If we were to venture upon a general formulation which might give a somewhat understandable idea of the relations between the inward and the outward in human lives, it would have to be this rather figurative one:
We may imagine that the outward expressions are kinds of containers, and into those containers we pour various things. But what happens quite naturally to a liquid for instance when you pour it into a vessel? What shape does it take? It simply has no choice. It is obliged to take the shape of the vessel. In a somewhat similar way we may imagine the situation of our minds. Their contents are our thoughts, our moods, our emotions. All such inward things, however, must have an outward form, a certain embodiment. Otherwise they probably won"t have any existence at all. True enough, it has been a favourite fancy of human speculation to create a sort of bodiless spirit. We have found it essential to stress a remarkable predilection for abstractions in our culture. But this alone can hardly be sufficient to account for our fanciful conception of a sort of human mind monster fluttering around without any kind of body, without any kind of external substance.
One thing is sure, however: no psychology basing itself upon the simple data of observable life has--so far--proved the existence of any such human "inwardness" entirely divested of its corresponding "outwardness". The only thing that has been scientifically proved to exist is contents contained in a container. The interior essence invariably depends on an exterior form. And that exterior form is simply decisive for the very character of the contents.
Have we not sufficiently observed the consistency of this process? Whatever was poured into the container "Astonishment", became astonishment. Whatever is poured into the container "Fear", becomes fear.
"You are afraid because you tremble", said William James. There is a startling truth in that statement. For only at the moment when your fear is permitted an adequate expression--in the form of, say, cries and trembling gestures--only then will that fear unfold itself and become a really living sentiment. To be quite exact: only then has it actually begun.
And we have seen--fortunately--that the same applies to more useful emotions (we do not mean by this to suggest that fear cannot be useful in any form).
In fact, the assumption that all more favourable contents of our unfathomable interior have the same dependence on the particular mould of their concrete containers, gives us some new reasons to hope. For this actually means that there must be a certain "medium" through which we may have a better chance to "catch hold" of them.
To those students of human life who desire to go beyond the limited realms of "pure" psychology--into the realms of morals and religion--the present topic must have a particular significance. For here there seems to be nothing less than the possibility of a certain control over human emotions, for instance simply by means of a volitional force towards concrete ameliorations. We shall see how far this is compatible, not only with views of obstinate stoicism, or with optimistic humanism, but also with views espoused by the Christian Church across the centuries.
But even here and now--as soon as we have turned to look at those contents and those containers from this essentially moral angle--we must have the right--as well as the duty--to express our opinion in essentially moral terms. And then we wish to emphasize that it has become a fateful habit of man in our culture to despise everything that is exterior. The more he thinks himself educated and superior and "spiritual", the more he seems to feel duty-bound to despise it.
"Just an outward little thing!" we say more or less contemptuously all of us, judging various kinds of "containers" with our haughty eyes. Who cares about the "shell"? The real thing is the "kernel", isn't it? Why should we waste our time considering "mere skeletons"?
Let us be a little more careful here. Some more reverence for the "bags" and the "boxes" seems to be an urgent necessity. For those "pitiable containers" may--in the skillful hands of a person near to life--become instruments with which he is able to mould even his own destiny. Anyway, the soundly outward-oriented lover of life will take care not to make light of "outward things".
Nothing seems more difficult for man to learn than the simple lesson of life itself. Its supreme wisdom, however, should be eloquent enough: there is danger in losing one's path in the lonely maze of moods and ideas. For the bewildering world of the deep interior often has no real resting place for the weary foot of a human wanderer. In the outward walk of practical life with its tangible tasks and its firm realities there generally seems to be far more of soundness and safety. At least that has all the encouraging substantiality of the concrete and the particular. Here, in the great loom of individual actions, even the textures of the deepest values in interior life are woven thread upon thread.