Full text of "Psychology : briefer course"

See other formats

>-S=o> 1

CE^^^t- I

tD=^^=00

-i^==<r>

LLEGE

■1

027C

o^Z— ~

pss

FROM-THE- LIBRARYOF
TRINITYCOLLEGETORONTO

PSYCHOLOGY

BRIEFER COURSE

BY
WILLI A*f? JAMES

NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

945

HENRY HOLT & CO.

ALICE H. JAMES
June, 1Q23

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

PREFACE

In preparing the following abridgment of my larger
work, the ' Principles of Psycho}ogy,,*my chief aim has been
to make it more directly available for class-room use. i
For this purpose I have omitted several whole chapters
and rewritten others. I have left out all the polemical
and historical matter, all the metaphysical discussions and
purely speculative passages, most of the quotations, all the
book-references, and (I trust) all the impertinences, of the
larger work, leaving to the teacher the choice of orally
restoring as much of this material as may seem to him
good, along with his own remarks on the topics successively
studied. Knowing how ignorant the average student is of i
physiology, I have added brief chapters on the various
senses. In this shorter work the general point of view,
which I have adopted as that of ' natural science/ has, I
imagine, gained in clearness by its extrication from so
much critical matter and its more simple and dogmatic
statement. About two fifths of the volume is either new
or rewritten, the rest is ' scissors and paste.' I regret to
have been unable to supply chapters on pleasure and pain,
aesthetics, and the moral sense. Possibly the defect may
be made up in a later edition, if such a thing should ever I
be demanded.

I cannot forbear taking advantage of this preface to
make a statement about the composition of the ' Principles \
of Psychology.7 My critics in the main have been so
indulgent that I must cordially thank them; but they
have been unanimous in one reproach, namely, that my

iv PREFACE

order of chapters is planless and unnatural ; and in one
charitable excuse for this, namely, that the work, being
largely a collection of review-articles, could not be expected
to show as much system as a treatise cast in a single mould.
Both the reproach and the excuse misapprehend the facts
of the case. The order of composition is doubtless un-
shapely, or it would not be found so by so many. But
planless it is not, for I deliberately followed what seemed
to me a good pedagogic order, in proceeding from the
more concrete mental aspects with which we are best
acquainted to the so-called elements which we naturally
come to know later by way of abstraction. The opposite
order, of ' building-up ' the mind out of its ( units of com-
position,' has the merit of expository elegance, and gives a
neatly subdivided table of contents ; but it often pur-
chases these advantages at the cost of reality and truth.
I admit that my ' synthetic ' order was stumblingly carried
out ; but this again was in consequence of what I thought
were pedagogic necessities. On the whole, in spite of my
critics, I venture still to think that the - unsystematic '
form charged upon the book is more apparent than pro-
found, and that we really gain a more living understand-
ing of the mind by keeping our attention as long as
possible upon our entire conscious states as they are con-
cretely given to us, than by the post-mortem study of their
comminuted ' elements.' This last is the study of artificial
abstractions, not of natural things*

* In the present volume I have given so much extension to the
details of 'Sensation' that I have obeyed custom and put that
subject first, although by no means persuaded that such order intrinsi-
cally is the best. I feel now (when it is too late for the change to
be made) that the chapters on the Production of Motion, on Instinct,
and on Emotion ought, for purposes of teaching, to follow immedi-
ately upon that on Habit, and that the chapter on Reasoning ought
to come in very early, perhaps immediately after that upon the Self.
I advise teachers to adopt this modified order, in spite of the fact
that with the change of place of 'Reasoning' there ought
properly to go a slight amount of re- writing.

PREFACE v

But whether the critics are right, or I am, on this first
point, the critics are wrong about the relation of the mag-
azine-articles to the book. With a single exception all the
chapters were written for the book; and then by an after-
thought some of them were sent to magazines, because the
completion of the whole work seemed so distant. My
lack of capacity has doubtless been great, but the charge of
not having taken the utmost pains, according to my lights,
in the composition of the volumes, cannot justly be laid at
my door.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I page

Introductory . . . . . . i

Psychology defined; psychology as a natural science, its
data, i. The human mind and its environment, 3. The pos-
tulate that all consciousness has cerebral activity for its
condition, 5.

CHAPTER II

Sensation in General . . . . . .9

Incoming nerve-currents, 9. Terminal organs, 10. ' Spe-
cific energies,' II. Sensations cognize qualities, 13. Knowl-
edge of acquaintance and knowledge-about, 14. Objects of
sensation appear in space, 15. The intensity of sensations, 16.
Weber's law, 17. Fechner's law, 21. Sensations are not
psychic compounds, 23. The ' law of relativity,' 24. Effects
of contrast, 26.

CHAPTER III

Sight . . . . . . . .28

The eye, 28. Accommodation, 32. Convergence, binocular
vision, 33. Double image, 36. Distance, 39. Size, color,
40. After-images, 43. Intensity of luminous objects, 45.

CHAPTER IV

Hearing ......

The ear, 47. The qualities of sound, 43. Pitch, 44. ' Tim-
bre,' 45. Analysis of compound air-waves, 56. No fusion of
elementary sensations of sound, 57. Harmony and discord,
58. Discrimination by the ear, 59.

viii CONTENTS

CHAPTER V mmJk

page

Touch, the Temperature Sense, the Muscular Sense,

and Pain . . . . . . . .60

End-organs in the skin, 60. Touch, sense of pressure, 60.
Localization, 61. Sensibility to temperature, 63. The muscu-
lar sense, 65. Pain, 67.

CHAPTER VI

Sensations of Motion . . . . .70

The feeling of motion over surfaces, 70. Feelings in joints,
74. The sense of translation, the sensibility of the semicircu-
lar canals, 75-

CHAPTER VII

The Structure of the Brain . . . .78

Embryological sketch, 78. Practical dissection of the sheep's
brain, 81.

CHAPTER VIII

The Functions of the Brain . . . .91

General idea of nervous function, 91. The frog's nerve-
centres, 92. The pigeon's nerve-centres, 96. What the hemi-
spheres do, 97. The automaton-theory, 101. The localization
of functions, 104. Brain and mind have analogous ' elements,'
sensory and motor, 105. The motor zone, 106. Aphasia, 108.
The visual region, no. Mental blindness, 112. The auditory
region, mental deafness, 113. Other centres, 116.

CHAPTER IX

Some General Conditions of Neural Activity . . 120

The nervous discharge, 120. Reaction-time, 121. Simple
reactions, 122. Complicated reactions, 124. The summation
of stimuli, 128. Cerebral blood-supply, 130. Brain-thermome-
try, 131. Phosphorus and thought, 132.

CHAPTER X

Habit . . . . . . . .134

Its importance, and its physical basis, 134. Due to pathways
formed in the centres, 136. Its practical uses, 138. Concate-

CONTENTS ix

page
nated acts, 140. Necessity for guiding sensations in
secondarily automatic performances, 141. Pedagogical
maxims concerning the formation of habits, 142.

CHAPTER XI
The Stream of Consciousness . . . .151

Analytic order of our study, 151. Every state of mind
forms part of a personal consciousness, 152. The same state
of mind is never had twice, 154. Permanently recurring ideas
are a fiction, 156. Every personal consciousness is continuous,
157. Substantive and transitive states, 160. Every object
appears with a ' fringe ' of relations, 163. The ' topic ' of the
thought, 167. Thought may be rational in any sort of
imagery, 168. Consciousness is always especially interested
some one part of its object, 170.

CHAPTER XII ,

The Self . . . . . .176

The Me and the I, 176. The material Me, 177. The social
Me, 179. The spiritual Me, 181. Self -appreciation, 182.
Self-seeking, bodily, social, and spiritual, 184. Rivalry of the
Mes, 186. Their hierarchy, 190. Teleology of self-interest,
193. The I, or ' pure ego,' 195. Thoughts are not com-
pounded of ' fused ' sensations, 196. 'The ' soul ' as a com-
bining medium, 200. 'The sense of personal identity, 201.
Explained by identity of function in successive passing
thoughts, 203. Mutations of the self, 205. Insane delusions,
207. Alternating personalities, 210. Mediumships or posses-
sions, 212. Who is the Thinker, 215.

CHAPTER XIII

Attention ........ 217

The narrowness of the field of consciousness, 217. Dis-
persed attention, 218. To how much can we attend at once?
219. The varieties of attention, 220. Voluntary attention, its
momentary character, 224. To keep our attention, an object
must change, 226. Genius and attention, 227. Attention's
physiological conditions, 228. The sense-organ must be
adapted, 229. The idea of the object must be aroused, 232
Pedagogic remarks, 236. Attention and free-will, 237.

x CONTENTS

CHAPTER XIV mmmm

page

Conception ....... 239

Different states of mind can mean the same, 239. Concep-
tions of abstract, of universal, and of problematic objects,
240. The thought of ' the same ' is not the same thought
over again, 243.

CHAPTER XV

Discrimination ..... . 244

Discrimination and association ; definition of discrimination,
244. Conditions which favor it, 245. The sensation of differ
ence, 246. Differences inferred, 248. The analysis of com-
pound objects, 248. To be easily singled out, a quality should
already be separately known, 250. Dissociation by varying
concomitants, 251. Practice improves discrimination, 252.

CHAPTER XVI

Association . ...... 253

The order of our ideas, 253. It is determined by cerebral
laws, 255. The ultimate cause of association is habit, 256.
The elementary law in association, 257. Indeterminateness of
its results, 258. Total recall, 259. Partial recall, and the law
of interest, 261. Frequency, recency, vividness, and emotional
congruity tend to determine the object recalled, 264.
Focalized recall, or 'association by similarity,' 267. Volun-
tary trains of thought, 271. The solution of problems, 273.
Similarity no elementary law ; summary and conclusion, 277.

CHAPTER XVII

The Sense of Time ...... 280

The sensible present has duration, 280. We have no sense
for absolutely empty time, 281. We measure duration by the
events which succeed in it, 283. The feeling of past time is a
present feeling, 285. Due to a constant cerebral condition,
286.

CHAPTER XVIII

Memory . . . . . . . . 287

What it is, 287. It involves both retention and recall, 289.
Both elements explained by paths formed by habit in the
brain, 290. Two conditions of a good memory, persistence and

CONTENTS

page
numerousness of paths, 292. Cramming, 295. One's native
retentiveness is unchangeable, 296. Improvement of the
memory, 298. Recognition, 299. Forgetting, 300. Patholo-
gical conditions, 301.

CHAPTER XIX

Imagination ....... 302

What it is, 302. Imaginations differ from man to man;
Galton's statistics of visual imagery, 303. Images of sounds,
306. Images of movement, 307. Images of touch, 308. Loss
of images in aphasia, 309. The neural process in imagina-
tion, 310.

CHAPTER XX

Perception ....... 312

Perception and sensation compared, 312. The perceptive
state of mind is not a compound, 313. Perception is of
definite things, 316. Illusions, 317. First type: inference of
the more usual object, 318. Second type: inference of the
object of which our mind is full, 321. 'Apperception,' 326.
Genius and old-fogyism, 327. The physiological process
in perception, 329. Hallucinations, 330.

CHAPTER XXI

The Perception of Space ..... 335

The attribute of extensity belongs to all objects of sensa-
tion, 335. The construction of real space, 337. The processes
which it involves: 1) Subdivision, 338; 2) Coalescence of
different sensible data into one ' thing,' 339; 3) Location in an
environment, 340; 4) Place in a series of positions, 341; 5)
Measurement, 342. Objects which are signs, and objects
which are realities, 345. The ' third dimension,' Berkeley's
theory of distance, 346. The part played by the intellect in
space-perception, 349.

CHAPTER XXII

Reasoning . . . . . . .351

What it is, 351. It involves the use of abstract characters,
353- What is meant by an ' essential ' character, 354. The
'essence' varies with the subjective interest, 358. The two

xii CONTENTS

page
great points in reasoning, ' sagacity ' and 4 wisdom,' 360. Sa-
gacity, 362. The help given by association by similarity,
364. The reasoning powers of brutes, 367.

CHAPTER XXIII

Consciousness and Movement ..... 370

All consciousness is motor, 370. Three classes of move-
ment to which it leads, 372.

CHAPTER XXIV

Emotion ........ 373

Emotions compared with instincts, 373. The varieties of
emotion are innumerable, 374. The cause of their varieties,
375. The feeling, in the coarser emotions, results from the
bodily expression, 375. This view must not be called ma-
terialistic, 380. This view explains the great variability of
emotion, 381. A corollary verified, 382. An objection replied
to, 383. The subtler emotions, 384. Description of fear, 385.
Genesis of the emotional reactions, 386.

CHAPTER XXV

Instinct ........ 391

Its definition, 391. Every instinct is an impulse, 392. In-
stincts are not always blind or invariable, 395. Two prin-
ciples of non-uniformity, 398. Enumeration of instincts in
man, 406. Description of fear, 407.

CHAPTER XXVI

Will ......... 415

Vo^ntary acts, 415. They are secondary performances,
415. No third kind of idea is called for, 418. The motor-
cue, 420. Ideo-motor action, 432. Action after deliberation,
428. Five chief types of decision, 429. The feeling of effort,
434. Healthiness of will, 435. Unhealthiness of will, 436.
The explosive will : (1) from defective inhibition, 437 ; (2)
from exaggerated impulsion, 439. The obstructed will, 441.
Effort feels like an original force, 442. Pleasure and pain as
springs of action, 444. What holds attention determines ac-
tion, 448. Will is a relation between the mind and its

CONTENTS xiii

page
* ideas,' 449. Volitional effort is effort of attention, 450. The
question of free-will, 455. Ethical importance of the phe-
nomenon of effort, 458.

EPILOGUE

Psychology and Philosophy ..... 461
What the word metaphysics means, 461. Relation of con-
sciousness to the brain, 462. The relation of states of mind to
their ' objects,' 464. The changing character of consciousness,
466. States of consciousness themselves are not verifiable
facts, 467.

PSYCHOLOGY

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTORY

The definition of Psychology may be best given in the
words of Professor Ladd, as the description and explana-
tion of states of consciousness as such. By states of con-
sciousness are meant such things as sensations, desires,
emotions, cognitions, reasonings, decisions, volitions, and
the like. Their ' explanation ' must of course include
the study of their causes, conditions, and immediate con-
sequences, so far as these can be ascertained.

Psychology is to be treated as a natural science in this
book. This requires a word of commentary. Most think-
ers have a faith that at bottom there is but one Science of
all things, and that until all is known, no one thing can be
completely known. Such a science if realized, would be
Philosophy. Meanwhile it is far from being realized ; and
instead of it, we have a lot of beginnings of knowledge
made in different places, and kept separate from each other
merely for practical convenience7 sake, until with later
growth they may run into one body of Truth. These provi-
sional beginnings of learning we call ' the Sciences ' in the
plural. In order not to be unwieldy, every such science
has to stick to its own arbitrarily-selected problems, and to
ignore all others. Every science thus accepts certain data
unquestioningly, leaving it to the other parts of Philosophy

2 PSYCHOLOGY

to scrutinize their significance and truth. All the natural
sciences, for example, in spite of the fact that farther re-
flection leads to Idealism, assume that a world of matter
exists altogether independently of the perceiving mind.
Mechanical Science assumes this matter to have ' mass ' and
to exert ' force/ defining these terms merely phenomenally,
and not troubling itself about certain unintelligibilities
which they present on nearer reflection. Motion similarly
is assumed by mechanical science to exist independently of
the mind, in spite of the difficulties involved in the
assumption. So Physics assumes atoms, action at a dis-
tance, etc., uncritically; Chemistry uncritically adopts all
the data of Physics; and Physiology adopts those of Chem-
istry. Psychology as a natural science deals with things in
the same partial and provisional way. In addition to the
1 material world ' with all its determinations, which the
other sciences of nature assume, she assumes additional
data peculiarly her own, and leaves it to more developed
parts of Philosophy to test their ulterior significance and
truth. These data are —

i. Thoughts and feelings, or whatever other names tran-
sitory states of consciousness may be known by.

2. Knowledge, by these states of consciousness, of other
things. These things may be material objects and events,
or other states of mind. The material objects may be
either near or distant in time and space, and the states o*
mind may be those of other people, or of the thinker him-
self at some other time.

How one thing can know another is the problem of what
is called the Theory of Knowledge. How such a thing as
a ' state of mind ' can be at all is the problem of what has
been called Rational, as distinguished from Empirical,
Psychology. The full truth about states of mind cannot
be known until both Theory of Knowledge and Rational
Psychology have said their say. Meanwhile an immense
amount of provisional truth about them can be got to-
gether, which will work in with the larger truth and be

INTRODUCTORY 3

interpreted by it when the proper time arrives. Such a
provisional body of propositions about states of mind, and
about the cognitions which they enjoy, is what I mean by
Psychology considered as a natural science. On any ul-
terior theory of matter, mind, and knowledge, the facts and
laws of Psychology thus understood will have their value.
If critics find that this natural-science point of view cuts
things too arbitrarily short, they must not blame the book
which confines itself to that point of view; rather must
they go on themselves to complete it by their deeper
thought. Incomplete statements are often practically nec-
essary. To go beyond the usual ' scientific ' assumptions
in the present case, would require, not a volume, but a
shelfful of volumes, and by the present author such a shelf-
ful could not be written at all.

Let it also be added that the human mind is all that can
be touched upon in this book. Although the mental life of
lower creatures has been examined into of late years with
some success, we have no space for its consideration here,
and can only allude to its manifestations incidentally when
they throw light upon our own.

Mental facts cannot be properly studied apart from
the physical environment of which they take cogniz-
ance. The great fault of the older rational psychology was to
set up the soul as an absolute spiritual being with certain
faculties of its own by which the several activities of remem-
bering, imagining, reasoning, willing, etc., were explained, al-
most without reference to the pecularities of the world with
which these activities deal. But the richer insight of modern
days perceives that our inner faculties are adapted in ad-
vance to the features of the world in which we dwell, adapted,
I mean, so as to secure our safety and prosperity in its midst.
Not only are our capacities for forming new habits, for
remembering sequences, and for abstracting general prop-
erties from things and associating their usual consequences
with them, exactly the faculties needed for steering us in
this world of mixed variety and uniformity, but our emo-

4 PSYCHOLOGY

tions and instincts are adapted to very special features of
that world. In the main, if a phenomenon is important
for our welfare, it interests and excites us the first time we
come into its presence. Dangerous things fill us with invol-
untary fear; poisonous things with distaste; indispensa-
ble things with appetite. Mind and world in short have
been evolved together, and in consequence are something
of a mutual fit. The special interactions between the outer
order and the order of consciousness, by which this harmony,
such as it is, may in the course of time have come about,
have been made the subject of many evolutionary specula-
tions, which, though they cannot so far be said to be con-
clusive, have at least refreshed and enriched the whole sub-
ject, and brought all sorts of new questions to the light.

The chief result of all this more modern view is the
gradually growing conviction that mental life is primarily
teleological ; that is to say, that our various ways of feeling1
and thinking have grown to be what they are because of
their utility in shaping our reactions on the outer world.
On the whole, few recent formulas have done more service
in psychology than the Spencerian one that the essence of
mental life and bodily life are one, namely, ' the adjust-
ment of innner to outer relations.* The adjustment is to
immediately present objects in lower animals and infants.
It is to objects more and more remote in time and space,
and inferred by means of more and more complex and
exact processes of reasoning, when the grade of mental
development grows more advanced.

Primarily then, and fundamentally, the mental life is for
the sake of action of a preservative sort. Secondarily and
incidentally it does many other things, and may even, when
ill ' adapted/ lead to its possessor's destruction. Psychol-
ogy, taken in the widest way, ought to study every sort of
mental activity, the useless and harmful sorts as well
as that which is ' adapted.' But the study of the harmful
in mental life has been made the subject of a special
branch called ' Psychiatry ' — the science of insanity — and

INTRODUCTORY 5

the study of the useless is made over to ' Esthetics. '
Esthetics and Psychiatry will receive no special notice in
this book.

All mental states (no matter what their character as
regards utility may be) are followed by bodily activity of
some sort. They lead to inconspicuous changes in breath-
ing, circulation, general muscular tension, and glandular or
other visceral activity, even if they do not lead to conspic-
uous movements of the muscles of voluntary life. Not
only certain particular states of mind, then (such as those
called volitions, for example), but states of mind as such,
all states of mind, even mere thoughts and feelings, are
motor in their consequences. This will be made manifest
in detail as our study advances. Meanwhile let it be set
down as one of the fundamental facts of the science with
which we are engaged.

It was said above that the ' conditions ' of states of con-
sciousness must be studied. The immediate condition of a
state of consciousness is an activity of some sort in the
cerebral hemispheres. This proposition is supported by so
many pathological facts, and laid by physiologists at the
base of so many of their reasonings, that to the medically
educated mind it seems almost axiomatic. It would be
hard, however, to give any short and peremptory proof of
the unconditional dependence of mental action upon neural
change. That a general and usual amount of dependence
exists cannot possibly be ignored. One has only to con-
sider how quickly consciousness may be (so far as we know)
abolished by a blow on the head, by rapid loss of blood, by
an epileptic discharge, by a full dose of alcohol, opium,
ether, or nitrous oxide — or how easily it may be altered in
quality by a smaller dose of any of these agents or of others,
or by a fever, — to see how at the mercy of bodily happenings
our spirit is. A little stoppage of the gall-duct, a swallow
of cathartic medicine, a cup of strong coffee at the proper
moment, will entirely overturn for the time a man's views
of life. Our moods and resolutions are more determined

6 PSYCHOLOGY

by the condition of our circulation than by our logical
grounds. Whether a man shall be a hero or a coward is
a matter of his temporary ' nerves.' In many kinds of
insanity, though by no means in all, distinct alterations of
the brain-tissue have been found. Destruction of certain
definite portions of the cerebral hemispheres involves losses
of memory and of acquired motor faculty of quite determi-
nate sorts, to which we shall revert again under the title of
aphasias. Taking all such facts together, the simple and
radical conception dawns upon the mind that mental action
may be uniformly and absolutely a function of brain-action,
varying as the latter varies, and being to the brain-action
as effect to cause.

This conception is the ' working hypothesis ' which
underlies all the * physiological psychology ' of recent
years, and it will be the working hypothesis of this book.
Taken thus absolutely, it may possibly be too sweeping a
statement of what in reality is only a partial truth. But
the only way to make sure of its unsatisfactoriness is to
apply it seriously to every possible case that can turn up.
To work an hypothesis ' for all it is worth ' is the real, and
often the only, way to prove its insufficiency. I shall there-
fore assume without scruple at the outset that the uniform
correlation of brain-states with mind-states is a law of na-
ture. The interpretation of the law in detail will best show
where its facilities and where its difficulties lie. To some
readers such an assumption will seem like the most unjus-
tifiable a priori materialism. In one sense it doubtless is
materialism: it puts the Higher at the mercy of the Lower.
But although we affirm that the coming to pass of thought
is a consequence of mechanical laws, — for, according to
another ' working hypothesis/ that namely of physiology,
the laws of brain-action are at bottom mechanical laws, —
we do not in the least explain the nature of thought by
affirming this dependence, and in that latter sense our
proposition is not materialism. The authors who most
unconditionally affirm the dependence of our thoughts

INTRODUCTORY 7

on our brain to be a fact are often the loudest to insist that
the fact is inexplicable, and that the intimate essence of
consciousness can never be rationally accounted for by any
material cause. It will doubtless take several generations
of psychologists to test the hypothesis of dependence
with anything like minuteness. The books which postu-
late it will be to some extent on conjectural ground.
But the student will remember that the Sciences constantly
have to take these risks, and habitually advance by zig-
zagging from one absolute formula to another which cor-
rects it by going too far the other way. At present Psychol-
ogy is on the materialistic tack, and ought in the interests
of ultimate success to be allowed full headway even by
those who are certain she will never fetch the port without
putting down the helm once more. The only thing that is
perfectly certain is that when taken up into the total body
of Philosophy, the formulas of Psychology will appear with
a very different meaning from that which they suggest so
long as they are studied from the point of view of an
abstract and truncated ' natural science/ however practi-
cally necessary and indispensable their study from such a
provisional point of view may be.

The Divisions of Psychology. — So far as possible, then,
we are to study states of consciousness in correlation with
their probable neural conditions. Now the nervous system
is well understood to-day to be nothing but a machine for
receiving impressions and discharging reactions preserva-
tive to the individual and his kind — so much of physiology
the reader will surely know. Anatomically, therefore, the
nervous system falls into three main divisions, comprising —

1) The fibres which carry currents in;

2 ) The organs of central redirection of them ; and

3) The fibres which carry them out.

Functionally, we have sensation, central reflection, and
motion, to correspond to these anatomical divisions. In
Psychology we may divide our work according to a similar

8 PSYCHOLOGY

scheme, and treat successively of three fundamental con-
scious processes and their conditions. The first will be
Sensation; the second will be Cerebration or Intellection;
the third will be the Tendency to Action. Much vagueness
results from this division, but it has practical conveniences
for such a book as this, and they may be allowed to pre-
vail over whatever objections may be urged.

CHAPTER II

SENSATION IN GENERAL

Incoming nerve-currents are the only agents which
normally affect the brain. The human nerve-centres are
surrounded by many dense wrappings of which the effect is
to protect them from the direct action of the forces of the
outer world. The hair, the thick skin of the scalp, the
skull, and two membranes at least, one of them a tough
one, surround the brain; and this organ moreover, like the
spinal cord, is bathed by a serous fluid in which it floats
suspended. Under these circumstances the only things
that can happen to the brain are:

i) The dullest and feeblest mechanical jars;

2) Changes in the quantity and quality of the blood-
supply; and

3) Currents running in through the so-called afferent or
centripetal nerves.

The mechanical jars are usually ineffective; the effects
of the blood-changes are usually transient; the nerve-cur-
rents, on the contrary, produce consequences of the most
vital sort, both at the moment of their arrival, and later,
through the invisible paths of escape which they plough in
the substance of the organ and which, as we believe, remain
as more or less permanent features of its structure, modify-
ing its action throughout all future time.

Each afferent nerve comes from a determinate part
of the periphery and is played upon and excited to its
inward activity by a particular force of the outer world.
Usually it is insensible to other forces: thus the optic nerves

io PSYCHOLOGY

are not impressible by air-waves, nor those of the skin by
light-waves. The lingual nerve is not excited by aromatic
effluvia, the auditory nerve is unaffected by heat. Each
selects from the vibrations of the outer world some one
rate to which it responds exclusively. The result is that
our sensations form a discontinuous series, broken by enor-
mous gaps. There is no reason to suppose that the order
of vibrations in the outer world is anything like as inter-
rupted as the order of our sensations. Between the quick-
est audible air-waves (40,000 vibrations a second at the
outside) and the slowest sensible heat-waves (which num-
ber probably billions), Nature must somewhere have real-
ized innumerable intermediary rates which we have no
nerves for perceiving. The process in the nerve-fibres
themselves is very likely the same, or much the same, in
all the different nerves. It is the so-called ' current ' ; but
the current is started by one order of outer vibrations in
the retina, and in the ear, for example, by another. This is
due to the different terminal organs with which the several
afferent nerves are armed. Just as we arm ourselves with
a spoon to pick up soup, and with a fork to pick up meat,
so our nerve-fibres arm themselves with one sort of end-
apparatus to pick up air-waves, with another to pick up
ether-waves. The terminal apparatus always consists of
modified epithelial cells with which the fibre is continuous.
The fibre itself is not directly excitable by the outer agent
which impresses the terminal organ. The optic fibres are
unmoved by the direct rays of the sun; a cutaneous nerve-
trunk may be touched with ice without feeling cold.* The
fibres are mere transmitters; the terminal organs are so
many imperfect telephones into which the material world
speaks, and each of which takes ud but a portion of what

♦The subject may feel pain, however, in this experiment; and it
must be admitted that nerve-fibres of every description, terminal
organs as well, are to some degree excitable by mechanical violence
and by the electric current.

SENSATION IN GENERAL n

it says; the brain-cells at the fibres' central end are as
many others at which the mind listens to the far-off
call.

The ■ Specific Energies ' of the Various Parts of the j
Brain. — To a certain extent anatomists have traced defi-
nitely the paths which the sensory nerve-fibres follow after
their entrance into the centres, as far as their termination in
the gray matter of the cerebral convolutions.* It will be
shown on a later page that the consciousness which accom-
panies the excitement of this gray matter varies from one
portion of it to another. It is consciousness of things seen,
when the occipital lobes, and of things heard, when the
upper part of the temporal lobes, share in the excitement.
Each region of the cerebral cortex responds to the stimula-
tion which its afferent fibres bring to it, in a manner with
which a peculiar quality of feeling seems invariably cor-
related. This is what has been called the law of ' specific
energies 9 in the nervous system. Of course we are with-
out even a conjectural explanation of the ground of such
a law. Psychologists (as Lewes, Wundt, Rosenthal, Gold-
scheider, etc.) have debated a good deal as to whether the
specific quality of the feeling depends solely on the place
stimulated in the cortex, or on the sort of current which the
nerve pours in. Doubtless the sort of outer force habitu-
ally impinging on' the end-organ gradually modifies the
end-organ, the sort of commotion received from the end-
organ modifies the fibre, and the sort of current a so-modi-
fied fibre pours into the cortical centre modifies the centre.
The modification of the centre in turn (though no man

* Thus the optic nerve-fibres are traced to the occipital lobes, the
olfactory tracts go to the lower part of the temporal lobe (hippo-
campal convolution), the auditory nerve-fibres pass first to the
cerebellum, and probably from thence to the upper part of the
temporal lobe. These anatomical terms used in this chapter
witl be explained later. The cortex is the gray surface of the
convolutions.

12 PSYCHOLOGY

can guess how or why) seems to modify the resultant con-
sciousness. But these adaptive modifications must be ex-
cessively slow; and as matters actually stand in any adult
individual, it is safe to say that, more than anything else,
the place excited in his cortex decides what kind of thing
he shall feel. Whether we press the retina, or prick, cut,
pinch, or galvanize the living optic nerve, the Subject always
feels flashes of light, since the ultimate result of our opera-
tions is to stimulate the cortex of his occipital region.
Our habitual ways of feeling outer things thus depend on
which convolutions happen to be connected with the par-
ticular end-organs which those things impress. We see the
sunshine and the fire, simple because the only peripheral
end-organ susceptible of taking up the ether-waves which
these objects radiate excites those particular fibres which
run to the centres of sight. If we could interchange the
inward connections, we should feel the world in altogether
new ways. If, for instance, we could splice the outer
extremity of our optic nerves to our ears, and that of our
auditory nerves to our eyes, we should hear the lightning
and see the thunder, see the symphony and hear the con-
ductor's movements. Such hypotheses as these form a good
training for neophytes in the idealistic philosophy!

Sensation distinguished from Perception. — It is im-
possible rigorously to define a sensation'; and in the actual
life of consciousness sensations, popularly so called, and per-
ceptions merge into each other by insensible degrees. All
we can say is that what we mean by sensations are first
things in the way of consciousness. They are the immedi-
ate results upon consciousness of nerve-currents as they
enter the brain, and before they have awakened any sug-
gestions or associations with past experience. But it is
obvious that such immediate sensations can only be realized
in the earliest days of life. They are all but impossible to
adults with memories and stores of associations acquired.
Prior to all impressions on sense-organs, the brain is
plunged in deep sleep and consciousness is practically non-

SENSATION IN GENERAL 13

existent. Even the first weeks after birth are passed in
almost unbroken sleep by human infants. It takes a
strong message from the sense-organs to break this slumber.
In a new-born brain this gives rise to an absolutely pure
sensation. But the experience leaves its ' unimaginable
touch ' on the matter of the convolutions, and the next im-
pression which a sense-organ transmits produces a cerebral
reaction in which the awakened vestige of the last impres-
sion plays its part. Another sort of feeling and a higher
grade of cognition are the consequence. ' Ideas ' about the
object mingle with the awareness of its mere sensible pres-
ence, we name it, class it, compare it, utter propositions
concerning it, and the complication of the possible con-
sciousness which an incoming current may arouse, goes on
increasing to the end of life. In general, this higher con-
sciousness about things is called Perception, the mere
inarticulate feeling of their presence is Sensation, so far as
we have it at all. To some degree we seem able to lapse
into this inarticulate feeling at moments when our atten-
tion is entirely dispersed.

Sensations are cognitive. A sensation is thus an ab-
straction seldom realized by itself; and the object which a
sensation knows is an abstract object which cannot exist
alone. ' Sensible qualities ' are the objects of sensation. The
sensations of the eye are aware of the colors of things, those
of the ear are acquainted with their sounds ; those of the skin
feel their tangible heaviness, sharpness, warmth or coldness,
etc., etc. From all the organs of the body currents may
come which reveal to us the quality of pain, and to a cer-
tain extent that of pleasure.

Such qualities as stickiness, roughness, etc., are sup-
posed to be felt through the cooperation of muscular sen-
sations with those of the skin. The geometrical qualities
of things, on the other hand, their shapes, bignesses, dis-
tances, etc. (so far as we discriminate and identify them),
are by most psychologists supposed to be impossible with-
out the evocation of memories from the past; and the

i4 PSYCHOLOGY

cognition of these attributes is thus considered to exceed
the power of sensation pure and simple.

* Knowledge of Acquaintance ' and ' Knowledge
about/ — Sensation, thus considered, differs from perception
only in the extreme simplicity of its object or content. Its
object, being a simple quality, is sensibly homogeneous ; and
its function is that of mere acquaintance with this homo-
geneous seeming fact. Perception's function, on the other
hand, is that of knowing something about the fact. But
we must know what fact we mean, all the while, and the
various whats are what sensations give. Our earliest
thoughts are almost exclusively sensational. They give us
a set of whats, or thats, or its; of subjects of discourse in
other words, with their relations not yet brought out. The
first time we see light, in Condillac's phrase we are it rather
than see it. But all our later optical knowledge is about
what this experience gives. And though we were struck
blind from that first moment, our scholarship in the sub-
ject would lack no essential feature so long as our memory
remained. In training-institutions for the blind they teach
the pupils as much about light as in ordinary schools.
Reflection, refraction, the spectrum, the ether-theory, etc.,
are all studied. But the best taught born-blind pupil of
such an establishment yet lacks in knowledge which the
least instructed seeing baby has. They can never show
him what light is in its i first intention '; and the loss of
that sensible knowledge no book-learning can replace. All
this is so obvious that we usually find sensation * postulated *
as an element of experience, even by those philosophers
who are least inclined to make much of its importance, or
to pay respect to the knowledge which it brings.

Sensation distinguished from Images. — Both sensation
and perception, for all their difference, are yet alike in that
their objects appear vivid, lively, and present. Objects
merely thought of, recollected, or imagined, on the contrary,
are relatively faint and devoid of this pungency, or tang,
this quality of real presence which the objects of sensation

SENSATION IN GENERAL 15

possess. Now the cortical brain-processes to which sensa-
tions are attached are due to incoming currents from the
periphery of the body — an external object must excite the
eye, ear, etc., before the sensation comes. Those cortical
processes, on the other hand, to which mere ideas or images
are attached are due in all probability to currents from
other convolutions. It would seem, then, that the currents
from the periphery normally awaken a kind of brain-
activity which the currents from other convolutions are
inadequate to arouse. To this sort of activity — a pro-
founder degree of disintegration, perhaps — the quality of
vividness, presence, or reality in the object of the resultant
consciousness seems correlated.

The Exteriority of Objects of Sensation. — Every thing
or quality felt is felt in outer space. It is impossible to con-
ceive a brightness or a color otherwise than as extended and
outside of the body. Sounds also appear in space. Con-
tacts are against the body's surface; and pains ajways
occupy some organ. An opinion which has had much
currency in psychology is that sensible qualities are first
apprehended as in the mind itself, and then ' projected ' from
it, or ' extradited/ by a secondary intellectual or super-sen-
sational mental act. There is no ground whatever for this
opinion. The only facts which even seem to make for it
can be much better explained in another way, as we shall see
later on. The very first sensation which an infant gets is
for him the outer universe. And the universe which he
comes to know in later life is nothing but an amplifica-
tion of that first simple germ which, by accretion on the
one hand and intussusception on the other, has grown
so big and complex and articulate that its first estate
is unrememberable. In his dumb awakening to the con-
sciousness of something there, a mere this as yet (or some-
thing for which even the term this would perhaps be
too discriminative, and the intellectual acknowledgment of
which would be better expressed by the bare interjection
1 lo! '), the infant encounters an object in which (though it

1 6 PSYCHOLOGY

be given in a pure sensation) all the ' categories of the
understanding ' are contained. // has externality, objec-
tivity, unity, substantiality, causality, in the full sense in
which any later object or system of objects has these things.
Here the young knower meets and greets his world; and
the miracle of knowledge bursts forth, as Voltaire says, as
much in the infant's lowest sensation as in the highest
achievement of a Newton's brain.

The physiological condition of this first sensible experi-
ence is probably many nerve-currents coming in from
various peripheral organs at once; but this multitude of
organic conditions does not prevent the consciousness from
being one consciousness. We shall see as we go on that
it can be one consciousness, even though it be due to
the cooperation of numerous organs and be a conscious-
ness of many things together. The Object which the
numerous inpouring currents of the baby bring to his
consciousness is one big blooming buzzing Confusion.
That Confusion is the baby's universe; and the universe of
all of us is still to a great extent such a Confusion, poten-
tially resolvable, and demanding to be resolved, but not
yet actually resolved, into parts. It appears from first to
last as a space-occupying thing. So far as it is unanalyzed
and unresolved we may be said to know it sensationally;
but as fast as parts are distinguished in it and we become
aware of their relations, our knowledge becomes perceptual
or even conceptual, and as such need not concern us in the
present chapter.

The Intensity of Sensations. — A light may be so weak
as not sensibly to dispel the darkness, a sound so low as not
to be heard, a contact so faint that we fail to notice it. In
other words, a certain finite amount of the outward stimu-
lus is required to produce any sensation of its presence at
all. This is called by Fechner the law of the threshold —
something must be stepped over before the object can gain
entrance to the mind. An impression just above the
threshold is called the minimum visible, audibile, etc.

SENSATION IN GENERAL

From this point onwards, as the impressing force increases,
the sensation increases also, though at a slower rate, until
at last an acme of the sensation is reached which no increase
in the stimulus can make sensibly more great. Usually,
before the acme, pain begins to mix with the specific char-
acter of the sensation. This is definitely observable in
the cases of great pressure, intense heat, cold, light, and
sound; and in those of smell and taste less definitely so
only from the fact that we can less easily increase the force
of the stimuli here. On the other hand, all sensations,
however unpleasant when more intense, are rather agree-
able than otherwise in their very lowest degrees. A faintly
bitter taste, or putrid smell, may at least be interesting.

Weber's Law. — I said that the intensity of the sensation
increases by slower steps than those by which its exciting

Fig. i.

cause increases. If there were no threshold, and if every
equal increment in the outer stimulus produced an equal
increment in the sensation's intensity, a simple straight line
would represent graphically the ' curve ' of the relation
between the two things. Let the horizontal line stand for
the scale of intensities of the objective stimulus, so that at
o it has no intensity, at 1 intensity 1, and so forth. Let
the verticals dropped from the slanting line stand for the
sensations aroused. At o there will be no sensation; at 1
there will be a sensation represented by the length of the
vertical S1 — 1, at 2 the sensation will be represented by

18 PSYCHOLOGY

S2 — 2, and so on. The line of S's will rise evenly be-
cause by the hypothesis the verticals (or sensations) increase
at the same rate as the horizontals (or stimuli) to which
they severally correspond. But in Nature, as aforesaid,
they increase at a slower rate. If each step forward in the
horizontal direction be equal to the last, then each step
upward in the vertical direction will have to be somewhat
shorter than the last; the line of sensations will be convex
on top instead of straight.

Fig. 2.

Fig. 2 represents this actual state of things, o being
the zero-point of the stimulus, and conscious sensation,
represented by the curved line, not beginning until the
1 threshold ' is reached, at which the stimulus has the
value 3. From here onwards the sensation increases, but
it increases less at each step, until at last, the ' acme ' being
reached, the sensation-line grows flat. The exact law of
retardation is called Weber's law, from the fact that he first
observed it in the case of weights. I will quote Wundt's
account of the law and of the facts on which it is based.

"Every one knows that in the stilly night we hear things unnoticed
in the noise of day. The gentle ticking of the clock, the air circu-
lating through the chimney, the cracking of the chairs in the room,
and a thousand other slight noises, impress themselves upon our
ear. It is equally well known that in the confused hubbub of the
streets, or the clamor of a railway, we may lose not only what our
neighbor says to us, but even not hear the sound of our own voice.

SENSATION IN GENERAL 19

The stars which are brightest at night are invisible by day; and
although we see the moon then, she is far paler than at night.
Every one who has had to deal with weights knows that if to a
pound in the hand a second pound be added, the difference is im-
mediately felt ; whilst if it be added to a hundredweight, we are not
aware of the difference at all. . . .

"The sound of the clock, the light of the stars, the pressure of the
pound, these are all stimuli to our senses, and stimuli whose out-
ward amount remains the same. What then do these experiences
teach ? Evidently nothing but this, that one and the same stimulus,
according to circumstances under which it operates, will be felt
either more or less intensely, or not felt at all. Of what sort now
is the alteration in the circumstances upon which this alteration in
the feeling may depend ? On considering the matter closely we see
that it is everywhere of one and the same kind. The tick of the
clock is a feeble stimulus for our auditory nerve, which we hear
plainly when it is one, but not when it is added to the strong
stimulus of the carriage-wheels and other noises of the day. The
light of the stars is a stimulus to the eye. But if the stimulation
which this light exerts be added to the strong stimulus of daylight,
we feel nothing of it, although we feel it distinctly when it unites
itself with the feebler stimulation of the twilight. The pound-
weight is a stimulus to our skin, which we feel when it joins itself
to a preceding stimulus of equal strength, but which vanishes when
it is combined with a stimulus a thousand times greater in amount.

"We may therefore lay it down as a general rule that a stimulus,
in order to be felt, may be so much the smaller if the already pre-
existing stimulation of the organ is small, but must be so much the
larger, the greater the preexisting stimulation is. . . . The simplest
relation would obviously be that the sensation should increase in
identically the same ratio as the stimulus. . . . But if this simplest
of all relations prevailed, ... the light of the stars, e.g., ought to
make as great an addition to the daylight as it does to the darkness
of the nocturnal sky, and this we know to be not the case. ... So
it is clear that the strength of the sensations does not increase in
proportion to the amount of the stimuli, but more slowly. And now
comes the question, in what proportion does the increase of the
sensation grow less as the increase of the stimulus grows greater?
To answer this question, every-day experiences do not suffice. We
need exact measurements, both of the amounts of the various
stimuli, and of the intensity of the sensations themselves.

"How to execute these measurements, however, is something
which daily experience suggests. To measure the strength of sen-
sations is, as we saw, impossible ; we can only measure the difference

20 PSYCHOLOGY

of sensations. Experience showed us what very unequal differences
of sensation might come from equal differences of outward stimulus.
"But all these experiences expressed themselves in one kind of
fact, that the same difference of stimulus could in one case be felt,
and in another case not felt at all — a pound felt if added to another
pound, but not if added to a hundredweight. . . . We can quickest
reach a result with our observations if we start with an arbitrary
strength of stimulus, notice what sensation it gives us, and then see
how much we can increase the stimulus without making the sensa-
tion seem to change. If we carry out such observations with
stimuli of varying absolute amounts, we shall be forced to choose
in an equally varying way the amounts of addition to the stimulus
which are capable of giving us a just barely perceptible feeling of
more. A light to be just perceptible in the twilight need not be near
as bright as the starlight; it must be far brighter to be just per-
ceived during the day. If now we institute such observations for
all possible strengths of the various stimuli, and note for each
strength the amount of addition of the latter required to produce a
barely perceptible alteration of sensation, we shall have a series
of figures in which is immediately expressed the law according to
which the sensation alters when the stimulation is increased. ..."

Observations according to this method are particularly
easy to make in the spheres of light, sound, and pressure.
Beginning with the latter case,

"We find a surprisingly simple result. The barely sensible addi-
tion to the original zveight must stand exactly in the same proportion
to it, be the same fraction of it, no matter what the absolute value
may be of the weights on which the experiment is made. ... As
the average of a number of experiments, this fraction is found to
be about 1-3; that is, no matter what pressure there may already be
made upon the skin, an increase or a diminution of the pressure will
be felt, as soon as the added or subtracted weight amounts to one-
third of the weight originally there."

Wundt then describes how differences may be observed
in the muscular feelings, in the feelings of heat, in those
of light, and in those of sound; and he concludes thus:

"So we have found that all the senses whose stimuli we are
enabled to measure accurately, obey a uniform law. However vari-
ous may be their several delicacies of discrimination, this holds true
of all, that the increase of the stimulus necessary to produce an

SENSATION IN GENERAL 21

increase of the sensation bears a constant ratio to the total stimulus.
The figures which express this ratio in the several senses may be
shown thus in tabular form :

Sensation of light 1/100

Muscular sensation. * 1/17

Feeling of pressure, *\

" " warmth, ^ 1/3

" " sound, J

"These figures are far from giving as accurate a measure as
might be desired. But at least they are fit to convey a general
notion of the relative discriminative susceptibility of the different
senses. . . . The important law which gives in so simple a form
the relation of the sensation to the stimulus that calls it forth was
first discovered by the physiologist Ernst Heinrich Weber to obtain
in special cases." *

Fechner's Law. — Another way of expressing Weber's law
is to say that to get equal positive additions to the sensa-
tion, one must make equal relative additions to the stimu-
lus. Professor Fechner of Leipzig founded upon Weber's
law a theory of the numerical measurement of sensations,
over which much metaphysical discussion has raged. Each
just perceptible addition to the sensation, as we gradually
let the stimulus increase, was supposed by him to be a unit
of sensation, and all these units were treated by him as
equal, in spite of the fact that equally perceptible incre-
ments need by no means appear equally big when they
once are perceived. The many pounds which form the
just perceptible addition to a hundredweight feel bigger
when added than the few ounces which form the just per-
ceptible addition to a pound. Fechner ignored this fact.
He considered that if n distinct perceptible steps of in-
crease might be passed through in gradually increasing a
stimulus from the threshold-value till the intensity s was
felt, then the sensation of s was composed of n units, which
were of the same value all along the line.f Sensations once
represented by numbers, psychology may become, according

* Vorlesungen uber Menschen u. Thierseele, Lecture VII.
t In other words, 5 standing for the sensation in general, and
d for its noticeable increment, we have the equation dS — const.

22 PSYCHOLOGY

to Fechner, an ' exact ' science, susceptible of mathematical
treatment. His general formula for getting at the number
of units in any sensation is S = C log R, where 5 stands for
the sensation, R for the stimulus numerically estimated,
and C for a constant that must be separately determined by
experiment in each particular order of sensibility. The
sensation is proportional to the logarithm of the stimulus;
and the absolute values, in units, of any series of sensations
might be got from the ordinates of the curve in Fig. 2, if
it were a correctly drawn logarithmic curve, with the
thresholds rightly plotted out from experiments.

Fechner 's psycho-physic formula, as he called it, has
been attacked on every hand; and as absolutely nothing
practical has come of it, it need receive no farther notice
here. The main outcome of his book has been to stir up
experimental investigation into the validity of Weber's
law (which concerns itself merely with the just perceptible
increase, and says nothing about the measurement of the
sensation as a whole) and to promote discussion of statis-
tical methods. Weber's law, as will appear when we take
the senses, seriatim, is only approximately verified. The
discussion of statistical methods is necessitated by the ex-
traordinary fluctuations of our sensibility from one moment
to the next. It is found, namely, when the difference of
two sensations approaches the limit of discernibility, that
at one moment we discern it and at the next we do not.
Our incessant accidental inner alterations make it im-
possible to tell just what the least discernible increment of
the sensation is without taking the average of a large num-
ber of appreciations. These accidental errors are as likely
to increase as to diminish our sensibility, and are elimi-
nated in such an average, for those above and those below

The increment of stimulus which produces dS (call it dR) mean-
while varies. Fechner calls it the ' differential threshold ' ; and as
its relative value to R is always the same, we have the equation
dR
-^r= const.

SENSATION IN GENERAL 23

the line then neutralize each other in the sum, and the nor-
mal sensibility, if there be one (that is, the sensibility due
to constant causes as distinguished from these accidental
ones), stands revealed. The methods of getting the aver-
age all have their difficulties and their snares, and contro-
versy over them has become very subtle indeed. As an
instance of how laborious some of the statistical methods
are, and how patient German investigators can be, I may
say that Fechner himself, in testing Weber's law for
weights by the so-called ' method of true and false cases,'
tabulated and computed no less than 24,576 separate judg-
ments.

Sensations are not compounds. The fundamental objec-
tion to Fechner 's whole attempt seems to be this, that
although the outer causes of our sensations may have many
parts, every distinguishable degree, as well as every dis-
tinguishable quality, of the sensation itself appears to be
a unique fact of consciousness. Each sensation is a com-
plete integer. " A strong one," as Dr. Munsterberg says,
" is not the multiple of a weak one, or a compound of
many weak ones, but rather something entirely new, and as
it were incomparable, so that to seek a measurable differ-
ence between strong and weak sonorous, luminous, or ther-
mic sensations would seem at first sight as senseless as to
try to compute mathematically the difference between salt
and sour, or between headache and toothache. It is clear
that if in the stronger sensation of light the weaker sen-
sation is not contained, it is unpsychological to say that the
former differs from the latter by a certain increment."*
Surely our feeling of scarlet is not a feeling of pink with a
lot more pink added; it is something quite other than
pink. Similarly with our sensation of an electric arc-light:
it does not contain that of many smoky tallow candles in
itself. Every sensation presents itself as an indivisible
unit; and it is quite impossible to read any clear meaning
into the notion that they are masses of units combined.

* Beitrage zur exp. Psychol., Heft 3. p. 4.

24 PSYCHOLOGY

There is no inconsistency between this statement and the
fact that, starting with a weak sensation and increas-
ing it, we feel ' more/ ' more/ ' more,' as the increase goes
on. It is not more of the same stuff added, so to speak;
but it is more and more difference, more and more distance,
from the starting-point, which we feel. In the chapter on
Discrimination we shall see that Difference can be perceived
between simple things. We shall see, too, that differences
themselves differ — there are various directions of differ-
ence; and along any one of them a series of things may be
arranged so as to increase steadily in that direction. In
any such series the end differs more from the beginning
than the middle does. Differences of * intensity ' form one
such direction of possible increase — so our judgments of
more intensity can be expressed without the hypothesis
that more units have been added to a growing sum.

The so-called ' Law of Relativity.' — Weber's law seems
only one case of the still wider law that the more we have
to attend to the less capable we are of noticing any one
detail. The law is obvious where the things differ in
kind. How easily do we forget a bodily discomfort when
conversation waxes hot; how little do we notice the noises
in the room so long as our work absorbs us! Ad plura
intentus minus est ad singula sensus, as the old proverb
says. One might now add that the homogeneity of what
we have to attend to does not alter the result; but that a
mind with two strong sensations of the same sort already
before it is incapacitated by their amount from noticing
the detail of a difference between them which it would
immediately be struck by, were the sensations themselves
weaker and consequently endowed with less distracting
power.

This particular idea may be taken for what it is worth.*
Meanwhile it is an undoubted general fact that the psychi-

* I borrow it from Ziehen : Leitf aden d. Physiologischen Psycho-
logie, 1891, p. 36, who quotes Hering's version of it.

SENSATION IN GENERAL 25

cal effect of incoming currents does depend on what other
currents may be simultaneously pouring in. Not only the
perceptibility of the object which the current brings before
the mind, but the quality of it, is changed by the other
currents. " Simultaneous* sensations modify each other "
is a brief expression for this law. " We feel all things in
relation to each other " is Wundt's vaguer formula for this
general ' law of relativity/ which in one shape or other has
had vogue since Hobbes's time in psychology. Much mys-
tery has been made of it, but although we are of course
ignorant of the more intimate processes involved, there
seems no ground to doubt that they are physiological, and
come from the interference of one current with another.
A current interfered with might naturally give rise to a
modified sensation.

Examples of the modification in question are easy to
find.f Notes make each other sweeter in a chord, and so
do colors when harmoniously combined. A certain amount
of skin dipped in hot water gives the perception of a cer-
tain heat. More skin immersed makes the heat much more
intense, although of course the water's heat is the same.
Similarly there is a chromatic minimum of size in objects.
The image they cast on the retina must needs excite a
sufficient number of fibres, or it will give no sensation of
color at all. Weber observed that a thaler laid on the skin
of the forehead feels heavier when cold than when warm.
Urbantschitsch has found that all our sense-organs influ-
ence each other's sensations. The hue of patches of color
so distant as not to be recognized was immediately, in his
patients, perceived when a tuning-fork was sounded close
to the ear. Letters too far off to be read could be read

* Successive ones also ; but I consider simultaneous ones only, for
simplicity's sake.

t The extreme case is where green light and red, e.g. light falling
simultaneously on the retina, give a sensation of yellow. But- 1
abstract from this because it is not certain that the incoming cur-
rents here affect different fibres of the optic nerve.

26 PSYCHOLOGY

when the tuning-fork was heard, etc., etc. The most famil-
iar examples of this sort of thing seem to be the increase of
pain by noise or light, and the increase of nausea by all
concomitant sensations.

Effects of Contrast. — The best-known examples of the
way in which one nerve-current modifies another are the
phenomena of what is known as ' simultaneous color-con-
trast.' Take a number of sheets of brightly and differently
colored papers, lay on each of them a bit of one and the same
kind of gray paper, then cover each sheet with some trans-
parent white paper, which softens the look of both the gray
paper and the colored ground. The gray patch will appear
in each case tinged by the color complementary to the
ground; and so different will the several pieces appear
that no observer, before raising the transparent paper, will
believe them all cut out of the same gray. Helmholtz has
interpreted these results as being due to a false application
of an inveterate habit — that, namely, of making allowance
for the color of the medium through which things are seen.
The same thing, in the blue light of a clear sky, in the red-
dish-yellow light of a candle, in the dark brown light of a
polished mahogany table which may reflect its image, is
always judged of its own proper color, which the mind adds
out of its own knowledge to the appearance, thereby cor-
recting the falsifying medium. In the cases of the papers,
according to Helmholtz, the mind believes the color of the
ground, subdued by the transparent paper, to be faintly
spread over the gray patch. But a patch to look gray
through such a colored film would have really to be of the
complementary color to the film. Therefore it is of the
complementary color, we think, and proceed to see it of
that color.

This theory has been shown to be untenable by Hering.
The discussion of the facts is too minute for recapitulation
here, but suffice it to say that it proves the phenomenon
to be physiological — a case of the way in which, when sen-
sory nerve-currents run in together, the effect of each on

SENSATION IN GENERAL 27

consciousness is different from that which it would be if
they ran in separately.

i Successive contrast ' differs from the simultaneous va-
riety, and is supposed to be due to fatigue. The facts will
be noticed under the head of ' after-images/ in the sec-
tion on Vision. It must be borne in mind, however, that
after-images from previous sensations may coexist with
present sensations, and the two may modify each other just
as coexisting sensational processes do.

Other senses than sight show phenomena of contrast,
but they are much less obvious, so I will not notice them
here. We can now pass to a very brief survey of the vari-
ous senses in detail.

CHAPTER III

SIGHT

The Eye's Structure is described in all the books on an-
atomy. I will only mention the few points which concern
the psychologist* It is a flattish sphere formed by a tough

* The student can easily verify the coarser features of the eye's
anatomy upon a bullock's eye, which any butcher will furnish.
Clean it first from fat and muscles and study its shape, etc., and
then (following Golding Bird's method) make an incision with a
pointed scalpel into the sclerotic half an inch from the edge of the
cornea, so that the black choroid membrane comes into view. Next
with one blade of a pair of scissors inserted into this aperture, cut
through sclerotic, choroid, and retina (avoid wounding the mem-
brane of the vitreous body!) all round the eyeball parallel to the
cornea's edge.

The eyeball is thus divided into two parts, the anterior one con-
taining the iris, lens, vitreous body, etc., whilst the posterior one
contains most of the retina. The two parts can be separated by
immersing the eyeball in water, cornea downwards, and simply pull-
ing off the portion to which the optic nerve is attached. Floating
this detached posterior cap in water, the delicate retina will be seen
spread out over the choroid (which is partly iridescent in the ox
tribe) ; and by turning the cup inside out, and working under water
with a camel's-hair brush, the vessels and nerves of the eyeball may
be detected.

The anterior part of the eyeball can then be attacked. Seize with
forceps on each side the edge of the sclerotic and choroid (not
including the retina), raise the eye with the forceps thus applied
and shake it gently till the vitreous body, lens, capsule, ligament,
etc., drop out by their weight, and separate from the iris, ciliary
processes, cornea and selorotic, which remain in the forceps. Ex-
amine these latter parts, and get a view of the ciliary muscle which
appears as a white line, when with camel's-hair brush and scalpel
the choroid membrane is detached from the sclerotic as far forward
as it will go. Turning to the parts that clog to the vitreous body
observe the clear ring around the lens, and radiating outside of it
the marks made by the ciliary processes before they were torn away

SIGHT

white membrane (the sclerotic), which encloses a nervois
surface and certain refracting media (lens and ' humors ')
which cast a picture of the outer world thereon. It is in

from its suspensory ligament. A fine capillary tube may now be
used to insufflate the clear ring, just below the letter p in Fig. 3,
and thus to reveal the suspensory ligament itself.

All these parts can be seen in section in a frozen eye or one hard-
ened in alcohol.

PSYCHOLOGY

fact a little camera obscura, the essential part of which is
the sensitive plate.

The retina is what corresponds to
this plate. The optic nerve pierces the
sclerotic shell and spreads its fibres
radially in every direction over its in-
side, forming a thin translucent film
(see Fig. 3, Ret.). The fibres pass
into a complicated apparatus of cells,
granules, and branches (Fig. 4), and
finally end in the so-called rods and
cones (Fig. 4, — 9), which are the spe-
cific organs for taking up the influence
of the waves of light. Strange to say,
these end-organs are not pointed for-
ward towards the light as it streams
through the pupil, but backwards to-
wards the sclerotic membrane itself, so

Fig. 4'

Fig. 5. — Scheme of retinal fibres, after Kuss. Nop.
optic nerve; S, sclerotic; Ch, choroid; R, retina;
P, papilla (blind spot) ; F, fovea.

that the light-waves traverse the translucent nerve-fibres,
and the cellular and granular layers of the retina, befor^
thev touch the rods and cones themselves. (See Fig. 5.)

SIGHT 31

The Blind Spot. — The optic nerve-fibres must thus be
unimpressible by light directly. The place where the
nerve enters is in fact entirely blind, because nothing but
fibres exist there, the other layers of the retina only be-
ginning round about the entrance. Nothing is easier than
to prove the existence of this blind spot. Close the right
eye and look steadily with the left at the cross in Fig. 6,

Fig. 6.

holding the book vertically in front of the face, and mov-
ing it to and fro. It will be found that at about a foot off
the black disk disappears; but when the page is nearer or
farther, it is seen. During the experiment the gaze must
be kept fixed on the cross. It is easy to show by measure-
ment that this blind spot lies where the optic nerve enters.

The Fovea. — Outside of the blind spot the sensibility of
the retina varies. It is greatest at the fovea, a little pit
lying outwardly from the entrance of the optic nerve, and
round which the radiating nerve-fibres bend without pass-
ing over it. The other layers also disappear at the fovea,
leaving the cones alone to represent the retina there. The
sensibility of the retina grows progressively less towards its
periphery, by means of which neither colors, shapes, nor
number of impressions can be well discriminated.

In the normal use of our two eyes, the eyeballs are ro-
tated so as to cause the two images of any object which
catches the attention to fall on the two foveae, as the spots
of acutest vision. This happens involuntarily, as any one
may observe. In fact, it is almost impossible not to ' turn
the eyes/ the moment any peripherally lying object does
catch our attention, the turning of the eyes being only

PSYCHOLOGY

another name for such rotation of the eyeballs as will
bring the foveae under the object's image.

Ciliary muscle
relaxed.

Ciliary muscle
contracted.

Ciliary Fhocess,

Fig. 7.

Accommodation. — The focussing or sharpening of the
image is performed by a special apparatus. In every cam-
era, the farther the object is from the eye the farther for-
ward, and the nearer the object is to the eye the farther
backward is its image thrown. In photographers' cameras
the back is made to slide, and can be drawn away from
the lens when the object that casts the picture is near,
and pushed forward when it is far. The picture is thus
kept always sharp. But no such change of length is
possible in the eyeball; and the same result is reached in
another way. The lens, namely, grows more convex when
a near object is looked at, and flatter when the object re-
cedes. This change is due to the antagonism of the circular
' ligament ' in which the lens is suspended, and the ' ciliary
muscle.* The ligament, when the ciliary muscle is at rest,
assumes such a spread-out shape as to keep the lens rather
flat. But the lens is highly elastic; and it springs into
the more convex form which is natural to it whenever the
ciliary muscle, by contracting, causes the ligament to relax
its pressure. The contraction of the muscle, by thus ren-
dering the lens more refractive, adapts the eye for near
objects (' accommodates ' it for them, as we say); and its
relaxation, by rendering the lens less refractive, adapts the
eye for distant vision. Accommodation for the near is thus

SIGHT 33

the more active change, since it involves contraction of
the ciliary muscle. When we look far off, we simply let
our eyes go passive. We feel this difference in the effort
when we compare the two sensations of change.

Convergence accompanies accommodation. The two
eyes act as one organ ; that is, when an object catches the at-
tention, both eyeballs turn so that its images may fall on
the foveae. When the object is near, this naturally requires
them to turn inwards, or converge; and as accommodation
then also occurs, the two movements of convergence and
accommodation form a natural associated couple, of which
it is difficult to execute either singly. Contraction of
the pupil also accompanies the accommodative act. When
we come to stereoscopic vision, it will appear that by much
practice one can learn to converge with relaxed accommo-
dation, and to accommodate with parallel axes of vision.
These are accomplishments which the student of psycho-
logical optics will find most useful.

Single Vision by the two Retinae. — We hear single with
two ears, and smell single with two nostrils, and we also see
single with two eyes. The difference is that we also can
see double under certain conditions, whereas under no con-
ditions can we hear or smell double. The main conditions
of single vision can be simply expressed.

In the first place, impressions on the two foveae always
appear in the same place. By no artifice can they be
made to appear alongside of each other. The result
is that one object, casting its images on the foveae of
the two converging eyeballs will necessarily always ap-
pear as what it is, namely, one object. Furthermore, if
the eyeballs, instead of converging, are kept parallel,
and two similar objects, one in front of each, cast their
respective images on the foveae, the two will also appear
as one, or (in common parlance) ' their images will fuse.'
To verify this, let the reader stare fixedly before him
as if through the paper at infinite distance, with the
black spots in Fig. 8 in front of his respective eyes. He

34 PSYCHOLOGY

will then see the two black spots swim together, as it were,
and combine into one, which appears situated between their
original two positions and as if opposite the root of his
nose. This combined spot is the result of the spots oppo-
site both eyes being seen in the same place. But in addition
to the combined spot, each eye sees also the spot opposite
the other eye. To the right eye this appears to the left of
the combined spot, to the left eye it appears to the right
of it; so that what is seen is three spots, of which the
middle one is seen by both eyes, and is flanked by two

Fig. 8.

others, each seen by one. That such are the facts can be
tested by interposing some small opaque object so as to
cut off the vision of either of the spots in the figure from
the other eye. A vertical partition in the median plane,
going from the paper to the nose, will effectually confine
each eye's vision to the spot in front of it, and then the
single combined spot will be all that appears*

If, instead of two identical spots, we use two different
figures, or two differently colored spots, as objects for the
two foveae to look at, they still are seen in the same place;
but since they cannot appear as a single object, they appear
there alternately displacing each other from the view. This
is the phenomenon called retinal rivalry.

As regards the parts of the retinae round about the foveae,
a similar correspondence obtains. Any impression on the

* This vertical partition is introduced into stereoscopes, which
otherwise would give us three pictures instead of one.

SIGHT

upper half of either retina makes us see an object as below,
on the lower half as above, the horizon; and on the right
half of either retina, an impression makes us see an object
to the left, on the left half one to the right, of the median
line. Thus each quadrant of one retina corresponds as a
whole to the geometrically similar quadrant of the other;

Fig. 9.

and within two similar quadrants, al and ar for example,
there should, if the correspondence were carried out in de-
tail, be geometrically similar points which, if impressed at
the same time by light emitted from the same object, should
cause that object to appear in the same direction to either
eye. Experiment verifies this surmise. If we look at the
starry vault with parallel eyes, the stars all seem single;
and the laws of perspective show that under the circum-
stances the parallel light-rays coming from each star must
impinge on points within either retina which are geometri-
cally similar to each other. Similarly, a pair of spectacles
held an inch or so from the eyes seem like one large median
glass. Or we may make an experiment like that with the
spots. If we take two exactly similar pictures, no larger
than those on an ordinary stereoscopic slide, and if we look
at one with each eye (a median partition confining the
view) we shall see but one flat picture, all of whose parts
appear single. ' Identical retinal points ' being impressed,
both eyes see their object in the same direction, and the
two objects consequently coalesce into one.

Here again retinal rivalry occurs if the pictures differ.
And it must be noted that when the experiment is per-

PSYCHOLOGY

formed for the first time the combined picture is always
far from sharp. This is due to the difficulty mentioned on
p. 33, of accommodating for anything as near as the surface
of the paper, whilst at the same time the convergence is
relaxed so that each eye sees the picture in front of itself.
Double Images. — Now it is an immediate consequence of
the law of identical location of images falling on geometri-
cally similar points that images which fall upon geometri-
cally disparate points of the two retinae should be seen
in disparate directions, and that their objects should

8 S

Fig. io.

consequently appear in two places, or look double.
Take the parallel rays from a star falling upon two eyes
which converge upon a near object, O, instead of being
parallel as in the previously instanced case. The two
foveae will receive the images of O, which therefore will
look single. If then S L and R S in Fig. io be the parallel
rays, each of them will fall upon the nasal half of the retina

SIGHT 37

which it strikes. But the two nasal halves are disparate,
geometrically symmetrical, not geometrically similar. The
star's image on the left eye will therefore appear as if lying
to the left of O; its image on the right eye will appear to
the right of this point. The star, will, in short, be seen
double — ■ homonymously ' double.

Conversely, if the star be looked at directly with parallel
axes, any near object like O will be seen double, because
its images will affect the outer or cheek halves of the two
retinae, instead of one outer and one nasal half. The posi-
tion of the images will here be reversed from that of the
previous case. The right eye's image will now appear to
the left, the left eye's to the right; the double images will
be ' heteronymous.'

The same reasoning and the same result ought to apply
where the object's place with respect to the direction of the
two optic axes is such as to make its images fall not on
non-similar retinal halves, but on non-similar parts of sim-
ilar halves. Here, of course, the positions seen will be less
widely disparate than in the other case, and the double
images will appear to lie less widely apart.

Careful experiments made by many observers according
to the so-called haploscopic method confirm this law, and
show that corresponding points, of single visual direction,
exist upon the two retinae. For the detail of these one
must consult the special treatises.

Vision of Solidity. — This description of binocular vision
follows what is called the theory of identical points. On
the whole it formulates the facts correctly. The only odd
thing is that we should be so little troubled by the innu-
merable double images which objects nearer and farther
than the point looked at must be constantly producing.
The answer to this is that we have trained ourselves to
habits of inattention in regard to double images. So far
as things interest us we turn our foveae upon them, and they
are necessarily seen single; so that if an object impresses
disparate points, that may be taken as proof that it is so

38 PSYCHOLOGY

unimportant for us that we needn't notice whether it
appears in one place or in two. By long practice one
may acquire great expertness in detecting double images,
though, as some one says, it is an art which is not to be
learned completely either in one year or in two.

Where the disparity of the images is but slight it is
almost impossible to see them as if double. They give
rather the perception of a solid object being there. To fix
our ideas, take Fig. n. Suppose we look at the dots in the

Fig. ii.

middle of the lines a and b just as we looked at the spots in
Fig. 8. We shall get the same result — i.e., they will coalesce
in the median line. But the entire lines will not
coalesce, for, owing to their inclination, their tops
fall on the temporal, and their bottoms on the
nasal, retinal halves. What we see will be two
lines crossed in the middle, thus (Fig. 12):

The moment we attend to the tops of these lines,
however, our foveae tend to abandon the dots and
to move upwards, and in doing so, to converge fig. 12

somewhat, following the lines,
which then appear coalescing at
the top as in Fig. 13.

If we think of the bottom,
the eyes descend and diverge,
and what we see is Fig. 14.
Running our eyes up and
Fig. *3. Fig. i4. down the lines makes them

converge and diverge just as they would were they running

SIGHT 39

up and down some single line whose top was nearer to us
than its bottom. Now, if the inclination of the lines be
moderate, we may not see them double at all, but single
throughout their length, when we look at the dots. Under
these conditions their top does look nearer than their bot-
tom— in other words, we see them stereoscopically ; and we
see them so even when our eyes are rigorously motionless.
In other words, the slight disparity in the bottom-ends
which would draw the foveae divergently apart makes us
see those ends farther, the slight disparity in the top ends
which would draw them convergently together makes us see
these ends nearer, than the point at which we look. The
disparities, in short, affect our perception as the actual
movements would.*

The Perception of Distance. — When we look about us
at things, our eyes are incessantly moving, converging,
diverging, accommodating, relaxing, and sweeping over the
field. The field appears extended in three dimensions, with
some of its parts more distant and some more near.

"With one eye our perception of distance is very imperfect, as
illustrated by the common trick of holding a ring suspended by a
string in front of a person's face, and telling him to shut one eye
and pass a rod from one side through the ring. If a penholder be
held erect before one eye, while the other is closed, and an attempt
be made to touch it with a finger moved across towards it, an error
will nearly always be made. In such cases we get the only clue
from the amount of effort needed to 'accommodate' the eye to see
the object distinctly. When we use both eyes our perception of dis-
tance is much better ; when we look at an object with two eyes the
visual axes are converged on it, and the nearer the object the greater
the convergence. We have a pretty accurate knowledge of the
degree of muscular effort required to converge the eyes on all

♦The simplest form of stereoscope is two tin tubes about one
and one-half inches calibre, dead black inside and (for normal eyes)
ten inches long. Close each end with paper not too opaque, on which
an inch-long thick black line is drawn. The tubes can be looked
through, one by each eye. and held either parallel or with their
farther ends converging. When properly rotated, their images will
show every variety of fusion and non-fusion, and stereoscopic effect.

4o PSYCHOLOGY

tolerably near points. When objects are farther off, their apparent
size, and the modifications their retinal images experience by aerial
perspective, come in to help. The relative distance of objects is
easiest determined by moving the eyes; all stationary objects then
appear displaced in the opposite direction (as for example when we
look out of the window of a railway car) and those nearest most
rapidly ; from the different apparent rates of movement we can tell
which are farther and which nearer." *

Subjectively considered, distance is an altogether peculiar
content of consciousness. Convergence, accommodation,
binocular disparity, size, degree of brightness, parallax,
etc., all give us special feelings which are signs of the
distance feeling, but not it. They simply suggest it to us.
The best way to get it strongly is to go upon some hill-top
and invert one's head. The horizon then looks very dis-
tant, and draws near as the head erects itself again.

The Perception of Size. — " The dimensions of the reti-
nal image determine primarily the sensations on which con-
clusions as to size are based ; and the larger the visual angle
the larger the retinal image: since the visual angle depends
on the distance of an object, the correct perception of size
depends largely upon a correct perception of distance;
having formed a judgment, conscious or unconscious, as
to that, we conclude as to size from the extent of the reti-
nal region affected. Most people have been surprised now
and then to find that what appeared a large bird in the
clouds was only a small insect close to the eye; the large
apparent size being due to the previous incorrect judgment
as to the distance of the object. The presence of an object
of tolerably well-known height, as a man, also assists in
forming conceptions (by comparison) as to size; artists
for this purpose frequently introduce human figures to
assist in giving an idea of the size of other objects repre-
sented." f

Sensations of Color. — The system of colors is a very
complex thing. If one take any color, say green, one can

* Martin : The Human Body,' p. 530.
t Ibid.

SIGHT 41

pass away from it in more than one direction, through a
series of greens more and more yellowish, let us say, towards
yellow, or through another series more and more bluish
towards blue. The result would be that if we seek to
plot out on paper the various distinguishable tints, the
arrangement cannot be that of a line, but has to cover
a surface. With the tints arranged on a surface we
can pass from any one of them to any other by various
lines of gradually changing intermediaries. Such an
arrangement is represented in Fig. 15. It is a merely
classificatory diagram based on
degrees of difference simply felt,
and has no physical signifi-
cance. Black is a color, but
does not figure on the plane of
the diagram. We cannot place
it anywhere alongside of the
other colors because we need
both to represent the straight
gradation from untinted white
to black, and that from each RoTTs.

pure color towards black as well as towards white. The
best way is to put black into the third dimension, beneath
the paper, e.g., as is shown perspectively in Fig. 16, then
all the transitions can be schematically shown. One can
pass straight from black to white, or one can pass round by
way of olive, green, and pale green; or one can change
from dark blue to yellow through green, or by way of sky-
blue, white and straw color; etc., etc. In any case the
changes are continuous; and the color system thus forms
what Wundt calls a tri-dimensional continuum.

Color-mixture. — Physiologically considered, the colors
have this peculiarity, that many pairs of them, when they
impress the retina together, produce the sensation of white.
The colors which do this are called complementaries . Such
are spectral red and green-blue, spectral yellow and indigo-
blue. Green and purple, again, are complementaries. All

PSYCHOLOGY

the spectral colors added together also make white light,
such as we daily experience in the sunshine. Further-
more, both homogeneous ether-
waves and heterogeneous ones
may make us feel the same
color, when they fall on our
retina. Thus yellow, which
is a simple spectral color, is
also felt when green light is
added to red; blue is felt when
violet and green lights are
mixed. Purple, which is not
a spectral color at all, results
when the waves either of red
and of violet or those of blue
and of orange are superposed.*
From all this it follows
that there is no particular
congruence between our sys-
tem of color-sensations and
the physical stimuli which ex-
cite them. Each color-feeling
is a ' specific energy' (p. n)
which many different physical
causes may arouse. Helm-
holtz, Hering, and others have
sought to simplify the tangle
of the facts, by physiologi-
cal hypotheses, which, differ-
ing much in detail, agree in
principle since they all postulate a limited number of
elementary retinal processes to which, when excited singly,

Black
Fig. i 6 (after Ziehen).

* The ordinary mixing of pigments is not an addition, but rather,
as Helmboltz has shown, a subtraction, of lights. To add one color
to another we must either by appropriate glasses throw differently
colored beams upon the same reflecting surface ; or we must let the
eye look at one color through an inclined plate of glass beneath
which it lies, whilst the upper surface of the glass reflects into the

SIGHT 43

certain ' fundamental ' colors severally correspond. When
excited in combination, as they may be by the most various
physical stimuli, other colors, called ' secondary/ are felt.
The secondary color-sensations are often spoke of as if
they were compounded of the primary sensations. This is
a great mistake. The sensations as such are not com-
pounded— yellow, for example, a secondary on Helmholtz's
theory, is as unique a quality of feeling as the primaries
red and green, which are said to ' compose ' it. What are
compounded are merely the elementary retinal processes.
These, according to their combination, produce diverse
results on the brain, and thence the secondary colors result
immediately in consciousness. The ' color-theories ' are
thus physiological, not psychological, hypotheses, and for
more information concerning them the reader must con-
sult the physiological books.

The Duration of Luminous Sensations. — " This is
greater than that of the stimulus, a fact taken advantage of
in making fireworks: an ascending rocket produces the sen-
sation of a trail of light extending far behind the position
of the bright part of the rocket itself at the moment,
because the sensation aroused by it in a lower part of its
course still persists. So, shooting stars appear to have
luminous tails behind them. By rotating rapidly before
the eye a disk with alternate white and black sectors we
get for each point of the retina alternate stimulation (due
to the passage of white sector) and rest (when a black
sector is passing). If the rotation be rapid enough the
sensation aroused is that of a uniform gray, such as would
be produced if the white and black were mixed and spread
evenly over the disk. In each revolution the eye gets as

same eye another color placed alongside— the two lights then mix
on the retina; or, finally, we must let the differently colored lights
fall in succession upon the retina, so fast that the second is there
before the impression made by the first has died away. This is best
done by looking at a rapidly rotating disk whose sectors are of the
several colors to be mixed.

44 PSYCHOLOGY

much light as if that were the case, and is unable to dis-
tinguish that this light is made up of separate portions
reaching it at intervals: the stimulation due to each lasts
until the next begins, and so all are fused together. If
one turns out suddenly the gas in a room containing no
other light, the image of the flame persists a short time .
after the flame itself is extinguished."* If we open our
eyes instantaneously upon a scene, and then shroud them
in complete darkness, it will be as if we saw the scene in
ghostly light through the dark screen. We can read off
details in it which were unnoticed whilst the eyes were
open. This is the primary positive after-image, so-called.
According to Helmholtz, one third of a second is the most
favorable length of exposure to the light for producing it.

Negative after-images are due to more complex condi-
tions, in which fatigue of the retina is usually supposed to
play the chief part.

"The nervous visual apparatus is easily fatigued. Usually we do
not observe this because its restoration is also rapid, and in ordinary
life our eyes, when open, are never at rest ; we move them to and
fro, so that parts of the retina receive light alternately from brighter
and darker objects, and are alternately excited and rested. How
constant and habitual the movement of the eyes is can be readily
observed by trying to 'fix' for a short time a small spot without
deviating the glance ; to do so for even a few seconds is impossible
without practice. If any small object is steadily 'fixed' for twenty
or thirty seconds, it will be found that the whole field of vision
becomes grayish and obscure, because the parts of the retina receiv-
ing most light get fatigued, and arouse no more sensation than those
less fatigued and stimulated by light from less illuminated objects.
Or look steadily at a black object, say a blot on a white page, for
twenty seconds, and then turn the eye on a white wall ; the latter will
seem dark gray, with a white patch on it ; an effect due to the greater
excitability of the retinal parts previously rested by the black, when
compared with the sensation aroused elsewhere by light from the
white wall acting on the previously stimulated parts of the visual
surface. All persons will recall many instances of such phenomena,
which are especially noticeable soon after rising in the morning.

* Martin : op. cit.

SIGHT 45

Similar things may be noticed with colors; after looking at a red
patch the eye turned on a white wall sees a blue-green patch; the
elements causing red sensations having been fatigued, the white
mixed light from the wall now excites on that region of the retina
only the other primary color sensations. The blending of colors
so as to secure their greatest effect depends on this fact; red and
green go well together because each rests the parts of the visual
apparatus most excited by the other, and so each appears bright and
vivid as the eye wanders to and fro ; while red and orange together,
each exciting and exhausting mainly the same visual elements, ren-
der dull, or in popular phrase 'kill,' one another.

"If we fix steadily for thirty seconds a point between two white
squares about 4 mm. (1-6 inch) apart on a large black sheet, and
then close and cover our eyes, we get a negative after-image in
which are seen two dark squares on a brighter surface; this surface
is brighter close around the negative after-image of each square,
and brightest of all between them. This luminous boundary is called
the corona, and is explained usually as an effect of simultaneous
contrast; the dark after-image of the square it is said makes us
mentally err in judgment, and think the clear surface close to it
brighter than elsewhere; and it is brightest between the two dark
squares, just as a middle-sized man between two tall ones looks
shorter than if alongside one only. If, however, the after-image be
watched, it will often be noticed not only that the light band between
the squares is intensely white, much more so than the normal idio-
retinal light [see below], but, as the image fades away, often the
two dark after-images of the squares disappear entirely with all of
the corona, except that part between them which is still seen as a
bright band on a uniform grayish field. Here there is no contrast
to produce the error of judgment ; and from this and other experi-
ments Hering concludes that light acting on one part of the retina
produces inverse changes in all the rest, and that this plays an
important part in producing the phenomena of contrasts. Similar
phenomena may be observed with colored objects; in their negative
after-images each tint is represented by its complementary, as black
is by white in colorless vision." *

This is one of the facts referred to on p. 27 which have
made Hering reject the psychological explanation of simul-
taneous contrast.

The Intensity of Luminous Objects. — Black is an op-
tical sensation. We have no black except in the field of

* Martin, pp. 525-8.

46 PSYCHOLOGY

view; we do not, for instance, see black out of our stomach
or out of the palm of our hand. Pure black is, however, only
an ' abstract idea/ for the retina itself (even in complete ob-
jective darkness) seems to be always the seat of internal
changes which give some luminous sensation. This is what
is meant by the ' idio-retinal light/ spoken of a few lines
back. It plays its part in the determination of all after-
images with closed eyes. Any objective luminous stimulus,
to be perceived, must be strong enough to give a sensible
increment of sensation over the above the idio-retinal
light. As the objective stimulus increases the perception
is of an intenser luminosity; but the perception changes,
as we saw on p. 18, more slowly than the stimulus. The
latest numerical determinations, by Konig and Brodhun,
were applied to six different colors and ran from an in-
tensity arbitrarily called i to one which was 100,000 times
as great. From intensity 2,000 to 20,000 Weber's law held
good; below and above this range discriminative sensibility
declined. The relative increment discriminated here was
the same for all colors of light, and lay (according to the
tables) between 1 and 2 per cent of the stimulus. Previous
observers have got different results.

A certain amount of luminous intensity must exist in an
object for its color to be discriminated at all. " In the
dark all cats are gray." But the colors rapidly become
distincter as the light increases, first the blues and last the
reds and yellows, up to a certain point of intensity, when
they grow indistinct again through the fact that each takes
a turn towards white. At the highest bearable intensity of
the light all colors are lost in the blinding white dazzle.
This again is usually spoken of as a * mixing ' of the sensa-
tion white with the original color-sensation. It is no mix-
ing of two sensations, but the replacement of one sensation
by another, in consequence of a changed neural process.

CHAPTER IV

HEARING*

The Ear. — " The auditory organ in man consists of three
portions, known respectively as the external ear, the
middle ear or tympanum, and the internal ear or laby-

FlG. 17. — Semidiagrammatic section through the right ear (Czermak). M,
concha; G, external auditory meatus; T, tympanic membrane; P, tympanic
cavity; o, oval foramen; r, round foramen; R, pharyngeal opening of Eusta-
chian tube; V, vestibule; B, a semicircular canal; S, the cochlea; Vt, scala
vestibuli; Pt, scala tympani; A, auditory nerve.

rintk; the latter contains the end-organs of the auditory
nerve. The external ear consists of the expansion seen on
the exterior of the head, called the concha, M, Fig. 17,

* In teaching the anatomy of the ear, great assistance will be
yielded by the admirable model made by Dr. Auzoux, 56 Rue de
Vaugirard, Paris, described in the catalogue of the firm as. "No
21 — Oreille, temporal de 60 cm., nouvelle edition," etc.

PSYCHOLOGY

and a passage leading in from it, the external auditory
meatus, G. This passage is closed at its inner end by the
tympanic or drum membrane, T. It is lined by skin,
through which numerous small glands, secreting the wax
of the ear, open.

" The Tympanum (P, Fig. 17) is an irregular cavity in
the temporal bone, closed externally by the drum mem-
brane. From its innner side the Eustachian tube (R) pro-
ceeds and opens into the pharynx. The inner wall of the
tympanum is bony except for two small apertures, the oval
and round foramens, 0 and r, which lead into the laby-
rinth. During life the round aperture is closed by the
lining mucous membrane, and the oval by the stirrup-
bones. The tympanic membrane T, stretched across the
outer side of the tympanum, forms a shallow funnel with
its concavity outwards. It is pressed by the external air
on its exterior, and by air entering the tympanic cavity
through the Eustachian tube on its inner side. If the
tympanum were closed these pressures would not be always
equal when barometric pressure varied, and the membrane
would be bulged in or out according as the external or in-
ternal pressure on it were
the greater. On the other
hand, were the Eustachian
tube always open the sounds
of our own voices would
be loud and disconcerting,
so it is usually closed; bu:
every time we swallow
it is opened, and thus the
air-pressure in the cavity
is kept equal to that in the
external auditory meatus.
fig. i*;—Mcp, Mc, mi and Mm stand One making a balloon ascent

for different parts of the malleus; Jc, . .

jb, ji, jpi, for different parts of the or going rapidly down a

incus. 5" is the stapes. . . , J . . .

deep mine, the sudden and
great change of aerial pressure outside frequently causes

HEARING 49

painful tension of the drum-membrane, which may be
greatly alleviated by frequent swallowing.

" The Auditory Ossicles. — Three small bones lie in the
tympanum forming a chain from the drum-membrane to
the oval foramen. The external bone is the malleus or
hammer) the middle one, the incus or anvil; and the in-
ternal one, the stapes or stirrup. They are represented in
Fig. 18."*

Accommodation is provided for in the ear as well as in
the eye. One muscle an inch long, the tensor tympani,
arises in the petrous portion of the temporal bone (running
in a canal parallel to the Eustachian tube) and is inserted
into the malleus below its head. When it contracts, it
makes the membrane of the tympanum more tense.
Another smaller muscle, the stapedius, goes to the head of
the stirrup-bone. These muscles are by many persons felt
distinctly contracting when certain notes are heard, and
some can make them contract at will. In spite of this,
uncertainty still reigns as to their exact use in hearing,
though it is highly probable that they give to the mem-
branes which they influence the degree of tension best
suited to take up whatever rates of vibration may fall
upon them at the time. In listening, the head and ears in
lower animals, and the head alone in man, are turned so as
best to receive the sound. This also is a part of the reac-
tion called ' adaptation ' of the organ (see the chapter on
Attention) .

The Internal Ear. — " The labyrinth consists primarily
of chambers and tubes hollowed out in the temporal bone
and inclosed by it on all sides, except for the oval and round
foramens on its exterior, and certain apertures for blood-
vessels and the auditory nerve; during life all these are
closed water-tight in one way or another. Lying in the
bony labyrinth thus constituted are membranous parts, of
the same general form but smaller, so that between the two

* This description is abridged from Martin's ' Human Body.'

5°

PSYCHOLOGY

a space is left; this is filled with a watery fluid, called the
perilymph] and the membranous internal ear is filled by
a similar liquid, the endolymph.

Fig. 19. — Casts of the bony labyrinth. A, left labyrinth seen from the outer
side; B, right labyrinth from the inner side; C, left labyrinth from above;
Co, cochlea; V, vestibule; Fc, round foramen; Fv, oval foramen; h, hori-
zontal semicircular canal; ha, its ampula; vaa, ampulla of anterior vertical
semicircular canal; vpa, ampulla of posterior vertical semicircular canal;
vc, conjoined portion of the two vertical canals.

The Bony Labyrinth. — " The bony labyrinth is de-
scribed in three portions, the vestibule, the semicircular
canals , and the cochlea ; casts of its interior are represented
from different aspects in Fig. 19. The vestibule is the cen-
tral part and has on its exterior the oval foramen (Fv) into
which the base of the stirrup-bone fits. Behind the vesti-
bule are three bony semicircular canals, communicating
with the back of the vestibule at each end, and dilated near
one end to form an ampulla. The bony cochlea is a tube
coiled on itself somewhat like a snail's shell, and lying in
front of the vestibule.

The Membranous Labyrinth. — " The membranous ves-
tibule, lying in the bony, consists of two sacs communicat-
ing by a narrow aperture. The posterior is called the utri-
culuSy and into it the membranous semicircular canals
open. The anterior, called the sacculus, communicates by
a tube with the membranous cochlea. The membranous
semicircular canals much resemble the bony, and each has

HEARING

an ampulla; in the ampulla one side of the membranous
tube is closely adherent
to its bony protector; at
this point nerves enter
the former. The rela-
tions of the membranous
to the bony cochlea are
more complicated. A
section through this part
of the auditory appara-
tus (Fig. 20) shows that
its osseous portion con-
sists of a tube wound two
and a half times round a

Fig. 20.

-A section through the cochlea in
the line of its axis.

central bony axis, the modiolus.
From the axis a shelf, the lamina spiralis, projects and
partially subdivides the tube, extending farthest across in
its lower coils. Attached to the outer edge of this bony
plate is the membranous cochlea (scala media), a tube tri-
angular in cross-section and attached by its base to the
outer side of the bony cochlear spiral. The spiral lamina
and the membranous cochlea thus subdivide the cavity of
the bony tube (Fig. 21) into an upper portion, the scala

Fig. 2i. — Section of one coil of the cochlea, magnified. SV, scala vesttbuh;
R, membrane of Reissner; CC, membranous cochlea (scala media); Us,
limbus lamina spiralis; t, tectorial membrane; ST, scala tympani; Iso, spiral
lamina; Co, rods of Corti; b, basilar membrane.

vestibuli, SV, and a lower, the scala tympani, ST. Be-
tween these lie the lamina spiralis (Iso) and the mem-

52 PSYCHOLOGY

branous cochlea (CC)> the latter being bounded above by
the membrane of Reissner (R) and below by the basilar
membrane (b).n*

The membranous cochlea does not extend to the tip of
the bony cochlea; above its apex the scala vestibuli and
scala tympani communicate. Both are rilled with peri-
lymph, so that when the stapes is pushed into the oval
foramen, o, in Fig. 17, by the impact of an air-wave on
the tympanic membrane, a wave of perilymph runs up the
scala vestibuli to the top, where it turns into the scala tym-
pani, down whose whorls it runs and pushes out the round
foramen r, ruffling probably the membrane of Reissner and
the basilar membrane on its way up and down.

The Terminal Organs. — "The membranous cochlea con
tains certain solid structures seated on the basilar mem-
brane and forming the organ of Corti. This contains the
end-organs of the cochlear nerves. Lining the sulcus

300

Fig. 22. — The rods of Corti. A, a pair of rods separated from the rest; B, a
bit of the basilar membrane with several rods on it, showing how they cover
in the tunnel of Corti; i, inner, and e, outer rods; b, basilar membrane;
r, reticular membrane.

spiralis, a groove in the edge of the bony lamina spiralis,
are cuboidal cells; on the inner margin of the basilar mem-
brane they become columnar, and then are succeeded by a
row which bear on their upper ends a set of short stiff
hairs, and constitute the inner hair-cells, which are fixed
below by a narrow apex to the basilar membrane; nerve-
fibres enter them. To the inner hair-cells succeed the

* Martin : op. cit.

HEARING

rods of Corti (Co, Fig. 21), which are represented highly
magnified in Fig. 22. These rods are stiff and arranged
side by side in two rows, leaned against one another by
their upper ends so as to cover in a tunnel ; they are known
respectively as the inner and outer rods, the former being
nearer the lamina spiralis. The inner rods are more
numerous than the outer, the numbers being about 6000
and 4500 respectively. Attached to the external sides of
the heads of the outer rods is the reticular membrane (r,
Fig. 22), which is stiff and perforated by holes. Exter-
nal to the outer rods come four rows of outer hair-cells^

connected like the inner row with

nerve-fibres; their bristles project

into the holes of the reticular mem-
brane. Beyond the outer hair-cells

is ordinary columnar epithelium,

which passes gradually into cu-

boidal cells lining most of the mem-
branous cochlea. From the upper

lip of the sulcus spiralis projects

the tectorial membrane (t, Fig. 21)

which extends over the rods of

Corti and the hair-cells."*

The hair-cells would thus seem to

be the terminal organs for ' picking FiG. 23.— Sensory epithelium

from ampulla or semicircu-
lar canal, and saccule. At
n a nerve-fibre pierces the
wall, and after branching
enters the two hair-cells,
c. At h a ' columnar cell '
with a long hair is shown,
the nerve-fibre being broken
away from its base. The
slender cells at / seem un-
connected with nerves.

up ' the vibrations which the air-
waves communicate through all the
intervening apparatus, solid and

liquid, to the basilar membrane.
Analogous hair-cells receive the
terminal nerve-filaments in the
walls of the saccule, utricle, and ampullae (see Fig. 23).
The Various Qualities of Sound. — Physically, sounds
consist of vibrations, and these are, generally speaking,
aerial waves. When the waves are non-periodic the result is

* Martin : op. cit.

54 PSYCHOLOGY

a noise ; when periodic it is what is nowadays called a tone,
or note. The loudness of a sound depends on the force of
the waves. When they recur periodically a peculiar quality
called pitch is the effect of their frequency. In addition to
loudness and pitch tones have each their voice or timbre,
which may differ widely in different instruments giving
equally loud tones of the same pitch. This voice depends
on the form of the aerial wave.

Pitch. — A single puff of air, set in motion by no matter
what cause, will give a sensation of sound, but it takes at
least four or five puffs, or more, to convey a sensation of
pitch. The pitch of the note c, for instance, is due to 132
vibrations a second, that of its octave c' is produced by twice
as many, or 264 vibrations; but in neither case is it neces-
sary for the vibrations to go on during a full second
for the pitch to be discerned. " Sound vibrations may
be too rapid or too slow in succession to produce sonorous
sensations, just as the ultra-violet and ultra-red rays of
the solar spectrum fail to excite the retina. The highest-
pitched audible note answers to about 38,016 vibrations in
a second, but it differs in individuals; many persons cannot
hear the cry of a bat nor the chirp of a cricket, which lie
near this upper audible limit. On the other hand, sounds
of vibrational rate about 40 per second are not well heard,
and a litle below this they produce rather a 'hum ' than a
true tone-sensation, and are only used along with notes of
higher octaves to which they give a character of greater
depth." *

The entire system of pitches forms a continuum of one
dimension; that is to say, you can pass from one pitch to
another only by one set of intermediaries, instead of by
more than one, as in the case of colors. (See p. 41.) The
whole series of pitches is embraced in and between the
terms of what is called the musical scale. The adoption of
certain arbitrary points in this scale as 'notes ■ has an ex-

* Martin: op. cit.

HEARING 55

planation partly historic and partly aesthetic, but too com-
plex for exposition here.

The ' timbre ' of a note is due to its wave-jorm. Waves
are either simple (' pendular ') or compound. Thus if a
tuning-fork (which gives waves nearly simple) vibrate 132
times a second, we shall hear the note c. If simultaneously
a fork of 264 vibrations be struck, giving the next higher
octave, c', the aerial movement at any time will be the alge-
braic sum of the movements due to both forks; whenever
both drive the air one way they reinforce one another;
when on the contrary the recoil of one fork coincides with
the forward stroke of another, they detract from each
other's effect. The result is a movement which is still
periodic, repeating itself at equal intervals of time, but no
longer pendular, since it is not alike on the ascending and
descending limbs of the curves. We thus get at the fact
that non-pendular vibrations may be produced by the fusion
of pendular, or, in technical phrase, by their composition.

Suppose several musical instruments, as those of an or-
chestra, to be sounded together. Each produces its own
effect on the air-particles, whose movements, being an
algebraical sum, must at any given instant be very com-
plex; yet the ear can pick out at will and follow the tones
of any one instrument. Now in most musical instruments
it is susceptible of physical proof that with every single
note that is sounded many upper octaves and other ' har-
monics ' sound simultaneously in fainter form. On the
relative strength of this or that one or more of these Helm-
holtz has shown that the instrument's peculiar voice de-
pends. The several vowel-sounds in the human voice also
depend on the predominance of diverse upper harmonics
accompanying the note on which the vowel is sung. When
the two tuning-forks of the last paragraph are sounded to-
gether the new form of vibration has the same period as
the lower-pitched fork; yet the ear can clearly distinguish
the resultant sound from that of the lower fork alone, as a
note of the same pitch but of different timbre; and within

56 PSYCHOLOGY

the compound sound the two components can by a trained
ear be severally heard. Now how can one resultant wave-
form make us hear so many sounds at once ?

The analysis of compound wave-forms is supposed
(after Helmholtz) to be effected through the different rates
of sympathetic resonance of the different parts of the mem-
branous cochlea. The basilar membrane is some twelve
times broader at the apex of the cochlea than at the base
where it begins, and is largely composed of radiating fibres
which may be likened to stretched strings. Now the phys-
ical principle of sympathetic resonance says that when
stretched strings are near a source of vibration those whose
own rate agrees with that of the source also vibrate, the
others remaining at rest. On this principle, waves of peri-
lymph running down the scala tympani at a certain rate of
frequency ought to set certain particular fibres of the basilar
membrane vibrating, and ought to leave others unaffected.
If then each vibrating fibre stimulated the hair-cell above
it, and no others, and each such hair-cell, sending a current
to the auditory brain-centre, awakened therein a specific
process to which the sensation of one particular pitch was
correlated, the physiological condition of our several pitch-
sensations would be explained. Suppose now a chord to
be struck in which perhaps twenty different physical rates
of vibration are found: at least twenty different hair-cells
or end-organs will receive the jar; and if the power of
mental discrimination be at its maximum, twenty different
1 objects ' of hearing, in the shape of as many distinct
pitches of sound, may appear before the mind.

The rods of Corti are supposed to be dampers of the
fibres of the basilar membrane, just as the malleus, incus,
and stapes are dampers of the tympanic membrane, as well
as transmitters of its oscillations to the inner ear. There
must be, in fact, an instantaneous damping of the physio-
logical vibrations, for there are no such positive after-images,
and no such blendings of rapidly successive tones, as the
retina shows us in the case of light. Helmholtz's theory of

HEARING 57

the analysis of sounds is plausible and ingenious. One
objection to it is that the keyboard of the cochlea does not
seem extensive enough for the number of distinct reso-
nances required. We can discriminate many more degrees
of pitch than the 20,000 hair-cells, more or less, will allow
for.

The so-called Fusion of Sensations in Hearing. — A
very common way of explaining the fact that waves which
singly give no feeling of pitch give one when recurrent, is to
say that their several sensations fuse into a compound sensa-
tion. A preferable explanation is that which follows the
analogy of muscular contraction. If electric shocks are sent
into a frog's sciatic nerve at slow intervals, the muscle which
the nerve supplies will give a series of distinct twitches, one
for each shock. But if they follow each other at the rate of
as many as thirty a second, no distinct twitches are observed,
but a steady state of contraction instead. This steady con-
traction is known as tetanus. The experiment proves that
there is a physiological cumulation or overlapping of proc-
esses in the muscular tissue. It takes a twentieth of a
second or more for the latter to relax after the twitch due to
the first shock. But the second shock comes in before the
relaxation can occur, then the third again, and so on; so
that continuous tetanus takes the place of discrete twitch-
ing. Similarly in the auditory nerve. One shock of air
starts in it a current to the auditory brain-centre, and
affects the latter, so that a dry stroke of sound is heard.
If other shocks follow slowly, the brain-centre recovers its
equilibrium after each, to be again upset in the same way
by the next, and the result is that for each shock of air a
distinct sensation of sound occurs. But if the shock comes
in too quick succession, the later ones reach the brain be-
fore the effects of the earlier ones on that organ have died
away. There is thus an overlapping of processes in the
auditory centre, a physiological condition analogous to the
muscle's tetanus, to which new condition a new quality
of feeling, that of pitch, directly corresponds. This latter

58 PSYCHOLOGY

feeling is a new kind of sensation altogether, not a mere
1 appearance ' due to many sensations of dry stroke being
compounded into one. No sensations of dry stroke can
exist under these circumstances, for their physiological
conditions have been replaced by others. What ' com-
pounding ' there is has already taken place in the brain-
cells before the threshold of sensation was reached. Just
so red light and green light beating on the retina in rapid
enough alternation, arouse the central process to which
the sensation yellow directly corresponds. The sensa-
tions of red and of green get no chance, under such con-
ditions, to be born. Just so if the muscle could feel, it
would have a certain sort of feeling when it gave a single
twitch, but it would undoubtedly have a distinct sort of
feeling altogether, when it contracted tetanically; and this
feeling of the tetanic contraction would by no means be
identical with a multitude of the feelings of twitching.

Harmony and Discord. — When several tones sound to-
gether we may get peculiar feelings of pleasure or displeas-
ure designated as consonance and dissonance respectively.
A note sounds most consonant with its octave. When with
the octave the 'third' and the 'fifth' of the note are sounded,
for instance c — e — g — c', we get the 'full chord' or maximum
of consonance. The ratios of vibration here are as 4: 5: 6: 8,
so that one might think simple ratios were the ground of
harmony. But the interval c — d is discordant, with the
comparatively simple ratio 8:9. Helmholtz explains discord
by the overtones making ' beats ' together. This gives a
subtle grating which is unpleasant. Where the overtones
make no * beats,' or beats too rapid for their effect to be
perceptible, there is consonance, according to Helmholtz,
which is thus a negative rather than a positive thing.
Wundt explains consonance by the presence of strong iden-
tical overtones in the notes which harmonize. No one of
these explanations of musical harmony can be called quite
satisfactory; and the subject is too intricate to be treated
farther in this place.

HEARING 59

Discriminative Sensibility of the Ear. — Weber's law

holds fairly well for the intensity of sounds. If ivory or
metal balls are dropped on an ebony or iron plate, they make
a sound which is the louder as they are heavier or dropped
from a greater height. Experimenting in this way (after
others) Merkel found that the just perceptible increment
of loudness, required an increase of 3/10 of the original
stimulus everywhere between the intensities marked 20 and
5000 of his arbitrary scale. Below this the fractional in-
crement of stimulus must be larger; above it, no measure-
ments were made.

Discrimination of differences of pitch varies in different
parts of the scale. In the neighborhood of 1000 vibrations
per second, one fifth of a vibration more or less can make
the sound sharp or flat for a good ear. It takes a much
greater relative alteration to sound sharp or flat elsewhere
on the scale. The chromatic scale itself has been used as
an illustration of Weber's law. The notes seem to differ
equally from each other, yet their vibration-numbers form
a series of which each is a certain multiple of the last.
This, however, has nothing to do with intensities or just
perceptible differences; so the peculiar parallelism between
the sensation series and the outer-stimulus series forms
here a case all by itself, rather than an instance under
Weber's more general law.

CHAPTER V

TOUCH, THE TEMPERATURE SENSE, THE MUSCULAR
SENSE, AND PAIN

Nerve-endings in the Skin.— Many of the afferent
skin-nerves end in connection with hair-bulbs; the fine
hairs over most of the cutaneous surface, projecting from
the skin, transmit any movement impressed on them, with
increased force, to the nerve-fibres at
their fixed ends. Fine branches of
axis-cylinders have also been described
as penetrating between epidermic cells
and ending there without terminal or-
gans. In or immediately beneath the
skin several peculiar forms of nerve
end-organs have also been described;
Fl?he^unSvUlbSoffTe they are known as (i) Touch-cells',
human eye, magnified. (2) Pacinian corpuscles', (3) Tactile
corpulscles; (4) End-bulbs"*

These bodies all consist essentially of granules formed of
connective tissue, in which or round about which one or
more sensory nerve-fibres terminate. They probably mag-
nify impressions just as a grain of sand does in a shoe, or a
crumb does in a finger of a glove.

Touch, or the Pressure Sense. — " Through the skin we
get several kinds of sensation; touch proper, heat and cold,
and pain; and we can with more or less accuracy localize
them on the surface of the body. The interior of the
mouth possesses also three sensibilities. Through touch
proper we recognize pressure or traction exerted on the
skin, and the force of the pressure; the softness or hard-
ness, roughness or smoothness, of the body producing it;

* Martin : op. cit.
60

TOUCH 6 1

and the form of this when not too large to be felt all over.
When to learn the form of an object we move the hand
over it, muscular sensations are combined with proper tac-
tile, and such a combination of the two sensations is fre-
quent; moreover, we rarely touch anything without at the
same time getting temperature sensations; therefore pure
tactile feelings are rare. From an evolution point of view,
touch is probably the first distinctly differentiated sensa-
tion, and this primary position it still largely holds in our
mental life." *

Objects are most important to us when in direct contact.
The chief function of our eyes and ears is to enable us to
prepare ourselves for contact with approaching bodies, or to
ward such contact off. They have accordingly been char-
acterized as organs of anticipatory touch.

" The delicacy of the tactile sense varies on different
parts of the skin; it is greatest on the forehead, temples,
and back of the forearm, where a weight of 2 milligr. press-
ing on an area of 9 sq. millim. can be felt.

" In order that the sense of touch may be excited neigh-
boring skin-areas must be differently pressed. When the
hand is immersed in a liquid, as mercury, which fits into
all its inequalities and presses with practically the same
weight on all neighboring immersed areas, the sense of
pressure is only felt at a line along the surface, where the
immersed and non-immersed parts of the skin meet.

The Localizing Power of the Skin. — " When the eyes
are closed and a point of the skin is touched we can with
some accuracy indicate the region stimulated; although
tactile feelings are in general characters alike, they differ in
something besides intensity by which we can distinguish
them; some sub-sensation quality not rising definitely into
prominence in consciousness must be present, comparable to
the upper partials determining the timbre of a tone. The
accuracy of the localizing power varies widely in different

♦Martin: op. cit.

62 PSYCHOLOGY

skin regions and is measured by observing the least dis-
tance which must separate two objects (as the blunted
points of a pair of compasses) in order that they may be
felt as two. The following table illustrates some of the
differences observed:

Tongue-tip I.I mm. (.04 inch)

Palm side of last phalanx of finger . . 2.2 mm. ( .08 inch)

Red part of lips 4.4 mm. (.16 inch)

Tip of nose 6.6 mm. (.24 inch)

Back of second phalanx of finger., n.omm. (.44 inch)

Heel 22.0 mm. (.88 inch)

Back of hand 30.8 mm. (1.23 inches)

Forearm 39.6 mm. (1.58 inches)

Sternum 44.0 mm. ( 1.76 inches)

Back of neck 52.8 mm. (2.11 inches)

Middle of back 66.0 mm. (2.64 inches)

The localizing power is a little more acute across the long

axis of a limb than in it; and is better when the pressure

is only strong enough to just cause a distinct tactile sensa-

tion than when it is more powerful;

a — /fjWm^ ft *s also verv readily and rapidly

JTrrnW^ improvable by practice." It seems to

rrWminnm lU be natura^y delicate in proportion

Vn^rnr^^ as the skin which possesses it covers

e'~~/' jrvnuiuuU/ a more movable part of the body.

/ \UJlW "It: miSht be thought that this

• Wmnrn\$ localizing power depended directly

» \ vUiYwfflx 1 on nerve-distribution ; that each

; 1 touch-nerve had connection with

{ / a special brain-centre at one end

\ / (the excitation of which caused a

» ' sensation with a characteristic local

sign), and at the other end was dis-
tributed over a certain skin-area, and that the larger this
area the farther apart might two points be and still give
rise to only one sensation. If this were so, however, the
peripheral tactile areas (each being determined by the

TOUCH— THE TEMPERATURE SENSE 63

anatomical distribution of a nerve-fibre) must have definite
unchangeable limits, which experiment shows that they do
not possess. Suppose the small areas in Fig. 25 to each
represent a peripheral area of nerve-distribution. If any
two points in c were touched we should according to the
theory get but a single sensation; but if, while the con>
pass-points remained the same distance apart, or were even
approximated, one were placed in c and the other on a con-
tiguous area, two fibres would be stimulated and we% ought
to get two sensations; but such is not the case; 01! the
same skin-region the points must be always the same dis-
tance apart, no matter how they be shifted, in order to give
rise to two just distinguishable sensations.

"It is probable that the nerve-areas are much smaller than
the tactile; and that several unstimulated must intervene
between the excited, in order to produce sensations which
shall be distinct. If we suppose twelve unexcited nerve-
areas must intervene, then, in Fig. 25, 0 and b will be just
on the limits of a single tactile area; and no matter how
the points are moved, so long as eleven, or fewer, unexcited
areas come between, we would get a single tactile sensation;
in this way we can explain the fact that tactile areas have
no fixed boundaries in the skin, although the nerve-distri-
bution in any part must be constant. We also see why the
back of a knife laid on the surface causes a continuous
linear sensation, although it touches many distinct nerve-
areas. If we could discriminate the excitations of each of
these from that of its immediate neighbors we should get
the sensation of a series of points touching us, one for each
nerve-region excited; but in the absence of intervening
unexcited nerve-areas the sensations are fused together.

The Temperature-sense. Its Terminal Organs. — " By
this we mean our faculty of perceiving cold and warmth;
and, with the help of these sensations, of perceiving tempera-
ture differences in external objects. Its organ is the whole
skin, the mucous membrane of mouth and fauces, pharynx

• • • «

* a • •

*:.

* * * !•

•*•"*•"*

* • .* •

' • •••

S"^

■tJLi

*••..*

64 PSYCHOLOGY

and gullet, and the entry of the nares. Direct heating or
cooling of a sensory nerve may stimulate it and cause pain,
but not a true temperature-sensation; hence we assume the
presence of temperature end-organs. [These have not yet
been ascertained anatomically. Physiologically, however,
the demonstration of special spots in the skin for feeling
heat and cold is one of the most interesting discoveries of
recent years. If one draw a pencil-point over the palm or
cheek one will notice certain spots of sudden coolness.
These are the cold-spots; the heat-spots are less easy to
single out. Goldscheider, Blix, and Donaldson have made
cp Hairg Hp minute exploration of determi-

nate tracts of skin and found
the heat- and cold-spots thick-
set and permanently distinct.

rlo^?ceoife,Ta^a^ Between them no temperature-
h p the heat-spots, and the mid- sensation is excited bv contact

die one the hairs on a certain , ' . *

patch of skin on one of Gold- With a pointed Cold Or hot

scheider's fingers. , . ,, , . . , . ..

object. Mechanical and faradic
irritation also excites in these points their specific feelings
respectively.]

The feeling of temperature is relative to the state of
the skin. " In a comfortable room we feel at no part of the
body either heat or cold, although different parts of its
surface are at different temperatures; the fingers and nose
being cooler than the trunk which is covered by clothes,
and this, in turn, cooler than the interior of the mouth.
The temperature which a given region of the temperature-
organ has (as measured by a thermometer) when it feels
neither heat nor cold, is its temperature-sensation zero, and
is not associated with any one objective temperature; for
not only, as we have just seen, does it vary in different
parts of the organ, but also on the same part from time to
time. Whenever a skin-region has a temperature above its
sensation-zero we feel warmth; and vice versa: the sensa-
tion is more marked the greater the difference, and the more
suddenly it is produced; touching a metallic body, which

THE MUSCULAR SENSE 65

conducts heat rapidly to or from the skin, causes a more
marked hot or cold sensation than touching a worse con-
ductor, as a piece of wood, of the same temperature.

" The change of temperature in the organ may be brought
about by changes in the circulatory apparatus (more blood
flowing through the skin warms it and less leads to its cool-
ing), or by temperature-changes in gases, liquids, or solids
in contact with it. Sometimes we fail to distinguish clearly
whether the cause is external or internal; a person coming
in from a windy walk often feels a room uncomfortably
warm which is not really so; the exercise has accelerated
his circulation and tended to warm his skin, but the moving
outer air has rapidly conducted off the extra heat; on
entering the house the stationary air there does this less
quickly, the skin gets hot, and the cause is supposed to be
oppressive heat of the room. Hence, frequently, opening
windows and sitting in a draught, with its concomitant
risks; whereas keeping quiet for five or ten minutes, until
the circulation has returned to its normal rate, would attain
the same end without danger.

" The acuteness of the temperature-sense is greatest at
temperatures within a few degrees of 300 C. (86° F.); at
these differences of less than o.i° C. can be discriminated.
As a means of measuring absolute temperatures, however,
the skin is very unreliable, on account of the changeability
of its sensation-zero. We can localize temperature-sensa-
tions much as tactile, but not so accurately." *

Muscular Sensation. — The sensation in the muscle itself
cannot well be distinguished from that in the tendon or
in its insertion. In muscular fatigue the insertions are the
places most painfully felt. In muscular rheumatism, how-
ever, the whole muscle grows painful; and violent con-
traction such as that caused by the faradic current, or
known as cramp, produces a severe and peculiar pain felt in

* Martin : op. cit., with omissions.

66 PSYCHOLOGY

the whole mass of muscle affected. Sachs also thought
that he had demonstrated, both experimentally and ana-
tomically, the existence of special sensory nerve-fibres, dis-
tinct from the motor fibres, in the frog's muscle. The
latter end in the ' terminal plates/ the former in a network.

Great importance has been attached to the muscular
sense as a factor in our perceptions, not only of weight and
pressure, but of the space-relations between things gener-
ally. Our eyes and our hands, in their explorations of
space, move over* it and through it. It is usually supposed
that without this sense of an intervening motion performed
we should not perceive two seen points or two touched
points to be separated by an extended interval. I am far
from denying the immense participation of experiences of
motion in the construction of our space-perceptions. But
it is still an open question how our muscles help us in these
experiences, whether by their own sensations, or by awak-
ening sensations of motion on our skin, retina, and articular
surfaces. The latter seems to me the more probable view,
and the reader may be of the same opinion after reading
Chapter VI.

Sensibility to Weight. — When we wish to estimate accu-
rately the weight of an object we always, when possible,
lift it, and so combine muscular and articular with tactile
sensations. By this means we can form much better
judgments.

Weber found that whereas 1/3 must be added to a weight
resting on the hand for the increase to be felt, the same
hand actively ' hefting ' the weight could feel an addition
of as little as 1/17. Merkel's recent and very careful experi-
ments, in which the finger pressed down the beam of a
balance counterweighted by from 25 to 8020 grams, showed
that between 200 and 2000 grams a constant fractional
increase of about 1/13 was felt when there was no movement
of the finger, and of about 1/19 when there was movement.
Above and below these limits the discriminative power
grew less.

PAIN

Pain. — The physiology of pain is still an enigma. One
might suppose separate afferent fibres with their own end-
organs to carry painful impressions to a specific pain-centre.
Or one might suppose such a specific centre to be reached
by currents of overflow from the other sensory centres
when the violence of their inner excitement should have
reached a certain pitch. Or again one might suppose a
certain extreme degree of inner excitement to produce the
feeling of pain in all the centres. It is certain that sensa-
tions of every order, which in moderate degrees are rather
pleasant than otherwise, become painful when their inten-
sity grows strong. The rate at which the agreeableness
and disagreeableness vary with the intensity of a sensation
is roughly represented by the dotted curve in Fig. 27. The

Fig. 27 (after Wundt).

horizontal line represents the threshold both of sensational
and of agreeable sensibility. Below the line is the disagree-
able. The continuous curve is that of Weber's law which
we learned to know in Fig. 2, p. 18. With the minimal
sensation the agreeableness is nil, as the dotted curve shows.
It rises at first more slowly than the sensational intensity,
then faster; and reaches its maximum before the sensation
is near its acme. After its maximum of agreeableness the

68 PSYCHOLOGY

dotted line rapidly sinks, and soon tumbles below the hori-
zontal into the realm of the disagreeable or painful in
which it declines. That all sensations are painful when
too strong is a piece of familiar knowledge. Light, sound,
odors, the taste of sweet even, cold, heat, and all the skin-
sensations, must be moderate to be enjoyed.

The quality of the sensation complicates the question,
however, for in some sensations, as bitter, sour, salt, and
certain smells, the turning point of the dotted curve must be
drawn very near indeed to the beginning of the scale. In the
skin the painful quality soon becomes so intense as entirely
to overpower the specific quality of the sort of stimulus.
Heat, cold, and pressure are indistinguishable when extreme
— we only feel the pain. The hypothesis of separate end-
organs in the skin receives some corroboration from recent
experiments, for both Blix and Goldscheider have found,
along with their special heat- and cold-spots, also special
1 pain-spots ' on the skin. Mixed in with these are spots
which are quite feelingless. However it may stand with
the terminal pain-spots, separate paths of conduction to the
brain, for painful and for merely tactile stimulations of
the skin, are made probable by certain facts. In the con-
dition termed analgesia, a touch is felt, but the most vio-
lent pinch, burn, or electric spark destructive of the tissue
will awaken no sensation. This may occur in disease of
the cord, by suggestion in hypnotism, or in certain stages of
ether and chloroform intoxication. " In rabbits a similar
state of things was produced by Schiff, by dividing the
gray matter of the cord, leaving the posterior white col-
umns intact. If, on the contrary, the latter were divided
and the gray substance left, there was increased sensitive-
ness to pain, and possibly touch proper was lost. Such
experiments make it pretty certain that when afferent
impulses reach the spinal cord at any level and there enter
its gray matter with the posterior root-fibres, they travel
on in different tracts to conscious centres; the tactile ones
coming soon out of the gray network and coursing on in a

PAIN 69

readily conducting white fibre, while the painful ones travel
on farther in the gray substance. It is still uncertain if
both impulses reach the cord in the same fibres. The gray
network conducts nerve-impulses, but not easily; they tend
soon to be blocked in it. A feeble (tactile) impulse reach-
ing it by an afferent fibre might only spread a short way
and then pass out into a single good conducting fibre in a
white column, and proceed to the brain; while a stronger
(painful) impulse would radiate farther in the gray matter,
and perhaps break out of it by many fibres leading to the
brain through the white columns, and so give rise to an
incoordinate and ill-localized sensation. That pains are
badly localized, and worse the more intense they are, is a
well-known fact, which would thus receive an explana-
tion." *

Pain also gives rise to ill-coordinated movements of
defence. The stronger the pain the more violent the start.
Doubtless in low animals pain is almost the only stimulus;
and we have preserved the peculiarity in so far that to-day
it is the stimulus of our most energetic, though not of our
most discriminating, reactions.

Taste, smell, as well as hunger, thirst, nausea, and
other so-called ' common ' sensations need not be touched
on in this book, as almost nothing of psychological interest
is known concerning them.

* Martin : op. cit.

CHAPTER VI

SENSATIONS OF MOTION

I treat of these in a separate chapter in order to give
them the emphasis which their importance deserves. They
are of two orders :

1) Sensations of objects moving over our sensory sur-
faces; and

2) Sensations of our whole person's translation through
space.

1 ) The Sensation of Motion over Surfaces. — This has
generally been assumed by physiologists to be impossible
until the positions of terminus a quo and terminus ad quern
are severally cognized, and the successive occupancies of
these positions by the moving body are perceived to be
separated by a distinct interval of time. As a matter of
fact, however, we cognize only the very slowest motions in
this way. Seeing the hand of a clock at XII and after-
wards at VI, I judge that it has moved through the
interval. Seeing the sun now in the east and again in the
west, I infer it to have passed over my head. But we can
only infer that which we already generically know in
some more direct fashion, and it is experimentally certain
that we have the feeling of motion given us as a direct and
simple sensation. Czermak long ago pointed out the dif-
ference between seeing the motion of the second-hand of a
watch, when we look directly at it, and noticing the fact
that it has altered its position, whilst our gaze is fixed
upon some other point of the dial-plate. In the first case we
have a specific quality of sensation which is absent in the
second. If the reader will find a portion of his skin — the
arm, for example — where a pair of compass-points an inch

SENSATIONS OF MOTION 71

apart are felt as one impression, and if he will then trace
lines a tenth of an inch long on that spot with a pencil-
point, he will be distinctly aware of the point's motion and
vaguely aware of the direction of the motion. The per-
ception of the motion here is certainly not derived from a
preexisting knowledge that its starting and ending points
are separate positions in space, because positions in space
ten times wider apart fail to be discriminated as such when
excited by the compass-points. It is the same with the
retina. One's fingers when cast upon its peripheral por-
tions cannot be counted — that is to say, the five retinal
tracts which they occupy are not distinctly apprehended
by the mind as five separate positions in space — and yet
the slightest movement of the fingers is most vividly per-
ceived as movement and nothing else. It is thus certain
that our sense of movement, being so much more delicate
than our sense of position, cannot possibly be derived
from it.

Vierordt, at almost the same time, called attention to
certain persistent illusions, amongst which are these: If
another person gently trace a line across our wrist or finger,
the latter being stationary, it will feel to us as if the mem-
ber were moving in the opposite direction to the tracing
point. If, on the contrary, we move our limb across a
fixed point, it will seem as if the point were moving as
well. If the reader will touch his forehead with his fore-
finger kept motionless, and then rotate the head so that
the skin of the forehead passes beneath the finger's tip, he
will have an irresistible sensation of the latter being itself
in motion in the opposite direction to the head. So in
abducting the fingers from each other; some may move
and the rest be still, but the still ones will feel as if they
were actively separating from the rest. These illusions,
according to Vierordt, are survivals of a primitive form of
perception, when motion was felt as such, but ascribed to
the whole ' content ' of consciousness, and not yet distin-
guished as belonging exclusively to one of its parts. When

72 PSYCHOLOGY

our perception is fully developed we go beyond the mere
relative motion of thing and ground, and can ascribe abso-
lute motion to one of these components of our total object,
and absolute rest to another. When, in vision, for example,
the whole field of view seems to move together, we think it
is ourselves or our eyes which are moving; and any object
in the foreground which may seem to move relatively to the
background is judged by us to be really still. But primi-
tively this discrimination is not perfectly made. The
sensation of the motion spreads over all that we see and
infects it. Any relative motion of object and retina both
makes the object seem to move, and makes us feel our-
selves in motion. Even now when our whole field of view
really does move we get giddy, and feel as if we too were
moving; and we still see an apparent motion of the entire
field of view whenever we suddenly jerk our head and
eyes or shake them quickly to and fro. Pushing our eye-
balls gives the same illusion. We know in all these cases
what really happens, but the conditions are unusual, so
our primitive sensation persists unchecked. So it does
when clouds float by the moon. We know the moon is
still; but we see it move faster than the clouds. Even
when we slowly move our eyes the primitive sensation per-
sists under the victorious conception. If we notice closely
the experience, we find that any object towards which we
look appears moving to meet our eye.

But the most valuable contribution to the subject is the
paper of G. H. Schneider,* who takes up the matter zoo-
logically, and shows by examples from every branch of
the animal kingdom that movement is the quality by which
animals most easily attract each other 's attention. The
instinct of ' shamming death ' is no shamming of death at
all, but rather a paralysis through fear, which saves the
insect, crustacean, or other creature from being noticed at
all by his enemy. It is paralleled in the human race by

♦Vierteljahrsch. fur wiss. Philos., n. 377.

SENSATIONS OF MOTION 73

the breath-holding stillness of the boy playing ' I spy,' to
whom the seeker is near; and its obverse side is shown in
our involuntary waving of arms, jumping up and down,
and so forth, when we wish to attract someone's attention
at a distance. Creatures ' stalking ' their prey and crea-
tures hiding from their pursuers alike show how immobility
diminishes conspicuity. In the woods, if we are quiet, the
squirrels and birds will actually touch us. Flies will light
on stuffed birds and stationary frogs. On the other hand,
the tremendous shock of feeling the thing we are sitting
on begin to move, the exaggerated start it gives us to have
an insect unexpectedly pass over our skin, or a cat noise-
lessly come and snuffle about our hand, the excessive reflex
effects of tickling, etc., show how exciting the sensation of
motion is per se. A kitten cannot help pursuing a moving
ball. Impressions too faint to be cognized at all are imme-
diately felt if they move. A fly sitting is unnoticed, — we
feel it the moment it crawls. A shadow may be too faint
to be perceived. If we hold a finger between our closed
eyelid and the sunshine we do not notice its presence.
The moment we move it to and fro, however, we discern it.
Such visual perception as this reproduces the conditions of
sight among the radiates.

In ourselves, the main function of the peripheral parts of
the retina is that of sentinels, which, when beams of light
move over them, cry * Who goes there? ' and call the fovea
to the spot. Most parts of the skin do but perform the
same office for the finger-tips. Of course movement of sur-
face under object is {for purposes of stimulation) equiva-
lent to movement of object over surface. In exploring the
shapes and sizes of things by either eye or skin the move-
ments of these organs are incessant and unrestrainable.
Every such movement draws the points and lines of the
object across the surface, imprints them a hundred times
more sharply, and drives them home to the attention. The
immense part thus played by movements in our perceptive
activity is held by many psychologists to prove that the

74 PSYCHOLOGY

muscles are themselves the space-perceiving organ. Not
surface-sensibility, but ' the muscular sense/ is for these
writers the original and only revealer of objective exten-
sion. But they have all failed to notice with what peculiar
intensity muscular movements call surface-sensibilities
into play, and how largely the mere discernment of im-
pressions depends on the mobility of the surfaces upon
which they fall.

Our articular surfaces are tactile organs which become
intensely painful when inflamed. Besides pressure, the
only stimulus they receive is their motion upon each other.
To the sensation of this motion more than anything else
seems due the perception of the position which our limbs
may have assumed. Patients cutaneously and muscularly
anaesthetic in one leg can often prove that their articular
sensibility remains, by showing (by movements of their well
leg) the positions in which the surgeon may place their
insensible one. Goldscheider in Berlin caused fingers,
arms, and legs to be passively rotated upon their various
joints in a mechanical apparatus which registered both the
velocity of movement impressed and the amount of angular
rotation. The minimal felt amounts of rotation were much
less than a single angular degree in all the joints except
those of the fingers. Such displacements as these, Gold-
scheider says, can hardly be detected by the eye. Anaes-
thesia of the skin produced by induction-currents had
no disturbing effect on the perception, nor did the vari-
ous degrees of pressure of the moving force upon the skin
affect it. It became, in fact, all the more distinct in pro-
portion as the concomitant pressure-feelings were elimi-
nated by artificial anaesthesia. When the joints themselves,
however, were made artificially anaesthetic, the perception
of the movement grew obtuse and the angular rotations
had to be much increased before they were perceptible.
All these facts prove, according to Herr Goldscheider, that
the joint-surfaces and these alone are the seat of the impres-

SENSATIONS OF MOTION 75

sions by which the movements of our members are immedi-
ately perceived.

2) Sensations of Movement through Space. — These
may be divided into feelings of rotation and feelings of trans-
lation. As was stated at the end of the chapter on the ear,
the labyrinth (semicircular canals, utricle and saccule)
seems to have nothing to do with hearing. It is conclu-
sively established to-day that the semicircular canals are
the organs of a sixth special sense, that namely of rotation.
When subjectively excited, this sensation is known as diz-
ziness or vertigo, and rapidly engenders the farther feeling
of nausea. Irritative disease of the inner ear causes intense
vertigo (Meniere's disease). Traumatic irritation of the
canals in birds and mammals makes the animals tumble
and throw themselves about in a way best explained by
supposing them to suffer from false sensations of falling,
etc., which they compensate by reflex muscular acts that
throw them the other way. Galvanic irritation of the
membranous canals in pigeons cause just the same compen-
satory movements of head and eye which actual rotations
impressed on the creatures produce. Deaf and dumb per-
sons (amongst whom many must have had their auditory
nerves or labyrinths destroyed by the same disease which
took away their hearing) are in a very large percentage of
cases found quite insusceptible of being made dizzy by
rotation. Purkinje and Mach have shown that, whatever
the organ of the sense of rotation may be, it must have its
seat in the head. The body is excluded by Mach's elaborate
experiments.

The semicircular canals, being, as it were, six little spirit-
levels in three rectangular planes, seem admirably adapted
to be organs of a sense of rotation. We need only suppose
that when the head turns in the plane of any one of them,
the relative inertia of the endolymph momentarily in-
creases its pressure on the nerve-termini in the appropri-
ate ampulla, which pressure starts a current towards the
central organ for feeling vertigo. This organ seems to be

76 PSYCHOLOGY

the cerebellum, and the teleology of the whole business
would appear to be the maintenance of the upright posi-
tion. If a man stand with shut eyes and attend to his
body, he will find that he is hardly for a moment in
equilibrium. Incipient fallings towards every side in suc-
cession are incessantly repaired by muscular contractions
which restore the balance; and although impressions on
the tendons, ligaments, foot-soles, joints, etc., doubtless
are among the causes of the compensatory contractions,
yet the strongest and most special reflex arc would seem
to be that which has the sensation of incipient vertigo for
its afferent member. This is experimentally proved to
be much more easily excited than the other sensations re-
ferred to. When the cerebellum is disorganized the reflex
response fails to occur properly and loss of equilibrium is
the result. Irritation of the cerebellum produces vertigo,
loss of balance, and nausea; and galvanic currents through
the head produce various forms of vertigo correlated with
their direction. It seems probable that direct excitement
of the cerebellar centre is responsible for these feelings.
In addition to these corporeal reflexes the sense of rota-
tion causes compensatory rollings of the eyeballs in the
opposite direction, to which some of the subjective phe-
nomena of optical vertigo are due. Steady rotation gives
no sensation; it is only starting or stopping, or, more
generally speaking, acceleration (positive or negative),
which impresses the end-organs in the ampullae. The sen-
sation always has a little duration, however; and the
feeling of reversed movement after whirling violently may
last for nearly a minute, slowly fading out.

The cause of the sense of translation (movement for-
wards or backwards) is more open to dispute. The seat of
this sensation has been assigned to the semicircular canals
when compounding their currents to the brain; and also
to the utricle. The latest experimenter, M. Delage, con-
siders that it cannot possibly be in the head, and assigns
it rather to the entire body, so far as its parts (blood-ves-

SENSATIONS OF MOTION 77

sels, viscera, etc.) are movable against each other and
suffer friction or pressure from their relative inertia when
a movement of translation begins. M. Delage's exclusion
of the labyrinth from this form of sensibility cannot, how-
ever, yet be considered definitively established, so the
matter may rest with this mention.

CHAPTER VII

the structure; of the brain *

Embryological Sketch. — The brain is a sort of pons
asinorum in anatomy until one gets a certain general con-
ception of it as a clue. Then it becomes a comparatively
simple affair. The clue is given by comparative anatomy
and especially by embryology. At a certain moment in
the development of all the higher vertebrates the cerebro-

Jh.

Fig. 28.

Fig. 29.
(All after Huguenin.)

Fig. 30.

spinal axis is formed by a hollow tube containing fluid and
terminated in front by an enlargement separated by trans-
verse constrictions into three ' cerebral vesicles/ so called
(see Fig. 28). The walls of these vesicles thicken in most

* This chapter will be understood as a mere sketch for beginners.
Models will be found of assistance. The best is the 'Cerveau de
Texture de Grande Dimension,' made by Auzoux, 56 Rue de Vau-
girard, Paris. It is a wonderful work of art, and costs 300 francs.
M. Jules Talrich of No. 07 Boulevard Saint Germain, Paris, makes
a series of five large plaster models, which I have found very useful
for class-room purposes. They cost 350 francs, and are far better
than any German models which I have seen.

THE STRUCTURE OF THE BRAIN

places, change in others into a thin vascular tissue, and in
others again send out processes which produce an appear-
ance of farther subdivision. The middle vesicle or mid-
brain {Mb in the figures) is the least affected by change.
Its upper walls thicken into the optic lobes, or corpora
quadrigemina as they are named in man; its lower walls
become the so-called peduncles or crura of the brain;
and its cavity dwindles into the aqueduct of Silvius.
A section through the adult human
mid-brain is shown in Fig. 31.

The anterior and posterior vesi-
cles undergo much more consider-
able change. The walls of the
posterior vesicle thicken enor-
mously in their foremost portion
and form the cerebellum on top

Fig. 31. — The ' nates ' are the
anterior corpora quadrige-
mina, the spot above aq is a
section of the sylvian aque-
duct, and the tegmentum and
two ' feet ' together make the
Crura. These are marked
C.G., and a cross ( + ) marks
the aqueduct, in Fig. 32.

(Cb in all the figures) and the pons Varolii below (P. V. in
Fig. 33). In its hindmost portions the posterior vesicle
thickens below into the medulla oblongata (Mo in all the
figures), whilst on top its walls thin out and melt, so that
one can pass a probe into the cavity without breaking
through any truly nervous tissue. The cavity which one
thus enters from without is named the fourth ventricle
(4 in Figs. 32 and 33). One can run the probe for-

80 PSYCHOLOGY

ward through it, passing first under the cerebellum and
then under a thin sheet of nervous tissue (the valve of
Vieussens) just anterior thereto, as far as the aqueduct of
Silvius. Passing through this, the probe emerges forward
into what was once the cavity of the anterior vesicle. But
the covering has melted away at this place, and the cavity
now forms a deep compressed pit or groove between the
two walls of the vesicle, and is called the third ventricle
(3 in Figs. 32 and 33). The ' aqueduct of Sylvius ' is in
consequence of this connection often called the iter a
tertio ad quartum ventriculum. The walls of the vesicle
form the optic thalami (Th in all the figures).

Fig. 33 (after Huxley).

From the anterior vesicle just in front of the thalami
there buds out on either side an enlargement, into which
the cavity of the vesicle continues, and which becomes the
hemisphere of that side. In man its walls thicken enor-
mously and form folds, the so-called convolutions, on their
surface. At the same time they grow backwards rather
than forwards of their starting-point just in front of the
thalamus, arching over the latter; and growing fastest
along their top circumference, they end by bending down-
wards and forwards again when they have passed the rear
end of the thalamus. When fully developed in man, they
overlay and cover in all the other parts of the brain. Their
cavities form the lateral ventricles, easier to understand by
a dissection than by a description. A probe can be passed
into either of them from the third ventricle at its anterior

THE STRUCTURE OF THE BRAIN 81

end; and like the third ventricle, their wall is melted
down along a certain line, forming a long cleft through
which they can be entered without rupturing the nervous
tissue. This cleft, on account of the growth of the hemi-
sphere outwards, backwards, and then downwards from its
starting point, has got rolled in and tucked away beneath
the apparent surface.*

At first the two hemispheres are connected only with
their respective thalami. But during the fourth and fifth
months of embryonic life they become connected with each
other above the thalami through the growth between them
of a massive system of transverse fibres which crosses the
median line like a great bridge and is called the corpus
callosum. These fibres radiate in the walls of both hemi-
spheres and form a direct connection between the convolu-
tions of the right and of the left side. Beneath the
corpus callosum another system of fibres called the fornix
is formed, between which and the corpus callosum there
is a peculiar connection. Just in front of the thalami,
where the hemispheres begin their growth, a ganglionic
mass called the corpus striatum (C.S., Figs. 32 and 33)
is formed in their wall. It is complex in structure, con-
sisting of two main parts, called nucleus lenticularis and
nucleus candatus respectively. The figures, with their
respective explanations, will give a better idea of the farther
details of structure than any verbal description; so, after
some practical directions for dissecting the organ, I will
pass to a brief account of the physiological relations of
its different parts to each other.

Dissection of Sheep's Brain. — The way really to understand the
brain is to dissect it. The brains of mammals differ only in their
proportions, and from the sheep's one can learn all that is essential
in man's. The student is therefore strongly urged to dissect a
sheep's brain. Full directions of the order of procedure are given

* All the places in the brain at which the cavities come through
are filled in during life by prolongations of the membrane called
pia mater, carrying rich plexuses of blood-vessels in their folds.

82 PSYCHOLOGY

in the human dissecting books, e.g. Holden's Practical Anatomy
(Churchill), Morrell's Student's Manual of Comparative Anatomy
and Guide to Dissection (Longmans), and Foster and Langley's
Practical Physiology (Macmillan). For the use of classes who
cannot procure these books I subjoin a few practical notes. The
instruments needed are a small saw, a chisel with a shoulder, and
a hammer with a hook on its handle, all three of which form part
of the regular medical autopsy-kit and can be had of surgical
instrument-makers. In addition a scalpel, a pair of scissors, a pair
of dissecting- forceps, and a silver probe are required. The solitary
student can find home-made substitutes for all these things but the
forceps, which he ought to buy.

The first thing is to get off the skull-cap. Make two saw-cuts,
through the prominent portion of each condyle (or articular surface
bounding the hole at the back of the skull, where the spinal cord
enters) and passing forwards to the temples of the animal. Then
make two cuts, one on each side, which cross these and meet in an
angle on the frontal bone. By actual trial, one will find the best
direction for the saw-cuts. It is hard to saw entirely through the
skull-bone without in some places also sawing into the brain. Here
is where the chisel comes in — one can break by a smart blow on it
with the hammer any parts of the skull not quite sawn through.
When the skull-cap is ready to come off one will feel it 'wobble.'
Insert then the hook under its forward end and pull firmly. The
bony skull-cap alone will come away, leaving the periosteum of the
inner surface adhering to that of the base of the skull, enveloping
the brain, and forming the so-called dura mater or outer one of its
'meninges.' This dura mater should be slit open round the margins,
when the brain will be exposed wrapped in its nearest membrane,
the pia mater, full of blood-vessels whose branches penetrate the
tissues.

The brain in its pia mater should now be carefully 'shelled out.'
Usually it is best to begin at the forward end, turning it up there
and gradually working backwards. The olfactory lobes are liable
to be torn ; they must be carefully scooped from the pits in the base
of the skull to which they adhere by the branches which they send
through the bone into the nose-cavity. It is well to have a little
blunt curved instrument expressly for this purpose. Next the optic
nerves tie the brain down, and must be cut through — close to the
chiasma is easiest. After that comes the pituitary body, which has
to be left behind. It is attached by a neck, the so-called infundi-
bulum, into the upper part of which the cavity of the third entricle
is prolonged downwards for a short distance. It has no known
function and is probably a 'rudimentary organ.' Other nerves,
into the detail of which I shall not go, must be cut successively.
Their places in the human brain are shown in Fig. 34. When they

THE STRUCTURE OF THE BRAIN

are divided, and the portion of dura mater (tentorium) which pro-
jects between the hemispheres and the cerebellum is cut through at
its edges, the brain comes readily out.

It is best examined fresh. If numbers of brains have to be pre-
pared and kept, I have found it a good plan to put them first in a
solution of chloride of zinc, just dense enough at first to float them,

Fig. 34. — The human brain from below, with its nerves numbered, after
Henle. I, olfactory; II, optic; III, oculomotor i us; IV, trochlearis; V, tri-
facial; VI, abducens oculi; VII, facial; VIII, auditory; IX, glossopharyn-
geal; X, pneumogastric; XI, spinal accessory; XII, hypoglossal; ncl, first
cervical, etc.

and to leave them for a fortnight or less. This softens the pia
mater, which can then he removed in large shreds, after which it
is enough to place them in quite weak alcohol to preserve them in-
definitely, tough, elastic, and in their natural shape, though bleached
to a uniform white color. Before immersion in the chloride all the
more superficial adhesions of the parts must be broken through, to

84 PSYCHOLOGY

bring the fluid into contact with a maximum of surface. If the
brain is used fresh, the pia mater had better be removed carefully
in most places with the forceps, scalpel, and scissors. Over the
grooves between the cerebellum and hemispheres, and between
the cerebellum and medulla oblongata, thin cobwebby moist trans-
parent vestiges of the arachnoid membrane will be found.

The subdivisions may now be examined in due order. For the
convolutions, blood-vessels, and nerves the more special books must
be consulted.

First, looked at from above, with the deep longitudinal fissure
between them, the hemispheres are seen partly overlapping the
intricately wrinkled cerebellum, which juts out behind, and covers
in turn almost all the medulla oblongata. Drawing the hemispheres
apart, the brilliant white corpus callosum is revealed, some half an
inch below their surface. There is no median partition in the
cerebellum, but a median elevation instead.

Looking at the brain from below, one still sees the longitudinal
fissure in the median line in front, and on either side of it the
olfactory lobes, much larger than in man ; the optic tracts and com-
missure or 'chiasma'; the infundibulum cut through just behind
them; and behind that the single corpus albicans or mamillare,
whose function is unknown and which is double in man. Next the
crura appear, converging upon the pons as if carrying fibres back
from either side. The pons itself succeeds, much less prominent
than in man; and finally behind it comes the medulla oblongata,
broad and flat and relatively large. The pons looks like a sort of
collar uniting the two halves of the cerebellum, and surrounding the
medulla, whose fibres by the time they have emerged anteriorly
from beneath the collar have divided into the two crura. The inner
relations are, however, somewhat less simple than what this descrip-
tion may suggest.

Now turn forward the cerebellum ; pull out the vascular choroid
plexuses of the pia, which fill the fourth ventricle; and bring the
upper surface of the medulla oblongata into view. The fourth ven-
tricle is a triangular depression terminating in a posterior point
called the calamus scriptorius. (Here a very fine probe may pass
into the central canal of the spinal cord.) The lateral boundary of
the ventricle on either side is formed by the restiform body or
column, which runs into the cerebellum, forming its inferior or pos-
terior peduncle on that side. Including the calamus scriptorius by
their divergence, the posterior columns of the spinal cord continue
into the medulla as the fasciculi graciles. These are at first sepa-
rated from the broad restiform bodies by a slight groove. But this
disappears anteriorly, and the 'slender' and 'ropelike' strands soon
become outwardly indistinguishable.

THE STRUCTURE OF THE BRAIN

Turn next to the ventral surface of the medulla, and note the
anterior pyramids, two roundish cords, one on either side of
the slight median groove. The pyramids are crossed and closed
over anteriorly by the pons Varolii, a broad transverse band which
surrounds them like a collar, and runs up into the cerebellum on
either side, forming its middle peduncles. The pons has a slight

Fig. 35. — Fourth ventricle, etc. (Henle). Ill, third ventricle; IV, fourth
ventricle; P, anterior, middle, and posterior peduncles of cerebellum cut
through; Cr, restiform body; Fg, funiculus gracilis; Cq, corpora quadri-
gemina.

median depression and its posterior edge is formed by the trapezium
on either side. The trapezium consists of fibres which, instead of
surrounding the pyramid, seem to start from alongside of it. It is
not visible in man. The olivary bodies are small eminences on
the medulla lying just laterally of the pyramids and below the
trapezium.

Now cut through the peduncles of the cerebellum, close to their
entrance into that organ. They give one surface of section on each

86 PSYCHOLOGY

side, though they receive contributions from three directions. The
posterior and middle portions we have seen: the anterior peduncles
pass forward to the corpora quadrigemina. The thin white layer of
nerve-tissue between them and continuous with them is called the
valve of Vieussens. It covers part of the canal from the fourth
ventricle to the third. The cerebellum being removed, examine it,
and cut sections to show the peculiar distribution of white and gray
matter, forming an appearance called the arbor vitce in the books.

Now bend up the posterior edge of the hemispheres, exposing the
corpora quadrigemina (of which the anterior pair are dubbed
the nates and the posterior the testes) , and noticing the pineal gland,
a small median organ situated just in front of them and probably,
like the pituitary body, a vestige of something useful in premam-
malian times. The rounded posterior edge of the corpus callosum
is visible now passing from one hemisphere to the other. Turn it
still farther up, letting the medulla, etc., hang down as much as
possible and trace the under surface from this edge forward. It is
broad behind but narrows forward, becoming continuous with the
fornix. The anterior stem, so to speak, of this organ plunges down
just in front of the optic thalami, which now appear with the fornix
arching over them, and the median third ventricle between them.
The margins of the fornix, as they pass backwards, diverge laterally
farther than the margins of the corpus callosum, and under the
name of corpora fimbriata are carried into the lateral ventricles, as
will be seen again.

It takes a good topographical mind to understand these ventricles
clearly, even when they are followed with eye and hand. A verbal
description is absolutely useless. The essential thing to remember
is that they are offshoots from the original cavity (now the third
ventricle) of the anterior vesicle, and that a great split has occurred
in the walls of the hemispheres so that they (the lateral ventricles)
now communicate with the exterior along a cleft which appears
sickle-shaped, as it were, and folded in.

The student will probably examine the relations of the parts in
various ways. But he will do well to begin in any case by cutting
horizontal slices off the hemispheres almost down to the level of the
corpus callosum, and examining the distribution of gray and white
matter on the surfaces of section, any one of which is the so-called
centrum ovale. Then let him cut down in a fore-and-aft direction
along the edge of the corpus callosum, till he comes ' through ' and
draw the hemispherical margin of the cut outwards — he will see a
space which is the ventricle, and which farther cutting along the
side and removing of its hemisphere-roof will lay more bare. The
most conspicuous object on its floor is the nucleus caudatus of the
corpus striatum.

THE STRUCTURE OF THE BRAIN

Cut the corpus callosum transversely through near its posterior
edge and bend the anterior portion of it forwards and sideways.
The rear edge (splenium) left in situ bends round and downwards

Fig. 36. — Horizontal section of human brain just above the thalami. — Ccl,
corpus callosum in section; Cs, corpus striatum; SI, septum lucidum; Cf,
columns of the fornix; Tho, optic thalami; Cn, pineal gland. (After Heme.)

and becomes continuous with the fornix. The anterior part is also
continuous with the fornix, but more along the median line, where
a thinnish membrane, the septum lucidum, triangular in shape,
reaching from the one body to the other, practically forms a sort

88 PSYCHOLOGY

of partition between the contiguous portion of the lateral ventricles
on the two sides. Break through the septum if need be and expose
the upper surface of the fornix, broad behind and narrow in front
where its anterior pillars plunge down in front of the third ventricle
(from a thickening in whose anterior walls they were originally
formed), and finally penetrate the corpus albicans. Cut these pillars
through and fold them back, exposing the thalamic portion of the
brain, and noting the under surface of the fornix. Its diverging
Posterior pillars run backwards, downwards, and then forwards
again, forming with their sharp edges the corpora fimbriata, which
bound the cleft by which the ventricle lies open. The semi-
cylindrical welts behind the corpora fimbriata and parallel thereto
in the wall of the ventricle are the hippocampi. Imagine the fornix
and corpus callosum shortened in the fore-and-aft direction to a
transverse cord; imagine the hemispheres not having grown back-
wards and downwards round the thalamus; and the corpus fimbri-
atum on either side would then be the upper or anterior margin of
a split in the wall of the hemispheric ventricle of which the lower
and posterior margin would be the posterior border of the corpus
striatum where it grows out of the thalamus.

The little notches just behind the anterior pillar of the fornix
and between them and the thalami are the so-called foramina of
Monro through which the plexus of vessels, etc., passes from the
median to the lateral ventricles.

See the thick middle commissure joining the two thalami, just as
the corpus callosum and fornix join the hemispheres. These are all
embryological aftergrowths. Seek also the anterior commissure
crossing just in front of the anterior pillars of the fornix, as well
as the posterior commissure with its lateral prolongations along the
thalami, just below the pineal gland.

On a median section, note the thinnish anterior wall of the third
ventricle and its prolongation downwards into the infundibulum.

Turn up or cut off the rear end of one hemisphere so as to see
clearly the optic tracts turning upwards towards the rear corner of
the thalamus. The corpora geniculata to which they also go, dis-
tinct in man, are less so in the sheep. The lower ones are visible
between the optic-tract band and the 'testes,' however.

The brain's principal parts are thus passed in review. A longi-
tudinal section of the whole organ through the median line will be
found most instructive (Fig. 37). The student should also (on a
fresh brain, or one hardened in bichromate of potash or ammonia
to save the contrast of color between white and gray matter) make
transverse sections through the nates and crura, and through the

THE STRUCTURE OF THE BRAIN

Fig. 37. — Median section of human brain below the hemispheres. Th, thalamus;
Cg, corpora quadrigemina; Fm, third ventricle; Com, middle commissure;
F, columns of fornix; Inf, inf undibulum ; Op.n, optic nerve; Pit, pituitary
body; Av, arbor vitae. (After Obersteiner.)

PSYCHOLOGY

hemispheres just in front of the corpus albicans. The latter section
shows on each side the nucleus lenticularis of the corpus striatum,
and also the inner capsule (see Fig. 38, Nl, and Ic).

Fig. 38. — Transverse section through right hemisphere (after Gegenbaur).
Cc, corpus callosum; Pf, pillars of fornix; Ic, internal capsule; V, third
ventricle; Nl, nucleus lenticularis.

When all is said and done, the fact remains that, for the
beginner, the understanding of the brain's structure is not
an easy thing. It must be gone over and forgotten and
learned again many times before it is definitively assimi-
lated by the mind. But patience and repetition, here as
elsewhere, will bear their perfect fruit.

CHAPTER VIII

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN

General Idea of Nervous Function. — If I begin chop-
ping the foot of a tree, its branches are unmoved by my act,
and its leaves murmur as peacefully as ever in the wind. If,
on the contrary, I do violence to the foot of a fellow-man,
the rest of his body instantly responds to the aggression by
movements of alarm or defence. The reason of this differ-
ence is that the man has a nervous system, whilst the tree
has none; and the function of the nervous system is to
bring each part into harmonious cooperation with every
other. The afferent nerves, when excited by some physical
irritant, be this as gross in its mode of operation as a chop-
ping axe or as subtle as the waves of light, conveys the
excitement to the nervous centres. The commotion set up
in the centres does not stop there, but discharges through
the efferent nerves, exciting movements which vary with
the animal and with the irritant applied. These acts of
response have usually the common character of being of
service. They ward off the noxious stimulus and support
the beneficial one; whilst if, in itself indifferent, the stim-
ulus be a sign of some distant circumstance of practical
importance, the animal's acts are addressed to this circum-
stance so as to avoid its perils or secure its benefits, as the
case may be. To take a common example, if I hear the
conductor calling ' All aboard ! ' as I enter the station, my
heart first stops, then palpitates, and my legs respond to
the air-waves falling on my tympanum by quickening
their movements. If I stumble as I run, the sensation of
falling provokes a movement of the hands towards the
direction of the fall, the effect of which is to shield the

92 PSYCHOLOGY

body from too sudden a shock. If a cinder enter my eye,
its lids close forcibly and a copious flow of tears tends to
wash it out.

These three responses to a sensational stimulus differ,
however, in many respects. The closure of the eye and the
lachrymation are quite involuntary, and so is the disturb-
ance of the heart. Such involuntary responses we know
a ' reflex ' acts. The motion of the arms to break the
shock of falling may also be called reflex, since it occurs
too quickly to be deliberately intended. It is, at any rate,
less automatic than the previous acts, for a man might by
conscious effort learn to perform it more skilfully, or even
to suppress it altogether. Actions of this kind, into which
instinct and volition enter upon equal terms, have been
called ' semi-reflex.' The act of running towards the train,
on the other hand, has no instinctive element about it. It
is purely the result of education, and is preceded by a con-
sciousness of the purpose to be attained and a distinct
mandate of the will. It is a ' voluntary act.7 Thus the
animal's reflex and voluntary performances shade into
each other gradually, being connected by acts which may
often occur automatically, but may also be modified by
conscious intelligence.

The Frog's Nerve-centres. — Let us now look a little
more closely at what goes on.

The best way to enter the subject will be to take a lower
creature, like a frog, and study by the vivisection method
the functions of his different nerve-centres. The frog's
nerve-centres are figured in the diagram over the page,
which needs no further explanation. I shall first proceed
to state what happens when various amounts of the ante-
rior parts are removed, in different frogs, in the way in
which an ordinary student removes them — that is, with
no extreme precautions as to the purity of the operation.

If, then, we reduce the frog's nervous system to the
spinal cord alone, by making a section behind the base of
the skull, between the spinal cord and the medulla ob-

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN

O Th

Fig. 39. — C, H, cere-
bral hemispheres ;
0 Th, optic tha-
lami; 0 L, optic
lobes; Cb, cerebel-
lum; M O, medulla
oblongata ; 5" C, spi-
nal cord.

longata, thereby cutting off the brain from all connection
with the rest of the body, the frog will
still continue to live, but with a very pe-
culiarly modified activity. It ceases to
breathe or swallow; it lies flat on its
belly, and does not, like a normal frog, sit
up on its fore-paws, though its hind-legs
are kept, as usual, folded against its body
and immediately resume this position if
drawn out. If thrown on its back it lies
there quietly, without turning over like
a normal frog. Locomotion and voice
seem entirely abolished. If we suspend it
by the nose, and irritate different portions
of its skin by acid, it performs a set of
remarkable ' defensive ' movements calcu-
lated to wipe away the irritant. Thus, if
the breast be touched, both fore-paws will
rub it vigorously; if we touch the outer
side of the elbow, the hind-foot of the same side will rise
directly to the spot and wipe it. The back of the foot will
rub the knee if that be attacked, whilst if the foot be cut
away, the stump will make ineffectual movements, and then,
in many frogs, a pause will come, as if for deliberation,
succeeded by a rapid passage of the opposite unmutilated
foot to the acidulated spot.

The most striking character of all these movements,
after their teleological appropriateness, is their precision.
They vary, in sensitive frogs and with a proper amount of
irritation, so little as almost to resemble in their machine-
like regularity the performances of a jumping-jack, whose
legs must twitch whenever you pull the string. The spinal
cord of the frog thus contains arrangements of cells and
fibres fitted to convert skin-irritations into movements of
defence. We may call it the centre for defensive movements
in this animal. We may indeed go farther than this, and
by cutting the spinal cord in various places find that its

94 PSYCHOLOGY

separate segments are independent mechanisms, for appro-
priate activities of the head and of the arms and legs re-
spectively. The segment governing the arms is especially
active, in male frogs, in the breeding season; and these
members alone, with the breast and back appertaining to
them, and everything else cut away, will actively grasp a
finger placed between them and remain hanging to it for
a considerable time.

Similarly of the medulla oblongata, optic lobes, and other
centres between the spinal cord and the hemispheres of the
frog. Each of them is proved by experiment to contain a
mechanism for the accurate execution, in response to defi-
nite stimuli, of certain special acts. Thus with the medulla
the animal swallows; with the medulla and cerebellum to-
gether he jumps, swims, and turns over from his back;
with his optic lobes he croaks when pinched; etc. A jrog
which has lost his cerebral hemispheres alone is by an un-
practised observer indistinguishable from a normal animal.

Not only is he capable, on proper instigation, of all the
acts already mentioned, but he guides himself by sight, so
that if an obstacle be set up between him and the light,
and he be forced to move forward, he either jumps over it
or swerves to one side. He manifests the sexual instinct
at the proper seasons, and discriminates between male and
female individuals of his own species. He is, in short, so
similar in every respect to a normal frog that it would take
a person very familiar with these animals to suspect any-
thing wrong or wanting about him; but even then such a
person would soon remark the almost entire absence of
spontaneous motion — that is, motion unprovoked by any
present incitation of sense. The continued movements of
swimming, performed by the creature in the water, seem
to be the fatal result of the contact of that fluid with its
skin. They cease when a stick, for example, touches his
hands. This is a sensible irritant towards which the feet
are automatically drawn by reflex action, and on which
the animal remains sitting. He manifests no hunger, and

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN 95

will suffer a fly to crawl over his nose unsnapped at. Fear,
too, seems to have deserted him. In a word, he is an ex-
tremely complex machine whose actions, so far as they go,
tend to self-preservation ; but still a machine , in this sense —
that it seems to contain no incalculable element. By apply-
ing the right sensory stimulus to him we are almost as
certain of getting a fixed response as an organist is of hear-
ing a certain tone when he pulls out a certain stop.

But now if to the lower centres we add the cerebral hemi-
spheres, or if, in other words, we make an intact animal
the subject of our observations, all this is changed. In
addition to the previous responses to present incitements
of sense, our frog now goes through long and complex acts
of locomotion spontaneously, or as if moved by what in
ourselves we should call an idea. His reactions to outward
stimuli vary their form, too. Instead of making simple
defensive movements with his hind-legs, like a headless
frog, if touched; or of giving one or two leaps and then
sitting still like a hemisphereless one, he makes persistent
and varied efforts of escape, as if, not the mere contact of
the physiologist's hand, but the notion of danger suggested
by it were now his spur. Led by the feeling of hunger,
too, he goes in search of insects, fish, or smaller frogs, and
varies his procedure with each species of victim. The
physiologist cannot by manipulating him elicit croaking,
crawling up a board, swimming or stopping, at will. His
conduct has become incalculable — we can no longer fore-
tell it exactly. Effort to escape is his dominant reaction,
but he may do anything else, even swell up and become
perfectly passive in our hands.

Such are the phenomena commonly observed, and such
the impressions which one naturally receives. Certain
general conclusions follow irresistibly. First of all the
following:

The acts of all the centres involve the use of the same
muscles. When a brainless frog's hind-leg wipes the acid,
he calls into play all the leg-muscles which a frog with his

96 PSYCHOLOGY

full medulla oblongata and cerebellum uses when he turns
from his back to his belly. Their contractions are, how-
ever, combined differently in the two cases, so that the
results vary widely. We must consequently conclude that
specific arrangements of cells and fibres exist in the cord
for wiping, in the medulla for turning over, etc. Simi-
larly they exist in the thalami for jumping over seen ob-
stacles and for balancing the moved body; in the optic
lobes for creeping backwards, or what not. But in the
hemisphere, since the presence of these organs brings no
new elementary form of movement with it, but only deter-
mines differently the occasions on which the movements
shall occur, making the usual stimuli less fatal and ma-
chine-like, we need suppose no such machinery directly
cobrdinative of muscular contractions to exist. We may
rather assume, when the mandate for a wiping-movement
is sent forth by the hemispheres, that a current goes straight
to the wiping-arrangement in the spinal cord, exciting this
arrangement as a whole. Similarly, if an intact frog wishes
to jump, all he need do is to excite from the hemispheres
the jumping-centre in the thalami or wherever it may be,
and the latter will provide for the details of the execution.
It is like a general ordering a colonel to make a certain
movement, but not telling him how it shall be done.

The same muscle, then, is repeatedly represented at dif-
ferent heights] and at each it enters into a different com-
bination with other muscles to cooperate in some special
form of concerted movement. At each height the move-
ment is discharged by some particular form of sensorial
stimulus, whilst the stimuli which discharge the hemi-
spheres would seem not so much to be elementary sorts
of sensation, as groups of sensations forming determinate
objects or things.

The Pigeon's Lower Centres. — The results are just the
same if, instead of a frog, we take a pigeon, cut out his
hemispheres carefully and wait till he recovers from the
operation. There is not a movement natural to him which

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN 97

this brainless bird cannot execute; he seems, too, after some
days to execute movements from some inner irritation, for
he moves spontaneously. But his emotions and instincts
exist no longer. In Schrader's striking words:

" The hemisphereless animal moves in a world of bodies
which . . . are all of equal value for him. ... He is, to
use Goltz's apt expression, impersonal. . . . Every object
is for him only a space-occupying mass, he turns out of his
path for an ordinary pigeon no otherwise than for a stone.
He may try to climb over both. All authors agree that
they never found any difference, whether it was an inani-
mate body, a cat, a dog, or a bird of prey which came in
their pigeon's way. The creature knows neither friends
nor enemies, in the thickest company it lives like a hermit.
The languishing cooing of the male awakens no more im-
pression than the rattling of the peas, or the call-whistle
which in the days before the injury used to make the birds
hasten to be fed. Quite as little as the earlier observers
have I seen hemisphereless she-birds answer the courting
of the male. A hemisphereless male will coo all day
long and show distinct signs of sexual excitement, but his
activity is without any object, it is entirely indifferent to
him whether the she-bird be there or not. If one is placed
near him, he leaves her unnoticed. ... As the male pays
no attention to the female, so she pays none to her young.
The brood may follow the mother ceaselessly calling for
food, but they might as well ask it from a stone. . . . The
hemisphereless pigeon is in the highest degree tame, and
fears man as little as cat or bird of prey."

General Notion of Hemispheres. — All these facts lead
us, when we try to formulate them broadly, to some such
conception as this: The lower centres act from present sen-
sational stimuli alone; the hemispheres act jrom considera-
tions, the sensations which they may receive serving only
as suggesters of these. But what are considerations but
expectations, in the fancy, of sensations which will be felt
one way or another according as action takes this course or

98 PSYCHOLOGY

that? If I step aside on seeing a rattlesnake, from consid-
ering how dangerous an animal he is, the mental materials
which constitute my prudential reflection are images more
or less vivid of the movement of his head, of a sudden pain
in my leg, of a state of terror, a swelling of the limb, a
chill, delirium, death, etc., etc., and the ruin of my hopes.
But all these images are constructed out of my past experi-
ences. They are reproductions of what I have felt or wit-
nessed. They are, in short, remote sensations; and the
main difference between the hemisphereless animal and the
whole one may be concisely expressed by saying that the
one obeys absent, the other only present, objects.

The hemispheres would then seem to be the chief seat of
memory. Vestiges of past experience must in some way be
stored up in them, and must, when aroused by present
stimuli, first appear as representations of distant goods and
evils; and then must discharge into the appropriate motor
channels for warding off the evil and securing the benefits
of the good. If we liken the nervous currents to electric
currents, we can compare the nervous system, C, below the
hemispheres to a direct circuit from sense-organ to muscle
along the line 5 ... C ... Af of Fig. 40. The hemisphere,
H, adds the long circuit or loop-line through which the cur-
rent may pass when for any reason the direct line is not used.
Thus, a tired wayfarer on a hot day throws himself on the
damp earth beneath a maple-tree. The sensations of deli-
cious rest and coolness pouring
themselves through the direct
line would naturally discharge
into the muscles of complete ex-
tension: he would abandon him-
self to the dangerous repose.
But the loop-line being open,
part of the current is drafted
along it, and awakens rheu-
matic or catarrhal reminiscences,
which prevail over the instiga-

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN 99

tions of sense, and make the man arise and pursue his way
to where he may enjoy his rest more safely. Presently we
shall examine the manner in which the hemispheric loop-
line may be supposed to serve as a reservoir for such remi-
niscences as these. Meanwhile I will ask the reader to
notice some corollaries of its being such a reservoir.

First, no animal without it can deliberate, pause, post-
pone, nicely weigh one motive against another, or compare.
Prudence, in a word, is for such a creature an impossible
virtue. Accordingly we see that nature removes those func-
tions in the exercise of which prudence is a virtue from the
lower centres and hands them over to the cerebrum. Wher-
ever a creature has to deal with complex features of the
environment, prudence is a virtue. The higher animals
have so to deal; and the more complex the features, the
higher we call the animals. The fewer of his acts, then,
can such an animal perform without the help of the organs
in question. In the frog many acts devolve wholly on the
lower centres; in the bird fewer; in the rodent fewer still;
in the dog very few indeed; and in apes and men hardly
any at all.

The advantages of this are obvious. Take the prehen-
sion of food as an example and suppose it to be a reflex
performance of the lower centres. The animal will be con-
demned fatally and irresistibly to snap at it whenever pre-
sented, no matter what the circumstances may be; he can
no more disobey this prompting than water can refuse to
boil when a fire is kindled under the pot. His life will
again and again pay the forfeit of his gluttony. Exposure
to retaliation, to other enemies, to traps, to poisons, to the
dangers of repletion, must be regular parts of his existence.
His lack of all thought by which to weigh the danger against
the attractiveness of the bait, and of all volition to remain
hungry a little while longer, is the direct measure of his
lowness in the mental scale. And those fishes which, like
our cunners and sculpins, are no sooner thrown back from
the hook into the water than they automatically seize the

ioo PSYCHOLOGY

hook again, would soon expiate the degradation of their
intelligence by the extinction of their type, did not their
extraordinary fecundity atone for their imprudence. Ap-
petite and the acts it prompts have consequently become
in all higher vertebrates functions of the cerebrum. They
disappear when the physiologist's knife has left the sub-
ordinate centres alone in place. The brainless pigeon will
starve though left on a corn-heap.

Take again the sexual function. In birds this devolves
exclusively upon the hemispheres. When these are shorn
away the pigeon pays no attention to the billings and coo-
ings of its mate. It is the same, according to Goltz, with
male dogs who have suffered large losses of cerebral tissue.
Those who have read Darwin's Descent of Man will recol-
lect what an importance this author ascribes to the agency
of sexual selection in the amelioration of the breeds of
birds. The females are naturally coy, and their coyness
must be overcome by the exhibition of the gorgeous plu-
mage, and various accomplishments in the way of strutting
and fighting, of the males. In frogs and toads, on the
other hand, where (as we saw on page 94) the sexual in-
stinct devolves upon the lower centres, we find a machine-
like obedience to the present incitements of sense, and an
almost total exclusion of the power of choice. The conse-
quence is that every spring an immense waste of batrachian
life, involving numbers of adult animals and innumerable
eggs, takes place from no other cause than the blind char-
acter of the sexual impulse in these creatures.

No one need be told how dependent all human social
elevation is upon the prevalence of chastity. Hardly any
factor measures more than this the difference between
civilization and barbarism. Physiologically interpreted,
chastity means nothing more than the fact that present
solicitations of sense are overpowered by suggestions of
aesthetic and moral fitness which the circumstances awaken
in the cerebrum; and that upon the inhibitory or permis-
sive influence of these alone action directly depends.

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN 101

Within the psychic life due to the cerebrum itself the
same general distinction obtains, between considerations of
the more immediate and considerations of the more remote.
In all ages the man whose determinations are swayed by
reference to the most distant ends has been held to possess
the highest intelligence. The tramp who lives from hour
to hour; the bohemian whose engagements are from day
to day; the bachelor who builds but for a single life; the
father who acts for another generation; the patriot who
thinks of a whole community and many generations; and,
finally, the philosopher and saint whose cares are for hu-
manity and for eternity, — these range themselves in an
unbroken hierarchy, wherein each successive grade results
from an increased manifestation of the special form of
action by which the cerebral centres are distinguished
from all below them.

The Automaton-Theory. — In the ' loop-line ' along
which the memories and ideas of the distant are supposed to
lie, the action, so far as it is a physical process, must be inter-
preted after the type of the action in the lower centres.
If regarded here as a reflex process, it must be reflex there
as well. The current in both places runs out into the
muscles only after it has first run in; but whilst the path
by which it runs out is determined in the lower centres by
reflections few and fixed amongst the cell-arrangements, in
the hemispheres the reflections are many and instable.
This, it will be seen, is only a difference of degree and not
of kind, and does not change the reflex type. The con-
ception of all action as conforming to this type is the fun-
damental conception of modern nerve-physiology. This
conception, now, has led to two quite opposite theories
about the relation to consciousness of the nervous func-
tions. Some authors, finding that the higher voluntary
functions seems to require the guidance of feeling, conclude
that over the lowest reflexes some such feeling also pre-
sides, though it may be a feeling connected with the spinal
cord, of which the higher conscious self connected with

102 PSYCHOLOGY

the hemispheres remains unconscious. Others, finding that
reflex and semi-automatic acts may, notwithstanding their
appropriateness, take place with an unconsciousness ap-
parently complete, fly to the opposite extreme and maintain
that the appropriateness even of the higher voluntary
actions connected with the hemispheres owes nothing to
the fact that consciousness attends them. They are,
according to these writers, results of physiological mechan-
ism pure and simple.

To comprehend completely this latter doctrine one
should apply it to examples. The movements of our
tongues and pens, the flashings of our eyes in conversa-
tion, are of course events of a physiological order, and as
such their causal antecedents may be exclusively mechan-
ical. If we knew thoroughly the nervous system of Shake-
speare, and as thoroughly all his environing conditions, we
should be able, according to the theory of automatism,
to show why at a given period of his life his hand came to
trace on certain sheets of paper those crabbed little black
marks which we for shortness7 sake call the manuscript of
Hamlet. We should understand the rationale of every
erasure and alteration therein, and we should understand
all this without in the slightest degree acknowledging the
existence of the thoughts in Shakespeare's mind. The
words and sentences would be taken, not as signs of any-
thing beyond themselves, but as little outward facts, pure
and simple. In like manner, the automaton-theory affirms,
we might exhaustively write the biography of those two
hundred pounds, more or less, of warmish albuminoid matter
called Martin Luther, without ever implying that it felt.

But, on the other hand, nothing in all this could pre-
vent us from giving an equally complete account of either
Luther's or Shakespeare's spiritual history, an account in
which every gleam of thought and emotion should find its
place. The mind-history would run alongside of the body-
history of each man, and each point in the one would cor-
respond to, but not react upon, a point in the other. So

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN 103

the melody floats from the harp-string, but neither checks
nor quickens its vibrations; so the shadow runs alongside
the pedestrian, but in no way influences his steps.

As a mere conception, and so long as we confine our view
to the nervous centres themselves, few things are more
seductive than this radically mechanical theory of their
action. And yet our consciousness is there, and has in all
probability been evolved, like all other functions, for a
use — it is to the highest degree improbable a priori that
it should have no use. Its use seems to be that of selec-
tion) but to select, it must be efficacious. States of con-
sciousness which feel right are held fast to; those which
feel wrong are checked. If the ' holding ' and the ' check-
ing ' of the conscious states severally mean also the effica-
cious reinforcing or inhibiting of the correlated neural
processes, then it would seem as if the presence of the
states of mind might help to steer the nervous system
and keep it in the path which to the consciousness
seemed best. Now on the average what seems best to con-
sciousness is really best for the creature. It is a well-
known fact that pleasures are generally associated with
beneficial, pains with detrimental, experiences. All the
fundamental vital processes illustrate this law. Starvation;
suffocation; privation of food, drink, and sleep; work when
exhausted; burns, wounds, inflammation; the effects of
poison, are as disagreeable as filling the hungry stomach,
enjoying rest and sleep after fatigue, exercise after rest,
and a sound skin and unbroken bones at all times, are
pleasant. Mr. Spencer and others have suggested that
these coincidences are due, not to any preestablished har-
mony, but to the mere action of natural selection, which
would certainly kill off in the long-run any breed of crea-
tures to whom the fundamentally noxious experience
seemed enjoyable. An animal that should take pleasure
in a feeling of suffocation would, if that pleasure were effi-
cacious enough to make him keep his head under water,
enjoy a longevity of four or five minutes. But if conscious

104 PSYCHOLOGY

pleasure does not reinforce, and conscious pain does not
inhibit, anything, one does not see (without some such a
priori rational harmony as would be scouted by the ' scien-
tific ' champions of the automaton- theory) why the most
noxious acts, such as burning, might not with perfect im-
punity give thrills of delight, and the most necessary ones,
such as breathing, cause agony. The only considerable
attempt that has been made to explain the distribution of
our feelings is that of Mr. Grant Allen in his suggestive
little work, Physiological ^Esthetics; and his reasoning is
based exclusively on that causal efficacy of pleasures and
pains which the partisans of pure automatism so stren-
uously deny.

Probability and circumstantial evidence thus run dead
against the theory that our actions are purely mechanical
in their causation. From the point of view of descriptive
Psychology (even though we be bound to assume, as on p. 6,
that all our feelings have brain-processes for their condi-
tion of existence, and can be remotely traced in every in-
stance to currents coming from the outer world) we have
no clear reason to doubt that the feelings may react so as
to further or to dampen the processes to which they are
due. I shall therefore not hesitate in the course of this
book to use the language of common-sense. I shall talk as
if consciousness kept actively pressing the nerve-centres in
the direction of its own ends, and was no mere impotent
and paralytic spectator of life's game.

The Localization of Functions in the Hemispheres. —
The hemispheres, we lately said, must be the organ of mem-
ory, and in some way retain vestiges of former currents, by
means of which mental considerations drawn from the past
may be aroused before action takes place. The vivisec-
tions of physiologists and the observations of physicians
have of late years given a concrete confirmation to this
notion which the first rough appearances suggest. The
various convolutions have had special functions assigned to
them in relation to this and that sense-organ, as well as to

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN 105

this or that portion of the muscular system. This book is
no place for going over the evidence in detail, so I will
simply indicate the conclusions which are most probable
at the date of writing.

Mental and Cerebral Elements. — In the first place,
there is a very neat parallelism between the analysis of
brain-functions by the physiologists and that of mental
functions by the ' analytic ' psychologists.

The phrenological brain-doctrine divided the brain into
1 organs,' each of which stood for the man in a certain par-
tial attitude. The organ of ' Philoprogenitiveness,' with its
concomitant consciousness, is an entire man so far as he
loves children, that of ' Reverence ' is an entire man wor-
shipping, etc. The spiritualistic psychology, in turn,
divided the Mind into ' faculties,' which were also entire
mental men in certain limited attitudes. But ' faculties '
are not mental elements any more than ' organs ' are brain-
elements. Analysis breaks both into more elementary
constituents.

Brain and mind alike consist of simple elements, sen-
sory and motor. "All nervous centres," says Dr. Hugh-
lings Jackson, "from the lowest to the very highest (the
substrata of consciousness), are made up of nothing else
than nervous arrangements, representing impressions and
movements. . . . I do not see of what other materials the
brain can be made." Meynert represents the matter simi-
larly when he calls the cortex of the hemispheres the sur-
face of projection for every muscle and every sensitive
point of the body. The muscles and the sensitive points
are represented each by a cortical point, and the Brain is
little more than the sum of all these cortical points, to
which, on the mental side, as many sensations and ideas
correspond. The sensations and ideas of sensation and of
motion are, in turn, the elements out of which the Mind is
built according to the analytic school of psychology. The
relations between objects are explained by ' associations '
between the ideas; and the emotional and instinctive ten-

io6

PSYCHOLOGY

dencies, by associations between ideas and movements.
The same diagram can symbolize both the inner and the
outer world; dots or circles standing indifferently for cells
or ideas, and lines joining them, for fibres or associations.
The associationist doctrine of ' ideas ' may be doubted to
be a literal expression of the truth, but it probably will
always retain a didactic usefulness. At all events, it is
interesting to see how well physiological analysis plays into
its hands. To proceed to details.

The Motor Region. — The one thing which is per-
fectly well established is this, that the ' central ' con-

Fig. 41. — Left hemisphere of monkey's brain. Outer surface.

volutions, on either side of the fissure of Rolando, and (at
least in the monkey) the calloso-marginal convolution
(which is continuous with them on the mesial surface
where one hemisphere is applied against the other), form
the region by which all the motor incitations which leave
the cortex pass out, on their way to those executive centres
in the region of the pons, medulla, and spinal cord from

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN

107

which the muscular contractions are discharged in the last
resort. The existence of this so-called ' motor zone ' is
established by anatomical as well as vivisectional and
pathological evidence.

The accompanying figures (Figs. 41 and 42), from
Schaefer and Horsley, show the topographical arrangement
of the monkey's motor zone more clearly than any descrip-
tion.

Fig. 42. — Left hemisphere of monkey's brain. Mesial surface.

Fig. 43, after Starr, shows how the fibres run downwards.
All sensory currents entering the hemispheres run out
from the Rolandic region, which may thus be regarded as
a sort of funnel of escape, which narrows still more as it
plunges beneath the surface, traversing the inner capsule,
pons, and parts below. The dark ellipses on the left half
of the diagram stand for hemorrhages or tumors, and the
reader can easily trace, by following the course of the
fibres, what the effect of them in interrupting motor cur-
rents may be.

io8

PSYCHOLOGY

One of the most instructive proofs of motor localization
in the cortex is that furnished by the disease now called
aphemia, or motor aphasia. Motor aphasia is neither loss
of voice nor paralysis of the tongue or lips. The patient's
voice is as strong as ever, and all the innervations of his

Fig. 43— Schematic transverse section of the human brain, through the rolan-
dic region. S, fissure of Sylvius; N.C., nucleus candatus, and N.L., nucleus
lenticularis, of the corpus striatum; O.T., thalamus; C, crus; M, medulla
oblongata; VII, the facial nerves passing out from their nucleus in the
region of the pons. The fibres passing between O.T. and N.L. constitute the
so-called internal capsule.

hypoglossal and facial nerves, except those necessary for
speaking, may go on perfectly well. He can laugh and
cry, and even sing; but he either is unable to utter any
words at all; or a few meaningless stock phrases form his
only speech; or else he speaks incoherently and confusedly,

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN

109

mispronouncing, misplacing, and misusing his words in
various degrees. Sometimes his speech is a mere broth of
unintelligible syllables. In cases of pure motor aphasia
the patient recognizes his mistakes and suffers acutely
from them. Now whenever a patient dies in such a con-
dition as this, and an examination of his brain is per-

Fig. 44- — Schematic profile of left hemisphere, with the parts shaded whose
destruction causes motor (' Broca ') and sensory (' Wernicke ') aphasia.

mitted, it is found that the lowest frontal gyrus (see Fig.
44) is the seat of injury. Broca first noticed this fact
in 1 86 1, and since then the gyrus has gone by the name of
Broca's convolution. The injury in right-handed people is
found on the left hemisphere, and in left-handed people on
the right hemisphere. Most people, in fact, are left-brained,
that is, all their delicate and specialized movements are
handed over to the charge of the left hemisphere. The
ordinary right-handedness for such movements is only a
consequence of that fact, a consequence which shows out-

no PSYCHOLOGY

wardly on account of that extensive crossing of the fibres
from the left hemisphere to the right half of the body
only, which is shown in Fig. 43, below the letter M. But
the left-brainedness might exist and not show outwardly.
This would happen wherever organs on both sides of the
body could be governed by the left hemisphere; and just
such a case seems offered by the vocal organs, in that
highly delicate and special motor service which we call
speech. Either hemisphere can innervate them bilater-
ally, just as either seems able to innervate bilaterally
the muscles of the trunk, ribs, and diaphragm. Of the
special movements of speech, however, it would appear
(from these very facts of aphasia) that the left hemisphere
in most persons habitually takes exclusive charge. With
that hemisphere thrown out of gear, speech is undone;
even though the opposite hemisphere still be there for the
performance of less specialized acts, such as the various
movements required in eating.

The visual centre is in the occipital lobes. This also
is proved by all the three kinds of possible evidence.
It seems that the fibres from the lejt halves of both retinae
go to the lejt hemisphere, those from the right half to
the right hemisphere. The consequence is that when the
right occipital lobe, for example, is injured, ' hemianopsia '
results in both eyes, that is, both retinae grow blind as to
their right halves, and the patient loses the leftward half
of his field of view. The diagram on p. in will make this
matter clear (see Fig. 45).

Quite recently, both Schaefer and Munk, in studying
the movements of the eyeball produced by galvanizing the
visual cortex in monkeys and dogs, have found reason to
plot out an analogous correspondence between the upper
and lower portions of the retinae and certain parts of the
visual cortex. If both occipital lobes were destroyed,
we should have double hemiopia, or, in other words,
total blindness. In human hemiopic blindness there is
insensibility to light on one half of the field of view, but

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN

mental images of visible things remain. In double hemi-
opia there is every reason to believe that not only the sen-
sation of light must go, but that all memories and images
l t. r. r.n. r

1.0. s

Fig. 45. — Scheme of the mechanism of vision, after Seguin. The cuneus con-
volution (Cm) of the right occipital lobe is supposed to be injured, and all
the parts which lead to it are darkly shaded to show that they fail to exert
their function. F.O. are the intra -hemispheric optical fibres. P.O.C. is the
region of the lower optic centres (corpora geniculata and quadrigemina).
T.O.D. is the right optic tract; C, the chiasma; F.L.D. are the fibres going
to the lateral or temporal half T of the right retina, and F.C.S. are those
going to the central or nasal half of the left retina. O.D. is the right, and
0.5". the left, eyeball. The rightward half of each is therefore blind; in
other words, the right nasal field, R.N.F., and the left temporal field, L.T.F.,
have become invisible to the subject with the lesion at Cm.

112

PSYCHOLOGY

of a visual order must be annihilated also. The man loses
his visual ' ideas.' Only ' cortical ' blindness can produce
this effect on the ideas. Destruction of the retinae or of
the visual tracts anywhere between the cortex and the eyes
impairs the retinal sensibility to light, but not the power
of visual imagination.

Mental Blindness. — A most interesting effect of cortical
disorder is mental blindness. This consists not so much

Fig. 46. — Fibres associating the cortical centres together.
(Schematic, after Starr.)

in insensibility to optical impressions, as in inability to
understand them. Psychologically it is interpretable as
loss of associations between optical sensations and what
they signify; and any interruption of the paths between
the optic centres and the centres for other ideas ought to
bring it about. Thus, printed letters of the alphabet, or
words, signify both certain sounds and certain articulatory
movements. But the connection between the articulating
or auditory centres and those for sight being ruptured, we
ought a priori to expect that the sight of words would

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN 113

fail to awaken the idea of their sound, or of the movement
for pronouncing them. We ought, in short, to have alexia,
or inability to read ; and this is just what we do have as a
complication of aphasic disease in many cases of extensive
injury about the fronto-temporal regions.

Where an object fails to be recognized by sight, it often
happens that the patient will recognize and name it as
soon as he touches it with his hand. This shows in an
interesting way how numerous are the incoming paths
which all end by running out of the brain through the
channel of speech. The hand-path is open, though the
eye-path be closed. When mental blindness is most com-
plete, neither sight, touch, nor sound avails to steer the
patient, and a sort of dementia which has been called asym-
bolia or apraxia is the result. The commonest articles
are not understood. The patient will put his breeches on
one shoulder and his hat upon the other, will bite into
the soap and lay his shoes on the table, or take his food
into his hand and throw it down again, not knowing what
to do with it, etc. Such disorder can only come from
extensive brain-injury.

The centre for hearing is situated in man in the upper
convolution of the temporal lobe (see the part marked
'Wernicke' in Fig. 44). The phenomena of aphasia show
this. We studied motor aphasia a few pages back; we
must now consider sensory aphasia. Our knowledge of
aphasia has had three stages: we may talk of the period
of Broca, the period of Wernicke, and the period of Char-
cot. What Broca's discovery was we have seen. Wer-
nicke was the first to discriminate those cases in which
the patient can not even understand speech from those in
which he can understand, only not talk; and to ascribe
the former condition to lesion of the temporal lobe. The
condition in question is word-deafness, and the disease is
auditory aphasia. The latest statistical survey of the
subject is that by Dr. Allen Starr. In the seven cases
of pure word-deafness which he has collected (cases in

ii4 PSYCHOLOGY

which the patient could read, talk, and write, out not
understand what was said to him), the lesion was limited
to the first and second temporal convolutions in their
posterior two thirds. The lesion (in right-handed, i. e. left-
brained, persons) is always on the left side, like the lesion
in motor aphasia. Crude hearing would not be abolished
even were the left centre for it utterly destroyed; the right
centre would still provide for that. But the linguistic use
of hearing appears bound up with the integrity of the left
centre more or less exclusively. Here it must be that
words heard enter into association with the things which
they represent, on the one hand, and with the movements
necessary for pronouncing them, on the other. In most
of us (as Wernicke said) speech must go on from auditory
cues; that is, our visual, tactile, and other ideas probably
do not innervate our motor centres directly, but only after
first arousing the mental sound of the words. This is the
immediate stimulus to articulation; and where the possi-
bility of this is abolished by the destruction of its usual
channel in the left temporal lobe, the articulation must
suffer. In the few cases in which the channel is abolished
with no bad effect on speech we must suppose an idiosyn-
crasy. The patient must innervate his speech-organs either
from the corresponding portion of the other hemisphere
or directly from the centres of vision, touch, etc., without
leaning on the auditory region. It is the minuter analysis
of such individual differences as these which constitutes
Charcot's contribution towards clearing up the subject.

Every namable thing has numerous properties, qualities,
or aspects. In our minds the properties together with the
name form an associated group. If different parts of the
brain are severally concerned with the several properties,
and a farther part with the hearing, and still another
with the uttering, of the name, there must inevitably be
brought about (through the law of association which we
shall later study) such a connection amongst all these brain-
parts that the activity of any one of them will be likely to

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN 115

awaken the activity of all the rest. When we are talking
whilst we think, the ultimate process is utterance. If the
brain-part for that be injured, speech is impossible or dis-
orderly, even though all the other brain-parts be intact:
and this is just the condition of things which, on p. 109,
we found to be brought about by lesion of the convolution
of Broca. But back of that last act various orders of suc-
cession are possible in the associations of a talking man's
ideas. The more usual order is, as aforesaid, from the tac-
tile, visual, or other properties of the things thought-about
to the sound of their names, and then to the latter 's utter-
ance. But if in a certain individual's mind the look of an
object or the look of its name be what habitually precedes
articulation, then the loss of the hearing centre will pro
tanto not affect that individual's speech or reading. He
will be mentally deaf, i.e. his understanding of the human
voice will suffer, but he will not be aphasic. In this way
it is possible to explain the seven cases of word-deafness
without motor aphasia which figure in Dr. Starr's table.

If this order of association be ingrained and habitual in
that individual, injury to his visual centres will make him
not only word-blind, but aphasic as well. His speech will
become confused in consequence of an occipital lesion.
Naunyn, consequently, plotting out on a diagram of the
hemisphere the 71 irreproachably reported cases of aphasia
which he was able to collect, finds that the lesions concen-
trate themselves in three places: first, on Broca 's centre;
second, on Wernicke's; third, on the supra-marginal and
angular convolutions under which those fibres pass which
connect the visual centres with the rest of the brain (see
Fig. 47, p. 116). With this result Dr. Starr's analysis of
purely sensory cases agrees.

In the chapter on Imagination we shall return to these
differences in the sensory spheres of different individuals.
Meanwhile few things show more beautifully than the his-
tory of our knowledge of aphasia how the sagacity and
patience of many banded workers are in time certain to

PSYCHOLOGY

analyze the darkest confusion into an orderly display.
There is no 'organ' of Speech in the brain any more than
there is a 'faculty* of Speech in the mind. The entire
mind and the entire brain are more or less at work in a

Fig. 47-

man who uses language. The subjoined diagram, from
Ross, shows the four parts most vitally concerned, and
in the light of our text, needs no farther explanation (see
Fig. 48, p. 117).

Centres for Smell, Taste, and Touch. — The other sen-
sory centres are less definitely made out. Of smell and taste
I will say nothing; and of muscular and cutaneous feeling
only this, that it seems most probably seated in the motor
zone, and possibly in the convolutions immediately back-
wards and mid wards thereof. The incoming tactile cur-
rents must enter the cells of this region by one set of fibres,
and the discharges leave them by another, but of these
refinements of anatomy we at present know nothing.

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN

117

Conclusion. — We thus see the postulate of Meynert and
Jackson, with which we started on p. 105, to be on the whole
most satisfactorily corroborated by objective research. The
highest centres do probably contain nothing but arrange-

FlG. 48.

-A is the auditory centre, V the visual, W the writing, and
E that for speech.

ments for representing impressions and movements, and
other arrangements for coupling the activity of these ar-
rangements together. Currents pouring in from the sense-
organs first excite some arrangement, which in turn excite
others, until at last a discharge downwards of some sort
occurs. When this is once clearly grasped there remains
little ground for asking whether the motor zone is exclusively
motor, or sensitive as well. The whole cortex, inasmuch as

u8 PSYCHOLOGY

currents run through it, is both. All the currents probably
have feelings going with them, and sooner or later bring
movements about. In one aspect, then, every centre is affer-
ent, in another efferent, even the motor cells of the spinal cord
having these two aspects inseparably conjoined. Marique,
and Exner and Paneth have shown that by cutting round
a 'motor' centre and so separating it from the influence of
the rest of the cortex, the same disorders are produced as
by cutting it out, so that it is really just what I called it,
only the funnel through which the stream of innervation,
starting from elsewhere, escapes; consciousness accompany-
ing the stream, and being mainly of things seen if the
stream is strongest occipitally, of things heard if it is
strongest temporally, of things felt, etc., if the stream occu-
pies most intensely the ( motor zone* It seems to me that
some broad and vague formulation like this is as much as
we can safely venture on in the present state of science —
so much at least is not likely to be overturned. But it is
obvious how little this tells us of the detail of what goes
on in the brain when a certain thought is before the mind.
The general forms of relation perceived between things, as
their identities, likenesses, or contrasts; the forms of the
consciousness itself, as effortless or perplexed, attentive or
inattentive, pleasant or disagreeable; the phenomena of
interest and selection, etc., etc., are all lumped together as
effects correlated with the currents that connect one centre
with another. Nothing can be more vague than such a
formula. Moreover certain portions of the brain, as the
lower frontal lobes, escape formulation altogether. Their
destruction gives rise to no local trouble of either motion
or sensibility in dogs, and in monkeys neither stimulation
nor excision of these lobes produces any symptoms what-
ever. One monkey of Horsley and Schaefer's was as tame,
and did certain tricks as well, after as before the operation.
It is in short obvious that our knowledge of our mental
states infinitely exceeds our knowledge of their concomi-
tant cerebral conditions. Without introspective analysis of

THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN 119

the mental elements of speech, the doctrine of Aphasia, for
instance, which is the most brilliant jewel in Physiology,
would have been utterly impossible. Our assumption,
therefore (p. 5), that mind-states are absolutely dependent
on brain-conditions, must still be understood as a mere
postulate. We may have a general faith that it must be
true, but any exact insight as to how it is true lags wofully
behind.

Before taking up the study of conscious states properly
so called, I will in a separate chapter speak of two or
three aspects of brain-function which have a general im-
portance and which cooperate in the production of all our
mental states.

CHAPTER IX

SOME GENERAL CONDITIONS OF NEURAL ACTIVITY

The Nervous Discharge. — The word discharge is con-
stantly used, and must be used in this book, to designate
the escape of a current downwards into muscles or other
internal organs. The reader must not understand the
word figuratively. From the point of view of dynamics
the passage of a current out of a motor cell is probably
altogether analogous to the explosion of a gun. The mat-
ter of the cell is in a state of internal tension, which the
incoming current resolves, tumbling the molecules into a
more stable equilibrium and liberating an amount of
energy which starts the current of the outgoing fibre.
This current is stronger than that of the incoming fibre.
When it reaches the muscle it produces an analogous dis-
integration of pent-up molecules and the result is a stronger
effect still. Matteuci found that the work done by a mus-
cle's contraction was 27,000 times greater than that done
by the galvanic current which stimulated its motor nerve.
When a frog's leg-muscle is made to contract, first directly,
by stimulation of its motor nerve, and second reflexly, by
stimulation of a sensory nerve, it is found that the reflex
way requires a stronger current and is more tardy, but
that the contraction is stronger when it does occur. These
facts prove that the cells in the spinal cord through which
the reflex takes place offer a resistance which has first to
be overcome, but that a relatively violent outward current
outwards then escapes from them. What is this but an
explosive discharge on a minute scale?

Reaction-time. — The measurement of the time required
for the discharge is one of the lines of experimental inves-

120

GENERAL CONDITIONS OF NEURAL ACTIVITY 121

tigation most diligently followed of late years. Helmholtz
led the way by discovering the rapidity of the outgoing
current in the sciatic nerve of the frog. The methods
he used were soon applied to sensory reactions, and the
results caused much popular admiration when described as
measurements of the 'velocity of thought.' The phrase
'quick as thought' had from time immemorial signified all
that was wonderful and elusive of determination in the line
of speed; and the way in which Science laid her doomful
hand upon this mystery reminded people of the day when
Franklin first ' eripuit coelo fulmen,' foreshadowing the
reign of a newer and colder race of gods. I may say, how-
ever, immediately, that the phrase 'velocity of thought' is
misleading, for it is by no means clear in any of the cases
what particular act of thought occurs during the time
which is measured. What the times in question really
represent is the total duration of certain reactions upon
stimuli. Certain of the conditions of the reaction are
prepared beforehand; they consist in the assumption of
those motor and sensory tensions which we name the ex-
pectant state. Just what happens during the actual time
occupied by the reaction (in other words, just what is
added to the preexistent tensions to produce the actual
discharge) is not made out at present, either from the
neural or from the mental point of view.

The method is essentially the same in all these investiga-
tions. A signal of some sort is communicated to the sub-
ject, and at the same instant records itself on a time-regis-
tering apparatus. The subject then makes a muscular
movement of some sort, which is the 'reaction,' and which
also records itself automatically. The time found to have
elapsed between the two records is the total time of that
reaction. The time-registering instruments are of various
types. One type is that of the revolving drum covered
with smoked paper, on which one electric pen traces a line
which the signal breaks and the 'reaction' draws again;
whilst another electric pen (connected with a rod of metal

1 !

VVA^y^AAAy\y\AAAAAAAAAAAA/NA

122 PSYCHOLOGY

vibrating at a known rate) traces alongside of the former
line a 'time-line' of which each undulation or link stands
for a certain fraction of a second, and against which the
break in the reaction-line can be measured. Compare Fig.
49, where the line is broken by the signal at the first

Signal. Reaction.

Reaction-line.
Time-line.

Fig. 49.

arrow, and continued again by the reaction at the second.
The machine most often used is Hipp's chronoscopic clock.
The hands are placed at zero, the signal starts them (by
an electric connection), and the reaction stops them. The
duration of their movement, down to ioooths of a second,
is then read off from the dial-plates.

Simple Reactions. — It is found that the reaction-time
differs in the same person according to the direction of his
expectant attention. If he thinks as little as possible of
the movement which he is to make, and concentrates his
mind upon the signal to be received, it is longer; if, on the
contrary, he bends his mind exclusively upon the muscu-
lar response, it is shorter. Lange, who first noticed this
fact when working in Wundt's laboratory, found his own
'muscular* reaction-time to average o".i23, whilst his
'sensorial' reaction- time averaged as much as o".23o. It is
obvious that experiments, to have any comparative value,
must always be made according to the 'muscular* method,
which reduces the figure to its minimum and makes it
more constant. In general it lies between one and two
tenths of a second. It seems to me that under these cir-
cumstances the reaction is essentially a reflex act. The
preliminary making-ready of the muscles for the move-

GENERAL CONDITIONS OF NEURAL ACTIVITY 123

ment means the excitement of the paths of discharge to
a point just short of actual discharge before the signal
comes in. In other words, it means the temporary forma-
tion of a real 'reflex-arc' in the centres, through which
the incoming current instantly can pour out again. But
when, on the other hand, the expectant attention is exclu-
sively addressed to the signal, the excitement of the motor
tracts can only begin after this latter has come in, and
under this condition the reaction takes more time. In
the hair-trigger condition in which we stand when making
reactions by the 'muscular' method, we sometimes respond
to a wrong signal, especially if it be of the same kind with
the one we expect. The signal is but the spark which
touches off a train already laid. There is no thought in
the matter; the hand jerks by an involuntary start.

These experiments are thus in no sense measurements of
the swiftness of thought. Only when we complicate them
is there a chance for anything like an intellectual operation
to occur. They may be complicated in various ways. The
reaction may be withheld until the signal has consciously
awakened a distinct idea (Wundt's discrimination-time, asso-
ciation-time), and may then be performed. Or there may be
a variety of possible signals, each with a different reaction
assigned to it, and the reacter may be uncertain which one
he is about to receive. The reaction would then hardly
seem to occur without a preliminary recognition and choice.
Even here, however, the discrimination and choice are
widely different from the intellectual operations of which
we are ordinarily conscious under those names. Mean-
while the simple reaction-time remains as the starting
point of all these superinduced complications, and its own
variations must be briefly passed in review.

The reaction-time varies with the individual and his
age. Old and uncultivated people have it long (nearly a
second, in an old pauper observed by Exner). Children
have it long (half a second, according to Herzen).

Practice shortens it to a quantity which is for each indi-

i24 PSYCHOLOGY

vidual a minimum beyond which no farther reduction can
be made. The aforesaid old pauper's time was, after much
practice, reduced to 0.1866 sec.

Fatigue lengthens it, and concentration of attention
shortens it. The nature of the signal makes it vary. I
here bring together the averages which have been obtained
by some observers:

Hirsch. Hankel. Exner. Wundt.

Sound 0.149 0.1505 0.1360 0.167

Light 0.200 0.2246 0.1506 0.222

Touch 0.182 0.1546 0.1337 0.213

It will be observed that sound is more promptly reacted
on than either sight or touch. Taste and smell are slower
than either. The intensity of the signal makes a differ-
ence. The intenser the stimulus the shorter the time.
Herzen compared the reaction from a corn on the toe with
that from the skin of the hand of the same subject. The
two places were stimulated simultaneously, and the subject
tried to react simultaneously with both hand and foot, but
the foot always went quickest. When the sound skin of
the foot was touched instead of the corn, it was the hand
which always reacted first. Intoxicants on the whole
lengthen the time, but much depends on the dose.

Complicated Reactions. — These occur when some kind
of intellectual operation accompanies the reaction. The
rational place in which to report of them would be under
the head of the various intellectual operations concerned.
But certain persons prefer to see all these measurements
bunched together regardless of context; so, to meet their
views, I give the complicated reactions here.

When we have to think before reacting it is obvious that
there is no definite reaction-time of which we can talk — it
all depends on how long we think. The only times we
can measure are the minimum times of certain determinate
and very simple intellectual operations. The time required
for discrimination has thus been made a subject of experi-
mental measurement. Wundt calls it Unterscheidungszeit.

GENERAL CONDITIONS OF NEURAL ACTIVITY 125

His subjects (whose simple reaction- time had previously
been determined) were required to make a movement,
always the same, the instant they discerned which of two
or more signals they received. The excess of time occupied
by these reactions over the simple reaction-time, in which
only one signal was used and known in advance, measured,
according to Wundt, the time required for the act of dis-
crimination. It was found longer when four different
signals were irregularly used than when only two were
used. When two were used (the signals being the sudden
appearance of a black or of a white object), the average
times of three observers were respectively (in seconds)

0.050 0.047 0.079
When four signals were used, a red and a green light
being added to the others, it became, for the same observers,

0.157 0.073 0-132
Prof. Cattell found he could get no results by this
method, and reverted to one used by observers previous to
Wundt and which Wundt had rejected. This is the
einjache Wahlmethode, as Wundt calls it. The reacter
awaits the signal and reacts if it is of one sort, but omits
to act if it is of another sort. The reaction thus occurs
after discrimination; the motor impulse cannot be sent
to the hand until the subject knows what the signal is.
Reacting in this way, Prof. Cattell found the increment of
time required for distinguishing a white signal from no
signal to be, in two observers,

0.030 and 0.050;
that for distinguishing one color from another was simi-
larly

o.ico and o.no;
that for distinguishing a certain color from ten other
colors,

0.105 and 0.1 17;
that for distinguishing the letter A in ordinary print from
the letter Z,

0.142 and 0.137;

126 PSYCHOLOGY

that for distinguishing a given letter from all the rest of
the alphabet (not reacting until that letter appeared),

o.iiq and 0.116;
that for distinguishing a word from any of twenty-five
other words, from

0.1 18 to 0.158 sec.

— the difference depending on the length of the words and
the familiarity of the language to which they belonged.

Prof. Cattell calls attention to the fact that the time for
distinguishing a word is often but little more than that for
distinguishing a letter. " We do not, therefore," he says,
" distinguish separately the letters of which a word is com-
posed, but the word as a whole. The application of this in
teaching children to read is evident."

He also finds a great difference in the time with which
various letters are distinguished, E being particularly bad.

The time required for association of one idea with
another has been measured. Galton, using a very simple
apparatus, found that the sight of an unforeseen word
would awaken an associated ' idea ' in about 5/6 of a second.
Wundt next made determinations in which the ' cue ' was
given by single-syllabled words called out by an assistant.
The person experimented on had to press a key as soon as
the sound of the word awakened an associated idea. Both
word and reaction were chronographically registered, and
the total time-interval between the two amounted, in four
observers, to 1.009, 0.896, 1.037, an(^ I-I54 seconds respec-
tively. From this the simple reaction-time and the time
of merely identifying the word's sound (the ' appreception-
time/ as Wundt calls it) must be subtracted, to get the
exact time required for the associated idea to arise. These
times were separately determined and subtracted. The
difference, called by Wundt association- time, amounted, in
the same four persons, to 706, 723, 752, and 874 thousandths
of a second respectively. The length of the last figure is
due to the fact that the person reacting was an American,
whose associations with German words would naturally be

GENERAL CONDITIONS OF NEURAL ACTIVITY 127

slower than those of natives. The shortest association-time
noted was when the word ' Sturm ' suggested to Wundt the
word ' Wind ' in 0.341 second. Prof. Cattel made some
interesting observations upon the association-time between
the look of letters and their names. " I pasted letters," he
says, "ona revolving drum, and determined at what rate
they could be read aloud as they passed by a slit in a
screen." He found it to vary according as one, or more
than one, letter was visible at a time through the slit, and
gives half a second as about the time which it takes to see
and name a single letter seen alone. The rapidity of a man's
reading is of course a measure of that of his associations,
since each seen word must call up its name, at least, ere it
is read. " I find," says Prof. Cattell, " that it takes about
twice as long to read (aloud, as fast as possible) words
which have no connection, as words which make sentences,
and letters which have no connection, as letters which make
words. When the words make sentences and the letters
words, not only do the processes of seeing and naming
overlap, but by one mental effort the subject can recognize
a whole group of words or letters, and by one will-act
choose the motions to be made in naming, so that the rate
at which the words and letters are read is really only lim-
ited by the maximum rapidity at which the speech-organs
can be moved. . . . For example, when reading as fast as
possible the writer's rate was, English 138, French 167,
German 250, Italian 327, Latin 434, and Greek 484; the
figures giving the thousandths of a second taken to read
each word. Experiments made on others strikingly con-
firm these results. The subject does not know that he is
reading the foreign language more slowly than his own;
this explains why foreigners seem to talk so fast. . . .

" The time required to see and name colors and pictures
of objects was determined in the same way. The time was

found to be about the same (over J^ sec.) for colors as for
pictures, and about twice as long as for words and letters.
Other experiments I have made show that we can recognize

128 PSYCHOLOGY

a single color or picture in a slightly shorter time than a
word or letter, but take longer to name it. This is
because, in the case of words and letters, the association
between the idea and the name has taken place so often that
the process has become automatic, whereas in the case of
colors and pictures we must by a voluntary effort choose
the name."

Dr. Romanes has found " astonishing differences in the
maximum rate of reading which is possible to different
individuals, all of whom have been accustomed to extensive
reading. That is to say, the difference may amount to
4 to i ; or, otherwise stated, in a given time one individual
may be able to read four times as much as another. More-
over, it appeared that there was no relationship between
slowness of reading and power of assimilation; on the con-
trary, when all the efforts are directed to assimilating aa
much as possible in a given time, the rapid readers (as
shown by their written notes) usually give a better account
of the portions of the paragraph which have been com-
passed by the slow readers than the latter are able to give;
and the most rapid reader I have found is also the best at
assimilating. I should further say," Dr. R. continues,
" that there is no relationship between rapidity of precep-
tion as thus tested and intellectual activity as tested by the
general results of intellectual work; for I have tried the
experiment with several highly distinguished men in
science and literature, most of whom I found to be slow
readers."

The degree of concentration of the attention has much to
do with determining the reaction-time. Anything which
baffles or distracts us beforehand, or startles us in the
signal, makes the time proportionally long.

The Summation of Stimuli. — Throughout the nerve-
centres it is a law that a stimulus which would be inadequate
i by itself to excite a nerve-centre to effective discharge may,
by acting with one or more other stimuli {equally inef-
fectual by themselves alone) bring the discharge about.

GENERAL CONDITIONS OF NEURAL ACTIVITY 129

The natural way to consider this is as a summation of
tensions which at last overcome a resistance. The first
of them produce a ' latent excitement ' or a ' heightened
irritability • — the phrase is immaterial so far as practical
consequences go; — the last is the straw which breaks the
camel's back.

This is proved by many physiological experiments which
cannot here be detailed; but outside of the laboratory we
constantly apply the law of summation in our practical
appeals. If a car-horse balks, the final way of starting
him is by applying a number of customary incitements at
once. If the driver uses reins and voice, if one bystander
pulls at his head, another lashes his hind-quarters, the
conductor rings the bell, and the dismounted passengers
shove the car, all at the same moment, his obstinacy gen-
erally yields, and he goes on his way rejoicing. If we
are striving to remember a lost name or fact, we think
of as many ' cues ' as possible, so that by their joint action
they may recall what no one of them can recall alone.
The sight of a dead prey will often not stimuate a beast
to pursuit, but if the sight of movement be added to
that of form, pursuit occurs. " Brucke noted that his
brainless hen which made no attempt to peck at the grain
under her very eyes, began pecking if the grain were thrown
on the ground with force, so as to produce a rattling
sound. " Dr. Allen Thomson hatched out some chickens
on a carpet, where he kept them for several days. They
showed no inclination to scrape, . . . but when Dr. Thom-
son sprinkled a little gravel on the carpet, ... the chick-
ens immediately began their scraping movements." A
strange person, and darkness, are both of them stimuli to
fear and mistrust in dogs (and for the matter of that, in
men). Neither circumstance alone may awaken outward
manifestations, but together, i.e. when the strange man
is met in the dark, the dog will be excited to violent defi-
ance. Street hawkers well know the efficacy of summation,
for they arrange themselves in a line on the sidewalk, and

130 PSYCHOLOGY

the passer often buys from the last one of them, through the
effect of the reiterated solicitation, what he refused to buy
from the first in the row.

Cerebral Blood-supply. — All parts of the cortex, when
electrically excited, produce alterations both of respiration
and circulation. The blood-pressure somewhat rises, as a
rule, all over the body, no matter where the cortical irrita-
tion is applied, though the motor zone is the most sensi-
tive region for the purpose. Slowing and quickening of the
heart are also observed. Mosso, using his 'plethysmograph'
as an indicator, discovered that the blood-supply to the arms
diminished during intellectual activity, and found further-
more that the arterial tension (as shown by the sphygmo-
graph) was increased in these members (see Fig. 50). So

Fig. 50. — Sphygmographic pulse-tracing. A, during intellectual repose;
B, during intellectual activity. (Mosso.)

slight an emotion as that produced by the entrance of
Professor Ludwig into the laboratory was instantly followed
by a shrinkage of the arms. The brain itself is an exces-
sively vascular organ, a sponge full of blood, in fact; and
another of Mosso 's inventions showed that when less blood
went to the legs, more went to the head. The subject to
be observed lay on a delicately balanced table which could
tip downward either at the head or at the foot if the
weight of either end were increased. The moment emo-
tional or intellectual activity began in the subject, down
went the head-end, in consequence of the redistribution
of blood in his system. But the best proof of the im-
mediate afflux of blood to the brain during mental ac-
tivity is due to Mosso's observations on three persons
whose brain had been laid bare by lesion of the skull.

GENERAL CONDITIONS OF NEURAL ACTIVITY 131

By means of apparatus described in his book, this phys-
iologist was enabled to let the brain-pulse record itself
directly by a tracing. The intra-cranial blood-pressure rose
immediately whenever the subject was spoken to, or when
he began to think actively, as in solving a problem in
mental arithmetic. Mosso gives in his work a large num-
ber of reproductions of tracings which show the instanta-
neity of the change of blood-supply, whenever the mental
activity was quickened by any cause whatever, intellectual
or emotional. He relates of his female subject that one
day whilst tracing her brain-pulse he observed a sudden
rise with no apparent outer or inner cause. She however
confessed to him afterwards that at that moment she had
caught sight of a skull on top of a piece of furniture in
the room, and that this had given her a slight emotion.

Cerebral Thermometry. — Brain-activity seems accom-
panied by a local disengagement of heat. The earliest
careful work in this direction was by Dr. J. S. Lombard in
1867. He noted the changes in delicate thermometers and
electric piles placed against the scalp in human beings,
and found that any intellectual effort such as computing,
composing, reciting poetry silently or aloud, and especially
that emotional excitement such as an angry fit, caused a
general rise of temperature, which rarely exceeded a degree
Fahrenheit. In 1870 the indefatigable Schiff took up the
subject, experimenting on live dogs and chickens by plung-
ing thermo-electric needles into the substance of their
brain. After habituation was established, he tested the
animals with various sensations, tactile, optic, olfactory,
and auditory. He found very regularly an abrupt alter-
ation of the intra-cerebral temperature. When, for instance,
he presented an empty roll of paper to the nose of his dog
as it lay motionless, there was a small deflection, but when
a piece of meat was in the paper the deflection was much
greater. Schiff concluded from these and other experi-
ments that sensorial activity heats the brain-tissue, but he
did not try to localize the increment of heat beyond finding

i3 2 PSYCHOLOGY

that it was in both hemispheres, whatever might be the
sensation applied. Dr. Amidon in 1880 made a farther
step forward, in localizing the heat produced by voluntary
muscular contractions. Applying a number of delicate
surface-thermometers simultaneously against the scalp, he
found that when different muscles of the body were made
to contract vigorously for ten minutes or more, different
regions of the scalp rose in temperature, that the regions
were well focalized, and that the rise of temperature was
often considerably over a Fahrenheit degree. To a large
extent these regions correspond to the centres for the same
movements assigned by Ferrier and others on other grounds ;
only they cover more of the skull.

Phosphorus and Thought. — Considering the large
amount of popular nonsense which passes current on this
subject I may be pardoned for a brief mention of it here.
' Ohne Phosphor, kem Gedanke,' was a noted war-cry of the
' materialists ' during the excitement on that subject which
filled Germany in the '6os. The brain, like every other
organ of the body, contains phosphorus, and a score of
other chemicals besides. Why the phosphorus should be
picked out as its essence, no one knows. It would be
equally true to say, ' Ohne Wasser, kein Gedanke,' or ' Ohne
Kochsalz, kein Gedanke '; for thought would stop as quickly
if the brain should dry up or lose its NaCl as if it
lost its phosporus. In America the phosporus-delusion
has twined itself round a saying quoted (rightly or wrongly)
from Professor L. Agassiz, to the effect that fishermen are
more intelligent than farmers because they eat so much
fish, which contains so much phosphorus. All the alleged
facts may be doubted.

The only straight way to ascertain the importance of
phosphorus to thought would be to find whether more is
excreted by the brain during mental activity than during
rest. Unfortunately we cannot do this directly, but can
only gauge the amount of P05 in the urine, and this pro-
cedure has been adopted by a variety of observers, some of

GENERAL CONDITIONS OF NEURAL ACTIVITY 133

whom found the phosphates in the urine diminished, whilst
others found them increased, by intellectual work. On
the whole, it is impossible to trace any constant relation.
In maniacal excitement less phosphorus than usual seems
to be excreted. More is excreted during sleep. The fact
that phosphorus-preparations may do good in nervous
exhaustion proves nothing as to the part played by phos-
phorus in mental activity. Like iron, arsenic, and other
remedies it is a stimulant or tonic, of whose intimate work-
ings in the system we know absolutely nothing, and which
moreover does good in an extremely small number of the
cases in which it is prescribed.

The phosphorus-philosophers have often compared
thought to a secretion. " The brain secretes thought, as
the kidneys secrete urine, or as the liver secretes bile," are
phrases which one sometimes hears. The lame analogy
need hardly be pointed out. The materials which the brain
pours into the blood (cholesterin, creatin, xanthin, or what-
ever they may be) are the analogues of the urine and the
bile, being in fact real material excreta. As far as these
matters go, the brain is a ductless gland. But we know of
nothing connected with liver- and kidney-activity which
can be in the remotest degree compared with the stream of
thought that accompanies the brain's material secretions.

(

CHAPTER X

HABIT

Its Importance for Psychology. — There remains a
condition of general neural activity so important as to de-
serve a chapter by itself — I refer to the aptitude of the nerve-
centres, especially of the hemispheres, for acquiring habits.
An acquired habit, from the physiological point of view, is
nothing but a new pathway of discharge formed in the
brain, by which certain incoming currents ever after tend
to escape. That is the thesis of this chapter; and we shall
see in the later and more psychological chapters that such
functions as the association of ideas, perception, memory,
reasoning, the education of the will, etc. etc., can best be
understood as results of the formation de novo of just such
pathways of discharge.

Habit has a physical basis. The moment one tries to
define what habit is, one is led to the fundamental proper-
ties of matter. The laws of Nature are nothing but the
immutable habits which the different elementary sorts of
matter follow in their actions and reactions upon each
other. In the organic world, however, the habits are more
variable than this. Even instincts vary from one individual
to another of a kind; and are modified in the same in-
dividual, as we shall later see, to suit the exigencies of the
case. On the principles of the atomistic philosophy the
habits of an elementary particle of matter cannot change,
because the particle is itself an unchangeable thing; but
those of a compound mass of matter can change, because
they are in the last instance due to the structure of
the compound, and either outward forces or inward ten-
sions can, from one hour to another, turn that structure

i34

HABIT 135

into something different from what it was. That is, they
can do so if the body be plastic enough to maintain its
integrity, and be not disrupted when its structure yields.
The change of structure here spoken of need not involve
the outward shape; it may be invisible and molecular, as
when a bar of iron becomes magnetic or crystalline through
the action of certain outward causes, or india-rubber
becomes friable, or plaster ■ sets.' All these changes are
rather slow; the material in question opposes a certain
resistance to the modifying cause, which it takes time to
overcome, but the gradual yielding whereof often saves the
material from being disintegrated altogether. When the
structure has yielded, the same inertia becomes a condition
of its comparative permanence in the new form, and of the
new habits the body then manifests. Plasticity, then, in
the wide sense of the word, means the possession of a
structure weak enough to yield to an influence, but strong
enough not to yield all at once. Each relatively stable
•phase of equilibrium in such a structure is marked by
what we may call a new set of habits. Organic matter,
especially nervous tissue, seems endowed with a very ex-
traordinary degree of plasticity of this sort; so that we
may without hesitation lay down as our first proposition
the following: that the phenomena of habit in living beings
are due to the plasticity of the organic materials of which
their bodies are composed.

The philosophy of habit is thus, in the first instance,
a chapter in physics rather than in physiology or psychol-
ogy. That it is at bottom a physical principle, is admitted
by all good recent writers on the subject. They call atten-
tion to analogues of acquired habits exhibited by dead
matter. Thus, M. Leon Dumont writes:

" Every one knows how a garment, after having been
worn a certain time, clings to the shape of the body better
than when it was new; there has been a change in the
tissue, and this change is a new habit of cohesion. A lock
works better after being used some time; at the outset more

136 PSYCHOLOGY

force was required to overcome certain roughness in the
mechanism. The overcoming of their resistance is a phe-
nomenon of habituation. It costs less trouble to fold a
paper when it has been folded already; . . . and just so in
the nervous system the impressions of outer objects fashion
for themselves more and more appropriate paths, and these
vital phenomena recur under similar excitements from
without, when they have been interrupted a certain time."

Not in the nervous system alone. A scar anywhere is
a locus minoris resistentice, more liable to be abraded,
inflamed, to suffer pain and cold, than are the neighboring
parts. A sprained ankle, a dislocated arm, are in danger
of being sprained or dislocated again ; joints that have once
been attacked by rheumatism or gout, mucous membranes
that have been the seat of catarrh, are with each fresh
recurrence more prone to a relapse, until often the morbid
state chronically substitutes itself for the sound one. And
in the nervous system itself it is well known how many so-
called functional diseases seem to keep themselves going
simply because they happen to have once begun; and how
the forcible cutting short by medicine of a few attacks is
often sufficient to enable the physiological forces to get
possession of the field again, and to bring the organs back
to functions of health. Epilepsies, neuralgias, convulsive
affections of various sorts, insomnias, are so many cases in
point. And, to take what are more obviously habits, the
success with which a ' weaning ' treatment can often be
applied to the victims of unhealthy indulgence of passion,
or of mere complaining or irascible disposition, shows us
how much the morbid manifestations themselves were due
to the mere inertia of the nervous organs, when once
launched on a false career.

Habits are due to pathways through the nerve-
centres. If habits are due to the plasticity of materials to
outward agents, we can immediately see, to what outward
influences, if to any, the brain-matter is plastic. Not to
mechanical pressures, not to thermal changes, not to any of

HABIT 137

the forces to which all the other organs of our body are
exposed; for, as we saw on pp. 9-10, Nature has so blanketed
and wrapped the brain about that the only impressions that
can be made upon it are through the blood, on the one hand,
and the sensory nerve-roots, on the other; and it is to the
infinitely attenuated currents that pour in through these
latter channels that the hemispherical cortex shows itself to
be so peculiarly susceptible. The currents, once in, must find
a way out. In getting out they leave their traces in the
paths which they take. The only thing they can do, in
short, is to deepen old paths or to make new ones; and the
whole plasticity of the brain sums itself up in two words
when we call it an organ in which currents pouring in from
the sense-organs make with extreme facility paths which
do not easily disappear. For, of course, a simple habit,
like every other nervous event — the habit of snuffling, for
example, or of putting one's hands into one's pockets, or of
biting one's nails — is, mechanically, nothing but a reflex
discharge; and its anatomical substratum must be a path
in the system. The most complex habits, as we shall pres-
ently see more fully, are, from the same point of view,
nothing but concatenated discharges in the nerve-centres,
due to the presence there of systems of reflex paths, so
organized as to wake each other up successively — the im-
pression produced by one muscular contraction serving as
a stimulus to provoke the next, until a final impression
inhibits the process and closes the chain.

It must be noticed that the growth of structural modi-
fication in living matter may be more rapid than in any
lifeless mass, because the incessant nutritive renovation of
which the living matter is the seat tends often to corrob-
orate and fix the impressed modification, rather than to
counteract it by renewing the original constitution of the
tissue that has been impressed. Thus, we notice after
exercising our muscles or our brain in a new way, that we
can do so no longer at that time; but after a day or two
of rest, when we resume the discipline, our increase in skill

138 PSYCHOLOGY

not seldom surprises us. I have often noticed this in
learning a tune; and it has led a German author to say that
we learn to swim during the winter, and to skate during
the summer.

Practical Effects of Habit. — First, habit simplifies our
movements, makes them accurate, and diminishes fatigue.

Man is born with a tendency to do more things than he
has ready-made arrangements for in his nerve-centres.
Most of the performances of other animals are automatic.
But in him the number of them is so enormous that most
of them must be the fruit of painful study. If practice
did not make perfect, nor habit economize the expense of
nervous and muscular energy, he would be in a sorry plight.
As Dr. Maudsley says: *

" If an act became no easier after being done several
times, if the careful direction of consciousness were neces-
sary to its accomplishment on each occasion, it is evident
that the whole activity of a lifetime might be confined to
one or two deeds — that no progress could take place in
development. A man might be occupied all day in dress-
ing and undressing himself; the attitude of his body would
absorb all his attention and energy; the washing of his
hands or the fastening of a button would be as difficult to
him on each occasion as to the child on its first trial ; and he
would furthermore, be completely exhausted by his exer-
tions. Think of the pains necessary to teach a child to
stand, of the many efforts which it must make, and of the
ease with which it at last stands, unconscious of any effort.
For while secondarily-automatic acts are accomplished with
comparatively little weariness — in this regard approaching
the organic movements, or the original reflex movements —
the conscious effort of the will soon produces exhaustion.
A spinal cord without . . . memory would simply be an
idiotic spinal cord. ... It is impossible for an individual

* The Physiology of Mind, p. 155.

HABIT 139

to realize how much he owes to its automatic agency until
disease has impaired its functions."

Secondly, habit diminishes the conscious attention with
which our acts are performed.

One may state this abstractly thus: If an act require for
its execution a chain, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, etc., of successive
nervous events, then in the first performances of the action
the conscious will must choose each of these events from
a number of wrong alternatives that tend to present them-
selves; but habit soon brings it about that each event calls
up its own appropriate successor without any alternative
offering itself, and without any reference to the conscious
will, until at last the whole chain, A, B, C, D, E, F, G,
rattles itself off as soon as A occurs, just as if A and the
rest of the chain were fused into a continuous stream.
Whilst we are learning to walk, to ride, to swim, skate,
fence, write, play, or sing, we interrupt ourselves at every
step by unnecessary movements and false notes. When
we are proficients, on the contrary, the results follow not
only with the very minimum of muscular action requisite
to bring them forth, but they follow from a single instan-
taneous ' cue.' The marksman sees the bird, and, before
he knows it, he has aimed and shot. A gleam in his
adversary's eye, a momentary pressure from his rapier, and
the fencer finds that he has instantly made the right parry
and return. A glance at the musical hieroglyphics, and
the pianist's fingers have rippled through a shower of
notes. And not only is it the right thing at the right
time that we thus involuntarily do, but the wrong thing
also, if it be an habitual thing. Who is there that has 1
never wound up his watch on taking off his waistcoat in
the daytime, or taken his latch-key out on arriving at the
door-step of a friend? Persons in going to their bed-
room to dress for dinner have been known to take off one
. garment after another and finally to get into bed, merely [^
' because that was the habitual issue of the first few move-
ments when performed at a later hour. We all have a

140 PSYCHOLOGY

definite routine manner of performing certain daily offices
connected with the toilet, with the opening and shutting of
familiar cupboards, and the like. But our higher thought-
centres know hardly anything about the matter. Few men
can tell off-hand which sock, shoe, or trousers-leg they put
on first. They must first mentally rehearse the act; and
even that is often insufficient — the act must be performed.
So of the questions, Which valve of the shutters opens
first? Which way does my door swing? etc. I cannot
tell the answer; yet my hand never makes a mistake. No
one can describe the order in which he brushes his hair or
teeth; yet it is likely that the order is a pretty fixed one
in all of us.

These results may be expressed as follows:

In action grown habitual, what instigates each new mus-
cular contraction to take place in its appointed order is
not a thought or a perception, but the sensation occasioned
by the muscular contraction just finished. A strictly vol-
untary act has to be guided by idea, perception, and voli-
tion, throughout its whole course. In habitual action,
mere sensation is a sufficient guide, and the upper regions
of brain and mind are set comparatively free. A diagram
will make the matter clear:

Let A, B, C, D, E, F, G represent an habitual chain of
muscular contractions, and let a, b, c, d, e, j stand for the
several sensations which these contractions excite in us
when they are successively performed. Such sensations

HABIT 141

will usually be in the parts moved, but they may also be
effects of the movement upon the eye or the ear. Through
them, and through them alone, we are made aware whether
or not the contraction has occurred. When the series,
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, is being learned, each of these sensa-
tions becomes the object of a separate act of attention by the
mind. We test each movement intellectually, to see if it
have been rightly performed, before advancing to the next.
We hesitate, compare, choose, revoke, reject, etc.; and the
order by which the next movement is discharged is an
express order from the ideational centres after this delib-
eration has been gone through.

In habitual action, on the contrary, the only impulse
which the intellectual centres need send down is that which
carries the command to start. This is represented in the
diagram by V; it may be a thought of the first movement
or of the last result, or a mere perception of some of the
habitual conditions of the chain, the presence, e.g., of the
keyboard near the hand. In the present example, no
sooner has this conscious thought or volition instigated
movement A, than A, through the sensation a of its own
occurrence, awakens B reflexly; B then excites C through
b, and so on till the chain is ended, when the intellect
generally takes cognizance of the final result. The intel-
lectual perception at the end is indicated in the diagram
by the sensible effect of the movement G being represented
at G'j in the ideational centres above the merely sensational
line. The sensational impressions, a, b, c, d, e, /, are all
supposed to have their seat below the ideational level.

Habits depend on sensations not attended to. We
have called a, b, c, d, e, f, by the name of 'sensations.' If
sensations, they are sensations to which we are usually
inattentive; but that they are more than unconscious
nerve-currents seems certain, for they catch our attention
if they go wrong. Schneider's account of these sensations
deserves to be quoted. " In the act of walking," he says,
" even when our attention is entirely absorbed elsewhere,

i42 PSYCHOLOGY

it is doubtful whether we could preserve equilibrium if
no sensation of our body's attitude were there, and doubt-
ful whether we should advance our leg if we had no
sensation of its movement as executed, and not even a
minimal feeling of impulse to set it down. Knitting
appears altogether mechanical, and the knitter keeps up
her knitting even while she reads or is engaged in lively
talk. But if we ask her how this is possible, she will
hardly reply that the knitting goes on of itself. She will
rather say that she has a feeling of it, that she feels in her
hands that she knits and how she must knit, and that
therefore the movements of knitting are called forth and
regulated by the sensations associated therewithal, even
when the attention is called away. ..." Again: " When a
pupil begins to play on the violin, to keep him from raising
his right elbow in playing a book is placed under his
right armpit, which he is ordered to hold fast by keeping
the upper arm tight against his body. The muscular feelings,
and feelings of contact connected with the book, provoke
an impulse to press it tight. But often it happens that
the beginner, whose attention gets absorbed in the pro-
duction of the notes, lets drop the book. Later, however,
this never happens ; the faintest sensations of contact suffice
to awaken the impulse to keep it in its place, and the
attention may be wholly absorbed by the notes and the
fingering with the left hand. The simultaneous combina-
tion of movements is thus in the first instance conditioned
by the facility with which in us, alongside of intellectual
processes, processes of inattentive feeling may still go on"
Ethical and Pedagogical Importance of the Principle
of Habit. — " 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 probably can
appreciate as well as one who is a veteran soldier himself.
The daily drill and the years of discipline end by fashioning
a man completely over again, as to most of the possibilities
of his conduct.

HABIT 143

" There is a story," says Prof. Huxley, " which is credible
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 in-
stantly brought his hands down, and lost his mutton and
potatoes in the gutter. The drill had been thorough, and
its effects had become embodied in the man's nervous
structure."

Riderless cavalry-horses, at many a battle, have been seen
to come together and go through their customary evolu-
tions at the sound of the bugle-call. Most domestic beasts
seem machines almost pure and simple, undoubtingly, un-
hesitatingly 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 a menagerie- tiger,
whose cage had broken open, is said to have emerged, but
presently crept back again, as if too much bewildered by
his new responsibilities, so that he was without difficulty
secured.

Habit is thus the enormous fly-wheel of society, its most
precious conservative agent. It alone is what keeps us all
within the bounds of ordinance, 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 tread 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

144 PSYCHOLOGY

see the professional mannerism settling down on the young
commercial traveller, on the young doctor, on the young
minister, on the young counsellor-at-law. You see the little
lines of cleavage 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 vocaliza-
tion and pronunciation, gesture, motion, and address.
Hardly ever is a language learned after twenty spoken
without a foreign accent; hardly ever can a youth trans-
ferred to the society of his betters unlearn the nasality and
other vices 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-clad
acquaintances contrive to get the things they wear will be
for him a mystery till his dying day.

The great thing, then, 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 plague. The more of the details of our daily life we

HABIT 145

can hand over to the effortless custody of automatism, the
more our higher powers of mind will be set free for their
own proper 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 deliberation. 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.

In Professor Bain's chapter on ' The Moral Habits ' there
are some admirable practical remarks laid down. Two
great maxims emerge from his treatment. The first is
that in the acquisition of a new habit, or the leaving off
of an old one, we must take care to launch ourselves with as
strong and decided an initiative as possible. Accumulate
all the possible circumstances which shall re-enforce the
right motives; put yourself assiduously in conditions that
encourage the new way; make engagements incompatible
with the old; take a public pledge, if the case allows; in
short, envelop your resolution with every aid you know.
This will give your new beginning such a momentum that
the temptation to break down will not occur as soon as it
otherwise might; and every day during which a break-
down is postponed adds to the chances of its not occurring
at all.

The second maxim is: Never suffer an exception to occur
till the new habit is securely rooted in your life. Each
lapse is like the letting fall of a ball of string which one is
carefully winding up; a single slip undoes more than a
great many turns will wind again. Continuity of training
is the great means of making the nervous system act infal-
libly right. As Professor Bain says:

" The peculiarity of the moral habits, contradistinguishing

146 PSYCHOLOGY

them from the intellectual acquisitions, is the presence
of two hostile powers, one to be gradually raised into the
ascendant over the other. It is necessary, above all things,
in such a situation, never to lose a battle. Every gain on
the wrong side undoes the effect of many conquests on the
right. The essential precaution, therefore, is so to regulate
the two opposing powers that the one may have a series of
uninterrupted successes,' until repetition has fortified it to
such a degree as to enable it to cope with the opposition,
under any circumstances. This is the theoretically best
career of mental progress."

The need of securing success at the outset is imperative.
Failure at first is apt to damp the energy of all future
attempts, whereas past experiences of success nerve one to
future vigor. Goethe says to a man who consulted him
about an enterprise but mistrusted his own powers: " Ach!
you need only blow on your hands!" And the remark
illustrates the effect on Goethe's spirits of his own habitually
successful career.

The question of ' tapering off,' in abandoning such habits
as drink and opium-indulgence comes in here, and is a
question about which experts differ within certain limits,
and in regard to what may be best for an individual case.
In the main, however, all expert opinion would agree that
abrupt acquisition of the new habit is the best way, if there
be a real possibility of carrying it out. We must be care-
ful not to give the will so stiff a task as to insure its defeat
at the very outset; but, provided one can stand it, a sharp
period of suffering, and then a free time, is the best thing
to aim at, whether in giving up a habit like that of opium,
or in simply changing one's hours of rising or of work. It
is surprising how soon a desire will die of inanition if it be
never fed.

" One must first learn, unmoved, looking neither to the
right nor left, to walk firmly on the strait and narrow
path, before one can begin l to make one's self over again.'
He who every day makes a fresh resolve is like one who,

HABIT 147

arriving at the edge of the ditch he is to leap, forever stops
and returns for a fresh run. Without unbroken advance
there is no such thing as accumulation of the ethical forces
possible, and to make this possible, and to exercise us and
habituate us in it, is the sovereign blessing of regular
work." *

A third maxim may be added to the preceding pair: ^
Seize the very first possible opportunity to act on every
resolution you make, and on every emotional prompting
you may, experience in the direction of the habits you aspire
to gain. It is not in the moment of their forming, but in
the moment of their producing motor effects, that resolves
and aspirations communicate the new ' set ' to the brain.
As the author last quoted remarks:

" The actual presence of the practical opportunity alone
furnishes the fulcrum .upon which the lever can rest, by
means of which the moral will may multiply its strength,
and raise itself aloft. He who has no solid ground to
press against will never get beyond the stage of empty
gesture-making."

No matter how full a reservoir of maxims one may pos-
sess, and no matter how good one's sentiments may be, if
one have not taken advantage of every concrete opportunity
to act, one's character may remain entirely unaffected
for the better. With mere good intentions, hell is pro-
verbially paved. And this is an obvious consqeuence of
the principles we have laid down. A ' character/ as J. S.
Mill says, ' is a completely fashioned will '; and a will, in
the sense in which he means it, is an aggregate of tenden-
cies to act in a firm and prompt and definite way upon all
the principal emergencies of life. A tendency to act only
becomes effectively ingrained in us in proportion to the
uninterrupted frequency with which the actions actually
occur, and the brain ' grows ' to their use. When a resolve
or a fine glow of feeling is allowed to evaporate without

*J. Bahnsen: 'Beitrage zu Charakterologie' (1867), vol. 1, p. 209.

148 PSYCHOLOGY

bearing practical fruit it is worse than a chance lost; it
works so as positively to hinder future resolutions and emo-
tions from taking the normal path of discharge. There is
no more contemptible type of human character than that
of the nerveless sentimentalist and dreamer, who spends his
life in a weltering sea of sensibility and emotion, but who
never does a manly concrete deed. Rousseau, inflaming
all the mothers of France, by his eloquence, to follow
Nature and nurse their babies themselves, while he sends
his own children to the foundling hospital, is the classical
example of what I mean. But every one of us in his
measure, whenever, after glowing for an abstractly formu-
lated Good, he practically ignores some actual case, among
the squalid ' other particulars ' of which that same Good
lurks disguised, treads straight on Rousseau's path. All
Goods are diguised by the vulgarity of their concomitants,
in this work-a-day world; but woe to him who can only
recognize them when he thinks them in their pure and
abstract form! The habit of excessive novel-reading and
theatre-going will produce true monsters in this line. The
weeping of the Russian lady over the fictitious personages
in the play, while her coachman is freezing to death
on his seat outside, is the sort of thing that everywhere
happens on a less glaring scale. Even the habit of exces-
sive indulgence in music, for those who are neither per-
formers themselves nor musically gifted enough to take it
in a purely intellectual way, has probably a relaxing effect
upon the character. One becomes filled with emotions
which habitually pass without prompting to any deed, and
so the inertly sentimental condition is kept up. The
remedy would be, never to suffer one's self to have an
emotion at a concert, without expressing it afterward in some
active way. Let the expression be the least thing in the
world — speaking genially to one's grandmother, or giving
up one's seat in a horse-car, if nothing more heroic offers —
but let it not fail to take place.

These latter cases make us aware that it is not simply

HABIT 149

particular lines of discharge, but also general forms of
discharge, that seem to be grooved out by habit in the
brain. Just as, if we let our emotions evaporate, they get
into a way of evaporating; so there is reason to suppose
that if we often flinch from making an effort, before we
know it the effort-making capacity will be gone; and that,
if we suffer the wandering of our attention, presently it
will wander all the time. Attention and effort are, as we
shall see later, but two names for the same psychic fact.
To what brain-processes they correspond we do not know.
The strongest reason for believing that they do depend on
brain-processes at all, and are not pure acts of the spirit, is
just this fact, that they seem in some degree subject to the
law of habit, which is a material law. As a final practical
maxim, relative to these habits of the will, we may, then,
offer something like this: Keep the faculty of effort alive Ly
>/\ in you by a little gratuitous exercise every day. That is,
be systematically ascetic or heroic in little unnecessary
points, do every day or two something for no other reason
than that you would rather not do it, so that when the
hour of dire need draws nigh, it may find you not unnerved
and untrained to stand the test. Ascetism of this sort is
like the insurance which a man pays on his house and
goods. The tax does him no good at the time, and possibly
may never bring him a return. But if the fire does come,
his having paid it will be his salvation from ruin. So with
the man who has daily inured himself to habits of concen-
trated attention, energetic volition, and self-denial in un-
necessary things. He will stand like a tower when every-
thing rocks around him, and when his softer fellow-mortals
are winnowed like chaff in the blast.

The physiological study of mental conditions is thus the
most powerful ally of hortatory ethics. The hell to be
endured hereafter, of which theology tells, is no worse than
the hell we make for ourselves in this world by habitually
fashioning our characters in the wrong way. Could the
young but realize how soon they will become mere walking

1 5o PSYCHOLOGY

bundles of habits, they would give more heed to their con-
duct while in the plastic state. We are spinning our own
fates, good or evil, and never to be undone. Every smallest
stroke of virtue or of vice leaves its never so little scar.
The drunken Rip Van Winkle, in Jefferson's play, excuses
himself for every fresh dereliction by saying, ' I won't count
this time! ' Well! he may not count it, and a kind Heaven
may not count it; but it is being counted none the less.
Down among his nerve cells and fibres the molecules are
counting it, registering and storing it up to be used against
him when the next temptation comes. Nothing we ever
do is, in strict scientific literalness, wiped out. Of course
this has its good side as well as its bad one. As we become
permanent drunkards by so many separate drinks, so we
become saints in the moral, and authorities and experts in
the practical and scientific spheres, by so many separate
acts and hours of work. Let no youth have any anxiety
about the upshot of his education, whatever the line of it
may be. If he keep faithfully busy each hour of the working
day, he may safely leave the final result to itself. He
can with perfect certainty count on waking up some fine
morning, to find himself one of the competent ones of his
generation, in whatever pursuit he may have singled out.
Silently, between all the details of his business, the power
of judging in all that class of matter will have built itself
up within him as a possession that will never pass away.
Young people should know this truth in advance. The
ignorance of it has probably engendered more discourage-
ment and faint-heartedness in youths embarking on arduous
careers than all other causes put together.

CHAPTER XI

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

The order of our study must be analytic. We are now
prepared to begin the introspective study of the adult con-
sciousness itself. Most books adopt the so-called synthetic
method. Starting with ' simple ideas of sensation,' and re-
garding these as so many atoms, they proceed to build up
the higher states of mind out of their ' association/ ' inte-
gration/ or ' fusion/ as houses are built by the agglutina-
tion of bricks. This has the didactic advantages which the
synthetic method usually has. But it commits one before-
hand to the very questionable theory that our higher states
of consciousness are compounds of units; and instead of
starting with what the reader directly knows, namely his
total concrete states of mind, it starts with a set of supposed
1 simple ideas ' with which he has no immediate acquaint-
ance at all, and concerning whose alleged interactions he is
much at the mercy of any plausible phrase. On every
ground, then, the method of advancing from the simple to
the compound exposes us to illusion. All pedants and
abstractionists will naturally hate to abandon it. But a
student who loves the fulness of human nature will prefer
to follow the c analytic ' method, and to begin with the
most concrete facts, those with which he has a daily ac-
quaintance in his own inner life. The analytic method
will discover in due time the elementary parts, if such
exist, without danger of precipitate assumption. The
reader will bear in mind that our own chapters on sensation
have dealt mainly with the physiological conditions there-
of. They were put first as a mere matter of convenience,
because incoming currents come first. Psychologically
they might better have come last. Pure sensations were

151

1 52 PSYCHOLOGY

described on page 12 as processes which in adult life are
well-nigh unknown, and nothing was said which could for
a moment lead the reader to suppose that they were the
elements of composition of the higher states of mind.

The Fundamental Fact. — The first and foremost con-
crete fact which every one will affirm to belong to his inner
experience is the fact that consciousness of some sort goes
on. ' States of mind * succeed each other in him. If we
could say in English ' it thinks/ as we say ' it rains ' or * it
blows/ we should be stating the fact most simply and with
the minimum of assumption. As we cannot, we must simply
say that thought goes on.

Four Characters in Consciousness. — How does it go
on? We notice immediately four important characters in
the process, of which it shall be the duty of the present
chapter to treat in a general way :

1 ) Every ' state ' tends to be part of a personal con-
sciousness.

2) Within each personal consciousness states are always
changing.

3) Each personal consciousness is sensibly continuous.

4) It is interested in some parts of its object to the ex-
clusion of others, and welcomes or rejects — chooses from
among them, in a word — all the while.

In considering these four points successively, we shall
have to plunge in medics res as regards our nomencla-
ture and use psychological terms which can only be ade-
quately defined in later chapters of the book. But every
one knows what the terms mean in a rough way; and it is
only in a rough way that we are now to take them. This
chapter is like a painter's first charcoal sketch upon his
canvas, in which no niceties appear.

When I say every ' state ' or ' thought ' is part of a per-
sonal consciousness, l personal consciousness ' is one of the
terms in question. Its meaning we know so long as no one
asks us to define it, but to give an accurate account of it is
the most difficult of philosophic tasks. This task we must

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 153

confront in the next chapter; here a preliminary word will
suffice.

In this room — this lecture-room, say — there are a multi-
tude of thoughts, yours and mine, some of which cohere
mutually, and some not. They are as little each-for-itself
and reciprocally independent as they are all-belonging-
together. They are neither: no one of them is separate,
but each belongs with certain others and with none beside.
My thought belongs with my other thoughts, and your
thought with your other thoughts. Whether anywhere in
the room there be a mere thought, which is nobody's
thought, we have no means of ascertaining, for we have no
experience of its like. The only states of consciousness
that we naturally deal with are found in personal con-
sciousnesses, minds, selves, concrete particular Fs and
you's.

Each of these minds keeps its own thoughts to itself.
There is no giving or bartering between them. No thought
even comes into direct sight of a thought in another per-
sonal consciousness than its own. Absolute insulation,
irreducible pluralism, is the law. It seems as if the ele-
mentary psychic fact were not thought or this thought or
that thought, but my thought, every thought being owned.
Neither contemporaneity, nor proximity in space, nor simi-
larity of quality and content are able to fuse thoughts
together which are sundered by this barrier of belonging
to different personal minds. The breaches between such
thoughts are the most absolute breaches in nature. Every
one will recognize this to be true, so long as the existence
of .something corresponding to the term ' personal mind ' is
all that is insisted on, without any particular view of its
nature being implied. On these terms the personal self
rather than the thought might be treated as the immediate
datum in psychology. The universal conscious fact is not
1 feelings and thoughts exist/ but ' I think ' and ' I feel.'
No psychology, at any rate, can question the existence of
personal selves. Thoughts connected as we feel them to

154 PSYCHOLOGY

be connected are what we mean by personal selves. The
worst a psychology can do is so to interpret the nature of
these selves as to rob them of their worth.

Consciousness is in constant change. I do not mean
by this to say that no one state of mind has any duration —
even if true, that would be hard to establish. What I wish
to lay stress on is this, that no state once gone can recur and
be identical with what it was before. Now we are seeing,
now hearing; now reasoning, now willing; now recollect-
ing, now expecting; now loving, now hating; and in a
hundred other ways we know our minds to be alternately
engaged. But all these are complex states, it may be said,
produced by combination of simpler ones; — do not the
simpler ones follow a different law? Are not the sensa-
tions which we get from the same object, for example,
always the same? Does not the same piano-key, struck
with the same force, make us hear in the same way? Does
not the same grass give us the same feeling of green, the
same sky the same feeling of blue, and do we not get the
same olfactory sensation no matter how many times we put
our nose to the same flask of cologne? It seems a piece of
metaphysical sophistry to suggest that we do not; and yet
a close attention to the matter shows that there is no proof
that an incoming current ever gives us just the same bodily
sensation twice.

What is got twice is the same object. We hear the same
note over and over again; we see the same quality of green,
or smell the same objective perfume, or experience the
same species of pain. The realities, concrete and abstract,
physical and ideal, whose permanent existence we believe
in, seem to be constantly coming up again before our
thought, and lead us, in our carelessness, to suppose that
our ' ideas ' of them are the same ideas. When we come,
some time later, to the chapter on Perception, we shall see
how inveterate is our habit of simply using our sensible
impressions as stepping-stones to pass over to the recogni-
tion of the realities whose presence they reveal. The grass

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 155

out of the window now looks to me of the same green in
the sun as in the shade, and yet a painter would have to
paint one part of it dark brown, another part bright yel-
low, to give its real sensational effect. We take no heed,
.as a rule, of the different way in which the same things
look and sound and smell at different distances and under
different circumstances. The sameness of the things is
what we are concerned to ascertain; and any sensations
that assure us of that will probably be considered in a
rough way to be the same with each other. This is what
makes off-hand testimony about the subjective identity of
different sensations well-nigh worthless as a proof of the
fact. The entire history of what is called Sensation is a
commentary on our inability to tell whether two sensible
qualities received apart are exactly alike. What appeals to
our attention far more than the absolute quality of an im-
pression is its ratio to whatever other impressions we may
have at the same time. When everything is dark a some-
what less dark sensation makes us see an object white.
Helmholtz calculates that the white marble painted in a
picture representing an architectural view by moonlight is,
when seen by daylight, from ten to twenty thousand times
brighter than the real moonlit marble would be.

Such a difference as this could never have been sensibly
learned ; it had to be inferred from a series of indirect con-
siderations. These make us believe that our sensibility is
altering all the time, so that the same object cannot easily
give us the same sensation over again. We feel things
differently accordingly as we are sleepy or awake, hungry
or full, fresh or tired; differently at night and in the morn-
ing, differently in summer and in winter; and above all,
differently in childhood, manhood, and old age. And yet
we never doubt that our feelings reveal the same world,
with the same sensible qualities and the same sensible
things occupying it. The difference of the sensibility is
shown best by the difference of our emotion about the
things from one age to another, or when we are in dif-

156 PSYCHOLOGY

ferent organic moods. What was bright and exciting
becomes weary, flat, and unprofitable. The bird's song is
tedious, the breeze is mournful, the sky is sad.

To these indirect presumptions that our sensations, fol-
lowing the mutations of our capacity for feeling, are always
undergoing an essential change, must be added another
presumption, based on what must happen in the brain.
Every sensation corresponds to some cerebral action. For
an identical sensation to recur it would have to occur the
second time in an unmodified brain. But as this, strictly
speaking, is a physiological impossibility, so is an unmodi-
fied feeling an impossibility; for to every brain-modifica-
tion, however small, we suppose that there must corre-
spond a change of equal amount in the consciousness
which the brain subserves.

But if the assumption of ' simple sensations ' recurring
in immutable shape is so easily shown to be baseless, how
much more baseless is the assumption of immutability in
the larger masses of our thought!

For there it is obvious and palpable that our state of
mind is never precisely the same. Every thought we have
of a given fact is, strictly speaking, unique, and only bears
a resemblance of kind with our other thoughts of the same
fact. When the identical fact recurs, we must think of
it in a fresh manner, see it under a somewhat different
angle, apprehend it in different relations from those in
which it last appeared. And the thought by which we
cognize it is the thought of it-in-those-relations, a thought
suffused with the consciousness of all that dim context.
Often we are ourselves struck at the strange differences in
our successive views of the same thing. We wonder how
we ever could have opined as we did last month about a
certain matter. We have outgrown the possibility of that
state of mind, we know not how. From one year to an-
other we see things in new lights. What was unreal has
grown real, and what was exciting is insipid. The friends
we used to care the world for are shrunken to shadows;

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 157

the women once so divine, the stars, the woods, and the
waters, how now so dull and common ! — the young girls
that brought an aura of infinity, at present hardly distin-
guishable existences; the pictures so empty; and as for
the books, what was there to find so mysteriously signifi-
cant in Goethe, or in John Mill so full of weight? Instead
of all this, more zestful than ever is the work, the work;
and fuller and deeper the import of common duties and of
common goods.

I am sure that this concrete and total manner of regard-
ing the mind's changes is the only true manner, difficult
as it may be to carry it out in detail. If anything seems
obscure about it, it will grow clearer as we advance.
Meanwhile, if it be true, it is certainly also true that no
two ' ideas ' are ever exactly the same, which is the propo-
sition we started to prove. The proposition is more
important theoretically than it at first sight seems. For it
makes it already impossible for us to follow obediently
in the footprints of either the Lockian or the Herbartian
school, schools which have had almost unlimited influence
in Germany among ourselves. No doubt it is often
convenient to formulate the mental facts in an atomistic
sort of way, and to treat the higher states of consciousness
as if they were all built out of unchanging simple ideas
which ' pass and turn again.' It is convenient often to
treat curves as if they were composed of small straight
lines, and electricity and nerve-force as if they were fluids.
But in the one case as in the other we must never forget,
that we are talking symbolically, and that there is noth-
ing in nature to answer to our words. A permanently
existing ' Idea * which makes its appearance before the
footlights of consciousness at periodical intervals is as
mythological an entity as the Jack of Spades.

Within each personal consciousness, thought is sen-
sibly continuous. I can only define c continuous ' as that
which is without breach, crack, or division. The only
breaches that can well be conceived to occur within the

158 PSYCHOLOGY

limits of a single mind would either be interruptions, time-
gaps during which the consciousness went out; or they would
be breaks in the content of the thought, so abrupt that what
followed had no connection whatever with what went
before. The proposition that consciousness feels continu-
ous, means two things:

a. That even where there is a time-gap the conscious-
ness after it feels as if it belonged together with the con-
sciousness before it, as another part of the same self;

b. That the changes from one moment to another in the
quality of the consciousness are never absolutely abrupt.

The case of the time-gaps, as the simplest, shall be taken
first.

a. When Paul and Peter wake up in the same bed, and
recognize that they have been asleep, each one of them
mentally reaches back and makes connection with but one
of the two streams of thought which were broken by the
sleeping hours. As the current of an electrode buried in
the ground unerringly finds its way to its own similarly
buried mate, across no matter how much intervening earth;
so Peter's present instantly finds out Peters past, and
never by mistake knits itself on to that of Paul. Paul's
thought in turn is as little liable to go astray. The past
thought of Peter is appropriated by the present Peter
alone. He may have a knowledge, and a correct one too,
of what Paul's last drowsy states of mind were as he sank
into sleep, but it is an entirely different sort of knowledge
from that which he has of his own last states. He remem-
bers his own states, whilst he only conceives Paul's. Re-
membrance is like direct feeling; its object is suffused
with a warmth and intimacy to which no object of mere
conception ever attains. This quality of warmth and
intimacy and immediacy is what Peter's present thought
also possesses for itself. So sure as this present is me, is
mine, it says, so sure is anything else that comes with the
same warmth and intimacy and immediacy, me and mine.
What the qualities called warmth and intimacy may in

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 159

themselves be will have to be matter for future consider-
ation. But whatever past states appear with those quali-
ties must be admitted to receive the greeting of the pres-
ent mental state, to be owned by it, and accepted as
belonging together with it in a common self. This com-
munity of self is what the time-gap cannot break in twain,
and is why a present thought, although not ignorant of
the time-gap, can still regard itself as continuous with cer-
tain chosen portions of the past.

Consciousness, then, does not appear to itself chopped
up in bits. Such words as ' chain ' or ' train ' do not de-
scribe it fitly as it presents itself in the first instance. It
is nothing jointed ; it flows. A ' river ' or a ' stream ' are
the metaphors by which it is most naturally described. In
talking of it hereafter, let us call it the stream of thought,
of consciousness, or of subjective life.

b. But now there appears, even within the limits of the
same self, and between thoughts all of which alike have
this same sense of belonging together, a kind of jointing
and separateness among the parts, of which this statement
seems to take no account. I refer to the breaks that are
produced by sudden contrasts in the quality of the suc-
cessive segments of the stream of thought. If the words
■ chain ' and ' train ' had no natural fitness in them, how
came such words to be used at all? Does not a loud
explosion rend the consciousness upon which it abruptly
breaks, in twain? No; for even into our awareness of the
thunder the awareness of the previous silence creeps and
continues; for what we hear when the thunder crashes is
not thunder pure, but thunder-breaking-upon-silence-and-
contrasting-with-it. Our feeling of the same objective
thunder, coming in this way, is quite different from what
it would be were the thunder a continuation of previous
thunder. The thunder itself we believe to abolish and
exclude the silence; but the feeling of the thunder is also
a feeling of the silence as just gone; and it would be diffi-
cult to find in the actual concrete consciousness or man a

160 PSYCHOLOGY

feeling so limited to the present as not to have an inkling
of anything that went before.

1 Substantive ' and * Transitive ' States of Mind. —
When we take a general view of the wonderful stream of our
consciousness, what strikes us first is the different pace of
its parts. Like a bird's life, it seems to be an alternation of
flights and perchings. The rhythm of language expresses
this, where every thought is expressed in a sentence, and
every sentence closed by a period. The resting-places are
usually occupied by sensorial imaginations of some sort,
whose peculiarity is that they can be held before the mind
for an indefinite time, and contemplated without chang-
ing; the places of flight are filled with thoughts of relations,
static or dynamic, that for the most part obtain between
the matters contemplated in the periods of comparative
rest.

Let us call the resting-places the l substantive parts* and I
the places of flight the ' transitive parts/ of the stream of !
thought. It then appears that our thinking tends at all
times towards some other substantive part than the one
from which it has just been dislodged. And we may say
that the main use of the transitive parts is to lead us from
one substantive conclusion to another.

Now it is very difficult, introspectively, to see the tran-
sitive parts for what they really are. If they are but
flights to a conclusion, stopping them to look at them
before the conclusion is reached is really annihilating
them. Whilst if we wait till the conclusion be reached, it
so exceeds them in vigor and stability that it quite eclipses
and swallows them up in its glare. Let anyone try to cut
a thought across in the middle and get a look at its sec-
tion, and he will see how difficult the introspective obser-
vation of the transitive tracts is. The rush of the thought
is so headlong that it almost always brings us up at the
conclusion before we can rest it. Or if our purpose is
nimble enough and we do arrest it, it ceases forthwith to
be itself. As a snowflake crystal caught in the warm hand

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 161

is no longer a crystal but a drop, so, instead of catching
the feeling of relation moving to its term, we find we have
caught some substantive thing, usually the last word we
were pronouncing, statically taken, and with its function,
tendency, and particular meaning in the sentence quite
evaporated. The attempt at introspective analysis in
these cases is in fact like seizing a spinning top to catch
its motion, or trying to turn up the gas quickly enough to
see how the darkness looks. And the challenge to pro-
duce these transitive states of consciousness, which is sure
to be thrown by doubting psychologists at anyone who
contends for their existence, is as unfair as Zeno's treat-
ment of the advocates of motion, when, asking them to
point out in what place an arrow is when it moves, he
argues the falsity of their thesis from their inability to
make to so preposterous a question an immediate reply.

The results of this introspective difficulty are baleful.
If to hold fast and observe the transitive parts of thought's
stream be so hard, then the great blunder to which all
schools are liable must be the failure to register them, and
the undue emphasizing of the more substantive parts of the
stream. Now the blunder has historically worked in two
ways. One set of thinkers have been led by it to Sensa-
tionalism. Unable to lay their hands on any substantive
feelings corresponding to the innumerable relations and
forms of connection between the sensible things of the
world, finding no named mental states mirroring such re-
lations, they have for the most part denied that any such
states exist; and many of them, like Hume, have gone on
to deny the reality of most relations out of the mind as
well as in it. Simple substantive ' ideas/ sensations and
their copies, juxtaposed like dominoes in a game, but really
separate, everything else verbal illusion, — such is the up-
shot of this view. The Intellectualists, on the other hand,
unable to give up the reality of relations extra mentem, but
equally unable to point to any distinct substantive feelings
in which they were known, have made the same admission

1 62 PSYCHOLOGY

that such feelings do not exist. But they have drawn an
opposite conclusion. The relations must be known, they
say, in something that is no feeling, no mental ' state/
continuous and consubstantial with the subjective tissue
out of which sensations and other substantive conditions
of consciousness are made. They must be known by
something that lies on an entirely different plane, by an
actus purus of Thought, Intellect, or Reason, all written
with capitals and considered to mean something unutter-
ably superior to any passing perishing fact of sensibility
whatever.

But from our point of view both Intellectualists and
Sensationalists are wrong. If there be such things as
feelings at all, then so surely as relations between objects
exist in rerum natura, so surely, and more surely, do feel-
ings exist to which these relations are known. There is
not a conjunction or a preposition, and hardly an adver-
bial phrase, syntactic form, or inflection of voice, in
human speech, that does not express some shading or
other of relation which we at some moment actually feel
to exist between the larger objects of our thought. If
we speak objectively, it is the real relations that appear
revealed; if we speak subjectively, it is the stream of
consciousness that matches each of them by an inward
coloring of its own. In either case the relations are num-
berless, and no existing language is capable of doing jus-
tice to all their shades.

We ought to say a feeling of and, a feeling of if, a feel-
ing of but, and a feeling of by, quite as readily as we say
a feeling of blue or a feeling of cold. Yet we do not: so
inveterate has our habit become of recognizing the exist-
ence of the substantive parts alone, that language almost
refuses to lend itself to any other use. Consider once
again the analogy of the brain. We believe the brain to
be an organ whose internal equilibrium is always in a state
of change — the change affecting every part. The pulses
of change are doubtless more violent in one place than in

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 163

another, their rhythm more rapid at this time than at
that. As in a kaleidoscope revolving at a uniform rate,
although the figures are always rearranging themselves,
there are instants during which the transformation seems
minute and interstitial and almost absent, followed by
others when it shoots with magical rapidity, relatively
stable forms thus alternating with forms we should not
distinguish if seen again; so in the brain the perpetual
rearrangement must result in some forms of tension lin-
gering relatively long, whilst others simply come and pass.
But if consciousness corresponds to the fact of rearrange-
ment itself, why, if the rearrangement stop not, should the
consciousness ever cease? And if a lingering rearrange-
ment brings with it one kind of consciousness, why should
not a swift rearrangement bring another kind of conscious-
ness as peculiar as the rearrangement itself?

The object before the mind always has a ' Fringe.'
There are other unnamed modifications of consciousness
just as important as the transitive states, and just as cog-
nitive as they. Examples will show what I mean.

Suppose three successive persons say to us: 'Wait! '
' Hark ! ' ' Look ! ' Our consciousness is thrown into
three quite different attitudes of expectancy, although no
definite object is before it in any one of the three cases.
Probably no one will deny here the existence of a real con-
scious affection, a sense of the direction from which an
impression is about to come, although no positive impres-
sion is yet there. Meanwhile we have no names for the
psychoses in question but the names hark, look, and wait.

Suppose we try to recall a forgotten name. The state
of our consciousness is peculiar. There is a gap therein;
but no mere gap. It is a gap that is intensely active. A
sort of wraith of the name is in it, beckoning us in a given
direction, making us at moments tingle with the sense of
our closeness, and then letting us sink back without the
longed-for term. If wrong names are proposed to us, this
singularly definite gap acts immediately so as to negate

i64 PSYCHOLOGY

them. They do not fit into its mould. And the gap of
one word does not feel like the gap of another, all empty
of content as both might seem necessarily to be when de-
scribed rs gaps. When I vainly try to recall the name of
Spalding, my consciousness is far removed from what it is
when 1 vainly try to recall the name of Bowles. There
are innumerable consciousnesses of want, no one of which
taken in itself has a name, but all different from each
other. Such feeling of want is tota coelo other than a
want of feeling: it is an intense feeling. The rhythm of
a lost word may be there without a sound to clothe it; or
the evanescent sense of something which is the initial
vowel or consonant may mock us fitfully, without grow-
ing more distinct. Every one must know the tantalizing
effect of the blank rhythm of some forgotten verse, rest-
lessly dancing in one's mind, striving to be filled out with
words.

What is that first instantaneous glimpse of some one's
meaning which we have, when in vulgar phrase we say we
* twig ' it? Surely an altogether specific affection of our
mind. And has the reader never asked himself what kind
of a mental fact is his intention of saying a thing before
he has said it? It is an entirely definite intention, dis-
tinct from all other intentions, an absolutely distinct state
of consciousness, therefore; and yet how much of it con-
. sists of definite sensorial images, either of words or of
things? Hardly anything! Linger, and the words and
things come into the mind; the anticipatory intention, the
divination is there no more. But as the words that re-
place it arrive, it welcomes them successively and calls
them right if they agree with it, it rejects them and calls
them wrong if they do not. The intention to-say-so-
and-so is the only name it can receive. One may admit
that a good third of our psychic life consists in these rapid

(premonitory perspective views of schemes of thought not
yet articulate. How comes it about that a man reading
something aloud for the first time is able immediately to

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 165

emphasize all his words aright, unless from the very first
he have a sense of at least the form of the sentence yet
to come, which sense is fused with his consciousness of
the present word, and modifies its emphasis in his mind
so as to make him give it the proper accent as he utters
it? Emphasis of this kind almost altogether depends on
grammatical construction. If we read ' no more/ we ex-
pect presently a ' than '; if we read ' however/ it is a ' yet,
a • still,' or a ' nevertheless/ that we expect. And this
foreboding of the coming verbal and grammatical scheme
is so practically accurate that a reader incapable of under-
standing four ideas of the book he is reading aloud can
nevertheless read it with the most delicately modulated
expression of intelligence.

It is, the reader will see, the reinstatement of the vague
and inarticulate to its proper place in our mental life which
I am so anxious to press on the attention. Mr. Galton
and Prof. Huxley have, as we shall see in the chapter on
Imagination, made one step in advance in exploding the
ridiculous theory of Hume and Berkeley that we can have
no images but of perfectly definite things. Another is
made if we overthrow the equally ridiculous notion that,
whilst simple objective qualities are revealed to our knowl-
edge in ' states of consciousness/ relations are not. But
these reforms are not half sweeping and radical enough.
What must be admitted is that the definite images of tra-
ditional psychology form but the very smallest part of our
minds as they actually live. The traditional psychology
talks like one who should say a river consists of nothing
but pailsful, spoonsful, quartpotsful, barrelsful, and other
moulded forms of water. Even were the pails and the pots
all actually standing in the stream, still between them the
free water would continue to flow. It is just this free
water of consciousness that psychologists resolutely over-
look. Every definite image in the mind is steeped and
dyed in the free water that flows round it. With it goes
the sense of its relations, near and remote, the dying echo

166

PSYCHOLOGY

of whence it came to us, the dawning sense of whither it is
to lead. The significance, the value, of the image is all in
this halo or penumbra that surrounds and escorts it, — or
rather that is fused into one with it and has become bone
of its bone and flesh of its flesh; leaving it, it is true, an
image of the same thing it was before, but making it an
image of that thing newly taken and freshly understood.

Let us call the consciousness of this halo of relations
around the image by the name of l psychic overtone y or
' fringe:

Cerebral Conditions of the ' Fringe.' — Nothing is
easier than to symbolize these facts in terms of brain-action.
Just as the echo of the whence, the sense of the starting
point of our thought, is probably due to the dying excite-
ment of processes but a moment since vividly aroused; so
the sense of the whither, the foretaste of the terminus,
must be due to the waxing excitement of tracts or processes
whose psychical correlative will a moment hence be the
vividly present feature of our thought. Represented by a
curve, the neurosis underlying consciousness must at any
moment be like this:

Let the horizontal in Fig. 52 be the line of time, and

Fie. 52.

let the three curves beginning at a, b, and c respectively
stand for the neural processes correlated with the thoughts
, of those three letters. Each process occupies a certain
time during which its intensity waxes, culminates, and
wanes. The process for a has not yet died out, the process

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 167

for c has already begun, when that for b is culminat-
ing. At the time-instant represented by the vertical line
all three processes are present, in the intensities shown by
the curve. Those before c's apex were more intense a
moment ago; those after it will be more intense a moment
hence. If I recite a, b, c, then, at the moment of uttering
b, neither a nor c is out of my consciousness altogether,
but both, after their respective fashions, ' mix their dim
lights ' with the stronger b, because their processes are
both awake in some degree.

It is just like ' overtones ' in music: they are not sepa-
rately heard by the ear; they blend with the fundamental
note, and suffuse it, and alter it; and even so do the waxing
and waning brain-processes at every moment blend with
and suffuse and alter the psychic effect of the processes
which are at their culminating point.

The ' Topic ' of the Thought. — If we then consider the
cognitive function of different states of mind, we may feel
assured that the difference between those that are mere
* acquaintance ' and those that are ' know\eges-a bout ' -
is reducible almost entirely to the absence or presence
of psychic fringes or overtones. Knowledge about a
thing is knowledge of its relations. Acquaintance with
it is limitation to the bare impression which it makes.
Of most of its relations we are only aware in the penum-
bral nascent way of a ' fringe ' of unarticulated affinities
about it. And, before passing to the next topic in order, I
must say a little of this sense of affinity, as itself one of the
most interesting features of the subjective stream.

Thought may be equally rational in any sort of terms.
In all • our voluntary thinking there is some topic or
subject about which all the members of the thought re-
volve. Relation to this topic or interest is constantly felt
in the fringe, and particularly the relation of harmony and
discord, of furtherance or hindrance of the topic. Any
thought the quality of whose fringe lets us feel ourselves
1 all right/ may be considered a thought that furthers the

1 68 PSYCHOLOGY

topic. Provided we only feel its object to have a place in
the scheme of relations in which the topic also lies, that is
sufficient to make of it a relevant and appropriate portion
of our train of ideas.

Now we may think about our topic mainly in words, or
we may think about it mainly in visual or other images, but
this need make no difference as regards the furtherance of
our knowledge of the topic. If we only feel in the terms,
whatever they be, a fringe of affinity with each other and
with the topic, and if we are conscious of approaching a
conclusion, we feel that our thought is rational and right.
The words in every language have contracted by long asso-
ciation fringes of mutual repugnance or affinity with each
other and with the conclusion, which run exactly parallel
with like fringes in the visual, tactile, and other ideas.
The most important element of these fringes is, I repeat,
the mere feeling of harmony or discord, of a right or
wrong direction in the thought.

If we know English and French and begin a sentence
in French, all the later words that come are French; we
hardly ever drop into English. And this affinity of the
French words for each other is not something merely
operating mechanically as a brain-law, it is something
we feel at the time. Our understanding of a French sen-
tence heard never falls to so low an ebb that we are not
aware that the words linguistically belong together. Our
attention can hardly so wander that if an English word
be suddenly introduced we shall not start at the change.
Such a vague sense as this of the words belonging together
is the very minimum of fringe that can accompany them,
if ' thought ' at all. Usually the vague perception that all
the words we hear belong to the same language and to the
same special vocabulary in that language, and that the
grammatical sequence is familiar, is practically equivalent
to an admission that what we hear is sense. But if an un-
usual foreign word be introduced, if the grammar trip, or
if a term from an incongruous vocabulary suddenly appear,

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

169

such as ' rat-trap ' or ' plumber's bill ' in a philosophical
discourse, the sentence detonates as it were, we receive a
shock from the incongruity, and the drowsy assent is gone.
The feeling of rationality in these cases seems rather a
negative than a positive thing, being the mere absence of
shock, or sense of discord, between the terms of thought.

Conversely, if words do belong to the same vocabulary,
and if the grammatical structure is correct, sentences with
absolutely no meaning may be uttered in good faith and
pass unchallenged. Discourses at prayer-meetings, re-
shuffling the same collection *of cant phrases, and the
whole genus of penny-a-line-isms and newspaper-reporter's
flourishes give illustrations of this. " The birds filled the
tree-tops with their morning song, making the air moist,
cool, and pleasant," is a sentence I remember reading once
in a report of some athletic exercises in Jerome Park. It
was probably written unconsciously by the hurried re-
porter, and read uncritically by many readers.

We see, then, that it makes little or no difference in what
sort of mind-stuff, in what quality of imagery, our thinking
goes on. The only images intrinsically important are the
halting-places, the substantive conclusions, provisional or
final, of the thought. Throughout all the rest of the
stream, the feelings of relation are everything, and the
terms related almost naught. These feelings of relation,
these psychic overtones, halos, suffusions, or fringes about
the terms, may be the same in very different systems of
imagery. A diagram may
help to accentuate this in-
difference of the mental
means where the end is the
same. Let A be some ex-
experience from which a
number of thinkers start.
Let Z be the practical con-
clusion rationally inferrible FlG# 53*
from it. One gets to this conclusion by one line, another

170 PSYCHOLOGY

by another; one follows a course of English, another of
German, verbal imagery. With one, visual images pre-
dominate; with another, tactile. Some trains are tinged
with emotions, others not; some are very abridged, synthetic
and rapid; others, hesitating and broken into many steps.
But when the penultimate terms of all the trains, however
differing inter se, finally shoot into the same conclusion,
we say, and rightly say, that all the thinkers have had sub-
stantially the same thought. It would probably astound
each of them beyond measure to be let into his neighbor's
mind and to find how different the scenery there was from
that in his own.

The last peculiarity to which attention is to be drawn in
this first rough description of thought's stream is that —

Consciousness is always interested more in one part
of its object than in another, and welcomes and rejects,
or chooses, all the while it thinks.

The phenomena of selective attention and of delibera-
tive will are of course patent examples of this choosing
activity. But few of us are aware how incessantly it is at
work in operations not ordinarily called by these names.
Accentuation and Emphasis are present in every perception
we have. We find it quite impossible to disperse our
attention impartially over a number of impressions. A
monotonous succession of sonorous strokes is broken up
into rhythms, now of one sort, now of another, by the dif-
ferent accent which we place on different strokes. The
simplest of these rhythms is the double one, tick-tock, tick-
tock, tick-tock. Dots dispersed on a surface are perceived
in rows and groups. Lines separate into diverse figures.
The ubiquity of the distinctions, this and that, here and
there, now and then, in our minds is the result of our lay-
ing the same selective emphasis on parts of place and time.

But we do far more than emphasize things, and unite
some, and keep others apart. We actually ignore most of
the things before us. Let me briefly show how this goer
on.

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 171

To begin at the bottom, what are our very senses them-
selves, as we saw on pp. 10-12, but organs of selection? Out
of the infinite chaos of movements, of which physics teaches
us that the outer world consists, each sense-organ picks
out those which fall within certain limits of velocity. To
these it responds, but ignores the rest as completely as if
they did not exist. Out of what is in itself an undistin-
guishable, swarming continuum, devoid of distinction or
emphasis, our senses make for us, by attending to this
motion and ignoring that, a world full of contrasts, of
sharp accents, of abrupt changes, of picturesque light and
shade.

Ii the sensations we receive from a given organ have
their causes thus picked out for us by the conformation of
the organ's termination, Attention, on the other hand, out
of all the sensations yielded, picks out certain ones as
worthy of notice and suppresses all the rest. We notice
only those sensations which are signs to us of things which
happen practically or aesthetically to interest us, to which
we therefore give substantive names, and which we exalt to
this exclusive status of independence and dignity. But in
itself, apart from my interest, a particular dust-wreath on
a windy day is just as much of an individual thing, and
just as much or as little deserves an individual name, as
my own body does.

And then, among the sensations we get from each sepa-
rate thing, what happens? The mind selects again. It
chooses certain of the sensations to represent the thing
most truly, and considers the rest as its appearances, modi-
fied by the conditions of the moment. Thus my table-top
is named square, after but one of an infinite number of
retinal sensations which it yields, the rest of them being
sensations of two acute and two obtuse angles; but I call
the latter perspective views, and the four right angles the
true form of the table, and erect the attribute squareness
into the table's essence, for aesthetic reasons of my own.
In like manner, the real form of the circle is deemed to be

i72 PSYCHOLOGY

the sensation it gives when the line of vision is perpendicu-
lar to its centre — all its other sensations are signs of this
sensation. The real sound of the cannon is the sensation
it makes when the ear is close by. The real color of the
brick is the sensation it gives when the eye looks squarely
at it from a near point, out of the sunshine and yet not in
the gloom; under other circumstances it gives us other
color-sensations which are but signs of this — we then see
it looks pinker or bluer than it really is. The reader
knows no object which he does not represent to himself by
preference as in some typical attitude, of some normal size,
at some characteristic distance, of some standard tint, etc.,
etc. But all these essential characteristics, which together
form for us the genuine objectivity of the thing and are
contrasted with what we call the subjective sensations it
may yield us at a given moment, are mere sensations like
the latter. The mind chooses to suit itself, and decides
what particular sensation shall be held more real and valid
than all the rest.

Next, in a world of objects thus individualized by our
mind's selective industry, what is called our ' experience '
is almost entirely determined by our habits of attention. A
thing may be present to a man a hundred times, but if he
persistently fails to notice it, it cannot be said to enter into
his experience. We are all seeing flies, moths, and beetles by
the thousand, but to whom, save an entomologist, do they
say anything distinct? On the other hand, a thing met only
once in a lifetime may leave an indelible experience in the
memory. Let four men make a tour in Europe. One will
bring home only picturesque impressions — costumes and
colors, parks and views and works of architecture, pictures
and statues. To another all this will be non-existent; and
distances and prices, populations and drainage-arrange-
ments, door- and window-fastenings, and other useful
statistics will take 'their place. A third will give a rich
account of the theatres, restaurants, and public halls, and
naught besides; whilst the fourth will perhaps have been so

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 173

wrapped in his own subjective broodings as to be able to
tell little more than a few names of places through which
he passed. Each has selected, out of the same mass of
presented objects, those which suited his private interest
and has made his experience thereby.

If now, leaving the empirical combination of objects, we
ask how the mind proceeds rationally to connect them, we
find selection again to be omnipotent. In a future chapter
we shall see that all Reasoning depends on the ability of
the mind to break up the totality of the phenomenon
reasoned about, into parts, and to pick out from among
these the particular one which, in the given emergency,
may lead to the proper conclusion. The man of genius is
he who will always stick in his bill at the right point, and
bring it out with the right element — ' reason ' if the emer-
gency be theoretical, ' means ' if it be practical — transfixed
upon it.

If now we pass to the aesthetic department, our law is
still more obvious. The artist notoriously selects his items,
rejecting all tones, colors, shapes, which do not harmonize
with each other and with the main purpose of his work.
That unity, harmony, ' convergence of characters/ as M.
Taine calls it, which gives to works of art their superiority
over works of nature, is wholly due to elimination. Any
natural subject will do, if the artist has wit enough to
pounce upon some one feature of it as characteristic, and
suppress all merely accidental items which do not harmo-
■ize with this.

Ascending still higher, we reach the plane of Ethics,
where choice reigns notoriously supreme. An act has no
ethical quality whatever unless it be chosen out of several
all equally possible. To sustain the arguments for the
good course and keep them ever before us, to stifle our
longing for more flowery ways, to keep the foot unflinch-
ingly on the arduous path, these are characteristic ethical
energies. But more than these; for these but deal with
the means of compassing interests already felt by the man

174 PSYCHOLOGY

to be supreme. The ethical energy par excellence has to go
farther and choose which interest out of several, equally
coercive, shall become supreme. The issue here is of the
utmost pregnancy, for it decides a man's entire career.
When he debates, Shall I commit this crime? choose that
profession? accept that office, or marry this fortune? — his
choice really lies between one of several equally possible
future Characters. What he shall become is fixed by the
conduct of this moment. Schopenhauer, who enforces his
determinism by the argument that with a given fixed char-
acter only one reaction is possible under given circum-
stances, forgets that, in these critical ethical moments,
what consciously seems to be in question is the complexion
of the character itself. The problem with the man is less
what act he shall now resolve to do than what being he
shall now choose to become.

Taking human experience in a general way, the choosings
of different men are to a great extent the same. The race
as a whole largely agrees as to what it shall notice and
name; and among the noticed parts we select in much
the same way for accentuation and preference, or subordi-
nation and dislike. There is, however, one entirely extraor-
dinary case in which no two men ever are known to
choose alike. One great splitting of the whole universe
into two halves is made by each of us; and for each of us
almost all of the interest attaches to one of the halves; but
we all draw the line of division between them in a different
place. When I say that we all call the two halves by the
same names, and that those names are ' me ' and ' not-me '
respectively, it will at once be seen what I mean. The
altogether unique kind of interest which each human
mind feels in those parts of creation which it can call me
or mine may be a moral riddle, but it is a fundamental
psychological fact. No mind can take the same interest in
his neighbor's me as in his own. The neighbor's me falls
together with all the rest of things in one foreign mass
against which his own me stands out in startling relief.

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 175

Even the trodden worm, as J*oJae somewhere says, con-
trasts his own suffering self with the whole remaining uni-
verse, though he have no clear conception either of himself
or of what the universe may be. He is for me a mere part
of the world; for him it is I who am the mere part. Each
of us dichotomizes the Kosmos in a different place.

Descending now to finer work than this first general
sketch, let us in the next chapter try to trace the psychol-
ogy of this fact of self -consciousness to which we have thus
once more been led.

CHAPTER XII

THE SELF

The Me and the I. — Whatever I may be thinking of, I
am always at the same time more or less aware of myself,
of my personal existence. At the same time it is / who
am aware; so that the total self of me, being as it were
duplex, partly known and partly knower, partly object and
partly subject, must have two aspects discriminated in it,
of which for shortness we may call one the Me and the
other the /. I call these \ discriminated aspects,' and not
separate things, because the identity of / with me, even in
the very act of their discrimination, is perhaps the most
ineradicable dictum of common-sense, and must not be
undermined by our terminology here at the outset, what-
ever we may come to think of its validity at our inquiry's
end.

I shall therefore treat successively of A) the self as
known, or the me, the ' empirical ego' as it is sometimes
called ; and of B ) the self as knower, or the /, the ' pure
ego ' of certain authors.

A) The Self as Known

The Empirical Self or Me. — Between what a man calls
me and wnat he simply calls mine the line is difficult to
draw. We feel and act about certain things that are ours
very much as we feel and act about ourselves. Our fame,
our children, the work of our hands, may be as dear to us
as our bodies are, and arouse the same feelings and the
same acts of reprisal if attacked. And our bodies them-
selves are they simply ours, or are they us? Certainly

176

THE SELF 177

men have been ready to disown their very bodies and to
regard them as mere vestures, or even as prisons of clay
from which they should some day be glad to escape.

We see then that we are dealing with a fluctuating
material; the same object being sometimes treated as a
part of me, at other times as simply mine, and then again
as if I had nothing to do with it at all. In its widest Jy
possible sense, however, a man's Me is the sum total of all I
that he can call his, not only his body and his psychic
powers, but his clothes and his house, his wife and chil-
dren, his ancestors and friends, his reputation and works,
his lands and horses, and yacht and bank-account. All
these things give him the same emotions. If they wax
and prosper, he feels triumphant; is they dwindle and die
away and die away, he feels cast down — not necessarily in
the same degree for each thing, but in much the same way for
all. Understanding the Me in this widest sense, we may
begin by dividing the history of it into three parts, relating
respectively to —

a. Its constituents;

b. The feelings and emotions they arouse, — self-appre-
ciation;

c. The acts to which they prompt, — self-seeking and self-
preservation.

•

a. The constituents of the Me may be divided into two
classes, those which make up respectively —

The material me;
The social me; and
The spiritual me.

The Material Me. — The body is the innermost part of
the material me in each of us; and certain parts of the body
seem more intimately ours than the rest. The clothes
come next. The old saying that human person is com-
posed of three parts — soul, body and clothes — is more than
a joke. We so appropriate our clothes and identify our-

178 PSYCHOLOGY

selves with them that there are few of us who, if asked to
choose between having a beautiful body clad in raiment
perpetually shabby and unclean, and having an ugly and
blemished form always spotlessly attired, would not hesi-
tate a moment before making a decisive reply. Next, our
immediate family is a part of ourselves. Our father and
mother, our wife and babes, are bone of our bone and flesh
of our flesh. When they die, a part of our very selves is
gone. If they do anything wrong, it is our shame. If
they are insulted, our anger flashes forth as readily as if we
stood in their place. Our home comes next. Its scenes
are part of our life; its aspects awaken the tenderest
feelings of affection; and we do not easily forgive the
stranger who, in visiting it, finds fault with its arrange-
ments or treats it with contempt. All these different
things are the objects of instinctive preferences coupled
with the most important practical interests of life. We
all have a blind impulse to watch over our body, to deck it
with clothing of an ornamental sort, to cherish parents,
wife, and babes, and to find for ourselves a house of our
own which we may live in and ' improve.'

An equally instinctive impulse drives us to collect prop-
erty; and the collections thus made become, with different
degrees of intimacy, parts of our empirical selves. The
T>arts of our wealth most intimately ours are those which
are saturated with our labor. There are few men who
would not feel personally annihilated if a life-long con-
struction of their hands or brains — say an entomological
collection or an extensive work in manuscript — were sud-
denly swept away. The miser feels similarly towards his
gold; and although it is true that a part of our depression
at the loss of possessions is due to our feeling that we
must now go without certain goods that we expected the
possessions to bring in their train, yet in every case there
remains, over and above this, a sense of the shrinkage of
our personality, a partial conversion of ourselves to nothing-
ness, which is a psychological phenomenon by itself. We

THE SELF 179

are all at once assimilated to the tramps and poor devils
whom we so despise, and at the same time removed far-
ther than ever away from the happy sons of earth who lord
it over land and sea and men in the full-blown lustihood
that wealth and power can give, and before whom, stiffen
ourselves as we will by appealing to anti-snobbish first
principles, we cannot escape an emotion, open or sneaking,
of respect and dread.

The Social Me. — A man's social me is the recognition
which he gets from his mates. We are not only gregari-
ous animals, liking to be in sight of our fellows, but we
have an innate propensity to get ourselves noticed, and
noticed favorably, by our kind. No more fiendish pun-
ishment could be devised, were such a thing physically
possible, than that one should be turned loose in society
and remain absolutely unnoticed by all the members
thereof. If no one turned round when we entered,
answered when we spoke, or minded what we did, but if
every person we met ' cut us dead,' and acted as if W2 were
non-existing things, a kind of rage and impotent despair
would ere long well up in us, from which the crudest
bodily tortures would be a relief; for these would make us
feel that, however bad might be our plight, we had not
sunk to such a depth as to be unworthy of attention at all.

Properly speaking, a man has as many social selves as'
there are individuals who recognize him and carry an
image of him in their mind. To wound any one of these
his images is to wound him. But as the individuals who
carry the images fall naturally into classes, we may practi-
cally say that he has as many different social selves as
there are distinct groups of persons about whose opinion
he cares. He generally shows a different side of himself
to each of these different groups. Many a youth who is
demure enough before his parents and teachers, swears and
swaggers like a pirate among his ' tough ' young friends.
We do not show ourselves to our children as to our club-
companions, to our customers as to the laborers we em-

180 PSYCHOLOGY

ploy, to our own masters and employers as to our intimate
friends. From this there results what practically is a
division of the man into several selves; and this may be a
discordant splitting, as where one is afraid to let one set of
his acquaintances know him as he is elsewhere; or it may
be a perfectly harmonious division of labor, as where one
tender to his children is stern to the soldiers or prisoners
under his command.

The most peculiar social self which one is apt to have
is in the mind of the person one is in love with. The
good or bad fortunes of this self cause the most intense
elation and dejection — unreasonable enough as measured
by every other standard than that of the organic feeling of
the individual. To his own consciousness he is not, so long
as this particular social self fails to get recognition, and
when it is recognized his contentment passes all bounds.

A man's fame, good or bad, and his honor or dishonor,
are names for one of his social selves. The particular
social self of a man called his honor is usually the result
of one of those splittings of which we have spoken. It is
his image in the eyes of his own ' set,' which exalts or con-
demns him as he conforms or not to certain requirements
that may not be made of one in another walk of life. Thus
a layman may abandon a city infected with cholera; but a
priest or a doctor would think such an act incompatible
with his honor. A soldier's honor requires him to fight or
to die under circumstances where another man can apolo-
gize or run away with no stain upon his social self. A
judge, a statesman, are in like manner debarred by the
honor of their cloth from entering into pecuniary relations
perfectly honorable to persons in private life. Nothing is
commoner than to hear people discriminate between their
different selves of this sort: " As a man I pity you, but as
an official I must show you no mercy "; " As a politician I
regard him as an ally, but as a moralist I loathe him "; etc.,
etc. What may be called ' club-opinion ' is one of the very
strongest forces in life. The thief must not steal from

THE SELF 181

other thieves; the gambler must pay his gambling-debts,
though he pay no other debts in the world. The code of
honor of fashionable society has throughout history been
full of permissions as well as of vetoes, the only reason for
following either of which is that so we best serve one of
ous social selves. You must not lie in general, but you
may lie as much as you please if asked about your relations
with a lady; you must accept a challenge from an equal,
but if challenged by an inferior you may laugh him to
scorn: these are examples of what is meant.

The Spiritual Me. — By the ' spiritual me,' so far as it
belongs to the empirical self, I mean no one of my passing
states of consciousness. I mean rather the entire collection
of my states of consciousness^ my psychic faculties and dis-
positions taken concretely. This collection can at any mo-
ment become an object to my thought at that moment and
awaken emotions like those awakened by any of the other
portions of the Me. When we think of ourselves as think-
ers, all the other ingredients of our Me seem relatively ex-
ternal possessions. Even within the spiritual Me some
ingredients seem more external than others. Our capaci-
ties for sensation, for example, are less intimate possessions,
so to speak, than our emotions and desires; our intellectual
processes are less intimate than our volitional decisions.
The more active-feeling states of consciousness are thus
the more central portions of the spiritual Me. The very
core and nucleus of our self, as we know it, the very sanc-
tuary of our life, is the sense of activity which certain inner
states possess. This sense of activity is often held to be
a direct revelation of the living substance of our Soul.
Whether this be so or not is an ulterior question. I wish
now only to lay down the peculiar internality of whatever
states possess this quality of seeming to be active. It is
as if they went out to meet all the other elements of our
experience. In thus feeling about them probably all men
agree.

1 82 PSYCHOLOGY

b. The feelings and emotions of self come after the con-
stituents.

Self-appreciation. — This is of two sorts, self-complac-
ency and self -dissatisfaction. i Self-love ' more properly
belongs under the division C, of acts, since what men mean
by that name is rather a set of motor tendencies than a
kind of feeling properly so called.

Language has synonyms enough for both kinds of self-
appreciation. Thus pride, conceit, vanity, self-esteem,
arrogance, vainglory, on the one hand; and on the other
modesty, humility, confusion, diffidence, shame, mortifica-
tion, contrition, the sense of obloquy, and personal despair.
These two opposite classes of affection seem to be direct
and elementary endowments of our nature. Associationists
would have it that they are, on the other hand, secondary
phenomena arising from a rapid computation of the sensi-
ble pleasures or pains to which our prosperous or debased
personal predicament is likely to lead, the sum of the repre-
sented pleasures forming the self-satisfaction, and the sum
of the represented pains forming the opposite feeling of
shame. No doubt, when we are self-satisfied, we do fondly
rehearse all possible rewards for our desert, and when in a
fit of self-despair we forebode evil. But the mere expecta-
tion of reward is not the self-satisfaction, and the mere
apprehension of the evil is not the self-despair; for there is
a certain average tone of self-feeling which each one of us
carries about with him, and which is independent of the
objective reasons we may have for satisfaction or discon-
tent. That is, a very meanly-conditioned man may abound
in unfaltering conceit, and one whose success in life is
secure, and who is esteemed by all, may remain diffident
of his powers to the end.

One may say, however, that the normal provocative of
self-feeling is one's actual success or failure, and the good
or bad actual position one holds in the world. " He put in
his thumb and pulled out a plum, and said, ' What a good

THE SELF • 183

boy am I! ' " A man with a broadly extended empirical Ego,
with powers that have uniformly brought him success, with
place and wealth and friends and fame, is not likely to be
visited by the morbid diffidences and doubts about himself
which he had when he was a boy. " Is not this great
Babylon, which I have planted? " Whereas he who has
made one blunder after another, and stiill lies in middle life
among the failures at the foot of the hill, is liable to grow
all sicklied o'er with self-distrust, and to shrink from trials
with which his powers can really cope.

The emotions themselves of self-satisfaction and abase-
ment are of a unique sort, each as worthy to be classed as
a primitive emotional species as are, for example, rage or
pain. Each has its own peculiar physiognomical expres-
sion. In self-satisfaction the extensor muscles are inner-
vated, the eye is strong and glorious, the gait rolling and
elastic, the nostril dilated, and a peculiar smile plays upon
the lips. This whole complex of symptoms is seen in an
exquisite way in lunatic asylums, which always contain
some patients who are literally mad with conceit, and
whose fatuous expression and absurdly strutting or swag-
gering gait is in tragic contrast with their lack of any
valuable personal quality. It j^3 these same castles of
despair that we find the strongeBBamples of the opposite
physiognomy, in good' people who think they have com-
mitted ' the unpardonable sin ' and are lost forever, who
crouch and cringe and slink from notice, and are unable
to speak aloud or look us in the eye. Like fear and like
anger, in similar morbid conditions, these opposite feelings
of Self may be aroused with ^fcadequate exciting cause.
And in fact we ourselves know^ow the barometer of our
self-esteeem and confidence rises and falls from one day to
another through causes that seem to be visceral and organic
rather than rational, and ^rich certainly answer to no cor-
responding variations in tne esteem in which we are held
by our friends.

1 84 ' PSYCHOLOGY

c. Self-seeking and self-perservation come next.

These words cover a large number of our fundamental
instinctive impulses. We have those of bodily self-seeking,
those of social self-seeking, and those of spiritual self-seek-
ing.

Bodily Self-seeking. — All the ordinary useful reflex
actions and movements of alimentation and defence are
acts of bodily self-preservation. Fear and anger prompt to
acts that are useful in the same way. Whilst if by self-seeking
we mean the providing for the future as distinguished
from maintaining the present, we must class both anger
and fear, together with the hunting, the acquisitive, the
home-constructing and the tool-constructing instincts, as
impulses to self-seeking of the bodily kind. Really, how-
ever, these latter instincts, with amativeness, parental
fondness, curiosity and emulation, seek not only the de-
velopment of the bodily Me, but that of the material Me
in the widest possible sense of the word.

Our social self-seeking, in turn, is carried on directly
through our amativeness and friendliness, our desire to
please and attract notice and admiration, our emulation
and jealousy, our love of glory, influence, and power,
and indirectly through whichever of the material self-
seeking impulses prove serviceable as means to social
ends. That the direct social self-seeking impulses are
probably pure instincts is easily seen. The noteworthy
thing about the desire to be ' recognized ' by others is that
its strength has so little to do with the worth of the recog-
nition computed in sensational or rational terms. We are
crazy to get a visiting-list which shall be large, to be able
to say when any one is mentioned, " Oh ! I know him
well," and to be bowed to in the street by half the people
we meet. Of course distinguished friends and admiring
recognition are the most desirable — Thackeray somewhere
asks his readers to confess whether it would not give each
of them an exquisite pleasure to be met walking down Pall
Mall with a duke on either arm. But in default of dukes

THE SELF 185

and envious salutations almost anything will do for some of
us; and there is a whole race of beings to-day whose pas-
sion is to keep their names in the newspapers, no matter
under what heading, ' arrivals and departures/ ' personal
paragraphs,' ' interviews/ — gossip, even scandal, will suit
them if nothing better is to be had. Guiteau, Garfield's
assassin, is an example of the extremity to which this sort
of craving for the notoriety of print may go in a patholo-
gical case. The newspapers bounded his mental horizon;
and in the poor wretch's prayer on the scaffold, one of the
most heart-felt expressions was: " The newspaper press of
this land has a big bill to settle with thee, O Lord ! "

Not only the people but the places and things I know
enlarge my Self in a sort of metaphor ic social way. ' Ca
me connait,' as the French workman says of the implement
he can use well. So that it comes about that persons for
whose opinion we care nothing are nevertheless persons
whose notice we woo; and that many a man truly great,
many a woman truly fastidious in most respects, will take
a deal of trouble to dazzle some insignificant cad whose
whole personality they heartily despise.

Under the head of spiritual self-seeking ought to be
included every impulse towards psychic progress, whether
intellectual, moral, or spiritual in the narrow sense of the
term. It must be admitted, however, that much that com-
monly passes for spiritual self-seeking in this narrow sense
is only material and social self-seeking beyond the grave.
In the Mohammedan desire for paradise and the Christian
aspiration not to be damned in hell, the materiality oTthe
goods sought is undisguised. In the more positive and
refined view of heaven, many of its goods, the fellowship of
the saints and of our dead ones, and the presence of God,
are but_social goods of the most exalted kind. It is only
the searcn 01 the redeemed inward nature, the spotlessness
from sin, whether here or hereafter, that can count as
spiritual self-seeking pure and undefiled.

1 86 PSYCHOLOGY

But this broad external review of the facts of the life of
the Me will be incomplete without some account of the

Rivalry and Conflict of the Different Mes. — With
most objects of desire, physical nature restricts our choice to
but one of many represented goods, and even so it is here.
I am often confronted by the necessity of standing by one
of my empirical selves and relinquishing the rest. Not
that I would not, if I could, be both handsome and fat
and well dressed, and a great athlete, and make a million
a year, be a wit, a bon-vivant, and a lady-killer, as well as
a philosopher; a philanthropist, statesman, warrior, and
African explorer, as well as a ' tone-poet ' and saint. But
the thing is simply impossible. The millionaire's work
would run counter to the saint's; the bon-vivant and the
philanthropist would trip each other up; the philosopher
and the lady-killer could not well keep house in the same
tenement of clay. Such different characters may conceiv-
ably at the outset of life be alike possible to a man. But
to make any one of them actual, the rest must more or less
be suppressed. So the seeker of his truest, strongest,
deepest self must review the list carefully, and pick out
the one on which to stake his salvation. All other selves
thereupon become unreal, but the fortunes of this self are
real. Its failures are real failures, its triumphs real tri-
umphs, carrying shame and gladness with them. This is
as strong an example as there is of that selective industry
of the mind on which I insisted some pages back (p. 173 ff.).
Our thought, incessantly deciding, among many things of
a kind, which ones for it shall be realities, here chooses
one of many possible selves or characters, and forthwith
reckons it no shame to fail in any of those not adopted
expressly as its own.

So we have the paradox of a man shamed to death
because he is only the second pugilist or the second oars-
man in the world. That he is able to beat the whole
population of the globe minus one is nothing; he has
1 pitted ' himself to beat that one; and as long as he doesn't

THE SELF 187

do that nothing else counts. He is to his own regard as if
he were not, indeed he is not. Yonder puny fellow, how-
ever, whom every one can beat, suffers no chagrin about it,
for he has long ago abandoned the attempt to ' carry that
line/ as the merchants say, of self at all. With no attempt
there can be no failure; with no failure, no humiliation.
So our self-feeling in this world depends entirely on what
we back ourselves to be and do. It is determined by the
ratio of our actualities to our supposed potentialities; a
fraction of which our pretensions are the denominator and
the numerator our success: thus,

0 lf Success

Self-esteem =

Pretensions

Such a fraction may be increased as well by diminishing
the denominator as by increasing the numerator. To
I f give up pretensions is as blessed a relief as to get them
(I gratified; and where disappointment is incessant and the
struggle unending, this is what men will always do. The
history of evangelical theology, with its conviction of sin,
its self-despair, and its abandonment of salvation by
works, is the deepest of possible examples, but we meet
others in every walk of life. There is the strangest light-
ness about the heart when one's nothingness in a particular
line is once accepted in good faith. All is not bitterness in
the lot of the lover sent away by the final inexorable ' No.'
Many Bostonians, crede expert o (and inhabitants of other
cities, too, I fear), would be happier women and men to-day,
if they could once for all abandon the notion of keeping up
a Musical Self, and without shame let people hear them
call a symphony a nuisance. How pleasant is the day when
we give up striving to be young, — or slender! Thank God!
we say, those illusions are gone. Everything added to the
Self is a burden as well as a pride. A certain man who
lost every penny during our civil war went and actually
rolled in the dust, saying he had not felt so free and happy
since he was born.

1 88 PSYCHOLOGY

Once more, then, our self-feeling is in our power. As
Carlyle says: " Make thy claim of wages a zero, then hast
thou the world under thy feet. Well did the wisest of our
time write, it is only with renunciation that life, properly
speaking, can be said to begin."

Neither threats nor pleading can move a man unless
they touch some one of his potential or actual selves. Only
thus can we, as a rule, get a ' purchase ' on another's will.
The first care of diplomatists and monarchs and all who
wish to rule or influence is, accordingly, to find out their
victim's strongest principle of self-regard, so as to make
that the fulcrum of all appeals. But if a man has given up
those things which are subject to foreign fate, and ceased
to regard them as parts of himself at all, we are well-nigh
powerless over him. The Stoic receipt for contentment
was to dispossess yourself in advance of all that was out oi
your own power, — then fortune's shocks might rain down
unfelt. Epictetus exhorts us, by thus narrowing and at the
same time solidifying our Self to make it invulnerable: " I
must die; well, but must I die groaning too? I will speak
what appears to be right, and if the despot says, ' Then I
will put you to death/ I will reply, ' When did I ever tell
you that I was immortal? You will do your part, and I
mine; it is yours to kill, and mine to die intrepid; yours
to banish, mine to depart untroubled. ' How do we act in a
voyage? We choose the pilot, the sailors, the hour. After-
wards comes a storm. What have I to care for? My part
is performed. This matter belongs to the pilot. But the
ship is sinking; what then have I to do? That which alone
I can do — submit to being drowned without fear, without
clamor or accusing of God, but as one who knows that
what is born must likewise die."

This Stoic fashion, though efficacious and heroic enough
in its place and time, is, it must be confessed, only possible
as an habitual mood of the soul to narrow and unsympa-
thetic characters. It proceeds altogether by exclusion. If
I am Stoic, the goods I cannot appropriate cease to be my

THE SELF 189

goods, and the temptation lies very near to deny that they
are goods at all. We find this mode of protecting the Self
by exclusion and denial very common among people who
are in other respects not Stoics. All narrow people intrench
their Me, they retract it, — from the region of what they
cannot securely possess. People who don't resemble them,
or who treat them with indifference, people over whom they
gain no influence, are people on whose existence, however
meritorious it may intrinsically be, they look with chill
negation, if not with positive hate. Who will not be mine
I will exclude from existence altogether; that is, as far as
I can make it so, such people shall be as if they were not.
Thus may a certain absoluteness and definiteness in the out-
line of my Me console me for the smallness of its content.
Sympathetic people, on the contrary, proceed by the
entirely opposite way of expansion and inclusion. The
outline of their self often gets uncertain enough, but for
this the spread of its content more than atones. Nil
humani a me alienum. Let them despise this little per-
son of mine, and treat me like a dog, / shall not negate
them so long as I have a soul in my body. They are reali-
ties as much as I am. What positive good is in them shall
be mine too, etc., etc. The magnanimity of these expansive
natures is often touching indeed. Such persons can feel
a sort of delicate rapture in thinking that, however sick,
ill-favored, mean-conditioned, and generally forsaken they
may be, they yet are integral parts of the whole of this
brave world, have a fellow's share in the strength of the
dray-horses, the happiness of the young people, the wisdom
of the wise ones, and are not altogether without part or lot
in the good fortunes of the Vanderbilts and the Hohen-
zollerns themselves. Thus either by negating or by em-
bracing, the Ego may seek to establish itself in reality.
He who, with Marcus Aurelius, can truly say, aO Universe,
I wish all that thou wishest," has a self from which every
trace of negativeness and obstructiveness has been re-
moved— no wind can blow except to fill its sails.

ioo PSYCHOLOGY

The Hierarchy of the Mes. — A tolerably unanimous
opinion ranges the different selves of which a man may be
1 seized and possessed/ and the consequent different orders
of his self-regard, in an hierarchical scale, with the bodily
me at the bottom, the spiritual me at top, and the extra-cor-
poreal material selves and the various social selves between.
Our merely natural self-seeking would lead us to aggran-
dize all these selves; we give up deliberately only those
among them which we find we cannot keep. Our unself-
ishness is thus apt to be a 'virtue of necessity ' ; and it is
not without all show of reason that cynics quote the fable
of the fox and the grapes in describing our progress
therein. But this is the moral education of the race; and
if we agree in the result that on the whole the selves we
can keep are the intrinsically best, we need not complain
of being led to the knowledge of their superior worth in
such a tortuous way.

Of course this is not the only way in which we learn
to subordinate our lower selves to our higher. A direct
ethical judgment unquestionably also plays its part, and
last, not least, we apply to our own persons judgments
originally called forth by the acts of others. It is one of
the strangest laws of our nature that many things which
we are well satisfied with in ourselves disgust us when seen
in others. With another man's bodily ' hoggishness '
hardly anyone has any sympathy; almost as little with
his cupidity, his social vanity and eagerness, his jealousy,
and his despotism, and his pride. Left absolutely to myself I
should probably allow all these spontaneous tendencies to
luxuriate in me unchecked, and it would be long before I
formed a distinct notion of the order of their subordina-
tion. But having constantly to pass judgment on my
associates, I come ere long to see, as Herr Horwicz says,
my own lusts in the mirror of the lusts of others, and to
think about them in a very different way from that in
which I simply feel. Of course, the moral generalities
which from childhood have been instilled into me acceler-

THE SELF 191

ate enormously the advent of this reflective judgment on
myself.

So it comes to pass that, as aforesaid, men have arranged
the various selves which they may seek in an hierarchical
scale accordingly to their worth. A certain amount of
bodily selfishness is required as a basis for all the other
selves. But too much sensuality is despised, or at best
condoned on account of the other qualities of the indi-
vidual. The wider material selves are regarded as higher
than the immediate body. He is esteemed a poor creature
who is unable to forego a little meat and drink and warmth
and sleep for the sake of getting on in the world. The
social self as a whole, again, ranks higher than the material
self as a whole. We must care more for our honor, our
friends, our humanities, than for a sound skin or wealth,
And the spiritual self is so supremely precious that, rather
than lose it, a man ought to be willing to give up friends
and good fame, and property, and life itself.

In each kind of Me, material, social, and spiritual, men
distinguish between the immediate and actual, and the re-
mote and potential, between the narrower and the wider
view, to the detriment of the former and the advantage of
the latter. One must forego a present bodily enjoyment
for the sake of one's general health; one must abandon the
dollar in the hand for the sake of the hundred dollars to
come; one must make an enemy of his present interlocutor
if thereby one makes friends of a more valued circle; one
must go without learning and grace and wit, the better to
compass one's soul's salvation.

Of all these wider, more potential selves, the potential
social Me is the most interesting, by reason of certain
apparent paradoxes to which it leads in conduct, and by
reason of its connection with our moral and religious life.
When for motives of honor and conscience I brave the
condemnation of my own family, club, and ' set '; when, as
a Protestant, I turn Catholic; as a Catholic, freethinker;
as a ' regular practitioner,' homoeopath, or what not, I am

i92 PSYCHOLOGY

always inwardly strengthened in my course and steeled
against the loss of my actual social self by the thought of
other and better possible social judges than those whose
verdict goes against me now. The ideal social self which
I thus seek in appealing to their decision may be very
remote: it may be represented as barely possible. I may
not hope for its realization during my lifetime; I may even
expect the future generations, which would approve me if
they knew me, to know nothing about me when I am dead
and gone. Yet still the emotion that beckons me on is
indubitably the pursuit of an ideal social self, of a self that
is at least worthy of approving recognition by the highest
possible judging companion, if such companion there be.
This self is the true, the intimate, the ultimate, the per-
manent me which I seek. This judge is God, the Absolute
Mind, the ' Great Companion/ We hear, in these days of
scientific enlightenment, a great deal of discussion about
the efficacy of prayer; and many reasons are given us why
we should not pray, whilst others are given us why we
should. But in all this very little is said of the reason
why we do pray, which is simply that we cannot help pray-
ing. It seems probable that, in spite of all that ' science '
may do to the contrary, men will continue to pray to the
end of time, unless their mental nature changes in a man-
ner which nothing we know should lead us to expect.
The impulse to pray is a necessary consequence of the fact
that whilst the innermost of the empirical selves of a man
is a Self of the social sort, it yet can find its only adequate
Socius in an ideal world.

All progress in the social Self is the substitution of
higher tribunals for lower; this ideal tribunal is the high-
est; and most men, either continually or occasionally,
carry a reference to it in their breast. The humblest out-
cast on this earth can feel himself to be real and valid by
means of this higher recognition. And, on the other hand,
for most of us, a world with no such inner refuge when
the outer social self failed and dropped from us would be

THE SELF 193

the abyss of horror. I say ' for most of us,' because it is
probable that individuals differ a good deal in the degree
in which they are haunted by this sense of an ideal specta-
tor. It is a much more essential part of the consciousness
of some men than of others. Those who have the most of
it are possibly the most religious men. But I am sure that
even those who say they are altogether without it deceive
themselves, and really have it in some degree. Only a
non-gregarious animal could be completely without it.
Probably no one can make sacrifices for ' right,' without
to some degree personifying the principle of right for
which the sacrifice is made, and expecting thanks from it.
Complete social unselfishness, in other words, can hardly
exist; complete social suicide hardly occur to a man's
mind. Even such texts as Job's, " Though He slay me,
yet will I trust Him," or Marcus Aurelius's, " If gods hate
me and my children, there is a reason for it," can least of all
be cited to prove the contrary. For beyond all doubt Job
revelled in the thought of Jehovah's recognition of the
worship after the slaying should have been done; and the
Roman emperor felt sure the Absolute Reason would not
be all indifferent to his acquiescence in the gods' dislike.
The old test of piety, " Are you willing to be damned for
the glory of God? " was probably never answered in the
affirmative except by those who felt sure in their heart of
hearts that God Would ' credit ' them with their willing-
ness, and set more store by them thus than if in His un-
fathomable scheme He had not damned them at all.

Teleologic^UsesofSelMnterest. — On zoological prin-
ciples it is easy to see~why we have been endowed with
impulses of self-seeking and with emotions of self-satis-
faction and the reverse. Unless our consciousness were
something more than cognitive, unless it experienced a
partiality for certain of the objects, which, in succession,
occupy its ken, it could not long maintain itself in exist-
ence; for, by an inscrutable necessity, each human mind's
appearance on this earth is conditioned upon the integrity

194 PSYCHOLOGY

of the body with which it belongs, upon the treatment
which that body gets from others, and upon the spiritual
dispostions which use it as their tool, and lead it either
towards longevity or to destruction. Its own body, then,
first of all, its friends next, and finally its spiritual dis-
postions, must be the supremely interesting objects for each
human mind. Each mind, to begin with, must have a
certain minimum of selfishness in the shape of instincts of
bodily self-seeking in order to exist. The minimum must
be there as a basis for all farther conscious acts, whether
of self-negation or of a selfishness more subtle still. All
minds must have come, by the way of the survival of the
fittest, if by no directer path, to take an intense interest in
the bodies to which they are yoked, altogether apart from
any interest in the pure Ego which they also possess.

And similarly with the images of their person in the
minds of others. I should not be extant now had I not
become sensitive to looks of approval or disapproval on the
faces among which my life is cast. Looks of contempt
cast on other persons need affect me in no such peculiar
way. My spiritual powers, again, must interest me more
than those of other people, and for the same reason. I
should not be here at all unless I had cultivated them and
kept them from decay. And the same law which made
me once care for them makes me care for them still.

All these three things form the natural Me. But all
these things are objects, properly so called, to the thought
which at any time may be doing the thinking; and if the
zoological and evolutionary point of view is the true one,
there is no reason why one object might not arouse passion
and interest as primitively and instinctively as any other.
I The phenomenon of passion is in origin and essence the
same, whatever be the target upon which it is discharged ;
and what the target actually happens to be is solely a
question of fact. I might conceivably be as much fas-
cinated, and as primitively so, by the care of my neigh-
bor's body as by the care of my own. I am thus fascinated

THE SELF

195

by the care of my child's body. The only check to such
exuberant non-egoistic interests is natural selection, which
would weed out such as were very harmful to the individ-
ual or to his tribe. Many such interests, however, remain
unweeded out — the interest in the opposite sex, for ex-
ample, which seems in mankind stronger than is called for
by its utilitarian need; and alongside of them remain
interests, like that in alcoholic intoxication, or in musical
sounds, which, for aught we can see, are without any
utility whatever. The sympathetic instincts and the egoistic
ones are thus coordinate. They arise, so far as we can
tell, on the same psychologic level. The only difference
between them is that the instincts called egoistic form much
the larger mass.

Summary. — The following table may serve for a sum-
mary of what has been said thus far. The empirical life
of Self is divided, as below, into

Material

Social

Spiritual

Self-
Seeking

Bodily Appetites and
Instincts.

Love of Adornment,
Foppery, Acquisi-
tiveness, Construc-
tiveness.

Love of Home, etc.

Desire to Please, be
Noticed, Admired,
etc.

Sociability, Emula-
tion, Envy, Love,
Pursuit of Honor,
Ambition, etc.

Intellectual, Moral
and Religious
Aspirations, Con-
scientiousness.

Self-
Estimation

Personal Vanity,
Modesty, etc.

Pride of Wealth,
Fear of Poverty.

Social and Family
Pride, Vainglory,
Snobbery, Humil-
ity, Shame, etc.

Sense of Moral or
Mental Superior-
ity, Purity, etc.

Sense of Inferiority
or of Guilt.

B) The Self as Knower.

The I, or ' pure ego,' is a very muchv more difficult sub-
ject of inquiry than the Me. It is that which at any
given moment is conscious, whereas the Me is only one of
the things which it is conscious of. In other words, it is

1 96 PSYCHOLOGY

the Thinker; and the question immediately comes up
what is the thinker? Is it the passing state of conscious-
ness itself, or is it something deeper and less mutable?
The passing state we have seen to be the very embodiment
of change (see p. 155 ff.). Yet each of us spontaneously
considers that by ' 1/ he means something always the same.
This has led most philosophers to postulate behind the
passing state of consciousness a permanent Substance or
Agent whose modification or act it is. This Agent is the
thinker; the l state ' is only its instrument or means. ' Soul'
' transcendental Ego/ ' Spirit/ are so many names for
this more permanent sort of Thinker. Not discriminating
them just yet, let us proceed to define our idea of the
passing state of consciousness more clearly.

The Unity of the Passing Thought. — Already, in
speaking of ' sensations/ from the point of view of Fech-
ner's idea of measuring them, we saw that there was no
ground for calling them compounds. But what is true of
sensations cognizing simple qualities is also true of thoughts
with complex objects composed of many parts. This
proposition unfortunately runs counter to a wide-spread
prejudice, and will have to be defended at some length.
Common-sense, and psychologists of almost every school,
have agreed that whenever an object of thought contains
many elements, the thought itself must be made up of just
as many ideas, one idea for each element, all fused together
in appearance, but really separate.

" There can be no difficulty in admitting that association
does form the ideas of an indefinite number of individuals
into one complex idea," says James Mill, " because it is an
acknowledged fact. Have we not the idea of an army?
And is not that precisely the ideas of an indefinite number
of men formed into one idea? "

Similar quotations might be multiplied, and the reader's
own first impressions probably would rally to their sup-
port. Suppose, for example, he thinks that " the pack of
cards is on the table." If he begins to reflect, he is as

THE SELF 197

likely as not to say: " Well, isn't that a thought of the
pack of cards? Isn't it of the cards as included in the
pack? Isn't it of the table? And of the legs of the table
as well? Hasn't my thought, then, all these parts — one
part for the pack and another for the table? And within
the pack-part a part for each card, as within the table-part
a part for each leg? And isn't each of these parts an
idea? And can thought, then, be anything but an assem-
blage or pack of ideas, each answering to some element of
what it knows?"

Plausible as such considerations may seem, it is aston-
ishing how little force they have. In assuming a pack of
ideas, each cognizant of some one element of the fact one
has assumed, nothing has been assumed which knows the
whole fact at once. The idea which, on the hypothesis
of the pack of ideas, knows, e.g., the ace of spades must be
ignorant of the leg of the table, since to account for that
knowledge another special idea is by the same hypothesis
invoked; and so on with the rest of the ideas, all equally
ignorant of each other's objects. And yet in the actual
living human mind what knows the cards also knows the
table, its legs, etc., for all these things are known in rela-
tion to each other and at once. Our notion of the abstract
numbers eight, four, two is as truly one feeling of the
mind as our notion of simple unity. Our idea of a couple
is not a couple of ideas. " But," the reader may say, " is
not the taste of lemonade composed of that of lemon plus
that of sugar?" No! I reply, this is taking the combining
of objects for that of feelings. The physical lemonade
contains both the lemon and the sugar, but its taste does
not contain their tastes; for if there are any two things
which are certainly not present in the taste of lemonade,
those are the pure lemon-sour on the one hand and the
pure sugar-sweet on the other. These tastes are absent
utterly. A taste somewhat like both of them is there, but
that is a distinct state of mind altogether.

Distinct mental states cannot * fuse.' — But not only is

1 98 PSYCHOLOGY

the notion that our ideas are combinations of smaller ideas
improbable, it is logically unintelligible; it leaves out the
essential features of all the ' combinations ' which we
actually know.

All the ' combinations ' which we actually know are
effects, wrought by the units said to be ' combined,' upon

SOME ENTITY OTHER THAN THEMSELVES. Without this

feature of a medium or vehicle, the notion of combination
has no sense.

In other words, no possible number of entities (call
them as you like, whether forces, material particles, or
mental elements) can sum themselves together. Each
remains, in the sum, what it always was; and the sum
itself exists only for a bystander who happens to overlook
the units and to apprehend the sum as such; or else it
exists in the shape of some other effect on an entity exter-
nal to the sum itself. When H and O are said to
combine into ' water/ and thenceforward to exhibit new
properties, the ' water ' is just the old atoms in the new
position, H-O-H; the ' new properties ' are just their com-
bined effects, when in this position, upon external media,
such as our sense-organs and the various reagents on which
water may exert its properties and be known. Just so, the
strength of many men may combine when they pull upon
one rope, of many muscular fibres when they pull upon one
tendon.

In the parallelogram of forces, the c forces ' do not com-
bine themeselves into the diagonal resultant; a body is
needed on which they may impinge, to exhibit their
resultant effect. No more do musical sounds combine per se
into concords or discords. Concord and discord are names
for their combined effects on that external medium, the
ear.

Where the elemental units are supposed to be feelings,
the case is in no wise altered. Take a hundred of them,
shuffle them and pack them as close together as you can
(whatever that may mean); still each remains the same

THE SELF 199

feeling it always was, shut in its own skin, windowless,
ignorant of what the other feelings are and mean. There
would be a hundred-and-first feeling there, if, when a group
or series of such feelings were set up, a consciousness be-
longing to the group as such should emerge, and this one
hundred and first feeling would be a totally new fact. The
one hundred original feelings might, by a curious physical
law, be a signal for its creation, when they came together —
we often have to learn things separately before we know
them as a sum— but they would have no substantial iden-
tity with the new feeling, nor it with them; and one could
never deduce the one from the others, or (in any intelli-
gible sense) say that they evolved it out of themselves.

Take a sentence of a dozen words, and take twelve men
and tell to each one word. Then stand the men in a row
or jam them in a bunch, and let each think of his word as
intently as he will; nowhere will there be a consciousness
of the whole sentence. We talk, it is true, of the ' spirit of
the age,' and the ' sentiment of the people/ and in various
ways we hypostatize ' public opinion/ But we know this
to be symbolic speech, and never dream that the spirit,
opinion, or sentiment constitutes a consciousness other
than, and additional to, that of the several individuals
whom the words ' age/ ' people/ or ' public ' denote. The
private minds do not agglomerate into a higher compound
mind. This has always been the invincible contention of
the spiritualists against the associationists in psychology.
The assocTationists say the mind is constituted by a multi-
plicity of distinct l ideas ' associated into a unity. There
is, they say, an idea of a, and also an idea of b. Therefore,
they say, there is an idea of a +' b, or of a and b together.
Which is like saying that the mathematical square of
a plus that of b is equal to the square of a + b, a. palpable
untruth. Idea of a -f-! idea of b is not indentical with idea
of (a+'b). It is one, they are two; in it, what knows a
also knows b; in them, what knows a is expressly posited
as not knowing b; etc. In short, the two separate ideas

200 PSYCHOLOGY

can never by any logic be made to figure as one idea. If
one idea (of a +' b, for example) come as a mattter of fact
after the two separate ideas (of a and of b), then we must
hold it to be as direct a product of the later conditions as
the two separate ideas were of the earlier conditions.

The simplest tking, therefore, if we are to assume the ex-
istence of a stream of consciousness at all, would be to sup-
pose that things that are known together are known in
I single pulses of that stream. The things may be many,
and may occasion many currents in the brain. But the
psychic phenomenon correlative to these many currents is
one integral ' state,' transitive or substantive (see p. 161), to
which the many things appear.

The Soul as a Combining Medium. — The spiritualists
in philosophy have been prompt to see that things which are
known together are known by one something, but that some-
thing, they say, is no mere passing thought, but a simple
and permanent spiritual being on which many ideas com-
bine their effects. It makes no difference in this connec-
tion whether this being be called Soul, Ego, or Spirit, in
either case its chief function is that of a combining
medium. This is a different vehicle of knowledge from
that in which we just said that the mystery of knowing
things together might be most simply lodged. Which is
the real knower, this permanent being, or our passing
state? If we had other grounds, not yet considered, for
admitting the Soul into our psychology, then getting
there on those grounds, she might turn out to be the
knower too. But if there be no other grounds for admit-
ting the Soul, we had better cling to our passing ' states '
as the exclusive agents of knowledge ; for we have to assume
their existence anyhow in psychology, and the know-
ing of many things together is just as well accounted for
when we call it one of their functions as when we call it
a reaction of the Soul. Explained it is not by either con-
ception, and has to figure in psychology as a datum that is
ultimate.

THE SELF 201

But there are other alleged grounds for admitting the
Soul into psychology, and the chief of them is

The Sense of Personal Identity. — In the last chapter it
was stated (see p. 154) that the thoughts which we actually
know to exist do not fly about loose, but seem each to
belong to some one thinker and not to another. Each
thought, out of a multitude of other thoughts of which
it may think, is able to distinguish those which belong to
it from those which do not. The former have a warmth
and intimacy about them of which the latter are com-
pletely devoid, and the result is a Me of yesterday, judged
to be in some peculiarly subtle sense the same with the
I who now make the judgment. As a mere subjective
phenomenon the judgment presents no special mystery.
It belongs to the great class of judgments of sameness;
and there is nothing more remarkable in making a judg-
ment of sameness in the first person than in the second or
the third. The intellectual operations seem essentially
alike, whether I say ' I am the same as I was,' or whether
I say ' the pen is the same as it was, yesterday.' It is as
easy to think this as to think the opposite and say ' neither
of us is the same.' The only question which we have to
consider is whether it be a right judgment. Is the same-
ness predicated really there?

Sameness in the Self as Known. — If in the sentence ' I
am the same that I was yesterday/ we take the ' I ' broadly,
it is evident that in many ways I am not the same. As a
concrete Me, I am somewhat different from what I was:
then hungry, now full; then walking, now at rest; then
poorer, now richer; then younger, now older; etc. And
yet in other ways I am the same, and we may call these
the essential ways. My name and profession and rela-
tions to the world are identical, my face, my faculties and
store of memories, are practically indistinguishable, now and
then. Moreover the Me of now and the Me of then are con-
tinuous : the alterations were gradual and never affected the
whole of me at once. So far, then, my personal identity is

202 PSYCHOLOGY

just like the sameness predicated of any other aggregate
thing. It is a conclusion grounded either on the resem-
blance in essential respects, or on the continuity of the
phenomena compared. And it must not be taken to mean
more than these grounds warrant or treated as a sort of
metaphysical or absolute Unity in which all differences are
overwhelmed. The past and present selves compared are
the same just so far as they are the same, and no farther.
They are the same in kind. But this generic sameness
coexists with generic differences just as real; and if from
the one point of view I am one self, from another I am
quite as truly many. Similarly of the attribute of con-
tinuity: it gives to the self the unity of mere connected-
ness, or unbrokenness, a perfectly definite phenomenal
thing — but it gives not a jot or tittle more.

Sameness in the Self as Knower. — But all this is said
only of the Me, or Self as known. In the judgment ' I
am the same/ etc., the ' I ' was taken broadly as the con-
crete person. Suppose, however, that we take it narrowly
as the Thinker, as * that to which ' all the concrete deter-
minations of the Me belong and are known: does there not
then appear an absolute identity at different times? That
something which at every moment goes out and knowingly
appropriates the Me of the past, and discards the non-me
as foreign, is it not a permanent abiding principle of spir-
itual activity identical with itself wherever found?

That it is such a principle is the reigning doctrine both
of philosophy and common-sense, and yet reflection finds
it difficult to justify the idea. If there were no passing
states of consciousness, then indeed we might suppose an
abiding principle, absolutely one with itself, to be the
ceaseless thinker in each one of us. But if the states of
consciousness be accorded as realities, no such ' substantial '
identity in the thinker need be supposed. Yesterday's and
to-day's states of consciousness have no substantial identity,
for when one is here the othef^fe^ irrevocably dead
and gone. But they have a functional identity, for both

THE SELF 203

know the same objects, and so far as the by-gone me is one
of those objects, they react upon it in an identical way,
greeting it and calling it mine, and opposing it to all the
other things they know. This functional identity seems
really the only sort of identity in the thinker which the
facts require us to suppose. Successive thinkers, numeri-
cally distinct, but all aware of the same past in the same
way, form an adequate vehicle for all the experience of
personal unity and sameness which we actually have. And
just such a train of successive thinkers is the stream of
mental states (each with its complex object cognized and
emotional and selective reaction thereupon) which psychol-
ogy treated as a natural science has to assume (see p. 2).

The logical conclusion seems then to be that the states
of consciousness are all that psychology needs to do her
work with. Metaphysics or theology may prove the Soul to
exist; but for psychology the hypothesis of such a substan-
tial principle of unity is superfluous.

How the I appropriates the Me. — But why should each
successive mental state appropriate the same past Me? I
spoke a while ago of my own past experiences appearing to
me with a ' warmth and intimacy ' which the experiences
thought of by me as having occurred to other people lack.
This leads us to the answer sought. My present Me is felt
with warmth and intimacy. The heavy warm mass of my
body is there, and the nucleus of the ' spiritual me,' the sense
of intimate activity (p. 184), is there. We cannot realize our
present self without simultaneously feeling one or other of
these two things. Any other object of thought which
brings these two things with it into consciousness will be
thought with a warmth and an intimacy like those which
cling to the present me.

Any distant object which fulfills this condition will be
thought with such warmth and intimacy. But which dis-
tant objects do fulfil the condition, when represented?

Obviously those, and only those, which fulfilled it when
they were alive. Them we shall still represent with the

204 PSYCHOLOGY

animal warmth upon them; to them may possibly still cling
the flavor of the inner activity taken in the act. And by a
natural consequence, we shall assimilate them to each other
and to the warm and intimate self we now feel within us
as we think, and separate them as a collection from what-
ever objects have not this mark, much as out of a herd
of cattle let loose for the winter on some wide Western
prairie the owner picks out and sorts together, when the
round-up comes in the spring, all the beasts on which he
finds his own particular brand. Well, just such objects are
the past experiences which I now call mine. Other men's
experiences, no matter how much I may know about them,
never bear this vivid, this peculiar brand. This is why Peter,
awakening in the same bed with Paul, and recalling what
both had in mind before they went to sleep, reidentifies
and appropriates the ' warm ' ideas as his, and is never
tempted to confuse them with those cold and pale-appear-
ing ones which he ascribes to Paul. As well might he
confound Paul's body, which he only sees, with his own
body, which he sees but also feels. Each of us when he
awakens says, Here's the same old Me again, just as he
says, Here's the same old bed, the same old room, the same
old world.

And similarly in our waking hours, though each pulse of
consciousness dies away and is replaced by another, yet that
other, among the things it knows, knows its own prede-
cessor, and finding it ' warm,' in the way we have de-
scribed, greets it, saying: " Thou art mine, and part of the
same self with me." Each later thought, knowing and
including thus the thoughts that went before, is the final
receptacle — and appropriating them is the final owner — of
all that they contain and own. As Kant says, it is as if
elastic balls were to have not only motion but knowledge
of it, and a first ball were to transmit both its motion and
its consciousness to a second, which took both up into its
consciousness and passed them to a third, until the last
ball held all that the other balls had held, and realized it

THE SELF 205

as its own. It is this trick which the nascent thought
has of immediately taking up the expiring thought and
■ adopting ' it, which leads to the appropriation of most of
the remoter constituents of the self. Who owns the last
self owns the self before the last, for what possesses the pos-
sessor possesses the possessed. It is impossible to discover
any verifiable features in personal identity which this
sketch does not contain, impossible to imagine how any
transcendent principle of Unity (were such a principle
there) could shape matters to any other result, or be
known by any other fruit, than just this production of a
stream of consciousness each successive part of which
should know, and knowing, hug to itself and adopt, all
those that went before, — thus standing as the representa-
tive of an entire past stream with which it is in no wise
to be identified.

Mutations and Multiplications of the Self. — The Me,
like every other aggregate, changes as it grows. The passing
states of consciousness, which should preserve in their suc-
cession and identical knowledge of its past, wander from
their duty, letting large portions drop from out of their
ken, and representing other portions wrong. The identity
which we recognize as we survey the long procession can
only be the relative identity of a slow shifting in which
there is always some common ingredient retained. The
commonest element of all, the most uniform, is the posses-
sion of some common memories. However different the
man may be from the youth, both look back on the same
childhood and call it their own.

Thus the identity found by the / in its Me is only a
loosely construed thing, an identity ' on the whole,' just
like that which any outside observer might find in the
same assemblage of facts. We often say of a man ' he is so
changed one would not know him '; and so does a man,
less often, speak of himself. These changes in the Me,
recognized by the I, or by outside observers, may be grave
or slight. They deserve some notice here.

206 PSYCHOLOGY

The mutations of the Self may be divided into two main
classes:

a. Alterations of memory; and

b. Alterations in the present bodily and spiritual selves.

a. Of the alterations of memory little need be said —
they are so familiar. Losses of memory are a normal inci-
dent in life, especially in advancing years, and the person's
me, as ' realized,' shrinks pari passu with the facts that
disappear. The memory of dreams and of experiences in
the hypnotic trance rarely survives.

False memories, also, are by no means rare occurrences,
and whenever they occur they distort our consciousness of
our Me. Most people, probably, are in doubt about certain
matters ascribed to their past. They may have seen them,
may have said them, done them, or they may only have
dreamed or imagined they did so. The content of a dream
will oftentimes insert itself into the stream of real life in a
most perplexing way. The most frequent source of a false
memory is the accounts we give to others of our experi-
ences. Such accounts we almost always make both more
simple and more interesting than the truth. We quote
what we should have said or done, rather than what we
really said or did; and in the first telling we may be fully
aware of the distinction. But ere long the fiction expels
the reality from memory and reigns in its stead alone.
This is one great source of the fallibility of testimony
meant to be quite honest. Especially where the marvellous
is concerned, the story takes a tilt that way, and the mem-
ory follows the story.

b. When we pass beyond alterations of memory to ab-
normal alterations in the present self we have graver dis-
turbances. These alterations are of three main types, but
our knowledge of the elements and causes of these changes
of personality is so slight that the division into types must
not be regarded as having any profound significance. The
types are:

THE SELF 207

a. Insane delusions;
(3. Alternating selves;
y. Mediumships or possessions.

a. In insanity we often have delusions projected into
the past, which are melancholic or sanguine according to
the character of the disease. But the worst alterations of
the self come from present perversions of sensibility and
impulse which leave the past undisturbed, but induce the
patient to think that the present Me is an altogether new
personage. Something of this sort happens normally in
the rapid expansion of the whole character, intellectual
as well as volitional, which takes place after the time of
puberty. The pathological cases are curious enough to
merit longer notice.

The basis of our personality, as M. Ribot says, is that
feeling of our vitality which, because it is so perpetually
present, remains in the background of our consciousness.

" It is the basis because, always present, always acting,
without peace or rest, it knows neither sleep nor fainting,
and lasts as long as life itself, of which it is one form. It
serves as a support to that self-conscious me which memory
constitutes, it is the medium of association among its other
parts .... Suppose now that it were possible at once to
change our body and put another into its place: skeleton,
vessels, viscera, muscles, skin, everything made new, except
the nervous system with its stored-up memory of the past.
There can be no doubt that in such a case the afflux of
unaccustomed vital sensations would produce the gravest
disorders. Between the old sense of existence engraved on
the nervous system, and the new one acting with all the
intensity of its reality and novelty, there would be irrecon-
cilable contradiction."

What the particular perversions of the bodily sensibility
may be which give rise to these contradictions is, for the
most part, impossible for a sound-minded person to con-

208 PSYCHOLOGY

ceive. One patient has another self that repeats all his
thoughts for him. Others, amongst whom are some of the
first characters in history, have internal daemons who speak
with them and are replied to. Another feels that someone
1 makes ' his thoughts for him. Another has two bodies,
lying in different beds. Some patients feel as if they had
lost parts of their bodies, teeth, brains, stomach, etc. In
some it is made of wood, glass, butter, etc. In some it
does not exist any longer, or is dead, or is a foreign object
quite separate from the speaker's self. Occasionally, parts
of the body lose their connection for consciousness with
the rest, and are treated as belonging to another person
and moved by a hostile will. Thus the right hand may
fight with the left as with an enemy. Or the cries of the
patient himself are assigned to another person with whom
the patient expresses sympathy. The literature of insan-
ity is filled with narratives of such illusions as these. M.
Taine quotes from a patient of Dr. Krishaber an account
of sufferings, from which it will be seen how completely
aloof from what is normal a man's experience may sud-
denly become:

" After the first or second day it was for some weeks
impossible to observe or analyze myself. The suffering —
angina pectoris — was too overwhelming. It was not till
the first days of January that I could give an account to
myself of what I experienced .... Here is the first thing
of which I retain a clear remembrance. I was alone, and
already a prey to permanent visual trouble, when I was
suddenly seized with a visual trouble infinitely more pro-
nounced. Objects grew small and receded to infinite dis-
tances— men and things together. I was myself immeas-
urably far away. I looked about me with terror and
astonishment ; the world was escaping from me. . . .1
remarked at the same time that my voice was extremely
far away from me, that it sounded no longer as if mine. I
struck the ground with my foot, and perceived its resist-
ance ; but this resistance seemed illusory — not that the

THE SELF 209

soil was soft, but that the weight of my body was reduced
to almost nothing. ... I had the feeling of being without
weight. ..." In addition to being so distant " objects
appeared to me flat. When I spoke with anyone, I saw
him like an image cut out of paper with no relief. . . .
This sensation lasted intermittently for two years. . . .
Constantly it seemed as if my legs did not belong to me.
It was almost as bad with my arms. As for my head, it
seemed no longer to exist. ... I appeared to myself to
act automatically, by an impulsion foreign to myself. . . .
There was inside of me a new being, and another part of
myself, the old being, which took no interest in the new-
comer. I distinctly remember saying to myself that the
sufferings of this new being were to me indifferent. I was
never really dupe of these illusions, but my mind grew
often tired of incessantly correcting the new impressions,
and I let myself go and live the unhappy life of this new
entity. I had an ardent desire to see my old world again,
to get back to my old self. This desire kept me from
killing myself. ... I was another, and I hated, I despised
this other; he was perfectly odious to me; it was certainly
another who had taken my form and assumed my func-
tions.' *

In cases like this, it is as certain that the / is unaltered
as that the Me is changed. That is to say, the present
Thought of the patient is cognitive of both the old Me and
the new, so long as its memory holds good. Only, within
that objective sphere which formerly lent itself so simply
to the judgment of recognition and of egotistic appropria-
tion, strange perplexities have arisen. The present and
the past, both seen therein, will not unite. Where is my
old Me ? What is this new one ? Are they the same ?
Or have I two ? Such questions, answered by whatever
theory the patient is able to conjure up as plausible, form
the beginning of his insane life.

*De l'lntelligence, 3me edition (1878), vol. 11., p. 461, note.

2io PSYCHOLOGY

p. The phenomenon of alternating personality in its
simplest phases seems based on lapses of memory. Any
man becomes, as we say, inconsistent with himself if he
forgets his engagements, pledges, knowledges, and habits;
and it is merely a question of degree at what point we shall
say that his personality is changed. But in the pathological
cases known as those of double or alternate personality the
loss of memory is abrupt, and is usually preceded by a
period of unconsciousness or syncope lasting a variable
length of time. In the hypnotic trance we can easily pro-
duce an alteration of the personality, either by telling the
subject to forget all that has happened to him since such
or such a date, in which case he becomes (it may be) a
child again, or by telling him he is another altogether
imaginary personage, in which case all facts about himself
seem for the time being to lapse from out his mind, and
he throws himself into the new character with a vivacity
proportionate to the amount of histrionic imagination
which he possesses. But in the pathological cases the
transformation is spontaneous. The most famous case,
perhaps, on record is that of Felida X., reported by Dr.
Azam of Bordeaux. At the age of fourteen this woman
began to pass into a l secondary ' state characterized by a
change in her general disposition and character, as if cer-
tain ' inhibitions,' previously existing, were suddenly re-
moved. During the secondary state she remembered the
first state, but on emerging from it into the first state she
remembered nothing of the second. At the age of forty-
four the duration of the secondary state (which was on the
whole superior in quality to the original state) had gained
upon the latter so much as to occupy most of her time.
During it she remembers the events belonging to the
original state, but her complete oblivion of the secondary
state when the original state recurs is often very distressing
to her, as, for example, when the transition takes place in
a carriage on her way to a funeral, and she has no idea
which one of her friends may be dead. She actually be-

THE SELF 211

came pregnant during one of her early secondary states,
and during her first state had no knowledge of how it had
come to pass. Her distress at these blanks of memory is
sometimes intense and once drove her to attempt suicide.
M. Pierre Janet describes a still more remarkable case
as follows: " Leonie B., whose life sounds more like an im-
probable romance than a genuine history, has had attacks
of natural somnambulism since the age of three years.
She has been hypnotized constantly by all sorts of persons
from the age of sixteen upwards, and she is now forty-
five. Whilst her normal life developed in one way in
the midst of her poor country surroundings, her second
life was passed in drawing-rooms and doctors' offices, and
naturally took an entirely different direction. Today,
when in her normal state, this poor peasant woman is a
serious and rather sad person, calm and slow, very mild
with everyone, and extremely timid: to look at her one
would never suspect the personage which she contains.
But hardly is she put to sleep hypnotically when a meta-
morphosis occurs. Her face is no longer the same. She
keeps her eyes closed, it is true, but the acuteness of her
other senses supplies their place. She is gay, noisy, rest-
less, sometimes insupportably so. She remains good-
natured, but has acquired a singular tendency to irony and
sharp jesting. Nothing is more curious than to hear her
after a sitting when she has received a visit from strangers
who wished to see her asleep. She gives a word-portrait
of them, apes their manners, claims to know their little
ridiculous aspects and passions, and for each invents a
romance. To this character must be added the possession
of an enormous number of recollections, whose existence
she does not even suspect when awake, for her amnesia is
then complete. . . . She refuses the name of Leonie and
takes that of Leontine (Leonie 2) to which her first mag-
netizers had accustomed her. c That good woman is not
myself,' she says, ' she is too stupid! ' To herself, Leontine,
or Leonie 2, she attributes all the sensations and all the

2i2 PSYCHOLOGY

actions, in a word all the conscious experiences, which she
has undergone in somnambulism, and knits them together
to make the history of her already long life. To Leonie i
[as M. Janet calls the waking woman] , on the other hand,
she exclusively ascribes the events lived through in waking
hours. I was at first struck by an important exception to
the rule, and was disposed to think that there might be
something arbitrary in this partition of her recollections.
In the normal state Leonie has a husband and children;
but Leonie 2, the somnambulist, whilst acknowledging the
children as her own, attributes the husband to ' the other. '
This choice was perhaps explicable, but it followed no
rule. It was not till later that I learned that her mag-
netizers in early days, as audacious as certain hypnotizers
of recent date, had somnambulized her for her first
accouchements, and that she had lapsed into that state
spontaneously in the later ones. Leonie 2 was thus quite
right in ascribing to herself the children — it was she who
had had them, and the rule that her first trance — state forms
a different personality was not broken. But it is the same
with her second or deepest state of trance. When after
the renewed passes, syncope, etc., she reaches the condition
which I have called Leonie 3, she is another person still.
Serious and grave, instead of being a restless child, she
speaks slowly and moves but little. Again she separates
herself from the waking Leonie 1 . c A good but rather
stupid woman/ she says, * and not me.' And she also
separates herself from Leonie 2 : ' How can you see any-
thing of me in that crazy creature? ' she says. ' Fortu-
nately I am nothing for her.' "

y. In ' mediums kips ' or ' possessions ' the invasion and
the passing away of the secondary state are both relatively
abrupt, and the duration of the state is usually short — i. e.,
from a few minutes to a few hours. Whenever the second-
ary state is well developed, no memory for aught that hap-
pened during it remains after the primary consciousness

THE SELF 213

comes back. The subject during the secondary conscious-
ness speaks, writes, or acts as if animated by a foreign
person, and often names this foreign person and gives his
history. In old times the foreign ' control ' was usually a
demon, and is so now in communities which favor that
belief. With us he gives himself out at the worst for an
Indian or other grotesquely speaking but harmless person-
age. Usually he purports to be the spirit of a dead per-
son known or unknown to those present, and the subject
is then what we call a ' medium.' Mediumistic possession
in all its grades seems to form a perfectly natural special
type of alternate personality, and the susceptibility to it
in some form is by no means an uncommon gift, in per-
sons who have no other obvious nervous anomaly. The
phenomena are very intricate, and are only just begin-
ning to be studied in a proper scientific way. The lowest
phase of mediumship is automatic writing, and the lowest
grade of that is where the Subject knows what words
are coming, but feels impelled to write them as if from
without. Then comes writing unconsciously, even whilst
engaged in reading or talk. Inspirational speaking, play-
ing on musical instruments, etc., also belong to the rela-
tively lower phases of possession, in which the normal self
is not excluded from conscious participation in the per-
formance, though their initiative seems to come from else-
where. In the highest phase the trance is complete, the
voice, language, and everything are changed, and there is
no after-memory whatever until the next trance comes.
One curious thing about trance-utterances is their generic
similarity in different individuals. The ' control ' here in
America is either a grotesque, slangy, and flippant person-
age (' Indian ' controls, calling the ladies ' squaws/ the men
* braves,' the house a ' wigwam,' etc., etc., are excessively
common) ; or, if he ventures on higher intellectual flights,
he abounds in a curiously vague optimistic philosophy-and-
water, in which phrases about spirit, harmony, beauty, law,
progression, development, etc., keep recurring. It seems

2i4 PSYCHOLOGY

exactly as if one author composed more than half of the
trance-messages, no matter by whom they are uttered.
Whether all sub-conscious selves are peculiarly susceptible
to a certain stratum of the Zeitgeist, and get their inspira-
tion from it, I know not; but this is obviously the case
with the secondary selves which become ' developed ' in
spiritualist circles. There the beginnings of the medium
trance are indistinguishable from effects of hypnotic sug-
gestion. The subject assumes the role of a medium
simply because opinion expects it of him under the condi-
tions which are present; and carries it out with a feeble-
ness or a vivacity proportionate to his histrionic gifts.
But the odd thing is that persons unexposed to spiritual-
ist traditions will so often act in the same way when they
become entranced, speak in the name of the departed, go
through the motions of their several death-agonies, send
messages about their happy home in the summer-land,
and describe the ailments of those present.

I have no theory to publish of these cases, the actual
beginning of several of which I have personally seen. I
am, however, persuaded by abundant acquaintance with the
trances of one medium that the l control ' may be altog'ether
different from any possible waking self of the person. In
the case I have in mind, it professes to be a certain departed
French doctor; and is, I am convinced, acquainted with
facts about the circumstances, and the living and dead
relatives and acquaintances, of numberless sitters whom the
medium never met before, and of whom she has never heard
the names. I record my bare opinion here unsupported by
the evidence, not, of course, in order to convert anyone to
my view, but because I am persuaded that a serious study
of these trance-phenomena is one of the greatest needs of
psychology, and think that my personal confession may
possibly draw a reader or two into a field which the soi-
disant ' scientist ' usually refuses to explore*

* Some of the evidence for this medium's supernormal powers is

THE SELF 215

Review, and Psychological Conclusion. — To sum up
this long chapter: — The consciousness of Self involves a
stream of thought, each part of which as ' I ' can remember
those which went before, know the things they knew, and
care paramountly for certain ones among them as ' Me/ and
appropriate to these the rest. This Me is an empirical
aggregate of things objectively known. The / which
knows them cannot itself be an aggregate; neither for
psychological purposes need it be an unchanging meta-
physical entity like the Soul, or a principle like the tran-
scendental Ego, viewed as ' out of time/ It is a thought,
at each moment different from that of the last moment,
but appropriative of the latter, together with all that the
latter called its own. All the experiential facts find their
place in this description, unencumbered with any hypoth-
esis save that of the existence of passing thoughts or states
of mind.

If passing thoughts be the directly verifiable existents
which no school has hitherto doubted them to be, then they
are the only ' Knower ' of which Psychology, treated as a
natural science, need take any account. The only pathway
that I can discover for bringing in a more transcendental
Thinker would be to deny that we have any such direct
knowledge of the existence of our ' states of consciousness '
as common-sense supposes us to possess. The existence of
the ' states ' in question would then be a mere hypothesis,
or one way of asserting that there must be a knower correl-
ative to all this known; but the problem who that knower
is would have become a metaphysical problem. With the
question once stated in these terms, the notion either of a
Spirit of the world which thinks through us, or that of a
set of individual substantial souls, must be considered as
prima facie on a par with our own l psychological ' solu-
tion and discussed impartially. I myself believe that

piven in The Proceedings of the Societv for Psychical Research,
vol. vi., p. 436, and in the last part of vol. vn (1802).

216 PSYCHOLOGY

room for much future inquiry lies in this direction. The
* states of mind ' which every psychologist believes in are by
no means clearly apprehensible, if distinguished from their
objects. But to doubt them lies beyond the scope of our
natural-science (see p. i) point of view. And in this book
the provisional solution which we have reached must be
the final word: the thoughts themselves are the thinkers.

CHAPTER XIII

ATTENTION

The Narrowness of Consciousness. — One of the most
extraordinary facts of our life is that, although we are be-
sieged at every moment by impressions from our whole
sensory surface, we notice so very small a part of them.
The sum total of our impressions never enters into our
experience, consciously so called, which runs through this
sum total like a tiny rill through a broad flowery mead.
Yet the physical impressions which do not count are there
as much as those which do, and affect our sense-organs just
as energetically. Why they fail to pierce the mind is a
mystery, which is only named and not explained when we
invoke die Enge des Bewusstseins, • the narrowness of con-
sciousness,' as its ground.

Its Physiological Ground. — Our consciousness certainly
is narrow, when contrasted with the breadth of our sensory
surface and the mass of incoming currents which are at all
times pouring in. Evidently no current can be recorded
in conscious experience unless it succeed in penetrating to
the hemispheres and filling their pathways by the proc-
esses set up. When an incoming current thus occupies
the hemispheres with its consequences, other currents are
for the time kept out. They may show their faces at the
door, but are turned back until the actual possessors of
the place are tired. Physiologically, then, the narrowness
of consciousness seems to depend on the fact that the
activity of the hemispheres tends at all times to be a con-
solidated and unified affair, determinable now by this cur-
rent and now by that, but determinable only as a whole.
The ideas correlative to the reigning system of processes

217

218 PSYCHOLOGY

are those which are said to ' interest ' us at the time; and
thus that selective character of our attention on which so
much stress was laid on pp. 173 ff. appears to find a
physiological ground. At all times, however, there is a
liability to disintegration of the reigning system. The con-
solidation is seldom quite complete, the excluded currents
are not wholly abortive, their presence affects the ' fringe '
and margin of our thought.

Dispersed Attention. — Sometimes, indeed, the normal
consolidation seems hardly to exist. At such moments it
is possible that cerebral activity sinks to a minimum.
Most of us probably fall several times a day into a fit
somewhat like this: The eyes are fixed on vacancy, the
sounds of the world melt into confused unity, the attention
is dispersed so that the whole body is felt, as it were, at
once, and the foreground of consciousness is filled, if by
anything, by a sort of solemn sense of surrender to the
empty passing of time. In the dim background of our
mind we know meanwhile what we ought to be doing: get-
ting up, dressing ourselves, answering the person who has
spoken to us, trying to make the next step in our reason-
ing. But somehow we cannot start; the pensee de derriere
la tete fails to pierce the shell of lethargy that wraps our
state about. Every moment we expect the spell to break,
for we know no reason why it should continue. But it
does continue, pulse after pulse, and we float with it, until
— also without reason that we can discover — an energy is
given, something — we know not what — enables us to gather
ourselves together, we wink our eyes, we shake our heads,
the background-ideas become effective, and the wheels of
life go round again.

This is the extreme of what is called dispersed atten-
tion. Between this extreme and the extreme of concen-
trated attention, in which absorption in the interest of the
moment is so complete that grave bodily injuries may be
unfelt, there are intermediate degrees, and these have been
studied experimentally. The problem is known as that of

ATTENTION 219

The Span of Consciousness. — How many objects can
we attend to at once when they are not embraced in one con-
ceptual system? Prof. Cattell experimented with combi-
nations of letters exposed to the eye for so short a fraction
of a second that attention to them in succession seemed to
be ruled out. When the letters formed familiar words,
three times as many of them could be named as when
their combination was meaningless. If the words formed
a sentence, twice as many could be caught as when they
had no connection. " The sentence was then apprehended
as a whole. If not apprehended thus, almost nothing is
apprehended of the several words; but if the sentence as
a whole is apprehended, then the words appear very dis-
tinct."

A word is a conceptual system in which the letters do
not enter consciousness separately, as they do when appre-
hended alone. A sentence flashed at once upon the eye is
such a system relatively to its words. A conceptual system
may mean many sensible objects, may be translated later
into them, but as an actual existent mental state, it does
not consist of the consciousness of these objects. When I
think of the word man as a whole, for instance, what is in
my mind is something different from what is there when I
think of the letters m, a, and n, as so many disconnected
data.

When data are so disconnected that we have no concep-
tion which embraces them together it is much harder to ap-
prehend several of them at once, and the mind tends to let
go of one whilst it attends to another. Still, within limits
this can be avoided. M. Paulhan has experimented on the
matter by declaiming one poem aloud whilst he repeated a
different one mentally, or by writing one sentence whilst
speaking another, or by performing calculations on paper
whilst reciting poetry. He found that " the most favorable
condition for the doubling of the mind was its simultaneous
application to two heterogeneous operations. Two opera-
tions of the same sort, two multiplications, two recitations,

220 PSYCHOLOGY

or the reciting of one poem and writing of another, render
the process more uncertain and difficult."

M. Paulhan compared the time occupied by the same two
operations done simultaneously or in succession, and found
that there was often a considerable gain of time from doing
them simultaneously. For instance:

"I multiply 421 312 212 by 2; the operation takes 6
seconds; the recitation of four verses also takes 6 seconds.
But the two operations done at once only take 6 seconds,
so that there is no loss of time from combining them."

If, then, by the original question, how many objects can
we attend to at once, be meant how many entirely discon-
nected systems or processes can go on simultaneously, the
answer is, not easily more than one, unless the processes arel
very habitual; but then two, or even three, without very
much oscillation of the attention. Where, however, the
processes are less automatic, as in the story of Julius
Caesar dictating four letters whilst he writes a fifth, there
must be a rapid oscillation of the mind from one to the
next, and no consequent gain of time.

When the things to be attended to are minute sensations,
and when the effort is to be exact in noting them, it is
found that attention to one interferes a good deal with the
perception of the other. A good deal of fine work has
been done in this field by Professor Wundt. He tried to
note the exact position on a dial of a rapidly revolving
hand, at the moment when a bell struck. Here were two
disparate sensations, one of vision, the other of sound, to be
noted together. But it was found that in a long and
patient research, the eye-impression could seldom or never
be noted at the exact moment when the bell actually
struck. An earlier or a later point were all that could be
seen.

The Varieties of Attention. — Attention may be divided
into kinds in various ways. It is either to

a) Objects of sense (sensorial attention); or to

ATTENTION 221

b) Ideal or represented objects (intellectual attention).
It is either

c) Immediate; or

d) Derived: immediate, when the topic or stimulus is
interesting in itself, without relation to anything else; de-
rived, when it owes its interest to association with some
other immediately interesting thing. What I call derived
attention has been named ' apperceptive ' attention. Fur-
thermore, Attention may be either

e) Passive, reflex, involuntary, effortless; or
/) Active and voluntary.

Voluntary attention is always derived; we never make
an effort to attend to an object except for the sake of some
remote interest which the effort will serve. But both sen-
sorial and intellectual attention may be either passive or
voluntary.

In involuntary attention of the immediate sensorial sort
the stimulus is either a sense-impression, very intense,
voluminous, or sudden; or it is an instinctive stimulus, a
perception which, by reason of its nature rather than its
mere force, appeals to some one of our congenital impulses
and has a directly exciting quality. In the chapter on
Instinct we shall see how these stimuli differ from one
animal to another, and what most of them are in man:
Strange things, moving things, wild animals, bright things,
pretty things, metallic things, words, blows, blood, etc.,
etc., etc.

Sensitiveness to immediately exciting sensorial stimuli
characterizes the attention of childhood and youth. In
mature age we have generally selected those stimuli which
are connected with one or more so-called permanent inter-
ests, and our attention has grown irresponsive to the rest.
But childhood is characterized by great active energy, and
has few organized interests by which to meet new impres-
sions and decide whether they are worthy of notice or not,
and the consequence is that extreme mobility of the atten-
tion with which we are all familiar in children, and which

222 PSYCHOLOGY

makes of their first lessons such chaotic affairs. Any
strong sensation whatever produces accommodation of the
organs which perceive it, and absolute oblivion, for the time
being, of the task in hand. This reflex and passive charac-
ter of the attention which, as a French writer says, makes
the child seem to belong less to himself than to every ob-
ject which happens to catch his notice, is the first thing
which the teacher must overcome. It never is overcome in
some people, whose work, to the end of life, gets done in
the interstices of their mind-wandering.

The passive sensorial attention is derived when the
impression, without being either strong or of an instinc-
tively exciting nature, is connected by previous experience
and education with things that are so. These things may
be called the motives of the attention. The impression
draws an interest from them, or perhaps it even fuses into
a single complex object with them; the result is that it is
brought into the focus of the mind. A faint tap per se is
not an interesting sound; it may well escape being dis-
criminated from the general rumor of the world. But
when it is a signal, as that of a lover on the window-pane,
hardly will it go unperceived. Herbart writes:

" How a bit of bad grammar wounds the ear of the
purist! How a false note hurts the musician! or an
offense against good manners the man of the world! How
rapid is progress in a science when its first principles have
been so well impressed upon us that we reproduce them
mentally with perfect distinctness and ease! How slow
and uncertain, on the other hand, is our learning of the
principles themselves, when familiarity with the still more
elementary percepts connected with the subject has not
given us an adequate predisposition! — Apperceptive atten-
tion may be plainly observed in very small children when,
hearing the speech of their elders, as yet unintelligible to
them, they suddenly catch a single known word here and
there, and repeat it to themselves; yes! even in the dog
who looks round at us when we speak of him and pro-

ATTENTION

223

nounce his name. Not far removed is the talent which
mind-wandering school-boys display during the hours of
instruction, of noticing every moment in which the
teacher tells a story. I remember classes in which, in-
struction being uninteresting, and discipline relaxed, a
buzzing murmur was always to be heard, which invariably
stopped for as long a time as an anecdote lasted. How
could the boys, since they seemed to hear nothing, notice
when the anecdote began ? Doubtless most of them
always heard something of the teacher's talk; but most of
it had no connection with their previous knowledge and
occupations, and therefore the separate words no sooner
entered their consciousness then they fell out of it again;
but, on the other hand, no sooner did the words awaken
old thoughts, forming strongly-connected series with which
the new impression easily combined, than out of new and
old together a total interest resulted which drove the
vagrant ideas below the threshold of consciousness, and
brought for a while settled attention into their place."

Involuntary intellectual attention is immediate when we
follow in thought a train of images exciting or interesting
per se; derived, when the images are interesting only as
means to a remote end, or merely because they are asso-
ciated with something which makes them dear. The
brain-currents may then form so solidly unified a sys-
tem, and the absorption in their object be so deep, as to
banish not only ordinary sensations, but even the severest
pain. Pascal, Wesley, Robert Hall, are said to have had
this capacity. Dr. Carpenter says of himself that " he has
frequently begun a lecture whilst suffering neuralgic pain
so severe as to make him apprehend that he would find it
impossible to proceed; yet no sooner has he by a deter-
mined effort fairly launched himself into the stream of
thought, than he has found himself continuously borne
along without the least distraction, until the end has come,
and the attention has been released; when the pain has
recurred with a force that has overmastered all resistance,

224 PSYCHOLOGY

making him wonder how he could have ever ceased to feel
it" *

Voluntary Attention. — Dr. Carpenter speaks of launch-
ing himself by a determined effort. This effort character-
izes what we called active or voluntary attention. It is a
feeling which everyone knows, but which most people
would call quite indescribable. We get it in the sensorial
sphere whenever we seek to catch an impression of extreme
faintness, be it of sight, hearing, taste, smell, or touch;
we get it whenever we seek to discriminate a sensation
merged in a mass of others that are similar; we get it
whenever we resist the attractions of more potent stimuli
and keep our mind occupied with some object that is
naturally unimpressive. We get it in the intellectual
sphere under exactly similar conditions: as when we
strive to sharpen and make distinct an idea which we but
vaguely seem to have; or painfully discriminate a shade
of meaning from its similars; or resolutely hold fast to
a thought so discordant with our impulses that, if left
unaided, it would quickly yield place to images of an ex-
citing and impassioned kind. All forms of attentive effort
would be exercised at once by one whom we might suppose
at a dinner-party resolutely to listen to a neighbor giving
him insipid and unwelcome advice in a low voice, whilst all
around the guests were loudly laughing and talking about
exciting and interesting things.

There is no such thing as voluntary attention sustained
for more than a jew seconds at a time. What is called
sustained voluntary attention is a repetition of successive
efforts which bring back the topic to the mind. The topic
once brought back, if a congenial one, develops; and if its
development is interesting it engages the attention pas-
sively for a time. Dr. Carpenter, a moment back, described
the stream of thought, once entered, as ' bearing him along. '

* Mental Physiol., § 124. The oft-cited case of soldiers in battle
not perceiving that they are wounded is of an analogous sort.

ATTENTION 225

This passive interest may be short or long. As soon as it
flags, the attention is diverted by some irrelevant thing,
and then a voluntary effort may bring it back to the topic
again; and so on, under favorable conditions, for hours
together. During all this time, however, note that it is
not an identical object in the psychological sense, but a
succession of mutually related objects forming an identical
topic only, upon which the attention is fixed. No one can
possibly attend continuously to an object that does not
change.

Now there are always some objects that for the time
being will not develop. They simply go out; and to keep
the mind upon anything related to them requires such in-
cessantly renewed effort that the most resolute Will ere
long gives out and lets its thoughts follow the more stimu-
lating solicitations after it has withstood them for what
length of time it can. There are topics known to every
man from which he shies like a frightened horse, and
which to get a glimpse of is to shun. Such are his ebbing
assets to the spendthrift in full career. But why single
out the spendthrift, when to every man actuated by pas-
sion the thought of interests which negate the passion can
hardly for more than a fleeting instant stay before the
mind? It is like ' memento mori ' in the heyday of the
pride of life. Nature rises at such suggestions, and ex-
cludes them from the view: — How long, O healthy reader,
can you now continue thinking of your tomb ? — In milder
instances the difficulty is as great, especially when the
brain is fagged. One snatches at any and every passing
pretext, no matter how trivial or external, to escape from
the odiousness of the matter in hand. I know a person,
for example, who will poke the fire, set chairs straight,
pick dust-specks from the floor, arrange his table, snatch
up the newspaper, take down any book which catches his
eye, trim his nails, waste the morning anyhow, in short,
and all without premeditation, — simply because the only
thing he ought to attend to is the preparation of a noon-

226

PSYCHOLOGY

day lesson in formal logic which he detests. Anything
but that!

Once more, the object must change. When it is one of
sight, it will actually become invisible; when of bearing,
inaudible, — if we attend to it unmovingly. Helmholtz,
who has put his sensorial attention to the severest tests, by
using his eyes on objects which in common life are ex-
pressly overlooked, makes some interesting remarks on this
point in his section on retinal rivalry. The phenomenon
called by that name is this, that if we look with each eye
upon a different picture (as in the annexed stereoscopic
slide), sometimes one picture, sometimes the other, or

Fig. 54-

parts of both, will come to consciousness, but hardly ever
both combined. Helmholtz now says:

" I find that I am able to attend voluntarily, now to one
and now to the other system of lines; and that then this
system remains visible alone for a certain time, whilst the
other completely vanishes. This happens, for example,
whenever I try to count the lines first of one and then of
the other system. . . . But it is extremely hard to chain
the attention down to one of the systems for long, unless
we associate with our looking some distinct purpose which
keeps the activity of the attention perpetually renewed.

ATTENTION 227

Such a one is counting the lines, comparing their intervals,
or the like. An equilibrium of the attention, persistent
for any length of time, is under no circumstances attain-
able. The natural tendency of attention when left to
itself is to wander to ever new things ; and so soon as
the interest of its object is over, so soon as nothing new
is to be noticed there, it passes, in spite of our will, to
something else. // we wish to keep it upon one and the
same object, we must seek constantly to find out something
new about the latter, especially if other powerful impres-
sions are attracting us away."

These words of Helmholtz are of fundamental impor-
tance. And if true of sensorial attention, how much more
true are they of the intellectual variety! The conditio
sine qua non of sustained attention to a given topic of
thought is that we should roll it over and over incessantly
and consider different aspects and relations of it in turn.
Only in pathological states will a fixed and ever monoto-
nously recurring idea possess the mind.

Genius and Attention. — And now we can see why it is
that what is called sustained attention is the easier, the richer
in acquisitions and the fresher and more original the mind.
In such minds, subjects bud and sprout and grow. At
every moment, they please by a new consequence and rivet
the attention afresh. But an intellect unfurnished with
materials, stagnant, unoriginal, will hardly be likely to
consider any subject long. A glance exhausts its possibili-
ties of interest. Geniuses are commonly believed to excel
other men in their power of sustained attention. In most
of them, it is to be feared, the so-called ' power ' is of the
passive sort. Their ideas coruscate, every subject branches
infinitely before their fertile minds, and so for hours they
may be rapt. But it is their genius making them atten-
tive, not their attention making geniuses of them. And,
when we come down to the root of the matter, we see that
they differ from ordinary men less in the character of
their attention than in the nature of the objects upon

228 PSYCHOLOGY

which it is successfully bestowed. In the genius, these
form a concatenated series, suggesting each other mutually
by some rational law. Therefore we call the attention
' sustained ' and the topic of meditation for hours ' the
same.' In the common man the series is for the most part
incoherent, the objects have no rational bond, and we call
the attention wandering and unfixed.

It is probable that genius tends actually to prevent a
man from acquiring habits of voluntary attention, and that
moderate intellectual endowments are the soil in which we
may best expect, here as elsewhere, the virtues of the will,
strictly so called, to thrive. But, whether the attention
come by grace of genius or by dint of will, the longer one
does attend to a topic the more mastery of it one has. And
the faculty of voluntarily bringing back a wandering atten-
tion over and over again is the very root of judgment,
character, and will. No one is compos sui if he have it not.
An education which should improve this faculty would be
the education par excellence. But it is easier to define this
ideal than to give practical directions for bringing it
about. The only general pedagogic maxim bearing on
attention is that the more interests the child has in advance
in the subject, the better he will attend. Induct him
therefore in such a way as to knit each new thing on to some
acquisition already there; and if possible awaken curiosity,
so that the new thing shall seem to come as an answer, or
part of an answer, to a question preexisting in his mind.

The Physiological Conditions of Attention. — These
seem to be the following:

i) The appropriate cortical centre must be excited idea-
tionally as well as sensorially, before attention to an object
can take place.

2) The sense-organ must then adapt itself to clearest
reception of the object, by the adjustment of its muscular
apparatus.

3 ) In all probability a certain afflux of blood to the cor-
tical centre must ensue.

ATTENTION 229

Of this third condition I will say no more, since we
have no proof of it in detail, and I state it on the faith of
general analogies. Conditions 1 ) and 2 ) , however, are veri-
fiable; and the best order will be to take the latter first.

The Adaptation of the Sense-organ . — This occurs not
only in sensorial but also in intellectual attention to an
object.

That it is present when we attend to sensible things is
obvious. When we look or listen we accommodate our
eyes and ears involuntarily, and we turn our head and body
as well; when we taste or smell we adjust the tongue, lips,
and respiration to the object; in feeling a surface we move
the palpatory organ in a suitable way; in all these acts,
besides making involuntary muscular contractions of a
positive sort, we inhibit others which might interefere with
the result — we close the eyes in tasting, suspend the res-
piration in listening, etc. The result is a more or less
massive organic feeling that attention is going on. This
organic feeling we usually treat as part of the sense of our
own activity, although it comes in to us from our organs
after they are accommodated. Any object, then, if imme-
diately exciting, causes a reflex accommodation of the
sense-organ, which has two results — first, the feeling of
activity in question; and second, the object's increase in
clearness.

But in intellectual attention similar feelings of activity
occur. Fechner was the first, I believe, to analyze these
feelings, and discriminate them from the stronger ones
just named. He writes:

" When we transfer the attention from objects of one
sense to those of another, we have an indescribable feeling
(though at the same time one perfectly determinate, and
reproducible at pleasure), of altered direction or differently
localized tension (Spannung). We feel a strain forward
in the eyes, one directed sidewise in the ears, increasing
with the degree of our attention, and changing according
as we look at an object carefully, or listen to something

23o PSYCHOLOGY

attentively; and we speak accordingly of straining the
attention. The difference is most plainly felt when the
attention oscillates rapidly between eye and ear; and the
feeling localizes itself with most decided difference in
regard to the various sense-organs, according as we wish to
discriminate a thing delicately by touch, taste, or smell.

" But now I have, when I try to vividly recall a picture
of memory or fancy, a feeling perfectly analogous to that
which I experience when I seek to apprehend a thing
keenly by eye or ear; and this analogous feeling is very
differently localized. While in sharpest possible attention
to real objects (as well as to after-images) the strain is
plainly forwards, and (when the attention changes from
one sense to another) only alters its direction between the
several external sense-organs, leaving the rest of the head
free from strain, the case is different in memory or fancy,
for here the feeling withdraws entirely from the external
sense-organs, and seems rather to take refuge in that part
of the head which the brain fills. If I wish, for example,
to recall a place or person, it will arise before me with
vividness, not according as I strain my attention forwards,
but rather in proportion as I, so to speak, retract it back-
wards."

In myself the ' backward retraction ' which is felt during
attention to ideas of memory, etc., seems to be principally
constituted by the feeling of an actual rolling outwards
and upwards of the eyeballs, such as occurs in sleep, and
is the exact opposite of their behavior when we look at a
physical thing.

This accommodation of the sense-organ is not, however,
the essential process, even in sensorial attention. It is a
secondary result which may be prevented from occurring,
as certain observations show. Usually, it is true that no
object lying in the marginal portions of the field of vision
can catch our attention without at the same time ' catch-
ing our eye ' — that is, fatally provoking such movements
of rotation and accommodation as will focus its image

ATTENTION '231

on the fovea, or point of greatest sensibility. Practice,
however, enables us, with effort, to attend to a marginal
object whilst keeping the eyes immovable. The object
under these circumstances never becomes perfectly distinct
—the place of its image on the retina makes distinctness
impossible — but (as anyone can satisfy himself by trying)
we become more vividly conscious of it than we were be-
fore the effort was made. Teachers thus notice the acts
of children in the school-room at whom they appear not
to be looking. Women in general train their peripheral
visual attention more than men. Helmholtz states the
fact so strikingly that I will quote his observation in full.
He was trying to combine in a single solid percept pairs
of stereoscopic pictures illuminated instantaneously by
the electric spark. The pictures were in a dark box
which the spark from time to time lighted up; and, to
keep the eyes from wandering betweenwhiles, a pin-hole
was pricked through the middle of each picture, through
which the light of the room came, so that each eye had
presented to it during the dark intervals a single bright
point. With parallel optical axes these points combined
into a single image; and the slightest movement of the
eyeballs was betrayed by this image at once becoming
double. Helmholtz now found that simple linear figures
could, when the eyes were thus* kept immovable, be per-
ceived as solids at a single flash of the spark. But when
the figures were complicated photographs, many successive
flashes were required to grasp their totality.

" Now it is interesting," he says, " to find that, although
we keep steadily fixating the pin-holes and never allow
their combined image to break into two, we can neverthe-
less, before the spark comes, keep our attention voluntarily
turned to any particular portion we please of the dark
field, so as then, when the spark comes, to receive an im-
pression only from such parts of the picture as lie in this
region. In this respect, then, our attention is quite inde-
pendent of the position and accommodation of the eyes,

232 PSYCHOLOGY

and of any known alteration in these organs, and free to
direct itself by a conscious and voluntary effort upon any
selected portion of a dark and undifferenced field of view.
This is one of the most important observations for a future
theory of attention.' ' *

The Ideational Excitement of the Centre. — But if the
peripheral part of the picture in this experiment be not
physically accommodated for, what is meant by its sharing
our attention? What happens when we ' distribute y or
1 disperse ' the latter upon a thing for which we remain
unwilling to ' adjust ' ? This leads us to that second fea-
ture in process, the ' ideational excitement ' of which we
spoke. The effort to attend to the marginal region of the
picture consists in nothing more nor less than the effort to
form as clear an idea as is possible of what is there por-
trayed. The idea is to come to the help of the sensation
and make it more distinct. It may come with effort, and
such a mode of coming is the remaining part of what we
know as our attention's * strain ' under the circumstances.
Let us show how universally present in our acts of atten-
tion is this anticipatory thinking of the thing to which we
attend. Mr. Lewes's name of preperception seems the best
possible designation for this imagining of an experience
before it occurs.

It must as a matter of course be present when the atten-
tion is of the intellectual variety, for the thing attended to
then is nothing but an idea, an inward reproduction or
conception. If then we prove ideal construction of the
object to be present in sensorial attention, it will be
present everywhere. When, however, sensorial attention
is at its height, it is impossible to tell how much of the
percept comes from without and how much from within;
but if we find that the preparation we make for it always
partly consists of the creation of an imaginary duplicate
of the object in the mind, that will be enough to establish
the point in dispute.

* Physiol. Optik, p. 741.

ATTENTION 233

In reaction-time experiments, keeping our mind intent
upon the motion about to be made shortens the time.
This shortening we ascribed in Chapter VIII to the fact
that the signal when it comes finds the motor-centre already
charged almost to the explosion-point in advance. Ex-
pectant attention to a reaction thus goes with sub-excite-
ment of the centre concerned.

* Where the impression to be caught is very weak, the way
not to miss it is to sharpen our attention for it by prelimi-
nary contact with it in a stronger form. Helmholtz says:
" If we wish to begin to observe overtones, it is advisable,
just before the sound which is to be analyzed, to sound
very softly the note of which we are in search. ... If you
place the resonator which corresponds to a certain over-
tone, for example gf of the sound c, against your ear, and
then make the note c sound, you will hear g' much strength-
ened by the resonator. . . . This strengthening by the reso-
nator can be used to make the naked ear attentive to the
sound which it is to catch. For when the resonator is
gradually removed, the g' grows weaker; but the atten-
tion, once directed to it, holds it now more easily fast, and
the observer hears the tone g' now in the natural unaltered
sound of the note with his unaided ear."

Wundt, commenting on experiences of this sort, says
that " The same thing is to be noticed in weak or fugi-
tive visual impressions. Illuminate a drawing by electric
sparks separated by considerable intervals, and after the
first, and often after the second and third spark, hardly
anything will be recognized. But the confused image is
held fast in memory; each successive illumination com-
pletes it; and so at last we attain to a clearer perception.
The primary motive to this inward activity proceeds usu-
ally from the outer impression itself. We hear a sound in
which, from certain associations, we suspect a certain over-
tone; the next thing is to recall the overtone in memory;
and finally we catch it in the sound we hear. Or perhaps
we see some mineral substance we have met before: the

234 PSYCHOLOGY

impression awakens the memory-image, which again more
or less completely melts with the impression itself. . . .
Different qualities of impression require disparate adapta-
tions. And we remark that our feeling of the strain of
our inward attentiveness increases with every increase in
the strength of the impressions on whose perception we
are intent."

The natural way of conceiving all this is under the sym-
bolic form of a brain-cell played upon from two directions.
Whilst the object excites it from without, other brain-cells
arouse it from within. The plenary energy of the brain-
cell demands the co-operation of both factors: not when
merely present, but when both present and inwardly imag-
ined, is the object fully attended to and perceived.

A few additional experiences will now be perfectly clear.
Helmholtz, for instance, adds this observation concerning
the stereoscopic pictures lit by the electric spark. " In
pictures," he says, " so simple that it is relatively difficult
for me to see them double, I can succeed in seeing them
double, even when the illustration is only instantaneous,
the moment I strive to imagine in a lively way how they
ought then to look. The influence of attention is here
pure; for all eye-movements are shut out."

Again, writing of retinal rivalry, Helmholtz says:

" It is not a trial of strength between two sensations,
but depends on our fixing or failing to fix the attention.
Indeed, there is scarcely any phenomenon so well fitted for
the study of the causes which are capable of determining
the attention. It is not enough to form the conscious
intention of seeing first with one eye and then with the
other; we must form as clear a notion as possible of what
we expect to see. Then it will actually appear."

In Figs. 55 and 56, where the result is ambiguous, we can
make the change from one apparent form to the other by
imagining strongly in advance the form we wish to see.
Similarly in those puzzles where certain lines in a picture
form by their combination an object that has no connec-

ATTENTION

235

tion with what the picture obviously represents; or indeed
in every case where an object is inconspicuous and hard to
discern from the background; we may not be able to see it
for a long time; but, having once seen it, we can attend to
it again whenever we like, on account of the mental dupli-

Fig. 5S-

Fig. 56.

cate of it which our imagination now bears. In the mean-
ingless French words 'pas de lieu Rhone que nous* who
can recognize immediately the English ' paddle your own
canoe '? But who that has once noticed the identity can
fail to have it arrest his attention again? When watching
for the distant clock to strike, our mind is so filled with its
image that at every moment we think we hear the longed-
for or dreaded sound. So of an awaited footstep. Every
stir in the wood is for the hunter his game; for the fugi-
tive his pursuers. Every bonnet in the street is momen-
tarily taken by the lover to enshroud the head of his idol.
The image in the mind is the attention; the preperception
is half of the perception of the looked-for thing.

It is for this reason that men have no eyes but for those
aspects of things which they have already been taught to
discern. Any one of us can notice a phenomenon after it
has once been pointed out, which not one in ten thousand
could ever have discovered for himself. Even in poetry
and the arts, some one has to come and tell us what

236 PSYCHOLOGY

aspects to single out, and what effects to admire, before
our aesthetic nature can ! dilate ' to its full extent and never
1 with the wrong emotion. ' In kindergarten-instruction
one of the exercises is to make the children see how many
features they can point out in such an object as a flower
or a stuffed bird. They readily name the features they
know already, such as leaves, tail, bill, feet. But they may
look for hours without distinguishing nostrils, claws, scales,
etc., until their attention is called to these details; there-
after, however, they see them every time. In short, the
only things which we commonly see are those which we
preperceive, and the only things which we preperceive are
those which have been labelled for us, and the labels
stamped into our mind. If we lost our stock of labels
we should be intellectually lost in the midst of the world.

Educational Corollaries. — First, to strengthen attention
in children who are nothing for the subject they are
studying and let their wits go wool-gathering. The interest
here must be ' derived ' from something that the teacher
associates with the task, a reward or a punishment if noth-
ing less internal comes to mind. If a topic awakens no
spontaneous attention it must borrow an interest from
elsewhere. But the best interest is internal, and we must
always try, in teaching a class, to knit our novelties by
rational links on to things of which they already have pre-
perceptions. The old and familiar is readily attended to
by the mind and helps to hold in turn the new, forming, in
Herbartian phraseology, an ' Apperceptionsmasse ' for it.
Of course the teacher *s talent is best shown by knowing
what ' Apperceptionsmasse ' to use. Psychology can only
lay down the general rule.

Second, take that mind-wandering which at a later age
may trouble us whilst reading or listening to a discourse.
If attention be the reproduction of the sensation from
within, the habit of reading not merely with the eye, and
of listening not merely with the ear, but of articulating to
one's self the words seen or heard, ought to deepen one's

ATTENTION 237

attention to the latter. Experience shows that this is the
case. I can keep my wandering mind a great deal more
closely upon a conversation or a lecture if I actively re-echo
to myself the words than if I simply hear them; and I find
a number of my students who report benefit from volun-
tarily adopting a similar course.

Attention and Free Will. — I have spoken as if our at-
tention were wholly determined by neural conditions. I
believe that the array of things we can attend to is so de-
termined. No object can catch our attention except by
the neural machinery. But the amount of the attention
which an object receives after it has caught our mental
eye is another question. It often takes effort to keep
the mind upon it. We feel that we can make more or
less of the effort as we choose. If this feeling be not
deceptive, if our effort be a spiritual force, and an in-
determinate one, then of course it contributes coequally
with the cerebral conditions to the result. Though it
introduce no new idea, it will deepen and prolong the stay
in consciousness of innumerable ideas which else would
fade more quickly away. The delay thus gained might not
be more than a second in duration — but that second may
be critical; for in the constant rising and falling of con-
siderations in the mind, where two associated systems of
them are nearly in equilibrium it is often a matter of but a
second more or less of attention at the outset, whether one
system shall gain force to occupy the field and develop
itself, and exclude the other, or be excluded itself by the
other. When developed, it may make us act; and that act
may seal our doom. When we come to the chapter on the
Will, we shall see that the whole drama of the voluntary
life hinges on the amount of attention, slightly more or
slightly less, which rival motor ideas may receive. But
the whole feeling of reality, the whole sting and excitement
of our voluntary life, depends on our sense that in it things
are really being decided from one moment to another, and
that it is not the dull rattling off of a chain that was

238 PSYCHOLOGY

forged innumerable ages ago. This appearance, which
makes life and history tingle with such a tragic zest, may
not be an illusion. Effort may be an original force and not
a mere effect, and it may be indeterminate in amount.
The last word of sober insight here is ignorance, for the
forces engaged are too delicate ever to be measured in
detail. Psychology, however, as a would-be l Science,' must,
like every other Science, postulate complete determinism
in its facts, and abstract consequently from the effects of
free will, even if such a force exist. I shall do so in this
book like other psychologists; well knowing, however, that
such a procedure, although a methodical device justified by
the subjective need of arranging the facts in a simple and
: scientific ' form, does not settle the ultimate truth of the
free-will question one way or the other.

CHAPTER XIV

CONCEPTION

Different states of mind can mean the same. The
function by which we mark off, discriminate, draw a line
round, and identify a numerically distinct subject of dis-
course is called conception. It is plain that whenever one
and the same mental state thinks of many things, it must
be the vehicle of many conceptions. If it has such a
multiple conceptual function, it may be called a state of
compound conception.

We may conceive realities supposed to be extra-mental,
as steam-engine; fictions, as mermaid; or mere entia ra-
tionis, like difference or nonentity. But whatever we do
conceive, our conception is of that and nothing else — noth-
ing else, that is, instead of that, though it may be of much
else in addition to that. Each act of conception results
from our attention's having singled out some one part of
the mass of matter-for-thought which the world presents,
and from our holding fast to it, without confusion. Con-
fusion occurs when we do not know whether a certain
object proposed to us is the same with one of our meanings
or not; so that the conceptual function requires, to be
complete, that the thought should not only say ' I mean
this,' but also say ' I don't mean that.'

Each conception thus eternally remains what it is, and
never can become another. The mind may change its
states, and its meanings, at different times, may drop one
conception and take up another; but the dropped concep-
tion itself can in no intelligible sense be said to change
into its successor. The paper, a moment ago white, I may
now see to be scorched black. But my conception ' white '

239

240 PSYCHOLOGY

does not change into my conception ' black.' On the con-
trary, it stays alongside of the objective blackness, as a
different meaning in my mind, and by so doing lets me
judge the blackness as the paper's change. Unless it
stayed, I should simply say ' blackness ' and know no more.
Thus, amid the flux of opinions and of physical things, the
world of conceptions, or things intended to be thought
about, stands stiff and immutable, like Plato's Realm of
Ideas.

Some conceptions are of things, some of events, some of
qualities. Any fact, be it thing, event, or quality may be
conceived sufficiently for purposes of identification, if only
it be singled out and marked so as to separate it from
other things. Simply calling it ' this ' or l that ' will suffice.
To speak in technical language, a subject may be conceived
by its denotation, with no connotation, or a very minimum
of connotation, attached. The essential point is that it
should be re-identified by us as that which the talk is
about; and no full representation of it is necessary for this,
even when it is a fully representable thing.

In this sense, creatures extremely low in the intellectual
scale may have conception. All that is required is that
they should recognize the same experience again. A polyp
would be a conceptual thinker if a feeling of 'Hollo!
thingumbob again! ' ever flitted through its mind. This
sense of sameness is the very keel and backbone of our
consciousness. The same matters can be thought of in
different states of mind, and some of these states can know
that they mean the same matters which the other states
meant. In other words, the mind can always intend, and
know when it intends, to think the Same.

Conceptions of Abstract, of Universal, and of Prob-
lematic Objects. — The sense of our "meaning is an entirely
peculiar element of the thought. It is one of those evanes-
cent and ' transitive ' facts of mind which introspection
cannot turn round upon, and isolate and hold up for exam-
ination, as an entomologist passes round an insect on a pin.

CONCEPTION 241

In the (somewhat clumsy) terminology I have used, it has
to do with the ' fringe ' of the object, and is a ' feeling of
tendency/ whose neural counterpart is undoubtedly a lot of
dawning and dying processes too faint and complex to be
traced. (See p. 169.) The geometer, with his one definite
figure before him, knows perfectly that his thoughts apply
to countless other figures as well, and that although he
sees lines of a certain special bigness, direction, color, etc.,
he means not one of these details. When I use the word
man in two different sentences, I may have both times
exactly the same sound upon my lips and the same picture
in my mental eye, but I may mean, and at the very
moment of uttering the word and imagining the picture
know that I mean, two entirely different things. Thus
when I say: " What a wonderful man Jones is! "I am per-
fectly aware that I mean by man to exclude Napoleon
Bonaparte or Smith. But when I say: " What a wonder-
ful thing Man is! " I am equally well aware that I mean
no such exclusion. This added consciousness is an ab-
solutely positive sort of feeling, transforming what would
otherwise be mere noise or vision into something under-
stood', and determining the sequel of my thinking, the
later words and images, in a perfectly definite way.

No matter how definite and concrete the habitual
imagery of a given mind may be, the things represented
appear always surrounded by their fringe of relations, and
this is as integral a part of the mind's object as the things
themselves are. We come, by steps with which everyone
is sufficiently familiar, to think of whole classes of things
as well as of single specimens; and to think of the special
qualities or attributes of things as well as of the complete
things-^in other words, we come to have universals and
abstracts, as the logicians call them, for our objects. We
also come to think of objects which are only problematic,
or not yet definitely representable, as well as of objects
imagined in all their details. An object which is problem-
atic is defined by its relations only. We think of a thing

242 PSYCHOLOGY

about which certain facts must obtain. But we do not yet
know how the thing will look when realized — that is,
although conceiving it we can imagine it. We have in
the relations, however, enough to individualize our topic
and distinguish it from all the other meanings of our mind.
Thus, for example, we may conceive of a perpetual-motion
machine. Such a machine is a quocsitum of a perfectly
definite kind, — we can always tell whether the actual
machines offered us do or do not agree with what we mean
by it. The natural possibility or impossibility of the thing
never touches the question of its conceivability in this
problematic way. l Round-square,' again, or ' black-white-
thing, ' are absolutely definite conceptions; it is a mere
accident, as far as conception goes, that they happen to
stand for things which nature never shows us, and of
which we consequently can make no picture.

The nominalists and conceptualists carry on a great
quarrel over the question whether " the mind can frame
abstract or universal ideas." Ideas, it should be said, of
abstract or universal objects. But truly in comparison
with the wonderful fact that our thoughts, however dif-
ferent otherwise, can still be of the same, the question
whether that same be a single thing, a whole class of
things, an abstract quality or something unimaginable, is
an insignificant matter of detail. Our meanings are of
singulars, particulars, indefinites, problematics, and univer-
sal^ mixed together in every way. A singular individual
is as much conceived when he is isolated and identified
away from the rest of the world in my mind, as is the most
rarefied and universally applicable quality he may possess
— being, for example, when treated in the same way. From
every point of view, the overwhelming and portentous char-
acter ascribed to universal conceptions is surprising. Why,
from Socrates downwards, philosophers should have vied
with each other in scorn of the knowledge of the particular,
and in adoration of that of the general, is hard to under-
stand, seeing that the more adorable knowledge ought to be

CONCEPTION 243

that of the more adorable things, and that the tkings of
worth are all concretes and singulars. The only value of
universal characters is that they help us, by reasoning, to
know new truths about individual things. The restriction
of one's meaning, moreover, to an individual thing, proba-
bly requires even more complicated brain-processes than
its extension to all the instances of a kind; and the mere
mystery, as such, of the knowledge, is equally great,
whether generals or singulars be the things known. In
sum, therefore, the traditional Universal-worship can only
be called a bit of perverse sentimentalism, a philosophic
' idol of the cave.'

Nothing can be conceived as the same without being
conceived in a novel state of mind. It seems hardly nec-
essary to add this, after what was said on p. 156. Thus,
my arm-chair is one of the things of which I have a concep-
tion ; I knew it yesterday and recognized it when I looked at
it. But if I think of it to-day as the same arm-chair which I
looked at yesterday, it is obvious that the very conception
of it as the same is an additional complication to the
thought, whose inward constitution must alter in conse-
quence. In short, it is logically impossible that the same
thing should be known as the same by two successive copies
of the same thought. As a matter of fact, the thoughts by
which we know that we mean the same thing are apt to be
very different indeed from each other. We think the thing
now substantively, now transitively; now in a direct image,
now in one symbol, and now in another symbol ; but never-
theless we somehow always do know which of all possible
subjects we have in mind. Introspective psychology must
here throw up the sponge; the fluctuations of subjective
life are too exquisite to be described by its coarse terms.
It must confine itself to bearing witness to the fact that
all sorts of different subjective states do form the vehicle
by which the same is known; and it must contradict the
opposite view.

CHAPTER XV

DISCRIMINATION

Discrimination versus Association. — On p. 15 I spoke
of the baby's first object being the germ out of which his
whole later universe develops by the addition of new parts
from without and the discrimination of others within.
Experience, in other words, is trained both by association
and dissociation, and psychology must be writ both in syn-
thetic and in analytic terms. Our original sensible totals
are, on the one hand, subdivided by discriminative atten-
tion, and, on the other, united with other totals, — either
through the agency of our own movements, carrying our
senses from one part of space to another, or because new
objects come successively and replace those by which we
were at first impressed. The i simple impression ' of
Hume, the ' simple idea ' of Locke are abstractions, never
realized in experience. Life, from the very first, presents
us with concreted objects, vaguely continuous with the
rest of the world which envelops them in space and time,
and potentially divisible into inward elements and parts.
These objects we break asunder and reunite. We must
do both for our knowledge of them to grow; and it is hard
to say, on the whole, which we do most. But since the
elements with which the traditional associationism performs
its constructions — ' simple sensations/ namely — are all prod-
ucts of discrimination carried to a high pitch, it seems as
if we ought to discuss the subject of analytic attention and
discrimination first.

Discrimination defined. — The noticing of any part
whatever of our object is an act of discrimination. Already
on p. 218 I have described the manner in which we often

244

DISCRIMINATION 245

spontaneously lapse into the undiscriminating state, even
with regard to objects which we have already learned to
distinguish. Such anaesthetics as chloroform, nitrous oxide,
etc., sometimes bring about transient lapses even more total,
in which numerical discrimination especially seems gone; for
one sees light and hears sound, but whether one or many
lights and sounds is quite impossible to tell. Where the
parts of an object have already been discerned, and each
made the object of a special discriminative act, we can
with difficulty feel the object again in its pristine unity;
and so prominent may our consciousness of its composition
be, that we may hardly believe that it ever could have
appeared undivided. But this is an erroneous view, the
undeniable fact being that any number of impressions,
from any number of sensory sources, falling simulta-
neously on a mind which has not yet experienced
them separately, will yield a single undivided object to
that mind. The law is that all things fuse that can fuse,
and that nothing separates except what must. What
makes impressions separate is what we have to study in
this chapter.

Conditions which favor Discrimination. — I will treat
successively of differences:

(1) So far as they are directly felt;

(2) So far as they are inferred;

(3) So far as they are singled out in compounds.
Differences directly felt. — The first condition is that the

things to be discriminated must be different, either in time,
place, or quality. In other wofdsp and physiologically
speaking, they must awaken neural processes which are
distinct. But this, as we have just seen, though an indis-
pensable condition, is not a sufficient condition. To begin
with, the several neural processes must be distinct enough.
No one can help singling out a black stripe on a white
ground, or feeling the contrast between a bass note and a
high one sounded immediately after it. Discrimination is
here involuntary. But where the objective difference is

246 PSYCHOLOGY

less, discrimination may require considerable effort of at-
tention to be performed at all.

Secondly, the sensations excited by the differing objects
must not jail simultaneously, but must jail in immediate
succession upon the same organ. It is easier to compare
successive than simultaneous sounds, easier to compare two
weights or two temperatures by testing one after the other
with the same hand, than by using both hands and com-
paring both at once. Similarly it is easier to discriminate
shades of light or color by moving the eye from one to the
other, so that they successively stimulate the same retinal
tract. In testing the local discrimination of the skin, by
applying compass-points, it is found that they are felt to
touch different spots much more readily when set down
one after the other than when both are applied at once.
In the latter case they may be two or three inches apart on
the back, thighs, etc., and still feel as if they were set down
in one spot. Finally, in the case of smell and taste it is
well-nigh impossible to compare simultaneous impressions
at all. The reason why successive impression so much
favors the result seems to be that there is a real sensation
of difference, aroused by the shock of transition from one
perception to another which is unlike the first. This sen-
sation of difference has its own peculiar quality, no matter
what the terms may be, between which it obtains. It is,
in short, one of those transitive feelings, or feelings of re-
lation, of which I treated in a former place (p. 161); and,
when once aroused, its object lingers in the memory along
with the substantive terms which precede and follow, and
enables our judgments of comparison to be made.

Where the difference between the successive sensations
is but slight, the transition between them must be made as
immediate as possible, and both must be compared in mem-
ory, in order to get the best results. One cannot judge
accurately of the difference between two similar wines
whilst the second is still in one's mouth. So of sounds,
warmths, etc. — we must get the dying phases of both sen-

DISCRIMINATION 247

sations of the pair we are comparing. Where, however,
the difference is strong, this condition is immaterial, and
we can then compare a sensation actually felt with another
carried in memory only. The longer the interval of time
between the sensations, the more uncertain is their dis-
crimination.

The difference, thus immediately felt between two terms,
is independent of our ability to say anything about either
of the terms by itself. I can feel two distinct spots to be
touched by my skin, yet not know which is above and
which below. I can observe two neighboring musical
tones to differ, and still not know which of the two is the
higher in pitch. Similarly I may discriminate two neigh-
boring tints, whilst remaining uncertain which is the bluer
or the yellower, or how either differs from its mate.

I said that in the immediate succession of m upon n the
shock of their difference is felt. It is felt repeatedly when
we go back and forth from m to n ; and we make a point of
getting it thus repeatedly (by alternating our attention at
least) whenever the shock is so slight as to be with diffi-
culty perceived. But in addition to being felt at the brief
instant of transition, the difference also feels as if incor-
porated and taken up into the second term, which feels
' different-from-the-first ' even while it lasts. It is obvious
that the ' second term ' of the mind in this case is not bald
ny but a very complex object; and that the sequence is not
simply first ' m/ then ' difference,' then ' n '; but first ' m,'
then ' difference * then ' n-different-jrom-m.' The first and
third states of mind are substantive, the second transitive.
As our brains and minds are actually made, it is impos-
sible to get certain m's and n's in immediate sequence and
to keep them pure. If kept pure, it would mean that they
remained uncompared. With us, inevitably, by a mecha-
nism which we as yet fail to understand, the shock of differ-
ence is felt between them, and the second object is not n
pure, but n-as-different-jrom-m. The pure idea of n is
never in the mind at all when m has gone before.

248 PSYCHOLOGY

Differences inferred. — With such direct perceptions of
difference as this, we must not confound those entirely un-
like cases in which we infer that two things must differ
because we know enough about each of them taken by
itself to warrant our classing them under distinct heads.
It often happens, when the interval is long between two
experiences, that our judgments are guided, not so much
by a positive image or copy of the earlier one, as by our
recollection of certain facts about it. Thus I know that
the sunshine to-day is less bright than on a certain day
last week, because I then said it was quite dazzling, a
remark I should not now care to make. Or I know myself
to feel livelier now than I did last summer, because I can
now psychologize, and then I could not. We are constantly
comparing feelings with whose quality our imagination
has no sort of acquaintance at the time — pleasures, or
pains, for example. It is notoriously hard to conjure up
in imagination a lively image of either of these classes
of feeling. The associationists may prate of an idea of
pleasure being a pleasant idea, of an idea of pain being a
painful one, but the unsophisticated sense of mankind is
against them, agreeing with Homer that the memory of
griefs when past may be a joy, and with Dante that there
is no greater sorrow than, in misery, to recollect one's
happier time.

The ' Singling out ' of Elements in a Compound. — It
is safe to lay it down as a fundamental principle that any
total impression made on the mind must be unanalyzable
so long as its elements have never been experienced apart
or in other combinations elsewhere. The components of
an absolutely changeless group of not-elsewhere-occur-
ring attributes could never be discriminated. If all cold
things were wet, and all wet things cold; if all hard
things pricked our skin, and no other things did so: is
it likely that we should discriminate between coldness
and wetness, and hardness and pungency, respectively?
If all liquids were transparent and no non-liquid were

DISCRIMINATION 249

transparent, it would be long before we had separate names
for liquidity and transparency. If heat were a function of
position above the earth's surface, so that the higher a
thing was the hotter it became, one word would serve for
hot and high. We have, in fact, a number of sensations
whose concomitants are invariably the same, and we find
it, accordingly, impossible to analyze them out from the
totals in which they are found. The contraction of the
diaphragm and the expansion of the lungs, the shortening
of certain muscles and the rotation of certain joints, are
examples. We learn that the causes of such groups of feel-
ings are multiple, and therefore we frame theories about
the composition of the feelings themselves, by ' fusion,'
1 integration/ ' synthesis/ or what not. But by direct in-
trospection no analysis of the feelings is ever made. A
conspicuous case will come to view when we treat of the
emotions. Every emotion has its * expression,' of quick
breathing, palpitating heart, flushed face, or the like. The
expression gives rise to bodily feelings; and the emotion
is thus necessarily and invariably accompanied by these
bodily feelings. The consequence is that it is impossible
to apprehend it as a spiritual state by itself, or to analyze
it away from the lower feelings in question. It is in fact
impossible to prove that it exists as a distinct psychic
fact. The present writer strongly doubts that it does so
exist.

In general, then, if an object affects us simultaneously
in a number of ways, abed, we get a peculiar integral im-
pression, which thereafter characterizes to our mind the
individuality of that object, and becomes the sign of its
presence; and which is only resolved into a, b, c, and d,
respectively, by the aid of farther experiences. These we
now may turn to consider.

// any single quality or constituent, a, of such an object
have previously been known by us isolatedly, or have in
any other manner already become an object of separate
acquaintance on our part, so that we have an image of it,

250 PSYCHOLOGY

distinct or vague, in our mind, disconnected with bed,
then that constituent a may be analyzed out from the total
impression. Analysis of a thing means separate attention
to each of its parts. In Chapter XIII we saw that one
condition of attending to a thing was the formation from
within of a separate image of that thing, which should, as
it were, go out to meet the impression received. Attention
being the condition of analysis, and separate imagination
being the condition of attention, it follows also that sepa-
rate imagination is the condition of analysis. Only such
elements as we are acquainted with, and can imagine
separately, can be discriminated within a total sense-im-
pression. The image seems to welcome its own mate
from out of the compound, and to separate it from the
other constituents; and thus the compound becomes broken
for our consciousness into parts.

All the facts cited in Chapter XIII to prove that attention
involves inward reproduction prove that discrimination
involves it as well. In looking for any object in a room,
for a book in a library, for example, we detect it the more
readily if, in addition to merely knowing its name, etc., we
carry in our mind a distinct image of its appearance. The
assafoetida in ' Worcestershire sauce ' is not obvious to any-
one who has not tasted assafoetida per se. In a ' cold '
color an artist would never be able to analyze out the per-
vasive presence of blue, unless he had previously made
acquaintance with the color blue by itself. All the colors
we actually experience are mixtures. Even the purest
primaries always come to us with some white. Absolutely
pure red or green or violet is never experienced, and so can
never be discerned in the so-called primaries with which
we have to deal: the latter consequently pass for pure. —
The reader will remember how an overtone can only be
attended to in the midst of its consorts in the voice of a
musical instrument, by sounding it previously alone. The
imagination, being then full of it, hears the like of it in
the compound tone.

Non-isolable elements may be discriminated, pro-

DISCRIMINATION 251

vided their concomitants change. Very few elements of
reality are experienced by us in absolute isolation. The most
that usually happens to a constituent a of a compound phe-
nomenon abed is that its strength relatively to bed varies
from a maximum to a minimum; or that it appears
linked with other qualities, in other compounds, as aefg or
ahik. Either of these vicissitudes in the mode of our
experiencing a may, under favorable circumstances, lead us
to feel the difference between it and its concomitants, and
to single it out — not absolutely, it is true, but approxi-
mately— and so to analyze the compound of which it is a
part. The act of singling out is then called abstraction,
and the element disengaged is an abstract.

Fluctuation in a quality's intensity is a less efficient aid
to our abstracting of it than variety in the combinations
in which it appears. What is associated now with one
thing and now with another tends to become dissociated
jrom either, and to grow into an object of abstract con-
templation by the mind. One might call this the law of
dissociation by varying concomitants. The practical result
of this law is that a mind which has once dissociated and
abstracted a character by its means can analyze it out of a
total whenever it meets with it again.

Dr. Martineau gives a good example of the law: " When
a red ivory ball, seen for the first time, has been withdrawn,
it will leave a mental representation of itself, in which all
that it simultaneously gave us will indistinguishably co-
exist. Let a white ball succeed to it ; now, and not before,
will an attribute detach itself, and the color, by force of
contrast, be shaken out into the foreground. Let the
white ball be replaced by an egg, and this new difference
will bring the form into notice from its previous slumber,
and thus that which began by being simply an object cut
out from the surrounding scene becomes for us first a red
object, then a red round object, and so on."

Why the repetition of the character in combination with
different wholes will cause it thus to break up its adhesion
with any one of them, and roll out, as it were, alone upon

252 PSYCHOLOGY

the table of consciousness, is a little of a mystery, but one
which need not be considered here.

Practice improves Discrimination. — Any personal or
practical interest in the results to be obtained by distin-
guishing, makes one's wits amazingly sharp to detect dif-
ferences. And long training and practice in distinguish-
ing has the same effect as personal interest. Both of these
agencies give to small amounts of objective difference the
same effectiveness upon the mind that, under other cir-
cumstances, only large ones would have.

That ' practice makes perfect ' is notorious in the field
of motor accomplishments. But motor accomplishments
depend in part on sensory discrimination. Billiard-play-
ing, rifle-shooting, tight-rope-dancing demand the most
delicate appreciation of minute disparities of sensation, as
well as the power to make accurately graduated muscular
response thereto. In the purely sensorial field we have
the well-known virtuosity displayed by the professional
buyers and testers of various kinds of goods. One man
will distinguish by taste between the upper and the lower
half of a bottle of old Madeira. Another will recognize,
by feeling the flour in a barrel, whether the wheat was
grown in Iowa or Tennessee. The blind deaf-mute, Laura
Bridgman, so improved her touch as to recognize, after a
year's interval, the hand of a person who once had shaken
hers; and her sister in misfortune, Julia Brace, is said to
have been employed in the Hartford Asylum to sort the
linen of its multitudinous inmates, after it came from the
wash, by her wonderfully educated sense of smell.

The fact is so familiar that few, if any, psychologists
have ever recognized it as needing explanation. They
have seemed to think that practice must, in the nature
of things, improve the delicacy of discernment, and have
let the matter rest. At most they have said, " Attention
accounts for it; we attend more to habitual things, and
what we attend to we perceive more minutely." This
answer, though true, is too general; but we can say noth-
ing more about the matter here.

CHAPTER XVI
ASSOCIATION

The Order of our Ideas. — After discrimination, associa- v
tion ! It is obvious that all advance in knowledge must
consist of both operations ; for in the course of our edu-
cation, objects at first appearing as wholes are analyzed
into parts, and objects appearing separately are brought
together and appear as new compound wholes to the mind.
Analysis and synthesis are thus the incessantly alternat-
ing mental activities, a stroke of the one preparing the
way for a stroke of the other, much as, in walking, a man's
two legs are alternately brought into use, both being indis-
pensable for any orderly advance.

The manner in which trains of imagery and considera-
tion follow each other through our thinking, the restless
flight of one idea before the next, the transitions our minds
make between things wide as the poles asunder, transitions
which at first sight startle us by their abruptness, but
which, when scrutinized closely, often reveal intermediating
links of perfect naturalness and propriety — all this magical,
imponderable streaming has from time immemorial excited
the admiration of all whose attention happened to be
caught by its omnipresent mystery. And it has further-
more challenged the race of philosophers to banish some-
thing of the mystery by formulating the process in simpler
terms. The problem which the philosophers have set
themselves is that of ascertaining, between the thoughts
which thus appear to sprout one out of the other, princi-
ples of connection whereby their peculiar succession or
coexistence may be explained.

But immediately an ambiguity arises: Which sort of

253

254 PSYCHOLOGY

connection is meant? connection thought-oj, or connection
between thoughts? These are two entirely different things,
and only in the case of one of them is there any hope of
finding ' principles/ The jungle of connections thought of
can never be formulated simply. Every conceivable con-
nection may be thought of — of coexistence, succession, re-
semblance, contrast, contradiction, cause and effect, means
and end, genus and species, part and whole, substance and
property, early and late, large and small, landlord and
tenant, master and servant, — Heaven knows what, for the
list is literally inexhaustible. The only simplification
which could possibly be aimed at would be the reduction
of the relations to a small number of types, like those
which some authors call the ' categories ' of the under-
standing. According as we followed one category or an-
other we should sweep, from any object with our thought,
in this way or in that, to others. Were this the sort of con-
nection sought between one moment of our thinking and
another, our chapter might end here. For the only sum-
mary description of these categories is that they are all
thinkable relations, and that the mind proceeds from one
object to another by some intelligible path.

Is it determined by any laws? But as a matter of fact,
What determines the particular path ? Why do we at a
given time and place proceed to think of b if we have just
thought of a, and at another time and place why do we
think, not of b, but of c? Why do we spend years strain-
ing after a certain scientific or practical problem, but all in
vain — our thought unable to evoke the solution we desire?
and why, some day, walking in the street with our atten-
tion miles away- from that quest, does the answer saunter
into our minds as carelessly as if it had never been called
for — suggested, possibly, by the flowers on the bonnet of
the lady in front of us, or possibly by nothing that we
can discover?

The truth must be admitted that thought works under
strange conditions. Pure ' reason ' is only one out of a

ASSOCIATION 255

thousand possibilities in the thinking of each of us. Who
can count all the silly fancies, the grotesque suppositions,
the utterly irrelevant reflections he makes in the course of
a day? Who can swear that his prejudices and irrational
opinions constitute a less bulky part of his mental furni-
ture than his clarified beliefs? And yet, the mode of
genesis of the worthy and the worthless in our thinking
seems the same.

The laws are cerebral laws. There seem to be mechani- • v
cal conditions on which thought depends, and which, to say j
the least, determine the order in which the objects for her j
comparisons and selections are presented. It is a sug-
gestive fact that Locke, and many more recent Continental
psychologists, have found themselves obliged to invoke a
mechanical process to account for the aberrations of
thought, the obstructive prepossessions, the frustrations of
reason. This they found in the law of habit, or what we
now call association by contiguity. But it never occurred
to these writers that a process which could go the length of
actually producing some ideas and sequences in the mind
might safely be trusted to produce others too; and that
those habitual associations which further thought may also
come from the same mechanical source as those which
hinder it. Hartley accordingly suggested habit as a suffi-
cient explanation of the sequence of our thoughts, and in
so doing planted himself squarely upon the properly causal
aspect of the problem, and sought to treat both rational
and irrational associations from a single point of view.
How does a man come, after having the thought of A,
to have the thought of B the next moment? or how does
he come to think A and B always together? These were
the phenomena which Hartley undertook to explain by
cerebral physiology. I believe that he was, in essential
respects, on the right track, and I propose simply to revise
his conclusions by the aid of distinctions which he did not
make.

Objects are associated, not ideas. We shall avoid con-

256 PSYCHOLOGY

fusion if we consistently speak as if association, so far as
the word stands for an effect, were between things thought
of — as if it were things, not ideas, which are associated
in the mind. We shall talk of the association of objects,
not of the association of ideas. And so far as association
stands for a cause, it is between processes in the brain —
it is these which, by being associated in certain ways, de-
termine what successive objects shall be thought.

The Elementary Principle. — I shall now try to show
that there is no other elementary causal law of association
than the law of neural habit„ All the materials of our
thought are due to the way in which one elementary process
of the cerebral hemispheres tends to excite whatever other
elementary process it may have excited at any former time.
The number of elementary processes at work, however, and
the nature of those which at any time are fully effective in
rousing the others, determine the character of the total
brain-action, and, as a consequence of this, they determine
the object thought of at the time. According as this
resultant object is one thing or another, we call it a prod-
uct of association by contiguity or of association by simi-
larity, or contrast, or whatever other sorts we may have
recognized as ultimate. Its production, however, is, in
each one of these cases, to be explained by a merely quan-
titative variation in the elementary brain-processes mo-
mentarily at work under the law of habit.

My thesis, stated thus briefly, will soon become more
clear; and at the same time certain disturbing factors,
which cooperate with the law of neural habit, will come
to view.

Let us then assume as the basis of all our subsequent
reasoning this law: When two elementary brain-processes
have been active together or in immediate succession, one of
them, on re-occurring, tends to propagate its excitement
into the other.

But, as a matter of fact, every elementary process has
unavoidably found itself at different times excited in con-

ASSOCIATION 257

junction with many other processes. Which of these
others it shall awaken now becomes a problem. Shall b or
c be aroused next by the present a? To answer this, we
must make a further postulate, based on the fact of ten-
sion in nerve-tissue, and on the fact of summation of ex-
citements, each incomplete or latent in itself, into an
open resultant (see p. 128). The process b, rather than c,
will awake, if in addition to the vibrating tract a some
other tract d is in a state of sub-excitement, and formerly
was excited with b alone and not with a. In short, we
may say:

The amount of activity at any given point in the brain-,
cortex is the sum of the tendencies of all other points to
discharge into it, such tendencies being proportionate (1)
to the number of times the excitement of each other point
may have accompanied that of the point in question; (2) to
the intensity of such excitements; and (3) to the absence of
any rival point functionally disconnected with the first
point, into which the discharges might be diverted.

Expressing the fundamental law in this most compli-
cated way leads to the greatest ultimate simplification.
Let us, for the present, only treat of spontaneous trains of
thought and ideation, such as occur in revery or musing.
The case of voluntary thinking toward a certain end shall
come up later.

Spontaneous Trains of Thought. — Take, to fix our
ideas, the two verses from ' Locksley Hall ':

" I, the heir of all the ages in the foremost files of time,"
and —
"For I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs."

Why is it that when we recite from memory one of these
lines, and get as far as the ages, that portion of the other
line which follows and, so to speak, sprouts out of the ages
does not also sprout out of our memory and confuse the
sense of our words ? Simply because the word that fol-
lows the ages has its brain-process awakened not simply by

2 58 PSYCHOLOGY

the brain-process of the ages alone, but by it plus the brain-
processes of all the words preceding the ages. The word
ages at its moment of strongest activity would, per se, in-
differently discharge into either ' in ' or ' one.' So would
the previous words (whose tension is momentarily much
less strong than that of ages) each of them indifferently
discharge into either of a large number of other words
with which they have been at different times combined.
But when the processes of ' /, t)te heir of all the ages' si-
multaneously vibrate in the brain, the last one of them in a
maximal, the others in a fading, phase of excitement, then
the strongest line of discharge will be that which they all
alike tend to make. ' In ' and not ' one ' or any other word
will be the next to awaken, for its brain-process has previ-
ously vibrated in unison not only with that of ages, but with
that of all those other words whose activity is dying away.
It is a good case of the effectiveness over thought of what
we called on p. 168 a ' fringe/

But if some one of these preceding words — ' heir/ for
example — had an intensely strong association with some
brain-tracts entirely disjointed in experience from the poem
of ' Locksley Hall • — if the reciter, for instance, were tremu-
lously awaiting the opening of a will which might make
him a millionaire — it is probable that the path of discharge
through the words of the poem would be suddenly inter-
rupted at the word ' heir.' His emotional interest in that
word would be such that its own special associations would
prevail over the combined ones of the other words. He
would, as we say, be abruptly reminded of his personal
situation, and the poem would lapse altogether from his
thoughts.

The writer of these pages has every year to learn the
names of a large number of students who sit in alphabeti-
cal order in a lecture-room. He finally learns to call them
by name, as they sit in their accustomed places. On meet-
ing one in the street, however, early in the year, the face
hardly ever recalls the name, but it may recall the place of

ASSOCIATION 259

its owner in the lecture-room, his neighbors ' faces, and
consequently his general alphabetical position: and then,
usually as the common associate of all these combined data,
the student's name surges up in his mind.

A father wishes to show to some guests the progress of
his rather dull child in kindergarten-instruction. Hold-
ing the knife upright on the table, he says, " What do you
call that, my boy ?" "I calls it a knife, I does," is the
sturdy reply, from which the child cannot be induced to
swerve by any alteration in the form of question, until the
father, recollecting that in the kindergarten a pencil was
used and not a knife, draws a long one from his pocket,
holds it in the same way, and then gets the wished-for
answer, " I calls it vertical." All the concomitants of the
kindergarten experience had to recombine their effect be-
fore the word ' vertical ' could be reawakened.

Total Recall. — The ideal working of the law of com-
pound association, as Prof. Bain calls it, were it unmodi-
fied by any extraneous influence, would be such as to keep
the mind in a perpetual treadmill of concrete reminiscences
from which no detail could be omitted. Suppose, for
example, we begin by thinking of a certain dinner-party.
The only thing which all the components of the dinner-
party could combine to recall would be the first concrete
occurrence which ensued upon it. All the details of this
occurrence could in turn only combine to awaken the next
following occurrence, and so on. If a, b, c, d, e, for in-
stance, be the elementary nerve-tracts excited by the last
act of the dinner-party, call this act A, and /, m, n, o, p be
those of walking home through the frosty night, which we
may call B, then the thought of A must awaken that of B,
because a, b, c, d, e will each and all discharge into /
through the paths by which their original discharge took
place. Similarly they will discharge into tn, n, o, and p\
and these latter tracts will also each reinforce the other's
action because, in the experience B, they have already
vibrated in unison The lines in Fig. 57 symbolize the

260

PSYCHOLOGY

summation of discharges into each of the components of
By and the consequent strength of the combination of
influences by which B in its totality is awakened.

Hamilton first used the word ' redintegration ' to desig-
nate all association. Such processes as we have just de-
scribed might in an emphatic sense be termed redintegra-
tions, for they would necessarily lead, if unobstructed, to
the reinstatement in thought of the entire content of large
trains of past experience. From this complete redintegra-
tion there could be no escape save through the irruption of
some new and strong present impression of the senses, or
through the excessive tendency of some one of the elemen-
tary brain-tracts to discharge independently into an aber-
rant quarter of the brain. Such was the tendency of the

Fig. 57-

word ' heir ' in the verse from ' Locksley Hall/ which was
our first example. How such tendencies are constituted
we shall have soon to inquire with some care. Unless they
are present, the panorama of the past, once opened, must
unroll itself with fatal literality to the end, unless some
outward sound, sight, or touch divert the current of
thought.

ASSOCIATION 261

Let us call this process impartial redintegration, or, still
better, total recall. Whether it ever occurs in an abso-
lutely complete form is doubtful. We all immediately
recognize, however, that in some minds there is a much
greater tendency than in others for the flow of thought to
take this form. Those insufferably garrulous old women,
those dry and fanciless beings who spare you no detail,
however petty, of the facts they are recounting, and upon
the thread of whose narrative all the irrelevant items
cluster as pertinaciously as the essential ones, the slaves of
literal fact, the stumblers over the smallest abrupt step in
thought, are figures known to all of us. Comic literature
has made her profit out of them. Juliet's nurse is a
classical example. George Eliot's village characters and
some of Dickens's minor personages supply excellent in-
stances.

Perhaps as successful rendering as any of this men-
tal type is the character of Miss Bates in Miss Austen's
1 Emma.' Hear how she redintegrates:

" ' But where could you hear it? ' cried Miss Bates.
1 Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For
it is not five minutes since I received Mrs. Cole's note — no,
it cannot be more than five — or at least ten — for I had got
my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out — I was
only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork —
Jane was standing in the passage — were not you, Jane? —
for my mother was so afraid that we had not any salting-
pan large enough. So I said I would go down and see,
and Jane said: " Shall I go down instead? for I think you
have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen."
" Oh, my dear," said I — well, and just then came the note.
A Miss Hawkins — that's all I know — a Miss Hawkins, of
Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how could you possibly have
heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of
it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins — ' "

Partial Recall. — This case helps us to understand why it
is that the ordinary spontaneous flow of our ideas does not

262 PSYCHOLOGY

follow the law of total recall. In no revival of a past ex-
perience are all the items of our thought equally operative
in determining what the next thought shall be. Always
some ingredient is prepotent over the rest. Its special sug-
gestions or associations in this case will often be different
from those which it has in common with the whole group
of items; and its tendency to awaken these outlying associ-
ates will deflect the path of our revery. Just as in the
original sensible experience our attention focalized itself
upon a few of the impressions of the scene before us, so
here in the reproduction of those impressions an equal par-
tiality is shown, and some items are emphasized above
the rest. What these items shall be is, in most cases of
spontaneous revery, hard to determine beforehand. In
subjective terms we say that the prepotent items are those
which appeal most to our interest.

Expressed in brain-terms, the law of interest will be:
some one brain-process is always prepotent above its con-
comitants in arousing action elsewhere.

" Two processes," says Mr. Hodgson, " are constantly
going on in redintegration. The one a process of corro-
sion, melting, decay; the other a process of renewing,
arising, becoming. . . . No object of representation re-
mains long before consciousness in the same state, but
fades, decays, and becomes indistinct. Those parts of the
object, however, which possess an interest resist this ten-
dency to gradual decay of the whole object. . . . This
inequality in the object — some parts, the uninteresting,
submitting to decay; others, the interesting parts, resisting
it — when it has continued for a certain time, ends in
becoming a new object."

Only where the interest is diffused equally over all the
parts is this law departed from. It will be least obeyed
by those minds which have the smallest variety and intensity
of interests — those who, by the general flatness and poverty
of their aesthetic nature, are kept for ever rotating among
the literal sequences of their local and personal history.

ASSOCIATION 263

Most of us, however, are better organized than this, and
our musings pursue an erratic course, swerving continu-
ally into some new direction traced by the shifting play
of interest as it ever falls on some partial item in each
complex representation that is evoked. Thus it so often
comes about that we find ourselves thinking at two nearly
adjacent moments of things separated by the whole diam-
eter of space and time. Not till we carefully recall each
step of our cogitation do we see how naturally we came by
Hodgson's law to pass from one to the other. Thus, for
instance, after looking at my clock just now (1879), I found
myself thinking of a recent resolution in the Senate about
our legal-tender notes. The clock called up the image of
the man who had repaired its gong. He suggested the
jeweller's shop where I had last seen him ; that shop, some
shirt-studs which I had bought there ; they, the value of
gold and its recent decline ; the latter, the equal value of
greenbacks, and this, naturally, the question of how long
they were to last, and of the Bayard proposition. Each of
these images offered various points of interest. Those
which formed the turning-points of my thought are easily
assigned. The gong was momentarily the most interesting
part of the clock, because, from having begun with a beau-
tiful tone, it had become discordant and aroused disap-
pointment. But for this the clock might have suggested
the friend who gave it to me, or any one of a thousand
circumstances connected with clocks. The jeweller's shop
suggested the studs, because they alone of all its contents
were tinged with the egoistic interest of possession. This
interest in the studs, their value, made me single out the
material as its chief source, etc., to the end. Every reader
who will arrest himself at any moment and say, " How
came I to be thinking of just this?" will be sure to trace a
train of representations linked together by lines of conti-
guity and points of interest inextricably combined. This
is the ordinary process of the association of ideas as it
spontaneously goes on in average minds. We may call it

264 PSYCHOLOGY

ordinary, or mixed, association, or, if we like better, par-
tial recall.

Which Associates come up, in Partial Recall? — Can
we determine, now, when a certain portion of the going
thought has, by dint of its interest, become so prepotent
as to make its own exclusive associates the dominant fea-
tures of the coming thought — can we, I say, determine
which of its own associates shall be evoked? For they
are many. As Hodgson says:

" The interesting parts of the decaying object are free
to combine again with any objects or parts of objects with
which at any time they have been combined before. All
the former conbinations of these parts may come back
into consciousness; one must, but which will?"

Mr. Hodgson replies:

" There can be but one answer: that which has been
most habitually combined with them before. This new
object begins at once to form itself in consciousness, and
to group its parts round the part still remaining from the
former object; part after part comes out and arranges
itself in its old position ; but scarcely has the process
begun, when the original law of interest begins to operate
on this new formation, seizes on the interesting parts and
impresses them on the attention to the exclusion of the
rest, and the whole process is repeated again with endless
variety. I venture to propose this as a complete and true
account of the whole process of redintegration."

In restricting the discharge from the interesting item
into that channel which is simply most habitual in the
sense of most frequent, Hodgson's account is assuredly
imperfect. An image by no means always revives its most
frequent associate, although frequency is certainly one of
the most potent determinants of revival. If I abruptly
utter the word swallow, the reader, if by habit an orni-
thologist, will think of a bird; if a physiologist or a
medical specialist in throat-diseases, he will think of deg-
lutition. If I say date, he will, if a fruit-merchant or an

ASSOCIATION 265

Arabian traveller, think of the produce of the palm; if an
habitual student of history, figures with a. d. or b. c. before
them will rise in his mind. If I say bed, bath, morning,
his own daily toilet will be invincibly suggested by the
combined names of three of its habitual associates. But
frequent lines of transition are often set at naught. The
sight of a certain book has most frequently awakened in
me thoughts of the opinions therein propounded. The
idea of suicide has never been connected with the volume.
But a moment since, as my eye fell upon it, suicide was
the thought that flashed into my mind. Why? Because
but yesterday I received a letter informing me that the
author's recent death was an act of self-destruction.
Thoughts tend, then, to awaken their most recent as
well as their most habitual associates. This is a matter
of notorious experience, too notorious, in fact, to need
illustration. If we have seen our friend this morning,
the mention of his name now recalls the circumstances of
that interview, rather than any more remote details con-
cerning him. If Shakespeare's plays are mentioned, and
we were last night reading ' Richard 11./ vestiges of that
play rather than of ' Hamlet ' or ' Othello ' float through
our mind. Excitement or peculiar tracts, or peculiar
modes of general excitement ir the brain, leave a sort of
tenderness or exalted sensibility behind them which takes
days to die away. As long as it lasts, those tracts or
those modes are liable to have their activities awakened
by causes which at other times might leave them in re-
pose. Hence, recency in experience is a prime factor in
determining revival in thought*

Vividness in an original experience may also have the
same effect as habit or recency in bringing about likeli-

* I refer to a recency of a few hours. Mr. Galton found that ex-
periences from boyhood and youth were more likely to be suggested
by words seen at random than experiences of later years. See his
highly interesting account of experiments in his Inquiries into
Human Faculty, pp. 191-203.

266 PSYCHOLOGY

hood of revival. If we have once witnessed an execution,
any subsequent conversation or reading about capital pun-
ishment will almost certainly suggest images of that par-
ticular scene. Thus it is that events lived through only
once, and in youth, may come in after-years, by reason of
their exciting quality or emotional intensity, to serve as
types or instances used by our mind to illustrate any and
every occurring topic whose interest is most remotely
pertinent to theirs. If a man in his boyhood once talked
with Napoleon, any mention of great men or historical
events, battles or thrones, or the whirligig of fortune, or
islands in the ocean, will be apt to draw to his lips the
incidents of that one memorable interview. If the word
tooth now suddenly appears on the page before the reader's
eye, there are fifty chances out of a hundred that, if he
gives it time to awaken any image, it will be an image of
some operation of dentistry in which he has been the
sufferer. Daily he has touched his teeth and masticated
with them; this very morning he brushed, used, and picked
them; but the rarer and remoter associations arise more
promptly because they were so much more intense.

A fourth factor in tracing the course of reproduction is
congruity in emotional tone between the reproduced idea
and our mood. The same objects do not recall the same
associates when we are cheerful as when we are melan-
choly. Nothing, in fact, is more striking than our inability
to keep up trains of joyous imagery when we are depressed
in spirits. Storm, darkness, war, images of disease, pov-
erty, perishing, and dread afflict unremittingly the imagi-
nations of melancholiacs. And those of sanguine tem-
perament, when their spirits are high, find it impossible
to give any permanence to evil forebodings or to gloomy
thoughts. In an instant the train of association dances
off to flowers and sunshine, and images of spring and hope.
The records of Arctic or African travel perused in one
mood awaken no thoughts but those of horror at the
malignity of Nature ; read at another time they suggest

ASSOCIATION 267

only enthusiastic reflections on the indomitable power and
pluck of man. Few novels so overflow with joyous animal
spirits as ' The Three Guardsmen ' of Dumas. Yet it may
awaken in the mind of a reader depressed with sea-sickness
(as the writer can personally testify) a most woful con-
sciousness of the cruelty and carnage of which heroes like
Athos, Porthos, and Aramis make themselves guilty.

Habit, recency, vividness, and emotional congruity are,
then, all reasons why one representation rather than an-
other should be awakened by the interesting portion of a
departing thought. We may say with truth that in the
majority of cases the coming representation will have been
either habitual, recent, or vivid, and will be congruous. If
all these qualities unite in any one absent associate, we may
predict almost infallibly that that associate of the going
object will form an important ingredient in the object
which comes next. In spite of the fact, however, that the
succession of representations is thus redeemed from per-
fect indeterminism and limited to a few classes whose
characteristic quality is fixed by the nature of our past
experience, it must still be confessed that an immense
number of terms in the linked chain of our representations
fall outside of all assignable rule. To take the instance of
the clock given on page 263. Why did the jeweller's shop
suggest the shirt-studs rather than a chain which I had
bought there more recently, which had cost more, and
whose sentimental associations were much more interest-
ing? Any reader's experience will easily furnish similar
instances. So we must admit that to a certain extent, even
in those forms of ordinary mixed association which lie
nearest to impartial redintegration, which associate of the
interesting item shall emerge must be called largely a
matter of accident — accident, that is, for our intelligence.
No doubt it is determined by cerebral causes, but they are
too subtile and shifting for our analysis.

Focalized Recall, or Association by Similarity. — In
partial or mixed association we have all along supposed

268 PSYCHOLOGY

the interesting portion of the disappearing thought to be of
considerable extent, and to be sufficiently complex to con-
stitute by itself a concrete object. Sir William Hamilton
relates, for instance, that after thinking of Ben Lomond
he found himself thinking of the Prussian system of
education, and discovered that the links of association were
a German gentleman whom he had met on Ben Lomond,
Germany, etc. The interesting part of Ben Lomond as he
had experienced it, the part operative in determining the
train of his ideas, was the complex image of a particular
man. But now let us suppose that the interested attention
refines itself still further and accentuates a portion of the
passing object, so small as to be no longer the image of a
concrete thing, but only of an abstract quality or property.
Let us morever suppose that the part thus accentuated
persists in consciousness (or, in cerebral terms, has its
brain-process continue) after the other portions of the
object have faded. This small surviving portion will
then surround itself with its own associates after the fash-
ion we have already seen, and the relation between the new
thought's object and the object of the faded thought will
be a relation of similarity. The pair of thoughts will
form an instance of what is called ' association by simi-
larity*

The similars which are here associated, or of which the
first is followed by the second in the mind, are seen to be
compounds. Experience proves that this is always the case.
There is no tendency on the part of simple ' ideas' attri-
butes, or qualities to remind us of their like. The thought
of one shade of blue does not summon up that of another
shade of blue, etc., unless indeed we have in mind some
general purpose of nomenclature or comparison which re-
quires a review of several blue tints.

Now two compound things are similar when some one
quality or group of qualities is shared alike by both,
although as regards their other qualities they may have
nothing in common. The moon is similar to a gas-jet, it is

ASSOCIATION 269

also similar to a foot-ball; but a gas-jet and a foot-ball are
not similar to each other. When we affirm the similarity
of two compound things, we should always say in what
respect it obtains. Moon and gas-jet are similar in respect
of luminosity, and nothing else; moon and foot-ball in re-
spect of rotundity, and nothing else. Foot-ball and gas-jet
are in no respect similar — that is, they possess no common
point, no identical attribute. Similarity, in compounds,
is partial identity. When the same attribute appears
in two phenomena, though it be their only common prop-
erty, the two phenomena are similar in so far forth. To
return now to our associated representations. If the
thought of the moon is succeeded by the thought of a
foot-ball, and that by the thought of one of Mr. X's rail-
roads, it is because the attribute rotundity in the moon
broke away from all the rest and surrounded itself with an
entirely new set of companions — elasticity, leathery integ-
ument, swift mobility in obedience to human caprice, etc.;
and because the last-named attribute in the foot-ball in
turn broke away from its companions, and, itself persist-
ing, surrounded itself with such new attributes as make
up the notions of a ' railroad king/ of a rising and falling
stock-market, and the like. #

The gradual passage from total to focalized, through
what we have called ordinary partial, recall may be sym-

Ftc. 58.

bolized by diagrams. Fig. 58 is total, Fig. 59 is partial,
and Fig. 60 focalized, recall. A in each is the passing,

270

PSYCHOLOGY

B the coming, thought. In ' total recall/ all parts of A are
equally operative in calling up J?. In * partial recall,'
most parts of A are inert. The part M alone breaks out
and awakens B. In similar association or ' focalized re-
call/ the part M is much smaller than in the previous case,

Fie. 59.

and after awakening its new set of associates, instead of
fading out itself, it continues persistently active along with
them, forming an identical part in the two ideas, and mak-
ing these, pro tanto, resemble each other.*

Fig. 60.

Why a single portion of the passing thought should
break out from its concert with the rest and act, as we say,
on its own hook, why the other parts should become inert,
are mysteries which we can ascertain but not explain.

♦Miss M. W. Calkins (Philosophical Review, I. 389, 1802)
points out that the persistent feature of the going thought, on which
the association in cases of similarity hinges, is by no means always
so slight as to warrant the term ' focalized.' " If the sight of the
whole breakfast-room be followed by the visual image of yester-

ASSOCIATION 271

Possibly a minuter insight into the laws of neural action
will some day clear the matter up; possibly neural laws
will not suffice, and we shall need to invoke a dynamic
reaction of the consciousness itself. But into this we
cannot enter now.

Voluntary Trains of Thought. — Hitherto we have as-
sumed the process of suggestion of one object by another
to be spontaneous. The train of imagery wanders at its
own sweet will, now trudging in sober grooves of habit, now
with a hop, skip, and jump, darting across the whole field
of time and space. This is revery, or musing; but great
segments of the flux of our ideas consist of something very
different from this. They are guided by a distinct pur-
pose or conscious interest; and the course of our ideas is
then called voluntary.

Physiologically considered, we must suppose that a pur-
pose means the persistent activity of certain rather definite
brain-processes throughout the whole course of thought.
Our most usual cogitations are not pure reveries, absolute
driftings, but revolve about some central interest or topic
to which most of the images are relevant, and towards
which we return promptly after occasional digressions.

day's breakfast-table, with the same setting and in the same sur-
roundings, the association is practically total," and yet the case is
one of similarity. For Miss Calkins, accordingly, the more impor-
tant distinction is that between what she calls desistent and persist-
ent association. In ' desistent ' association all parts of the going
thought fade out and are replaced. In ' persistent ' association some
of them remain, and form a bond of similarity between the mind's
successive objects; but only where this bond is extremely delicate
(as in the case of an abstract relation or quality) is there need to
call the persistent process ' focalized.' I must concede the justice
of Miss Calkins's criticism, and think her new pair of terms a use-
ful contribution. Wundt's division of associations into the two
classes of external and internal is congruent with Miss Calkins's
division. Things associated internally must have some element in
common; and Miss Calkins's word 'persistent' suggests how this
may cerebrally come to pass. ' Desistent,' on the other hand, sug-
gests the process by which the successive ideas become external to
each other or preserve no inner tie.

2 72 PSYCHOLOGY

This interest is subserved by the persistently active brain-
tracts we have supposed. In the mixed associations which
we have hitherto studied, the parts of each object which
form the pivots on which our thoughts successively turn
have their interest largely determined by their connection
with some general interest which for the time has seized
upon the mind. If we call Z the brain- tract of general
interest, then, if the object abc turns up, and b has more
associations with Z than have either a or c, b will become
the object's interesting, pivotal portion, and will call up
its own associates exclusively. For the energy of his brain-
tract will be augmented by Z's activity, — an activity
which, from lack of previous connection between Z and a
and Z and c, does not influence a or c. If, for instance, I
think of Paris whilst I am hungry, I shall not improbably
find that its restaurants have become the pivot of my
thought, etc., etc.

Problems. — But in the theoric as well as in the practi-
cal life there are interests of a more acute sort, taking the
form of definite images of some achievement which we de-
sire to effect. The train of ideas arising under the influ-
ence of such an interest constitutes usually the thought of
the means by which the end shall be attained. If the end
by its simple presence does not instantaneously suggest the
means, the search for the latter becomes a problem; and
the discovery of the means forms a new sort of end, of an
entirely peculiar nature — an end, namely, which we intensely
desire before we have attained it, but of the nature of
which, even whilst most strongly craving it, we have no
distinct imagination whatever (compare pp. 241-2).

The same thing occurs whenever we seek to recall some-
thing forgotten, or to state the reason for a judgment
which we have made intuitively. The desire strains and
presses in a direction which it feels to be right, but towards
a point which it is unable to see. In short, the absence of
an item is a determinant of our representations quite as
positive as its presence can ever be. The gap becomes no

ASSOCIATION 273

mere void, but what is called an aching void. If we try to
explain in terms of brain-action how a thought which only
potentially exists can yet be effective, we seem driven to
believe that the brain-tract thereof must actually be excited,
but only in a minimal and sub-conscious way. Try, for
instance, to symbolize what goes on in a man who is rack-
ing his brains to remember a thought which occurred to
him last week. The associates of the thought are there,
many of them at least, but they refuse to awaken the
thought itself. We cannot suppose that they do not irra-
diate at all into its brain-tract, because his mind quivers
on the very edge of its recovery. Its actual rhythm sounds
in his ears; the words seem on the imminent point of fol-
lowing, but fail (see p. 165). Now the only difference
between the effort to recall things forgotten and the search
after the means to a given end is that the latter have not,
whilst the former have, already formed a part of our ex-
perience. If we first study the mode of recalling a thing
forgotten, we can take up with better understanding the
voluntary quest of the unknown.

Their Solution. — The forgotten thing is felt by us as a
gap in the midst of certain other things. We possess a dim
idea of where we were and what we were about when it last
occurred to us. We recollect the general subject to which
it pertains. But all these details refuse to shoot together
into a solid whole, for the lack of the missing thing, so we
keep running over them in our mind, dissatisfied, craving
something more. From each detail there radiate lines of
association forming so many tentative guesses. Many of
these are immediately seen to be irrelevant, are therefore
void of interest, and lapse immediately from consciousness.
Others are associated with the other details present, and
with the missing thought as well. When these surge up, we
have a peculiar feeling that we are ' warm,' as the children
say when they play hide and seek; and such associates as
these we clutch at and keep before the attention. Thus we
recollect successively that when we last were considering the

274

PSYCHOLOGY

matter in question we were at the dinner-table; then that
our friend J. D. was there; then that the subject talked
about was so and so; finally, that the thought came a pro-
pos of a certain anecdote, and then that it had something
to do with a French quotation. Now all these added as-
sociates arise independently of the will, by the spontaneous
processes we know so well. All that the will does is to em-
phasize and linger over those which seem pertinent, and ig-
nore the rest. Through this hovering of the attention in
the neighborhood of the desired object, the accumulation
of associates becomes so great that the combined tensions
of their neural processes break through the bar, and the
nervous wave pours into the tract which has so long been
awaiting its advent. And as the expectant, sub-conscious

Fig. 6

itching, so to speak, bursts into the fulness of vivid feeling,
the mind finds an inexpressible relief.

The whole process can be rudely symbolized in a dia-
gram. Call the forgotten thing Z, the first facts with
which we felt it was related a, b, and c, and the details
finally operative in calling it up I, m, and n. Each circle
will then stand for the brain-process principally concerned
in the thought of the fact lettered within it. The activity
in Z will at first be a mere tension; but as the activities in
a, b, and c little by little irradiate into /, m, and n, and as

ASSOCIATION 275

all these processes are somehow connected with Z, their
combined irradiations upon Z, represented by the centripe-
tal arrows, succeed in rousing Z also to full activity.

Turn now to the case of finding the unknown means to
a distinctly conceived end. The end here stands in the
place of a, b, c, in the diagram. It is the starting-point of
the irradiations of suggestion; and here, as in that case,
what the voluntary attention does is only to dismiss some
of the suggestions as irrelevant, and hold fast to others
which are felt to be more pertinent — let these be symbol-
ized by /, m, n. These latter at last accumulate sufficiently
to discharge altogether into Z, the excitement of which
process is, in the mental sphere, equivalent to the solution
of our problem. The only difference between this and
the previous case is that in this one there need be no orig-
inal sub-excitement in Z, cooperating from the very first.
In the solving of a problem, all that we are aware of in
advance seems to be its relations. It must be a cause, or
it must be an effect, or it must contain an attribute, or
it must be a means, or what not. We know, in short, a
lot about it, whilst as yet we have no acquaintance with it.
Our perception that one of the objects which turn up is,
as last, our quoesitum, is due to our recognition that its re-
lations are identical with those we had in mind, and this
may be a rather slow act of judgment. Every one knows
that an object may be for some time present to his mind
before its relations to other matters are perceived. Just so
the relations may be there before the object is.

From the guessing of newspaper enigmas to the plotting
of the policy of an empire there is no other process than
this. We must trust to the laws of cerebral nature to
present us spontaneously with the appropriate idea, but we
must know it for the right one when it comes.

It is foreign to my purpose here to enter into any
detailed analysis of the different classes of mental pursuit.
In a scientific research we get perhaps as rich an example
as can be found. The inquirer starts with a fact of which

276 PSYCHOLOGY

he seeks the reason, or with an hypothesis of which he
seeks the proof. In either case he keeps turning the
matter incessantly in his mind until, by the arousal of asso-
ciate upon associate, some habitual, some similar, one arises
which he recognizes to suit his need. This however, may
take years. No rules can be given by which the investi-
gator may proceed straight to his result; but both here
and in the case of reminiscence the accumulation of helps
in the way of associations may advance more rapidly by
the use of certain routine methods. In striving to recall a
thought, for example, we may of set purpose run through
the successive classes of circumstance with which it may
possibly have been connected, trusting that when the right
member of the class has turned up it will help the thought's
revival. Thus we may run through all the places in which
we may have had it. We may run through the persons
whom we remember to have conversed with, or we may call
up successively all the books we have lately been reading.
If we are trying to remember a person we may run through
a list of streets or of professions. Some item out of the
lists thus methodically gone over will very likely be asso-
ciated with the fact we are in need of, and may suggest it
or help to do so. And yet the item might never have arisen
without such systematic procedure. In scientific research
this accumulation of associates has been methodized by
Mill under the title of ' The Four Methods of Experi-
mental Inquiry.' By the ' method of agreement,' by that
of * difference,' by those of ' residues ' and ' concomitant
variations ' (which cannot here be more nearly defined), we
make certain lists of cases; and by ruminating these lists
in our minds the cause we seek will be more likely to
emerge. But the final stroke of discovery is only prepared,
not effected by them. The brain-tracts must, of their own
accord, shoot the right way at last, or we shall still grope
in darkness. That in some brains the tracts do shoot the
right way much oftener than in others, and that we cannot
tell why, — these are ultimate facts to which we must never

ASSOCIATION 277

close our eyes. Even in forming our lists of instances
according to Mill's methods, we are at the mercy of the
spontaneous workings of Similarity in our brain. How
are a number of facts, resembling the one whose cause we
seek, to be brought together in a list unless one will rapidly
suggest another through association by similarity?

Similarity no Elementary Law. — Such is the analysis I
propose, first of the three main types of spontaneous, and
then of voluntary, trains of thought. It will be observed
that the object called up may bear any logical relation
whatever to the one which suggested it. The law requires
only that one condition should be fulfilled. The fading
object must be due to a brain-process some of whose ele-
ments awaken through habit some of the elements of the
brain-process of the object which comes to view. This
awakening is the causal agency in the kind of association
called Similarity, as in any other sort. The similarity
itself between the objects has no causal agency in carry-
ing us from one to the other. It is but a result — the effect
of the usual causal agent when this happens to work in a
certain way. Ordinary writers talk as if the similarity of
the objects were itself an agent, coordinate with habit, and
independent of it, and like it able to push objects before
the mind. This is quite unintelligible. The similarity of
two things does not exist till both things are there — it is
meaningless to talk of it as an agent of production of any-
thing, whether in the physical or the psychical realms. It
is a relation which the mind perceives after the fact, just
as it may perceive the relations of superiority, of distance,
of causality, of container and content, of substance and
accident, or of contrast, between an object and some second
object which the associative machinery calls up.

Conclusion. — To sum up, then, we see that the difference
between the three kinds of association reduces itself to a
simple difference in the amount of that portion of the
nerve-tract supporting the going thought which i: oper-
ative in calling up the thought which comes. But the

278 PSYCHOLOGY

modus operandi of this active part is the same, be it large
or be it small. The items constituting the coming object
waken in every instance because their nerve-tracts once
were excited continuously with those of the going object
or its operative part. This ultimate physiological law of
habit among the neural elements is what runs the train.
The direction of its course and the form of its transitions
are due to the unknown conditions by which in some
brains action tends to focalize itself in small spots, while
in others it fills patiently its broad bed. What these dif-
fering conditions are, it seems impossible to guess. What-
ever they are, they are what separate the man of genius
from the prosaic creature of habit and routine thinking.
In the chapter on Reasoning we shall need to recur again
to this point. I trust that the student will now feel
that the way to a deeper understanding of the order of our
ideas lies in the direction of cerebral physiology. The
elementary process of revival can be nothing but the law
of habit. Truly the day is distant when physiologists
shall actually trace from cell-group to cell-group the
irradiations which we have hypothetically invoked. Prob-
ably it will never arrive. The schematism we have used
is, moreover, taken immediately from the analysis of
objects into their elementary parts, and only extended by
analogy to the brain. And yet it is only as incorporated
in the brain that such a schematism can represent any-
thing causal. This is, to my mind, the conclusive reason
for saying that the order of presentation of the mind's
materials is due to cerebral physiology alone.

The law of accidental prepotency of certain processes
over others falls also within the sphere of cerebral proba-
bilities. Granting such instability as the brain-tissue re-
quires, certain points must always discharge more quickly
and strongly than others; and this prepotency would shift
its place from moment to moment by accidental causes,
giving us a perfect mechanical diagram of the capricious

ASSOCIATION 279

play of similar association in the most gifted mind. A
study of dreams confirms this view. The usual abundance
of paths of irradiation seems, in the dormant brain, reduced.
A few only are pervious, and the most fantastic sequences
occur because the currents run — ' like sparks in burnt-up
paper ' — wherever the nutrition of the moment creates an
opening, but nowhere else.

The ejects of interested attention and volition remain.
These activities seem to hold fast to certain elements and,
by emphasizing them and dwelling on them, to make their
associates the only ones which are evoked. This is the
point at which an anti-mechanical psychology must, if any-
where, make its stand in dealing with association. Every-
thing else is pretty certainly due to cerebral laws. My
own opinion on the question of active attention and spirit-
ual spontaneity is expressed elsewhere (see p. 237). But
even though there be a mental spontaneity, it can certainly
not create ideas or summon them ex abrupto. Its power is
limited to selecting amongst those which the associative
machinery introduces. If it can emphasize, reinforce, or
protract for half a second either one of these, it can do all
that the most eager advocate of free will need demand; for
it then decides the direction of the next associations by
making them hinge upon the emphasized term; and deter-
mining in this wise the course of the man's thinking, it
also determines his acts.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SENSE OF TIME

The sensible present has duration. Let any one try, I
will not say to arrest, but to notice or attend to, the present
moment of time. One of the most baffling experiences
occurs. Where is it, this present? It has melted in our
grasp, fled ere we could touch it, gone in the instant of
becoming. As a poet, quoted by Mr. Hodgson, says,

" Le moment ou je parle est deja loin de moi,"

and it is only as entering into the living and moving organi-
zation of a much wider tract of time that the strict present
is apprehended at all. It is, in fact, an altogether ideal
abstraction, not only never realized in sense, but probably
never even conceived of by those unaccustomed to philo-
sophic meditation. Reflection leads us to the conclusion
that it must exist, but that it does exist can never be a fact
of our immediate experience. The only fact of our imme-
diate experience is what has been well called ' the specious '
present, a sort of saddle-back of time with a certain length
of its own, on which we sit perched, and from which we
look in two directions into time. The unit of composi-
tion of our perception of time is a duration, with a bow
and a stern, as it were — a rearward- and a forward-looking
end. It is only as parts of this duration-block that the
relation of succession of one end to the other is perceived.
We do not first feel one end and then feel the other after
it, and from the perception of the succession infer an
interval of time between, but we seem to feel the interval
of time as a whole, with its two ends embedded in it. The
experience is from the outset a synthetic datum, not a

280

THE SENSE OF TIME 281

simple one; and to sensible perception its elements are
inseparable, although attention looking back may easily
decompose the experience, and distinguish its beginning
from its end. .

The moment we pass beyond a very few seconds our
consciousness of duration ceases to be an immediate
perception and becomes a construction more or less sym-
bolic. To realize even an hour, we must count ' now!
now! now! now! ' indefinitely. Each ' now ' is the feel-
ing of a separate bit of time, and the exact sum of the
bits never makes a clear impression on our .mind. The
longest bit of duration which we can apprehend at once so
as to discriminate it from longer and shorter bits of time
would seem (from experiments made for another purpose
in Wundt's laboratory) to be about 12 seconds. The
shortest interval which we can feel as time at all would
seem to be 1/500 of a second. That is, Exner recognized
two electric sparks to be successive when the second fol-
lowed the first at that interval.

We have no sense for empty time. Let one sit with
closed eyes and, abstracting entirely from the outer world,
attend exclusively to the passage of time, like one who
wakes, as the poet says, " to hear time flowing in the
middle of the night, and all things moving to a day of
doom." There seems under such circumstances as these
no variety in the material content of our thought, and
what we notice appears, if anything, to be the pure series
of durations budding, as it were, and growing beneath our
indrawn gaze. Is this really so or not? The question is
important; for, if the experience be what it roughly seems,
we have a sort of special sense for pure time — a sense to
which empty duration is an adequate stimulus; while if it
be an illusion, it must be that our perception of time's
flight, in the experiences quoted, is due to the filling of
the time, and to our memory of a content which it had a
moment previous, and which we feel to agree or disagree
with its content now.

282 PSYCHOLOGY

It takes but a small exertion of introspection to show
that the latter alternative is the true one, and that we can
no more perceive a duration than we can perceive an exten-
sion, devoid of all sensible content. Just as with closed
eyes we see a dark visual field in which a curdling play of
obscurest luminosity is always going on; so, be we never
so abstracted from distinct outward impressions, we are
always inwardly immersed in what Wundt has somewhere
called the twilight of our general consciousness. Our
heart-beats, our breathing, the pulses of our attention,
fragments of words or sentences that pass through our
imagination,' are what people this dim habitat. Now, all
these processes are rhythmical, and are apprehended by
us, as they occur, in their totality; the breathing and
pulses of attention, as coherent successions, each with its
rise and fall; the heart-beats similarly, only relatively far
more brief; the words not separately, but in connected
groups. In short, empty our minds as we may, some form
of changing process remains for us to feel, and cannot be
expelled. And along with the sense of the process and
its rhythm goes the sense of the length of time it lasts.
Awareness of change is thus the condition on which our
perception of time's flow depends; but there exists no
reason to suppose that empty time's own changes are suffi-
cient for the awareness of change to be aroused. The change
must be of some concrete sort.

Appreciation of Longer Durations. — In the experience
of watching empty time flow — ' empty ' to be taken hereafter
in the relative sense just set forth — we tell it off in pulses.
We say l now! now! now! ' or we count ' more! more!
more! ' as we feel it bud. This composition out of units
of duration is called the law of time's discrete flow. The
discreteness is, however, merely due to fact that our
successive acts of recognition or apperception of what it is
are discrete. The sensation is as continuous as any sen-
sation can be. All continuous sensations are named in
beats. We notice that a certain finite ' more ' of them is

THE SENSE OF TIME 283

passing or already past. To adopt Hodgson's image, the
sensation is the measuring-tape, the perception the divid-
ing-engine which stamps its length. As we listen to a
steady sound, we take it in in discrete pulses of recog-
nition, calling it successively ' the same! the same! the
same! ' The case stands no otherwise with time.

After a small number of beats our impression of the
amount we have told off becomes quite vague. Our only
way of knowing it accurately is by counting, or noticing
the clock, or through some other symbolic conception.
When the times exceed hours or days, the conception is
absolutely symbolic. We think of the amount we mean
either solely as a name, or by running over a few salient
dates herein, with no pretence of imagining the full
durations that lie between them. No one has anything
like a perception of the greater length of the time between
now and the first century than of that between now and
the tenth. To an historian, it is true, the longer interval
will suggest a host of additional dates and events, and so
appear a more multitudinous thing. And for the same
reason most people will think they directly perceive the
length of the past fortnight to exceed that of the past
week. But there is properly no comparative time-intui-
tion in these cases at all. It is but dates and events rep-
resenting time, their abundance symbolizing its length.
I am sure that this is so, even where the times compared
are of more than an hour or so in length. It is the same
with spaces of many miles, which we always compare with
each other by the numbers that measure them.

From this we pass naturally to speak of certain familiar
variations in our estimation of lengths of time. In general,
a time filled with varied and interesting experiences seems
short in passing, but long as we look back. On the other
hand, a tract of time empty of experiences seems long in
passing, but in retrospect short. A week of travel and
sight-seeing may subtend an angle more like three weeks
in the memory; and a month of sickness yields hardly

284 PSYCHOLOGY

more memories than a day. The length in retrospect de-
pends obviously on the multitudinousness of the memories
which the time affords. Many objects, events, changes,
many subdivisions, immediately widen the view as we look
back. Emptiness, monotony, familiarity, make it shrivel
up.

The same space of time seems shorter as we grow older —
that is, the days, the months, and the years do so; whether
the hours do so is doubtful, and the minutes and seconds
to all appearance remain about the same. An old man
probably does not feel his past life to be any longer than
he did when he was a boy, though it may be a dozen times
as long. In most men all the events of manhood's years
are of such familiar sorts that the individual impressions
do not last. At the same time more and more of the earlier
events get forgotten, the result being that no greater mul-
titude of distinct objects remains in the memory.

So much for the apparent shortening of tracts of time in
retrospect. They shorten in passing whenever we are so
fully occupied with their content as not to note the actual
time itself. A day full of excitement, with no pause, is
said to pass ' ere we know it.' On the contrary, a day full
of waiting, of unsatisfied desire for change, will seem a
small eternity. Tcedium, ennui, Langweile, boredom, are
words for which, probably, every language known to man
has its equivalent. It comes about whenever, from the
relative emptiness of content of a tract of time, we grow
attentive to the passage of the time itself. Expecting, and
being ready for, a new impression to succeed; when it faib
to come, we get an empty time instead of it; and such ex-
periences, ceaselessly renewed, make us most formidably
aware of the extent of the mere time itself. Close your
eyes and simply wait to hear somebody tell you that a
minute has elapsed, and the full length of your leisure with
it seems incredible. You engulf yourself into its bowels
as into those of that interminable first week of an ocean
voyage, and find yourself wondering that history can have

THE SENSE OF TIME 285

overcome many such periods in its course. All because
you attend so closely to the mere feeling of the time per se,
and because your attention to that is susceptible of such
fine-grained successive subdivision. The odiousness of the
whole experience comes from its insipidity; for stimula-
tion is the indispensable requisite for pleasure in an expe-
rience, and the feeling of bare time is the least stimulating
experience we can have. The sensation of tedium is a
protest, says Volkmann, against the entire present.

The feeling of past time is a present feeling. In re-
flecting on the modus operandi of our consciousness of time,
we are at first tempted to suppose it the easiest thing in
the world to understand. Our inner states succeed each
other. They know themselves as they are; then of course,
we say, they must know their own succession. But this
philosophy is too crude; for between the mind's own
changes being successive, and knowing their own succes-
sion, lies as broad a chasm as between the object and sub-
ject of any case of cognition in the world. A succession
of feelings, in and of itself, is not a feeling of succession.
And since, to our successive feelings, a feeling of their
succession is added, that must be treated as an additional
fact requiring its own special elucidation, which this talk
about the feelings knowing their time-relations as a matter
of course leaves all untouched.

If we represent the actual time-stream of our thinking
by an horizontal line, the thought of the stream or of any
segment of its length, past, present, or to come, might be
figured in a perpendicular raised upon the horizontal at a
certain point. The length of this perpendicular stands for
a certain object or content, which in this case is the time
thought of at the actual moment of the stream upon which
the perpendicular is raised.

There is thus a sort of perspective projection of past
objects upon present consciousness, similar to that of wide
landscapes upon a camera-screen.

And since we saw a while ago that our maximum dis-

286 PSYCHOLOGY

tinct perception of duration hardly covers more than a dozen
seconds (while our maximum vague perception is probably
not more than that of a minute or so), we must suppose that
this amount of duration is pictured fairly steadily in each
passing instant of consciousness by virtue of some fairly
constant feature in the brain-process to which the con-
sciousness is tied. This feature of the brain-process, what-
ever it be, must be the cause of our perceiving the fact of
time at all. The duration thus steadily perceived is hardly
more than the ' specious present/ as it was called a few
pages back. Its content is in a constant flux, events dawn-
ing into its forward end as fast as they fade out of its rear-
ward one, and each of them changing its time-coefficient
from ' not yet/ or ' not quite yet/ to ' just gone/ or ' gone/ as
it passes by. Meanwhile, the specious present, the intuited
duration, stands permanent, like the rainbow on the water-
fall, with its own quality unchanged by the events that
stream through it. Each of these, as it slips out, retains
the power of being reproduced; and when reproduced, is
reproduced with the duration and neighbors which it
originally had. Please observe, however, that the repro-
duction of an event, after it has once completely dropped
out of the rearward end of the specious present, is an
entirely different psychic fact from its direct perception in
the spacious present as a thing immediately past. A crea-
ture might be entirely devoid of reproductive memory, and
yet have the time-sense; but the latter would be limited,
in his case, to the few seconds immediately passing by. In
the next chapter, assuming the sense of time as given, we
will turn to the analysis of what happens in reproductive
memory, the recall of dated things.

CHAPTER XVIII

MEMORY

Analysis of the Phenomenon of Memory. — Memory
proper, or secondary memory as it might be styled, is the
knowledge of a former state of mind after it has already
once dropped from consciousness; or rather it is the knowl-
edge of an event, or fact, of which meantime we have not
been thinking, with the additional consciousness that we
have thought or experienced it before.

The first element which such a knowledge involves would
seem to be the revival in the mind of an image or copy
of the original event. And it is an assumption made by
many writers that such revival of an image is all that is
needed to constitute the memory of the original occurrence.
But such a revival is obviously not a memory, whatever else
it may be; it is simply a duplicate, a second event, having
absolutely no connection with the first event except that it
happens to resemble it. The clock strikes to-day; it struck
yesterday; and may strike a million times ere it wears out.
The rain pours through the gutter this week; it did so last
week and will do in scecula sceculorum. But does the
present clock-stroke become aware of the past ones, or the
present stream recollect the past stream, because they re-
peat and resemble them? Assuredly not. And let it not
be said that this is because clock-strokes and gutters are
physical and not psychical objects; for psychical objects
(sensations, for example) simply recurring in successive
editions will remember each other on that account no more
than clock-strokes do. No memory is involved in the
mere fact of recurrence. The successive editions of a
feeling are so many independent events, each snug in its

288 PSYCHOLOGY

own skin. Yesterday's feeling is dead and buried; and
the presence of to-day's is no reason why it should resusci-
tate along with to-day's. A farther condition is required
before the present image can be held to stand for a past
original.

That condition is that the fact imaged be expressly
referred to the past, thought as in the past. But how can
we think a thing as in the past, except by thinking of the
past together with the thing, and of the relation of the
two? And how can we think of the past? In the chap-
ter on Time-perception we have seen that our intuitive or
immediate consciousness of pastness hardly carries us more
than a few seconds backward of the present instant of
time. Remoter dates are conceived, not perceived; known
symbolically by names, such as 'last week/ '1850'; or
thought of by events which happened in them, as the year
in which we attended such a school, or met with such a
loss. So that if we wish to think of a particular past
epoch, we must think of a name or other symbol, or else
of certain concrete events, associated therewithal. Both
must be thought of, to think the past epoch adequately.
And to ' refer ' any special fact to the past epoch is to
think that fact with the names and events which charac-
terize its date, to think it, in short, with a lot of contigu-
ous associates.

But even this would not be memory. Memory requires
more than mere dating of a fact in the past. It must be
dated in my past. In other words, I must think that I
directly experienced its occurrence. It must have that
' warmth and intimacy y which were so often spoken of in
the chapter on the Self, as characterizing all experiences
' appropriated ' by the thinker as his own.

A general feeling of the past direction in time, then, a
particular date conceived as lying along that direction, and
denned by its name or phenomenal contents, an event im-
agined as located therein, and owned as part of my experi-
ence,— such are the elements of every object of memory.

MEMORY 280

Retention and Recall. — Such being the phenomenon of
memory, or the analysis of its object, can we see how it
comes to pass? can we lay bare its causes?

Its complete exercise presupposes two things:

1) The retention of the remembered fact; and

2 ) Its reminiscence } recollection, reproduction, or recall.
Now the cause both of retention and of recollection is the

law of habit in the nervous system, working as it does in
the ' association of ideas.*

Association explains Recall. — Associationists have long
explained recollection by association. James Mill gives an
account of it which I am unable to improve upon, unless
it might be by transplanting his word ' idea ' into ' thing
thought of/ or ' object.'

" There is," he says, " a state of mind familiar to ail men,
in which we are said to remember. In this state it is cer-
tain we have not in the mind the idea which we are trying
to have in it. How is it, then, that we proceed, in the
course of our endeavor, to procure its introduction into
the mind? If we have not the idea itself, we have certain
ideas connected with it. We run over those ideas, one
after another, in hopes that some one of them will suggest
the idea we are in quest of; and if any one of them does,
it is always one so connected with it as to call it up in the
way of association. I meet an old acquaintance, whose
name I do not remember, and wish to recollect. I run
over a number of names, in hopes that some of them may
be associated with the idea of the individual. I think of
all the circumstances in which I have seen him engaged;
the time when I knew him, the persons along with whom
I knew him, the things he did, or the things he suffered;
and if I chance upon any idea with which the name is
associated, then immediately I have the recollection; if
not, my pursuit of it is vain. There is another set of
cases, very familiar, but affording very important evidence
on the subject. It frequently happens that there are mat-
ters which we desire not to forget. What is the contri-

29o PSYCHOLOGY

vance to which we have recourse for preserving the memory
— that it, for making sure that it will be called into exist-
ence when it is our wish that it should? All men invari-
ably employ the same expedient. They endeavor to form
an association between the idea of the thing to be remem-
bered and some sensation, or some idea, which they know
beforehand will occur at or near the time when they wish
the remembrance to be in their minds. If this association
is formed and the association or idea with which it has
been formed occurs, the sensation, or idea, calls up the
remembrance, and the object of him who formed the
association is attained. To use a vulgar instance: a man
receives a commission from his friend, and, that he may
not forget it, ties a knot in his handkerchief. How is this
fact to be explained? First of all, the idea of the commis-
sion is associated with the making of the knot. Next, the
handkerchief is a thing which it is known beforehand will
be frequently seen and of course at no great distance of
time from the occasion on which the memory is desired.
The handkerchief being seen, the knot is seen, and this
sensation recalls the idea of the commission, between which
and itself the association had been purposely formed."

In short, we make search in our memory for a forgotten
idea, just as we rummage our house for a lost object. In
both cases we visit what seems to us the probable neigh-
borhood of that which me miss. We turn over the things
under which, or within which, or alongside of which, it
may possibly be; and if it lies near them, it soon comes to
view. But these matters, in the case of a mental object
sought, are nothing but its associates. The machinery of
recall is thus the same as the machinery of association, and
the machinery of association, as we know, is nothing but the
elementary law of habit in the nerve-centres.

It also explains retention. And this same law of habit
is the machinery of retention also. Retention means lia-
bility to recall, and it means nothing more than such
liability. The only proof of there being retention is that

MEMORY 291

recall actually takes place. The retention of an experience
is, in short, but another name for the possibility of think-
ing it again, or the tendency to think it again, with its past
surroundings. Whatever accidental cue may turn this
tendency into an actuality, the permanent ground of the
tendency itself lies in the organized neural paths by which
the cue calls up the memorable experience, the past asso-
ciates, the sense that the self was there, the belief that it
all really happened, etc., as previously described. When
the recollection is ol the ' ready ' sort, the resuscitation
takes place the instant the cue arises; when it is slow, re-
suscitation comes after delay. But be the recall prompt or
slow, the condition which makes it possible at all (or, in
other words, the ' retention ' of the experience) is neither
more nor less than the brain-paths which associate the ex-
perience with the occasion and cue of the recall. When
slumbering, these paths are the condition of retention;
when active, they are the condition of recall.

Brain-scheme. — A simple scheme will now make the
whole cause of memory plain. Let n be a past event, o
its * setting ' (concomitants, date,
self present, warmth and inti-
macy, etc., etc., as already set
forth), and m some present
thought or fact which may appro-
priately become the occasion of
its recall. Let the nerve-centres,
active in the thought of m, n, and
o, be represented by M, N, and O,
respectively; then the existence FlG- 62-

of the paths symbolized by the lines between M and N and
N and O will be the fact indicated by the phrase ' retention
of the event n in the memory,' and the excitement of the
brain along these paths will be the condition of the event
n's actual recall. The retention of n, it will be observed, is
no mysterious storing up of an ' idea ' in an unconscious
state. It is not a fact of the mental order at all. It is a.

2Q2 PSYCHOLOGY

purely physical phenomenon, a morphological feature, the
presence of these ' paths,' namely, in the finest recesses
of the brain's tissue. The recall or recollection, on the
other hand, is a psycho-physical phenomenon, with both a
bodily and a mental side. The bodily side is the excite-
ment of the paths in question; the mental side is the con-
scious representation of the past occurrence, and the belief
that we experienced it before.

The only hypothesis, in short, to which the facts of in-
ward experience give countenance is that the brain-tracts
excited by the event proper, and those excited in its recall,
are in part different from each other. If we could
revive the past event without any associates we should
exclude the possibility of memory, and simply dream that
we were undergoing the experience as if for the first time.
Wherever, in fact, the recalled event does appear without
a definite setting, it is hard to distinguish it from a mere
creation of fancy. But in proportion as its image lingers
and recalls associates which gradually become more defi-
nite, it grows more and more distinctly into a remembered
thing. For example, I enter a friend's room and see on
the wall a painting. At first I have the strange, wonder-
ing consciousness, ' Surely I have seen that before,' but
when or how does not become clear. There only clings to
the picture a sort of penumbra of familiarity, — when sud-
denly I exclaim: " I have it! It is a copy of part of one of
the Fra Angelicos in the Florentine Academy — I recollect
it there." Only when the image of the Academy arises
does the picture become remembered, as well as seen.

The Conditions of Goodness in Memory. — The re-
membered fact being n, then, the path N — 0 is what arouses
for n its setting when it is recalled, and makes it other than
a mere imagination. The path M — N, on the other hand,
gives the cue or occasion of its being recalled at all.
Memory being thus altogether conditioned on brain-paths,
its excellence in a given individual will depend partly on
the number and partly on the persistence of these paths.

MEMORY 293

The persistence or permanence of the paths is a physio-
logical property of the brain-tissue of the individual,
whilst their number is altogether due to the facts of his
mental experience. Let the quality of permanence in the
paths be called the native tenacity, or physiological reten-
tiveness. This tenacity differs enormously from infancy
to old age, and from one person to another. Some minds
are like wax under a seal — no impression, however dis-
connected with others, is wiped out. Others, like a jelly,
vibrate to every touch, but under usual conditions retain
no permanent mark. These latter minds, before they can
recollect a fact, must weave it into their permanent stores
of knowledge. They have no desultory memory. Those
persons, on the contrary, who retain names, dates and
addresses, anecdotes, gossip, poetry, quotations, and all sorts
of miscellaneous facts, without an effort, have desultory
memory in a high degree, and certainly owe it to the un-
usual tenacity of their brain-substance for any path once
formed therein. No one probably was ever effective on a
voluminous scale without a high degree of this physiolog-
ical retentiveness. In the practical as in the theoretic life,
the man whose acquisitions stick is the man who is always
achieving and advancing, whilst his neighbors, spending
most of their time in relearning what they once knew but
have forgotten, simply hold their own. A Charlemagne, a
Luther, a Leibnitz, a Walter Scott, any example, in short,
of your quarto or folio editions of mankind, must needs
have amazing retentiveness of the purely physiological sort.
Men without this retentiveness may excel in the quality
of their work at this point or at that, but will never do
such mighty sums of it, or be influential contemporaneously
on such a scale.

But there comes a time of life for all of us when we can
do no more than hold our own in the way of acquisitions,
when the old paths fade as fast as the new ones form in our
brain, and when we forget in a week quite as much as we
can learn in the same space of time. This equilibrium may

294 PSYCHOLOGY

last many, many years. In extreme old age it is upset in
the reverse direction, and forgetting prevails over acquisi-
tion, or rather there is no acquisition. Brain-paths are so
transient that in the course of a few minutes of conversa-
tion the same question is asked and its answer forgotten
half a dozen times. Then the superior tenacity of the
paths formed in childhood becomes manifest/ the dotard
will retrace the facts of his earlier years after he has lost
all those of later date.

So much for the permanence of the paths. Now for
their number.

It is obvious that the more there are of such paths as
M — N in the brain, and the more of such possible cues or
occasions for the recall of n in the mind, the prompter and
surer, on the whole, the memory of n will be, the more
frequently one will be reminded of it, the more avenues of
approach to it one will possess. In mental terms, the more
other facts a fact is associated with in the mind, the better
possession of it our memory retains. Each of its associates
becomes a hook to which it hangs, a means to fish it up
by when sunk beneath the surface. Together, they form a
network of attachments by which it is woven into the
entire tissue of our thought. The ' secret of a good mem-
ory ' is thus the secret of forming diverse and multiple
associations with every fact we care to retain. But this
forming of associations with a fact, what is it but thinking
about the fact as much as possible? Briefly, then, of two
men with the same outward experiences and the same
amount of mere native tenacity, the one who thinks over
his experiences most, and weaves them into systematic rela-
tions with each other, will be the one with the best memory.
We see examples of this on every hand. Most men have a
good memory for facts connected with their own pursuits.
The college athlete who remains a dunce at his books
will astonish you by his knowledge of men's ' records ' in
various feats and games, and will be a walking dictionary
of sporting statistics. The reason is that he is constantly

MEMORY 295

going over these things in his mind, and comparing and
making series of them. They form for him not so many
odd facts, but a concept-system — so they stick. So the
merchant remembers prices, the politician other politicians'
speeches and votes, with a copiousness which amazes out-
siders, but which the amount of thinking they bestow on
these subjects easily explains. The great memory for facts
which a Darwin and a Spencer reveal in their books is not
incompatible with the possession on their part of a brain
with only a middling degree of physiological retentiveness.
Let a man early in life set himself the task of verifying
such a theory as that of evolution, and facts will soon
cluster and cling to him like grapes to their stem. Their
relations to the theory will hold them fast; and the more
of these the mind is able to discern, the greater the erudi-
tion will become. Meanwhile the theorist may have little,
if any, desultory memory. Unutilizable facts may be
unnoted by him and forgotten as soon as heard. An
ignorance almost as encyclopaedic as his erudition may co-
exist with the latter, and hide, as it were, in the interstices
of its web. Those who have had much to do with scholars
and savants will readily think of examples of the class of
mind I mean.

In a system, every fact is connected with every other by
some thought-relation. The consequence is that every fact
is retained by the combined suggestive power of all the
other facts in the system, and forgetfulness is well-nigh
impossible.

The reason why cramming is such a bad mode of
study is now made clear. I mean by cramming that way of
preparing for examinations by committing ' points ' to mem-
ory during a few hours or days of intense application
immediately preceding the final ordeal, little or no work
having been performed during the previous course of the
term. Things learned thus in a few hours, on one occasion,
for one purpose, cannot possibly have formed many associa-
tions with other things in the mind. Their brain-processes

296 PSYCHOLOGY

are led into by few paths, and are relatively little liable to be
awakened again. Speedy oblivion is the almost inevitable
fate of all that is committed to memory in this simple way.
Whereas, on the contrary, the same materials taken in
gradually, day after day, recurring in different contexts,
considered in various relations, associated with other exter-
nal incidents, and repeatedly reflected on, grow into such a
system, form such connections with the rest of the mind's
fabric, lie open to so many paths of approach, that they
remain permanent possessions. This is the intellectual
reason why habits of continuous application should be
enforced in educational establishments. Of course there
is no moral turpitude in cramming. Did it lead to the
desired end of secure learning, it were infinitely the best
method of study. But it does not; and students them-
selves should understand the reason why.

One's native retentiveness is unchangeable. It will
now appear clear that all improvement of the memory lies in
the line of elaborating the associates of each of the
several things to be remembered. No amount of culture
would seem capable of modifying a man's general reten-
tiveness. This is a physiological quality, given once for all
with his organization, and which he can never hope to change.
It differs no doubt in disease and health ; and it is a fact of
observation that it is better in fresh and vigorous hours
than when we are fagged or ill. We may say, then, that a
man's native tenacity will fluctuate somewhat with his
hygiene, and that whatever is good for his tone of health
will also be good for his memory. We may even say that
whatever amount of intellectual exercise is bracing to the
general tone and nutrition of the brain will also be profit-
able to the general retentiveness. But more than this we
cannot say; and this, it is obvious, is far less than most
people believe.

It is, in fact, commonly thought that certain exercises,
systematically repeated, will strengthen, not only a man's
remembrance of the particular facts used in the exercises,

MEMORY 297

but his faculty for remembering facts at large. And a
plausible case is always made out by saying that practice in
learning words by heart makes it easier to learn new words
in the same way. If this be true, then what I have just
said is false, and the whole doctrine of memory as due to
1 paths ' must be revised. But I am disposed to think the
alleged fact untrue. I have carefully questioned several
mature actors on the point, and all have denied that the
practice of learning parts has made any such difference as
is alleged. What it has done for them is to improve their
power of studying a part systematically. Their mind is
now full of precedents in the way of intonation, emphasis,
gesticulation; the new words awaken distinct suggestions
and decisions; are caught up, in fact, into a preexisting
network, like the merchant's prices, or the athlete's store
of ' records/ and are recollected easier, although the mere
native tenacity is not a whit improved, and is usually, in
fact, impaired by age. It is a case of better remembering
by better thinking. Similarly when schoolboys improve
by practice in ease of learning by heart, the improvement
will, I am sure, be always found to reside in the mode of
study of the particular piece (due to the greater interest,
the greater suggestiveness, the generic similarity with other
pieces, the more sustained attention, etc., etc.), and not at
all to any enhancement of the brute retentive power.

The error I speak of pervades an otherwise useful and
judicious book, ' How to Strengthen the Memory,' by Dr.
M. C. Holbrook of New York. The author fails to distin-
guish between the general physiological retentiveness and
the retention of particular things, and talks as if both must
be benefited by the same means.

" I am now treating," he says, " a case of loss of memory
in a person advanced in years, who did not know that his
memory had failed most remarkably till I told him of it.
He is making vigorous efforts to bring it back again, and
with partial success. The method pursued is to spend two
hours daily, one in the morning and one in the evening, in

298 PSYCHOLOGY

exercising this faculty. The patient is instructed to give
the closest attention to all that he learns, so that it shall
be impressed on his mind clearly. He is asked to recall
every evening all the facts and experiences of the day, and
again the next morning. Every name heard is written
down and impressed on his mind clearly, and an effort
made to recall it at intervals. Ten names from among
public men are ordered to be committed to memory every
week. A verse of poetry is to be learned, also a verse from
the Bible, daily. He is asked to remember the number of
the page in any book where any interesting fact is recorded.
These and other methods are slowly resuscitating a failing
memory."

I find it very hard to believe that the memory of the
poor old gentleman is a bit the better for all this torture
except in respect of the particular facts thus wrought into
it, and other matters that may have been connected there-
withal.

Improving the Memory. — All improvement of memory
consists, then, in the improvement of one's habitual methods
of recording facts. Methods have been divided into the
mechanical, the ingenious, and the judicious.

The mechanical methods consist in the intensification,
prolongation, and repetition of the impression to be re-
membered. The modern method of teaching children to
read by blackboard work, in which each word is impressed
by the fourfold channel of eye, ear, voice, and hand, is an
example of an improved mechanical method of memorizing.

Judicious methods of remembering things are nothing
but logical ways of conceiving them and working them
into rational systems, classifying them, analyzing them
into parts, etc., etc. All the sciences are such methods.

Of ingenious methods many have been invented, undei
the name of technical memories. By means of these
systems it is often possible to retain entirely disconnected
facts, lists of names, numbers, and so forth, so multitudi-
nous as to be entirely unrememberable in a natural way.

MEMORY 299

The method consists usually in a framework learned
mechanically, of which the mind is supposed to remain in
secure and permanent possession. Then, whatever is to
be remembered is deliberately associated by some fanciful
analogy or connection with some part of this framework,
and this connection thenceforward helps its recall. The
best known and most used of these devices is the figure-
alphabet. To remember numbers, e.g., a figure-alphabet
is first formed, in which each numerical digit is represented
by one or more letters. The number is then translated into
such letters as will best make a word, if possible a word
suggestive of the object to which the number belongs.
The word will then be remembered when the numbers
alone might be forgotten.* The recent system of Loisette
is a method, much less mechanical, of weaving the thing
into associations which may aid its recall.

Recognition. — If, however, a phenomenon be met with
too often, and with too great a variety of contexts, although
its image is retained and reproduced with correspondingly
great facility, it fails to come up with any one particular
setting and the projection of it backwards to a particular
past date consequently does not come about. We recognize
but do not remember it — its associates form too confused a
cloud. A similar result comes about when a definite setting
is only nascently aroused. We then feel that we have seen
the object already, but when or where we cannot say, though
we may seem to ourselves to be on the brink of saying it.
That nascent cerebral excitations can thus affect conscious-
ness is obvious from what happens when we seek to remem-
ber a name. It tingles, it trembles on the verge, but does
not come. Just such a tingling and trembling of unre-

common

figure-alphabet

this:

3 4

m r

J
ch

k
c
qu

300 PSYCHOLOGY

covered associates is the penumbra of recognition that may
surround any experience and make it seem familiar, though
we know not why.

There is a curious experience which everyone seems to
have had — the feeling that the present moment in its com-
pleteness has been experienced before — we were saying just
this thing, in just this place, to just these people, etc.
This ' sense of preexistence ' has been treated as a great
mystery and occasioned much speculation. Dr. Wigan
considered it due to a dissociation of the action of the two
hemispheres, one of them becoming conscious a little later
than the other, but both of the same fact. I must confess
that the quality of mystery seems to me here a little strained.
I have over and over again in my own case succeeded in
resolving the phenomenon into a case of memory, so indis-
tinct that whilst some past circumstances are presented
again, the others are not. The dissimilar portions of the
past do not arise completely enough at first for the date to
be identified. All we get is the present scene with a gen-
eral suggestion of pastness about it. That faithful observer,
Prof. Lazarus, interprets the phenomenon in the same way;
and it is noteworthy that just as soon as the past context
grows complete and distinct the emotion of weirdness fades
from the experience.

Forgetting. — In the practical use of our intellect, for-
getting is as important a function as remembering. ' Total
recall ' (see p. 261) we saw to be comparatively rare in asso-
ciation. If we remembered everything, we should on most
occasions be as ill off as if we remembered nothing. It
would take as long for us to recall a space of time as it
took the original time to elapse, and we should never get
ahead with our thinking. All recollected times undergo,
accordingly, what M. Ribot calls foreshortening; and this
foreshortening is due to the omission of an enormous
number of the facts which filled them. " We thus reach
the paradoxical result," says M. Ribot, " that one condition
of remembering is that we should forget. Without totally

MEMORY 301

forgetting a. prodigious number of states of consciousness,
and momentarily forgetting a large number, we could not
remember at all. Oblivion, except in certain cases, is thus
no malady of memory, but a condition of its health and its
life."

Pathological Conditions. — Hypnotic subjects as a rule
forget all that has happened in their trance. But in a
succeeding trance they will often remember the events of
a past one. This is like what happens in those cases of
1 double personality ' in which no recollection of one of the
lives is to be found in the other. The sensibility in these
cases often differs from one of the alternate personalities
to another, the patient being often anaesthetic in certain
respects in one of the secondary states. Now the memory
may come and go with the sensibility. M. Pierre Janet
proved in various ways that what his patients forgot when
anaesthetic they remembered when the sensibility returned.
For instance, he restored their tactile sense temporarily by
means of electric currents, passes, etc., and then made them
handle various objects, such as keys and pencils, or make
particular movements, like the sign of the cross. The
moment the anaesthesia returned they found it impossible
to recollect the objects or the acts. ' They had had noth-
ing in their hands, they had done nothing,' etc. The next
day, however, sensibility being again restored by similar
processes, they remembered perfectly the circumstance,
and told what they had handled or done.

All these pathological facts are showing us that the
sphere of possible recollection may be wider than we think,
and that in certain matters apparent oblivion is no proof
against possible recall under other conditions. They give
no countenance, however, to the extravagant opinion that
absolutely no part of our experience can be forgotten.

CHAPTER XIX

IMAGINATION

What it is. — Sensations, once experienced, modify the
nervous organisms, so that copies of them arise again in the
mind after the original outward stimulus is gone. No
mental copy, however, can arise in the mind, of any kind
of sensation which has never been directly excited from
without.

The blind may dream of sights, the deaf of sounds, for
years after they have lost their vision or hearing; but the
man born deaf can never be made to imagine what sound
is like, nor can the man born blind ever have a mental
vision. In Locke's words, already quoted, " the mind can
frame unto itself no one new simple idea." The originals
of them all must have been given from without. Fantasy,
or Imagination, are the names given to the faculty of
reproducing copies of originals once felt. The imagina-
tion is called ' reproductive ' when the copies are literal ;
* productive ' when elements from different originals are
recombined so as to make new wholes.

When represented with surroundings concrete enough to
constitute a date, these pictures, when they revive, form
recollections. We have just studied the machinery of recol-
lection. When the mental pictures are of data freely
combined, and reproducing no past combination exactly,
we have acts of imagination properly so called.

Men differ in visual imagination. Our ideas or images
of past sensible experiences may be either distinct and
adequate or dim, blurred, and incomplete. It is likely
that the different degrees in which different men are able
to make them sharp and complete has had something to
do with keeping up such philosophic disputes as that of
Berkeley with Locke over abstract ideas. Locke had spoken

302

IMAGINATION 303

of our possessing ' the general idea of a triangle ' which
" must be neither oblique nor rectangle, neither equilateral,
equicrural, nor scalenon, but all and none of these at
once.'7 Berkeley says: " If any man has the faculty of
framing in his mind such an idea of a triangle as is
here described, it is in vain to pretend to dispute him
out of it, nor would I go about it. All I desire is that the
reader would fully and certainly inform himself whether he
has such an idea or no."

Until very recent years it was supposed by philosophers
that there was a typical human mind which all individual
minds were like, and that propositions of universal validity
could be laid down about such faculties as ' the Imagination.'
Lately, however, a mass of revelations have poured in
which make us see how false a view this is. There are
imaginations, not ' the Imagination/ and they must be
studied in detail.

Mr. Gal ton in 1880 began a statistical inquiry which
may be said to have made an era in descriptive psy-
chology. He addressed a circular to large numbers of
persons asking them to describe the image in their mind's
eye of their breakfast-table on a given morning. The
variations were found to be enormous; and, strange to
say, it appeared that eminent scientific men on the average
had less visualizing power than younger and more insig-
nificant persons.

The reader will find details in Mr. Gal ton's ' Inquiries
into Human Faculty,' pp. 83-114. I have myself for
many years collected from each and all of my psychology-
students descriptions of their own visual imagination; and
found (together with some curious idiosyncrasies) corrobo-
ration of all the variations which Mr. Galton reports. As
examples, I subjoin extracts from two cases near the ends
of the scale. The writers are first cousins, grandsons of
a distinguished man of science. The one who is a good
visualizer says:

" This morning's breakfast-table is both dim and bright ;

304 PSYCHOLOGY

it is dim if I try to think of it when my eyts are open
upon any object; it is perfectly clear and bright if I think
of it with my eyes closed. — All the objects are clear at
once, yet when I confine my attention to any one object it
becomes far more distinct. — I have more power to recall
color than any other one thing: if, for example, I were to
recall a plate decorated with flowers I could reproduce in
a drawing the exact tone, etc. The color of anything that
was on the table is perfectly vivid. — There is very little
limitation to the extent of my images: I can see all four
sides of a room, I can see all four sides of two, three, four,
even more rooms with such distinctness that if you should
ask me what was in any particular place in any one, or ask
me to count the chairs, etc., I could do it without the least
hesitation. — The more I learn by heart the more clearly do
I see images of my pages. Even before I can recite the
lines I see them so that I could give them very slowly
word for word, but my mind is so occupied in looking at
my printed image that I have no idea of what I am saying,
of the sense of it, etc. When I first found myself doing
this I used to think it was merely because I knew the
lines imperfectly; but I have quite convinced myself that
I really do see an image. The strongest proof that such
is really the fact is, I think, the following:

" I can look down the mentally seen page and see the
words that commence all the lines, and from any one of
these words I can continue the line. I find this much
easier to do if the words begin in a straight line than if
there are breaks. Example:

£tant fait

Tons

A des

Que fit *

Ceres

Avec

Un fleur

Cotnme

(La Fontaine 8. iv.)"

IMAGINATION 305

The poor visualizer says:

" My ability to form mental images seems, from what I
have studied of other people's images, to be defective and
somewhat peculiar. The process by which I seem to re-
member any particular event is not by a series of distinct
images, but a sort of panorama, the faintest impressions of
which are perceptible through a thick fog. — I cannot shut
my eyes and get a distinct image of anyone, although I
used to be able to a few years ago, and the faculty seems
to have gradually slipped away. — In my most vivid dreams,
where the events appear like the most real facts, I am
often troubled with a dimness of sight which causes the
images to appear indistinct. — To come to the question of
the braakfast-table, there is nothing definite about it.
Everything is vague. I cannot say what I see. I could
not possibly count the chairs, but I happen to know that
there are ten. I see nothing in detail. — The chief thing
is a general impression that I cannot tell exactly what I
do see. The coloring is about the same, as far as I can
recall it, only very much washed out. Perhaps the only
color I can see at all distinctly is that of the table-cloth,
and I could probably see the color of the wall-paper if I
could remember what color it was."

A person whose visual imagination is strong finds it
hard to understand how those who are without the faculty
can think at all. Some people undoubtedly have no visual
images at all worthy of the name, and instead of seeing
their breakfast-table, they tell you that they remember it
or know what was on it. The ' mind-stuff ' of which this
1 knowing ' is made seems to be verbal images exclusively.
But if the words ' coffee,' ' bacon,' ' muffins,' and ' eggs '
lead a man to speak to his cook, to pay his bills, and to
take measures for the morrow's meal exactly as visual and
gustatory memories would, why are they not, for all prac-
tical intents and purposes, as good a kind of material in
which to think? In fact, we may suspect them to be for
most purposes better than terms with a richer imaginative

3o6 PSYCHOLOGY

coloring. The scheme of relationship and the conclusion
being the essential things in thinking, that kind of mind-
stuff which is handiest will be the best for the purpose.
Now words, uttered or unexpressed, are the handiest mental
elements we have. Not only are they very rapidly re-
vivable, but they are revivable as actual sensations more
easily than any other items of our experience. Did they
not possess some such advantage as this, it would hardly
be the case that the older men are and the more effective
as thinkers, the more, as a rule, they have lost their visual-
izing power, as Mr. Galton found to be the case with mem-
bers of the Royal Society.

Images of Sounds. — These also differ in individuals.
Those who think by preference in auditory images are
called audiles by Mr. Galton. This type, says M. Binet,
" appears to be rarer than the visual. Persons of this type
imagine what they think of in the language of sound. In
order to remember a lesson they impress upon their mind,
not the look of the page, but the sound of the words.
They reason, as well as remember, by ear. In performing
a mental addition they repeat verbally the names of the
figures, and add, as it were, the sounds, without any
thought of the graphic signs. Imagination also takes the
auditory form. ' When I write a scene/ said Legouve to
Scribe, ' I hear; but you see. In each phrase which I
write, the voice of the personage who speaks strikes my
ear. Vous, qui etes le thiatre meme, your actors walk,
gesticulate before your eyes; I am a listener, you a spec-
tator.'— ' Nothing more true,' said Scribe; ' do you know
where I am when I write a piece? In the middle of the
parterre.' It is clear that the pure audile, seeking to
develop only a single one of his faculties, may, like tha
pure visualizer, perform astounding feats of memory —
Mozart, for example, noting from memory the Miserere of
the Sistine Chapel after two hearings; the deaf Bee-
thoven, composing and inwardly repeating his enormous
symphonies. On the other hand, the man of auditory

IMAGINATION 307

type, like the visual, is exposed to serious dangers; for if
he lose his auditory images, he is without resource and
breaks down completely."

Images of Muscular Sensations. — Professor Strieker of
Vienna, who seems to be a ' motile ' or to have this form of
imagination developed in unusual strength, has given a
careful analysis of his own case. His recollections both of
his own movements and of those of other things are ac-
companied invariably by distinct muscular feelings in those
parts of his body which would naturally be used in effect-
ing or in following the movement. In thinking of a soldier
marching, for example, it is as if he were helping the image
to march by marching himself in his rear. And if he sup-
presses this sympathetic feeling in his own legs and con-
centrates all his attention on the imagined soldier, the
latter becomes, as it were, paralyzed. In general his im-
agined movements, of whatsoever objects, seem paralyzed,
the moment no feelings of movement either in his own eyes
or in his own limbs accompany them. The movements of
articulate speech play a predominant part in his mental
life. " When, after my experimental work," he says, " I
proceed to its description as a rule I reproduce in the first
instance only words which I had already associated with
the perception of the various details of the observation
whilst the latter was going on. For speech plays in all my
observing so important a part that I ordinarily clothe phe-
nomena in words as fast as I observe them."

Most persons, on being asked in what sort of terms they
imagine words, will say, ' In terms of hearing.' It is not
until their attention is expressly drawn to the point that
they find it difficult to say whether auditory images
or motor images connected with the organs of articulation
predominate. A good way of bringing the difficulty to
consciousness is that proposed by Strieker: Partly open
your mouth and then imagine any word with labials or
dentals in it, such as ' bubble/ ' toddle.' Is your image
under these conditions distinct? To most people the

308 PSYCHOLOGY

image is at first ' thick/ as the sound of the word would be
if they tried to pronounce it with the lips parted. Many
can never imagine the words clearly with the mouth open;
others succeed after a few preliminary trials. The experi-
ment proves how dependent our verbal imagination is on
actual feelings in lips, tongue, throat, larynx, etc. Prof.
Bain says that " a suppressed articulation is in fact the
material of our recollection, the intellectual manifestation,
the idea of speech." In persons whose auditory imagina-
tion is weak, the articulatory image does indeed seem to
constitute the whole material for verbal thought. Pro-
fessor Strieker says that in his own case no auditory image
enters into the words of which he thinks.

Images of Touch. — These are very strong in some peo-
ple. The most vivid touch-images come when we ourselves
barely escape local injury, or when we see another injured.
The place may then actually tingle with the imaginary sen-
sation— perhaps not altogether imaginary, since goose-flesh,
paling or reddening, and other evidences of actual muscular
contraction in the spot, may result.

" An educated man," says Herr G. H. Meyer, " told me
once that on entering his house one day he received a shock
from crushing the finger of one of his little children in the
door. At the moment of his fright he felt a violent pain
in the corresponding finger of his own body, and this pain
abode with him three days."

The imagination of a blind deaf-mute like Laura Bridg-
man must be confined entirely to tactile and motor mate-
rial. All blind persons must belong to the ' tactile ' and
4 motile ' types of the French authors. When the young
man whose cataracts were removed by Dr. Franz was
shown different geometric figures, he said he " had not been
able to form from them the idea of a square and a disk
until he perceived a sensation of what he saw in the points
of his fingers, as if he really touched the objects."

Pathological Differences. — The study of Aphasia (see
p. 114) has of late years shown how unexpectedly individ-

IMAGINATION 309

uals differ in the use of their imagination. In some the habit-
ual ' thought-stuff,' if one may so call it, is visual; in others
it is auditory, articulatory, or motor; in most, perhaps, it
is evenly mixed. These are the ' differents ' of Charcot.
The same local cerebral injury must needs work different
practical results in persons who differ in this way. In
one what is thrown out of gear is a much-used brain-
tract; in the other an unimportant region is affected. A
particularly instructive case was published by Charcot in
1883. The patient was a merchant, an exceedingly accom-
plished man, but a visualizer of the most exclusive type.
Owing to some intra-cerebral accident he suddenly lost all
his visual images, and with them much of his intellectual
power, without any other perversion of faculty. He soon
discovered that he could carry on his affairs by using his
memory in an altogether new way, and described clearly
the difference between his two conditions. " Every time
he returns to A., from which place business often calls him,
he seems to himself as if entering a strange city. He
views the monuments, houses, and streets with the same
surprise as if he saw them for the first time. When asked
to describe the principal public place of the town, he an-
swered, i I know that it is there, but it is impossible to
imagine it, and I can tell you nothing about it.' "

He can no more remember his wife and children's faces
than he can remember A. Even after being with them
some time they seem unusual to him. He forgets his own
face, and once spoke to his image in a mirror, taking it for
a stranger. He complains of his loss of feeling for colors.
" My wife has black hair, this I know; but I can no more
recall its color than I can her person and features." This
visual amnesia extends to objects dating from his child-
hood's years — paternal mansion, etc., forgotten. No other
disturbances but this loss of visual images. Now when he
seeks something in his correspondence, he must rummage
among the letters like other men, until he meets the pas-
sage. He can recall only the first few verses of the Iliad,,

3io PSYCHOLOGY

and must grope to recite Homer, Virgil, and Horace.
Figures which he adds he must now whisper to himself.
He realizes clearly that he must help his memory out with
auditory images, which he does with effort. The words and
expressions which he recalls seem now to echo in his ear, an
altogether novel sensation for him. If he wishes to learn
by heart anything, a series of phrases for example, he must
read them several times aloud, so as to impress his ear.
When later he repeats the thing in question, the sensation
of inward hearing which precedes articulation rises up in
his mind. This feeling was formerly unknown to him.

Such a man would have suffered relatively little incon-
venience if his images for hearing had been those suddenly
destroyed.

The Neural Process in Imagination. — Most medical
writers assume that the cerebral activity on which imagina-
tion depends occupies a different seat from that subserving
sensation. It is, however, a simpler interpretation of the
facts to suppose that the same nerve-tracts are concerned
in the two processes. Our mental images are aroused
always by way of association; some previous idea or sensa-
tion must have ' suggested ' them. Association is surely
due to currents from one cortical centre to another. Now
all we need suppose is that these intra-cortical currents are
unable to produce in the cells the strong explosions which
currents from the sense-organs occasion, to account for the
subjective difference between images and sensations, with-
out supposing any difference in their local seat. To the
strong degree of explosion corresponds the character of
'vividness' or sensible presence, in the object of thought;
to the weak degree, that of ' faintness ' or outward unreality.

If we admit that sensation and imagination are due to
the activity of the same parts of the cortex, we can see a
very good teleological reason why they should correspond
to discrete kinds of process in these centres, and why the
process which gives the sense that the object is really there
ought normally to be arousable only by currents entering

IMAGINATION 311

from the periphery and not by currents from the neighbor-
ing cortical parts. We can see, in short, why the sensational
process ought to be discontinuous with all normal idea-
tional processes, however intense. For, as Dr. Miinsterberg
justly observes, " Were there not this peculiar arrangement
we should not distinguish reality and fantasy, our conduct
would not be accommodated to the facts about us, but
would be inappropriate and senseless, and we could not
keep ourselves alive."

Sometimes, by exception, the deeper sort of explosion
may take place from intra-cortical excitement alone. In
the sense of hearing, sensation and imagination are hard to
discriminate where the sensation is so weak as to be just
perceptible. At night, hearing a very faint striking of the
hour by a far-off clock, our imagination reproduces both
rhythm and sound, and it is often difficult to tell which
was the last real stroke. So of a baby crying in a distant
part of the house, we are uncertain whether we still hear
it, or only imagine the sound. Certain violin-players take
advantage of this in diminuendo terminations. After the
pianissimo has been reached they continue to bow as if still
playing, but are careful not to touch the strings. The
listener hears in imagination a degree of sound fainter than
the pianissimo. Hallucinations, whether of sight or hear-
ing, are another case in point, to be touched on in the next
chapter. I may mention as a fact still unexplained that
several observers (Herr G. H. Meyer, M. Ch. Fere, Professor
Scott of Ann Arbor, and Mr. T. C. Smith, one of myi
students) have noticed negative after-images of objects
which they had been imagining with the mind's eye. It
is as if the retina itself were locally fatigued by the act.

CHAPTER XX
PERCEPTION

Perception and Sensation compared. — A pure sensa-
tion we saw above, p. 12, to be an abstraction never realized
in adult life. Anything which affects our sense-organs does
also more than that: it arouses processes in the hemi-
spheres which are partly due to the organization of that
organ by past experiences, and the results of which in
consciousness are described as ideas which the sensation
suggests. The first of these ideas is that of the thing
to which the sensible quality belongs. The conscious-
ness of particular material things present to sense is
nowadays called perception. The consciousness of such
things may be more or less complete; it may be of the
mere name of the thing and its other essential attributes,
or it may be of the thing's various remoter relations. It is
impossible to draw any sharp line if distinction between
the barer and the richer consciousness, because the mo-
ment we get beyond the first crude sensation all our
consciousness is of what is suggested, and the various
suggestions shade gradually into each other, being one and
all products of the same psychological machinery of asso-
ciation. In the directer consciousness fewer, in the re-
moter more, associate processes are brought into play.

Sensational and reproductive brain-processes combined,
then, are what give us the content of our perceptions.
Every concrete particular material thing is a conflux of
sensible qualities, with which we have become acquainted
at various times. Some of these qualities, since they are
more constant, interesting, or practically important, we
regard as essential constituents of the things. In a general

312

PERCEPTION 313

way, such are the tangible shape, size, mass, etc. Other
properties, being more fluctuating, we regard as more or
less accidental or inessential. We call the former qualities
the reality, the latter its appearances. Thus, I hear a
sound, and say ' a horse-car *; but the sound is not the
horse-car, it is one of the horse-car's least important mani-
festations. The real horse-car is a feelable, or at most a
feelable and visible, thing which in my imagination the
sound calls up. So when I get, as now, a brown eye-pic-
ture with lines not parallel, and with angles unlike, and
call it my big solid rectangular walnut library-table, that
picture is not the table. It is not even like the table as
the table is for vision, when rightly seen. It is a distorted
perspective view of three of the sides oi what I mentally
perceive (more or less) in its totality and undistorted shape.
The back of the table, its square corners, its size, its heavi-
ness, are features of which I am conscious when I look,
almost as I am conscious of its name. The suggestion of
the name is of course due to mere custom. But no less is
that of the back, the size, weight, squareness, etc.

Nature, as Reid says, is frugal in her operations, and
will not be at the expense of a particular instinct to give
us that knowledge which experience and habit will soon
produce. Reproduced attributes tied together with pres-
ently felt attributes in the unity of a thing with a name,
these are the materials out of which my actually perceived
table is made. Infants must go through a long education
of the eye and ear before they can perceive the realities
which adults perceive. Every perception is an acquired
perception.

The Perceptive State of Mind is not a Compound. —
There is no reason, however, for supposing that this in-
volves a i fusion ' of separate sensations and ideas. The
thing perceived is the object of a unique state of thought;
due no doubt in part to sensational, and in part to idea-
tional currents, but in no wise ' containing ' psychically the
identical ' sensations ' and images which these currents

314 PSYCHOLOGY

would severally have aroused if the others were not simul-
taneously there. We can often directly notice a sensible
difference in the consciousness, between the latter case and
the former. The sensible quality changes under our very
eye. Take the already -quoted catch, Pas de lieu Rhone que
nous: one may read this over and over again without recog-
nizing the sounds to be identical with those of the words
paddle your own canoe. As the English associations arise,
the sound itself appears to change. Verbal sounds are
usually perceived with their meaning at the moment of being
heard. Sometimes, however, the associative irradiations are
inhibited for a few moments (the mind being preoccupied
with other thoughts), whilst the words linger on the ear as
mere echoes of acoustic sensations. Then, usually, their
interpretation suddenly occurs. But at that moment one
may often surprise a change in the very jeel of the word.
Our own language would sound very different to us if we
heard it without understanding, as we hear a foreign
tongue. Rises and falls of voice, odd sibilants and other
consonants, would fall on our ear in a way of which we
can now form no notion. Frenchmen say that English
sounds to them like the gazouillement des oiseaux — an
impression which it certainly makes on no native ear.
Many of us English would describe the sound of Russian
in similar terms. All of us are conscious of the strong in-
flections of voice and explosives and gutturals of German
speech in a way in which no German can be conscious of
them.

This is probably the reason why, if we look at an iso-
lated printed word and repeat it long enough, it ends by
assuming an entirely unnatural aspect. Let the reader
try this with any word on this page. He will soon begin
to wonder if it can possibly be the word he has been using
all life with that meaning. It stares at him from the
paper like a glass eye, with no speculation in it. Its body
is indeed there, but its soul is fled. It is reduced, by this
new way of attending to it, to its sensational nudity. We

PERCEPTION 315

never before attended to it in this way, but habitually got
it clad with its meaning the moment we caught sight of it,
and rapidly passed from it to the other words of the phrase.
We apprehended it, in short, with a cloud of associates, and
thus perceiving it, we felt it quite otherwise than as we feel
it now divested and alone.

Another well-known change is when we look at a land-
scape with our head upside-down. Perception is to a cer-
tain extent baffled by this manoeuvre; gradations of dis-
tance and other space-determinations are made uncertain;
the reproductive or associative processes, in short, decline;
and, simultaneously with their diminution, the colors grow
richer and more varied, and the contrasts of light and
shade more marked, The same thing occurs when we
turn a painting bottom-upward. We lose much of its
meaning, but, to compensate for the loss, we feel more
freshly the value of the mere tints and shadings, and be-
come aware of any lack of purely sensible harmony or bal-
ance which they may show. Just so, if we lie on the floor
and look up at the mouth of a person talking behind us.
His lower lip here takes the habitual place of the upper
one upon our retina, and seems animated by the most
extraordinary and unnatural mobility, a mobility which
now strikes us because (the associative processes being dis-
turbed by the unaccustomed point of view) we get it as a
naked sensation and not as part of a familiar object per-
ceived.

Once more, then, we find ourselves driven to admit that
when qualities of an object impress our sense and we there-
upon perceive the object, the pure sensation as such of
those qualities does not still exist inside of the perception
and form a constituent therof. The pure sensation is
one thing and the perception another, and neither can
take place at the same time with the other, because their
cerebral conditions are not the same. They may resemble
each other, but in no respect are they identical states of
mind. .

316 PSYCHOLOGY

Perception is of Definite and Probable Things. — The
chief cerebral conditions of perception are old paths of
association radiating from the sense-impression. If a cer-
tain impression be strongly associated with the attributes
of a certain thing, that thing is almost sure to be perceived
when we get the impression. Examples of such things
would be familiar people, places, etc., which we recognize
and name at a glance. But where the impression is asso-
ciated with more than one reality, so that either of two
discrepant sets of residual properties may arise, the per-
ception is doubtful and vacillating, and the most that can
then be said of it is that it will be of a probable thing,
of the thing which would most usually have given us that
sensation.

In these ambiguous cases it is interesting to note that
perception is rarely abortive; some perception takes place.
The two discrepant sets of associates do not neutralize each
other or mix or make a blur. What we more commonly
get is first one object in its completeness, and then the
other in its completeness. In other words all brain-pro-
cesses are such as give rise to what we may call figured
consciousness.. If paths are shot-through at all, they are
shot-through in consistent systems, and occasion thoughts
of definite objects, not mere hodge-podges of elements.
Even where the brain 's functions are half thrown out of
gear, as in aphasia or dropping asleep, this law of figured
consciousness holds good. A person who suddenly gets
sleepy whilst reading aloud will read wrong; but instead of
emitting a mere broth of syllables, he will make such mis-
takes as to read ' supper-time ' instead of ( sovereign,'
' overthrow ' instead of ' opposite,' or indeed utter entirely
imaginary phrases, composed of several definite words, in-
stead of phrases of the book. So in aphasia: where the
disease is mild the patient's mistakes consist in using
entire wrong words instead of right ones. It is only in
grave lesions that be becomes quite inarticulate. These
facts show how subtle is the associative link; how. delicate

PERCEPTION 317

yet how strong that connection among brain-paths which
makes any number of them, once excited together, there-
after tend to vibrate as a systematic whole. A small group
of elements, ' this' common to two systems, A and B, may
touch off A and B according as accident decides the next
step (see Fig. 63). If it happen that a single point leading
from ' this ' to B is momentarily a little more pervious
than any leading from ' this ' to A, then that little advan-
tage will upset the equilibrium in favor of the entire sys-
tem B. The currents will sweep first through that point

Fig. 63.

and thence into all the paths of B, each increment of ad-
vance making A more and more impossible. The thoughts
correlated with A and B, in such a case, will have objects
different, though similar. The similarity will, however,
consist in some very limited feature if the ' this ' be small.
Thus the faintest sensations will give rise to the percep-
tion of definite things if only they resemble those which the
things are wont to arouse.

Illusions. — Let us now, for brevity's sake, treat A and B
in Fig. 63 as if they stood for objects instead of brain-
processes. And let us furthermore suppose that A and B
are, both of them, objects which might probably excite the
sensation which I have called ' this* but that on the
present occasion A and not B is the one which actually
does so. If, then, on this occasion ' this ' suggests A and
not B, the result is a correct perception. But if, on the
contrary, l this ' suggests B and not A, the result is a false
perception, or, as it is technically called, an illusion. But
the process is the same, whether the perception be true or
false.

3x3

PSYCHOLOGY

Note that in every illusion what is false is what is in-
ferred, not what is immediately given. The 'this/ if it
were felt by itself alone, would be all right; it only be-
comes misleading by what it suggests. If it is a sensation
of sight, it may suggest a tactile object, for example, which
later tactile experiences prove to be not there. The so-
called ' fallacy of the senses,' of which the ancient sceptics
made so much account, is not fallacy of the senses proper,
but rather of the intellect, which interprets wrongly what
the senses give.*

So much premised, let us look a little closer at these il-
lusions. They are due to two main causes. The wrong
object is perceived either because

i) Although not on this occasion the real cause, it is yet
the habitual, inveterate, or most probable cause of ' this ';
or because

2) The mind is temporarily full of the thought of that
object, and therefore * this ' is peculiarly prone to suggest it
at this moment.

I will give briefly a number of examples under each head.
The first head is the more important, because it includes a
number of constant illusions to which all men are subject,
and which can only be dispelled by much experience.

Illusions of the First Type.— One of the oldest instances

dates from Aristotle. Cross
two fingers and roll a pea,
penholder, or other small
object between them. It
will seem double. Professor
Croom Robertson has given
Flc- 6*. the clearest analysis of this il-

lusion. He observes that if the object be brought into

*In Mind, ix. 206, M. Binet points out the fact that what is
fallaciously inferred is always an object of some other sense than
the ' this.' ' Optical illusions ' are generally errors of touch and
muscular sensibility, and the fallaciously perceived object and the
experiences which correct it are both tactile in these cases.

PERCEPTION 319

contact first with the forefinger and next with the second
finger, the two contacts seem to come in at different points
of space. The forefinger-touch seems higher, though the
finger is really lower; the second-finger-touch seems lower,
though the finger is really higher. "We perceive the con-
tacts as double because we refer them to two distinct parts
of space." The touched sides of the two fingers are nor-
mally not together in space, and customarily never do
touch one thing; the one thing which now touches them,
therefore, seems in two places, i.e. seems two things.

There is a whole batch of illusions which come from
optical sensations interpreted by us in accordance with our
usual rule, although they are now produced by an unusual
object. The stereoscope is an example. The eyes see a
picture apiece, and the two pictures are a little disparate,
the one seen by the right eye being a view of the object
taken from a point slightly to the right of that from which
the left eye's picture is taken. Pictures thrown on the
two eyes by solid objects present this sort of disparity,
so that we react "on the sensation in our usual way, and
perceive a solid. If the pictures be exchanged we perceive
a hollow mould of the object, for a hollow mould would
cast just such disparate pictures as these. Wheatstone's
instrument, the pseudoscope, allows us to look at solid ob-
jects and see with each eye the other eye's picture. We
then perceive the solid object hollow, if it be an object
which might probably be hollow, but not otherwise. Thus
the perceptive process is true to its law, which is always to
react on the sensation in a determinate and figured fash-
ion if possible, and in as probable a fashion as the case
admits. A human face, e.g., never appears hollow to the
pseudoscope, for to couple faces and hollowness violates all
our habits. For the same reason it is very easy to make
an intaglio cast of a face, or the painted inside of a paste-
board mask, look convex, instead of concave as they are.

Curious illusions of movement in objects occur when-
ever the eyeballs move without our intending it. We

320 PSYCHOLOGY

have learned in an earlier chapter (p. 72) that the original
visual feeling of movement is produced by any image pass-
ing over the retina. Originally, however, this sensation is
definitely referred neither to the object nor to the eyes.
Such definite reference grows up later, and obeys certain
simple laws. For one thing, we believe objects to move
whenever we get the retinal movement-feeling, but think
our eyes are still. This gives rise to an illusion when,
after whirling on our heel, we stand still; for then ob-
jects appear to continue whirling in the same direction in
which, a moment previous, our body actually whirled. The
reason is that our eves ( are animated, under these condi-
tions, by an involuntary nystagmus or oscillation in their
orbits, which may easily be observed in anyone with vertigo
after whirling. As these movements are unconscious, the
retinal movement-feelings which they occasion are naturally
referred to the objects seen. The whole phenomenon fades
out after a few seconds. And it ceases if we voluntarily
fix our eyes upon a given point.

There is an illusion of movement of the opposite sort,
with which every one is familiar at railway stations.
Habitually, when we ourselves move forward, our entire
field of view glides backward over our retina. When our
movement is due to that of the windowed carriage, car, or
boat in which we sit, all stationary objects visible through
the window give us a sensation of gliding in the opposite
direction. Hence, whenever we get this sensation, of a
window with all objects visible through it moving in one
direction, we react upon it in our customary way, and
perceive a stationary field of view, over which the window,
and we ourselves inside of it, are passing by a motion of
our own. Consequently when another train comes along-
side of ours in a station, and fills the entire window, and,
after standing still awhile, begins to glide away, we judge
that it is our train which is moving, and that the other
train is still. If, however, we catch a glimpse of any part
of the station through the windows, or between the cars, of

PERCEPTION 321

the other train, the illusion of our own movement instantly
disappears, and we perceive the other train to be the one
in motion. This, again, is but making the usual and
probable inference from our sensation.

Another illusion due to movement is explained by Helm-
holtz. Most wayside objects, houses, trees, etc., look small
when seen from the windows of a swift train. This is
because we perceive them in the first instance unduly near.
And we perceive them unduly near because of their extra-
ordinarily rapid parallactic flight backwards. When we
ourselves move forward all objects glide backwards, as
aforesaid; but the nearer they are, the more rapid is this
apparent translocation. Relative rapidity of passage back-
wards is thus so familiarly associated with nearness that
when we feel it we perceive nearness. But with a given
size of retinal image the nearer an object is, the smaller do
we judge its actual size to be. Hence in the train, the
faster we go, the nearer do the trees and houses seem; and
the nearer they seem, the smaller (with that size of retinal
image) must they look.

The feelings of our eyes' convergence, of their accommo-
dation, the size of the retinal image, etc., may give rise to
illusions about the size and distance of objects, which also
belong to this first type.

Illusions of the Second Type. — In this type we perceive
a wrong object because our mind is full of the thought of it
at the time, and any sensation which is in the least degree
connected with it touches off, as it were, a train already
laid, and gives us a sense that the object is really before us.
Here is a familiar example:

" If a sportsman, while shooting woodcock in cover,
sees a bird about the size and color of a woodcock get up
and fly through the foliage, not having time to see more
than that it is a bird of such a size and color, he immedi-
ately supplies by inference the other qualities of a wood-
cock, and is afterwards disgusted to find that he has shot a
thrush. I have done so myself, and could hardly believe

322 PSYCHOLOGY

that the thrush was the bird I fired at, so complete was
my mental supplement to my visual perception."*

As with game, so with enemies, ghosts, and the like.
Anyone waiting in a dark place and expecting or fearing
strongly a certain object will interpret any abrupt sensa-
tion to mean that object's presence. The boy playing ' I
spy,' the criminal skulking from his pursuers, the super-
stitious person hurrying through the woods or past the
churchyard at midnight, the man lost in the woods, the
girl who tremulously has made an evening appointment
with her swain, all are subject to illusions of sight and
sound which made their hearts beat till they are dispelled.
Twenty times a day the lover, perambulating the streets
with his preoccupied fancy, will think he perceives his
idol's bonnet before him.

The Proof-reader's Illusion. — I remember one night in
Boston, whilst waiting for a ' Mount Auburn ' car to bring
me to Cambridge, reading most distinctly that name upon
the signboard of a car on which (as I afterwards learned)
' North Avenue ' was painted. The illusion was so vivid
that 1 could hardly believe my eyes had deceived me. All
reading is more or less performed in this way.

" Practised novel- or newspaper-readers could not possi-
bly get on so fast if they had to see accurately every single
letter of every word in order to perceive the words. More
than half of the words come out of their mind, and hardly
half from the printed page. Were this not so, did we per-
ceive each letter by itself, typographic errors in well-known
words would never be overlooked. Children, whose ideas
are not yet ready enough to perceive words at a glance,
read them wrong if they are printed wrong, that is, right
according to the way of printing. In a foreign language,
although it may be printed with the same letters, we read
by so much the more slowly as we do not understand, or
are unable promptly to perceive, the words. But we notice

♦Romanes, Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 324.

PERCEPTION 323

misprints all the more readily. For this reason Latin and
Greek, and still better Hebrew, works are more correctly
printed, because the proofs are better corrected, than in
German works. Of two friends of mine, one knew much
Hebrew, the other little; the latter, however, gave instruc-
tion in Hebrew in a gymnasium; and when he called the
other to help correct his pupils' exercises, it turned out
that he could find out all sorts of little errors better than
his friend, because the latter 's perception of the words as
totals was too swift." *

Testimony to personal identity is proverbially fallacious
for similar reasons. A man has witnessed a rapid crime
or accident, and carries away his mental image. Later he
is confronted by a prisoner whom he forthwith perceives
in the light of that image, and recognizes or ' identifies ' as
the criminal, although he may never have been near the
spot. Similarly at the so-called ' materializing seances '
which fraudulent mediums give: in a dark room a man
sees a gauze-robed figure who in a whisper tells him she is
the spirit of his sister, mother, wife, or child, and falls
upon his neck. The darkness, the previous forms, and the
expectancy have so filled his mind with premonitory
images that it is no wonder he perceives what is suggested.
These fraudulent ' seances ' would furnish most precious
documents to the psychology of perception, if they could
only be satisfactorily inquired into. In the hypnotic
trance any suggested object is sensibly perceived. In cer-
tain subjects this happens more or less completely after
waking from the trance. It would seem that under favor-
able conditions a somewhat similar susceptibility to sug-

* M. Lazarus : Das Leben d. Seele ( 1857) , ir. 6. 32. In the ordinary
hearing of speech half the words we seem to hear are supplied out
of our own head. A language with which we are familiar is under-
stood even when spoken in low tones and far off. An unfamiliar
language is unintelligible under these conditions. The ' ideas ' for in-
terpreting the sounds by not being ready-made in our minds, as they
are in our familiar mother-tongue, do not start up at so faint a cue.

324 PSYCHOLOGY

gestion may exist in certain persons who are not otherwise
entranced at all.

This suggestibility obtains in all the senses, although
high authorities have doubted this power of imagination
to falsify present impressions of sense. Everyone must be
able to give instances from the smell-sense. When we
have paid the faithless plumber for pretending to mend
our drains, the intellect inhibits the nose from perceiving
the same unaltered odor, until perhaps several days go by.
As regards the ventilation or heating of rooms, we are apt
to feel for some time as we think we ought to feel. If we
believe the ventilator is shut, we feel the room close. On
discovering it open, the oppression disappears.

It is the same with touch. Everyone must have felt the
sensible quality change under his hand, as sudden contact
with something moist or hairy, in the dark, awoke a shock
of disgust or fear which faded into calm recognition of
some familiar object. Even so small a thing as a crumb
of potato on the table-cloth, which we pick up, thinking
it a crumb of bread, feels horrible for a few moments to
our fancy, and different from what it is.

In the sense of hearing, similar mistakes abound. Every-
one must recall some experience in which sounds have
altered their character as soon as the intellect referred
them to a different source. The other day a friend was
sitting in my room, when the clock, which has a rich low
chime, began to strike. "Hollo! " said he, " hear that
hand-organ in the garden," and was surprised at finding
the real source of the sound. I have had myself a striking
illusion of the sort. Sitting reading, late one night, I sud-
denly heard a most formidable noise proceeding from the
upper part of the house, which it seemed to fill. It ceased,
and in a moment renewed itself. I went into the hall to
listen, but it came no more. Resuming my seat in the
room, however, there it was again, low, mighty, alarming,
like a rising flood or the avant-courier of an awful gale. It
came from all space. Quite startled, I again went into the

PERCEPTION 325

hall, but it had already ceased once more. On returning
a second time to the room, I discovered that it was noth-
ing but the breathing of a little Scotch terrier which lay
asleep on the floor. The noteworthy thing is that as soon
as I recognized what it was, I was compelled to think it a
different sound, and could not then hear it as I had heard
it a moment before.

The sense of sight is pregnant with illusions of both the
types considered. No sense gives such fluctuating im-
pressions of the same object as sight does. With no sense
are we so apt to treat the sensations immediately given as
mere signs; with none is the invocation from memory of a
thing, and the consequent perception of the latter, so
immediate. The c thing ' which we perceive always resem-
bles, as we shall hereafter see, the object of some absent
sensation, usually another optical figure which in our mind
has come to be a standard bit of reality; and it is this in-
cessant reduction of our immediately given optical objects
to more standard and ' real ' forms which has led some
authors into the mistake of thinking that our optical sen-
sations are originally and natively of no particular form
at all.

Of accidental and occasional illusions of sight many
amusing examples might be given. One will suffice. It
is a reminiscence of my own. I was lying in my berth in
a steamer listening to the sailors ' at their devotions with
the holystones ' outside; when, on turning my eyes to the
window, I perceived with perfect distinctness that the
chief -engineer of the vessel had entered my state-room,
and was standing looking through the window at the men
at work upon the guards. Surprised at his intrusion, and
also at his intentness and immobility, I remained watching
him and wondering how long he would stand thus. At
last I spoke; but getting no reply, sat up in my berth, and
then saw that what I had taken for the engineer was my
own cap and coat hanging on a peg beside the window.
The illusion was complete; the engineer was a peculiar-

326 PSYCHOLOGY

looking man; and I saw him unmistakably; but after the
illusion had vanished I found it hard voluntarily to make
the cap and coat look like him at all.

' Apperception/ — In Germany since Herbart's time psy-
chology has always had a great deal to say about a process
called Apperception. The incoming ideas or sensations
are said to be ' apperceived ' by ' masses ' of ideas already
in the mind. It is plain that the process we have been
describing as perception is, at this rate, an apperceptive
process. So are all recognition, classing, and naming;
and passing beyond these simplest suggestions, all farther
thoughts about our percepts are apperceptive processes as
well. I have myself not used the word apperception, be-
cause it has carried very different meanings in the history
of philosophy, and ' psychic reaction,' ' interpretation/
1 conception/ ' assimilation/ ' elaboration/ or simply
1 thought/ are perfect synonyms for its Herbartian mean-
ing, widely taken. It is, moreover, hardly worth while to
pretend to analyze the so-called apperceptive performances
beyond the first or perceptive stage, because their varia-
tions and degrees are literally innumerable. ' Appercep-
tion ' is a name for the sum total of the effects of what we
have studied as association; and it is obvious that the
things which a given experience will suggest to a man
depend on what Mr. Lewes calls his entire psychostatical
conditions, his nature and stock of ideas, or, in other
words, his character, habits, memory, education, previous
experience and momentary mood. We gain no insight
into what really occurs either in the mind or in the brain
by calling all these things the ' apperceiving mass/ though
of course this may upon occasion be convenient. On the
whole I am inclined to think Mr. Lewes's term of ' assimi-
lation ' the most fruitful one yet used.

The ' apperceiving mass ' is treated by the Germans as
the active factor, the apperceived sensation as the passive
one; the sensation being usually modified by the ideas in
the mind. Out of the interaction of the two, cognition is

PERCEPTION 327

produced. But as Stein thai remarks, the apperceiving
mass is itself often modified by the sensation. To quote
him: " Although the a priori moment commonly shows
itself to be the more powerful, apperception-processes can
perfectly well occur in which the new observation trans-
forms or enriches the apperceiving group of ideas. A
child who hitherto has seen none but four-cornered tables
apperceives a round one as a table; but by this the ap-
perceiving mass (' table ') is enriched. To his previous
knowledge of tables comes this new feature that they need
not be four-cornered, but may be round. In the history of
science it has happened often enough that some discovery,
at the same time that it was apperceived, i. e. brought into
connection with the system of our knowledge, transformed
the whole system. In principle, however, we must main-
tain that, although either factor is both active and passive,
the a priori factor is almost always the more active of the
two." *

Genius and Old-fogyism. — This account of Steinthars
brings out very clearly the difference between our pyscho-
logical conceptions and what are called concepts in logic.
In logic a concept is unalterable; but what are popularly
called our ' conceptions of things ' alter by being used.
The aim of ' Science ' is to attain conceptions so adequate
and exact that we shall never need to change them. There
is an everlasting struggle in every mind between the ten-
dency to keep unchanged, and the tendency to renovate,
its ideas. Our education is a ceaseless compromise be-
tween the conservative and the progressive factors. Every
new experience must be disposed of under some old head.
The great point is to find the head which has to be least
altered to take it in. Certain Polynesian natives, seeing
horses for the first time, called them pigs, that being the
nearest head. My child of two played for a week with the
first orange that was given him, calling it a ' ball.' He

♦Einleitung in die Psychologie u. Sprachwissenschaft (i88i),p. 171.

328 PSYCHOLOGY

called the first whole eggs he saw c potatoes, having been
accustomed to see his ' eggs ' broken into a glass, and his
potatoes without the skin. A folding pocket-corkscrew he
unhesitatingly called ' bad-scissors.' Hardly any one of us
can make new heads easily when fresh experiences come.
Most of us grow more and more enslaved to the stock con-
ceptions with which we have once become familiar, and
less and less capable of assimilating impressions in any
but the old ways. Old-fogyism, in short, is the inevitable
terminus to which life sweeps us on. Objects which vio-
late our established habits of ' apperception ' are simply
not taken account of at all; or, if on some occasion we are
forced by dint of argument to admit their existence,
twenty-four hours later the admission is as if it were not,
and every trace of the unassimilable truth has vansihed
from our thought. Genius, in truth, means little more
than the faculty of perceiving in an unhabitual way.

On the other hand, nothing is more congenial, from
babyhood to the end of life, than to be able to assimilate
the new to the old, to meet each threatening violator or
burster of our well-known series of concepts, as it comes
in, see through its unwontedness, and ticket it off as an
old friend in disguise. This victorious assimilation of the
new is in fact the type of all intellectual pleasure. The lust
for it is scientific curiosity. The relation of the new to the
old, before the assimilation is performed, is wonder. We
feel neither curiosity nor wonder concerning things so far
beyond us that we have no concepts to refer them to or
standards by which to measure them.* The Fuegians, in

* The great maxim in pedagogy is to knit every new piece of
knowledge on to a preexisting curiosity — i.e., to assimilate its matter
in some way to what is already known. Hence the advantage of
" comparing all that is far off and foreign to something that is near
home, of making the unknown plain by the example of the known,
and of connecting all the instruction with the personal experience of
the pupil. ... If the teacher is to explain the distance of the sun
from the earth, let him ask . . . ' If anyone there in the sun fired

PERCEPTION 329

Darwin's voyage, wondered at the small boats, but took
the big ship as a ' matter of course.' Only what we partly
know already inspires us with a desire to know more. The
more elaborate textile fabrics, the vaster works in metal,
to most of us are like the air, the water, and the ground,
absolute existences which awaken no ideas. It is a matter
of course that an engraving or a copper-plate inscription
should possess that degree of beauty. But if we are shown
a />e»-drawing of equal perfection, our personal sympathy
with the difficulty of the task makes us immediately won-
der at the skill. The old lady admiring the Academician's
picture say to him: " And is it really all done by hand? "

The Physiological Process in Perception. — Enough
has now been said to prove the general law of perception,
which is this: that whilst part of what we perceive comes
through our senses from the object before us, another part
(and it may be the larger part) always comes out of our
own mind.

At bottom this is but a case of the general fact that
our nerve-centres are organs for reacting on sense-im-
pressions, and that our hemispheres, in particular, are given
us that records of our past private experience may coop-
erate in the reaction. Of course such a general state-
ment is va^ue. If we try to put an exact meaning into
it, what we find most natural to believe is that the brain
reacts by paths which the previous experiences have worn,
and which make us perceive the probable thing, i. e., the
thing by which on the previous occasions the reaction was
most frequently aroused. The reaction of the hemispheres
consists in the lighting up of a certain system of paths by

off a cannon straight at you, what should you do ? ' ' Get out of the
way/ would be the answer. ' No need of that,' the teacher might
reply. ' You may quietly go to sleep in your room, and get up again,
you may wait till your confirmation-day, you may learn a trade, and
grow as old as I am, — then only will the cannon-ball be getting near,
then you may jump to one side! See, so great as that is the sun's
distance!'" (K. Lange, Ueber Apperception, 1879, p. 76.)

330 PSYCHOLOGY

the current entering from the outer world. What corre-
sponds to this mentally is a certain special pulse of thought,
the thought, namely, of that most probable object. Far-
ther than this in the analysis we can hardly go.

Hallucinations. — Between normal perception and illu-
sion we have seen that there is no break, the process being
identically the same in both. The last illusions we con-
sidered might fairly be called hallucinations. We must now
consider the false perceptions more commonly called by
that name. In ordinary parlance hallucination is held to
differ from illusion in that, whilst there is an object really
there in illusion, in hallucination there is no objective
stimulus at all. We shall presently see that this supposed
absence of objective stimulus in hallucination is a mistake,
and that hallucinations are often only extremes of the per-
ceptive process, in which the secondary cerebral reaction is
out of all normal proportion to the peripheral stimulus
which occasions the activity. Hallucinations usually ap-
pear abruptly and have the character of being forced upon
the subject. But they possess various degrees of apparent
objectivity. One mistake in limine must be guarded
against. They are often talked of as images projected
outwards by mistake. But where an hallucination is com-
plete, it is much more than a mental image. An hallu-
cination, subjectively considered, is a sensation, as good and
true a sensation as if there were a real object there. The
object happens not to be there, that is all.

The milder degrees of hallucination have been designa-
ted as pseudo-hallucinations. Pseudo-hallucinations and
hallucinations have been sharply distinguished from each
other only within a few years. From ordinary images of
memory and fancy, pseudo-hallucinations differ in being
much more vivid, minute, detailed, steady, abrupt, and
spontaneous, in the sense that all feeling of our own activ-
ity in producing them is lacking. Dr. Kandinsky had a
patient who, after taking opium or haschisch, had abun-
dant pseudo-hallucinations and hallucinations. As he also

PERCEPTION 331

had strong visualizing power and was an educated physi-
cian, the three sorts of phenomena could be easily com-
pared. Although projected outwards (usually not farther
than the limit of distinctest vision, a foot or so), the pseudo-
hallucinations lacked the character of objective reality
which the hallucinations possessed, but, unlike the pictures
of imagination, it was almost impossible to produce them
at will. Most of the ■ voices ' which people hear (whether
they give rise to delusions or not) are pseudo-hallucina-
tions. They are described as ' inner ' voices, although their
character is entirely unlike the inner speech of the sub-
ject with himself. I know several persons who hear such
inner voices making unforeseen remarks whenever they
grow quiet and listen for them. They are a very common
incident of delusional insanity, and may at last grow into
vivid or completely exteriorized hallucinations. The lat-
ter are comparatively frequent occurrences in sporadic
form; and certain individuals are liable to have them
often. From the results of the ' Census of Hallucinations,'
which was begun by Edmund Gurney, it would appear
that, roughly speaking, one person at least in every ten is
likely to have had a vivid hallucination at some time in
his life. The following case from a healthy person will
give an idea of what these hallucinations are:

" When a girl of eighteen, I was one evening engaged in
a very painful discussion with an elderly person. My dis-
tress was so great that I took up a thick ivory knitting-
needle that was lying on the mantelpiece of the parlor
and broke it into small pieces as I talked. In the midst
of the discussion I was very wishful to know the opinion
of a brother with whom I had an unusually close relation-
ship. I turned round and saw him sitting at the farther
side of a centre- table, with his arms folded (an unusual
position with him), but, to my dismay, I perceived from
the sarcastic expression of his mouth that he was not in
sympathy with me, was not ' taking my side,' as I should

332 PSYCHOLOGY

then have expressed it. The surprise cooled me, and the
discussion was dropped.

u Some minutes after, having "occasion to speak to my
brother, I turned towards him, but he was gone. I in-
quired when he left the room, arid was told that he had
not been in it, which I did not believe, thinking that he
had come in for a minute and had gone out without being
noticed. About an hour and a half afterwards he appeared,
and convinced me, with some trouble, that he had never
been near the house that evening. He is still alive and
well."

The hallucinations of fever-delirium are a mixture of
pseudo-hallucination, true hallucination, and illusion.
Those of opium, haschish, and belladonna resemble them
in this respect. The commonest hallucination of all is that
of hearing one's own name called aloud. Nearly one half
of the sporadic cases which I have collected are of this
sort.

Hallucination and Illusion. — Hallucinations are easily
produced By' verbal suggestion in hypnotic subjects. Thus,
point to a dot on a sheet of paper, and call it ' General
Grant's photograph/ and your subject will see a photo-
graph of the General there instead of the dot. The dot
gives objectivity to the appearance, and the suggested
notion of the General gives it form. Then magnify the
dot by a lens; double it by a prism or by nudging the eye-
ball; reflect it in a mirror; turn it upside-down; or wipe
it out ; and the subject will tell you that the ' photograph '
has been enlarged, doubled, reflected, turned about, or
made to disappear. In M. Binet's language, the dot is the
outward point de repbre which is needed to give objectivity
to your suggestion, and without which the latter will only
produce an inner image in the subject's mind. M. Binet has
shown that such a peripheral point de repere is used in an
enormous number, not only of hypnotic hallucinations, but
of hallucinations of the insane. These latter are often uni-
lateral; that is, the patient hears the voices always on one

PERCEPTION 333

side of him, or sees the figure only when a certain one of his
eyes is open. In many of these cases it has been distinctly-
proved that a morbid irritation in the internal ear, or an'
opacity in the humors of the eye, was the starting point of
the current which the patient's diseased acoustic or optical
centres clothed with their peculiar products in the way of
ideas. Hallucinations produced in this way are ' illusions ';
and M. Binet's theory, that all hallucinations must start in
the periphery, may be called an attempt to reduce hallucina-
tion and illusion to one physiological type, the type, namely,
to which normal perception belongs. In every case, accord-
ing to M. Binet, whether of perception, of hallucination,
or of illusion, we get the sensational vividness by means of
a current from the peripheral nerves. It may be a mere
trace of a current. But that trace is enough to kindle the
maximal process of disintegration in the cells (cf. p. 3io),
and to give to the object perceived the character of exter-
nality. What the nature of the object shall be will depend
wholly on the particular system of paths in which the proc-
ess is kindled. Part of the thing in all cases comes from
the sense organ, the rest is furnished by the mind. But
we cannot by introspection distinguish between these parts;
and our only formula for the result is that the brain has
reacted on the impression in the resulting way.

M. Binet's theory accounts indeed for a multitude of
cases, but certainly not for all. The prism does not always
double the false appearance, nor does the latter always dis-
appear when the eyes are closed. For Binet, an abnor-
mally or exclusively active part of the cortex gives the
nature of what shall appear, whilst a peripheral sense-
organ alone can give the intensity sufficient to make it
appear projected into real space. But since this intensity
is after all but a matter of degree, one does not see why,
under rare conditions, the degree in question might not
be attained by inner causes exclusively. In that case we
should have certain hallucinations centrally initiated, as
well as the peripherally initiated hallucinations which are

334 PSYCHOLOGY

the only sort that M. Binet's theory allows. It seems prob-
able on the whole, therefore, that centrally initiated hallu-
cinations can exist. How often they do exist is another
question. The existence of hallucinations which affect
more than one sense is an argument for central initiation.
For, grant that the thing seen may have its starting point
in the outer world, the voice which it is heard to utter
must be due to an influence from the visual region, i. e.
must be of central origin.

Sporadic cases of hallucination, visiting people only once
in a lifetime (which seem to be a quite frequent type),
are on any theory hard to understand in detail. They are
often extraordinarily complete; and the fact that many of
them are reported as veridical, that is, as coinciding with
real events, such as accidents, deaths, etc., of the persons
seen, is an additional complication of the phenomenon.
The first really scientific study of hallucination in all its
possible bearings, on the basis of a large mass of empirical
material, was begun by Mr. Edmund Gurney and is con-
tinued by other members of the Society for Psychical Re-
search ; and the ' Census } is now being applied to several
countries under the auspices of the International Congress
of Experimental Psychology. It is to be hoped that out
of these combined labors something solid will eventually
grow. The facts shade off into the phenomena of motor
automatism, trance, etc.; and nothing but a wide compar-
ative study can give instructive results.*

* The writer of the present work is Agent of the Census for Amer-
ica, and will thankfully receive accounts of cases of hallucination
of vision, hearing, etc., of which the reader may have knowledge.

CHAPTER XXI

THE PERCEPTION OF SPACE

As adult thinkers we have a definite and apparently
instantaneous knowledge of the sizes, shapes, and dis-
tances of the things amongst which we live and move;
and we have moreover a practically definite notion of the
whole great infinite continuum of real space in which the
world swings and in which all these things are located.
Nevertheless it seems obvious that the baby's world is
vague and confused in all these respects. How does our
definite knowledge of space grow up? This is one of the
quarrelsome problems in psychology. This chapter must
be so brief that there will be no room for the polemic and
historic aspects of the subject, and I will state simply and
dogmatically the conclusions which seem most plausible to
me.

The quality of voluminousness exists in all sensations,
just as intensity does. We call the reverberations of a
thunder-storm more voluminous than the squeaking of
a slate-pencil; the entrance into a warm bath gives our
skin a more massive feeling than the prick of a pin; a
little neuralgic pain, fine as a cobweb, in the face, seems
less extensive than the heavy soreness of a boil or the vast
discomfort of a colic or a lumbago; and a solitary star
looks smaller than the noonday sky. Muscular sensations
and semicircular-canal sensations have volume. Smells
and tastes are not without it; and sensations from our
inward organs have it in a marked degree.

Repletion and emptiness, suffocation, palpitation, head-
ache, are examples of this, and certainly not less spatial is
the consciousness we have of our general bodily condition

335

336 PSYCHOLOGY

in nausea, fever, heavy drowsiness, and fatigue. Our entire
cubic content seems then sensibly manifest to us as such,
and feels much larger than any local pulsation, pressure,
or discomfort. Skin and retina are, however, the organs
in which the space-element plays the most active part.
Not only does the maximal vastness yielded by the retina
surpass that yielded by any other organ, but the intricacy
with which our attention can subdivide this vastness and
perceive it to be composed of lesser portions simultaneously
coexisting alongside of each other is without a parallel
elsewhere. The ear gives a greater vastness than the skin,
but is considerably less able to subdivide it. The vastness,
moreover, is as great in one direction as in another. Its
dimensions are so vague that in it there is no question as
yet of surface as opposed to depth ; ' volume ' being the
best short name for the sensation in question.

Sensations of different orders are roughly comparable
with each other as to their volumes. Persons born blind
are said to be surprised at the largeness with which objects
appear to them when their sight is restored. Franz says
of his patient cured of cataract: " He saw everything much
larger than he had supposed from the idea obtained by his
sense of touch. Moving, and especially living, objects ap-
peared very large." Loud sounds have a certain enormous-
ness of feeling. ' Glowing ' bodies as Hering says, give us a
perception "which seems roomy (raumhaft) in comparison
with that of strictly surface-color. A glowing iron looks
luminous through and through, and so does a flame." The
interior of one's mouth-cavity feels larger when explored
by the tongue than when looked at. The crater of a
newly-extracted tooth, and the movements of a loose tooth
in its socket, feel quite monstrous. A midge buzzing
against the drum of the ear will often seem as big as a
butterfly. The pressure of the air in the tympanic cavity
upon the membrane gives an astonishingly large sensation.

The voluminousness of the feeling seems to bear very little
relation to the size of the ocean that yields it. The ear and

THE PERCEPTION OF SPACE 337

eye are comparatively minute organs, yet they give us feel-
ings of great volume. The same lack of exact proportion
between size of feeling and size of organ affected obtains
within the limits of particular sensory organs. An object
appears smaller on the lateral portions of the retina than
it does on the fovea, as may be easily verified by holding
the two forefingers parallel and a couple of inches apart,
and transferring the gaze of one eye from one to the
other. Then the finger not directly looked at will appear
to shrink. On the skin, if two points kept equidistant
(blunted compass- or scissors-points, for example) be drawn
along so as really to describe a pair of parallel lines, the
lines will appear farther apart in some spots than in
others. If, for example, we draw them across the face, the
person experimented upon will feel as if they began to
diverge near the mouth and to include it in a well-marked
ellipse.

Fig. 65t (after Weber).

The dotted lines give the real course of the points, the continuous

lines the course as felt.

Now my first thesis is that this extensity, dis-
cernible in each and every sensation, though more developed
in some than in others, is the original sensation of
space, out of which all the exact knowledge about space
that we afterwards come to have is woven by processes of
discrimination, association, and selection.

The Construction of Real Space. — To the babe who
first opens his senses upon the world, though the experience
is one of vastness or extensity, it is of an extensity within

338 PSYCHOLOGY

which no definite divisions, directions, sizes, or distances
are yet marked out. Potentially, the room in which the
child is born is subdivisible into a multitude of parts,
fixed or movable, which at any given moment of time have
definite relations to each other and to his person. Poten-
tially, too, this room taken as a whole can be prolonged in
various directions by the addition to it of those farther
lying spaces which constitute the outer world. But actu-
ally the further spaces are unfelt, and the subdivisions are
undiscriminated, by the babe; the chief part of whose edu-
cation during his" first year of life consists in his becoming
acquainted with them and recognizing and identifying
them in detail. This process may be called that of the con-
struction of real space, as a newly apprehended object, out
of the original chaotic experiences of vastness. It consists
of several subordinate processes:

_First, the total object of vision or of feeling at any time
mustnave smaller objects definitely discriminated within
it;

Secondly, objects seen or tasted must be identified with
objects felt, heard, etc., and vice versa, so that the same
' thing ' may come to be recognized, although apprehended
in such widely differing ways;

Third, the total extent felt at any time must be con-
ceived as definitely located in the midst of the surrounding
extents of which the world consists;

Fourth, these objects must appear arranged in definite
order in the so-called three dimensions; and

Fifth, their relative sizes must be perceived — in other
words, they must be measured.

Let us take these processes in regular order.

1) Subdivision or Discrimination. — Concerning this
there is not much to be added to what was set forth in
Chapter XV. Moving parts, sharp parts, brightly colored
parts of the total field of perception ' catch the attention '
and are then discerned as special objects surrounded by
the remainder of the field of view or touch. That when

THE PERCEPTION OF SPACE 339

such objects are discerned apart they should appear as
thus surrounded, must be set down as an ultimate fact of
our sensibility of which no farther account can be given.
Later, as one partial object of this sort after another has
become familiar and identifiable, the attention can be
caught by more than one at once. We then see or feel a
number of distinct objects alongside of each other in the
general extended field. The ' alongsideness ' is in the first
instance vague — it may not carry with it the sense of defi-
nite directions or distances — and it too must be regarded
as an ultimate fact of our sensibility.

2) Coalescence of Different Sensations into the Same
' Thing.' — When two senses are impressed simultaneously
we tend to identify their objects as one thing. When a
conductor is brought near the skin, the snap heard, the
spark seen, and the sting felt, are all located together and
believed to be different aspects of one entity, the ' electric
discharge.' The space of the seen object fuses with the
space of the heard object and with that of the felt object
by an ultimate law of our consciousness, which is that we
simplify, unify, and identify as much as we possibly can.
Whatever sensible data can be attended to together we locate
together. Their several extents seem one extent. The place
at which each appears is held to be the same with the place
at which the others appear. This is the first and great
1 act ' by which our world gets spatially arranged.

In this coalescence in a * thing,' one of the coalescing
sensations is held to be the thing, the other sensations are
taken for its more or less accidental properties, or modes
of appearance. The sensation chosen to be essentially the
thing is the most constant and practically important of the
lot; most often it is hardness or weight. But the hardness
or weight is never without tactile bulk; and as we can
always see something in our hand when we feel something
there, we equate the bulk felt with the bulk seen, and
thenceforward this common bulk is also apt to figure as
of the essence of the * thing/ Frequently a shape so fig-

340 PSYCHOLOGY

ures, sometimes a temperature, a taste, etc.; but for the
most part temperature, smell, sound, color, or whatever
other phenomena may vividly impress us simultaneously
with the bulk felt or seen, figure among the accidents.
Smell and sound impress us, it is true, when we neither
see nor touch the thing; but they are strongest when we
see or touch, so we locate the source of these properties
within the touched or seen space, whilst the properties
themselves we regard as overflowing in a weakened form
into the spaces filled by other things. In all this, it will
be observed, the sense-data whose spaces coalesce into one
are yielded by different sense-organs. Such data have no
tendency to displace each other from consciousness, but can
be attended to together all at once. Often indeed they
vary concomitantly and reach a maximum together. We
may be sure, therefore, that the general rule of our mind
is to locate in each other all sensations which are asso-
ciated in simultaneous experience and do not interfere
with each other's perception.

3) The Sense of the Surrounding World. — Different
impressions on the same sense-organ do interfere with each
other's perception and cannot well be attended to at once.
Hence we do not locate them in each other's spaces, but
arrange them in a serial order of exteriority, each alongside
of the rest, in a space larger than that which any one sensa-
tion brings. We can usually recover anything lost from
our sight by moving our eyes back in its direction; and
it is through these constant changes that every field of
seen things comes at last to be thought of as always hav-
ing a fringe of other things possible to be seen spreading
in all directions round about it. Meanwhile the move-
ments concomitantly with which the various fields alter-
nate are also felt and remembered; and gradually (through
association) this and that movement come in our thought
to suggest this or that extent of fresh objects introduced.
Gradually, too, since the objects vary indefinitely in kind,
we abstract from their several natures and think separately

THE PERCEPTION OF SPACE 341

of their mere extents, of which extents the various move-
ments remain as the only constant introducers and asso-
ciates. More and more, therefore, do we think of move-
ment and seen extent as mutually involving each other,
until at last we may get to regard them as synonymous;
and, empty space then meaning for us mere room for move-
ment, we may, if we are psychologists, readily but errone-
ously assign to the ' muscular sense ' the chief role in
perceiving extensiveness at all.

4) The Serial Order of Locations. — The muscular
sense has much to do with denning the order of position of
things seen, felt, or heard. We look at a point; another point
upon the retina's margin catches our attention, and in an
instant we turn the fovea upon it, letting its image suc-
cessively fall upon all the points of the intervening retinal
line. The line thus traced so rapidly by the second point
is itself a visual object, with the first and second point at
its respective ends. It separates the points, which become
located by its length with reference to each other. If a
third point catch the attention, more peripheral still than
the second point, then a still greater movement of the eye-
ball and a continuation of the line will result, the second
point now appearing between the first and third. Every
moment of our life, peripherally-lying objects are drawing
lines like this between themselves and other objects which
they displace from our attention as we bring them to the
centre of our field of view. Each peripheral retinal point
comes in this way to suggest a line at the end of which it
lies, a line which a possible movement will trace; and even
the motionless field of vision ends at last by signifying
a system of positions brought out by possible movements
between its centre and all peripheral parts.

It is the same with our skin and joints. By moving our
hand over objects we trace lines of direction, and new im-
pressions arise at their ends. The ' lines ' are sometimes on
the articular surfaces, sometimes on the skin as well; in
either case they give a definite order arrangements to the

342 PSYCHOLOGY

successive objects between which they intervene. Similarly
with sounds and smells. With our heads in a certain posi-
tion, a certain sound or a certain smell is most distinct.
Turning our head makes this experience fainter and brings
another sound, or another smell, to its maximum. The two
sounds or smells are thus separated by the movement located
at its ends, the movement itself being realized as a sweep
through space whose value is given partly by the semi-
circular-canal feeling, partly by the articular cartilages of
the neck, and partly by the impressions produced upon the
eye.

By such general principles of action as these everything
looked at, felt, smelt, or heard comes to be located in a
more or less definite position relatively to other collateral
things either actually presented or only imagined as possi-
bly there. I say ' collateral ' things, for I prefer not to
complicate the account just yet with any special considera-
tion of the ' third dimension,' distance, or depth, as it has
been called.

5) The Measurement of Things in Terms of Each
Other. — Here the first thing that seems evident is that we
have no immediate power of comparing together with any
accuracy the extents revealed by different sensations. Our
mouth-cavity feels indeed to the tongue larger than it feels to
the finger or eye, our lips feel larger than a surface equal
to them on our thigh. So much comparison is immediate;
but it is vague; and for anything exact we must resort to
other help.

The great agent in comparing the extent felt by one sen-
sory surface with that felt by another is superposition—
superposition of one surface upon another, and superposi-
tion of one outer thing upon many surfaces.

Two surfaces of skin superposed on each other are felt
simultaneously, and by the law laid down on p. 339 are
judged to occupy an identical place. Similarly of our
hand, when seen and felt at the same time by its resident
sensibility.

THE PERCEPTION OF SPACE 343

In these identifications and reductions of the many to the
one it must be noticed that when the resident sensations of
largeness of two opposed surfaces conflict, one of the sensa-
tions is chosen as the true standard and the other treated as
illusory. Thus an empty tooth-socket is believed to be really
smaller than the finger-tip which it will not admit, al-
though it may feel larger; and in general it may be said
that the hand, as the almost exclusive organ of palpation,
gives its own magnitude to the other parts, instead of hav-
ing its size determined by them.

But even though exploration of one surface by another
were impossible, we could always measure our various sur-
faces against each other by applying the same extended
object first to one and then to another. We might of course
at first suppose that the object itself waxed and waned as
it glided from one place to another (cf. above, Fig. 65) ; but
the principle of simplifying as much as possible our world
would soon drive us out of that assumption into the easier
one that objects as a rule keep their sizes, and that most of
our sensations are affected by errors for which a constant
allowance must be made.

In the retina there is no reason to suppose that the
bignesses of two impressions (lines or blotches) falling on
different regions are at first felt to stand in any exact
mutual ratio. But if the impressions come from the same
object, then we might judge their sizes to be just the same.
This, however, only when the relation of the object to the
eye is believed to be on the whole unchanged. When the
object, by moving, changes its relations to ihe eye, the sen-
sation excited by its image even on the same retinal region
becomes so fluctuating that we end by ascribing no abso-
lute import whatever to the retinal space-feeling which at
any moment we many receive. So complete does this over-
looking of retinal magnitude become that it is next to
impossible to compare the visual magnitudes of objects at
different distances without making the experiment of
superposition. We cannot say beforehand how much of a

344 PSYCHOLOGY

distant house or tree our finger will cover. The various
answers to the familiar question, How large is the moon?
— answers which vary from a cartwheel to a wafer — illus-
trate this most strikingly. The hardest part of the train-
ing of a young draughtsman is his learning to feel directly
the retinal (i.e. primitively sensible) magnitudes which the
different objects in the field of view subtend. To do this
lie must recover what Ruskin calls the ' innocence of the
eye ' — that is, a sort of childish perception of stains of
color merely as such, without consciousness of what they
mean.

With the rest of us this innocence is lost. Out of all the
visual magnitudes of each known object we have selected
one as the ' real ' one to think of, and degraded all the
others to serve as its signs. This real magnitude is deter-
mined by aesthetic and practical interests. It is that which
we get when the object is at the distance most propitious
for exact visual discrimination of its details. This is the
distance at which we hold anything we are examining.
Farther than this we see it too small, nearer too large. And
the larger and the smaller feeling vanish in the act of sug-
gesting this one, their more important meaning. . As I look
along the dining-table I overlook the fact that the farther
plates and glasses feel so much smaller than my own, for I
know that they are all equal in size; and the feeling of
them, which is a present sensation, is eclipsed in the glare
of the knowledge, which is a merely imagined one.

It is the same with shape as with size. Almost all the
visible shapes of things are what we call perspective ' dis-
tortions.' Square table-tops constantly present two acute
and two obtuse angles; circles drawn on our wall-papers,
our carpets, or on sheets of paper, usually show like ellipses;
parallels approach as they recede; human bodies are fore-
shortened; and the transitions from one to another of these
altering forms are infinite and continual. Out of the flux,
however, one phase always stands prominent. It is the
form the object has when we see it easiest and best; and

THE PERCEPTION OF SPACE 345

that is when our eyes and the object both are in what may
be called the normal position. In this position our head is
upright and our optic axes either parallel or symmetrically
convergent; the plane of the object is perpendicular to the
visual plane; and if the object is one containing many
lines, it is turned so as to make them, as far as possible,
either parallel or perpendicular to the visual plane. In this
situation it is that we compare all shapes with each other;
here every exact measurement and every decision is made.

Most sensations are signs to us of other sensations
whose space-value is held to be more real. The thing as
it would appear to the eye if it were in the normal position
is what we think of whenever we get one of the other optical
views. Only as represented in the normal position do we
believe we see the object as it is; elsewhere, only as it seems.
Experience and custom soon teach us, however, that the
seeming appearance passes into the real one by continuous
gradations. They teach us, moreover, that seeming and
being may be strangely interchanged. Now a real circle
may slide into a seeming ellipse; now an ellipse may, by
sliding in the same direction, become a seeming circle;
now a rectangular cross grows slant-legged; now a slant-
legged one grows rectangular.

Almost any form in oblique vision may be thus a deriva-
tive of almost any other in ' primary ' vision ; and we must
learn, when we get one of the former appearances, to trans-
late it into the appropriate one of the latter class; we must
learn of what optical ' reality ' it is one of the optical signs.
Having learned this, we do but obey that law of economy
or simplification which dominates our whole psychic life,
when we think exclusively of the ' reality ' and ignore as
much as our consciousness will let us the ' sign ' by which
we came to apprehend it. The signs of each probable real
thing being multiple and the thing itself one and fixed,
we gain the same mental relief of abandoning the former
for the latter that we do when we abandon mental images,
with all their fluctuating characters, for the definite and

346 PSYCHOLOGY

unchangeable names which they suggest. The selection of
the several ' normal ' appearances from out of the jungle
of our optical experiences, to serve as the real sights of
which we shall think, has thus some analogy to the habit of
thinking in words, in that by both we substitute terms few
and fixed for terms manifold and vague.

If an optical sensation can thus be a mere sign to recall
another sensation of the same sense, judged more real, a
fortiori can sensations of one sense be signs of realities
which are objects of another. Smells and tastes make us
believe the visible cologne-bottle, strawberry, or cheese to
be there. Sights suggest objects of touch, touches suggest
objects of sight, etc. In all this substitution and sugges-
tive recall the only law that holds good is that in general
the most interesting of the sensations which the ' thing '
can give us is held to represent its real nature most truly.
It is a case of the selective activity mentioned on p. 170 ff.

The Third Dimension or Distance. — This service of
sensations as mere signs, to be ignored when they have
evoked the other sensations which are their significates, was
noticed first by Berkeley in his new theory of vision. He
dwelt particularly on the fact that the signs were not
natural signs, but properties of the object merely associ-
ated by experience with the more real aspects of it which
they recall. The tangible ' feel ' of a thing, and the ' look '
of it to the eye, have absolutely no point in common, said
Berkeley; and if I think of the look of it when I get the
feel, or think of the feel when I get the look, that is merely
due to the fact that I have on so many previous occasions
had the two sensations at once. When we open our eyes,
for example, we think we see how far off the object is.
But this feeling of distance, according to Berkeley, cannot
possibly be a retinal sensation, for a point in outer space
can only impress our retina by the single dot which it
projects ' in the fund of the eye/ and this dot is the same
for all distances. Distance from the eye, Berkeley con-
sidered not to be an optical object at all, but an object of

THE PERCEPTION OF SPACE 347

touch, of which we have optical signs of various sorts, such
as the image's apparent magnitude, its ' faintness ' or ' con-
fusion,' and the ' strain ' of accommodation and conver-
gence. By distance being an object of ' touch,' Berkeley
meant that our notion of it consists in ideas of the amount
of muscular movement of arm or legs which would be
required to place our hand upon the object. Most authors
have agreed with Berkeley that creatures unable to move
either their eyes or limbs would have no notion whatever
of distance or the third dimension.

This opinion seems to me unjustifiable. I cannot get
over the fact that all our sensations are of volume, and that
the primitive field of view (however imperfectly distance
may be discriminated or measured in it) cannot be of
something flat, as these authors unanimously maintain.
Nor can I get over the fact that distance, when I see it, is
a genuinely optical feeling, even though I be at a loss to
assign any one physiological process in the organ of vision
to the varying degrees of which the variations of the feel-
ing uniformly correspond. It is awakened by all the op-
tical signs which Berkeley mentioned, and by more besides,
such as Wheatstone's binocular disparity, and by the par-
allax which follows on slightly moving the head. When
awakened, however, it seems optical, and not heteroge-
neous with the other two dimensions of the visual field.

The mutual equivalencies of the distance-dimension with
the up-and-down and right-to-left dimensions of the field
of view can easily be settled without resorting to experi-
ences of touch. A being reduced to a single eyeball
would perceive the same tridimensional world which we
do, if he had our intellectual powers. For the same moving
things, by alternately covering different parts of his retina,
would determine the mutual equivalencies of the first two
dimensions of the field of view; and by exciting the physi-
ological cause of his perception of depth in various degrees,
they would establish a scale of equivalency between the
first two and the third.

348 PSYCHOLOGY

First of all, one of the sensations given by the object
would be chosen to represent its ' real ' size and shape, in
accordance with the principles so lately laid down. One
sensation would measure the ' thing ■ present, and the
' thing ' would measure the other sensations — the periph-
eral parts of the retina would be equated with the cen-
tral by receiving the image of the same object. This
needs no elucidation in case the object does not change its
distance or its front. But suppose, to take a more compli-
cated case, that the object is a stick, seen first in its whole
length, and then rotated round one of its ends; let this
fixed end be the one near the eye. In this movement the
stick's image will grow progressively shorter; its farther
end will appear less and less separated laterally from its
fixed near end; soon it will be screened by the latter, and
then reappear on the opposite side, the image there finally
resuming its original length. Suppose this movement to
become a familiar experience; the mind will presumably
react upon it after its usual fashion (which is that of
unifying all data which it is in any way possible to unify),
and consider it the movement of a constant object rather
than the transformation of a fluctuating one. Now, the
sensation of depth which it receives during the experience
is awakened more by the far than by the near end of the
object. But how much depth? What shall measure its
amount? Why, at the moment the far end is about to be
eclipsed, the difference of its distance from the near end's
distance must be judged equal to the stick's whole length;
but that length has already been seen and measured by a
certain visual sensation of breadth. So we find that given
amounts of the visual depth-feeling become signs of given
amounts of the visual breadth- feeling, depth becoming
equated with breadth. The measurement of distance is, as
Berkeley truly said, a result of suggestion and experience.
But visual experience alone is adequate to produce it, and
this he erroneously denied.

THE PERCEPTION OF SPACE 349

The Part played by the Intellect in Space-perception.
— But although Berkeley was wrong in his assertion that out V »/
of optical experience alone no perception of distance can '
be evolved, he gave a great impetus to psychology by
showing how originally incoherent and incommensurable
in respect of their extensiveness our different sensations
are, and how our actually so rapid space-perceptions are
almost altogether acquired by education. Touch-space is
one world; sight-space is another world. The two worlds
have no essential or intrinsic congruence, and only through
the ' association of ideas ' do we know what a seen object
signifies in terms of touch. Persons with congenital cata-
racts relieved by surgical aid, whose world until the opera-
tion has been a world of tangibles exclusively, are ludi-
crously unable at first to name any of the objects which
newly fall upon their eye. " It might very well be a
horse" said the latest patient of this sort of whom we have
an account, when a 10-litre bottle was held up a foot from
his face.* Neither do such patients have any accurate
notion in motor terms of the relative distances of things
from their eyes. All such confusions very quickly dis-
appear with practice, and the novel optical sensations
translate themselves into the familiar language of touch.
The facts do not prove in the least that the optical sensa-
tions are not spatial, but only that it needs a subtler sense
for analogy than most people have, to discern the same
spatial aspects and relations in them which previously-
known tactile and motor experiences have yielded.

Conclusion. — To sum up, the whole history of space-
perception is explicable if we admit on the one hand sensa-
tions with certain amounts of extensity native to them,
and on the other the ordinary powers of discrimination,
selection, and association in the mind's dealings with
them. The fluctuating import of many of our optical

*Cf. Raehlmann in Zeitschrift fur Psychol, und Physiol, der
Sinnesorgane, 11. 79.

3 so PSYCHOLOGY

sensations, the same sensation being so ambiguous as re-
gards size, shape, locality, and the like, has led many to
believe that such attributes as these could not possibly be
the result of sensation at all, but must come from some
higher power of intuition, synthesis, or whatever it might:
be called. But the fact that a present sensation can at any
time become the sign or represented one judged to be more
real, sufficiently accounts for all the phenomena without
the need of supposing that the quality of extensity is
created out of non-extensive experiences by a super-sensa-
tional faculty of the mind.

CHAPTER XXII

REASONING

What Reasoning is. — We talk of man being the ra-
tional animal; and the traditional intellectualist philosophy1,
has always made a great point of treating the brutes as:
wholly irrational creatures. Nevertheless, it is by no means
easy to decide just what is meant by reason, or how the
peculiar thinking process called reasoning differs from other
thought-sequences which may lead to similar results.

Much of our thinking consists of trains of images sug-
gested one by another, of a sort of spontaneous revery of
which it seems likely enough that the higher brutes should
be capable. This sort of thinking leads nevertheless to
rational conclusions, both practical and theoretical. The
links between the terms are either ' contiguity ' or ' similar-
ity,' and with a mixture of both these things we can hardly
be very incoherent. As a rule, in this sort of irresponsible
thinking, the terms which fall to be coupled together are
empirical concretes, not abstractions. A sunset may call
up the vessel's deck from which I saw one last summer,
the companions of my voyage, my arrival into port, etc.;
or it may make me think of solar myths, of Hercules' and
Hector's funeral pyres, of Homer and whether he could
write, of the Greek alphabet, etc. If habitual contiguities
predominate, we have a prosaic mind; if rare contiguities,
or similarities, have free play, we call the person fanciful,
poetic, or witty. But the thought as a rule is of matters
taken in their entirety. Having been thinking of one, we
find later that we are thinking of another, to which we have
been lifted along, we hardly know how. If an abstract

3*i

352 PSYCHOLOGY

quality figures in the procession, it arrests our attention
but for a moment, and fades into something else; and is
never very abstract. Thus, in thinking of the sun-myths,
we may have a gleam of admiration at the gracefulness of
the primitive human mind, or a moment of digust at the
narrowness of modern interpreters. But in the main, we
think less of qualities than of concrete things, real or pos-
sible, just as we may experience them.

Our thought here may be rational, but it is nqtjreasonedj
is not reasoning in the strict sense of the term. In reason-
ing, although our results may be thought of as concrete
things, they are not suggested immediately by other concrete
things, as in the trains of simply associative thought.
They are linked to the concretes which precede them by
intermediate steps, and these steps are formed by abstract
general characters articulately denoted and expressly ana-
lyzed out. A thing inferred by reasoning need neither
have been an habitual associate of the datum from which
we infer it, nor need it be similar to it. It may be a thing
entirely unknown to our previous experience, something
which no simple association of concretes could ever have
evoked. The great difference, in fact, between that sim-
pler kind of rational thinking which consists in the con-
crete objects of past experience merely suggesting each
other, and reasoning distinctively so called, is this: that
whilst the empirical thinking is only reproductive, reason-
ing is productive. An empirical, or ' rule-of-thumb '
thinker can deduce nothing from data with whose beha-
vior and associates in the concrete he is unfamiliar. But
put a reasoner amongst a set of concrete objects which he
has neither seen nor heard of before, and with a little time,
if he is a good reasoner, he will make such inferences from
them as will quite atone for his ignorance. Reasoning
helps us out of unprecedented situations — situations for
which all our common associative wisdom, all the ' educa-
tion ' which we share in common with the beasts, leaves us
without resource.

REASONING 353

Exact Definition of it. — Let us make this ability to
deal with novel data the technical differentia of reasoning.
This will sufficiently mark it out from common associative
thinking, and will immediately enable us to say just what
peculiarity it contains.

It contains analysis and abstraction. Whereas the
merely empirical thinker stares at a fact in its entirety,
and remains helpless, or gets ' stuck/ if it suggests no con-
comitant or similar, the reasoner breaks it up and notices
some one of its separate attributes. This attribute he
takes to be the essential part of the whole fact before him.
This attribute has properties or consequences which the
fact until then was not known to have, but which, now
that it is noticed to contain the attribute, it must have.
, Call the fact or concrete datum S;
the essential attribute M;
the attribute's property P.

Then the reasoned inference of P from S cannot be made
without M's intermediation. The ' essence ' M is thus that
third or middle term in the reasoning which a moment ago
was pronounced essential. For his original concrete S the
reasoner substitutes its abstract property M. What is true
of M, what is coupled with M, thereupon holds true of S,
is coupled with S. As M is properly one of the parts of
the entire S, reasoning may then be very well defined as
the substitution of parts and their implications or conse-
quences for wholes. And the art of the reasoner will con-
sist of two stages:

First, sagacity, or the ability to discover what part, M,
lies embedded in the whole S which is before him ;

Second, learning, or the ability to recall promptly M's
consequences, concomitants, or implications.

If we glance at the ordinary syllogism —

M is P;

S is M;
.*. S is P

354 PSYCHOLOGY

— we see that the second or minor promise, the ' subsump-
tion ' as it is sometimes called, is the one requiring the
sagacity; the first, or major, the one requiring the fertility,
or fulness of learning. Usually the learning is more apt to
be ready than the sagacity, the ability to seize fresh aspects
in concrete things being rarer than the ability to learn old
rules; so that, in most actual cases of reasoning, the minor
premise, or the way of conceiving the subject, is the one
that makes the novel step in thought. This is, to be sure,
not always the case; for the fact that M carries P with it
may also be unfamiliar and now formulated for the first
time.

The perception that S is M is a mode of conceiving S.
The statement that M is P is an abstract or general propo-
sition. A word about both is necessary.

What is meant by a Mode of Conceiving. — When we
conceive of S merely as M (of vermilion merely as a mer-
cury-compound, for example), we neglect all the other attri-
butes which it may have, and attend exclusively to this
one. We mutilate the fulness of S's reality. Every reality
has an infinity of aspects or properties. Even so simple a
fact as a line which you trace in the air may be considered
in respect to its form, its length, its direction, and its loca-
tion. When we reach more complex facts, the number of
ways in which we may regard them is literally endless.
Vermilion is not only a mercury-compound, it is vividly
red, heavy, and expensive, it comes from China, and so on,
ad infinitum. All objects are well-springs of properties,
which are only little by little developed to our knowledge,
and it is truly said that to know one thing thoroughly
would be to know the whole universe. Mediately or im-
mediately, that one thing is related to everything else; and
to know all about it, all its relations need be known. But
each relation forms one of its attributes, one angle by
which some one may conceive it, and while so conceiving
it may ignore the rest of it. A man is such a complex
fact. But out of the complexity all that an army com-

REASONING 355

missary picks out as important for his purposes is his prop-
erty of eating so many pounds a day; the general, of
marching so many miles; the chair-maker, of having such
a shape; the orator, of responding to such and such feel-
ings; the theatre-manager, of being willing to pay just
such a price, and no more, for an evening's amusement.
Each of these persons singles out the particular sire of the
entire man which has a bearing on his concerns, and not
till this side is distinctly and separately conceived can the
proper practical conclusions for that reasoner be drawn;
and when they are drawn the man's other attributes may
be ignored.

All ways of conceiving a concrete fact, if they are true
ways at all, are equally true ways. There is no property
absolutely essential to any one thing. The same prop-
erty which figures as the essence of a thing on one occasion
becomes a very inessential feature upon another. Now
that I am writing, it is essential that I conceive my paper
as a surface for inscription. If I failed to do that, I
should have to stop my work. But if I wished to light a
fire, and no other materials were by, the essential way of
conceiving the paper would be as combustible material;
and I need then have no thought of any of its other des-
tinations. It is really all that it is: a combustible, a writ-
ing surface, a thin thing, a hydrocarbonaceous thing, a
thing eight inches one way and ten another, a thing just
one furlong east of a certain stone in my neighbor's field,
an American thing, etc., etc., ad infinitum. Whichever
one of these aspects of its being I temporarily class it
under makes me unjust to the other aspects. But as I
always am classing it under one aspect or another, I am
always unjust, always partial, always exclusive. My ex-
cuse is necessity — the necessity which my finite and prac-
tical nature lays upon me. My thinking is first and last
and always for the sake of my doing, and I can only do one
thing at a time. A God who is supposed to drive the
whole universe abreast may also be supposed, without

356 PSYCHOLOGY

detriment to his activity, to see all parts of it at once and
without emphasis. But were our human attention so to
disperse itself, we should simply stare vacantly at things at
large and forfeit our opportunity of doing any particular
act. Mr. Warner, in his Adirondack story, shot a bear by
aiming, not at his eye or heart, but ' at him generally.'
But we cannot aim ' generally ' at the universe; or if we
do, we miss our game. Our scope is narrow, and we must
attack things piecemeal, ignoring the solid fulness in which
the elements of Nature exist, and stringing one after an-
other of them together in a serial way, to suit our little
interests as they change from hour to hour. In this, the
partiality of one moment is partly atoned for by the differ-
ent sort of partiality of the next. To me now, writing
these words, emphasis and selection seem to be the essence
of the human mind. In other chapters other qualities
have seemed, and will again seem, more important parts of
psychology.

Men are so ingrainedly partial that, for common-sense
and scholasticism (which is only common-sense grown ar-
ticulate), the notion that there is no one quality genuinely,
absolutely, and exclusively essential to anything is almost
unthinkable. " A thing's essence makes it what it is.
Without an exclusive essence it would be nothing in par-
ticular, would be quite nameless, we could not say it was
this rather than that. What you write on, for example, —
why talk of its being combustible, rectangular, and the
like, when you know that these are mere accidents, and
that what it really is, and was made to be, is just paper
and nothing else? " The reader is pretty sure to make
some such comment as this. But he is himself merely
insisting on an aspect of the thing which suits his own
petty purpose, that of naming the thing; or else on an
aspect which suits the manufacturer's purpose, that of
producing an article for which there is a vulgar demand.
Meanwhile the reality overflows these purposes at every
pore. Our usual purpose with it, our commonest title for

REASONING 357

it, and the properties which this title suggests, have in
reality nothing sacramental. They characterize us more
than they characterize the thing. But we are so stuck in
our prejudices, so petrified intellectually, that to our vul-
garest names, with their suggestions, we ascribe an eternal
and exclusive worth. The thing must be, essentially,
what the vulgarest name connotes; what less usual names
connote, it can be only in an * accidental ' and relatively
unreal sense.*

Locke undermined the fallacy. But none of his suc-
cessors, sola? as I know, have radically escaped it, or seen
that the only meaning of essence is teleological, and that
classification and conception are purely teleological weap-
ons of the mind. The essence of a thing is that one of its
properties which is so important for my interests that in
comparison with it I may neglect the rest. Amongst those
other things which have this important property I class it,
after this property I name it, as a thing endowed with this
property I conceive it; and whilst so classing, naming, and
conceiving it, all other truth about it becomes to me as
naught. The properties which are important vary from
man to man and from hour to hour. Hence divers appel-
lations and conceptions for the same thing. But many
objects of daily use — as paper, ink, butter, overcoat — have
properties of such constant unwavering importance, and
have such stereotyped names, that we end by believing that
to conceive them in those ways is to conceive them in the
only true way. Those are no truer ways of conceiving

* Readers brought up on Popular Science may think that the
molecular structure of things is their real essence in an absolute
sense, and that water is H-O-H more deeply and truly than it is a
solvent of sugar or a slaker of thirst. Not a whit ! It is all of these
things with equal reality, and the only reason why for the chemist
it is H-O-H primarily, and only secondarily the other things, is
that for his purpose of laboratory analysis and synthesis, and inclu-
sion in the science which treats of compositions and decompositions,
the H-O-H aspect of it is the more important one to bear in mind.

35& PSYCHOLOGY

them than any others; they are only more frequently ser-
viceable ways to us.

Reasoning is always f or^a- subjectjye^mterest. — To
revert now to our symbolic representation of thTTeasoning
process:

M is P

S is M

S is P
M is discerned and picked out for the time being to be
the essence of the concrete fact, phenomenon, or reality, S.
But M in this world of ours is inevitably conjoined with
P; so that P is the next thing that we may expect to find
conjoined with the fact S. We may conclude or infer P,
through the intermediation of the M which our sagacity
began by discerning, when S came before it, to be the es-
sence of the case.

Now note that if P have any value or importance for us,
M was a very good character for our sagacity to pounce
upon and abstract. If, on the contrary, P were of no im-
portance! some other character than M would have been a
better essence for us to conceive of S by. Psychologically,
as a rule, P overshadows the process from the start. We
are seeking P, or something like P. But the bare totality
of S does not yield it to our gaze; and casting about for
some point in S to take hold of which will lead us to P,
we hit, if we are sagacious, upon M, because M happens to
be just the character which is knit up with P. Had we
wished Q instead of P, and were N a property of S conjoined
with Q, we ought to have ignored M, noticed N, and con-
ceived of S as a sort of N exclusively.

Reasoning is always to attain some particular conclusion,
or to gratify some special curiosity. It not only breaks
up the datum placed before it and conceives it abstractly;
it must conceive it rightly too; and conceiving it rightly
means conceiving it by that one particular abstract charac-
ter which leads to the one sort of conclusion which it is
the reasoned temporary interest to attain.

REASONING 359

The results of reasoning may be hit upon by accident.
The stereoscope was actually a result of reasoning; it is
conceivable, however, that a man playing with pictures and
mirrors might accidentally have hit upon it. Cats have
been known to open doors by pulling latches, etc. But no
cat, if the latch got out of order, could open the door again,
unless some new accident of random fumbling taught her
to associate some new total movement with the total phe-
nomenon of the closed door. A reasoning man, however,
would open the door by first analyzing the hindrance. He
would ascertain what particular feature of the door was
wrong. The lever, e.g., does not raise the latch sufficiently
from its slot — case of insufficient elevation: raise door
bodily on hinges! Or door sticks at bottom by friction
against sill: raise it bodily up! Now it is obvious that a
child or an idiot might without this reasoning learn the
rule for opening that particular door. I remember a clock
which the maid-servant had discovered would not go unless
it were supported so as to tilt slightly forwards. She had
stumbled on this method after many weeks of groping.
The reason of the stoppage was the friction of the pendu-
lum-bob against the back of the clock-case, a reason which
an educated man would have analyzed out in five minutes.
I have a student's lamp of which the flame vibrates most
unpleasantly unless the chimney be raised about a sixteenth
of an inch. I learned the remedy after much torment by
accident, and now always keep the chimney up with a small
wedge. But my procedure is a mere association of two
totals, diseased object and remedy. One learned in pneu-
matics could have abstracted the cause of the disease, and
thence inferred the remedy immediately. By many meas-
urements of triangles one might find their area always
equal to their height multiplied by half their base, and one
might formulate an empirical law to that effect. But a
reasoner saves himself all this trouble by seeing that it is
the essence {pro hac vice) of a triangle to be the half of a
parallelogram whose area is the height into the entire base.

360 PSYCHOLOGY

To see this he must invent additional lines; and the geom-
eter must often draw such to get at the essential property
he may require in a figure. The essence consists in some
relation of the figure to the new lines, a relation not obvious
at all until they are put in. The geometer's genius lies in
the imagining of the new lines, and his sagacity in the per-
ceiving of the relation.

Thus, there are two great points in reasoning. First,
an extracted character is taken as equivalent to the entire
datum from which it comes; and,

Second, the character thus taken suggests a certain conse-
quence more obviously than it was suggested by the total
datum from which it comes; and, Take these points again,
successively.

i ) Suppose I say, when offered a piece of cloth, " I won't
buy that; it looks as if it would fade," meaning merely
that something about it suggests the idea of fading to my
mind, — my judgment, though possibly correct, is not rea-
soned, but purely empirical; but if I can say that into the
color there enters a certain dye which I know to be chemi-
cally unstable, and that therefore the color will fade, my
judgment is reasoned. The notion of the dye, which is one
of the parts of the cloth, is the connecting link between
the latter and the notion of fading. So, again, an unedu-
cated man will expect from past experience to see a piece
of ice melt if placed near the fire, and the tip of his finger
look coarse if he view it through a convex glass. In
neither of these cases could the result be anticipated with-
out full previous acquaintance with the entire phenomenon.
It is not a result of reasoning.

But a man who should conceive heat as a mode of
motion, and liquefaction as identical with increased motion
of molecules; who should know that curved surfaces bend
light-rays in special ways, and that the apparent size of
anything is connected with the amount of the ' bend ' of its
light-rays as they enter the eye, — such a man would make
the right inferences for all these objects, even though he

REASONING 361

had never in his life had any concrete experience of them:
and he would do this because the ideas which we have
above supposed him to possess would mediate in his mind
between the phenomena he starts with and the conclusions
he draws. But these ideas are all mere extracted portions
or circumstances. The motions which form heat, the bend-
ing of the light-waves, are, it is true, excessively recondite
ingredients; the hidden pendulum I spoke of above is less
so; and the sticking of a door on its sill in the earlier ex-
ample would hardly be so at all. But each and all agree
in this, that they bear a more evident relation to the con-
clusion than did the facts in their immediate totality.

2) And now to prove the second point: Why are the
couplings, consequences, and implications of extracts more
evident and obvious than those of entire phenomena? For
two reasons.

First, the extracted characters are more general than the
concretes, and the connections they may have are, there-
fore, more familiar to us, having been more often met in
our experience. Think of heat as motion, and whatever is
true of motion will be true of heat; but we have had a
hundred experiences of motion for every one of heat.
Think of the rays passing through this lens as bending
towards the perpendicular, and you substitute for the com-
paratively unfamiliar lens the very familiar notion of a
particular change in direction of a line, of which notion
every day brings us countless examples.

The other reason why the relations of the extracted
characters are so evident is that their properties are so
few, compared with the properties of the whole, from
which we derived them. In every concrete fact the char-
acters and their consequences are so inexhaustibly numer-
ous that we may lose our way among them before noticing
the particular consequence it behooves us to draw. But,
if we are lucky enough to single out the proper character,
we take in, as it were, by a single glance all its possible

362 PSYCHOLOGY

consequences. Thus the character of scraping the sill has
very few suggestions, prominent among which is the sug-
gestion that the scraping will cease if we raise the door;
whilst the entire refractory door suggests an enormous
number of notions to the mind. Such examples may seem
trivial, but they contain the essence of the most refined
and transcendental theorizing. The reason why physics
grows more deductive the more the fundamental proper-
ties it assumes are of a mathematical sort, such as molecu-
lar mass or wave-length, is that the immediate consequences
of these notions are so few that we can survey them all at
once, and promptly pick out those which concern us.

Sagacity. — To reason, then, we must be able to extract
characters, — not any characters, but the right characters
for our conclusion. If we extract the wrong character, it
will not lead to that conclusion. Here, then, is the diffi-
culty: How are characters extracted, and why does it re-
quire the advent of a genius in many cases before the fitting
character is brought to light? Why cannot anybody rea-
son as well as anybody else? Why does it need a Newton
to notice the law of the squares, a Darwin to notice the
survival of the fittest? To answer these questions we must
begin a new research, and see how our insight into facts
naturally grows.

All our knowledge at first is vague. When we say that
a thing is vague, we mean that it has no subdivisions a b
intra, nor precise limitations ab extra; but still all the
forms of thought may apply to it. It may have unity,
reality, externality, extent, and what not — thinghood, in
a word, but thinghood only as a whole. In this vague
way, probably, does the room appear to the babe who first
begins to be conscious of it as something other than his
moving nurse. It has no subdivisions in his mind, un-
less, perhaps, the window is able to attract his separate
notice. In this vague way, certainly, does every entirely
new experience appear to the adult. A library, a museum,
a machine-shop, are mere confused wholes to the unin-

REASONING 363

structed, but the machinist, the antiquary, and the book-
worm perhaps hardly notice the whole at all, so eager are
they to pounce upon the details. Familiarity has in them
bred discrimination. Such vague terms as ' grass,' ' mould/
and ' meat ' do not exist for the botanist or the anatomist.
They know too much about grasses, moulds, and muscles.
A certain person said to Charles Kingsley, who was show-
ing him the dissection of a caterpillar, with its exquisite
viscera, " Why, I thought it was nothing but skin and
squash! " A layman present at a shipwreck, a battle, or a
fire is helpless. Discrimination has been so little awak-
ened in him by experience that his consciousness leaves no
single point of the complex situation accented and stand-
ing out for him to begin to act upon. But the sailor, the
fireman, and the general know directly at what corner to
take up the business. They ' see into the situation • — that
is, they analyze it — with their first glance. It is full of
delicately differenced ingredients which their education
has little by little brought to their consciousness, but of
which the novice gains no clear idea.

How this power of analysis was brought about we saw in
our chapters on Discrimination and Attention. We dis-
sociate the elements of originally vague totals by attending
to them or noticing them alternately, of course. But what
determines which element we shall attend to first? There
are two immediate and obvious answers: first, our practical
or instinctive interests; and second, our aesthetic interests.
The dog singles out of any situation its smells, and the
horse its sounds, because they may reveal facts of practical
moment, and are instinctively exciting to these several
creatures. The infant notices the candle-flame or the win-
dow, and ignores the rest of the room, because those objects
give him a vivid pleasure. So, the country boy dissociates
the blackberry, the chestnut, and the wintergreen, from
the vague mass of other shrubs and trees, for their practi-
cal uses, and the savage is delighted with the beads, the
bits of looking-glass, brought by an exploring vessel, and

364 PSYCHOLOGY

gives no heed to the features of the vessel itself, which is
too much beyond his sphere. These aesthetic and practical
interests, then, are the weightiest factors in making partic-
ular ingredients stand out in high relief. What they lay
their accent on, that we notice ; but what they are in them-
selves we cannot say. We must content ourselves here
with simply accepting them as irreducible ultimate factors
in determining the way our knowledge grows.

Now, a creature which has few instinctive impulses, or
interests practical or aesthetic, will dissociate few charac-
ters, and will, at best, have limited reasoning powers;
whilst one whose interests are very varied will reason
much better. Man, by his immensely varied instincts,
practical wants, and aesthetic feelings, to which every sense
contributes, would, by dint of these alone, be sure to dis-
sociate vastly more characters than any other animal; and
accordingly we find that the lowest savages reason incom-
parably better than the highest brutes. The diverse in-
terests lead, too, to a diversification of experiences, whose
accumulation becomes a condition for the play of that law
of dissociation of varying concomitants of which I treated
on p. 251.

The Help given by Association by Similarity. — It is
probable, also, that man's superior association by similar-
ity has much to do with those discriminations of character
on which his higher flights of reasoning are based. As
this latter is an important matter, and as little or nothing
was said of it in the chapter on Discrimination, it behooves
me to dwell a little upon it here.

What does the reader do when he wishes to see in what
the precise likeness or difference of two objects lies? He
transfers his attention as rapidly as possible, backwards
and forwards, from one to the other. The rapid alteration
of consciousness shakes out, as it were, the points of dif-
ference or agreement, which would have slumbered forever
unnoticed if the consciousness of the objects compared had
occurred at widely distant periods of time. What does

REASONING 365

the scientific man do who searches for the reason or law
embedded in a phenomenon? He deliberately accumu-
lates all the instances he can find which have any analogy
to that phenomenon; and, by simultaneously filling his
mind with them all, he frequently succeeds in detaching
from the collection the peculiarity which he was unable
to formulate in one alone; even though that one had been
preceded in his former experience by all of those with
which he now at once confronts it. These examples show
that the mere general fact of having occurred at some time
in one's experience, with varying concomitants, is not by
itself a sufficient reason for a character to be dissociated
now. We need something more; we need that the varying
concomitants should in all their variety be brought into
consciousness at once. Not till then will the character in
question escape from its adhesion to each and all of them
and stand alone. This will immediately be recognized by
those who have read Mill's Logic as the ground of Utility
in his famous ' four methods of experimental inquiry,' the
methods of agreement, of difference, of residues, and of
concomitant variations. Each of these gives a list of
analogous instances out of the midst of which a sought-
for character may roll and strike the mind.

Now it is obvious that any mind in which association by
similarity is highly developed is a mind which will spon-
taneously form lists of instances like this. Take a present
fact A, with a character m in it. The mind may fail at first
to notice this character m at all. But if A calls up C, D,
E, and F, — these being phenomena which resemble A in
possessing m, but which may not have entered for months
into the experience of the animal who now experiences A,
why, plainly, such association performs the part of the
reader's deliberately rapid comparison referred to above,
and of the systematic consideration of like cases by the
scientific investigator, and may lead to the noticing of m
in an abstract way. Certainly this is obvious; and no
conclusion is left to us but to assert that, after the few

366 PSYCHOLOGY

most powerful practical and aesthetic interests, our chief
help towards noticing those special characters of phenom-
ena which, when once possessed and named, are used as
reasons, class names, essences, or middle terms, is this
association by similarity. Without it, indeed, the delib-
erate procedure of the scientific man would be impossible:
he could never collect his analogous instances. But it
operates of itself in highly-gifted minds without any delib-
eration, spontaneously collecting analogous instances, unit-
ing in a moment what in nature the whole breadth of space
and time keeps separate, and so permitting a perception of
identical points in the midst of different circumstances,
which minds governed wholly by the law of contiguity
could never begin to attain.

Fig. 66.

Figure 66 shows this. If m, in the present representa-
tion A, calls up B, C, D, and E, which are similar to A in
possessing it, and calls them up in rapid succession, then
m, being associated almost simultaneously with such vary-
ing concomitants, will ' roll out ' and attract our separate
notice.

REASONING 367

If so much is clear to the reader, he will be willing to
admit that the mind in which this mode of association most
prevails will, from its better opportunity of extricating
characters, be the one most prone to reasoned thinking;
whilst, on the other hand, a mind in which we do not
detect reasoned thinking will probably be one in which
association by contiguity holds almost exclusive sway.

Geniuses are, by common consent, considered to differ
from ordinary minds by an unusual development of associ-
ation by similarity. One of Professor Bain's best strokes
of work is the exhibition of this truth. It applies to
geniuses in the line of reasoning as well as in other lines.

The Reasoning Powers of Brutes. — As the genius is to
the vulgarian, so the vulgar human mind is to the intelli- '
gence of a brute. Compared with men, it is probable that
brutes neither attend to abstract characters, nor have asso-
ciations by similarity. Their thoughts probably pass from
one concrete object to its habitual concrete successor far
more uniformly than is the case with us. In other words,
their associations of ideas are almost exclusively by con-
tiguity. So far, however, as any brute might think by
abstract characters insead of by the association of con-
cretes, he would have to be admitted to be a reasoner in
the true human sense. How far this may take place is
quite uncertain. Certain it is that the more intelligent
brutes obey abstract characters, whether they mentally single
them out as such or not. They act upon things according
to. their class. This involves some sort of emphasizing, if
not abstracting, of the class-essence by the animal's mind.
A concrete individual with none of his characters empha-
sized is one thing; a sharply conceived attribute marked
off from everything else by a name is another. But be-
tween no analysis of a concrete, and complete analysis; no
abstraction of an embedded character, and complete abstrac-
tion, every possible intermediary grade must lie. And
some of these grades ought to have names, for they are
certainly represented in the mind. Dr. Romanes has pro-

368 PSYCHOLOGY

posed the name recept, and Prof. Lloyd Morgan the name
construct, for the idea of a vaguely abstracted and gener-
alized object-class. A definite abstraction is called an
isolate by the latter author. Neither construct nor recept
seems to me a felicitous word; but poor as both are, they
form a distinct addition to psychology, so I give them
here. Would such a word as influent sound better than
recept in the following passage from Romanes?

" Water-fowl adopt a somewhat different mode of alight-
ing upon land, or even upon ice, from that which they
adopt when alighting upon water; and those kinds which
dive from a height (such as terns and gannets) never do
so upon land or upon ice. These facts prove that the
animals have one recept answering to a solid surface,
and another answering to a fluid. Similarly a man will
not dive from a height over hard ground or over ice,
nor will he jump into water in the same way as he jumps
upon dry land. In other words, like the water-fowl he has
two distinct recepts, one of which answers to solid ground,
and the other to an unresisting fluid. But unlike the
water-fowl he is able to bestow upon each of these recepts
a name, and thus to raise them both to the level of con-
cepts. So far as the practical purposes of locomotion are
concerned, it is of course immaterial whether or not he
thus raises his recepts into concepts; but ... for many
other purposes it is of the highest importance that he is
able to do this." *

A certain well-bred retriever of whom I know never bit
his birds. But one day having to bring two birds at once,
which, though unable to fly, were ' alive and kicking,' he
deliberately gave one a bite which killed it, took the other
one still alive to his master, and then returned for the first.
It is impossible not to believe that some such abstract
thoughts as l alive — get away — must kill/ . . . etc., passed in
rapid succession through this dog's mind, whatever the

* Mental Evolution in Man, p. 74.

REASONING 369

sensible imagery may have been with which they were
blended. Such practical obedience to the special aspects
of things which may be important involves the essence of
reasoning. But the characters whose presence impress
brutes are very few, being only those which are directly
connected with their most instinctive interests. They
never extract characters for the mere fun of the thing, as
men do. One is tempted to explain this as the result in
them of an almost entire absence of such association by
similarity as characterizes the human mind. A thing
may remind a brute of its full similars, but not of things to
which it is but slightly similar; and all that dissociation
by varying concomitants, which in man is based so largely
on association by similarity, hardly seems to take place at
all in the infra-human mind. One total object suggests
another total object, and the lower mammals find them-
selves acting with propriety, they know not why. The
great, the fundamental, defect of their minds seems to be
the inability of their groups of ideas to break across in
unaccustomed places. They are enslaved to routine, to
cut-and-dried thinking; and if the most prosaic of human
beings could be transported into his dog's soul, he would
be appalled at the utter absence of fancy which there
reins. Thoughts would not be found to call up their simi-
lars, but only their habitual successors. Sunsets would
not suggest heroes' deaths, but supper-time. This is why
man is the only metaphysical animal. To wonder why
the universe should be as it is presupposes the notion of
its being different, and a brute, who never reduces the
actual to fluidity by breaking up its literal sequences in
his imagination, can never form such a notion. He takes
the world simply for granted, and never wonders at it at
all.

fr*

CHAPTER XXIII

CONSCIOUSNESS AND MOVEMENT

All consciousness is motor. The reader will not have
orgotten, in the jungle "iSf^purely inward processes and
products through which the last chapters have borne him,
that the final result of them all must be some form of
bodily activity due to the escape of the central excitement
through outgoing nerves. The whole neural organism, it
will be remembered, is, physiologically considered, but a
machine for converting stimuli into reactions; and the
intellectual part of our life is knit up with but the middle
or ' central ' part of the machine's operations. We now
go on to consider the final or emergent operations, the
bodily activities, and the forms of consciousness consequent
thereupon.

Every impression which impinges on the incoming
nerves produces some discharge down the outgoing ones,
whether we be aware of it or not. Using sweeping terms
and ignoring exceptions, we might say that every possible
feeling produces a movement, and that the movement is a
movement of the entire organism, and of each and all its
parts. What happens patently when an explosion or a
flash of lightning startles us, or when we are tickled, hap-
pens latently with every sensation which we receive. The
only reason why we do not feel the startle or tickle in the
case of insignificant sensations is partly its very small
amount, partly our obtuseness. Professor Bain many years
ago gave the name of the Law of Diffusion to this phe-
nomenon of general discharge, and expressed it thus:
" According as an impression is accompanied with Feeling,
the aroused currents diffuse themselves over the brain

370

CONSCIOUSNESS AND MOVEMENT 3 7 1

leading to a general agitation of the moving organs, as
well as affecting the viscera."

There are probably no exceptions to the diffusion of
every impression through the nerve-centres. The effect of
a new wave through the centres may, however, often be to
interfere with processes already going on there; and the
outward consequence of such interference may be the
checking of bodily activities in process of occurrence.
When this happens it probably is like the siphoning of
certain channels by currents flowing through others; as
when, in walking, we suddenly stand still because a
sound, sight, smell, or thought catches our attention.
But there are cases of arrest of peripheral activity which
depend, not on inhibition of centres, but on stimulation of
centres which discharge outgoing currents of an inhibi-
tory sort. Whenever we are startled, for example, our
heart momentarily stops or slows its beating, and then
palpitates with accelerated speed. The brief arrest is due
to an outgoing current down the pneumogastric nerve.
This nerve, when stimulated, stops or slows the heart-
beats, and this particular effect of startling fails to occur
if the nerve be cut.

In general, however, the stimulating effects of a sense-
impression preponderate over the inhibiting effects, so that
we may roughly say, as we began by saying, that the wave
of discharge produces an activity in all parts of the body.
The task of tracing out. all the effects of any one incoming
sensation has not yet been performed by physiologists.
Recent years have, however, begun to enlarge our informa-
tion; and we have now experimental proof that the heart-
beats, the arterial pressure, the respiration, the sweat-
glands, the pupil, the bladder, bowels, and uterus, as well
as the voluntary muscles, may have their tone and degree
of contraction altered even by the most insignificant sen-
sorial stimuli. In short, a process set up anywhere in the
centres reverberates everywhere, and in some way or other
affects the organism throughout, making its activities

372 PSYCHOLOGY

either greater or less. It is as if the nerve-central mass
were like a good conductor charged with electricity, of
which the tension cannot be changed at all without chang-
ing it everywhere at once.

Herr Schneider has tried to show, by an ingenious zoo-
logical review, that all the special movements which highly
evolved animals make are differentiated from the two
originally simple movements of contraction and expan-
sion in which the entire body of simple organisms takes
part. The tendency to contract is the source of all the
self-protective impulses and reactions which are later de-
veloped, including that of flight. The tendency to expand
splits up, on the contrary, into the impulses and instincts
of an aggressive kind, feeding, fighting, sexual intercourse,
etc. I cite this as a sort of evolutionary reason to all to
the mechanical a priori reason why there ought to be the
diffusive wave which a posteriori instances show to exist.

I shall now proceed to a detailed study of the more
important classes of movement consequent upon cerebro-
mental change. They may be enumerated as —
i) Expressions of Emotion;

2) Instinctive or Impulsive Performances; and

3) Voluntary Deeds;

and each shall have a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER XXIV
EMOTION

Emotions compared with Instincts. — An emotion is a
tendency to feel, and an instinct is a tendency to act, char-
acteristically, when in presence of a certain object in the
environment. But the emotions also have their bodily
' expression/ which may involve strong muscular activity
(as in fear or anger, for example) ; and it becomes a little
hard in many cases to separate the description of the
1 emotional ' condition from that of the ' instinctive ' reac-
tion which one and the same object may provoke. Shall
fear be described in the chapter on Instincts or in that on
Emotions? Where shall one describe curiosity, emulation,
and the like? The answer is quite arbitrary from the
scientific point of view, and practical convenience may de-
cide. As inner mental conditions, emotions are quite in-
describable. Description, moreover, would be superfluous,
for the reader knows already how they feel. Their rela-
tions to the objects which prompt them and to the reac-
tions which they provoke are all that one can put down in
a book.

Every object that excites an instinct excites an emotion as
well. The only distinction one may draw is that the reaction
called emotional terminates in the subject's own body,
whilst the reaction called instinctive is apt to go farther
and enter into practical relations with the exciting object.
In both instinct and emotion the mere memory or imagina-
tion of the object may suffice to liberate the excitement.
One may even get angrier in thinking over one's insult
than one was in receiving it; and melt more over a mother
who is dead than one ever did when she was living. In

373

374 PSYCHOLOGY

the rest of the chapter I shall use the word object of emo-
tion indifferently to mean one which is physically present
or one which is merely thought of.

The varieties of emotion are innumerable. Anger,
fear, love, hate, joy, grief, shame, pride, and their varieties,
may be called the coarser emotions, being coupled as they are
with relatively strong bodily reverberations. The subtler
emotions are the moral, intellectual, and aesthetic feelings,
and their bodily reaction is usually much less strong. The
mere description of the objects, circumstances, and varie-
ties of the different species of emotion may go to any
length. Their internal shadings merge endlessly into each
other, and have been partly commemorated in language,
as, for example, by such synonyms as hatred, antipathy,
animosity, resentment, dislike, aversion, malice, spite, re-
venge, abhorrence, etc., etc. Dictionaries of synonyms
have discriminated them, as well as text-books of psychol-
ogy— in fact, many German psychological text-books are
nothing but dictionaries of synonyms when it comes to the
chapter on Emotion. But there are limits to the profitable
elaboration of the obvious, and the result of all this flux is
that the merely descriptive literature of the subject, from
Descartes downwards, is one of the most tedious parts of
psychology. And not only is it tedious, but you feel that
its subdivisions are to a great extent either fictitious or
unimportant, and that its pretences to accuracy are a
sham. But unfortunately there is little psychological
writing about the emotions which is not merely descriptive.
As emotions are described in novels, they interest us, for
we are made to share them. We have grown acquainted
with the concrete objects and emergencies which call them
forth, and any knowing touch of introspection which may
grace the page meets with a quick and feeling response.
Confessedly literary works of aphoristic philosophy also
flash lights into our emotional life, and give us a fitful
delight. But as far as the ' scientific psychology ' of the
emotions goes, I may have been surfeited by too much

EMOTION 375

reading of classic works on the subject, but I should as
lief read verbal descriptions of the shapes of the rocks on
a New Hampshire farm as toil through them again. They
give one nowhere a central point of view, or a deductive
or generative principle. They distinguish and refine and
specify in infinitum without ever getting on to another
logical level. Whereas the beauty of all truly scientific
work is to get to ever deeper levels. Is there no way out
from this level of individual description in the case of the
emotions? I believe there is a way out, if one will only
take it.

The Cause of their Varieties. — The trouble with the
emotions in psychology is that they are regarded too much
as absolutely individual things. So long as they are set
down as so many eternal and sacred psychic entities, like
the old immutable species in natural history, so long all
that can be done with them is reverently to catalogue their
separate characters, points, and effects. But if we regard
them as products of more general causes (as ' species ' are
now regarded as products of heredity and variation), the
mere distinguishing and cataloguing becomes of subsidiary
importance. Having the goose which lays the golden
eggs, the description of each egg already laid is a minor
matter. I will devote the next few pages to setting forth
one very general cause of our emotional feeling, limiting
myself in the first instance to what may be called the
coarser emotions.

The feeling, in the coarser emotions, results from the
bodily expression. Our natural way of thinking about
these coarser emotions is that the mental perception of
some fact excites the mental affection called the emotion,
and that this latter state of mind gives rise to the bodily
expression. My theory, on the contrary, is that the bodily
changes follow directly the perception of the exciting fact,
and that our feeling of the same changes as they occur is
the emotion. Common-sense says, we lose our fortune, are
sorry and weep, we meet a bear, are frightened and run;

376 PSYCHOLOGY

we are insulted by a rival, are angry and strike. The
hypothesis here to be defended says that this order of
sequence is incorrect, that the one mental state is not
immediately induced by the other, that the bodily mani-
festations must first be interposed between, and that the
more rational statement is that we feel sorry because we
cry, angry because we strike, afraid because we tremble,
and not that we cry, strike, or tremble because we are
sorry, angry, or fearful, as the case may be. Without the
bodily states following on the perception, the latter would
be purely cognitive in form, pale, colorless, destitute of
emotional warmth. We might then see the bear and
judge it best to run, receive the insult and deem it right
to strike, but we should not actually feel afraid or angry.

Stated in this crude way, the hypothesis is pretty sure
to meet with immediate disbelief. And yet neither many
nor far-fetched considerations are required to mitigate its
paradoxical character, and possibly to produce conviction
of its truth.

To begin with, particular perceptions certainly do pro-
duce wide-spread bodily effects by a sort of immediate
physical influence, antecedent to the arousal of an emotion
or emotional idea. In listening to poetry, drama, or heroic
narrative we are often surprised at the cutaneous shiver
which like a sudden wave flows over us, and at the heart-
swelling and the lachrymal effusion that unexpectedly
catch us at intervals. In hearing music the same is even
more strikingly true. If we abruptly see a dark moving
form in the woods, our heart stops beating, and we catch
our breath instantly and before any particular idea of dan-
ger can arise. If our friend goes near to the edge of a preci-
pice, we get the well-known feeling of ' all-overishness/ and
we shrink back, although we positively know him to be safe,
and have no distinct imagination of his fall. The writer
well remembers his astonishment, when a boy of seven or
eight, at fainting when he saw a horse bled. The blood
was in a bucket, with a stick in it, and, if memory does not

EMOTION 377

deceive him, he stirred it round and saw it drip from the
stick with no feeling save that of childish curiosity. Sud-
denly the world grew black before his eyes, his ears began
to buzz, and he knew no more. He had never heard of the
sight of blood producing faintness or sickness, and he had
so little repugnance to it, and so little apprehension of any
other sort of danger from it, that even at that tender age,
as he well remembers, he could not help wondering how
the mere physical presence of a pailful of crimson fluid
could occasion in him such formidable bodily effects.

The best proof that the immediate cause of emotion is
a physical effect on the nerves is furnished by those patho-
logical cases in which the emotion is objectless. One of the
chief merits, in fact, of the view which I propose seems
to be that we can so easily formulate by its means patho-
logical cases and normal cases under a common scheme.
In every asylum we find examples of absolutely unmotived
fear, anger, melancholy, or conceit; and others of an
equally unmotived apathy which persists in spite of the
best of outward reasons why it should give way. In the
former cases we must suppose the nervous machinery to
be so ' labile 9 in some one emotional direction that almost
every stimulus (however inappropriate) causes it to upset
in that way, and to engender the particular complex of
feelings of which the psychic body of the emotion consists.
Thus, to take one special instance, if inability to draw deep
breath, fluttering of the heart, and that peculiar epigastric
change felt as ' precordial anxiety,' with an irresistible
tendency to take a somewhat crouching attitude and to
sit still, and with perhaps other visceral processes not now
known, all spontaneously occur together in a certain per-
son, his feeling of their combination is the emotion of
dread, and he is the victim of what is known as morbid
fear. A friend who has had occasional attacks of this most
distressing of all maladies tells me that in his case the
whole drama seems to centre about the region of the heart
and respiratory apparatus, that his main effort during the

378 PSYCHOLOGY

attacks is to get control of his inspirations and to slow his
heart, and that the moment he attains to breathing deeply
and to holding himself erect, the dread, ipso facto, seems
to depart.

The emotion here is nothing but the feeling of a bodily
state, and it has a purely bodily cause.

The next thing to be noticed is this, that every one of
the bodily changes, whatsoever it be, is felt, acutely or
obscurely, the moment it occurs. If the reader has never
paid attention to this matter, he will be both interested
and astonished to learn how many different local bodily
feelings he can detect in himself as characteristic of his
various emotional moods. It would be perhaps too much
to expect him to arrest the tide of any strong gust of pas-
sion for the sake of any such curious analysis as this; but
he can observe more tranquil states, and that may be as-
sumed here to be true of the greater which is shown to be
true of the less. Our whole cubic capacity is sensibly
alive; and each morsel* of it contributes its pulsations of
feeling, dim or sharp, pleasant, painful, or dubious, to that
sense of personality that every one of us unfailingly carries
with him. It is surprising what little items give accent to
these complexes of sensibility. When worried by any
slight trouble, one may find that the focus of one's bodily
consciousness is the contraction, often quite inconsiderable,
of the eyes and brows. When momentarily embarrassed,
it is something in the pharynx that compels either a swal-
low, a clearing of the throat, or a slight cough; and so on
for as many more instances as might be named. The vari-
ous permutations of which these organic changes are sus-
ceptible make it abstractly possible that no shade of
emotion should be without a bodily reverberation as
unique, when taken in its totality, as is the mental mood
itself. The immense number of parts modified is what
makes it so difficult for us to reproduce in cold blood the
total and integral expression of any one emotion. We
may catch the trick with the voluntary muscles, but fail

EMOTION 379

with the skin, glands, heart, and other viscera. Just as an
artificially imitated sneeze lacks something of the reality,
so the attempt to imitate grief or enthusiasm in the
absence of its normal instigating cause is apt to be rather
■ hollow.'

I now proceed to urge the vital point of my whole
theory, which is this: // we fancy some strong emotion,
and then try to abstract from our consciousness of it all
the feelings of its bodily symptoms, we find we have noth-
ing left behind, no ' mind-stuff ' out of which the emotion
can be constituted, and that a cold and neutral state of in-
tellectual perception is all that remains. It is true that>
although most people, when asked, say that their introspec-
tion verifies this statement, some persist in saying theirs
does not. Many cannot be made to understand the ques-
tion. When you beg them to imagine away every feeling
of laughter and of tendency to laugh from their conscious-
ness of the ludicrousness of an object, and then to tell you
what the feeling of its ludicrousness would be like, whether
it be anything more than the perception that the object
belongs to the class ' funny,' they persist in replying that
the thing proposed is a physical impossibility, and that
they always must laugh if they see a funny object. Of
course the task proposed is not the practical one of seeing
a ludicrous object and annihilating one's tendency to laugh.
It is the purely speculative one of subtracting certain ele-
ments of feeling from an emotional state supposed to exist
in its fulness, and saying what the residual elements are.
I cannot help thinking that all who rightly apprehend
this problem will agree with the proposition above laid
down. What kind of an emotion of fear would be left if
the feeling neither of quickened heart-beats nor of shallow
breathing, neither of trembling lips nor of weakened limbs,
neither of goose-flesh nor of visceral stirrings, were pres-
ent, it is quite impossible for me to think. Can one fancy
the state of rage and picture no ebullition in the chest, no
flushing of the face, no dilation of the nostrils, no clench-

380 PSYCHOLOGY

ing of the teeth, no impulse to vigorous action, but in their
stead limp muscles, calm breathing, and a placid face?
The present writer, for one, certainly cannot. The rage is
as completely evaporated as the sensation of its so-called
manifestations, and the only thing that can possibly be
supposed to take its place is some cold-blooded and dis-
passionate judicial sentence, confined entirely to the intel-
lectual realm, to the effect that a certain person or persons
merit chastisement for their sins. In like manner of grief:
what would it be without its tears, its sobs, its suffocation
of the heart, its pang in the breast-bone? A feelingless
cognition that certain circumstances are deplorable, and
nothing more. Every passion in turn tells the same story.
A disembodied human emotion is a sheer nonentity. I
do not say that it is a contradiction in the nature of things,
or that pure spirits are necessarily condemned to cold in-
tellectual lives; but I say that for us emotion dissociated
from all bodily feeling is inconceivable. The more closely
I scrutinize my states, the more persuaded I become that
whatever ' coarse ' affections and passions I have are in very
truth constituted by, and made up of, those bodily changes
which we ordinarily call their expression or consequence;
and the more it seems to me that, if I were to become cor-
poreally anaesthetic, I should be excluded from the life of
the affections, harsh and tender alike, and drag out an ex-
istence of merely cognitive or intellectual form. Such an
existence, although it seems to have been the ideal of an-
cient sages, is too apathetic to be keenly sought after by
those born after the revival of the worship of sensibility, a
few generations ago.

Let not this view be called materialistic. It is neither
more nor less materialistic than any other view which says
that our emotions are conditioned by nervous processes.
No reader of this book is likely to rebel against such a
saying so long as it is expressed in general terms; and if
any one still finds materialism in the thesis now defended,
that must be because of the special processes invoked.

EMOTION 381

They are sensational processes, processes due to inward
currents set up by physical happenings. Such processes
have, it is true, always been regarded by the platonizers in
psychology as having something peculiarly base about
them. But our emotions must always be inwardly what
they are, whatever be the physiological ground of their
apparition. If they are deep, pure, worthy, spiritual facts
on any conceivable theory of their physiological source,
they remain no less deep, pure, spiritual, and worthy of
regard on this present sensational » theory. They carry
their own inner measure of worth with them; and it is
just as logical to use the present theory of the emotions for
proving that sensational processes need not be vile and
material, as to use their vileness and materiality as a proof
that such a theory cannot be true.

This view explains the great variability of emotion.
If such a theory is true, then each emotion is the resultant
of a sum of elements, and each element is caused by a
physiological process of a sort already well known. The
elements are all organic changes, and each of them is the
reflex effect of the exciting object. Definite questions
now immediately arise — questions very different from those
which were the only possible ones without this view.
Those were questions of classification: " Which are the
proper genera of emotion, and which the species under
each?" — or of description: " By what expression is each
emotion characterized?" The questions now are causal:
Just what changes does this object and what changes does
that object excite?" and " How come they to excite these
particular changes and not others?" We step from a su-
perficial to a deep order of inquiry. Classification and
description are the lowest stage of science. They sink into
the background the moment questions of causation are
formulated, and remain important only so far as they facil-
itate our answering these. Now the moment an emotion
is causally accounted for, as the arousal by an object of a
lot of reflex acts which are forthwith felt, we immediately

382 PSYCHOLOGY

see why there is no limit to the number of possible different
emotions which may exist, and why the emotions of differ-
ent individuals may vary indefinitely, both as to their
constitution and as to the objects which call them forth.
For there is nothing sacramental or eternally fixed in re-
flex action. Any sort of reflex effect is possible, and re-
flexes actually vary indefinitely, as we know.

In short, any classification of the emotions is seen to be
as true and as ' natural ' as any other, if it only serves
some purpose; and such a question as " What is the ' real '
or ' typical ' expression of anger, or fear? " is seen to have
no objective meaning at all. Instead of it we now have
the question as to how any given ' expression ' of anger or
fear may have come to exist ; and that is a real question of
physiological mechanics on the one hand, and of history
on the other, which (like all real questions) is in essence
answerable, although the answer may be hard to find. On
a later page I shall mention the attempts to answer it
which have been made.

A Corollary verified. — If our theory be true, a neces-
sary corollary of it ought to be this: that any voluntary and
cold-blooded arousal of the so-called manifestations of a
special emotion should give us the emotion itself. Now
within the limits in which it can be verified, experience
corroborates rather than disproves this inference. Every-
one knows how panic is increased by flight, and how the
giving way to the symptoms of grief or anger increases
those passions themselves. Each fit of sobbing makes the
sorrow more acute, and calls forth another fit stronger
still, until at last repose only ensues with lassitude and
with the apparent exhaustion of the machinery. In rage,
it is notorious how we ' work ourselves up ' to a climax by
repeated outbreaks of expression. Refuse to express a
passion, and it dies. Count ten before venting your anger,
and its occasion seems ridiculous. Whistling to keep up
courage is no mere figure of speech. On the other hand,
sit all day in a moping posture, sigh, and reply to every-

EMOTION 383

thing with a dismal voice, and your melancholy lingers.
There is no more valuable precept in moral education than
this, as all who have experience know: if we wish to con-
quer undesirable emotional tendencies in ourselves, we
must assiduously, and in the first instance cold-bloodedly,
go through the outward movements of those contrary dis-
positions which we prefer to cultivate. The reward of
persistency will infallibly come, in the fading out of the
sullenness or depression, and the advent of real cheerful-
ness and kindliness in their stead. Smooth the brow,
brighten the eye, contract the dorsal rather than the ven-
tral aspect of the frame, and speak in a major key, pass
the genial compliment, and your heart must be frigid
indeed if it do not gradually thaw!

Against this it is to be said that many actors who per-
fectly mimic the outward appearances of emotion in face,
gait, and voice declare that they feel no emotion at all.
Others, however, according to Mr. Wm. Archer, who has
made a very instructive statistical inquiry among them, say
that the emotion of the part masters them whenever they
play it well. The explanation for the discrepancy amongst
actors is probably simple. The visceral and organic part
of the expression can be suppressed in some men, but not
in others, and on this it must be that the chief part of the
felt emotion depends. Those actors who feel the emotion
are probably unable, those who are inwardly cold are
probably able, to affect the dissociation in a complete way.

An Objection replied to. — It may be objected to the
general theory which I maintain that stopping the ex-
pression of an emotion often makes it worse. The funni-
ness becomes quite excruciating when we are forbidden by
the situation to laugh, and anger pent in by fear turns
into tenfold hate. Expressing either emotion freely, how-
ever, gives relief.

This objection is more specious than real. During the
expression the emotion is always felt. After it, the cen-
tres having normally discharged themselves, we feel it no

384 PSYCHOLOGY

more. But where the facial part of the discharge is sup-
pressed the thoracic and visceral may be all the more
violent and persistent, as in suppressed laughter; or the
original emotion may be changed, by the combination of
the provoking object with the restraining pressure, into
another emotion altogether, in which different and possibly
profounder organic disturbance occurs. If I would kill
my enemy but dare not, my emotion is surely altogether
other than that which would possess me if I let my anger
explode. — On the whole, therefore, this objection has no
weight.

The Subtler Emotions. — In the aesthetic emotions the
bodily reverberation and the feeling may both be faint.
A connoisseur is apt to judge a work of art dryly and in-
tellectually, and with no bodily thrill. On the other hand,
works of art may arouse intense emotion; and whenever
they do so, the experience is completely covered by the
terms of our theory. Our theory requires that incoming
currents be the basis of emotion. But, whether secondary
organic reverberations "oe or be not aroused by it, the per-
ception of a work of art (music, decoration, etc.) is always
in the first instance at any rate an affair of incoming cur-
rents. The work itself is an object of sensation; and, the
perception of an object of sensation being a ' coarse ' or vivid
experience, what pleasure goes with it will partake of the
1 coarse ' or vivid form.

That there may be subtle pleasure too, I do not deny.
In other words, there may be purely cerebral emotion, in-
dependent of all currents from outside. Such feelings as
moral satisfaction, thankfulness, curiosity, relief at getting
a problem solved, may be of this sort. But the thinness
and paleness of these feelings, when unmixed with bodily
effects, is in very striking contrast to the coarser emotions.
In all sentimental and impressionable people the bodily
effects mix in: the voice breaks and the eyes moisten when
the moral truth is felt, etc. Wherever there is anything
like rapture, however intellectual its ground, we find these

EMOTION 385

secondary processes ensue. Unless we actually laugh at
the neatness of the demonstration or witticism; unless we
thrill at the case of justice, or tingle at the act of mag-
nanimity, our state of mind can hardly be called emotional
at all. It is in fact a mere intellectual perception of how
certain things are to be called — neat, right, witty, gener-
ous, and the like. Such a judicial state of mind as this is
to be classed among cognitive rather than among emotional
acts.

Description of Fear.— For the reasons given on p. 374, 1
will append no inventory or classification of emotions or
description of their symptoms. The reader has practically
almost all the facts in his own hand. As an example,
however, of the best sort of descriptive work on the symp-
toms, I will quote Darwin's account of them in fear.

" Fear is often preceded by astonishment, and is so far
akin to it that both lead to the senses of sight and hearing
being instantly aroused. In both cases the eyes and mouth
are widely opened and the eyebrows raised. The fright-
ened man at first stands like a statue, motionless and
breathless, or crouches down as if instinctively to escape
observation. The heart beats quickly and violently, so that
it palpitates or knocks against the ribs ; but it is very doubt-
ful if it then works more efficiently than usual, so as to
send a greater supply of blood to all parts of the body; for
the skin instantly becomes pale as during incipient faint-
ness. This paleness of the surface, however, is probably
in large part, or is exclusively, due to the vaso-motor cen-
tre being affected in such a manner as to cause the con-
traction of the small arteries of the skin. That the skin
is much affected under the sense of great fear, we see in
the marvellous manner in which prespiration immediately
exudes from it. This exudation is all the more remark-
able, as the surface is then cold, and hence the term, a cold
sweat; whereas the sudorific glands are properly excited
into action when the surface is heated. The hairs also
on the skin stand erect, and the superficial muscles shiver.

386 PSYCHOLOGY

In connection with the disturbed action of the heart the
breathing is hurried. The salivary glands act imperfectly;
the mouth becomes dry and is often opened and shut. I
have also noticed that under slight fear there is strong
tendency to yawn. One of the best marked symptoms is
the trembling of all the muscles of the body; and this is
often first seen in the lips. From this cause, and from the
dryness of the mouth, the voice becomes husky or indis-
tinct or may altogether fail. ' Obstupui steteruntque
comoe, et vox jaucibus koesit.' ... As fear increases into
an agony of terror, we behold, as under all violent emo-
tions, diversified results. The heart beats wildly or must
fail to act and faintness ensue; there is a death-like pallor;
the breathing is labored; the wings of the nostrils are
widely dilated; there is a gasping and convulsive motion
of the lips, a tremor on the hollow cheek, a gulping and
catching of the throat; the uncovered and protruding eye-
balls are fixed on the object of terror; or they may roll
restlessly from side to side, hue illuc volens oculos totumque
per err at. The pupils are said to be enormously dilated.
All the muscles of the body may become rigid or may be
thrown into convulsive movements. The hands are alter-
nately clenched and opened, often with a twitching move-
ment. The arms may be protruded as if to avert some
dreadful danger, or may be thrown wildly over the head.
The Rev. Mr. Hagenauer has seen this latter action in a
terrified Australian. In other cases there is a sudden and
uncontrollable tendency to headlong flight; and so strong
is this that the boldest soldiers may be seized with a sud-
den panic." *

Genesis of the Emotional Reactions. — How come the
various objects which excite emotion to produce such special
and different bodily effects? This question was not asked
till quite recently, but already some interesting suggestions
towards answering it have been made.

Some movements of expression can be accounted for as

♦Origin of the Emotions (N. Y. ed.), p. 292.

EMOTION 387

weakened repetitions of movements which formerly (when
they were stronger) were of utility to the subject. Others
are similarly weakened repetitions of movements which
under other conditions were physiologically necessary con-
comitants of the useful movements. Of the latter reactions
the respiratory disturbances in anger and fear might be
taken as examples — organic reminiscences, as it were,
reverberations in imagination of the blowings of the man
making a series of combative efforts, of the pantings of
one in precipitate flight. Such at least is a suggestion
made by Mr. Spencer which has found approval. And he
also was the first, so far as I know, to suggest that other
movements in anger and fear could be explained by the
nascent excitation of formerly useful acts.

" To have in a slight degree," he says, " such psychical
states as accompany the reception of wounds, and are ex-
perienced during flight, is to be in a state of what we call
fear. And to have in a slight degree such psychical states
as the processes of catching, killing, and eating imply, is
to have the desires to catch, kill, and eat. That the pro-
pensities to the acts are nothing else than nascent excita-
tions of the psychical state involved in the acts, is proved
by the natural language of the propensities. Fear, when
strong, expresses itself in cries, in efforts to escape, in pal-
pitations, in tremblings; and these are just the manifesta-
tions that go along with an actual suffering of the evil
feared. The destructive passion is shown in a general ten-
sion of the muscular system, in gnashing of teeth and pro-
trusion of the claws, in dilated eyes and nostrils in growls;
and these are weaker forms of the actions that accompany
the killing of prey. To such objective evidences every one
can add subjective evidences. Everyone can testify that
the psychical state called fear consists of mental represen-
tations of certain painful results; and that the one called
anger consists of mental representations of the actions and
impressions which would occur while inflicting some kind
of pain."

388 PSYCHOLOGY

The principle of revival, in weakened form, or reactions
useful in more violent dealings with the object inspiring
the emotion, has found many applications. So slight a
symptom as the snarl or sneer, the one-sided uncovering
of the upper teeth, is accounted for by Darwin as a sur-
vival from the time when our ancestors had large canines,
and unfleshed them (as dogs now do) for attack. Similarly
the raising of the eyebrows in outward attention, the open-
ing of the mouth in astonishment, come, according to the
same author, from the utility of these movements in ex-
treme cases. The raising of the eyebrows goes with the
opening of the eye for better vision; the opening of the
mouth with the intensest listening, and with the rapid
catching of the breath which precedes muscular effort.
The distention of the nostrils in anger is interpreted by
Spencer as an echo of the way in which our ancestors
had to breathe when, during combat, their " mouth was
filled up by a part of an antagonist's body that had been
seized "(I). The trembling of fear is supposed by Mante-
gazza to be for the sake of warming the blood (!). The
reddening of the face and neck is called by Wundt a com-
pensatory arrangement for relieving the brain of the
blood-pressure which the simultaneous excitement of the
heart brings with it. The effusion of tears is explained
both by this author and by Darwin to be a blood-withdraw-
ing agency of a similar sort. The contraction of the muscles
around the eyes, of which the primitive use is to protect
those organs from being too much gorged with blood during
the screaming fits of infancy, survives in adult life in the
shape of the frown, which instantly comes over the brow
when anything difficult or displeasing presents itself either
to thought or action.

" As the habit of contracting the brows has been fol-
lowed by infants during innumerable generations, at the
commencement of every crying or screaming fit," says
Darwin, " it has become firmly associated with the incipient
sense of something distressing or disagreeable. Hence,

EMOTION 389

under similar circumstances, it would be apt to be con-
tinued during maturity, although never then developed,
into a crying fit. Screaming or weeping begins to be volun-
tarily restrained at an early period of life, whereas frowning
is hardly ever restrained at any age."

Another principle, to which Darwin perhaps hardly
does sufficient justice, may be called the principle of
reacting similarly to analogous-feeling stimuli. There is
a whole vocabulary of descriptive adjectives common to
impressions belonging to different sensible spheres — expe-
riences of all classes are sweet, impressions of all classes
rich or solid, sensations of all classes sharp. Wundt and
Piderit accordingly explain many of our most expressive
reactions upon moral causes as symbolic gustatory move-
ments. As soon as any experience arises which has an
affinity with the feeling of sweet, or bitter, or sour, the
same movements are executed which would result from
the taste in point. " All the states of mind which lan-
guage designates by the metaphors bitter, harsh, sweet,
combine themselves, therefore, with the corresponding
mimetic movements of the mouth." Certainly the emo-
tions of disgust and satisfaction do express themselves in
this mimetic way. Disgust is an incipient regurgitation
or retching, limiting its expression often to the grimace of
the lips and nose; satisfaction goes with a sucking smile,
or tasting motion of the lips. The ordinary gesture of
negation — among us, moving the head about its axis from
side to side — is a reaction originally used by babies to keep
disagreeables from getting into their mouth, and may be
observed in perfection in any nursery. It is now evoked
where the stimulus is only an unwelcome idea. Simi-
larly the nod forward in affirmation is after the analogy of
taking food into the mouth. The connection of the ex-
pression of moral or social disdain or dislike, especially in
women, with movements having a perfectly definite origi-
nal olfactory function, is too obvious for comment. Wink-

39o PSYCHOLOGY

ing is the effect of any threatening surprise, not only of
what puts the eyes in danger; and a momentary aversion
of the eyes is very apt to be one's first symptom of response
to an unexpectedly unwelcome proposition. — These may
suffice as examples of movements expressive from analogy.
But if certain of our emotional reactions can be ex-
plained by the two principles invoked — and the reader will
himself have felt how conjectural and fallible in some of
the instances the explanation is — there remain many reac-
tions which cannot so be explained at all, and these we
must write down for the present as purely idiopathic effects
of the stimulus. Amongst them are the effects on the
viscera and internal glands, the dryness of the mouth and
diarrhoea and nausea of fear, the liver-disturbances which
sometimes produce jaundice after excessive rage, the
urinary secretion of sanguine excitement, and the bladder-
contraction of apprehension, the gaping of expectancy,
the ' lump in the throat ' of grief, the tickling there and
the swallowing of embarrassment, the ' precordial anxiety '
of dread, the changes in the pupil, the various sweatings
of the skin, cold or hot, local or general, and its flushings,
together with other symptoms which probably exist but
are too hidden to have been noticed or named. Trem-
bling which is found in many excitements besides that of
terror, is, pace Mr. Spencer and Sig. Mantegazza, quite
pathological. So are terror's other strong symptoms: they
are harmful to the creature who presents them. In an
organism as complex as the nervous system there must be
many incidental reactions which would never themselves
have been evolved independently, for any utility they might
possess. Sea-sickness, ticklishness, shyness, the love of
music, of the various intoxicants, nay, the entire aesthetic
life of man, must be traced to this accidental origin. It
would be foolish to suppose that none of the reactions
called emotional could have arisen in this quasi- accidental
way.

CHAPTER XXV
INSTINCT

Its Definition. — Instinct is usually defined as the fac-
ulty of acting in such a way as to produce certain ends, with-
out foresight of the ends, and without previous education in
the performance. Instincts are the functional correlatives
of structure. With the presence of a certain organ goes,
one may say, almost always a native aptitude for its use.

The actions we call instinctive all conform to the gen-
eral reflex type; they are called forth by determinate
sensory stimuli in contact with the animal's body, or at
a distance in his environment. The cat runs after the
mouse, runs or shows fight before the dog, avoids falling
from walls and trees, shuns fire and water, etc., not
because he has any notion either of life or of death, or of
self, or of preservation. He has probably attained to no
one of these conceptions in such a way as to react definitely
upon it. He acts in each case separately, and simply
because he cannot help it; being so framed when that
particularly running thing called a mouse appears in his
field of vision he must pursue; that when that particular
barking and obstreperous thing called a dog appears there
he must retire, if at a distance, and scratch if close by;
that he must withdraw his feet from water and his face
from flame, etc. His nervous system is to a great extent a
preorganized bundle of such reactions — they are as fatal as
sneezing, and as exactly correlated to their special excitants
as it is to its own. Although the naturalist may, for his
own convenience, class these reactions under general heads,
he must not forget that in the animal it is a particular sen-
sation or perception or image which calls them forth.

39i

3Q2 PSYCHOLOGY

At first this view astounds us by the enormous number
of special adjustments it supposes animals to possess ready-
made in anticipation of the outer things among which they
are to dwell. Can mutual dependence be so intricate and
go so far? Is each thing born fitted to particular other
things, and to them exclusively, as locks are fitted to their
keys? Undoubtedly this must be believed to be so. Each
nook and cranny of creation, down to our very skin and
entrails, has its living inhabitants, with organs suited to
the place, to devour and digest the food it harbors and to
meet the dangers it conceals; and the minuteness of adap-
tation thus shown in the way of structure knows no
bounds. Even so are there no bounds to the minuteness
of adaptation in the way of conduct which the several
inhabitants display.

The older writings on instinct are ineffectual wastes of
words, because their authors never came down to this defi-
nite and simple point of view, but smothered everything
in vague wonder at the clairvoyant and prophetic power of
the animals — so superior to anything in man — and at the
beneficence of God in endowing them with such a gift.
But God's beneficence endows them, first of all, with a
nervous system; and, turning our attention to this, makes
instinct immediately appear neither more nor less wonder-
ful than all the other facts of life.

Every instinct is an impulse. Whether we shall call
such impulses as blushing, sneezing, coughing, smiling, or
dodging, or keeping time to music, instincts or not, is a
mere matter of terminology. The process is the same
throughout. In his delighfully fresh and interesting
work, ' Der Thierische Wille/ Herr G. H. Schneider sub-
divides impulses (Triebe) into sensation-impulses, percep-
tion-impulses, and idea-impulses. To crouch from cold is
a sensation-impulse; to turn and follow, if we see people
running one way, is a perception-impulse; to cast about
for cover, if it begins to blow and rain, is an imagination-
impulse. A single complex instinctive action may involve

INSTINCT 393

successively the awakening of impulses of all three classes.
Thus a hungry lion starts to seek prey by the awakening
in him of imagination coupled with desire; he begins to
stalk it when, on eye, ear, or nostril, he gets an impression
of its presence at a certain distance; he springs upon it,
either when the booty takes alarm and flees, or when the
distance is sufficiently reduced; he proceeds to tear and
devour it the moment he gets a sensation of its contact
with his claws and fangs. Seeking, stalking, springing, and
devouring are just so many different kinds of muscular
contraction, and neither kind is called forth by the stimu-
lus appropriate to the other.

Now, why do the various animals do what seem to us such
strange things, in the presence of such outlandish stimuli?
Why does the hen, for example, submit herself to the
tedium of incubating such a fearfully uninteresting set of
objects as a nestful of eggs, unless she have some sort of a
prophetic inkling of the result? The only answer is ad
hominem. We can only interpret the instincts of brutes
by what we know of instincts in ourselves. Why do men
always lie down, when they can, on soft beds rather than
on hard floors? Why do they sit round the stove on a
cold day? Why, in a room, do they place themselves,
ninety-nine times out of a hundred, with their faces
toward its middle rather than to the wall? Why do they
prefer saddle of mutton and champagne to hard-tack and
ditch-water? Why does the maiden interest the youth so
that everything about her seems more important and sig-
nificant than anything else in the world? Nothing more
can be said than that these are human ways, and that
every creature likes its own ways, and takes to the follow-
ing them as a matter of course. Science may come and
consider these ways, and find that most of them are useful.
But it is not for the sake of their utility that they are fol-
lowed, but because at the moment of following them we
feel that that is the only appropriate and natural thing to
do. Not one man in a billion, when taking his dinner,

394 PSYCHOLOGY

ever thinks of utility. He eats because the food tastes
good and makes him want more. If you ask him why he
should want to eat more of what tastes like that, instead
or revering you as a philosopher he will probably laugh at
you for a fool. The connection between the savory sensa-
tion and the act it awakens is for him absolute and selbst-
verstandlich, an ' a priori synthesis ' of the most perfect
sort, needing no proof but its own evidence. It takes, in
short, what Berkeley calls a mind debauched by learning
to carry the process of making the natural seem strange,
so far as to ask for the why of any instinctive human act.
To the metaphysician alone can such questions occur as:
Why do we smile, when pleased, and not scowl? Why are
we unable to talk to a crowd as we talk to a single friend?
Why does a particular maiden turn our wits so upside-
down? The common man can only say, " Of course we
smile, of course our heart palpitates at the sight of the
crowd, of course we love the maiden, that beautiful soul
clad in that perfect form, so palpably and flagrantly made
from all eternity to be loved! "

And so, probably, does each animal feel about the par-
ticular things it tends to do in presence of particular ob-
jects. They, too, are a priori syntheses. To the lion it is
the lioness which is made to be loved; to the bear, the she-
bear. To the broody hen the notion would probably seem
monstrous that there should be a creature in the world to
whom a nestful of eggs was not the utterly fascinating and
precious and never-to-be-too-much-sat-upon object which
it is to her.

Thus we may be sure that, however mysterious some
animals' instincts may appear to us, our instincts will
appear no less mysterious to them. And we may conclude
that, to the animal which obeys it, every impulse and
every step of every instinct shines with its own sufficient

light, and seems at the moment the only eternally right
and proper thing to do. It is done for its own sake exclu-
sively. What voluptuous thrill may not shake a fly, when

INSTINCT 395

she at last discovers the one particular leaf, or carrion, or
bit of dung, that out of all the world can stimulate her
ovipositor to its discharge? Does not the discharge then
seem to her the only fitting thing? And need she care or
know anything about the future maggot and its food?

Instincts are not always blind or invariable. Noth-
ing is commoner than the remark that man differs from lower
creatures by the almost total absence of instincts, and the
assumption of their work in him by ' reason.' A fruitless
discussion might be waged on this point by two theorizers
who were careful not to define their terms. We must of
course avoid a quarrel about words, and the facts of the
case are really tolerably plain. Man has a far greater
variety of impulses than any lower animal; and any one
of these impulses, taken in itself, is as ' blind ' as the
lowest instinct can be; but, owing to man's memory,
power of reflection, and power of inference, they come
each one to be felt by him, after he has once yielded to
them and experienced their results, in connection with a
foresight of those results. In this condition an impulse
acted out may be said to be acted out, in part at least, for
the sake of its results. It is obvious that every instinctive
act, in an animal with memory, must cease to be * blind '
after being once repeated, and must be accompanied with
foresight of its ' end ' just so far as that end may have
fallen under the animal's cognizance. An insect that lays
her eggs in a place where she never sees them hatched
must always do so ' blindly ' ; but a hen who has already
hatched a brood can hardly be assumed to sit with perfect
1 blindness ' on her second nest. Some expectation of con-
sequences must in every case like this be aroused; and
this expectation, according as it is that of something
desired or of something disliked, must necessarily either
re-enforce or inhibit the mere impulse. The hen's idea of
the chickens would probably encourage her to sit; a rat's
memory, on the other hand, of a former escape from a trap
would neutralize his impulse to take bait from anything

396 PSYCHOLOGY

that reminded him of that trap. If a boy sees a fat hop-
ping-toad, he probably has incontinently an impulse
(especially if with other boys) to smash the creature with a
stone, which impulse we may suppose him blindly to obey.
But something in the expression of the dying toad's
clasped hands suggests the meanness of the act, or
reminds him of sayings he has heard about the sufferings
of animals being like his own; so that, when next he is
tempted by a toad, an idea arises which, far from spurring
him again to the torment, prompts kindly actions, and
may even make him the toad's champion against less
reflecting boys.

It is plain, then, that, no matter how well endowed an
animal may originally be in the way of instincts, his
resultant actions will be much modified if the instincts
combine with experience, if in addition to impulses he have
memories, associations, inferences, and expectations, on
any considerable scale. An object O, on which he has
an instinctive impulse to react in the manner A, would
directly provoke him to that reaction. But O has mean-
time become for him a sign of the nearness of P, on which
he has an equally strong impulse to react in the manner
B, quite unlike A. So that when he meets O, the immedi-
ate impulse A and the remote impulse B struggle in his
breast for the mastery. The fatality and uniformity said
to be characteristic of instinctive actions will be so little
manifest that one might be tempted to deny to him alto-
gether the possession of any instinct about the object O.
Yet how false this judgment would be! The instinct
about O is there; only by the complication of the associa-
tive machinery it has come into conflict with another
instinct about P.

Here we immediately reap the good fruits of our simple
physiological conception of what an instinct is. If it be a
mere excito-motor impulse, due to the preexistence of a
certain ' reflex arc ' in the nerve-centres of the creature, of
course it must follow the law of all such reflex arcs. One

INSTINCT 397

liability of such arcs is to have their activity ' inhibited ' by
other processes going on at the same time. It makes no
difference whether the arc be organized at birth, or ripen
spontaneously later, or be due to acquired habit; it must
take its chances with all the other arcs, and sometimes
succeed, and sometimes fail, in drafting off the currents
through itself. The mystical view of an instinct would
make it invariable. The physiological view would require
it to show occasional irregularities in any animal in whom
the number of separate instincts, and the possible entrance
of the same stimulus into several of them, were great.
And such irregularities are what every superior animal's
instincts do show in abundance.

Wherever the mind is elevated enough to discriminate;
wherever several distinct sensory elements must combine
to discharge the reflex arc; wherever, instead of plumping
into action instantly at the first rough intimation of what
sort of a thing is there, the agent waits to see which one of
its kind it is and what the circumstances are of its appear-
ance; wherever different individuals and different circum-
stances can impel him in different ways; wherever these
are the conditions — we have a masking of the elementary
constitution of the instinctive life. The whole story of
our dealings with the lower wild animals is the history
of our taking advantage of the way in which they judge
of everything by its mere label, as it were, so as to ensnare
or kill them. Nature, in them, has left matters in this
rough way, and made them act always in the manner
which would be ojtenest right. There are more worms
unattached to hooks than impaled upon them; therefore,
on the whole, says Nature to her fishy children, bite at
every worm and take your chances. But as her children
get higher, and their lives more precious, she reduces the
risks. Since what seems to be the same object may be
now a genuine food and now a bait; since in gregarious
species each individual may prove to be either the friend
or the rival, according to the circumstances, of another;

398 PSYCHOLOGY

since any entirely unknown object may be fraught with
weal or woe, Nature implants contrary impulses to act on
many classes of things, and leaves it to slight alterations
in the conditions of the individual case to decide which
impulse shall carry the day. Thus, greediness and sus-
picion, curiosity and timidity, coyness and desire, bash-
fulness and vanity, sociability and pugnacity, seem to
shoot over into each other as quickly, and to remain in as
unstable an equilibrium, in the higher birds and mammals
as in man. All are impulses, congenital, blind at first, and
productive of motor reactions of a rigorously determinate
sort. Each one of them then is an instinct, as instincts are
commonly defined. But they contradict each other — ' ex-
perience ' in each particular opportunity of application
usually deciding the issue. The animal that exhibits them
loses the ' instinctive ' demeanor and appears to lead a life
of hesitation and choice, an intellectual life; not, however,
because he has no instincts — rather because he has so many
that they block each other's path.

Thus we may confidently say that however uncertain
man's reactions upon his environment may sometimes
seem in comparison with those of lower mammals, the
uncertainty is probably not due to their possession of any
principles of action which he lacks. On the contrary, man
possesses all the impulses that they have, and a great many
more besides. In other words, there is no material antag-
onism between instinct and reason. Reason, per se, can
inhibit no impulses; the only thing that can neutralize
an impulse is an impulse the other way. Reason may, how-
ever, make an inference which will excite the imagination
so as to let loose the impulse the other way; and thus,
though the animal richest in reason is also the animal
richest in instinctive impulses too, he never seems the
fatal automaton which a merely instinctive animal must be.

Two Principles of Non-uniformity. — Instincts may be
masked in the mature animal's life by two other causes.
These are:

INSTINCT

399

a. The inhibition of instincts by habits; and

b. The transit oriness of instincts.

a. The law of inhibition of instincts by habits is this:
When objects of a certain class elicit from an animal a
certain sort of reaction, it often happens that the animal
becomes partial to the first specimen of the class on which
it has reacted, and will not afterward react on any other
specimen.

The selection of a particular hole to live in, of a par-
ticular mate, of a particular feeding-ground, a particular
variety of diet, a particular anything, in short, out of a
possible multitude, is a very wide-spread tendency among
animals, even those low down in the scale. The limpet
will return to the same sticking-place in its rock, and the
lobster to its favorite nook on the sea-bottom. The rabbit
will deposit its dung in the same corner; the bird makes
its nest on the same bough. But each of these preferences
carries with it an insensibility to other opportunities and
occasions — an insensibility which can only be described
physiologically as an inhibition of new impulses by the
habit of old ones already formed. The possession of homes
and wives of our own makes us strangely insensible to the
charms of those of other people. Few of us are adventur-
ous in the matter of food; in fact, most of us think there
is something disgusting in a bill of fare to which we are
unused. Strangers, we are apt to think, cannot be worth
knowing, especially if they come from distant cities, etc.
The original impulse which got us homes, wives, dietaries,
and friends at all, seems to exhaust itself in its first
achievements and to leave no surplus energy for reacting
on new cases. And so it comes about that, witnessing this
torpor, an observer of mankind might say that no instinc-
tive propensity toward certain objects existed at all. It
existed, but it existed miscellaneously, or as an instinct
pure and simple, only before habit was formed. A habit,
once grafted on an instinctive tendency, restricts the range
of the tendency itself, and keeps us from reacting on any

400 PSYCHOLOGY

but the habitual object, although other objects might just
as well have been chosen had they been the first-comers.

Another sort of arrest of instinct by habit is where the
same class of objects awakens contrary instinctive impulses.
Here the impulse first followed toward a given individual
of the class is apt to keep him from ever awakening the
opposite impulse in us. In fact, the whole class may be
protected by this individual specimen from the application
to it of the other impulse. Animals, for example, awaken
in a child the opposite impulses of fearing and fondling.
But if a child, in his first attempts to pat a dog, gets
snapped at or bitten, so that the impulse of fear is strongly
aroused, it may be that for years to come no dog will excite
in him the impulse to fondle again. On the other hand,
the greatest natural enemies, if carefully introduced to
each other when young and guided at the outset by
superior authority, settle down into those ' happy fami-
lies ' of friends which we see in our menageries. Young
animals, immediately after birth, have no instinct of fear,
but show their dependence by allowing themselves to be
freely handled. Later, however, they grow ' wild/ and, if
left to themselves, will not let man approach them. I am
told by farmers in the Adirondack wilderness that it is a
very serious matter if a cow wanders off and calves in the
woods and is not found for a week or more. The calf, by
that time, is as wild and almost as fleet as a deer, and hard
to capture without violence. But calves rarely show any
wildness to the men who have been in contact with them
during the first days of their life, when the instinct to
attach themselves is uppermost, nor do they dread strangers
as they would if brought up wild.

Chickens give a curious illustration of the same law.
Mr. Spalding's wonderful article on instinct shall supply
us with the facts. These little creatures show opposite
instincts of attachment and fear, either of which may be
aroused by the same object, man. If a chick is born in
the absence of the hen, it " will follow any moving object.

INSTINCT 401

And when guided by sight alone, they seem to have no
more disposition to follow a hen than to follow a duck or
a human being. Unreflecting lookers-on, when they saw
chickens a day old running after me," says Mr. Spalding,
" and older ones following me for miles, and answering to
my whistle, imagined that I must have some occult power
over the creatures: whereas I had simply allowed them to
follow me from the first. There is the instinct to follow;
and the ear, prior to experience, attaches them to the right
object." *

But if a man presents himself for the first time when
the instinct of fear is strong, the phenomena are altogther
reversed. Mr. Spalding kept three chickens hooded until
they were nearly four days old, and thus describes their
behavior:

" Each of them, on being unhooded, evinced the greatest
terror to me, dashing off in the opposite direction whenever
I sought to approach it. The table on which they were
unhooded stood before a window, and each in its turn beat
against the window like a wild bird. One of them darted
behind some books, and, squeezing itself into a corner,
remained cowering for a length of time. We might guess
at the meaning of this strange and exceptional wildness;
but the odd fact is enough for my present purpose. What-
ever might have been the meaning of this marked change
in their mental constitution — had they been unhooded on
the previous day they would have run to me instead of
from me — it could not have been the effect of experience;
it must have resulted wholly from changes in their own
organizations." f

Their case was precisely analogous to that of the Adi-
rondack calves. The two opposite instincts relative to the
same object ripen in succession. If the first one engenders
a habit, that habit will inhibit the application of the second

* Spalding, Macmillan's Magazine, Feb. 1873, P- 2%7-
f Ibid., p. 289.

402 PSYCHOLOGY

instinct to that object. All animals are tame during the
earliest phase of their infancy. Habits formed then limit
the effects of whatever instincts of wildness may later be
evolved.

b. This leads us to the law of transitoriness, which is
this: Many instincts ripen at a certain age and then jade
away. A consequence of this law is that if, during the
time of such an instinct's vivacity, objects adequate to
arouse it are met with, a habit of acting on them is
formed, which remains when the original instinct has
passed away; but that if no such objects are met with,
then no habit will be formed; and, later on in life, when
the animal meets the objects, he will altogether fail to
react, as at the earlier epoch he would instinctively have
done.

No doubt such a law is restricted. Some instincts are
far less transient than others — those connected with feed-
ing and ' self-preservation ' may hardly be transient at all,
— and some, after fading out for a time, recur as strong as
ever; e.g., the instincts of pairing and rearing young.
The law, however, though not absolute, is certainly very
widespread, and a few examples will illustrate just what
it means.

In the chickens and calves above mentioned it is obvious
that the instinct to follow and become attached fades out
after a few days and that the instinct of flight then takes
its place, the conduct of the creature toward man being
decided by the formation or non-formation of a certain
habit during those days. The transiency of the chicken's
instinct to follow is also proved by its conduct toward the
hen. Mr. Spalding kept some chickens shut up till they
were comparatively old, and, speaking of these, he says:

" A chicken that has not heard the call of the mother
until eight or ten days old then hears it as if it heard it
not. I regret to find that on this point my notes are not
so full as I could wish, or as they might have been. There
is, however, an account of one chicken that could not be

INSTINCT 403

returned to the mother when ten days old. The hen fol-
lowed it, and tried to entice it in every way; still, it con-
tinually left her and ran to the house or to any person of
whom, it caught sight. This it persisted in doing, though
beaten back with a small branch dozens of times, and, in-
deed, cruelly maltreated. It was also placed under the
mother at night, but it again left her in the morning."

The instinct of sucking is ripe in all mammals at birth,
and leads to that habit of taking the breast which, in the
human infant, may be prolonged by daily exercise long
beyond its usual term of a year or a year and a half. But
the instinct itself is transient, in the sense that if, for any
reason, the child be fed by spoon during the first few days
of its life and not put to the breast, it may be no easy
matter after that to make it suck at all. So of calves. If
their mother die, or be dry, or refuse to let them suck for
a day or two, so that they are fed by hand, it becomes hard
to get them to suck at all when a new nurse is provided.
The ease with which sucking creatures are weaned, by
simply breaking the habit and giving them food in a new
way, shows that the instinct, purely as such, must be en-
tirely extinct.

Assuredly the simple fact that instincts are transient,
and that the effect of later ones may be altered by the
habits which earlier ones have left behind, is a far more
philosophical explanation than the notion of an instinctive
constitution vaguely ' deranged ' or ' thrown out of gear.'

I have observed a Scotch terrier, born on the floor of a
stable in December, and transferred six weeks later to a
carpeted house, make, when he was less than four months
old, a very elaborate pretence of burying things, such as
gloves, etc., with which he had played till he was tired.
He scratched the carpet with his forefeet, dropped the
object from his mouth upon the spot, then scratched all
about it, and finally went away and let it lie. Of course,
the act was entirely useless. I saw him perform it at that
age some four or five times, and never again in his life.

404 PSYCHOLOGY

The conditions were not present to fix a habit which should
last when the prompting instinct died away. But suppose
meat instead of a glove, earth instead of a carpet, hunger-
pangs instead of a fresh supper a few hours later, and it is
easy to see how this dog might have got into a habit of
burying superfluous food, which might have lasted all his
life. Who can swear that the strictly instinctive part of
the food-burying propensity in the wild Canidos may not
be as short-lived as it was in this terrier?

Leaving lower animals aside, and turning to human in-
stincts, we see the law of transiency corroborated on the
widest scale by the alternation of different interests and
passions as human life goes on. With the child, life is all
play and fairy-tales and learning the external properties of
1 thing '; with the youth, it is bodily exercises of a more
systematic sort, novels of the real world, boon-fellowship
and song, friendship and love, nature, travel and adven-
ture, science and philosophy; with the man, ambition and
policy, acquisitiveness, responsibility to others, and the
selfish zest of the battle of life. If a boy grows up alone
at the age of games and sports, and learns neither to play
ball, nor row, nor sail, nor ride, nor skate, nor fish, nor
shoot, probably he will be sedentary to the end of his days;
and, though the best of opportunities be afforded him for
learning these things later, it is a hundred to one but he
will pass them by and shrink back from the effort of tak-
ing those necessary first steps the prospect of which, at an
earlier age, would have filled him with eager delight. The
sexual passion expires after a protracted reign; but it is
well known that its peculiar manifestations in a given in-
dividual depend almost entirely on the habits he may form
during the early period of its activity. Exposure to bad
company then makes him a loose liver all his days; chas-
tity kept at first makes the same easy later on. In all
pedagogy the great thing is to strike the iron while hot,
and to seize the wave of the pupil's interest in each suc-
cessive subject before its ebb has come, so that knowledge

INSTINCT 405

may be got and a habit of skill acquired — a headway of
interest, in short, secured, on which afterward the individ-
ual may float. There is a happy moment for fixing skill
in drawing, for making boys collectors in natural history,
and presently dissectors and botanists; then for initiating
them into the harmonies of mechanics and the wonders of
physical and chemical law. Later, introspective psychol-
ogy and the metaphysical and religious mysteries take their
turn; and, last of all, the drama of human affairs and
worldly wisdom in the widest sense of the term. In each
of us a saturation-point is soon reached in all these things;
the impetus of our purely intellectual zeal expires, and
unless the topic be one associated with some urgent per-
sonal need that keeps our wits constantly whetted about
it, we settle into an equilibrium, and live on what we
learned when our interest was fresh and instinctive, with-
out adding to the store. Outside of their own business,
the ideas gained by men before they are twenty-five are
practically the only ideas they shall have in their lives.
They cannot get anything new. Disinterested curiosity is
past, the mental grooves and channels set, the power of
assimilation gone. If by chance we ever do learn anything
about some entirely new topic, we are afflicted with a
strange sense of insecurity, and we fear to advance a reso-
lute opinion. But with things learned in the plastic days
of instinctive curiosity we never lose entirely our sense of
being at home. There remains a kinship, a sentiment of
intimate acquaintance, which, even when we know we have
failed to keep abreast of the subject, flatters us with a
sense of power over it, and makes us feel not altogether
out of the pale.

Whatever individual exceptions to this might be cited
are of the sort that ' prove the rule.'

To detect the moment of the instinctive readiness for
the subject is, then, the first duty of every educator. As
for the pupils, it would probably lead to a more earnest
temper on the part of college students if they had less

406 PSYCHOLOGY

belief in their unlimited future intellectual potentialities,
and could be brought to realize that whatever physics and
political economy and philosophy they are now acquiring
are, for better or worse, the physics and political economy
and philosophy that will have to serve them to the end.

Enumeration of Instincts in Man. — Professor Preyer,
in his careful little work, ' Die Seele des Kindes/ says " in-
stinctive acts are in man few in number, and, apart from
those connected with the sexual passion, difficult to recog-
nize after early youth is past." And he adds, " so much
the more attention should we pay to the instinctive move-
ments of new-born babies, sucklings, and small children. "
That instinctive acts should be easiest recognized in child-
hood would be a very natural effect of our principles of
transitoriness, and of the restrictive influence of habits
once acquired ; but they are far indeed from being ' few in
number ' in man. Professir Preyer divides the movements
of infants into impulsive, reflex, and instinctive. By im-
pulsive movements he means random movements of limbs,
body, and voice, with no aim, and before perception is
aroused. Among the first reflex movements are crying on
contact with the air, sneezing, snuffling, snorting, coughing,
sighing, sobbing, gagging, vomiting, hiccuping, starting,
moving the limbs when touched, and sucking. To these
may now be added hanging by the hands (see Nineteenth
Century, Nov. 1891). Later on come biting, clasping ob-
jects, and carrying them to the mouth, sitting-up, standing,
creeping, and walking. It is probable that the centres for
executing these three latter acts ripen spontaneously, just
as those for flight have been proved to do in birds, and
that the appearance of learning to stand and walk, by
trial and failure, is due to the exercise beginning in
most children before the centres are ripe. Children vary
enormously in the rate and manner in which they learn
to walk. With the first impulses to imitation, those
to significant vocalization are born. Emulation rapidly
ensues, with pugnacity in its train. Fear of definite

INSTINCT • 407

objects comes in early, sympathy much later, though on
the instinct (or emotion? — see p. 373) of sympathy so
much in human life depends. Shyness and sociability,
play, curiosity, acquisitiveness, all begin very early in life.
The hunting instinct, modesty, love, the parental instinct,
etc., come later. By the age of 15 or 16 the whole array of
human instincts is complete. It will be observed that no
other mammal, not even the monkey, shows so large a
list. In a perfectly-rounded development every one of
these instincts would start a habit toward certain objects
and inhibit a habit towards certain others. Usually this
is the case; but, in the one-sided development of civilized
life, it happens that the timely age goes by in a sort of
starvation of objects, and the individual then grows up
with gaps in his psychic constitution which future experi-
ences can never fill. Compare the accomplished gentleman
with the poor artisan or tradesman of a city: during the
adolescence of the former, objects appropriate to his grow-
ing interests, bodily and mental, were offered as fast as the
interests awoke, and, as a consequence, he is armed and
equipped at every angle to meet the world. Sport came
to the rescue and completed his education where real
things were lacking. He has tasted of the essence of
every side of human life, being sailor, hunter, athlete,
scholar, fighter, talker, dandy, man of affairs, etc., all in
one. Over the city poor boy's youth no such golden
opportunities were hung, and in his manhood no desires
for most of them exist. Fortunate it is for him if gaps
are the only anomalies his instinctive life presents;- per-
versions are too often the fruit of his unnatural bringing-
up.

Description of Fear. — In order to treat at least one in-
stinct at greater length, I will take the instance of fear.

Fear is a reaction aroused by the same objects that
arouse ferocity. The antagonism of the two is an interest-
ing study in instinctive dynamics. We both fear, and
wish to kill, anything that may kill us; and the question

408 PSYCHOLOGY

which of the two impulses we shall follow is usually de-
cided by some one of those collateral circumstances of
the particular case, to be moved by which is the mark of
superior mental natures. Of course this introduces un-
certainty into the reaction; but it is an uncertainty found
in the higher brutes as well as in men, and ought not to
be taken as proof that we are less instinctive than they.
Fear has bodily expressions of an extremely energetic
kind, and stands, beside lust and anger, as one of the
three most exciting emotions of which our nature is sus-
ceptible. The progress from brute to man is characterized
by nothing so much as by the decrease in frequency of
proper occasions for fear. In civilized life, in particular,
it has at last become possible for large numbers of people
to pass from the cradle to the grave without ever having
had a pang of genuine fear. Many of us need an attack
of mental disease to teach us the meaning of the word.
Hence the possibility of so much blindly optimistic phi-
losophy and religion. The atrocites of life"lDecome l like
a tale of little meaning though the words are strong ' we
doubt if anything like us ever really was within the tiger's
jaws, and conclude that the horrors we hear of are but a
sort of painted tapestry for the chambers in which we
lie so comfortably at peace with ourselves and with the
world.

Be this as it may, fear is a genuine instinct, and one of
the earliest shown by the human child. Noises seem es-
pecially to call it forth. Most noises from the outer world,
to a child bred in the house, have no exact significance.
They are simply startling. To quote a good observer, M.
Perez:

" Children between three and ten months are less often
alarmed by visual than by auditory impressions. In cats,
from the fifteenth day, the contrary is the case. A child,
three and half months old, in the midst of the turmoil
of a conflagration, in presence of the devouring flames and
ruined walls, showed neither astonishment nor fear, but

INSTINCT 409

smiled at the woman who was taking care of him, while
his parents were busy. The noise, however, of the trumpet
of the firemen, who were approaching, and that of the
wheels of the engine, made him start and cry. At this
age I have never yet seen an infant startled at a flash of
lightning, even when intense; but I have seen many of
them alarmed at the voice of the thunder. . . . Thus fear
comes rather by the ears than by the eyes, to the child
without experience."*

The effect of noise in heightening any terror we may
feel in adult years is very marked. The howling of the
storm, whether on sea or land, is a principal cause of our
anxiety when exposed to it. The writer has been in-
terested in noticing in his own person, while lying in bed,
and kept awake by the wind outside, how invariably each
loud gust of it arrested momentarily his heart. A dog
attacking us is much more dreadful by reason of the
noises he makes.

Strange men, and strange animals, either large or small,
excite fear, but especially men or animals advancing to-
ward us in a threatening way. This is entirely instinctive
and antecedent to experience. Some children will cry
with terror at their very first sight of a cat or dog, and it
will often be impossible for weeks to make them touch it.
Others will wish to fondle it almost immediately. Certain
kinds of ' vermin,' especially spiders and snakes, seem to
excite a fear unusually difficult to overcome. It is impos-
sible to say how much of this difference is instinctive and
how much the result of stories heard about these creatures.
That the fear of ' vermin ' ripens gradually seemed to me
to be proved in a child of my own to whom I gave a live
frog once, at the age of six to eight months, and again
when he was a year and half old. The first time, he
seized it promptly, and holding it in spite of its strug-
gling, at last got its head into his mouth. He then let

* Psychologie de l'Enfant, p. 72.

410 PSYCHOLOGY

it crawl up his breast, and get upon his face, without
showing alarm. But the second time, although he had
seen no frog and heard no story about a frog between-
whiles, it was almost impossible to induce him to touch
it. Another child, a year old, eagerly took some very
large spiders into his hand. At present he is afraid, but
has been exposed meanwhile to the teachings of the
nursery. One of my children from her birth upwards
saw daily the pet pug-dog of the house, and never be-
trayed the slightest fear until she was (if I recollect
rightly) about eight months old. Then the instinct sud-
denly seemed to develop, and with such intensity that
familiarity had no mitigating effect. She screamed when-
ever the dog entered the room, and for many months re-
mained afraid to touch him. It is needless to say that
no change in the pug's unfailingly friendly conduct had
anything to do with this change of feeling in the child.
Two of my children were afraid, when babies, of fur:
Richet reports a similar observation.

Preyer tells of a young child screaming with fear on
being carried near to the sea. The great cource of terror
to infancy is solitude. The teleology of this is obvious,
as is also that of the infant's expression of dismay — the
never-failing cry — on waking up and finding himself
alone.

Black things, and especially dark places, holes, caverns,
etc., arouse a peculiarly gruesome fear. This fear, as well
as that of solitude, of being ' lost,' are explained after a
fashion by ancestral experience. Says Schneider:

" It is a fact that men, especially in childhood, fear to
go into a dark cavern or a gloomy wood. This feeling of
fear arises, to be sure, partly from the fact that we easily
suspect that dangerous beasts may lurk in these localities
— a suspicion due to stories we have heard and read. But,
on the other hand, it is quite sure that this fear at a
certain perception is also directly inherited. Children
who have been carefully guarded from all ghost-stories

INSTINCT 411

are nevertheless terrified and cry if led into a dark place,
especially if sounds are made there. Even an adult can
easily observe that an uncomfortable timidity steals over
him in a lonely wood at night, although he may have the
fixed conviction that not the slightest danger is near.

" This feeling of fear occurs in many men even in their
own house after dark, although it is much stronger in a
dark cavern or forest. The fact of such instinctive fear
is easily explicable when we consider that our savage an-
cestors through innumerable generations were accustomed
to meet with dangerous beasts in caverns, especially bears,
and were for the most part attacked by such beasts during
the night and in the woods, and that thus an inseparable
association between the perceptions of darkness, caverns,
woods, and fear took place, and was inherited." *

High places cause fear of a peculiarly sickening sort,
though here, again, individuals differ enormously. The
uttterly blind instinctive character of the motor impulses
here is shown by the fact that they are almost always
entirely unreasonable, but that reason is powerless to
suppress them. That they are a mere incidental pecu-
liarity of the nervous system, like liability to sea-sickness,
or love of music, with no teleological significance, seems
more than probable. The fear in question varies so much
from one person to another, and its detrimental effects
are so much more obvious than its uses, that it is hard to
see how it could be a selected instinct. Man is anatomi-
cally one of the best fitted of animals for climbing about
high places. The best psychical complement to this
equipment would seem to be a ' level head ' when there,
not a dread of going there at all. In fact, the teleology
of fear, beyond a certain point, is more than dubious.
A certain amount of timidity obviously adapts us to the
world we live in, but the fear-paroxysm is surely altogether
harmful to him who is its prey.

* Der Menschliche Wille, p. 224.

412 PSYCHOLOGY

Fear of the supernatural is one variety of fear. It is
difficult to assign any normal object for this fear, unless it
were a genuine ghost. But, in spite of psychical-research
societies, science has not yet adopted ghosts; so we can
only say that certain ideas of supernatural agency, associ-
ated with real circumstances, produce a peculiar kind of
horror. This horror is probably explicable as the result of
a combination of simpler horrors. To bring the ghostly
terror to its maximum, many usual elements of the dread-
ful must combine, such as loneliness, darkness, inexplicable
sounds, especially of a dismal character, moving figures
half discerned (or, if discerned, of dreadful aspect), and a
vertiginous baffling of the expectation. This last element,
which is intellectual, is very important. It produces a
strange emotional ' curdle ' in our blood to see a process
with which we are familiar deliberately taking an un-
wonted course. Anyone's heart would stop beating if he
perceived his chair sliding unassisted across the floor.
The lower animals appear to be sensitive to the mys-
teriously exceptional as well as ourselves. My friend
Professor W. K. Brooks told me of his large and noble
dog being frightened into a sort of epileptic fit by a bone
being drawn across the floor by a thread which the dog did
not see. Darwin and Romanes have given similar expe-
riences. The idea of the supernatural involves that the
usual should be set at naught. In the witch and hobgob-
lin supernatural, other elements still of fear are brought
in — caverns, slime and ooze, vermin, corpses, and the like.
A human corpse seems normally to produce an instinctive
dread, which is no doubt somewhat due to its mysterious-
ness, and which familiarity rapidly dispels. But, in view
of the fact that cadaveric, reptilian, and underground
horrors play so specific and constant a part in many night-
mares and forms of delirium, it seems not altogether un-
wise to ask whether these forms of dreadful circumstance
may not at a former period have been more normal objects
of the environment than now. The ordinary cock-sure

INSTINCT 413

evolutionist ought to have no difficulty in explaining these
terrors, and the scenery that provokes them, as relapses
into the consciousness of the cave-men, a consciousness
usually overlaid in us by experiences of more recent date.

There are certain other pathological fears, and certain
peculiarities in the expression of ordinary fear, which
might receive an explanatory light from ancestral condi-
tions, even infra-human ones. In ordinary fear, one may
either run, or remain semi-paralyzed. The latter condi-
tion reminds us of the so-called death-shamming instinct
shown by many animals. Dr. Lindsay, in his work ' Mind
in Animals,' says this must require great self-command in
those that practise it. But it is really no feigning of
death at all, and requires no self-command. It is simply
a terror-paralysis which has been so useful as to become
hereditary. The beast of prey does not think the motion-
less bird, insect, or crustacean dead. He simply fails to
notice them at all; because his senses, like ours, are much
more strongly excited by a moving object than by a still
one. It is the same instinct which leads a boy playing ' I
spy ' to hold his very breath when the seeker is near, and
which makes the beast of prey himself in many cases mo-
tionlessly lie in wait for his victim or silently ' stalk ' it, by
stealthy advances alternated with periods of immobility.
It is the opposite of the instinct which makes us jump up
and down and move our arms when we wish to attract the
notice of someone passing far away, and makes the ship-
wrecked sailor upon the raft where he is floating fran-
tically wave a cloth when a distant sail appears. Now,
may not the statue-like, crouching immobility of some
melancholiacs, insane with general anxiety and fear of
everything, be in some way connected with this old in-
stinct? They can give no reason for their fear to move;
but immobility makes them feel safer and more comfort-
able. Is not this the mental state of the ' feigning '
animal?

Again, take the strange symptom which has been de-

414 PSYCHOLOGY

scribed of late years by the rather absurd name of agora-
phobia. The patient is seized with palpitation and terror
at the sight of any open place or broad street which he
has to cross alone. He trembles, his knees bend, he may
even faint at the idea. Where he has sufficient self-com-
mand he sometimes accomplishes the object by keeping
safe under the lee of a vehicle going across, or joining him-
self to a knot of other people. But usually he slinks round
the sides of the square, hugging the houses as closely as he
can. This emotion has no utility in a civilized man, but
when we notice the chronic agoraphobia of our domestic
cats, and see the tenacious way in which many wild
animals, especially rodents, cling to cover, and only ven-
ture on a dash across the open as a desperate measure —
even then making for every stone or bunch of weeds which
may give a momentary shelter — when we see this we are
strongly tempted to ask whether such an odd kind of fear
in us be not due to the accidental resurrection, through
disease, of a sort of instinct which may in some of our
remote ancestors have had a permanent and on the whole
a useful part to play?

CHAPTER XXVI
WILL

Voluntary Acts. — Desire, wish, will, are states of mind 1 /
which everyone knows, and which no definition can make *
plainer. We desire to feel, to have, to do, all sorts of
things which at the moment are not felt, had, or done. If
with the desire there goes a sense that attainment is not
possible, we simply wish; but if we believe that the end is^
in our power, we will that the desired feeling, having, or
doing shall be real; and real it presently becomes, either
immediately upon the willing or after certain preliminaries
have been fulfilled.

The only ends which follow immediately upon our will-
ing seem to be movements of our own bodies. Whatever
feelings and havings we may will to get come in as results
of preliminary movements which we make for the purpose.
This fact is too familiar to need illustration; so that we
may start with the proposition that the only direct out-
ward effects of our will are bodily movements. The
mechanism of production of these voluntary movements is
what befalls us to study now.

They are secondary performances. The movements
we have studied hitherto have been automatic and reflex,
and (on the first occasion of their performance, at any rate)
unforeseen by the agent. The movements to the study of
which we now address ourselves, being desired and in-
tended beforehand, are of course done with full prevision
of what they are to be. It follows from this that voluntary^
movements must be secondary, not primary, functions of
our organism. This is the first point to understand in the
psychology of Volition. Reflex, instinctive, and emotional

4i5

4i 6 PSYCHOLOGY

movements are all primary performances. The nerve-
centres are so organized that certain stimuli pull the
trigger of certain explosive parts; and a creature going
through one of these explosions for the first time under-
goes an entirely novel experience. The other day I was
standing at a railroad station with a little child, when an
express-train went thundering by. The child, who was
near the edge of the platform, started, winked, had his
breathing convulsed, turned pale, burst out crying, and
ran frantically towards me and hid his face. I have no
doubt that this youngster was almost as much astonished
by his own behavior as he was by the train, and more than
I was, who stood by. Of course if such a reaction has
many times occurred we learn what to expect of ourselves,
and can then foresee our conduct, even though it remain
as involuntary and uncontrollable as it was before. But
if, in voluntary action properly so called, the act must be
foreseen, it follows that no creature not endowed with pro-
phetic power can perform an act voluntarily for the first
time. Well, we are no more endowed with prophetic vision
of what movements lie in our power than we are endowed
with prophetic vision of what sensations we are capable of
receiving. As we must wait for the sensations to be given
us, so we must wait for the movements to be performed
involuntarily, before we can frame ideas of what either of
these things are. We learn all our possibilities by the way
of experience. When a particular movement, having once
occurred in a random, reflex, or involuntary way, has left
an image of itself in the memory, then the movement can
be desired again, and deliberately willed. But it is impos-
sible to see how it could be willed before.

A supply of ideas of the various movements that are pos-
sible, left in the memory by experiences of their involuntary
performance, is thus the first prerequisite of the voluntary
life.

Two Kinds of Ideas of Movement. — Now these ideas
may be either resident or remote. That is, they may be of

WILL 417

the movement as it feels, when taking place, in the moving
parts; or they may be of the movement as it feels in some
other part of the body which it affects (strokes, presses,
scratches, etc.), or as it sounds, or as it looks. The resi-
dent sensations in the parts that move have been called
kinoesthetic feelings, the memories of them are kinesthetic
ideas. It is by these kinesthetic sensations that we are
made conscious of passive movements — movements com-
municated to our limbs by others. If you lie with closed
eyes, and another person noiselessly places your arm or leg
in any arbitrarily chosen attitude, you receive a feeling of
what attitude it is, and can reproduce it yourself in the
arm or leg of the opposite side. Similarly a man waked
suddenly from sleep in the dark is aware of how he finds
himself lying. At least this is what happens in normal
cases. But when the feelings of passive movement as well
as all other feelings of a limb are lost, we get such re-
sults as are given in the following account by Prof. A.
Strumpell of his wonderful anaesthetic boy, whose only
sources of feeling were the right eye and the left ear : *

" Passive movements could be imprinted on all the
extremities to the greatest extent, without attracting the
patient's notice. Only in violent forced hyperextension
of the joints, especially of the knees, there arose a dull
vague feeling of strain, but this was seldom precisely
localized. We have often, after bandaging the eyes of
the patient, carried him about the room, laid him on a
table, given to his arms and legs the most fantastic and
apparently the most inconvenient attitudes without his
having a suspicion of it. The expression of astonishment
in his face, when all at once the removal of the handker-
chief revealed his situation, is indescribable in words.
Only when his head was made to hang away down he
immediately spoke of dizziness, but could not assign its
ground. Later he sometimes inferred from the sounds

*Deutsches Archiv f. Klin. Medicin, xxii. 321.

418 PSYCHOLOGY

connected with the manipulation that something special
was being done with him. ... He had no feelings of
muscular fatigue. If, with his eyes shut, we told him to
raise his arm and to keep it up, he did so without trouble.
After one or two minutes, however, the arm began to
tremble and sink without his being aware of it. He as-
serted still his ability to keep it up. . . . Passively hold-
ing still his fingers did not affect him. He thought con-
stantly that he opened and shut his hand, whereas it was
really fixed."

No third kind of idea is called for. We need, then,
when we perform a movement, either a kinesthetic or a
remote idea of which special movement it is to be. In
addition to this it has often been supposed that we need
an idea of the amount of innervation required for the
muscular contraction. The discharge from the motor
centre into the motor nerve is supposed to give a sensation
sui generis, opposed to all our other sensations. These ac-
company incoming currents, whilst that, it is said, accom-
panies an outgoing current, and no movement is supposed
to be totally defined in our mind, unless an anticipation
of this feeling enter into our idea. The movement's
degree of strength, and the effort required to perform it,
are supposed to be specially revealed by the feeling of in-
nervation. Many authors deny that this feeling exists, and
the proofs given of its existence are certainly insufficient.

The various degrees of ' effort y actually felt in making
the same movement against different resistances are all
accounted for by the incoming feelings from our chest,
jaws, abdomen, and other parts sympathetically contracted
whenever the effort is great. There is no need of a con-
sciousness of the amount of outgoing current required.
If anything be obvious to introspection, it is that the
degree of strength put forth is completely revealed to us
by incoming feelings from the muscles themselves and
their insertions, from the vicinity of the joints, and from
the general fixation of the larynx, chest, face, and body.

WILL 419

When a certain degree of energy of contraction rather than
another is thought of by us, this complex aggregate of
afferent feelings, forming the material of our thought, ren-
ders absolutely precise and distinctive our mental image
of the exact strength of movement to be made, and the
exact amount of resistance to be overcome.

Let the reader try to direct his will towards a particular y
movement, and then notice what constituted the direction 7
of the will. Was it anything over and above the notion
of the different feelings to which the movement when
effected would give rise? If we abstract from these feel-
ings, will any sign, principle, or means of orientation be
left by which the will may innervate the proper muscles
with the right intensity, and not go astray into the wrong
ones? Strip off these images anticipative of the results
of the motion, and so far from leaving us with a complete
assortment of directions into which our will may launch
itself, you leave our consciuosness in an absolute and total
vacuum. If I will to write Peter rather than Paul, it is
the thought of certain digital sensations, of certain alpha-
betic sounds, of certain appearances on the paper, and of
no others, which immediately precedes the motion of my
pen. If I will to utter the word Paul rather than Peter, s
it is the thought of my voice falling on my ear, and. of
certain muscular feelings in my tongue, lips, and larynx,
which guide the utterance. All these are incoming feel-
ings, and between the thought of them, by which the act
is mentally specified with all possible completeness, and
the act itself, there is no room for any third order of
mental phenomenon.

There is indeed the fiat, the element of consent, or re-
solve that the act shall ensue. This, doubtless, to the
reader's mind, as to my own, constitutes the essence of the
voluntariness of the act. This fiat will be treated of in
detail farther on. It may be entirely neglected here, for it
is a constant coefficient, affecting all voluntary actions
alike, and incapable of serving to distinguish them. No

420 PSYCHOLOGY

one will pretend that its quality varies according as the
right arm, for example, or the left is used.

An anticipatory image, then, of the sensorial conse-
quences of a movement, plus {on certain occasions) the fiat
that these consequences shall become actual, is the only
Psychic state which introspection lets us discern as the
forerunner of our voluntary acts. There is no coercive
evidence of any feeling attached to the efferent dis-
charge.

' The entire content and material of our consciousness
— consciousness of movement, as of all things else — seems
thus to be of peripheral origin, and to come to us in the
first instance through the peripheral nerves.

The Motor-cue. — Let us call the last idea which in the
mind precedes the motor discharge the ■ motor-cue.' Now
do ' resident ' images form the only motor-cue, or will ■ re-
mote ' ones equally suffice?

There can be no doubt whatever that the cue may be
an image either of the resident or of the remote kind. Al-
though, at the outset of our learning a movement, it would
seem that the resident feelings must come strongly before
consciousness, later this need not be the case. The rule,
in fact, would seem to be that they tend to lapse more and
more from consciousness, and that the more practised we
become in a movement, the more ' remote ' do the ideas
become which form its mental cue. What we are inter-
ested in is what sticks in our consciousness; everything
else we get rid of as quickly as we can. Our resident feel-
ings of movement have no substantive interest for us at
all, as a rule. What interest us are the ends which the
movement is to attain. Such an end is generally a remote
sensation, an impression which the movement produces on
the eye or ear, or sometimes on the skin, nose, or palate.
Now let the idea of such an end associate itself definitely
with the right discharge, and the thought of the innerva-
tion's resident effects will become as great an encumbrance
as we have already concluded that the feeling of the in-

WILL 421

nervation itself is. The mind does not need it; the end
alone is enough.

The idea of the end, then, tends more and more to
make itself all-sufficient. Or, at any rate, if the kinass-
thetic ideas are called up at all, they are so swamped in
the vivid kinesthetic feelings by which they are immedi-
ately overtaken that we have no time to be aware of their
separate existence. As I write, I have no anticipation, as
a thing distinct from my sensation, of either the look or
the digital feel of the letters which flow from my pen.
The words chime on my mental ear, as it were, before I
write them, but not on my mental eye or hand. This
comes from the rapidity with which the movements follow
on their mental cue. An end consented to as soon as con-
ceived innervates directly the centre of the first movement
of the chain which leads to its accomplishment, and then
the whole chain rattles off <7w<m-reflexly, as was described
on pp. 115-6.

The reader will certainly recognize this to be true in all
fluent and unhesitating voluntary acts. The only special
fiat there is at the outset of the performance. A man says
to himself, " I must change my clothes," and involuntarily
he has taken off his coat, and his fingers are at work in
their accustomed manner on his waistcoat-buttons, etc.;
or we say, " I must go downstairs," and ere we know it we
have risen, walked, and turned the handle of the door; —
all through the idea of an end coupled with a series of
guiding sensations which successively arise. It would
seem indeed that we fail of accuracy and certainty in our
attainment of the end whenever we are preoccupied with
the way in which the movement will feel. We walk a beam
the better the less we think of the position of our feet upon
it. We pitch or catch, we shoot or chop the better the
less tactile and muscular (the less resident), and the more
exclusively optical (the more remote), our consciousness
is. Keep your eye on the place aimed at, and your hand
will fetch it; think of your hand, and you will very likely

422 PSYCHOLOGY

miss your aim. Dr. Southard found that he could touch
a spot with a pencil-point more accurately with a visual
than with a tactile mental cue. In the former case he
looked at a small object and closed his eyes before try-
ing to touch it. In the latter case he placed it with closed
eyes, and then after removing his hand tried to touch it
again. The average error with touch (when the results
were most favorable) was 17.13 mm. With sight it was
only 12.37 mm- — AH these are plain results of introspection
and observation. By what neural machinery they are made
possible we do not know.

In Chapter XIX we saw how enormously individuals
differ in respect to their mental imagery. In the type of
imagination called tactile by the French authors, it is
probable that the kinesthetic ideas are more prominent
than in my account. We must not expect too great a
uniformity in individual accounts, nor wrangle overmuch
as to which one ' truly ' represents the process.

I trust that I have now made clear what that l idea of
a movement ' is which must precede it in order that it be
voluntary. It is not the thought of the innervation which
the movement requires. It is the anticipation of the
movement's sensible effects, resident or remote, and some-
times very remote indeed. Such anticipations, to say the
least, determine what our movements shall be. I have
spoken all along as if they also might determine that they
shall be. This, no doubt, has disconcerted many readers,
for it certainly seems as if a special fiat, or consent to the
movement, were required in addition to the mere concep-
tion of it, in many cases of volition; and this fiat I have
altogether left out of my account. This leads us to the
next point in our discussion.

Ideo-motor Action. — The question is this: Is the bare
idea of a movement's sensible effects its sufficient motor-cue,
or must there be an additional mental antecedent, in the
shape of a fiat, decision, consent, volitional mandate, or

WILL 423

other synonymous phenomenon of consciousness, before the
movement can follow?

I answer: Sometimes the bare idea is sufficient, but^-
sometimes an additional conscious element, in the shape---
of a fiat, mandate, or express consent, has to intervene anoV
precede the movement. The cases without a fiat constitutes
the more fundamental, because the more simple, variety.
The others involve a special complication, which must be
fully discussed at the proper time. For the present let us
turn to ideo-motor action, as it has been termed, or the ,
sequence of movement upon the mere thought of it, with-
out a special fiat, as the type of the process of volition.

Wherever a movement unhesitatingly and immediately
follows upon the idea of it, we have ideo-motor action.
We are then aware of nothing between the conception
and the execution. All sorts of neuro-muscular proc-
esses come between, of course, but we know absolutely
nothing of them. We think the act, and it is done; and
that is all that introspection tells us of the matter. Dr.
Carpenter, who first used, I believe, the name of ideo- \
motor action, placed it, if I mistake not, among the curi-
osities of our mental life. The truth is that it is no-
curiosity, but simply the normal process stripped of dis-
guise. Whilst talking I become conscious of a pin on the
floor, or of some dust on my sleeve. Without interrupting
the conversation I brush away the dust or pick up the pin.
I make no express resolve, but the mere perception of the
object and the fleeting notion of the act seem of themselves
to bring the latter about. Similarly, I sit at table after
dinner and find myself from time to time taking nuts or
raisins out of the dish and eating them. My dinner prop-
erly is over, and in the heat of the conversation I am
hardly aware of what I do; but the perception of the
fruit, and the fleeting notion that I may eat it, seem fa-
tally to bring the act about. There is certainly no express
fiat here; any more than there is in all those habitual
goings and comings and rearrangements of ourselves which

424 PSYCHOLOGY

fill every hour of the day, and which incoming sensations
instigate so immediately that it is often difficult to decide
whether not to call them reflex rather than voluntary acts.
As Lotze says:

" We see in writing or piano-playing a great number of
very complicated movements following quickly one upon
the other, the instigative representations of which re-
mained scarcely a second in consciousness, certainly not
long enough to awaken any other volition than the general
one of resigning one's self without reserve to the passing
over of representation into action. All the acts of our
daily life happen in this wise: Our standing up, walking,
talking, all this never demands a distinct impulse of the
will, but is adequately brought about by the pure flux of
thought." *

In all this the determining condition of the unhesitating
and resistless sequence of the act seems to be the absence of
any conflicting notion in the mind. Either there is noth-
ing else at all in the mind, or what is there does not con-
flict. We know what it is to get out of bed on a freezing
morning in a room without a fire, and how the very vital
principle within us protests against the ordeal. Probably
most persons have lain on certain mornings for an hour at
a time unable to brace themselves to the resolve. We
think how late we shall be, how the duties of the day will
suffer; we say, " I must get up, this is ignominious," etc.;
but still the warm couch feels too delicious, the cold out-
side too cruel, and resolution faints away and postpones
itself again and again just as it seemed on the verge of
bursting the resistance and passing over into the decisive
act. Now how do we ever get up under such circum-
stances? If I may generalize from my own experience,
we more often than not get up without any struggle or
decision at all. We suddenly find that we have got up.
A fortunate lapse of consciousness occurs; we forget both

* Medicinische Psychologie, p. 298.

WILL 425

the warmth and the cold; we fall into some revery con-
nected with the day's life, in the course of which the idea
flashes across us, " Hollo! I must lie here no longer" — an
idea which at that lucky instant awakens no contradictory
or paralyzing suggestions, and consequently produces im-
mediately its appropriate motor effects. It was our acute
consciousness of both the warmth and the cold during the
period of struggle, which paralyzed our activity then and
kept our idea of rising in the condition of wish and not
of will. The moment these inhibitory ideas ceased, the
original idea exerted its effects.

This case seems to me to contain in miniature form the
data for an entire psychology of volition. It was in fact
through meditating on the phenomenon in my own person
that I first became convinced of the truth of the doctrine
which these pages present, and which I need here illustrate
by no farther examples. The reason why that doctrine is
not a self-evident truth is that we have so many ideas
which do not result in action. But it will be seen that in
every such case, without exception, that is because other
ideas simultaneously present rob them of their impulsive
power. But even here, and when a movement in inhibited
from completely taking place by contrary ideas, it will
incipiently take place. To quote Lotze once more:

" The spectator accompanies the throwing of a billiard-
ball, or the thrust of the swordsman, with slight move-
ments of his arm; the untaught narrator tells his story
with many gesticulations; the reader while absorbed in the
perusal of a battle-scene feels a slight tension run through
his muscular system, keeping time as it were with the
actions he is reading of. These results become the more
marked the more we are absorbed in thinking of the
movements which suggest them; they grow fainter ex-
actly in proportion as a complex consciousness, under the
dominion of a crowd of other representations, withstands
the passing over of mental contemplation into outward
action."

426 PSYCHOLOGY

The l willing-game,' the exhibitions of so-called ' mind-
reading/ or more properly muscle-reading, which have
lately grown so fashionable, are based on this incipient
obedience of muscular contraction to idea, even when the
deliberate intention is that no contraction shall occur.

We may then lay it down for certain that every repre-
sentation of a movement awakens in some degree the actual
movement which is its object; and awakens it in a maxi-
mum degree whenever it is not kept from so doing by an
antagonistic representation present simultaneously to the
mind.

The express fiat, or act of mental consent to the move-
ment, comes in when the neutralization of the antagonistic
and inhibitory idea is required. But that there is no
express fiat needed when the conditions are simple, the
reader ought now to be convinced. Lest, however, he
should still share the common prejudice that voluntary
action without ' exertion of will-power ' is Hamlet with
the prince's part left out, I will make a few farther re-
marks. The first point to start from, in understanding
voluntary action and the possible occurrence of it with
no fiat or express resolve, is the fact that consciousness is
in its very nature impulsive. We do not first have a
sensation or thought, and then have to add something
dynamic to it to get a movement. Every pulse of feeling
which we have is the correlate of some neural activity
that is already on its way to instigate a movement. Our
sensations and thoughts are but cross-sections, as it were,
of currents whose essential consequence is motion, and
which have no sooner run in at one nerve than they are
ready to run out by another. The popular notion that con-
sciousness is not essentially a forerunner of activity, but
that the latter must result from some superadded * will-
force,' is a very natural inference from those special cases
in which we think of an act for an indefinite length of
time without the action taking place. These cases, how-
ever, are not the norm; they are cases of inhibition by

nd-

WILL 427

antagonistic thoughts. When the blocking is released we
feel as if an inward spring were let loose, and this is the
additional impulse or fiat upon which the act effectively
succeeds. We shall study anon the blocking and its re-
lease. Our higher thought is full of it. But where there
is no blocking, there is naturally no hiatus between the
thought-process and the motor discharge. Movement is -
the natural immediate eject of the process of feeling, irre-
spective of what the quality of the feeling may be. It is so
in reflex action, it is so in emotional expression, it is so in
the voluntary life. Ideo-motor action is thus no paradox,
to be softened or explained away. It obeys the type of
all conscious action, and from it one must start to explain
the sort of action in which a special fiat is involved.

It may be remarked in passing, that the inhibition of a
movement no more involves an express effort or command
than its execution does. Either of them may require it.
But in all simple and ordinary cases, just as the bare pres-
ence of one idea prompts a movement, so the bare pres-
ence of another idea will prevent its taking place. Try
to feel as if you were crooking your finger, whilst keeping
it straight. In a minute it will fairly tingle with the
imaginary change of position; yet it will not sensibly
move, because its not really moving is also a part of what
you have in mind. Drop this idea, think purely and sim-
ply of the movement, and nothing else, and, presto! it
takes place with no effort at all.

A waking man's behavior is thus at all times the re-
sultant of two opposing neural forces. With unimagina-
ble fineness some currents among the cells and fibres of
his brain are playing on his motor nerves, whilst other
currents, as unimaginably fine, are playing on the first
currents, damming or helping them, altering their direc-
tion or their speed. The upshot of it all is, that whilst
the currents must always end by being drained off through
some motor nerves, they are drained off sometimes through
one set and sometimes through another; and sometimes

428 PSYCHOLOGY

they keep each other in equilibrium so long that a super-
ficial observer may think they are not drained off at all.
Such an observer must remember, however, that from the
physiological point of view a gesture, an expression of the
brow, or an expulsion of the breath are movements as
much as an act of locomotion is. A king's breath slays
as well as an assassin's blow; and the outpouring of those
currents which the magic imponderable streaming of our
ideas accompanies need not always be of an explosive or
otherwise physically conspicuous kind.

Action after Deliberation. — We are now in a position to
describe what happem in deliberate action, or when the
mind has many objects before it, related to each other in
antagonistic or in favorable ways. One of these objects
of its thought may be an act. By itself this would prompt
a movement; some of the additional objects or considera-
tions, however, block the motor discharge, whilst others,
on the contrary, solicit it to take place. The result is
that peculiar feeling of inward unrest known as indecision.
Fortunately it is to^familiar to need description, for to
describe it would be impossible. As long as it lasts, with
the various objects before the attention, we are said to
deliberate; and when finally the original suggestion either
prevails and makes the movement take place, or gets defin-
itively quenched by its antagonists, we are said to decide,
or to utter our voluntary fiat, in favor of one or the other
course. The reinforcing and inhibiting objects meanwhile
are termed the reasons or motives by which the decision is
brought about.

The process of deliberation contains endless degrees of
complication. At every moment of it our consciousness
is of an extremely complex thing, namely, the whole set
of motives and their conflict. Of this complicated ob-
ject, the totality of which is realized more or less dimly
all the while by consciousness, certain parts stand out
more or less sharply at one moment in the foreground,
and at another moment other parts, in consequence of the

WILL 429

oscillations of our attention, and of the l associative ' flow
of our ideas. But no matter how sharp the foreground-
reasons may be, or how imminently close to bursting
through the dam and carrying the motor consequences
their own way, the background, however dimly felt, is
always there as a fringe (p. 163); and its presence (so
long as the indecision actually lasts) serves as an effective
check upon the irrevocable discharge. The deliberation
may last for weeks or months, occupying at intervals the
mind. The motives which yesterday seemed full of
urgency and blood and life to-day feel strangely weak and
pale and dead. But as little to-day as to-morrow is the
question finally resolved. Something tells us that all this
is provisional; that the weakened reasons will wax strong
again, and the stronger weaken; that equilibrium is un-
reached; that testing our reasons, not obeying them, is
still the order of the day, and that we must wait awhile,
patiently or impatiently, until our mind is made up ' for
good and all.' This inclining first to one, then to another
future, both of which we represent as possible, resembles
the oscillations to and fro of a material body within the
limits of its elasticity. There is inward strain, but no
outward rupture. And this condition, plainly enough, is
susceptible of indefinite continuance, as well in the physi-
cal mass as in the mind. If the elasticity give way, how-
ever, if the dam ever do break, and the currents burst the
crust, vacillation is over and decision is irrevocably there.

The decision may come in either of many modes. I
will try briefly to sketch the most characteristic types of
it, merely warning the reader that this is only an intro-
spective account of symptoms and phenomena, and that
all questions of causal agency, whether neural or spiritual,
are relegated to a later page.

Five Chief Types of Decision. — Turning now to the
form of the decision itself, we may distinguish five chief
types. The first may be called the reasonable type. It is that
of those cases in which the arguments for and against a given

430 PSYCHOLOGY

course seem gradually and almost insensibly to settle
themselves in the mind and to end by leaving a clear
balance in favor of one alternative, which alternative we
then adopt without effort or constraint. Until this rational
balancing of the books is consummated we have a calm
feeling that the evidence is not yet all in, and this keeps
action in suspense. But some day we wake with the sense
that we see the matter rightly, that no new light will be
thrown on it by farther delay, and that it had better be
settled now. In this easy transition from doubt to assur-
ance we seem to ourselves almost passive ; the ' reasons p
which decide us appearing to flow in from the nature of
things, and to owe nothing to our will. We have, however,
a perfect sense of being free, in that we are devoid of any
feeling of coercion. The conclusive reason for the decision
in these cases usually is the discovery that we can refer
the case to a class upon which we are accustomed to act
unhesitatingly in a certain stereotyped way. It may be
said in general that a great part of every deliberation con-
sists in the turning over of all the possible modes of con-
ceiving the doing or not doing of the act in point. The
moment we hit upon a conception which lets up apply
some principle of action which is a fixed and stable part of
our Ego, our state of doubt is at an end. Persons of
authority, who have to make many decisions in the day,
carry with them a set of heads of classification, each bear-
ing its volitional consequence, and under these they seek as
far as possible to range each new emergency as it occurs.
It is where the emergency belongs to a species without
precedent, to which consequently no cut-and-dried maxim
will apply, that we feel most at a loss, and are distressed
at the indeterminateness of our task. As soon, however,
as we see our way to a familiar classification, we are at ease
again.^ In action as in reasoning, then, the great thing is
fhequest of the right conception. The concrete dilemmas
do not come to us with labels gummed upon their backs.
We may name them by many names. The wise man is he

WILL 431

who succeeds in finding the name which suits the needs of
the particular occasion best (p. 357 ff.). A 'reasonable'
character is one who has a store of stable and worthy ends,
and who does not decide about an action till he has calmly
ascertained whether it be ministerial or detrimental to any
one of these.

In the next two types of decision, the final fiat occurs
before the evidence is all ' in. ' It often happens that no
paramount and authoritative reason for either course will
come. Either seems a good, and there is no umpire to de-
cide which should yield its place to the other. We grow
tired of long hesitation and inconclusiveness, and the hour
may come when we feel that even a bad decision is better
than no decision at all. Under these conditions it will often
happen that some accidental circumstance, supervening at
a particular movement upon our mental weariness, will
upset the balance in the direction of one of the alterna-
tives, to which then we feel ourselves committed, although
an opposite accident at the same time might have produced
the opposite result.

In the second type our feeling is to a great extent that
of letting ourselves drift with a certain indifferent acqui-

/ escence in a direction accidentally determined front with-
out, with the conviction that, after all, we might as well
stand by this course as by the other, and that things are

\jn any event sure to turn out sufficiently right.

In the third type the determination seems equally acci-
dental, but it comes from within, and not from without.
It often happens, when the absence of imperative princi-
ple is perplexing and suspense distracting, that we find
ourselves acting, as it were, automatically, and as if by a
spontaneous discharge of our nerves, in the direction of
one of the horns of the dilemma. But so exciting is this
sense of motion after our intolerable pent-up state that
we eagerly throw ourselves into it. ' Forward now! ' we
inwardly cry, ' though the heavens fall.' This reckless and
exultant espousal of an energy so little premeditated by us

432 PSYCHOLOGY

that we feel rather like passive spectators cheering on the
display of some extraneous force than like voluntary
agents is a type of decision too abrupt and tumultuous to
occur often in humdrum and cool-blooded natures. But
it is probable frequent in persons of strong emotional en-
dowment and unstable or vacillating character. And in
men of the world-shaking type, the Napoleons, Luthers,
etc., in whom tenacious passion combines with ebullient
activity, when by any chance the passion's outlet has been
dammed by scruples or apprehensions, the resolution is
probably often of this catastrophic kind. The flood breaks
quite unexpectedly through the dam. That it should so
often do so is quite sufficient to account for the tendency
of these characters to a fatalistic mood of mind. And the
fatalistic mood itself is sure to reinforce the strength of
the energy just started on its exciting path of discharge.

There is a fourth form of decision, which often ends
deliberation as-6«4denly as the third form does. It comes
when, in consequence of some outer experience or some
inexplicable inward change, we suddenly pass from the
easy and careless to the sober and strenuous mood, or
possibly the other way. The whole scale of values of our
motives and impulses then undergoes a change like that
which a change of the observer's level produces on a view.
The most sobering possible agents are objects of grief and
fear. When one of these affects us, all ' light fantastic '
notions lose their motive power, all solemn ones find theirs
multiplied many-fold. The consequence is an instant
abandonment of the more trivial projects with which we
had been dallying, and an instant practical acceptance of
the more grim and earnest alternative which till then
could not extort our mind's consent. All those ' changes
heart,' ' awakenings of conscience,' etc., which make
new men of so many of us may be classed under this
head. The character abruptly rises to another ' level,' and
deliberation comes to an immediate end.

In the fift^^atid final type of decision, the feeling that

WILL 433

the evidence is all in, and that reason has balanced the -^
books, may be either present or absent. But in either case >
we feel, in deciding, as if we ourselves by our own wilful
act inclined the beam: in the former case by adding our
living effort to the weight of the logical reason which,
taken alone, seems powerless to make the act discharge;
in the latter by a kind of creative contribution of some-
thing instead of a reason which does a reason's work. The
slow dead heave of the will that is felt in these instances
makes of them a class altogether different subjectively
from all the four preceding classes. What the heave of
the will betokens metaphysically, what the effort might
lead us to infer about a will-power distinct from motives
are not matters that concern us yet. Subjectively and
phenomenally, the feeling of effort, absent from the former
decision, accompanies these. Whether it be the dreary
resignation for the sake of austere and naked duty of all
sorts of rich mundane delights; or whether it be the heavy
resolve that of two mutually exclusive trains of future
fact, both sweet and good and with no strictly objective
or imperative principle of choice between them, one shall
forevermore become impossible, while the other shall be-
come reality; it is a desolate and acrid sort of act, an en-
trance into a lonesome moral wilderness. If examined
closely, its chief difference from the former cases appears
to be that in those cases the mind at the moment of de-
ciding on the triumphant alternative dropped the other
one wholly or nearly out of sight, whereas here both alter-
natives are steadily held in view, and in the very act of
murdering the vanquished possibility the chooser realizes
how much in that instant he is making himself lose. It
is deliberately driving a thorn into one's flesh; and the
sense of inward effort with which the act is accompanied
is an element which sets this fifth type of decision in
strong contrast with the previous four varieties, and makes
of it an altogether peculiar sort of mental phenomenon.
The immense majority of human decisions are decisions ,

434 PSYCHOLOGY

without effort. In comparatively few of them, in most
people, does effort accompany the final act. We are, I
think, misled into supposing that effort is more frequent
than it is by the fact that during deliberation we so often
have a feeling of how great an effort it would take to make
a decision now. Later, after the decision has made itself
with ease, we recollect this and erroneously suppose the
effort also to have been made then.

The existence of the effort as a phenomenal fact in our
consciousness cannot of course be doubted or denied. Its
significance, on the other hand, is a matter about which
the gravest difference of opinion prevails. Questions as
momentous as that of the very existence of spiritual cau-
sality, as vast as that of universal predestination or free-
will, depend on its interpretation. It therefore becomes
essential that we study with some care the conditions under
which the feeling of volitional effort is found.

The Feeling of Effort. — When I said, awhile back, that
consciousness (or the neural process which goes with it) is
in its very nature impulsive, I should have added the
proviso that it must be sufficiently intense. Now there are
remarkable differences in the power of different sorts of
consciousness to excite movement. The intensity of some
feelings is practically apt to be below the discharging
point, whilst that of others is apt to be above it. By
practically apt, I mean apt under ordinary circumstances.
These circumstances may be habitual inhibitions, like that
comfortable feeling of the dolce jar niente which gives to
each and all of us a certain dose of laziness only to be
overcome by the acuteness of the impulsive spur; or they
may consist in the native inertia, or internal resistance, of
the motor centres themselves, making explosion impossible
until a certain inward tension has been reached and over-
passed. These conditions may vary from one person to an-
other, and in the same person from time to time. The
neural inertia may wax or wane, and the habitual inhibi-
tions dwindle or augment. The intensity of particular

WILL

435

thought-processes and stimulations may also change inde-
pendently, and particular paths of association grow more
pervious or less so. There thus result great possibilities
of alteration in the actual impulsive efficacy of particular
motives compared with others. It is where the normally
less efficacious motive becomes more efficacious, and the
normally more efficacious one less so, that actions ordinarily
effortless, or abstinences ordinarily easy, either become im-
possible, or are effected (if at all) by the expenditure of
effort. A little more description will make it plainer what
these cases are.

Healthiness of Will. — There is a certain normal ratio
in the impulsive power of different mental objects, which
characterizes what may be called ordinary healthiness of
will, and which is departed from only at exceptional times
or by exceptional individuals. The states of mind which
normally possess the most impulsive quality are either
those which represent objects of passion, appetite, or emo-
tion— objects of instinctive reaction, in short; or they are
feelings or ideas of pleasure or of pain; or ideas which for
any reason we have grown accustomed to obey, so that the
habit of reacting on them is ingrained; or finally, in com-
parison with ideas of remoter objects, they are ideas of
objects present or near in space and time. Compared with
these various objects, all far-off considerations, all highly
abstract conceptions, unaccustomed reasons, and motives
foreign to the instinctive history of the race, have little or
no impulsive power. They prevail, when they ever do
prevail, with effort; and the normal, as distinguished from
the pathological, sphere of effort is thus found wherever
non-instinctive motives to behavior must be reinforced so as
to rule the day.

Healthiness of will moreover requires a certain amount
of complication in the process which precedes the fiat or
the act. Each stimulus or idea, at the same time that it
wakens its own impulse, must also arouse other ideas along
with their characteristic impulses, and action must finally

436 PSYCHOLOGY

follow, neither too slowly nor too rapidly, as the resultant
of all the forces thus engaged. Even when the decision is
pretty prompt, the normal thing is thus a sort of prelimi-
nary survey of the field and a vision of which course is
best before the fiat comes. And where the will is healthy,
the vision must be right (i. e., the motives must be on the
whole in a normal or not too unusual ratio to each other),
and the action must obey the vision's lead.

Unhealthiness of will may thus come about in many
^ways. The action may follow the stimulus or idea too
^ rapidly, leaving no time for the arousal of restraining
associates — we then have a precipitate will. Or, although
the associates may come, the ratio which the impulsive
and inhibitive forces normally bear to each other may be
distorted, and we then have a will which is perverse. The
perversity, in turn, may be due to either of many causes —
too much intensity, or too little, here; too much or too
little inertia there; or elsewhere too much or too little
inhibitory power. // we compare the outward symptoms
of perversity together, they jail into two groups, in one of
which normal actions are impossible, and in the other
abnormal ones are irrepressible. Briefly, we may call them
respectively the obstructed and the explosive will.

It must be kept in mind, however, that since the re-
sultant action is always due to the ratio between the
obstructive and the explosive forces which are present,
we never can tell by the mere outward symptoms to what
elementary cause the perversion of a man's will may be
due, whether to an increase of one component or a dimi-
nution of the other. One may grow explosive as readily
by losing the usual brakes as by getting up more of the
impulsive steam; and one may find things impossible as
well through the enfeeblement of the original desire as
through the advent of new lions in the path. As Dr.
Clouston says, " the driver may be so weak that he cannot
control well-broken horses, or the horses may be so hard-
mouthed that no driver can pull them up."

WILL 437

<
The Explosive Will, i.) From Defective Inhibition.
— There is a normal type of character, for example, in which
impulses seem to discharge so promptly into movements
that inhibitions get no time to arise. These are the ' dare-
devil ' and ' mercurial ■ temperaments, overflowing with
animation and fizzling with talk, which are so common
in the Slavic and Celtic races, and with which the cold-
blooded and long-headed English character forms so
marked a contrast. Simian these people seem to us, whilst
we seem to them reptilian. It is quite impossible to judge,
as between an obstructed and an explosive individual,
which has the greater sum of vital energy. An explosive
Italian with good perception and intellect will cut a figure
as a perfectly tremendous fellow, on an inward capital
that could be tucked away inside of an obstructed Yankee
and hardly let you know that it was there. He will be
the king of his company, sing the songs and make the
speeches, lead the parties, carry out the practical jokes,
kiss the girls, fight the men, and, if need be, lead the
forlorn hopes and enterprises, so that an onlooker would
think he has more life in his little finger than can exist
in the whole body of a correct judicious fellow. But the
judicious fellow all the while may have all these possi-
bilities and more besides, ready to break out in the same
or even a more violent way, if only the brakes were taken
off. It is the absence of scruples, of consequences, of
considerations, the extraordinary simplification of each
moment's mental outlook, that gives to the explosive
individual such motor energy and ease; it need not be
the greater intensity of any of his passions, motives, or
thoughts. As mental evolution goes on, the complexity
of human consciousness grows ever greater, and with it
the multiplication of the inhibitions to which every im-
pulse is exposed. How much freedom of discourse we
English folk lose because we feel obliged always to speak
the truth! This predominance of inhibition has a bad
as well as a good side; and if a man's impulses are in

438 PSYCHOLOGY

the main orderly as well as prompt, if he has courage
to accept their consequences, and intellect to lead them
to a successful end, he is all the better for his hair-
trigger organization, and for not being ' sicklied o'er with
the pale cast of thought/ Many of the most successful
military and revolutionary characters in history have
belonged to this simple but quick-witted impulsive type.
Problems come much harder to reflective and inhibitive
minds. They can, it is true, solve much vaster problems;
and they can avoid many a mistake to which the men of
impulse are exposed. But when the latter do not make
mistakes, or when they are always able to retrieve them,
theirs is one of the most engaging and indispensable of
human types.

In infancy, and in certain conditions of exhaustion, as
well as in peculiar pathological states, the inhibitory
power may fail to arrest the explosions of the impulsive
discharge. We have then an explosive temperament
temporarily realized in an individual who at other times
may be of a relatively obstructed type. In other persons,
again, hysterics, epileptics, criminals of the neurotic class
called degeneres by French authors, there is such a native
feebleness in the mental machinery that before the inhibitory
ideas can arise the impulsive ones have already discharged
into act. In persons heal thy- willed by nature bad habits
can bring about this condition, especially in relation to par-
ticular sorts of impulse. Ask half the common drunkards
you know why it is that they fall so often a prey to tempta-
tion, and they will say that most of the time they cannot
tell. It is a sort of vertigo with them. Their nervous
centres have become a sluice-way pathologically unlocked
by every passing conception of a bottle and a glass. They
do not thirst for the beverage; the taste of it may even
appear repugnant; and they perfectly foresee the morrow's
remorse. But when they think of the liquor or see it, they
find themselves preparing to drink, and do not stop them-
selves: and more than this they cannot say. Similarly a

WILL 439

man may lead a life of incessant love-making or sexual
indulgence, though what spurs him thereto seems to be
trivial suggestions and notions of possibility rather than any
real solid strength of passion or desire. Such characters
are too flimsy even to be bad in any deep sense of the word.
The paths of natural (or it may be unnatural) impulse are
so pervious in them that the slightest rise in the level of in-
nervation produces an overflow. It is the condition recog-
nized in pathology as ' irritable weakness.' The phase
known as nascency or latency is so short in the excitement
of the neural tissues that there is no opportunity for strain
or tension to accumulate within them; and the consequence
is that with all the agitation and activity, the amount of
real feeling engaged may be very small. The hysterical
temperament is the playground par excellence in this
unstable equilibrium. One of these subjects will be filled
with what seems the most genuine and settled aversion to
a certain line of conduct, and the very next instant follow
the stirring of temptation and plunge in it up to the
neck.

2.) From Exaggerated Impulsion. — Disorderly and
impulsive conduct may, on the other hand, come about where
the neural tissues preserve their proper inward tone, and
where the inhibitory power is normal or even unusually
great. In such cases the strength of the impulsive idea is
preter naturally exalted, and what would be for most
people the passing suggestion of a possibility becomes a
gnawing, craving urgency to act. Works on insanity are
full of examples of these morbid insistent ideas, in ob-
stinately struggling against which the unfortunate victim's
soul often sweats with agony ere at last it gets swept
away.

The craving for drink in real dipsomaniacs, or for opium
or chloral in those subjugated, is of a strength of which
normal persons can form no conception. " Were a keg
of rum in one corner of a room and were a cannon con-
stantly discharging balls between me and it, I could not

440 PSYCHOLOGY

refrain from passing before that cannon in order to get
the rum; " " If a bottle of brandy stood at one hand and
the pit of hell yawned at the other, and I were convinced
that I should be pushed in as sure as I took one glass, I
could not refrain: " such statements abound in dipso-
maniacs' mouths. Dr. Mussey of Cincinnati relates this
case:

" A few years ago a tippler was put into an almshouse
in this State. Within a few days he had devised various
expedients to procure rum, but failed. At length, how-
ever, he hit upon one which was successful. He went
into the wood-yard of the establishment, placed one hand
upon the block, and with an axe in the other struck it
off at a single blow. With the stump raised and stream-
ing he ran into the house and cried, ' Get some rum! get
some rum! My hand is off! ' In the confusion and bustle
of the occasion a bowl of rum was brought, into which he
plunged the bleeding member of his body, then raising
the bowl to his mouth, drank freely, and exultingly ex-
claimed, ' Now I am satisfied/ Dr. J. E. Turner tells of
a man who, while under treatment for inebriety, during
four weeks secretly drank the alcohol from six jars con-
taining morbid specimens. On asking him why he had
committed this loathsome act, he replied: l Sir, it is as
impossible for me to control this diseased appetite as it is
for me to control the pulsations of my heart.' "

Often the insistent idea is of a trivial sort, but it may
wear the patient's life out. His hands feel dirty, they
must be washed. He knows they are not dirty; yet to
get rid of the teasing idea he washes them. The idea,
however, returns in a moment, and the unfortunate victim,
who is not in the least deluded intellectually, will end by
spending the whole day at the wash-stand. Or his clothes
are not ' rightly ' put on ; and to banish the thought he
takes them off and puts them on again, till his toilet con-
sumes two or three hours of time. Most people have the
potentiality of this disease. To few has it not happened

WILL 441

to conceive, after getting into bed, that they may have
forgotten to lock the front door, or to turn out the entry
gas. And few of us have not on some occasion got up to
repeat the performance, less because we believe in the
reality of its omission than because only so could we banish
the worrying doubt and get to sleep.

The Obstructed Will. — In striking contrast with the
cases in which inhibition is insufficient or impulsion in
excess are those in which impulsion is insufficient or
inhibition in excess. We all know the condition de-
scribed on p. 218, in which the mind for a few moments >
seems to lose its focussing power and to be unable to
rally its attention to any determinate thing. At such
times we sit blankly staring and do nothing. The objects
of consciousness fail to touch the quick or break the skin.
They are there, but do not reach the level of effectiveness.
This state of non-efficacious presence is the normal con-
dition of some objects, in all of us. Great fatigue or
exhaustion may make it the condition of almost all ob-
jects; and an apathy resembling that then brought about
is recognized in asylums under the name of abulia as a
symptom of mental disease. The healthy state of the will
requires, as aforesaid, both that vision should be right,
and that action should obey its lead. But in the morbid
condition in question the vision may be wholly unaffected,
and the intellect clear, and yet the act either fails to
follow or follows in some other way.

" Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor " is the
classic expression of this latter condition of mind. The
moral tragedy of human life comes almost wholly from
the fact that the link is ruptured which normally should
hold between vision of the truth and action, and that this
pungent sense of effective reality will not attach to certain
ideas. Men do not differ so much in their mere feelings
and conceptions. Their notions of possibility and their
ideals are not as far apart as might be argued from their
differing fates. No class of them have better sentiments

442 PSYCHOLOGY

or feel more constantly the difference between the higher
and the lower path in life than the hopeless failures, the
sentimentalists, the drunkards, the schemers, the ' dead-
beats/ whose life is one long contradiction between knowl-
edge and action, and who, with full command of theory,
never get to holding their limp characters erect. No one
eats of the fruit of the tree of knowledge as they do; as
far as moral insight goes, in comparison with them, the
orderly and prosperous philistines whom they scandalize
are sucking babes. And yet their moral knowledge, always
there grumbling and rumbling in the background, — dis-
cerning, commenting, protesting, longing, half resolving,
— never wholly resolves, never gets its voice out of the
minor into the major key, or its speech out of the sub-
junctive into the imperative mood, never breaks the spell,
never takes the helm into its hands. In such characters
as Rousseau and Restif it would seem as if the lower
motives had all the impulsive efficacy in their hands.
Like trains with the right of way, they retain exclusive
possession of the track. The more ideal motives exist
alongside of them in profusion, but they never get switched
on, and the man's conduct is no more influenced by them
than an express train is influenced by a wayfarer standing
by the roadside and calling to be taken aboard. They
are an inert accompaniment to the end of time; and the
consciousness of inward hollowness that accrues from
habitually seeing the better only to do the worse, is one
of the saddest feelings one can bear with him through
this vale of tears.

Effort feels like an original force. We now see at one
view when it is that effort complicates volition. It does
so whenever a rarer and more ideal impulse is called upon
to neutralize others of a more instinctive and habitual
kind; it does so whenever strongly explosive tendencies
are checked, or strongly obstructive conditions overcome.
The ante bien nee, the child of the sunshine, at whose birth
the fairies made their gifts, does not need much of it in

WILL 443

his life. The hero and the neurotic subject, on the other
hand, do. Now our spontaneous way of conceiving the
effort, under all these circumstances, is as an active force
adding its strength to that of the motives which ultimately
prevail. When outer forces impinge upon a body, we say
that the resultant motion is in the line of least resistance,
or of greatest traction. But it is a curious fact that our
spontaneous language never speaks of volition with effort
in this way. Of course if we proceed a priori and define
the line of least resistance as the line that is followed, the
physical law must also hold good in the mental sphere.
But we feel, in all hard cases of volition, as if the line
taken, when the rarer and more ideal motives prevail, were
the line of greater resistance, and as if the line of coarser
motivation were the more pervious and easy one, even at
the very moment when we refuse to follow it. He who
under the surgeon's knife represses cries of pain, or he
who exposes himself to social obloquy for duty's sake, feels
as if he were following the line of greatest temporary re-
sistance. He speaks of conquering and overcoming his
impulses and temptations.

But the sluggard, the drunkard, the coward, never talk
of their conduct in that way, or say they resist their energy,
overcome their sobriety, conquer their courage, and so
forth. If in general we class all springs of action as pro-
pensities on the one hand and ideals on the other, the sen-
sualist never says of his behavior that it results from a
victory over his ideals, but the moralist always speaks of
his as a victory over his propensities. The sensualist uses
terms of inactivity, says he forgets his ideals, is deaf to
duty, and so forth; which terms seem to imply that the
ideal motives per se can be annulled without energy or
effort, and that the strongest mere traction lies in the line
of the propensities. The ideal impulse appears, in com-
parison with this, a still small voice which must be artifi-
cially reinforced to prevail. Effort is what reinforces it,
making things seem as if, while the force of propensity

444 PSYCHOLOGY

were essentially a fixed quantity, the ideal force might be
of various amount. But what determines the amount of
the effort when, by its aid, an ideal motive becomes vic-
torious over a great sensual resistance? The very great-
ness of the resistance itself. If the sensual propensity is
small, the effort is small. The latter is made great by the
presence of a great antagonist to overcome. And if a brief
definition of ideal or moral action were required, none
could be given which would better fit the appearances than
this: // is action in the line of the greatest resistance.

The facts may be most briefly symbolized thus, P stand-
ing for propensity, I for the ideal impulse, and E for
the effort:

I per se < P.
I + E > P.

In other words, if E adds itself to I, P immediately
offers the least resistance, and motion occurs in spite of it.

But the E does not seem to form an integral part of the
I. It appears adventitious and indeterminate in advance.
We can make more or less as we please, and if we make
enough we can convert the greatest mental resistance into
the least. Such, at least, is the impression which the facts
spontaneously produce upon us. But we will not discuss
the truth of this impression at present; let us rather con-
tinue our descriptive detail.

Pleasure and Pain as Springs of Action. — Objects
and thoughts of objects start our action, but the pleasures
and pains which action brings modify its course and regulate
it; and later the thoughts of the pleasures and the pains
acquire themselves impulsive and inhibitive power. Not
that the thought of a pleasure need be itself a pleasure,
usually it is the reverse — nessun maggior dolore — as Dante
says — and not that the thought of pain need be a pain, for,
as Homer says, " griefs are often afterwards an entertain-
ment." But as present pleasures are tremendous rein-
forcers, and present pains tremendous inhibitors of what-

WILL 445

ever action leads to them, so the thoughts of pleasures and
pains take rank amongst the thoughts which have most
impulsive and inhibitive power. The precise relation which
these thoughts hold to other thoughts is thus a matter
demanding some attention.

If a movement feels agreeable, we repeat and repeat it
as long as the pleasure lasts. If it hurts us, our muscular
contractions at the instant stop. So complete is the inhi-
bition in this latter case that it is almost impossible for a
man to cut or mutilate himself slowly and deliberately —
his hand invincibly refusing to bring on the pain. And
there are many pleasures which, when once we have begun
to taste them, make it all but obligatory to keep up the
activity to which they are due. So widespread and search-
ing is this influence of pleasures and pains upon our move-
ments that a premature philosophy has decided that these
are our only spurs to action, and that wherever they seem
to be absent, it is only because they are so far on among
the ' remoter ' images that prompt the action that they are
overlooked.

This is a great mistake, however. Important as is the
influence of pleasures and pains upon our movements, they
are far from being our only stimuli. With the manifesta-
tions of instinct and emotional expression, for example,
they have absolutely nothing to do. Who smiles for the
pleasure of the smiling, or frowns for the pleasure of the
frown? Who blushes to escape the discomfort of not
blushing? Or who in anger, grief, or fear is actuated to
the movements which he makes by the pleasures which
they yield? In all these cases the movements are dis-
charged fatally by the vis a tergo which the stimulus
exerts upon a nervous system framed to respond in just
that way. The objects of our rage, love, or terror, the
occasions of our tears and smiles, whether they be present
to our senses, or whether they be merely represented in
idea, have this peculiar sort of impulsive power. The

446 PSYCHOLOGY

impulsive quality of mental states is an attribute behind
which we cannot go. Some states of mind have more of it
than others, some have it in this direction and some in
that. Feelings of pleasure and pain have it, and percep-
tions and imaginations of fact have it, but neither have it
exclusively or peculiarly. It is of the essence of all con-
sciousness (or of the neural process which underlies it) to
instigate movement of some sort. That with one creature
and object it should be of one sort, with others of another
sort, is a problem for evolutionary history to explain.
However the actual impulsions may have arisen, they must
now be described as they exist; and those persons obey a
curiously narrow teleological superstition who think them-
selves bound to interpret then in every instance as effects
of the secret solicitancy of pleasure and repugnancy of
pain. If the thought of pleasure can impel to action,
surely other thoughts may. Experience only can decide
which thoughts do. The chapters on Instinct and Emo-
tion have shown us that their name is legion; and with
this verdict we ought to remain contented, and not seek
an illusory simplification at the cost of half the facts.

If in these our first acts pleasures and pain bear no
part, as little do they bear in our last acts, or those arti-
ficially acquired performances which have become habitual.
All the daily routine of life, our dressing and undressing,
the coming and going from our work or carrying through
of its various operations, is utterly without mental refer-
ence to pleasure and pain, except under rarely realized
conditions. It is ideo-motor action. As I do not breathe
for the pleasure of the breathing, but simply find that I
am breathing, so I do not write for the pleasure of the
writing, but simply because I have once begun, and being
in a state of intellectual excitement which keeps venting
itself in that way, find that I am writing still. Who will
pretend that when he idly fingers his knife-handle at the
table, it is for the sake of any pleasure which it gives him,
or pain which he thereby avoids? We do all these things

WILL 447

because at the moment we cannot help it; our nervous
systems are so shaped that they overflow in just that way;
and for many of our idle or purely ' nervous ' and fidgety
performances we can assign absolutely no reason at all.

Or what shall be said of a shy and unsociable man who
receives point-blank an invitation to a small party? The
thing is to him an abomination; but your presence exerts
a compulsion on him, he can think of no excuse, and so
says yes, cursing himself the while for what he does. He
is unusually sui compos who does not every week of his
life fall into some such blundering act as this. Such in-
stances of voluntas invita show not only that our acts
cannot all be conceived as effects of represented pleasure,
but that they cannot even be classed as cases of repre-
sented good. The class ' goods ' contains many more gen-
erally influential motives to action than the class ' pleas-
ants.' But almost as little as under the form of pleasures
do our acts invariably appear to us under the form of
goods. All diseased impulses and pathological fixed ideas
are instances to the contrary. It is the very badness of
the act that gives it then its vertiginous fascination.
Remove the prohibition, and the attraction stops. In my
university days a student threw himself from an upper
entry window of one of the college buildings and was
nearly killed. Another student, a friend of my own, had
to pass the window daily in coming and going from his
room, and experienced a dreadful temptation to imitate
the deed. Being a Catholic, he told his director, who said,
* All right! if you must, you must/ and added, ' Go ahead
and do it/ thereby instantly quenching his desire. This
director knew how to minister to a mind diseased. But
we need not go to minds diseased for examples of the occa-
sional tempting-power of simple badness and unpleasant-
ness as such. Every one who has a wound or hurt any-
where, a sore tooth, e.g., will ever and anon press it just to
bring out the pain. If we are near a new sort of stink, we
must sniff it again just to verify once more how bad it is.

Ytf

448 PSYCHOLOGY

This very day I have been repeating over and over to
myself a verbal jingle whose mawkish silliness was the
secret of its haunting power. I loathed yet could not
banish it.

What holds attention determines action. If one
must have a single name for the condition upon which the
impulsive and inhibitive quality of objects depends, one had
better call it their interest. ' The interesting ' is a title
— which covers not only the pleasant and the painful, but
also the morbidly fascinating, the tediously haunting, and
even the simply habitual, inasmuch as the attention usually
travels on habitual lines, and what-we-attend-to and what-
interests-us are synonymous terms. It seems as if we
ought to look for the secret of an idea's impulsiveness, not
in any peculiar relations which it may have with paths of
motor discharge, — for all ideas have relations with some
such paths, — but rather in a preliminary phenomenon, the
urgency, namely, with which it is able to compel attention
and dominate in consciousness. Let it once so dominate,
let no other ideas succeed in displacing it, and whatever
motor effects belong to it by nature will inevitably occur
— its impulsion, in short, will be given to boot, and will
manifest itself as a matter of course. This is what we
have seen in instinct, in emotion, in common ideo-motor
action, in hypnotic suggestion, in morbid impulsion, and
in voluntas invita, — the impelling idea is simply the
one which possesses the attention. It is the same where
pleasure and pain are the motor spurs — they drive other
thoughts from consciousness at the same time that they
instigate their own characteristic ' volitional ' effects. And
this is also what happens at the moment of the fiat, in all
the five types of ' decision ' which we have described. In
short, one does not see any case in which the steadfast
occupancy of consciousness does not appear to be the prime
condition of impulsive power. It is still more obviously
the prime condition of inhibitive power. What checks
our impulses is the mere thinking of reasons to the con-

WILL 449

trary — it is their bare presence to the mind which gives
the veto, and makes acts, otherwise seductive, impossible
to perform. If we could only forget our scruples, our
doubts, our fears, what exultant energy we should for a
while display.

Will is a relation between the mind and its 'ideas*'
In closing in, therefore, after all these preliminaries, upon
the more intimate nature of the volitional process, we
find ourselves driven more and more exclusively to con-
sider the conditions which make ideas prevail in the mind.
With the prevalence, once there as a fact, of the motive
idea, the psychology of volition properly stops. The move-
ments which ensue are exclusively physiological phenomena,
following according to physiological laws upon the neural
events to which the idea corresponds. The willing termi-
nates with the prevalence of the idea ; and whether the .
act then follows or not is a matter quite immaterial, so far
as the willing itself goes. I will to write, and the act fol-
lows. I will to sneeze, and it does not. I will that the
distant table slide over the floor towards me; it also does
not. My willing representation can no more instigate my
sneezing-centre than it can instigate the table to activ-
ity. But in both cases it is as true and good willing as
it was when I willed to write. In a word, volition is a
psychic or moral fact pure and simple, and is absolutely
completed when the stable state of the idea is there. The
supervention of motion is a supernumerary phenomenon
depending on executive ganglia whose function lies out-
side the mind. If the ganglia work duly, the act occurs
perfectly. If they work, but work wrongly, we, have St.
Vitus's dance, locomotor ataxy, motor aphasia, or minor
degrees of awkwardness. If they don't work at all, the
act fails altogether, and we say the man is paralyzed He
may make a tremendous effort, and contract the other
muscles of the body, but the paralyzed limb fails to move.
In all these cases, however, the volition considered as a
psychic process is intact.

)

450 PSYCHOLOGY

Volitional effort is effort of attention. We thus find
that we reach the heart of our inquiry into volition when we
ask by what process it is that the thought of any given ac-
tion comes to prevail stably in the mind. Where thoughts
prevail without effort, we have sufficiently studied in the
several chapters on Sensation, Association, and Attention,
the laws of their advent before consciousness and of their
stay. We shall not go over that ground again, for we know
that interest and association are the words, let their worth
be what it may, on which our explantions must perforce
rely. Where, on the other hand, the prevalence of the
thought is accompanied by the phenomenon of effort, the
case is much less clear. Already in the chapter on Atten-
tion we postponed the final consideration of voluntary
attention with effort to a later place. We have now
brought things to a point at which we see that attention
with effort is all that any case of volition implies. The
essential achievement of the will, in short, when it is most
1 voluntary] is to attend to a difficult object and hold it
fast before the mind. The so-doing is the fiat; and it is a
mere physiological incident that when the object is thus
attended to, immediate motor consequences should ensue.

Effort of attention is thus the essential phenomenon of
will* Every reader must know by his own experience

* This volitional effort pure and simple must be carefully distin-
guished from the muscular effort with which it is usually confounded.
The latter consists of all those peripheral feelings to which a mus-
cular "exertion" may give rise. These feelings, whenever they are
massive and the body is not "fresh," are rather disagreeable, espe-
cially when accompanied by stopped breath, congested head, bruised
skin of fingers, toes, or shoulders, and strained joints. And it is only
as thus disagreeable that the mind must make its volitional effort in
stably representing their reality and consequently bringing it about.
That they happen to be made real by muscular activity is a purely
accidental circumstance. There are instances where the fiat demands
great volitional effort though the muscular exertion be insignificant,
e.g., the getting out of bed and bathing one's self on a cold morn-
ing. Again, a soldier standing still to be fired at expects disagreeable

WILL 45r

that this is so, for every reader must have felt some fiery
passion's grasp. What constitutes the difficulty for a man
laboring under an unwise passion of acting as if the pas-
sion were wise? Certainly there is no physical difficulty.
It is as easy physically to avoid a fight as to begin one, to
pocket one's money as to squander it on one's cupidities,
to walk away from as towards a coquette's door. The dif-
ficulty is mental: it is that of getting the idea of the wise
action to stay before our mind at all. When any strong
emotional state whatever is upon us, the tendency is for no
images but such as are congruous with it to come up. If
others by chance offer themselves, they are instantly smoth-
ered and crowded out. If we be joyous, we cannot keep
thinking of those uncertainties and risks of failure which
abound upon our path; if lugubrious, we cannot think of
new triumphs, travels, loves, and joys; nor if vengeful, of
our oppressor's community of nature with ourselves. The
cooling advice which we get from others when the fever-
fit is on us is the most jarring and exasperating thing in
life. Reply we cannot, so we get angry; for by a sort of
self -preserving instinct which our passion has, it feels that
these chill objects, if they once but gain a lodgment, will
work and work until they have frozen the very vital spark
from out of all our mood and brought our airy castles in
ruin to the ground. Such is the inevitable effect of rea-
sonable ideas over others — if they can once get a quiet hear-
ing; and passion's cue accordingly is always and every-
where to prevent their still small voice from being heard
at all. "Let me not think of that! Don't speak to me
of that! " This is the sudden cry of all those who in a
passion perceive some sobering considerations about to
check them in mid-career. There is something so icy in
this cold-water bath, something which seems so hostile to

sensations from his muscular passivity. The action of his will, in
sustaining the expectation, is identical with that required for a pain-
ful muscular effort. What is hard for both is facing an idea as real.

452 PSYCHOLOGY

the movement of our life, so purely negative, in Reason,
when she lays her corpse-like finger on our heart and says,
" Halt! give up! leave off! go back! sit down! " that it is
no wonder that to most men the steadying influence seems,
for the time being, a very minister of death.

The strong-willed man, however, is the man who hears
the still small voice unflinchingly, and who, when the
death-bringing consideration comes, looks at its face, con-
sents to its presence, clings to it, affirms it, and holds it
fast, in spite of the host of exciting mental images which
rise in revolt against it and would expel it from the mind.
Sustained in this way by a resolute effort of attention, the
difficult object erelong begins to call up its own congeners
and associates and ends by changing the disposition of the
man's consciousness altogether. And with his conscious-
ness his action changes, for the new object, once stably in
possession of the field of his thoughts, infallibly produces
its own motor effects. The difficulty lies in the gaining
possession of that field. Though the spontaneous drift of
thought is all the other way, the attention must be kept
strained on that one object until at last it grows, so as to
maintain itself before the mind with ease. This strain of
the attention is the fundamental act of will. And the
will's work is in most cases practically ended when the
bare presence to our thought of the naturally unwelcome
object has been secured. For the mysterious tie between
the "thought and the motor centres next comes into play,
and, in a way which we cannot even guess at, the obedience
of the bodily organs follows as a matter of course.

In all this one sees how the immediate point of appli-
cation of the volitional effort lies exclusively in the mental
world. The whole drama is a mental drama. The whole
difficulty is a mental difficulty, difficulty with an ideal
object of our thought. It is, in one word, an idea to
which our will applies itself, an idea which if we let it go
would slip away, but which we will not let go. Consent to
the idea's undivided presence, this is effort's sole achieve-

WILL 453

ment. Its only function is to get this feeling of consent
into the mind. And for this there is but one way. The
idea to be consented to must be kept from flickering and
going out. It must be held steadily before the mind until
it fills the mind. Such filling of the mind by an idea,
with its congruous associates, is consent to the idea and
to the fact which the idea represents. If the idea be that,
or include that, of a bodily movement of our own, then we
call the consent thus laboriously gained a motor volition.
For Nature here ( backs ' us instantaneously and follows
up our inward willingness by outward changes on her own
part. She does this in no other instance. Pity she should
not have been more generous, nor made a world whose
other parts were as immediately subject to our will!

On page 430, in describing the ' reasonable type ' of de-
cision, it was said that it usually came when the right con-
ception of the case was found. Where, however, the right
conception is an anti-impulsive one, the whole intellectual
ingenuity of the man usually goes to work to crowd it out
of sight, and to find for the emergency names by the help
of which the dispositions of the moment may sound sanc-
tified, and sloth or passion may reign unchecked. How
many excuses does the drunkard find when each new
temptation comes! It is a new brand of liquor which the
interests of intellectual culture in such matters oblige him
to test; moreover it is poured out and it is sin to waste it;
also others are drinking and it would be churlishness to
refuse. Or it is but to enable him to sleep, or just to get
through this job of work; or it isn't drinking, it is be-
cause he feels so cold; or it is Christmas-day; or it is a
means of stimulating him to make a more powerful resolu-
tion in favor of abstinence than any he has hitherto made;
or it is just this once, and once doesn't count, etc., etc., ad
libitum — it is, in fact, anything you like except being a
drunkard. That is the conception that will not stay be-
fore the poor soul's attention. But if he once gets able to
pick out that way of conceiving, from all the other possi-

454 PSYCHOLOGY

ble ways of conceiving the various opportunities which
occur, if through thick and thin he holds to it that this is
being a drunkard and is nothing else, he is not likely to
remain one long. The effort by which he succeeds in
keeping the right name unwaveringly present to his mind
proves to be his saving moral act.

Everywhere, then, the function of the effort is the same:
to keep affirming and adopting a thought which, if left to
itself, would slip away. It may be cold and flat when the
spontaneous mental drift is towards excitement, or great
and arduous when the spontaneous drift is towards repose.
In the one case the effort has to inhibit an explosive, in
the other to arouse an obstructed will. The exhausted
sailor on a wreck has a will which is obstructed. One of
his ideas is that of his sore hands, of the nameless exhaus-
tion of his whole frame which the act of farther pumping
involves, and of the deliciousness of sinking into sleep.
The other is that of the hungry sea engulfing him.
" Rather the aching toil! " he says; and it becomes reality
then, in spite of the inhibiting influence of the relatively
luxurious sensations which he gets from lying still. Often
again it may be the thought of sleep and what leads to
it which is the hard one to keep before the mind. If a
patient afflicted with insomnia can only control the whirl-
ing chase of his ideas so far as to think of nothing at
all (which can be done), or so far as to imagine one letter
after another of a verse of Scripture or poetry spelt slowly
and monotonously out, it is almost certain that here, too,
specific bodily effects will follow, and that sleep will come.
The trouble is to keep the mind upon a train of objects
naturally so insipid. To sustain a representation, to
think, is, in short, the only moral act, for the impulsive
and the obstructed, for sane and lunatics alike. Most
maniacs know their thoughts to be crazy, but find them
too pressing to be withstood. Compared with them the
sane truths are so deadly sober, so cadaverous, that the
lunatic cannot bear to look them in the face and say,

WILL 455

"Let these alone be my reality! " But with sufficient
effort, as Dr. Wigan says, " Such a man can for a time wind
himself up, as it were, and determine that the notions of the
disordered brain shall not be manifested. Many instances
are on record similar to that told by Pinel, where an inmate
of the Bicetre, having stood a long cross-examination, and
given every mark of restored reason, signed his name to
the paper authorizing his discharge ' Jesus Christ,' and
then went off into all the vagaries connected with that
delusion. In the phraseology of the gentleman whose case
is related in an early part of this [ Wigan 's] work he had
1 held himself tight ' during the examination in order to
attain his object ; this once accomplished he ' let himself
down ' again, and, if even conscious of his delusion, could
not control it. I have observed with such persons that it
requires a considerable time to wind themselves up to the
pitch of complete self-control, that the effort is a painful
tension of the mind. . . . When thrown off their guard by
any accidental remark or worn out by the length of the
examination, they let themselves go, and cannot gather
themselves up again without preparation."

To sum it all up in a word, the terminus of the psycho-
logical process in volition, the point to which the will is
directly applied, is always an idea. There are at all times
some ideas from which we shy away like frightened horses
the moment we get a glimpse of their forbidding profile
upon the threshold of our thought. The only resistance
which our will can possibly experience is the resistance
which such an idea offers to being attended to at all. To
attend to it is the volitional act, and the only inward
volitional act which we ever perform.

The Question of 'Free-will.' — As was remarked on p.
443 , in the experience of effort we feel as if we might make
more or less than we actually at any moment are making.

The effort appears, in other words, not as a fixed reaction
on our part which the object that resists us necessarily
calls forth, but as what the mathematicians call an ' inde-

456 PSYCHOLOGY

pendent variable ' amongst the fixed data of the case, our
motives, character, etc. If it be really so, if the amount of
our effort is not a determinate function of those other data,
then, in common parlance, our wills are jree. If, on the
contrary, the amount of effort be a fixed function, so that
whatever object at any time fills our consciousness was
from eternity bound to fill it then and there, and compel
from us the exact effort, neither more nor less, which we
bestow upon it, — then our wills are not free, and all our
acts are foreordained. The question of fact in the free-
will controversy is thus extremely simple. It relates solely
to the amount of effort of attention which we can at any
time put forth. .Are the duration and intensity of this
effort fixed functions of the object, or are they not? Now,
as I just said, it seems as if we might exert more or less
in any given case. When a man has let his thoughts go
for days and weeks until at last they culminate in some
particularly dirty or cowardly or cruel act, it is hard to
persuade him, in the midst of his remorse, that he might
not have reined them in; hard to make him believe that
this whole goodly universe (which his act so jars upon)
required and exacted it of him at that fatal moment, and
from eternity made aught else impossible. But, on the
other hand, there is the certainty that all his effortless voli-
tions are resultants of interests and associations whose
strength and sequence are mechanically determined by the
structure of that physical mass, his brain; and the general
continuity of things and the monistic conception of the
world may lead one irresistibly to postulate that a little
fact like effort can form no real exception to the over-
whelming reign of deterministic law. Even in effortless
volition we have the consciousness of the alternative being
also possible. This is surely a delusion here; why is it
not a delusion everywhere?

The fact is that the question of free-will is insoluble on
strictly psychologic grounds. After a certain amount of
effort of attention has been given to an idea, it is mani-

WILL 457

festly impossible to tdl whether either more or less of it
might have been given or not. To tell that, we should have
to ascend to the antecedents of the effort, and defining them
with mathematical exactitude, prove, by laws of which we
have not at present even an inkling, that the only amount
of sequent effort which could possibly comport with them
was the precise amount that actually came. Such measure-
ments, whether of psychic or neural quantities, and such
deductive reasonings as this method of proof implies, will
surely be forever beyond human reach. No serious psy-
chologist or physiologist will venture even to suggest a
notion of how they might be practically made. Had one
no motives drawn from elsewhere to make one partial to
either solution, one might easily leave the matter unde-
cided. But a psychologist cannot be expected to be thus
impartial, having a great motive in favor of determinism.
He wants to build a Science; and a Science is a system of
fixed relations. Wherever there are independent variables,
there Science stops. So far, then, as our volitions may be
independent variables, a scientific psychology must ignore
that fact, and treat of them only so far as they are fixed
functions. In other words, she must deal with the general
laws of volition exclusively; with the impulsive and in-
hibitory character of ideas; with the nature of their
appeals to the attention; with the conditions under which
effort may arise, etc.; but not with the precise amounts
of effort, for these, if our wills be free, are impossible
to compute. She thus abstracts from free-will, without
necessarily denying its existence. Practically, however,
such abstraction is not distinguished from rejection; and
most actual psychologists have no hesitation in denying
that free-will exists.

For ourselves, we can hand the free-will controversy over
to metaphysics. Psychology will surely never grow refined
enough to discover, in the case of any individual's decision,
a discrepancy between her scientific calculations and the
fact. Her prevision will never foretell, whether the effort

458 PSYCHOLOGY

be completely predestinate or not, the way in which each
individual emergency is resolved. Psychology will be psy-
chology, and Science science, as much as ever (as much
and no more) in this world, whether free-will be true in it
or not.

We can thus ignore the free-will question in psychology.
As we said on p. 452, the operation of free effort, if it existed,
could only be to hold some one ideal object, or part of an
object, a little longer or a little more intensely before the
mind. Amongst the alternatives which present themselves
as genuine possibles, it would thus make one effective.
And although such quickening of one idea might be
morally and historically momentous, yet if considered
dynamically, it would be an operation amongst those
physiological infinitesimals which an actual science must
forever neglect.

Ethical Importance of the Phenomenon of Effort. —
Bult whilst eliminating the question about the amount of our
effort as one which psychology will never have a practical
call to decide, I must say one word about the extraor-
dinarily intimate and important character which the
phenomenon of effort assumes in our own eyes as individ-
ual men. Of course we measure ourselves by many stand-
ards. Our strength and our intelligence, our wealth and
even our good luck, are things which warm our heart and
make us feel ourselves a match for life. But deeper than
all such things, and able to suffice unto itself without them,
is the sense of the amount of effort which we can put
forth. Those are, after all, but effects, products, and
reflections of the outer world within. But the effort
seems to belong to an altogether different realm, as if it
were the substantive thing which we are and those were
externals which we carry. If the ' searching of our
heart and reins ' be the purpose of this human drama, then
what is sought seems to be what effort we can make. He
who can make none is but a shadow; he who can make
much is a hero. The huge world that girdles us about

WILL 459

puts all sorts of questions to us, and tests us in all sorts of
ways. Some of the tests we meet by actions that are easy,
and some of the questions we answer in articulately
formulated words. But the deepest question that is ever
asked admits of no reply but the dumb turning of the will
and tightening of our heart-strings as we say, " Yes, I will
even have it sol " When a dreadful object is presented, or
when life as a whole turns up its dark abysses to our view,
then the worthless ones among us lose their hold on the
situation altogether, and either escape from its difficulties
by averting their attention, or if they cannot do that,
collapse into yielding masses of plaintiveness and fear.
The effort required for facing and consenting to such
objects is beyond their power to make. But the heroic
mind does differently. To it, too, the objects are sinister
and dreadful, unwelcome, incompatible with wished-for
things. But it can face them if necessary, without for
that losing its hold upon the rest of life. The world thus
finds in the heroic man its worthy match and mate; and
the effort which he is able to put forth to hold himself
erect and keep his heart unshaken is the direct measure
of his worth and function in the game of human life. He
can stand this Universe. He can meet it and keep up his
faith in it in presence of those same features which lay his
weaker brethren low. He can still find a zest in it, not by
' ostrich-like forgetfulness/ but by pure inward willingness
to face it with those deterrent objects there. And hereby
he makes himself one of the masters and the lords of life.
He must be counted with henceforth; he forms a part of
human destiny. Neither in the theoretic nor in the prac-
tical sphere do we care for, or go for help to, those who
have no head for risks, or sense for living on the perilous
edge. Our religious life lies more, our practical life lies
less, than it used to, on the perilous edge. But just as
our courage is so often a reflex of another's courage, so our
faith is apt to be a faith in some one else's faith. We
draw new life from the heroic example. The prophet has

46o PSYCHOLOGY

drunk more deeply than anyone of the cup of bitterness,
but his countenance is so unshaken and he speaks such
mighty words of cheer that his will becomes our will, and
our life is kindled at his own.

Thus not only our morality but our religion, so far as
the latter is deliberate, depend on the effort which we can
make. " Will you or won't you have it so? " is the most
probing question we are ever asked; we are asked it every
hour of the day, and about the largest as well as the
smallest, the most theoretical as well as the most practical,
things. We answer by consents or non-consents and not by
words. What wonder that these dumb responses should
seem our deepest organs of communication with the nature
of things! What wonder if the effort demanded by them
be the measure of our worth as men! What wonder if the
amount which we accord of it were the one strictly un-
derived and original contribution which we make to the
world!

EPILOGUE

PSYCHOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY *

What the Word Metaphysics means. — In the last
chapter we handed the question of free-will over to ' meta-
physics.' It would indeed have been hasty to settle the ques-
tion absolutely, inside the limits of psychology. Let psychol-
ogy frankly admit that for her scientific purposes deter-
minism may be claimed, and no one can find fault. If,
then, it turn out later that the claim has only a relative
purpose, and may be crossed by counter-claims, the re-
adjustment can be made. Now ethics makes a counter-
claim; and the present writer, for one, has no hesitation
in regarding her claim as the stronger, and in assuming
that our wills are ' free.' For him, then, the determi-
nistic assumption of psychology is merely provisional and
methodological. This is no place to argue the ethical
point; and I only mention the conflict to show that all
these special sciences, marked off for convenience from
the remaining body of truth (cf. p. i), must hold their as-
sumptions and results subject to revision in the light of
each others' needs. The forum where they hold discus-
sion is called metaphysics. Metaphysics means only an
unusually obstinate attempt to think clearly and con-
sistently. The special sciences all deal with data that
are full of obscurity and contradiction; but from the point
of view of their limited purposes these defects may be
overlooked. Hence the disparaging use of the name meta-
physics which is so common. To a man with a limited
purpose any discussion that is over-subtle for that purpose
is branded as ' metaphysical.' A geologist's purposes fall
short of understanding Time itself. A mechanist need

461

462 PSYCHOLOGY

not know how action and reaction are possible at all. A
psychologist has enough to do without asking how both
he and the mind which he studies are able to take cogni-
zance of the same outer world. But it is obvious that
problems irrelevant from one standpoint may be essential
from another. And as soon as one's purpose is the attain-
ment of the maximum of possible insight into the world
as a whole, the metaphysical puzzles become the most
urgent ones of all. Psychology contributes to general
philosophy her full share of these; and I propose in this
last chapter to indicate briefly which of them seem the
more important. And first, of the

Relation of Consciousness to the Brain. — When psy-
chology is treated as a natural science (after the fashion in
which it has been treated in this book ) , ' states of mind p
are taken for granted, as data immediately given in expe-
rience; and the working hypothesis (see p. 6) is the mere
empirical law that to the entire state of the brain at any
moment one unique state of mind always ' corresponds/
This does very well till we begin to be metaphysical and
ask ourselves just what we mean by such a word as c cor-
responds.' This notion appears dark in the extreme, the
moment we seek to translate it into something more in-
timate than mere parallel variation. Some think they
make the notion of it clearer by calling the mental state
and the brain the inner and outer ' aspects,' respectively, of
1 One and the Same Reality.' Others consider the mental
state as the ' reaction ' of a unitary being, the Soul, upon
the multiple activities which the brain presents. Others
again comminute the mystery by supposing each brain-
cell to be separately conscious, and the empirically given
mental state to be the appearance of all the little con-
sciousnesses fused into one, just as the ' brain ' itself is
the appearance of all the cells together, when looked at
from one point of view.

We may call these three metaphysical attempts the
monistic, the spiritualistic, and the atomistic theories re-

PSYCHOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY 463

spectively. Each has its difficulties, of which it seems to
me that those of the spiritualistic theory are logically much
the least grave. But the spiritualistic theory is quite out
of touch with facts of multiple consciousness, alternate
personality, etc. (pp. 207-214). These lend themselves
more naturally to the atomistic formulation, for it seems
easier to think of a lot of minor consciousnesses now gather-
ing together into one large mass, and now into several
smaller ones, than of a Soul now reacting totally, now break-
ing into several disconnected simultaneous reactions. The
localization of brain-functions also makes for the atomistic
view. If in my experience, say of a bell, it is my occipital
lobes which are the condition of its being seen, and my
temporal lobes which are the condition of its being heard,
what is more natural than to say that the former see it and
the latter hear it, and then ' combine their information '?
In view of the extreme naturalness of such a way of repre-
senting the well-established fact that the appearance of
the several parts of an object to consciousness at any mo-
ment does depend on as many several parts of the brain
being then active, all such objections as were urged, on
PP- 23> 57> and elsewhere, to the notion that * parts ' of con-
sciousness can ' combine ' will be rejected as far-fetched,
unreal, and ' metaphysical ' by the atomistic philospher.
His ' purpose ' is to gain a formula which shall unify
things in a natural and easy manner, and for such a pur-
pose the atomistic theory seems expressly made to his hand.
But the difficulty with the problem of * correspondence '
is not only that of solving it, it is that of even stating it in
elementary terms.

" L'ombre en ce lieu s'amasse, et la nuit est la toute."

Before we can know just what sort of goings-on occur
when thought corresponds to a change in the brain, we
must know the subjects of the goings-on. We must know
which sort of mental fact and which sort of cerebral fact
are, so to speak, in immediate juxtaposition. We must

464 PSYCHOLOGY

find the minimal mental fact whose being reposes directl
on a brain-fact; and we must similarly find the minim;
brain-event which can have a mental counterpart at all.
Between the mental and the physical minima thus found
there will be an immediate relation, the expression of which,
if we had it, would be the elementary psycho-physic law.

Our own formula has escaped the metempiric assump-
tion of psychic atoms by taking the entire thought (even
of a complex object) as the minimum with which it deals
on tb" mental side, and the entire brain as the minimum
on the physical side. But the ' entire brain y is not a phy-
sical fact at all! It is nothing but our name for the way
in which a billion of molecules arranged in certain posi-
tions may affect our sense. On the principles of the cor-
puscular or mechanical philosophy, the only realities are
the separate molecules, or at most the cells. Their aggre-
gation into a ' brain ' is a fiction of popular speech. Such
a figment cannot serve as the objectively real counterpart
to any psychic state whatever. Only a genuinely physical
fact can so serve, and the molecular fact is the only genu-
ine physical fact. Whereupon we seem, if we are to have
an elementary psycho-physic law at all, thrust right back
upon something like the mental-atom- theory, for the
molecular fact, being an element of the * brain/ would
seem naturally to correspond, not to total thoughts, but
to elements of thoughts. Thus the real in psychics, seems
to ' correspond ' to the unreal in physics, and vice versa;
and our perplexity is extreme.

The Relation of States of Mind to their 'Objects/ —
The perplexity is not diminished when we reflect upon our as-
sumption that states of consciousness can know (pp. 2-13).
From the common-sense point of view (which is that of
all the natural sciences) knowledge is an ultimate rela-
tion between two mutually external entities, the knower
and the known. The world first exists, and then the states
of mind; and these gain a cognizance of the world which
gets gradually more and more complete. But it is hard

11.

PSYCHOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY 465

to carry through this simple dualism, for idealistic reflec-
tions will intrude. Take the states of mind called pure
sensations (so far as such may exist), that for example of
blue, which we may get from looking into the zenith on a
clear day. Is the blue a determination of the feeling itself,
or of its ' object '? Shall we describe the experience as a
quality of our feeling or as our feeling of a quality?
Ordinary speech vacillates incessantly on this point. The
ambiguous word ' content ' has been recently invented in-
stead of 'object,' to escape a decision; for ' content -^sug-
gests something not exactly out of the feeling, nor yet
exactly identical with the feeling, since the latter remains
suggested as the container or vessel. Yet of our feelings as
vessels apart from their content we really have no clear
notion whatever. The fact is that such an experience as
blue, as it is immediately given, can only be called by some
such neutral name as that phenomenon. It does not come
to us immediately as a relation between two realities, one
mental and one physical. It is only when, still thinking
of it as the same blue (cf. p. 239), we trace relations between
it and other things, that it doubles itself, so to speak, and
develops in two directions; and, taken in connection with
some associates, figures as a physical quality, whilst with
others it figures as a feeling in the mind.

Our non-sensational, or conceptual, states of mind, on
the other hand, seem to obey a different law. They pre-
sent themselves immediately as referring beyond them-
selves. Although they also possess an immediately given
'content/ they have a 'fringe' beyond it (p. 168), and
claim to ' represent ' something else than it. The ' blue '
we have just spoken of, for instance, was, substantively
considered, a word; but it was a word with a meaning.
The quality blue was the object of the thought, the
word was its content. The mental state, in short, was not
self-sufficient as sensations are, but expressly pointed at
something more in which it meant to terminate.

But the moment when, as in sensations, object and con-

466 PSYCHOLOGY

scious state seem to be different ways of considering one
and the same fact, it becomes hard to justify our denial
that mental states consist of parts. The blue sky, consid-
ered physically, is a sum of mutually external parts; why
is it not such a sum, when considered as a content of sen-
sation?

The only result that is plain from all this is that the
relations of the known and the knower are infinitely
complicated, and that a genial, whole-hearted, popular-
science way of formulating them will not suffice. The
only possible path to understanding them lies through
metaphysical subtlety; and Idealism and Erkenntniss-
theorie must say their say before the natural-science as-
sumption that thoughts ' know ! things grows clear.

The changing character of consciousness presents an-
other puzzle. We first assumed conscious ' states ' as the
units with which psychology deals, and we said later that
they were in constant change. Yet any state must have a
certain duration to be effective at all — a pain which
lasted but a hundredth of a second would practically be
no pain — and the question comes up, how long may a
state last and still be treated as one state? In time-per-
ception for example, if the ' present ' as known (the
1 specious present/ as we called it) may be a dozen seconds
long (p. 281), how long need the present as knower be?
That is, what is the minimum duration of the conscious-
ness in which those twelve seconds can be apprehended as
just past, the minimum which can be called a ' state/ for
such a cognitive purpose? Consciousness, as a process in
time, offers the paradoxes which have been found in all
continuous change. There are no ( states ' in such a thing,
any more than there are facets in a circle, or places where
an arrow ' is ' when it flies. The vertical raised upon the
time-line on which (p. 285) we represented the past to
be ' projected ' at any given instant of memory, is only
an ideal construction. Yet anything broader than that
vertical it not, for the actual present is only the joint be-

PSYCHOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY 467

tween the past and future and has no breadth of its own.
Where everything is change and process, how can we talk
of ' state ' ? Yet how can we do without l states/ in de-
scribing what the vehicles of our knowledge seem to be?

States of consciousness themselves are not verifiable
facts. — But ' worse remains behind/ Neither common-
sense, nor psychology so far as it has yet been written, has
ever doubted that the states of consciousness which that
science studies are immediate data of experience. ' Things '
have been doubted, but thoughts and feelings have never
been doubted. The outer world, but never the inner world,
has been denied. Everyone assumes that we have direct
introspective acquaintance with our thinking activity as
such, with our consciousness as something inward and
contrasted with the outer objects which it knows. Yet I
must confess that for my part I cannot feel sure of this
conclusion. Whenever I try to become sensible of my
thinking activity as such, what I catch is some bodily
fact, an impression coming from my brow, or head, or
throat, or nose. It seems as if consciousness as an inner
activity were rather a postulate than a sensibly given fact,
the postulate, namely, of a knower as correlative to all
this known ; and as if ' sciousness ' might be a better word
by which to describe it. But c sciousness postulated as
an hypothesis ' is practically a very different thing from
* states of consciousness apprehended with infallible cer-
tainty by an inner sense.' For one thing, it throws the
question of who the knower really is wide open again, and
makes the answer which we gave to it at the end of
Chapter XII a mere provisional statement from a popular
and prejudiced point of view.

Conclusion. — When, then, we talk of l psychology as a
natural science,' we must not assume that that means a
sort of psychology that stands at last on solid ground. It
means just the reverse; it means a psychology particularly
fragile, and into which the waters of metaphysical criticism
leak at every joint, a psychology all of whose elementary

468 PSYCHOLOGY

assumptions and data must be reconsidered in wider con-
nections and translated into other terms. It is, in short,
a phrase of diffidence, and not of arrogance; and it is
indeed strange to hear people talk triumphantly of ' the
New Psychology/ and write ' Histories of Psychology/
when into the real elements and forces which the word
covers not the first glimpse of clear insight exists. A
string of raw facts; a little gossip and wrangle about opin-
ions; a little classification and generalization on the mere
descriptive level; a strong prejudice that we have states of
mind, and that our brain conditions them: but not a single
law in the sense in which physics shows us laws, not a
single proposition from which any consequence can caus-
ally be deduced. We don't even know the terms between
which the elementary laws would obtain if we had them
(p. 464). This is no science, it is only the hope of a science.
The matter of a science is with us. Something definite
happens when to a certain brain-state a certain ' sciousness '
corresponds. A genuine glimpse into what it is would be
the scientific achievement, before which all past achieve-
ments would pale. But at present psychology is in the
condition of physics before Galileo and the laws of mo-
tion, of chemistry before Lavoisier and the notion that
mass is preserved in all reactions. The Galileo and the
Lavoisier of psychology will be famous men indeed when
they come, as come they some day surely will, or past
successes are no index to the future. When they do come,
however, the necessities of the case will make them ' meta-
physical. ' Meanwhile the best way in which we can facili-
tate their advent is to understand how great is the darkness
in which we grope, and never to forget that the natural-
science assumptions with which we started are provisional
and revisable things.

THE END.

INDEX.

Abstract ideas, 240, 250 ; charac-
ters, 353, propositions, 354

Abstraction, 251 ; see Distraction

Accommodation, of crystalline
lens, 32; of ear, 49

Acquaintance, 14

Acquisitiveness, 407

Action, what holds attention de-
termines, 448

After-images, 43-5

Agassiz, 132

Alexia, 113

Allen, Grant, 104

Alternating personality, 205 ff.

Amidon, 132

Analysis, 56, 248, 251, 362

Anger, 374

Aphasia, 108, 113; loss of images
in, 309

Apperception, 326

Aqueduct of Silvius, 80

Arachnoid membrane, 84

Arbor vitae, 86

Aristotle, 318

Articular sensibility, 74

Association, Chapter XVI ; the
order of our ideas ; 253 ; de-
termined by cerebral laws,
255; is not of ideas, but of
things thought of, 255; the
elementary principle of, 256;
the ultimate cause of, is habit,
256; indeterminateness of its
results, 258 ; total recall, 259 ;
partial recall and the law of
interest, 261 ; frequency, re-
cency, vividness, and emo-
tional congruity tend to de-
termine the object recalled,

469

264; focalized recall or by
similarity, 267, 364; voluntary
trains of thought, 271 ; prob-
lems, 273

Atomistic theories of conscious-
ness, 462

Attention, Chapter XIII ; its
relation to interest, 170; its
physiological ground, 217; '
narrowness of field of con-
sciousness, 217; to how many
things possible, 219; to simul-
taneous sight and sound, 220;
its varieties, 220; voluntary,
224, involuntary, 220; change
necessary to, 226; its relation
to genius, 227; physiological
conditions of, 228; the sense-
organ must be adapted, 229;
the idea of the object must be
aroused, 232; pedagogic re-
marks, 236; attention and
free-will, 237; what holds at-
tention determines action, 448 ;
volitional effort is effort of
attention, 450

Auditory centre in brain, 113

Auditory type of imagination,
306

Austen, Miss, 261

Automaton theory, 10, 101

Azam, 210

Bahnsen, 147
Bain, 145, 367, 370
Berkeley, 302, 303, 347
Binet, 318, 332
Black, 45-6
Blind Spot, 31

470

INDEX

Blix, 64, 68

Blood-supply, cerebral, 130

Bodily expression, cause of emo-
tions, 375

Brace, Julia, 252

Brain, the functions of, Chapter
VIII, 91

Brain, its connection with mind,
5-7; its relations to outer
forces, 9; relations of con-
sciousness to, 462

Brain, structure of, Chapter
VII, 78 ff.; vesicles, 78 ff. ;
dissection of sheep's, 81 ; how
to preserve, 83; functions of,
Chapter VIII, 91 ff.

Bridgman, Laura, 252, 308

Broca, 109, 113, 115

Broca's convolution, 109

Brodhun, 46

Brooks, Prof. W. K., 412

Brutes, reasoning of, 367

Calamus scriptorius, 84
Canals, semicircular, 50
Carpenter, 223, 224
Cattell, 125, 126, 127
Caudate nucleus, 81, 86
Centres, nerve, 92
Cerebellum, its relation to equi-
librium, 76; its anatomy, 79,

84.

Cerebral laws of association, 255

Cerebral process, see Neural
Process

Cerebrum, see Brain, Hemi-
sphere

Changing character of con-
sciousness, 152, 466

Charcot, 113, 309

Choice, see Interest

Coalescence of different sensa-
tions into the same ' thing,'

339
Cochlea, 51, 52
Cognition, see Reasoning
Cold, sensations of, 63 ff. ;

nerves of, 64
Color, 40-3
Commissures, 84

Commissure, middle, 88 ff. ; an-
terior, 88; posterior, 88

Comparison of magnitudes, 342

Compounding of sensations, 23,
43, 57

Compound objects, analysis of,
248

Concatenated acts, dependent on
habit, 140

Conceiving, mode of, what is
meant by, 354

Conceptions, Chapter XIV; de-
fined, 239; their permanence,
239; different states of mind
can mean the same, 239; ab-
stract, universal, and problem-
atic, 240 ; the thought of ' the
same ' is not the same thought
over again, 243

Conceptual order different from
perceptual, 243

Consciousness, stream of, Chap-
ter XI, 151 ; four characters
in, 152; personal, 152; is in
constant change, 152, 466;
same state of mind never
occurs twice, 154; conscious-
ness is continuous, 157; sub-
stantive and transitive states
of, 160 ; interested in one part
of its object more than an-
other, 170; double conscious-
ness, 206 ff. ; narrowness of
field of, 217; relations of, to
brain, 462

Consciousness and Movement,
Chapter XXIII ; all conscious-
ness is motor, 370

Concomitants, law of varying,

251

Consent, in willing, 452

Continuity of object of con-
sciousness, 157

Contrast, 25, 44-5

Convergence of eyeballs, 31, 33

Convolutions, motor, 106

Corpora fimbriata, 86

Corpora quadrigemma, 79, 86,

89
Corpus albicans, 84

INDEX

471

Corpus callosum, 81, 84
Corpus striatum, 81, 86, 108
Cortex, 11, note

Cortex, localization in, 104 ; mo-
tor region of, 106
Corti's organ, 52
Cramming, 295
Crura of brain, 79, 84, 108
Curiosity, 407
Currents, in nerves, 10
Czerman, 70

Darwin, 388, 389

Deafness, mental, 113

Delage, 76

Deliberation, 448

Delusions of insane, 207

Dermal senses, 60 ff.

Determinism and psychology, 461

Decision, five types, 429

Differences, 24, directly felt,
245 ; not resolvable into com-
position, 245; inferred, 248

Diffusion of movements, the law
of, 371

Dimension, third, 342, 346

Discharge, nervous, 120

Discord, 58

Discrimination, Chapter XV, 59,
touch, 62; defined, 244, condi-
tions which favor, 245 ; sensa-
tion of difference, 246, differ-
ences inferred, 248 ; analysis
of compound objects, 249; t<5
be easily singled out a quality
should already be separately
known, 250; dissociation by
varying concomitants, 251 ;
practice improves discrimina-
tion, 252; of space, 338. See
Difference

' Disparate ' retinal points, 35

Dissection, of sheep's brain, 81

Distance, as seen, 39; between
members of series, 24; in
space, see Third dimension

Distraction, 218 ff.

Division of space, 338

Donaldson, 64

Double consciousness, 206 ff.

Double images, 36

Double personality, 205

Duality of brain, 205

Dumont, 135

Dura mater, 82

Duration, the primitive object in
time-perception, 280 ; our esti-
mation of short, 281

Ear, 47 ff.

Effort, feeling of, 434 ; feels like
an original force, 442; voli-
tional effort is effort oi atten-
tion, 450; ethical importance
of the phenomena of effort,
458

Ego, see Self

Embryological sketch, Chapter
VII, 78

Emotion, Chapter XXIV; com-
pared with instincts, 373;
varieties of, innumerable, 374 ;
causes of varieties, 375, 381 ;
results from bodily expres-
sion, 375 ; this view not ma-
terialistic, 380; the subtler
emotions, 384, fear, 385 ; gene-
sis of reactions, 388

Emotional congruity, determines
association, 264

Empirical self, see Self

Emulation, 406

End-organs, 10; of touch, 60;
of temperature, 64; of pres-
sure, 60; of pain, 67

Environment, 3

Essence of reason, always for
subjective interest, 358

Essential characters, in reason,

354

Ethical importance of effort,
458

Exaggerated impulsion, causes
an explosive will, 439

Exner, 123, 281

Experience, 218, 244

Explosive will, from defective
inhibition, 437 ; from exag-
gerated impulsion, 439

472

INDEX

Expression, bodily, cause of
emotions, 375

Extensity, primitive to all sen-
sation, 335

Exteriority of objects, 15

External world, 15

Extirpation of higher nerve-
centres, 95 ff.

Eye, its anatomy, 28-30

Familiarity, sense of, see Recog-
nition

Fear, 385, 406, 407

Fechner, 31, 229

Feeling of effort, 434

Fere, 311

Ferrier, 132

Fissure of Rolando, seat of mo-
tor incitations, 106

Fissure of Sylvius, 108

Foramen of Monro, 88

Force, original, effort feels like,
442

Forgetting, 300

Fornix, 81, 86, 87, 89

Fovea centralis, 31

Franklin, 121

Franz, Dr., 308

Freedom of the will, 237

Free-will and attention, 237 ; re-
lates sorely to effort of atten-
tion, 455 ; insoluble on strictly
psychologic grounds, 456 ;
ethical importance of the phe-
nomena of effort, 458

Frequency, determines associa-
tion, 264

" Fringes " of mental objects,
163 ff.

Frog's lower centres, 95

Functions of the Brain, Chapter
VIII, 91 ; nervous functions,
general idea of, 91

Fusion of mental states, 197,

245, 339
Fusion of sensations, 23, 43, 57

Galton, 126, 265, 303, 306
Genius, 227, 327

Goethe, 146, 157

GOLDSCHEIDER, II, 64, 68
GOLTZ, 100
GUITEAU, 185

Gurney, Edmund, 331, 334

Habit, Chapter X, 134 ff. ; has a
physical basis, 134; due to
plasticity, 135; due to path-
ways through nerve-centres,
136; effects of, 138; practical
use of, 138; depends on sensa-
tions not attended to, 141 ;
ethical and pedagogical impor-
tance of, 142 ff. ; habit the ulti-
mate cause of association, 256

Hagenauer. 386

Hall, Robert, 223

Hallucinations, 330 ff.

Hamilton, 260, 268

Harmony, 58

Hartley, 255

Hearing, 47 ff . ; centre of, in
cortex, 113

Heat-sensations, 63 ff. ; nerves
of, 64

Helmholtz, 26, 42, 43, 55, 56,
58, lai, 226, 227, 231, 233,
234, 321

Hemispheres, general notion of,
97 ; chief seat of memory, 98 ;
effects of deprivation of, on
frogs, 92; on pigeons, 96

Herbart, 22, 326

Herbartian School. 157

Hering, 24, 26

Herzen. 123, 124

Hippocampi, 88

Hodgson, 262, 264, 280, 283

Holbrook, 297

HORSLEY, 107, Il8

Hume, 161, 244

Hunger, sensations of, 69

Huxley, 143

Hypnotic conditions, 301

Ideas, the theory of, I54ff. ;
never come twice the same,
154; they do not permanently

INDEX

473

exist, 157; abstract ideas, 240,
251; universal, 240; order of
ideas by association, 253

'Identical retinal points,' 35

Identity, personal, 201 ; muta-
tions of, 205 ff. ; alternating
personality, 205

Ideo-motor action the type of all
volition, 432

Illusions, 317 ff. : 330

Images, mental, compared with
sensations, 14; double, in vis-
ion, 36 ; 'after-images,' 43-5 ;
visual, 302; auditory, 306;
motor, 307 ; tactile, 308

Imagination, Chapter XIX ; de-
fined, 302 ; differs in individ-
uals, 302; Galton's statistics
of, 302 ; visual, 302 ; auditory,
306; motor, 307; tactile, 308;
pathological differences, 308;
cerebral process of, 310; not
locally distinct from that of
sensation, 310

Imitation, 406

Inattention, 218, 236

Increase of stimulus, 20; serial,
24

Infundibulum, 82, 84, 88

Inhibition, defective, causes an
Explosive Will, 437

Inhibition of instincts by habits,
399

Insane delusions, 207

Instinct, Chapter XXV; emo-

•< tions compared with, ^73 \
definition of, 391 ; every in-
stinct is an impulse, 392; not
always blind or invariable,
395 ; modified by experience,
396; two principles of non-
uniformity, 398; man has
more than beasts, 398, 406;
transitory, 402; of children,
406 ; fear, 407

Intellect, part played by, in
space-perception, 349

Intensity of sensations, 16

Interest, selects certain objects
and determines thoughts, 170;
influence in association, 262

Introspection, 118

Janet, 211, 212, 301

Jackson, Hughlings, 105, 117

Joints, their sensibility, 74

Kadinsky, 330

Knowledge, theory of, 2, 464,

467; two kinds of, 14
Konig, 46
Krishaber, 208

Labyrinth, 47, 49-52

Lange, K., 329

Laws, cerebral, of association,

255
Law, Weber's, 17; — , Fechner's

21 ; — , of relativity, 24
Lazarus, 300, 323
Lenticular nucleus, 81
Lewes, ii, 232, 326
Likeness, 243, 364
Lindsay, Dr., 413
Localization of Functions in the

hemispheres, 104 ff
Localization, Skin, 61
Locations, in environment, 340

serial order of, 341
Locke, 244, 302, 357
Lockean School, 15**
Locomotion, instinct of, 406
Lombard, 131
Longitudinal fissure, 84
Lotze, 175
Love, 407
Lower Centres, of frogs and

pigeons, 95 ff
Ludwig, 130

Mach, 75

Mamillary bodies, 84

Man's intellectual distinction

from brutes, 367
Mantegazza, 390
Martin, 40, 44, 45, 49, 52, 53,

60, 61, 65, 69
Martineau, 251

474

INDEX

Materialism and emotion, 380

Matteuci, 120

Maudsley, 138

Measurement, of sensations, 22;
of space, 342

'Mediumships,' 212

Medulla oblongata, 84, 108

Memory, Chapter XVIII ; hem-
ispheres physical seat of, 98;
defined, 287; analysis of the
phenomenon of memory, 287
ff. ; return of a mental image
is not memory, 289 ; association
explains recall and retention,
289; brain-scheme of, 291;
conditions of good memory,
292; multiple associations
favor, 294; effects of cram-
ming on, 295 ; how to improve
memory, 298 ; recognition, 299 ;
forgetting, 300 ; hypnotics, 301

Mental blindness, 112

Mental images, 14

Mental operations, simultaneous,
219

Mental states, cannot fuse, 197;
relation of, to their objects,
464

Merkel, 59, 66

Metaphysics, what the word
means, 461

Meyer, G. H., 308, 311

Meynert, 105, 117

Mill, James, 196, 276, 289

Mill, J. S., 147, 157

Mimicry, 406

Mind depends on brain condi-
tion, 3-7 ; states of, their rela-
tion to their objects, 464; see
Consciousness.

Modesty, 407

Monistic theories of conscious-
ness, 462

Morgan, Lloyd, 368

Mosso, 130, 131

Motion, sensations of, Chapter
VI, 70 ff. ; feeling of motion
over surfaces, 70

Motor aphasia, 108

Motor region of cortex, 106

Motor type of imagination, 307
Movement, consciousness and,
II, Chapter I ; images of
movement, 307 ; all conscious-
ness is motor, 370
Munk, no

MUNSTERBERG, 23, 311

Muscular sensation, 65 ff. ; rela-
tions to space, 66, 74; muscu-
lar centre in cortex, 106

Mussey, Dr., 440

Naunyn, 115

Nerve-currents, 9

Nervous discharge, 120

Nerve-endings in the skin, 60;
in muscles and tendons, 66-67 ;
Pain, 67 ff. ; nerve-centres, 92

Nerves, general functions of, 91
ff.

Neural activity, general condi-
tions of, Chapter IX, 120;
nervous discharge, 120

Neural functions, general idea
of, 91

Neural process, in habit, 134 ff. ;
in association, 255 ff. ; in
memory, 291 ; in imagination,
310; in perception, 329

Nucleus lenticularis, 81, 108;
caudatus, 81, 108

Object, the, of sensation, 13-15;
of thought, 154, 163; one part
of, more interesting than an-
other, 170; object must change
to hold attention, 226; objects
as signs and as realities, 345;
relation of states of mind to
their object, 464

Occipital lobes, seat of visual
centre, no

Old-fogyism vs. genius, 327

Olfactory lobes, 82, 84

Olivary bodies, 85

Optic nerve, 82, 89

Optic tracts, 84

Original force, effort feels like
one, 442

Overtones, 55

INDEX

475

Pain, 67 ff. ; pain and pleasure as
springs of action, 444

Pascal, 223

Past time, known in a present
feeling, 285 ; the immediate
past is a portion of the present
duration-block, 280

Paulhan, 219, 220

Pedagogic remarks on habit,
142; on attention, 236

Peduncles, 84, 85, 86

Perception, Chapter XX; com-
pared with sensation, 312; in-
volves reproductive processes,
312; the perceptive state of
mind is not a compound, 313 ;
perception is of definite and
probable things, 316; illusory
perceptions, 317 ; physiological
process of perception, 329

Perception of Space, Chapter
XXI.

Perez, M., 408

Personal Identity, 201 ; muta-
tions of, 205 ff. ; alternating
personality, 205 ff.

Personality, alterations of,
205 ff.

Philosophy, Psychology and,
Epilogue, 461

Phosphorus and thought, 132

Pia mater, 82

Pigeons' lower centres, 96

Pitch, 54

Pituitary body, 82, 89

Place, a series of position, 341

Plasticity, as basis of habit, de-
fined, 135

Plato, 240

Play, 407

Pleasure, and pain, as springs of
action, 444

Psychology and Philosophy,
Epilogue, 461

Pons Varolii, 79, 84, 108

Positions, place a series of, 341

Practice, improves discrimina-
tion, 252

Present, the present moment,
280

Pressure, sense, 60

Preyer, 406

Probability determines what ob-
ject shall be preceived, 316,
329

Problematic conceptions, 240

Problems, solution of, 272

Projection of sensations, eccen-
tric, 15

Psychology, defined, 1 ; a natural
science, 2; what data it as-
sumes, 2; Psychology and
Philosophy, Chapter XXVII.

Psycho-physic law, 17, 24, 46,
59, 66, 67

Pugnacity, 406

Purkinje, 75

Pyramids, 85

Quality, 13, 23, 25, 56

Raehlmann, 349

Rationality, 173

Reaction-time, 120 ff.

Real magnitude, determined by
aesthetic and practical inter-
ests, 344

Real Space, 337

Reason, 254

Reasoning, Chapter XXIII ;
what it is, 351 ; involves use
of abstract characters, 353;
what is meant by an essential
character, 354; the essence is
always for a subjective inter-
est, 358; two great points in
reasoning, 360; sagacity, 362;
help from association by
similarity, 364 ; reasoning
power of brutes, 367

Recall, 289

Recency, determines association,
264

'Recepts,' 368

Recognition, 299

Recollection, 289 ff.

Redintegration, 264

Reflex acts, defined, 92; reac-
tion-time measures one, 123;

476

INDEX

concatenated habits are con-
stituted by a chain of, 140

Reid, 313

Relations, between objects, 162;
feelings of, 162

'Relativity of knowledge,' 24

Reproduction in memory, 289 ff . ;
voluntary, 271

Resemblance, 243

Retention in memory, 289

Retentiveness, organic, 291 ; it is
unchangeable, 296

Retina, peripheral parts of, act
as sentinels, 73

Revival in memory, 289 ff.

Ribot, 300

Richet, 410

Rivalry of selves, 186

Robertson, Prof. Croom, 318

Rolando, fissure of, 106

Romanes, 128, 322, 367

Rosenthal, ii

Rousseau, 148

Rotation, sense of, 75

Sagacity, 362
Sameness, 201, 202

SCHAEFER, 107, HO, Il8
SCHIFF, 131

Schneider, 72, 372, 392

Science, natural, 1

Scott, Prof., 311

Sea-sickness, accidental origin,
390

Seat of consciousness, 5

Selection, 10; a cardinal func-
tion of consciousness, 170

Self, The, Chapter XII; not
primary, 176; the empirical
self, 176 ; its constituents, 177 ;
the material self, 177; the
social self, 179; the spiritual
self, 181 ; self -appreciation,
182; self-seeking, bodily,
social, and spiritual, 184; riv-
alry of the mes, 186; their
hierarchy, 190; teleology of
self-interest, 193; the I, or
'pure ego,' 195; thoughts are
not compounded of 'fused'

sensations, 196 ; the soul as a
combining medium, 200; the
sense of personal identity, 201 ;
explained by identity of func-
tion in successive passing
thoughts, 203; mutations of
the self, 205 ; insane delusions,
207; alternating personalities,
210; mediumships, 212; who
is the thinker?, 215

Self -appreciation, 182

Self-interest, theological uses of,
193; teleological character of,

193

Selves, their rivalry, 186

Semicircular canals, 50

Semicircular canals, their rela-
tion to sensations of rotation,

Sensations, in General, Chapter
II, p. 9; distinguished from
perceptions, 12; from images,
14; first things in conscious-
ness, 12; make us acquainted
with qualities, 14; their ex-
teriority, 15; intensity of sen-
sations, 16; their measure-
ment, 21 ; they are not com-
pounds, 23

Sensations, of touch, 60 ; of skin,
60 ff. ; of smell, 69; of pain,
67; of heat, 63; of cold, 63;
of hunger, 69; of thirst, 69;
of motion, 70; muscular, 65;
of taste, 69; of pressure, 60;
of joints, 74; of movement
through space, 75 ; of rotation,
75 ; of translation, 76

Sense of time, see Time

Sensory centres in the cortex,

113 ff-
Septum lucidum, 87
Serial order of locations, 341
Shame, 374

Sheep's brain, dissection of, 81
Sight, 28 ff. ; See Vision
Signs, 40; sensations are, to us

of other sensations, whose

space-value is held to be more

real, 345 ff-

INDEX

477

Similarity, association by, 267,
364, see Likeness

Size, 40

Skin — senses, 60 ff. ; localizing
power of, 61 ; discrimination
of, points on, 247

Smell, 69; centre of, in cortex,
116

Smith, T. C, 311

Sociability, 407

Soul, the, as ego or thinker, 196 ;
as a combining medium, 200,
203

Sound, 53-59 ; images of, 306

Space, Perception of, Chapter
XXI ; extensity in three di-
mensions primitive to all sen-
sation, 335; construction of

_jeal space, 337; the processes
which it involves: (1) Sub-
division, 338 ; (2) Coalescence
of different sensible data into
one 'thing,' 339; (3) Loca-
tion in an environment, 342 ;
objects which are signs, and
objects which are realities,
345 ; the third dimension, 346 ;
Berkeley's theory of dis-
tance, 346; part played by in-
tellect in space-perception, 349

Space, relation of muscular
sense to, 66, 74

Spalding, 401 ff.

Span of consciousness, 219, 286

Specific energies, 11

Speech, centres of, in cortex,
109; thought possible without
it, 169; see Aphasia

Spencer, 103, 387, 390

Spinal cord, conduction of pain
by, 68; centre of defensive
movements, 93

Spiritual substance, See Soul

Spiritualistic theories of con-
sciousness, 462

Spontaneous trains of thought,
257; examples, 257 ff.; 271

Starr, 107, 113, 115

Steinthal, 327

Stream of Consciousness, Chap-
ter XI, 151
Stricker, 307
Subdivision of space, 338
Substantive states of mind, 160
Succession vs. duration, 280 ; not
known by successive feelings,
285
Summation of stimuli, 128
Surfaces, feeling of motion over,
70

Tactile centre in cortex, 116

Tactile images, 308

Taine, 208

Taste, 69; centre of, in cortex,

116
Teleological character of con-
sciousness, 4; of self-interest,
193
Temperature-sense, 63 ff.
Terminal organs, 10, 30, 52
Thalami, 80, 86, 89, 108
Thermometry, cerebral, 131
'Thing,' coalescence of sensa-
tions to form the same, 339
Thinking principle, see Soul
Third dimension of space, 346
Thirst, sensations of, 69
Thomson, Dr. Allen, 129
Thought, the Topic' of, 167;
stream of, 151 ; can be carried
on in any terms, 167 ; unity of,
196; spontaneous trains of,
257; the entire thought the
minimum, 464
'Timbre,' 55

Time, sense of, Chapter XVII ;
begins with duration, 280; no
sense of empty time, 281 ; com-
pared with perception of space,
282; discrete flow of time,
282; long intervals conceived
symbolically, 283 ; we measure
duration by events that suc-
ceed in it, 283; variations in
our estimations of its length,
283 ; cerebral processes of, 286

478

INDEX

Touch, 60 ff. ; centre of, in cor-
tex, 116; images of, 308
Transcendental self or ego, 196
Transitive states of mind, 160
Translation, sense of, 76
Trapezium, 85
Turner, Dr. J. E., 440
Tympanum, 48
Types of decision, 429

Unity of the passing thought,

196
Universal conceptions, 240
Urbantschitch, 25

Value of Vieussens, 80, 86

Variability of the emotions, 381

Varying concomitants, law of
disassociation by, 251

Ventricles, 79 ff.

Vierordt, 71

Vision, 28 ff. ; binocular, 33-9;
of solidity, 37

Visual centre of cortex, no, 115

Visual imagination, 302

Visualizing power, 302

Vividness, determines associa-
tion, 264

Volition, see Will

VOLKMANN, 285

Voluminousness, primitive, of
sensations, 335

Voluntary acts, defined, 92 ; vol-
untary attention, 224; volun-
tary trains of thought, 271

Weber's law, 17, 24, 46, 59
Weber's law — weight, 66; pain,

Weight, sensibility to, 66 ff. .

Wernicke, 109, 113, 115

Wesley, 223

Wheatstone, 347

Wigan, 300

Will, Chapter XXVII; volun-
tary acts, 415; they are sec-
ondary performances, 415; no
third kind of idea is called
for, 418; the motor-cue, 420;
ideo-motor action, 432; action
after deliberation, 428; five
types of decision, 429; feeling
of effort, 434; healthiness of
will, 435 ; defects of, 436 ; the
explosive will : ( 1 ) from de-
fective inhibition, 437; (2)
from exaggerated impulsion,
439 ; the obstructed will, 441 ;
effort feels like an original
force, 442; pleasure and pain
as springs of action, 444 ; what
holds attention determines ac-
tion, 448 ; will is a relation be-
tween the mind and its ideas,
449; volitional effort is effort
of attention, 450; free-will,
455; ethical importance of
effort, 458

Willing terminates with the
prevalence of the idea, 449

Wundt, 11, 18, 25, 58, 122, 123,
125, 127, 220, 281

DATE

DUE

) ^000

CAT. MO. 11 37

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Books

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "Psychology : briefer course"

See other formats