E Working Remotely 437

E.1 Logging In . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 437
E.2 Copying Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 439
E.3 Running Commands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441
E.4 Creating Keys . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441
E.5 Dependencies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 443

F Writing Readable Code 447

F.1 Python Style . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 447
F.2 Order . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 450
F.3 Checking Style . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 452
F.4 Refactoring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 454
F.5 Code Reviews . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 463
F.6 Python Features . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 467
F.7 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 472

G Documenting Programs 473

G.1 Writing Good Docstrings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 473
G.2 Defining Your Audience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 476
G.3 Creating an FAQ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 478

H YAML 481

I Anaconda 485
I.1 Package Management with conda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 485
I.2 Environment Management with conda . . . . . . . . . . . . 487

J Glossary 489

K References 503

Index 511
Other documents randomly have
different content
 CHAPTER XV
DEMOCRACY AND DISTINCTION

The Problem—Democracy Should be Distinguished from

Transition—The Dead-Level Theory of Democracy—
Confusion and Its Effects—“Individualism” May not be
Favorable to Distinguished Individuality—Contemporary
Uniformity—Relative Advantages of America and Europe
—Haste, Superficiality, Strain—Spiritual Economy of a
Settled Order—Commercialism—Zeal for Diffusion—
Conclusion.
What shall we say of the democratic trend of the modern world as
it affects the finer sort of intellectual achievement? While the
conscious sway of the masses seems not uncongenial to the more
popular and obvious kinds of eminence, as of statesmen, inventors,
soldiers, financiers and the like, there are many who believe it to be
hostile to distinction in literature, art or science. Is there hope for this
also, or must we be content to offset the dearth of greatness by the
abundance of mediocrity?
This, I take it, is a matter for a priori psychological reasoning rather
than for close induction from fact. The present democratic movement
is so different from anything in the past that historical comparison of
any large sort is nearly or quite worthless. And, moreover, it is so
bound up with other conditions which are not essential to it and may
well prove transient, that even contemporary fact gives us very little
secure guidance. All that is really practicable is a survey of the broad
principles at work and a rough attempt to forecast how they may
work out. An inquiry of this sort seems to me to lead to conclusions
somewhat as follows.
First, there is, I believe, no sound reason for thinking that the
democratic spirit or organization is in its essential nature hostile to
distinguished production. Indeed, one who holds that the opposite is
the case, while he will not be able to silence the pessimist, will find
little in fact or theory to shake his own faith.
Second, although democracy itself is not hostile, so far as we can
make out its nature by general reasoning, there is much that is so in
the present state of thought, both in the world at large and, more
particularly, in the United States.
In this, as in all discussions regarding contemporary tendency, we
need to discriminate between democracy and transition. At present
the two go together because democracy is new; but there is no
reason in the nature of things why they should remain together. As
popular rule becomes established it proves capable of developing a
stability, even a rigidity, of its own; and it is already apparent that the
United States, for instance, just because democracy has had its way
there, is less liable to sudden transitions than perhaps any other of
the great nations.
It is true that democracy involves some elements of permanent
unrest. Thus, by demanding open opportunity and resisting
hereditary stratification, it will probably maintain a competition of
persons more general, and as regards personal status more
unsettling, than anything the world has been used to in the past. But
personal competition alone is the cause of only a small part of the
stress and disorder of our time; much more being due to general
changes in the social system, particularly in industry, which we may
describe as transition. And moreover, competition itself is in a
specially disordered or transitional state at present, and will be less
disquieting when a more settled state of society permits it to be
carried on under established rules of justice, and when a
discriminating education shall do a large part of its work. In short,
democracy is not necessarily confusion, and we shall find reason to
think that it is the latter, chiefly, that is opposed to distinction.
The view that popular rule is in its nature unsuited to foster genius
rests chiefly on the dead-level theory. Equality not distinction is said
to be the passion of the masses, diffusion not concentration.
Everything moves on a vast and vaster scale: the facility of
intercourse is melting the world into one fluid whole in which the
single individual is more and more submerged. The era of salient
personalities is passing away, and the principle of equality, which
ensures the elevation of men in general, is fatal to particular
greatness. “In modern society,” said De Tocqueville, the chief
begetter of this doctrine, “everything threatens to become so much
alike that the peculiar characteristics of each individual will soon be
entirely lost in the general aspect of the world.”[75] Shall we agree
with this or maintain with Plato that a democracy will have the
greatest variety of human nature?[76]
Perhaps the most plausible basis for this theory is the levelling
effect ascribed by many to the facilities for communication that have
grown up so surprisingly within the past century. In a former chapter I
have said much upon this matter, holding that we must distinguish
between the individuality of choice and that of isolation, and giving
reasons why the modern facility of intercourse should be favorable to
the former.
To this we may add that the mere fact of popular rule has no
inevitable connection, either friendly or hostile, with variety and vigor
of individuality. If France is somewhat lacking in these, it is not
because she is democratic, but because of the race traits of her
people and her peculiar antecedents; if America abounds in a certain
kind of individuality, it is chiefly because she inherited it from
England and developed it in a frontier life. In either case democracy,
in the sense of popular government, is a secondary matter.
Certainly, America is a rather convincing proof that democracy
does not necessarily suppress salient personality. So far as
individuality of spirit is concerned, our life leaves little to be desired,
and no trait impresses itself more than this upon observers from the
continent of Europe. “All things grow clear in the United States,” says
Paul Bourget, “when one understands them as an immense act of
faith in the social beneficence of individual energy left to itself.”[77]
The “individualism” of our social system is a commonplace of
contemporary writers. Nowhere else, not even in England, I
suppose, is there more respect for non-conformity or more
disposition to assert it. In our intensely competitive life men learn to
value character above similarity, and one who has character may
hold what opinions he pleases. Personality, as Mr. Brownell points
out in contrasting the Americans with the French, is the one thing of
universal interest here: our conversation, our newspapers, our
elections are dominated by it, and our great commercial transactions
are largely a struggle for supremacy among rival leaders.[78] The
augmenting numbers of the people, far from obscuring the salient
individual, only make for him a larger theatre of success; and
personal reputation—whether for wealth, statesmanship, literary
achievement, or for mere singularity—is organized on a greater
scale than ever before. One who is familiar with any province of
American life, as for example, that of charitable and penal reform, is
aware that almost every advance is made through the embodiment
of timely ideas in one or a few energetic individuals who set an
example for the country to follow. Experience with numbers, instead
of showing the insignificance of the individual, proves that if he has
faith and a worthy aim there is no limit to what he may do; and we
find, accordingly, plenty of courage in starting new projects. The
country is full of men who find the joys of self-assertion, if not always
of outward success, in the bold pursuit of hazardous enterprises.
If there is a deficiency of literary and artistic achievement in a
democracy of this kind, it is due to some other cause than a general
submergence of the individual in the mass.
The dead-level theory, then, is sufficiently discredited as a general
law by the undiminished ascendency of salient individualities in
every province of activity. The enlargement of social consciousness
does not alter the essential relation of individuality to life, but simply
gives it a greater field of success or failure. The man of genius may
meet with more competition, but if he is truly great a larger world is
his. To imagine that the mass will submerge the individual is to
suppose that one aspect of society will stand still while the other
grows. It rests upon a superficial, numerical way of thinking, which
regards individuals as fixed units each of which must become less
conspicuous the more they are multiplied. But if the man of genius
represents a spiritual principle his influence is not fixed but grows
with the growth of life itself, and is limited only by the vitality of what
he stands for. Surely the great men of the past—Plato, Dante,
Shakespeare and the rest—are not submerged, nor in danger of
being; nor is it apparent why their successors should be.
The real cause of literary and artistic weakness (in so far as it
exists) I take to be chiefly the spiritual disorganization incident to a
time of rather sudden transition. How this condition, and others
closely associated with it, are unfavorable to great æsthetic
production, I shall try to point out under the four heads, confusion,
commercialism, haste and zeal for diffusion.
With reference to the higher products of culture, not only the
United States, but in some degree contemporary civilization in
general, is a confused, a raw, society, not as being democratic but as
being new. It is our whole newspaper and factory epoch that is
crude, and scarcely more so in America than in England or
Germany; the main difference in favor of European countries being
that the present cannot so easily be separated from the conditions of
an earlier culture. It is a general trait of the time that social types are
disintegrated, old ones going to pieces and new ones not perfected,
leaving the individual without adequate discipline either in the old or
in the new.
Now works of enduring greatness seem to depend, among other
things, on a certain ripeness of historical conditions. No matter how
gifted an individual may be, he is in no way apart from his time, but
has to take that and make the best of it he can; the man of genius is
in one point of view only a twig upon which a mature tendency bears
its perfect fruit. In the new epoch the vast things in process are as
yet so unfinished that individual gifts are scarce sufficient to bring
anything to a classical completeness; so that our life remains
somewhat inarticulate, our literature, and still more our plastic art,
being inadequate exponents of what is most vital in the modern
spirit.
The psychological effect of confusion is a lack of mature culture
groups, and of what they only can do for intellectual or æsthetic
production. What this means may, perhaps, be made clearer by a
comparison drawn from athletic sports. We find in our colleges that
to produce a winning foot-ball team, or distinguished performance in
running or jumping, it is essential first of all to have a spirit of intense
interest in these things, which shall arouse the ambition of those
having natural gifts, support them in their training and reward their
success. Without this group spirit no efficient organization, no high
standard of achievement, can exist, and a small institution that has
this will easily surpass a large one that lacks it. And experience
shows that it takes much time to perfect such a spirit and the
organizations through which it is expressed.
In quite the same way any ripe development of productive power
in literary or other art implies not merely capable individuals but the
perfection of a social group, whose traditions and spirit the individual
absorbs, and which floats him up to a point whence he can reach
unique achievement. The unity of this group or type is spiritual, not
necessarily local or temporal, and so may be difficult to trace, but its
reality is as sure as the principle that man is a social being and
cannot think sanely and steadfastly except in some sort of sympathy
with his fellows. There must be others whom we can conceive as
sharing, corroborating and enhancing our ideals, and to no one is
such association more necessary than the man of genius.
The group is likely to be more apparent or tangible in some arts
than in others: it is generally quite evident in painting, sculpture,
architecture and music, where a regular development by the
passage of inspiration from one artist to another can almost always
be traced. In literature the connections are less obvious, chiefly
because this art is in its methods more disengaged from time and
place, so that it is easier to draw inspiration from distant sources. It is
also partly a matter of temperament, men of somewhat solitary
imagination being able to form their group out of remote
personalities, and so to be almost independent of time and place.
Thus Thoreau lived with the Greek and Hindoo classics, with the old
English poets, and with the suggestions of nature; but even he owed
much to contemporary influences, and the more he is studied the
less solitary he appears. Is not this the case also with Wordsworth,
with Dante, with all men who are supposed to have stood alone?
 The most competent of all authorities on this question—Goethe—
was a full believer in the dependence of genius on influences.
“People are always talking about originality,” he says, “but what do
they mean? As soon as we are born the world begins to work upon
us, and this goes on to the end. And after all what can we call our
own except energy, strength and will? If I could give an account of all
that I owe to great predecessors and contemporaries, there would be
but a small balance in my favor.”[79] He even held that men of genius
are more dependent upon their environment than others; for, being
thinner-skinned, they are more suggestible, more perturbable, and
peculiarly in need of the right sort of surroundings to keep their
delicate machinery in fruitful action.
No doubt such questions afford ground for infinite debate, but the
underlying principle that the thought of every man is one with that of
a group, visible or invisible, is sure, I think, to prove sound; and if so
it is indispensable that a great capacity should find access to a group
whose ideals and standards are of a sort to make the most of it.
Another reason why the rawness of the modern world is
unfavorable to great production is that the ideals themselves which a
great art should express share in the general incompleteness of
things and do not present themselves to the mind clearly defined and
incarnate in vivid symbols. Perhaps a certain fragmentariness and
pettiness in contemporary art and literature is due more to this cause
than to any other—to the fact that the aspirations of the time, large
enough, certainly, are too much obscured in smoke to be clearly and
steadily regarded. We may believe, for example, in democracy, but it
can hardly be said that we see democracy, as the middle ages, in
their art, saw the Christian religion.
From this point of view of groups and organization it is easy to
understand why the “individualism” of our epoch does not
necessarily produce great individuals. Individuality may easily be
aggressive and yet futile, because not based on the training afforded
by well-organized types—like the fruitless valor of an isolated soldier.
Mr. Brownell points out that the prevalence of this sort of individuality
in our art and life is a point of contrast between us and the French.
Paris, compared with New York, has the “organic quality which
results from variety of types,” as distinguished from variety of
individuals. “We do far better in the production of striking artistic
personalities than we do in the general medium of taste and culture.
We figure well, invariably, at the Salon.... Comparatively speaking, of
course, we have no milieu.”[80]
The same conditions underlie that comparative uniformity of
American life which wearies the visitor and implants in the native
such a passion for Europe. When a populous society springs up
rapidly from a few transplanted seeds, its structure, however vast, is
necessarily somewhat simple and monotonous. A thousand towns,
ten thousand churches, a million houses, are built on the same
models, and the people and the social institutions do not altogether
escape a similar poverty of types. No doubt this is sometimes
exaggerated, and America does present many picturesque
variations, but only a reckless enthusiasm will equal them with those
of Europe. How unspeakably inferior in exterior aspect and in many
inner conditions of culture must any recent civilization be to that, let
us say, of Italy, whose accumulated riches represent the deposit of
several thousand years.
Such deposits, however, belong to the past; and as regards
contemporary accretions the sameness of London or Rome is hardly
less than that of Chicago. It is a matter of the epoch, more
conspicuous here chiefly because it has had fuller sweep. A heavy
fall of crude commercialism is rapidly obscuring the contours of
history.
In comparison with Europe America has the advantages that come
from being more completely in the newer current of things. It is
nearer, perhaps, to the spirit of the coming order, and so perhaps
more likely, in due time, to give it adequate utterance in art. Another
benefit of being new is the attitude of confidence that it fosters. If
America could hardly have sustained the assured mastery of
Tennyson, neither, perhaps, could England an optimism like that of
Emerson. In contrast to the latter, Carlyle, Ruskin and Tolstoi—
prophets of an older world—are shadowed by a feeling of the
ascendency and inertia of ancient and somewhat decadent
institutions. They are afraid of them, and so are apt to be rather shrill
in protest. An American, accustomed to see human nature have
pretty much its own way, has seldom any serious mistrust of the
outcome. Nearly all of our writers—as Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell,
Whittier, Holmes, Thoreau, Whitman, even Hawthorne—have been
of a cheerful and wholesome personality.[81]
On the other hand, an old civilization has from its mere antiquity a
richness and complexity of spiritual life that cannot be transplanted
to a new world. The immigrants bring with them the traditions of
which they feel in immediate need, such as those necessary to found
the state, the church and the family; but even these lose something
of their original flavor, while much of what is subtler and less
evidently useful is left behind. We must remember, too, that the
culture of the Old World is chiefly a class culture, and that the
immigrants have mostly come from a class that had no great part in
it.
With this goes loss of the visible monuments of culture inherited
from the past—architecture, painting, sculpture, ancient universities
and the like. Burne-Jones, the English painter, speaking of the
commercial city in which he spent his youth, says: ... “if there had
been one cast from ancient Greek sculpture, or one faithful copy of a
great Italian picture, to be seen in Birmingham when I was a boy, I
should have begun to paint ten years before I did ... even the silent
presence of great works in your town will produce an impression on
those who see them, and the next generation will, without knowing
how or why, find it easier to learn than this one does whose
surroundings are so unlovely.”[82]
Nor is American life favorable to the rapid crystallization of a new
artistic culture; it is too transient and restless; transatlantic migration
is followed by internal movements from east to west and from city to
country; while on top of these we have a continuous subversion of
industrial relations.[83]
Another element of special confusion in our life is the headlong
mixture of races, temperaments and traditions that comes from the
new immigration, from the irruption by millions of peoples from the
south and east of the Old World. If they were wholly inferior, as we
sometimes imagine, it would perhaps not matter so much; but the
truth is that they contest every intellectual function with the older
stock, and, in the universities for instance, are shortly found teaching
our children their own history and literature. They assimilate, but
always with a difference, and in the northern United States, formerly
dominated by New England influences, a revolution from this cause
is well under way. It is as if a kettle of broth were cooking quietly on
the fire, when some one should come in and add suddenly a great
pailful of raw meats, vegetables and spices—a rich combination,
possibly, but likely to require much boiling. That fine English
sentiment that came down to us through the colonists more purely,
perhaps, than to the English in the old country, is passing away—as
a distinct current, that is—lost in a flood of cosmopolitan life. Before
us, no doubt, is a larger humanity, but behind is a cherished spirit
that can hardly live again; and, like the boy who leaves home, we
must turn our thoughts from an irrevocable past and go hopefully on
to we know not what.
In short, our world lacks maturity of culture organization. What we
sometimes call—truly enough as regards its economic life—our
complex civilization, is simple to the point of poverty in spiritual
structure. We have cast off much rubbish and decay and are
preparing, we may reasonably hope, to produce an art and literature
worthy of our vigor and aspiration, but in the past, certainly, we have
hardly done so.
Haste and the superficiality and strain which attend upon it are
widely and insidiously destructive of good work in our day. No other
condition of mind or of society—not ignorance, poverty, oppression
or hate—kills art as haste does. Almost any phase of life may be
ennobled if there is only calm enough in which the brooding mind
may do its perfect work upon it; but out of hurry nothing noble ever
did or can emerge. In art human nature should come to a total,
adequate expression; a spiritual tendency should be perfected and
recorded in calmness and joy. But ours is, on the whole, a time of
stress, of the habit of incomplete work; its products are unlovely and
unrestful and such as the future will have no joy in. The pace is
suited only to turn out mediocre goods on a vast scale.
 It is, to put the matter otherwise, a loud time. The newspapers, the
advertising, the general insistence of suggestion, have an effect of
din, so that one feels that he must raise his voice to be heard, and
the whispers of the gods are hard to catch. Men whose voices are
naturally low and fine easily lose this trait in the world and begin to
shout like the rest. That is to say, they exaggerate and repeat and
advertise and caricature, saying too much in the hope that a little
may be heard. Of course, in the long run this is a fatal delusion;
nothing will really be listened to except that whose quiet truth makes
it worth hearing; but it is one so rooted in the general state of things
that few escape it. Even those who preserve the lower tone do so
with an effort which is in itself disquieting.
A strenuous state of mind is always partial and special, sacrificing
scope to intensity and more fitted for execution than insight. It is
useful at times, but if habitual cuts us off from that sea of
subconscious spirit from which all original power flows. “The world of
art,” says Paul Bourget, speaking of America, “requires less self-
consciousness—an impulse of life which forgets itself, the
alternations of dreamy idleness with fervid execution.”[84] So Henry
James[85] remarks that we have practically lost the faculty of
attention, meaning, I suppose, that unstrenuous, brooding sort of
attention required to produce or appreciate works of art—and as
regards the prevalent type of business or professional mind this
seems quite true.
It comes mainly from having too many things to think of, from the
urgency and distraction of an epoch and a country in which the
traditional structures that support the mind and save its energy have
largely gone to pieces. The endeavor to supply by will functions that
in other conditions would be automatic creates a rush which imitation
renders epidemic, and from which it is not easy to escape in order to
mature one’s powers in fruitful quiet.
There is an immense spiritual economy in any settled state of
society, sufficient, so far as production is concerned, to offset much
that is stagnant or oppressive; the will is saved and concentrated;
while freedom, as De Tocqueville noted, sometimes produces “a
small, distressing motion, a sort of incessant jostling of men, which
annoys and disturbs the mind without exciting or elevating it.”[86] The
modern artist has too much choice. If he attempts to deal largely with
life, his will is overworked at the expense of æsthetic synthesis.
Freedom and opportunity are without limit, all cultures within his
reach and splendid service awaiting performance. But the task of
creating a glad whole seems beyond any ordinary measure of talent.
The result in most cases—as has been said of architecture—is
“confusion of types, illiterate combinations, an evident
breathlessness of effort and striving for effect, with the inevitable loss
of repose, dignity and style.”[87] A mediæval cathedral or a Greek
temple was the culmination of a long social growth, a gradual,
deliberate, corporate achievement, to which the individual talent
added only the finishing touch. The modern architect has, no doubt,
as much personal ability, but the demands upon it are excessive; it
would seem that only a transcendent synthetic genius of the calibre
of Dante could deal adequately with our scattered conditions.
The cause of strain is radical and somewhat feverish change, not
democracy as such. A large part of the people, particularly the
farming class, are little affected by it, and there are indications that in
America, where it has been greater than elsewhere, the worst is now
over.
By commercialism, in this connection, we may understand a
preoccupation of the ability of the people with material production
and with the trade and finance based upon it. This again is in part a
trait of the period, in part a peculiarity of America, in its character as
a new country with stumps to get out and material civilization to erect
from the ground up.
The result of it is that ability finds constant opportunity and
incitement to take a commercial direction, and little to follow pure art
or letters. A man likes to succeed in something, and if he is
conscious of the capacity to make his way in business or
professional life, he is indisposed to endure the poverty, uncertainty
and indifference which attend the pursuit of an artistic calling. Less
prosperous societies owe something to that very lack of opportunity
which makes it less easy for artistic ability to take another direction.
An even greater peril is the debasing of art by an uncultured
market. There seem to be plenty of artists of every kind, but their
standard of success is mostly low. The beginner too early gets
commercial employment in which he is not held up to any high ideal.
This brings us back to the lack of a well-knit artistic tradition to
educate both the artist and the public, the lack of a type, “the non-
existence,” as Mr. Russell Sturgis says, “of an artistic community
with a mind of its own and a certain general agreement as to what a
work of art ought to be.” This lack involves the weakness of the
criticism which is required to make the artist see himself as he ought
to be. “That criticism is nowhere in proportion to the need of it,” says
Henry James, “is the visiting observer’s first and last impression—an
impression so constant that it at times swallows up or elbows out
every other.”
The antipathy between art and the commercial spirit, however, is
often much overstated. As a matter of history art and literature have
flourished most conspicuously in prosperous commercial societies,
such as Athens, Florence, Venice, the communes of the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries, the trading cities of Germany, the Dutch
Republic and the England of Elizabeth. Nothing does more than
commerce to awaken intelligence, enterprise and a free spirit, and
these are favorable to ideal production. It is only the extreme one-
sidedness of our civilization in this regard that is prejudicial.
It is also true—and here we touch upon something pertaining more
to the very nature of democracy than the matters so far mentioned—
that the zeal for diffusion which springs from communication and
sympathy has in it much that is not directly favorable to the finer
sorts of production.
Which is the better, fellowship or distinction? There is much to be
said on both sides, but the finer spirits of our day lean toward the
former, and find it more human and exhilarating to spread abroad the
good things the world already has than to prosecute a lonesome
search for new ones. I notice among the choicest people I know—
those who seem to me most representative of the inner trend of
democracy—a certain generous contempt for distinction and a
passion to cast their lives heartily on the general current. But the
highest things are largely those which do not immediately yield
fellowship or diffuse joy. Though making in the end for a general
good, they are as private in their direct action as selfishness itself,
from which they are not always easily distinguished. They involve
intense self-consciousness. Probably men who follow the whispers
of genius will always be more or less at odds with their fellows.
Ours, then, is an Age of Diffusion. The best minds and hearts seek
joy and self-forgetfulness in active service, as in another time they
might seek it in solitary worship; God, as we often hear, being sought
more through human fellowship and less by way of isolate self-
consciousness than was the case a short time since.
I need hardly particularize the educational and philanthropic zeal
that, in one form or another, incites the better minds among our
contemporaries and makes them feel guilty when they are not in
some way exerting themselves to spread abroad material or spiritual
goods. No one would wish to see this zeal diminished; and perhaps
it makes in the long run for every kind of worthy achievement; but its
immediate effect is often to multiply the commonplace, giving point to
De Tocqueville’s reflection that “in aristocracies a few great pictures
are produced, in democratic countries a vast number of insignificant
ones.”[88] In a spiritual as well as a material sense there is a
tendency to fabricate cheap goods for an uncritical market.

“Men and gods are too extense.”[89]

Finally, all theories that aim to deduce from social conditions the
limits of personal achievement must be received with much caution.
It is the very nature of a virile sense of self to revolt from the usual
and the expected and pursue a lonesome road. Of course it must
have support, but it may find this in literature and imaginative
intercourse. So, in spite of everything, we have had in America men
of signal distinction—such, for instance, as Emerson, Thoreau and
Whitman—and we shall no doubt have more. We need fear no
dearth of inspiring issues; for if old ones disappear energetic minds
will always create new ones by making greater demands upon life.
The very fact that our time has so largely cast off all sorts of
structure is in one way favorable to enduring production, since it
means that we have fallen back upon human nature, upon that which
is permanent and essential, the adequate record of which is the chief
agent in giving life to any product of the mind.

FOOTNOTES:
[75] Democracy in America, vol. ii, book iv, chap. 7. But
elsewhere he expresses the opinion that this levelling and
confusion is only temporary. See, for example, book iii, chap. 21.
[76] Republic, book viii.
[77] Outre-Mer. English Translation, 306.
[78] See the final chapter of his French Traits.
[79] Conversation with Eckermann, May 12, 1825.
[80] French Traits, 385, 387, 393.
[81] Poe is the only notable exception that occurs to me.
[82] Memorials of Edward Burne-Jones, ii, 100, 101.
[83] Our most notable group of writers—flourishing at Concord
and Boston about 1850—is, of course, connected with the
maturing, in partial isolation, of a local type of culture, now
disintegrated and dispersed on the wider currents of the time.
[84] Outre-Mer, 25.
[85] In his essay on Balzac.
[86] Democracy in America, vol. ii, book i, chap. 10.
[87] Henry Van Brunt, Greek Lines, 225. Some of these
phrases, such as “illiterate combinations,” could never apply to
the work of good architects.
[88] Democracy in America, vol. ii, book i, chap. 11.
[89] Emerson, Alphonso of Castile.
 CHAPTER XVI
THE TREND OF SENTIMENT

Meaning and General Trend of Sentiment—Attenuation—

Refinement—Sense of Justice—Truth as Justice—As
Realism—As Expediency—As Economy of Attention—
Hopefulness.
By sentiment I mean socialized feeling, feeling which has been
raised by thought and intercourse out of its merely instinctive state
and become properly human. It implies imagination, and the medium
in which it chiefly lives is sympathetic contact with the minds of
others. Thus love is a sentiment, while lust is not; resentment is, but
not rage; the fear of disgrace or ridicule, but not animal terror, and so
on. Sentiment is the chief motive-power of life, and as a rule lies
deeper in our minds and is less subject to essential change than
thought, from which, however, it is not to be too sharply separated.
Two traits in the growth of sentiment are perhaps characteristic of
modern life, both of which, as will appear, are closely bound up with
the other psychological changes that have already been discussed.
First a trend toward diversification: under the impulse of a growing
diversity of suggestion and intercourse many new varieties and
shades of sentiment are developed. Like a stream which is
distributed for irrigation, the general current of social feeling is drawn
off into many small channels.
Second a trend toward humanism, meaning by this a wider reach
and application of the sentiments that naturally prevail in the familiar
intercourse of primary groups. Following a tendency evident in all
phases of the social mind, these expand and organize themselves at
the expense of sentiments that go with the more formal or
oppressive structures of an earlier epoch.
 The diversification of sentiment seems to involve some degree of
attenuation, or decline in volume, and also some growth of
refinement.
By the former I mean that the constant and varied demands upon
feeling which modern life makes—in contrast to the occasional but
often severe demands of a more primitive society—give rise, very
much as in the case of the irrigating stream, to the need and practice
of more economy and regularity in the flow, so that “animated
moderation”[90] in feeling succeeds the alternations of apathy and
explosion characteristic of a ruder condition. Thus our emotional
experience is made up of diverse but for the most part rather mild
excitements, so that the man most at home in our civilization, though
more nimble in sentiment than the man of an earlier order, is
perhaps somewhat inferior in depth. Something of the same
difference can be seen between the city man and the farmer; while
the latter is inferior in versatility and readiness of feeling, he has a
greater store of it laid up, which is apt to give superior depth and
momentum to such sentiment as he does cherish. Who has not
experienced the long-minded faithfulness and kindness, or perhaps
resentment, of country people, and contrasted them with the less
stable feelings of those who live a more urbane life?
In saying that life tends toward refinement it is only a general trend
that is asserted. We must admit that many phases of refined
sentiment have been more perfectly felt and expressed in the past
than they are now; but this is a matter of the maturity of special types
of culture, rather than of general progress. Thus the Italian
Renaissance produced wonders of refinement in art, as in the
painting, let us say, of Botticelli; but it was, on the whole, a bloody,
harsh and sensual time compared with ours, a time when
assassination, torture and rape were matters of every day. So, also,
there is a refinement of the sense of language in Shakespeare and
his contemporaries which we can only admire, while their plays
depict a rather gross state of feeling. A course of reading in English
fiction, beginning with Chaucer and ending with James, Howells and
Mrs. Ward, would certainly leave the impression that our sensibilities
had, on the whole, grown finer.
 And this is even more true of the common people than of the well-
to-do class with which literature is chiefly occupied: the tendency to
the diffusion of refinement being more marked than its increase in a
favored order. The sharp contrast in manners and feelings between
the “gentleman,” as formerly understood, and the peasant, artisan
and trading classes has partly disappeared. Differences in wealth
and occupation no longer necessitate differences in real culture, the
opportunities for which are coming to be open to all classes, and in
America, at least, the native-bred farmer or hand-worker is not
uncommonly, in essential qualities, a gentleman.
The general fact is that the activities of life, to which feeling
responds, have become more various and subtle and less crudely
determined by animal conditions. Material variety and comfort is one
phase of this: we become habituated to a comparatively delicate
existence and so are trained to shun coarseness. Communication,
by giving abundance and choice of social contacts, also acts to
diversify and refine sentiment; the growth of order disaccustoms us
to violence, and democracy tends to remove the degrading spectacle
of personal or class oppression.
This modern refinement has the advantage that, being a general
rise in level rather than the achievement of a class or a nation, it is
probably secure. It is not, like the refinement of Greece, the
somewhat precarious fruit of transient conditions, but a possession
of the race, in no more danger of dying out than the steam-engine.
To the trend toward humanism and the sentiments—such as
justice, truth, kindness and service—that go with it, I shall devote the
rest of this chapter and the one that follows:
The basis of all sentiment of this kind is the sense of community,
or of sharing in a common social or spiritual whole, membership in
which gives to all a kind of inner equality, no matter what their
special parts may be. It is felt, however, that the differences among
men should be functional and intrinsic, not arbitrary or accidental.
The sense of justice is usually strong among the members of a
sympathetic group, the basis for determining what is just being the
perception of some purpose which every one is to serve, each in his
own way, so that he who rightly holds a higher place is the one who
can function best for the common good. It does not hurt my self-
respect or my allegiance to remain a common seaman while another
becomes captain of the ship, provided I recognize that he is the fitter
man for the place; and if the distribution of stations in society were
evidently of this sort there would be no serious protest against it.
What makes trouble is the growth of an ideal of fair play which the
actual system of things does not satisfy.
The widening of sympathy and the consciousness of larger unity
have brought the hope and demand for a corresponding extension of
justice; and all sorts of humanity—not to speak of the lower animals
—profit by this wider sentiment. Classes seek to understand each
other; the personality of women and children is recognized and
fostered; there is some attempt to sympathize with alien nations and
races, civilized or savage, and to help them to their just place in the
common life of mankind.
Our conception of international rights reflects the same view, and
the American, at least, desires that his country should treat other
countries as one just man treats another, and is proud when he can
believe that she has done so. It is surely of some significance that in
the most powerful of democracies national selfishness, in the
judgment of a competent European observer, is less cynical and
obtrusive than in any of the great states of Europe.[91]
Truth is a kind of justice, and wherever there is identification of
oneself with the life of the group it is fostered, and lying tends to be
felt as mean and impolitic. Serious falsehood among friends is, I
believe, universally abhorred—by savages and children as well as by
civilized adults. To lie to a friend is to hit him from behind, to trip him
up in the dark, and so the moral sentiment of every group attempts
to suppress falsehood among its members, however it may be
encouraged as against outsiders. “Wherefore,” says St. Paul,
“putting away lying, speak every man truth with his neighbor, for we
are members one of another.”[92]
Our democratic system aims to be a larger organization of moral
unity, and so far as it is so, in the feeling of the individual, it fosters
this open and downright attitude toward his fellows. In idea, and
largely in fact, we are a commonwealth, of which each one is a
member by his will and intelligence, as well as by necessity, and with
which, accordingly, the human sentiment of loyalty among those who
are members one of another is naturally in force. The very disgust
with which, in a matter like assessment for taxation, men
contemplate the incompatibility that sometimes exists between truth
and fairness, is a tribute to the prevailing sentiment of sincerity.
An artificial system, that is one which, however solid its hidden
foundations—and of course all systems rest on fact of some sort—
does not visibly flow from principles of truth and fairness, fails to
arouse this loyalty of partnership. One may be devoted to it, but his
devotion will be based rather on reverence for something above him
than on a sense of participation, and will call for submission rather
than for straightforward dealing. It would seem that lying and servility
are natural in the attitude of a subject toward a master, that is toward
a superior but uncomprehending power; while truth is generated in
sympathy. Tyranny may be said to make falsehood a virtue, and in
contemporary Russia, for instance, stealth and evasion are the
necessary and justifiable means of pursuing the aims of human
nature.
Another reason for the association of freedom with truth is that the
former is a training in the sense of social cause and effect; the free
play of human forces being a constant demonstration of the power of
reality as against sham. The more men experiment intelligently with
life, the more they come to believe in definite causation and the less
in trickery. Freedom means continuous experiment, a constant
testing of the individual and of all kinds of social ideas and
arrangements. It tends, then, to a social realism; “Her open eyes
desire the truth.” The best people I know are pervaded by the feeling
that life is so real that it is not worth while to make believe. “Knights
of the unshielded heart,” they desire nothing so much as to escape
from all pretense and prudery and confront things as they really are
—confident that they are not irremediably bad. I read in a current
newspaper that “brutal, unvarnished, careless frankness is the pose
of the new type of girl. She has not been developed in a school of