the permits and prohibitions for human life.  Some of them affect personal conduct and are moral standards; some of them affect civil government and are political axioms; some of them affect production and distribution and are economic laws; some of them affect social relationships.  But in every case the humanist has what is, in a sense, an objective because a formal standard; he looks without himself as an individual, yet to himself as a part of the composite experience and wisdom of his race, for understanding and for guides.  Thus the individual conforms to the needs and wisdom of the group.  Humanism, at its best, has something heroic, unselfish, noble about it.  Its votaries do not eat to their liking nor drink to their thirst.  They learn deep lessons almost unconsciously; to conquer their desires, to make light of toil and pain and discomfort; the true humanist is well aware that Spartan discipline is incomparably superior to Greek accidence.  This is what one of the greatest of them, Goethe, meant when he said:  “Anything which emancipates the spirit without a corresponding growth in self-mastery is pernicious.”

All humanists then have two characteristics in common:  first, they assume that man is his own arbiter, has both the requisite intelligence and the moral ability to control his own destiny; secondly, they place the source and criterion of this power in collective wisdom, not in individual vagary and not in divine revelation.  They assert, therefore, that the law of the group, the perfected and wrought out code of human experience, is all that is binding and all that is essential.  To be sure, and most significantly, this authority is not rigid, complete, fixed.  There is nothing complete in the humanist’s world.  Experience accumulates and man’s knowledge grows; the expectation and joy in progress is a part of it; man’s code changes, emends, expands with his onward marching.  But the humanistic point of view assumes something relatively stable in life.  Hence our phrase that humanism gives us a classic, that is to say, a simple and established standard.

It is to be observed that there is nothing in humanism thus defined which need be incompatible with religion.  It is not with its content but its incompleteness that we quarrel.  Indeed, in its assertion of the trustworthiness of human experience, its faith in the dignity and significance of man, its respect for the interests of the group, and its conviction that man finds his true self only outside his immediate physical person, beyond his material wants and desires, it is quite genuinely a part of the religious understanding.  But we shall have occasion to observe that while much of this may be religious this is not the whole of religion.  For the note of universality is absent.  Humanism is essentially aristocratic.  It is for a selected group that it is practicable and it is a selected experience upon which it rests.  Its standards are esoteric rather than democratic.  Yet it is hardly necessary to point out the immense part which humanism, as thus defined, is playing in present life.