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1. ¿Cuántos escritorios..., ¿Cuántas camas..., ¿Cuántas sillas..., ¿Cuántos diccionarios...,
¿Cuántas computadoras..., …hay en tu cuarto?
2. ¿Cuántos estudiantes..., ¿Cuántos escritorios..., ¿Cuántas sillas..., ¿Cuántas pizarras...,
¿Cuántas tizas..., … hay en la sala de clases?
3. ¿Cuántos cuartos..., ¿Cuántos baños..., ¿Cuántos autos..., ¿Cuántas personas..., ¿Cuántas
bicicletas, …hay en la casa de tus padres?
4. ¿Cuántas universidades..., ¿Cuántas ciudades importantes..., ¿Cuántos habitantes..., ¿Cuántos
lugares turísticos principales..., ...hay en el estado en que vives?
5. ¿Cuántos protagonistas..., ¿Cuántos narradores..., ¿Cuántos países..., ¿Cuántas ciudades...,
...hay en el poema “Esperanza muere en Los Ángeles”?

C. La Pequeña Habana.
1. monumentos
2. centros
3. letreros
4. negocios
5. restaurantes
6 bares
7. fábricas
8. puros
9. salones
10. locales
11. tiendas
12. galerías
13. lugares
14. turistas
15. jugadores

p. 23
Ahora, ¡a practicar!

A. Preparativos.
X, X, el, El, el, las

B. Entrevista.
Answers will vary.

C. Resumen.
Answers will vary.

p. 25
A. Misiones de California.
1. el
2. la
3. el
4. las
5. la
6. las
7. el
8. la
9. la
10. las
11. la
12. el
13. las

B. Personalidades.
1. Gloria Estefan es cubanoamericana. Es cantante. Es una cantante cubanoamericana.
2. Jorge Argueta es salvadoreño. Es poeta. Es un poeta salvadoreño.
3. Sandra Cisneros es chicana. Es escritora. Es una escritora chicana.
4. Esmeralda Santiago es puertorriqueña. Es novelista. Es una novelista puertorriqueña.
5. Junot Díaz es dominicano. Es escritor. Es un escritor dominicano.
6. Luis Valdez es chicano. Es cineasta. Es un cineasta chicano.

C. Fiesta.
1. (blank)
2. (blank)
3. el
4. una
5. una
6. unas
7. la
8. (blank)
9. (blank)
10. el

Gramática 1.2
pp. 44-45
Ahora, ¡a practicar!

A. Planes.
1. recorremos, paseamos
2. practicamos
3. exploramos
4. viajamos
5. regresamos
6. descansamos

B. Información personal.
Answers will vary.

C. Invitación.
1. llama / invita / acepta
2. llega / compra / comenta
3. entra / pasa / piensa

D. Ícono puertorriqueño.
1. adora
2. descubre
3. aprende
4. toca
5. sobresale
6. domina
7. canta
8. interpreta
9. escucha
10. otorgan
11. gana

E. Mi vida actual.

Gramática 1.3
pp. 44-45
Ahora, ¡a practicar!

A. Decisiones, decisiones.
1. esas, aquellas
2. aquellos, estos
3. estos, esos
4. esos, aquellos
5. estos, esos

B. Mis opiniones.
1. apasiona
2. fascina
3. agradar
4. atrae
5. impresiona
6. encanta
7. entusiasma

Lección 2
Gramática 2.1
p. 68
Ahora, ¡a practicar!
Discovering Diverse Content Through
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communication and social organization. He also represents an
undeveloped or merely biological individuality in contrast to the
developed social whole into which he comes.
We think of the social world as the mature, organized, institutional
factor in the problem; and yet we may well say that the child also
embodies an institution (using the word largely) and one more
ancient and stable than church or state, namely the biological type,
little changed, probably, since the dawn of history. It cannot be
shown in any way that I know of that the children born to-day of
English or American parents—leaving aside any question of race
mixture—are greatly different in natural outfit from the Saxon boys
and girls, their ancestors, who played upon the banks of the Elbe
fifteen hundred years ago. The rooted instincts and temperament of
races appear to be very much what they were, and the changes of
history—the development of political institutions, the economic
revolutions, the settlement of new countries, the Reformation, the
rise of science and the like—are changes mainly in the social factor
of life, which thus appears comparatively a shifting thing.
In the development of the child, then, we have to do with the
interaction of two types, both of which are ancient and stable, though
one more so than the other. And the stir and generation of human life
is precisely in the mingling of these types and in the many variations
of each one. The hereditary outfit of a child consists of vague
tendencies or aptitudes which get definiteness and meaning only
through the communicative influences which enable them to
develop. Thus babbling is instinctive, while speech comes by this
instinct being defined and instructed in society; curiosity comes by
nature, knowledge by life; fear, in a vague, instinctive form, is
supposed to be felt even by the fœtus, but the fears of later life are
chiefly social fears; there is an instinctive sensibility which develops
into sympathy and love; and so on.
Nothing is more futile than general discussions of the relative
importance of heredity and environment. It is much like the case of
matter versus mind; both are indispensable to every phase of life,
and neither can exist apart from the other: they are coördinate in
importance and incommensurable in nature. One might as well ask
whether the soil or the seed predominates in the formation of a tree,
as whether nature does more for us than nurture. The fact that most
writers have a predilection for one of these factors at the expense of
the other (Mr. Galton and the biological school, for example, seeing
heredity everywhere, and not much else, while psychologists and
sociologists put the stress on influence) means only that some are
trained to attend to one class of facts and some to another. One may
be more relevant for a given practical purpose than the other, but to
make a general opposition is unintelligent.
To the eye of sentiment a new-born child offers a moving contrast
to the ancient and grimy world into which it so innocently enters; the
one formed, apparently, for all that is pure and good, “trailing clouds
of glory” as some think, from a more spiritual world than ours,
pathetically unconscious of anything but joy; the other gray and
saturnine, sure to prove in many ways a prison-house, perhaps a
foul one.

“Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight.”[134]

No doubt, however, the pathos of this contrast arises in part from

somewhat fallacious preconceptions. The imagination idealizes the
child, reading its own visions into his innocence as it does into the
innocence of the sea and the mountains, and contrasting his future
career not with what he is, but with an ideal of what he might
become. In truth the child already feels, in his own way, the painful
side of life; he has the seeds of darkness in him as well as those of
light, and cannot in strictness be said to be any better than the world.
The good of life transcends his imagination as much as does the
evil, and he could not become anything at all except in a social
world. The pity of the matter, which may well move every one who
thinks of it to work for better homes, schools and playgrounds, is
simply that we are about to make so poor a use of a plastic material,
that he might be so much better and happier if we would prepare a
better place for him.
It is true, in a sense, as Bacon says, that youth has more of
divinity, but perhaps we might also say that it has more of deviltry;
the younger life is, the more unbound it is, not yet in harness, with
more divine insight and more reckless passion, and adolescence is
the period of criminality as well as of poetry.
There is a natural affinity between childhood and democracy; the
latter implying, indeed, that we are to become more as little children,
more simple, frank and human. And it is a very proper part of the
democratic movement that more and more prestige is attaching to
childhood, that it is more studied, cherished and respected. Probably
nothing else gives such cogency to the idea of reform as to think of
what it means to children. We wish to know that all the children of
the land are happily unfolding their minds and hearts at home,
school and play; and that there is a gradual induction into useful
work, which also proceeds regularly and happily. This calls for better
homes and neighborhoods, and the overcoming of conditions that
degrade them; it implies better schools, the suppression of child-
labor, regular industrial education, wholesome and fairly paid work
and reasonable security of position. While the child is not exactly
better than the world, his possibilities make us feel that the world
ought to be better for his sake.
As fast as a child becomes a person, he also becomes a member
of the existing social order. This is simply a case of a whole and one
of its differentiated parts; having so often insisted that society and
the individual are aspects of the same thing, I need not enlarge upon
it here. Even the degenerate, so far as they have faculty enough to
be human, live in the social order and are as much one with it as the
rest of mankind. We simply cannot separate the individual from
society at large; to get a contrast we must pass on to consider him in
relation to particular institutions, or to institutions in general as
distinguished from more plastic phases of life.
An institution is a mature, specialized and comparatively rigid part
of the social structure. It is made up of persons, but not of whole
persons; each one enters into it with a trained and specialized part of
himself. Consider, for instance, the legal part of a lawyer, the
ecclesiastical part of a church member or the business part of a
merchant. In antithesis to the institution, therefore, the person
represents the wholeness and humanness of life; he is, as Professor
Alfred Lloyd says,[135] “a corrector of partiality, and a translator and
distributor of special development.” A man is no man at all if he is
merely a piece of an institution; he must stand also for human
nature, for the instinctive, the plastic and the ideal.
The saying that corporations have no soul expresses well enough
this defect of all definite social structures, which gives rise to an
irrepressible conflict between them and the freer and larger impulses
of human nature. Just in proportion as they achieve an effective
special mechanism for a narrow purpose, they lose humanness,
breadth and adaptability. As we have to be specially on our guard
against commercial corporations, because of their union of power
and impersonality, so we should be against all institutions.
The institution represents might, and also, perhaps, right, but right
organized, mature, perhaps gone to seed, never fresh and
unrecognized. New right, or moral progress, always begins in a
revolt against institutions.
I have in mind a painting which may be said to set forth to the eye
this relation between the living soul and the institution. It represents
St. James before the Roman Emperor.[136] The former is poorly clad,
beautiful, with rapt, uplifted face; the latter majestic, dominant,
assured, seated high on his ivory chair and surrounded by soldiers.
Of course the institutional element is equally essential with the
personal. The mechanical working of tradition and convention pours
into the mind the tried wisdom of the race, a system of thought every
part of which has survived because it was, in some sense, the fittest,
because it approved itself to the human spirit. In this way the
individual gets language, sentiments, moral standards and all kinds
of knowledge: gets them with an exertion of the will trifling compared
with what these things originally cost. They have become a social
atmosphere which pervades the mind mostly without its active
participation. Once the focus of attention and effort, they have now
receded into the dimness of the matter-of-course, leaving energy
free for new conquests. On this involuntary foundation we build, and
it needs no argument to show that we could accomplish nothing
without it.
 Thus all innovation is based on conformity, all heterodoxy on
orthodoxy, all individuality on solidarity. Without the orthodox tradition
in biology, for instance, under the guidance of which a store of
ordered knowledge had been collected, the heterodoxy of Darwin,
based on a reinterpretation of this knowledge, would have been
impossible. And so in art, the institution supplies a basis to the very
individual who rebels against it. Mr. Brownell, in his work on French
Art, points out, in discussing the relation of Rodin the innovating
sculptor to the French Institute, that he owes his development and
the interest his non-conformity excites largely to “the very system
that has been powerful enough to popularize indefinitely the subject
both of subscription and revolt.”[137] In America it is not hostile
criticism but no criticism at all—sheer ignorance and indifference—
that discourages the artist and man of letters and makes it difficult to
form a high ideal. Where there is an organized tradition there may be
intolerance but there will also be intelligence.
Thus choice, which represents the relatively free action of human
nature in building up life, is like the coral insect, always working on a
mountain made up of the crystallized remains of dead predecessors.
It is a mistake to suppose that the person is, in general, better than
the institution. Morally, as in other respects, there are advantages on
each side. The person has love and aspiration and all sorts of warm,
fresh, plastic impulses, to which the institution is seldom hospitable,
but the latter has a sober and tried goodness of the ages, the
deposit, little by little, of what has been found practicable in the
wayward and transient outreachings of human idealism. The law, the
state, the traditional code of right and wrong, these are related to
personality as a gray-haired father to a child. However world-worn
and hardened by conflict, they are yet strong and wise and kind, and
we do well in most matters to obey them.
A similar line of reasoning applies to the popular fallacy that a
nation is of necessity less moral in its dealings with other nations
than an individual with other individuals. International morality is on a
low plane because it is recent and undeveloped, not from any
inevitable defect in its nature. It is slow to grow, like anything else of
an institutional character, but there is no reason why it should not
eventually express the utmost justice and generosity of which we are
capable. All depends upon the energy and persistence with which
people try to effectuate their ideals in this sphere. The slowness of
an institution is compensated by its capacity for age-long cumulative
growth, and in this way it may outstrip, even morally, the ordinary
achievement of individuals—as the Christian Church, for example,
stands for ideals beyond the attainment of most of its members. If we
set our hearts on having a righteous state we can have one more
righteous than any individual.
The treatment of Cuba by the United States and the suppression
of the slave-trade by the British are examples of nations acting upon
generous principles which we may reasonably expect to extend as
time goes on. As the need of international justice and peace
becomes keenly felt, its growth becomes as natural as the
analogous process in an individual.
Whenever the question is raised between choice and mechanism,
[138] the advocates of the latter may justly claim that it saves energy,
and may demand whether, in a given case, the results of choice
justify its cost.
Thus choice, working on a large scale, is competition, and the only
alternative is some mechanical principle, either the inherited status
of history or some new rule of stability to be worked out, perhaps, by
socialism. Yet the present competitive order is not unjustly censured
as wasteful, harassing, unjust and hostile to the artistic spirit. Choice
is working somewhat riotously, without an adequate basis of
established principles and standards, and so far as socialism is
seeking these it is doing well.
Carlyle and others have urged with much reason that the
mediæval workman, hemmed in as he was by mechanical and to us
unreasonable restrictions, was in some respects better off than his
modern successor. There was less freedom of opportunity, but also
less strain, ugliness and despair; and the standards of the day were
perhaps better maintained than ours are now.
We need a better discipline, a more adequate organization; the
competent student can hardly fail to see this; but these things do not
exist ready-made, and our present task seems to be to work them
out, at the expense, doubtless, of other objects toward which, in
quieter times, choice might be directed.
Thus it is from the interaction of personality and institutions that
progress comes. The person represents more directly that human
nature which it is the end of all institutions to serve, but the institution
represents the net result of a development far transcending any
single personal consciousness. The person will criticise, and be
mostly in the wrong, but not altogether. He will attack, and mostly
fail, but from many attacks change will ensue.
It is also true that although institutions stand, in a general way, for
the more mechanical phase of life, they yet require, within
themselves, an element of personal freedom. Individuality, provided
it be in harness, is the life of institutions, all vigor and adaptability
depending upon it.
An army is the type of a mechanical institution; and yet, even in an
army, individual choice, confined of course within special channels,
is vital to the machine. In the German army, according to a
competent observer, there is a systematic culture of self-reliance, a
“development of the individual powers by according liberty to the
utmost extent possible with the maintenance of the necessary
system and discipline.” “To the commandant of the company is left
the entire responsibility for the instruction of his men, in what mode
and at what hour he may see fit,” and “a like freedom is accorded to
every officer charged with every branch whatsoever of instruction,”
while “the intelligence and self-reliance of the soldier is constantly
appealed to.”[139] In American armies the self-reliant spirit of the
soldier and the common-sense and adaptability developed by our
rough-and-ready civilization have always been of the utmost value.
Nor are they unfavorable to discipline, that “true discipline of the
soldiers of freedom, a discipline which must arise from individual
conviction of duty and is very different from the compulsory discipline
of the soldier of despotism.”[140] Thus, in the battle of Gettysburg,
when Pickett’s charge broke the Federal line, and when for the
moment, owing to the death of many officers, the succession of
command was lost, it is said that the men without orders took up a
position which enabled them to crush the invading column.
As the general character of organization becomes freer and more
human, both the mechanical and the choosing elements of the
institution rise to a higher plane. The former ceases to be an
arbitrary and intolerant law, upheld by fear, by supernatural sanctions
and the suppression of free speech; and tends to become simply a
settled habit of thought, settled not because discussion is stifled but
because it is superfluous, because the habit of thought has so
proved its fitness to existing conditions that there is no prospect of
shaking it.
Thus in a free modern state, the political system, fundamental
property rights and the like are settled, so far as they are settled, not
because they are sacred or authoritative, but because the public
mind is convinced of their soundness. Though we may not reason
about them they are, so to speak, potentially rational, inasmuch as
they are believed to rest upon reason and may at any time be tested
by it.
The advantages and disadvantages of this sort of institutions are
well understood. They do not afford quite the sharp and definite
discipline of a more arbitrary system, but they are more flexible,
more closely expressive of the public mind, and so, if they can be
made to work at all, more stable.
The free element in institutions also tends to become better
informed, better trained, better organized, more truly rational. We
have so many occasions to note this that it is unnecessary to dwell
upon it here.

FOOTNOTES:
[134] Wordsworth, Ode on the Intimations of Immortality, etc.
[135] In a paper on The Personal and the Factional in the Life
of Society. The Journal of Philosophy, Psychology and Scientific
Methods, 1905, p. 337.
[136] By Mantegna.
[137] Page 30. See also the last chapter.
[138] I mean by mechanism anything in the way of habit,
authority or formula that tends to dispense with choice.
[139] Baring-Gould, Germany, i, 350 ff.
[140] Garibaldi’s Autobiography, i, 105.
 CHAPTER XXIX
INSTITUTIONS AND THE INDIVIDUAL—Continued.

Innovation as a Personal Tendency—Innovation and

Conservatism as Public Habit—Solidarity—French and
Anglo-Saxon Solidarity—Tradition and Convention—Not
so Opposite as They Appear—Real Difference, In this
Regard, Between Modern and Mediæval Society—
Traditionalism and Conventionalism in Modern Life.
The time-worn question of conservatism as against change has
evidently much in common with that of personality as against
institutions. Innovation, that is, is bound up with the assertion of fresh
personality against mechanism; and the arguments for and against it
are the same as I have already suggested. Wherever there is vigor
and constructive power in the individual there is likely to be
discontent with the establishment. The young notoriously tend to
innovation, and so do those of a bold and restless temperament at
any age; the old, on the contrary, the quiet, the timid, are
conservative. And so with whole peoples; in so far as they are
enfeebled by climate or other causes they become inert and
incapable of constructive change.
What may not be quite so obvious, at least to those who have not
read M. Tarde’s work on the Laws of Imitation,[141] is that innovation
or the opposite may be a public habit, independently of differences in
age or vigor. The attitude toward change is subject to the same sort
of alteration as public opinion, or any other phase of the public mind.
That a nation has moved for centuries in the deepest ruts of
conservatism, like China or India, is no proof of a lack of natural
vigor, but may mean only that the social type has matured and
hardened in isolation, not encountering any influence pungent
enough to pierce its shell and start a cycle of change. Thus it is now
apparent that lack of incitement, not lack of capacity, was the cause
of the backwardness of Japan, and there is little doubt that the same
is true of China.
Energy and suggestion are equally indispensable to all human
achievement. In the absence of the latter the mind easily spends
itself in minor activities, and there is no reason why this should not
be true of a whole people and continue for centuries. Then, again, a
spark may set it on fire and produce in a few years pregnant
changes in the structure of society. The physical law of the
persistence of energy in uniform quantity is a most illusive one to
apply to human life. There is always a great deal more mental
energy than is utilized, and the amount that is really productive
depends chiefly on the urgency of suggestion. Indeed, the higher
activities of the human mind are, in general, more like a series of
somewhat fortuitous explosions than like the work of a uniform force.
There may also be a habit of change that is mere restlessness and
has no constructive significance. In the early history of America a
conspicuous character on the frontier was the man who had the
habit of moving on. He would settle for two or three years in one
locality and then, getting restless, sell out and go on to another. So
at present, those whom ambition and circumstance, in early
manhood, have driven rapidly from one thing to another, often
continue into old age the habit so acquired, making their families and
friends most uncomfortable. I have noticed that there are over-
strenuous people who have come to have an ideal of themselves as
making an effort, and are most uneasy when this is not the case. To
“being latent feel themselves no less” is quite impossible to them.
In our commercial and industrial life the somewhat feverish
progress has generated a habit, a whole system of habits, based on
the expectation of change. Enterprise and adaptability are cultivated
at the expense of whatever conflicts with them; each one, feeling
that the procession is moving on and that he must keep up with it,
hurries along at the expense, perhaps, of health, culture and sanity.
This unrest is due rather to transition than to democracy; the
ancient view that the latter is in its nature unstable being, as I have
said, quite discredited. Even De Tocqueville, about 1835, saw that
the political unrest of America was in minor affairs, and that a
democratic polity might conceivably “render society more stationary
than it has ever been in our western part of the world.”[142] Tarde has
expounded the matter at length and to much the same effect. A
policy is stable when it is suited to prevailing conditions; and every
year makes it more apparent that for peoples of European stock, at
least, a polity essentially democratic is the only one that can
permanently meet this test.
A social group in which there is a fundamental harmony of forces
resulting in effective coöperation may be said, I suppose, to be
solidaire, to adopt a French word much used in this connection. Thus
France with its comparatively homogeneous people has no doubt
more solidarity—notwithstanding its dissensions—than Austria;
England more than Russia, and Japan more than China.
But if one thinks closely about the question he will find it no easy
matter to say in just what solidarity consists. Not in mere likeness,
certainly, since the difference of individuals and parts is not only
consistent with but essential to a harmonious whole—as the
harmony of music is produced by differing but correlated sounds. We
want what Burke described as “that action and counteraction, which
in the natural and in the political world, from the reciprocal struggle of
discordant powers draws out the harmony of the universe.”[143]
So far as likeness is necessary it is apparently a likeness of
essential ideas and, still more, of sentiments, appropriate to the
activity in question. Thus a Japanese writer explains the patriotic
unity of his countrymen by their common devotion to the Mikado and
the imperial family.
“When a Japanese says ‘I love my country,’ a great or even the
greater part of his idea of his ‘country’ is taken up by the emperor and
the imperial family ... his forefathers and descendants are also taken
into account.” “In joy and in sorrow he believes that they (his own
ancestors) are with him. He serves them as if they were living. And
these ancestors whom he loves and reveres were all loyal to their
emperors in their days; so he feels he must be loyal to his emperor.
“Nothing is so real to him as what he feels; and he feels that with
him are united the past, the present and the future generations of his
 countrymen.” “Thus fully conscious of the intense sympathy of his
compatriots, both dead and living, and swelled with lofty anticipations
of his glorious destiny, no danger can appall and no toil can tire the
real Japanese soldier.”[144]
In America unity of spirit is intense, and yet singularly headless
and formless. There is no capital city, no guiding upper class, no
monarch, no creed, scarcely even a dominating tradition. It seems to
be a matter of common allegiance to vague sentiments of freedom,
kindliness and hope. And this very circumstance, that the American
spirit is so little specialized and so much at one with the general spirit
of human nature, does more than anything else to make it influential,
and potent in the assimilation of strange elements.
The only adequate proof of a lack of solidarity is inefficiency in
total action. There may be intense strife of parties and classes which
has nothing really disintegrating in it; but when we see, as was
apparently the case in Russia not long ago, that the hour of conflict
with an external enemy does not unite internal forces but increases
their divergence, it is clear that something is wrong.
It is sometimes said that France has more solidarity than Great
Britain or the United States, the ground being that we have a less
fluent unity of the social mind, a more vigorous self-assertion of the
individual. But this is as dubious as to say that the contention of
athletes among themselves will prevent their uniting to form a strong
team. Yet there does seem to be an interesting difference in kind
between the sort of unity, of common discipline and sentiment, which
exists among the French and that of English or Americans—these
latter, however different, being far more like each other in this
respect than either to the French. The contrast seems to me so
illuminating, as a study of social types, that I will spend a few pages
in attempting to expound it.
French thought—as to this I follow largely Mr. Brownell’s
penetrating study[145]—seems to be not only more centralized in
place, that is, more dominated by the capital, but also, leaving aside
certain notorious divisions, more uniform, more authoritative, more
intolerant, more obviously solidaire. There is less initiative, less
aggressive non-conformity. French sentiment emphasizes equality
much more than individual freedom and is somewhat intolerant of
any marked departure from the dominant types of thought. There is
more jealousy of personal power, especially in politics, and less of
that eager yet self-poised sympathy with triumphant personality
which we find in England or America. There is, in fact, more need to
be jealous of a personal ascendency, because, when it once gains
sway, there is less to check it. And with all this goes the French
system of public education, whose well-known uniformity, strictness
of discipline and classical conservatism is both cause and effect of
the trend toward formal solidarity.
There is also an intolerance of the un-French and an inability to
understand it even greater, perhaps, than the corresponding
phenomenon in other nations. The French are self-absorbed and
care little for the history of other peoples. Nor are they sympathetic
with contemporaries. “In Paris, certainly,” says Mr. Brownell, “the
foreigner, hospitably as he is invariably treated, is invariably treated
as the foreigner that he is.”[146]
The relative weakness of individuality in France is due, of course,
not to any lack of self-feeling, but to the fact that the Frenchman
identifies himself more with the social whole, and, merged in that,
does not take his more particular self so seriously. It is rather a we-
feeling than an I-feeling, and differentiates France more sharply from
other nations than it does the individual Frenchman from his
compatriots. “He does not admire France because she is his country.
His complacence with himself proceeds from the circumstance that
he is a Frenchman; which is distinctly what he is first, being a man
afterward.”[147] “One never hears the Frenchman boast of the
character and quality of his compatriots as Englishmen and
ourselves do. He is thinking about France, about her different
gloires, about her position at the head of civilization.”[148]
As there is less individuality in general, so there is a happy lack of
whimsical and offensive oddity, of sharp corners and bad taste. Mr.
Brownell finds nothing more significant than the absence in France
of prigs. “One infers at once in such a society a free and effortless
play of the faculties, a large, humorous and tolerant view of oneself
and others, leisure, calm, healthful and rational vivacity, a tranquil
confidence in one’s own perceptions and in the intelligence of one’s
neighbors.”[149]
With this partial irresponsibility, this tendency not to take one’s
private self too seriously, goes a lack of moral extremes of all kinds.
Their goodness is not so good, their vice not so vicious as ours. Both
are more derived from immediate intercourse. “What would be vice
among us remains in France social irregularity induced by sentiment.
[150]”

These traits have an obvious connection with that more eager and
facile communicativeness that strikes us so in the French: they have
as a rule less introspection, live more immediately and congenially in
a social stream from which, accordingly, they are less disposed to
differentiate themselves.
France is, no doubt, as truly democratic in its way as the United
States; indeed, in no other country, perhaps, is the prevalent
sentiment of the people in a given group so cratic, so immediately
authoritative. Such formalism as prevails there is of a sort with which
the people themselves are in intelligent sympathy, not one imposed
from above like that of Russia, or even that of Germany. But it is a
democracy of a type quite other than ours, less differentiated
individually and more so, perhaps, by groups, more consolidated and
institutional. The source of this divergence lies partly in the course of
history and partly, no doubt, in race psychology. Rooted dissensions,
like that between the Republic and the Church, and the need of
keeping the people in readiness for sudden war, are among the
influences which make formal unity more necessary and tolerable in
France than in England.
The French kind of solidarity has both advantages and
disadvantages as compared with the Anglo-Saxon. It certainly
facilitates the formation of well-knit social groups; such, for instance,
as the artistic “schools” whose vigor has done so much toward giving
France its lead in æsthetic production. On the other hand, where the
Anglo-Saxon type of structure succeeds in combining greater vigor
of individuality with an equally effective unity of sentiment, it would
seem to be, in so far, superior to a type whose solidarity is secured
at more expense of variation. It is the self-dependence, the so-called
individualism, of the Teutonic peoples which has given them so
decided a lead in the industrial and political struggles of recent times.
Perhaps the most searching test of solidarity is that loyalty of the
individual to the whole which ensures that, however isolated, as a
soldier, a pioneer, a mechanic, a student, he will cherish that whole
in his heart and do his duty to it in contempt of terror or bribes. And it
is precisely in this that the Anglo-Saxon peoples are strong. The
Englishman, though alone in the wilds of Africa, is seldom other than
an Englishman, setting his conscience by English standards and
making them good in action. This moral whole, possessing the
individual and making every one a hero after his own private fashion,
is the solidarity we want.
Tradition comes down from the past, while convention arrives,
sidewise as it were, from our contemporaries; the fireside tales and
maxims of our grandparents illustrate the one, the fashions of the
day the other. Both indicate continuity of mind, but tradition has a
long extension in time and very little, perhaps, in place, while
convention extends in place but may endure only for a day.
This seems a clear distinction, and a great deal has been made of
it by some writers, who regard “custom imitation” and “fashion
imitation,”[151] to use the terms of Tarde, the brilliant French
sociologist, as among the primary traits that differentiate societies.
Thus mediæval society, it is said, was traditional: people lived in
somewhat isolated groups and were dominated by the ideas of their
ancestors, these being more accessible than those of their
contemporaries. On the other hand, modern society, with its
telegraphs, newspapers and migrations, is conventional. Thought is
transmitted over vast areas and countless multitudes; ancestral
continuity is broken up; people get the habit of looking sidewise
rather than backward, and there comes to be an instinctive
preference of fashion over custom. In the time of Dante, if you
travelled over Europe you would find that each town, each district,
had its individual dress, dialect and local custom, handed down from
the fathers. There was much change with place, little with time. If you
did the same to-day, you would find the people everywhere dressed
very much alike, dialects passing out of use and men eager to
identify themselves with the common stir of contemporary life. And
you would also find that the dress, behavior and objects of current
interest, though much the same for whole nations and having a great
deal in common the world over, were somewhat transient in
character, changing much with time, little with place.
There is, truly, a momentous difference in this regard between
modern and mediæval life, but to call it a change from tradition to
convention does not, I think, indicate its real character. Indeed,
tradition and convention are by no means the separate and opposite
things they may appear to be when we look at them in their most
contrasted phases. It would be strange if there were any real
separation between ideas coming from the past and those coming
from contemporaries, since they exist in the same public mind. A
traditional usage is also a convention within the group where it
prevails. One learns it from other people and conforms to it by
imitation and the desire not to be singular, just as he does to any
other convention. The quaint local costume that still prevails in out-
of-the-way corners of Europe is worn for the same reasons, no
doubt, that the equally peculiar dress-suit and silk hat are worn by
sophisticated people the world over; one convention is simply more
extended than the other. In old times the conforming group, owing to
the difficulty of intercourse, was small. People were eager to be in
the fashion, as they are now, but they knew nothing of fashions
beyond their own locality. Modern traditions are conventional on a
larger scale. The Monroe Doctrine, to take a dignified example, is a
tradition, regarded historically, but a convention as to the manner in
which it enters into contemporary opinion.
In a similar manner we may see that conventions must also be
traditions. The new fashions are adaptations of old ones, and there
are no really new ideas of any sort, only a gradual transformation of
those that have come down from the past.
 In a large view, then, tradition and convention are merely aspects
of the transmission of thought and of the unity of social groups that
results from it. If our mind is fixed upon the historical phase of the
matter we see tradition, if upon the contemporary phase we see
convention. But the process is really one, and the opposition only
particular and apparent. All influences are contemporary in their
immediate origin, all are rooted in the past.
What is it, then, that makes the difference between an apparently
traditional society, such as that of mediæval Europe, and an
apparently conventional society, like that of our time? Simply that the
conditions are such as to make one of these phases more obvious
than the other. In a comparatively small and stable group, continuous
in the same locality and having little intercourse with the world
outside, the fact that ideas come from tradition is evident; they pass
down from parents to children as visibly as physical traits.
Convention, however, or the action of contemporary intercourse, is
on so small a scale as to be less apparent; the length and not the
breadth of the movement attracts the eye.
On the other hand, in the case of a wide-reaching group bound
into conscious unity by facile communication, people no longer look
chiefly to their fathers for ideas; the paternal influence has to
compete with many others, and is further weakened by the breaking
up of family associations which goes with ease of movement. Yet
men are not less dependent upon the past than before; it is only that
tradition is so intricate and so spread out over the face of things that
its character as tradition is hardly to be discovered. The obvious
thing now is the lateral movement; influences seem to come in
sidewise and fashion rules over custom. The difference is something
like that between a multitude of disconnected streamlets and a single
wide river, in which the general downward movement is obscured by
numerous cross-currents and eddies.
In truth, facile communication extends the scope of tradition as
much as it does that of fashion. All the known past becomes
accessible anywhere, and instead of the cult of immediate ancestors
we have a long-armed, selective appropriation of whatever traditional
ideas suit our tastes. For painting the whole world goes to
Renaissance Italy, for sculpture to ancient Greece, and so on.
Convention has not gained as against tradition, but both have been
transformed.
In much the same way we may distinguish between traditionalism
and conventionalism; the one meaning a dominant type of thought
evidently handed down from the past, the other a type formed by
contemporary influence—but we should not expect the distinction to
be any more fundamental than before.
Traditionalism may be looked for wherever there are long-
established groups somewhat shut out from lateral influence, either
by external conditions or by the character of their own system of
ideas—in isolated rural communities, for example, in old and close-
knit organizations like the church, or in introverted nations such as
China used to be. Conventionalism applies to well-knit types not
evidently traditional, and describes a great part of modern life.
The fact that some phases of society are more dominated by
settled types, whether traditional or conventional, than others,
indicates, of course, a certain equilibrium of influences in them, and
a comparative absence of competing ideas. This, in turn, is favored
by a variety of causes. One is a lack of individuality and self-
assertiveness on the part of the people—as the French are said to
conform to types more readily than the English or Americans.
Another requisite is the lapse of sufficient time for the type to
establish itself and mould men’s actions into conformity; even
fashion cannot be made in a minute. A third is that there should be
enough interest in the matter that non-conformity may be noticed
and disapproved; and yet not enough interest to foster originality. We
are most imitative when we notice but do not greatly care. Still
another favoring condition is the habit of deference to some
authority, which may impose the type by example.
Thus the educated classes of England are, perhaps, more
conventional in dress and manner than the corresponding classes in
the United States. If so, the explanation is probably not in any
intrinsic difference of individuality, but in conditions more or less
favorable to the ripening of types; such as the comparative newness
and confusion of American civilization, the absence of an
acknowledged upper class to set an authoritative example, and a
certain lack of interest in the externals of life which our restlessness
seems to foster.[152] On the other hand, it must be said that the
insecurity of position and more immediate dependence upon the
opinion of one’s fellows, which exist in America, have a tendency
toward conventionalism, because they make the individual more
eager to appear well in the eyes of others. It is a curious fact, which
may illustrate this principle, that the House of Commons, the more
democratic branch of the British legislature, is described as more
conventional than the House of Lords. Probably if standards were
sufficiently developed in America there would be no more difficulty in
enforcing them than in England.
Perhaps we should hit nearest the truth if we said that American
life had conventions of its own, vaguer than the British and putting
less weight on forms and more on fellow-feeling, but not necessarily
less cogent.

FOOTNOTES:
[141] Gabriel Tarde, Les lois de l’imitation; English translation
The Laws of Imitation.
[142] Democracy in America, vol. ii, book iii, chap. 21.
[143] The Works of Edmund Burke (Boston, 1884), vol. iii, p.
277.
[144] Amenomori in the Atlantic Monthly, Oct., 1904.
[145] French Traits. P. G. Hamerton’s works, especially his
French and English, are also full of suggestion.
[146] French Traits, page 284.
[147] Page 295.
[148] Page 295.
[149] Idem, page 304.
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