The Will

There is a tendency in the literature of all sciences to expatiate with excessive prolixity on the earlier portions and to leave the later ones undeveloped and attenuated. For example, in the department of theological science with which I am myself usually occupied, Church History, the books written on the first three centuries are bewildering in number, but on the centuries that follow, and especially on the Middle Ages, works of the same ability are m*uch more difficult to find. At the Reformation a new commencement is made, and works on the Reformation Period are both numerous in quantity and excellent in quality; but for the period between the middle of the seventeenth century and the present day it is far from easy to obtain sifted and connected information. In Psychology the same circumstance is discernible. The Intellectual Powers, as they are called, or the course by which sensation is transformed into knowledge, may be said

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to have been written about even to excess; and by some writers in recent times the science of Physiology has been tumbled in a heap into Psychology. But the Active Powers have been far less amply treated. President McCosh and Professor James, for example, in writing of feeling, have both complained of the unsatisfactory nature of what had been written on the subject by psychologists before themselves; and, even after one has perused their own valuable contributions, one may still be far from satisfied. But it is when we come to what follows feeling that dissatisfaction becomes strongest. It may be that philosophical authors grow tired as they are nearing the end of the long journey; or, perhaps, having planned the scope of their lectures on too vast a scale, they find themselves short of time, as the session draws to a close, and have to huddle things up at the finish; but it is certain that the method by which action becomes conduct has not been nearly so fully explained as that by which sensation is worked-up into knowledge.

For this is the problem. Sensations from the external world are pouring in on the mind continually from every quarter through the avenues of the senses; but these would remain an overwhelming and confusing mass of separate atoms, unless there were in the mind faculties by means of w hich they are arranged and combined into that system of orderliness and unity which we call knowledge; and, as we have seen, it is the part of Psychology to describe the difiFerent mental zones through which the materials have to pass, whilst they are undergoing this transformation. But, when the centre is reached, there takes place a reaction in the opposite direction, which issues in conduct. Mere action, however, is not conduct. In the same way as sensations pass upward through certain zones, in the process of becoming knowledge, so the reactions — which in combination are called Action — must pass downwards through certain zones, in order to be transformed into conduct. If the mind has categories of its own which it lets down on the impressions coming from without, so as to transmute these into a cosmos, which it can apprehend and work with, so has it categories which it applies, in similar fashion, to the impulses going in the opposite direction, in order that these may become the conduct of reasonable and responsible beings. This is the portion of Psychology which does not appear to me to have as yet been nearly completed; at this point there is ample room for the labours of the psychologists of the future; and the categories of conduct may yet come to be reckoned no less important than the categories of thought.

We must remember here, once more, the double system of nerves, described in an earlier lecture. The motor nerves form the bodily agency by means of which impulse is carried into action. As along the sensory or afferent system the impressions are conveyed which the world makes on us, so along this motor or efferent system are conveyed the impressions which we make on the world. Along the nerves proceeding outwards from the brain a force travels which sets in motion the hand for example, and the hand, with this force communicated to it, displaces an object — say, a book. It does so because of its firm, bony structure, and because of the contraction of certain muscles in the arm; but these movements take place on account of notice communicated to them along the telegraph-lines proceeding from the brain. The power in the brain in which the message originates is the Will. It is this faculty which sets in motion the nerve-force, which, in turn acting on the muscles and the limbs, produces all the activities of daily life, such as walking, lifting, smiting, fondling, talking, and so forth. In short, it controls the whole process by which action is converted into conduct.

It is easy to perceive how elaborate is the arrangement in the bodily organism for the use of the will; butistill more wonderful is it to observe how inevitably the will flashes such messages always along the right nerves, not sending a message intended to move an eyelid along the line which would move a lip, or a message intended to move the thumb along the line which would move the forefinger. Equally impressive is it to consider how delicately it weighs out the amount of force requisite in every case; so that sometimes we speak in whispers and sometimes cry loud enough to be heard a hundred yards away; we put out the exact amount of efifort to move a candlestick an inch, not to hurl it to the opposite side of the room; we do not crush the hand held out to salute us, but give it a gentle pressure. The will is the source of all the movements and activities of life, and it can be trained to communicate to these expressiveness and harmony.

It will, besides, be remembered how close, in speaking of feeling, we found the connexion to be between the action of the sensory system and that of the motor system. It is by the impressions conveyed to the mind by means of the sensory nerves that the will is caused to communicate to the motor nerves the impulse that leads to action. Thus, when an orange is held up before a child, certain impressions are transmitted to the child’s brain through the eye and the sense of smell; and the result is that the little arm and hand are moved to touch the fruit. From the nursery a cry of a certain kind falls on the ear of the mother, sitting in the parlour, and in an instant she has thrown down her work and is on the stair, on the way to the scene of accident, the reality of which she has too well divined from the quality of the cry. Sometimes the act, proceeding from within, follows so instantaneously on the reception of the impression from without that there seems to be hardly room even for the exertion of the will; it rather looks as if the incoming impression pulled the trigger of itself and let out the reactive force. Thus, when any danger suddenly approaches the eye, the hand goes up so instantaneously in an attitude of protection that the act appears to be mechanical rather than voluntary; and there are psychologists who incline to ascribe a not inconsiderable proportion of our actions, especially those into which habit largely enters, to this involuntary kind of reaction,

In general, however, several things, besides feeling, come between the impression received from without and the ensuing act.

Of these the first is Desire. In the instance just cited, for example, of the child and the orange, the sight and the smell of the fruit excite pleasurable feeling; and this, in turn, creates desire, which rushes out towards the object before the hand grasps it.^ In books on Psychology desire is usually discussed in connexion with feeling, as if it were a species of feeling. But this is questionable. It seems to me that desire is a different thing from either pleasure or pain, although it is excited by it. In fact, this is one of the points referred to above where Psychology has still work to do: it has to explore the quality of desire and the whole subject of motives, which have so much to do in determining the value of conduct.

Desire may be either positive or negative. Negative desire is aversion; and it disposes us not to act but to refrain from acting. All day long, and all life long, the objects of the world, brought before our minds by the senses or by the memory of sense-impressions, are exciting in us

1 Some psychologists say that objects give pleasure because they are desired, not vice versa; but this is too paradoxical, desires and aversions of various kinds, and these constrain us to act or restrain us from acting. The will, however, does not necessarily obey either kind of prompting. Desire for an object may be intense, and yet the will may refuse to act; aversion to a course of action may be equally strong, and yet the will may carry the course of action through. This power of the will to overcome desire we call Self-control; in any considerable degree it can be acquired only through long practice; but it is one of the most valuable qualities in the formation of character.

Here allusion may be made, in passing, to what is called the Freedom of the Will. No question is more perplexing in itself, and it has been further darkened by confusion of ideas. In philosophy the phrase has one meaning and in theology another. The most formidable objections to freedom of the will come at present from natural science; and they are essentially materialistic; for the mind is regarded as a portion of nature, completely under the law of cause and efiFect. Physical forces play on it, and the objects of the outside world appeal to it; the force of these appeals is due to the qualities of the objects themselves; and, if the appeal be strong enough, the will yields; there is no creative and sovereign power in the will itself to originate action. Against this doctrine, however, the clearest testimony of our own consciousness protests. When we have done wrong, we know that, had we chosen, we could have done otherwise; and, when we do right, we know that, had we chosen, we might have done wrong. It is this alone which makes us responsible beings. If what seems to our consciousness the free choice of our will be only the pulling of the trigger by the hand of circumstance, then the most sacred testimonies of our nature, such as the sense of guilt, are delusions. There are, indeed, persons who have no control over their own actions, being compelled to act or not to act by the mere forces of nature; but such persons are shut up in confinement; and the obvious fact that there is a difference between them and healthy human beings is a strong proof that the latter do possess freedom of will.

We have seen how desire or aversion is prompted by feeling, and how it thus becomes a stream moving in the direction of action; but that, notwithstanding, the will can control this stream. It can either innervate or inhibit the nervous flow, such being the technical language for its action at this point: it innervates when it lets the stream loose; it inhibits when it shuts it off, or drains it away in some other direction. There may be a conflict of desires or a conflict of desire and aversion. Thus, a thief may be powerfully constrained to act by the desire for booty but, at the same time, may be equally restrained by terror of punishment; and so the decision of the will may be deferred. Nor does the control stop here; for the outgoing energy has still to pass through zones cooler than those of feeling. Reason, for instance, may have its arguments to urge against the promptings of desire. Conscience, in like manner, may have its admonitions. Thus the will may be kept halting between two opinions; and this state of indecision may last not only for minutes, but for days, months or years. It is astonishing how little notice of this part of the process is taken in some systems of Psychology. But it is in these zones of hesitation, consideration and judgment that the transmutation of action into conduct, spoken of above, takes place. This is a point so important that it is worth while to take time to repeat that there are three zones through which the impulses towards action have to pass, before they become conduct, in order to test their conformity to the true, the beautiful, the good. The first test — that of

Truth — is the guide of science in all its branches; and innumerable students and investigators acknowledge the obligation to follow the call of the great whole of truth, which is constantly drawing them on, while they feel bound to reject every opinion, however accepted and venerable, which is finally proved to be irreconcilable with facts. But the same guidance is daily leading the common man, especially in the ordering of his speech, constraining him to take the risk of stating what he knows to be true, whatever may be the cost, and teaching him to despise himself if, for any bribe whatever, he utters what he knows to be a falsehood. It is, however, the same motive which enables the reformer, in some hour big with destiny for the human race, to voice, in the presence of principalities and powers, what Heaven has taught him and, if need be, to lay down his life in support of his testimony. The second test — that of Beauty, or what may be denominated the aesthetic test — is at work all the time in all departments of life, and many who would not identify it under this name are daily applying it, without being conscious of doing so. In dress, for instance, it is this which determines the progress from the nakedness and the filthiness of savage life to the elegance of civilisation; and, in manners, it makes those who are susceptible to its influence think not only of what will gratify their own taste and fancy, but of what will be agreeable to others; and thus society grows in refinement and happiness. The aesthetic judgment, however, reaches both up into higher spheres and out into more practical endeavours. It is this that sends forth the wayfarer to visit distant cities and foreign lands, in order that he may regale his spirit with the sight of famous objects of art; but it is the same impulse that makes the ploughman draw his furrow straight and causes the mechanic to wince unless his handiwork be in exact accordance with the pattern furnished by an artistic hand. The Creator is said to have placed man at the first in a garden; and, although man has long been excluded from Eden, he knows, at the bottom of his heart, that he was intended for life in a garden, and he will never be content till he converts this world into one. Such is the sesthetic sense, appearing in varied forms and very varying degrees in different specimens of the race, yet not altogether awanting in any of the children of men; and it is a test of conduct. The third test is conformity to the Good, but this is so essential that I intend to devote to it, under the name of Conscience, the whole of the next chapter.

When at last the Will acts, we call its act Choice, because a decision has been made between two or more alternatives; or we call it Resolution, because there has been a problem, which is now solved; or we call it Determination, because the struggle has terminated. Decision, choice, resolution, determination — such is the nomenclature of the will.^

A person’s will may be called ‘’ good “if it does not decide too soon. The will ought to wait till it has before it all the materials, instead of acting on the first impulse of desire. A will which goes off the moment the trigger is touched is hasty and precipitate, and what is decided in haste is apt to be repented of at leisure. On the other hand, the action of the will may be too slow. Shakspeare speaks of the native hue of resolution being ‘’ sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought “; and his greatest drama, ‘’ Hamlet,”

1 By some the will is regarded as comprehending the whole process from the time a desired object first presents itself until it is attained — as, in fact, the whole movement of the self from a present state to another state recognised as more desirable.

is a study of this form of infirmity in will. Action loses its healthy force when it is too long delayed. There are instincts which ought to be obeyed at once and are only enfeebled by thinking. “The thing was done suddenly” is a remark made in Scripture on a certain episode; and it is a sentence of commendation. Especially when conscience has spoken distinctly, action ought to be ins tantaneous.

Not too fast and not too slow — these are the properties of a good will; but to these we must add one of equal value — namely, firmness, by which is meant the power to persevere and actually carry out what has been decided. We say that the choice is made when the inward struggle terminates, and the will has taken its side. The decision come to, however, may be to do something to-morrow or a year hence; and, before to-morrow or next year arrives, the intention may have been forgotten, or, at all events, when the hour arrives for carrying it into action, nothing may be done. When the Prodigal Son says, “I will arise and go to my father,” it is not tautological when the parable adds, “And he arose and came to his father “; for multitudes in the far country have said what he said and yet have never come home. Video meliora jyroboque Deteriora seqnor, said long ago an Epicurean poet — ‘’ I see the better course and approve it, but I follow the worse” — and thousands in every age have found the phrase only too apt an expression for their own experience. Just at this point, in short, lies the universal weakness of human nature; here is the gulf between ideal and real, between knowing and doing. Sometimes the will is so weak that it cannot rise above wishing; we wish to do good, but cannot will it: the little wavelets of resolution rise and fall, but the sea never swells up into the curved and foaming wave of a true decision. Or we will, but cannot do: there is a wave of decision, but it is not long and strong enough to float decision over into action. Yet, till it issues in action, the will is not consummated.

‘’If ye know these things,” said our Lord, “happy are ye if ye do them.” And a poet of our own to the same effect exclaims, “Oh happy he whose will is strong “. I suppose, there are great natural differences in strength or weakness of will. The Will may even have excessive strength; its strength may degenerate into obstinacy: it may be the will of a mule. Still, on the whole, the will requires to be strong. Some wills have a contagious strength; one man’s will may invigorate and support the will of another; there have even been men possessed of wills which, with the force of torrents, have carried away whole nations or whole generations of men. But for the average man as much strength of will as is necessary to make his life harmonious and serene is a slow and laborious acquisition; it requires self-control and self- conquest; it requires repentance and prayer.

In reading an American book, published some years ago, by Professor Stearns, a theologian who, to the great loss of the Church Universal, was cut off in his prime, at the commencement of a career of unusual promise, I was struck with a phrase which occurred in it frequently and has haunted my memory ever since: it was the phrase Permanent Choices. I had never met with the expression before; and the thing denoted by it had never impressed my mind so much as it did when I found it indicated in this happy phrase.

Permanent Choices — what does the phrase mean? Our wills are at work every day: perhaps between waking and sleeping we daily perform thousands of acts of will. When we get out of bed, that is an act ofwill, and not always an easy one; in dressing many acts of will are involved; so in breakfasting; and so on throughout the day. Most acts of the will must of course refer to trivial things; it is only on rare days that we come to decisions which have been long delayed and have occasioned us much perplexity. Even such a decision, however, may be soon forgotten, or its results may disappear. But there are decisions the effects of which never disappear, but obviously influence the entire subsequent life, and bring in their train thousands of other acts of will, which are virtually included in them. These are what Professor Stearns meant by Permanent Choices; though he intended, I think, to include also this idea, that in a permanent choice the will always stands to its selection, believing in it, rejoicing in it, and never wishing to have it reversed.

Emigration may be such a permanent choice. In early life a European becomes fascinated with America and leaves his native land forever. How many things are affected by this decision — the objects with which his mind is stored, the people who will be his friends and neighbours, the literature he will read, the principles of government he will believe in! But he makes the choice with decision; he becomes naturalised not in name only but in heart; he becomes a loyal and enthusiastic subject of the United States; in short, it is a permanent choice. The choice of a trade or a profession may be such a permanent choice; and it will determine beforehand a hundred things which a man will do every day of his life; it will even determine beforehand what will be the shape of his body and the cast of his features in old age. Marriage is a permanent choice; and obviously it is one of the most momentous of all; happy he who, every succeeding year, can with more cordiality and conviction approve his own choice.

But the most momentous of all permanent choices is certainly the choice of Christ; it is the one which most deeply influences the entire subsequent life; and it is the one which is most certain in every succeeding year to secure alike from the head and the heart complete justification. As soon as St. Paul had made this choice, the entire history of Christ from eternity to eternity — for it was of His cosmic history he principally thought — became alive with motives, which were both constraining and restraining his will at every step of his subsequent career. Nothing was too small to be dignified from this source, and nothing was too great to be attempted, if he was convinced that it was the will of Christ.

The cosmic history of the Saviour still exerts the same influence, though we have learned, in recent times, to be moved even more than St. Paul was by the earthly history of Jesus — the details of His daily walk and conversation, as these are revealed in the four Gospels — and there is never a day that dawns but a multitude which no man can number of humble and happy hearts rise from the rest of the night to resume a life which is literally a walking with Christ; for they greet Him the moment they awake to consciousness; they are sensible of His presence beside them all the day long; and their testing question, at every crisis and in every difficulty, is, What would Jesus do? for their decision has been no pale or feeble choice, but an act blood-red with vitality, which only becomes the more determined the more fully they know whom they have believed.