The highest form of character, however, abstractly considered, must be full of scruples and inhibitions.  But action, in such a character, far from being paralyzed, will succeed in energetically keeping on its way, sometimes overpowering the resistances, sometimes steering along the line where they lie thinnest.

Just as our extensor muscles act most truly when a simultaneous contraction of the flexors guides and steadies them; so the mind of him whose fields of consciousness are complex, and who, with the reasons for the action, sees the reasons against it, and yet, instead of being palsied, acts in the way that takes the whole field into consideration,—­so, I say, is such a mind the ideal sort of mind that we should seek to reproduce in our pupils.  Purely impulsive action, or action that proceeds to extremities regardless of consequences, on the other hand, is the easiest action in the world, and the lowest in type.  Any one can show energy, when made quite reckless.  An Oriental despot requires but little ability:  as long as he lives, he succeeds, for he has absolutely his own way; and, when the world can no longer endure the horror of him, he is assassinated.  But not to proceed immediately to extremities, to be still able to act energetically under an array of inhibitions,—­that indeed is rare and difficult.  Cavour, when urged to proclaim martial law in 1859, refused to do so, saying:  “Any one can govern in that way.  I will be constitutional.”  Your parliamentary rulers, your Lincoln, your Gladstone, are the strongest type of man, because they accomplish results under the most intricate possible conditions.  We think of Napoleon Bonaparte as a colossal monster of will-power, and truly enough he was so.  But, from the point of view of the psychological machinery, it would be hard to say whether he or Gladstone was the larger volitional quantity; for Napoleon disregarded all the usual inhibitions, and Gladstone, passionate as he was, scrupulously considered them in his statesmanship.

A familiar example of the paralyzing power of scruples is the inhibitive effect of conscientiousness upon conversation.  Nowhere does conversation seem to have flourished as brilliantly as in France during the last century.  But, if we read old French memoirs, we see how many brakes of scrupulosity which tie our tongues to-day were then removed.  Where mendacity, treachery, obscenity, and malignity find unhampered expression, talk can be brilliant indeed.  But its flame waxes dim where the mind is stitched all over with conscientious fear of violating the moral and social proprieties.

The teacher often is confronted in the schoolroom with an abnormal type of will, which we may call the ‘balky will.’  Certain children, if they do not succeed in doing a thing immediately, remain completely inhibited in regard to it:  it becomes literally impossible for them to understand it if it be an intellectual problem, or to do it if it be an outward operation, as long as this particular