course, not regard the reward as an encouragement, for it is foolish to attempt to encourage 'free-will.' Could it be 'encouraged' it would evidently not be 'free.' And if this notion of encouragement wholly drops out, there appears no reason why actions performed after a struggle should be regarded as creditable rather than actions performed without any struggle at all. Suppose that Tommy has attained such a fixity of character that he can pass the pantry door twenty times without apparent effort. Does this mean that he has lost his love of jam? May it not mean that he is subject to such generous bursts of 'free-will' that all fleshly inclinations are overcome as soon as they are born? Then why should he not be rewarded more generously than before, when he had such dribblings of 'free-will' as scarce sufficed to bring him out of the combat alive?
It appears, then, that it is impossible to ascertain how much credit is to be allowed for any action, and that it is impossible to discover what actions are to be regarded as creditable. This does not seem encouraging, and may well tend to dampen our 'free-will' ardor. But we must pluck up our courage, for we are compelled to face a difficulty which is, if possible, more disheartening. Reflection discloses the fact that our theory forces us to deny the validity of the moral judgments that we have all our lives been passing upon our own actions and those of our fellows. This is so important a point that I must try to make it quite clear. It is a point passed over in silence by the 'free-willist.'
Let us suppose that Smith sees Jones struggling in the water, and makes desperate efforts to save him from drowning. His efforts are crowned with success, and Jones sits dripping on the bank, with a heart overflowing with gratitude. But he speedily discovers in Smith a creditor whose sole interest in the transaction was a pecuniary one. He saw his money drowning before his eyes, and he did his best to secure it. Does Jones now owe the man both money and gratitude, or does he owe him money alone? Let us suppose again that we have contemplated with satisfaction the temperate and orderly conduct, of a young man whom we have regarded as exposed to divers temptations. We feared he was going to be dissipated, and we have been agreeably disappointed. We give expression to our pleasure, and he informs us frankly that the least rumor of misconduct would lead his uncle to disinherit him. 'Wait,' he says 'until the old man dies, and you will see my good time begin.' Do we, after this avowal, regard him as a model, of virtue, and a youth to be held up as a pattern? No man rates as a philanthropist the scientific enthusiast who visits the sick with assiduity only in order to secure materials for his contemplated monograph on pain. Before we judge of human actions we try to find out something about their setting. We pry into motives and inquire regarding intentions. Precisely the same act may be good or bad, according to its context. It
