Self-Assertion and Self-Denial

Author(s): J. S. Mackenzie
Source: International Journal of Ethics, Vol. 5, No. 3 (Apr., 1895), pp. 273-295
Published by: The University of Chicago Press
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INTERNATIONAL

OF ETHICS.
JOURNAL
A

RF I L,

SELF-ASSERTION

AND

1 8 9

6.

SELF-DENIAL.*

THROUGHOUT the whole course of ethical speculation,and

throughoutthe whole historyof the moral lifeof mankind,a
certain opposition between Egoism and Altruism has constantlytended to appear, and sometimes the one and sometimes the otherhas been takenas the basis of the moral ideal.
There have, indeed,been certainperiods at which the opposition between the two has almost vanished; and at all times
there have at least been effortsto reconcile them. In the
Greek city-statea man's duty to his countryand to himself
seemed almostto coincide. A happy lifewas scarcelythought
of otherwisethan as a lifeof civic usefulness. Yet even here
contradictionssoon began to emerge-such contradictionsas
are illustratedby the " Antigone" of Sophocles, (in which differentformsof social duty are seen to conflict),by the teaching of the Cynics (in which the social lifeitselfis opposed to
and by various otherfamiliarfacts.
individualself-sufficiency),
In more modern times the conflicthas generallybeen more
obvious, if not more intense; and all that has been possible
has been an effortto reconcile the contending interests,to
show that it is possible to effecta compromise between
them,or that in the long run they can be seen to coincide.
* Read beforethe London Ethical Societies,Februaryi8, i894.
I9
3

VOL. V.-No.

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274

InternationalYournal of Ethics.

The writersof the moral sense school, for instance, at the

beginning of the eighteenthcentury,such writersas Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, and Butler, sought to show that enlightened self-loveleads to the same results as benevolence,
and that, consequently,in the language of Pope, "true selflove and social are the same." This conclusion,however,was
seldom reached by a considerationof the resultsof conduct
within the actual world of our experience. It was thought
necessaryto postulate a futurelife for the complete solution
of the problem. And this is the view which seems to be most
in accordance with the common sense of the modernworld.
Most thoughtfulmenwould agree with Dr. Sidgwick and Mr.
Leslie Stephen (quite apart fromany reference,
to theirhedonistic principles),that it is not always best forthe interestsof
an individualto act in the way that he believes to be best for
the interestsof the world as a whole. There is at least an
apparentconflictbetween these two importantends; and it is
a question of some practical moment,as well as of considerable speculativeinterest,to discuss theway in which this conflictought to be dealt with.
The most obvious way out of the difficulty
is to deny that
one of the two apparent ends has any claim upon us; and in
an age like,ours, in which social claims are paramount,it is
the egoistic side that can most easily be set aside. This is
substantiallythe view of Comte. Egoism, according to him,
is to be crushedout,and altruismas faras possible developed.
This is also substantiallythe view of ordinaryUtilitarianism.
"The greatest happiness of the greatest number" is to be
aimed at. The happiness of the individual,except as a part
of that sum, is of no importance. " In the lightof our highest
reason," says Dr. Coit, as quoted with approval by Professor
Gizycki,*" rationalself-lovecan make no claim to be on a par
with universal love; thereforethere is no dualism,as it has
been called, in the practicalreason, no doubleness,no conflict
betweenthe moralrightof selfand of society. For self makes
no claim whatever when it is lost in devotion to universal
* INTERNATIONAL

JOURNAL OF ETHICS,

vol.

i., No.

I, p. 122.

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and Self-Denial.
Self-Assertion

275

welfare." This is also sometimessaid to be the great lesson

of Christianity. The highest good is to be found,according
in absolute devoto this view,in complete self-renunciation,
tion to the whole or organism of which we are merely
members.
But however powerfullysuch an ideal as this may appeal
to the reason and to the heart,yet the apparentlyopposite
conceptionof self-realizationas the moral ideal is foundcontinuallyrecurringboth in ethical speculationand in the ordinarymoral consciousness. It comes up, moreover,not merely
in such writersas Hobbes and Helvetius, whom a high-toned
moralist might feel justifiedin waving aside as out of court,
but also in many of those whom we cannot but recognize as
among the most serious ethical thinkersand the most conthe idea of selfscientiousservantsof the right. Nay, further,
developmenthas a curiousway of coming up in the moral life
and in ethical speculation just at the point at which the
apparentlyopposite idea of self-devotionor altruismis most
stronglymarked. A fewillustrationsmay make my meaning
clear. We may begin with one fromAristotle. At no point,
I think,does Aristotleemphasizeself-loveso stronglyas when
he is speaking of self-renouncingfriendship. He asks
a man loves himselfor his friend
whether,in true friendship,
the best; and he decides that, though a good man may
yet afterall he loves himself
renounce much for friendship,
most, and reserves the highest good to himself. "Such a
man," he says,* "will surrenderwealth to enrich his friend:
forwhile his friendgets the money,he gets the beauty of the
thing; so that he has the best of the bargain afterall." Similarly, the stoical doctrineof "philanthropy"is taught along
with,and even restsupon,the idea thatthe supremegood lies
in the realizationof individualvirtue,the productionof the
typical" wise man." It is scarcely necessaryto referto the
parallel case of Christianity. Here, again, the renunciationof
selfishinterests,the universal" charity"towardsall mankind,
was accompanied by the most fervent" self-love,"whetherin
* " NicomacheanEthics," IX., viii. 9.

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journal of Ethics.
International

desireofpersonal
thecoarserformof" other-worldliness"-the
happinessin anotherlife-or in thefinerformof an aspiration
of the individualcharacter.
after"holiness,"the perfection
typesof " pietism"thesetwo sides-the side
In the ordinary
suffiand the side of self-assertion-are
of self-renunciation
to
striking
is
even
more
it
cientlyapparent;but, perhaps,
say,
observehow theysurvivein themoral consciousness, of
when the morepeculiarfeaturesof
the eighteenthcentury,
had becomelargelyextinct. Take, forinstance,
Christianity
as conceivedbythenovelist
gentleman
theidealofa Christian
whichwas widely
Richardson-an ideal,be it remembered,
butperhapsevenmoreemacceptednotonlyin thiscountry,
FranceandGermany.Take thefamousSirCharles
phaticallyin
Grandison,and observehow the more he approachesthe
themoredoes he combinethetwoseemingly
morallysublime,
One pasand self-assertion.
sidesof self-denial
contradictory
in whichthe two oppositeideas
striking,
sage is particularly
withoutany
in a quiteparadoxicalform,
are broughttogether
on thepartof thewriterthatthereis
apparentconsciousness
a paradoxinvolved. It is whereMiss Byronsays," Let me
tellyou thatSir Charlesdoes not look to be so greata selfas his sisterseemsto thinkhim,whenshesays,he lives
denier,
and to his ownheart,ratherthanto theopinionof
tohimself,
theworld." Here " livingto himself"is spokenof as practiwithself-denial.And shortlyafterwards
cally synonymous
of his
in theproudconsciousness
Sir Charlessays of himself,
own virtue,"I live not to the world: I live to myself; to
the monitor within me.'> Here, again, living to himselfis
understoodto mean somethingthe veryreverseof selfishness.
Finally, I may instance Goethe himself,the apostle of objectivity,the man who taught us to escape from ourselves by
the way of concreteinterests. Goethe, with all his objective
interests,with all his recognitionof the importanceof renunciation,yet describeshis-supremeaim as that of rearing" the
pyramidof his existence" as high as possible.
Now, it might be possible, no doubt,to turn the edge of
every one of these examples and make them all look insignificant. Thus, with referenceto Aristotle's remark,it might

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Self-Assertionand Self-Denial.

277

be urged that the desire to keep " the beauty of the thing" to
oneself is not compatiblewith the highest kind of friendship.
True friendswould like to see one another excel in virtueas
well as in all otherhappiness. If this is not obvious in ordiit is at least clear in the case of the love of
nary friendship,
parents for their children; and if other formsof love were
we should see it in them,also. Tennyequally disinterested,
son would not want to surpass Hallam in any formof moral
that the man who is conbeauty. It mightbe urged,further,
scious of any particularbeautyin the sacrificewhich he makes
fora friend,has not attained to the highest friendship. The
but self-forgetting.His
true friendis not merelyself-denying,
interestis absorbed in the good of another,and he does not
care forthe beauty of his own attitude. The love of love, as
distinguishedfromthe love of a person,-such love as that
which George Eliot describesas aiming at its own perfection,
-is notlove,but sentimentalism.And thuswe may stillmaintain,against Aristotle,that true self-denialdoes not involve
self-affirmation.As for the Stoics, again, they may easily be
disposed of. Their thin philanthropy,it may be urged, is
the fittingcounterpartof theirspiritual pride. The " philanis found
thropist"is no doubt a self-lover; self-forgetfulness
in the love of-men,not in the love of man. It is an affairof
passion, moreover,and not of mere reason. And thus the
perhaps,will not
Stoics may be safelyset aside. Christianity,
fairlybe mainmay
but
also,
it
here,
so
easily:
yield quite
tained that the idea that the good man is primarilyinterested
in the saving of his own soul involves a confusion. That the
coarser formof this belief is erroneous-the formwhich is
known as " other-worldliness"-wouldnow, I suppose,be universallyadmitted. But even in its finerformof the concentrationof interestin personal " holiness," it seems clear that
the self-conscioustype of character which was produced by
this belief is not the highest type. Such characters,so to
speak, " lack body ;" theirconcreteinterestsevaporate; and if
they only persist long enough in looking inside,they will
soon discover that there is nothing there to look at. And
with regard to the distilled Christianitywhich we find in

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Internaional journal of Ethics.

Richardson and othereighteenthcenturywriters,is not that,

it may be asked, merely the culminationof self-conscious
admirable perhaps in the " age of diaries" (as
sentimentalism,
it has been called), but simply loathsome as soon as we
emerge to a freeratmosphere? In short,not to trouble ourit may be asked bluntly,
selves with needless refinements,
a
"
Grandison
prig" ? And finally,with
Was not Sir Charles
regard to Goethe,there are probably some bold spiritswho
would ventureto criticiseeven him,and to suggest that Mazzini may have been rightin regardinghim as merelythe most
refinedof egoists. We may be reminded,too, that Goethe
was afterall the creator of Werther; and it may be maintained thatthough by this creationhe to a large extentpurged
out the disease which it represents,yet he neverquite escaped
from that self-conscious attitude,-never quite escaped, in
short, from eighteenth century individualism,-never quite
by which even the
escaped fromthat undue self-concentration
fine enthusiasmof a Thoreau was so much more manifestly
narrowedand corrupted. Thus every one of our illustrations
may be set aside.
Now, I am far fromdenying that therewould be forcein
these contentions. But even if we were to grant that they
are sufficientto overthrowall our instances,it would still,I
think,be somewhatdisingenuousto suppose that this ideal of
may safelybe let slip. Even if everyillustraself-realization
tion could be met in this way, we should hardlybe justified
in such a conclusion. When there are many arguments in
supportof a particularview, it is generallya mistake to suppose that you can overthrowthat view by simplyoverthrowing each particularargument. Ghosts, for instance, cannot
disposed of by pointingout that,in this case,
be satisfactorily
the appearance was due to a peculiarlyshaped bush; in that
case, to the foldsof a curtain; in another,to the rays of the
moon; in another,to conscious deception,and so on. It rephenomena give the
mains to inquirewhy so many different
ifevery illustraEven
case.
in
the
present
same results. So
tion could be explained away,we should still have to ask why
there has been so persistenta tendencyto present the moral

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279

ideal in some formthat involves self-realization. We must

admit,I think,that there is a real problem in the antithesis
and self-denial. Admitting this,then,
between self-assertion
I wish to lay beforeyou a fewconsiderationswhich may help
towards a solution of the problem.
In that extraordinarilybrilliant book, Professor James's
"Principles of Psychology,"thereis frequentuse made of an
importantdistinctionwhich,I think,will be found useful to
us here,-not a distinctionthat is peculiar to ProfessorJames,
but one which he has perhaps emphasized more than any one
else, and which he expresses by the contrast* between" I" and
" me," between the self as subject and the self as object. I
must tryto make this as clear as I can. Let us begin by
asking ourselves what exactly we mean by selfishness. If you
reflecton this conception,you will see, I think,that the idea
of self is a little puzzling. What constitutesa selfish man?
A natural answer would be that a selfish man is one who
thinksa great deal about himself,and acts a great deal with
referenceto himself. Now, this may be true; but is it clear?
Is it the case that a selfish man is particularlyself-conscious?
Reflectionwill, I think,convince us that it is not so. There
is even a certainantagonismbetweenthe two things. Selfishness is associated with hardness of moral fibre; while selfconsciousness implies sensitiveness,if not sensibility. The
man who is keenly self-conscious may naturallybe retiring
and modest; but he need not be specially selfish: he may
a do good by stealth,and blush to findits fame." Or, again,
he may be self-conceited. But even self-conceitis not the
same as selfishness. Every one would, I suppose, regardByron as very self-conscious; and some mightsay that he was
also self-conceited. But fewwould describe him as notably
selfish. Most people would regard his impulses as having
been on the whole generous. Wordsworthalso might be regarded as self-conscious,but hardlyas selfish. Yet we might
fairlysay that he thought a great deal about himself,and
acted a great deal with referenceto himself. On the other
* Due originally,as I understand,to ProfessorEverett.

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hand,a good case could probablybe madeout forregarding

Napoleonas selfish;thoughhe could hardlybe saidto be spemenwho
mengenerally,
literary
ciallyself-conscious.In fact,
are naturally
moreself-conscious
are muchgivento reflection,
thanothermen,and are perhapsoftenmore self-conceited;
but surelytheyare not,as a rule,moreselfish. Even a psyof generosity.In
chologistmaynotbe altogetherdestitute
is associatedratherwitha certainbrazenness,
fact,selfishness
a certainwantofreflection.We shouldhardlyexpecta very
selfishmanto keepa diary,or to be muchgivento introspection. In whatsense,then,maya selfishmanbe said to think
abouthimself? Reflectionon thisquestionoughtto lead us
to see thatthereis a certainpuzzlein theidea of self; and it
is thispuzzle thatI mustnowtryto solve by meansof Probetweenthe" I" and the" me."
fessorJames'scontrast
Perhapsa metaphormayhelp us here. Bacon compared
thehumanmindto a mirrorin whichtheworldis reflected;
and manyotherwritershave repeatedthe same image. It
thatit
maybe ofsome use to us now,providedwe remember
is onlyan image,and thatit is notin all respectsa good one.
Let us suppose,then,thateach one of our heads containsa
mirrorinsideit. Withinthis mirroris reflectedall thatwe
and
know,all thatwe feel,all thatwe desire,all our interests
life. This
ofour self-conscious
thewholecontent
inclinations,
mirroris the " I:" it is the subjectto whicheveryobjectis
presented. We need not troubleourselvesat presentwith
thatit mightbe necessaryforsome purthe consideration
intoone another.
reflected
number
of mirrors
have
to
a
poses
the
Thus,whenwethinkofourownpastlives, " I" ofa former
state becomesan objectto us now; and we mightrepresent
this by sayingthata mirrorsomewhereback in the pastis
reflectedinto the mirrorof the present. But, as I have
and
alreadysaid,this whole image is finallyunsatisfactory;
for
most
of
our
purbe
mirror
will
sufficient
a
single
perhaps
then,is theself. Now,it is evident
poses here. That mirror,
at once thatthisis not the selfof whichwe thinkwhenwe
are selfish. The psychologiststudiesthat self. The introis
spectivesaint,who has what we call " self-knowledge,"

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Serf-Assertion

28i

conscious of that self,in so faras he thinksof his mentaland

moral life as a whole. The self-conceitedman may also be
aware of it, though oftenit scarcely entersinto his view; and
the same applies largelyto the man whom we describe as unduly " self-conscious." But the selfishman, as such, does not
thinkof himselfin this way. If he were in the habit of doing
so, he would probably cease to be selfish. If he thought
enough about himself,he would put himself in his right
place. If,then,the term" selfish"is really a significantword
at all, there must be another sense in which we can speak of
the self.
This other sense is the sense in which the self is a " me)
ratherthan an " I, an object rather than a subject. A good
illustrationof this is found in our bodily organism. It is
sometimessaid that "my body is rather mine than me;" but
the factthat it is counted necessaryto state this,shows that
we are in the habit of thinkingof it as " me." If our clothing
were not frequentlychanged, we should no doubt come to
regard it also as part of ourselves,-as perhaps some people
do. Anything which is intimatelyand constantlyassociated
with our individual consciousness comes in this way to be
identifiedwiththe self. But if we are to call this " self,"it is
self only in the objective sense. It is not the selfthat is conscious, but the self of which we are conscious. This is the
self as object,the " me." It is not the mirror,but one of the
thingsreflectedin the mirror. In so far as we are conscious
of it, therefore,it lies within the "I." Or, to use another
image, we may say that the "I" is a large circle,and the
"me" is a little circle within it. The "you," the "it," the
"them," the "us," would be other little circles, all falling
withinthe large circle of the " I," or all reflectedwithin that
comprehensive mirror. The " me," then, is the individual
self, regarded as one object among others. It is not, of
course, necessarily confined to our bodily existence. Our
habitual interestsand desires,our charactersin so far as we
are aware of them as factswithinthe worldof our knowledge,
are forms of the " me." In a sense, the " I" itselfmay be
turned into a "me," in so far as the whole content of our

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consciousness at any time can be regardedas an object. This

happens, for instance,when we thinkof a past experiencein
its entirety. Thus, as I have already said, a mirrorstanding
in the past is reflectedas a whole within the mirrorof the
present. Such a reflectedmirroris, of course,only one object
among otherswithinthe mirrorin which the reflectiontakes
place. Such, then,is the contrastbetween the "I" and the
" me."
Now, it seems clear that selfishnessmust mean me-ishness
ratherthan I-ishness. If we reflectupon it, I thinkwe shall
find that it means the concentrationof our attention upon
objects more or less directlyrelated to our individual personalities to the exclusion of othersequally important,
but which
have not the same direct relation to our individual selves.
This relation is not simplyrelationto the " I." Whether we
are selfishor unselfish,the " I" is equally present. The generous man is interestedin objects that lie withinhis own world,
just as the selfish man is; and if he is trulygenerous in his
nature,the objects appeal to him with the same keenness of
personal interestas the other objects do to the selfish man.
Each is interestedin some part of the content of his "I."
The difference
consistsin a difference
of content. In the one
case, the contentis the " me," or some objects intimatelyconnected with the " me." In the othercase, the contentmay be
altogetherremotefromthe " me." It may be a " you" or an
" it" in which we take, to put it paradoxically,a disinterested
interest,-i.e.,an interestwhich belongs simplyto the " I," not
If I am
to the " me." We can never get outside of the 'I."
interestedin anything,I am interestedin it; if I know anything,I know it; if I desire anything,I desire it; if I decide
to do anything,I decide to do it. Everything that means
anythingfor me at all must be focussed,so to speak, for my
particular point of view, must come within my world,be reflected on my mirror,lie within the circle of my interests.
If I affirmmyself,it is I who affirm. If I deny myself,it is
I who deny. It is all my " I," but it is not all my " me." The
" me" is a circle within the " I" a narrowcircle of particular
interestsclusteringround my individualpersonality. It is the

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283

circle of my animal appetites,the interestsof my particular

physical life,that life which I know more intimatelythan I
know any other,but which I may affirmor deny,just as I
may affirmor deny any other,that lifewhich is emphatically
mine,which is emphatically" me," but which is equally emphaticallynot"I." I stand above it; I know it; I approve
it or disapproveit; I affirmit or deny it. If I affirmit too
exclusively,I am selfish,I am me-ish. But I cannot be any4
thingelse than I-ish. I am " I."
This distinctionbetweenthe " I" and the " me" helps us,
I think,to see through the common puzzle with respect to
" self-interest."Certainschools of moraliststell us that men's
actions are always guided by considerationsof self-interest.
Sometimes they mean by this that the motiveof our action is
always an anticipated pleasure to ourselves. But sometimes
they seem to mean little more than that all our actions are
relative to the "I," that they are all dependent on interests
that lie within the circle of our self-consciousnature. This
is a truism. But to say this is not to say that our actions are
selfish; This would mean, not that they are relative to the
" I," but that they are relative to the "me ;" and this,I think
we may safely say, no one has ever seriously attemptedto
show. Similarly,when it is argued, in political economy,that
men's industrial activities are governed by "self-interest,"
this does not necessarilymean that men are selfish in their
actions. It means primarilynothing more than that men
seek to realize,in the mostdirectway,the satisfactionof those
interestswhich are dominant within the world of their selfconscious lives,-those interestswhich,as we say, they have
"most at heart." Such self-interestmay be selfish or generous, or it may be simplyneutral. It may be an interestin
the "me," in the "you," in the " us," or even in the "it."
Even the pursuitof money,as CliffeLeslie pointed out in his
admirable Essay-on " The Love of Money," may representall
sorts of differentinterests,fromthe most sordid to the most
benevolent and heroic. But in all cases alike, we may be
said, in a certain sense, to be governed by "self-interest."
No interestcan fall outside of the "I." It is the focus at

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which theyall meet,the mirrorin which theyare all reflected.

But selfishness,in the proper sense, is interestin the " me ;"
and this is certainlynot that by which we are always guided.
If we were always consistentlyguided by it, we might in
some respects be wiser and better men than we are; but, in
the main,we should simplybe narrowerand blinder. "Wisdom" would be, by some entrances," quite shut out." Our
interests would have an exclusiveness which, even in the
meanestof men,they scarcely have at present. It is this exclusivenessof interest,this narrowingof it to the single point
of the " me," that is properlymeantby " selfishness."
It follows fromthis that selfishnessis essentiallynegative.
It is an exclusive interest; and the essence of it lies in its exclusiveness. It is really no-other-ishness.It is not that we
are interestedin the " me," but that we care fornothingelse.
The generous man may be quite as much interestedin the
" me" as the selfishman is; but he is interestedin otherthings
as well, and puts the " me" in its right place. It may even
be his superiorinterestin the " me" that makes him conscious
of its wider relations. We do people too much honor when
we call them selfish. We ought ratherto call them nothingWe ought to insiston the negativity. It
that-is-not-me-ish.
observed,
also, that there are degrees or stages of
should be
selfishness. The earliest stage is that of simple absorption
in particular animal appetites. This, as Butler pointed out,
cannot properlybe describedas self-love; since the appetites
are directedtowardsparticular objects, and we do not at this
stage specially thinkof them as ours. It is a stage higher
when we regard our individual lives as a whole, and forma
more or less definiteconceptionof what constitutestheirwelfare. At this stage, however,we are necessarily carried to
some extent beyond ourselves. The welfare of a self-conscious individual must include interestsin objects more or
less remotefromhis own animal existence. It can scarcely
fail,indeed,to include some interestin other persons,though
he may be interestedin them only as means to his own happiness. Here, as elsewhere, the selfishnessconsists in the
negativity. The importantpoint is that outside interestsare

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285

excluded,except in so faras theybear on the happinessof

the individuallife. But we mayadvancestillfurther,
without
ridof theelementof negation. Even love
altogether'getting
has been somewhatcynicallydescribedas "selfishnessfor
a man maybe benevolentwith regardto
two." Similarly,
his family,but selfishtowards everythingbeyond. Even
patriotism-Imeangenuinepatriotism,
not merely" the last
resourceof a scoundrel"-maybecome selfishness.Exclusivenessis, throughout,
thatwhichconstitutes
the essenceof
in so faras selfishness
is a vice.
selfishness,
On theotherhand,so faras selfishness
is positive,
so faras
it meansinterest
in the" me" and not merelythe absenceof
interestin thatwhichis not" me,"it is nota vicebuta virtue.
In fact,we maysay thatit is inchoatebenevolence.If loveis
" selfishness
fortwo,"self-loveis at leastbenevolencetowards
one. It is a real step forward
when a man gets above the
mere gratification
of his particularimpulses,and begins to
takean intelligent
interestin his own lifeas a whole. It is
then that wider interestsbecome possible. The man who
caresnothingforhis own" me" is notlikelyto care muchfor
any one else's. "A poor thing,but mine own,"is not an
altogether
ignoblesentiment.On thebasisofsuchan interest
in thatwhichis immediately
connectedwithourselves,many
thingsmaybe builtup. Such an interest,
indeed,involvesa
kindofself-denial:
itinvolvesa certaintranscendence
ofthose
ofthe
animalimpulseswhicharethefirst
particular
expression
" me." The interest
in theselfbecomesmeanonlywhenit is
ossified;whenit refusesto grow; when,in short,it becomes
negativeor exclusive. It is thenthatthe wordsare true,
"Unless above himselfhe can
Erect himself,how mean a thingis man!"

But he wouldbe stillmeanerif he could notevenerecthimselftohimself,

whichan animalon thewholecannotdo, and
which even many men fail to accomplish. Me-ishness,in
short,is,properly
speaking,
good: itis onlynothing-that-is-notme-ishness
that is bad: but it is this latterthatis meantin
discourseby"selfishness."
ordinary

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Now, if selfishnessis essentially negative,it follows that

self-denial is essentially positive. If the one means the
absence of interestin anythingthat is not " me," the otherwill
naturallymean the presenceof an interestin somethingother
than" me." And reflectionseems to show that thisis actually
what it does mean. There is, indeed, a kind of self-denial
which is properlynegative. Asceticism is, in the main,of this
nature: it is simplyan effortto snub the " me." But even this
witha view to the realiis generallymade,at least at first,
effort
zation of some positive end, to which the " me" blocks the
way. But asceticismpure and simpleis merelya sortof spite
against the " me ;" and, in this sense, it is a vice-a vice which
is the counterpartof selfishness,ifit maynot even be called a
species of selfishness. It is a kind of negativeinterestin the
" me ; and such a negative interestmay exclude the interest
as a positiveinterestcould.
in otherthingsquite as effectually
Indeed, it is probablymore effective. A positive interestin
the " me" leads almost inevitably,as I have said, to an interest
in other things; whereas a negative interest as inevitably
excludes this. But, of course,asceticism,in this purelynegative sense,is rare-at least in moderntimes. Such asceticism
as exists is generallywith a view to some positive end; and,
so far,it may be good. It is hardlynecessaryto warn people
against standing on pillars or walking on peas: yet we do
still find some who think themselves bound to abstain from
certain enjoymentssimply because they like them; and it
may be as well to remind such that they are on the negative
road-the road to the desert,to negative selfishness,to the
emptyingof lifeof its interests,even the poor interestsin the
Mr. Bradley remarks*that it " is
" me." Of such self-sacrifice
too oftenthe ' great sacrifice'of trade,the givingcheap whatis
worth nothing. To know what one wants,and to scruple at
no means that will get it, may be a harder self-surrender."
True self-denial,in short,is positive. It startsfromthe "me"
and works outward,taking in the" you" and the " it." It does
not busy itselfwith the suppressionof the " me," but rather
* " Appearanceand Reality,"p. 6.

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Self-Assertionand Self-Denial.

287

quietly sets it aside in the corner. It was of this kind of selfdenial that St. Paul was 'thinkingwhen he said, " Though I
bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my
body to be burned,and have not charity,it profitethme nothing." He meant that asceticismis morallyvalueless without
a positive interestin things beyond ourselves. Selfishnessis
a stagnantpool that can neverbe let out by drainage; but a
flood of largerinterestssweeps it at once into the ocean.
Now, if this is true,if self-denialis essentiallypositive,it
might almost equally well be described as self-affirmation.
All our interests,as I have said, lie within the circle of the
" I." Everythingthat exists forus at all comes to focus there,
is reflectedwithinthat mirror. Whetherwe are egoistic or
altruistic-me-ish or you-ish-we are necessarilyI-ish. But
the selfish man limits his "I." His mirroris clouded. It
shows only one corner with any clearness. What is not
directlyrelated to the " me" fades away in a mist. Thus the
man who confineshimselfto the " me" narrowsand obscures
the " I" The self-denyingman, on the other hand, is one
who polishes his mirror,and sees things in their true relations. His " me" may be somewhat crushed,or it may not;
selfbut his " I," at any rate,is well developed. If,therefore,
that
seems
clear
of
the
it
"I,"
assertion means the assertion
man is theone who assertshimselfmost.
the most self-denying
Self-denial,in the positive sense,means almost the same thing
as self-assertion. It is only the point of view that is different.
Here, then,we seem to have arrived at a solution of the
was to underproblem with which-westarted. The difficulty
stand how it is that self-assertioncan be accepted, as it has so
often been both in theoryand in practice,as a formof the
moral ideal; and, in particular,how it comes that self-assertion is oftentaken as the moral ideal at the very moment at
which self-denialis being emphasized. The paradox involved
and self-denial
of self-affirmation
in this seeming identification
is seen to be a plain statementof the factas soon as we define
our terms. And having done this,I thinkwe may now see
the significanceof some of the illustrationsthat were previously given. Thus, we may understandhow it is that the

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Internationaljournal of Ethics.

man who gives up his wealth to his friendmay be described

as self-loving; not, indeed,because he keeps " the beauty of
the thing"to himself,but ratherbecause he keeps the money.
Depend upon it, the man of whom Aristotlewas thinkingwas
not such a fool as he looked. He was simplytaking money
out of one pocket to put it into another. It is true,the one
pocket was his own, and the otherwas his friend's; but no
doubt his view was wide enough to take in both. At least one
cannot but hope that this may have been the explanation; for
if he only got " the beauty of the thing,"I am afraidhe would
not growveryfaton it. A man will not gain much by gloating over the beauty of his own actions. Perhaps we may also
understand in this way the passage that I quoted from"Sir
Charles Grandison,"whose self-denialwas spoken of as if it
were the same thing as living to oneself The paradox vanishes if we substitute" me" and " I" in their proper places.
Miss Byron's remarkwill then run as follows:-" Let me tell
you that Sir Charles does not look to be so greata me-denier,
as his sisterseems to thinkhim,when she says, he lives to his
' I' and to his own heart, ratherthan to the opinion of the
world." There is no paradox here. To live to the " I" is
certainlyto deny the " me ;" or rather,more strictly,it is to
deny the denial of everythingthat is not,"me;" it is to deny
selfishness. And Goethe's saying about the "pyramid of his
existence" is equally easy of interpretation. It was his " I"
that he wanted thus to exalt; it was the world of his objective
interests. Similarly,we mightdeal withthe cases of Stoicism
and Christianity. And similarly we might understandthe
declarationof Walt Whitman," thatthe young man who composedly perilledhis lifeand lostit,has done exceeding well for
himself;while the man who has not perilledhis life,and retains
it to old age in riches and ease, has perhaps achieved nothing
forhimselfworth mentioning;" and many other declarations
of a like strainthat mightbe multipliedalmost without limit
fromthe writingsof the propheticteachers of mankind. We
not to reject such illustrations,merelyon
were wise, therefore,
account of a littlesuperficialcriticism. They contain a problem, which it was worthwhile to tryto solve.

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289

I am far,indeed, frommeaning to implythat we have now

reached a complete solution of this problem. The whole
opposition of the "I" and the "me" bristles with psychoover which I have been
logical and metaphysicaldifficulties,
sliding in the most reckless way. The " I" and the " me" are
ghosts that haunt us in many forms. The psychological
student,in particular,oftenfindshis candle burning dim as
these apparitions come before him. It will be long, in all
probability,beforewe can findany incantationthat will finally
lay them. There is one point,however,on which I ought,
perhaps,still to touch. I have remarkedalready that the " I"
may be turnedinto a " me ;" and thisit is importantto remember. They are somewhat like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
The hero of our tale may be transformed
into the villain; the
" I" may be made to masquerade as a mere " me." We may,
that is to say, take the circle of our interestsas itselfan interest,make the mirrorinto one of the objects that are reflected,turnthe subject into an object. As a general rule,we
do not thinkmuch about the " I;" we think about particular
objects in which we are interested,not about our interestsas
a whole, as making us into personalitiesof a particularkind.
But it is possible to think about ourselves in this way. It is
possible, to carryon our image, instead of studying the reflectionsin the mirror,to interestourselves in the polishing
of the glass and in puttingit in a gilt frame. This is scarcely
the same thing as selfishness. It is only self-consciousness.
Our interestin the mirrorcan neverbe withouta referenceto
the objects reflectedin it, and consequentlyis neverproperly
selfish. Selfishness consists in narrowingour intereststo a
particular" me ;" whereas,this of which I now speak consists
simplyin taking the " I" as if it were a " me." We do not in
this way narrow our interests,but rather dim them by not
looking at them with sufficientdirectness. It seems to me
that this is probably the defect of which many people are
conscious in Goethe. Goethe was surelyquite right to raise
the pyramidof his existence as high as possible; but it may
be that he was too constantlyaware that his existencewas a
pyramid. In comparison with Shakespeare, or even with a
VOL.

V.-No. 3

20

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International
journallof Ethics.

muchsmallermanlikeScott,thereseemsto be a certainwant
in his studyof theworld. This maybe theexof directness
planationof a certainhaze thatwe seemto findthere,which
makes his world a moonlitworld in contrastwithShaketoo much
speare'ssunlitone. He regardstheworld,perhaps,
into
be
to
paint forhis
ground
as if it were theremerely
and I
criticism,
is a pointof literary
canvas. This,however,
do notknowhow farit is true. I merelygive it hereas an
of whatI mean. Mostpoets,I fancy,in contrast
illustration
illustratethe same point. Theyare conwithShakespeare,
view,
sciousthattheviewoftheworldwhichtheygiveis their
in it as beingtheirs.Theydo notlet themand are interested
selves go, and forgetthemselvesin theirobjectiveinterests.
It would no doubtbe correctto say thatthisis simplythe
of noble minds."
finalformof selfishness,-a" last infirmity
to noticeis thatin thisformthe" I"
But what is important
and the " me" almostcometogether.
And thissuggestsanotherpoint,whichis perhapsof more
practicalimportance. In general,our view has been that
goodnessconsistsin keepingthe " me" withindue bounds,
and thusenlargingthe" I." But our lastpointsuggeststhat
eventhe" I," as such,maybe undulyemphasizedas against
whetherit
its own content. This leads us to ask, further,
the" I" as wellas the
be rightto sacrifice
maynotsometimes
" me." Now,thisis a subtleproblem,which,I believe,often
comesup in thehighestformsof the morallife. Let me try
to explainhow it arises. Let us take thecase of such a man
as Cromwell,-amanengagedin someworkofpoliticalrevolutionand reconstruction.Such a man has probably,as a
generalrule,no veryclear idea of what the outcomeof his
actionwillbe; and perhapswhenhe getsintothethickof it,
is more and more circumscribed,
and his timeforreflection
of thegood and evilconsequencesof whathe
his perception
does maybecomedimmerand dimmer. Perhaps,also,in the
heat of the struggle,his own charactermay be somewhat
warped. He may habituatehimselfto the use of questionof theendshe has in view,and
able meansfortheattainment
betweenrightand wrong
the keennessof his discrimination

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291

may become gradually blurred. Still, he may be, on the

whole, convincedthatthe work in which he is engaged is the
thingthat he has to do, and that he is bound to go on with it.
He is losing his " I," the mirrorwithin him is darkened and
narrowed,and the interestto which he is devoting himselfis
not clearly presentedwithin that mirrorat all. He is, to a
great extent,taking a leap in the dark.* Yet is it not a noble
leap? Is it not well worthwhile to sacrificeeven the " I" on
such a shrine? The case would become still strongerif we
suppose that some other career is open, and perhaps it might
appeal to us more if we took an instance more directlyfrom
our own surroundings. Suppose a man with high artisticand
poetic gifts,who by the cultivationof these might attainto a
high formof self-development;and suppose he becomes convinced,after careful reflection,that some political or social
reformis urgentlywanted,and that he is called upon to inaugurate it. Suppose, for instance,he becomes a revolutionary socialist. In the prosecutionof this ideal he may have to
sacrificea large part of his artistic development,and he may
never attainto any very clear view of what socialism means,
or of what are the best means of its realization. He may
simplyhave a general idea, according to his best attainable
light,that the one importantthingis to agitate in season and
out of season, believingthat in thisway he is startinga movementwhich is sure in the end to work itselfout to clearness.
If he supplies the fire,the light will come. Such a man loses
much and perhaps gains nothing. His " I" is more and more
narrowedand confused,and he does not clearlysee where he
is going. Yet must we not say, on the whole (assuming that
he has taken due care in deciding that this is his best course),
that he is acting nobly,and that the world may gain more
fromhis self-devotionthan it could have done fromhis art or
poetry? The ultimate resultwill be a betterworld,though
not a world that will ever clearly exist for the reformerhim* Cromwellhimselfsaid thatwe never go so far as when we do not know
wherewe are going. Goethe also used to speak of the " demonic" elementin
genius. But even in ordinarymoral actionwe require,to some extent,to " walk
by faith."

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InternationalYournal of Ethics.

self-except as a kind of Pisgah sight. Is it not worthwhile,

in such a case, to sacrificeeven the " I"? Now, this is a casuistical question,and such questions cannot,I think,as a rule,
be satisfactorilyansweredby any purelytheoretical considerations. But the general principlescan be laid down on which
a solution would depend. In this case the answer seems
clearly to be that if in the end the " I" is sacrificed,the conduct cannot be right; but one must not too hastilyconclude
that such a sacrificehas been involved,forthe " I" is not quite
such a simple affairas we have tended to representit. It is a
growing thing,and for this reason alone cannot be satisfactorilyrepresentedby a mirror; or, if we do so representit,
we must say that it is possible to break up the mirrorwithout
sacrificingthe " I," provided we are breaking it up to .put a
larger and clearer one in its place. Such a broken mirror
ceases to be an "'I" for us at all. It is only a "me;" and,
though at one time it was all the world forus, yet in the end
the destructionof it may be " the world well lost." It is in
this sense that we
" mayrise by stepping-stones
Of our dead selvesto higherthings."'

But in such a rise there must always be somethingof an

adventure. In any great forward movement,and even in
many small ones, we cannot quite clearly see where we are
going. We can only judge* whether the direction in which
we are moving is, on the whole, that in which progress lies.
To decide this,in any particular case, is a question forindividual judgment, guided by the best traditionsof the race;
and it is in the exercise of such judgment that much of the
highestinterestof life consists. The merelytheoreticalstuhad better not seek to pronounce any final
dent,therefore,
decision withregardto the actionof Cromwellor the socialist;
he mustleave it to them and to sympatheticbiographers,who
have the concreteconditionsof theirlives beforethem. The
* Of course,in the instancesI have given,I have been assumingthat this
judgmentis based on a considerationof the bestattainablelight. In such cases
even thebestattainablelightcan neverbe quiteclear.

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293

of thequestionforus hereis merelyto observehow

interest
closely/insuch a case the "I" approximatesto the"me;"
and how,even here,it is the " me" that mustbe surrendered
and the" I" maintained.
Anotherpointthatmighthelpto bringthisout is theconGoethesays
ofwhatwe meanby " self-reverence."
sideration
is the highestform
in WilhelmMeisterthat "self-reverence
on as
;" and thisis a truththatis worthinsisting
of reverence
Agnosagainstwhat Mr.Bosanquethas called" sentimental
ticism"-the worshipof the Unknowable. To worshipanythingthatis quiteoutsideour worldis a low formof reveris not reverenceat all. At the same
ence-indeed,strictly,
time,whatwe reverencecan neverbe the " me." Even the
of men can hardlybe said to reverence
most self-conceited
himselfin this sense; and,of course,Goethedid not in the
in
says that" self-reverence,"
least mean this. He distinctly
thissense,is thebestsafeguardagainstself-conceit.Neither,
however,did he meanreverenceforthe" I." At least,I do
notsee howthatcould be called" thehighestformof reverence." The meaningseemsto be ratherthatwhichGoethe
elsewhereexpressesby sayingthatwe take as our objectof
worship"the best that we know." Now,the best thatwe
knowis whatwe maycall our ideal self. It is not any parnor is it the mirroritself;it is
ticularobject in our mirror,
worldofwhichwe can think,reflected
ratherthe mostperfect
in the clearestof possiblemirrors. Such an objectraisesus,
in a sense,above boththe " I" and the " me;" and yet,in a
sense,it does notraiseus out ofourselves. We do notthink
or foreignto our self-conscious
nature;
of it as unknowable,
but onlyas what we mightbe if the worldof our self-conof
scious lives were enlargedand clarified.The possibility
reverenceforsuchan object-which seemsto be notmerely
" the highestformof reverence,"
but even the onlypossible
on thefactthatwe wereprogresformofreverence-depends
of mirrorsbehindus,
sive. We have notmerelya reflection
in front
but also,so to speak,an inchoateimageof a mirror
of us. We know not onlywhat we were and whatwe are,
but also whatwe mightbe, what,as we say,we " ought to

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be." It is on this factthat reverencedepends. But this leads

us to thinkof threeselves-the " me,"the " I," and the" I"
to the second power, the heroic "I." Tennyson's weighty
lines in cEnone," Self-reverence,
self-knowledge,
self-control,
These threealone lead life to sovereignpower,"

seem to convey this distinction. The self that we controlis

the " me ;" we have to keep it in its due subjection. The self
that we know is the " I," the subject with its world of contents. The selfthat we reverenceis the ideal self,the highest
impulses that we have, our deepest insights,"the best that
we know."
And here it may be well to pause. These last examples
ought to convince us that the distinctionbetweenthe "I" and
the " me" is farfrombeing a simple one. In fact,having at
first,for the sake of a sharp outline,begun with a somewhat
rigidantithesis,I am now disposed to correctmyselfby saying
that there is no such hard-and-fastopposition to be found.
What is the " I" at one level becomes a " me" for us at a
higher level. We enlarge and clarifyour mirrors,and the old
ones remain forus only as reflections. On the whole, therefore,it may be best in the end to throwaside our " I's" and
"me's," our mirrors,and other questionable paraphernalia,
and tryto state,in plain English, what the gist of the matteris.
The essential point is that self-developmentand self-devotion are very nearlythe same thing. We can only develop
ourselves by devoting ourselves to objective ends; and, on
the other hand, the only valuable kind of self-denialis that
for the sake of objective interests,by devotion to which we
are developed. There is, indeed, a certain opposition between the two things. Sometimes our effortsto raise the
pyramidsof our existence as high as possible may lead us to
neglect importantsocial ends; and sometimes our zeal for
public duties may involve a real sacrificeof our individual
development. Such conflictsbetween distinguishableaspects
of the ideal lifeare inevitable; and it is only a complete consideration of the concrete circumstancesbefore us that can
enable us to judge, in any particularcase, what it is best for

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295

us to do. But it remainstrue,nevertheless,that on the whole

the ideal lifeis one. On the whole, each one of us findshimself in the midstof importantends which call forour devotion. By acceptingthese ends and applying our best powers
to them,we at once lose ourselves and find ourselves. We
die to our merelyselfish interests: we live anew in the fuller
discoveryof what our faculties are fitfor,and in the larger
developmentof them. At every step, indeed, we are beset
by dangers. There is firstthe coarser danger of succumbing
to our animal inclinations,being overcomeby " the world,the
flesh,and the' devil." This is selfishness,but not self-assertion. On the other hand, there is the danger of losing ourselves in particular ends; of hastilygiving ourselves up, for
instance,to the strugglefor political and social ideas which
we do not fullyunderstand,and in the effortafterwhich we
are personallyperplexed and injured. This is a kind of selfdenial; but, if we are finallylost in the process, it is not a
wise self-denial. On the whole,just so faras we are personally impairedby it we are not socially serviceable. Finally,
there is the danger of undue self-assertion,
of becoming absorbed in the sphere of our personal interests,so as to lose
consciousness of the wider world beyond. The evil of all
these courses is fairlyobvious; though,no doubt,it requires
great care, tact,and insightto avoid being entangled in some
or all of them. But this is a practical difficulty. It is not
the difficulty
of 'seeing that they are wrong,but only that of
avoiding them. We can hardly avoid them entirely. Our
balance is, in general,littlebetterthan a swaying,now to this
side, now to that. But, in the main, it is true that,so faras
we are faithful
to our vocation,wherever it may call us, our
followingof it is a continualprocess both of surrenderand of
development,almost in exact proportionto one another; and
that the fartherwe advance in our devotion to it,the more
nearly are we likely to regard those two sets of words as
synonymous-" stirb undI werde," "die" and "live," "selfassertion"and " self-denial."
J. S. MACKENZIE.
UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, CARDIFF.

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