William James

“Habit a second nature！ Habit is ten times nature，” the Duke of Wellington is said to have exclaimed; and the degree to which this is true no one can probably appreciate1 as well as one who is a veteran soldier himself. The daily drill and the years of discipline end by fashioning2 a man completely over again， as to most of the possibilities of his conduct.

“There is a story， which is credible3 enough， though it may not be true， of a practical joker， who， seeing a discharged veteran carrying home his dinner， suddenly called out， ‘Attention！’ whereupon the man instantly brought his hands down， and lost his mutton and potatoes in the gutter. The drill had been thorough， and its effects had become embodied4 in the man’s nervous structure.”

Riderless cavalry-horses， at many a battle， have been seen to come together and go through their customary evolutions at the sound of the bugle call. Most trained domestic animals， dogs and oxen， and omnibus- and car-horses， seem to be machines almost pure and simple5， undoubtingly， unhesitatingly doing from minute to minute the duties they have been taught， and giving no sign that the possibility of an alternative ever suggests itself to their mind. Men grown old in prison have asked to be readmitted after being once set free. In a railroad accident to a traveling menagerie6 in the United States some time in 1884， a tiger， whose cage had broken open， is said to have emerged， but presently crept back again， as if too much bewildered7 by his new responsibilities， so that he was without difficulty secured.

Habit is thus the enormous flywheel8 of society， its most precious conservative agent. It alone is what keeps us all within the bounds of ordinance9， and saves the children of fortune from the envious uprisings of the poor. It alone prevents the hardest and most repulsive walks of life from being deserted by those brought up to tread10 therein. It keeps the fisherman and the deck hand at sea through the winter; it holds the miner in his darkness， and nails the countryman to his log cabin and his lonely farm through all the months of snow; it protects us from invasion by the natives of the desert and the frozen zone. It dooms us all to fight out the battle of life upon the lines of our nurture or our early choice， and to make the best of a pursuit that disagrees， because there is no other for which we are fitted， and it is too late to begin again. It keeps different social strata from mixing. Already at the age of twenty-five you see the professional mannerism settling down on the young commercial traveler， on the young doctor， on the young minister， on the young counselor at law. You see the little lines of cleavage11 running through the character， the tricks of thought， the prejudices， the ways of the “shop”， in a word， from which the man can by and by no more escape than his coat sleeve can suddenly fall into a new set of folds. On the whole， it is best he should not escape. It is well for the world that in most of us， by the age of thirty， the character has set like plaster， and will never soften again.

If the period between twenty and thirty is the critical one in the formation of intellectual and professional habits， the period below twenty is more important still for the fixing of personal habits， properly so called， such as vocalization and pronunciation， gesture， motion， and address. Hardly ever is a language learned after twenty spoken without a foreign accent; hardly ever can a youth transferred to the society of his betters unlearn the nasality and other vices12 of speech bred in him by the associations of his growing years. Hardly ever， indeed， no matter how much money there be in his pocket， can he even learn to dress like a gentleman-born. The merchants offer their wares as eagerly to him as to the veriest “swell”， but he simply cannot buy the right things. An invisible law， as strong as gravitation， keeps him within his orbit， arrayed this year as he was the last; and how his better-bred acquaintances contrive to get the things they wear will be for him a mystery till his dying day.

The great thing， in all education， is to make our nervous system our ally instead of our enemy. It is to fund and capitalize our acquisitions， and live at ease upon the interest of the fund. For this we must make automatic and habitual， as early as possible， as many useful actions as we can， and guard against the growing into ways that are likely to be disadvantageous to us， as we should guard against the plague13. The more of the details of our daily life we can hand over to the effortless custody of automatism， the more our higher powers of mind will be set free for their own proper14  work. There is no more miserable human being than one in whom nothing is habitual but indecision， and for whom the lighting of every cigar， the drinking of every cup， the time of rising and going to bed every day， and the beginning of every bit of work， are subjects of express volitional deliberation15. Full half the time of such a man goes to the deciding， or regretting， of matters which ought to be so ingrained in him as practically not to exist for his consciousness at all. If there be such daily duties not yet ingrained in any one of my readers， let him begin this very hour to set the matter right.